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Category Archives: parenting
Father’s Day Greetings
Being that I am a writer, you would probably assume I give my husband a beautiful heartfelt card on every holiday. The truth is, I am like most of you, going at the last minute to look at slim pickins and buy some cheesy cards that cost $3 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation.
First of all, unless your husband likes fishing or fixing things you’re SOL from the get go. The funny cards are too queer, though the Far Side always gives me a giggle, I try to find something with a little more sentiment. I have noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to rebuy the same card for each other on our respective holidays year after year.
The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this:
“Sometimes I’m stubborn when I don’t get my way,
Sometimes I’m bossy and have too much to say.
Blah blah blah, buuuuut I really love you! Have a great Father’s day.”
That’s the general gist anyway. It’s basically an apology for being a sucky annoying wife 364 days a year. The card might as well say:
“Sometimes I’m a big fat wench, when you look at me the wrong way.
Other times I’m a bratty bitch, when I don’t like what you say.
Often I’m an evil nag, I’m so frustrated I could spit.
I don’t listen when you speak because I’m daydreaming of Brad Pitt.
I pretty much act like I hate you almost every day of the year,
Buuut I really totally Love You, though I rarely make it clear.”
The mother’s day version is similar, two cats start out fighting and the guy cat’s like, “I’m sorry I’m so stubborn, but we always find our way.” Then the cats are driving and he’s lost and he won’t ask for directions and she’s looking back at the kitties shrugging her shoulders.
Then they are watching a sports game and the mom cat is running in circles around the house with the kitties, and the dad cat is ignoring her and he’s all, “Sometimes I get wrapped up in other things, but I always spend the commercials with you guys.”
Then the dad cat is looking at the price tag of a really expensive pair of Jimmy Choo’s that the mom cat is at the register paying for, because she feels she’s earned them. The dad cat hisses, “We don’t always see eye to eye, but we always compensate.” In the next picture he is cutting up her credit card and throwing the pieces in the air like confetti.
Then the mom cat is taking the kitties to live with some calico she met in the alley. The dad cat shows his claws, but since he is domesticated and therefore declawed he just feels like a pussy (cat I mean).
Then the dad cat is paying off some thug mafia cat and says, “We always work it out, ‘cause making up is the best part!”
Or something like that. Mother’s day was a few months ago so I may have embellished the finer details, but you get the picture. It’s an apology for being a crappy, inattentive, stubborn, annoying husband, buuut it’s okay cause we get to make up after I have your calico trash cat castrated.
So this year, I picked up one of those cards and was about to buy it. Then I thought, I don’t need to apologize for arguing or nagging, that’s what couples do... even one’s who are in love. Yes, my husband is stubborn and I am a nag, but we love each other. I don’t want to make light of my annoying ways through a rhyming apology that is only cute because of cat personification. We’ve been married a decade, he knows I am a bitch and he is thankful I’m cute.
So, I got a card that was perfect. Yes, it had cats. It said, that he’s the one I go to if I need a hug, or a sympathetic ear, or a pep talk, or to kill a bug, or to move something heavy. Basically, he’s there when I need him.
Does he do things that are annoying? Daily. Frustrating? Hourly. Does he snore and fart in his sleep? Yep. Does he leave crumbs on the counter and forget to change lightbulbs? Uh ha. Is he a fabulous dad? Absolutely.
Is he there for me when I need him? Always.
That might not have been a quality I dreamed my husband would have on my wedding day, but a decade in, it’s the one I am most thankful for.
So to my husband, I hope you enjoyed your day. I love you! To all the other Dad’s, mine especially, I hope you had a fabulous Father’s day and that there are spouses and children out there that appreciate all you do.
PS vlog 2 is up if you are interested Conversations With Your Selfish Friend. If you watch the vlogs, please take the poll and if you like them, please send to friends!
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Twilight Obsession or Mid-Life Crisis?
I was at my neighbor’s house the other day and her nine year old daughter sat down at the table with me. “Soooo, who’s your favorite character?” she asked, in the way one would while sharing tea and crumpets. I was not having tea, however, I was having coffee, one of the few things that still separates me from nine year olds. Well, most of them anyway.
My favorite character of what? Disney movies? Are we talkin’ Hannah Montana, or like Monsters vs. Aliens?
“No, my mom said you love Twilight, and OMG, me too! I am so in love with Jacob. How about you?” she squeaked eagerly, awaiting my answer.
Okay, as most of you know, I have a very unhealthy obsession with the Twilight series and the main character, Edward. I also believe, after giving the subject way too much thought, that this is either a sign of total immaturity or a mid-life crisis. So, either I’m mentally stuck in high school, or wishing I was.
“Are we having this conversation? Aren’t you nine?” Hello, clearly the fact that you love Jacob is a sign of your immaturity. “Everyone knows Edward is like the ultimate hottie,” I continued, drawing a line in the sand between me and the child that stood before me, who was excitedly bouncing to hear my answer.
“Yeah, he’s cute but I like werewolves better than vampires,” she replied, shrugging off my belligerent tone.
“What?! You’d rather date a werewolf than a vampire?” I argued. Jenny, don’t get yourself all worked up. What does she know anyway, she’s nine? While talking myself down, I noticed her Jonas Brothers concert tee. I realized that we may have the same taste in literature, and as it appears, nail polish, but I was the adult.
In fact, one of my readers had just sent me a very racy version of what supposedly happened on Edward and Bella’s honeymoon. A night that the author skimmed over to keep the books appropriate for her teen audience. Of course, in my suburb where the kids rule, “teen” means nine.
I reminded myself that I had a nugget of Twilight information that she would not be able to read for at least 2 years… at the rate she was going. I told her when her mom said it was okay, she could see my special chapter. You might be thinking that I got great joy in dangling that carrot, but nay I say. It was when I gave her a raspberry that I got the most joy.
She ran to her room and returned with a picture, the fold out kind that you pull from Tiger Beat Magazine, or One Day I Will Be a Know-It-All Magazine or whatever the teenie boppers are reading these days. You know, the ones that show young girls who are famous and rich, and handsome boys that are out of reach, and in turn, set their readers up for future disappointment and body dysmorphia.
She handed it to me, and I opened it up to find a picture of Robert Pattinson, the actor that plays Edward Cullin, who is also 13 years my junior. Don’t think it’s odd that I know that. I’m no stalker, but I do admittedly frequent the website: RobPatzStalkers.com
I think her poster was a peace offering, and in hindsight, a very mature response to my childish behavior. I looked at her, and then the picture. Then as I went to leave, I said, “By the way, the Jonas Brothers Suck! Yeah, they’re for babies and you love them.”
So who’s the most mature one in the room now?
PS- don’t forget to take today’s poll, and as always, make sure you have my RSS, or email subscription!
Coffee and Flogging -Vlog attempt 1
Here is my first vlog (video log). For many of you this will be your first time seeing me, which I know is weirdly like watching the movie after reading the book (it’s all in the casting). I think I’m perfectly cast in the role of “me,” as I find myself to be the epitome of me. If you don’t agree, talk to my agent.
If you enjoy it, please pass it on.
If you hate it, keep it to yourself, you obnoxious person with nothing better to do than sneer at other people’s attempts at branding themselves and living out the dream… the American dream. But know, I will get better and I will continue to blog if you prefer the blogging.
Most importantly, thanks as always for your support!
I hope you guys enjoy! Sorry you have to click the link, I am too technologically challenged to get it directly on the site.
CLICK HERE: VLog-1
Yours,
Jenny From the Blog
Mothering By The Seat Of Our Pants
Figuring out that your parents knew as little about raising children as you do is a mind altering experience.
I spend much of my time in disbelief that I am the mom of two amazing kids, because I often feel like a kid myself. How did this happen? When did this happen? Just yesterday I was getting my license, graduating college, moving to my first apartment… and somehow I am an adult with a home and children. Children that come to me in the middle of the night with growing pains, and nightmares — looking to be comforted. I’m mothering by the seat of my pants.
How is it that I am winging it and my mother seemed to know everything? I walk around sputtering a slew of medical advice I got from this woman who was so thoroughly competent and mature at 35, they may have even let her practice medicine in some states, like West Virginia.
Was Dr. Mom wrong? Was she all knowing or just a teenager, stuck in a “mommy” body, spouting the information imparted by her mother before her? If your tongue has a green tint, do you not need to make a BM? If you get stung by a bee does toothpaste not soothe the sting? It all made perfect sense when I was 8.
I took these practices as gospel, logging the protocol in my “future motherhood file,” for safekeeping. I filled my arsenal with pertinent and sometimes even magical remedies, only to find myself at 35 in a CPR and safety class being jeered by the instructor, the “movie star” hot instructor.
Because I am mentally no more than 21, I was secretly praying he was a stripper, hoping his snug manly fireman’s uniform would Velcro straight off to the sound of some cheesy disco accompaniment.Don’t think I didn’t whisper, “bow chicka bow wow,” to get the ball rolling.
I attempted to impress him with the vast medical knowledge I had learned from the omnipotent Dr. Mom.
“Butter for burns?” He laughed. “Coke Syrup? for a belly ache?“
“Who taught you this stuff?” He prodded and not in a flirty teasing way.
Apparently, my medical knowledge was archaic. Not only did it make me seem old, it made me seem Amish.
I was about as sexy to this strapping buck as the Snapple Lady. There it is, that four letter word that is so hideous so heinous… L-A-D-Y. To this stud I was just some “lady.” My mom was just like me… some kid who was a “lady” to everyone else.Some of those brilliant treatments she made up on the fly and the others she just relayed as I did, hoping to sound as if she knew what she was talking about.She believed what she was told as a child, because her mom, another “Lady,” of maybe 25, told her it was so.
My entire foundation crumbled in 3 hours and a snack break. Realizing your mother was no more prepared or mature than you are is a shocking and mind altering epiphany. It’s like trying to figure out what was here before the world. If you think about it too much your head may spontaneously combust.
My mind was swimming. I tuned out the sexy EMT, well muted him, to think this through. Have I found the key to motherhood? Is it not in the actual knowledge but in the belief? My ultimate goal as a parent is for my children to be safe and secure. Is that not what my mother, the witch doctor, did for me? Having trust and faith in her knowledge was a necessary part of making me feel safe and secure.
Maybe we don’t need to know everything or be ultra mature to be good parents. Maybe the answers we have are enough.
My epiphany was making me hyperventilate .I considered throwing myself to the ground, grabbing my throat and kicking resuscitation Annie out of the way. Look, sometimes you take it any way you can get it.
How To Make People Hiss At You
I considered not posting this because so many people witnessed it happening. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone left to read about it. Because there is some pertinent information, I decided it was worth sharing. I have discovered the quickest way to make people despise and hiss at you. If this is something you may be interested in… read on.
Bring a cranky child with less than five hours sleep under her belt, to the grocery store. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends or any kind of social interaction disorder.
She began our trip like a giddy drunk: a little unstable, but cheerful and capricious. I may have even gotten an, “I love you man… I mean Mom,” accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But, like most drunks, the second you shove them in to the seat of the shopping cart they get belligerent.
Cindy our favorite check out girl made the tragic mistake of saying, “Hello my sweet Ryan,” When we arrived. Her “Sweet Ryan” responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.
“How could you Cindy?” I snarled. I should have done a 180 then and there, but I selfishly decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food than maintain any good will towards neighbors.
By the meat counter Ryan lost it when I pulled the number out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a chasm through my forehead, I succumbed and allowed her to pull out 10 more numbers…much to the dismay of the deli staff.
By the time we hit produce she had spiraled out of control. I said something so horrifying, it left her no choice but to unleash an Earth shattering scream of disapproval. The grapes looked old, but I now realize, I should have kept that scary tidbit to myself.
I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up she hit her back on the cart which was adding insult to injury, actually injury to insult. Semantics aside, it was unforgivable and ohhh, did I feel her justifiable fury.
As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was developing. I grabbed a few essentials and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s line was the shortest. I reluctantly got in it and shot her a scowl, letting her know I had not forgotten the cruel injustice she showed my child when we arrived. Ryan continued to sulk, which triggered the woman in front of me to say, “Aww, Poor thing. She’s so cute.”
I took one look at her blood shot eyes as she was rolling them at me for some unknown wrongdoing and simply said, “She can be cuter.”
As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children.
“Hello Jenny,” she said in a not your day, kind of way
“Don’t even go there Cindy, you chipper woman or I will knock that annoying pout clean off your face,” I barked in a stint of misplaced frustration. Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did give her the, “talk to the hand” gesture. No, I didn’t do that either. I said, “hello Cindy,” but I said it in an Indian accent, so she would be oddly confused.
Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that, there is a reason Mc Donald’s is making the youth of America fat. Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.
Gag me with a…
This story is like a bad episode of Three’s Company… not that there ever was one, I love you Jack!
I went into the vitamin store today where a lovely couple owns the shop. They know me, my concerns, my usual products, etc… My biggest issue is that I cannot swallow pills. I have forced myself to swallow some pretty disgusting stuff (I know, that’s what she said.) in avoidance of those monster vitamins they make. I’m sure the purveyors of vitamins have dealt with this issue before. It seems I have mentioned this once or twice, as the owners always consider it before helping me find a new pill.
Today, it was just the husband in the store with his brother. I think I said something like, “I need to look at the size to see if I can get it down.” Bob eyed his brother and the brother walked away. I had no idea why, and I walked over to look at a sample. Then I said something like, “Come on Bob, you know I can’t swallow.” Still completely oblivious, I turned around and the two of them were in absolute hysterics. What did I just say? Then it hit me. Oh…that was bad. I had to start with the familiar, “Come on Bob,” no less?
“You know what I mean.” I said flushed with embarrassment.
“Yes I know, you always remind me.” snicker snicker.
Then I realized, this was not a one time accidental sexual innuendo. How many times had I said things like, “I have trouble swallowing,” or “That will make me gag, it’s so big?” I could tell by the way the laughter came out like a floodgate exploding, that this was an ongoing joke, an ongoing joke that I was the ongoing butt of.
That kills me for so many reasons, as I am usually the first to get the double entendre, the pun, the sarcasm, the “that’s what she said,” moment. I can imagine him and his wife calling each other every time I walk out the door.
“Oh Lisa, Jenny said she, ‘can’t swallow’ like 5 times today. I think that’s a record.”
“Noooo Bob, that’s not the record. Don’t you remember when she was looking for calcium supplements?”
“Of course, Lisa. She said she had tried the liquid, but it was soooo thick and chalky she spat it all over the sink.”
In Unison: “That day will go down in infamy. I think we closed early.”
I know you’re thinking they wouldn’t really say that in unison, but it was either that or to write the song I imagined they spontaneously broke into.
“I cannot swallow.”
“Your throats not hollow?”
“That’s too immense”
“You are so dense.”
See not a great song.
Dangerously Lazy
I am no stranger to laziness, but this is extreme, even for me. I went to get refill blades for the Gillette Fusion, Mach 91, turbo, hydraulics razors that Mark and I use, but they were out. So I got the Mach 90 version instead. Being that the blades were a number off, our razor handles did not fit, but luckily, Mark had one from the last time Gillette came out with the “most powerful razor on the planet.”
We only had one handle between the two of us and since Mark shaves 5 times more often me, (I did the math) Mark got dibs. Therefore, I had to remember to take his handle into the shower and put in my blade that waited on the shelf, anytime I needed to shave.
Today. It wasn’t until I got in the shower that I realized how badly I needed to shave. Rather then open the shower door, walk all the way to his sink, and get the floor wet along the way, I decided the smarter call would be to hold the blade gently allowing it to pivot in my finger tips. Well , another brilliant idea borne by laziness. I mean look at Benjamin Franklin; sure, kite flying isn’t lazy, but it certainly isn’t a grand endeavor.
I had finished one leg, when shampoo dripped perilously into my eye. Rather than stop, turn around, and grab the towel hanging two inches from my face, I trudged on. I mean, what could be the harm in pivoting a razor in my finger-tips, while precariously balancing, with only one eye?
Actually, I got a fabulous shave minus one nick and what I might have to term a divot. I am often amazed by the things I will do to avoid doing other things.
PS The kicker is that my wireless mouse just ran out of batteries, and I had to empty yet another remote to fill it All, so that I could write this particular post about laziness… Oh, the irony.
I’d love to know if anyone has done other comparably lazy things.
A Mother’s Day Tale From The Queen
In my attempt to be a Queen for a day I realized that if the Queen is knee deep in urine, whining, and is constantly saying things like, “I will separate you two if I have to,” and “Who’s pee is this?” than I am the Queen every day.
As the Queen, I assure you that when a Queen sits on the royal throne in the royal bathroom, there is a dog with his head on her lap while she pees, and small children running in and out asking the same question over and over like wind up toys.
(Excuse me, I have to calm the Princess who is crying because the Prince got her too wet … in the pool!)
OK, back to my story. I woke up this morning to a performance of the Royal Court Jesters, and a barrage of hand made cards and dances done by the Royal Artisans. Then as a good Queen, I gave the royal puppy (who is a royal pain) his walk. You see, I gave the dog walkers the day off to spend with their mothers. Of course, I gave into the prince and princess and halted our walk to play at the park. I had no make-up on, no-bra, and shorts way too short for public viewing, as I graciously gave my royal dressers the day off to spend with their mother’s.
(Pardon me, I have to rush and dry off the Prince. He needs to jump out of the pool to make a poop.)
Back to the park. First I pushed the swing, and then I pushed the swing, then I stopped the dog from digging a ditch under the swing. Then my princess went down the slide too fast, in her pull-up, and fell butt first into the mulchie dirt. Yes, my daughter was in a pull-up and she rode her bike to the park that way. That does not make me a bad mom, because it is Mother’s Day and the royal nannies are off and I can’t be expected to do everything. Don’t judge, she wore a helmet.
(One, sec. I have to confirm whether a floating bug is dead or alive.)
Okay, I’m back. I spent the next 10 minutes attending to a crying Princess who had gotten herself and her pull-up dirty. She refused to get back on her bike, for fear of getting it dirty. She demanded that I, the Queen, walk it back home. Since the royal bike walkers are also off, I walked it half way and then insisted she get back on. I then promised that I would call the royal bike cleaners away from their mothers to come clean her bike.
(Sorry I’ll be right back. The bug I determined to be dead has come back to life, and now I must verify whether it is a wasp or not.)
Back to riding back home. As soon as we reached the house, a teary Princess ran to the royal bathroom and screams quickly followed. I hurried over, only to find her having slipped on some royal pee on the royal floor. Ah, the King can not be expected to aim between the hours of midnight and 7AM, and because the royal pee cleaners also had the day off to spend with their mothers, it was not properly wiped up.
(Umm, this might take a while. I am being asked the questions, “Mom, what is it like to be in heaven? Where is heaven? How do you get your own place to live, with grass and a house and stuff?)
Okeedokey – back again. I, the Queen, have decided to stop attempting to write, and wait till tomorrow when my royal scribe arrives. Instead I will leave you with the conversation that is currently going on:
Princess: “Mom, ma, mom? Jake said he will splash me if I taaallkkk.” Whine whine.
Prince: “And Ryan kicked me for no reason.” Tattling voice.
Princess: “I don’t even care about you now.”
Prince: “Yeah, well, you have man hair on your back”
Princess: “Wellllll, I don’t care, cause I like it that way….”
The above is a true account of my day thus far, and it is only 10AM, though I can’t be positive as the royal time keepers are spending the day with their mothers.
We do it all, and we’re still Queens, doctors, nurses, secretaries, corrections officers, chefs, maids, servants, scientists, therapists, teachers, soothers, bus boys, friends… I could go on all day, but what’s a Mother’s Day guitar hero tournament, without the reigning champion?
Happy Mother’s Day!
A special happy mother’s day to my mom, who was all of those things and remains the best Mom ever!
Link issue. Retry Voilet NYC link if you had trouble. It has been fixed.
Click here to go to the article. Celebrity Momma’s Got A Brand New Bag
Enjoy
Celebrity Momma’s Got A Brand New Bag
Okay, I was wrong the last time I said I was famous. You remember the article “Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack,” when I got noticed in the supermarket and vowed to wear a bra in public, though unnecessary, for the rest of my illustrious life? Now, I am really famous.
I have tons of stalkers, I mean people who follow me on twitter and people are sending me SWAG! As in Some Wonderful Accessory, Gratis. My first piece of SWAG is one I would have paid for, which means I’m much more famous than I thought. Had the designer waited, I would have put in an order. But, fame waits for no one and so, she has to write me off as celebrity PR.
Like any celebrity, I had one of my assistants receive the package in our “package receiving area.” Translation: my son grabbed it from the mat at our front door. Then I asked my other assistant to play me some SWAG opening music, a little known thing most stars do. Of course, why would YOU know that? Anyway she did an amazing rendition of “You and your hand.” A song I hope she’ll be singing in about 10 years when the boys are callin’.
The box came from Violet NYC, a very glam, very chic handbag company, of which I am a huge fan. The owner is a friend from college who smarty realized the magnitude of my star power. We haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, but we are sisters. Anyone who has been in sorority knows that, “sisterhood is the tie that binds.” I mean, there is never any dissention, cattiness, or ill will between sorority sisters. Those oddly placed shower scenes and pillow fights in sorority houses are completely true to life.
I had FaceBooked to tell her, “The line is amazing,” “The Italian leather, looks so supple,” “Kudos on all the press you’re getting,” and “Do you actually know Jessica Biel and Blake Lively?” It seemed to be taking off, and in all honesty, after randomly coming across her bags on cute young celebs, and in Lucky and Star, I was hoping for the SD (sorority discount). I realized when she simply wrote back, “Thanks,” that she was not familiar with the common practice of giving such discounts.
Some time passed and while I contemplating what to order, I got famouser and famouser. And then I got the call, “Hi notorious J from the B, who I used to just call Jenny.”
I thought that was a bazaar greeting too, but I’ve been called worse.
“I know you love my handbag line, as you have written me almost too many times telling me so… I want to send you a bag.”
“YOU DO!!!,” cheer-leading style hurkey.“ I mean, of course you do,” silent glee with queer 1980’s fist elbow jerk a la Micheal J. Fox in “The Secret Of My Success.”
Say it’s the aptly named VIP.
“How about the VIP?”
“Sure, whatever ,“ I mumbled in my, too cool for school, Danny Zucco impression.
So, today it is really official, I am famous. Oh, and I even get to give you guys the perk of an extra 20% off. You can never say that I let my importance go to my head, or that I don’t give back to the fans. You are my peeps and I pledge, that whenever I get anything free, I will strive to get you 20% off. I will even give you a link, Violet New York City . (put TAKE20 as the disc. code)
If you get the VIP please call before you carry it, so I can make sure we won’t be at the same event. Though, I will surely be in the VIP section with my VIP bag, oh and Gwynnie and Jamie Lynn and their bags. So, it won’t matter anyway.
Another Great Lesson Learned
Another Great Lesson Learned
We walked into school today and Ryan was greeted by one of her favorite teachers. She left the school last year and is subbing this week. Ryan ran in with a big hug for the teacher and then started talking about pumpkins.
“Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mom, Ma (that’s my full name) can we pick the pumpkins?”
Now of course I am in Florida and it is May. We all know that there are no pumpkins, yet that weird connection we have with our children, quickly translated for me.
“OH, you mean the orange berries growing on the shrubs outside of school.”
I love when I’m right about these things. It makes me feel oddly clairvoyant. If only I had a similar connection with the stock market.
We found these “pumpkinish” berries yesterday. They sparked an important discussion about not eating random fruits we see on trees, unless an adult i.e. parent, worker at grove or orchard, teacher on field trip, gives their permission.
Ryan explained that Miss Substitute, (I will not write her name because I truly enjoy her, when she is not teaching my daughter terrible terrible things.) ate one yesterday.
Miss Sub: “Oh, I told her she could have one… if Mommy said it was okay.”
Really? Really, Miss Substitute? You had to pick and eat a berry from a random shrub, like Gretel, in front of my child? Oh, and then you went on to tell her it was okay if I gave permission?
“What are they?” I asked, just curious, not because I was even considering giving in.
Miss Sub: “I don’t know.”
Oh, well, what a great lesson. Were you that hungry? You couldn’t have waited for snack time? That tiny berry looked so filling that you risked poisoning yourself and making a hazardous impression on a class of 4 year olds, to taste one?
Why didn’t you just say, “I will try one of these berries because I am excruciatingly hungry and they look sooo good. If I do not die, children, you should ask your parents if you too could eat some random, nameless fruit that grows near on a bush near a swamp.
In fact children, it is a fabulous idea to eat anything you find growing outdoors, it’s natural and hence, good for you. If you take anything from the 2 days I am subbing, let it be that lesson. The next time I sub, I will teach you all how to properly light your house on fire, and we’ll even play a traffic game called chicken.”
Can’t wait.