“Get away from me! You stink,” the eleven-year-old boy yells at his three-year-old brother.
“Smell my butt. Smell my butt. Smell my butt,” the three-year-old screams while chasing his big brother.
“Mom, change him!” demands the older boy, who is now considered by the school district to be gifted and talented but did not use the toilet successfully until he was four years and three months old.
“Are you poopy?” the mother asks the younger boy.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to use the potty today?”
“No.”
“Big boys use the potty. Are you going to use the potty?”
“Let me think about it,”
Silence.
“Still no.”
“Well, we are going to try today and you can get a treat for just trying.”
“Don’t care.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re all clean. Go play.”
“Now do you want to smell my butt?”
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Pre-Teen Communication Dilemma
"I hate my life," said the eleven-year-old boy.
"Why?" I questioned.
"I can't call my friends."
"Sure, you can. Use the phone in the kitchen."
"No one talks on home phones anymore."
"What do you your friends talk on?"
"Their cells, of course. I am the only one without a cell phone."
"Just like you are the only one without bottled water."
"Yes."
"Here's idea for you. You can do what I did as a kid. Go outside, walk to your friends' houses and knock on their doors."
"No, I just need a phone. When can I get one?"
"After you get a job and start paying for your own bottled water."
"Why?" I questioned.
"I can't call my friends."
"Sure, you can. Use the phone in the kitchen."
"No one talks on home phones anymore."
"What do you your friends talk on?"
"Their cells, of course. I am the only one without a cell phone."
"Just like you are the only one without bottled water."
"Yes."
"Here's idea for you. You can do what I did as a kid. Go outside, walk to your friends' houses and knock on their doors."
"No, I just need a phone. When can I get one?"
"After you get a job and start paying for your own bottled water."
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Leak and the Book
“…You just met one of the foremost liver surgeons in the world, a pioneer of liver transplants.”
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Stone.”
Awww yes, the father appears. Does Thomas know that he was just in the same operating room with one of his twins? What will happen when they….
“Mom, my teeth hurt.”
Repeat of teeth brushing, Anbesol for kids and chewable Tylenol, bed, and sleep.
“….Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face. Although it was summer, she wore a long wool coat tied tight around the waist, and she hugged herself as if she were cold. She stood there motionless, like a small animal caught invading the territory of a predator, paralyzed and unable to move.”
Damn. She is alive. I thought that bitch died when she hijacked the plane. That is one long lost love that should have stayed lost. Why doesn’t someone tell him that she just isn’t into him? What a ho. Not worth his time. He needs to…
“Mom, the ceiling is leaking,” said the eleven-year-old boy.
“Put a bucket underneath it and I’ll deal with it in about 170 pages,” I said without ever averting my eyes from the book.
“Mom, the ceiling is going to crash down and flood our whole house. The water is gushing out,” he insisted.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes! Put your book and go downstairs!” he said.
Even with the enormous fissure and the threat of the ceiling caving, all I could think about was how a crack spewing water was such a small problem compared to the impending threat of Tuberculosis from a guerrilla solider who screwed almost all of the Eritrean army.
But then reality hit and the immediacy of flash flooding in my basement overshadowed the love affair between the terrorist whore and the brilliant surgeon.
Book closed. Leak stopped. The cuckold waited between the pages while I managed the repairman; fixed breakfast; made an appearance at my favorite non-profit’s open house to help recruit new members; witnessed kindergarten Show and Tell and drove the kids to chess practice.
Then, finally when all things and people were calm, the book remained open until all characters were rendered silent, and I deeply felt their absence.
Author’s Note: If you want to know what marvel of a novel nearly caused me to allow my house to flood, check back on Thursday, January 27 for my full review of the enchanting, mesmerizing, and magnificent novel that is the same caliber of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Middlemarch by George Eliot.
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Stone.”
Awww yes, the father appears. Does Thomas know that he was just in the same operating room with one of his twins? What will happen when they….
“Mom, my teeth hurt.”
Repeat of teeth brushing, Anbesol for kids and chewable Tylenol, bed, and sleep.
“….Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face. Although it was summer, she wore a long wool coat tied tight around the waist, and she hugged herself as if she were cold. She stood there motionless, like a small animal caught invading the territory of a predator, paralyzed and unable to move.”
Damn. She is alive. I thought that bitch died when she hijacked the plane. That is one long lost love that should have stayed lost. Why doesn’t someone tell him that she just isn’t into him? What a ho. Not worth his time. He needs to…
“Mom, the ceiling is leaking,” said the eleven-year-old boy.
“Put a bucket underneath it and I’ll deal with it in about 170 pages,” I said without ever averting my eyes from the book.
“Mom, the ceiling is going to crash down and flood our whole house. The water is gushing out,” he insisted.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes! Put your book and go downstairs!” he said.
Even with the enormous fissure and the threat of the ceiling caving, all I could think about was how a crack spewing water was such a small problem compared to the impending threat of Tuberculosis from a guerrilla solider who screwed almost all of the Eritrean army.
But then reality hit and the immediacy of flash flooding in my basement overshadowed the love affair between the terrorist whore and the brilliant surgeon.
Book closed. Leak stopped. The cuckold waited between the pages while I managed the repairman; fixed breakfast; made an appearance at my favorite non-profit’s open house to help recruit new members; witnessed kindergarten Show and Tell and drove the kids to chess practice.
Then, finally when all things and people were calm, the book remained open until all characters were rendered silent, and I deeply felt their absence.
Author’s Note: If you want to know what marvel of a novel nearly caused me to allow my house to flood, check back on Thursday, January 27 for my full review of the enchanting, mesmerizing, and magnificent novel that is the same caliber of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Middlemarch by George Eliot.
Monday, December 20, 2010
On Decorating the Christmas Tree
“We are going to decorate the tree,” said the mother who lugged the tree across the room on the Nineteenth of December.
“We can be like one of those happy families on T.V. who laugh and smile too much,” said her eleven-year-old son.
“Yep, we can even drink hot chocolate and sing Christmas carols," she said.
“Now that is crossing a line. I don’t do carols,” said the pre-teen.
“We can be like one of those happy families on T.V. who laugh and smile too much,” said her eleven-year-old son.
“Yep, we can even drink hot chocolate and sing Christmas carols," she said.
“Now that is crossing a line. I don’t do carols,” said the pre-teen.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
If the Presents Aren’t Wrapped, What the Hell Were the Elves Doing?
Wrapped presents under the tree with little name tags that read “From: Santa.” This was the image I experienced every Christmas morning during my childhood. Santa Claus brought all the gifts and all the gifts were wrapped, except the huge ones like a bike or a life-size kitchenette (which would later be my premise for rebelling against domesticity and adopting Feminism). Mom and Dad stoically allowed The Man In Red to take all the credit. If this format was good enough for me, it was going to be good enough for my kids.
So, I thought until Christmas Eve 2003.
While spending the Holidays at my in-laws house, my husband and I performed our usual Christmas ritual of wrapping presents and putting them under the tree. But, before I could wrap the Lego table that my husband proudly purchased for our three-year-old son who already displayed tremendous talent in the areas of engineering and construction, my mother-in-law had the table and chairs out of the box, assembled and in front of the tree along with a large art easel that she bought for him so his drafting, sketching and painting skills could continue to flourish.
“Why are they out of the box?” I interrogated.
“They are Santa Presents. Santa is too busy to wrap gifts.”
Having neither a witty response nor the courage to stand up to her, I went along with the ridiculous, anti-climatic, non-surprising, generally un-fun plan. But to this day I wonder why Santa is too busy to wrap the gifts? He has 364 days to prepare for his big night. And, what’s the point of having Elves? Don’t they spend all their days making toys, wrapping them and loading the sled? Sure, the man is busy, but if he has to go down the chimney anyway, a little wrapping paper shouldn’t slow him down too much.
Unwrapped gifts from Santa are as ridiculous as Elf on the Shelf. Save the $29.99 by skipping the Elf and just buy some wrapping paper.
So, I thought until Christmas Eve 2003.
While spending the Holidays at my in-laws house, my husband and I performed our usual Christmas ritual of wrapping presents and putting them under the tree. But, before I could wrap the Lego table that my husband proudly purchased for our three-year-old son who already displayed tremendous talent in the areas of engineering and construction, my mother-in-law had the table and chairs out of the box, assembled and in front of the tree along with a large art easel that she bought for him so his drafting, sketching and painting skills could continue to flourish.
“Why are they out of the box?” I interrogated.
“They are Santa Presents. Santa is too busy to wrap gifts.”
Having neither a witty response nor the courage to stand up to her, I went along with the ridiculous, anti-climatic, non-surprising, generally un-fun plan. But to this day I wonder why Santa is too busy to wrap the gifts? He has 364 days to prepare for his big night. And, what’s the point of having Elves? Don’t they spend all their days making toys, wrapping them and loading the sled? Sure, the man is busy, but if he has to go down the chimney anyway, a little wrapping paper shouldn’t slow him down too much.
Unwrapped gifts from Santa are as ridiculous as Elf on the Shelf. Save the $29.99 by skipping the Elf and just buy some wrapping paper.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Ceiling, Really?
Dear Eldest Son:
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Since you like math so much, here are a few facts for you to contemplate. The average width of a toilet seat is 15.7 inches and the average head circumference for an almost twelve-year-old boy is 15 inches; therefore, with 0.7 inches of head room, I would like to know why you can’t manage to get on your knees, hug the toilet real tight and hit the target with your vomit. Out of my four children, only you are not capable of properly aiming your vomit. If your three-year-old brother can hold his own barf bucket steadily during a two-hour minivan excursion, throw up three times, and not get a drop on his clothes or his car seat, how does a sixth grader who completes math problems at a tenth grade level manage to not only miss the toilet completely but hit all four bathroom walls, the bathtub, the floor, the hand towels and the ceiling? The ceiling, really? How did you make your vomit defy gravity?
It was one thing when you were one-year-old, vomited all over yourself, smiled with delightful relief and started screaming once you felt that mushiness of your puke through your sleeper. You were a baby. Even when you were a four-year-old and couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, I was grossed out, dry-heaving beside you, but I could understand your inability to control your gag reflex. But at as a middle school student, it is time show some self control, boy!
With each passing day as you get closer to the age of twelve, I realize that you are not likely to ever move out. You will never find a college roommate that will tolerate puke on the carpet, and you certainly won’t find a wife willing to aim your head towards the toilet. Dear son, I love you, but I don’t want to be cleaning up your vomit for the rest of my life. You will find a bucket, mop, and Lysol in the bathroom, please use these items accordingly.
Your Loving Mother
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My Good Deed
“Mom, can we have a snack?" asked my eight-year-old daughter anchored by her three brothers and a set of twin eight-year-old girls from down the street.
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
I reached into the pantry and grabbed a white box adorned with a small picture of a blonde girl with braids wearing a blue bonnet and a huge smile framed by naturally bright red lips. I reached deep into the slender box and retrieved six brown rectangles decorated with pastel circles and covered with shrink wrap.
“What is it?” said the perplexed brunette.
“A Little Debbie Brownie,” I responded.
“What does that mean?” asked the other perplexed brunette.
“You have never had a Little Debbie? " I inquired.
“No,” said twin number one.
“Really? You have never seen a box like this before. What about these or these?” I asked while holding a box of yellow Twinkies in my left hand and a bag of Oreos in my right hand.
“No,” said twin number two.
This really did not come as much of a surprise since my family lives in a town like Lake Wobegon but better. Here all the children range from well-above average to presidential. My four children are squarely in the middle of the pack in the position of “somewhat exceptional.” Their rankings have possibly been stunted by their extensive exposure to simple sugars, trans fat and hydrogenated oils.
“What does your mom give you as snacks?"
“Grapes and apples. Sometimes she makes his hot chocolate and warm chocolate chip cookies,” said the first twin with the other one nodding in agreement.
“Really. Fruits and homemade cookies. You poor kids," I said with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your Little Debbie. When you are done with the brownie, have an Oatmeal Crème Pie. I am sure it is nothing like the cookies your mom makes with rolled oats.”
Friday, November 5, 2010
Memo to Aspiring Babysitters: If You Want to Watch My Kids You Better Dehoochie Your Facebook Profile
Dear Applicants (all 42 of you):
Thank you for your interest in watching my four amazing and beautiful children; your life will truly be enriched by being around them. Likewise, I would expect that you would have something special and heartening to offer my children. To earn the privilege of watching my children, you must not look like a slutty party girl on your Facebook profile. If your “likes” include tequila, beer, hooking-up with strangers in public restrooms under a full-moon, and having Cool Whip licked from my tummy, I will not hire you. And, it is not because I am old and jealous. Sure, those two facts are true, but I am a public servant. My public will not take kindly to a sign that reads: “No reference librarian today because her babysitter was too hung over to watch her kids.”
I need reliability and maturity. It also doesn’t hurt if you are as haggard and ugly as a copy of War and Peace that has been checked out a multitude of times. Plain Janes are encouraged to apply.
If I do not respond to your application, this means you were too pretty, too fun, too dumb, or too young.
However, if you were smart enough to checkout your potential employer’s Facebook profile like I checked out yours, please email me a copy of my blog link and I’ll hire you immediately. Smart, innovative girls are encouraged to apply.
Sincerely,
Your Potential Boss
Garbageman’s Daughter
Thank you for your interest in watching my four amazing and beautiful children; your life will truly be enriched by being around them. Likewise, I would expect that you would have something special and heartening to offer my children. To earn the privilege of watching my children, you must not look like a slutty party girl on your Facebook profile. If your “likes” include tequila, beer, hooking-up with strangers in public restrooms under a full-moon, and having Cool Whip licked from my tummy, I will not hire you. And, it is not because I am old and jealous. Sure, those two facts are true, but I am a public servant. My public will not take kindly to a sign that reads: “No reference librarian today because her babysitter was too hung over to watch her kids.”
I need reliability and maturity. It also doesn’t hurt if you are as haggard and ugly as a copy of War and Peace that has been checked out a multitude of times. Plain Janes are encouraged to apply.
If I do not respond to your application, this means you were too pretty, too fun, too dumb, or too young.
However, if you were smart enough to checkout your potential employer’s Facebook profile like I checked out yours, please email me a copy of my blog link and I’ll hire you immediately. Smart, innovative girls are encouraged to apply.
Sincerely,
Your Potential Boss
Garbageman’s Daughter
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Letter To My Children: No Christmas Presents This Year
To My Four Beautiful Angels:
It is with moderate sadness that I must inform you that there will not be Christmas presents under the tree this year. I know it is tough to swallow, but you must hear the truth. Your mother is an addict. My drug of choice skyrocketed to popularity in the early 1980s and became hottest drug out there with maybe one thrilling exception. I became hooked at the fragile age of nine. Your grandmother tried to limit my exposure, heeding the warnings the Phil Donahue and Tipper Gore. But, I just used behind her back. When my most people moved on to more relevant stimulants in the 1990s while my favorite elixir underwent a dreadful name change, I stayed committed. Today, my addiction to Prince remains intact despite his age and flavorless presentation.
In order to satiate my need for all things Prince, your father and I will be traveling to the IZOD Center in New Jersey to see Prince a few days before Christmas, which means we’ll have to cut back this year on non-essentials, like your Christmas presents. To make it up to you, here is what we have to offer: While we are gone you can stay up as late as you want and eat as much junk food as you desire. And, here’s the good part: You do not have to donate any of your toys to charity this year. Instead, you can wrap up your gently used crap and exchange it amongst each other. It will feel like Christmas until you see what exactly is inside the boxes, which will just dash your dreams and ultimately create one of your worst childhood memories ever. But you know, sometimes life just isn’t fair. Sometimes you have to sacrifice to make those around you happy.
Remember children: It is better to give than to receive. This year, you will be giving to your mother. As consolation, I’ll bring home a concert t-shirt that you all can take turns wearing. See not so bad after all.
I am glad that we have resolved this matter amicably, and it will be a very Merry Christmas -- well at least for me.
Love always,
Your Mother
It is with moderate sadness that I must inform you that there will not be Christmas presents under the tree this year. I know it is tough to swallow, but you must hear the truth. Your mother is an addict. My drug of choice skyrocketed to popularity in the early 1980s and became hottest drug out there with maybe one thrilling exception. I became hooked at the fragile age of nine. Your grandmother tried to limit my exposure, heeding the warnings the Phil Donahue and Tipper Gore. But, I just used behind her back. When my most people moved on to more relevant stimulants in the 1990s while my favorite elixir underwent a dreadful name change, I stayed committed. Today, my addiction to Prince remains intact despite his age and flavorless presentation.
In order to satiate my need for all things Prince, your father and I will be traveling to the IZOD Center in New Jersey to see Prince a few days before Christmas, which means we’ll have to cut back this year on non-essentials, like your Christmas presents. To make it up to you, here is what we have to offer: While we are gone you can stay up as late as you want and eat as much junk food as you desire. And, here’s the good part: You do not have to donate any of your toys to charity this year. Instead, you can wrap up your gently used crap and exchange it amongst each other. It will feel like Christmas until you see what exactly is inside the boxes, which will just dash your dreams and ultimately create one of your worst childhood memories ever. But you know, sometimes life just isn’t fair. Sometimes you have to sacrifice to make those around you happy.
Remember children: It is better to give than to receive. This year, you will be giving to your mother. As consolation, I’ll bring home a concert t-shirt that you all can take turns wearing. See not so bad after all.
I am glad that we have resolved this matter amicably, and it will be a very Merry Christmas -- well at least for me.
Love always,
Your Mother
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Advance Planning
Calendar Entry for September 1, 2011: Commission a skilled seamstress to design and sew four cute and original costumes for Halloween 2011.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Somewhere in recent history the word “homemade” transformed in meaning from being too poor to shop at Walmart to being the symbol of sincere, tenderly devout maternal love. Mothers, who know how to drive a sewing machine and wield a needle and thread, appear to love their children more than I do. Whether or not, these mothers actually care for their children more than I care for mine is far from my chief concern. Perception and impressions are everything, and using my credit card with love is no longer making the right impression.
Just like all my delicious cookies and cakes that come from a slightly above average baker in town, I must find a competent but not too fantastic seamstress or no one believe that I conceived and constructed the festive attire, unless I have a contingency plan.
Calendar Entry for July 17, 2011: Post to blog. “Just started a sewing class at the recreation center. The instructor says, I am the most skilled novice that she has ever encountered. In fact, she speculates that I might be a descendant of Betsy Ross.”
No need to actually enroll in the class. Problem solved.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
600 Kisses
Today, I will wake up my six-year-old on his birthday with 600 kisses, just like I should everyday. We will celebrate not just the day of his birth but every day of his life. Just six-months ago, my husband and I did not know if our son would see his sixth birthday. His diagnosis was grim: Rasmussen's Syndrome, a rare neurological that induces seizures that eventually leads to paralysis and mental retardation. The only cure is brain surgery.
In June, he survived an eight-hour brain surgery that turned off half of his brain. Today, his body doesn't work quite the same but his mind is still clever and bright. My boy with half a brain is not only thriving, but he is doing better than many of the whole-brained children in his kindergarten class.
Today, we celebrate the birthday of our amazing boy with a trip to the zoo.
In June, he survived an eight-hour brain surgery that turned off half of his brain. Today, his body doesn't work quite the same but his mind is still clever and bright. My boy with half a brain is not only thriving, but he is doing better than many of the whole-brained children in his kindergarten class.
Today, we celebrate the birthday of our amazing boy with a trip to the zoo.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
When Mother Is Away...
Father allows the children to dress any way they desire. However, when I examined my four children only my oldest child looked like he paired togther clothes that he found in two different dumpsters. I would like to blame this on my husband, but I must shoulder the responsibility for my eleven-year-old having no idea how to dress himself. I have picked out his clothes for him everyday since birth. The dressing process requires no thought on his part. Shirt, pants, underwear, socks, and shoes wait for him every morning in the downstairs bathroom. He showers, puts on the designated clothes, and then tops it off with his backpack that I loaded for him. I thought this made me a good and caring mother. No, this means I am going to have a child who lives in my basement until I die and he moves into his sister's basement. When I tell my son that he will most likely spend the rest of his life in my basement, he responds, "Have you looked at me?"
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Sweet Absurdity
“November Fourth is National Candy Day. We could celebrate by donating our kids’ leftover Halloween candy. What do you think?” asked the goodhearted mother of four.
Waiting, waiting…okay, I am ready. Crack a smile or lay the punch line on me. Nope. Nothing. She is serious. She has lost her mind and wants to give away candy—my candy, well my kids' hard-earned candy—four days after Halloween, the second best candy holiday in the realm of candy holidays. It is only second behind Easter due to the quality. Cadbury Eggs and Russell Stover Easter Eggs are made from a far superior type of milk chocolate than your run-of-the-mill Kit Kats and Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bars that are frequently dispensed on Halloween night.
“You look pale? You don’t like the idea, do you?” she asked.
How do I tell someone so smart, energetic and positive that her idea might be the most asinine plan I have heard since Prince recorded 20Ten and decided to not release it in the United States. At this moment, this candy initiative is making Prince look like a business mastermind.
“What kind of person gives their own candy away? Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? I am afraid I cannot endorse a service project that involves the sacrifice of any sugar-related items. Let’s just donate gloves or pencils or something, ” I said with a positive and supportive “let’s go team” attitude.
Yes, my candy is safe. However, I like the idea of telling my kids that we are going to donate their candy. I’ll say we are giving it to old people so they can have few morsels of delight before they croak. This is a much better option than “the tooth fairy stole it to protect your teeth.” Last year, my son did not believe that the State Legislature of Dentists mandated a three pieces of candy per child per month law. He threatened to Google it; I threatened to take away cake, cookies and brownies away too. He dropped his challenge, and I safely tucked the remaining Halloween candy into my underwear drawer. Yes, the candy donation story is a much more believable story, and I’ll be celebrating national Candy Day with a nice drawer full of candy.
National Candy Day is my new favorite candy holiday.
Author’s Note: After I had 24 hours to recover from the idea that anyone would be willing to give away their stash of candy, I actually think it is a pretty good idea. There are number charities that accept donated candy, so I’ll be passing on details soon once I find local options. Stayed tuned and if you are feeling extra generous there is a garbageman’s daughter out there who is accepting any and all candy donations.
Waiting, waiting…okay, I am ready. Crack a smile or lay the punch line on me. Nope. Nothing. She is serious. She has lost her mind and wants to give away candy—my candy, well my kids' hard-earned candy—four days after Halloween, the second best candy holiday in the realm of candy holidays. It is only second behind Easter due to the quality. Cadbury Eggs and Russell Stover Easter Eggs are made from a far superior type of milk chocolate than your run-of-the-mill Kit Kats and Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bars that are frequently dispensed on Halloween night.
“You look pale? You don’t like the idea, do you?” she asked.
How do I tell someone so smart, energetic and positive that her idea might be the most asinine plan I have heard since Prince recorded 20Ten and decided to not release it in the United States. At this moment, this candy initiative is making Prince look like a business mastermind.
“What kind of person gives their own candy away? Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? I am afraid I cannot endorse a service project that involves the sacrifice of any sugar-related items. Let’s just donate gloves or pencils or something, ” I said with a positive and supportive “let’s go team” attitude.
Yes, my candy is safe. However, I like the idea of telling my kids that we are going to donate their candy. I’ll say we are giving it to old people so they can have few morsels of delight before they croak. This is a much better option than “the tooth fairy stole it to protect your teeth.” Last year, my son did not believe that the State Legislature of Dentists mandated a three pieces of candy per child per month law. He threatened to Google it; I threatened to take away cake, cookies and brownies away too. He dropped his challenge, and I safely tucked the remaining Halloween candy into my underwear drawer. Yes, the candy donation story is a much more believable story, and I’ll be celebrating national Candy Day with a nice drawer full of candy.
National Candy Day is my new favorite candy holiday.
Author’s Note: After I had 24 hours to recover from the idea that anyone would be willing to give away their stash of candy, I actually think it is a pretty good idea. There are number charities that accept donated candy, so I’ll be passing on details soon once I find local options. Stayed tuned and if you are feeling extra generous there is a garbageman’s daughter out there who is accepting any and all candy donations.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Bye, Bye, Bye to the Baby Years
Time to sell the crib. Give away the last of the diapers (provided he ever starts using the potty.) Put the sippy cups on the top shelf for company use only. No more baby blue clothes or cute onesies. My baby is no longer baby. He is a three-year-old today and is my last baby. I should be relieved that I can work full-time in fifteen years, but I am just mostly sad that the baby years are behind us. Could it be time for baby number five?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Together at Last
In the past twelve weeks, he has spent 60 nights in a hotel room alone; has taken 24 plane rides; has eaten at 37 restaurants, and has gone 60 nights without bedstories and hugs.
In the past twelve weeks, she has made 225 meals for the kids; given 60 baths; changed 205 diapers; drove kids to 32 practices and tucked children in bed 60 times all by herself.
Finally after twelve weeks, the entire family will be under one roof for a whole week.
In the past twelve weeks, she has made 225 meals for the kids; given 60 baths; changed 205 diapers; drove kids to 32 practices and tucked children in bed 60 times all by herself.
Finally after twelve weeks, the entire family will be under one roof for a whole week.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Supportive Respite from an Endless Job
Demanding boss that cannot articulate his needs clearly but sure makes a lot of noise when he does not get his way. Long hours, very long hours, sometimes with double shifts, triple shifts and all-nighters. Almost never a “thank you” and never a day off. No time to be sick or to vacation alone. Of course, no paycheck, no employee discounts and certainly no 401K. This is the life of a stay-at-home mom.
Sure, the benefits are far more valuable than a dental plan. Afternoon hugs, lunches with a date who can eat for free, and the beauty of naptime. But, it is not just playdough and finger-painting. Stay-at-home motherhood can be very lonely and isolated, especially for first-time moms with newborns. Infants are not great conversationalists and working husbands are working, therefore, not emailing, texting and calling. For new moms who do not have peers with children, solitude becomes a reality and options seem so limited. But of course, not wanting to appear selfish or unloving, secluded moms do seek out options. The guilt of wanting more than just the baby or the fear of being labeled a bad mom keeps many women tied to the home.
I definitely was no exception. My first year of motherhood was riddled with loneliness, sadness and fear. I had no friends with kids and lost contact with my childless friends. My husband, who was just starting his career, worked more than twelve hours a day at least 6 six days a week. And, I was terrified to drive my baby anywhere – petrified of having a wreck that would hurt or kill him. So, I stayed home read and Derrida to my newborn until an acquaintance invited me to a MOMS Club Open House.
That day started my more than a decade-long involvement with the MOMS Club: Mothers Offering Mothers Support, a non-profit organization for part-time and full-time stay-at-home-moms. This group, which has chapters all over the world, focuses on mom-centered events that are held during the day. Stay-at-home moms and their kids get together for playdates, park visits, storytimes, tours and craft days. This is a great way for both mother and children to make connections outside the home. And of course, as a non-profit the MOMS Club is a helping organization in many ways. In addition to daily support through activities, the club provides additional help to members in crisis both locally and nationally. When the club isn’t helping their members, they are helping the community. Local chapters are required to implement meaningful service projects that help children; it is a great alternative to the Junior League if you are unable to meet their time commitment and want options for volunteerism with your kids in tow.
Over the years, MOMS Club has been there for me through three births, a family medical emergency, and my transition from stay-at-home-mom to part-time working-mom to full-time working-mom to stay-at-home-mom to my current status of part-time working mom. I have had the wonderful opportunity to spearhead activities that provide children in need with school supplies, winter coats and diapers. The club’s activities offer structure for my day; MOMS activities come first and everything else falls in line behind. But most importantly, I have established lasting friendships over the years thanks to the MOMS Club. And, if it was not for our group’s book club, I would still be reading Derrida instead of New York Times Best Sellers with narrating dogs and excessive sadomasochism. But nonetheless, MOMS Club is an integral part of my life.
For more information on the International MOMS Club or to find a chapter near you, please go to http://www.momsclub.org/
Sure, the benefits are far more valuable than a dental plan. Afternoon hugs, lunches with a date who can eat for free, and the beauty of naptime. But, it is not just playdough and finger-painting. Stay-at-home motherhood can be very lonely and isolated, especially for first-time moms with newborns. Infants are not great conversationalists and working husbands are working, therefore, not emailing, texting and calling. For new moms who do not have peers with children, solitude becomes a reality and options seem so limited. But of course, not wanting to appear selfish or unloving, secluded moms do seek out options. The guilt of wanting more than just the baby or the fear of being labeled a bad mom keeps many women tied to the home.
I definitely was no exception. My first year of motherhood was riddled with loneliness, sadness and fear. I had no friends with kids and lost contact with my childless friends. My husband, who was just starting his career, worked more than twelve hours a day at least 6 six days a week. And, I was terrified to drive my baby anywhere – petrified of having a wreck that would hurt or kill him. So, I stayed home read and Derrida to my newborn until an acquaintance invited me to a MOMS Club Open House.
That day started my more than a decade-long involvement with the MOMS Club: Mothers Offering Mothers Support, a non-profit organization for part-time and full-time stay-at-home-moms. This group, which has chapters all over the world, focuses on mom-centered events that are held during the day. Stay-at-home moms and their kids get together for playdates, park visits, storytimes, tours and craft days. This is a great way for both mother and children to make connections outside the home. And of course, as a non-profit the MOMS Club is a helping organization in many ways. In addition to daily support through activities, the club provides additional help to members in crisis both locally and nationally. When the club isn’t helping their members, they are helping the community. Local chapters are required to implement meaningful service projects that help children; it is a great alternative to the Junior League if you are unable to meet their time commitment and want options for volunteerism with your kids in tow.
Over the years, MOMS Club has been there for me through three births, a family medical emergency, and my transition from stay-at-home-mom to part-time working-mom to full-time working-mom to stay-at-home-mom to my current status of part-time working mom. I have had the wonderful opportunity to spearhead activities that provide children in need with school supplies, winter coats and diapers. The club’s activities offer structure for my day; MOMS activities come first and everything else falls in line behind. But most importantly, I have established lasting friendships over the years thanks to the MOMS Club. And, if it was not for our group’s book club, I would still be reading Derrida instead of New York Times Best Sellers with narrating dogs and excessive sadomasochism. But nonetheless, MOMS Club is an integral part of my life.
For more information on the International MOMS Club or to find a chapter near you, please go to http://www.momsclub.org/
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Volunteer Form
"Mom, you need to sign this and say you cannot volunteer now or ever. You have to do it. I don’t want you to come to my school, say something embarrassing and hurt my cred. You know like street cred, but we are not homeless, so I say cred," said the eleven-year-old year.
Form signed. Reporting for duty at 11:00 a.m. sharp on Wednesday.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Over-the-Counter Dreams
A Random Evening in 1982 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Time for bed. Line-up to take some dream-maker,” said the tall, bald man with a loving laugh.
The oldest sister punched her younger brother in the stomach and stepped on her younger sister’s toe to guarantee that she would be the first recipient of the green liquid that their grandfather dispensed. Afterwards, the children could not feel their tongues and their nasal passages quite possibly suffered third degree burns, but they always looked forward to the magical dreams that the green concoction roused.
Twelve hours later, the three kids woke for a large breakfast followed by riding tractors, harvesting corn, watching birds and visiting livestock. A perfect stay at their grandparent’s house.
A Random Evening in 2002 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Do you think he is wheezing? Is that a bug bite? I think he needs Benadryl. What do you think?” she asked her husband.
“He is only three. I think you have become a little too dependent on Benadryl to put him to sleep,” he replied.
“Well...” she said as a placeholder while formulating a response.
“NyQuil!” she exclaimed.
“No, Benadryl,” he said, confused by her outburst.
“NyQuil. He gave us NyQuil to go to sleep. My grandfather gave us NyQuil,” she said.
“Time for bed. Line-up to take some dream-maker,” said the tall, bald man with a loving laugh.
The oldest sister punched her younger brother in the stomach and stepped on her younger sister’s toe to guarantee that she would be the first recipient of the green liquid that their grandfather dispensed. Afterwards, the children could not feel their tongues and their nasal passages quite possibly suffered third degree burns, but they always looked forward to the magical dreams that the green concoction roused.
Twelve hours later, the three kids woke for a large breakfast followed by riding tractors, harvesting corn, watching birds and visiting livestock. A perfect stay at their grandparent’s house.
A Random Evening in 2002 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Do you think he is wheezing? Is that a bug bite? I think he needs Benadryl. What do you think?” she asked her husband.
“He is only three. I think you have become a little too dependent on Benadryl to put him to sleep,” he replied.
“Well...” she said as a placeholder while formulating a response.
“NyQuil!” she exclaimed.
“No, Benadryl,” he said, confused by her outburst.
“NyQuil. He gave us NyQuil to go to sleep. My grandfather gave us NyQuil,” she said.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sage Advice from a Competent Daughter
“You only have one kid at home now during the day. So, you have to keep up with him. Mom, I mean it, do not lose the baby,” she said with a touch of judgment.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Performance Review
"You are a sucky mom," said the five-year-old who was not allowed to open a box of candy in the car.
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