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It is inevitable that you will become an underwear sniffer in an effort to do less laundry.

You will never be able to get your kids to actually put their clean and dirty clothes where they belong if they ever catch you doing the sniff test, because it is more fun to declare to everyone that Mommy is an underwear sniffer.

Daddy going out of town usually coincides with Breakfast for Dinner on the menu.

Mommy going out of town means McDonald’s is on the menu. For breakfast, lunch and dinner.

She who goes to bed with dishes in the sink wakes up with ants on the counter.

Baby wipes are surprisingly useful to take off make-up, get crayon art off the wall and wipe down a bathroom prior to an unexpected guest.

Shout stain remover is a gift from God.

There are no such things as friends and respecting the elderly when it comes to getting the front row at your child’s school play or talent show night.

No one ever learns to like Brussel sprouts or lima beans.

The first time your baby sleeps through the night you will wake in a panic that they didn’t wake you.

You are not a mother if you have never caught throw-up in your hands, wiped snot without a tissue or sniffed a baby’s bottom for poo-poo.

Clean it and the mess will follow.

There is no such thing as finished laundry.

Telling your kids that monsters sleep under your bed and not theirs is not bad parenting, it’s sleep preservation.

Kisses and boo-boos go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Air-bags were really invented by a mother to keep kids from fighting over the front seat.

The Disney Channel is a necessary evil.

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Just a few observations I’ve made in my brief mom career:

School “Picture Day” becomes a battle of looking cool vs. looking adorable after about 2^nd grade.

You’ll do well in life once you concede that Mom always wins.

The harder someone works on a homework assignment, the more likely you’ll find it left on the counter after dropping the kids off at school.

You can get a kid to do anything for a Slurpee.

Your child will decide to try out that inappropriate word or phrase at some point to impress your friends.

They will tell Daddy they learned it from you.

Freshly washed sheets seem to precede a sudden onset of bed wetting.

A booger picked is a booger eaten or at least wiped on your furniture.

Bad karma reveals itself in the group you get stuck chaperoning for the class field trip.

Jell-O or a fruit roll-up can represent a nutritious food group in a pinch.

At some point, your sweet, perfect child will be the kid that throws tanbark or dumps sand on another kid’s head at the park.

If you haven’t spent large chunks of time in every Target, grocery store, department store, Wal-Mart, Costco or Toys R Us bathroom, then you’ve never potty trained a toddler.

If you’ve never been peed on or had to intervene in a public urination, then you only have girl children.

If you don’t know who Zac and Vanessa are, can’t name a Jonas Brother, or don’t know the difference between Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus then you only have boy children.

Watching a sleeping child will make it all better again.

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It‘s my children’s favorite week at school this week. Mr. Bluestein comes to teach them folk dance and folk music appreciation.

For me personally, I can understand why an appreciation for the folk genre needs to be taught. But for my kids, they are in silly song heaven.

They begged me to let them get Mr. Bluestein’s self produced album “…for only $5 Mom!” and have been appreciating the heck out of an eclectic mix of folk songs since I bought it for them. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to me, but who am I to say to cultural enrichment, “Turn that nonsensical garbage down!”?

And yet, with my kids currently in school and I’m free to listen to my own preference of music, I’m still Polly Wolly Doodling around singing, “Turkey in the straw - Hay! Hay! Hay!”

Now I love a good rendition of “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain,” but my kids have keyed in on an original song by Mr. Bluestein and his mighty band of annoying song makers (Skillet Licorice) called “Haunted House.”

My kids looooove this song. But mainly the chorus that goes, “King Kong the gorilla playing ping pong with Godzilla.”  

I haaaaate this song. When I convince the kids to quit playing the inane tune for any excuse I can think of (time to clip the dog’s toenails!), they continue to sing the one line over and over falling all over themselves every time with uncontrolled glee.

“Isn’t that the funniest song, Mom?”

“Isn’t this a great song, Mom?”

“Don’t you just love this song, Mom?”

“You want to hear it again, Mom?

“Did your hear that, Mom? King Kong the gorilla is playing ping pong with Godzilla!”

Oh I heard it. And I am doomed to never forget it. Worst five bucks I’ve ever spent. But if you’re nine years old or under – Mr. Bluestein and his band are the second coming of the Beatles and Money Can Buy Them Love.

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If patience is a virtue, my general moral excellence has a big blemish on it.

At least I’m consistent. I’ve always been this way.

When I was little, I wanted to hurry up and grow up. I was told I was four going on thirty.

In second grade I finished three math books before the rest of the class finished one.

In junior high I got detention when I left class before the teacher excused us because I was done waiting for the rest of the class to be quiet.

I was the first in line at high school graduation and my last name started with an “S”.

The first semester of college I called my dad to cry about four years being too long to get a degree. I wanted to already have it and go start making big money already.

I felt I was very patient waiting for my husband to propose to me, but I did have a tendency to point out jewelry sales in the Sunday paper.

My husband believes the reason our son rolled over, crawled, walked, talked, and did everything early was because I put him through baby boot camp.

Unfortunately, if there is any patience to be found in my body, my daughter snatches it and smothers it, foreshadowing the teenager she will become if I don’t hurry up and learn how to do this patience thing.

But the worst was when I tried to commiserate with my friend, Maria Shriver, about the frustrations of becoming a published author and she admonished me like a naughty school girl with, “You have no choice but to be patient.”

Well, shoot. Why didn’t someone tell me this sooner? Maybe that’s been my problem all along! I thought patience was a choice and I just chose to stand in the line that was moving quicker. The one where you got on with life already.

I guess I already knew it, but Maria was just reminding me the journey in life is not to a final destination. The journey is the destination. So I just need to settle down and enjoy the journey.

(Exaggerated pause) Are we having fun yet?

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Many times I’ve caught myself being in a rush for my kids to grow up.

And I’m talking more philosophical than just not wanting to have to change diapers anymore. Although no one can be faulted for wanting a kid to hurry up and learn how to wipe their own butt.

More like, I thought toddler years would be easier than the demands of infancy. I thought grade school years would be easier than chasing around a toddler. Now I’m finding the grade school years aren’t any easier, they just present a different set of challenges.

Sometimes I’m anxious for my kids to mature so they’ll understand things with a wisdom that buffers them from frustrations of inexperience.

Or I see the seed of their potential and I become anxious to see them blossom into who they will one day become.

I find myself impatiently excited for them to experience all those wonderful firsts in life.

But when I see that my eight year old son can almost fit into my shoes and we’re shopping in the young men’s section; or my seven year old daughter is writing songs about heartbreak and first kisses; and their step stool for the sink shows the dust and cobwebs of decommission, I feel like I’m being penalized for my impatience.

A lesson in careful what you wish for.

It makes me say desperate prayers of penance that I’m in no rush for my kids to be the next Michael Phelps and first woman president.

But thank you Lord, for whizzing me through those days of sitting in the Target bathroom waiting for the tinkle in the toilet and poopie in the potty.

I always call my mom on my sister’s birthday. She would’ve been 32 this August.

As the years have passed, it has not been the anniversary of her death (eleven days before her 7^th birthday), but the anniversary of my sister’s birth that has given my mom the most trouble.

I never truly comprehended the sharpness of her sadness until I had my own children.

Now, with a clarity that came in the instant I first laid eyes on my children, I call to make sure Mom is doing okay. See if she needs an empathetic shoulder to lean on, this day she thought she would forever be celebrating the third wonderful addition to her family.

In this chapter of my life as a mother, when I try for a moment to turn the page and imagine walking in the footsteps of my mom’s journey, I can not do it. A wave of aching loss and horror forces me to retreat before I can even lift a toe to slip into her perennial shoes of grief and sorrow.

It causes me to check on my sleeping children without fail, every night, gazing at their angelic faces, memorizing every darling feature in case I, too, suddenly was denied the privilege.

It gave me nightmares and anxiety attacks when my own son was about to turn seven, fearful of a predestined expiration date, and what if seven year was all I got with him?

It makes me suddenly grab my seven year old daughter and hug her, kiss her, smell her, feel her and be grateful that she is still here with me by the grace of God.

It keeps me turning to God every night, thanking him for this day with my family in tact and for giving me, if not the promise, then the hope of tomorrow with us all still together.

It reminds me to call my own mother, especially on my sister’s birthday, to hold her hand as she walks her fated journey, one child less, but with two remaining children still grateful for her decision to continue living for them.

It also compels me to share my story (An August to Remember) and wish that no mother should have to experience such heartache to be reminded that tomorrow is not promised. Kiss your children today.

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I’ve been in training for the Mommy Olympics for nearly a decade. That is if you count my pregnancy where I started competing in Stretch-Marks for Distance.

I really think this is my year to shine – that I’m peaking at the right time. All the hard work, dedication, and sacrifice I’ve put into motherhood is worth it if I can stand atop that podium as the Mothers All Around champion, Hannah Montana’s Best of Both Worlds being played for me, and my family’s deep adoration and respect finally shining in their eyes as they say, “Wow! She really is the best in the world!”

Plus, as the gold medalist, I’m really hoping to snag some endorsement deals from Target, General Mills, and Shout stain remover.

So here’s what I’ll be competing in:

The Clean and Press. I can get up to 10 loads a day with pool towels thrown in. Pretty impressive with only two kids.

Floor Exercise. A true exercise in patience making a fifth lap around the house to pick up more signs of children discarded on the floor.

50 Meter Sprint. I’m a little rusty on this event since I haven’t had to chase down a naked toddler for a tub in awhile.

House Chores Decathlon. A pick up the house start. A fast lap of dusting before moving to vacuum, sweep and then mop. All during is the triple-wash: sort and wash, fold, then put-away. There’s the prep for dinner and with the execution of a meal. Next is the kitchen clean-up that includes unloading the dishwasher and reloading. Finally, the most challenging events, the bathroom scrub and shine. I like to start with the harder full bath and finish with the easier half-bath.

(Blatant endorsement pitch alert) Since I switched to Clorox wipes, I’ve really lowered my time in the bathroom cleaning events.  

Bedtime Triathlon. Get the kids bathed, in their pajamas with brushed teeth, drinks and potty completed, and in bed and asleep before your favorite prime time show starts. Again, one of my weaker events.

Grocery Shopping Marathon. A test of endurance. Both what the family will endure in left-overs and suspect meals vs. seeing how far you can stretch your food supplies before enduring going to the store with kids in tow.

The father’s version of this event is sending him to the store with kids and very little training and seeing how many groceries he will get on the list before giving up and coming home.

Table Tennis. Get one child to set the table. Get one child to clear the table. Get them to do it without volleying complaints, moans and groans back and forth.

Mother/Wife Balance Beam. Be the mother the kids need and the wife your husband needs all while looking good and making it look easy. Deductions for faking a headache or buying hot lunch instead of making a lunch.

It sure is a good thing these Mommy Olympics comes around every four years because I just can’t be expected to perform these events at peak performance every year.

I think I am going to have to start my training now though for the Teenager Tight Rope Walk, and the Put the Hammer Down in the next Mommy Olympics. The kids have already started helping to stretch my patience with annoyed sighs, exaggerated eye-rolls and huffs of, “Geez Mom, why do I have to do it?”

I plan on sweeping those events.

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When we last left our heroine, she was coming down the home stretch of an action packed summer with the kids. She could see the finish line – the first day of school – in her sights. Could she come out the reigning champion of these summer games?

But she was faltering. The kids were fighting, the house was filthy, she hadn’t unpacked from the last trip to the lake and she was flirting with spraying some Fabreeze on it all and calling it good for the next family outing. To top it off, she hadn’t bought a single back-to-school supply.

Yet, she promised herself she would make it. Come Monday, she could crawl back in bed after delivering her kids to school and sleep the day away. On Tuesday she could get a pedicure. On Wednesday she could see a movie. On Thursday she could traipse through the mall. On Friday she could be a lady who lunches. It was the least she could do for herself for a summer well done.

Now, if she could just get through this last event of an overbooked summer, she would accomplish something few stay-at-home moms ever achieved…not a single sigh of boredom for an entire summer vacation.

As the buzzer goes off at 7 a.m. this morning of the first day of school, we now know she made it! Most Smartest Mommy ITW (In the World) made it to the finish and has achieved golden glory of these summer games.

We’d get an inspirational quote from her, but she is indicating not to wake her until Thanksgiving vacation.

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Just call me the Michael Phelps of Summer Vacation 2008.

Today, I will stand atop the podium, victorious in my quest to conquer my grueling recreational schedule, and listen to my SAHM national anthem -- the sweet sound of silence and solitude courtesy of the San Juan Unified School District.

I came out the gates strong. My first event, a trip to Disneyland, was a cruise to the finish line.

With little recovery time, a week of British soccer camp was expertly orchestrated.

I hit a snag with a deflated air mattress for weekend guests, but surged ahead to success with a fun weekend of rafting and celebration.

The biggest test of the summer games, a 4^th of July/birthday party extravaganza, tired me, but did not beat me.

We had disaster strike – the loss of a teammate, Hammy the Hamster – but we vowed to forge ahead in her memory as she would have wanted us to.

And forge ahead we did with my daughter’s Buzzardball team, the Phoenix Mercury, coming from last seed to win the Buzzardball basketball camp championship.

And despite injury, a sprained ankle by my son in his Buzzardball camp, we still limped through the next week of Sac State soccer camp to score.

Then came the last and most grueling relay event – the four lake medley. Four different lakes. Four long weekends. The furthest 3 ½ hours away. All needing packing and unpacking. And yet, despite exhaustion, the magnitude of the undertaking, and the logistics involved – there was triumph.

Now, as I stand before you, basking in the glow of achieving such an insurmountable and unprecedented feat – over eight weeks of non-stop summer vacation recreational overload – I have just one thing to say.

Do I have no friends? Why did nobody stop me from such a ridiculously overbooked summer? Is there anyone I can blame this on and sue for emotional stress and permanent physical and psychological damages? Seriously.

I have been blessed with children, who besides having a high tolerance for left-overs, are pride bursting athletes.

First my son, then my daughter learned to ride a bike with no training wheels at three.

First my son, then my daughter happily rode their little legs off for miles next to a jogging mommy on the bike trail.

First my son, then my daughter showed early skills for everything soccer.

First my son, then my daughter took to baseball/softball like a duck to water.

First my son, then right on his heels, my daughter whooshed down ski slopes without fear.

First my son, then my daughter rode and jumped anything with wheels – bikes, scooters, roller skates/blades, electric scooters and motorcycles.

So, until recently, quick learner Whitney was content to follow in Logan’s extremely coordinated footsteps. She seemed pretty resigned that he was older and bigger and his strength and agility developing first would usually give him first shot at all new athletic opportunities.

But then a funny thing happened. Whitney didn’t have to wait to be big enough and old enough anymore and therefore didn’t have to wait in line behind Logan or just observe.

Add to the equation that she is a stubborn, motivated, fearless girl.

Then just add water.

First my daughter, then my son who was afraid to put his face in the water, swam like dolphins.

First my daughter, then my son who was a little nervous about the deep end, dove like Greg Louganis.

First my daughter, then my son who didn’t like water in his eyes or goggles, dove to the deep end to retrieve pool toys.

First my daughter tried water skiing and then immediately jumped to wake surfing instantly in love with a new sport.

And made even better because her brother could not, would not, nervously refused to try it.

As she rode laps around the lake beaming with accomplishment at something uniquely her own, Logan watching grudgingly impressed from the boat, I realized she was the second fiddle no more in her brother’s symphony.

And her daddy’s assessment of his daughter’s bursting forth in her own right on the water sports scene?

“Couldn’t she have excelled in a sport where she wouldn’t be wearing a bikini?”

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Sendith thou children back to the halls of knowledge and peace shall reign down upon thee. Mommy 51:50

My kids have been fighting like two cats in a bag. They are officially sick of each other.

The problem is they’ve been around each other way too much. The house of brotherly/sisterly love is on vacation. Gone are the days of a hearbreaking work of staggering preciousness when my children had a 7-hour school day to miss each other and were eager to play nice with each other.

And I am, in turn, about to lose my mind if I hear one more wail of injustice, one more screech of pain inflicted (physical, emotional or retaliatory), or one more shout of “Hey! That’s not fair!”

My children’s animosity toward each other has escalated to such a degree that the first words out of their mouths to each other when they wake up is a below the belt shot. The intensity of conflicts seems disproportionate to the petty reason for fighting in the first place. Many times, they don’t even know what they’re arguing about anymore.

In fact, it reminds me a lot of the War in the Middle East – which I believe I have a solution for peace.

Just send everyone back to school.

Until then, just put on a Full House DVD.

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Who knew a trip to the mall could be so therapeutic?

Actually, I did know that as a big fan of retail therapy. But I meant for an 8 year old boy.

We went from Logan’s “…worst day of my life” to “This is the best day of my life!” all in the span of a week. And all it took was a trip to the mall.

I, myself, was in absolute heaven after my own week of mommy heartbreak, since I purposely refrain from going to the mall because it just reminds me of all the oh-so-cute things I just have to have but don’t really need.

But what really left me floating in neon pink, green and orange is: The 80’s are back!

It was like someone put me in a time machine and I stepped out into 1985 Sunvalley Mall ready to shop for a pair of gray Dittos with pink pin stripes, matching LA Gear two-tone fold-down lace ups, a sleeveless hot pink button-down collared shirt with a fat silver studded belt cinched over it, matching dangly earrings with hearts on the ends, an arm full of jelly bracelets and cheap, bright, fat bead bracelets.

I knew I should’ve hung onto all that and my WHAM! posters! Something as fabulous as the 80’s was sure to come back again. Hmmm, it just might be time to pull out my hot pink prom dress with matching heels and banana clip from the attic.

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I arranged the last two weeks of summer camp so each of my kids would get some one-on-one time with mom. My son decided one of things he wanted to do together was get some more jelly bracelets a la 1980’s. And being the excellent shopper I am, I knew just the place to get him an armful collection – Claire’s accessory store.

So off to the mall we went – a mother/son shopping day.

Being a miniature replica of his father, I thought Logan would shop just like him. Head straight in for the “kill” and immediately retreat, satisfied the job was completed with no wasted time.

Now, the only time my kids go to the mall is for Christmas to tell Santa what they’d like or for my daughter, a Libby Lu birthday party. If there’s going to be a rare trip to the mall for the pure sport of shopping, this woman goes solo. Bringing the kids would be like an alcoholic showing up with a flask at an AA meeting. You’re not going to get to indulge your vice and you should’ve known better than to try.

Any how, on the way to Claire’s we passed a surf wear shop. Logan was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He browsed the trendy backpacks, checked out the hip neon colored skull shirts, and gawked at the storewide display of all things way cool. Like his mother before him, he never realized there were so many things he didn’t know he had to have till he arrived at the mall.

Store after store, his excitement grew -- a shoe store with more varieties of Chuck’s than he’d ever seen to his delight and amazement. A hat shop that blew his mind with its seemingly infinite selection. When I told him there were more surf and skate shops we could check out, he asked incredulously, “How many stores are there in this place?”

It was a great day of shopping. As Logan and I left the mall, three dozen multi-colored jelly bracelets on his arms, a “tight” hot pink skull shirt in his possession, and three stores he planned to visit again for back-to-school shopping, he declared, “This is the best day of my life!”

Only a week after losing his Hammy the hamster and declaring it the worst day of his life, it was music to this mother’s ears. Plus, I had just gained an unexpected partner for my retail therapy sessions.