Underage Hoarders

One of my children is a hoarder. Pretty sure they mixed her up with another child at birth in the hospital nursery because there is no possible way this child could genetically come from me.

Anything that sits on my kitchen counter for more than 10 minutes is garbage. Seriously, I have thrown away money, cheques, tax and mortgage documents and home warranty papers.

They made my counter look all cluttery and shit.

Except she looks like my clone, so there goes the ‘switched at birth’ theory.

It must be the Stilwell genes. Thanks a lot Dylan. Leaving your socks on the stairs has now been genetically imprinted for future generations. Or it’s from my sister.

Everything is special to her. Every. Damn. Thing. Each surface, shelf, nook, cranny and corner in her room is filled with something ever so special.

My special cotton ball.

My special piece of ripped paper.

My special candy wrapper.

My special Band-Aid.

My special wad of chewed bubble gum.

My special purple button and black thread.

My special broken hair elastic.

My special 2004 wall calendar.

Precious stuffed animals by the thousands. Homemade cardboard cities from third grade. Broken crafts and random shoes. Stacks of paper with one scribble or stick man. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I can be sentimental, but unless your arts and crafts have your full name and date on them, spelled correctly...they are not worthy.

Not my fault you couldn’t print your name when you were two.

How many Build-a-Bear boxes and Happy Meal toys does one actually need to survive?? And what on earth is the point of Pokemon cards and homemade fortune tellers?

I have become like a Mexican drug lord, smuggling shitty crafts and broken crayons across the border of her room to the local dump. And she has become like a Canadian Customs Official. And Customs Officials are intimidating. They don’t even smile.

Once I made the mistake of placing my purged items in a garbage bin in the laundry room.

She saw it. Cue Armageddon. Needless to say the items were fished out and returned. I was defeated. It was a rookie mistake and this Jedi Knight needed a new strategy.

Now I use black industrial sized garbage bags and ONLY when she is out of the house. I take my lottery of swiped items directly to the trash outside and conceal the bag with coffee grinds. Sometimes I wear a disguise and pretend I have an invisibility cloak or super-sonic-speed power.

I am afraid she will walk through the door mid-mission.

The fault in this plan is that she has a WICKED memory.

“Umm, mom, what happened to my special Sponge Bob sticker that was on my side table two inches to the left of the broken marine blue crayon under my Owl magazine from 2009? You know the one; it’s the issue with the shark feature on page 47?

When I get busted, I panic and I do what any normal good mom would do.

I lie.

I tell her daddy probably moved it. Or she must have misplaced it. Or her sisters took it. Or the dog ate it. Or we can look for it later.

And then pray she doesn’t push the issue.

I have gone dumpster diving for green tissue paper and empty glitter glue bottles at 1:00 in the morning.

I’m not ashamed. Ok..I am a little.

We sat down one day in her room and worked together to make three piles.

1)Keep 2)Trash 3)Donate

The problem was our perceptions of what belonged in each pile didn’t quite correlate. Her ‘Keep’ pile was the only thing with anything in it. After a few hours of bartering like a tourist in a Mexican Flea Market, I realized the emotional trauma that ensued wasn’t good for either of us. I aborted the mission and questioned where I had screwed up in her child rearing and what attachment disorder I should diagnose her with.

The way I see it I have two options. I can continue to poach items out of her room in camouflage by moonlight.  Or I can leave it and continue to pray I will be able to find her each morning amidst the clutter.

Either way…I’m pretty sure her debut on ‘Underage Hoarders’ will be airing any day. I hope they blur out my face and disguise my voice. Like Darth Vader. I would totally sneak in a "Luke I am your father".

I’m glad she is deathly allergic to cats. I consider that a protective factor for her future.

Dangers of Open Minded Parents

What’s better than having a Friday off work?

Having Monday off as well.

What’s better than having a four day long weekend?

Having a guest blogger who is a ‘big deal’ for “I Get a Day Off From Writing and Feeling Pressure to be Funny and Get to Laugh at Your Stories and Share Some Blog Love Monday”.

Rohan Healy is the blogger behind ROHAN7THINGS. He is musician, songwriter, author, professional sound engineer and music producer. He throws in photography for kicks too. And I thought I was busy!!

Rohan was born in Australia but now lives in Dublin.  I wish you could hear the Aussie/Irish accent in my head as I type this.

Trust me…it is awesome mate.

Check out Rohan’s bio, blog, books and music. And enjoy his story below.

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I consider that I was lucky growing up, I had a great childhood with very open minded parents who always supported me. As a kid and in my teens they always got behind me whether it was with my acting, writing, music or martial arts.

But there are times when a parent should perhaps not be so quick to say yes to their child’s, seemingly harmless, wishes. When I was eight years old I had an extreme fascination with The Beatles. I had their complete singles collection as well as a number of albums and would sit there playing tape after tape all day for months. It wasn’t just the music I loved either. I had John Lennon sun glasses, began supporting Liverpool FC and yes, I wanted to grow my hair long. Ever encouraging, my dad happily stopped giving me my regular haircuts and for the next three years my hair grew to a considerable length, passing beyond my shoulders.

I was a cute kid, and quite effeminate, even now if I were to shave I could easily pass for a woman, and yes I know this from experience but that’s a whole other story. I was the cutest, most adorable little eleven year old girl you could imagine. Not only that by my name, Rohan, while usually a boy’s name is actually gender neutral and can be used as a girl's name as well. Of course I knew I was a boy, my family knew I was a boy and so did my old friends, but things got weird when I started attending an Aikido class in Sydney, Australia. I didn’t notice anything for the first few classes, and even after that I put it down to a slip of the tongue or mishearing on my part.

Then one day I and another young lad were asked to stand before the rest of the students and participate in a demonstration. Although I forget his real name, for the sake of this story we’ll call the other boy John.

“John, Rohan, can you come up here for a moment?” Asked the instructor, kneeling in his white Gi and blue Hakama. John and I obliged, standing and facing the rest of the class. 

And that’s when it happened.

“Now John,” the teacher continued “hold her wrist like this…” ‘her wrist? Who’s wrist? I don’t see any girls!’ John grabbed my wrist and my heart nearly stopped.

“Now place your other hand on her elbow…” John did as he was told grabbing my elbow with his free hand. ‘They think I’m a girl!!’

I blushed, but kept my cool, I played along. For now I was just some girl, embarrassing for me yes, but nowhere near as embarrassing as it would be if everyone suddenly found out that I’m actually a boy!

“That’s it, now flip her over your hip.” I was thrown through the air and landed on the mat with a thud. I laid there, flat on my back, contemplating the full ramifications of this bizarre turn of events. ‘Every time I walked through the door to Aikido for the past month I’ve become a girl for an hour in the eyes of everyone there! Parents, teacher, students!’

I got through the rest of the day as nonchalantly as I could manage, now fully aware that everyone I spoke to thought I was female. What a unique perspective! I didn’t notice that people treated me much differently, after all we were only kids, we hadn’t hit puberty and young children of both sexes are treated in a pretty similar fashion at that age. Thankfully the bathrooms there were private and unisex so there were no awkward toilet scenes! The saddest thing was that I thought I was making real progress with a little cutie called Sarah, sure we were only eleven but I was a hopeless romantic even back then. Turns out Sarah just thought she had a good girl buddy in me, and clearly didn’t share my feelings. I was giving the term friend zone a whole new meaning!

On the way home in the car I told my dad I wanted a haircut.

“Yeah, I dunno, I just feel like a change,” I was trying to play it cool, I didn’t want to let on the real reason behind my decision, I was embarrassed enough with just me knowing! During the week dad cut my hair, cropped it back and gave me a stylish cut which I really liked. Suddenly washing my hair was a whole lot easier and it felt great not having to push my lengthy auburn locks out of my eyes every two seconds.

The next lesson rolled around and I rocked up with my new do. I thought that once everyone saw my short hair they would realise I’m a guy, get a little bit embarrassed at thinking I was a girl and then move on, forget about the whole thing. Once again John and I were asked to demonstrate, what can I say, I was pretty good at getting flipped.

“Okay John, I want you to place your hand on Rohan's shoulder…” so far so good.

“And now plant your right foot behind her right leg…” No…effing...way! Of course when you get used to someone being a certain sex, a simple haircut is not enough to completely change your gender perception of them!

“And flip her over your hip.” Slam! Laying on my back again, still a girl, albeit with a new boyish, pixy look.

I was quiet on the way home in the car. I liked Aikido, I liked the instructor and my classmates, I didn’t know what to do. I had to choose between announcing in front of the class that I am in fact a boy, creating the most awkward scene in the history of the world, continue on as a girl and live in fear of being found out, or discontinue my participation in the classes.

After some deliberation I chose the latter option.

During the week I told my parents I was sick of Aikido and wanted a change. They understood and as usual they supported my choice. We paid each week so it wasn’t like it was a big deal. A few weeks later I was enrolled in the Australia Theatre for Young People where I studied drama for a year, as a boy.

“Rohan and Rhiannon please stand up and come here,” our drama teacher instructed.

“Now Rhiannon, this is a trust exercise, Rohan will fall backward and you must catch him…” success, and this time I didn’t land flat on my back, I was caught just in time.

My experience living as a girl was interesting, and in hindsight it was something rather unique that I know very few people would get to experience to such an extended degree. But parents, when your young boys get a Beatles or a Hanson fixation and want to grow their hair down to their butt, remember my story. I pass no judgment, the length of a kids hair should be up to him and his folks, not me. I just hope my story serves to give you a broader understanding of what you are getting into when you go long!

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Thank you Rohan…or should I say Rowena?

Xo J

Spring Picture Bullshit

I may bitch about my kids. A little here and there. Ok, a lot.  Zip it.

But I want to go on record saying they are the coolest little people I know. They may drive me crazy at times, but I am proud of them in so many ways and I love being their mom.

Teenagers get a bad rap. I will be honest with you that I was afraid for the dreaded age of 13. Everybody tells you how scary and awful it’s going to be. But I can look at you with a straight face and tell you that it’s not that bad and MUCH better than that weird tweeny stage.

Here’s why. At 13... I know what I am dealing with. Mood Swings and all. During the twilighty age of 10, 11 and 12, they flip between little kid to toddler to hormonal teen.

Seriously for all that is good and holy, just pick an age and go with it so I know what parenting hat to put on. Are you 3 or are you 16? It’s like dealing with a bi-polar schizophrenic…who forgot to take their meds.

The Trolls are pretty fantastic. I love spending time with them and if I had to pick someone to go to the mall with or have a girl’s lunch with, it would hands down be them.

They are funny!! They are witty. They make me laugh.

And they may be a wee bit like me and at times can be sarcastic assholes. 

I love it.

I have no idea where they learned it from. Probably Dylan. Way to go Jackass. Remember when I told you “more is caught than is taught”? Well, mark yourself down for a fail on that one.

Ok…maybe a little is from me. Like a 'sprinkle' of my influence.

Again, zip it.

Last year the girls all came home with ‘Spring School Pictures’

UMMM WTH????

I brushed hair, arranged clean matching clothes and paid for the tacky school picture packages back in September. Why on earth are they taking pictures AGAIN in March??

I went on a crazy rant about how it was yet another money grab from the school and photography company.

Pictures say a thousand words eh? Well if these pictures could talk they would say this: 

“Here…. look at all these shitty lovely pictures of your child we took without any warning or permission. Please buy them all for 1000 dollars. If you don’t…you are a shitty mom who doesn’t want memories of your children’s school years. That makes you an asshole. Way to go mom. Did you remember to add extra money to the therapy pot? No? Well then you may as well just go get another bottle of wine to wash away your mommy shame. FAIL. ”

Really? I’m not falling for your big corporation mommy guilt game. I bought the damn pictures in September that will NEVER hang on my wall and sent them to extended family like the good mother, daughter and wife I am suppose to be.

My rant was not quiet nor was it hidden from the girls. Pretty sure the entire neighborhood knew how I felt about the stupid Spring Pictures.

I may have done the Dylan arm flap. Shhhhhh.

So this year when they informed me it was Spring Picture time, I offered a dare instead of a rant.

I dared them to pick the CHEESIEST background.

I dared them to pick the TACKIEST pose.

And then I informed them there would be a prize for whoever could get away with the FUNNIEST face.

And be subtle enough to not get caught.

Olivia won.

And I have never been so proud.

Such a pretty meadow Olivia. Good choosing.

I am expecting a call from the school any day now. Pretty sure I will be given a detention slip for my shenanigans. Pffft…well worth it. I make a mean spitball.

Whatever…Olivia OWNED Spring Pictures! That's my girl.

Xo J

Normal pic. I know I am biased…but look at how pretty she is. Trust me..she is just as beautiful on the inside.