Life With Smoochie

Life With Smoochie:

A few weeks ago Smoochie and I were in my trusty family transportation unit together.  He happily rode in his booster seat behind me while I drove us on the "just the two of us" errands we were running.  I don't often get time alone with Smoochie, and sometimes I use errand time to get away, just the two of us. 

I made the mistake of removing a hand from the wheel (he could not see the other as it was in my lap by my knees on the wheel) and he freaked out.  "Mom!  Put your hands on the wheel!  On the wheel, Mom!"

To all mothers out there, I offer this advice.  Don't ever ever get in a car accident with your almost 4 year old in the car.  Avoid it at all costs.  One crisp fall day in November of 2005, I was transporting Smoochie to his Pre-K class for the morning and I encountered a pediatrician in a hurry to cross from the hospital side of the street to his office on the other side of the street.  And by encounter, I mean T-Boned, set off the air bags, Oh hi, how are you?  Yeah  I tried to honk to tell you I was currently occupying this space and I tried braking but realized what I really felt like doing this fine morning was racking up a $1000 dollar ambulance charge to drive us the remaining 300 feet to the hospital ER to be checked out and assured we were OK. 

The accident was seriously not my fault, the doctor did not see me.  I didn't even have time to hit the horn or brakes, I had no idea a Lexus could move that fast, my hand and foot were only partially to their destinations before I heard the crunch of car eating car.  And Smooch?

Has never let me live the moment down.  Heaven forbid I remove a hand to change the channel, or ask John to take the wheel for a moment so I can blow my nose.  The boy freaks.  But only with me, never John.  One accident, I tell you, and I'm still going to be hearing about it when the boy's in his 30's. 

I have to confess, after about the 325,876.728th time being razzed about my driving, I kind of lost it on the boy.(Isn't it amazing how clearly and loudly I can yell with my teeth clenched together and not moving?)   "Smooch!  I am driving!  You are RIDING!  Let me DRIVE!  I've got it under control!  Now knock it off and QUIT CRITICIZING MY DRIVING!!!"

Quiet erupts in the minivan and all of the sudden we're both listening to the music again.  My blood pressure goes back to normal, and my face looses some of it's purple tint.

About 10 minutes later from the back seat I hear the question, "Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"What were those words you taught me last night?  You know, to use when I didn't want to do something?"

"Oh, you mean the phrase I'd prefer not to?" 

"Yes, that's it.  That's the one!"

"Mom?"

"Yeees?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept your hands on the wheel."

Wordless Wednesday- A Hike With My Boys

A Copy of the Lovely E-Mail I Got to Send My Son's School This Evening

My son, Smoochie, came home from school and informed us that he was punched in gym class today. Upon questioning, he told us that he was punched not once, but twice. Once in the stomach, and once in the back- hard enough that he cried. We asked him what he did, and he said he told his gym teacher what happened, and his gym teacher said he would talk to the boy who hit him. According to what my son has told us, he did not hit the child back, and did exactly what he was supposed to do according to the school policy and rules.

Right now I am a very concerned parent. I was under the impression that there was a no tolerance policy regarding violence in the school system. While I do understand that there are occasions when boys will be boys, and that sometimes accidents do happen, I should be able to send my son to school without fear of his physical and mental well being. He should not be afraid of being hit at school, nor should he be afraid of being made fun of for crying because of this- both of which happened to him today.

A couple of things lead me to wonder if this situation was handled appropriately. The first and foremost being that no notification of any kind of the incident was sent home with my son to explain what may have happened. Does lack of notification mean that the situation was handled properly, and steps have been taken to ensure that it doesn't happen again?

I think the biggest thing I am looking for is assurance that this situation will not happen again, and that I can send him to school knowing that he will not be harmed again physically. As a mother, it is my duty to insure that the incident is only a one time thing, and is addressed before it has the opportunity to become a pattern. My son loves school, loves learning, loves attending, and it would be heartbreaking to see his attitude change because of something like this.

I did try to call the office, but by the time Smoochie got home today, the office was already closed. I felt an e-mail would be a much better approach than a voicemail message.

Thank you for your time,
Smoochie's Mom.


*I would like some input here, am I over reacting? Should I have just let the incident go? Because I have to confess, right now my Momma Bear Gene has been triggered, and I'm a little toasty under the collar. I can think of nothing more appealing than making heads roll. How on earth do you tell your kid to do the right thing if it happens again? To me, it's almost like telling the poor boy to be a doormat, especially if the school has done nothing. In all fairness, the school has not had a chance to respond yet, as I am sure they will do with all of the politically correctness they can muster. But there's a fine line here, really. At what point do you tell your children that violence never solves anything , and at what point do you give your child permission to stand up for him/herself?

Oh Why O, Oh Why O, Did I Let You Shave My Hair-O

I didn't originally plan to do this, but as I checked out FADKOG's blog this morning, I was inspired. And after having been through my pictures a couple of weeks ago for a facebook tribute to 15 years with Bonehead, I knew exactly where these little tasty doodads were tucked away. So inspired was I, that I ran to my scanner and began to work on this little dandy of a post. Thanks to an idea birthed by Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated, I am sharing with you a blast from the past. It's the Flashback Friday Prom Picture Event...

PROM PICTURES!!!!

Oh yeah, fasten your seat belts because I'm going to lay some prom pictures on y'all. I know that technically, my proms were both in the early 90's ('91 & '92) but really, must it be that they were in the 80's in order to be embarrassing? I'm pretty sure I'm about to prove that I think not. I'm an equal opportunity embarrassing prom photo believer.


This is a picture of me and my date at my Junior prom. Please note that my double chin did not just magically appear after I had my boys, I was blessed with the double - if I didn't smile, it might not be so prevalent, but that's like asking a rainbow not to be colorful. In general, I'm pretty chipper. Also, take note of my strapless dress, a perfect shade of teal green with sparkles and did I mention strapless? Because I truly knew how to rock a strapless dress, I don't think I removed my matching bolero jacket the entire evening. But there's something to note here that's even better than the chin addition and the bolero jacket I super glued on-

What-on-earth-is-up-with-that-hair? I'll share. A couple of months before prom (far enough before that prom wasn't even a thought yet) I allowed Bonehead to shave the bottom half of my head. Howie Mandel shave. As in with a razor and smooth as a baby's butt. By the time prom was on the horizon, I was busy trying to grow it out and there wasn't really a whole lot I could do with it. No sirree, no fancy french twists for me. It's a little hard to see from the picture above, so I've included a bonus photo below of me and my best friend at prom.


This is the side view of the lovely hair. I had sideburns, aren't they just lovely? Sideburns! Every time I see this photo, I immediately think the words mutton and chop. And this is my best friend, who I still love to this day. With permission, I am now going to share with you my best friends date to our Senior prom.


Ta Da Da Dah! Bonehead! Yes, he went with my best friend, and to make things even more interesting, that long haired dude with me in the first photo was Bonehead's best friend. Oh the days of teenage drama, you seriously couldn't pay me enough to go back and relive that stuff. Let's skip ahead a year to my Senior prom, shall we?


Me and the same long haired dude at my Senior prom. He didn't want to go, his mom made him take me. Please note the french twist you can not see, complimented by my look of constipation. In this photo, I am a shapeless black blob with no figure, and the bottom half of my body has completely been sucked away by the nothingness. We were all cool and rode motorcycles to this prom. My lovely date here ditched me and left in search of beer for the hotel room we had rented for us. I pretty much begged him to stay, because I wanted a date a whole lot more than beer, but he refused and left. I spent most of the night in the bathroom crying my eyes out, and had to ride in the car with another couple we went with to the hotel room. I seriously don't know why I didn't just call my mom and have her come get me. Love does weird things to the teenage mind, I guess. At any rate, there was one high point to my evening.

Bonehead felt sorry for me and asked me to dance. I danced my very first slow dance with him that night. How sweet is that?

So there you have it. Embarrassing prom photos with all the drama behind them. Have I mentioned I'm actually happy to not be a teenager anymore?

Passive Aggressive Much?

Before Smoochie was born, Bonehead and I lived in Southern Illinois so he could attend SIU.  One day while living there and being the 20 somethings we were, we decided that we each needed our ear cartilage pierced.

* Side note- before I go any further, I need to clarify a couple of things.  I have 0 tattoos and no desire to pierce anything that is not attached to the side of my head.  In general I try to give life an I'll try anything once attitude, but due to an allergy I have to any metal less than 14k gold and sometimes even that, there will never be anything pierced on my personal being beyond my ears.  I can't even wear a watch- the stainless steel on the back and the cheap clasps give me a major rash.  Nope, no piercings for me, sorry if it makes me look like a fuddy duddy.  For the same reasons, I hesitate to tattoo anything- what if I'm allergic to the ink as well?  It's not like I can just go take it out, if you catch my drift.

Now Bonehead owns a couple (meaning 3) tattoos, and once pierced his ear with a paper clip in high school, I believe.  Although I take first place in other areas of misadventure, when it comes to the body, he's always been just slightly more cutting edge than me.  Now, back to my story.

On this particular day in Southern Illinois before we were parents, we headed out to the little local mall to the piercing place to get our cartilage pierced.  After walking in and explaining what we wanted, Bonehead and I had a little discussion:

Bonehead: "OK, Chas, you go first."

Me: "Are you serious?  I think you should go first."

Bonehead: "No, that's OK, you go."

Me: (Completely not wanting to make a scene about this) "Fine.  I'll go first."

And with that, I went into super stubborn mode.  I climbed up onto the chair (yes, I'm 5'3 & 1/2" tall and so I climbed up) and provided my ear for the  teenage space cadet to attach the piercing gun to.  Being in stubborn mode, I put on my very best poker face.  And Space Cadet (quite possibly Sadistic Space Cadet) hit the shoot button.

Ouch, ouch, oh ouch.  Seering pain followed by a white hot heat smacked me upside the head.  Still, I kept on my best poker face- I didn't flinch or change expression at all- because by this time, I was pretty ticked off that my big strong protective MAN made me go first for this torture.

I hopped down and sadistically enjoyed his turn.  Oh yeah, buddy, TAKE THAT!

Once we left the store he looked at me and said, "Why the hell DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT HURT SO MUCH?"

By now the whole side of my head was warm and tingly.

"Seriously?  You make me go first to face an instrument of torture, and expect me to share how painful it is with you so you can chicken out and make me the only one to endure this pain?  Think again, mister, think again."

I have recently negotiated Tuesday and Thursday evenings for a little me time.  On Tuesday, my beloved Bonehead was kind enough to get my bike ready for me to take my first solo ride of the season.  It involved running it up to the local bike shop because the brake wouldn't stop rubbing, replacing the battery in the computer, and making sure I had adequate air in my tires. 

"The wind is out of the South," he said.  So I planned to head South into the wind in order to have the wind at my back on the way home.  I soon discovered that he had failed to tell me just how strong the wind actually was.

1/2 an hour later as I was in full on granny gear painfully cranking out a snail's pace against the wind, I remembered our piercing adventure.

Touche, Bonehead.  Touche.