brake. Brake. BRAAAAAAAKE!

Son #1 has his learner's permit. I'll be in the passenger seat a great deal of the time for the next few years, as all the Sons learn to drive.

I sound exactly like my father, and fully expect to put my foot through the floor where the brake should be by the time Son #4 is on the road.

Laissez le bon temps roulez!

I'm not suicidal, I just want my phone

Hubby, Son #1 and I all have Verizon phones. We have 2 wall chargers and a car charger, all interchangeable.

Son #1 tends to move the chargers around when he uses them. It is annoying, but doesn't always affect me -- I plug my phone in to the car whenever I drive around, and if the phone dies between trips I find a charger and plug it in at home.

Not today.

My phone has nothing left on it, and both chargers are missing. So I am sitting in the car, with my laptop, so I can apply for jobs while my phone charges. The heated seat is pretty awesome, and I have remembered to back my car halfway out of the garage, so that I don't asphyxiate myself, but I still feel a bit ridiculous.

If you need a lighter you can find it, don't set the house on fire.

My "office" is the corner of the living room. That means I have had 9 years to learn to tune out most activities not directed at me, so I can focus on whatever I'm doing, at least for a little while. I don't always succeed, and I regularly fantasize about having a Real Office with a Door on It, but it's what I have and it usually works.

This morning I was reading my traditional online stuff--keeping up with a lot of you is part of it. And out of the corner of my eye I saw Son #3 run to the kitchen, come back with a glass of water, and toss the water out the window.

Apparently he had set a piece of paper towel on fire, in the dining room not 10 feet from me. He threw the paper towel out into the snow, but it missed the snow (hard to believe this is possible) and landed on a pile of dry leaves. He saw the fire growing and put it out with the glass of water.

I am a bit mortified that all this could happen and I would notice only the splash at the end. He, however, is glad that rather than having a conniption like a decent mother, I just asked him to refrain from setting our house on fire, in future, as we still need it.

Yeah, that one just might stick

Son #1 has a nickname. The other three don't, really. Today, though, I think that may have changed.

Son #4, at 13, still loves long soaks in the tub. Really long. He often will bring a big bowl of ravioli in there with him, and basically make an evening of it. TMI, I know, but it's part of the story, so bear with me.

We're on Christmas break, which in our house means we are living in a chaotic, timeless sea. Bedtime is a distant memory. They wake when they wake, sleep when they sleep. And last night, that meant that Son #4 was, presumably, unable to sleep in the middle of the night, and decided to take a bath.

5:30 this morning, Son #1 needs the bathroom but can't get in there, because Son #4 is asleep, in the tub. He bangs on the door, no luck. Son #4 is actually snoring.

He kept knocking and shouting, to no avail. And the majority of the family is taking this in stride. Son #4 has a reputation. We've seen it.

But Hubby is usually not home for this, so to him it is new, and terrifying. He started thinking Son #4 was drowning, in the tub.

Though a sleeping bather no longer will rouse me at 5:30 am, a panicking husband generally will, so I threw on my bathrobe and knocked on the door. That special Mom knock which is, apparently, a lot more rousing than one from your oldest brother. Son #4 stirred, spoke, reassured his father that he was still breathing. And that's when it happened: Son #1 called through the door,

"RISE AND SHINE, AQUAMAN!"

He's been Aquaman all day. It's taking all my strength not to join in, myself. Yeah, I think we have a winner.

Anticipation, Frustration, Obama-Nation

Anticipation: Two weddings, in eight days. e haven't been to a wedding in years (and that one was doomed at the altar, no doubt), and now we've got two. I am looking forward to bringing my camera to both, and also to contributing actual food to the wedding reception for one.

I have received my Food Assignment and I am on it like Paula Deen on a stick of butter. Oooh, yeah.

Frustration: I am NOT getting what I want, on pretty much all fronts, these days. The car is still in the shop, even though they were sure it would be ready yesterday. I keep sending out queries for work and get back, well, the sound of crickets. So far, this week, the dog has peed on my purse, three leather coats, and a carpet. AND YET I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM, or even want to. Hubby's band is defunct, and I have no idea what comes next on that one, so no dancing to slap bass for me anytime soon. I keep telling the Sons to handle their business and my reward is a general sinking feeling that I am becoming an ineffectual nag.

The Beach suggests I get an air horn and striped shirt, for handling all those episodes of Brotherly Love. I think she is a genius. Just gimme that whistle on a string.

About half of our CD collection has been bogarted by a Son, I guess. I keep opening cases and finding nothing. HOW DARE HE MISPLACE GEORGE THOROGOOD? That's just wrong. I may have to toss his room.

On the bright side, the poison ivy seems to be clearing up, Son #1 has been asking my advice on a very sweet project of his own devising, school is almost out and my nail polish is pristine, for once. (Honestly, a successful manicure does lift my mood. I am more girly than I thought, I guess.)

And the Obama-nation?
Well, I just am speechless. We are out of money? Shutting down businesses run by owners who did not contribute to Obama's election? Choosing a Supreme Court justice because she is a Latina? (Hey, maybe she's okay, but her job is to follow the Constitution. Don't need a uterus or a Compelling Personal Story for that.) I haven't been blogging on all this stuff because, well, I don't want to turn into a ranting nutbag, and Dhimmi Carter has that effect on me on a pretty consistent basis.

So, you know, I'll shut up now.

WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?

Son #2 is 15. He is smart, and sweet, and a great writer (although not entirely committed to the concept of turning his work in on time, at school. He'd rather work on whatever is on his mind, for fun. The school system is only there to destroy him.)

He is also 6'4" and still growing. His hair falls to his collar in glossy, chestnut curls. And he has a very deep voice. For years, I've been telling him, "Don't you worry. You hit college, and the girl thing is going to get very easy for you." He does not believe me. But, trust me, I have complimented him on his appearance. I have encouraged him to go out for theater. I have told him he has a very attractive voice.

But I am Mom.

Last week, the Sons were playing around with a video recorder. First time in years Son #2 had heard himself, recorded. He ran up the stairs, swathed in fake seriousness.

"MOM! Why didn't you TELL me I have such a buttery, man-muffin voice?"

So, there you go. My second son is a buttery man-muffin. Pass it on.

A Mall, and a milestone

Last night I took Son #3 and Son #4 to the mall, to exchange a Christmas gift and use up their gift cards. The nearest mall is an hour from our house, so...kind of a big deal, if you are 12 or 13.

Leaving GameStop, the Sons noticed a small child frantically calling for his mommy.

Yeah, the Sons get all the credit. I was not paying attention.

OK, so we looked around and didn't see anyone who could qualify for this little kid's mom, so Son #3 volunteered to track down a police officer while Son #4 and I bought the boy a lemonade.

Fear goes better with lemonade, when you are maybe 3 years old, we figured.

The lemonade, mall cops and missing mother all arrived at around the same time. As the Sons and I were relaxing in the food court, I realized: for the first time, our boys FOUND a lost kid, instead of BEING a lost kid.

Pretty flippin' awesome.

Because I'm a genius, that's why

Son #1 flipped out a couple of weeks ago, because his uniform was not ready on the day he needed it. I could almost see his brain processing the thought: "Mom may not do all my laundry every day." The other day, he did a load of laundry on his own, because he needed a shirt. His room, while not clean, is slightly less terrifying. And he has cut back on his work hours, because he decided that his grades would come up if he did. Clearly, on some level, my "Hey, it's YOUR life, you've got to figure out how to make it work," speeches have sunk in.

Also this week, I had a massive craving for Russian Tea. You know, the stuff with the Tang in it. I found a recipe online. It is full of sugar. I don't want a lot of sugar, and tend to find most things too sweet, anyway, but if you don't put the sugar in the proportions are all wrong. But we have that powdered flavorless fiber stuff...which I am now going to use in place of the sugar in the recipe, so that it measures like it should, but is now not a Secret Evil Treat, but instead a Healthy Nutritional Supplement.

I have been going through the house looking for stuff to eBay (in addition to the stuff I'm eBaying for a friend, on commission), leading to a small infusion of cash each week. Feel pretty good about that.

My spin instructor says my form is perfect. I would rather have a perfect BODY and crappy form, but I will take what I can get.

The family Christmas cards have arrived, and I got Christmas stamps at the post office, and I have put them aside to work on at my friend's annual Christmas Prep Party. I also have found some very cool Christmas gifts. Not anywhere near enough, but I have a handle on the holiday, and it's not even Thanksgiving yet.

For some reason, Hubby's Cat has decided to spend some time with me, on occasion. I have no idea why. Or maybe I do. Maybe she has just noticed my recent small victories, and wants me to know I finally do not suck.

I STILL can't serve a beverage correctly

Not long ago, Son #4 declared that we needed juice glasses. The glasses we had in the cabinet were too large for juice.

My arguments that, firstly, any glass from which you drink juice becomes a juice glass, and secondly, that nothing prevents you from pouring a small amount of juice into a tall glass, were met with extreme eye-rolling and sighs.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at the thrift store and found several juice glasses. Cute ones, too-green glass with little flowers on the side. So I bought them, and put them in the cabinet.

Son #4 just drank something. And what did he say?

"You know what I really don't like? Green glasses. They make everything look green."

I. Give. Up.

Can't Mom Do It?

Last night, before leaving to take the three youngest Sons to tae kwon do, I asked Son #1 to empty the dishwasher.

Naturally, he did not.

After dinner, late again because of said tae kwon do schedule, I was beat. Pretty much collapsed into bed just a hair after 9, dishes only partially done.

Woke up this morning, sat bleary-eyed at the computer to get my daily email fix, and Son #1's first words were:

"You sure are making this hard. You do everybody's laundry but mine."

Which means, of course, that I do whatever laundry makes it into the laundry room.

Gave Son #2 lunch money. Checked the gym schedule, the kids' schedule (Son #3 gets new spacers on today, for his upcoming braces) while everyone else got ready for their day. Made some minor preparations for lunch-to-come. Woke Son #3 up so he would take a shower. Got back to reading the news of the day. Because, you know, I am sleepy.

Hubby came down the hall a little miffed.

"You forgot to make the coffee!"

Yes, I usually make the coffee, even though I don't drink coffee. It started out as something he asked me to do, and I did to be nice, but has turned into something he expects me to do, and won't do himself, because our current coffeemaker requires a thorough daily cleaning or it does not function.

We bickered. Which is not the way either of us wants to start the day. He is now willing to make his own coffee, some mornings, so long as he can invest in a new coffeepot that is not as big a pain in the butt to operate. That's fair. Then, I can go back to making coffee for him out of niceness, instead of feeling like it has become yet another thing I am expected to do, even though I don't benefit from it and the person who does benefit could do it for himself.

Much hugging and making up ensued. Hubby assured me he would be more self-reliant and do for himself those things he can. I apologized for taking out my frustrations with children who practically expect me to chew their food for them, on him. I brought my breakfast into the bedroom, so we could have a few relaxing moments together while Hubby got dressed for work. He looked down at his feet.

"Sweetie, can you trim my toenails for me?"

He's traded in his 40-year-old for a pair of 16-year-olds

Ever since last summer, when I took the boys to a barbecue and music festival, Son #1 has been asking when he can see ACME Blues Company again.

WHYYYY can't I go?

WHYYYYYY can't I go, just because it's in a bar?

WHHHYYYYYY can't I go, just because you hang out with your old people friends when you go see them?

WHENNNNNN can I go see them again?

He guarantees me that he would do ANYTHING to go. That he loves their music (and he, like all the Sons, does indeed sing along to the entire CD.) And as a budding left-handed bassist, he says that he would "go all Fan Girl on Wolf," ACME's left-handed bass player.

This weekend, the younger two Sons are out of town. And ACME is playing, just about 40 minutes from home. A little far for me to go alone, but...it is not a bar. It is an actual RESTAURANT. With no dance floor, but, I can bring teens.

He was all hot to go. Really looking forward to it. And then.

Some girls he know invited him to a concert at their school.

Suddenly, he is not going. Which may mean I am not going. Because, of course, I will be required to transport Sons #1 and 2 to this concert.

AND THEY FULLY ADMIT THE BANDS WILL PALE IN COMPARISON.

Ugh, the injustice. And to think: 12 years ago, he handed me a Ring Pop and asked me to marry him.

Hooooo, boy!

The past couple of days have been hectic. An interview. Two doctor's appointments. Several trips to take Son #1 see The Girl. Tae kwon do, three days in a row. Open Mic, last night (you didn't think I'd skip blues jam, did you?)

The Sons continue to eat us out of house and home, so I am going to the grocery store like I expect Brangelina to be handing out free diamond tennis bracelets in the parking lot, any minute. And, of course, the gym, because I am hooked on it.

As always, the dog needs walking. Because it really doesn't make a lick of difference, to him, whether he goes on the rug, on a pile of clean laundry a Son swore he put away, or outside. He could go either way. It's totally up to us. Really. He's flexible, like that.

Sons #3 and 4 have discovered the joys of bread baking. The house is full of the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the happy sounds Hubby makes when he takes a bite. It is also full of globs of bread dough, and drifts of flour and sugar and yeast. Because they think they clean up after themselves. They really do.

Although Son #1 enjoys using Hubby's bathrobe, more than his own, his REAL favorite is his comforter. Of course, once he is done with it, he'll just drop it. Like this morning---the hall bathroom has all his dirty clothes from last night AND a queen-sized comforter, on the floor. And dental floss. He also deposited a hairbrush in the box of peaches on the kitchen table. Ooogh.

All this to say, I haven't done laundry in two days, or dishes, since yesterday morning. I woke up and took a look and thought, "Hooooo, boy! I am not ready for this!"

But now that I've enjoyed my latest breakfast fad, bran flakes, and taken a moment to kvetch to the blogosphere, I feel much better.

I think I'll go clean the kitchen. Probably won't rush to eat a peach, though. They are fuzzier than is natural.

Dude, My Mom is NOT HOT, OK?

The other night, one of my flirtin' buddies asked me if the Sons' friends had ever said I was a Hot Mom. "Because if I were 15, I would totally think you were."

I of course told him that none of my sons friends think I am hot. Mostly, of course, I was thinking that all my sons' friends have seen me at 4 am at a sleepover, when I am not only not hot, I am also not nice. BECAUSE I WANT THEM TO SLEEP. My flirtin' buddies generally see me with brushed teeth and an enthusiastic attitude.

But then I went home and asked Son #1.

"Well, actually, (one friend of his who's here a lot) has mentioned it several times, BUT JEEZ, MOM, I ASSUMED HE WAS JOKING! THAT IS DISGUSTING!"

So, now Son #1 is mortified, and my flirtin' buddy is also mortified that he is coming across as "a dirty old man."

I, however, am feeling pretty spiffy.

;)

I am "The Man": A Parenting Epiphany

Remember when you were a teenager and your parents were all suspicious? They wouldn't let you hang out with your boyfriend in your bedroom, even though that meant you never got to have a private conversation, because your little sister kept butting in?

And no matter how much you explained that you weren't DOING anything, they still gave you that look with the one raised eyebrow, and told you, "Fine, but, you can be not DOING anything out here in the den, with your brothers"?

Remember how your younger siblings kept walking up to you and saying stupid crap, and no matter how much you complained about it your parents never stopped them? Like they had NO IDEA how frustrating and annoying and embarrassing that was?

Remember how your boyfriend's parents were a little more lax, but if they saw you making out they would look at you, their son's adoring girlfriend, like you were a complete idiot who didn't have the least instinct for self-preservation? And like you ought to hold out for a guy who at least had his own car?

As it turns out, it wasn't because they didn't understand you. It was because they understood all too well, and had no. interest. in. becoming. grandparents. yet.

So, it all makes sense. The Sons can have privacy with their girlfriends when they are old enough to sign a lease on their own place.

"They think of you as a MOM"

I straighten my hair. I wear foundation and mascara and lipstick. I have started wearing eyeliner. This is a big deal, for the Fresh Faced. But I like it.

At first, I only wore it to go out. Now, though, I often craft a fairly subdued smokey eye for everyday.

The Sons saw me putting on my eyeliner yesterday and the three youngest each asked, "Where are you going? What's the occasion? Why are you so fancy?"

I am just a hair's breadth away from the no-makeup look. Really, without the eyeliner it probably DOES look like I have nothing on my face. So I asked Son #1, aka Arbiter of Female Fashion (because he spends so much time checking out the ladies ;) if it looked bad.

"No, no. It looks GOOD. Keep it up! It's just...they think of you as a Mom, not as the kind of person who...does stuff."

A low point in parenting and basic judgement

Our little crappy theater doesn't show movies unless they are Guaranteed to Make Money, so we often have to wait for the DVD. This time, though, 4 girls they know from school invited the two oldest Sons to a theater in Annapolis.

I didn't want a seventeen-year-old girl, distracted by the mighty mojo of the Sons, driving them an hour and 45 minutes each way. (Yes, the theater is actually that far.)

So, the Sons checked. The girls weren't driving--a mom was. Fully reassured, I gave the go-ahead.

OK, so I'm new to this High School thing. I don't know most of their new friends. They meet people at school, do much of their socializing at the school, and so it all remains mysterious to me. But when a woman pulls up to take my kids for the next seven hours, I figure I should go out and introduce myself. Let her know I'm a reasonable person she can call if, for instance, the Sons act the fool, or her car breaks down. My parents live minutes from the theater to which they're heading.

So I go out to their car, and the mom rolls her window down, and she has only shards, where her front teeth should be. She has an odd look on her face--a little glassy-eyed, and confrontational and distracted, at the same time. I am...distinctly uncomfortable.

"That looks like meth mouth," I think.

And then, I think again.

"I have a false tooth. If Hubby were not a good provider, I would have a gap in my mouth. Maybe she's just broke. And maybe having people judge her by her lack of teeth puts her in a crappy mood, so she hates meeting people who look like they just decided she's not capable of driving their precious darlings to the movies. And the flu is going around."

In a moment of Kumbaya Spirit, I smiled and went back in the house, where, I'll admit, I worried. The boys had a great time at the movies, and I decided I was a bigot for having thought anything about that poor woman's teeth.

Yesterday those Sons were invited to 2 different events, at people's homes. And then Son #1 mentioned the mom who had driven them, last week.

"Her mom is CRAZY. She was driving all over the road. I thought she was going to crash, seven times. And the first thing she said, when she pulled out of the driveway, was 'You motherfuckers better not spill anything in my car!' She was screaming curse words at us the whole time. I was glad you let us go, but I was REALLY glad we made it home."

So, yesterday, I went in. I chatted. I got to know Trevor's mom, and Hilary's mom and dad. I felt better.

I think they felt better, too. As it turns out, "I'm new to this whole high school thing, and still getting used to the idea that I don't know their friends," is a great ice-breaker.

Honesty, I guess, is still a good policy.

It's not what they say, it's what they do

The Sons love my car. They call it The Powerful Mom Five (cartoon lovers of a certain age will know that is a nod to Speed Racer).

There is only one thing about it that they don't love. The musical selection.

Oh, don't get me wrong. They know ALL the words to ALL the songs on my beloved ACME Blues Company CD. They enjoy the one radio station my car still picks up. They are willing to give at least a passing nod to whatever other CD I happen to have on hand. But, you know, they have a tendency to complain about the, um, limited nature of the playlist.

"Why don't you have any Green Day CDs in the car? You have Red Hot Chili Peppers in the dining room, why don't you ever take them in the car? You have WAR? Why are we not listening to WAR? Why are you listening to this old weird stuff?"

(that would be Best of the Ventures, my friend, and I am not giving up Pipeline for anyone)

Son #1 just walked by, with his iPod. He will not admit it to anyone, but he is listening to Pipeline, by the Ventures, on his walk to school.

Ha! Musical victory, for Mom!

Don't Choke Your Brother, Your Hands Are Too Small

Last night, after taking Hubby out for Birthday Dinner, The Boy lectured Hubby and me on our complete cluelessness, as parents, because we had had the nerve to tell his brother "Don't feel bad. If you didn't promise that girl anything, she's not going to be mad at you for saying you're not sure you want to be more than friends yet."

After explaining that everything we know about relationships between the sexes has been wrong for the past 30 years (yes, apparently I was already working on outdated dating info when I was ten years old and had not yet discovered boys) he moved on to Human Nature. Apparently, we don't know anything about that, either.

Religion: we are clueless and naive.

Parenting: we are coddling the brothers so they will never be able to make it in the chalkdust jungle that is high school.

Drug use and law enforcement: Ha! It's amazing we are allowed to walk the streets, we are so pitiably misinformed.

In the spirit of The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves, The Boy talked and talked until Hubby and I were ready to send him to reform school on Mars, two of his brothers had exiled themselves to distant rooms in a failed search for peace and quiet, and one of his brothers was driven to tears.

"He's complaining about the exact stuff HE does to US, all day long!"

Longtime readers will remember that he did the same thing on MY birthday.

Around 6 this morning, while we were still asleep, he let himself into our bedroom, turned on the light, and did something in the master bathroom, and then let himself out. Did I mention we were both naked? Because, you know, we were in our own bedroom with the door locked, and asleep? Thank God I was under the blankets.

This morning, while I was battling nausea/soreness/chills/exhaustion/general wishes that death would come swiftly, The Boy insisted that I help him straighten his hair.

"Look. I did it for you yesterday. It isn't hard. You can do this. I'll talk you through it," I said. "I guarantee, every girl at school with straightened hair does it HERSELF. None of THEM has their mom do it. And I am DOING STUFF, OK? It's YOUR hair. I'm not even going to straighten my OWN hair, today."

Much whining ensued, but he did manage, with only fleeting assistance from me.

He had a dentist's appointment this afternoon, and spent so much time dicking around while I stood in the doorway, yelling, "WE NEED TO GET IN THE CAR, NOW," that we had to reschedule.

He then spent a good hour on the phone--the landline, even though we bought him a cell phone for Christmas. He worked in a dig at his brother, and told his friend that his entire family is crazy, while I stood inches away.

And he asked me to find him a photo, because he didn't want to bother taking a new one, even though, again, we bought him a digital camera for Christmas.

He then took the last bottle of my special, fantabulous soda which I can only get once a year on a trip down to Florida, drank a few sips and complained about the unpleasant "aftertaste".

His room is a mess, his possessions are strewn throughout the house, he's alienating his brothers and seems hellbent on driving me to find that dusty pack of cigarettes I have stashed around here, somewhere.

See that? That's my last nerve, right there.

They spell it "s.a.p."

"Christine, can you show me the special way you crack the eggs so the shells come off?"

So I did. It's not brain surgery, folks!

"Mom, it's too cold for me to walk to the bus stop, because my hair is wet. And I can't wear that leather jacket you bought for me, even though it's below freezing."

So I drove them to the bus stop, which is all of .2 mile from the house.

I am a wife and mother. Spell it S.A.P.

2 am and they're as giggly as schoolgirls

The Sons have a couple of friends spending the night. Which means, just like it did when I was 12 and hosting half a dozen girls in the basement of my parents' place, they are Not Sleeping.

My parents were convinced that the "stay up all night and giggle" thing was a girl phenomenon. If they'd had boys, they wouldn't be dealing with that. It is to laugh.

At 1:30 this morning, the boys in the basement were talking so loud the dog (who sleeps in my bed) barked at them. Hubby tossed out a few of his Wallpapering Words and went back to sleep, good ear to the pillow. But me, well, once I'm up, I'm up.

So, in between telling the boys to CUT IT OUT, ALREADY, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE WITH THAT STAGE WHISPER, I have been:

reading celebrity gossip web sites and National Review
eating ramen (needs cilantro, but I'm not shopping at 2 am)
watching that video of the tiger attacking an elephant on YouTube
considering cleaning (but that's even more pathetic than ramen and dlisted at 2 am)

I have also discovered who is rifling through my envelopes. Ellie, our cat, just tried to nest in there. It didn't work. Cats love a sheet of paper, so an entire stack of paper must have looked like Shangri-La to her, but...it is slidey, so she has returned to her favorite chair. I bet she tries it every night.

And the boys are mostly quiet, now. But they are clearly exhausted, and therefore giggly. I never would have believed that was possible, as a girl. All those middle school boys seemed so different from us. I guess I was just envisioning their future manliness. Because there is not a lot of Gary Cooper in my basement, right now, no matter what the girls think of those 6 young guys.

The moral of the story? It is good to be deaf in one ear.