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I thought I had avoided becoming a turtle mom.

I am already a dog mom. I have been a hamster mom once (the second time I refused custody). I’ve also been a fish mom – the least rewarding of all my reluctant guardianships (sorry fish pet owners – swimming to the top of a bowl expectantly at feeding time is NOT showing personality).

When I had kids I wished someone had warned me that they come with strings attached – mainly, becoming a de facto caretaker of a menagerie of animals that they just couldn’t live without.

Oh, and despite the care you give these pets when they are quickly forsaken for something with zero responsibility, most of them will not outlive a Goldfish cracker dropped in the center of a toddler playgroup. Your flowerbed will become a pet cemetery and you will feel your heart being tugged and pulled when copious tears are shed for an animal you couldn’t get them to support despite a custody agreement.

Last year my daughter, Whitney, (future successful defense attorney), and I negotiated terms for turtle ownership (A Satisfying Tale of “I Told You So“). We ended up with a hamster when we realized the responsibility and cost involved with a turtle greatly outdistanced the terms of the agreement.

Shortly after, Homer the Hamster was relocated through Witness Protection Program. Or the This Animal May Be Cute But It Is Seriously Stinky, Noisy, and A Lot More Work Than I Bargained For program.

Cut to this weekend. We are visiting friends who have accidently unearthed eight baby Red-eared Sliders. After enjoying these adorable miniature turtles overnight they are planning to relocate them to their nearby pond. Minus one, if Whitney gets her way.

She is begging for one of the turtles. I say “no” with my usual argument that animals belong in their natural habitat. Daddy says “no” making reference to all her unpaid “child” support obligations.

The future defense attorney does not back down. Turning to me while lovingly cupping the impossibly tiny and cute mini turtle in her hands she says, “You promised me a turtle, remember? You made me get a hamster instead, when I REALLY wanted a turtle. You said a turtle was too expensive, but this one is FREE.”

“The equipment to properly take care of a turtle is not free,” I argue back.

“I can create a proper habitat with our old aquarium. It’ll be an easier pet than the hamster I didn’t really want that you made me get instead of a turtle.” When she realizes the shifting of blame for Homer’s relocation isn’t working by the watch-it look on my face, she switches tactics. “If we release this little turtle to the pond when he’s this tiny and defenseless it will be eaten by birds, the otters, fish…Please, Mom, can I save just one?”

It’s working. I’m starting to worry about these cute little guys. I decide to go with the answer I think is best. “Go ask your father.”

As I sit in the truck waiting to go home I wonder if Daddy will stick to his guns of not making me a mother again.

Say “hello” to Tiny Tim:

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My little girl sleeping with her Valentine lion - a Valentine gift with no strings attached, as it should be

In kindergarten it was Edward (I was the early founder of Team Edward). I wanted to marry him. He wanted to be Captain Marvel.

In 2^nd grade there was Todd. I carefully selected the perfect Valentine and boldly signed my name with love to him. He threw it away because there wasn’t any candy with it.

In 4^th grade I liked shy and sensitive Adam. Instead I was pursued by Ian who told me with a leer that Adidas stood for All Day I Dream About Sex, and alternately, All Day I Dream About Silveira (my maiden name).

By Valentine’s Day of 5^th grade the tables were turned on the innocent pursuit of love. Ian, Derek and Greg got together and instructed me to meet them after school behind the bathroom for my Valentine gifts. Nervous, but flattered and curious, I agreed to meet them.

They each presented me with a stuffed animal then told me I now had to pick one of them to be my boyfriend and I had to seal it with a kiss.

I told them all “no way”, but out of guilt for their efforts agreed to a comprise of kissing each one on the cheek for their gifts (they wanted lips).

I was mortified.

I tried to steer clear of boys after that, but then there was Kenny in 7^th grade. He was actually in 6^th grade but he was already a hormonal, aggressive little sucker. Pursued me every day of that summer at the local pool, one day cornering me in a game of Marco Polo and laid a French kiss on me.

I’d come a long way from just wanting a boy to sit next me and maybe hold my hand. And it only got worse from there.

So now, this Valentine’s Day with my daughter in 5^th grade, I worry about her. Our culture has only gotten more sexually progressive. She already has boys aggressively pursuing her, wanting her phone number to text her, and to be their girlfriend. Like me at that age, she just wants to play a good game of soccer at recess and maybe have the cute boy sit next to her at lunch.

I was too embarrassed to tell my mom about all the boys’ attention. I wish I had. She could’ve helped me (and protected me) from being forced to grow up too soon.

My daughter, too, is hesitant to talk about boys and the attention she gets. But I ask anyway, unwilling to let overly aggressive boys paint her picture of what love should be. I keep the conversation light and playful. I try to make her feel safe and unjudged talking about it. I want her to feel comfortable coming to me when she doesn’t know what to do.

I think we’re laying good ground work. She’s confided to me in bits and pieces. My hope is by the time she is ready to stick her toe in the pool of love, she’ll feel safe and confident doing it because she knows there’s a lifeguard on duty.

And that I’m not afraid to kick anyone out of the pool area for running instead of walking.

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I don’t have a blog for you today because I know I should not print the one I wrote.

It was titled: I Am Angry. I really let the people I am angry at have it too, boy.

When I wrote it at 5 a.m. still not able to sleep through my seething anger, I was ready to show people that the pen is mightier than the sword they cut me with.

I was send a text, post a message, leave a voicemail, write a blog that could torpedo a professional career angry.

I’m still currently hiding my phone and my computer from myself trying to retain some semblance of self-control and self-respect.

But, oh, it would be so much more fun to publicly humiliate someone.

Why all this M.I.A. flip-off the audience during a Super Bowl half-time show pent up anger and self-destruction?

Because someone hurt my kid.

And when someone hurts your kid, a parent’s first instinct is Someone’s Going to Pay.

But here’s the flip side of that coin: do you really want to teach your kid to lash out and hurt someone when things wound or disappoint them?

Or do you want to teach them to take life’s disappoints in stride, keep them in perspective, and let them shape you not break you.

I think we all know what the answer is here.

So, unfortunately for you all, the crowd needs to disperse. There’s nothing to see here. There’s not going to be a fight today.

I will be the bigger person and teach my child how to climb that higher road, no matter how difficult each step is, reminding them the view from the top will be amazing and worth the climb.

And we will look down on the people who hurt them and know that while we have ascended to the highest levels of integrity – they will always be the north end of a southbound mule.

And that they may have “Honk if you agree I’m an  a**hole” written on the back window of their car with a travel-size Lady Speed Stick.

I really should’ve hidden my deodorant from myself too.

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Welcome to the latest installment of “What’s in Your Center Console?”! If you enjoyed playing “What’s in Mom’s Purse?” you’re going to be glad you stopped by for this one!

Before we dive into the center console of my 2003 Ford Expedition it should be noted that when we first test drove our car I exclaimed, “I don’t know about this center console. It’s huge! It takes up too much room. What would anyone need all this space for?”

For the past eight years Hubby’s running joke whenever I open the bursting at the seams junk drawer that is our center console is to ask me, “What would anyone need all that space for?”

So without further delay let’s see what could possibly fill an airplane hangar sized center console of a mother’s car:

• Napkins. Subway napkins, McDonald’s napkins, 7-Eleven napkins, plain brown napkins, white napkins, even some with stains. If someone has a Hiroshima sized blow-out of any kind we are ready to sop that baby up.
• Dramamine. So hopefully you don’t need the napkins after getting car sick watching a double-feature on the DVD player.
• Plastic bags. In case the Dramamine doesn’t work.
• Straws. We have never needed these for a drink, but it did come in handy in a great MacGyver moment when a DVD got stuck in the DVD player.
• Half a sleeve of 6 month old crumbled Ritz crackers. Cause you never know when you’ll be trapped in a snow storm and will be glad you didn’t throw those away.
• Jerky chew in a can. From when Hubby tried to quit chewing. I’ve used it when I’m out of dog treats.
• Lemonheads. So old they’ve stuck together in one big candy clump. Could come in useful for a good backseat Truth or Dare session.
• Lip Balm. It’s in a tin can that says, “The key word is ‘allegedly’”. Never used it, but the saying cracks me up every time I come across it.
• Cup of crap. This used to hold pencils, pennies and gum. Now it’s where old candy goes to die. There’s Now & Laters, Certs, two flavors of disintegrated Extra gum, a couple of Halls lozenges. The Lemonheads really need to be moved to this cup.
• Crumbled Saltine cracker packets. You just never know when you’re going to get stuck in that blizzard.
• Ketchup packets. We’ll need something to wash down the crumbled crackers.
• Receipts. Aren’t you supposed to keep these for seven years?
• Golf ball. No one in our family golfs. Your guess is as good as mine. Probably confiscated from one of the kids with a “Give me that thing!” when they wouldn’t stop fighting over it.
• Jingle Bell. Thinking another Give Me That Thing acquisition.
• Melted birthday candle. I got nothin’…
• Disposable camera. No idea what pictures could be on there, and by how long it’s been in there, obviously don’t care.
• Battery. A size which I have never seen before. No idea what it could power. Maybe the DVD remote that’s somewhere lost in the car.
• Hair tie. If you have girls, these things are all over the place a multiply quicker than rabbits.
• Matches. Part of my unofficial blizzard disaster kit or for the next time Daddy hot boxes us with farts after stopping at Taco Bell.
• Restaurant punch cards. If I collected all these single punched cards I bet I gotta free pizza or sandwich in here.
• Joe’s Crab Shack wet wipes. Back-up in case we run out of napkins.
• Phone charger. It might be for one of those ones that were the size of a bread loaf.
• Headphones. Great game to distract the kids from Are We There Yet? Whoever untangles them and finds the one that works gets to actually listen to the movie!
• American River Parkway parking passes. Now I find them. $65 ticket later thinking two park rangers for 26 miles of parkway would never find me.
• Sunscreen. To be applied in case I feel like fighting with resisting kids.
• Ziplock bag of dog food. We got something for everyone in this car.
• Mini New Testament and Gospel of John Book. From when I couldn’t get out of my driveway quick enough before the Christian door-to-doorers hit my house.
• Scratched CD’s/DVD’s. Guess which show we like to watch based on this musical selelction:
  • Clay Aiken
  • Lee DeWyze
  • Blake Lewis
  • Kelly Clarkson
  • Rueben Studdard
  • Scotty McCreery

In case you’ve decided we’re not very cool, we do also have the last eight years of Grammy Nominees CD’s, Kings of Leon, Nickleback, Kid Rock, Beastie Boys, Justin Timberlake, and Kids Fun sing-along. Okay, maybe I’m not making my case very well anymore…

• Empty CD cases. Explains the scratched CD’s.

I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of the center console, but I’m bored with this game now. I’m putting it all back in because I don’t feel like playing Clean Out the Center Console.

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I am not a huge fan of January.

Don't knock unless you're taking me here

Where people see possibilities for the New Year, I see more sh** I’ve got to get done and a brand new year still isn’t enough time to do it. My calendar fills up quicker than a stadium full of American Idol wannabes and not one day of it is penciled in for me to run away to Fiji.

My birthday being in this month doesn’t help either. Just one more reminder that another year has passed and wishing over birthday candles for laundry to just go away never comes true. You know you’re pathetic when you consider lying to a treadmill and risk a heart attack rather than type in your true age in the name of a more accurate heart rate.

Plus it’s cold. I hate being cold.

Okay, now that you and Hubby have quickly surmised that someone’s monthly friend is about to knock on the door, let me see if I can find a little spot of sunshine. Let’s see what I have to work with:

• It’s an election year. Media outlets seem to think this and who the Republican nominee is going to be is all that matters in my life. It’s going to be a long year.
• The Kardashians exist. Media outlets seem to think that this is worth believing in and worshiping on a daily basis. It’s going to be a long year.
• The Occupy Movement continues to get their point across that they are pointless and about to run out of their Starbucks ration. Thanks, but no thanks.
• Facebook and Mark Zuckerberg are more relevant than the U.S. and Barack Obama. Glad we’ve got our priorities straight.
• Mortgage rates are the lowest they’ve been in 40 years. Seems as irrelevant as the Occupy Movement if nobody can qualify…BTW, our savings accounts are earning half a percent interest rate – way to reward doing the right thing.
• My San Diego Chargers have decided to keep Norv Turner as head coach. I guess they don’t really want to go to the Super Bowl.

So, like the proverbial ground hog, I have poked my head out to see what the climate of 2012 looks like. I’m going back in. Don’t bother knocking, I won’t come out. Try back in February when I have a better attitude.

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A momentary truce before the bickering continues

If it’s not about the remote then it’s about what to watch.

If it’s not about whose turn it is to set the table, then it’s about whose turn it is to clear it.

If it’s not about who has to get into the shower first, then it’s about who took too long.

If it’s not about downloaded aps then it’s about downloaded songs.

If it’s not about who gets to sit here, then it’s about who gets to sit there.

If it’s not about who walked the dog last, then it’s about who picks up the poop.

If it’s not about knock it off, then it’s about who started it.

If it’s not about that’s mine, then it’s about not yours.

If it’s not about who got more, then it’s about who got less.

If it’s not about who rides in the front seat, then it’s about who chooses the radio station.

If it’s not about stay out of my room, then it’s about stay out of my stuff.

If it’s not about he got to pick last time, then it’s about she got to pick last time.

If it’s not about that’s not fair, then it’s about you’re being mean.

If it’s not about who’s first, then it’s about who’s next.

If it’s not about why can’t I, then it’s about how come you get to?

If it’s not about don’t touch me, then it’s about don’t look at me.

If it’s not about give that back, then it’s about who took it.

If it’s not about he won’t let me play, then it’s about she always has to be included.

If it’s not about who was sitting there first, then it’s about who got up.

If it’s not about he won’t leave me alone, then it’s about she won’t quit bugging me.

If it’s about don’t do that, then it’s about stop it.

If it’s about who did it on purpose, then it’s about it was just an accident.

…And I’m just scratching the surface of all the things siblings bicker about. These are just the ones I came up with listening to my kids for the last five minutes.

While you think of your own kids’ versions of what it’s all about to add to the list, I will leave you with my current impersonation of my children:

“Really Whitney? Wooooow.”

“Why would you do that Logan?!”

Repeat every five minutes…

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It’s a flat out fact in our house that Daddy is the funniest person we know. His quick wit, one line zingers, and appreciation for a good fart have won him a loyal following around here.

And it’s becoming apparent that someone has been taking notes. Turns out we have a pretty funny little smart-a** junior in our house:

Our 10 year old daughter, Whitney.

Whit practicing her early comedic timing

Granted, we could kind of see it coming.

Like at three when she let out a fart and said, “Put THAT in your baby book.”

Or at four heading off to the bathroom announcing, “I gotta go drop the kids off at the pool.”

Or leaving the bathroom declaring, “The Browns are in the Super Bowl!”

Of course, she was just regurgitating Daddy’s amateur potty humor (big laughs at that age – first lessons in gotta know your audience), but her comedic timing was spot on.

Soon, Whit was coming up with her own Daddy inspired gems.

Like at five declaring after leaving her Presbyterian preschool, “I don’t know why we thank God for snack. We should be thanking the grocery store – everyone knows that’s where food really comes from.”

And at six when she was the banker for a family game of Monopoly. Shaking her head as she cashed out me and Nana’s last remaining properties to stay alive she said, “Wow. You guys are hanging on like a loose tooth.”

Or at seven when I was waking her for school and asking her what she wanted for breakfast. The first words out of her mouth without even opening her eyes were, “Can I have a serving of Saturday with a side of Sunday?”

Lately her observational humor has been cracking everyone up at the dinner table, specifically her hero and mentor, Daddy. Nothing makes either of them happier than cracking each other up.

Like Whit deciding that the dentist office smells like fear and pain. Or after a jet-lagged return to school after vacation announcing, “If being tired could kill you, I’d be dead right now.”

But the one that had Daddy beaming with pride that his chip-off-the-ol’-smart-a**-block had finally come into her own happened this weekend when he handed off a telemarketer to his daughter to have fun with.

Here’s how it went:

Telemarketer: Is your mom or dad available?

Whitney: Can I ask who’s calling?

Telemarketer: This is So-and-So from Auto Insurance Company

Whitney: Are you trying to sell us something?

Telemarketer: No, we’d just like your opinion on auto insurance.

Whitney: Well, my opinion is that you should call someone else.

*Click*

Daddy couldn’t have done it better himself.

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I don’t do resolutions.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t need New Year’s and broken resolutions to make me feel any worse about myself. I do a pretty good job of it on a daily basis as evidenced by a never ending To Do List that mocks my continually interrupted productivity. Some days I put things on the list that I’ve already done just so I’ll have something to cross off.

I feel more comfortable with predictions. Specifically, predictions that will inevitably come true. If you’re going to epically fail, somehow it feels better to be able to say you saw it coming. So without further ado, my 2012 Predictions:

• One day my car is going to veer off course from 24-Hour Fitness and pull into the Krispy Kreme drive-thru line when the “Hot” light is on and I will eat a dozen doughnuts in one sitting.
• This is the year I quit threatening to make my family do their own laundry and make good on my promise.
• I will finally make something for dinner that actually makes one of my kids barf at the table instead of just gagging.
• In February I will eat an entire box of See’s Candies and hide the evidence when that time of the month falls too close to Valentine’s Day.
• I will say something behind someone’s back only to horrifically find I am literally standing behind their back.
• I will sneak into the 10 item or less line in the grocery store with 17 items. If confronted I will deny it saying individual Yoplait yogurts should count as one item.
• In April the Easter bunny will fail to appear because someone overslept after staying up all night to watch a Modern Family television marathon.
• An employee at Target will be the victim of an unfair verbal attack when someone makes the mistake of trying on a bikini from the Juniors section thinking they’d actually look good in it.
• I will decide it is time for my son to become a man and make him go cold turkey by refusing to buy ketchup.
• I will find stock-piled ketchup packets under my son’s mattress.
• In June someone will pretend they stubbed their toe really hard and that they’re not actually crying about school being out.
• It will be another summer of Death by Recreation and they will love it damnit.
• Hubby will faint when he realizes the feminine products I had him buy at the grocery store are for his 11 year-old daughter.
• There will be a rare occurrence in fall where we wake up one morning without some sort of soccer related activity and will become paralyzed with the overwhelming possibilities of what to do with ourselves.
• I announce that I’m taking a solo trip to Bali and that everyone is on their own for Thanksgiving (oh wait, that’s not a prediction, that’s a fantasy).
  

  Wow, just looking at this picture makes me...

• I will sneak off to the movies to see a Zac Ephron movie comfortable with my obsession now that he’s of legal age.
• Come Christmas I will over-spend, over-decorate, over-schedule, and be overwhelmed, using the Lord’s name in vain as I yell at everyone not to forget the reason for the season.

Happy New Year. I hope it’s predictably, wonderfully, organized chaos – a place I personally inhabit well.

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It’s a well-known secret that it is not actually Santa who makes Christmas happen.

It’s Mom. No Mom working behind the scenes, Christmas just doesn’t come.

From the moment the turkey left-overs hit the refrigerator after Thanksgiving, Mom, whether she likes it or not, is commissioned into action in making the season bright.

Because we all know if it’s left up to Dad, everyone would be celebrating Christmas around the living room Ficus, lottery scratchers and cash left on the coffee table, with everyone later gathering around a bowl of Doritos and frozen pizza.

So it is Mom who sets her alarm and braves Black Friday in the name of the perfect discounted toy. It is Mom who pretends she is working at her desk on Cyber Monday to get the internet shopping done early so she doesn’t have to pay rush shipping charges later.

Without Mom you don’t have someone bugging Dad that tonight’s the night we’re going to get a Christmas tree, so put down the remote. Or nagging him to turn off “Storage Wars” to get the artificial tree out of the attic.

In the name of Christmas it is Mom who:

-       Makes sure her family looks perfect, even if only in theory, for that adorable Christmas card photo (with great priced clothes at Sam’s Club).

-       Gets the Christmas card made (at Sam’s photo center), addressed, and mailed so you don’t get blacklisted from friends and family Christmas card lists.

-       Decorates the house with festive and affordable decorations (such cute ones at Sam’s!), finishing without the kids’ help because they ran off to play when they lost interest.

-       Creates the gift list, remembering to shop for everyone so Hubby doesn’t show up empty handed having to re-gift his desk plant at the office Christmas party (awesome gift sets under $20 at Sam’s).

-       Saves Dad overtime hours by finding great bargains (like a 4-pack of $15 iTunes gift cards for less than $60)

-       Makes sure nobody runs out of tags, tape, wrapping paper or bows (fancy look without the fancy price at Sam’s)

-       (With help from Sam’s) finds fabulous party hostess gifts plus yummy and easy appetizers and desserts that look homemade with hours slaved over them.

-       Bakes all the holiday cookies after the kids have gotten bored frosting and decorating dozens of sugar cookies for friends, family and parties (15 dozen sugar cookie mix at Sam’s) to go play swords with empty wrapping paper tubes.

-       Makes sure Santa stops at Sam’s for bikes, electronics, phones and jewelry and that he knows about their Holiday Value of the Day.

-       Has gotten at Sam’s all the holiday feast foods from jelly rolls and bagels Christmas morning to affordable prime rib and pumpkin pie that feeds a dozen. Plus that five pound bag of assorted Hershery’s chocolates that she may or may not share.

-       Also has the Hefty garbage bags (picked up at Sam’s) for cleaning up the Christmas mess left behind.

That Mom, she thinks of everything. What would Santa do without her?

And what would she do without Sam’s Club? The first person to comment on this will win a $25 Sams Club gift card (and one day pass for non-members)!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

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I have a bit of a holiday decorating problem. Specifically, Christmas. And by “bit” I mean Hubby had to build an extra room the size of a mother-in-law quarters in his shed to house all my decorations.

(To get the true sense of where it all went out of control, click here and continue to page 40, to read ‘Tis the Season to Overdecorate, my monthly Momservations® column.)

I cannot resist a Christmas decoration. Especially if it’s cute. I used to think I was buying them for my kids’ delight, but at 10 and 12 they have ceased being delighted by anything less than an iPad, so it’s just become a weak excuse now.

Hubby has started to insist that for every new holiday decoration I buy, at least two older ones have to go. He refuses to have any of my junk touch his junk. At least in the shed, anyway.

Each of my decorations seems to have special meaning, significance, or an attachment I just can’t seem to relinquish though. Or I hate to admit I was wrong in wasting the money on it and can’t let it go until it’s been around an amount of time I feel is equal to its dollar value.

Except one.

This one:

This is not as cute as it looks

It is a light activated snowman that talks to you every time you open the refrigerator door.

I thought it would be hysterical.

It’s not.

In fact, you do not realize how much you open and close a refrigerator door until you have something this annoying in there yapping at you to hurry up and close the door.

There are only so many times you can open a refrigerator door and hear, “Is it cool in here or is it just me?” before you want to decapitate a snowman and remove its battery bowels.

Why did I buy it? Honestly? Because the inside of my refrigerator is about the only place inside or outside of the house left undecorated. I bought it two years ago. It lasted a week before everyone was begging me to put it and them out of their misery. It never made it out of the box marked KITCHEN DECORATIONS last year and no one missed its “Shut the Door” song to the tune of “Up on the Housetop.”

This year? I’m thinking wrapping it up as a White Elephant gift seems an excellent way to recoup the $24.95 I spent on it.

Now my Hoops and Yoyo Naughty or Nice button? Best $7.99 I ever spent. Cracks me and the kids up with every push of the button for the last three years…