Questionable Choices in Parenting

Laughing at life as a parent so they don't commit me

Breaking in Christmas

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I find analogies to be helpful. How about you?

Try this one on for size.

 

Darla is to fish:

Darla

 

 

As my kids are to Christmas decorations:

Broken Christmas

The Christmas season has barely started and this pile is looking like the place Christmas decorations go to die. Except this stash of decor has seen their unfortunate end by the hands of my children.

Honestly, it’s bad enough that I suspect my Hubby has left several bins in attic and is pretending “No, Honey, that’s it. We don’t have any more Christmas decorations up here.” He’s a sneaky one.  I think he skims off the top every year so that I don’t suspect how much Christmas cheer he is leaving in our dark, cold attic. If I wasn’t afraid that seventeen bins full of kids clothes and toys would fall on me and I would be trapped in the attic forever, I would totally go upstairs and sort through  the bins myself. That’s a lie—that attic is a deathtrap. I’ll just buy more décor at the after season sales.

Back to Santa’s destructive elves, yes we put the fancy decorations up high and the bottom half of the tree is empty (saddest tree ever), but somehow they have gotten their hands on a few too many ornaments and a singing bear. Now they are goners. Maybe it was the fact that we left the Christmas bins lying around for four days. Questionable Choices in Parenting? OK, you got me, but in my defense I was really tired after laying the foundation for the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

Listen, I get it, kids break stuff, a lot, but dang when does the destruction end? How long before I can bring my prized Pottery Barn Reindeer Dishes out of storage without fear of my Rudolf cookie serving plate being smashed to smithereens? Oh yeah, that was a BK (before kids) purchase.  When can my tree live up to its full potential and actually hold ornaments all the way to the bottom branches?

Really, I could get really frustrated and lose it because my kids keep breaking my Christmas crap, or I could use this as a life lesson. Yes, I choose the lesson because I choose to just go shopping to replace everything with kid friendly and even more fabulous Christmas style. Yes, friends, I choose the life lesson.

Cripes, I have actually lost Mimi while I was writing. Oh wait here she is:

Lost in a tree

A for Effort?

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Last week Monkey’s preschool held a Thanksgiving program. Because I am “That Mom” I was there with camera, video camera, Hubby, Mimi, and Grandma in tow.

Let me start by saying he was a phenomenal Native American (umm we don’t say Indian anymore, get with it). Every kid wore their  handmade Native American and Pilgrim costumes while they sang their festive songs; however, Monkey’s butcher paper get-up was sliding down his body mid tune and his teacher was wearing his construction paper headdress. None the less, he was the proudest monkey and I was grinning like a fool that was in awe of her boy.

When we were leaving the school, I noticed this lovely display.

Even though the teacher went to the trouble of putting the kids’ names on their paintings, I could have spotted my kid’s a mile away.

Yup, there it is.

To be fair this could have went another way: drowned in so much paint that the paper would have disintegrated. I would have known that was his handy work too

Even as his mother, I had to wonder “Really, Miss Preschool teacher? There weren’t any other kids’ pictures you could have put up?”

I had to wonder what had Monkey so distracted. Were you looking to explain yourself through a different medium? Were you bothered by the tools they gave you? Was it too close to snack time?

Ridiculous, yes.

Is this going to be displayed on my fridge, you betcha.

Aspiring painter, meh.

Adorable butcher paper Indian Native American, hell yeah!

Irreconcilable Holiday Differences

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Let’s start with a visual.

This is my husband’s idea of Christmas decorating:

And here is mine:

Before we had kids, he would totally indulge in my Christmas decorating extravagance. He thought it was cute and charming, and was willing to dangle from the roof to hang twinkle lights for me. The man even let me put up a hot pink and lime green tree in his house. Now that is love.

Since Monkey and Mimi have come along, and our house slowly morphed into Toys R’ Us, the hubby’s patience has worn thin with my love of all things Christmas and my excessive need to show holiday joy through lights, glitter, and tinsel. *cough, cough* Ebenezer Scrooge, anyone?

Since marriage is all about compromise (sham), we have a new tradition, the “Christmas Bargaining”. Here is why this went down, last year I made the whole family drive out to a tree farm where we dragged a newborn Mimi and an exhausted Monkey through fields of trees. I read somewhere that huge Husky dogs would happily carry your tree to your car. Amazing, right? Imagine the holiday cheer! We needed to do this! The only thing is that you cut down your own tree….I sorta left that part out when telling Hubby we NEEDED to do this.

As always, he was the doting husband, and we arrived at the tree farm where we quickly learned that the Husky dogs were taking a break and we (and by we, I mean Hubby) would have to cut down the tree, drag it back several hundred yards to our car,  and attach it to our roof—-All. By. Himself. Hilarity did not ensue, he was not thrilled with this idea, and some may say, he even turned a shade that resembled the Grinch.  But I had two babies, a video camera, and my best Christmas face on. Who could ever say no to that sweet image? Not that adorable boy I married so long ago J

Long story even longer, shit hit the Christmas fan and I was banned from ever suggesting such a ridiculous idea when all I was willing to do was sit in the car and feed Goldfish to the kids.

So this year I agreed to getting the tree from the place that all you do is point and pay and they do the rest.  And my hubby agreed to this:

Peace has been restored in the universe and the Christmas season. Now if only I could get him to agree to an inflatable Santa and Rudolph…

Where did you sleep last night?

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So this happened last night…

 

Yes that would be my three-year-old passed out on his ottoman in the bedroom he trashed in the dark. So where were you, Mamma, while your sweet boy was running around his bedroom, tearing the place apart? Oh, just reading a romance novel, and by romance novel I mean the really dirty kind. Where was your husband, you might add? Watching football. Questionable Choices in Parenting–man this blog can write itself in this house!

 

After hours in the car to and from our multiple Thanksgiving destinations, we all needed a break from one another. Mimi decided to sleep (she was my favorite last night), but Monkey was all jazzed up from missed naps, interrupted sleep, and too many hours on the Ipad. He was strangely quiet while he stealthily disassembled his room and finally lost his battle with the Sandman. So is this a new phase we have entered? I showed him the picture this morning and asked him happened. He said “I fell out of my bed.” Seems logical…

Will my nightly check-ins of the boy become sort of a Where’s Waldo? If so, this could be a new section of the blog (until it isn’t funny and sorta annoying). So tell me, where is the strangest place you have found your kids sleeping?

Being Truthful About My Thanks

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You’ve seen it. Maybe you even did it. The 30 days of thanks on Facebook, Twitter, and whatever social media that is out there and I don’t know about.

                              I am thankful for my wonderful husband

                              Sooooo thankful for my beautiful children

                              How could I not be thankful for my parents, dog, in-laws, cousins, job, house, Nutella (OK I added that last one 🙂 )

I really love the idea behind these posts, but come on! We know you are thankful for all of these things because you would be a big scumbag if you weren’t thankful. Yes, it is nice to have a reminder of our blessings, but what I really want to see are those ridiccious, selfish, and guilty pleasures you are giving thanks for this holiday season.

So in my full on snarky mode from reading the 757,3637,852 posts about being thankful for your well behaved children (liars), I challenged my Facebook friends to stop being polite and start getting real– Sorry I just had a flashback to college where I would be stuck inside all day watching a Real World marathon—Anywho, I challenged them to tell us all what they are REALLY thankful for and let me tell you, my FB friends did not disappoint. Here is what they shared:

I really love reading the things people are thankful for, but let’s be honest, what we really want to see is the ridiculous and honest list of why you are thankful. I’ll go first: I am thankful Facebook and camera phones did not exist when I was in college. Boom–Who’s next?

  • I am thankful that they make long shirts to wear with skinny jeans!
  • I’m thankful that I can buy wine in the grocery store in VA
  • I am thankful for naps. Jacoby’s, not mine. Okay, mine too.
  • I’m thankful for yoga pants and even more for wine.
  • I’m thankful that bathing suit season is seven months away
  • I would also like to add that I am thankful for Spanx and blonde highlights. Without both, I would be a hot mess.
  • I am thankful that I am retired and my biggest decision is what to have for dinner. Yes Margaret, there IS a Santa Claus!
  • I’m thankful for spray tans…fat looks better tan 
  • I am thankful for tanning beds, highlights and my nights out with the girls 
  • I’m thankful for a grown up job with a grown up paycheck.
  • So thankful for wine and bedtime 
  • I’m thankful that I can crop pictures on my phone so when I look fat in a picture I can just cut it out 
  • I am thankful for text messaging. This way I can judge other mothers at the playground, but not get caught being all judgy.
  • I’m thankful for Facebook so I don’t have to wait for my high school reunion to see who did what, is what, and ate what. I’m also thankful that leggings are acceptable attire in the winter…every single day.
  • Christian Grey and Magic Mike
  • I’m thankful for copious amounts of Dunkin Donuts French Vanilla coffee! I seriously start looking forward to my morning joe before I even go to bed.
  • I’m thankful for McDonald’s and lollipops!
  • I  am thankful for pants in the wintertime when I sometimes forget to shave my legs.
  • Also, I am thankful for my cleaning lady. Even when there isn’t much budge in the budget, I will always keep Rosa twice a month because I am a horrible housekeeper and I hate to clean toilets.
  • I’m thankful that I don’t have to clean my house this holiday week because my 21 year old brother that’s coming to visit doesn’t care what it looks like. 
  • I am also thankful that I am too old to go boozing on Thanksgiving Eve. Turkey with a hangover is lousy and nothing good ever came out of my antics on this night. I’ll be drinking in my jammies at my parent’s.
  • I’m thankful that I’m still DINK status so I don’t feel guilty about buying an at home spray tanning system instead of saving for an offspring’s college. (I had to Google DINK. Apparently it means Dual Income and No Kids, hilar!)

So there you go, honest and real reasons that you are thankful. This time the truth doesn’t hurt, it just reminds me of the good things in life: wine, naps, and leggings.

The Dog Becomes a Dog

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You know all of that annoying  awesome, unsolicited advice that random people share with you while you’re pregnant? Like the time the old lady in Target saw me carrying a then 18 month old Monkey and I was sporting a pretty big belly with #2, and well, here is how the convo went down in the checkout line:

                          Random stranger: “You’re pregnant already!”

                         Me: “Yes, it would appear as though I am with child.”

                        Random Stranger: “Well, I’m sure that (pointing to my bumb) was a mistake!”

                        Me: “Uhhhhh… nope. She was planned.”

                       Random Stranger: “Oh a she. Well that is good. Now you can be done having kids.”

                      Me: “Actually, we are going Dugger Style and popping out about 20 more, but thanks for asking.”

OK, that last part totally didn’t happen, but I wish I was quicker with the whit that day. Cut me some slack, I was pregnant, tired from chasing a toddler, and SHOCKED that some random lady would be so insane at Target. Wal-Mart maybe, but Target? REALLY?

Whether it is your first baby or you are Michelle Dugger and working on #21, random people will offer their well-intentioned, but mostly useless, advice. I’m going to throw my hat in the ring of  things you would rather not know, but I’m gonna tell you anyway. Here is one foreshadowed tidbit that actually comes true, your dog becomes a dog.

I know, I know, all of my dog loving, non-mommy readers just gasped in horror. “Girl, you cray cray.”  It is a thought too painful to bare; however, it will happen. The animal that you love and adore as if you had birthed her hairy little face yourself, simply becomes the family dog when kids bust up your pooches happy home.

This is my beloved Suggie,  my first real baby.  The Hubbster and I rescued her from the pound when we were just two crazy kids dating. We adored her, thought she was the smartest, cutest, and well-mannered canine to ever walk the earth. We would lay in bed on weekends and snuggle this sweet pooch and laugh at everyone who thought their dog was the best. Fools, ha!

She was the center of our universe, the star of our Christmas card, and unbeknownst to any of us, her days at the top dog were numbered.

When Monkey came along, it got harder and harder to take her for runs and let’s be honest, feed her twice a day. “Did you feed the dog today or yesterday?” Once Mimi came into our world, Suggie was on suicide watch.

It’s heartbreaking and believe me, I have enough guilt over neglecting the dog (note: by neglect I mean she is not the only child anymore).  At night she sleeps in our bed, hogs the blankets, snores in my face and makes me hot all night. I consider this my penance for being a crap doggie-mommy.

As I look at my sleeping pup taking up most of the couch, I have to remember that the days Suggie may look back on as “the good old days” aren’t forgotten. All I can do to assuage my guilt over my Questionable Choices in Parenting is turn a blind eye when she eats yet another toy, let her lick my Lean Cuisine containers, and take funny pictures of her like this:

The Wet Seal of Approval

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Long, long ago I would have categorized myself as a stylish lady, fashion forward, if you will. OK that is a gross exaggeration; I was able to throw together a great outfit, accessorize, and get my hair to look fancy. Sigh, gone are those days. At this point I find myself turning to mannequins in stores for fashion advice.  “Tell me headless lady, what do you think of these skinny jeans?”

I needed a new outfit for a little trip I was taking and I needed something that was not covered in playground mulch or macaroni and cheese. So in a rush, I had to take the world’s worst shopper, better known as my Screaming Mimi, to the mall. I strapped Mimi into her stroller and braved the stores. Two gals taking on the mall and the fashion world. What could go wrong?

Well let’s just start with Mimi. I dreamed of the days she and I would shop together, have leisurely lunches, and share a laugh or two. Mimi didn’t get her nickname of Screaming Mimi because it was funny. Girlfriend has a set of lungs that even Beyoncé would be jealous of.

We weren’t in the mall for more than ten minutes when she started the wailing, and as if by magic, someone turned up the heat. I was sweating, people were staring,  Mimi was inconsolable, even  mannequins were  judging me. I needed to work fast: get in, grab an outfit, and get out.

We passed a storefront with some questionable selections, but lo and behold there was one mannequin with a decent outfit that was Mom appropriate. I rushed inside just before looking at the name of the store, “Wet Seal”. What? Ewwwww? Any parent should be a little suspect when letting their daughters shop in a store with a semi dirty name.  Oh, you didn’t think it was dirty? Betcha you do now.

But I digress, upon entering the store I could clearly see this place was better suited for the styles of young ladies that have not seen the joys of child-bearing; however, I needed an outfit and Mimi needed the hell out of the mall. Among the sequins, day-glow, and bad 80’s reproductions (dang, are those things really in style?), I saw the Mom approved outfit from the window. I tried to get over to the display but was stopped in my tracks by a huge table covered in glitter tank tops. I moved left and there were more scantily clad mannequins. I moved right and I ran into a furry boot display. No matter how I moved, I couldn’t get Mimi’s stroller over to the one outfit I could actually wear in public without ultimate humiliation. Just then someone turned the heat up again, (why do they do that?) and the sweating and screaming kid became even more unbearable. Fine! I give up!! Clearly this store is anti-stroller (take the hint,lady).I turned and pushed Mimi out of the dirty named store and gave the evil eye to the traitorous mannequin in the window.

I got to thinking about my Questionable Choices in Parenting that day and here is what I came up with:

  • Mimi is a gal on the move. You can’t tame a wild one with a stroller (even though 75 other kids in the mall were sitting in their strollers calmly). Our time of shopping together will come, just not right now.
  • Gone are the days of shopping with great ease and convenience (well for a little while). Until those days are reclaimed, there is online shopping where you can drink wine while pursuing, slutty mannequins don’t judge you, and inappropriately named stores and obstacle courses can’t hold you down.  Take that, Wet Seal!

Look at me, Ma! I’m a blogger!

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OK here goes nothing!

Did you ever have those moments in life when something so ridiculous, insanely funny, or just plain wrong happens and you look around for a camera to make a  funny face of acknowledgement, a la Jim from The Offfice. No? Just me?

 

Well here’s the thing, I am a Mommy to a three year old Monkey boy and a one year old Screaming Mimi; this means they bring the LOLs and Oh noooooos every day. Since I spend most of my days with two bambinos and not too many adults, I start to think I have gone a little bananas; however,I have a place to share my crazy! My mom thinks my musings are a hoot, my husband still thinks I am the wittiest gal he knows, the Monkey and Mimi think I am an awesome singer (genius kids), I just hope you like me…..really like me.

So welcome to my questionable choices in parenting. Hope you find my crazy entertaining 🙂