Appliance Shopping from Hell

Just for the record: I hate shopping for big-ticket items.

Hate it with the passion of, as the saying goes, a thousand suns.

The Spouse and I recently walked into a store to look for stackable washer/dryer units (because our not-even-6-year-old, stacked, all-in-one unit is ALREADY kaput) as well as a new fridge (ours is 12 years old and dying, leaking water all on the floor, not cooling uniformly) and all the different features on all the appliances make it insanely difficult to compare costs.

Plus there’s this whole, “This’ll only last you maybe 10 years” business, but, The Spouse and I were told, the number of years something like a washer or a dryer will last depends on how much washing we do (three kids, all in sports) which makes any wild guesstimate as to how long an appliance will last pretty much a stab in the dark.

When it came to looking at refrigerators, The Youngest Boy, whom we took along shopping with us, only wanted to know if the surface would still be able to hold magnets (and therefore his pictures), his biggest concern, and if there’s a cool ice maker.

We wound up leaving the store after a very kind salesperson dumped all this information on us which made us feel all the more confused than before we walked in there. Samsung is now making washers and dryers, when did that happen? There are these “steam” options for dryers, fans that circulate air in the washers, anti-microbial features, vibration controls, eco-settings . . . which only got me wondering how environmental these units can really be if we’re just going to have to replace them in less than 10 years because the companies which produce these units make it cost-ineffective to have them repaired.

Did I mention that I hate shopping for appliances?

The Peaches & the Puking Puppy

Over the past few days, Max, our one-year-old Mini-Wheat, has been puking. (He’s got a few favorite spots in the house in which to do this, I'm learning.)

He's not doing it constantly and they don't involve full-body heaves or anything. It's been happening sporadically, so sporadically that I can’t seem to figure out if it’s his food that’s making him ill (we started giving him new food two+ weeks ago, but the getting sick part has only been happening in the past few days) or perhaps he’s gotten into something else, but then again when DOESN’T he do that?

My working theory is that it’s the peaches.

We’ve been living in our house for nearly six years and it was only last year -- when we'd only allow him out in the yard while leashed -- when a small tree our back yard started sprouting peaches. (Up until then, we had no idea it was a fruit-bearing tree. Last summer, we noticed that its limbs were starting to bend over, heavy with fruit, when it finally dawned on us that those were peaches. No green thumbs in our house. Nor rocket scientists, apparently.)

Peaches have now started falling from the tree and onto the grass. We’ve been finding pits in the yard. We suspect Max has been eating them. The pup has tried to smuggle some smaller pieces of fruit into the house without us noticing by putting his head down, so we can't see the peach in his mouth, hoping we won’t notice. (It’s worked a couple of times.)

Hopefully, this is just attributable to the peaches, however, more detective work will be required.

Sometimes We All Need an Escape Chute

When I opened up my Facebook account yesterday, I saw a post from a friend of mine who is obviously a kindred spirit when it comes to this whole parenting thing.

She wrote: “I am seriously getting depressed. If I see one more post about what a perfect family day someone had I am going to scream. My kids are driving me crazy and they are driving each other crazy. Nothing is perfect or idyllic here more like a slow boil with the chance to bubble over at any second.”

Her post seemed to have opened up a spigot of frustration as a chorus of similar parental sentiments followed in the comments section. Moms and dads chimed in with their not-so-nice feelings about the oftentimes aggravating, overheated days of summer. One person said that her kids constantly shouting “Mom!” were starting to make her feel like a “homicidal maniac.” Another joked that she’s only going to respond to her children calling for her when they refer to her as “Your Majesty." (Not a bad idea.)

I tossed my less-than-ideal summer observations into the mix, admitting that this week I’ve hidden from the Picket Fence Post kids in the garage so I could carry on an uninterrupted telephone conversation. (I could hear them looking for me but I said nothing as I sat there in the dark. No, I'm not proud.) Yesterday, I intentionally let them rug rats waste away the morning hours in front of the TV because they were driving me nuts and I needed the time to finish some work without being harassed.

There must be something in the air, because this morning I read a page one story in the New York Times about a flight attendant who, like some of these parents, has had enough. When a passenger on a New York-bound flight left his seat to get the belongings he'd stowed in the overhead compartment after the plane had touched down but it was not yet safe for passengers to leave their seats, a longtime airline attendant, Steven Slater, told the passenger he had to sit down. Here’s how the rest of this weirdly inspiring story played out, according to the Times:

“The passenger defied [the flight attendant]. Mr. Slater reached the passenger just as he pulled down his luggage [from the overhead compartment], which hit Mr. Slater in the head.

Mr. Slater asked for an apology. The passenger instead cursed at him. Mr. Slater got on the plane’s public address system and cursed out the passenger for all to hear. After citing his 20 years in the airline industry, he blurted out, ‘That’s enough.’ He then activated the inflatable evacuation slide at a service exit and left the world of flight attending behind.”

He paused, however, to grab two beers from the service cart before jumping down the slide and running across the tarmac to the employee parking lot, the paper reported. (Unfortunately, Slater was arrested and charged with criminal mischief and reckless endangerment.)



The comments on the Times web site about this story cracked me up. “I am having one of these [evacuation chutes] installed in every meeting room,” one person said, adding, “Haven’t we all wanted to hit the ‘escape button?”

Another said, “I wish my office had an evacuation slide.”

And for parents with young kids who spend summer days behaving like kids – meaning tormenting their siblings, challenging/harassing their parents and acting like the immature little creatures they are – don’t we all sometimes need an escape chute, an evacuation slide? Or at least a darkened garage to slip off to when Mommy needs a time out?

UPDATE: Apparently Steven Slater has already been christened a "folk hero," according to New York Magazine. There are Free Steven Slater T-shirts, a Steven Slater Legal Defense Fund and even a move to try to get folks to contact JetBlue on his behalf.

Lobbying to Stay Home Alone by Reenacting Scenes from a Sitcom and Making Me a Sandwich

I was going to make them accompany me.

All three of them.

To a business meeting.

I had a meeting scheduled in the next town over in the middle of the day. Our babysitter was unavailable and The Spouse couldn’t work from home, so I told the Picket Fence Post kids (ages 9, almost 12 and almost 12), “Sorry guys, but you’re going to have to come with me.”

Cue the whining, followed quickly by the enthusiastic pleading from the older two, “Why of course our dear mother, we can be trusted to be left home alone, and besides, you yourself have said we older children could soon babysit.”

I’ve frequently left the kids alone for short periods of time, but I try not to saddle the elder two with their younger brother who can be a handful (who isn’t at age 9?) too often. It just causes friction when they tell him what to do and he resents it.

However they didn’t exactly help their case on this particular occasion when the two boys started fighting over whether someone “took” something from the other’s room and the alleged thief ran and hid in his bedroom with the purloined object.

I heard them arguing and fighting while I was trying to take a shower and get ready. While still in a towel, hair dripping wet, I stormed over to the door to the hallway and shouted, “That’s it! EVERYONE’S coming with me. You people can’t handle it!” Then I slammed the door shut.

Minutes later, the three of them – with whom I’ve recently been watching season one episodes of Malcolm in the Middle -- started reenacting scenes from the second episode, “Red Dress” where, as a response to their mother’s punishments, the TV sitcom kids wanted to show how gleeful and cooperative they were and joined hands, danced in a circle while singing, pretending like they were all one lovey-dovey bunch of siblings.

But my kids took things further. Once I made my way to the kitchen, I discovered that my trio had made me a turkey sandwich, fetched me a glass of ice water, unilaterally offered to rub my shoulders as I ate and even presented me with the sandals I was going to wear – no lie – on a pillow.

“Fine,” I said, relenting to their charming though utterly transparent, ham-handed lobbying campaign, “but this is a test. If you three cannot get along, if you fight and things don’t work well, you’re not going to be left alone any time soon and will have to come with me to meetings.”

If there were any problems, I never heard about them. They wisely kept their traps shut. Nor did I find find evidence of any scuffles shoved into corners or stuffed down into bottom of the trashcan.

Yet.

Image credit: Fox via Fancast.

I Don't Care What Supermodels Have to Say About Parenting

Dear Supermodel with One Child Who Likes to Tell Other Mothers How to Parent,

I do not care what you think I should do while I raise my kids.

Seriously.

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t want to be faced – in every media outlet – with your holier-than-thou declarations that you know better than I do what’s best for my three kids . . . particularly when you don’t even follow your own decree because, well, you know, you’re so much better than the rest of us peasants, so much more important.

Here's my unsolicited advice for you: Better not to raise the ire of mothers across the globe with your pronouncements that there should be a worldwide law forcing all women to breastfeed their babies for six months (when you breastfed your own kid for three weeks). Instead, keep your pampered, sanctimommy views to yourself. It’d tick off far fewer people if you just tell interviewers that you’re lucky, you know you’re lucky and leave it at that.

Sincerely,

Meredith

'Army Wives' Takes on Single Parenting When Mommy's Deployed Overseas

While researching my latest column about a recent ripped-from-the-headlines story on Army Wives about the legal troubles facing a single mom who was threatened with court martial for failing to deploy when  childcare for her baby fell through, I happened upon a few stunning statistics about parenting and the military:

-- There are more than 70,500 single parents on the active duty in the U.S. military, which makes up about five percent of the U.S. military, reported the Associated Press.

-- More than 100,000 female soldiers who have served and/or are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan are mothers, the New York Times reported, adding, “The vast majority are primary caregivers, and a third are single mothers.”

-- A U.S. major general overseeing operations in Northern Iraq was pressured into backing off of a controversial directive he'd given last year threatening a soldier who “becomes pregnant or impregnates another service member, including married couples assigned to the same unit” with a possible court martial or disciplinary action.” The policy was vigorously assailed by many folks including four female U.S. Senators.

In the wake of the recent Army Wives episode, I looked at how a single mom who was slated to deploy but didn't when her childcare plans were kaflooey played out in real life earlier this year, as well as on the fictional realm of Army Wives, in my weekly Mommy Tracked pop culture and politics column.

Summer Shorts: Patriots' Training Camp, Badminton Tourney Gets Competitive & Youthful Protesters

After a neighbor of ours raved about going to the New England Patriots’ training camp -- on a field next to Gillette Stadium in Foxborough -- The Spouse and I roused our kids early on Saturday morning, slathered everyone with sunscreen, threw some food at ‘em and dragged the lot of ‘em to a hilly spot of grass overlooking the playing field.

And sat there.

And sat there.

In the blazing sun.

Until the players came onto the field. Many were wearing gray T-shirts and shorts, none with names or numbers on the back. There was virtually no contact (they weren't wearing pads) and it looked like they were casually walking through of plays for a while as the coaches held playbooks aloft for the players to see. C-SPAN is more riveting.

The fans sitting around us were busy trying to figure out who was who. “Is THAT Tom Brady? Is Randy Moss over there? I can’t tell. Where’s Belichick?”

And there was whining. Lots of it. From my kids and from the grown-ups. I was ready to pack it in as I too was bored, was getting fried in the sun and was tired of telling the kids that I wasn’t going to spend $47 on a bottle of water or a freeze pop or whatever else the vendors were selling as they gingerly stepped around the Patriots fans sitting there on the grass or sitting in the bleachers around the field.

However . . . the mood changed like a fast-moving late afternoon summer storm when a handful of players decided to walk over to the edges of the field – behind the ropes that keep them separated from the riffraff that is the fans – and sign autographs. That’s when the three Picket Fence Post kids perked up considerably, seeing as though there were standing right in front. Despite the efforts of aggressive fans and rude teenagers who shoved my children and pushed my kids’ hands out of the way by harshly lowering their arms on top of my kids’ arms, the children were able to snare some autographs from Patriots players and stand within arms length of some of their favorites.

Yes, one even got a "signature" from Tom Brady, doing his best Justin Bieber impersonation with that ridiculous mop of hair, though it was covered by a cap on this particular morning. As he walked along the edge of the playing field along the rope line, he grabbed The Youngest Boy’s football from his hands and signed it with my son’s Sharpie. This is what it looks like:

Yes, we’re all underwhelmed. Plus no one will believe that that's Brady's so-called "signature."

However the kids got enough signatures from players (Stephen Gostkowski, Zoltan Mesko and Brandon McGowan) that The Eldest Boy clamored to return to see the training camp on Sunday morning with The Spouse, which he did and came back smiling as one kind player, Cornerback Darius Butler, signed my son’s football card.

Badminton Tourney Gets Competitive

A few weeks ago, The Spouse put up a giant volleyball/badminton net in the backyard with the idea that the kids would have a ready-made activity to do when we said, “Go outside and play.” It’s worked out somewhat well, as they have played together, though my refereeing skills have been requested more frequently than I’d like.

But I personally hadn’t set foot on that spot of lawn in order to play badminton until this weekend, after the kids said they didn’t think I could play. (Doing yoga doesn’t exactly cut it in their eyes as a physical activity.) Yes, proving to the children that I can be athletic – my pride was hurt by the implications of their assertions – drove me to participate in a family badminton tournament and, once I shook off the rust, I wasn’t half bad. The following day we played a second tournament. The only downside to all this badminton: Getting into an argument with The Spouse when his trash talking and bellyaching about whether the birdie was out or in went too far.

Youthful Protesters

I recently took The Girl to see Eclipse – as I promised her I would when she saw the trailers a few months ago (though I think we’re going to hold off on seeing Breaking Dawn together when it comes to theaters) – and the two boys who were left behind with The Spouse were ticked. That’s putting it mildly.

The Spouse was in his office doing some work when the boys decided to treat him like he was a one-man G-8 summit and they were radical environmental protesters. For example, they made signs, which they toted into The Spouse’s office until he kicked them out, complaining of their treatment. (See above.)

Then they attempted armed resistance -- we are in Minuteman territory, after all -- toting Nerf guns into The Spouse's office while The Eldest Boy slid a tape recorder into the room with his hummed version of the Jaws theme playing (No, I don't get it either.) and demanded to be taken to a local laser tag establishment.

Unfortunately for them, The Spouse does not negotiate with pint-sized terrorists.