Birth control advertisement for the non-parent.

HORNY?

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when looking at hot tubs. Just listen to these people’s reviews of my products:

“Uncle!” - My Mother-in-Law

“I’m never kissing a boy again.” - My last babysitter.

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As you can see, these two children are the most effective forms of birth control. Forget pills, potions, cycle monitoring....

My two children are all you need.

Busticate: Requiem for a Sock

Busticate is the dictionary word of the day. I feel like I have busticated. Busticated? Is that the proper form of the word? It means falling into pieces. Sometimes, that’s me. I feel like I’ve been busticating for years.

During pregnancy, I busticated over everything. I busticated over the lonely sock that was suffering alone and miserable at the bottom of the laundry basket, forced to lay there with all of the happily coupled socks that were dwelling in blissful sock matrimony. That poor sock, so alone in the world. Missing her partner, no doubt a victim of my own foul laundry play. The spouse was writhing someplace where a week ago I had mopped up a coffee spill or stuck under a hastily made fitted bed sheet in the closet. Just knowing the agony that sole-surviving sock was feeling placed me in a borderline state of bustication.

Now that the children found their way out of utero, the act of bustication is a shared experience. Both of my walking, talking and demanding children will create a sense of chaos with the slightest thing. The last peach-flavored popsicle, for example, will incite the most vigorous flailings and whinings, that often wreak havoc on my sanity. It begins with a quivering of a lip. Two sets of eyes on the last surviving popsicle. The sets of eyes ultimately fall on the mediator--a.k.a. mom. Each child then begins to lobby for precious corn-syrupy ice cube. “I deserve the popsicle because I cleaned the toilet, and the kitty litter, and I have been forced to put up with my little bother [brother] all day, and I haven’t hit him once,” my daughter notes. Her persuasive argument is well thought out. My son, four, approaches the argument by way of pathos. “I-I-I,” he begins indignantly, and whines. Then he changes his tactics, “I [sigh] love you mommy.” His methods of manipulation are at an accelerated level for his age, my therapist told me. My therapist also noted, albeit in a more esoteric manner, that my son’s talent at such a young age has more or less screwed me for life. I want to busticate.

If one of my children were to receive the peachy popsicle, than the other will busticate, and vice-a-versa. There is only one thing to do. We split it. Each kiddo gets have of their daily dose of hardcore, after-lunch sugar and within twenty minutes, curtains are being pulled down and legos are being planted in the carpet for the vacuum and flash cards are being used as ninja throwing stars. The spillover aggression within the toy room has made all other rooms war-spoiled. I attempt to pick up the remnants of my home as the children begin frothing at the mouth, looking for their next sugar fix. I hold my breath for their inevitable after-sugar comas when they sit, transfixed at the T.V. The house busticates.

I begin reclaiming the house as the lull hits the two feral children on my couch, and I think about how “falling to pieces” has changed for me over the years. Now solo socks seem trivial. I hardly mourn the lost sock, but now trow the orphan in the “dust rag” section of the closet, where I’m sure it’s love awaits. Now bustication means broken limbs or holes in walls or coffee spilling on library books. The time to “fall to pieces” is gone, and left for my children. Perhaps I’m getting an emotional catharsis from their tantrums and ruckus. I’ll just have to trust that socks will mourn for themselves and leave me to pick up the real pieces in life.

Mayo is Sexy.

"Just like this?" I asked.

"Yes, just lather it on. Feel the smooth creaminess all over" she cooed.

I wasn't entirely sure how well it would go. Staring at the assortment of things that could be perceived as weapons, I felt a little bit awkward. Spatulas. Saran wrap. Duct tape. Given the right circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed the object in a variety of ways. Not today.

There are many topics that I relate to my mother in law with well. Above all are clothes, Victoria's Secret, shoes, and spa-ishness. She has single-handedly awakened my inner froufrou. Not that I'm not girly, I'd just rather be in xtra-tuff boots hauling in fish or hiking. Okay, I guess I'm not that girly. But my life in the South among the Southern Belles has prompted a change in living as a means to socialize. And you know what? It's kind of fun. Facial nights with the girls, Mary Kay parties and mani/pedis are an acquired taste, but I have finally developed a sense of appreciation for them. But there are many new things that I have never tried, and I'm not sure I ever will again.

Mayonnaise is meant for sammiches. Maybe some sort of salad-like bar-b-que side dish. Not like this. "C'mon, Rose. You'll love it. You'll love the way it feels afterwards."

I scooped up a large spatula full of mayo. I took a deep breath.

Slap!

Half a jar of mayonnaise distributed itself all over my hair in a congealy blob. "Yes!" my MIL squeeled in joy, "Feel it nourishing your scalp, all over every follicle." I do believe I have an entirely different concept of joy. After rubbing the mayo through my hair, my MIL then assisted with the Saran wrap, the duct tape and a towel. Smiling, she looked at me and said, "Now we soak."

One of my girlfriends has recently informed me that if you are in the South, there is a fail-safe get-off- a-shit-list phrase when you are talking about a person within a questionable context. "Bless her heart" often works wonders. And should my wonderful mother in law read this, bless her heart, I hope she realizes that she is wonderful even if her homemade haircare products aren't.

There is a certain queasiness that I experienced as the once-mayonnais-now- melty-goo found a rift in my Saran wrap hair cover and began to seep down my neck. But apparently, it's the sun that makes all of the difference when having a mayo treatment. My MIL soaked up the sun and lounged luxuriously with her Barbie doll physique. My stubby body melted, much like the mayo, into one, fine smelling Mrs. Potato head. You could have cut me up and served me with a hotdog. My MIL looked my way, "I can feel it working its magic!" she crooned.

Rinsing mayonnaise out of one's hair isn't the easiest of tasks, but I just had to learn the hard way. Three hair washings later, I was still greezy. "That's not grease, love. That's conditioned" my MIL stated, swaying her Jhirmack bounce back perfect hair. I finally knew the way her blonde locks were so gorgeous. Perhaps mayonnaise is just another of God's gifts to blondes. Groan.

I went out dancing that night, with my greezy brunette coif. I smelled like a sammich. I shied away from the dancefloor, but after a few beverages I found myself right in the mix, busting a Moby next to a very handsome fella. He tried to talk to me, but DJ held a monopoly over all conversations. The young adonis put his lips next to my ear, but before he spoke, he took a large whiff. "Damn, girl, how's a sexy thing like you come out here smelling like a sammich?"

"Get hip, babe," I replied as I walked, non-chalantly hiding my humiliation. "Mayo is sexy."

The tragic loss.

So I might be a little cold, cruel and at times a bit negligent, but that has nothing to do with my parenting skills. Today i considered myself one of the "responsible" mothers; I relinquished the good husband from paternal duties while he went to work a side-job. Son at home-- check. I went to pick Magnolia up from karate (see? don't I sound like a normal mom?) and then off to the park for a run while the little darlings played to their hearts content. Sounds like I'm doing all right?
So, I'm down to one of my last laps around the park when four of my kids' friends show up and everyone starts playing: Julian is with his new pseudo-sweetheart (not the girlfriend, he's saving himself for McKenzie- but more on that later), Magnolia is jumping and giggling about with her friend, and everyone is having a good time, save the mom sucking wind on the track. After my "final lap," I looked around to find Magnolia. No where. I started running (not just the slog jog, but really running) around the park, hoping that I could find her, or at least a license plate of a white van or something. Right before I ran to call 9-1-1, the gal that lives next to the park says, "Hey, Rose, I see her down the street!"
Apparently Magnolia felt entitled enough to go with her friend to her friend's house to get permission to play. Wrong game plan, babe.
At least she was safe.
But safety is just a side effect of over-protective neurosis! And there really is no guarantee that she would have been all right! When Magnolia came back to the park ( her BFF's mother close behind) I heaved the pent-up anxiety out of my lungs and ran to Magnolia.....Almost.
I couldn't let her know how worried I was. I had to play it cool. And it was getting cool out there, so I excused myself from the park scene and ran the kiddos back home.
"Magnolia, if you were me and I ran away, what would you do? "
"Idunno," came Magnolia timid response.
"I you were going to punish your daughter, what would you do?" I asked.
"Ummmm......I'd scream really hard at her and yell a lot and maybe say some bad words 'till she cried and then let her watch TV." Magnolia was thinking she was getting out scott-free with her answer and began to manifest some premature tears.
"Oh, no, babe. Not that easy." I told her what her punishment was.
Magnolia looked at me.
"Mom, that's harsh."
"Isn't it just?"

* * *
Magnolia's Eulogy.


This is the storie for the fate of Magnolia Brown.
One day at the park Magnolia and her friend went
to her friend's house without primission from her mom.
There were strand men in the neigborhood. Her friend
left her olown for a minite or two.
Then she was gone. Those men has pulled the triger on her.
The next minite her body was dumped in a close by lake.
This is in momorial for a girl who didn't ask her mother for permishen.



I think this punishment got through to her. Never did I think she would take it to the extreme, but I'm going to wager she won't run off without her imaginations (or "permishen") again.


PS- Thanks for reading, sorry I've been out to lunch. It's been school. Now off to write an annotated bibliography.

Cheers!