Are your thighs oddly attracted to each other and trying desperately to fill the space between them? Do you try to put on your go to jeans and they don’t fit, but your post pregnancy/period jeans do?
Tag Archives: children
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.
Because I’m five like that
Today, I was leaving a birthday lunch for my friend Tracey. I pulled out of the parking lot with her pulling out behind me. I got to the light waiting for her to pull next to me. Spontaneously, my face contorted into some stupid face, because I’m 5 like that. While looking straight ahead, I gave her the finger as her car inched to my side. Keeping my head toward the traffic light, I shoved said finger up my nose, way up my nose…because I’m 5 like that. I made some weird bucky beaver face while snorting and slowly turned to look at Tracey, HOLY SHIT THAT’S NOT TRACEY. The elderly woman staring me dead in the eye with a look of total and utter disgust is someone I have never seen before.
She turned quickly as if caught eaves dropping, but not before an eye roll. I stopped snorting, removed my finger from my nose, and gave her a meek smile. This is why I should not be allowed out of the house.
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 League Of My Own
Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.
On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?
“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.
“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.
I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.
“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.
For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.
It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?
“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“
That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.
Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”
Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder. But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.
On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.
What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.
As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.
The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.”
You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.
I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.
I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.
Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.
“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”
Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”
Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.
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Adult Swim
I had a night away this weekend, a night away. It has been 6 months, almost to the day, since the last time I had a night away. Yes, I am on the half year excursion plan. Twice a year I take the long ride from Weston to Fort Lauderdale, or South Beach, or Naples and spend a single night with as much day wrapped around both sides as my parents or in-laws will allow. We couldn’t go far, and because I was looking for optimum veg time, proximity was second only to my first criteria – NO KIDS.
Yes, I said it … NO KIDS. I had to find a close hotel that was kid free during spring break, when every cold frostbitten family packs up their 2.5 children, takes their pets to the kennel, and comes to Florida hoping to thaw out. I, on the other hand, needed to chill out and the best place seemed to be this boutiquey hotel on Lauderdale Beach called The Atlantic. The pool was off-putting to children, a long and narrow rectangle with no slides or falls. The décor was very hip, mod in an Ian Schrager, “don’t touch that kid, it will break” kinda way. I would avoid a place like this at all costs with my kids, as it blared “BORING” to anyone under sixteen. I banked on other families’ sense of “funless” to be on par with my own.
Wearing my too teeny bikini, I immediately found the pool and within moments I was donning an ipod, reading my book and sipping champagne. Totally enthralled with my book, I must not have noticed the influx of people at my tiny boutique pool. But then I heard someone scream, “Marco!” and though I am in South Florida where a name like Marco is not so uncommon, I could tell this was not some adult woman calling her adult husband to come put sunblock on her back.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked Mark, like I had just heard a gunshot. “A kid,” he nonchalantly replied, like my gunshot was just some car backfiring. I looked up and, Lo and behold, it wasn’t just one kid it was a whole pack of them. Maybe five ranging in age from about 4 to 10. I shuddered as the largest one, who was undeniably their bossy leader, demanded another pool game that had them screaming answers to random questions, and swimming all over my tiny boring lap pool.
Leader: “WHAT‘S YOUR FAVORITE SHOW?”
Kid 1: “WHAT?”
Kid 2: “She said what’s your favorite show,” the little one repeated shaking in fear.
Kid 1: “OH, I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT, IT’S TWO WORDS.”
Why are they screaming? They’re 5 feet apart.
Leader: “TOTAL DRAMA ISLAND.”
Kid 1: “I SAID 2 WORDS!”
Kid 3: “I think I know what it is. Can I guess?”
Leader: “NO! GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “FINE IT STARTS WITH AN I.”
Leader: “INDIANA JONES?”
Kid 1: “YOU SAID A SHOW NOT A MOVIE.“
Leader: “GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “NONANA NOPE NOPE…NOPE NOPE.”
Oh, come on, give her another hint already.
Kid 1: “I. C. AND IT’S ABOUT THE INTERNET.”
Leader: “WHAT IS IT? I DON”T KNOW.”
Kid 1: “WELL, I’M NOT GONNA TELL YOU TILL YOU GET IT.”
iCarly, iCarly, don’t suggest the game if you suck at it. I mean hello?
Leader: “UMMM, I GIVE UP.”
Kid 1: “I CARLY!”
I knew it.
Leader: “THAT’S CHEATING. MAHHHHHHHM MOM! HE CHEATED HE SAID IT WAS TWO WORDS AND iCARLY IS JUST……..”
Had this really happened? Had my ipod faded into the background and the passage of my book still not registered after reading it 3 times over? I was actually angry. I am so capable of tuning my own kids out, why was I not able to use this skill on someone else’s?
My penthouse suite, which was graciously extended to me when I explained my bi-annual excursion plan, wouldn’t be ready for hours. I watched as kid 4 goaded kids 2 and 3 by bobbing up and down chanting “DIVE!” every time his head cleared the water. I guess he hoped this would annoy them. I gave the parents a sideways glance to let them know that it was working on me, but they pretended not to notice.
Then it dawned on me. I am the crotchety lady that shushes other peoples kids. Maybe it was all the trips to the cardiologist, maybe my patience had been worn paper thin trying to get my own children to listen to me for half second. Each “Can you do it for me?” “Not now, Mommy.“ “No way, Jose.“ scratching one more layer from the surface. One would think, out of politeness, I would be less overtly bothered by other people’s children, but the truth is I have to save that rigorous acting job for when mine send me over the edge. So as my son would say to my daughter, “Too bad, so sad.”
The bobbing continued and noodles burst across the pool like fireworks. This is the reason they invented adult swim… and boutique hotels. While frantically searching for someone with a whistle, I noticed the other adults. Why were they so calm? Why weren’t they shooting looks at the over-permissive parents like I was? Were they not being over-permissive? —allowing their children to have so much fun around the pool on vacation?
Then it hit me…the hot tub. The one refuge that still belongs to us serious adults. With my book in hand I crossed the trendy stretch only to find another pack; they were multiplying faster than I could count, and now they had infiltrated the sacred whirlpool area. An area that actually has an age requirement. It was so unnatural, like seeing raccoons scavenging during the day, it was just wrong. Two kids watched the third one diving to the bottom against the current of the jets, kicking his feet all the while.
I thought, can I tell these kids to scram? But wait, aren’t I supposed to be representing the next generation of parents? The cool parents. Not our parents or their parents’ generations who would have scoffed before entry and sent the kids running for the hills. We “hip parents” have a rep to protect, right? We’re like kids ourselves. In fact, if you hadn’t met our children you would think we were too young, too fun, too awesome to be “parents.”
I told myself, say something funny and endearing thereby shattering their vision of adults as naysayers and fun-enders. So, after carefully choosing my words I let my tension go, eased into the whirlpool and said, “Could you please stop splashing, it’s getting my book all wet. I don’t know if you guys should even be in here.” I turned to pat my book with my towel and when I turned around they were gone. “Awesome, shmawesome.”
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Wordless Wednesday -Swampy should get himself a room
It seems that Jake’s elementary school mascot, Swampy, is enjoying the hula hoops hanging on his nether region a bit too much.
Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch!
My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I’m eagerly awaiting its passing. However, I’m not holding my breath, as it appears my husband never actually outgrew that phase himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I was throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie when J, my 7yo said, “Let’s name him Gary or Phil.”
Okay, not where I was going, but a name nonetheless.
I replied, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”
R, my 4yo daughter: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”
All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.
OK, game on.
J: “How about Tushie-Face?”
R: “Hee hee, good one.”
Minutes went by and R came running across the park screaming for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”
J: “Yeah, yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”
I was making every attempt NOT to give this discussion too much attention, but the attention we were getting from the other families wondering why my boy is practicing calling a vagina was making me moderately uncomfortable.
“Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” I said, then went on to suggest more realistic names.
I know I’m a party pooper. (Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.)
I’ll tell you who isn’t a party pooper, my husband.
Hubby: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”
Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.
J: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”
All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA – and tear filled laughter. (I held mine in as the family nearest to us moved their stuff about 20ft. away.)
R: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a hiney.”
Taking R’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this was the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.
My husband finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation had taken, reeled it in by suggesting a name we could really use: Butt Munch. (Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen 1980’s set, Butt Munch.)
This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. Yes, they beamed with pride, as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”
R: At the top of her lungs, “J you’re a Butt Munch.”
J: “No R, you’re a Butt Munch.”
Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch.
Thanks Mark!
Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”
Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know mother f@cker maybe you could remedy that right here at the park.”
So, for the last two weeks J has told everyone willing to listen that R wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and R now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.”
I’m so proud.
PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though R is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.
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Other stories by Jenny: 40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know By 40
So What If I Got Clifford The Big Red Dog Drunk?
This weekend we were sent Clifford, the Big Red Dog, along with a beautifully laminated journal containing an entry from each of the class members he spent weekends with in the past. Each page was beautifully written, typed, or hand calligraphied. All were accompanied by a montage of pictures showing the quality time each child and their family spent with Clifford. Clifford attended dinners, parties, one family even took him to the dog park…alone. Either I have the craftiest mothers in my class, or these ladies are truly hard-up for companionship.
Ryan’s teacher: I am sorry Jenny; I was unable to accept your pages for Clifford’s journal, as there were a few problems. You wrote that he “passed-out” from too much beer and wings while watching the Super Bowl with you and your husband. I don’t know if you are aware that we read these Clifford journals to the class first thing Monday morning.
Crappy Mom, AKA Me: I was not aware of that.
Ryan’s Teacher: I doubt Ryan would appreciate me reiterating how Clifford spent Friday and Saturday as you put it, “ …in his sack, suffocating.” Or that you “…found him sad, lonely, and dehydrated Sunday evening.” I would send him home with you for another weekend, but I fear for his health in your hands, not to mention his sobriety.
Crappy Mom, AKA Me: His sobriety? Had I known was battling alcoholism, I never would have played the drinking game where you chug every time someone scores. In my defense, it was T-Bone’s idea.
Quick Byte
The Principal of a local middle school was arrested for trying to strangle his wife in her sleep, with her hoodie string. The obvious question is …Who wears a hoodie to sleep?