It's only May but I'm well on my way to being that coveted Mom of the Year grand prize winner.
Language, we all know that getting your children to use appropriate language is somehow vitally important to turning out good little lads and lassies who don't get themselves sent to the principals office too frequently. With a household of boys I've gotta admit I'm not so much trying to win the battle more convince them that I'm a girl and that means...awright, who am I kidding? I can out potty-mouth all of them so don't get me started.
For instance at dinner hour the other night (could there be a more stress filled hour in the day?) #7 and #6 start roughhousing, I'm trying to combine hamburger that may or may not have sat in the fridge to long, pasta shaped like radiators, a couple of limp carrots and a can of spaghetti sauce into something at least one of them won't complain about while I yell at the youngest three to finish up homework.
#3 and #4 are prowling the kitchen hungry and sweaty from track and Ultimate Frisbee practice, accompanied by sweaty, hungry friends and cute little teenage neighborhood girls. #5 is bossing #7 and #6, and refusing to finish his homework and trying to join in with the teenage conversation which I like, can't even like, understand, because like, they use like as nouns, and like, verbs, and like, I know, right?
Inevitably, just as all this happiness is swirling around us #7 starts calling someone a, plug your eyes sensitive readers, douche bag. Grrr, my Boy Mom senses start tingling and I whirl from the stove a pattern of spaghetti sauce splots fanning the wall and fridge in my wake, "Hey, #7, quit calling your brother a douche bag!" I
"He is a douche bag!" yells #7 as he launches himself from a bar stool, towards the offending brother, fists clenched.
"I am not a douche bag, I told him to quit wrestling with #6 and he wouldn't, he's the douche bag!" As he fends of seven year old fists.
"I don't have to listen to you, Douche bag!" #7 yells and lands a well placed fist earning him a punch back from a much bigger #4. "Oww, that hurt's you big Douche bag." He starts to cry and punch harder.
That's when years of honed, practiced, parenting expertise take over and I sink my spaghetti saucy fingers so deeply into that Mom of the Year award you'll never pry them off. "#7, you know your brother is a douche bag, it's an accepted fact that he's a douche bag, but you are pushing the douche buttons. Quit pushing his douche buttons and he'll quit being a douche bag to you!"
A moment of silence, followed by shrieks of teenage laughter, "Sorry, Mom, were not undermining your parenting...douche buttons...buwahhhhahaah..gasp, ha, ha."
"Mom what's a douche button?"
Happy Mother's Day!
