Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

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Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

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Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

flickriver.com   shutterbug2188

Me (from below):  Go get your uniforms!  I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

Me (hearing their conversation):  I'm gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mooooom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah,  go nag DAD!

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

 I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

flickriver.com   shutterbug2188

Me:  Go get your uniforms! I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

B to C:  Keep you doing what?

Me (hearing their conversation):  I am gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah, NAG-a-ramus, NAG-a-pottamus

C:  NAGmeister, NAG me with a spoon

B:  NAG-a-delic

C:  SHAG-a-delic

Me:  Where did you hear that?

C:  The Austin Powers movie.

Me:  When did you see it?

C:  Dad let me. He’s fun.

Me:  Being fun is not my job.  Where are your uniforms?

C:  Mooooommm! Stop nagging. You nag ALL the time!

B:  Yeah, ALLLL. Dad doesn’t nag. He’s fun.

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, a beautiful mess all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

  My friend, Angela, has three kids and is continuously frazzled. Last spring, she dropped off her second-grader, Marcus, at his Catholic school for May Crowning, a religious ceremony dedicated to Mary. She dressed him in a suit and purchased the requisite bouquet of flowers to take to class.   

Angela’s memory is “over the hill,” but she remembered May Crowning, and she felt pretty darn “mother superior” about it.  She silently gloated, I have got it goin’ on! I’m sorry you other moms aren’t as organized as me. I’ve come a long way since all that Show and Tell business from September.  

The previous fall Angela forgot about Show and Tell so, of course, she gave Marcus an eyelash curler from her purse. A girl in his class used it and pulled out all her eyelashes because they stuck to the mascara caked on it. His teacher, Mrs. Uppington, who overblows everything like Stephen Spielberg, flew into an unnecessary panic. Angela thought, What’s the big deal? I mean, eyelashes grow back.

Then there was that incident on Career Day. Little Doogie Howser swiped a bottle of blue pills from his parents’ bedroom nightstand as a visual-aid for his presentation. 

The next day, he announced to his class, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this “scripshun” is for Vy-ag-rah.” 

Mrs. Uppington overplayed a case of trauma, and Angela’s husband can’t show his face at parent/teacher meetings anymore. 

After dropping Marcus at school, Angela enjoyed a latté to celebrate her alpha female dominance over the other loser moms. Shortly, Mrs. Uppington phoned.    

“Mrs. Peterson, are you aware that today is April 27th?”

“So??” she said. Here comes Spielberg.

“Well, I just wanted to inform you that you sent Marcus to school today dressed up and with flowers . . . ”

“Yeah??” Angela said, annoyed that her latté was getting cold. 

“And as a rule, Mrs. Peterson, May Crowning occurs in, ahem, MAY.”

A few hours later, Angela slinked through the lobby with Marcus’ school uniform, past the PTA Taliban moms who were at a school meeting and had heard about her memory malfunction. She also needed to check her fourth-grade daughter out of school for an appointment.

“Ha! I guess I thought they moved May Crowning to April,” Angela joked as she greeted the grinning moms. “It’s SO Friday! Ready for the weekend, ya know? Wow, what a hoot! Soooo, I’m mostly here to pick up Claire for an orthodontist appointment.” 

They laughed together a little longer, and Angela headed home. Great. I had to face Miss Uppity AND those Super Sally’s Gift Wrap groupies.  A few miles away, she worried she’d forgotten something. The orthodontist. She forgot to pick up Claire.

Angela slipped back into school and the PTA extremists were still in the lobby doubled over, laughing hysterically at her lack of gray matter.

I bet those Taliban moms experience their fair share of brain cramps. So they should watch out. Angela might devise a radical plan of her own and drop an undisclosed number of little blue pills into their husbands’ sweet tea glasses at the next school auction.