Note: If your child has not yet asked you to download this game, you should close this window, find your family’s passports, and make immediate plans to relocate to North Korea where internet access is sketchy at best. WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

MM has been going on at our house for some time. I first became alarmed when several friends inquired as to the prognosis of my child’s “medical issue.” I was confused until I realized that every time they saw him, he appeared to be attached to the wall by an electrical device charging plug, thus giving them the idea that he was on dialysis of some sort. The truth is that he lives with constant fear of a dead iPod, because something – something – Zombie – Pigman – Diamond – Sword – BUTTER!

My son awaits Minecraft updates with more anticipation than he does Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Because those guys? Meh. Board games and chocolate eggs have nothing on TNT and crafting tables. My nine year-old cannot be trusted to flush a toilet, but he can build a city better than a Mayan aristocrat, and that’s what will matter instead of pesky social graces when trying to secure a life partner.

We have a problem with MM you guys, and it’s sweeping the continent. It’s not even the game itself that forms the crux of the issue. I’m pretty strict with my kids about the games they can play and in researching Minecraft I’ve come to understand that it can be a great learning tool. Players get to be creative and tech-savvy, and they can build friendships with unseen online players in damp basements all over the world.  Minecraft also allows parents to have alone time to get dinner made, or a pile of laundry folded, or have sex with a partner who doesn’t require batteries. Nope; the real problem is this, and it’s approaching our house faster than my neighbours with a “cut your lawn” petition:

There are only so many synonyms for “cool” and if my calculations are correct, I’m due to run out at 7:16pm on June 28, 2013. Which, as the cruel fates would have it – is the last day of school here. I cannot spend eight weeks of summer showing continual awe over TNT and lava explosions without compromising my already fragile mental state.

What does one say to comment on apparent carnage at a ski lodge? Is it “well done”? or perhaps “Super”?  Should I call a child psychologist?

Let’s help each other. Here’s a list I’ve compiled in case you’ve exhausted adjectives feigning interest in Minecraft:

• awesome
• neat
• wow
• nice
• impressive (non-beginner parents only, please)
• rad
• interesting
• hmmmm
• mmmmmm
• mmmmmm-hmmmm
• FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST I SWEAR TO YOUR HOLY ENTITY OF CHOICE YOU BETTER GET THAT IPOD OUTTA MY FACE OR I WILL RUN IT OVER WITH THE CAR WHILE YOU WATCH AND I WILL LAUGH DOING IT

Sometimes you can get away with using a term more than once if you alter the inflection. (But be careful; I went too far turning “cool” into the three syllable “kewwwwll” and lost street cred with my son’s Minecraft gang. Related: Guess who found pee all over her new bathroom mat?) I will also warn you against pulling any smart-ass moves like using words that would appear in a freshman college paper. Words like “fascinating,” “riveting” and “enthralling” are best left to the pros, lest any sarcasm seep through. You can try “nifty” and “cats-pajamas, ole chap!” but only if you take blood pressure medication and could pick Slim Whitman out of a line-up.

I don’t ask for help often, but I am calling in all favours now. Hit me up with your terms and coping strategies parents, because if you’ve got a Minecraft kid, I know you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve (and also probably some tear-soaked tissues.)

A lot of kids are fussy eaters, and I know many parents can commiserate with my dinner time woes. But I’ve given up fighting because it was turning relaxed mealtimes into stressful encounters, and I’m using all my energy preparing meals which meet some specific and very pointed culinary preferences. You know those kids who won’t eat a food if it touches another food, or who refuse to try something that originated from a seed at one point in it’s life cycle? My kids are nothing like that. They’re WORSE.

Let me make you understand the severity of what I’m dealing with here, because my problem may not be quite what you’re expecting. When the thick department store catalogue arrives each holiday season, most kids turn to the back where the toy pages are. My kids go to the kitchen section and start arguing over who’s asking Santa for the pasta roller and which one of them deserves the Henkel knives. We rarely participate in hot lunch days at school, because the order for for “Pizza Day”  they didn’t include an artisan crust, anchovy and black olive option. It’s like the school hates kids.

These kids are serious about their food.

I don’t encourage it. I have remarkable few preferences myself – primarily that the food arrive hot, and (preferably) dead. I’d be happy – delighted even – to prepare hotdogs or chicken fingers once or twice a week. I could use the break.They’re still children however, and love junk food as much and maybe more than the next person, but they take it up a notch when it comes to quality. My daughter could pick a Lindt from a line-up of Cadbury’s with her tongue tied behind her back, and when my son was taken out for “treat” lunch with a friend and his mother, he wouldn’t touch the pogo stick or french fries, opting instead to eat everyone’s tomato and soggy romaine garnish.

Their teachers request that snacks come primarily from the fruit, vegetable or protein food groups. This helps people avoid some popular allergens and also encourages kids to eat a healthier mini-meal twice a day. My son was almost granted an exception to that rule when he insisted on bringing tuna with roast garlic olive oil marinated tomatoes for his snack every day. His kindergarten classroom may have smelled like an Italian restaurant, but those kids were safe from vampires.

At any given time my refrigerator holds cold poached salmon, pickled white asparagus, and 6 year-old cheddar. None of it is mine. My daughter pores over imported food brochures from the European deli like other girls admire “Teen Vogue” magazine, and my son requested a Crème Brule torch for his fifth birthday. I blame it on their Italian heritage because their Nona can create a Cordon Bleu worthy meal using nothing more than salt and pepper and an ancient pan she brought to the new country. She’s spoiled their taste buds and now I’m the one who’s paying for it. While I was attempting to dull their gustatory senses with tasteless canned vegetables and rubbery frozen waffles, she was undoing all my hard work with salads so fresh the rain still clung to them.

A few nights ago I put what I thought was nice pork roast on the table. My daughter took a bite and did all she could not to gag on it.

“What did you marinate this in? It’s horrible!” she asked.

“What? Nothing. I just cooked it in a bit of apple cider in the crock pot.”

“Apple cider? A CROCK POT?” she scoffed. “This thing…” she poked it with her fork…”this thing deserves a nice blueberry port glaze.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, and would it have killed you to give it a toasted pistachio crust?” my son added, heaping injury upon already bruised culinary ego.

I apologized and offered to make them some macaroni and cheese.

“Fine,” they conceded. “But could you at least add some creamy French brie like Nona does?”

“Feed me, woman!”

I have a 14 year-old daughter. I am going to pause here for dramatic effect, and although I know you can’t see me, take this time to visualize me hanging my head and practicing deep breathing techniques. She’s a great kid (I have to say that, but she is really…) and while she doesn’t do anything “bad” in the way I did when I was her age, she. is. exhausting. FULL STOP.

Teenage girls aren’t exhausting in the same way nine year-old boys are exhausting. Nine year-old boys may require a parent to have stealth, cunning, and an unlimited grocery budget, but fourteen year-old girls require you to have a sympathetic friend with a similarly aged child who gets in her car when you text “ERMAHGERD LIQR STORE.”

To my 14 year-old daughter, many, many things all of the things are bullshit. This girl has an alarmingly low tolerance for bullshit of any kind,and while I understand that this trait will serve her well in her adult life, it does make living peacefully with her nearly impossible. And as you can see here, you may be best serve to avoid her on particularly grouchy days. Especially if you’re a sexist jogger with hairy knuckles who can’t divide fractions and enjoys guacamole. So here you go: (Note: I complied this list according to her comments during the short period between waking up in the morning and her crappy toast with crust and natural peanut butter breakfast.)

Things my daughter thinks are bullshit

1. People who don’t understand math
2. Book reports
3. Reports of any kind
4. Patriarchy
5. Old toothbrushes
6. Pantyhose
7. People who don’t refill the milk
8. Bras
9. Rules
10. Hair conditioner bottles that hold less than a gallon
11. Stupid people
12. Clumpy mascara
13. Locked doors
14. Dress codes
15. Uniforms
16. Fake pockets
17. Telemarketers
18. Slippery hair pins
19. Patronizing tone of voice
20. Snow
21. Rain
22. Anything that falls from the sky, really
23. Toast crusts, bread crusts, DON’T GET ME STARTED ON CRUSTY ROLLS
24. Heat
25. Sweat
26. Sun in your eyes
27. Standing in line
28. Homework
29. Periods
30. Boobs
31. Knuckle hair
32. Pimples
33. Armpits
34. The whole body; it’s gross, really
35. Exercise
36. Plain yogurt
37. Whole wheat products of any kind
38. Chores
39. Sexism
40. When the TV remote control is all the way over there
41. Racism
42. People in general
43. Inconsiderate cyclists
44. Rudeness
45. Ignorance
46. Toe socks, actually no; wait, I love those, I just hate them in theory
47. The stupid TV show “Dog with a Blog”
48. Pit bull (the singer not the pet)
49. Not having a pet
50. Seriously, when are we getting a goddamn dog?
51. Pomegranate or grapefruit – wait; which one is the tangy one? JUST WRITE “BOTH”
52. Slow scribes
53. Unsweetened drinks
54. *Guacamole (*who is this person?)
55. Green foods except jello, and yes, it is a food.
56. Chunks in salsa
57. Overprotective parents
58. Lying liars who LIE
59. Excuses
60. Arrogance
61. Natural peanut butter
62. Quick showers
63. Pulp
64. Early bedtimes
65. Daily vitamins
66. Lint
67. Dust
68. Putting away laundry
69. Emptying the dishwasher
70. Joggers
71. Practice of any sort
72. Short battery life
73. I’m going to be late for the bus, MOTHER.

* Lest you think I am cruel or dismissive, I have posted this list with complete approval from my daughter. I asked if I could put her “beefs” on my blog and she responded thus: “Whatever. I don’t care if you put it on your blog. Blogs are bullshit.”

Have any to add?

I’m in the bath (don’t bother trying to visualize; it’s not attractive and my grout is cracked). I’m trying to relax after a sugar binge over the weekend has me coping with a three day headache. But it’s increasingly hard to “go to my happy place” with the heavy hammering and sawing noises coming from the living room.

We’re not under construction. I have not hired workmen. There is nary a DIY project in sight. This is alarming then, no? I should probably get out and see what’s going on but strawberry bubbles.

My 14 year-old daughter is home, but she is in her room, exhausted from a day of eye-rolling and the tiring work of judging a mother who seeks only to love her. She’s probably planning her third – yes, third – shower since yesterday. If this girl farts she changes her clothes and burns her bedding. So unless she’s sawing an escape hatch, it’s likely not her. I’ll check though, just to be sure.

The noise can mean only one of two things: a) a neighbour – no longer able to stand the sight of battered recycling bins dotting the edge of my driveway two days post pick-up – is building me a shed; or b) my nine year-old son has returned from his friend’s house and is doing, you know, “Nothing, Mom!”

There are 24 days until school lets out here. I have 24 days until I am eye-rolled and sighed into insanity. Twenty four days to find hiding spots for my hammers, saws, drills, staple guns, and all other items I refer to with a numerical system from 1 to 5 based on their injury risk; ie. Saw – 1 (Band-aid) Drill – 2 (Stitches) and finally Hammer and Nails 5 – (Get Comfy In This Sticky Germ-Crusted Hospital Waiting Room Chair.)

That leaves me just over three weeks to figure out how I’m going to continue to work from home in relative peace. I should probably start practicing how to maintain a calm and measured voice while still relaying urgency in the message “THAT’S A LOAD BEARING WALL!

Twenty four days.

I…I…I…

One at a time, please.

Hamburger! Hamburger! Cheeseburger! That’s what I meant, too! But not baby ones! No ketchup wait I mean no mustard WAIT I MEAN ONLY MUSTARD Two hamburgers no one. No two. How big are they I can so eat two I want two but NO PICKLES.I only want ketchup. I only want mustard. And pickles. No. No pickles. Just mustard. And not the baby ones!

I am going to stop the car, let them out with my debit card, point to the Golden Arches and leave.

Can I have fries? I want big fries. I want fries, too!

You can all have fries. So three fries, then?

I don’t want fries.

Okay. Two fries. Drinks?

Root beer Root beer Root be…Juice.

So root beer, root beer, juice?

I changed my mind. I want root beer. Me too!

I know.

Me too now!

Three root beers?

Yes.

Three root beer, three fries…

I SAID I DON’T WANT FRIES.

Three root beer, thr…two fries, two hamburgers no pickles, one cheeseburger ketchup only, one cheeseburger mustard only.

I want fries now.

Thank Christ. We’re here.

Go play. I will come and get you when the food is ready and when I say it’s time to leave I MEAN IT.

Food ordered, verified, checked and re-checked. Napkins fanned, ketchup squirted, straws unwrapped and placed in root beer, root beer, juic…root beer.

They come and sit. They eat their lunches quickly, not from hunger but for greed of time, this brief reprieve from the school day. Sweaty little faces and pink cheeks. Soft jaw lines slowly hardening into the faces of young men. I am just the vehicle by which they get here:  I pay for lunch, enforce hand washing, supply napkins for spills they can clean on their own. Fart jokes, Minecraft arguments, Lego wishes. A small hill of wax wrappers from “not baby burgers” rises from the sticky self-serve tray.

My voice is not wanted or needed in their conversation, and at the sound of it they disappear like birds after a shot.

One comes back to drop a hoodie on the bench.

Aren’t you gonna eat?

I turn from him. I can’t meet his face, this crazy lady with wet eyes in a harshly lit fast food restaurant. No, I say. I’m not hungry.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about young kids and online games. For the record, I don’t like them. Also for the record, my son plays them. But he does a lot of things I don’t enjoy seeing happen, like dirt-bike jumps and growing.

I hate these games in general and in specific. I hate them the way our grandparents hated Elvis and socialism and people who wore their hat to the dinner table. These games make my skin crawl and I scream into my mouth when my son asks for his iPod. We have time limits for use, and they’re reasonable (no more than 75 min/day) and while the limits aren’t tied to requirements like exercise or homework, I’m not afraid to tell him “no” if I feel those things haven’t been recognized. He will be nine years old by the time you finish reading my archives. Which you’re gonna, right?

But- BUT… the thing about these iPods?

It is very difficult to make myself tell him “time’s up!” when the timer dings. And I can’t control his use when he’s at a friend’s house. Thankfully his dad hates them as much (if not more) than I do, and time at dad’s house is “Luddite Time.”

I haven’t wavered (often) on the time limits I’ve imposed, but maybe this is the part that scares me most, because as the enforcer I don’t always have the best “moderation” techniques myself. (See also: Jeni’s baked potato habit.) The fact that I’m writing this on an iPhone isn’t lost on me. But I’ve earned the right to be tied to a screen because I grew up watching shows like “Charles in Charge” to get this far. (“Far” just auto-corrected to “fat” which works also.)

I never used the TV as a crutch in my parenting and I insist that my children are actively present and engaged in social settings. I’m the “crazy mom” (their term) because I insist they play outside without devices when they attend events. And we don’t do screens at dinner inside or outside the home. I hate seeing little ones with screens on and zombie eyes in restaurants.

“Crazy Mom” is a role I am happy to play; I’ve been practicing for 40 years and this is my moment. Where’s my spotlight, goddammit?

I’ve done all the responsible things like disabling in-app purchases so he can’t spend our savings (hahaha I don’t have any savings!) or our grocery money on “jewels” or bricks of butter gold or whatever the hell you need in some of these games. I’ve talked to him about limits in playing and how his brain will actually melt and slide out one of his ears if he plays too long. I even mentioned that poor kid in Indiana who lost his eyesight and the use of his thumbs after he played all night under the covers when his mother wasn’t looking. (Feel free to use this boy I completely made up- maybe we can get a page on Snopes and scare an entire generation at the same time.)

Did our parents hate anything as much?I don’t remember Pacman and Super Mario being all that popular beyond a phase with my friends. Am I missing something? We did things – not always good or legal – but the bulk of our activity happened outside so at least meeting creepy strangers took place in a fresh-air beer store parking lot and not over an Internet connection in a soggy basement.

Recently my son asked for a game called “Clash of the Clans.” I checked it out and it’s non-violent and seems to promote team building as you create clans with your friends online. I temporarily forgot that not only do your friends have access to the Internet, but so do several thousand creepy predators in hot sauce-stained undershirts. Today when my son asked me how to spell “amazing” and “three months” I came to understand he was having a virtual chat with people on the iPod in this game. I can read his history (and did) and everything seems above board, but I am disabling the feature except for parent approved usernames (his friends). He already knows – and I reinforce before every session – that he is to never disclose his name, age, location, blood type, favourite colour, or shoe size over the Internet.

I wanna smash his iPod and move to 1983. I’ve still got my acid wash pants and Pom-Pom ankle socks and I will make this sacrifice for the children.

Do your kids play these games? How old are they and what games do they like? Am I worried over nothing? Do you feel bad about it? Please tell me I am worried about nothing.

* Post-script: After I wrote this, I went inside and found my son playing with his Lego. He sat there, in his pajamas, building and dismantling a spaceship. He was at it for hours, and he didn’t ask for his iPod all day. So guess what, guys? Apparently all you need to do for something to happen is to write it here on my blog, so I am now opening this space up for wishes. Just keep it clean, folks.

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Find me over at MamaPop.com every day as well. Here are a few of my latest posts on Pop Culture and Parenting related topics:

Mom Forces Daughter To Wear Thrift Store Clothing To Cure Her Of Bullying

The Venn Diagram Of Divorce Guilt [Personal Essay]

Rich NYC Moms Renting Handicapped Poors To Cut Lines AT Disney World

 

Last month I talked about my eight year old son being in his first grappling tournament. He did really well, with one round going into multiple overtimes because he would just not go down. It was awesome and if I hadn’t said some fairly questionable stuff in the throes of excitement, I’d post the video. Ultimately he came in third, and as you can see in the picture above, he’s positively thrilled with the outcome.

One of his rounds went eight whole minutes of constant grappling. That’s a long time to do anything physical and if you don’t think so then you weren’t on my honeymoon.

Last month I also talked about me starting the Insanity workout series. “Oh! How’s that going?”you may be wondering. Please refer to my Craigslist posting under Barely Viewed Exercise DVD’s (some tear staining) for updates to that project.

But keeping in mind that my son was able to work at something so hard that he looked like this…

…made me think that maybe I should do something equally as challenging myself. A friend suggested we do a 5k together. This “friend” runs regularly. I run to catch the garbage truck or when someone is chasing me. I am not a runner. I don’t wear or own any article of clothing labelled “Active Performance,” nor do I want to. I like my outfits somewhere more towards cozy and with the ability to hide nacho stains.

With the promise of treats at the finish line, I hesitantly agreed and downloaded the Couch to 5k Running App on my phone. So far I can run for a full three minutes which you may think doesn’t sound like much until you realized that on day one, I literally barfed into a stranger’s recycling bin. That was after 60 seconds of continual running. The thought of any amount more than that was as unfathomable as one day being able to afford my student loan.

So I’m up to three minutes. Go me, right? Nope. I don’t allow myself praise unless it comes in the form of something with cheese melted on it, so I’ll reserve that for the finish line.

Am I enjoying it? Does the pope wear a hat? Oh wait. The Pope does wear a hat. So how about I just tell you HELL NO I DON’T LIKE IT. I hate every single minute of it so far, but it’s good exercise and it’s only half an hour three times a week and maybe it’ll grow on me. But I doubt it. Also, runners, when will I stop crying? I swear I cry every single time I run. Is this a runner thing? Because I can’t get on board with the whole “show emotion” part.

As for my son, all he wanted after his grappling tournament was a fancy beverage and some Chinese buffet. He may be a lean, mean, grappling machine, but he’s not so tough he can’t enjoy a good “Shirley Temple” mocktail with an umbrella and citrus twist. He may also be a 70 year old Boca Vista retiree.

There are a lot of things I don’t like. The list is exhaustive and constantly in flux, so I will spare you the gritty details. Some of the things on my “no-fly list” are there for reasons which any reasonable person would find ridiculous. I am not a reasonable person most of the time. I use that time to be ridiculous.

In the past I’ve told people that their efforts to placate my irrational fears or hatred of things with rational arguments is time wasted on their behalf. You cannot refute an irrational argument with rationality, I say. (I am told this is exactly how you conquer irrationality.)

One of the things I hate the most is motivational “artwork.” You know what I’m talking about: someone takes a picture of a mountain or an eagle soaring over a lush forest landscape and adds an inspirational quote at the bottom in a bold font. Things like “Your Attitude Determines Your Altitude,” or “Success: Some Dream About It; Others Work At It.“

Screw that. I once used the words “ass wipe,” and “communist bloc Russia” in a 20-second conversation with a stranger in a grocery store check-out line, so it’s not a stretch to say these type of inspirational posters have no place in my life. I don’t need a plaque showing a baby turtle crawling to the ocean above the phrase “Determination: It’s What Gets You Where You’re Going.” I need something succinct, something more to-the-point, something me. I need a short, concise phrase that will motivate me to do well under even the most dire and difficult of circumstances. I need my primary motivation captured on paper, preferably in one word.

Thanks to a friend with a good heart and a Cricut machine, I finally have it:

You can now find me at MamaPop.com three times weekly – on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Here’s why I hate “Reasons My Son Is Crying,” why I love Rebel Wilson, and how the return of Whose Line Is It Anyway? will save America.

Last weekend he came inside, breathless and covered with small scratches. I assumed he had a run-in with a racoon or possum as they are rampant this year, but it turns out no, he was just thirsty. And the scratches? From “zip-lining ” in our backyard maple tree.

He was more than happy to explain his method: First, he takes a small dead branch from the small dead branch pile (I’m a bit behind in yard maintenance.) If it looks strong enough to support his weight, he checks it for “criteria.” (Criteria = it doesn’t snap when he cracks it repeatedly against the side of the house.) He climbs the tree as high as he can, and then, using both hands and holding right to the ends of the small dead branch, crosses it over a bare tree limb and slides down until he’s low enough to jump.

“Oh, boys!” you say. “My son once drew on the walls with crayon and peed in the laundry hamper!”

Hahahaha. That’s lightweight parenting round these parts. Enjoy your 40′s, wrinkle-free and sane, playing organized board games with your offspring while I wonder why all my wooden spoons are in the downstairs toilet.

I asked him what would happen if he fell while zip-lining. He put his muddy water glass on the table, wiped his mouth on a filthy sleeve and said “I guess I’d get hurt.”

Then he turned and left, taking a sizeable portion of my sanity with him.

My chest was spared from injury because my 14 year-old daughter helped me tape my boobs together. I believe that if you are going to do something, do it right and enlist help from those legally obligated to love you regardless.

I’ve watched all the stupid Insanity DVDs in this set and no where is there a woman with a chest bigger than the one I had in grade five. I know muscle takes place of some fatty tissue, but what about the “before” part? Million dollar sports bras are an option but my children have grown accustomed to the taste of red meat and I hate to take that away from them just so I can do something called a “Suicide Jump” without giving myself a concussion.

I am a sexy beast, no?

And so day three of Insanity is over, although to be fair it ended sooner than anticipated when my son found me curled up sobbing on the basement floor with my breasts bound with blue duct tape, so you know, any given Monday.

I wrote some other stuff this week, over at The Huffington Post and at MamaPop.com, all of which is substantially more inspiring.*

* It will not inspire you at all.

Maybe you’ll like this picture of my son trapped under an anvil instead:

He knows my pain.