My first attempt at a serious piece (says the gal with a journalism degree) is featured on Families in the Loop and it really has people talking. Check out my post on redshirting kindergarteners and let me know what you think!
I’ve often said that if I can get my kids through adulthood not marrying someone I hate or doing crystal meth, I will call this parenting gig a success; however, I have to wait a long time for that payoff. So, I am going to take the little winning moments where I can get them.
These may be small victories, but I will take it. After all,
When it comes to the mom lottery, I am the Mega Millions, Powerball, Scratch-off winner. Not only is she my personal cheerleader, my kids’ favorite person in the world, and a fierce cook, she is smokin’ hot. It gives me hope that when I am her age, I won’t morph into the hunchback of Notre Dame. So in honor of Mother’s Day, I thought I would share my mom’s best pieces of advice. Now be advised, I usually rolled my eyes or ignored her pearls of wisdom, but inevitability something would happen and I realized, “Dang, she knows what she is talking about.” I just hate when that happens. So here you go, 10 of her best zingers:
Happy Mother’s Day! Now go do something nice for your mom. You are the reason she has stretch marks and pees herself when she runs up the steps.
Hiya! Today I am over at the DC Ladies talking about what I really want for Mother’s Day. Feel free to share this with anyone buying Mother’s Day gifts. Stop over, share, like, comment, tweet, tell them I have great hair, or whatever. Click right here to be magically transported over to the DC Ladies!
Confession time: I LOVE celebrity gossip magazines and websites. It’s a dirty habit that I’ve come by honestly from snuggling on the couch with my grandmother and reading Star Magazine cover to cover. Some grandmothers bake cookies and knit, my awesome Gram made sure I was in touch with all the celeb happenings
One of my favorite parts of gossip magazines is the “Stars are Just Like Us” section because I really do feel better about myself seeing Reese Witherspoon carry her own groceries or Bradley Copper pump his own gas. So imagine my excitement when I realized that Nicole Richie and I are more alike than I could ever imagine. All from this little tweet:
You probably guessed my second confession. I am the shameful owner of tramp stamp. What seemed edgy, cool, and “deep” when I was 19, now just seems misguided, uninspired, and lame at 33.
Tattoos can be really beautiful and an outlet for self-expression and identity; however, my lame-o tattoo is neither of those things. Everyone else had one in college and I wanted one too. Oh, I thought it was so “deep” and meaningful, but years later, I would give anything to have the space above my coin slot not covered in ink.
What is this uninspired ink you may ask? Well, what happens when your birthday falls on the cusps? One of two things: You can read both horoscopes for the day and pick the better of the two, or you can permanently mar your skin with a mixture of an Aquarius and a Pieces sign. So deep…
I hid the tattoo from my parents for months, but when bathing suit season came along, there was no hiding my new artwork. If looks could kill, I would have been dead from my Dad’s death stare (shudders). It only worsened when he and I were watching Wedding Crashers and Vince Vaughn totally threw me under the bus with this line:
“Tattoo on the lower back… might as well be a bullseye.”
Awesome. Just what every dad wants to hear.
My mom took it even worse. She was horrified by the tattoo and screamed “Someday you will have kids and they will want a tattoo. And what are you going to say? Huh? You won’t be able to say anything because you have a trashy tattoo.”
Dam her! She was right.
The idea of my babies permanently marking their perfect skin with anything makes me die a little. I made those kids and their skin. Surely there should be a law that you need your mother’s permission before you are allowed to ruin the skin she crafted, no matter how old you are! I can only hope there is something less permanent in the future that kids think is cool like a sticker or non-permanent hair dye. Wishful thinking, I know.
Our new house is across the street from the neighborhood pool and since my kids are part fish, I expect to be splashing around in that pool all summer and many summers to come. I can only hope that there are a few other moms and dads in my new hood that carry shameful tats. Maybe a few tribal bands, an ancient Chinese symbol for patience that really means fried rice, or even a few Greek letters from their glory days. We can nod our heads in solidarity of our bad choices. We were wild and crazy once and we have the ink to prove it! Now we are dragging our kids kicking and screaming to the kiddie pool during adult swim.
Having kids has caused me a serious case of momnesia. This kid induced disease often has me searching endlessly for keys, failed attempts of looking for my lost cell phone while I am talking on that lost cell phone, and the dreaded walking into a room and thinking “What the hell did I come in here for?”
While momnesia and its nasty side effects has me walking around like a half wit, I never have to worry that I will lose my kids because one or both are always leaning on me, touching me, or sitting on me…always. Now I love a snugglefest with my babies, probably more than the average Mamma, but dang kids, give the lady some room!
This morning I was doing the normal multi-tasking: attempting to write a blog, drink coffee, pretend to watch Doc McStuffins and snuggle with two bed-headed kids. But I couldn’t even raise an elbow to click around on the computer because I was trapped between both leaners.
I moved to the floor, they followed me.
I scooted to the left, the scooted along with me.
I scooched to the right, the got even closer.
I can’t escape them!
During a break in the leaning, I ran off into the kitchen, but the little one followed me. Since this kid could stand, I haven’t cooked a meal without her standing on my feet or swinging between my legs chanting “Mamma, Mamma, Mamma” on repeat. This is enough to make the most patient of women insane, and I will only cook things that can be heated up in the microwave in 30 seconds so that I can be around long enough to see my kids graduate from high school.
I instituted a new rule in this house, a moratorium on leaning on Mommy for one hour a day. The no leaning policy happens from 1:30-2:30. This time also coincides with Mimi’s nap mostly because she is irrational and cannot be bargained with. Also, I am a little afraid of her wrath if I told her she has to move. However, the new rule has already failed and I have a mutiny on my hands. See!
The leaning doesn’t stop even when the kids go to bed. As if on cue, I get the kids to sleep and the dog, who has ignored us all day, comes racing down the stairs just to lean on me. It’s like she has an internal clock that goes off after bedtime alarming her to the fact no one is demanding anything from me and no one is touching me. The perfect time for her to lean that hot and hairy body on me.
After a full day of kids and a dog leaning on me, Hubby has the audacity to try his own version of leaning. No thanks, Dude. Keep on moving. After 12 straight hours of kid and canine leaning, ain’t no one got time for that.
So if you need me, find one of my kids. I will just be a lean away.
Sex and the City is one of my all-time favorite shows. While I love Carrie Bradshaw, she and I only have a few things in common: we both have big, curly hair, we both think Mr. Big is a dreamboat and that Aiden is a hotty, and we don’t back up our stuff. Do you remember this scene?
While she was mourning her computer, I was mourning the loss of my iPhone. This all started with potty training. So in reality, it is potty training’s fault….not mine.
Potty training can be really difficult for some kids; however, Monkey was the easiest kid to potty train, and it had nothing to do with me or my amazing parenting expertise. One day he marched his little tush into the bathroom, grabbed my iPhone, sat down and the diapers were history.
Monkey would take the phone into the bathroom to do “his business”, but would sit there playing games until I forced him to come out. Sometimes I would let him stay in the bathroom while I did the dishes, drank a cup of coffee, or read one of my smutty books. He was happy, I was happy and Mimi was so little at the time she was easily entertained with some random flashing toy. Life was good.
One of the worst sounds I ever heard was a splash followed by “Uh oh!” The phone was swimming in the toilet.
I quickly scooped the phone out of the water and did everything you are not supposed to do: panic, turn the phone on and off, cry, turn it on again, curse, and cry more. Just to throw salt on my iPhone wound, everyone I came in contact with asked me the same stupid question:
“Didn’t you back up your stuff?”
Uhhhh no, I don’t do that.
What the hell is this iCloud? How does everyone know about this mysterious cloud but me? Am I really that deep in the child rearing trenches that I don’t know about this technology? Really, if one more person asked me about backing up my stuff, they were getting a punch in the throat. I’m looking at you, snarky salesman at the cellphone store.
I really didn’t care that the phone was a goner, or that I was going to shell out $$$ to get a new phone. What devastated me was the fact that all of the photos and videos were gone. Never mind the fact that we have an expensive camera and video camera sitting somewhere in this house; I was literally documenting the kids’ life on that phone. Well mostly just little Mimi (you know, second kid and all).
I wept over that stupid phone. Losing videos of my sweet Mimi and her first few months of life just so I could get a few minutes of peace while my kid sat on the john made me feel like the Worst. Mother. Ever.
Actually here is another thing that Carrie Bradshaw and I have in common: we have super, amazing friends that help us out in our time of need.
I passed the phone on to my bestie, a genius in computer forensics. If she could find obscure pieces of information on cell phones of bad guys, surely she could find my videos of Mimi cooing. Apparently things didn’t look good, but she would keep trying.
This phone disaster actually happened about a year ago, so all hope had been lost, but sometimes you get super lucky and pick friends that not only have amazing shoe collections, a totally awesome dance to “Push It”, but also useful skills. This week my BFF handed me a DVD with everything she recovered from my phone! She explained how she did it, but I was too stunned that I blocked out all of her CSI type jargon in order to look at what once was lost.
There were gems like this:
So what did I learn from these Questionable Choices in Parenting?