Let yourselves be warned, that a totally unexpected huge problem will follow.

Had you read my previous entry about Middle School Fashion Police, you would known that my 12-year-old is suffering from fashion unacceptance at the hands of a few miserable mean girls at school.

Truth be told, I did not know how to deal with this problem. The idea of contacting the school administrators to correct these girls’ subtle bullying behavior seemed over the top, and would most definitely ensure that my 12-year-old would never share any school dramas with me ever again.

After much consideration, I decided to apply the rarely used strategy of: If you can’t beat them, join them.

Last Sunday, I took the kids to the mall, and told my 12-year-old to pick out whatever clothes she wanted.

I thought this was brilliant. Oh yeah, she will feel really secure now, and will know that when she comes to me with a problem, she can count on me to plot a plan for all of us to suffer together.

We walked into a store called Justice at the the mall. My 12-year-old picked out a number of clothing articles there, and handed them to me one by one. Clothing articles that I would never put my hands on otherwise, and caused me to wince when I knew she wasn’t looking.

We walked out of Justice with a full large bag. Then I cured my annoyance by stopping by Gymboree to buy clothes for my 9-year-old. My baby is still happy for me to shop for her.

Just look at this adorable and sophisticated outfit my 9-year-old will be adorned in from Gymboree!

And look at this alien outfit that my 12-year-old got…

On the drive home, I was feeling proud of myself. I really did allow my 12-year-old to make her own choices, and did not once use my veto power at the mall.

I was certain that my child is feeling empowered, grown up, independent, happy, secure…

“Mom.” 12-year-old interrupted my glowing thoughts.

“What?” me.

“I want Tasterbach out of my room now.” 12-year-old.

“WHAT?! Why?” me and my 9-year-old together.

My two kids got along great, and are often inseparable. They demanded to be moved into one bedroom a few years ago, and shared a room very splendidly over the years.

“I want my own room now.” 12-year-old answered matter-of-factly.

Empowered, grown up, secure…flashing loudly in my head.

“Tasterbach. You will have to move back into your own room. She wants her privacy now.” me.

9-year-old began pouting and crossing of the arms to display her displeasure.

“I want a real desk in my room.” 12-year-old.

I suppose a 12-year-old can legitimately outgrow her toddler table set.

“That’s fine. We will get you a study desk for your room.” me, still empowering…

“Oh, I also want a TV in my room, and a soda machine.” 12-year-old.

Me blinking: this “empowering” business is going TOO FAR.

I commanded in my very loud voice, “There will be no soda machine in your room! And most definitely no TV in your bedroom!! ”

“Why most definitely no TV?” 12-year-old.

“BECAUSE!” I turned to give my 12-year-old the eye to eye, “If we put a TV in your room, we might never see you again. I like to see you from time to time.”

As soon as we arrived home, the newly empowered one lead my husband and I upstairs to assess how best to move my baby out of her room quickly.

Over the years, my baby’s bedroom had turned into a library/reading room and toy room. What made things worse is that the room had been assaulted by numerous science projects during the science fair season. There is currently a long florescent light structure hanging inside the closet.

There is going to be a day of declutter and clean up before we can move the baby’s bed back.

In the mean time, the baby was a pitiful mess laying on the sofa downstairs, depressed about being kicked out of her sister’s room all of sudden.

“Hey, I got an idea!” hubby blurted out excitedly.

“We can paint Tasterbach’s room.” hubby, “Then she will get excited and will want to move back to her old room.”

CRAB!!! Of course, the baby will want to paint her room.

I knew the idea would work , but I hated it anyway. This meant I will have to engage the three of them on round two of the battle of the paint colors.

I am not afraid of colors. But it has been established that the kids’ idea of wall paint colors is absolutely horrid.

On our last round of paint color war, we comprised on painting just one of their two bedrooms, and we settled on painting the room with a bright yellow sun, a light shade of blue, and wavy shades of green.

I also agreed to let them abuse one of the four walls with this honeycomb fantasy thing.

Both sides proclaimed this paint job a win.

Now I have outdone myself empowering the 12-year-old, got a new desk to buy, a new room to paint, and a huge paint color battle ahead.

I will be ruthless. I will not empower the 9-year-old.

Previous related post: The Mile Run
Father’s Day and a Project
Over the Years

“What is up with the way you dress these days?” I shot this question to my 12-year-old just as we sat down to dinner a couple nights ago.

“What do you mean?” she replied without looking up.

“I mean…” me, “By the way, where did you get those super tight skinny jeans?”

“Dad bought them for me.” the kid replied with a mischievous grin.

Hubby was working late as usual. I made a mental note to have a chat with him later, and will forbid him from buying clothes for the kids.

“Okay. Then explain this ridiculously small hot pink tank-top, that does not provide the necessary coverage to even call it clothing!” me.

“That’s why I wear a t-shirt inside of my tank-top.” 12-year-old.

“Exactly! You look like a demented teenager all of sudden.” me.

“And this purple strand of hair you got!” me.

“It’s FAKE!” 12-year-old.

“I know! But why?” me.

12-year-old got quiet.

My 9-year-old was watching us with great interest, while chewing on the dinner.

“Tell me why.” me, in my demanding tone.

“This group of girls at school always make fun of me. They tell me that I look stupid.” 12-year-old said with a sad kind of look.

“You don’t look stupid! I do all your shopping at Gymboree and GapKids.” me, seriously offended.

“Exactly.” 12-year-old said pointedly.

“Oh, you mean, the kids laugh at you because I send you to school wearing this purple tee with a giraffe across it, and the giraffe has these big googly eyes, and long eye lashes?” I said thoughtfully.

12-year-old nodded, “Let’s not forget the light blue colored polka dot capri shorts you think goes so well with this giraffe shirt.”

“Fine. No more Gymboree for you. They stop at age 12 anyway.” me.

“Tell me more about these girls at school. Do you know any of them?” me.

“I don’t know any of them. They are a group of 4 or 5 girls, all 8th graders. They like to tell me and a few other kids that we look stupid everyday after school. They are like the school fashion police. ” 12-year-old.

“Everyday! They make fun of you everyday?” me.

“Yes, everyday. They have been doing this for a long time now. Well, except most of the Fridays.” 12-year-old.

“Why not on Fridays?” me.

“Because on Fridays, they usually have detention after school.” 12-year-old.

“And how do these girls dress?” me.

“Well…” 12-year-old, “Actually, they are these kids that get cited a lot for clothing violations, and the school make them change into their PE clothes in the middle of the day.”

“……..” me.

“They like to wear very short skirts, and see-through tops.” 12-year-old, started to chuckle.

Ah, the peer pressure… I conducted many, many talk sessions with my kids to warn them against the threaded peer pressure.

“Didn’t I tell you?! That overwhelming majority of teens are morons. So, if you give in to their peer pressure, you will also become a moron!” me.

“You kids prefer to be smart, right?!” me.

Both kids were nodding energetically.

I was disappointed that my child had resorted to conform with these bullies’ fashion ideas.

Later that evening.

“Mom, we are really!” The kids shouted from upstairs. This means that they were set for bed, and were ready for me to kiss them good night. Yes, this 12-year-old still expected her mommy to tuck her in at night.

A quick idea popped into my head. I decided to entertain them with an one-person skit…

I stumped upstairs with deliberate loud steps, while screaming, “ MOMmmm….!!!”

I entered their bedroom, and found the kids staring back at me looking bewildered. Good. I got their attention.

“Mom! The kids at school are laughing at me. They said that I look stupid.” me, acting as if I were my 12-year-old.

I jumped around to play the role of myself next, looking awfully concerned, “What kids?! What do they look like?”

I jumped back to play my 12-year-old again, “ The kids who get clothing citations at school all the time. They wear short, short bottoms, and see-through tops.”

I jumped around to play myself again, “Oh great! We will get you some skinny jeans that will fit you like a pair of tights. And we will find you a spaghetti strap tank-top at least 3 sizes too small.” me, then clapping my hands and acting super excited, “Uh, then may be they will let you join them at their Friday detentions.”

The kids were floored by my performance, as they rolled on the bedroom carpet holding their stomachs laughing, in their totally adorable Gymboree pjs.

Related previous post: A Big Bad Discount
Teaching Green
Preparing the Kids for China
My Former Bully

I had been suffering from Bubble Pop addiction. It is one of the games that found its way onto my cell phone.

Admittedly, this is too silly a game to even warrant a description. But I was incredibly fond of it. Every waking idle moment, I found myself reaching for my phone to play Bubble Pop.

There was one other reason that I favored this game above others. This was the only game that I can consistently beat both of my kids at. Yes, they beat me at all other games. They would often hold up the phone proudly in my face showing off their enviable scores on that cursed Temple Run game. (Temple Run used to be my favorite).

Just the other day…

“Hey! Look at my High Score!” me, as soon as my 12-year-old got into the car after school.

“WOW! 624.” 12-year-old.

“Yeah. Didn’t you get a 152 yesterday after school?” me turning to the back seat to look at the kid.

12-year-old stared back at me shame-faced. I smiled, then added, “Even Tasterbach can get into the 300s.” I handed my phone to my 12-year-old, and proceeded to drive to my 9-year-old’s school.

We drove in silence.

“Mom. If I beat your high score. Will you buy me an ice cream sundae?” 12-year-old.

“We are talking about Bubble Pop, right?” me.

“Yes.” 12-year-old.

“Sure! I will buy you a huge banana split.” me, “It will be so delicious….ha, ha, ha…”

In a few minutes’ time…

“678.” 12-year-old.

“No way!” me.

“Really! Look!” the kid reached from the back, and showed me the score on the phone.

My jaw dropped.

“How do you do it! You barely EVER reach 300!” me, “UNBELIEVABLE!!!” I was screaming inside the car. The kid was laughing and cheering wildly. Adolescents are so obnoxious.

I took the kids to Baskin-Robbins to fulfill the promised reward.

The kids were eating and giggling uncontrollably, probably overdosing from the sugar high.

I fretted with my phone. Every now and then, I eyed these kids with a degree of contempt, as they ate the sundae. I was also very worried about ever beating the new high score of 678, and being dethroned for good from Bubble Pop.

“I LOVE Bubble Pop. Here, let me play it again.” 12-year-old.

I handed the phone over.

“You are insanely lucky! I can’t believe that you made me an impossible bet, and actually won.” me.

“Oh look. 1211.” 12-year-old, held the phone to my face again.

Speechless…

“I changed the settings on your game, mom.” 12-year-old.

“What settings?! There are settings on my game?” me. I have been playing it for months!

“Yes. I changed the setting, so I can get high scores very easily.” 12-year-old grinning.

The 9-year-old hurled out more laughter with two streaks of melting ice cream running down her chin. Not cute.

“Remember that time when I got 5 million points on Temple Run 1?” 12-year-old.

“Yeah, you showed it to everyone.” me.

“There was a bug in that game. I found a trick to play it where my little running person never had to die.” said the smarty pants.

“WHAT? Why didn’t you share that trick with me? I would love to play that game never having to die off.” me.

“They fixed that bug now. Can’t do it anymore.” 12-year-old, “But I can get you 1500 points on your bubble game!”.

I have since been cured of my Bubble Pop addiction.

Previous related post: Prove It!!
No More :Wish Upon a Star”
Kid Meets Real World
Preparing the Kids for China
Teaching Green

Are you still dealing with those Halloween candies at home?

We usually don’t have this problem. We have a Halloween Fairy.

What’s a Halloween Fairy, you might ask?

Well, we have this Halloween Fairy that comes every Halloween night. After the children are fast asleep, the Halloween fairy sweeps through our home, and takes all the kids’ Trick-or-Treat candies away. ALL of them! Totally ruthless.

The Halloween Fairy has terrorized our children for as long as they could remember,

leaving them with bad dreams, and dreading going to sleep every Oct 31st.

This year, the kids grew wiser. They hid their Halloween candies.

The poor Halloween Fairy left evidence that she had searched high and low and every corner of our house, but did not find the two big bags of candies.

The kids did leave all their Almond Joys out for the Halloween Fairy as a consolation prize. They hate Almond Joys.

When do kids outgrow Trick-or-Treating anyway….

Related previous posts: The world’s worst husband-to-wife Christmas gift EVER
Holiday Cheer
Our Turkey
The Spirit of Gift Giving

My newly minted middle schooler got into my car.

“How was the first day of school?” I turned and asked anxiously.

“GREAT!” came the loud and decisive answer.

I sighed a huge sigh of relief, having remembered how confusing and stressful the first day of a brand new middle school had been for me.

I drove off, leaving the chaos of the first day of school pick-up frenzy in the distance from my rear view mirror. I instantly felt calm.

“So, tell me about your new teachers.” me.

“I don’t know any of them that well yet. But they are ALL very strict!” 12-year-old.

“All of them?” me.

“All of them. They all spent the day giving us their rules. And they all have different rules! So I will have lots of rules to remember, and I will have to be sure to remember the correct rules with the correct teacher!” 12-year-old.

The kid seemed to have it all figured out! I thought to myself rather proudly.

“That’s okay. We are not afraid of strict teachers.” I threw in my encouragement.

“Both of your 5th and 6th grader teachers were very strict. They both were great teachers, and you loved them.” I added.

“But I DO have a problem.” 12-year-old said dramatically.

Uh-oh…..

“What’s that?” I looked into the rear view mirror.

“My backpack.” 12-year-old.

“The Zuca?” I asked.

We bought this beautiful and mighty Zuca backpack to help our child start the new middle school right. It cost us a small fortune too. What could be wrong?

“It is too big.” 12-year-old.

“That’s the whole idea! It is a large capacity backpack, so you can easily fit in all your school stuff, including your textbooks!” me defending the Zuca.

It is also on double-stacked big rollers, and one of its specialties is that it can even be rolled up and down the stairs.

“My Language Arts teacher requires us to put our backpacks under our chairs within 10 seconds. No backpacks are allowed anywhere else in the classroom, definitely not in the aisles. She said it is for safety reasons.” 12-year-old.

“The Zuca can’t fit under your chair?” me.

“It can. It is just very hard to get it in. It took me a whole minute to put it under my chair. I timed it myself.” 12-year-old.

“Did she complain about you?” me.

“No. She was at the door greeting new students when I was putting my backpack under the chair. But a minute is way longer than 10 seconds. I don’t want to make her upset everyday with my backpack.” 12-year-old.

“Humm…let’s give it a couple of days, and see if she really mean 10 seconds.” I wasn’t giving up on the Zuca just yet.

“No. This backpack is also not good for me during lunch.” 12-year-old grew adamantly against the new backpack.

“How does your backpack bother your lunch?!” me.

“In middle school, we have to carry our backpack with us everywhere we go. We can’t just leave it in the classroom all day like I used to in my old school anymore. So, I have to bring it to cafeteria.” 12-year-old.

“It came with huge wheels, you don’t have to CARRY it.” me.

“All the other kids carry their backpack on their backs, so they can carry their lunch trays with both hands. I had to carry my lunch tray with both hands, and still have to pull my backpack!” 12-year-old exclaimed.

I imagined my 12 year old balancing a lunch tray with hot food and cold drink, and struggling with the shining Zuca. My sympathy for this poor child was very mild.

Later in the day, I picked up my 4th grader from our elementary school. And I immediately asked, “Tasterbach! How would you like to swap backpacks with your sister?”

Tasterbach was grinning big. My baby was thrilled to have the big new Zuca.

On the second day of school, my 7th grader greeted me at our pick-up spot wearing the old backpack, and carrying some notebooks and binders using both hands.

“This backpack is too small. Every class requires its own notebook and binder. I can’t fit it all in.” 12-year-old.

So much for free hands to carry the lunch tray.

That night, we had a family discussion surrounding the backpacks.

“What’s wrong with this backpack? This is obviously the most ideal backpack of the three.” my husband pointed at an old dark gray and green backpack.

“Both of its pouches are broken.” I answered.

“Is that all?” hubby laughed.

“The side pouches are for snacks and water! Very important.” me, examining the gray and green backpack.

“Maybe you are too old for snacks now.” I thought out loud.

“NO!” both kids shouted back at my suggestion.

“You should use my old college backpack. It is huge. It is the best!!” hubby, as he run off to find his old treasure.

He came back with a very old blue backpack. An enormous old backpack. The kind that you can go overnight backpacking trips with.

“NO!” 12-year-old.

“Look! It can store all your things and more, and it has no rollers, so you should be able to easily squeeze it under your chair.” Hubby grew very excited for the prospect of putting his old college backpack back into commission.

“NO!” 12-year-old.

“But this is the best backpack ever! I love this backpack.” hubby shook both hands at it.

“NO!” 12-year-old.

“Why not? I bet you can’t even buy one like this anymore.” hubby began pleading like an used car salesman.

“It is too old.” I finally chimed in, “And too big!”

For now, we settled on the old gray and green backpack with the holed side pouches, and will go to a bag store over this weekend to find the backpack that is just right.

School started a week ago, and the backpack is the only matter that we had to fuss over. This school year is off to a great start.

Related post: Over the Years
A Grade School Graduation Party

Most days, I love my children to pieces. Not yesterday. Yesterday I wanted to wrap them both up and ship them back to the hospital where they came from!!!

Earlier yesterday, after a busy morning at AsianParent.com’s warehouse, I rushed to a local shopping center to buy lunch. I walked past a beauty salon and saw empty chairs. I desperately needed a haircut.

“Hi, how much to cut my hair?” I quickly stepped in and asked.

“Fifteen dollars,” one of the three stylists replied.

Instinctively I thought, so cheap!

Of course, I don’t spend the kind of fortune like John Edwards on hair cuts, but I was concerned about entrusting my precious hair with a $15 cut. I preferred a stylist who wanted to charge me at least $30. I am a strong believer in You Get What You Paid For.

Then, I thought, I have straight hair! How hard can it be to cut 3 or 4 inches off of straight hair.

“Okay, I like to get a haircut.” me.

I even splurged a little, and got my hair shampooed and washed for two dollars more. Sweet!

Then I spent most of my haircut session with my eyes closed. My stylist was stressing me out.

She was a nice woman who appeared to be in her 30’s. Her snips were cautious, much measured, and painfully slow.

Even worse, she constantly turned my chair, moved me up and down in the chair, and hovered herself all around me in clumsy positions.

Occasionally, I took my left arm out of the covering, and looked at my watch. I was supposed to eat lunch. But my stylist was eating up all my lunch time.

My eyes blinked open, when suddenly, I heard her say, “Excuse me!”. She then rushed to put down her scissor and brush in front of my mirror.

One of her fingers was bleeding!! She mumbled about needing a band-aid, and quickly disappeared into the back room, leaving me in my chair looking stunned.

“You get what you paid for!” was blinking in bright neon colors in my head.

A few minutes later, she returned. There was no a band-aid on her finger. Instead, her entire injured finger was wrapped in a large white medical cloth, tied together by strings.

“Hee, hee..the scissor is very sharp.” she said to me apologetically as she leaned over me to pick up her tools.

I was too polite to request another stylist, and decided to just suffer through the rest of my haircut. Plus I felt kind of sorry for her. She was just trying to make a living in a trade that she does not belong.

She was even more careful after that, and I was grateful. I even quit checking my watch to rush her.

Finally, she was done with me.

I handed her $25, and said to her, “I am sorry about your finger.”

She thanked me profusely out the door.

I will never go back there again.

I had to skip lunch, and immediately rushed to my children’s school to pick them up. I got there just in time, and were greeted by my baby’s happy little face.

“Oh, you cut your hair!” baby.

Feeling self-conscious about my hair, I summoned my kind motherly smile, and asked, “What do you think of my new hair?”

My 8-year-old examined me a bit, then blurted out, “You look creepy.”

CREEPY!!! No one has ever used the word “creepy” to describe my hair, not even on Halloween or during my teen years.

Then my 11-year-old appeared before us out of the crowd.

“Hey! What do you think of my new haircut?” I needed a second opinion.

My 11-year-old acknowledged my shorter hair, then declared, “You look weird. ”

Too bad my husband was out of the country on a business trip. I really missed him on a day like yesterday. He has been properly trained to say nice things about my hair.