I went to the gym today. I know. How clichéd – going to the gym on freaking January 2. There were like 17 billion people there, all of them looking super interested and impressed with themselves. I know I was.

Duh.

New Year’s Resolutions.

I also went to the grocery store, where there was an inordinate number of people in the vegetable aisle.

Coincidence?

I think not.

And I totally get it. I fall into the New Year’s Resolution trap. It feels all fresh and new and possible, you know, to start a new way of living, abandon old habits or take on new ones or get skinny or rich or married or whatever.

So as I mentioned yesterday, I’ve decided to jot down a few of my resolutions for 2012. Though I’ve called it Slacker Resolutions 2012, it could also be entitled “The Aim Low List”, or “I’m never going to do any of this shit anyway so let’s set low expectations to avoid excessive disappointment.”

To get my mind rolling, I Googled “most common New Year’s resolutions” and pulled the top 10. Then I modified them a bit, you know, to fit.

Resolution 1: Spend more time with family and friends.

Slacker modification: Stop telling my husband I want a divorce every time we fight.

Resolution 2: Eat healthier food.

Slacker modification: Stop eating chocolate in the middle of the night.

Resolution 3: Exercise.

Slacker modification: Park in the far-away spot immediately, as opposed to circling the lot 9 times hoping a closer one opens up.

Resolution 4: Enjoy life more/be less stressed

Slacker modification: Stop saying “fuck” so often in front of the children.

Resolution 5: Quit drinking.

Slacker modification: Buahahahahaha already did that one.

Resolution 6: Get out of debt.

Slacker modification:  Demand that my husband handle that whole debt situation immediately. If not sooner.

Resolution 7: Learn something new.

Slacker modification: Complete one craft.

Resolution 8: Travel to new places.

Slacker modification: Order something new at the taco truck.

Resolution 9: Help others/volunteer.

Slacker modification: Huh?

Resolution 10: Get organized.

Slacker modification: Stop basing laundry decisions on how many pairs of clean underwear are in my drawer.

I don’t know, but I think this is a pretty solid list.

Slightly unrealistic (particularly the not saying fuck one), but still, pretty solid.

And you? What are your slacker resolutions?

No really, do tell.

This could get good.

So…you know what’s worse than disagreeing with somebody’s opinion on the latest parenting controversy?

Realizing you don’t have an opinion on the issue because it never occurred to you to give a shit.

Um, yes.

That’s where I stand with the whole Santa controversy.

[And yes, there is a controversy, friends. And it’s a big one.]

Well, maybe not that big, you know, compared to like world hunger or something, but still. It’s pretty big. Big enough to warrant at least 9 thousand blog posts and Facebook discussions.

Some people, evidently, think he’s creepy. Like pedophile creepy. Something about old man, kids on laps, bribing, etc. Mmmmkay. I’m not going into this. Next topic.

Others “can’t stand lying to their kids that way.” Oh come the fuck on. You don’t lie to your kids? Whatever. YOU DO TOO. “Mommy, what were you and daddy doing last night after we went to bed and I heard those sounds coming from your room?” “Um, uh…we were…um…reading the Communist Manifesto. Loudly. In intervals.”

Shiiiiit.

Some people hate the materialistic part of it all. You know. Gifts and crap and whatnot and rewarding good behavior with stuff and bad behavior with, well, stuff. I suppose I can sort of get behind that one except that I can’t, because I like showering my kids in crap from Walmart and I often resort to bribing them. I mean I try not to, cause that’s some seriously shitty parenting (so they say), but when I’m in a bind, I’ll go there. I will.

And we’re all still breathing.

And then other people love the fantasy and play of Santa and think it’s all magical and shit.

But check this out. The only thing that crossed my mind as I read all these passionate diatribes for or against the fat gift-wielding man was “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…(blank space and stares)….oopsy! Forgot to think about that one!” And…Guess that’s one more parenting approach I haven’t considered at all and thanks A LOT for making me wonder if I have damaged my kids ONE MORE TIME in ONE NEW WAY because I didn’t make a conscious decision about Christmas traditions but pretty much just continued the traditions of my family with no forethought, insight or contemplation.

Yes, I admit it.

I have not deconstructed Santa.

I have not considered the implications, insinuations, assumptions or underlying messages contained in the gift-giving crap extravaganza that is our Christmas. I like it. It’s fun. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.

I did not consider the long-term effects of my lying about who deposits stuff under the tree. I pretty much just did it.

Oops.

My bad.

But I’m gonna level with ya. If my kids end up hating me for being a crap parent with poor ideals and pitiable execution, I can promise you it won’t be over the whole Santa thing. I have done so much worse than that.

My yelling alone pales the threat of any long-term Santa-induced trauma.

Easily 5 years of therapy material right there.

And then there’s my mouth and the incredibly poor decision-making surrounding it. For example, last summer I told my (then) 5-year-old son about bears and “friendly” ghosts (look, it’s a long story and it’s complicated.). But really. Who the hell does that? That was a baaaadddd choice.

I didn’t think about it beforehand. I MADE A MISTAKE.

So you can see why I’m just gonna let the whole Santa thing go.  Other people can worry about that sort of thing.

I have much bigger fucking fish to fry.

For example, figuring out how to not tell my kids stories that scare the crap out of them for a year.

Or really, thinking before I talk at all would be nice.

Now THAT would be a gift.

And I don’t care who fucking brings it. Incidentally, I don’t think my kids would either.

Maybe Santa will hook that up next year. He is real, isn’t he? He better be. My mama told me he was. And she never lies! She said he WAS REAL! HE MUST BE REAL! Why are you looking at me like that? Did she lie? Did the evil bitch LIE TO ME ALL THESE YEARS about Santa Claus? Oh agony! Oh pain! I CAN’T FACE MY LIFE NOW THAT I KNOW MY MOM TOLD ME A STORY ABOUT AN IMAGINARY MAN, CHIMNEYS AND GIFTS.

I shall not recover!

My inner child is weeping.

Okay that was fun.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.

So as you know, my daughter Ava recently went to a ten-year-old’s birthday party. They rented a limousine for this birthday party (um, yes they did) and piled eight 4^th-grade girls in it to drive around town and go to pizza. Needless to say, they were stoked.

And like any respectable limousine passenger, the girls rolled the windows down and squealed and waved at passers-by (so I’m told, I wasn’t there).

I guess at one point my daughter stuck her head out the window and waved to a woman and man walking on the sidewalk in a town near us, which I won’t mention directly, but I will tell you it starts with a D and ends with an S and has a V in it.

In response to her wave the woman in question flipped her off.

FLIPPED HER OFF.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl.

Flipped off a 10-year-old girl in front of seven other 10-year-old girls.

Flipped her off without a word.

Ava is still talking about it. How she was shocked and shrunk into her seat, humiliated. Understandably, having just been told “fuck you” in response to an act of friendliness.

And by an adult . A grown-up, a member of the group my daughter still trusts, innocently thinking adults are pretty solid and reliable (having never (thank god) learned otherwise).

But she’s starting to see. Because how am I to respond to that? When she told me about it, after the shock wore off, I just looked at her and said “Ava, some people are miserable, horrible creatures. Just mean. There’s no excuse for them. They are just assholes.”

Yes, I used that word. There is no other word that would have worked in that situation.

Now I’m not that sensitive.  (Okay I’m pretty sensitive. But I cover it up well, so I can say I’m not sensitive on my blog.) But really I don’t get worked up about too many things. Some people are frantic about protecting their kids from the reality of life and I am not that way. Shit. We take them to Further shows – there’s a lot of reality there, lemme tell ya.

But this one has got me disturbed.

Because seriously: WHO flips off a little girl? WHO?

What sort of closet was she locked in?

What sort of dog food did her parents feed her instead of breakfast?

How hot is the secretary her boyfriend is boning?

What the hell happened to that chick to turn her into such a hateful ball of rage that she would abuse a kid like that, slash her little heart in random and meaningless violence? Who would somebody return evil for the innocent antics of a small girl?

If I knew who she was I would kick her in the face.

No really, I would.

If I had been there I would have stopped the limo, gotten out, walked over to her and kicked her teeth in. Without a word.

Yeah. I get that hate matching hate doesn’t solve anything. Whatever.

But I’m not Ghandi and I’m not Martin Luther King, Jr. and I’m not Mother Theresa, and so, when some worthless scrap of humanity brutalizes my child I want to render them senseless with my bare fists.

DO.NOT.MESS.WITH.MY.BABIES.

That is all.

Ladies. Get my back. Wouldn’t you destroy this woman if she did that to your kid?

Where my girls at?

Sometimes I think I have a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Is that an oxymoron?

Maybe.

At any rate, I have a few “hang ups.” And sometimes, they concern me.

Like today. Today we had to leave one of those mall play area things because this kid had a ring pop.

Okay that sounded even weirder when I wrote it. Let me explain.

Today, for the first time in my life, I went to a mall on Black Friday. Mostly due to chance. Was driving by on the way home from Thanksgiving at my brother’s house, baby started crying, mall was on the left, we went in.

And I thought to myself “Huh. This is the first time I’m not avoiding a store on Black Friday.”

Then we entered the mall and I remembered why I avoid stores on Black Friday.

But I digress. As usual.

So we’re in this mall and I start walking 4 steps into stores then turning immediately around due to check-out line lengths, knowing that even if I saved fifty bucks on whatever, hell, even if they HANDED me fifty bucks, I wouldn’t stand in those monstrous lines with 25,000 neurotic deal-hungry humans.

But that’s not the OCD part. Despite appearances.

So we’re in this mall and since the actual shopping isn’t panning out, we buy some coffee and decide to let the baby and kids run around one of those enclosed play areas.

Seemed like a fine plan.

And it was.

Until I noticed this girl with a ring pop. She had this ring pop, blue to be exact, and it’s appropriately on her finger. She’s running around sucking on this thing and waving it around, going down the slide and whatever…and…crawling on the ground dragging her ring pop then picking the fuzz off it and licking it again.

I stare at her with my jaw agape. At least I think it was. It was in my head.

I swat Mac and show him. Appalled.

He says something along the lines of “Yeah, and we wonder why people in America aren’t going to college. I mean the ring pop problem alone…”

And I realize he’s going to be no help in this situation.

I yell for the kids and tell them to avoid the ring-pop girl at all costs.

They look at me like I’m fucking insane and go back to playing.

Next to her.

I’m cringing.

I’m imagining that blue sugary spit-covered mess touching my baby’s head.

I glare at her parents. Obviously.

I realize at this point I’m being a nutjob. But there’s no going back at this point. I’m totally hung up on this – staring and obsessing and contemplating the destruction of our society, one ring pop at a time.

I get up and grab the baby, put her on another structure.

Ring-pop girl follows. Sucks the candy then pulls a piece of hair from her mouth, which was, evidently, an unwelcome guest clinging to her delicious Red Dye Number “Cancer” treat.

I can’t take it. Decide we must leave. Right NOW.

And…we leave.

Okay so is that OCD? I mean in hindsight it really wasn’t THAT big of a deal, but something about it just disgusted me and I couldn’t stand watching her flail around with that thing in mid-air, just ready to bop one of my kids in the face so I then had to clean sugary mess off their mostly clean mugs.

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

And that, my friends, is just another one of the many reasons I am not a kindergarten teacher.

I hate ring pops.

Can we all just agree ring pops are a freaking bad idea?

So that last post I wrote about waking Georgia up for no reason made me think of the many things I now do that I NEVER would have done with my first kid.

It’s funny. Sometimes when people ask for my advice on something parenting related (okay admittedly this doesn’t happen very often), I feel like responding, “Sorry, you should have asked me when I only had one kid and knew everything.”

Don’t get me wrong. I was still confused. I’ve always been confused.

The difference is, I guess, that I used to think there were really right ways to parent and other ways were really WRONG no matter what. Now I realize it’s all basically one giant crap shoot and we do the best we can in the circumstances we’re facing and just as soon as you think you’ve got it figured out, you get your brilliant ideas handed to you on a silver platter, all chewed up and spit out and useless.

In other words, I’ve fucking relaxed my Captain Justice parenting approach. Out of necessity. Life made me do it.

Or maybe I’ve just lost my ethics.

Or gotten lazy.

I dunno.

You decide.

Anyway, here’s my list. Oh, 22-year-old self, if only you could see me now as I…

1. Feed her formula. Wah? Huh? No she DIDN’T. Yes, she did. Apparently, babies do not die from formula. And apparently, I can’t quite swing the fulltime breast-pumping extravaganza and YES I felt a little guilty about it and YES I am now over it. The baby still nurses AND she takes a bottle when I’m not around AND the sky has not come crashing down on my formula-feeding sinner head, thus far. As an added bonus, I do not yet see signs of brain damage or emotional distress. Obviously, there’s still time.
2. Let her cry in her crib for 5 minutes. I don’t do the cry-it-out thing. Nope no way. Not my deal. However, when the Georgia has been asleep for an hour or two or five and suddenly starts that irritated “wahhhhh-ahhhhhh” half-awake thing, or is just too tired to sleep (you know what I’m talking about…) I leave her for a few minutes, usually 5 or so. If she gets amped up, I go in there. But sometimes, I’ll be damned the kid goes to sleep. This never would have happened with my first, cause at the FIRST faint whimper I would have darted in and grabbed her up. Oh wait. That wouldn’t have happened because my first never left my bed until she was 2. Guess that’s another one for the list.
3. Let her eat sugar. Ava didn’t have any processed sugar until she was three. Rocket didn’t have any until two. Georgia had some on her first birthday and now eats it, well, sometimes. Not candy or juice or soda…but the occasional nibble of ice cream, cake or cookies? Yes. I admit it. It just makes her SO HAPPY – and you try keeping your two older kids from passing her bites when you’re not looking.
4. Let a nine-year-old watch her for 30 minutes. Oh come ON, I don’t leave the house – it’s only to catch a few extra ZZZZZs in the morning, when I’m particularly exhausted. Can that get me arrested? Let’s talk about something else.
5. Not bathe her every day. Or every two. Or week. No we do more than that. Every week at least. For sure. I think.
6. Feed her the same thing every day for a week because it’s the only thing she’ll eat and I’m too lazy to force feed or explore other items. Pretty self explanatory.
7. Stay home to let her get a long morning nap. With three kids, that nap is the most important event of the day. All cleaning happens during that nap. All chatty phone calls with friends. All carefree blog writing. All peace. All joy. All meaning. You think I’m exaggerating. But I’m not.
8. Put on lame shows from Netflix in the distant hope it will amuse her for 5 straight minutes so I can get something done. With my first kid, if somebody turned a television on IN THE SAME HOUSE MY BABY WAS IN, I’D LEAVE. Okay not that bad, but I was definitely what you’d call a no-television extremist. I thought T.V. exposure would like fry her brain cells on the spot. Like you could watch them sizzle right there in front of you – “boom!” – dumber, one cell at a time…now? I put on Sesame Street and dance around trying (in VAIN) to get Georgia to even glance at the damn T.V. Incidentally, she hates it.

What about you? What sort of sins do you commit that you’d SWORE you’d never do?

Come on. Hook it up. Make me feel better.