Top 10 Responses I’d Most Like to Give (but don’t) to the Question, “What’s for Dinner?”

Posted: November 27, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, humor, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , | 6 Comments

The way I figure it, the 887 gajillion calories I took in on Thanksgiving have rendered the act of eating since that day-if not completely useless, then compulsory at best. I am fine with this. I have the memories of sweet potato pie and smoked turkey to keep me feeling satisfied and full. This is not the case for my children, who apparently practiced more moderation at the holiday table and still expect to be fed. Like every day. I’m not going to lie, it’s getting kind of old.

My kids, like many benevolent dictators the worldwide, love to ask the question, “What’s for dinner?” When they were younger, they used to ask me this as they sat down at the table. Fine. The answer was easy at that point. Then, as they got a little older the question popped up at about 4pm. Ok, that was reasonable. Dinner was in their very near future, and they wanted to prime their tummies.  But gradually they started asking earlier in the day – like noonish -which was a bit of problem because at noon, I’m thinking about lunch or still full from breakfast, and usually don’t have a clue about dinner yet.

My lack of dinner-planning-zeal apparently triggered some sort of food-stress in my children, especially my daughter, because now she asks me “What’s for dinner?” first thing in the morning. And sometimes, as I am putting her to bed the night before.

This raises my blood pressure. It brings out the sarcastic, un-Mommy-like side of me that usually only comes out on girls-nights or when someone over achieves via Pinterest. I’m not particularly proud of this, but there it is.

So each night as I tuck my kids into bed, a mere few hours after eating that evening’s dinner, and they ask me, “What’s for dinner tomorrow, Mommy?” I dream of saying something snarky. Or covering their sweet little mouths with duct tape. Most of the time, I don’t. But here are my Top 10 Responses I’d Most Like to Give to the Question, “What’s for Dinner?”

10. Haggis. Go look it up.

9. Why don’t you tell me?

8. Your face.

7. What? I can’t hear you. What? I can’t hear you. (Keep repeating.)

6. You’ll get nothing and like it.

5. Ask your father.

4. No habla ingles.

3. Who can think about dinner at a time like this?! (And run screaming from the room.)

2. That’s what she said.

And the #1 thing I’d like to say when my kids ask me, “What’s for dinner?”

1. Who are you and why do you keep calling me Mommy?

Anyone else have any good ones? I’m taking suggestions… (for comments, but I’ll take dinner ideas too.)

The Birds, Bees, and the Big Secret.

Posted: October 30, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: humor, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , | 5 Comments

The other night while my eight year-old daughter was in the room, a friend of mine mentioned something about a young woman we know who is having a baby. A few years ago, I would have changed the subject, ran away, or starting humming loudly just to avoid being in the same zip code as the topic of where babies come from. But I’ve matured since then. I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is something I am going to have to talk to my kids about. I even bought a book entitled, WHAT’S THE BIG SECRET? and read it with each of my children cover to cover. The book explained everything in just enough detail to be informative, but not enough to raise more questions. It was a good script and left no room for awkward answers or embarrassing personal questions. My kids felt satisfied and I felt like one of those rock-star moms who are laid-back and comfortable with even the most thorny of topics. I felt as if I had done my job. Well played, me. Well-played.

So when the topic of babies came up the other night, I was not worried. I assumed my daughter remembered what the Big Secret was from the book and was cool with it. Apparently I was wrong.

Daughter: Mom, how does the baby get in the mommy’s belly?

My friend sprinted away so fast leaving only a puff of white smoke where she had been seconds earlier. I took a deep breath.

Me: Well, honey… remember from the book? Babies are made from Mommy parts and Daddy parts… and when they come together they make a baby.

Daughter: Yeah, I know. But how do the parts come together?

Me: Isn’t it time to brush your teeth?

Daughter: Yeah, but tell me first.

Me: Um. Well, honey…

Daughter: Yeah?

Me: Um…

Daughter: Do you not know, Mommy?

Me: No – I mean, yes. I do know. It’s just complicated.

Daughter: How can it be complicated? Everyone has babies.

I knew there was no getting out of it at that point. I told her to go brush her teeth and we would meet back in my room in five. Obviously, I went to find the book. Except now the Big Secret was where the hell had I put it? A frantic scan of the 74 bookshelves in our house turned up nothing. It was like the book was mocking me, “I’ll teach you to leave me lying around.” After several minutes, my time was up. I had to go in alone. Without a script. 

So we snuggled into my bed and I explained to her, in three sentences or less, exactly how babies are made. I tried to be at once relaxed and scientific, like a TV anchorwoman. I used all the anatomically correct names and got through it without laughing or being a smart ass. All things considered, I thought I did a bang-up job. Until the Question & Answer portion of the evening began:

Daughter: Ew. That’s disgusting. Are you sure that’s what you do?

Me: Yes.

Daughter: Ew. Does everyone have to do that if they want a baby?

Me: Yes –for the most part.

Daughter: Ew. How long do you have to do that for?

Me: It kind of depends.

Daughter: Ew. On what?

Me: [Smart-ass answer internally deleted] Various factors.

Daughter: Ew. How long did you and Daddy have to do that to get me?

Me: I don’t remember.

Daughter: Ew. Did you hate it?

Me: No.

Daughter: Ew. Did Daddy hate it?

Me: No.

Daughter: Ew. How does the Daddy part get in there. Does it just go like this? (Then she raised her arm up from her side with the simultaneous sound effect, ‘Zooooooooooooooooop!’)

Me: Yes. Yes, it does.

Daughter: Ew. Do you wear clothes?

Me: No.

Daughter: Ew.

Things went on like this for a while. And after much giggling, turning red, and several more Ew’s (only some of which came from her), I finally answered all of her questions. When we finished, she had only one final comment on the subject:

“That is DISGUSTING. I’m never, ever, ever doing sex!”

And once again, I felt as if I had done my job. Well-played, me. Well-played.

Objectivity in Parenting & Other Things That Don’t Exist (Like Good Bragging).

Posted: September 21, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, humor, kids, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , | 7 Comments

Listening to a parent talk about how talented, smart, good-looking, entrepreneurial, kind-hearted, clever, and/or athletic their kid is is a lot like listening to a politician give a stump speech. You nod your head. You affirm enthusiastically. And you automatically discount everything they’ve just said. Indeed, if you are a cynic, you believe that the kid’s virtues probably lie in inverse proportion to how they are being described. And if you are a true iconoclast, you think the kid must be a total zero and you try to point this out to their gushing parents.

Don’t waste your time. Most parents think that they know their kids better than anyone else in the world. And while most of us know on an intellectual level that we can’t be an impartial judge of our children’s behavior, we still think that our unique perspective gives us the ability to see our kids as they really are.

Most of the time, we are wrong. Some of the time we are right. But right or wrong, the one thing we never are is objective. Objectivity requires a certain level of distance and detachment. And it’s hard to be detached from someone who sleeps in your bed, opens the door while you go to the bathroom, and takes money out of your wallet. It just is.

So we start our sentences with, “Well, I know I’m totally biased but…” Because as much as we know that we’re not a fair judge of our children, that doesn’t stop us from judging. If you’re not a total doochebag, you at least give the appearance of a balanced view– you present the good, the bad, and the ugly about your child. But then there are those who stick to the good, the noteworthy, and the so-impressive-you’ll-start-to-question-your-own-childs-contributions-to-society. This is where the line between “objective” commentary and bragging gets blurred.

The Out & Out Brag

Some parents brag outright. “We suspect Jonathan has a true gift for painting. His paintings are a lot like Jackson Pollack’s early work.” Never mind that the diarrhea-brown mess of splats and drips they use as evidence looks like something your dog hacked up. You dutifully oooo and ahhhh because there is no use in pointing out that their son sucks at finger painting. He’s four and he sucks at an age-appropriate level. What’s the harm in letting them believe they are raising the next Picasso? Reality is the great equalizer and eventually they’ll be forced to see the light at the end of the color-blind tunnel.

The Me-Too Brag

Then there are those who like to work in a brag on themselves while talking up their kids, “Salman just got accepted into the gifted program. I mean, we’re not surprised, both Albert and I were in the gifted programs when we were young.” Or, “Yeah, tennis was always my sport. It’s so gratifying to see Venus showing promise at such a young age.” Puke. Not only do these people feel compelled to brag about their kid, but they also want you know that they too are exceptional.

The Brag in Sheep’s Clothing

Others are subtler. “I can’t believe I have to go in to talk to Simon’s teachers again. He keeps finishing all the books they give in record time! He is going to have to start on War & Peace soon!” This is a brag dressed up as a complaint. Totally annoying. No one is going to feel sorry for you that your son is so bright and is such a fast reader. Boo.  We know what you’re doing. A brag in sheep’s clothing is still just a brag… or a braaaaaag. (I know. I’m sorry.)

The Force Brag

I recently had a friend ask me this about his daughter: “Don’t you think that Heidi is an extraordinarily beautiful girl? Like a transcendent sort of beautiful?” Ummm. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I mean I agreed – of course I agreed – she is a darling little thing and I’m not a total monster. But what choice did I have? I would have agreed even if his daughter looked like Quasimodo. What could I say? “No. She looks like she fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down?” No one is going to say that. My friend committed the worst kind of brag. It was a brag-by-force – the bragging equivalent of holding a gun to my head. He forced me to brag about his kid. This kind of bragging is really only acceptable between parents of the same child, or if done by grandparents who live out of state, the older the better.

The bottom line is that we all brag about our kids. It’s okay. A little bit here and there is fine – it’s like parent catnip. Parenting is hard and if you find something you want to shout from the rooftops, I say go for it. Just don’t abuse it. And try to recognize that as much as you may think you are presenting an accurate assessment of your child, you’re not. You couldn’t possibly. Remember that sage advice from Carrie Fischer’s character in the movie When Harry Met Sally: “Everybody thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor but they couldn’t possibly all have good taste. ”

The same can be said about children. Everybody thinks that have an exceptional child and a sense of humor, but they couldn’t possibly all have exceptional children. Or a sense of humor.

Now excuse me. I have to go pick up my children from the Gifted program and take them to their Accelerated Pogo-Sticking course before we head to the soup kitchen so they can give back to their community in a meaningful way. (They are just so empathetic!)

Truer Words…

Posted: August 22, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, humor, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom | Tags: , , , | 6 Comments

Every now and then I come across a piece of art that reaches into my soul, extracts my inner most desires, and distills them all into one perfectly simple, eloquent, profound result.  I have recently came across such a piece of art, and for today’s post, I will let this art speak for itself in the hope that it will speak to you as it has spoken to me.

by Cheryl Overton (available on Etsy)

Apparently, Je ne sais pas Jacques-Sh*t.

Posted: April 17, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom | Tags: , | 8 Comments

Well French women, you have done it again. As if it isn’t enough that you stay slim while eating cheese-filled puff pastry and you can pull off short fringe bangs – now, according to Pamela Druckerman, you’ve bested us Americans at mothering as well. Merde.

In the book Bringing Up Bebe, American Journalist Pamela Druckerman makes the case that French women enjoy parenting more than American women do. This is not to say that French mothers love their kids any more, but rather that they find the task of parenting to be more pleasurable and less stressful than do most American women. Druckerman contends that the image of the “harried mom” so common in America, doesn’t exist in France. It would seem that French mothers parent the same way they smoke in public, handle marital indiscretions, or drink wine mid-day – with a restrained casual elegance that smacks of confidence at its best; indifference, at worst.

Here are some of the differences Druckerman noted between American and French mothers during the years she spent raising her kids in Paris:

  • Where Americans orbit around our kids rushing in every time junior needs anything; French women set firm boundaries, but provide kids great autonomy within those boundaries.
  • Where we construct elaborate “play dates” suffering through the indignity of places like Chuck E Cheese’s or Pump it Up!; French women sip coffee and chat at home or in the park while the kids play. By themselves.
  • Where we kill ourselves trying to navigate the desires of our “picky eaters;” French kids eat what they are served during the 3 daily mealtimes and one 4pm snack. Because they are hungry.
  • Where American children collapse into tears at the slightest disappointment; French children rarely throw tantrums or even whine.
  • And my personal favorite: French mothers do not carry around the heart-stopping, soul-crushing guilt that American mothers do when we – gasp – do something for ourselves that has nothing to do with our kids.

I’m not saying I buy all of it, but Druckerman’s hypothesis is intriguing. In her essay in the Wall Street Journal she outlines some of the key points her book explores in more detail. The one that caught my attention most was the idea of delayed gratification and how ingraining the simple ability to wait can produce children who do not interrupt, whine, nag, kvetch, noodge, or otherwise pester parents the instant their needs are not met.

This is a problem in my house. My oh-so-very American children have to be reminded on a daily basis not to interrupt when I’m talking. At dinner, sometimes it is hard for my husband and I to have a conversation consisting of more than 2 consecutive sentences without one kid or other popping off on some unrelated note. Their non-sequiturs seem to scream “Hey! Did you forget about me! How dare you discuss something that doesn’t relate to ME!” It drives us nuts. And we always respond with some sort of impotent admonishment that is promptly forgotten and/or ignored.

So, what’s the secret to French women’s ability to not only teach their kids patience – but teach it so the kids actually learn it?

According to Druckerman: You have to mean it. Like, really mean it. When you lay down the law you have believe to your core that the limit you are setting is the actual limit. Not the “If you do that one more time…” limit. But the actual End. Of. The. Road. If you deem a behavior unacceptable, it must be unacceptable the same way it would be unacceptable for your 5-year-old to drive a car or crack open a bottle of Cabernet. In other words, it is not just something you frown upon; it is something that is not possible.

She says that French mothers divide things into 2 camps: possible and pas possible. When a kid wants to eat a brownie at 9am in America, a mom might respond with a reasonable, rational, 5-minute discussion about how, “We don’t eat sweets at 9am because it isn’t good for your belly. We eat healthy things like eggs and toast and soy milk! So you can grow up big and strong!” In France, the answer is “Ce n’est pas possible.” (It is not possible.) That’s it. End of story. And something about the way mothers deliver this line – their conviction, their certainty, their fortitude – conveys to children that it really is pas possible. In other words, “No means no. And don’t ask again.”

I’ll admit, I fantasize about having that kind of authority.

But here is America, I suppose we have our own way of doing things. Maybe it doesn’t lead to quiet dinners out or leisurely afternoons spent sipping coffee with friends – but I like to think it leads to kids who have spunk, if nothing else. Besides, Americans look downright French when you compare us to the Chinese Tiger Mothers, right? So, maybe the takeaway here is that there are thousands of ways to screw-up parent your kids, and you just have to find the way that works best for you.

For me, any parenting model that involves more puff pastry is worth a second look…

Temper Tantrum? Buh-bye!

Posted: March 13, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , | 11 Comments

On yesterday’s Today Show, I watched a segment about the family who was thrown off of a JetBlue flight because their two year-old daughter was throwing a tantrum.  Apparently, shortly before takeoff, their two year-old daughter threw a humdinger of a fit because she didn’t want to be buckled into her seat. Crew members reported to the pilot that the family could not get their child seated, and the pilot made the decision to turn the plane around and have the family removed. However, in the time it took for the pilot to make that decision (about five minutes) the tantrum was over and the little girl was seated and buckled properly.

But the family was still thrown off the plane–even though the situation had been resolved – the crew telling this family that “the decision has been made.” Since the flight was the last of the day from Turks & Caicos to Boston, the family had to spend the night in a hotel and were re-routed, costing them over $2,000. That’s a pretty expensive tantrum.

As I watched this Today Show story, (and ignored my own daughter’s Where is my hairbrush? tantrum) I was stunned. Kicked off of a flight because your kid threw a fit? Does this seem reasonable? Apparently, to 71% of people who fill out surveys on the Today Show’s website, it does. Yes, that’s right. Seven out of 10 people who responded to a poll online, said they sided with Jet Blue. Of course, if you have time to respond to online polls at 7 o’clock in the morning, chances are you don’t have young kids and are perhaps a bit less sympathetic than those of us who do.

But still, I was shocked that so many people thought this was a reasonable course of action for the airline to take. JetBlue airline said in a statement, “Flight 850 had customers that did not comply with crew member instructions for a prolonged time period. The Captain elected to remove the customers involved for the safety of all customers and crew members on board.” As a fairly nervous flier, I am the first person to stand up for airline safety. I happily wait in mile long security lines, I put my lip gloss and hand sanitizer in little plastic bags without being prompted, and don’t even mind walking through those x-ray vision scanner that can tell what brand of underwear I have on. If it makes flying safer – I’m all for it.

But a tantrum from a twenty-five pound little girl hardly seems a safety risk to me. Annoying? Yes. Loud and unpleasant? You bet. But a threat to customers and crew members safety? I don’t think so. The little girl in question wasn’t smuggling a shiv in her tiny little Stride Rites, nor was she hiding hazardous chemicals in her sippy cup. She was tired. She was hungry. She was hot. She was irritated because she didn’t want to be strapped down into a seat. Basically, she was two. If the airlines want to be certain to avoid tantrums all together then might I suggest they don’t sell tickets to kids under the age of five. Or rock stars. Or certain Emmy award-winning actors.

The little girl’s mom, Dr. Colette Vieau, a pediatrician, said on the Today Show, “We weren’t belligerent, drunk, angry, screaming … We’re having a hard time struggling with our children. A little bit of humanity in the situation was really all I was looking for and apparently that doesn’t exist.”

I sympathize with the parents on this one. I’d love to know what you think…

 

I Can Bring Home the Bacon, but the Rest Is On You.

Posted: February 27, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: motherhood, parenting, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | 11 Comments

One of the most iconic TV commercials I remember seeing as a kid was that one in which the blonde lady sings about how she can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever, ever let you forget you’re a man. Seriously. Those are the actual lyrics. The year was 1980. And I still remember the commercial all these years later, not because it was such a great ad (truthfully, I needed a quick Google search to remind me it was for Enjoli perfume), but because even at seven years old, I think I knew the whole thing was a total crockpot of shit.

Obviously this ad wasn’t just selling perfume. It was selling the You-Can-Have-It-All lifestyle to a new generation of women who had previously been shut out of serious positions within corporate America and who were largely relegated to the domestic realm. But thanks to the Women’s Lib movement of the 1970s, now BOTH realms were open to women. At the same time. This commercial was more than just a commercial; it was a sign of the times.

The fine folks at the now defunct Charles of the Ritz company were trying to attach their product to the now defunct idea that it’s a breeze for any woman to be a successful professional, a doting wife, an attentive mother, a gourmet cook, a meticulous homemaker, and a satin gown wearing sex kitten – all at the same time.

Here is what the ad was really saying:

I can bring home the bacon.

(Nice double entendre, Enjoli.) The first meaning of the word bacon in this line is obviously money. But perhaps, this line would have been more accurate had it said, “I can bring home 73% of the same bacon you can bring home – even though I worked just as hard for my bacon as you did for yours.”

The second ‘entendre’ of the word bacon here is actual bacon. The message being, “Yes, dear, I’ll stop at the market on my way home from work and pick you up some bacon.”

Fry it Up in a Pan.

The point here is clear: That bacon ain’t going to cook itself.

And never, ever, ever let you forget you’re a man.

“After I’ve worked all day, shopped, cooked, cleaned up, and read the kids a bedtime story, there’s nothing I’d rather do than spray on some atomized pheromones (aka, Enjoli), slip into that Some Like It Hot white satin number I have lying around and rock your world.”

Enjoli. The 8 hour perfume for the 24 hour woman.  

This is the official tagline of the commercial. Maybe it’s just me, but the subtext here seems to be something more subversive. There seems to be an implied threat here: You wanted it all, sweetheart? Well, here it all is. Be careful what you wish for.

If this commercial were to be update for today’s world, I think it would go something more like this.

Same jazzy woman’s voice singing:

You can bring home the bacon (but don’t forget to grab a gallon of milk and some greek yogurt on your way home).

Fry it up in a pan (or microwave it, I don’t care –I’m not eating that shit. I’m ordering sushi.).

And I’ll never, ever, ever let you forget that you’re a man… with a pre-disposition for arterial sclerosis, so slow down on that bacon. And for the love of pete, would you do some crunches once in a while?

The tagline would also need to be changed because clearly this is now an ad for bacon. Or The American Heart Association. Or perhaps sushi. But in any case, it is no longer an ad promoting the idea that women can Have it All. And thank goodness for that. We all know that while women CAN have it all, we really don’t WANT it all. We want to split it. We’ll cook. You clean. We’ll fold. You put away. We won’t let you forget you’re a man, if you get up with the kids in the morning. Our trail-blazing, bacon-frying, Enjoli-wearing mothers taught us that while having it all is a nice idea, the reality is fraught with boobie traps. (Oh, yes. Pun intended.) And the load is lighter when shared.

Of course, TV ads today don’t really have the influence they once did anyway. Thanks to DVRs, most seven year old children, rather than ponder the sociological implications of a quasi-feminist-while-being-actually-misogynistic perfume ad, are more likely to ask the far more concrete question, “Mommy, what’s a commercial?”

For a more serious analysis of the Enjoli commercial, check out Jennifer Ludden’s piece on NPR.

Naïveté and Hypocrisy: The Building Blocks of Parenthood

Posted: February 14, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: kids, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom | Tags: , , , , | 5 Comments

Ah, innocence. I remember it well. Those glorious days of old when the air smelled sweeter (because there was no rotting food hidden under the couch cushions), the birds chirped louder and the sun shone brighter (but it was 7am and you were still asleep so you didn’t care). I’m talking about the days before you became a parent. The days when you didn’t walk around in a sleep-deprived fog and you still knew all the bands on Saturday Night Live. The days when you thought you had a clue.

If you have been parenting for any length of time, you now know that you don’t, in fact, have a clue at all. And you were a pretentious fop for ever thinking that you knew what you were getting into when you signed on to shepherd another life through this crazy world of global warming, online predators, and Ann Coulter. I’ll admit that I was one such pretentious fop. In fact, I was the worst kind. I actually tried to plan for it.

I remember when my husband and I were debating whether or not we were ready to have kids, I actually asked a guy who I worked with – who had kids – how sticky they were. I didn’t know many kids, but it seemed to me that all the ones I knew were always sticky and/or messy and/or dirty and/or had noses full of boogars. This was unpleasant to me.

What I didn’t realize at the time, was how little I would come to care about a snot-caked nose, and how it paled in comparison to your child, say, projectile vomiting. On an airplane. While simultaneously soiling themselves. And screaming bloody murder. At the exact moment when the plane has landed and everyone is waiting to be let out. After a 10 hour flight from Hawaii. This happened to me. Boogars look pretty good after something like that, let me tell you. (Believe.)

This is just one example of me thinking I had a clue. Sadly, there are many others. Below is a list of some of the things I said I would never, ever do when I became a parent.

1. I said I would never use TV as a babysitter.

Awwwww, wasn’t I cute?

2. I said I would never yell.

I had no idea that children who are watching TV, playing a video game, or eating a snack, literally CANNOT hear you unless you yell. I’ve tested this theory a thousand different times and it’s true. You can ask them 47 times to please hang up their coat, but until you raise your voice with something like, “HANG UP YOUR COAT THIS MINUTE OR ELSE!” it’s just white noise to them. Nobody sets out wanting to yell. They make us do it.

3. I said I’d never let my kid sleep in my bed on a regular basis.

My daughter wakes up at least 5 mornings a week in my bed with her feet pressed into my spine, an elbow in my gut, and 98% of the blankets covering 150% of her body.

4. I said I wouldn’t use baby talk.

I am a 38-year-old woman who in the past week alone has announced she has to “go potty,” has had a “tummy ache,” and who got a “boo-boo” on her foot. Enough said.

5. I said I would never care about how my kids wear their hair.

Let me be clear about this one: I don’t care about their hair being perfectly brushed, styled, geled, moussed, sprayed, or really even being that clean. But when the nice man at the grocery store asked me if “the little lady” would like a cookie while pointing to my ten-year old son, you better believe I drove us to the nearest SuperCuts, post-haste. I know long hair worked for The Biebs, but until Fletcher starts bringing home the million dollar paychecks – I want his eyes, ears, and shoulders hair-free. At least while I have any influence.

6. I said I’d never have a kid with snot caked inside her nose at all times.

As I mentioned earlier, I didn’t realize how little I would come to care about this. I’m not even sure why I don’t care about this. I should. It’s disgusting. But who has the energy for Kleenexes and the endless tutorials on how to blow one’s nose? It’s exhausting.

7. I said I’d never allow my kids to whine.

I actually thought if I had a “No Whining” policy and told my kids, “If you whine, I can’t hear you” that they would eventually learn not to whine. Hilarious.

8. I said I’d never ignore my kids while on the phone.

In my defense, I had my first kid in 2001. They didn’t even have smart phones back then.

9. I said I’d never lie to my kids.

We all know how that one turned out.

10. I said I would never use food as a reward.

This is basically my entire parenting strategy right here. Without food bribes, I got nothing.

Now, who wants a chocolate chip cookie for reading this whole article?

Disclaimer: I feel I should say that even given all of the cynical ramblings above, I wouldn’t trade a minute of my time as a parent. Even the minutes I was covered in bodily fluids or my throat hurt from yelling so loud. But it’s just not that funny to write an article about how much you love your kids. It’s like writing an article about how much you love being carded when you’re in your thirties. It is – in the vernacular of my lovely children – “Like, Duh!”

Dear Car Companies:

Posted: February 7, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom | Tags: , , , | 4 Comments

Dear Car Companies:

I know the past couple of years have been tough on you. On behalf of Moms, the consumer group responsible for over 80% of household spending, I’m here to let you know we want to help. We really do. But you’ve got to help us help you.

It is a well-documented fact, that Moms spend over half our waking hours (and a fair portion of our sleeping hours) in our cars. And let’s be honest, the current choices for “mom cars” just aren’t getting the job done. (The Ford Focus Station Wagon? Really?) Many of our needs have been woefully overlooked.  We want a car that simplifies our lives, lends a helping hand, and last but certainly not least, a car that is not the automobile equivalent of Mom Jeans. (I’m talking to you, minivan makers.) We are still women, after all, and our desire to be practical should not have to come at the expense of our desire to look cool.

So here is a list of suggested features you should incorporate into cars if you want to pull yourself out of your slump and really start selling some cars:

  1. Fold down Makeup Mirror on front visor with LED light, replacing currently used Itty-Bitty Book light bulbs that makes us all look jaundiced. Upgrade option: automated programmable make-up artist who advises driver when she has lipstick on her teeth.
  2. Automated schedule control. A feature that allows her to input her daily schedule and will give her an itinerary and timeline of when she has to leave A to get to B in time to get C to D. Upgrade option: automated voice will yell at her kids to ‘hurry up and get buckled’ for her when she is in danger of being late.
  3. Hidden, pop-up coffee maker complete with settings for cappuccino, frappuccino, mochas, and macchiato. Eliminates need for pesky coffee shop stops that make her late, but still address her need for caffeine. Upgrade option: Offer scones, low-fat muffins, and fruit-n-yogurt parfait with auto-spoon feeding feature.
  4. GPS tracking link for pizza deliveries for dinner on the go. This feature allows delivery guy to find her while she is en-route and throw the pizza, frisbee-like, into her moving vehicle, cutting out the need to stop or even slow down.
  5.  A central vac should be standard. Upgrade: tiny robots that clean the car overnight in the garage.
  6. A retractable divider shield, like they have in limousines, between the front seats and the rest of the car. This feature would be controllable only by the driver for those times when the kids are sleeping and she needs to make a call; when Radio Disney is threatening to make her head explode; or when she simply can’t bear to intervene in one more argument about who touched who first.
  7. A push button “Cool-Car” hologram feature. With a discreet push of a button, this would project the image of a cool car for others to see while she is driving. This feature will come in handy during those moments when she is stopped at a light next to a car full of young, stylish, unfettered people reminiscent of who she used to be. (This feature should come standard on all minivans.)
  8. Auto-sleep/Save Her Sanity feature. This will gently rock, soothe, and sing lullabies to crying or overtired passengers in order to get them to fall asleep. Upgrade: option to continue this feature even after the car is turned off so kids don’t wake up immediately upon returning home.
  9. Robotic snack dispenser and conveyor belt to pass out snacks, without Mom even having to take her eyes off the road.
  10. Extra loud automated message that comes on and says, “Don’t even think about it!” when a child unbuckles while the car is in motion.
  11. Pre-stain coating. This option would eliminate the “new car jitters” that result in a lot of yelling and ultimately, guilt and shame when the kids inevitably color all over the interior with a blue sharpie, drop their strawberry smoothie, and/or vomit in the vehicle.
  12. Validation of Life Choice Feature: An computerized voice (similar to the lady on GPS but without the condescending quasi-British accent) who tells her she looks beautiful, that her jokes are funny, and that she did the right thing by choosing to sacrifice her body, her sleep, and often, her education in order to basically become an unpaid chauffeur, chef, nurse, maid, and therapist.

We appreciate you taking the time to consider adding these features to your vehicles. Should you choose to implement even just a few of these ideas, I am confident that word will spread quickly through our super-secret Mom network, and we will take you out of the current economic time-out you’ve been in.

Sincerely,

The Moms

Confessions of a Spray-Tan-Aholic.

Posted: January 31, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom, writing | Tags: , , , | 9 Comments

Confessions of a Spray Tan-A-Holic.

Hello. My name is Jill and I’m a spray tan-aholic. It’s been six days since my last spray. And I’m not gonna lie, its been a hard six days.

It started out as something I just did for fun. You know, a once-in-a-while kind of thing. I was going on vacation in the middle of winter to somewhere warm and I thought I’d feel so much better in my swimsuit if I had a little color, right? (Everyone knows tan looks better in a swimsuit than pale does.) I told myself I’d just go once so that I’d feel more comfortable. I figured it was better than going to a tanning bed, and this way I could stay out of the sun, but still have a little healthy glow. I convinced myself it was a good thing.

And I liked it.

I liked it so much that I started looking for reasons to go back in and get my glow on. I’d go if I had a special event coming up like a wedding or a fundraiser. I’d look for strapless dresses in order to justify the need for a tan. My post spray glow would last for nearly a week and I loved all the compliments I got. People said I looked healthier, my teeth looked whiter – they said I looked thinner and younger. Ah! Music to my vanity! I knew I was going a little more frequently, but I told myself I had it under control. I could stop any time I wanted to.

But then, I started to need a spray before any social event. Pampered Chef party? Better get a spray! Kim’s turning 40? Better get a spray! Teeth-cleaning coming up? Better get a spray! I started thinking if a little spray looks good, maybe a lot of spray would look fantastic!

Before I knew it, I’m signed up at MagicTan for the unlimited monthly package and I’m on the stuff once a week. Sometimes twice a week. Year round.

All my white sheets are ruined. My sweat looks like iced tea. I don’t even appear to be the same ethnicity as my children anymore (despite the fact that I am). The compliments have stopped and I can’t help but recognize the look of pity in people’s eyes when they asked if I’ve just come back from the equator, and I am forced to say no. No, I haven’t. People won’t even discuss the movie Charlie and The Chocolate Factory in my presence. It’s as if they fear a stray reference to an Oompa Loompa would be hitting too close to home.

I tried to cancel my monthly package at MagicTan, but the person working there talked me out of it with a cunning and well-placed, ‘It makes you look younger by at least 5 years!’  I know I should stop. I know it. I tried weaning myself off of it by using the at-home Banana Boat, but it’s not the same. I go back to the good stuff every time.

I’ve been told the first step on the road to recovery is to admit that there’s a problem. And my mirror confirms that there is a problem. A big, orange problem. And it’s time to do something about it. Maybe there is a 12 step program for people like me (Snooki, any suggestions?) Or maybe I should just start hoping beyond hope that pale comes back into fashion like it was in 18th century Victorian England. Powdered wigs. Now, there’s a trend I could get behind…

And maybe one day, I can embrace my unique shade of cadaver-white skin and truly become proud to be pale.

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