Category Archives: embarassing

May 3 2013

A Mom of Few Words

Posted on by

When my boys were little, I offered them lengthy explanations about everything.  I especially felt the need to explain why they shouldn’t do something.  A lot has changed in the past few years.  I have become a mom of few words.  Mostly words like don’t, stop, shut, and no!No matter how many words I may have in my head, I'm not letting them out.

I’m not sure if I have gotten tired of my own voice or if it is the realization that my kids don’t hear past my first word.  Either way, I find myself using fewer and fewer words when I talk to them – especially when I am yelling.

I have memories of long ago, hearing my voice calmly and sweetly say, “Boys, Mommy’s head hurts like when you get a boo-boo and it hurts.  Well, Mommy’s head feels like it has a boo-boo.  I would really appreciate it if you could try to be quiet.”  I might get a momentary reprieve but eventually, the volume would again rise.

Soon I heard myself simply saying, “Aaron and Nic, could you please be quiet.  Mommy has a headache.” Which became, “Could you please be quiet.”. Which devolved to “Be quiet!” and finally just “Quiet!”

Likewise, I used to offer up long explanations of why they should stop certain behaviors.  I had read the books.  You know, the ones that say your children are more likely to comply if you calmly explain to them why a behavior is not acceptable and put it in terms they understand.  So, I did.  “Nic, it is not okay to call your brother a fart head.  If you keep calling your brother names, he won’t want to play with you.  Then, you would have to play all by yourself.  He also might start to call you names back.  I don’t think that will make you happy, will it?  So, let’s not call each other names because it hurts people’s feelings.”

Apparently, name calling makes children happier than I thought it would.  I soon gave up trying to get them to stop.  Now, when I walk in on Aaron sitting on Nic’s head and yelling, “Did you smell that one?  Who’s the fart head now?”  The only words I have are “Stop! Don’t! Mom ANGRY!”

While, I am sure I must sound like a grunting Neanderthal to anyone who is not my children, I know that they understand.  It seems the decrease in my verbal communication has ramped up my non-verbal communication.  I am finding that a stern, “DON’T!” together with an it would really feel good to hit something look, communicates much more effectively than all the words I have ever used.

So, these days when my boys hear a “DON’T!”, “NO!”, “SHUT!” (I skip the up because who has the time?),  “STOP!” and  then look into my eyes, they know I mean business.  The best part is, I don’t have to hear myself talk.

 

Apr 20 2013

I Need to Enter a Witless Protection Program

Posted on by

Ok, so we just got home last night from a trip to Ontario to see Niagara Falls (which was way cool). Anyway, there was a note taped to our door from a lady in the neighborhood asking if we were missing a rooster. Apparently, she had found one. Although how she caught it (or why) I’ll never know. She left her number and asked us to call her. So I called her the next morning and told her that we were not missing a rooster, but perhaps one of our other neighbors who raises chickens was missing his. I offered to call him because I knew him.

Me: (on the phone) “Hi (neighbor). I got a call from a lady who found a rooster and is looking for the owner. Are you missing yours?”

Neighbor: “Nope. Actually, I just have chickens, no rooster.”

Me (surprised): “You don’t have a cock?”

Neighbor: *stunned silence followed by embarrassed laughter*

Me: *realizing with mounting horror what I just said*

 

And that is why I must now move out of town and change my name.

Apr 10 2013

Turning Up The Volume: Being Heard Over Your Kids

Posted on by

When I was in the corporate world, the guys I worked with used to tease me all the time about how quietly I spoke.  I was the lone female in a roomful of rowdy boys, um, men.  My soft voice was often drowned by their booming ones.  It was a frequent joke at meetings with the guys, “Hey, Marie, when you left that voicemail last night were you underground?  Cause I could barely hear you.”  If those guys could only hear me now!

I am willing to bet that my boys would disagree with them. I could see Aaron now.  Hands on hips, nose tipped down so he would be looking at them over his glasses.  “Are you guys crazy or deaf?  Everyone could hear my mom.  She yells all the time!”

Well, all the time might be a bit on an exaggeration but my voice volume has certainly increased a great deal since my days in the work force.  These days, I would say my voice volume gets high enough at least once a day for the neighbors to hear me…while I am in my house…with the windows closed and they are in their houses…with the windows closed…and the air conditioner on…and the TV on…loud.

Apparently, though, I am a rarity.  Most parents only acknowledge yelling at their children once or twice a week (liars!) unless their children are age 7.  Seems seven year-olds bring out the screamer in parents.  I used to feel bad about the fact that I yell at my kids so often but a lot of moms have told me they do, too.  Of course, none of them would go on the record which could explain the statistics being skewed against me.

Sure, I yell at my kids for the usual reasons.  I yell to warn them about the car getting ready to back into them in the parking lot.  I yell at them because I am frustrated that asking nicely never gets a request fulfilled the first time. The biggest reason I yell at my kids, though, is the reason most parents yell – being heard over your kids.get-attachment (9)

Turning the volume up is often the only way to be heard above the ever escalating amount of noise my children make.  Even when they try to whisper, my children are loud.  Over the years, I have definitely taken on an “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality.  The problem is that being loud no longer gets my kids attention.  No matter how loud I yell, Nic always responds with “What you say?”

Which got me to thinking about how the guys at work used to tease me for my quiet voice.  As much as they teased me, they used to listen as well.  When I spoke, it was about something that they needed to know.  Because they couldn’t hear me, they would stop talking and listen.  They would lean in.

So, when I have my wits about, I have tried it on my boys.  I answer their questions in nearly a whisper.  I stand before them making a request at barely a squeak. When that doesn’t work, I mouth the words until finally one of them says to the other “Shut up!  I can’t hear what Mom is saying!”  I try not to smile.  But for once, I am heard…and I did it without yelling.

I am also finding this little trick makes me more successful when talking to the kid when they are upset.  The quieter I talk, the more they calm down.  In fact, the quieter I talk, the more I calm down.  Sometimes, when they boys are beyond talking to, I don’t talk at all.  I write on a white board telling them what I expect them to do.  “Go to your room until you are calm.  I will talk to you then.”  I might even write, “Mommy can’t talk to you right now.  I am too upset.”  It is amazing how differently the words are received when they aren’t spoken.

I have learned that being heard over your kids often means speaking softly.  If I were a perfect parent, I would remember to do that all the time.  I do try to do it instead of yelling.  Someday, I hope to be Zen enough to master it, but I wouldn’t advise my neighbors to open their windows just yet.

 

 

 

Sep 5 2012

School Year’s Resolutions

Posted on by

I do not make New Year’s resolutions.  It’s not that I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions, it’s just that I don’t recognize the standard January to December calendar anymore.  No, for me, the standard calendar has become meaningless – at least since my kids started going to school.  Now, my year runs from September to June.  July and August aren’t part of my year.   I’ve sacrificed those months to the kids.

That’s why a few years ago, I started making School Year’s Resolutions.  I’m yet to actually keep any of them, but this year is going to be different.  See, my resolutions are no longer just for me.  Now, they are for Aaron, too.  He’s reached that age where he doesn’t want me to embarrass him (which is nearly impossible), so I told him I would try.  Hopefully, my School Year’s resolutions will do the trick.

  1. I will not be the last parent to return paperwork.  I am the queen of chronic procrastination.  I can stretch a deadline like nobody’s business.  This has been a little problem for Aaron.  “Mom, it is soooo embarrassing when my teacher asks me why you haven’t returned stuff yet,” complains Aaron.  “It’s like she thinks it’s my fault.  Like I didn’t take it home or something.”
  2. I will stop telling the teacher that I didn’t return paperwork because Aaron never brought it home.
  3. I will not be the last mom in the pick-up line everyday.  Okay, years of experience have proven to me that nothing good comes of being early at pick-up time.  You either get nabbed to volunteer for something or you get stuck in the parking lot because everyone who arrived after you has boxed you in.  But when Aaron said,”You know, mom, being the last one at pickup is embarrassing and it hurts my feelings,” I really started to feel bad about it. That is until he added, “I think you come late on purpose just so I will miss my TV show.”  Yeah, I don’t feel so bad anymore.  But, he is at a new school this year, so I’ll make an effort.
  4. I will not mouth the word “bitch” at any of the mothers who cut me off in the parking lot.  Really, I only did that once.  When I realized that she saw me, I tried to pretend I was asking Aaron about an “itch” on his knee.  The look on her face, though, told me she wasn’t buying it.
  5. I will not tell Aaron the truth about anything.  Seems in the past few years, whenever Aaron has shared one of my nuggets of wisdom with his classmates, they tell him that his mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about.  Like the time he told his classmates that I said broccoli was a good choice of veggies because it is a super food.  They told him I only said that to get him to eat it.  Poor Aaron came home asking me why I would tell him things that weren’t true.  “You really embarrassed me by telling broccoli is as super food.  The boys in my class said I shouldn’t listen to you.”  When I inquired what foods they thought were super foods, he told me “ketchup”.  Apparently, how many other foods you can put something on trumps nutritional value.  I attempted to explain the whole broccoli thing to Aaron while making veiled insults at intelligence of these boys, but he was unconvinced.  So, this school year, I won’t tell him the truth about anything.  But I’m keeping a list of those boys names so I can make sure he doesn’t hang out with them when he is a teenager.
  6. I will start paying more attention to my appearance and my health beginning with losing weight.  Now, that one is really just on me.  While my guy may be brutally honest about my weight (Mom You’re Kind of Fat), he also begs me not to lose any.  “I love you just the way you are.  You’re perfect to me,” Aaron will say when I talk about losing weight.  So, he’s not the one who is embarrassed here.  It’s me.  I don’t want to be embarrassed about my appearance at his school events.  I don’t want to spend my time worrying about how I look when I should be focused on him.

So this year, I hope I will keep my School Year’s Resolutions.  I think it would be good for both of us.

How about you?  Do you have any School Year’s Resolutions to share?  Drop me a comment and let me know.

Aug 21 2012

Sing a Little Song for Me

Posted on by

When I was a kid, my mom used to go around the house sinEdith Bunker (portrayed by Jean Stapleton)ging all of the time.  I thought it annoyed my siblings and me because she sounded like Edith Bunker and usually sang songs like “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life at Last I Found You” or “Ave Maria“.  Since I’ve become a mom, though, I’ve realized that it’s just that kids hate to hear their parents sing – especially their moms.

Oh, sure, when they were infants and toddlers my boys loved to hear me sing.  But they loved to hear me talk, too.  It didn’t matter what I did as long as words were coming out of my mouth and I was paying attention to them.  Even now, I get the occasional request for me to sing to them at bedtime.  I am not silly enough to believe that it is about my singing or because they love the songs I have made up especially for them. No, I recognize that these are just attempts to eek out a few more minutes of staying awake, a few more minutes of mom’s attention that their brother or dad is not getting.

Other than those occasions, my boys would prefer if I kept my singing to myself.  In the car, if I sing along to whatever we are listening to, I usually get “Mom, could you please stop singing.  I mean, we’re not trying to insult you or anything, but we think the song sounds better without you.”   I totally get it.  I’m not likely to be on American Idol or The Voice anytime soon.  I’m sure the song does sound better without me.

But, I also get why my mom used to sing so much.  It was to keep her sanity.  She had five kids running around the house.  Sure, we were outside for most of the day, but there were plenty of hours that we were in the house.  If I think two kids can create a lot of noise and aggravation, I can hardly imagine what all five of us seemed like to her. 

So, she sang.  And, now, I sing.  Sometimes, I sing to block them out.  Sometimes, I sing so I can relax.  It’s my way of taking a deep breath before I explode – or, if it works, instead of exploding.

When the boys groan, I tell them that they have a choice.  I can yell at them or I can sing. Singing makes mommy happy, I remind them.  Yelling makes mommy angry.  The choice is theirs.  Luckily, I have pretty smart boys and they usually chose the singing.  Sometimes, they will actually join me. 

Instead, of trying to belt out the latest Katy Perry song, though, I stick with little ditties froOswald and Friendsm their early childhood.  Little ditties that I have, well, modified a bit.  “Have You Ever Seen A Lassy” has morphed into “Have You Ever Seen A Mommy (Go Crazy)”.  A little tune from a favorite Oswald episode, The Leaky Faucet, has become “Oh Children of Mine”.  By now, my kids have heard these so often that when I start signing them they either join in, with hopes of winning my favor or they get very quiet. 

“I think we better knock it off.  She’s starting to sing that “Oh, Children…” thing.” Aaron will whisper to Nic.  “And, you know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Nic whispers back. “We’re in trouble.”

So, if you are sick of counting to five or yelling your empty threats, sing a little tune.  If you’re lucky, it might send your kids running and make you feel a little better at the same time.

Do have a little ditty you would like to share?  Send us an e-mail at 2moms@imperfectmommy.com or leave a comment.  You just might be featured in an Imperfect Mommy song collection!

(I apologize for the poor quality of the .wav files, both for the singing and the static.  Like with most things, I have no idea what I am doing and this was the best it got. :) )
Aug 15 2012

Self-Medicating

Posted on by

I can tell we are deep into the summer with about 3 weeks left of vacation.  It is not because of all the great pictures I have taken of our summer adventures (as if!) or because of all the ads for back-to-school shopping.  It is not even because I have given up the war on television viewing.  It is because I have started to self-medicate.

Before you start to worry about my children or suggest I get some help, I want you to know that my “mother’s little helper” is perfectly safe and perfectly legal.  It is not the coffee that I guzzle.  That is to keep me awake, not sane.  It is not a drug or a cocktail.  I have never used drugs (okay, not unless you count the pot I smoked on that one New Year’s Eve about 20 years ago and I can explain that – some other time) and I am allergic to alcohol (on rare occasions, I can have a beer if I have a full meal first – otherwise, it is hives and gasping for air).  It is not even chocolate ( I’ve already eaten tons of that and all I’ve gotten is a thicker waistline).

No, my “drug” of choice is online computer games (I’m almost embarrassed to say).   Whenever I need to get away from the arguing (between the boys, between me and the boys, or between me and myself), the endless demands for my attention (from my boys, my husband or the folks on the phone, at the door, in my mailbox who want me to vote for their candidate) or the piles of laundry and mountains of dishes that never seem to really go away, I sneak off to the computer.  

It is just me and the computer.  The sound is off.  I can hear my own thoughts.  Only single player games are selected.  I don’t have to listen to or communicate with anyone.  For 5, 10, 15 glorious minutes, I think about nothing but the game.  I try to pick something educational, a brain-builder, like Scrabble, or Text Twist, or a jigsaw puzzle.  It makes me feel a little less guilty about my indulgence.  But, for that short time, I feel like I am on my own little getaway. 

Sure, I suppose I could use that time to do yoga or silent meditation.  I have a hard time, though, getting to a quiet place in my head while someone is calling “Mom?, Mom?, Hey, Mom.” and another someone is hanging on me trying to get my attention.  At least, I can play a round of solitaire while responding to my kids as if I am actually paying attention.  They usually are none the wiser, and I have gotten my fix.  I got to own my own brain space and now I am ready to share again.

So, from now until school starts, I plan to self-medicate daily – probably several times a day.  As long as I keep taking my little escapes, I know I can keep doing all that needs to be done without losing my cool several times a day.  Now, before I go do those dishes, I think I’ll get in one quick game of Star Marbles.

Jul 31 2012

Public tantrum (mine)

Posted on by

A helpful image of what broken glasses look like.

So, a few months ago my oldest came into my room at the ungodly hour of too-freaking-early-to-get-up A.M. Blearily, I started feeling around on my nightstand for my glasses (which I only wear when I want to see). And then IT happened. Almost simultaneously I accidentally knocked my glasses off the nightstand and my son stepped forward…right onto my glasses. One stem broke off and my new nerd look was born (replacing my old nerd look).

I live in a small Massachusetts town and go to an optometrist who has his own business. His turn-around time for new glasses is generally two weeks, unless the frames are in stock in which case it’s…two weeks. I know this because I once spent two weeks blind in graduate school reading notes with a magnifying glass (while my husband giggled) after losing my glasses on a roller coaster ride.

After putting up with wearing uneven glasses for a couple of weeks because I’m lazy (during which time my husband tried to replace the stem and then solder the stem back in place—both of which failed) I finally decided to call the optometrist and plead my case. He said it would be no problem at all to put in a rush order. The wait would only be two weeks. (I’ll pause here for dramatic effect). So,  after many years as a faithful patient, I decided to leave him and find a new optometrist who lived in the 21st century. I called around and found a place where I could have an exam and get new glasses on the same day. Hallelujah! I would see clearly again, or at least less lopsided-ly.

So, in I go to the new place and sit down for an exam. The doctor notices that I’ve had a recent exam and that my insurance won’t pay for a new one. I’d have to pay over $100 out of pocket if I took the eye exam. I told him that I didn’t really need or want an exam; I just needed new frames—they could just transfer the lenses I had into different frames or give me an entirely new pair. This, apparently, was not possible. He needed either a faxed prescription from my former optometrist (who works like two days a week and this days wasn’t one of them) or I needed to pay $100 out-of-pocket for an exam. I suggested that they just inspect the lenses and replace them exactly. Impossible, they said. MUST. HAVE. PRESCRIPTION.

And this is where my last, half-blind nerve began to fray a little. With a raised and incredulous voice I yelled said, “WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN? I MIGHT GET UNAUTHORIZED SUPER VISION? I MIGHT SEE TOO WELL?

Sudden silence. I looked behind me and saw a store full of people at a standstill. So I picked up my glasses, and the little bit of dignity I had left and walked out.

I’m writing about his now because I have to put the zoom at 125% on my computer screen to see it and I’m having trouble reading books without the magnifying glass.

So I have to go back to the damn optometrist. The first one, obviously. I can’t ever set foot in the last one.  I wonder, if I get my old optometrist a new carrier pigeon, will the turn-around time be quicker? I won’t know for a while. His next available appointment is in two weeks.

Jul 12 2012

Ohwha-tajer-kiam (say it all together)*

Posted on by

(This story highlights one of my imperfect mommy moments. I was trying too hard to teach my son a lesson that he wasn’t yet developmentally ready to learn. So, let’s discuss).

In the summer of 2005 David was three-and-a-half years old. He was finally old enough to play soccer in the community league, something he had shown interest in since the previous summer. So we signed him up, got his team shirt, shorts, and shin guards and showed up for the first game. (There were no actual practices because the kids were so young. They just met about 15 minutes before each game to kick the ball a bit and get a reminder about the rules).

Now, watching a group of 3 year olds at play is a bit like watching meerkats. Anytime something even remotely interesting happened (a fire truck drove by with sirens, a helicopter flew overhead) all activity on the soccer field would stop and their little heads would all swivel in the same direction. During the rest of the time every child on the field (except the goalies) would chase the ball and the kids would kick one another in the shins in an attempt to make contact with the ball. It was like watching a huddle move around on the field. When the huddle got close to the goal, the goalie would walk into the huddle and grab the ball only to kick it about six feet back onto the field.

It was adorable and David loved the first game. And then he was done. But not me. I told him that he had made a commitment to his team (cringe–he was only 3 years old) and that, as part of that commitment he needed to be at each game (I should have stopped there) and he needed to be on the field. This teaching would have been right on for a 10-year-old able to understand such concepts as commitment and teamwork and responsibility. For my three year old it was just further proof of my mean-ness. So we returned for the next four games (Thank GOD, five games were cancelled that year due to rain). And each time he came off the field I would nudge him back on. Sometimes he just stood there watching the ball go by or trying to talk the referee into letting him borrow his whistle; once he went to hold the hand of the girl who was the opposing team’s goalie (until she jerked her hand away); another time he sat on the field and picked clover; finally, he had had enough and laid face down on the field, just inside the white line, while the huddle went by him twice. OK, lesson learned. He was not having any of this and I couldn’t change that. So I called him over to me and we sat together and watched the rest of the game with the other third of the team members who were doing the same. Maybe soccer, or even outdoor sports, just wasn’t his thing (something he partially confirmed years later when he said, “I’m just not an outdoors kind of guy, Mom.”).

My son doesn’t remember anything of this experience now but I do. It’s one of those parenting moments when you realize that you’ve been doing something wrong—maybe nothing that will have lasting damage, but you wish you could have a do-over.

If you would like to share something you wish you could take back or have done differently let me know in the comments. We’ll cringe together and maybe trade contact information for good child therapists.

*Oh what a jerk I am.

Jun 25 2012

Oh, Mom, Not Another Nickname!

Posted on by

My kids hate when I come up with nicknames for them.  I can’t really blame them.  Truth be told, I’m not very good at.  When Nic was a baby, I started calling him Sweet Pea.  “Isn’t that kind of girlie for our son?” his dad asked.

I hadn’t really thought about it.  Sweet Pea had just rolled off my tongue one day as I was cooing at Nic and it stuck.  But, I sensed the feminine sounding Sweet Pea bothered my husband, so I shortened it.

Some time later, I was visiting with friends and one of them heard me calling Nic “Pea”.

“Why are you calling him Pee,” she asked.  “That’s kind of mean.”

“It’s short for Sweet Pea.  Ron didn’t like Sweet Pea, so I just call Nic, Pea.” I said, a little hurt.

“Well, why don’t you just call him Urine, ’cause that’s what it sounds like.”  I looked at my friends; they were all nodding and snickering.  Like, I said, I hadn’t really thought about it.  So, I stopped calling him Pea and started calling him Nic.

One day,  I was changing what seemed to be Nic’s fiftieth wet diaper and twentieth wet outfit of the day.   I smiled at him, “I know your name is Nic, but I think I should have called you Little Lotta Pee-Pee.”  Nic giggled with delight.  It became my secret nickname for him.  I knew better than to share it with anyone else.

Until Aaron came along.  He, too, seemed to have an endless supply of wet diapers and clothes for me to change.  “Your brother is already Little Lotta Pee-Pee, so I think I will have to call you Chief Pees Alot.”  Both boys giggled at these names and we enjoyed them straight through potty-training.  Then one day, Aaron let me know, “We pees in the potty like big boys now, Mommy. I not Chief no more.”

I did my best to stop calling them Little Lotta Pee-Pee and Chief Pees Alot.  New little nicknames always popped into my mind. You would think I would have gotten better at it (or have known to just stick with my sons’ names) but these weren’t just nicknames.  They were terms of endearment that came to me while playing with the boys or just being with them.  I never really thought about how they sounded, it was how they made me feel that mattered.  So, Nic became Nicker and Aaron became Sugar Bugar.

In the store one day, Nic had wandered away from the shopping cart.  I called for him, “Nicker. Nicker, Nicker where are you.”

As I came around the rack, he was standing behind a shirt, delighted with his game of hide and seek.  In a playful tone, I looked down and said, “Bad little, Nicker,” as I picked him up.

“Really, Nicker, you have to stay with Mommy.  You scared me.” Putting Nic back down, I became aware of another shopper’s disapproving stare.  I thought it was because my child had wandered away. Then, she spoke.

“How can you call your child that.  Really,” and she huffed off.

I stood there dumb-founded.  What was wrong with calling my son Nicker? Oh. My cheeks flushed and my heart-pounded.  Like I said before, I never thought of how the nicknames I gave my kids sounded to others.  I never expected that my stuffy noise would turn a simple nickname into a racist comment.  That was the end of Nicker.

When Aaron entered pre-school, he became a fountain of knowledge and new ideas.  As I sat with him one afternoon reviewing his day, he said “Mommy, you’re not very nice to me.”

Stung, but curious, I asked,  “Aaron, sweetie, why would you say that?”

“My friends were calling each other bugger today.  The teacher said that it is not nice to call each other bugger.  But, you call me sugar bugger all the time.” Aaron replied in his matter-of-fact tone.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m not trying to be mean.  You’re my Sugar.  Bugar, just rhymes with it.  I didn’t mean you are a bugger.”

“It’s still mean.  Please don’t call me that anymore.”  And, that was end of Sugar Bugar.

Since then, nicknames have come and gone: Snuggle Puppy, Shama-Lama-Dinga-Donga, Squeezey Butt Boy, and Grumpy McGrump-Grump, to name a few.   It is a habit I can’t seem to drop much to my children’s embarassment.

Recently, Aaron was taking his shirt off as he got ready for bed.  He is such a skinny guy and I couldn’t help but notice his ribs.  ”Hey, McRib,” I chuckled. “Let me know when you are ready to brush your teeth.”

“Mom!” replied Aaron in exasperation.  “You just called me a sandwich.”

“I know, I couldn’t help it.” I tried to seem sympathetic, as I held back a laugh.  (Come on.  McRib is pretty funny…right?)

“Mom, face it,” Aaron said very seriously.  “You’re not very good at nicknames.  I think you should just leave them to us.”

Yea, Sugar Bugar.  I think you’re right.

 

 

May 24 2012

No, I don’t have a cat…I have sons

Posted on by

When we first moved into our house, I didn’t understand why on humid days a part of the house smelled like we had a cat.  I assumed the previous owners must have had a cat and were not very good about cleaning up after it.  At least, that is what I thought until I had boys.

Well, not right away actually.  For the first few years, my sons, like all kids were in diapers. (Except for, of course, those most superior children who are born to those most superior mothers who teach them how to empty their bowels on command and never, ever let a diaper come near their tiny bottoms.) While the kids were in diapers, the smell from the Diaper Genie (or even worse the smell of the Diaper Genie liners) made me forget about the cat smell – except on the most humid days.

Then, I would scrub the bathroom with the offending smell.  I tried Pine Sol and bleach.  I lit candles, sprayed air freshener, scattered about cottonballs soaked in vanilla extract, even made crafty little pomanders from fresh citrus and cloves.  All the while, I would curse the prior owners and their cat and wonder where exactly they put a litter box in such a small bathroom.

A few months after my sons were potty-trained and taking a special glee in learning to “pee like daddy”, I started to notice the cat smell on days that  weren’t even humid.  I also started to notice it as I walked by the guest bathroom and the master bath.  I suddenly realized the previous owners of the house didn’t have a cat, but they did have a son!  A son who was about 4 years-old, a son who had been potty-trained in this house, a son just like my two sons – a son with bad aim.

I was mortified.  Worse than my house smelling like a cat on some days, my house smelled like little boy pee!  My little boys’ pee, their little boy’s pee!  I ran around the house opening windows (no matter that it was only 40 degrees out – I would bundle the kids up.) I scrubbed each bathroom with Pine Sol and bleach.  I lit candles, sprayed air freshener, scattered about cottonballs soaked in vanilla extract.  I even hung up the crafty little pomanders of fresh citrus and cloves that I had made.

By the end of the day, my house smelled like a candle shop.  I was pleased  with myself.  My boys would not turn my home into a cat shelter even if I had to race into the bathroom after every pee to make sure I removed every offending drop.  And, I did.  For awhile anyway.

But life got busier, my boys got bigger.  They didn’t want me standing outside the bathroom door, santizing wipe in hand.   I’ll do it later, when they can’t see me.  Later would turn into minutes, which would turn into hours.  At last, the pee had won.

While I try to keep the bathrooms as clean as I can and wipe everything down as often as I can, the fruits of my sons’ bad aim have taken hold.  I have tried every way I can think of to exorcise the pee smell from my home.  Every way that is, short of calling an actual preist.  I don’t think they would come to my house for that.

I have finally accepted that I will need to replace every floor in every bathroom in my house.  I am waiting until they move out  – I don’t want to have do it twice.  Until then, I will scrub and spray and scent.   And, ask my guests to watch for my cat as they leave the driveway.  I just don’t know where he’s gotten off to.