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Tomorrow we leave for our weeklong beach vacation.  As I pack, I meticulously check off each item on the list I created 2 weeks ago.  If it weren’t for the list, I would definitely forget the tweezers that may be needed in case of a splinter or the anti-itch cream that will only be needed if I forget to pack it.

Under the “Entertainment” section, I’ve checked off movies, mini-DVD player, playing cards, family games, books, etc.  What I have failed to list is the preferred entertainment for the 3 boys in this household.  The machines tenderly swaddled in plastic, shatter-proof outfits like digital newborns.  The ones that will require early-onset Botox to fix indented glabellas.  The ones whose names begin with a lower-case “i.”

Should I let them bring their devices?  Or should I stand firm and try to execute my fantasy beach vacation; the one where we are all playing games at night, eating popcorn and actually speaking to each other?  Hmmmm….  This thought process requires some further deliberation so I turn to the first person I think of for advice.

“Siri, should I let my boys bring their electronics on vacation?”

She replies, “I’m sorry, Victoria, I’m afraid I don’t know what you should do.”

What?  She usually AT LEAST offers to check the web for me.

My next step would be to consult with the family Magic 8 Ball but my husband hid it from me since he thinks it’s a form of witchcraft.  I can’t bear to go online to the slew of parenting websites because I know what the moral solution is:  unplug for the week  (which kind of puts a damper on the Breaking Bad marathon my husband and I intend to have).

What to do….what to do…

So this is what I decided.

I also decided to use the following guidelines:

• Power down and collect electronics at bedtime to avoid late night shenanigans (does not apply to parents)
• All boys must be dressed with teeth brushed before electronics are re-distributed (does not apply to parents)
• No electronics outside or in the car (does not apply to parents)
• If I have to say “Get Your Shoes On” more than twice, gaming privileges are lost for 24 hours (also applies to husband)

Let the good times roll!

I wish I had staged this photo but this is real.

I can hear their wives ranting about it already…”Is it THAT hard to throw the box away when it’s empty?”

It kind of makes me chuckle to think that someday my boys’ laziness will be someone else’s problem.  Their wives (or partners or husbands) will accuse me of coddling them and never making them lift a finger.  Well listen here you future, imaginary spouse!  I am constantly harping on them to clean up after themselves.  To bring their dishes to the sink after a meal.  To pick up the sports equipment strewn all over the yard.  To clean up the globs of toothpaste in the bathroom sink.  Constantly!  Constantly!  And to emphasize again…Constantly!  I have to remind them every time that the popsicle stick now stuck to the table will not walk itself to the garbage can.  That eating chips on the new couch is not allowed.  That the basement lights need to be shut off when they leave.  And you know what?  It can be a tad exhausting.  Particularly when you are trying to leave the house and everyone is waiting in the car in the driveway.  You know why I’m always the last one out of the house?  Because I’m running around like a whirling dervish turning off lights and cleaning up crumbs so we don’t come home to an infestation of ants and a $900 electric bill.

When I saw these 3 empty boxes in the freezer today, I thought of you, my future something-in-law.  I’m doing what I can but I am losing this battle of accountability.  I will continue to try, but if their carelessness also becomes the bane of your existence, please try to focus on their good qualities; like their charming good looks, great sense of humor and their full head of hair passed down from their Great-Polish-Grandfather that will keep their scalp covered for eternity.  Oh, and tell him to call his Mom.

Is Nothing Sacred?

When boy #1 was just a chubby little muffin, I vowed to never buy him toy guns.  For that type of play encouraged violence, and this sweet, blue-eyed toe head was going to stay that way- sweet and nonviolent.  I scoffed at moms who let their little men run around like wild maniacs, waving plastic shotguns and screaming “Pewww, Pewww, Pewww…chick chick…pewww!”  Irresponsible parenting!

One sunny afternoon when Jack was 15 months old, I was preparing a homemade meal in an apron reminiscent of June Cleaver while listening to classical music (those are lies- I was watching a talk show and boiling noodles), the unthinkable happened.  Nature defeated nurture.  I heard it….”Chick, Chick Pewww….Pewwww, Pewww, Pewww.”  Noodle watching commenced as I searched for the source.  And there he was, arms raised with his left eye closed aiming at his oversized stuffed  gorilla. His weapon… my husband’s L-shaped asthma inhaler turned sideways.

Boys #2 & 3 did not need to use my husband’s life-saving device as a makeshift gun because once news spread to family about the inhaler incident, laughter and gifts of plastic guns came pouring in.  There are so many guns in the house that my type-A personality has organized them in bins and baskets and there is even a special bin in the bookcase labeled “bullets.”  I almost went as far as to create bins for “scopes,” “clips,” and “shafts,” but I thought that might be overdoing it.  The boys run around the house and yard hiding and strategizing while I sigh and try to convince myself that it’s all in good fun and is great exercise.  If I denied them gun play, maybe they would end up like those kids that never get fast food while they are growing up, then go to college and go hog wild on inferior meat and french fries (true rationalization of mine).

Jack saved his money and bought himself an airsoft gun for his 11th birthday this spring.  He and his dad came home from the store with 2 plastic pistol-looking things, safety goggles, targets and about 60 million tiny plastic BBs.  They had a blast shooting things and I think it may have even scared the chipmunks out of eating my garden.  So far he hasn’t pulled a “Ralphie” and “shot his eye out,” but accidents are bound to occur.  The first minor incident occurred within 24 hours of the new purchase; the cap to the BBs was not screwed on when Jack lifted the container.  Two things happen when your son spills a gigantic canister of BBs all over the floor:

1)  You realize how dirty the floor is.

2) You continue to find bullets into mid-summer, particularly when you are barefoot and crabby.

Pewww…Pewww…EWWWW!

www.houseoftwigandberries.com

Similar to the school supply list we Moms are allotted at the beginning of every school year, baseball coaches should hand out a “baseball supply list” at the start of each season.  How is a mom who chose Pom Poms over a legitimate sport supposed to know that little boys need crotch protection out in the field?  I know what a “cup” is from the days my dad would casually keep his out in the open after a game (his team’s name was the Bushwackers by the way, but that’s another story), so I know the purpose of a “cup” but I  just assumed it was for an older man…perhaps one with more substance.

So when my son came home from practice one day and told me he couldn’t be catcher since he didn’t have a cup, I got all up in his business, “Didn’t you grab your water bottle?  I left it by the door before practice.”

The eyes rolled and he grabbed his crotch, “No, Ma- a cup.”

Ohhhhhhh.  I guess a shopping trip is in order.

While I assumed the package would say, “Cup for 8 year old boy,” the wall of cups was overwhelming and sized as follows:  XS, S, M, L, XL.  No guidelines, nada.  My dumbfounded stare attracted a pimply associate in a red polo shirt, “Can I help you find something, Maam? ”  (fricking Maam.  I hate that word.)

“My son needs a cup for baseball.” Unnecessary clarification of sport, but I was nervous.  Now I know how dudes feel when they buy tampons.

“How big is he?”

My eyes bulged but before I did the sign of the cross, he  interrupted, “What’s his weight/height?”  Phew.

After Pimples helped me select the proper fit, he did what I now realize is “upselling” to a clueless Mom.  $342 later, I had multiple “athletic supporters” for 2 boys, sliding shorts, gripping gloves, adjustable belts in 2 colors, really long socks, a bag that has special slots for bats and some energy gel (which I consumed in the car- that shit really works! I’m still wired.)

Here are some good phrases to yell from the bleachers if you have limited knowledge of the sport:

• “Good Eye, Bud!”      (If they don’t swing at bad pitches)
• “Good Contact!”        (If they hit the ball but it results in an out)
• “Throw Strikes!”       (If he is pitching)
• “That’s Okay!”            (If they suck in general)

There are many reasons to dislike midwest winters…freezing temperatures, brushing off snow-covered cars, slipping on ice with groceries in hand.  What also tops my list is snowpant farts.  I see the 3 of them through my rear-view mirror, lined up in age succession in the second row of the SUV (10, 8, 5) – innocent and unassuming, staring straight ahead.  Even when the scent reveals itself, nobody flinches.  Thank goodness the smell is still manageable, still child-like.  My glance in the mirror does not reveal the guilty party.  The aroma should be gone quickly, but it lingers in the snow pants – like a sulfur dutch oven.  Even if the windows aren’t frozen shut, the air is too cold to be fresh.  When the scent dissipates and becomes more manageable, the reprieve is short-lived.  One of the others will join the game, still straight-faced and unassuming.  It’s a snow pant fart party and I wasn’t invited.

…she will look for a sunny place to plant it after doing excessive online research.  Once planted in organic material, she will  track its growth almost daily and be giddy with excitement when the seedlings begin to emerge from the mound.  Then she will look out the window one sunny afternoon to see her eldest “taking a leak” on the prospective melon site.  When confronted the boy will casually explain that the spot he has carefully selected is the same spot where he and his 2 brothers (and “a-hem”… Dad) urinate frequently so they don’t have to go inside and use an actual toilet.

Then the “cantaloupe” will become a gigantic “urine bush” producing berries that I would be tempted to consume had I not seen that 1980s movie of two youngsters marooned on a tropical island.

“Looks a wee-bit edible, no?”