Cool Mom

I'm a Cool Mom. No doubt about it. In fact, I might even be Cool Mom of the Year, possibly.


 And here's why.

For those of you who are Not Cool (unlike me), that's ZOO-MEZE. A self-described "mall-based, specialty apparel store which currently caters to teenagers and young adults". 

You will notice that the store does not promote itself as a retail establishment which "currently caters to Cool Moms". No matter. We are there anyway. 

We are not put off by the punkish young male "store clerk" wearing a muscle shirt and sporting pierced lips and tattoos on every observable inch of skin.

We shrug off the mind-numbing, eardrum shattering array of rap and hip-hop and the store owner's tolerance of allowing the employees to play their ipod selections of Jay-Z, Big Sean, and L.E.P. Bogus Boys ad nauseum. Child's play .Our generation invented rebellious music so don't be a troll and keep it legit, duuuuude.


Because we have ultimate Cool Mom Willpower, we are not influenced in the least when said "store clerk" tenaciously tries to convince Cool Mom's Son that he should buy the Obey Propaganda t-shirt with the picture of the oriental girl holding a military rifle on the front. I said No. No means No. Go shuffle your ipod.

(Oh, sorry Mr. Zumiez "store clerk" - yes, tenaciously is a big word isn't it? I would suggest a dictionary but that might be a waste of time so I will describe it for you here. It means Never Give Up. Never Surrender. It could be used to describe both of us, now couldn't it?)


And, yes, when the tattooed, pierced "store clerk" rattles off a string of obscenities to three 11 year old boys buying "I Love Boobies" plastic bracelets (a blog for another day), I will threaten to wash your mouth out with soap. Irish Spring soap. Ask Katie whether or not I'll actually follow through.


You'll find other Cool Moms like me in Zumiez. We are the moms that refuse to send our teenagers in unsupervised. We are the moms that are not afraid to say "put that back you're not wearing it anywhere anytime anyplace and don't argue with me because I have Irish Spring and I'm not afraid to use it and don't give me that look I invented that look." 


You'll know us when you see us. We're the ones who nonchalantly follow the teenager in and try to look casual, as if we're not secretly staring in shocked awe at those gosh-awful piercings and tattoos and not made in the least way uncomfortable by Mr. Big Sean and his beatboxing. We cast each other knowing glances as we pass between the skateboards and the tank tops, sending each other the Cool Mom Gang Sign that entails an intricate mix of eye-rolling, head nodding, and, in desperate situations, a wink which says "hang in there it's just a phase".


You'll find us in other stores, too, like Hot Topic, Aeropostale, and Hollister (oh, don't get me started). We're the last defense against money-grubbing "entrepeneurs" who want to sell our children garbage because it's what they say is in fashion. Because, you see, the people that market their crude, coarse, and inappropriate apparel and accessories to my teenager forget one very important fact.


I'm the one with the money.


And it's locked up safe and sound in my Cool Mom purse.

Let's Hear It for the Boys

Yes, I have boys in my house.  Two very nice, very handsome, very witty boys (not counting my husband, for whom I look for "man" category placement opportunities rather than reasons to place him in the "boy" category).


Nevertheless, you would have been able to tell that I have boys even if I had not pointed it out. Why?

Well, just a few things. First, there's a half eaten layer cake (with sprinkles) in front of the television.

There's a bicycle under construction in the Family Room......

......right next to the drum set which is used to create some pretty eardrum-shattering, though impressive,  music.

There are large, smelly shoes in front of the door, snubbing their little shoe noses at the nice "shoe shelf" I bought for them to live in. Why sit on a shelf when you can be in the middle of the floor and trip everyone that comes through the front door?

My bed has been hijacked by a teenager wearing a hoodie and a set of headphones,eating pretzels out of the bag while texting on his cell phone and browsing for new "Fail Blog" videos.

And, of course, the floor has become the closet.

I'm probably in the Bad Mom category because I let this stuff happen without very much fussing or stress. You have boys? You're gonna' have half-eaten cakes, bikes in the family room, and clothes on the floor. It's like having a puppy. You're gonna' get chewed up toilet paper rolls. It just comes with the territory.

But, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Because even though I might get some mess and nonchalance about household aesthetics, I also get:

"Mom, I really like your hair. It looks good."

"Mom, do you want me to carry that for you?"

"Here, Mom, let me finish the dishes."

"Mom, you go first."

So, I just smile at the bike, the cake, and the clothes. Just like I smiled at the earthworms and the gifts of wilted dandelions 15 years ago. I don't get upset when I catch them drinking out of the milk container (as long as they're drinking the last of the milk). The noise doesn't bother me. The raucous amusement over bodily functions doesn't offend me.

Because, you know. They're boys. And boys are great.

Caleb

I would like to wax long and poetic about our experience over the last 36 hours, welcoming little Caleb into our family.

But, quite frankly, I'm too tired, so it will have to wait.

Briefly, though, born at 4:22 this morning, Caleb followed in his mother's footsteps and took his own sweet time making his way into the world. Two threats of c-section and stalling a couple of times made for a very long day and night. His mom was a real trouper. And his dad was a perfect coach. I'm so proud of both of them.

Seeing then that I can hardly put two words together in an intelligible sentence and any worthwhile prose will have to wait for another day, I will just say this.

I think I'm in love.

An open letter to Mr. Charles Darwin

Dear Mr. Darwin,

I write this letter to you from a time that you - yes, even you with your wild imagination - could not even imagine. You'd be quite happy here, with all your "scientific" ideas. You would be delighted to see the rise in atheist, anti-religious views.

Yes, you'd fit right in.

I know that you are considered to be one of the brightest scientific minds of your time. Considering that you lived in a time where doctors thought that bloodletting was a good idea and Civil War medics were hacksawing off arms and legs sans anesthetic, that's not saying much. I understand that you lived in a time where science was, well, not very scientific so when you said that human beings started as sludge in the ocean and somehow miraculously grew legs and climbed out of the sea (and that by some great accident) people thought you were a genius. Brilliant. A legacy in your own time. You probably thought you were right. You probably thought you had it all figured out. I'd like to think you meant no harm.

But let me respectfully tell you, sir, that I am ticked off. You might be dead, but your crazy ideas of how we climbed out of sludge and became what we are have taken hold in the bright minds of not one - but BOTH my sons. MY sons - who are destined to be missionaries, priesthood leaders, righteous fathers in Zion, defenders of the truth.

Curse you, Charles Darwin. Curse you for confusing my sons with your silly ideas of evolution. I mean, really - where did you come up with this stuff anyway? Lizards turn into birds.....birds turn into monkeys.....monkeys turn into people.....

Heaven only knows what you thought people might turn into. I mean, it is a progression right? Perhaps we'll all be scaly, eight foot beings with two heads and three arms? (Too bad your ideas are so nuts - I could use an extra set of hands.) Or maybe we'll all look like Mr. Potato Heads with interchangeable parts. I'm an evolved being! I can take my ear off and put it where my nose should be! Look! I have eyes on the side of my head!

Or maybe you didn't think that far. Actually, you didn't think at all. You were mad at God. He took your baby. I understand that upset you - who wouldn't be upset? So you decided to eliminate God from your life, then you came up with your own hare-brained ideas of how we got here.

I wish you had kept your ideas to yourself. That's what I wish.

But, you didn't. And now I have to fight to keep any real truth in the minds of my sons. So, I will tell you that there are two things I am really looking forward to.

The first is that I want to be there to see your face when you come to a full realization of how completely, utterly, totally wrong you were.

And the second thing I'm looking forward to will follow when I give you a big piece of my mind. You want to see evolution at work? Fine. You're going to see me evolve into a great big mother bear. Prepare yourself, Mr. Darwin, because that day is coming.

And you are gonna' get it from me.

Mother of the Year

I know lots of great moms. But today I am convinced that I should be chosen for the Mother of the Year Award. Here's why. We are having a birthday party for Joshua, so in the basement I currently have:

• 2 X-box 360's,
  
• 6 bags of assorted chips
  
• 4 liters of Orange soda
  
• 6 smelly 14 and 15 year old boys.
  

They are noisy. They eat non-stop. They have rearranged the furniture and spread sleeping bags out everywhere. I've already warned them about spilled drinks, crunched Doritos in the carpet, and any other minor or major damage that might be done. They're having a great time although the cats have gone into hiding.

So, that made me start thinking of all the other things I've done that qualify me to be Mother of the Year. I'm not sure who runs these contests and who votes but I'm going to list some of my qualifications anyway:

• I panicked only slightly when 2 year old Katie got stuck under the bathroom counter. I showed great restraint in not taking an ax to the counter or calling the fire department.

• When Joshua was 4 years old I put him on a school bus with 10 year old Sariah for his first day of kindergarten and her first day of 5th grade. Neither one had ever ridden a school bus before. I only suffered a minor migraine over it, indicating my great constitution for withstanding such traumas.

• I allowed Jarom to bring home any and all strays - both of the animal variety and of the girl variety. I tolerated whatever it was they liked to eat - including vegan chocolate cake and Little Friskies.

• I left that same Jarom standing in Los Angeles all by himself at the age of 19 because his dream was to attend the L.A. Recording School. By Las Vegas I had mostly stopped crying and after that I only had sporadic moments of nervous breakdown.
  

• Not long after that I left Katie standing in the Missionary Training Center because her dream was to be a missionary. 18 months is a long time when you're on the front end of it.

• Although I've never greeted my children at the door after school with warm chocolate chip cookies and cold milk I have endured practice on multiple musical instruments including the drums, trumpet, flute, piano, guitar (acoustic and electric) and things you wouldn't normally consider to be musical instruments such as large straws and trash from construction sites.

• I have never once negatively reacted to friends with unnatural hair colors or piercings.

I could go on, but I think you'll agree. I should be Mother of the Year.