200-odd kids graduated from Bristow Run Elementary tonight. Every name was called for each class, as well as for the approximately 7000 awards they gave out. (I think I mentioned a couple.) SEVERAL requests were made that everyone hold their applause until the end of whatever class/award was being featured. ALL requests were ignored. Certain parents just couldn’t resist screaming at the sound of their child’s name. I have a couple questions for said parents.

Do your children think the rules don’t apply to them? Because you obviously think that. And how is that working out for you? Because my children know the rules apply to them, and they still ignore those rules most of the time.

Maybe you just wanted to stretch out the ceremony in the hot cafeteria, where approximately a third of the people are forced to stand. Cheer on then, by all means!

Also, do you realize this is 5th grade graduation? 5th? Guess what — everyone got accepted into middle school, yay! Or perhaps this is as far as you thought your child would get, education-wise?

You people drive me insane!

Ah – but maybe that was your objective all along?

Tommy had his 5th grade graduation this evening. It should have been a wonderful cap on a fantastic 6 years of elementary education, but it was kind of spoiled when Tommy ended up in tears because he didn’t get 2 specific awards: Award of Excellence and Principal’s Honor Roll. No matter how many times I tried to convince him he did well in school and he’s a smart kid, he is completely focused on those awards he didn’t get. And if I were him, I would react in exactly the same way.

It’s not that he didn’t get the awards, it’s how close he came. He got pass-advance on every SOL except one, so no Award of Excellence. He got straight As all year, except for one B, so no Principal’s Honor Roll. Really, should a 5th grader be this worried about perfection? No, but it’s what I would have done. (I told him his Perfect Attendance Award said he was perfect. He didn’t find that amusing AT ALL.) No matter how much encouragement I give him, I also gave him my genes, so he’s pretty much screwed.

Luckily, the girls don’t seem to put that kind of pressure on themselves yet. And I’m sure that will drive me crazy too.

I was a grocery store cashier for several summers, and it was by far the worst job I ever had. (And I cleaned animal cages at a vet.)  People complained about the price of their groceries (because I have so much say in that), the quality of the produce (ditto), the weight of their bags (um, sorry, I cannot de-gallon-ize your milk) and how things are so much better at another grocery store (and you’re not shopping there because…..?). Knowing this, I try to be patient with cashiers and their thankless jobs. But if there is a show called “Punk’d: Grocery Style!” I’m pretty sure I was on it yesterday.

Now, I have been  trainee, and yes it takes a while to learn speed and bagging efficiency (and let me tell you I ROCK). But where I worked, we had signs warning the customers, and if they didn’t want to deal with a trainee they could choose a different lane. Which I soooo would have done with my overflowing cart of groceries. Had I known. (I am assuming he was a trainee. There can simply be no other explanation.)

I thought I was choosing wisely — a college-aged-looking fellow. When I was cashiering, those were the speediest. By the time I realized times have apparently changed, there was no going back. (Actually, with the speed the cashier next to him was whipping through customers, I totally could have — even after 5 or 6 customers.)  His scanning method was not terrible; sometimes both hands were being used. He was polite without a constant stream of questions. But the bagging, oh the horrors of the bagging!

I bring in 7 reusable bags, and I don’t think a cashier has ever needed more — in fact, I used to have 8, but the last one didn’t get used on a previous visit and I forgot it. Two of my bags are insulated. All of my groceries are arranged on the belt in a particular order — frozen with frozen, produce with produce, etc. Should be a bagger’s dream. But then items were placed in bags. Items were taken out of bags and placed in different ones. After 30 (30!) minutes in the check-out line, I came home with:

12 additional (plastic) grocery bags, including one that held a box of cookies and one that held a bag of pretzels.

A reusable bag with only apples in it.

A reusable bag filled to the brim, with a cake on the bottom.

An insulated bag filled with crackers and make-up.

13 individual yogurt containers (placed together on the belt) in three separate bags.

Cleaning products nestled against bananas.

I survived. My groceries survived — even the cake (mostly). But next time, I may not be able to fight my urge to push the cashier out of the way and do everything myself.

Kids are hard on your self-esteem. Every time I think, “Well, I sure don’t look the way I did before kids, but my kids love me and don’t care what I look like,” my kids find a way to tell me, “Wow, you’re fat and old.”

Example #1: Kaylee is always leaving notes around the house for Mike and me, usually along the lines of “I love you very very very very very very much!!!!!!! Happy early Easter/birthday/Christmas/yay!!!!!!!!!!” But her most recent note read, “Dear Mom & Dad, I love you very very very very very very much!!!!!! I hope you don’t die!!!!!!” Um, do you know something I don’t? Should I be extra careful crossing the street? Chew my pretzel more carefully? Or is 40 simply so old that you feel death is imminent? Still, it was better than her sister’s recent note….

Example #2: Colleen leaves very few notes. Which is nice, since HER most recent one read, “Dear Mom & Dad, if you go on The Biggest Loser I will miss you very much!!!!!!!! And I will write to you every day!!!!!!!” Gee, thanks. I thought I needed to lose a few (ok, 20) pounds, but I guess nationally televised professional intervension is another way to go.

Example #3: Colleen barged in on me one morning as I was getting ready (no, there is NO such thing as privacy in our house). She found me in jeans but completely topless.

“Mom, are you getting dressed?”

I looked her straight in the eye for a minute and replied, “Nope, all ready. And today I volunteer in your class.” Was she shocked into, “Mommy, you have to wear clothes to school!”? Or tickled into giggling, “Mommy, you can’t do that!”? No. She gave me a once-over from head to waist, then ran out of the room screaming, “EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW!” So many things I wanted to call after her: “Before children, my boobs were high up where they belong! My tummy was less poochy and had way fewer stretch marks! In my prime, no one looked upon me topless and said ‘EW’!” But I said nothing. She wants 6 kids. Her punishment is coming.

Example #4: We recently spent a day at the Childrens’ Museum in Baltimore, followed by a huge dinner and a paddle boat ride. The kids were exhausted, but I begged Mike for a quick trip into Barnes & Noble before heading home. Tommy whined, “But I want to go hoooooome! Why do we have to go to a stupid book store?” Mike very wisely said, “Because Mommy is pretty and in need of books.”

Tommy glared at me and said, “Well, she’s not the first part.”

And all I can think of is, this is how my flesh and blood, whom I carried in my womb and fed from my bosom, feel about me. What the hell does the rest of society think when they look at me? Ugh. I need some cookies.

Mike is a better Facebooker than I am a blogger, so some of you have heard this story. But it makes me laugh every time I think about it.

We were watching American Idol one night while eating dinner, and a young dreamer named Clint was singing. For those who have not been sucked into the Idol vortex, whenever someone is singing, his/her name and age are printed at the bottom of the tv screen. In all capital block letters. Very close together. Which prompted Kaylee to say,

“His name is Cunt. Cunt is a funny name. I’ve never heard of it before.”

I looked at Mike and nearly choked on my chili. Trying our best not to burst out laughing, we explained that his name was Clint, and after a closer inspection of the television, Kaylee concurred. Of course I have heard the word before, even uttered it after one stole a pitcher of beer at Liquid Lunch in college. But to hear my 7-year-old say it so nonchalantly, at the dinner table, was a bit unexpected.

Luckily, “cunt” is not one of my go-to swears, so none of the kids had a clue it was actually a word. And hopefully, if they can hold onto their beer in college, they’ll never need to use it again.

I bought a t-shirt today. I need another t-shirt like I need another activity to drive my kids to, but I couldn’t resist this one.

It is a JUNIORS’ size 14 and reads, “I (heart) MY HUBBY.”

Six dollars well spent.

I haved been working with Kaylee’s second grade class on their creative writing. This is a complete blast, and a valuable learning experience.

For example, once they kids had to think of three things they were thankful for, and three reasons why they were thankful for each item. “A” chose his teacher as one thing he was thankful for, stating: “She is pretty. She is nice. She is every bit of my life.” So sweet! It almost makes up for the long hours, the budget cuts…. Well, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Another time the kids had to write about a secret hiding place they had, whether it was real or something they had to make up. “H” described her hiding place in great detail, ending with, “And no boys allowed!!! Ever!!! If you come in you will get your head chopped off!!! BY MY LAWYER!!!!” (As a side note for you lawyers: is decapitation included in your hourly rate, or is there a separate charge for that?) Anyway, as I read over her writing, I wasn’t sure if I should mention the violence. I mean, who among us hasn’t written violent murder fiction as an outlet? No one? Really? Then me neither….

As if she read my mind, “H” said, “I’m not sure I should write that.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, I do actually have a secret hiding place, but” – she dropped her voice to a whisper – “I don’t have a lawyer.”

So now that the kids have had 4 whole days of school, Tommy is already complaining that it is hard being a kid, and grown-ups are so lucky. (As we all know.) It is just too hard going to school for 6 1/2 hours a day.

“But Daddy has to go to work before you go to school, gets home after you and has no spring break, winter break or summer vacation.”

Tommy looked at me like I was crazy. “*I’m* not going to be the one with the job!” Ah, smarter than I thought. “So you’re going to do all the grocery shopping, laundry, take pets to the vet, cook, etc.?”

Snort. “That’s not a job.”

Ouch. “Well, good luck finding a wife.” “I’m not getting married.”

So, his plan is no job and no one to support him….

Guess I won’t have a guest room for a while.

My name is Erinn, and I’m a fashion whore.

I’m 40 now. I really should just settle into elastic-waist pants and tapestry vests and let it go. Yet I find myself searching for tops in the juniors department. Buying a pair of yellow shorts because they were $3. (In my defense, they now get worn up to 6 times a year, for swim meets — our colors are black and yellow, and I like to be festive.) Buying a pair of hot pink leather shorts with gold buttons and lime green pockets for $10, just to see the look on my friends’ faces. (These I have only worn twice, but they were worth every penny.) Buying items that don’t quite fit (big or small) becuase I absolutely love them and am convinced they will work out somehow.

But today I entered new territory (or at least a place I have seen in a looong time): buying something because it fits and its a size (or 2) smaller then you normally wear. In this case it was a pair of denim shorts (so I might actually wear them a few times!). No matter that when I pulled them off the rack, I thought, “The size must be wrong — these things are HUGE.” No matter that the other shorts I tried on (different brand) that were a size bigger were VERY snug. No matter that the last time I wore this size — 15 years ago — I was 10 pounds lighter, falling in line with the whole idea that sizes are bigger now.

What matters is, they fit! Yeah baby! Now go get me a Justin Bieber tshirt and peace sign hoodie, stat!

My husband is in Chicago. My kids are with their Grammy. I am enjoying some blessed, blessed free time. Much of today was spent running errands and shopping, things that are absolutely horrendous when toting 3 kids with you. But when I finished and walked into my garage, I heard blood-curdling screams coming from the house. This completely stopped me in my tracks — there shouldn’t be anyone at all in my house, let alone screaming maniacs. I realized it made no logical sense, but my heart was still pounding. Eventually I was so confused I just walked in. It turned out the stereo had somehow turned on (I later figured out the power had flickered at some point), and when I turned the tv on, I saw that Owen Wilson was being devoured by a giant anaconda. So while I can laugh about it now, had I come home after dark, I just might be blogging from a hotel.