Answer: I’m a Mother

Posted in It's My Blog and I'll Rant if I Want To, On Motherhood by

Why do mothers of all kinds, stay at home, work from home, work outside the home,  forget to realize that being a mother is a very real and legit job? In the back of my brain, behind all the cobwebs, I’m well aware of the truth. I know how important my work is.  But I have noticed that sometimes, I find myself feeling like I need to justify “what I do all day.” To be fair, no one has ever asked me this question. If they had, I would be writing this from prison. Even a simple inquiry such as, “Yesterday was so beautiful! How do you and E end up enjoying the day?” will make me cringe if I can’t come up with a fascinating Stepford mommy answer lickety-split. “Well first, we went outside, and while E was telling me the difference between a deciduous tree and a coniferous tree using Latin terms, we spotted a caterpillar! This led to an excellent teachable moment where I planned to explain to him how the caterpillar develops into a butterfly. I had barely began when he interrupted me to finish explaining the life cycle of a caterpillar! I was so proud, and I completely forgot that I had already taught him all about it during our regular nature walks last spring. Then we decided to have a picnic lunch, so we went inside and made sandwiches from homemade gluten-free bread. Wait until I tell you about our afternoon!”

That would impress the socks off you, right? There’s a mom who’s doing her job like a boss! Now, what would you think if I answered your question honestly? “Um, let’s see. Our day didn’t really start until 11 AM because I was up with E holding warm compresses on his ear every couple hours. After lunch, E seemed to feel well enough to go outside to play, so we headed out to the yard to throw a ball around. We had been outside for five seconds, possibly ten, when E heard a bee. He didn’t see the bee, but he heard the bee, and he was pretty sure the buzzing was getting louder because the bee was getting closer and it was hell bent on stinging him. I did see the bee, a giant bumble that was pollinating my flowers, so I tried to explain to E that most bees are very helpful and have no interest in stinging. I had gotten three words out when he turned and raced at top speed back to the house and began pounding on the patio door to get inside, sobbing for me to hurry lest the bee attack and sting me, too. When he calmed down, I made him his lunch of macaroni and cheese from a box and some green beans that were probably the GMO kind. I dunno, I got them on sale. Wait until I tell you about our afternoon!”

No mother that I know likes to be asked how she spends her time on the job. There aren’t any tests or systems of measurement that tell you how good you are doing and therefore you are left to your own imagination. You can’t enter your activities into an app each night and ask it to calculate your level of productivity for that day. No supervisor* shows up at your residence periodically to “observe” you in action and evaluate your efficacy, leaving you with some strategic suggestions for areas that need improvement.

Perhaps the key lies in redefining what a “job” actually is. Is it about money? If you have a real job, is it a requirement you receive a real paycheck? What about people who receive money but have no job, like Paris Hilton or pick-a-Kardashian?

When I was a teacher, I didn’t justify nothin’ to no one. One answer to all questions: I’m a teacher. Mic drop.

It is high time to stop letting me manipulate…..me. I don’t owe the world a big fat explanation about what I do all day. I’m a mother, and that should tell you all you need to know, Joe.

*Under no circumstances should your spouse attempt to fulfill your desperate need for evaluation. Just, no.

Yeah, I Lost My Password. That Happened.

Posted in Random Weirdness by

I’m B-A-C-K!
I should make up something much cooler than why I haven’t been on here for a couple weeks, but the honest to goodness truth is I locked myself out. That is decidedly unglamorous and frankly, a little embarrassing, but it’s all part of being me. My trusty old cell phone up and died, and when it did, it took my passwords with it. Yes, I had the majority of my vital passwords stored on my phone, a falliable piece of technology at best. Consequently, I went and locked myself out of such applications as WordPress, Facebook, Amazon, and so on.  Take note: If you ever find yourself in this situation, simply hit the “forgot password” button and take it from there.  Do not guess three times at what you think your password might be, because that leads to the application thinking you are an imposter and it will immediately and callously punt you right off your own site and not think twice about it.  The process to get back in after that is much more difficult than if I had simply admitted to myself in the beginning that I had jack idea of what these passwords were, and reached out for help via the inviting button that reads “forgot password.” 

As I was helplessly logged out of my blog, I continued to write and store my thoughts in MS Word, so I actually have a number of posts to enter. I have some fun news, some hopeful news, and some awesome revelations that have made my path brighter.  I have a little “I am woman, hear me roar” thing going on right now, so prepare yourselves.  Mamas, the next one is for you.

Fact: It Will Be Worth the Wait, I Have Proof!

Posted in The Adoption Waiting Game by

A few weeks ago, I received an email about an adoption situation in Georgia.  The mother had seen our adoption profile via Facebook, of all things, and we happened to be on an old email listserv of the lawyer she was working with.  The lawyer was to the point: baby boy, born three days ago, mother is choosing to make an adoption plan rather than have the baby removed by Family Services to disappear into the foster system.  Were we interested?

Of course we were interested!  In my “adoption situation presentation” fantasies, interest is always enough. So it definitely a swift kick to the ovaries when I immediately realized that interest alone was not going to cut the mustard in this scenario.  There were a ridiculous amount of circumstances that made this situation impossible for us: paying new and unrelated adoption fees* for the baby boy in Georgia, when we have already invested our adoption nest egg into our adoption agency here.   Ten days would need to be spent in the state of Georgia as we waited for papers to be processed that would allow us to bring the baby across state lines back to Oregon.  Two plane tickets would need to be purchased on zero days notice, as well as ten days of lodging.  We have a little boy who would wonder where in the hell his always-present parents, who have never been separated from him for more than one day, had gone away to, and why he was left behind; we also did not have family lined up to care for him for ten days on five seconds notice.  The hubs is currently grinding his way through the absolute busiest time of work in his field, and leaving with no notice was going to leave a lot of people and circumstances in the lurch.  We had absolutely nothing going for us in this situation except interest, and our interest was not a magic wand that was going to turn the impossible into the possible.

*Adoption fees and expenses: Been car shopping lately? Think of the MSRP on your favorite SUV…and now you know why it would be quite the hat trick to come up with that twice! 

Adoption is an extremely competitive industry, despite the non-profit status many agencies hold; as a general rule, agencies don’t work in cooperation with other agencies, because it isn’t financially beneficial to do so. In other words, my agency and the lawyer were not going to join forces to make our dreams come true. Fair enough.

It was hard to decline the situation, but it was the only option at our disposal to make. Is it still considered an option if there is only one to pick from?

Something I know to be true about myself: I do not handle situations with one “option” well.  I would say that is probably true for the majority of us, nothing special about that. For me personally, the concept of being without choice or power harkens back to our long infertility battle, and later on, our miscarriages. Grief with which I have long since addressed and healed, but which is brought bobbing to the surface again by that nasty common denominator: powerlessness. The ultimate place to find oneself robbed of choice, and even in the strongest of us, hope.

It was poor timing that four days after declining the situation, I was then felled like a giant oak tree by old school influenza, the kind you get a shot for, but then the shot doesn’t work because the virus is tricky and outsmarted the scientists this year. Plenty of time for me to lay in bed and analyze, analyze, analyze, which is both my best characteristic and my worst.

It’s hard to see the forest for the trees when you haven’t showered in five days. I think that is probably an undeniable truth for anyone, unless you are in an actual forest and the reason you haven’t showered for five days is because you went out there to see the trees.

And, for all those on an infertility journey or an adoption wait, I leave you with this groundbreaking realization: it really is true that the greatest joys in life are worth the wait. We waited over three years for our little man to grace us with his presence. I came up with that obvious little factoid after my cathartic ugly cry two days ago, and it made me feel so much better I wrote it down and taped it somewhere I can be reminded whenever I need a pick me up.

Hope Shaken, Not Stirred

Posted in The Adoption Waiting Game by

While the rest of the country continues to get abused with relentless ice and snow, our little corner of the world has had unseasonably warm weather, clear skies, sunshine.  Things are blooming that have no business doing so at this very moment, but no one told them that, so they just keep poking their little heads up higher and higher and higher until they burst through the dirt to meet the sun.  I’m afraid that we are going to have a hard freeze one of these nights and it’s going to shock those little buds right back to the ground.  When tender buds that didn’t expect to get blasted by freezing weather do, they often don’t come back until the next year. The ones that stayed just under the top layer of dirt for a little while longer are protected from the frost and come out when the coast is clear.

So, let’s talk about train of thought writing and the unexpected consequences.  I did not expect, as I was looking out the window and writing about my flowers, to write a painfully obvious and cliché metaphor about my own heart.  I did not expect to have to grab a napkin from the dining room table to bawl my eyes out when I realized the reason I’ve been feeling just a little bit sideways is that at some point, I am not even sure when, I seem to have lost the ability to believe that something good is going to happen to us in this adoption journey.  And I totally do not have the right to believe that, because we have only been home study ready for six weeks, and we worked so hard to get to that point.  Really, we should just be enjoying the fact that we made it through to the other side, because it was a lot of emotional hard work.  It’s also worth noting that it is a darn good thing we did not get called right away, since during the month of February I got to enjoy both the stomach flu AND legit influenza. (Note to self: stop justifying your feelings away with practicality and facts, for heaven’s sake! You have a right to be upset sometimes just because.)

I spend some time every day reading the WordPress journeys of other women like myself, women who are going through IVF, or considering using an egg donor, or pursuing adoption.   It’s important to read their stories and remind myself there are other people out there going through this too, because otherwise it is isolating to the point of suffocation to be the only one. One of these ladies recently underwent IVF, was successful, and learned she is having identical twins.  That was last week.  Probably I should have stopped reading at that point, like a total jerk who can’t be happy for someone else because her twins have their own amniotic sacs and mine didn’t. Instead, I continued following her updates and today she was seeking advice about whether she should tell her boss and her coworkers she is eight weeks pregnant, and before I knew it I was shrieking at my laptop, “No, woman, no! Why would you do that?!” Yeesh.  Never mind that when I was pregnant with E, I told everyone I encountered that I was pregnant at about 4 weeks along.  The hubs thought we should wait a while to tell people, and I was like, “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.  Hey, did you tell your mechanic yet?”

But then we experienced loss.  And more loss, and then nothingness.  Through all of that we had this shining little beacon who was oblivious to our pain and radiated joy through our home like Tinkerbell and her pixie dust.  It’s hard to feel despair when the embryo who did show up to the party is now a little boy full of love and light.  And I’m so incredibly grateful for him, and I think the truth is I just don’t know if lightning really can strike twice in the same spot.  Perhaps the biggest problem is that I’m just not sure I believe it can, for now. When God blesses you with what you desired most above all else, is it fair to ask for another miracle?  When you do, is it fair to expect one? 

Borrowed Genes

 

 

John Travolta, I’m Going to Have to Ask You to Back the Eff Up

Posted in It's My Blog and I'll Rant if I Want To by

A few years ago, I was in front of my 8th grade language arts class introducing the concept of rhythm and meter in poetry to my students, when out of nowhere one of my male students reached over a grabbed the breast of a female student.

In one-eighth of a second I experienced emotions from bewilderment to full-on rage. I was trained to handle discipline discreetly and without “humiliating” anyone, but in this moment I could not have cared less about this little future sex offender. I pointed my entire arm and one rigid finger at the young man and gravely said, “Get out.”

“It’s raining,” he whined. “Where am I supposed to go?” I was teaching in one of our school’s finest portables so if I had to send a student out…well, I didn’t usually, because they would probably hit the sidewalk and head home rather than dutifully report to the principal’s office.

“What?” I asked in disbelief. “I don’t care. Just get out. Get out of my classroom.” And this kid, this fourteen-year old, gathered his stuff and walked out. As he passed me, he seemed genuinely confused. I steeled my Medusa gaze at him and he quickened his pace, walked into the rain, and went somewhere. I didn’t care where.

I looked down at the young lady who had just been victimized in front of her entire class by this guy. There was no good way to handle this situation and protect her in the process. They had been sitting in a group of four, in the front and center of the room. Everyone saw this happen. Not only did this poor girl get her breast grabbed by her desk mate, she got to endure it with over thirty witnesses. And there she was, looking down at her desk like she did something wrong, like she had something to be ashamed of.

I wish to God there had been some way to handle this situation without drawing further attention to her. All the other kids, to their credit, were dead silent. They knew what that boy did was wrong. They knew I was pissed. A few of the boys looked ashamed on behalf of the one I had just kicked out, and four or five girls had that “hold my earrings” look and were probably seconds from charging out the door to collectively beat down the kid while he wandered around in the rain.

“Kinsey,” I said quietly, addressing the girl’s best friend, “why don’t you and Kelly go inside and get some water, maybe talk a little bit? Maybe go see Ms. London?” Kinsey nodded and took the ID badge I handed her so she could unlock the door to the school to get inside, and she and Kelly gathered their things and went outside. I watched through the window as they slogged through the bark dust towards the school. Kinsey was carrying Kelly’s books and Kelly had her head in her hands, bawling.

I stood in front of the class, silently, trying to figure out how to turn this into a “teachable moment.” Because that’s what we do, no matter how bad the situation, we turn it into a “teachable moment.” We rarely just call a shitty situation, a shitty situation.

I cleared my throat. “Ladies,” I began. “If a guy ever touches you somewhere they are not invited to touch, punch them in the face.”

Silence. Then, finally, “But won’t we get in trouble?”

“No,” I said. “If someone grabs a private part of you that they have not been invited to grab, you have every right to punch them in the face. Or kick them in the nuts, if that’s closer. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the middle of class or in a back alley. It’s the same thing. You decide who touches what and when. If an adult writes you a referral or suspends you for a week because you punched a kid that grabbed your breast, make a huge issue of it. Fight it. We’ve taught you that violence is not the way to solve problems your whole life, but that’s not exactly true. It’s usually not the answer. But in this situation, it is.”

The girls were looking newly empowered and some of them were glancing at their hands, balling them into fists. The boys looked intimidated, ashamed. “Hey guys,” I said, “you know what? You didn’t do anything wrong, at least not that I know of.”

“I wish I had said something to him,” one said quietly. “I knew what he was going to do. He was trying to get us to cheer him on. No one did, but we didn’t stop him.”

“I wish I had punched him in the face,” said another boy, looking tersely at the ceiling.

“Welllllll, let’s not go around just punching people in the face willy-nilly,” I jumped in quickly. “I get what you’re feeling, but I don’t think that’s the solution exactly, either.” The kid nodded. I’m positive he still wanted to punch him in the face. I did too. Maybe that isn’t something to advertise, that I, then a 30 year old English teacher, wanted to punch my 14 year student right in his teeth.  I already had sort of bastardized the whole “teachable moment” opportunity by calling for violence and opposition to authority.

Here is the thing. Fourteen years old is old enough to know better. The lines of demarcation have been clearly drawn and explained to both boys and girls by the age of fourteen, and there is no confusion as to what may be touched without permission and what should not. Grabbing a girl’s breast, in the middle of class, at age 14, is sexual assault. That girl felt violated in more ways than one by that incident. That is an extremely vulnerable age to make peace with all the changes in your body without someone grabbing you or otherwise. It affects the way you see yourself and it affects the way you interpret intimacy in future relationships.

Which brings me to freaking John Travolta. If a fourteen year old should know better, this 61 year old douche-canoe should definitely be well aware of the rules. But, based on his actions at the Academy Awards of last night, it would happen he is still a little hazy on what is appropriate and what is not. He made the rounds throughout the night molesting his younger colleagues at the Academy Awards, and we, the viewers at home, were forced to watch these ladies attempt to handle the uncomfortable and unwanted touching with ladylike genteelness that made the situation seem less horrifying than it was. And, although both are great actresses, they kinda failed, for which I am extremely grateful. People, perhaps young men most of all, need to see what it looks like when you touch a woman and she does not wish to be touched.

“I’m sorry, is there a hand on my waist? And, oh lord, is he going to kiss me? What the hell is happening here? Maybe if I stand perfectly still he will go away.”
“So that didn’t work. Now his gross puckery lips are actually touching me and he has pulled me in closer! Was my straight ahead statue expression not clear enough? Should I just keep standing here and pretending like this bothers me? Get out of my bubble!”
“Oh! He’s caressing my face! I absolutely hate this, but I’m live on national tv right now so I have to grin and bear this shit. Wait a minute, didn’t Patricia Arquette just make a speech about women’s rights five minutes ago? My lord this is uncomfortable. Maybe if I avoid his gaze and stare desperately at the audience this will end soon.”
“Yes, please grab my chin and forcefully direct it back to your uncomfortable intimate gaze. I love it when men I don’t know treat me like I am four years old, so definitely keep this up. I’m really enjoying myself.”
“So, I really feel like we have done the whole ‘spoofing last year’s name cluster” redemption skit now. Anytime you are ready to stop stroking my jawline, I am also ready for that to stop. Nope, not stopping? Okay, perhaps if I start a round of enthusiastic clapping the audience will join in and Creepy McCreeperson will be distracted long enough that I can get away. Ready, set, clap. Clap clap clap. Shit, it’s not working!
“Thank God in Heaven he released my face. I couldn’t take one more second of that bullsh…wait, what? Why is wrapping his arm around me and pulling me in? Why did I agree to this stupid bit anyway? Totally not worth it. He can call me Adele Dazeem for the rest of his life if that means I don’t have to have my countenance manhandled by this guy.”

Some people may think I’m overreacting.  That’s fine, everyone is entitled to their opinion.  However, their opinion is wrong because look at the faces on these two women.  They are not having fun.  They are not enjoying the breach of both etiquette and personal space. Their bubble is not being acknowledged.

Maybe I’m old fashioned, but if a man comes up behind me unannounced, wraps his arm around me tightly and rests his hand on my waist just below my breasts, that man better be my husband.  If a man is holding my face with one hand, and caressing my cheek with the other while calling me darling, that man also best be my husband.  I can think of no other situation in which any other man should be doing any of these things.

I don’t blame Scarlett Johannsen or Idina Menzel for responding the way they did.  It’s the way women are taught to behave in such circumstances.  Whether the whole world is watching, or no one at all, the most common reaction for a women is to freeze, accept what is happening, and hope it’s over soon.  It’s a gray area for us; it’s not egregious enough that we can become upset and defend our bodies right then and there without bringing down judgment upon ourselves, labeled as prudish or “bitchy.”  It is egregious enough that even after the awkwardness is over, it sticks with us for a while afterwards, especially when we beat ourselves up for not saying something in the moment.  In other words, still finding a way to absorb the blame, when we did nothing wrong in the first place.

How can we change this?  I’m couldn’t even begin to offer a comprehensive answer that might serve as a solution.  I do know this; if either Scarlett or Idina had hauled off and punched Octopus Hands right in the snout, I would have leapt off the couch, cheering for all I was worth.

Wondering what happened to the kids from the first part of this post?  The young man, all fourteen years of him, was not held accountable for a damn thing.  No referral, no instructions to write a heartfelt letter of apology, no provisions made to make sure Kelly did not have to see this kid every day of her life in classes, at lunch, at gym.  Her parents thanked me profusely for intervening the way I did, but assured me that “this kind of thing wasn’t a big deal at fourteen.”  The boy’s father refused to talk with his son to help him understand the gravity of his actions.  “The problem,” he said to me, while proudly rocking a Not My Bill of Rights t-shirt, “is that society is so uptight about everything nowadays.  All you teachers are just afraid you’re going to get sued, so you gotta overreact and drag me in here from work to talk about something that isn’t even a problem.  Richard didn’t grab that girl for any sexual reasons; he’s just curious.  You know how boys start getting really fascinated with girls with the raging hormones and all that?  He told me he has to sit next to her everyday and that she dresses really slutty, like low cut or tight shirts, all the time. No teenage boy can sit by that everyday and not doing anything about it.  That’s the truth.  Any other boy sitting next to  her would do the same thing, and they’re lying if they say they wouldn’t. They’re just curious, and anyway I think that’s the girl he said he had a little crush on…so it probably woulda happened anyway.”

I know when I’m staring into the face of pure ignorance, and I wasn’t going to waste my breath on this guy.

Meanwhile, Kelly met with the counselor, Ms. London, regularly for the rest of the school year.  She couldn’t put her finger on what was making her so anxious and depressed, but she knew it started the day a young man grabbed a part of her body that he had no business touching.

I adamantly refused to let Richard back into my class.  One of my bosses thought I was overreacting and behaving unreasonably.  I didn’t care.  I told her they needed to find a new language arts class for him, and while they were at it they might want to compare both of the kid’s schedules to ensure that they didn’t have any other classes together.  Richard spent his language arts time in the in school suspension room for a couple days, and then found a class that had a teeny bit of space to squeeze him in. I didn’t care about where he went or how that class lined up with my class.  I just didn’t want to see him again, and for the most part, I didn’t have to. He had acted in such a way that I couldn’t stand the sight of him any longer, and I just wanted him gone. I believe it’s possible he grew from this experience and realized what he did was so, so wrong. Then again, maybe not. I didn’t feel like being the one help him see the light, if I’m being honest.

I don’t know if my impromptu “teachable moment/shitty situation” speech changed any lives or not.  That’s the thing about teaching.  Most of the time teachers do not get to see what grows from the seeds they have planted.  I’m okay with that.  Every so often I am blessed with the opportunity to run into one of my seeds, grown into a sturdy tree.  Maybe someday one of them will come tell me that punching someone in the face is the best advice they were ever given.  Wouldn’t that be something?

Note: Shortly after publishing this post, a good friend of mine sent me a link to a incident that fit with mine like a glove. I have linked it here: This Girl Did This After the Boy Refused to Stop Snapping Her Bra

*All names have been changed, of course.

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Mo’ Stickers = Mo’ Betta! DIY Valentines With My Lil’ Guy

Posted in Great Moments in Parenting, On Motherhood by

It was with unbridled glee that I received the class list of names from my son’s preschool teacher and learned they were having a Valentine’s Day party this week. Seriously, Valentine’s Day was the best when I was a kid! We got to make giant envelopes with the good construction paper, not the flimsy cheap stuff, and color and decorate all day in the name of education. We got to use glitter, and we were allowed to bring our own stickers if we brought enough to share. The next day we waited anxiously until after recess and then “delivered” our valentines to each classmate’s envelope, which was taped precariously to the end of each desk for easy access. Some of the kids’ parents attached candy to the valentines, and it didn’t get much better than that. So yeah, I was excited when I heard my kid was going to have his first Valentine’s Day party.

Granted, this is preschool so most of the kids, certainly mine, probably aren’t sure what valentines are just yet. Whatever, I saw an opportunity for a great craft project and I seized it. Plus, I’m always up for a trip to Michael’s. Follow the simple steps below if you too want a heartwarming, yet educational, homemade-valentine-making experience with your small child! You won’t be disappointed!

Objective: Assist child in creating homemade valentines. Valentines should be neither crafted with such skill that it is obvious they were created sans child, nor should they be purchased from a store in a pack of 40 where the only requirement is tearing carefully along the perforated lines.

You're not fooling anyone, Mom. Your kid didn't even touch the bottle of glue you used on that card.

You’re not fooling anyone, Mom. Your kid didn’t even touch the bottle of glue you used on that card.

I know we are all busy, but you are BETTER than mass produced sheets of perforated rectangles! You are!

I know we are all busy, but you are BETTER than mass produced sheets of perforated rectangles! You are!

Step one: Take child to Michael’s craft store. Attempt to quickly navigate to sale aisle before child spots the full price fancy supplies. Grab value pack of 6’’ foam hearts–this will be the one executive decision you make regarding the valentines, because you have to start somewhere. Once in sale aisle ask child what he thinks his friends would like on their valentines. Remain neutral as child decides whether they would prefer the stickers of the turtle with a heart shaped shell or a fox holding a heart out in front of it. Wait 30 seconds, then throw both packages in the cart before child melts down, silently resolving to return one later.

Step two: Ask child if they want glittery foam letters (in an excited voice) or solid color foam letters (in a monotone voice). Accept child’s choice of the solid colors, even though the glittery ones are obviously better. Why can’t he see that?

Step three: Head towards the sticker aisle, praying along the way that you don’t have to pass the car and fire truck section before reaching the heart section. Breathe deep sigh of relief that all vehicle themed stickers are way at the other end of the aisle, and that you have successfully focused the child’s attention on the vast array of hearts in front of him. Ask child if he thinks his teacher would prefer sparkly hearts, glittery hearts, or puffy hearts on her valentine, providing samples for child to choose from. Wipe tears of joy from your eyes when child chooses the glittery hearts. Attempt to exit aisle without child getting a visual on the race car stickers.

Step four: Take your place in line to purchase the carefully chosen supplies. Ask child why he is sobbing. Ask him to use his words. If he cannot use his words due to incoherent sobs, ask him to point. Look in the direction of his trembling pointed finger. Sigh deeply as you lose your place in line to head back to the sticker aisle to acquire shiny race cars stickers.

Step five: Make sure child has napped. Do not proceed to step six until step five has been satisfied. Repeat: the steps shall be performed in the following order: one, two, three, four, five, six. Skipping step five is ill-advised and is to be attempted only by those who feel they owe penance for some wrong they committed in their youth.

Step six: After feeding and watering child post-nap, ask them to dump out the foam letter stickers and help you turn them all right side up. After this is completed, integrate a little educational goodness into the craft by having the child find the letters you ask for to spell each name. Make sure to praise child for both his impressive knowledge of the alphabet as well as his supreme focus to the task. As child hands you letters, spell out each kid’s name on a cookie sheet or other container without removing the sticker backing. Save that for later as a separate step, so that the child can be successful at one task at a time.

Step seven: Open the package of 6’’ foam hearts. Explain to child that he can take the backs off the foam letters that we already organized and hand them to parent one at a time to place on heart. All other stickers will be placed by child so they experience the feeling of ownership of the valentines. Keep your explanation to a minimum or child will become antsy and flip the entire cookie sheet full of names over and into disarray.

Step eight: Pawn child off on your spouse while you sort through all the letters, again, and apply them to the foam hearts by yourself. Justify your actions by reminding yourself that the child did pick them out the first time, so the educational objective was achieved.  It was.

Step nine: Open the turtle stickers and place in a bowl. Open the glittery hearts and place in another bowl. Open the sticker that simply say “Happy Valentine’s Day!” so parent does not have to write it twenty times, and place in a bowl. Invite spouse and child back into the crafting zone. Remind spouse he is to restrain child if he looks like he is planning to flip over or dump anything out.

Step ten: Tell child he can pick ANY color turtle from the turtle bowl and put it anywhere on the foam heart. He has creative control! Empower your child with the freedom of choice! Watch proudly as child removes sticker backing from red turtle and places it on the cat. Wait, why is the sticker on the cat? We had exactly enough turtle stickers for each valentine, darn it! Chase terrified cat until it is cornered and remove sticker from from fur. Use your body to block crafting area from grabby toddler as you remove each strand of cat fur from the turtle sticker. Watch in horror as child dumps out each bowl of stickers and gleefully tosses them in the air like confetti.

Step eleven: Remind husband that if he can tear his eyes away from Jeopardy and join in the crafting fun, you could use the help. Husband begins taking backing off stickers in rapid fire succession and handing them to child who places them on a few valentines, before moving on to his hair, the carpet, and the other cat. Husband is unaware this is happening because although his hands are removing sticker backs, his eyes are glued to Alex Trebec. Suppress the urge to strangle husband in front of child.

Step twelve: Grab the sticker from child’s hair, the one from the carpet, and the one off the cat who is now in the litter box. Order husband and child from the room while you attempt to reverse the mayhem that has descended upon your educational-fun-bonding-time craft project.

Step thirteen: Pick cat fur off of sticker, carpet fuzz off of sticker, and child’s hair off of sticker. You need every one because you only bought enough for the exact amount of valentines. Revisit step three and buy extra next time, you lousy cheapskate.

Step fourteen: Gauge child’s ability to continue with the project. Assess that child is not emotionally prepared to continue since tears are gushing out of his eyes and snot is running down his face. Husband confirms child is devastated that I took the sticker off the cat because it made kitty look “so pretty.” Find acceptable non-turtle sticker to give to child in trade so he can make kitty pretty again. After giving child consoling hugs and kisses, request that he not go after the cat that is currently using the litter box.

Step fifteen: Return to valentine work, solo. Inform husband if he does not keep child happily occupied in the other room then he will be the one finishing up these &%@! valentines.

Step sixteen: Take inventory of what remains. Of the 18 valentines, nine need all three stickers. Five need two stickers. Four need one sticker. It is of the utmost importance as you forge your small child’s valentines that you not only place the sticker upside down, but that it must also overlap another sticker despite the fact there is plenty of room for both of them without crowding the other one out. For extra authenticity, place sticker half on and half off the foam heart, so that they exposed part of the sticker collects as much dirt, fur, and hair as possible before making its way to the intended recipient.

jacob valentine

I regret nothing.

Step seventeen: Put each of the foam heart valentines into an envelope. Seal it so that child cannot do further harm to the card, and hand him a crayon to color on each of the envelopes.  Pat yourself on the back for your fortitude during this ordeal, and set a reminder in your cell for February 10th, 2016: Buy ready made valentines at Target for E’s Valentine’s Day party next week.

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