A Mouse Tale, Or: Vincent Learns About Death. Sort of.

So today was an interesting day. Here's what happened.

The boys and I drove all day yesterday and through the night from south Florida to Illinois. Instead of taking a nap once we got here we thought To Hell With Sleep, it's time to spend time with family. So my littlest brother Corben found a little nest of three mice in his four-wheeler, and instead of feeding them to the chickens or freeing them into the wild, he gets an old Folgers coffee can and puts the mice in there, because they are tiny and cute.

Vincent loved them. He carried those mice in the coffee can with him everywhere for hours, giving them corn to eat, picking them up by their tiny tails and petting them, cuddling them, and making elaborate plans for their future together. As he is not one to waste a good name, he named them all after his guinea pig Wilbert (who was named after the guinea pig at his daycare). So he had Wilberts 1, 2, and 3. And he was happy.

So once my niece and nephews showed up, there was much made over the Wilberts, and as is wont to happen when several children have mice to play with, there were a couple escapees. But Vincent was still content, because he still had Wilbert 3.

For a little while.

Because somehow during the fun and games with The Final Wilbert, he got drowned.

No one is quite exactly sure how it happened.

But, Wilbert 3 was dead, and let me tell you, my youngest baby was DISTRAUGHT. The other kids were all OOPS and poor Vincent was like NOOOO NOT WILBERT, NOT MY BABY.  So Vlad and my niece and my nephews decided that there had to be a mouse funeral, and the best place to have this was in Grandma's garden. Over Vincent's strenuous objections everyone traipsed out to the garden, a hole was dug, and I sat by my youngest as he wept and kept saying "he's not dead! Don't do this!" So all the other kids go back inside and I continued to sit with Vincent and try to explain what happened. And he doesn't understand. He is in tears, and thinks if he could just cuddle him and sleep with him Wilbert 3 will wake up and be okay.

So Vincent tells me we have to take him out of the ground and give him "one more chance." And against my better judgment (because who WOULDN'T be making sound decisions after going on about 36 hours with no sleep) I go along with it because guys, Vincent is distraught and I am damn near in tears myself.

Over a drowned mouse.

So we turn around and walk back to the garden and we exhume Wilbert 3. And it is just as gruesome as you can imagine, and at this point now I am starting to worry that maybe he WAS buried alive or maybe Grandma's garden is an ancient Indian burial ground and fucking Wilbert 3 is going to come back all Pet Semataried because when I don't get enough sleep this is just where my head goes.

At any rate Wilbert 3 is back out of the ground and thankfully his eyes are still closed. But he is damp and matted and dirty and Vincent still picks him up and tenderly cuddles him and pets him.

And I am crying.

Guys it was AWFUL.

So when Wilbert 3 doesn't wake up Vincent hands him to me and insists that I try to resuscitate him and guys when your tearful four-year old begs you to try to save his pet you can fucking bet that you will.

So I start chest compressions.

On a dead drowned mouse.

It doesn't work.

So Vincent carefully takes him back and tries to brush the dirt from his eyes which now gives him the creepy half-open eyes of a dead mouse.  Vincent refuses to recommit the body to the garden, so I talk him into walking over to the woods and we will "give" Wilbert 3 back to his mommy, which means we say a few more nice words about him, call out "Wilbert's mommy, come get your baby!" and toss this drowned mouse into the trees.

So on the way back to the house we talk about how dead means you close your eyes forever and you're really gone and there's no going back, and it's okay to be sad and miss him. And poor Vincent is crying again, and says he doesn't ever want anyone to die, not Bart, not me, not daddy, and not his brother.

And guys I'm crying too because THIS IS HARD.

But he seems like he's understanding what happened, and he's going to be okay. So we go inside and wash up and then Vincent goes back outside to play with his brother and cousins. And after a little while they all start shrieking, and I race back outside because my nerves are just shot.

And guess what guys.

They found one of the escaped Wilberts.

Except Vincent thinks it's Wilbert 3.

The one we tossed into the woods.

The one I did CPR on.

And he is thrilled.

So now I am in the basement and can't sleep again and Vincent is snoring next to me. And all I can think is that He Who Walks Behind the Rows did a Pet Sematary on Wilbert 3 and now there is a zombie mouse outside and yes I realize I am getting my Stephen King mixed up but it is almost 3am here and I still cannot sleep and now I am waiting for Wilbert 3 to come downstairs with a scalpel like a deadly Stuart Little and say HE WANTS YOU TOO ALEAH HE WANTS YOU TOO!

So happy Independence Day people.

Awesome things about parenting boys

With pictures.

1. They pick out things like this:

at the store "for bein' GOOD!" What is this? Well, it has one of these in it:

and yes, friends, those are dog poop bags. Which my four-year old insisted he needed. No, we don't have a dog. He did, however, spend the rest of the day following me around the house asking for poop to put in his blue bags. "Can you just get me some? I need to put poop in here. Do you gotta go to the bathroom? When you go can I go?" (follows me into the bathroom): "Hey, are you poopin' or peein'? Can I see? Can I have some for my bag?" Failing to obtain fecal matter from me, an hour later found him scrounging in the catbox trying to stuff some of her poop in his awesome blue bags. Because clearly, since he now had a container intended for poop, by Merlin's pants he was going to get some poop for those goddamn bags. 

2. Speaking of containers, this is pretty much always an awesome present for a boy:

They can be any size, and made of pretty much any material. As long as it has a lid, they can put things inside. The possibilities are endless. And speaking of things boys like to put in containers -

3. Here are some of the things my boys have collected to put in various containers:

"He's my pet!"

"I need to build something!"

"It might be a DINOSAUR!"

"I need to CLEAN the ENVIRONMENT!"

"These are neat!"

"I need to build something!"

"I can't find some of my Legos and I need to build something!"

"I need the Vampire Castle. And Hogwarts. And the one that has Lord Business!"

"I love everyone and everything EVER. Also I need more containers now. For my THINGS."

4. They like "TO WRESS":

And basically what this means is that nowhere in your house you are safe. Sitting on the sofa? "It's time TO WRESS!" Trying to cook and monitoring a boiling pot of pasta on the stove? "WE'RE GONNA WRESS!" It means that any time you walk around a corner, you first need to attach a mirror to a stick and slide it around the corner to see if anyone is hanging from a rafter wearing a mask and waiting to leap onto your head TO WRESS. It means that whenever you go shopping you have to hog tie them (which is fun and part of the game!) and toss them into your cart and never, even for a moment, take your eyes off of them because the second you do they are hiding in racks of clothing waiting to leap out of them onto unsuspecting customers TO WRESS or crawling onto the top of the changing room partitions and waiting for someone to go inside and take their pants off so they can leap on them AND WRESS. I am now jumpier than a war veteran who spent nine days trapped in a fox hole waiting for a cease fire any time I have to venture downstairs. I can't enter a room without employing tunnel-rat tactics in order to ascertain whether one of my offspring is within, waiting TO WRESS.

5. They like to do things like trick their older brothers into wearing their dirty underwear:

Here was yesterday evening, after I'd told Vlad to get ready for bed:
Me (glancing over): "Are those your brother's Superman underwear?" Vlad (looks down): "Oh. I guess. Well they were in my drawer." Me: "Vlad, Vincent was wearing those underwear YESTERDAY. How did they get in your drawer?" Husband (wandering into the bathroom): "Wow Vlad. You know, your brother doesn't wipe his butt very well. You should probably check those." Me: "What I want to know is how Vincent's dirty underwear ended up in Vlad's drawer." Vincent (piping up from the doorway): "I think Daddy sorted the laundry!"

6. Speaking of wiping one's own butt, this is approximately how much toilet paper the youngest requires after one bowel movement:

 And this is where it usually ends up:

7. Also, did you know that all of these things are weapons?

 "I need this stick because it's my gun!"

 "Don't throw that away it's my gun!"

 "Well you can't watch the tv because I need my gun!"

"I tooked your makeups out because it flips open and it's my gun!"

8. They also need tape and screwdrivers "because I have to fix everything!"

 This is currently wrapped around a stair post. Because there was a crack in it.

This was screwed into a paper plate because by god he needed to put it in SOMETHING.

9. They are artistic. Everywhere. On all the things. My oldest, soon after he learned how to write his name, decided to tag all of my books, the backs of all of my pictures, my school papers, and yes, the wall above my bed, with this legend: VLADIMIR. When asked how his name had gotten written above my bed, directly above where my head usually lay, he offered this scenario: "Maybe Vincent did it?"

Vincent wasn't quite two.  However, once Vincent learned to grasp a pen, pencil, crayon, marker, knife, screw, stick, et cetera, he far surpassed his older brother in both the amount, placement, and quality of his artistic renderings on my walls.

And he elected to cover up his acts with

To "fix" them.

Unbelievable.

This morning, after dropping my two boys (seven and three) off at their respective schools, I returned home and scrolled through Facebook. In the midst of the usual photos of cats and last night's dinner, I chanced upon this post, written by a godly and virtuous woman (no doubt) named Mrs. Hall. The essential message of this post was this: she has teenaged boys, and she doesn't want them looking at sluts online.

Interestingly, The Godly Mrs. Hall chooses to pepper her post with shirtless photos of her sons and husband, all the while chastising the various online sluts who post photos of themselves in their bedrooms and (gasp!) also wearing bathing suits.

Now I get that The Godly Mrs. Hall is horrified at the thought that at some point, her sons will probably see a naked woman. Even worse, they are probably going to have sex with a naked woman. As a mother to two young men myself, I'm having a hard time understanding why she's so preoccupied with thoughts of her own children's sex lives, but then again, if she's someone who has to constantly hover over her little cherubs in order to make sure they aren't trying to reach out and touch someone, I get that she'd be worried.

Oh, but make sure you check out how SWEET her kiddos look shirtless. It's totally okay though, because it's DIFFERENT - at least according to this comment:

Anonymous says:
September 3, 2013 at 1:02 pm
I can understand some of the posts referencing the boys without shirts. Modesty applies to all. However, just to provide perspective, it is known that men (and boys of pubescence and beyond) are stimulated by sight. Ladies (and girls) are not nearly ‘turned on’ by what they see and far more motivated by what they “feel” – either physically or emotionally.

After dealing with Christian teenagers for 30 years, one thing I have learned is that without proper guidance boys will say they “love” a girl just to get physical gratification, and girls will give up their purity just to hear boys say they “love” them.

God simply designed males and females differently.

Unfortunately, in our current culture, human nature is turned on its ear and the world at large is purporting lies as truth when it comes to purity and God’s design for human sexual relationships. The result is frustration and sorrow beyond measure.

While the author may have used different illustrations, the message is no less true or needed. I applaud parents who care enough about their children to provide distinct guidelines. As the father of two daughters, I could be no more blessed than to know that the parents of their future husbands made such an effort to keep their minds pure.

Really? Males just can't "help" it? Ladies aren't as "turned on" by sight? Anonymous AND The Godly Mrs. Hall have a piss-poor understanding of human sexuality and relationships if they truly believe that males and females fit so neatly into those narrow little packages. 

Here's an idea: if you have children, period, teach them that their bodies are their own, and no one gets to touch it without permission. When it comes to sex, nothing less than an enthusiastic yes is what they should wait for - you want your partner to be as ready to take that step as you are. And no, the female form is not an object to degrade, or use, or control. It is her own, just as your form is your own, and you are the one responsible for your thoughts - not someone you see prancing around in her pjs. 

Oh, and - 

Update: According to Jezebel in an awesome rebuttal post, The Godly Mama Hall reposted her blog with appropriately attired sons. Good thing, because I'd hate for some lustful cockmonster (in the apropos words of Chris Kluwe) to see those. Additionally, I found another post at Unchained Faith that has a fantastic reply as well. 

"His mom says we can't be friends anymore"

A couple weeks ago, Vlad came home from daycare and told me that his best friend's mother had told her son that he could no longer be friends with mine. They're six, by the way.

At first, I was pretty stumped - I mean, it's not like Vlad skips school, deals drugs, or is a bully. He's an energetic boy, a bit of a class clown, doesn't know a stranger, and is always ready with hugs and compliments ("Chief, those are my favorite sweatpants that you wear! You know, I like how your hair sticks out of your head like that in the morning!")

Then I reflected on some odd conversations we'd been having lately. He came home from school one day and told me dejectedly that someone had told him that since he didn't know who Jesus was, that he was going "down below". I was a little taken aback - who tells a six-year old they're going to hell? When I asked him a little more about the conversation, Vlad told me that his friend had asked him if he knew who Jesus was, and when he said "Oh, no, I don't know him", his friend said that people who knew about Jesus went "up to heaven and lived forever" when they died, but people who didn't, or who did bad things (these "bad things" weren't specified, so I'm sure this could cover any number of things in the imagination of first graders), went "down below" where they never got to see their families again, and "lived forever being punished."

What. The. Fuck.

First, a bit of background, in case you don't already know. I am an atheist. My husband is spiritual (meaning he's meditative and reflective when he has big decisions to make, and probably more of an agnostic when it comes to things like whether there's a bigger creative force at work on the universe). We have some really interesting discussions on religions, reincarnation, what happens when we die, energetic forces at work, science, aliens, and pretty much anything thusly related. And one thing we very much agree upon is that when it comes to belief systems, we will allow our boys access to any and all schools of thought, we will only share our personal beliefs with them when asked, and that the boys will be encouraged to think about their own beliefs as they get older. We will not impose our beliefs (or lack of) on them (at least as little as possible; it's pretty much impossible to discuss such things without outlining why you do or don't ascribe to certain systems - however we do think that by being as neutral as we can, this will help foster a mindset of "think for yourself" rather than "this is what you should think".)

But back to the issue at hand. I don't think I can adequately express to someone who hasn't experienced it what it feels like when your child has been hurt - and not physically (because that can be dealt with in its own way). But when your child has been rejected by a grown woman and told by his best friend that they can't be friends anymore, you can't exactly kiss that away.

Here is what I find most interesting though: if your belief system is so frail, so weak, that a six-year old boy who is born an agnostic (as all children must be; you aren't automatically born with religion as an instinctive behavior sewn in) can derail what you're teaching your child, you're doing something wrong. If you're so frightened of outside influences making your child question the things you're telling him, you're doing something wrong. If you need to control things like who your child plays Legos and Super Heroes with in order to indoctrinate them into your way of thinking, you need to send your child to a religious school or keep them home - because I can assure you, my child will not be the only one yours encounters who is, according to your twisted ways of thinking, going "down below".

Vladimir will get over this; he makes friends easily, and fortunately he doesn't seem as bothered by this as I'd initially worried he might. I hope we handled it well; both his father and I have talked with him about it, and reiterated with him that while what happened was not okay, we accept that people believe different things, and we respect that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to peruse my Recipes for Heathen Cookin' book; I have Sunday dinner to make.

No, formula-feeding is not going to turn your child into a criminal (and stuff)

The other morning, I was skimming Facebook while sipping my morning coffee and stumbled across this little piece while wading through numerous election day posts. The author, who styles herself as The Alpha Parent, churned out an Ann Coulter-esque rabid lactard post rife with judgment on formula-feeding mothers - and while this certainly isn't anything new from that camp, she had a few interesting points that were so blatantly false I felt they needed addressing (even a year later).

First, let's discuss some of the glaring problems that breastfeeding research faces. Current pro-breast research is rife with issues including selection bias, inconsistent outcomes, and confounding variables that cannot be controlled for when doing mere observational studies and relying on self-report. What this means, for example,is that for every pro-breast study that claims breastmilk raises IQ, another study points out that the mother's IQ, and not her breast milk, is the significant factor in a child's intelligence.  This holds true for virtually all (excepting one, preventing necrotizing enterocolitis, which I'll get to in a bit) pro-breast feeding claims - in fact, a meta-analysis of breastfeeding research on the prevention of leukemia found that "There are few high-quality studies that examine the potential for a protective effect of breastfeeding for childhood leukemia. Furthermore, the few studies that exist disagree regarding the association." (citation in previous link). Pick the claim - obesity, allergies, autism (this study suggests that breastmilk is a causative factor, and not the other way around); the list goes on and on - and aside from lowering the risk of necrotizing enterocolitis in low-birth-weight infants, there is not a single study touted by lactivist extremists that cannot be definitively refuted by other studies. Don't take my word on it - Momma Data, The Fearless Formula Feeder, and Science-Based Medicine all offer balanced, well-researched articles on the myths and facts surrounding breastfeeding research (and parenting and health issues in general).

But back to The Alpha Parent - aside from her laundry list of conditions she claims are caused by formula feeding and offset by breastfeeding (all refuted in other studies, by other researchers), she makes a few other highly inflammatory claims that are not merely baseless, but are designed to shame formula-feeding mothers, and feeds into the smug, self-righteous rhetoric echoed by many other breastfeeding extremists. While this may be popular with her base, it alienates far more mothers from her cause; much like hellfire-and-brimstone preaching tends to repel an unbeliever, rather than causing them to "repent."

One particularly incitive claim she makes is that formula feeding leads to child abuse, citing this study (although she cleverly links several other publications that mention the study, effectively making it look like she has "numerous studies" to back this claim, though they're all actually the same study). However, there is one glaring problem with the study: the confounders. Among others, the researchers noted that issues such as economic status, substance abuse, whether or not the pregnancy was wanted or expected, and symptoms of depression or anxiety were all possible co-contributors, and with the reliance on self-reporting of the study subjects, the correlation between formula feeding and child abuse is no more significant than that between eating ice cream and drowning. Furthermore, she states that "an alternative, and in my opinion more compelling hypothesis, is that breastfed babies are less likely to be abused because they cry roughly half as much as formula-fed babies." - except this study found that exclusively breast-fed and mixed-fed  (combination of breast and bottle feeding) infants exhibited lower positive responses to stimulation, a reduced ability to regulate their own emotions (self-soothe), and higher emotional instability - in effect, per The Guardian, "breastfed babies cry more, laugh less, and generally have more challenging temperaments than formula-fed infants" (citation in link). Huh.

The blogger makes similarly inflammatory claims correlating formula feeding with higher crime rates (again not taking into account factors such as those listed above as contributing to abuse, and with much stronger associations), rising healthcare costs, taxes, and anti-feminism; really the only thing she doesn't blame on formula-feeding is climate change and homosexuality. And to what end? Do posts like this really influence a new mother's decision on how to feed her child? They don't - and that's probably not the point. These posts serve one purpose, which is to elevate breastfeeding to mythical proportions while simultaneously ridiculing and shaming mothers who choose not to breastfeed. That's not progress, people.

In the end, what matters in parenting is not how your children emerge from your body, or what and how you choose to feed them that first year (breast or bottle). What matters is how your son treats the women in his life, and how well your daughter accepts her looks and her body. What matters is that your children grow to be confident in their abilities, to be tolerant of others, and to be kind to people who can do nothing for them. I'm pretty sure you can instill those values in your children whether they were breast or bottle fed.

and this is why you always have extra clothes in your car.

So I wore THE WRONG Tool shirt to pick my kid up from daycare in today.

As we're walking into daycare, Vlad behind me, he goes "Hey. Why is there a GIANT PENIS on the back of your shirt?" I look down at my shirt and my heart sinks. I have two Tool shirts. One says "Schism" on the back. The other has this on the back:

Not really toddler friendly, but I was doing homework, at home, alone. Anway.

"Let's go back to the car," I say. "And it's not a penis. It's a tool. A wrench, actually." Vlad: "Well it looks like a penis. A lot, actually." I grit my teeth.

Looking through the car, there is not a single other item of clothing to be found. No jacket, no scrubs, not even a slutty tank top, because anything right now would be better than walking into the Ft. Lewis toddler daycare center with a giant tool that looks like a penis on my back. Shit.

Me: "Vlad, do you think you could switch me shirts?" Vlad (looking down at his Ninjago tee): "Um no. I am not letting you wear my Ninjago shirt. And I am not wearing a shirt with a giant penis on it." Me: "IT IS NOT A PENIS, VLADIMIR." I try turning my shirt inside out. The outline is still clearly visible. Shit shit shit.

Me: "Do you have a jacket? Let me try your jacket." Vlad (handing me his jacket): "That is not going to work." Me: "Shut up and think positive." Vladimir waits patiently while I try fruitlessly to wrestle myself into his jacket. It does not work. Vlad: "I told you -" Me: "OKAY, Vlad. Shit." Vlad again waits patiently while I toss the car again, to no avail.

Me: "Okay, we just have to go inside. We'll just go like it's no big deal. Walk behind me. Maybe my hair will cover it up?" Vlad peers at my back. "No. It definitely does not cover up the whole penis part." Me: "FOR GODDSAKE IT IS NOT A PENIS." Vlad shrugs.

We walk into the daycare. The director, a couple teachers, and some parents apparently taking a tour turn beaming smiles at us. "Mrs. Steiner! Hello! Do you have a few minutes to talk to some new prospective clients? Their son is going to be in Vincent's room!" Me (smiling big, trying to keep my back to the wall): "Hi yes we love it here Vincent loves new friends great place enjoy your day!" I speed walk backwards down the hall. Vlad: "She does NOT have a giant penis on her back." For the love of god.

(Entering Vincent's classroom, it is a chaotic din of parents, toddlers, teachers, and aides. FML) Me: "Vincent! Get your jacket; time to go!" Teacher: "Oh, he has some things he wants to show you today, Mama!" Me: "Not the best day for this, really." Teacher: "It'll just take a second!" Vlad: "She can't really walk anywhere. Look at her back." Me: "VLADIMIR." Teacher (peering around me): "Oh, dear." Me (closing my eyes): "I am so sorry... we just need to go." I collect my children and head for the exit. We pass a soldier on the way out and he gives me the thumbs up on my shirt. "Sweet band." Me: "Oh, SHUT IT."
Vlad: "Right?!?"

The moral: I have no idea. It's wine-thirty.

No, we're not Scientologists, either...

A couple days ago in my 'Bad' Parenting List post, I'd mentioned that the Vs will not be going to vacation Bible school (VBS).  Over the past few days I've had a couple notices put on my front door with an invitation for my kiddo to attend a VBS week at a local church.  As we're non-theist/atheist/Satan worshippers-by-default, I chucked them into the trash along with the rest of my junk mail, and pretty much put them out of my mind - Until Today (cue suspenseful music).

After getting Little V down for a nap and Vlad settled in with some Harry Potter, I started to do some virology homework.  When I glanced up from my computer, I noticed an official-looking dark sedan making its way down my driveway - and as any military wife can tell you, I instantly went cold all over.  I sat at the computer, unable to swallow or breathe, until the knock came at my door.  When Vlad ran to the door and announced "Hey, some old ladies are here!" I'm not ashamed to admit that I almost fell on the floor because my muscles, which had been rigid from head to toe, instantly relaxed.  It took me a second before I could answer the door.

Okay, the scary part's over :)

Anyway, I got to the door and opened it to see a couple ladies standing there (maybe a few years older than me, so thanks, Big V) smiling and holding Bibles.  Oy, vey.

Lady #1: "HI! WE WERE JUST CHECKING TO SEE IF YOU'D GOTTEN OUR INVITATION TO ATTEND OUR VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL IN JULY!"  I blinked. "Um, hello; did you used to be a cheerleader?"  Lady #1 flashed me a big smile, and if she hadn't been holding her Bible she probably would have given me spirit fingers. "WELL YES! HOW'D YOU KNOW?!?!?!?!?"  I smiled back and replied, "I'm a really good guesser."

Lady #2 cleared her throat. "We have a van that will be picking up and dropping off all the children, and they'll be given snacks along with their other activities. My children just love going every year!"  I gave her a patient smile and replied, "That's nice, and I appreciate the invitation, but we're not interested."  Both women looked a bit taken aback.  "Well, it sure is a lot of fun! We'll have games, and they'll do a craft each night, and they'll also get to participate in a play, which parents just love to watch on our final night!" #1 exclaimed.  "I'm sure they do," I replied, "but we don't go to church. Thank you for the invitation though."

At this point, most people would probably say "You're welcome, please call back if you change your mind," and leave.  However, these women apparently took my remarks as a challenge, and decided to proceed accordingly.

Lady #2: "Well, we do believe we have a calling by God to bring as many people as possible into His fold. May we come in and read to you a few verses that might explain a little better our mission here on earth?"  I shook my head. "No thank you; I'm really not interested, and I prefer to tend to my children's moral needs without interference from other organizations."

Lady #1 (cheerleader smile still in place): "Oh, but it's not just another organization! Our church has a great turnout every week, and we have people from all kinds of faiths that like to attend! It's really informal, our pastor's really young and our young people just adore him! We're open to all kinds of people, and one of the reasons we have such a large youth gathering is because we're a little more progressive than what you might be thinking of with more traditional churches."  #2 chimed in: "In fact, it might be a bit of a break for you, to relax and let the kids run around with a bunch of other kids and just have some fun!"

They both waited with expectant smiles.

I leaned against the doorway. "I do have a question."  Both ladies leaned forward.  "If a Scientologist came to your door and invited your kids to vacation Scientology school, would you let them go?"

They both looked aghast.  "Absolutely not!" they both said, nearly in unison.

I smiled.  "And I am absolutely not interested in sending my son to Vacation Bible School.  Thank you," and gently closed the door.

List Sundays!!

In order to try to get myself to blog a bit more, I'm going to pilch an idea from some other blogs I've seen; namely, to initiate a "_____ Day".  As I truly adore lists, making lists, buying special notebooks for lists, and finding those cute list pads that you magnetically attach to your refrigerator, my special day is going to be List Sunday.  So here goes...

My 'Bad' Parenting List:

1. The Vs watch a lot of tv.  In fact, it's my favorite babysitter.  You cannot find a human that will actually watch your kids for $49.99 a month, so it's quite a steal.

2. Although I'm a brilliant cook, I have not actually made a meal since we moved into our new home (qualifier: Husband is still in Korea, so I've really no one to impress, as the Vs will eat anything that is semi-edible; with Vincent, it actually doesn't even have to be edible).  My freezer looks like it did when I was still bartending and going to nursing school.

3. I spank.  I've also gotten over my issues with disciplining in public; rather than dealing with a meltdown in the middle of Walmart and treating the masses to toy-denial-induced hysteria from my children, we march straight into the nearest bathroom to be "corrected".  I've gotten many a knowing look from other parents as I frog-march Vladimir (with him screeching all the while "No, No, NOOOOO!!! I will STOP! Please DO NOT DO THIS!!! WHY oh WHY?!?!?") into the ladies' room, and to date, no one's called CPS to inform them that *gasp!* someone's being beaten in the bathroom (although with the way he carries on with one whack to the bottom you'd think I was yanking his toenails off one by one).

4. Both Vs got formula.  I just didn't feel like breast feeding.  Tried it, got tired of it, switched to a bottle.

5. When Big V trips and falls, I tell him to shake it off.  We save the boo-boo kisses for active bleeding.

6. Both Vs cried it out when it came time to get a sleep schedule going.  Vlad slept through at about five months, Vincent started at two.

7. We eat processed, non-organic, carb-and-calorie loaded foods. They're delicious.

8. As long as no one's way nakey, Vlad is allowed to watch PG-13 movies.  Does that make me a hypocrite, that I allow guns and gore, but no naked boobs?  Do I sound like I really care?

9. When the Vs yank the head off of a Barbie or run her over with a tank, I do not freak out and tell them  to "be nice to Barbie!" or assume that they're going to grow up to be mysogynistic jerks. They do the same thing to GI Joe and Iron Man.

10. I'm pretty sure Vlad has never sung "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round"; however he knows every word to "Supermassive Black Hole", "For Whom the Bell Tolls", and "Get Low".  Vincent head bangs right along with him.

11. When Big V was being bitten nearly every goddamn day at daycare by the same kid (YES!! HE WENT TO DAYCARE!! THE HORROR!!) I did not have a meeting with his teacher or the director in order to "explore" the reasons the little shit was biting my kid.  I told him to punch him in the nose the next time.  Yes, I got a call a few days later about the kid's nose being bloodied.  Guess who never got bitten again.

12. When my friends bring their kids over to my house, they are well aware that I will feed their kids Cheetos, let them watch Indiana Jones, and probably hear me yell "Dammit!" when I burn myself/stub my toe/trip over the baby gate.  As far as I know, no one's banned from my house yet.

13. I appreciate my children so much more when I'm not around them 24/7.

14. They watch SpongeBob.  I watch it with them.

15. When it comes to playing sports, I am That Parent.  I like to Win.  If we don't Win, we will practice even more.  Their coaches will love me.

16. My kids will go to public school.  When they come home with the Columbus Day fairy tale, or any other edited-for-U.S.-children "history," I will correct the sanitized version of events.  Their teachers will love me.

17. Sometimes, we forgo the bath for a quick baby-wipe swipe-down, usually when I'm ready for them to Go To Bed Now.  Nine pm is me time, no exceptions.

18. We are not Christians, and no, the Vs will not be going to Vacation Bible School "just for fun!"  I think Jesus was probably a pretty cool dude before he was written up as a divine savior of all mankind.  No, I don't care if that offends you.

19. I am not my children's "friend." I am their boss.  That is all.