Driving that train, high on cocaine.

I didn't think I'd be giving out another Memo Award in such short order, but the more mediocre parenting out there they just leave me no choice. Today's award goes to the Mama who was doped out on Percocet and vodka and used her better judgment to allow her 5 year old to drive the car.

There are many facets of this story that intrigue me. I almost feel as though her intent was something I could jive with, just not her execution.

First and foremost, who amongst us hasn't been tempted to pop a little something something to deal with our kids? I grant you, in my case it's usually a nice glass of wine when I put the Captain down to bed at night. But there are times he's so out of hand that I think what I wouldn't give to take a Soma and check out for a while.

Second, you do have to hand it to her; she knew she was not capable of driving an automobile.

I guess what I find totally obnoxious about this story is that the grandfather comes on the news exclaiming that he's not bailing her out and wagging his finger of shame. Yet he consented to let the kid give an interview? I should come up with a Mediocre Grandparent award but the Mega doesn't have the ring that Memo does.

Have a great holiday weekend everyone. And remember if you are going to let your toddler drive, make sure you're sober enough to give him directions. Or at least be like Britney and have the courtesy to work the gas.

“Temptation, frustration, so bad it makes him cry."

Ah, just a little school song to set the tone.

Yes, the Captain is off to school. Only 2 days in and 1 morning crying-jag down. "I think I'm gonna like it here."

The first day sorted out so so. A new pair of shoes and a brand spankin' new backpack to start things right. It took a few shots with the new pair til it was a meltdown-free affair, but the Captain is taking change in stride and looks rather outdoorsy in his new stride rite extra-wide shoes. Naturally the Deviant Dad didn't get new shoes to honor the Captain's first day of school, so we're still using his ailing flip flops to open beer.





My biggest concern about the Captain's first day is that naturally he decided to mark the occasion by coming down with a head cold. Of course, the parent handbook details the shape, color and precise location of discharge that would preclude a child from attending school, which sends me into a panic because as the "volunteer" parent I have to get my arse over to the school for the first 2 days. After a few alarmed phone calls to a "Friendly Mom," I decide to dope the Captain up on some contraband narcotics and send him off on his first day.

And he did great. Until his 2nd day. It seems that after the first time of abandonment they "get it" and go mental on subsequent occasions. And so he kicked and screamed and panicked this morning whilst I pranced into the front office to take on the mighty tasks of garbage disposal and recycling. Ah well. When your only real job in the last year involved shit and laundry you don't feel all that picky when someone gives you an important task like garbage removal.

And so I thought all was lost and that my brain would wither away during my volunteer time until I ran into Friendly Mom in the toddler drive-through pick up line. We chat for a moment and it turns out that in addition to having our kids in the same class, we're both temporarily SAHM's/Lawyers looking to re-enter the workforce. We agree we have much in common and exchange hand signals in the international code of "call me." I drive off feeling pretty good and the Captain's waving bye-bye rather contently at his teacher.

And then it hits me.

Have I joined the Momtourage?

A little "act of god."

Whatever insurance genius coined the term "an act of god" got it right. For only god could have known how much I hated the Deviant Dad's Miata. Owning up to this in full terms, I must confess the following thoughts have flickered through my brain over the years:

God, I hate this Miata.

God, I feel like an idiot riding around in this thing.

God, he looks like a 16 year old boy or an early mid-life crisis in that car.

God, I wish he would get rid of this stupid matchbox car!.

And so, it seems that She may have been listening. Saturday night a wild storm broke out and a large branch took out the side mirror, the windshield and various other bits of said Miata. The thing needed so much work to begin with that totalling is not out of the question. Now, of course, I don't have a job and it means buying a 2nd car we weren't prepared to buy. But no one was injured (thank god!) and it means we wouldn't have to put any work into fixing the car up to sell.

So...can I get an Amen?

I'm just a cupa cupa burning love....

Back to school started with a bang last night at the Captain's back to school picnic in the park. There was pizza. There were brownies. And most importantly, there were cups and a playground. So it came as no surprise to me that the Captain ran around all evening with a death grip on his paper cup (his favorite playtime accoutrement) and was extremely intent on bringing this cup where ever he went. Up the steps, down the slide. Anywhere you could truly think of. And it didn't stop there. He was particularly adept at conning unassuming parents to fill his cup. I think he had about 4 bites of pizza and it didn't really interest him. To the Captain, it's all about the cups...







I can attest to the fact that the Dad and I have no fears about sending the Captain off to school on Monday. He ran from us faster than we could put him down and didn't have the general confidence problems some wee ones might have. This, of course, being the reason that we were forced to put his name tag on his back instead of his front; he wouldn't sit still long enough for us to put it on his front. Which is all fine, anyway, because he spent most of the evening running away from people and it made it easier to find out what his name was.

But that all being said, I do have one major fear: the playground. Not that he'll fall, but that they will have to pry him from the riding cars, slides and sandbox that adorn the side of his classroom. This morning all the Toddlers were gathered at said play area and I can assure you that the Captain was the only child who would not be deterred from the playground. In fact, he was kicking and screaming when we left. With a window overlooking the temptation I fear that Teacher is going to have her hands full. But am I really afraid? Nah. This is why we pay other people to raise our kids. Ah, bliss...

A sibling at the end of the rainbow?

Despite my constant self-doubt, and Deviant Dad's even greater self-doubt, as to whether I want another little Captain running around the house, last night there was a ray of hope. Last night was toddler school orientation. And what did I learn, or so you wonder? Captain Kid is going to soon be a well-behaved angel who sets his plate at lunch and cleans the floors and dishes whilst peeing and pooping on his potty and putting on his own clothes, brushing his hair, and doing floral arrangements on the side. He might even be finding the cure for cancer in his spare time...I'm not sure, they didn't cover the entire year's curriculum.

But "Teacher" did set out a very specific daily lesson plan, which starts with getting stripped down to diaper or underpants and a shirt, sitting on the potty (not all at once), a bunch of work, setting up for and preparing meals, cleaning, everyone get back in the potty, music time and finally outdoor play. I sheepishly raised my hand and asked how the hell Teacher was going to coordinate this dance. I mean, I know she's a professional and all, but what if she gets 9 little Captains in her class?

Incredulity aside, we're pretty damn excited. Not only because someone else will be reining in our diablito, but because starting Monday I get 3 hours of my day back to troll for a job. Or so I thought.

As it happens, the parents get homework too at his new school. Our homework involves 2 days a month of "voluntary" service, clipping out class work and whatnot. We don't get to be in the classroom, we're actually put to work in the main office. We bring snacks and projects for the kiddies, wash all the crudded up clothes and stuff when we're in on a Thursday, and Mondays we bring a bouquet of flowers for the wee ones to arrange. Am I going to be adorable or what?

So starting Monday, the Captain has his first day of school. And remarkably, so do I.

Prison break.

It's either age, dementia or kids (maybe even erectile dysfunction) that has gotten me to the point where I can't remember one friend's wedding from another. What once seemed so important and exciting has suddenly faded into distant memories that start with a big poofy dress and end with a big poofy cake. Such is the difference between being 20something and 30something. But when a weekend wedding means your first night alone with your husband in nearly two years, suddenly a wedding starts to look like a conjugal visit. It's just that memorable.

And so my conjugal visit begins this Friday at 5:30 when my flight takes off to Connecticut. Captain Kid gets to play pirate with the grandparents for the weekend. It gives us many questions to ponder...

1. Will the Captain sleep through the night?


2. What if he gets scared while I'm gone?


3. What if he's hurt or confused and will my parents be able to comfort him?

If you answered "The Mediocre Mama doesn't give a shit," then you're right!

Oh, come now. Don't think badly of me. My parents raised me just fine and I doubt they can do very much damage over a 2 day period. Of course, there was the bad haircut they gave me as a kid. Not sure I ever recovered from that one...oh wait.

So now I go through the drama of what's going to fit my new post-mama figure and how will I survive a whole night in heels. Problems that seem rather insignificant compared with the bullshit minutia of my current everyday. And all I can do is smile and daydream about my 2 nights of freedom.

Yes, I believe this will be a wedding that I remember. Almost as much as the last wedding I attended...

The Barber of Devil-le

Thanks to our earlier haircut traumas and suggestions from the peanut gallery in our comment section, Deviant Dad and I decided that it would be wise to invest in a trimmer and cut Captain Kid's hair ourselves. Kiss it up to the gods of "it seemed like a good idea at the time," but I can now attest to the fact that the Captain looks like he gave himself a haircut.

It wasn't so bad at first. Nice even buzz all around. But I suppose we got cocky and decided to clean up the edges. And of course he struggled and bucked . So now the edge are a mangled mess, colored by patches that are buzzed and some that are not, and, of course, the random stray hair just poking out of bald patches. And it just kept getting worse. Every time we'd go too far and even it up it seemed to look more and more ridiculous. Now he has no sideburns and a hairline that is about even with his forehead all around.

With the first day of school only a couple of weeks away, I'm praying for a miracle...or perhaps some chia hair.

Note to self...get a job and then get a new camera.

I feel that ever since my camera broke en route from France back to Spain that I am missing out on both documenting and sharing my most mediocre of moments. Tonight's mediocre highlight? Childproofing the cabinets. This one goes to the Dad.

Now, we've never had to do this before. Back in Spain the kitchen was in lock down mode and we had all the confidence that he couldn't bust in there, what with the broken doorknob and all. So I grant you, we are in new territory here. But today, after the Captain reached into a drawer and grabbed the items nestled next to the steak knives; I knew it was time.

I should mention that our house is old. Dirt old. And the cabinet work? To describe it as piecemeal would be charitable. In fact, it is actually hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why as Deviant Dad pulled on that thread the entire cabinet began to unravel. There were many swear words uttered and lots of loud noises. To be sure, the best part was the "oh fuck" that came after a bit of drilling. Not only do we now have a broken piecemeal, piece of shit cabinet, we have a counter top with a hole in it from the Dad's drilling.

Oh, it's all good fun. And honestly, we do need new cabinets. But we are a long away from redoing the kitchen, so all I can do is admire my punctured Formica and look at kitchen and bath magazines like they are porn. Amend that note to self...get a job, get a camera, get a new kitchen. Crud.

McShit

A couple of articles I read today reminded me of how powerful marketing can be and why I got the hell out of that line of business so that I could become a lawyer and have influence on...no one. Oops, sorry, that's why I became a Mediocre Mama.

It turns that not only do those McDonald's trans fatty acids make the food taste oh so good, the paper does too. Or at least that's according to the average toddler. If I am reading this article correctly, even vegetables taste better if there's a golden arch around it. It got me and the Dad thinking that as soon as the Captain becomes aware of McDonald's, I'm going to go get myself a big stack of McDonald's wrappers. As for McDonald's reaction to the study? Well, they claim that they are going to be improving marketing to children under 12, only promoting Happy Meals with fruit. Seems like it's hardly charitable, but considering some of their older marketing techniques, I suppose it's an improvement...




And in another shocking revelation, the Baby Einstein videos, the most irritating videos on the market, which from my understanding of the title are supposed to have your kid figuring out the theory of relativity by the time they are 18 months, actually make your kid dumber. I have long suspected this but lacked the data or patience to sit my kid in front of these videos to test the theory (hey, it's all in the name of science). I am, however, contemplating launching my own study...is there a correlation between how irritating a video is and your kid's stupidity? I submit, for your contemplation, that the generation I babysat for, that grew up on Barney and The Power Rangers, seems to have produced a slew of Einsteins. You know, like Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins.

Every sperm is sacred, every sperm is good.

"I'm not getting shot out of that thing. What if he's masturbating?

I'm liable to end up on the ceiling."

Someone please tell me why I can't handle my 1 kid and this saucy bitch is so happy about pushing #17 out of her cooter that she just can't wait to have another? And for that matter, what would a cooter look like after 17 goes?

Hey, to each their own, but it did make me curious about what sort of people want that many kids. I didn't have to look far, as there was a nice little article on the wikipedia. All of which pointed me to the source of some of their beliefs, Quiverfull. So according to this movement, even the rhythm method is a sin. Holy shit.

But is it wrong that the most fascinating part about this couple is that all 17 of their kids have names that start with J? My personal favorite? Jinger.

And in another state, another mother lets her 2 year old daughter munch on some LSD coated Sweet Tarts. Other than the fact that I'm having a horrible craving for Sweet Tarts now, I have decided to give her my 2nd MEMO award, for maintaining her cool and bringing her kid to the hospital, even while on an LSD trip of her own. Kudos, Mama!

Crappy Doo.

There was something utterly delicious about the vision of the Captain sitting inside his potty, flipped upside down, with a dirty diaper strapped to his body and a clean diaper wrapped around his waist. Yes, it's potty training time. Let the non-stop festival of shitorama begin. In fact, let me just get my moment of infantile behavior come out all at once:

Poop

Shit

Merde

Poopy roopy roo!

Alright, I'm back. It's me, the 32 year old woman attempting to get a professional job at a law firm who thinks of nothing but doodie. And if I had a functioning camera I would document these precious moments. Sadly I don't, so I'm left with this feeble attempt:

Now you might think we've engaged in this activity a bit early, but it's coming around the bend. School starts this month. And with that, the pressure begins. One year to get him sorted. And I must give him kudos for the strides he's made in a short time. Today he pooped and actually ran to get his potty. Hence, sitting inside of the upside down potty with a fresh diaper wrapped around his waist. But we do seem to be getting into a bit of confusion, I'll admit:

1. The other day I caught him scooting around on it like a riding toy;

2. He has been known to toss the whole thing at Dog;

3. Turns out the potty?...awesome for carrying small blocks and toys; and

4. He can dance quite a jig standing on top of that sucker.

All of which made me think...maybe the standard inside the box potty is just too boring for our Captain. I couldn't help but wonder and, naturally, I had to do some googling. For sure, it went from the very fancy to the completely practical. I suppose you just need some imagination.