I’ll admit it: I’m a news junkie. I read the papers and watch C-SPAN late at night. (Nerd, you say? That’s Geek Chic, thank you very much!). But a while back I was watching a congressional debate, and at one point I became unusually transfixed:

The House had just had a vote, people were milling about, a few were shouting, and then the man at the head table picks up a gavel, bangs it, and shouts, “The House Will Come To Order!!” And they did.

At least for a moment.

That got me thinking. How *great* would it be to have a gavel that I could bang when things were getting out of control in my own home, and shout “THIS house will come to order!”

Now I’m not thinking Mary Poppins-esque style of toys magically putting themselves away and beds making themselves. I’m thinking more along the lines of instant recognition by the kids that they were out of line, without the raised voices and promises of no books after bed if they don’t start behaving.

Can you imagine how handy? Fighting in the backseat of the car? Bang goes the gavel. Arguing over the blocks in the basement? Pound it again! Coming out of their room for the 57th time to get a glass of water at night? Thump! All the kids scurry back to bed.

But then again, it would probably end up similar to how it works in the real House of Representatives. How might this go?

Me, banging gavel: “This house will come to order! I have asked you here to sit and eat your dinner without excessive running about, lolly-gagging or poking of your siblings.”

Emma raises her hand.

Me: “The speaker recognizes the young lady from the messy room upstairs.”

Emma: “I have a point of order, Madam Momma. I don’t believe we read aloud the menu for the evening prior to your preparation of it.”

Me: “The reading of the menu was waived this weekend, when I wrote out the menu on the board, and we took a verbal vote on it.”

Emma: “I call for a recorded vote on that menu. Who said yes to brussel sprouts? I want to hold those people accountable.”

Me: “You are out of order. The measure was voted on and passed. Onto next business…”

Ryan raises his hand.

Me: “The speaker recognizes that young man in the Spiderman costume. State your business.”

Ryan: “I wanna ask you a question.”

Me: “You have a question on the menu?”

Ryan: “No. I wanna tell you about Spiderman. And Star Wars. And Black Spidey. And…”

Emma interrupts: “Ryan, we know ALL ABOUT Spiderman, now… (begins poking at her brother).”

Me, pointing the gavel at Emma: “The boy representing the radio-active Spider bitten population has NOT yielded the floor. Please refrain from further comment until you have been recognized.”

Me, pointing to Ryan: “Have you finished your question?”

Ryan: “Yes. No. Yes.”

Me: “Okay.” Big sigh. “So the next issue is an amendment to the Bill, uh, I mean menu, to substitute Broccoli for brussel sprouts on the menu for this eve.”

Looking at both of them. “Would you like to vote on this?”

“Yes,” they nod.

Me: “Okay, all in favor of said substitution say “aye”. (AYE!) All opposed? (silence). Motion carries.” And the gavel bangs again.

And when the gavel bangs, it is the opposite of coming to order—it’s the sheer chaos and joy of having avoided the dreaded sprout. No amount of shouting “come to order!” is going to work.

But a mom can dream.

I just read an awesome article that basically says letting babies play by themselves is really good for them. That’s all I needed to hear. In my constant struggle for self-identity in this chaotic working mother world I live in, I’ve finally been given the permission I’ve been waiting for, permission to ignore my children when I get home from work! Hallelujah! Finally a way to infuse more time into my day. Now I can happily leave my two- and four-year-olds in a room, alone, together, to you know, be boys, beat the crap out of each other, grab toys from one another, cry, scream, fuss, and need things from me that they can’t get for themselves, like snacks and/or water. And while this “playing” is going on, I can do really important things like becoming cooler and more tech savvy by Twittering, Facebooking, text messaging, and um, microwaving their dinner.

I feel so liberated!

It’s no wonder I’ve been having such a hard time balancing all this. I thought that hanging out with my kids was part of the deal, sort of an unspoken understanding. I thought I’d be sent to Mommy Prison if someone caught me on the computer or the phone instead of building Lego towers. I thought that I’d get stoned if it somehow got out that occasionally, I like to close the bathroom door when I have to pee and I’m home alone with my kids. What dear God have I been subjecting myself to? How could I not have gotten the memo that ignoring our children will build an independent, self-directed future generation? I’m in support of that. I like independence and self-direction. I often wish I had more of it. Maybe this is my chance.

So, you are hearing it here first. I’m turning over a new leaf. When I get home from work this afternoon, after having picked up my little ones from daycare, I’m going to look them both in eye and say, “well, guys, I’m off to get a pedicure. I’ll catch you all on the flip side. Milk’s in the fridge. Goldfish crackers are in the pantry. Please don’t watch TV. Unless you get really bored. And if that happens, please don’t tell Daddy. He hates when you watch TV. Peace out! I mean, love you!”

For more from Kami, check out her blog at: www.workingmomfence.com or follow her on Twitter: @workingmomfence

Try to top that for sheer evil.

Say I’m trying to put a t-shirt on C but he’s determined to go topless. We wrangle. He rolls over and tries to crawl away. I grab him by the ankles and pull him towards me. He flips over and lands on his back. I blow a raspberry at him, and take advantage of his momentary distraction to get the shirt over his head. He flips and makes a run for it again, but even as he’s crawling I take first one hand and then the other and slip them through the sleeves. I then release him and wait.

When he is finally free, he crawls what he considers a safe distance before turning to me with a triumphant look on his face… until he realises he is actually wearing the damned thing. The confusion in his face is priceless.

But this, this is the really evil part:

At this point I usually point at him, say “Mama 1, Baby 0″ and do a fist pump.

(Let’s all pause for a moment to let that sink in.)

C will run away from home before he’s 3 years old, and it will all be my fault.

For more reasons I’m a bad Mom, visit my blog at: http://1000reasonsimabadmom.com/

Benjamin Franklin got a tremendous amount of mileage out of platitudes. We are still stitching in time, going to bed early and rising thus, and trying not to be fools easily parted with our funds. The truth in these old sayings is self evident. Or is it? Despite “Chicken Soup” books, there are many youngsters who don’t know how to actually apply the wisdom of the ages in their day to day lives. So I am here to help. I have chosen a very popular saying: “When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.” Let’s just look at the many ways this simple adage can be applied.

AT THE STORE: Did you forget your list? Company coming? Don’t fret. Instead of making that Chicken Marengo recipe that calls for all those ingredients you can’t remember, just buy a jar of some sort of cooking sauce and some rice. Those sauces were concocted by professional chefs. You can trust them. Chicken, delicious sauce, with some frozen peas and a nice Sarah Lee dessert, and you are golden! Lemonade.

IN THE FITTING ROOM: Oh, my gosh. Size 12 doesn’t really seem to be as roomy as it used to be? But you look great in the 14’s. And have you noticed that skinny women get TONS of wrinkles as they get older? Plump women NEVER look their age. Lemonade.

AT THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: This is a huge opportunity for growth and development. I think it is actually an underlying rule of the universe that the most popular and beautiful girls in high school invariably marry the wrong men. Those nerds they always made fun of are guys like Bill Gates. Lemonade.

AROUND THE BLOCK: The Joneses? Don’t even TRY to keep up. As I age, I have come to realize that the Joneses AREN’T EVEN PAYING ANY ATTENTION. They are too busy acquiring cars, houses, and boats that they can’t afford to even notice whether or not your watch is a Rolex. Get a good Timex, a car that runs well, stay at Motel 6, and enjoy life with your family. Lemonade.

IN THE GAME OF LIFE: We all get slammed. Some of us are visited by disease; some have divorce and other family problems. There are drugs, crimes and wars all over the world. Rain falls on everyone. At my advancing age, I have discovered that the horrors of my existence have led to new insights, new friends, new respect for life, and renewed dedication to happiness. Making lemonade in this scenario is the hardest of all. But with courage, optimism, and an openness to change, lemonade can still be made.

Life is a challenge. But lemonade awaits.

I love my kids. I say it a million times a day. Sometimes – when things are rough going in mommyland — it’s like a mantra: I love my kids; I love my kids; I love my kids.

I’m chanting right now.

I just found half a spit out marshmallow. In my living room. In the carpet.

I love my kids.

I know exactly who is to blame: Ryan, my 3 ½ year old. He loves marshmallows – any food frankly. He has an insatiable appetite, and an overwhelming desire to completely control when, where and what he eats. He gets into the pantry at all hours, and scavenges all *kinds* of foods: pretzels, peanuts, raisins, the aforementioned marshmallow — you name it.

Don’t get me wrong, I feed him. All the time, so that’s not the issue. But I need to know when he gets something to eat, because he has a tendency to wander about with it, and then leave the remainder in the oddest places. Which, as you can see, has an astronomical gross-out factor.

I’ve tried all kinds of solutions to keep him from grazing and wandering. I’ve implemented systems – and enforced them all consistently — to no avail. I’ve told him – time and time again – that all he needs to do is ASK, and he can have food. Then at least I know he has something, what it is and where he went with it.

But this marshmallow is the last straw. It’s time for some serious motivation to behave; some consequences with teeth. Pumpkin teeth, specifically.

Last Halloween we got a battery-operated light-up ceramic pumpkin from a relative. It’s cute—ceramic with tinfoily orange covering and a goofy, gap-toothed grin. Ryan took an immediate dislike to it. Called it “The Scary Pumpkin” and ran in the opposite direction whenever he saw it.

The Scary Pumpkin is going in the pantry. I’ve tried to be nice about it, but it’s time for the big guns. I’m pretty sure I’m in for some tears when he sees it the next time he opens the pantry when he’s trying to sneak in.

But I’m also pretty sure I won’t see any half eaten marshmallows on the carpet anymore, either.

—————–
Post Script: Curses! Foiled Again!

So it’s been two days since I initially wrote about the scary pumpkin. Things were going swimmingly. Ryan was asking me every time he wanted food, and I was able to keep some semblance of order of where and what he was eating. Then I went to the basement to say hello to the treadmill while the kids were playing upstairs. Emma came down, proud as can be.

“Momma!” she said, “You’re going to be so happy. I helped my brother!”

“That’s great, sweetheart! What did you do?”

“I just taught Ryan that the Scary Pumpkin isn’t scary! He’s not scared of it anymore! Isn’t that great??”

Ryan wandered in, cradling the pumpkin like it was a stuffed animal, calling it “Silly Pumpkin,” just as Emma taught him.

Love that girl. Heart as big as Texas. But really?!?!?

“Yes,” I sighed. “That’s great.”

I’m not a big shopper. I only like very particular shopping experiences. Namely those found at drugstores. And Target. And places like Loehman’s and Filene’s Basement. And Marshalls. And DSW. Oh, and BJs. You know, places where you can get a deal on stuff you don’t need. Or stuff you need alot of. Or stuff that you give as presents. Or on stupid stuff that you never have enough of, like wrapping paper or writing utensils other than that one burnt sienna crayon in my kitchen junk drawer.

Lately though, I’ve revisited this habit – it’s almost compulsive, come to think of it – where, when I have some spare time by myself, and don’t have any absolutely necessary oh-my-God-the-world-will-come-to-a-end-if-I-don’t-pick-up-X errands to run, I’ll miraculously find myself at a store, such as one of those mentioned above, and shop. For this or that. Cool t’s for my boys, jeans for my husband, colorful spatulas, what have you. I’ll go in, grab a cart, and dive in. Whole-heartedly. And without much thought to cost.

Man, I uncover treasures.

Back when I was pregnant with kid 2, I did this more frequently. Once a week, kid 1 had a later daycare pick-up time, so between working and mommimg, I’d slip in some shopping time. Because sometimes I like the feeling of spending money on stuff. Okay. You got me. I am a consumer culture capitalist. Market it to me, people.

But, the bizarre twist on this whole thing is that, after my cart is full and my treasures are many, I’ll get to the check out line, dump the loot, and head back to my car empty-handed. Yup. I’m the woman who creates more work for the store employees. I’m the woman who deliberates and deliberates forever over which thing to get in which size and then ultimately gets nothing. I’m the woman who fosters a false sense of security in the stuff industry. I shop up and than I ship out. With no more than I sauntered in with. It’s a most incongruous habit for a person who is crazy about being as time efficient as possible.

It’s really sick.

So, here it is. Recently, I hit my rock bottom. In the middle of my workday, driving across town from one meeting to another, I saw something. A Dollar Store. Don’t judge me! I pulled over and parked at a meter. I told myself I was just gonna run in for a second. I grabbed a basket. I filled it with gift wrap, bouncy balls, Halloween candy, razors, and crackers. I browsed quickly, and with great focus, making my way through all the aisles like I was Speed Racer. Then I suddenly found myself at the register. No one was there to scan my crap. I looked around the store. I looked at my basket of crap. I gingerly placed it on the floor and took off.

It was the middle of my workday. I’d wasted 15 minutes shopping for nothing in the stupid Dollar Store.

And I was greeted by an angry, red $25 parking ticket on my windshield. ‘Cause in all the excitement, I’d forgotten to feed the meter. Please don’t tell my husband. Or my boss. And remind me that shoving the parking ticket into my purse won’t make it go away. You’d think in front of The Dollar Store parking tickets would be discounted.

Wouldn’t you?