Payback's a Beach.

After spending a lovely, if chilly, afternoon at the beach, I must say that it's one of those activities that seems more fun with a child. This time I mean it, no dripping sarcasm here. I had forgotten how much fun it is to pick up shells, dig in the dirt and run away from waves at the shoreline.

Last summer was the first time we'd brought the Captain to the beach. Though timid at first, by the end he had a very confident stride...

But as new parents, sometimes you let their fun outweigh what is best for them. Which brings me to a very important topic and warning to all you parents out there. Sand and poop do NOT mix well together. We found this out the hard way. It seemed innocent enough, letting him eat sand, but it's one of those little known consequences. Turns out that sand has to go somewhere. Imagine, if you will, that instead of using baby wipes you switch to sandpaper for a week. Our poor baby cried himself silly every time we had to clean him and let's just say it was a learning experience for us all. So please, if you do follow those parenting guidebooks, please jot somewhere in the margins a little note...eating sand=bad.

Breasts.

If I have ever done a mediocre job of anything in my life, breastfeeding had to be number 1. To be sure, as my mother told me, it was one of nature's cruelest jokes. Large breasts. Small mouth. Observe...





I don't deny that I gave it a good shot; I spent $300 on a breast pump, pumped for 6 weeks straight, which I had to then give to the Captain in a bottle, thus negating many of the major benefits of breastfeeding (cost effective, convenient).

So nothing made me feel more mediocre at this task than the attached video. I must warn you that if you don't have an "open minded" work environment, you may prefer to watch this at home. I could get into the whole debate if I wanted to, but let me just put this out there...my breasts are my own (despite what the Dad thinks). And I do resent the whole campaign to promote breastfeeding that points to formula as potentially "hazardous" to babies' health (or rather, "not feeding a baby breast milk" aka "feeding a baby formula"). But first watch and decide for yourself.

What really bothers me about this isn't what this woman believes to be bothering me. It has nothing to do with nakedness or sexuality; it's about owning my own body. As I have said before, I can separate the mother-me from the woman-me and there is no way that I would ever let the Captain believe that he owns any part of my body. So if that means that 5 or 8 year old children can have awareness of ownership rights, then yes, this woman is breastfeeding too long. The only thing the Captain probably owns for the next 20 years or so is my wallet - it's Coach and can easily be removed from my pocket.

They're not just for Mom's anymore...

It's funny how in those moments of desperation to get one chore done, to have 5 sane moments to accomplish a task without being dragged away and thrown in a closet, a real Mediocre Mama can be okay with the "wrongest" of toys for her toddler.

I present, for your amusement, the tampon.

Okay, now just wipe that shocked look off your face. I know what you look like because it's the same one the Dad had when he got home from work last night. And yes, I stress the fact that it was a Saturday and he was working because no sane person with a husband that worked only 5 days a week would come up with an idea like this.

While hanging a load of laundry yesterday (yes, I hang my laundry because I live in a little stone age country where they don't believe in dryers) the Captain wandered by in apparent desperate need of my attention. He grabbed my leg, my finger, he whined he tugged he pulled. I would not be deterred. After a few minutes, he wanders off, dejected and rejected. As he often does when he's being ignored, he'll find that one thing that should get my attention. He apparently found it and declared, "watch me pull a tampon out of this purse." Abracadabra. Presto.

He runs back into the guest room where I am hanging away and I look at him sideways. Suddenly it occurs to me, why not? I mean, really, he doesn't know what it is, it's got fun packaging to rip off and then lots of tubular devices to move around and, most important of all, it's probably cleaner and more sanitary than half of his toys. And then of course there's that strange voice in the back of my head that is thinking, "wow, maybe this will help him understand the plight of women everywhere. I can just see it, he'll be 3 years old and saying, 'Mama, I know that it's that time of the month. Why don't you go sit down while I hang the laundry.'"

So the Captain joyfully took apart my tampon whilst I joyfully got some housework done.

His Dad, of course, had that look of horror that all of you now have. But really, it's just a thing, isn't it? It isn't until we complicate it up with other meanings that it becomes disgusting. Think about it, if you didn't know what it was wouldn't a tampon be loads of fun for a baby? And it's safe too; it's not like he can strangle himself on the string and there are no dangerous small parts. I propose that all we need to do is re-market these suckers and you might have something. I present...Tampons for Tots.

Mom my Ride

This one sent from my friend Karen.

Just for the record, (to quote The Office) I am not going to one of those women shlepping her kids around in a minivan. I want an SUV... with three rows of seats.

Doorknob tribute - Don't know what you've got til it's gone.

Never did I dream of writing on such a banal topic as doorknobs, but in the last week I've really come to appreciate just what an unsung hero this common household object is. Don't believe me? Let me 'splain.

The other morning I decided to get up early and let the Captain sleep in. I showered, did my hair, got dressed and was ready to go. But as I went to turn the doorknob it wouldn't budge. Not clockwise, not counterclockwise...I was trapped. With no phone around, a baby sleeping in the next room, my dog locked in the kitchen (who probably wouldn't have been much help in getting the door open anyway), and my husband gone at work for the next 10 hours, I was faced with a dilemma. Now, I really must say that I began to understand the claustrophobic mind, because I was about to begin tying sheets together so I could use my Spiderman-like agility and swing onto my next door neighbors' balcony. It seemed like a good idea at the time, never mind the fact that I live 8 stories up. Thankfully I was thinking with my noggin and I did dismiss the idea as probably illogical and ultimately suicidal; I decided to give it another think. I moved the door lock mechanism up and down and somehow it released the doorknob, though it now turns in the wrong direction.

Okay, I realize this may all be a bit melodramatic; in truth I believe the entire incident took place over the course of a minute. But it really did put me into a bit of a tizzy for a few moments as I pictured Jesse fending for himself in his crib all day long. I called the management company for a replacement.

Now what pissed me off next is that the management company agreed to send a doorknob repair person (does anyone know what to call this guy in Spanish?) but they said that if the problem appeared to be a "doorknob misusage issue" that I would have to pay for the repair. What the fuck does that mean? Can someone please tell me how one misuses a doorknob? Somehow I think I'm going to get charged for this thing anyway.

So the guy comes yesterday and I don't speak a word of mechanic's Spanish (which seems to be 20 times faster and more technical than regular conversational Spanish), so all I hear is that he's taking the knob and coming back tomorrow morning. Well, it's already tomorrow afternoon and he hasn't come. So I called the management company back and she says that he can't get the knew knob until next week. Um, scuse me? .

Have I mentioned that my bedroom is like a death trap for babies, which is why we keep the door closed in the first place? Not only do I have a problem with all the pill bottles, coins and small bits of jewelry he's apt to be picking through, but I don't exactly want him going through "mom and dad's drawer o' fun." ;-) .

So now I've got the Captain running in and out of my bedroom and I've had to put all my dangerous good out of arms reach from even myself and I'm supposed to live like this until next week?

To be frank, I should have known better. Last summer it took me 6 weeks to have air conditioning installed in this apartment, which was quite a shock to everyone since the landlord told us it already had an air conditioner installed when we rented the place. And one of the things you quickly discover living in Spain is that when a mechanic tells you that he'll be doing an installation mañana, it should be more like the mañana after mañana after mañana. And they will leave you hanging there til the end of the day so that you may never leave your house again, all the while thinking, "He'll be here any minute...I just know he will." And you call and leave messages and wonder, "Why isn't he calling me back? Was it something I did? When he was speaking all that fast Spanish to me and I was nodding yes, did I somehow agree to just wait here for the next 3 weeks until he returns?"

Sigh. I know, I got off track. Just understand this conclusion. Love your doorknob. Worship it. Know that it could be gone tomorrow and you could spend the next week just starring at an empty hole in the door.

Happy happy, joy joy.

One of the really great things about being a Mediocre Mama is that it gives you license to say what you will without the need to apologize, no matter how un-PC or un-motherly it is. For example, ask me what the happiest day of my life is: The day I gave birth to the Captain? Ho ho ho, surely you jest. The day I met or married my husband? Oh, you. No, the happiest day of my life was the day I passed the Bar exam.

Now I realize this may come as a shock to many; how could I possibly confess to something so selfish when I have a beautiful handsome child? However, when you do a side-by-side comparison, I think you will understand why:

1. I spent 7 hours in labor; I spent 11 hours over a two day period taking the bar exam;

2. Birthing class was only 6 hours; Bar study classes took a month;

3. I paid about $90 for my birthing class and nothing to give birth; I spent $2,000 on a bar review course, $150 to stay in a hotel the night before and in-between the exam days and approximately $500 in fees to apply and sit for the bar exam;

4. I waited 9 months for the Captain to come out, during which time I have the assurances that there was in fact a baby growing inside me that would eventually come out; I waited 3 months for my Bar results with absolutely no assurances of passing;

5. When I gave birth to the Captain I knew, well, I guess I may eventually go through this again and that’s fine; when I found out I passed the Bar I knew I would NEVER have to go through with this again; and

6. When the Captain came out, though I was very happy, there was that moment in my head where I said…”wow, he sure is, um, loud;” when I passed the Bar exam, the only thing that was loud was my little shriek and maybe a “thank god almighty” somewhere in there. I mean, for real, I’m Jewish, but I was ready to praise Jesus, Buddha and maybe even George W. Bush.

Getting the picture? Now, if you rephrase the question…what was the most life altering day of your life...what was the best day of your life...I’m sure I could come up with a different answer. But in truth, I don’t know if I was so much happy the day I gave birth as I was elated, confused, overwhelmed, tired and sore. I sometimes think that we as parents get so bogged down in being selfless and appearing to be so self-sacrificing that we often forget that before this little wonder came into the world we were human too. Am I so terrible that I can separate the mother-me from the woman-me and never look back?

Another pooptacular day.

Though I'm sure you won't believe me, I really was going to post about something else for a change. Really, I've had a draft regarding playgroups and play dates in the works for about 3 days now. But sometimes you gotta strike while the iron is hot, or in this case, the poop.

There's really no way to sugar coat this one, so I'm just going to come out with it. 2 words, baby...bathtub poop. It was a first. Truly, poor baby obviously wasn't feeling well. Truly, Mediocre Mama isn't feeling so great after cleaning it up, either.

I have decided to spare you the awful details and attempting to leave much up to your overactive imaginations. Trust me, not only do I not want to write about this one, I am considering partial brain lobotomy to get rid of the memory myself.

But I do pose but one question. How do you soak bath toys for disinfecting? If you say put them in a basin with water and ammonia or bleach, you'd be wrong. You see, that's what I thought, too. But think about it...these toys are inherently designed to float. So even if you do soak them, really you're only cleaning half of them. And try though I might to turn the rubber duckie upside down, that cricker just kept popping up for air.

Note to self, invest in rubber gloves. Alright, going to contemplate throwing up now.

I'm fine, me too.

Just as a follow up to my earlier post, check out this video from The Magic Garden. Forewarned apologies to my sister...they still don't say your name. Also, I have to recant part of my earlier post, as it turns out the hippies were talking to a rabid squirrel as well.

And standard disclaimer, watching this video may cause you to smoke weed.

HEY YOU GUYS!!!

So, I hate to get all back in my day on this blog, but I simply can’t help myself.

Back in my day, we had 6 options. It was The Electric Company, Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street, The Great Space Coaster, and for all my NY peeps out there, The Magic Garden on Channel 11. Yeah, you know what those hippie bitches were toking in the giggle patch. Hehe.

But now we’ve got a million and one kids channels and cartoons that we can plop our kids in front of all day long. As such, there’s a lot of crap-o-rama out there…

Oh shit, add Wonderama to that list…

Since we’re English speaking and living in Spain, I don’t mind telling you that I’m (a) not picky and (b) not often proud of my parenting picks, save the fact that I don’t let him watch Booba or Boobie or whatever the heck it is. But what the hey, I’m a Mediocre Mama.

Here is a brief list of the shows the Captain enjoys:

(a) Clifford, The Big Red Dog – a story about a big red dog that lives with two women and pretends he’s gay so that his curmudgeonly landlord won’t kick him out. I assure you, John Ritter’s finest work;

(b) Bob the Builder – hate to break it to all of you American’s, it’s a British show and y’all are watching a dubbed over version. Trust me, they’re not playing “soccer;”

(c) Miss Spider – someone please tell me why these spiders are eating blueberries instead of each other? Oh, but major props to Kristen Davis for playing Miss Spider. Love the storyline where Mr. Spider can’t get it up;

(d) Charlie and Lola – sorry, nothing negative or sarcastic to say about this one. It’s simply my favoritest and bestest cartoon in the whole wide world, ever;

(e) Los Nuevos Aventuras de Winnie the Pooh – can’t make a sarcastic comment about this one either because I have no idea what the fuck they’re saying. I do love that Rabbit is called Conejo, though, and think of him every time I see him on the menu when I order Paella Valenciano; and finally

(f) The Higglytown Heroes.

Alright, here’s my beef with The Higglytown Heroes. First a synopsis: it’s about a group of young weeble wobbles that clearly ride the little yellow school bus because they can’t seem to figure out how to do anything and are guided by the town’s only talking animal, a rabid squirrel that sounds a lot like the secretary from Ferris Beuller’s Day Off or the annoying neighbor’s mom from She’s a Small Wonder.

So, our young “heroes” go about their day, doing things like trying to buy stuff in a grocery store or wipe their asses and they can’t seem to do any of it. They declare they need the help of “someone special.” Enter the Higglytown Hero, stage right.

In a nutshell, the show is supposed to be teaching kids about civic responsibility and respect for members of the town. But the message is that the kids themselves should strive to be just like their “Higglytown Heroes,” which seems to include grocery clerks, Zamboni drivers and pizza guys.

Have I missed something? Do I want to encourage the Captain to be “just like” the pizza guy? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure my pizza delivery guy is some 20-something stoner that dropped out of college and is packing heat so he can avoid the Noid.

So in my opinion, if we’re going to dredge up every moron from the town, why not make it a little more colorful and interesting? Perhaps show kids what a real town looks like?

One weeble wobble says to the other, “Mom says we’re going to be living on the street soon, but I’m scared…” Enter the Higglytown Hobo.

“My Uncle says he’s been a little tense lately” – ah look, it’s the Higglytown Hooker.

“I need to know if my weeble wobble outfit goes with my weeble wobble hat.” Here comes the Higglytown Homosexual.

“Wow, that weeble wobble won’t stop bleeding!” It’s because he’s a Higglytown Hemophiliac, stupid.

Alright, I am sure there are those out there who will think I’ve gone too far, but really. These kids are running around town taking advice from a rodent. And quite frankly, the adults seem to be taking advice from her too, which makes me think they’ve all been spending a little too much time at the Higglytown hashish den.

Poops, I did it again.

I do realize that my loyal readers (all 5 of you) are going to think that I'm obsessed with poop and shit, but it's been an over the top week of poop. And sometimes, when you just think you've gotten a handle on this parenting thing, it all goes to shit.

On Tuesday night, during a rather unremarkable dinner out in the Old Town with Dad and the SIL, the Captain started getting agitated and began tossing his dinner roll and throwing cutlery. He suddenly tipped to his side and went all red in the face. Although we knew the Eagle had landed, we let him sit for a few more minutes as he happily picked up his bread and began snacking away. As a sidebar, I find nothing grosser than pooping and eating; but I digress. We finally took the Captain out of his booster seat and his pants were fairly soaked through. Dad and I cowered on the floor of the bathroom and alternatively dealt with his hand/shoe dipping into the mess. Course, we felt like bone heads because we haven't carried spare clothes in months. The Captain had to suffer the indignity of a trip home in a diaper, sneakers and a jacket. Pretty much a scandal in the town where babies wear linen suits to play in the park.

...but that wasn't the best part.

Yesterday, I put the Captain down for a nap in his diaper and a t-shirt. As I was writing yesterday's entry, I didn't respond straight out when he started yelping for me to come. Finally I go and he's standing in the crib, no diaper and a little puddle next to his leg. I pulled all his bears and blankets out of the crib before anything gets peed on again and suddenly notice a 3 inch turd sitting on the mattress. The little man actually managed to drop the bomb within the 20 seconds it took me to clear away his sleep accouterments. So I pick him up and note it's all over his legs too. Long story short, I clean him up, clean the bedding, no harm, no foul.

But there's an epilogue. Oh, it wasn't over for your friendly narrator. Not by a long shot.

An hour or so later I decide to take the Captain to the Corte Ingles, a fairly upscale Harrod's-type department store in Spain. I was dressed nice, but not flash, and I was most intrigued by the number of people checking me out. Frankly, I find it odd when anyone checks me out with a child in tow, but Spanish men really don't care so I just figure it's not unusual. I spent about an hour roaming before I picked up an outfit to try on. And suddenly, I spied myself in a mirror.

Now, have I mentioned my enormous breasts? They are quite large. So large that they could, say, shield my view of anything in my waist area. And so, while you would think that I would have noticed the large shit stain smeared across my shirt, it seemed to have narrowly escaped my view. Sadly for me, most of the shopping clientele at Valencia's Corte Ingles do not have large knockers blocking their view.

So the lesson Mom's and Dad's? Parenting should never be so time consuming that you can't do a last minute check before walking out the door. Words to live by.

No good time goes unpunished...

Apparently the Captain had some rather strong opinions about my leaving him with the babysitter all day, because boy did I get an earful. Here's how my evening unfolded...

• Arrived home at 7:30 to poopy pail. Shove babysitter out the door and the fun begins.
• Chased the Captain (who apparently spent his entire day snacking on sugar cubes, espresso and redbull) round the apartment, let him lock me in a closet, watched the meltdown building...
• 8:15, the meltown begins (Insert crying, kicking, screaming here).
• 8:30, put the Captain down for a quickie nap in hopes for a dinner out when Deviant Dad came home. Enjoyed a quick episode of Sex and the City and the first 20 minutes of Charmed.
• 9:15, Deviant wakes up the Captain to go to dinner and the meltdown continues. I send Deviant out with his sister for dinner.
• 9:30, attempt to feed the Captain some oatmeal, which he rebuffs.
• 10:30, after pacing, begging, tv-watching and bribery, realize I'm beat. Put Captain back down for the night, no supper in his tummy and curl up on the sofa in the fetal position awaiting the return of Deviant and SIL with my sushi.

Does this mean that I'm doomed to a life of buy now, pay for it afterwards with my child? I contemplated the pattern and it would seem that every time I get a babysitter there's a wake up in the middle of the night/meltdown scenario after the fact. It made me think that, although only 18-months, maybe the Captain is already making his gripe list and plotting his revenge. I ought to know - Deviant wrote his gripe list years ago.

Flashback to an evening, oh, maybe nearly 10 years ago. Deviant and I decided to shack up after college, much to the MIL's chagrin. She made us sleep in separate rooms when we visited and Deviant started on a rant about all the ways his parents wronged him growing up; and thus, the gripe list was born. It was long and to be sure I can't recall it all, but here's the shorthand on Deviant's upbringing:

• Until he was 10, they fed him carob and told him it was chocolate;
• They took him to Disneyland and told him he didn't need to see Disneyworld because it was "the same thing;"
• They fed him Blackstrap Molasses mixed with milk and told him it was chocolate milk;
• When his sister was small and whacked him in the face with one of those old metal seat belt on purpose (she admits), breaking his tooth in the process, they figured he'd done something to provoke her and took her out for ice cream;
• They gave him wheat germ;
• His Mom had a Buckaroo Kids small soft drink coupon for Roy Rogers. She changed the expiration date and used it until he was 16;
• I want my MT-wha? No cable until he was 22;
• For his birthday one year, his parents took him and some friends to see All of Me (a PG rated Steve Martin movie) for his 9th birthday. When they got to the scene where he spanks Victoria Tennant, she removed Mat and all his friends from the theater and left before it was over; and
• She also made him watch Yentl. Twice. When he walked out of the theater the first time because he hated it, she made him go see it again.

Ah, don't worry. We love the MIL and FIL to pieces. But it just goes to show you how a few bad choices could turn into a list you'll pay for the rest of your life. Oh, and just to give my parents fair play:

• They hired Mrs. Savoy to watch me while they worked. I probably could post a whole section on this, but for now, lets just say this: Lunch Lady;
• Knee patches;
• My boy hair cut that they told me was the Dorothy Hammil look. Check out my photo on the side and you tell me...;
• The Volcano project. Alright, repeat after me. A spray painted towel stapled to a board does NOT resemble a volcano;
• Sleep away camp; and
• After years of begging for a dog they finally break down and get one...for my sister.

Alright, better get the Captain to the park before he adds another one to his list...

Babysitting Bonanza

One of the fabulous things about being a Mediocre Mama is that you don't get too bunched when you're mediocre babysitter screws up. I grant you, I'm currently living in Spain, thousands of miles from grandparents or friends you can grub off of for a few peaceful hours, so I am truly not that picky. She speaks English, she gets herself to my apartment. Beyond that I really don't need much more. But after another day of babysitting foul ups I thought it proper to share some of the better ones.

First, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that when I was a teenager I managed to close a toddlers finger in a door while I was sitting. The finger made it and she's currently a 16 year old young woman, enjoying the many benefits of 10 fingers.

Alright, I've purged. Now onto my babysitter. Just so you know, despite all this I still think she's great. But it's funny how desperation for an outing reduces your standards just a little bit. He always comes out in one piece and I suppose I can't complain too hard, but I just figure I'd let you know what you get for 8 Euros an hour in Spain:

1. One night she put him to bed with his feety pajamas over his shoes;

2. On one particular occasion she left the side of the crib down and he did the big jump (I forgive this one, however, because I had that thought...hmmm, must check on side of the crib...instead passed out and woke to a thud);

3. One night he woke up at 2 am, literally in a puddle. This was the day that I learned what that Huggies blue liquid leak capacity is;

4. 2 weeks ago she put his rock-n-roll Ernie doll in the crib with him. I cannot tell you how jarring it is to wake up at 3 am after a lot of wine and a limoncello to "Splish Splash I was taking a bath"; and

5. Today, as well as every other time, she managed to put his stinky diaper in the wrong pail. I totally understand forgetting which pail to use. But what I don't get is that she is unaware of the odor. I mean, honestly, my house doesn't smell like shit when she walks in. It's just odd to me that she doesn't go, hmm weird...it smells like shit every time I leave here.

Anyway, at least it gets me out of the house...

See where all this gets me?

Today my low key method of parenting seemingly bit me on the arse.

Alright, repeat after me: Glass and marble floors do not mix. Rinse. Repeat.

And so my Venetian glass necklace met said fate today when I didn't wrestle it from Captain Kid quick enough. To be honest, I thought the thing was unbreakable. It's hit the marble floors before. Apparently I wasn't accounting for the fast ball the Captain was throwing when it hit the ground.

What pisses me off is that it is quite literally irreplaceable. Deviant bought it for me as a surprise when we traveled to Venice back in December and it was so meaningful to me. I definitely didn't deserve it because I obviously didn't care enough about it. Really, it's so my fault. I'm obviously not mature enough to own a Venetian glass necklace.

Which brings me to another point of discussion...Venice and strollers do not mix. I was going to save this for another day, but since I'm on a roll and crying in my own glass mess, I should probably tick this one off my list.

Deviant and I took the Captain on a 3 week trip around Italy in December and we learned the hard way about all the steps in Venice. See, I knew there were bridges everywhere, but somehow that didn't scream "big-ass-staircases-to-get-over-the-bridges." So as it turns out, one should have neither children nor a handicap if they are living in Venice. On the plus side, I ate like a pig and didn't gain a pound while I was there. On the negative side, the Captain was hardly able to grab a nap what with the constant up and down on the steps, making for some rather stressful and grumpy meals while we were there.

Alright. That's all for now. Going to spend the rest of his nap scoping the Internet for a suitable replacement necklace. Perhaps I will replace it with a Venetian plastic necklace instead...

Mediocrity, my mothering defined.

I think I need to confirm exactly what I mean by "mediocre mama" because my mother read my blog yesterday and gave the input that I don't seem to think very highly of myself. Sigh.

No, I don't think I've done nothing with my life or that I'm a "bad" mother. I just have come to see that in the competitive world of parenting that I am no "model parent" by any Today Show or Parenting Magazine standard. And to be frank, I hate those standards and I hate the judging that we mother's do. So instead of letting others judge me, I choose to judge myself in this blog. This is just a sampling of my parenting faux pas:

(1) I don't take Captain Kid to playgroups or play dates;

(2) I don't tell him to use his "inside voice";

(3) I let him french kiss the dog;

(4) I don't feed him organic anything; and

(5) I watch "Sex and the City" while he's in the room (yes, the unedited version).

I am a mediocre mother because I accept my own standards and choices and those standards and choices of others rather than acting as the parenting po po. I drink wine with him in the room, I let Deviant dangle him upside down, I let him run with scissors. Okay, maybe not the last part. I'm mediocre, not a moron!

My point being that I am not perfect and I am human. I am done with the war on other Moms. I'm sick of feeling embarrassed about Captain Kid running amok when other children sit still. I hope that this blog reaches other mediocre parents and that they too can feel absolved from their transgressions.

My Road to Mediocrity

I am a mediocre mother. No, I'm not being hard on myself...mediocrity is something I've pretty much endeavored towards my entire life.

In high school I was a mediocre student. No, I wasn't stupid or even average. I was in fact, in the top 20 % of my class. Try though I might, I could never hit that top 10 %. I recall my senior year when I won a scholarship. In fact, the scholarship application required that "applicant must NOT be in the top 10 % of his/her class." I mean, what the crap kind of a requirement is that? We want you smart...but not very. I managed to scrape by on my SAT's with an 1100, just enough to secure a spot at Boston University (I don't even think I could get wait listed there today).

In college, I studied Public Relations. I had been a theatre enthusiast all through my childhood, but faced with the option of waiting tables or earning a living I decided at the tender age of 18 to give up my dreams in pursuit of an average life. I quite literally chose my major by looking through the student handbook. To my recollection, it went a little something like this...

"Hmmm. Public Relations? Yeah, I like the public and I can relate."

So began a very short and highly mediocre career in public relations. The truth is that I began a string of jobs that I couldn't have cared less about and "relating to the public" was not exactly paramount in my mind...I really would have sooner remained anonymous.

And so, what does a mediocre PR person do to ramp up her career? I became a mediocre lawyer.

Okay, this I will grant you...I had potential. I received nearly perfect scores on all my oral arguments and my writing was certainly above average. But a bad job with Psycho Firm after my 2nd year turned me cold on lawyering and put me off litigation for life. Confidence shaken and a year of law school to go, I decided to turn it all around and go to work for a highly unpopular junior senator for my state legislature. I managed to graduate law school 1 spot out of the top 3rd, thus missing cum laude by .01. I'm also pretty much sure I just barely passed my bar exam (they don't show you the final cumulated score, but I saw half my score and it pretty much spoke for itself). I have shoved my J.D. on the backburner since I received it in 2004.

So, how did I become a mediocre mama? Well, in a nutshell, I married my husband, Deviant Dad, back in 2001 after 5 years together (a story for another time). I gave birth to Captain Kid in October 2005 and the jury's still out on whether or not there shall be a Kid 2. We are currently and temporarily living in Valencia, Spain for Deviant's job and I have been a SAHM for nearly a year. Captain Kid just turned 18 months. His favorite hobby is climbing on the tv and torturing the dog.

Deviant and I have dragged Captain Kid all over Europe this year and are the worse for wear. We have been through Italy, Ireland, Scotland, Portugal and Spain, sometimes in tears, occassionally covered in vomit, always with dirty looks from strangers. Hopefully I can use this blog to purge some of my experiences, to warn others about the hard job of trying to maintain your active lifestyle while parenting, and hopefully to create some semblance of sanity in my insane life of mothering.