Wife Swap and a Passionate Encounter With Doritos

Wife Swap and a Passionate Encounter With Doritos

I love reality shows, and one of my favorites is Wife Swap.

Every episode two polar opposite families agree to swap wives for two weeks. 

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The first week the new mom has to adhere to her new family’s lifestyle.  The second week, they must abide by her rules.  In conclusion, everyone gathers for a “come to Jesus meeting” and a) agree they can learn something from one another or b) violently accuse the other family of being the spawn of Satan, which is lots funner.

I can imagine living with the flip side of my family.  

The dad would wear a t-shirt emblazoned with, “Is that true or did you hear it on FOX News?”  And every morning the kids would say thank you when I toss them PopTarts as they’re walking out the door.   

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At night, I’d retire to my bedroom to have a passionate encounter with a bag of Ranch Doritos, which are always gone at my house.  And I’d go to the bathroom ALONE.

I’d finally read the other mom’s instruction manual, similar to the one I’d left for her at my house.  Actually, not similar at all.

With my luck, I’d get a real nut job family whose manual reads:

“We do not take our clothes to the cleaners because of the harmful plastic they put over the clothes.”  Oh, yay!  I suppose I get to eat vegan all week. 

“We do not eat processed foods.”  As long as you have margarita ingredients.

“We do not yell.”  Note to self:  Get Xanax refilled.

I’d encourage ultra-competitiveness with my laid-back, polar opposite family who’d have a daughter who only cheers at school for FUN. (No cheer championships??  What a freak.) 

I’d play Monopoly with them, and when I win, I’d strut around jeering, “Awwwww, does Daddy need a bailout?  How ‘bout I redistribute my Monopoly money?  NOT!”  And that would turn ugly when little Willow and Phoenix run to their rooms crying.  (J.K. I’m really SO politically correct)

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I’m sure there’d be advantages to living with my bizarro family—like they’d probably have sports bottles that actually have lids.  

But the experience would probably make me long for my panic-inducing, dysfunctional “reality show” at home.  After one week, I’d miss my angst-riddled teenagers who usually declare, “Mooooom, I can take care of myself!” and at other times whisper, “But I’m not so sure.”

Just like I still miss helping my two-year-old tiptoe along the balance beam at Little Gym and afterward, mothering her on my shoulder, her exhaustion exhaling softness on my neck.

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By David Castillo Dominici

And when they’re at college soon, I’ll miss soccer games and proms and catching the bouquet of their hair when I kiss them asleep every night.

But I shouldn’t worry about having an empty nest because I’m still having mondo fun cleaning jelly off the sofa and embarrassing them by singing "She's a very freaky girrrrrrllll, the kind you don't take home to muthaaa......" a la Rick James, when their friends are in the car.

http://spreemancommunications.com/2011/07/24/gangsta-and-other-words-im-not-allowed-to-say/

Besides, I have a lot to look forward to—like having the Doritos all to myself.

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

I just love Oprah.  

I think she’d like me more than Gayle, her moocher friend and juice box girl.

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Oprah’s ground-breaking magazine is like Cosmopolitan to moms who are tired of all Cosmo’s advice such as “7 Ways to Raise the ‘Bar’ in Bed: (You Won’t Believe It!)” 

O’s headlines pull me in with “7 Reasons You Are So Messed Up” and “Me! 10 Ways I’m So Much Better Than You!”  The articles include questionnaires from psychology experts to help me determine my strengths and weaknesses.  But I don’t need a questionnaire to tell me I’ve lost my mind and I’m too sensitive.  My husband tells me every day. 

Sometimes an “expert’s” ideas are so ridiculous I have to call time out.  For example, Oprah featured an article by a “helicopter” mom who realized her 17-year-old son didn’t know how to make pasta or do laundry.  She gave him a crash course in Home-ec before college because she didn’t want to “unleash a spoiled princeling into the world.”

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I agree most boys don’t even know how to find the milk in the fridge.  And sometimes we’d like to slap the entitlement attitude out of them (however slapping doesn’t work, not that I’ve ever tried that).  But it doesn’t bother me a bit to unleash a princeling into the world.  

Why?  Because some McDonald’s manager will push Little Lord Fauntleroy with his pastel Polos in the mud speedy quick in the real world.  The Justin Bieber mentality will end as soon as his boss asks him to clean the fryer and actually expects him to clean the fryer.

I think Mommy Weirdest wasted her time showing her son how to poach things and make pie crusts.  I mean, no one poaches in real life.  And why can’t he just buy Mrs. Smith’s pies like normal people?   If I were her, I’d just send him out to shoot hoops in the driveway and go have a glass of wine.  

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I say throw him out of the nest and he’ll fly.  He doesn’t need to be taught how to fly first.  That’s just redundant. 

When he moves out, he’ll discover that “food fairies” hardly ever come and replenish the Mountain Dew anymore, and most importantly, Uncrustables are just expensive, teeny PBJ sandwiches that almost any college kid can make if he Googles ehow.com.  

Thinking it through, having a husband who cooks wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  I’d just let him take over the kitchen. That way I can go to Bobbie Jean’s and play bunco while he makes pies and poaches his little heart out. 

College Goodbyes

College Goodbyes

My oldest child is starting college this week, and my husband and I will drive him thirteen hours to school to help him get settled in his dorm.  Saying goodbye will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

A mother’s life is full of teaching and guiding, and it’s full of letting go too.  It’s full of late nights spent rocking babies, praying they’ll survive the confusion and temptations of adolescence without needing intervention or therapy.  

And before you know it, teenagers are born who pull and strain against the walls of a cocoon which has held them in its sacred embrace since they were just a snuggle in their mothers’ hearts.  And as they pull away, we must helplessly watch as they cry into their pillows or endure the consequences of bad judgement.   

I’m not very good at letting go.  During my son’s first weeks of preschool, I hugged him and had to walk away as he sat crying on the floor.  Leaving him there to navigate on his own stretched my mommy muscles to a new breaking point.  And I piled on a few more pounds of guilt that squeezed my stomach into a gnawing angst.  

Sometimes letting go meant pushing my son forward.  When he was six on the first day of flag football practice, he didn’t know anyone and was reluctant to get out of the car.  

He sat with his cleats barely touching the floorboard and pleaded, “Mom, I don’t want to go.  Don’t make me go.”

“It’ll be ok, son.  I promise.”

If it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have made him go.  But he needed his share of dirt and sweat and the August sun.   

When he turned fifteen I thought I might be doing something wrong.  He hardly talked to me or looked up from his computer when I said goodnight.  I often walked away and wistfully reminisced about how my little boy used to fly at me, smothering me with hugs and kisses.  

Yes, I know all kids turn quiet during the teenage years.  But he’ll never know how the younger and prettier and more energetic me poured myself into him until there was hardly any of me left to go around.  But all teenagers forget, and mothers are just annoying.  Please go away.  

Through the years, my son and I danced to an unpredictable song, faltering and side-stepping whenever the tempo changed without warning.  As soon as I memorized the pattern of dipping and twirling, the song switched directions and I had to adapt.  At times I was sure-footed, and other times I was scared to death.  We were making up the dance as we went.   

We swayed together, and sometimes I released his hand and watched as he experimented with unsteady steps of his own.

Mom, I want to ride my bike to Michael’s alone.  

Will you just drop me off at the movie this time?  

Can I get my driver’s license on my birthday?  

I’d like to visit that college in Florida.  

With every milestone, he was becoming.  And so was I.

In a few days, his dad and I will hand him a credit card and most importantly, the Xbox, and leave him to find his wings.  In an awkward moment I’ll stand before him trying to translate the mystery of a mother’s love into the language of a teenage boy.

I want to tell him how very much I love him and why this parting is so difficult for me.  I want to explain to him that he, my first-born, holds a cherished place in my world because it was his kicks that made me tremble with awe when I felt the very first flutter of life inside me.  

He’s the one who carved the mommy into my body and soul and planted in me the purest, fiercest love in the world.  A consuming love that ignited my heart, eventually singeing the corners, causing his needy mother to pull back from the pain of it and to stop being so clingy and involved.

This goodbye hug will be hard because in an instant, he will be five again, a snaggle-toothed testament to sandboxes and green army men.  I’ll kiss his cheek and breathe in memories of new crayons and lunch milk and jitters on his first day of kindergarten—the initial step of a journey that would lead him to this point.

At the crux of where raw meets real, I’ll look up into his eyes and this time I will be the one saying, “I don’t want to go.”  

And my grown-up son, eager to explore and uncover the future inside him, will reassure me.  

“It’s my turn, Mom.  It’ll be OK.  I promise.”

I’ll manage a proud smile, thankful for our amazing journey together.  Then I will commit my son into his Creator’s hands and whisper a prayer that God would take my hand more tightly as my son’s hand falls from mine.

Wisdom Teeth, Then the Chicken Dance: My Empty Nest Plan

Studies claim women say about 100,000 words a day, and most men say 20,000.  My 17-year-old son says about 12—and one-fourth of those words are “What’s for dinner?”  

However, there’s nothing like a hit of Jack Daniels anesthesia to bring out the Joe Biden in people.  

Last summer my son had his wisdom teeth pulled.  We were advised to give him a “twilight” level of knockout-edness.  But, having had bad experiences, I wanted to make sure my son was dead for at least as long as a Southern Baptist funeral plus the altar call and pot luck.  Therefore, I ordered him a narcotic cocktail that could make Mitt Romney do the Chicken Dance with Nancy Pelosi at a Bruce Springstein concert and afterward ask her to go “three sheets to the wind” with him and Ann, if ya know what I mean.  

So needless to say, he was Robin Williams on speed when he woke up.

Driving home:

Him:  “Hi Mooommm.  You’re SOOO my best fwiend.  Can I have Smoothie King?  What’s in my mouf?  My wip is huge.”

Me:  “It’s gauze honey.  Bite down.”

Him:  (Oblivious. Mouth wide open)  “Why do I bite down?’

Me:  Because it stops the bleeding.

Him:  Dat makes sense.  You can get in da udder lane.”  

Me:  (Thinking) Like YOU could drive a foot-propelled Flintstone car right now.

Him:  Moooomm, what’s in my mouf?” he asks, like Dorrie in the Finding Nemo movie.

Me:  “It’s gauze.  Bite down to stop the bleeding.

Him:  “Why am I bleeding?  eeeewwww!  Mom.........MOM!  Can I have Smoothie King?”

Me:  Maybe later.

Him:  (laughing hard) How long was I asleep?”  

Me:  “Maybe 20 minutes.”

Him:  “Whad’s fuh dinner?”

Me:  “Soft things.  Maybe yogurt or jello. Do you want some mashed potatoes from KFC?”

Him:  Can I ha’ chicken?  

Me:  (belly laughing) No, sweetie. 

Him:  OK...(pause for a minute) Can I have Jimmy John’s sanwitch?” he SHOUTS.

Me:  You can have a milk shake.

Him:  (shouting) MOM........CAN I HAVE A SMOOTHIE KING?  You can get in da udder lane right ‘dere.”

Before surgery, he wisely asked me to take his cell phone away so he couldn’t act a fool and reach out to someone in a drunk-texting delirium.  I’m not gonna lie.  I’ve never been more proud of him.  

I feel certain now that he won’t publish any frat party Everclear escapades on Youtube so that no one will hire him, and he won’t have to live in my basement playing Bioshock with ten ferrets ‘til he’s 40.  

As The Parent Handbook states, now that we’ve paid for the removal of his wisdom teeth, our only remaining obligation is to get him in college.   Far away. 

After shipping three kids off to college sans wisdom teeth, all you’ll see is mine and Bobby Sue’s rear-view when we take off to the Slap-a-Ho Native American Casino in Mississippi.  That’s where all the 50-ish, botoxicated, Desperate Housewife-types in lumpy cheetah-print spandex and stilettos go.  

        I’m going early for the all-you-can-eat fresh snow crab and tater salit buffet.  After a few "Sak-a-Tonto" Sunrises and "Kumana-Wanna-Laya" Cocktails, you can find me in the lounge doing the Chicken Dance with Mo and the Navajo Funkmasters.