Out of all the crazy and negative ads, some insightful ones, too, and
the glossy cards jammed in my mailboxes and nutty rhetoric on social
media, one message stood out during this election.

(No, it wasn’t anything about or from Todd Akin. Just in case you were wondering.)

Oh sure, it’s happened before. Like when he didn’t want me to walk him to his classroom anymore. Or hold his hand on a walk. And then there was the whole, “no, I’ll read myself a book tonight.” (For the record, I’m talking about our teen-ager, not our first-grader.)

So you may say I’m used to it. That I’ve faced it over and over and over again. It’s always been good. A sign that he’s going into another phase, and he’s maturing.

It wasn’t the $44 for three movie tickets that bothered me. Or the $18.50 we dished out for two sodas and a popcorn. Heck, I’m not even going to rail on about the $12 husband spent on two beers (not both for him.)

All that I can handle. No, my problem is much bigger. Literally.

That’s what I was saying in my head, over and over again. Yet I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t want to be that bossy, obsessive and buttinsky mom I typically am. No, I wanted him to learn something on his own. Without my help.

And it wasn’t easy. Not when I knew in my heart, I could really help this time. Or at least I thought I could.

OK. I think I can finally admit it. Three weeks have passed and I believe I’ve put the whole situation in its place. Deep, deep down.  I think.

Here goes. You know all those happy, smiley first-day-of-school pictures that flooded Facebook for a good  week during the middle of last month? Yeah, I’m sure you saw your share. Well, I would scroll through and look at every cute, smiling kid. They posed with new lunch boxes and oversized backpacks slug over their shoulders.  I would look. And I would fume. Even cussed a time a two.

I especially hate when we get them, usually on Back to School night, and some parents grab a pen and just go to town.

“What makes your child unique?”

Somewhere this week, and I’m too darn exhausted to remember exactly where and when, I learned a crazy wonderful phrase. And it so describes how I feel at this minute:  “I’m so tired my hair hurts.”

So nothing I write now is going to make sense. I’m pretty sure of that. No themes. No thread that weaves throughout. Nope, just be thankful if I can actually string a few sentences together.

For them to be human. Perfect at times, courageous and kind. But then to have those moments when they screw up and they're strong enough to stand up and admit it. Own it. Say they’re only human.  And take whatever consequences they have coming their way.

So, yeah, I love me some Michael Phelps.

But let me say this about myself, I was pretty darn proud of how I handled the whole thing.

Anyone who knows me knows I have a tendency to overreact. Case in point, a ball of dust swirls across the floor in the laundry room, I scream, holler that we have mice and jump up on the washing machine. I continue all the screaming until someone comes in and investigates.

Or the junk closet. Junk cabinet. Even the junk files.

Man, we seem to have a lot of junk around our house. And for some unknown, crazy reason, husband and I have decided to free ourselves of said junk.  From room to room, we are purging all the junk our eyes can see. Old files. Toys that haven’t been played with. Clothes that haven’t been worn in say five years. Old furniture knick knacks that would even been a tough sell if we put it for free on Craigslist.

Do you ever go out of the house without showering, without makeup and looking pretty ugly?

I used to swear by the notion that I never would. That I would never go in public without a shower and at least partial makeup. Powder and mascara both a given. Oh, I might go through the car line at school or maybe run through a drive-thru. Yet nothing in major public like a Target or Wal-Mart run.

So I think I screamed first. Some unintelligible sound came out as soon as I walked in from the garage after a long day at work.

Husband and youngest were outside in the driveway, cleaning my car, when I pulled up.  How sweet, I thought. And youngest has never worked so hard, scrubbing the car and spraying the hose.

I’ve come to a conclusion this week. After I shoved candy bars and peanuts, soda and fried chicken (yes, I said fried chicken!!!!) down my gullet.

My conclusion? That super skinny, freaky pretty models have absolutely no stress. None. They have to be cruising through life all stress-free and care-free. No need to turn to chips for solace. Or grab a handful of small candy bars to keep from dozing off because there was little sleeping the night before.

The fact that he does could be a sense of pride. Something that makes some parents nod their heads, grin and say, ‘Yeah, that’s my boy.’ Or giggle about it to a group of girlfriends.

Yet for me? Mortified. I was positively mortified. (OK, I did chuckle a bit to a couple of girlfriends, but I’m still beside myself mortified.)

Or that you can just call the mommy fairy and she’ll wave a wand and "Poof!" you get a new one. Or maybe you can just get on the Internet and order one. Like buying toys or stuffed Pokemon.

This comes from the mind of a 5-year-old (were you worried it was the teenager???). It’s kind of like when he loses one of his DS games. He just thinks I’m going to run right out to the store and buy another one.  I get that. Kids want what they want and they want it right now.

Yes, that would be you, man in Omaha who was drinking too much outside a restaurant on St. Patrick’s Day and thought it would be cute to comment on my young son’s attire. So he likes to wear sweatshirts. And yes, if they have a hood and his ears are cold, then he pulls it up to cover them. Like he did that night. Big deal, crazy man.

That doesn’t mean, as you jokingly said to your tipsy friend, that he’s being groomed as a gangster. He’s five.

And have a successful week on strike?

Did I set aside my nagging ways and be all touchy-feely? The kind of mom who makes snacks and cookies, asks about the day but doesn’t ask 15 times about homework, remind 10 times about chores or set down ultimatums about a grade in math that’s so low it still makes me a little nauseous? Did I stick to the script of the good cop and forgot those days as the bad one?

Husband likes to say I’m just taking a break. A week to relax.  And wonders if I’m planning some sort of wife swap.

Oldest wants to know if I’m still going to cook. My sister says I’ll last a day. And youngest, well, he thinks we’re going to play Wii bowling all week.

Four days ago, as I watched the nice lady cut one inch off my son’s hair, maybe two, I could feel myself getting giddy. I mean I started smiling. Tapping my feet to the beat on TV. And the college basketball game was on. I was tapping my feet to the bouncing of a ball, I guess.

Youngest said these words (OK, he really didn't include the word little, but it makes me feel better...) and then saw the horrified look on my face. You could tell he knew maybe, just maybe, the words sounded a little harsh.

(Let’s just say I started breathing hard and tried to flatten out my backside, like this would really help anything… Did I mention he pulled me to the bathroom mirror to make me look at the evidence myself???)

I mean I felt kind of cool when oldest picked out these bamboo swords to buy at the mall and gave me his best “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” look when I said he could use his own money to buy them. Again, cool, when youngest said “Mom, those are so neat, you’re the best mom ever.” Even a kid in the store looked over and gave what I thought was a pretty envious look. (I felt like saying, “Yeah, I know, I’m pretty cool. Thanks for noticing.” But thankfully I just smiled.)

Then, within 90 seconds at the counter, talking to the clerk who always truly seems to know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING, I became suspicious. What exactly were these bamboo swords with leather grips and a leather tip I was giving the big consent for? They looked just like the nerf swords the boys have at home, only sturdier. They felt like the Nerf ones, only a little heavier, more expensive.

Or at least that’s how it seems to me. And it’s why, for exactly 26 hours, I boycotted the site.

I just couldn’t take reading one more update about how somebody has a perfect husband or how they lost more than 50 pounds and look fantastic in a skin tight dress. Or, oh yeah, how they were on a tropical paradise vacation and had the most wonderful plans for NewYears Eve. Must get new shoes for the event, they wrote.

At least not at our house. So much so that I may never again utter, “Better be good, Santa is watching.”

Yes, Santa is watching. He sees it all, the naughty and the nice. The tears. The tantrums. And the totally cute moments.

I used to think I didn’t. In fact I was just sure this didn’t happen anymore. That the days of struggling families so poor they couldn’t put food on the table was a thing of the past.

Don’t ask me why I was so naïve. Typically I’m not. And as I’ve blogged before, I grew up poor. I know what it’s like to not have anything in the cabinet to eat. But I was a little kid back then. Didn’t know any different.

Sometimes it’s just a couple of sentences. Other times I may scroll through a whole conversation between he and a buddy.

It’s a rule we put in play three or four years ago when we got him a cell phone. We pay the bill, we read the texts.

Anyone who really knows me, knows I’ve always wanted a little girl. Not instead of our two boys but as well as. Just always figured I’d have three kids — two boys and a girl.

But then I got old, not to mention stressed with a tanking economy and a struggling newspaper industry I can never give up, and realized a third one wasn’t in the cards. No little girl. (And don’t ask me why I have always assumed a third one would be a girl anyway. I’m not typically lucky like that…)

That’s the beginning of the lecture I found myself giving oldest yesterday. From morning to night, I was ranting and raving. About the evils of the Internet, about how my parents never had it this bad. About how nothing is “just between friends” anymore.  And of course, I continued to reiterate all of this as I told him to never, ever let friends take pictures of him doing something stupid. Again.

Oh yeah, yesterday wasn’t the best day. Pretty awful really.  It started with a call from my sister (who lives on the East Coast, an important detail for later). “Did you see my text?”  she asked.

Yep, the war is on. I’m back on the horse. I’m back in the game.

Use whatever cliché you want, they all mean the same. Me and the coupons, we’re back together. Same goes for the weekly grocery fliers and frugal mom Internet sites.

Sometimes my need to strike up conversations with total strangers can be totally annoying. I mean, it can extend a 15-minute shopping trip to 30. Or it could leave my husband standing there, silently cursing my name and the moment I simply said, “Hi, have you been here before?”

But on Saturday, in downtown Olathe as thousands of people were trying to get a good seat, or standing place, for the Old Settler’s parade, I started a conversation that will probably be with me the rest of my life. Husband’s life too.

I know, I know. Like that ever happens.

In my house growing up, there wasn’t such a thing. Older meant wiser. Wiser meant right. All. The. Time. I’m not criticizing, or even saying I don‘t agree with it. That whole scenario seemed to work at the time. I always knew where I stood.

And as I peer into that little crystal ball of mine, I also see my oldest roll his eyes, say, “come on, mom, quit,” and nudge me away. He’s not much for emotion, that one.

Come tomorrow, I expect some of the same. Probably in the morning, around 8:30 when I stand in a cutely-decorated classroom, the tears will start streaming. So hard, I suspect, that I will bite my lip intensely to keep them contained, and blood will be drawn.

So I was having a moment, one of those where I wonder if one of the boys has truly been raised by wolves. That somehow, crazy wolf people have invaded our home and done the lion's (or lupine's) share of the parenting as my husband and I, oh I don't know, went shopping. Maybe to dinner.

Because surely, our parenting hasn't produced these lovely tantrums of our almost-5-year-old.

He kicks these days when he's not happy. He says “I don't care about anything.” And for good measure he crosses his arms in front of his chest and says “Hmppph,” whenever we tell him to do something he doesn't want to do.

Imagine if you will a 4 ½-year-old walking into his favorite place on earth (or at least in Johnson County) last Wednesday, ready to beat his brother at the variety of games they have there, and ending up in the emergency room a couple of hours later.

Not the kind of situation in which I would have imagined myself doing well. 

No doubt it’s taken awhile. For years, he’d usually just beg off. Didn’t matter if we were shopping for him, or for the house or for something he said we needed. Nope, he wouldn’t go.

Sometimes he was tired. Sick. Had chores to do. (Once he actually said he needed to clean the bathroom just to escape the mall!) Most recently, as he's going to school to obtain a teacher certification, he blames it on homework.

I’ve learned an important lesson this past weekend. Very important.

You can tell jokes about yourself, poke fun as much as you want. Husband is even fair game. Maybe even friends.

You know what that is, right? The words and sentiments that only another mom seems to truly understand. And when someone else hears them, you may as well be speaking jumbled words that make no sense. A foreign language.

Warning: OK, this is one of my “throw some words down on the screen blogs.” Try not to do them often, but it appears – yet again – that my procrastination has gotten the better of me.

I planned to blog tonight (Sunday). I'd turn on Brothers and Sisters and sit in bed and write all about teens. What I've learned about them. What I still don't know. (It's all related to the Star Magazine piece See Me.)

But then tornadoes ripped through southwest Missouri and I have to get up at 4 a.m., just seven hours from now. So.... I will write … about tornadoes.

The question — and answer I think — was covered in the movie When Harry Met Sally. And basically, Billy Crystal said no.

But I try to be open minded. Think that maybe it’s possible. I’m friends with a lot of guys I work with. Not going out for drinks on Friday night friends or friends who go to a movie, but definitely friends.

About 20 times a day I check Facebook. I know, crazy. And it’s not because I’m updating my status or anything, trying to woo my “friends” with tales of the good life or make them laugh. If only. No, I’m just on the constant lookout for witty banter, funny conversations, quick comebacks. Just plain ole’ good writing.

An instructor in college told me once if I had writer’s block just listen to country music. Good writing there, he said back in the day. (No, he hadn’t been drinking…) In fact it works, but these days I’m a sports talk radio fanatic (Yay Border Patrol!!!) so I’ve turned to Mark Zuckerberg’s brainchild instead of George Strait’s twang. Must get inspiration somewhere.

Once a year I feel old. Really old.

Not on my birthday. No, that doesn’t seem to be a big deal. I am what I am, plus don’t have to cook dinner or do dishes. I’ll take that.

Growing up, there seemed to be one major rule that guided me and my sister. If it’s illegal, don’t do it.

Pretty simple. Don’t steal. Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink. Law says you can’t, so don’t. Not sure if it’s something our mom drilled in or lectured about constantly, it’s just something we lived by. Obey the law. (OK, back then we were probably dorks and prudes, but we stayed out of trouble. … Older brother? Well, we won’t go there.)

Every March our oldest gets a little accusatory. He points a finger and says it’s my fault (not in a mean way, just a matter of fact). If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have to worry every time his birthday rolls around that someone may ask how old he is.

See, I’m the reason he’s a year older than everyone in his class. I’m the one who basically put him in Kindergarten twice. As some boys are, he was a little immature and his motor skills not as developed as his Kindergarten teacher wanted. His handwriting wasn’t as advanced as the other kids, especially the girls. And his teacher basically told me he wasn’t ready.

Whenever I feel a little low, like I’m not good enough at work or I’m a horrible mom because our youngest somehow thinks Oreos are actually good for him, I just look at the two boys we are raising.

They’re kind. They’re respectful, even saying ma’am and sir without being bribed (though, hey, I’m not above a bribe). They actually say "excuse me," when they burp. They don’t complain when we go to church.