Put the "F" in Frustration

Frustration is a bad word.

Just like a lot of the other "F" words I can think of.
Being thwarted at every turn can bring out the worst in even the best moms... and I've never claimed to be among that set.
One of the blogs I regularly read, "Mommy of a Monster" has a quote by Roseanne Barr (of all people) in the title, "If when my husband gets home, and the kids are still alive, I feel I've done my job."
And I guess I subscribe to that philosophy. I try to throw balanced nutrition, educational programming and even church into the mix, with varying degrees of success. I often tell my kids to "be good humans" and sometimes I'm impressed with how that is going. Often, I'm not.
I've had other mothers tell me, "I don't know how you do it. I would lose my mind if my kids (had that much energy, screamed that loud, wouldn't sit still, etc)" And I'm not sure how exactly to take that.

Yes, this is me

Isn't your children's behavior directly related to how good of a parent you are? If you're constantly driven bonkers by kids who wont listen, fight over toys and shriek in church... is that your fault?
And I'm not talking genetics. Not only was I an active child, but my husband's parents totally cut sugar out of his diet to curb his "hyperactiveness."
Is there something I'm doing or not doing that makes my kids so relentless in driving me nuts?
I read other blogs in which a mom drowns herself in guilt because "I yelled at my kids today." What the hell? I think I yell at my kids, not just every day, but several times a day. Whether it is because I just got whacked for the fifth time right on that sensitive part of my nose by a book or wooden puzzle, or because she's pulling his hair or he's putting his feet on her and making her emit this blood curdling scream that makes my brain ache.
All the time, I'm hollering at these kids.

I was making cookies yesterday. Homemade Paula Deen's peanut butter cookies... yum. But while I was nuts deep in butter and sugar, the shrieking began. "Leave her alone..." I droned from the kitchen, a warning tone in my voice. I walked around the corner and gave the Mommy Glare, the look that's supposed to strike cold terror in the hearts of misbehaving children.
They stopped, for a moment. Just long enough for me to get peanut butter cookie dough in a ball between my palms.

"Hey!" I barked sharply, and put my head around the corner again. "If you two don't want to spend the next few hours sitting in bed while I eat these cookies, you're going to stop right now!"
They stopped and went back to reading the I Spy book and watching Blue's Clues.
I was nearly done with the first tray of cookies, when I heard the same scream only muffled. (Which is NEVER a good sign) I look around the corner to see him pinning her face in the carpet by sitting on the back of her head. Oh, did I mention he doffed his big boy pants in order to accomplish this task?
"You! Get off of her this second!! OR NEITHER OF YOU WILL HAVE A SINGLE ONE OF THESE COOKIES!!!"

I hurriedly washed my hands and seperated the two of them. Kendyl immediately ran toward him, grabbing a handful of his hair. He starts screaming and crying like the demons of Hell are after him.
By the time I've opened her little hand, everyone is out of breath and crying.
I distract her with her new Princess and the Frog toy, and sit him back down with his book, finish up the cookies and decide that the living room is peaceful enough... I REALLY need a cigarette after all this.
I get about three drags into it and I hear a noise, nothing big, but I have developed Super-Mommy Ears that hear danger and mischief in it's many forms.
I go out there, just in time to catch Kendyl scaling the baby gate to the kitchen with her eyes on the 2nd batch of cookies, rich in raw eggs and salmonella poisoned goodness.

I know then that my plans for a smoke have failed, and I must not leave them unattended for a moment, no matter how happy and quietly absorbed in TV they appear.
I sit down with my book. There must be some kind of break I can take, as not to reach my Ultimate Boiling Point.
But thats when Kendyl smacks me in the face with her board puzzle, sits on my open book and demands I tell her the names of all the shapes over and over until my brain bleeds.
This has GOT to be my fault. Some terrible failing in me as a parent. Not everyone's kids can be this relentless, people would seriously not have kids anymore.
But then, at the end of the day, everyone's bathed, the cookie crumbs are no where to be seen and both the kids are fuzzy and adorable in their footie pajamas, Kendyl curls up in my lap and puts her head on my shoulder and her fingers in her mouth. Sometimes she pats my back or my cheek, like I do when I'm trying to comfort her.
And later in the night, Tyler climbs into my bed and lets me curl around him and hug, like he would never let me do during the daytime... it becomes all worth it.
When I sneak Tyler a cookie without his sister seeing, and he gets her attention, breaks his cookie in half and gives it to her... it's totally worth it.
When we lay him down first, right before she goes to bed, like we always do, and she leans over to give him a goodnight kiss... it's worth it a thousand times over.
I don't know if I'm doing any kind of a good job by these kids. But I try. And honestly, I've met some awesome grown people who had the world's shittiest parents... so maybe these kids have a chance in spite of my ineptitude.

Greased Pigs in Sunday Dress

Written in response to All.Things.Fadra's Stream of Consciousness Sunday. Absolute awesomeness in a 5 minute package.

 

 Going to church with my little heathens is absolute hell. 

Someone once said (I don't know who, and am not going to take the time to find out) "Having children is God's punishment for enjoying sex." Well, God likes to punish in his own house.

I'm not lucky enough to go to one of those "Hallelujah, praise the Lord!" shouting-and-falling-down-in-the-aisles churches. If I did, they would fit right in.

My church is a quiet, solemn affair. A reverent, sit down and sing quiet hymns while smart, religious people give talks on how to be a good church going person.

Of course, the silent reverence is often broken by the shrieks of my 20 month old as my 3 year old tries to wrestle a toy from her grasp.

People have said, "You're so strict with your kids." and I know I'm a "helicopter parent" (I'm visiting Free-Range Parenting to try to fix that. But you don't know my kids. 

If I let them be for 2 seconds, they would be going through your purse and taking off with your wallet.

So, seriously I haven't heard a single thing said in church for the last 3 years. 

Makes me wonder why we even try.

Look at Me, I Can Pee!

We are potty training.
So far we're pretty successful. He does all but his early morning and middle of the night pees in the big boy potty. We pooped on the floor yesterday. (Well, we didn't, he did.) And we still haven't had a toilet poop.
I'm reconsidering the whole "giving treats for peepees" thing. I seriously think he's rationing his peepee for maximum treat output. I've stopped giving them except for "big peepees" that he's "saved up." He's still visiting the big boy potty every 3 minutes.

I have no idea if I'm doing this right. The potty training fairy never left me a "big peepee" manual under my pillow when my son came of age.
Kendyl is starting to try. Nothing has come out, but she looks cute sitting there.

So Tyler is zinging around the house during Kendyl's nap, all hopped up on candy. For some inexplicable reason, my hubby gave him an extra candy... just for looking like him I suppose. But shouldn't that be my candy? It's my fault that the kids look like my husband. You know, monogamy and all that jazz.
How long exactly is this potty training thing supposed to last? I don't see teenagers being praised and given candy every time they make it to the toilet. It's starting to get exhausting. I haven't gone to the bathroom this often since I was 10 1/2 months pregnant and my baby's favorite spot was resting on my bladder, when he wasn't pushing on my diaphram that is. (The body part, not the birth control)
My attention span is seriously that of a baby raccoon in a tin foil dumping ground. I'm trying to make heads or tails of Wordpress (I like the professional looks of their blogs and might move us all over there) and I just can not concentrate when I have to go supervise Gogo the Sprinkler-Boy every 10 seconds.
Well, I'd better go.
As they say, duty calls. (And I need to open up a new bag of Skittles)

I'm Thankful Thanksgiving is Over

I still have a turkey in my freezer.

There's a good side to being poor. People do eventually give you things. I kind of wish it was a 10pk of underwear and some socks without holes, but a turkey will do.
I'm sure we'll eat it later this week. Everyone else got to fill up on turkey... I got to chase my children around a beautiful, expensive house that was filled with breakables. Not to mention explain to toddlers that the cranberry sauce was not bloody poison.
I love my aunt. She's beautiful, graceful, and is doing all the awesome, rich people shit that I would have done had I not decided to use my body as a blonde-breeding program and become painfully poor.
But eating at her house for Thanksgiving with my two tornadoes was absolute hell.

Even in her backyard, where we banished ourselves for most of the time, was filled with fancy backyard ornaments, pottery and glass, all precariously balanced on more pottery and glass. There were tablecloths and exquisite centerpieces, and large dogs that were penned up half the time, and the other half of the time, really unsure about all of these people in their territory.. especially these little shrieking people who were uber-ly thrilled to see dogs for the first time since we moved to an apartment from our 3 bedroom house that was filled to the brim with dogs.
But this post isn't about how hellish my Thanksgiving was... or how self satisfied I was that there wasn't enough turkey to go around and someone forgot the gravy. (Or that my stuffing was the Belle of the Ball) Nevermind that my poor white-trash ass would have had enough for everyone, and lovely fattening gravy covering everything in sight, including the dogs.

It's about being thankful. Snarky... but thankful.
I complain a lot. I really do mean a lot. I'm hoping that my wry sarcastic wit comes through, and you don't all just see me as a rabid complainer... this is how I vent. I make dry, sarcastic remarks about everything, and presto... I feel better.
I'm like an EMT, you know all they do is joke all day about dead bodies and people shitting themselves, just to have strength to make it through all the gore they get to witness... no one busts their balls for wanting coffee I.V.s, they're saving lives. But I digress.
I have a great life. I'm poor as a church mouse, my kids are the devil incarnate, my husband doesn't understand why I need to be on the computer ever single moment of naptime, I don't have a car, I'm cutting my electricity bill short to get my kids Christmas presents... but I am grateful! Really, really grateful for my life.

For those of you who don't know, I used to be homeless. I'm not talking spending a few weeks on a friend's couch while I'm in between apartments... I'm talking homeless.
Sleeping behind a bush, panhandling for change, building desert forts out of boxsprings and abandoned plywood... homeless. The people you see at the turnpikes, who haven't taken a shower in months, who drink beer out of paper bags with the shaggy beards... that kind of homeless. (All except for the shaggy beard... and the beer, I hate beer.) For 5 years.
I met my husband while we were homeless. We got a van (thanks dad) then we got a hotel, then we got an apartment, then we got a house. (then we downgraded back to an apartment, but that's a different part of the story) We both worked menial jobs, that I wish to God we could still have, and we worked our way past adversity to where we are now.... or where we were a couple years before the economy fell to hell.

Being homeless is an easy life to stay in. All you have to worry about is your day to day living.
Getting out of being homeless, especially as you feel yourself growing older, and knowing you don't want to end your life as one of those burnt out old bag ladies who can't even whore anymore on even the seedy streets...that's the rough thing.
But there we were, we made it up there, a middle class working family. And as soon as the jobs come back, we can do it again. Our past experience has shown us that. Maybe that's why we're going through this right now.
We thought we were so poor, we both had jobs and could afford a Playstation 3 for Christmas the year Tyler was born... now we're forgoing Christmas for us grownups and taking money from other bills to make sure our kids don't suffer this year.
But look how far we've come! There wouldn't be any kids or Christmas if we were still living in a van... or sleeping under a bush at our camp behind Palm Desert Target. So I am grateful! Every freakin' day. We have food to eat, we are never hungry, my kids own shoes, I even have a damn cigarette in my mouth, and a factory rolled one too. All these things are cause to celebrate!
We live in the greatest country in the world, where the only people who go to bed hungry are people who are too dumb or lazy to go out and get what is offered, or people who live in such a remote area that services are few and far between. (Or the kids of those people... don't nitpick.)
People in other parts of the world are starving to death. They don't know if militia men are going to break down their door at night and kill them in their beds. They don't know how many babies that they bear are going to live to their first birthday!

And I worry about if my kids are going to suffer because we can't afford the same great toys that the spoiled brats down the block can get. I complain because the computer I got for free takes too long to load because it's a damn Millenium Edition. My husband complains because the free turkey we got on Wednesday, he had to walk four miles for.
As the awesome Mr. Lady will sometimes say.. #firstworldproblems.







We are blessed, people. We are blessed. And we have a lot to be thankful for. Maybe if we just remember that for a moment...

Giving Thanks

So, Turkey Day has rolled around again. And Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop happens to be on Thanksgiving this year. (Funny how that happens, being how they both always fall on a Thursday.)
The prompts all have to do about Thanksgiving, except for one about falling down... I think I might just generalize.
I thought it would be fun to interview my kids about Thanksgiving. It didn't last very long, so, I'm not sure if that would make my full post.

This afternoon, I asked my 3 year old what Thanksgiving was. And he said something that resembled "turkey." I was thrilled, and surprised, since everything he learns now comes from Dino Dan, I had no idea he had even the slightest inkling what the hell I was talking about.
So I happily say, "That's right, Bud. Turkey. We are going to eat some turkey." Thinking possibly that I've done my job as a parent correctly, or that last year had left some kind of impression, or maybe I can now cancel our visit to the neurologist, but then he corrects me (he's been getting good at that lately)
"No, Mom, cookie."
Oh, that sucks. "Sorry, Bud. We don't have any cookies."
"Cooookie!" he says again in that obnoxious, throaty, weirdo voice he gets when he knows he's not going to get what he's asking for.
So I try again. "We're going to eat some turkey tomorrow, with our whole family!" You can hear the forced enthusiasm in my voice. I wonder if you can also hear my thoughts. Like, "Great, I'm really looking forward to chasing you and your sister through the exquisitely decorated home of my most snobbish, overprivilaged, childless aunt... for SEVERAL HOURS!"
Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the fact we'd moved away from the cookie conversation, but Tyler altered his voice to the even deeper, throatier weirdo voice, "No TURKEY!"
"But Bud!" I don't even know why I'm continuing this, when obviously it's pointless. "Turkey is like chicken, only bigger!"
He starts to squirm, "No turkey, no CHICKEN!"
I give up, I begin to tickle him. "A turkey is a chicken that's as big as your whole body!" I give him one of those hugs that he hates so much, where he can only flail his skinny arms and legs impotently against the all enveloping Momma-hug. "A big Tyler chicken... yum.. yum...YUM!"
I let him go, and off he went, laughing like a maniac. At least he'd forgotten that he had been asking for cookies.

                                                     

Then, I asked his sister, and she said, "EAT!"
Hey, it's her favorite word right now.. and she's 20 months old, she yells everything. I thought it was pretty apt.
That was the best interview answer I'd gotten. What else would a baby in the 95th percentile say?



This Thanksgiving is going to be different. Very different than any I have ever known.
Every year since I was born, we have done the same exact thing. We go to my Grandma and Grandpa's house.
The womenfolk, usually my Grandma, though the other women pitched in... and more and more as the years went by, the women were in the kitchen.
The men, after eating yucky oysters out of the can, would retire to the living room to watch the game, or stand in the backyard, talking. Any caught in the dining room or kitchen were put to work pouring limeade or setting up tables.
Kids ran rampant, virtually unchecked by anyone. The rules were simple and rarely broken, don't go into Grandma and Granpa's room (boring anyways) and don't mess with the sitting room, especially not the alpaca rug. That rule may have been broken by each of us kids, but only once.

Then, dinner was served, super early in the day... like 2 or 3 o'clock. A feast, always set like a buffet on a long table outside. We served ourselves, and only the old people ate the green pistachio jello pudding stuff.
After we ate, the men would either sit and watch the game, or head with the rest of us down to the park to play football. All our mettle was tested, young and old were invited... and SOMEONE always threw out a knee. In the early years it was always my dad or an uncle, lately it's been my cousins. I guess that means we've grown up. We still don't eat the pistachio pudding.

We'd all return to the house, worn out and red-faced. And then it was pie time.
After that, we'd hold Christmas at Thanksgiving, because we didn't see this side of our family again this year. We'd sit in a circle, and youngest to oldest say what we were thankful for.
I don't think I ever realized how much this all meant to me. I do now.
Last year, my Grandpa died. I lived with him and my Grandma for about 6 weeks, first to care for my Grandma after her stroke (Grandpa had had one years ago, and my Grandma cared for him) and later to care for my Grandpa while he was dying.
I took along my infant daughter, and left Tyler to have Daddy-time. I only came home for a few hours, and only twice... the second time, my Grandpa died while I was gone.
We had our last Thanksgiving shortly after that.
As we prepare to go to my Aunt's house (on the other side of my family) for the first Thanksgiving I've ever had not at my Grandparents' house... I miss my Grandparents so much more... and the loveliness that once was Thanksgiving.
I'm going to take this stuffing that I've prepared for 3 days straight, try to keep my kids from touching her expensive things, and put on my best face.
But I miss Thanksgiving.

Amnesty Please

I'm totally turning my kids in. They are in violation of the Geneva Convention's laws against torture.

 

Torture is widely defined by Wikapedia. It includes (but is not limited to) sleep deprivation torture, deprivation of food, comfort and contact with the outside world via corespondence.

And I have decided, since I've been up since 2:30 this morning, haven't eaten anything but scraps left behind by my kids, and haven't been able to sit at this computer for longer than it takes to tweet disjointed thoughts and funny accusations of pregnancy to my bloggy-buddies; that my children are in violation of the third and fourth Geneva Convention, and somebody should probably call Amnesty International.

 Ok, ok... now don't get your panties in a bunch. I realize that thousands of people actually get tortured every year. It's a terrible thing, and people with taste and class don't joke about terrible things.

Too bad, I'm not one of those people. Plus, I got 3 hours of sleep last night. 

So right in the midst of getting new followers, and being told by people I respect that I write well... I haven't turned out anything decent in well over a week.

Maybe my brain will start working and I'll write something better later. 

Let's Give This a Shot

This post is written in response to All Things Fadra's Stream of Consciousness Sunday.
The rules are, no editing, I think no spellcheck (thank you for paying attention in English, people) and the time starts running for 5 minutes.
I'm not going to start my 5 until I place the button and link it. With my computer, that would be that... and I want to write.

 

So without further ado, take the cigarette out of my mouth and start the clock.

Kendyl woke me at 3am this morning. She has a stuffy nose and I can only guess that this is what is making her wake so early and so often. She was being calm (meaning not climbing over the baby gate into the kitchen every time I turn my back) so I decided it was computer time.

Of course I checked out the 2 new followers I have on Twitter. Usually it's spammers. (which I don't understand, they don't spam me, they just sit there, being spammers) Today, I noticed, someone had a quote about Freidrich Nietzche (sp?) (like I said, I've been up since 3am) It wasn't a Nietzche quote, just a quote about him... I forget it now.

I was bored and moved on from there, checking my Facebook... I guess it really IS stream of consciousness sunday.. because I decided to post something about my thoughts on Nietzche. Lovely, right?

Something along the line of "I used to respect the teachings of Nietzche, until I grew up and realized he had a shitty life that directly reflected the way he viewed life, and died alone, mad and suffering from syphillis.

Note to self, don't put anything about Friedrich Nietzche on Facebook. People wont even comment with a "what? why are you posting this weird garbage at 330am?" They will just think you are weird and overthink everything.

And that was my 5 minutes.

God, that isn't very long at all.

Am I allowed to spend extra time posting a picture?

And going back (but not editing... against the rules.. tsk tsk) I misspelled Neitzsche 5 times in 5 minutes. Yay, another win for the slightly educated.

Just a Mommy-Blogger

There was a time, when I thought I was going to change the world.
Actually my whole class of G.A.T.E. (Gifted And Talented Education) students were a particularly promising group. The closest thing that a public school has to being groomed for success.

Many went to college, many more got caught up in working their way up the corporate ladder to get stuck in middle management. Some ruined their lives with drugs and parties, some got pregnant right out of high school. Some settled on jobs that were good jobs but not quite their dreams... actually, I'd have to say "most" for that one.

So, my coddled, gifted, groomed for success class, pretty much turned out like everyone else in the world.
And here I am. "Just" a stay at home mom, documenting my days on a "silly old mommy blog."

Her Bad Mother on a recent post, first rejected the title and then embraced it. One of the comments written in response talked about Mommy-Blogging as not just an inane rambling about potty training and binkies, but as a running commentary on "the art of being a woman."
I loved that.
The art of being a woman.

You know, "old feminism" is going out the door. Women are realizing that real feminism isn't doing the same things that a man does just as well. You know the phrase, "A woman has to work twice as hard as a man to be thought of as half as good."

No.
Women are realizing that we need to recognize our value is in BEING WOMEN. Not as being reasonable facsimiles of men. Ok, yes. We can be construction workers, fishermen and even *gasp* The President of the United States. (almost)

But that is, in my opinion, putting more value on the stereotypical role of men in our society. It's downgrading being a woman, being feminine, and most importantly of all... being a MOTHER.
If you have ever been asked, "Aren't you unsatisfied at being *just* a mom?" or "Didn't you want to do more with your life?" maybe you felt just a little bit offended.
I mean, this is a HARD job. It takes all of your wits, your intelligence, your energy, your creativity... and there is no clocking out at quitting time. Why do you think all intelligent people revere their mothers? Why do you think, when someone famous wins some kind of award... the most special thanks, goes to his or her mom?
I mean, they're only moms, right?

I'm not going to go on and on about how hard our job is. We've heard it all before, and that's not what I'm writing about right here.

The job we are doing is important. This is a significant task, just being a mom. Notice the decline of society (do I need to cite examples? Because I will if pressed, but I'm kinda on a roll here) directly corresponds with the loss of the two parent family and the disappearance of the stay at home mom.
Now. I am not downing working mothers. Get that one thing clear. I admire you, I'm going to be you when I get my schooling done. You are doing marvelous things and don't ever feel guilty for not being a stay at home mom... whether it be by choice or neccesity. Your sacrifices and courage should put you on a pedestal.
But that's not what I'm talking about.

Stay at home moms! I call to you! Your value is there, it is real! The job you do with your children is the most important one there is. Denying that is denying the validity of your femininity. Nature deems that we are the ones that bear and nurture children. Why would we shit on the grave of the world by saying that that isn't enough? That we are not valid? That the job that we endure is not as important as computer programming or nursing or being President of the United States?

Our job is to make new people, and show them how to be people. To nurture and feed and protect and humor and teach and facilitate and discipline and know these children better than we know ourselves. And if one of those children grows up to be the damn president, and another grows to be "just a mom," we should know, KNOW in our heart and our society that one is just as good as the other. One is just as valid and important and needed in this world as another.
To deny that is denying forever and always that being a female ("typical" or not) is not as important and valid as being a male.

And you know what? I'm a female, a mother... mommy if you will, and I blog. I blog (obviously) about social issues, about the lovely-ness of food, the community of social networking, the crappy-ness of the current economy... and YES, I blog about the most important part of my tiny, insignificant life... being a mom!
I'm a mommy blogger, and I'm proud.
Because it's just as valid as being the President.

Why I Drink Coffee

I wish this was a righteous post about why I don't drink coffee... I shouldn't drink coffee, I'm a Mormon. I'm a really bad Mormon, but all the same.

Me being a terrible Mormon aside, I drink coffee. Not a lot... I like it sugary and pale, and all those extras make my tummy sick if I drink so much. But I need it... NEED it to make it through my day.
And my reasons are:
1) I am not a morning person, I've never been one. Of course that meant I never got to watch G.I. Joe in the mornings before school, and my brother always got first dibs on the cereal. It takes me a good little while to get my eyes and head unblurry.

2) The reasons I need to unblurry in a hurry (hehe) The kids are off and running, long before I want them to be. And if my eyelids still feel like they are sticking together, I might not be able to catch my pyrex as it comes flying out of my cupboard.
3) Anything that will improve my responses to statements and questions my toddlers make, is a-ok in my book. Am I stimulating their minds when I say, "Uh-huh, that's nice." ? Even if it is in response to Dino Dan discovering a spinosaurus. Yay participation.

4) Children's television has hidden grown-up humor. I'm not talking sex jokes, I'm talking things that you will find funny, that are obviously over your preschooler's head and are therefore placed there for your (the parent's) amusement. You cannot fully appreciate these things if you are sitting there in a semi-coma, thinking, "This really sucks."
5) I can't make bacon and eggs to fatten up the skinniness if I'm falling asleep in the kitchen.
6) It makes me feel like a grownup. Grownups drink coffee, I drink coffee, therefore, I'm not faking the grownup thing.

7) It might, eventually, give me the motivation to clean something... maybe... if I drink enough.
8) My kids remind me if I don't. Seriously. They say, "Mom.Mom.Mom. Coffee." I guess they know how much I need it too.
9) It's sooooo warm and tasty... sooooo tasty... mmmm.
10) Do YOU really want to see me without coffee?

My Son is Gay.... or Not

Not really because he's crossdressing, at least, not any more than usual. Because of this crap.
I honestly thought it was going to be years before I had to listen to crappy, upbeat pop music. And really, I thought it was going to come from Kendyl.
Turns out, I didn't have to wait for her tween years to have this crap inflicted upon my pop-music despising self....
Have you ever met
THESE GUYS?

Oh, my God. Kill me now.
And he's obsessed. We don't even watch Blue's Clues anymore... 40 episodes on the DVR, I was about to buy the DVD collection, and he's on to the next thing.
Honestly, I thought the next thing would be Dora or something. At least there's an alternative, he's also all of a sudden into Dino Dan... the problem with that is that Kendyl hates Dino Dan, so during her waking hours it's Fresh Beat all the way.
They, The Fresh Beat Band, like all bubblegum pop music, have a catchy tune and easy lyrics. I find myself singing the songs to myself in the kitchen while making our dinner, long after the kids have gone to bed and my ears are no longer being assaulted.
Now, isn't there supposed to be a logical progression from Sesame Street to something else cutesy and educational and then finally to brain numbing garbage?
As far as I can tell, the only educational merits of this show are music appreciation and working together as a team to solve a problem. So, Wonder Pets started a band... ok.
It's really as obnoxious as one might think the Wonder Pets starting up a pop band might be.
He even knows all of their names.

Marina, in a perfect society would be the leader, she's definitely the smartest. I think she would make a good mom because she seems to have infinite patience for her friends who are well below her intelligence level. She plays the drums, well, one of those pastel colored electric deals that have replaced drums. Her favorite color is baby blue.

Shout is the token black guy. He plays the keyboards. Would it be a big, "duh" if I described him as excitable and exuberant (as if anyone on this show could be anything different?) Well, he's the excitable one. Take that as you will. And just by the way, has anyone EVER seen a black guy on keyboards? Oh, and his color is obnoxious orange.

Kiki is Tyler's favorite, because that's what he calls his stuffed monkey. She's a sucker for biting off more than she can chew. Her color is pink and she plays guitar. I've looked at her fingers and I think she's actually playing it. She's still annoying.

You know, always pick on the white guy. Twist is an idiot. Ok, realize that with this cast, that is saying A LOT. He is the DJ, he spins the records and all that. Actually, there's very little record spinning... which makes me wonder what his actual purpose is. To make the rest of them look smart? I guess Nickelodeon thought it would be racist to cast the black guy as the DJ. Oh yeah, Twist always wears yellow.

So these kids live on a block? In a neighborhood? All I know is that their world is garishly colored and they subsist on mainly smoothies that are the same disgusting pastel color as their world. Come to think of it... I think thats what the Puke News Kid on Tosh.0 ate for breakfast that morning.

Maybe he puked because he was watching The Fresh Beat Band. Or more believable, maybe the smoothies are laced with crack and he had a bad drug reaction. That could be a good reason why the Fresh Beats are so chipper all the time.
I'm warning every one not to get into this. It will make your brain bleed. Maybe put it on your V-chip as porn. It's about as educational. I mean, porn teaches music appreciation and working together as a team, right?