What Is A Mom To Do?

No matter what happens in the Schmitty house, I try to find a little humor in most situations. If not for my own sanity, it at least makes for decent blog fodder.

But yesterday, as hard as I tried, I couldn't find an ounce of amusement anywhere. Not one stinking speck.

So my friends, if you are looking for a laugh today, please move on because you aren't going to find it here.

Here goes:

I won't talk about the first half of the day, as that would take a REALLY long time. I'll save that for another time as it is totally irrelevant to this post anyway.

Instead, I will begin at about 3:00 pm.

W. got off the bus. I could tell from his obnoxious behavior that he was in a less than cooperative mood. He can have a tendency to not know when to stop. He thinks he's being funny, but in reality he's being highly annoying and when in public, quite embarrassing. And to make a long story short, because I really don't want to rehash the entire night, he then proceeded to take a five hour long meltdown.

FIVE.HOURS.LONG!

He couldn't focus on his homework. He was all over the place. He was defiant, nasty, and out of control. I got so pissed I had to leave the house and go for a ten minute drive to cool off. It was either do that or throw him in the bath, clothes and all, to cool him off in an ice cold shower. Which at one point, I came quite close to doing.

The night finally ended with Mr. Schmitty shipping him off to bed at 9:00 pm and telling him that he better get sleep because he would be getting up at 5:00 am to finish his homework.

W. has been in this frame of mind A LOT lately. Unfortunately, since he's been small, it's been a way of life with him. He'll have bouts of this behavior from time to time. As a matter of fact, I went back through my archives to see if I had touched on this subject before. March is apparently "the month". I could basically copy and paste that post here.

Could his behavior stem from his health history and his heart defect? The frustrating thing is, no one knows. It could. He does not have A.D.H.D. according to everyone we have spoken to. He does, however, at times, have those symptoms. They just seem to crop up out of nowhere.

I used to think that he just had an attitude problem and that, combined with his immaturity, caused him to act out. But we noticed about a year ago, that when he is going through these periods, his eyes dilate. It's clearly evident and the first thing we look for now. Of course, the doctors have no clue as to why this happens. All we know is that the behavior and the eyes go hand in hand. So seeing a physical manifestation makes me think it's more than just his demeanor.

So, can he help himself? Is this something he and the rest of us have to live with? I don't know. The doctors don't know. It's frustrating as hell. My nerves are shot and I'm emotionally drained today.

Is 8:00 am too early for a drink?

I've Got Competition

I'm not going to take this lightly. It seems that a certain female is trying to come between Mr. Schmitty and I.

A younger, fairer haired charmer wants my man all to herself. I've found strands of her soft locks on his clothing. I have witnessed first hand the way she looks at him; with those pleading, sad brown eyes of hers.

Her feelings are so blatantly obvious. Even a stranger can't mistake the hold my husband has over her. She becomes openly upset when he leaves her presence. And comes alive again upon his return.

I've never doubted my husband's loyalty. I have known for over sixteen years that I am his only true love.

However, lately, I'm not so sure.

He seems to spend more and more time with her. Doing so has only strengthened her desire to be with him. Where ever he is, she is never too far behind; like a stalker in heat.

The fighter is me is drawing the line in the sand and laying down the law.

No more jumping into my seat the second I get up, just so you can snuggle up next to him. No more lying on his dirty shirts, only to growl at me when I need to do laundry. No more sitting at his feet and whining at me because he is giving me a back rub and not paying attention to you. And I get to say hello first when he comes home from work!

Now back off Ruby, he's mine, BITCH!

This Hurts Me More Than It Does You

W. has made a new best friend, S. I'm so glad, as he was getting too comfortable with ONLY playing with the kids across the street. Constantly. They are good kids, but I wanted him to broaden his inner circle a bit.

S. is a great kid and has a fantastic personality. He is a perfect fit for W. I keep saying they were twins separated at birth. They have become inseparable since school let out.

That is, until tonight. Because tomorrow and the next day, W. went and got himself grounded. He was overtired from all of the events of the holiday week and decided to test mama's patience. He came home from dinner, with S. and his family, and proceeded to throw one of his infamous temper tantrums. It was bedtime and I said that S. couldn't come in to play.

I'm such a bitch aren't I?

So, to make a long, loud, story short. He's stuck in the house for two days. No friends. No video games.

I think I just punished myself.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

Mr. Schmitty and I don't fight very often. We bicker, pretty much daily, but that's because I am a hormonal bitch (I have PCOS and PMDD) wife who is convinced she also has OCD (though as Momo Fali has pointed out, should be called CDO) and he is a 10 year old trapped in a man's body husband who definitely should be on Ritalin. A combination like that? Yeah, there's going to be bickering. But really? All and all out fighting? We don't do a whole lot of that.

We have, however, had this one long running feud. It actually started before we even got married. Every so often it rears it's ugly head and we both get miffed and sulk for a while. It then gets buried until the next time it crops up out of nowhere.

It's the silliest quarrel. Our taboo subject becomes heated, basically, because we have differences in our likes and our dislikes.

You see, I've always wanted a tattoo. I've wanted to get inked since I was in my late teens. Mr. Schmitty, he's old school, he HATES tattoos, especially on women.

He thinks they are disgusting. I think they are a form of art.

Now mind you, I'm not looking to get a sleeve done, or an eagle across my back. I only want a small, delicate tat on my ankle. Something symbolic, but not the M on each cheek, as he suggested. You know so it says, "MOM" and when I stand on my head, "WOW". Bastard.

His other solution? Get temporary ones, "Then you can can change them and aren't stuck with the same one." What am I? 5 years old?

No matter what my argument, he wasn't having it. He didn't care how small it was going to be. He made me know he really, REALLY doesn't like them.

I was pissed. I normally would have run right out and gotten it anyway. But I decided I would stay away from the tattoo parlours, for him. Ahhh....love.

But you know what? It's been decades and I still want one. It's been decades and I.STILL.WANT.A.TATTOO! So, why shouldn't I get one? I told him I would never prevent him from doing something he wanted to do that badly. He seemed to understand.

I think.

I haven't completely decided that I am going through with it. Now that I am 41, do I look like a fool getting my first tattoo? Is it a mid-life crisis?

I am contemplating this design: What do you think?

It is a Celtic (I am from Irish descent) symbol. It is the Motherhood Knot. The interlocking heart itself is the mother. The dot or heart within is the child, in the arms, surrounded by the love of the mother. Each dot I have added represents each of my children's birthstones.

Now, to tell Mr. Schmitty I've got a new blog post.

.........to be continued.........

The Week From Hell

It's Monday. The beginning of a new week. I am praying it is easier than last week.

Right now I am emotionally drained. I am confused about what to do. I feel completely beat down.

I mentioned a few days ago that W. has issues with meltdowns and impulsiveness. He can be quite a difficult child to deal with at times. This past week his poor behavior seemed to peak. It was a nightmare. EVER.SINGLE.DAY. He was defiant, nasty, and basically disrupted the entire family.

He has been struggling with Math lately. The program at my son's school is absolutely horrible. You really don't want to get me started on the subject as I have quite the opinion. Anyway, he's been stressing about it but because of the type of kid he is, well, let's just say he doesn't like to work through things. He'd rather just not do it and cause a commotion. Homework has become a daily battle. He'll be in the best of moods but the mere mention of doing work will send him into a tizzy.

You must understand that unless it's fun, W. doesn't want to do it. I'm sure this is the case with a lot of kids, but it's really, REALLY hard to get him to do anything that requires even the slightest effort. It's frustrating to Mr. Schmitty and I because we both have a very strong work ethic. But I know everyone is different, and I can live with having to work harder to make him work harder.

What I can't live with is his over the top freak-outs that last 1-2 hours long. Saturday I was pretty much doing the whole damn thing helping W. with his Social Studies project. He had to make a float about Georgia. He had done all of the research a few days before. It was time to make the actual float but instead of putting it together, I found him goofing off while I was gluing my fingers to the shoebox. I told him to focus and start helping. He told me he needed a break.

HE.NEEDED.A.BREAK!

I told him he could have one after he actually did some work. He proceeded to swat the box across the table and jump up from his chair. He yelled at me that he wasn't doing it anymore. I told him to go to his room and cool off. He then screamed, "NO!" at me. At which point I got up to "help" him to his room. He sat down on the couch and started kicking at me and screaming at the top of his lungs.

I actually looked at the front door because I swore the police were going to be knocking, wanting to come in to arrest me for abuse. He sounded like I was murdering him. He finally, after about 10 minutes of this, went to his room.

The screaming, defiance, hyperventilating, and meltdown continued for another 1 1/2 hours. It was the most exhausting time of my life, both physically and emotionally. I had to sit in his room, in front of his door, to keep him there. He was scaring his younger siblings and I refused to let him upset them like that.

After it was all over, I made two phone calls. One to Sylvan Learning Center and one to a child psychologist that deals with children with ADHD like symptoms.

I then took two Xanax when the kids were all in bed.

Dirty Fighting

This was to be the rubber match, the third and final bout between the Palooka and the Southpaw. Southpaw was young, but had more experience in the ring. He was pound for pound the best fighter in his weight class. Palooka on the other hand was old, out of shape, and inexperienced. A brawler, Palooka was determined to lose the stigma of having a glass chin.

All ready to throw in the towel, Palooka got lucky in the first fight with Southpaw. Prone to Pitty-Pat Punches, Palooka was no match for Southpaw. On the ropes, looking as though the fight would be over in minutes, Palooka got a sudden opening. An uppercut was thrown and a connection was made. Southpaw was thrown back, it was a knockout! The crowd went wild and many believed that Southpaw took a dive.

Set on proving the public wrong, Southpaw scheduled a rematch. The bell rang and Palooka came out swinging. A jab was thrown, Southpaw feinted to the right and threw a counterpunch. Palooka was down for the count!

The score was now one to one. Palooka refused to back down to the obviously better fighter. A final match needed to be fought.

Both fighters were going for the win. Both were bound and determined to be victorious. Neither boxer would allow the winner to be determined, the opponent would have to be KO'd. They knew that meant they might have to go the distance. It was sure to be a Barnburner fight.

Southpaw and Palooka met in the middle of the ring. Dodging and weaving, throwing jab after jab, uppercut after uppercut. Palooka threw a Haymaker. There was a loud SNAP! A thunderous roar of pain was heard. The boxer fell and was now kissing the canvas.

But it wasn't Southpaw, it was Palooka! A victim of a sucker punch? Palooka was now laughing hysterically. The force of the punch thrown had snapped her Victoria Secret's Underwire Bra in half. She was KTFO'D by the impact of the break.

But wait, Southpaw was down too! The hilarity of the situation rendered him punch-drunk.

"Mom.are.you.okay?" He managed to say in between each chuckle, howl, and snort.

"Yes, W. I think I'll live," I replied while wiping tears from my eyes. "Please turn off the Wii while mama gets an ice pack and changes her bra!"

*In case you need some help on the terminology.

Laila Ali Better Lookout!

My daughter has a real problem lately. Well, actually, I guess you could call it my problem. She has always had an anger management issue. She's teeny, but she's hell on wheels and doesn't take crap from NOOOOOBODY! Part of me likes that, I want her to be a strong woman with no fear of standing up for herself. That's good, she won't be a doormat.

What I am not liking is that lately, she's been clocking anyone who looks at her wrong. She is only 3 going on 4 and I truly believe she is having difficulty expressing herself when she is angry. She speaks extremely well, however, her emotions are just getting the best of her. So she lashes out.

And man can she lash out! None of that girly slapping, pinching, or pulling hair stuff. No way! She balls up her little fist and BLAMO! She aims right for the face. And it hurts! Last week she got pissed because I put her on the potty when she first woke up. Apparently she's not going to be a morning person because I got a right hook to the nose.

Last night she was giving me a hard time going to bed. She's always been great at bedtime but for the past two weeks it's been a problem. I tried everything to get her to settle down. At one point I had told her to stop talking so loudly because the boys were sleeping.

"My boys are awake!" she shot back at me. And yes, she calls them "My Boys" like she owns them.

"No Missy, they are asleep", I replied.

"Show me!"

Now, I know I probably should not have given in, but I was whooped and this had been going on for quite some time. So, I scooped her up, threw her on my hip, opened the boys door and said, "See?"

She looked in their room, saw them under their covers, glared at me, and then it happened. She hauled off and punched me square in the jaw. TWICE! Thank God I don't have a glass jaw, because seriously, I think that could have been a K.O.!

I just looked at her astonished. I walked back into her room, contemplated throwing her out the window, then I placed her on her pillow. I pulled up her blanket, gave her Bimsy the Bunny, said goodnight, and walked out.

It was the best I could do without losing my cool. I think she got that because I never heard another peep.

Go Home!

Dear Bitch Lady,

I am writing this letter to you on my blog for I am unable to send it anywhere else. I could not catch up with you the other day, for if I had I am sure that I could have
beaten the information out of you asked for your address.

I want to thank you for the unbelievably idiotic thing you did incident that took place. You brought out the raving lunatic best in me. And you did so in front of my children and husband. Yes, I am so wanting to pound in your nose grateful to you for allowing them to see their mother turn into a roaring animal. But you see, like a mother lion, the claws will come out if my young are in danger.

Were you in that much of a hurry to get to Costco? I believe it was only noon, that, I'm sure, still gave you enough time to buy your tampons. I'm sure that's the reason behind your moronic foolish behavior.

Maybe that wasn't your reasoning. Perhaps you saw a family of five in the road and were playing that game. You know, the one where you accumulate points for running something over. What were we worth? Two points for each adult, 3 for the boys, and that cute little girl, she had to be at least 5.

When I saw you speeding through the parking lot, I began to hurry everyone up across the road. But before I could even finish my sentence, you were practically on us. You were looking straight at us you crazy freaking loon. You weren't even slowing down.

If my children were not with me, I would have stood my ground, daring you to hit me. Instead, once I knew my children were safe, I turned and lost it. I screamed at you, just hoping you might stop. Bring it on sister! The part of me that hopes all people are good, wanted you to apologize and even give me a lame excuse for why you almost killed us. But I should know better. Instead, you drove away and flipped me off. I then noticed your license plate. It figures. You are here for the summer.

I am getting really sick and tired of you out of state people that come here for the summers. Everywhere I turn I see your license plates. None of you have any courtesy or manners. You invade this beautiful area like picnic ants. I wish you would all just go back from whence you came.

So you poor excuse for a human being lady, I would consider yourself happy to be breathing lucky, back in the day, I would have tore you limb from limb followed you. God help you when I got a hold of you. But I'm a mom now. My cubs were safe.

Enjoy your day, because if I see you again, well, just enjoy your day.

Mrs. Schmitty

Whew! *wipes sweat from brow* Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

Boy Crazy Girls

My niece was telling me of a falling out she had with one of her "friends". Seems that this "friend" was pissed off that the boy she liked didn't return her feelings. Instead he seems to have a thing for my niece A. instead. This "friend", who I will refer to as M., apparently sent A. a nasty note during class. It was a picture of a bottle with the word Poison written on it. Under the little doodle were the words, "Drink this bitch and die."

They are just 13 years old.

In my day, I would have waited for this girl to come outside at recess and I would have beat the crap out of her confronted her. But you have to be more careful in this time of lawsuits.

So, my niece told the principal and the mother's were called, a conference ensued, and M. was grounded. Now they are friends again.

Oh the drama.

I told my niece that this wouldn't be the first time nor the last time she was going to battle with a friend over a boy.

My advice was just not to fret over it. It's inevitable. It's not the end of the world. It's going to happen.

I recalled a story of a similar situation I went through in high school. I began dating a boy that one of my friends, T., liked. I didn't know it at the time. Instead of talking to me about it, she avoided me. I then began receiving prank phone calls on my private line, which thank goodness I had because my father would have killed me. The calls came at all times of the day. I thought it was funny at first because it was so childish. After a while the calls just got annoying.

I knew I needed to do something because quite honestly, I was getting bored with the whole thing. I had a suspicion it was T. but couldn't prove it. There was talk that T. had another girl, B., making calls too. I had to take some action. I'm glad I did because we became great friends again.

I must say, that I still don't know who I taught a lesson to on the day the phone calls stopped. We never spoke about it.

All I know is that one of them is more than likely deaf in one ear. They would have to be after I blew that coach's whistle into the phone.

Happy Easter!

A video that shows the danger W. would face if he ever encountered the Easter Bunny.

That cartoon boy is SO my kid!

Happy Easter All!

Oh No She Diiin't!

My darling R. is one of those little spitfires, a tomboy in a Winnie-the-Pooh Pull-up. She's a kickin' butt and takin' names kind of kid. She don't take crap from noooooobody. Not even me. The most hysterical, endearing thing is she, for the most part, is the sweetest, most affectionate child on the planet. She's always kissing and hugging.....And laugh, well her laugh is completely infectious. It comes so easily and she has one of those adorable belly laughs that makes you stop in your tracks and turn around to see what's so funny.

Most of my friends and family think I am a total liar when I tell them R. stories. And believe me there are many. Few have witnessed the wrath of R. All they see is a tiny, smiling preschooler with big beautiful eyes. They think, "How could she possibly do those things?" At 3 1/2 years old R. is only 27 pounds and is still wearing a size 2T. "She's so petite", they say. "She's such a cutie, so quiet and meek."

Sure, she's ALL of those things and more. She can also spin her head around a full 360 degrees and projectile vomit green pea soup.

Piss her off and it's like flipping a switch. A switch to the underworld. A place you hope to come back from alive. A.....okay, stop me, I think you get the point.

Yesterday she hit her brother, T. I'm not sure why she clocked him, maybe he looked at her wrong, or maybe he was sitting in the chair she has designated as HERS. Anyway, I placed her in a time-out for breaking the rule of keeping our hands to ourselves. I set the oven timer for 3 minutes, which is her age and supposedly what you use as a guideline. I told her she needed to sit there until the timer was done. She proceeded to climb down from her perch. I placed her back on the chair and said, "Every time you climb down I will add another minute." She climbed down again. I placed her back and added a minute, she heard the beep, and immediately knows I've added more time. She scowls at me. Her feet hit the floor a third time. I put her back on the chair, beep, another minute. You can now see the wheels turning in her head. She's got an idea. She then spits at me. Yes, that's what I said, "SHE SPIT AT ME!" And she must have had a generous supply of saliva saved up because beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 15 minutes are now on the timer. She stops the lugies, she has either figured out it's not working or has dried up.

She sits down, clearly miffed. She clenches her fists, grits her teeth, and her whole body stiffens up. She glares at me and yells, "MOMMY I HATE YOU!" "Good!", I replied, "That means I'm doing my job!"

I must say I was somewhat surprised to hear my daughter exclaim those words at such a young age. I always knew they would come, I just thought she might be at least 12 or 13. Today I begin my training. I'll be lifting weights, jogging, taking boxing lessons, and maybe even some martial arts. If little Miss Thang doesn't get some of her anger management issues under control, she and I'll be duking it out on the front lawn when she's a tween!