Don't Swear in Front of My Kid!!

Okay, so.  Thanks to Hurricane Isaac, we don't have power so I'm sitting at TWH's office typing this.  Everyone is comparing stories of how bad their lives are at the moment.  (Let me digress for a minute by saying not only do we NOT have power, I haven't had coffee in over 24 hours. So now, not ONLY did I have to take a cold shower this morning, I've barely slept, I'm uncaffeinated, and it's SHARK WEEK for me. I win mofos!! I motherfucking WIN!!)

Anyways, I'm set up in an empty cubicle at TWH's office with TB on his laptop in the next cubicle.  From over the wall, I hear some guy telling his tale of woe and he says "Fucking".  For some reason, THIS makes me cringe.  I started to stand up and give him The Death Glare while pointing to TB and saying "My KID is in this cubicle!!"  Because I'm a big ol' hypocrite. Obviously.

I've said before that I write like I talk. EXACTLY like I talk.  I can be heard at my house swearing like a sailor simply because I can't get some schmutz off a dish. Or I dropped something. Or I tripped over one of the Dawgs. Or it's a day that ends with "Y". Whatever. My point is, for some reason, I've decided it's perfectly fine for me to swear in front of my kids but for someone else to do it??
Oh. HELL. NO!!  It drives me batshit crazy.  Don't talk like that in front of my kid!!  I'M the only one that can talk like that in front of my kid!!

Inconsiderate Asshole. Watch your damn language already!!

Stats

Okay, so. Every now and again, I take a look at all those statistics that come up when I pull up my Blogger homepage. Here are the keywords people used to find my blog.

prim & improper
down with opc
prim and improper
prim and improper pics
sarcasm regarding raising children (I'm guessing finding my blog was a HUGE disappointment here)
And last but not least:
STUPIDITY RAISING CHILDREN
There are so many ways I could go with this one I don't even know where to start.

Awards Day

Okay, so. Today was Awards Day at TB's school. He's in the 7th grade. His school is 6th 7th and 8th grade. Your basic Jr. High. (This is relevant later, I promise).  The ceremony is by invitation only. If your kid is getting something, you get an invitation. I guess this is because space is limited and having the parents of non-recipients attend isn't really feasible. That, and it'd be kinda mean.
The ceremony (ALL things really) is held in the cafeteria. The tables fold up to make a bench with a back. Now while this sounds pretty nifty, let me add that the tables fold up to make the most uncomfortable damn seat you will ever have the misfortune to sit your ass on for several hours at a clip. The bench that goes with the table is made for early teenager ass. Not 40 year old have had multiple kids so it's spread a little since I was 13 ass. Dear God, deliver me from this fucking bench!!
So we sit there growing increasingly MORE uncomfortable while the assistant principal calls names for everydamnthing. Sports, Art, Perfect Attendance.
Let me address Perfect Attendance for a moment. This/these kids(s) are the educational scourge we all dread. THIS is the kid that will show up with the lung they coughed up on the bus IN THEIR BACKPACK and a case of Tylenol so they don't break their 'record'. Their parents can kiss my ass. And start paying my insurance deductible. I have those little fuckers names now.  I'm calling Mommas.
This one kid got perfect attendance for the third year running. He's in the 7th grade. Remember the little factoid I threw out there at the beginning of this pointless babble?? Go back and re-read it. Yeah, you're laughing now. Poor lil' Bastid.
Anyways the Assistant Principal Lady FINALLY calls TB's name. TWH & I smile giant smiles. Smiles of pride (TB made the A-B Honor Roll) and relief (Our time of Abject Misery is coming to an end).  We make it to the end of the Ceremony, grab our kid, and get the hell outta dodge. My ass is now flatter and not the good "Have you lost weight" kind of way.
I have to repeat this torture next Tuesday when we attend TB's Spring Concert for Band. God help me.
Me AND my ass.

TB Is a Colossal Smartass

Okay, so. I may (or may not) have said before that my general approach to child rearing is "Raising My Kids With Love & Sarcasm".  My children, obviously, have learned their lessons well.
Take for example THIS conversation I had in the car earlier. Part of it was me on the phone with TWH. Part of it was TB, who was in the car with me.
*Phone rings*
Me: Hey Baby!!  Are you almost home??
(TWH has been away on business for a few days)
TWH: Leaving the airport now. What're you doing??
Me: Just dropped off the Dawgs at the groomers for the weekend. You're coming home to a Dawg-free house.
TB: So what?? You're leaving too??
Me: What the hell?? No. You. Didn't!! (To TWH on phone) Your son just called me a DOG!!
TB: No I didn't!! I... Uh... Just meant... I Love You?? (As he leans over to try to hug my arm)
Me: Get. Off. Me.
TWH: Let me let you go. You and TB obviously have some things to discuss.
Me: You just don't want to be a witness.
TWH: And THAT

Yeah. Remember a couple of weeks ago when I posted all gushy-like about my Little Boy growing up and becoming a Young Man??

Forget that.

He's a Cretin.

I Am a Bad Example

Okay, so. This weekend we went up to North Mississippi for Miss A's Sixteenth Birthday Party. Of course, there were BOYS there. Oh how I miss the days of Barbie birthday parties where all the little girls came in their little dresses. They were so much easier.
But I digress. Most of the boys there were part of a COUPLE. Fine, whatever. How bad can it be?? Right??
Stop snickering at my ignorance please.
Oh. Dear. Lawd!!  Who told these children it was okay to hang all over each other like a cheap sweater??  Every time we stood in line for something, they were pressed up against one another like they were STUCK THAT WAY!! Jebus. Something had to be done.
I finally go up to the group and announce "Alright. We're about to go all Old School Catholic Dance here. Leave Room for The Holy Ghost."  Of course, they listened and jumped a respectful distance apart....  NOT.
They did what teens do. They argued. Even TB who, as far as I know, doesn't even HAVE a girlfriend yet decided to join the fray.  I, of course, did what every good parent would do. I explained our stand on the issue.  "Look. Hanging all over each other is just TACKY. You look low class. You're together, great. You wanna hold hands, great. You wanna act like someone stuck your privates together with glue. Not. Great."  Then I decided to give them a visual. "How would it be if I ran over to Dad and was all (insert squinchy faced air grabby bump & grind here)". They were all mortified. Poor Miss A.  She looked at all her friends and said "Sooooo...  You met my Mom...."
It. Worked. Like. A. Charm.   For the rest of the night, whenever I saw two kids look like they were about to go all PDA I'd yell "Do you need to see exhibit A again??". They'd jump like someone poured cold water all over them.
This just goes to prove, you can listen to me the FIRST time, or I can go that ONE step further to make my point. I'm obviously willing to.

*Gasp* *Choke* *Sob*

Okay, so.  I just watched TB get on the bus. Nothing out of the ordinary there except he had to catch it on its second pass this morning because he missed it the first time. This allowed me the opportunity to crack open the blinds and watch him. These are becoming rare.
The Mommy sobbing comes into play BEFORE my peeking on him. I'm leaving today. For four days. I didn't get my typical "Bye Mom. I love you. I'll miss you". I got a cursory "Bye. See ya Sunday." and he was out the door.
This is my BABY. This is TWH's only child. This is the child that was not supposed to be according to my doctors, who kept telling me to expect a miscarriage any day for FOUR MONTHS because my hormone levels were half what they were supposed to be. This is the only child that lives under my roof for reasons I won't/can't go into right now.
But he's not my Baby anymore. He's 13. He's a young man now. He spends more time in his room than he used to. He can do his own laundry. Apparently, he also needs less reassurance about things than he used to.  He's growing up. He's growing away, like he's supposed to. Not in a negative way. Just in a maturity way.
I'm proud of the person he's becoming. He's sweet, loving, thoughtful, funny, smart, and insightful. TWH & I did that, I like to think. Some of it anyway.
Despite the Man he's becoming, he's still my Baby and when these moments hit me, that he's doing EXACTLY what kids are supposed to do, GROW UP, they hit me HARD.
I have to stop.
I have to take a breath.
I cry a few tears for the child that he no longer is.
I look forward to the man he is becoming.
And I smile.
Because he's going to be WONDERFUL.

I. Am. The. Worst. Mom. EVER. (Part Two)

Okay, so. In another epic parenting fail I forgot my son at school today. See, he's in the school band. He plays the Trombone for the Concert Band (7th grade). The school is participating in a Band Festival next week and his teacher has asked him to play the percussion for the Symphonic Band (8th grade). This means that his practices went from a couple of times a week to EVERY DAY.  Last night TWH & I were discussing who picked up TB when and we came to the conclusion that TWH was going to pick him up. Except we didn't, apparently.
I'm with a client today when my phone rings. I answer it to hear TB on the other end piteously asking me if anyone was picking him up today. Oh. My. God!!!  I HAVE FORGOTTEN MY CHILD AT SCHOOL!! More accurately, TWH forgot TB at school. I frantically phoned TWH asking him Where. In. The. Hell. He. Was.  TWH seemed to be under the impression that I was picking TB up from school.
Once I ascertained that TWH was, in fact, on his way to retrieve our child, I got back on the phone to reassure TB that a parental type person was on the way.  TB at that point wanted to know what HE was supposed to do in the interim, how long it was gonna take, and what would happen if his teacher had to leave.  Now he's just starting to milk it.  I tell him to see if his teacher could bring him home. TB turns away from the phone and I hear him ask, in the best "Oliver" impression in the last decade, if his teacher could PLEASE bring him home because his PARENTS forgot him.  At this point, his teacher gets on the phone and I have to explain that TWH & I are both big ol' dumbasses who can't remember when in the hell we're supposed to get our kid and could he PLEASE do us a solid and give our kid a ride home. He agreed (Thankfully) and TB made it home in one piece.
My only consolation in all of this is that we only forgot OUR child. Some days we give TB's bestie a ride home too. Thankfully, this was NOT one of those days.

TB Takes Control

Okay, so.  TB has always been a "Helper". Sometimes we ask. Sometimes we don't.  Tonight, when he took control of the remote, we didn't.  This was somewhat problematic for two reasons. 1: It's the end of the day so his ADHD meds are wearing/have worn off.  2: He was trying to access the On Demand channels. This is not something he's accustomed to doing & requires listening skills. If you're confused as to why this was problematic, see problem 1.

TB taking the control went something like this.

TB: What button do I press??

Me: On Demand.

TB: What channel am I looking for??

TWH: SyFy

TB: What show??

Me: Being Human.

TB begins pushing buttons.  Up. Down. Sideways.  My eye begins to twitch.

Me: No..  Go...  Back... Uh... Stop...   Just. Bring. Me. The. FlippingFlarkingFlooking REMOTE!!
(This was better than what was going through my mind at the time. THAT went something like "Will you just give me the motherfucking remote and let me do it!!"  You're admiring my restraint right now, aren't you??)

TB: I don't know WHY I can't do it.  I almost had it!!

Me: Because, you're not listening well & it's making me CRAZY. It's just easier & less painful for everyone if Dad or I do it.

My sweet boy. He tries. He doesn't always succeed, but he tries.

Raising Kids With Love & Sarcasm

Okay, so.  We're in the car discussing what we want for dinner.  I'm dying for a burger but I don't want a fast food burger. TWH says "If we don't want fast..." and trails off because he's thinking. TB picks up with "Then we want FURIOUS".  We ignore him. Mainly because we're trying to have a serious conversation.  After a few more minutes of discussion, I hear TB muttering under his breath "Seriously?". This is the conversation that followed:
Me: What son??
TB: No. Nothing...
Me: No, really. If you have an opinion on dinner, let us know.
TB: It's not that...
Me: Well then what is it??
TB: Did you even hear what I said??
Me: Yeah. We heard. Why??  Did you make a suggestion for dinner & we missed it??
TB: NO. The OTHER thing.
Me: Oh. The furious thing??
TB: Yeah. THAT
Me: So you expect me to respond to your Jackassery??
TB:...
Me: If you insist on a response to your Jackassery, I will happily respond with one of the following comments:
       1) Wil Wheaton says "Don't be a Dick!!"
       2) Don't be a Jackass
       3) You're being a Jerkface. Stop it.
       Do You find these responses agreeable son??
TB: .....   Uuuuuhhhhhh....  I guess.
Me: Then it's agreed. I'm glad we've come to an understanding.

I don't think TB really appreciates everything we do to accommodate him.  We're bending over backward here people. Bending. Over. Backward.

Lazy Parenting Fail

Okay, so.  THIS conversation is happening in my living room RIGHT NOW.

TB: Mom, why do we have to smell good??  (An obvious ploy to skip a shower)
Me: So girls will want to kiss on you.  (An obvious slackass parenting answer)
TB: No really. Why do we all have to smell good??  Why can't we all just smell bad??
ME: You mean why can't we all smell like ass??
TB: NO... Just... what if we all smelled bad?? Like, everybody. Then nobody would notice if you stunk.
ME: Because it would be nasty. And we would notice. There would be someone who smelled worse than everybody else. It would be asspocalypse. It would be cat-ass-trophic. It would be awful beyond imagining.
TWH: (Tiring of my slackass answers) It has almost NOTHING to do with whether or not you smell nice and EVERYTHING to do with health. If you're a disgusting, filthy, smelly pig and you get a cut, it will get INFECTED. You could DIE. THAT'S why we bathe. Now go finish folding your clothes & go get a shower.

TWH is always so damn reasonable.

The Pants Rule

Okay, so.  Last night I get TB's laundry from his room so he can clean school pants for today. I begin sorting his clothes when I notice that in addition to the school uniforms (3) he only has 2 shirts and 3 pairs of shorts in the laundry. I know for a FACT that he wore 2 of the shorts weekend before last and the other shorts last Wednesday when we tried to go to north Louisiana. He was home for a week people. SEVEN DAYS. This means he spent an entire week in his underpants. Clean underpants (we made him bathe) but underpants nonetheless. I'm considering instating a Pants Rule. If you're out of bed, you WILL be wearing pants. This way, maybe he'll at least take the dog out...  Little lazyass...

UPDATED:

The Pants Rule was hit or miss until a few weeks ago. I was fussing at TB AGAIN about not wearing pants.  He finally asked in exasperation "WHY are you so worried about whether or not I'm wearing PANTS?!?!"

So I told him.

"Because when you're wearing just your boxers and you sit a certain way, I can see your ball sac.  It looks kinda like that naked mole rat offa Kim Possible and quite honestly, it freaks me the hell out.  Does that answer your question??"

Both he AND TWH were just staring at me like I'd grown a second head.

TB wears pants ALL the time now though.

Win for me!!

I'm Amazed

Okay so. I don't brag about my kids on here much. I don't brag about my kids nearly enough. I don't want to be THAT MOM. Having said that, I'm amazed at their artistic talents.  Miss A is 15 and her talents fall into the visual arts. She can draw. She can work with colored paper & make pictures (I have no idea what that's called) and she can even make art with FOOD.  Here's a sample of my beautiful girl's work:



It's different colored tissue paper and maybe some construction paper. It went up immediately in my bedroom so I can see it every morning. I also have a massive collection of things drawn by Miss A in a box. There's just not enough wall space...

TB is 12 and has his own talents. He can draw a little but his gift lies in his words. He is a storyteller, and obviously, a poet. Here's something he did for a school assignment:

 The poem is entitled "I Am From"

I am from the cassette player with my hand inside of it
the soft fur of my stuffed monkey
and the slight feeling of claustrophobia in my pillow fort
From wiffle ball in the backyard
I am from my first bike, the unexpected meeting with the ground on my first turn
From scars made by my cousins steel toed boots
I am from crepe myrtle and the stab of stickers in my bare feet
and the sweet nectar of honeysuckle
I am from the occasional trip to Minden
to visit Grandma and Grandpa
I am from hot bacon and boudin
and the steaming taste of melted chocolate in waffles
I am from "No No" and "Catch"
I am from "T is for tookie and tookie is for me"
and "I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling kids"
I am from the little red locker on top of my dresser that holds all my trinkets
I am from the south, the Gulf, the Mississippi River, and the tallest state capitol
I am from home

I am so lucky to be the caretaker of these two Smart, Funny, Wise, Beautiful children.  I almost never feel worthy.  They love me anyway.

I. Am. Amazed.

My Son Is About To Be A Teenager. His Days Are Numbered

Okay, so. My son (TB) is about to be a teenager. I'm finding that the closer he gets to being a teenager, the less cute I find him. Don't get me wrong, I still adore him all day every day. He is my youngest child and the only one living with me. He's just getting to be a bigger pain in the ass than he was when he was three. Take personal hygiene for example. I stuck my head in his room to tell him he needed to get a shower. Here's about how that conversation went.
Me: Hey, when you get done making your bed, you need to get a shower
TB: What!?!?!  Why!?!?!  I barely did anything anything today!!
This, sadly, is true.  His Dad and I were outside working while he stayed in his room playing a video game he picked up yesterday. I'm not complaining. He typically does chores with the minimal whining, he's an Honor Roll student, and he busts his ass on the soccer field. He deserves a lazy day every now and again. The Shower Argument, however, is NIGHTLY. As in Every. Fucking. Night. It's not like this is a surprise. I expect him to get in the shower and wash his ass every night no matter WHAT he did all day. I'm funny that way. Go figure.  After I took a breath and closed my eyes, I responded with the only thing I KNEW would make him quit arguing.  My response is as follows:
Me: Son, YOU CAN SMELL LIKE ASS WHETHER YOU DID ANYTHING OR NOT!!  Yep, I told my kid he smelled like ass. What can I say??  I have no filter...

He Is SO My Son!!

Okay, so. I'm sitting at my laptop looking at photos of puppy dogs on a local shelter's website. Since I threatened TWH with a puppy if I didn't get my Giant Metal Chicken tomorrow, I thought a little research wouldn't hurt. I get to a photo of a puppy who falls into the "He's-so-ugly-he's-cute" category and show it to TB & TWH, who had just walked in from soccer practice. Here's how that conversation went.

TWH: What are you doing??
Me: Looking at pictures of puppy dogs on this website that need to be rescued.
TWH: WHY?? Why do you do that to yourself??
ME: Because!! They're sweet and The Crackhaid Dawg's soul mate might be in here somewhere. Here, I found this one. He could be our Edsel.
TB: (Looking over my shoulder) What's an Edsel??
Me: Another car. We have a theme here y'know.
TB: Are we getting another dog??
TWH: Your mom said if she doesn't get her Chicken, she's getting another dog
TB (To the Crackhaid Dawg): You hear that Bentley??  You're getting REPLACED!!
TWH: Bahahahahahaahaha!!  That's so YOUR son!!

Now, I just have to fix it so I get the Chicken AND #2 Dawg...

Demoralizing Ice Cream

Okay, so. Tonight after helping me clean the kitchen, TB decided to get himself some ice cream since he hadn't had dessert yet. He gets it out of the freezer and begins to scoop it into his bowl. After a few failed attempts, he turns to me and says "Can you help me get this out??  I'm having some trouble since the container's almost empty."  I go over and, being a little bit taller and having a better angle on the scooper & container, I have no trouble getting him a couple of good scoops.  TB makes a disgusted noise and says "Oh, of COURSE you have no trouble scooping the ice cream out. THAT'S not demoralizing or anything!! Now I have Sad Face." and he took his Demoralizing Ice Cream into the living room to eat it.  Maybe now it's Consolation Ice Cream.

No Son, You're not supposed to work AROUND this!!

Okay, so. Those of you who're FB friends (Pretty much ALL of you) have seen the pic I posted of the towels & Dawg blankets stacked on The Boy's bathroom counter.  This is currently a two week old experiment in will-power to see which one of us caves first.  Odds are on me and you guys are probably right.  This growing stack is putting my OCD into overdrive and before things get too much farther along, I will either mention to The Boy-through gritted teeth-that when I place items on his counter, I'm not doing it for decorative purposes but as a signal that I expect him to PUT IT AWAY.  I do not nag, beg, cajole, or yell.  I prefer instead to use life experiences as a teaching tool.  Much easier on my nerves and infinitely much more effective.  Case in point:  Early in our relationship, TWH was a Sock Leaver. He left his socks wherever he happened to be sitting when he took them off.  For DAYS, if I let him.  Not to say that I am without any faults. I am a Shoe Leaver. I leave shoes in a pile by my back door & all over my bedroom. I have at least confined my mess to two spots.  Anyways, I began by picking up the discarded socks and taking them to the hamper and asking TWH to "Please try to pick up your socks, Honey". I did this for YEARS.  One day, I came upon a pair of socks in the floor, AGAIN. I bent over to pick them up when I suddenly decided "Shit on this" and I took my "widdle foot" and KICKED THEM UNDER THE SOFA.  Yep, shoved them right on under there.  I kept doing this every time I found a pair. We had socks under the bed, under the sofa, hell, I think I even kicked a pair up under the China Cabinet once.  Eventually, (but before he really caught on) TWH began running low on socks.  "Baby, did you wash me some socks??" he would ask.  "I washed whatever was in the hamper" I would answer with absolute innocence.  One day, The Boy rolled a toy under our bed.  He crawled under to get it and yelled out "Why's there a bunch of socks under here??"  TWH got down to take a look and Lo and Behold....Sock-a-Palooza.  Then the penny dropped.  TWH came to me, several pairs of socks in hand, and asked "Why are all my SOCKS under the BED?"  I looked at him and said "Oh, they're not ALL under the bed. Some of them are under the sofa."  I explained to him that I was sick to death of finding his socks all over the house, that I had asked him NUMEROUS TIMES to pick the damned things up & since that wasn't working, I'd decided to try a new tactic.  He bitched & complained for awhile.  Mostly about having to find & retrieve all his socks. The lesson, however , was learned & now ALL socks go to the hamper.  Now, The Boy may be a tougher nut to crack, but crack him I will.  I think it may involve several tubes of cheap lipstick and a full-mirror note but he's gonna get the message... No Son, you're not supposed to work AROUND this!!

On a side note: my Shoe Leaving is addressed a couple of times a week when we pick up to run the Roomba. (Also known as the "You Mother Fucker" Roomba.)  Why it's called that is a story for another day.

I am Such a Secret Softie

While we were out running around today, we went into out local Petco to get some food & treats for the Crackhaid Dawg. They were having an adoption event for the local animal shelter. There was one female dog in there who looked at the families with such hope and longing it brought tears to my eyes. She looked like she'd once had a family and so desperately wanted to have one again. I actually cried the whole time we were in line.   As we were getting ready to leave, I spotted a donation bucket for the animal shelter.  "Wait!!" I said to TWH.  "There's a donation bucket.  I wanna donate!!"  TWH gives me the change in his pocket which earned him a slightly less than scathing look.  "WHAT??" TWH asked.  "We are NOT just giving them pocket change!!" I declared.  Now, it turns out he'd actually dumped about $7 in change outta his pocket into The Boy's cupped hands but it still didn't seem like enough.  TWH sighed, opened his wallet, and pulled out an amount that I deemed worthy, and handed it to me.  It wasn't nearly enough. It probably never is. I know these places operate on a shoestring budget. There's never enough of ANYTHING to go around.  TWH says I'm supporting Puppy & Kitty welfare.  I like to think I'm supporting Love & Hope.  So for all my Potty Mouthed Snarkiness, I am a Secret Softie.  Do what you can for the Greater Good.  You'll be glad you did.

I. Am. The. Worst. Mom. EVER.

Yep, you read it right. Worst Mom EV-ER.  I know every Mom has these thoughts but until you have almost knocked your child unconscious with your CAR, you don't even begin to qualify.  Here's the scene.  We pull into the driveway & It's POURING rain. I have a carload of stuff that needs to be unloaded so TWH comes out to help. We make a couple of frantic trips back & forth in the downpour. My son grabs the last load & is trying to close the back of my Jeep but isn't quite tall enough to get a decent grip on the hatch/lift gate. I tell him "I've got it" and grab hold and yank downward.  I hit my son in the head. I HIT my SON in the HEAD with part of my CAR!!  God, I'm almost crying typing this.  He stumbled, grabbed his head, and began screaming. TWH comes out, guides our screaming child inside as I follow behind screaming "Oh God!!  Oh God!!  I thought he was CLEAR!!" in that uber-helpful panicked Mom way. Thankfully, there was no blood which means no trip to the ER & the ridiculous amount of Guilt Gifts that would have followed. He's gonna have a pretty good-sized bump though.  He is currently in his room with an ice pack balanced on his head playing on his computer (which I take as a sign that he is not concussed) and using my guilt to have me fetch him things. All is right with the world...

Today I'm Feeling Kinda Stabby

Today I found out that school starts in just a little over a week. My son has NOTHING to wear yet.  My son is at camp. He won't be home until Sunday. He has to be at school on Monday IN HIS UNIFORM that he DOESN'T HAVE to pick up his schedule & get his picture taken for his ID. He needs a haircut before this happens. I'm trying NOT to freak out here. I swear I'm usually better at this shit. I usually have all the crap purchased and am happily putting my kid's name on everything with a sharpie whether I 'm supposed to or not. I'm sorry, but I am not sending my kid to school with the awesome school supplies so he can come home with the crappy school supplies. Yes, I'm THAT Mom. I won't apologize for it either. So, the current plan is to squeeze my darling child into last year's uniform, try to do something with his crazy hair so he doesn't look a step up from a homeless person, make him smile for his ID photo & get the hell out of the school so we can go to Office Depot & the Uniform store so I can elbow my way through the panicked crowd of moms & whiny kids who also waited until the last minute to take care of this shit. Then, when the horror show is over, The Boy and I are both almost in tears, and we've purchased all the crap on the list, we'll come home. The Boy to his x-box and me to my vodka & cranberry.  Until that happy time. I'm feeling kinda stabby...