Don't touch that.

I have to post this before I can finish my Christmas shopping. I've been given a deadline, by the husband who has suddenly become interested in my blog in a confrontational way.
I've been called out on my dead squirrel post and my defenses are up because I have yet to fully develop my thick writer's skin. I'm still under the false assumption that everyone loves my writing and agrees with everything I have to say. It's a nice little wall I've built around myself, although I welcome a brick being kicked out now and then. I can probably take it.
Back to the opposition and the negative review of not just the husbands but others, who shall remain nameless but you will be able to tell who they are because they will most likely not be able to contain their comments on FaceBook. As I sit typing I can see the spot where the dead squirrel is haphazardly covered with leaves on third base, most assuredly decaying in the unseasonably warm temperatures. I imagine, and I have a healthy imagination, it's covered in creepy, crawling creatures that feed on the dead. You can almost see a wave of germs seeping into the air and slowly spreading into the neighborhood. It lays there decomposing waiting for little Bobby and his friends to find it, poke it with a stick and start charging the neighborhood kids a dollar to see the dead thing on third base. If it was still on the street where roadkill belongs, it would be squished beyond recognition and it's remains would have been consumed by the vultures in the sky. That's how nature works with wild animals. I want to be clear, wild animals.
It is a mothers nightmare to think of her child poking dead things with a stick and dear God what if they touch it? Since they learned to reach out with the right and the left, we've told our kids,
"Don't touch that."
The fate of the world rests upon us moms teaching our offspring to leave dead animals untouched. They have dead germs. The kind of germs that spread out of control from little Bobby, the host, to all his little friends and then to their customers who paid a dollar to see the dead thing. These children take the dead germs home to their families and before you know it we have the Zombie Apocalypse, which I have been telling you for years is inevitable. I just didn't think it was going start across the street.
I hope this clears up any confusion on my roadkill theory.

This way I don't have to listen to you

A lot of bloggers write open letters as a post, I've never done one but today I feel compelled to do so, my life a leisure hangs in the balance.
I must address all the mom's of small children at community pools. My homeowners association forbids me to put a pool in my yard, so you, your children and I have to mingle all summer. I've come up with a few guidelines for you to follow.

1.) Sun screen, believe it or not, this can be applied to the child at home. That way when you get to the pool they can jump right in and I won't have to listen to you telling little Johnny to stand still when you slather him up and I won't have to listen to him whine about how you got it in his eyes.

2.) Cell phones, there's over a 50% chance that your child will drip on it, because you're at a pool, that big cement pond filled with water. There's over a 50% chance your hair will get wet too, actually everything you bring to the pool can and will get wet eventually, so put them in a plastic bag or don't bring them, this way I don't have to listen to you yell at your children for something that is your fault.

3.) Water-wings are stupid. If people trust you enough to carry your child around on land with out a parachute then you should be trusted to hold them in a pool without dropping them. If they are older put them in a pool that they can touch the bottom and teach them to swim, water-wings give a kid a false sense of security, teach them to rely on themselves, this way I don't have to listen to you and your child whine about putting them on.

4.) The Ice Cream Truck. When it parks itself in the swimming pool parking lot, commit to either always buying an over priced popcycle or never buying an over priced popcycle. There is no middle ground when it comes to the ice cream truck, this way I don't have to listen to your child badger you for $3.00 continuously.

5.) Marco Polo, take your children home if they play this stupid, God-forsaken game.....please.

I, in turn, will try to be quiet while I read my book.

And The Tantrum Ensued

I'd like to thank the three snot-nosed children behind me at the Wal-Mart checkout for inspiring this post. Along with their clueless parents of course. With the shopping cart separating us, I loaded my bags. Keeping a sharp eye on the little darlings, hoping they would keep their grimy little hands off my stuff.
Having three children myself I know that four hands against six never ends well. That is why I always grocery shopped alone. Grocery shopping is a chore, not a family outing. One able bodied parent is all you need to complete the task. It always amazed me that an entire family would venture out to do this weekly chore. Everyone gets done faster if you leave them at home, everyone. A family of five blocks an aisle, keeping me from progressing towards my goal - being done. Inevitable temper tantrums block aisles also. When they get loose, they hinder your progress by running in front of your squeaky shopping cart.
These three children managed to keep their booger laced fingers off my groceries and toiletries, they had more interest in the impulse buying items to the left and right of them. Their mother explained that they had Halloween buckets of candy at home, but this logic failed to register and the tantrum ensued.

Mrs. Kravitz Moment, Aug. 4, 2008

I'm so proud of the neighbor kid. He's finally shed the training wheel monkey off his back and is riding around the neighborhood on two wheels, mom and little sister running behind him.

I know my readers have been patiently waiting for my latest "Mrs. Kravitz moment," the last one was about turds. It started off with the kid and the training wheels but ended up with dog poop. You just never know what will unfold outside your office window.
Today I'm focusing on one of the first major steps towards independence. And I don't think she's going to let him do it just yet. She's keeping up with him pretty well. I don't know what it is with us moms and their children riding off and leaving you in the dust on that first solo bike ride, but it tugs hard at the heart. Perhaps we know right then, deep down that we're the next monkey on their backs they are going to try to shake.

I won't get sappy, I won't get sappy, I won't get sappy.

Maybe I'm a little sappy because I've spent the last 3 weeks signing Boy #2 up for college classes and when sitting in the councilors offices in college, all of a sudden I became a lump in the second chair with my purse on my lap. Straining to see over my baby's broad shoulder as he plans his future.
Is this the little boy I taught to ride a bike?
Shouldn't I have a little more say in what he does with his life so he can support me when I'm old?
I'm getting away from this window before I get all misty.

Celebrate Mom For Who She Is

You know how when you were a teenager and your mom said to you, “I hope when you have kids they act just like you?” It’s a curse they put on us and it works. I’ve done it myself. I’m not sure how or if it can be undone. But every Mother’s Day I tell my mom how sorry I am for those teenage years, it’s kind of like an annual gift from me to her. She grins at me and I patiently wait to see if the curse will magically be undone. When my boys do something stupid I know it has not been lifted. I haven’t scored enough points with her to undo the drama of my “I know everything” years.

1-800-Flowers.com is running a Celebrate Mom For Who She Is Contest, perhaps I can score some big time points by winning her some prizes, you know bribe her. You have to write a touching story about your mom. I remember in the sixth grade, before I was a teenager, I was trying out for cheer-leading. Try outs got to the part where I had to do a cheer all by myself and I chickened out. My mom was in the parking lot waiting for me and I went running to her crying. She didn’t judge me and she “believed” me the next day when I said I was sick and couldn’t go to school. She let me stay home when I felt humiliated, built up my self esteem for a long weekend and then sent me off to school Monday.

Yep, I definitely need to enter that story and say, “Hey mom! Remember when I was cute?” Maybe I can break the curse and my children will magically make all the right decisions and think I’m right all the time.