Tag Archives: mom blog

I Can’t Come to Terms with My Quasi-Teenage First Grader | When Clueless Meets My Little Pony

We say it all the time, “my kid’s 6 going on 16” or as I like to say, “She was born a 7th grader,” but how do you reconcile the lag in actual and perceived age?

Heels and an Elmo? Point made!

Not unlike my hubby, my kids are stuck somewhere between adulthood and infancy?  My daughter, like most little girls now a days, embodies this dilemma a bit too well.

On some level, my daughter’s ready for a day at the Galleria with the girls, while at the same time she maintains a sweet innocence that’s more fitting of her numerical age.  It’s the conversations during our imaginary play that truly highlight this incongruity…

They also makes me laugh so hard that I pee.

Sorry, I was beginning to sound too astute, I mean knowingish for my liking.  (That should fix it.)

She  gets the flow of small talk – the cadence, the structure, the usual phrasing, which takes our play to a whole other level.

Yesterday she asked to braid my hair.

Ryan:  “Sit down ma’am.”

Me:  “K.”

Ryan:  “So, how’s things?”

Me:  “Pretty good, you?”

Ryan:  “I can’t complain… Been watching a lot of the sports channel these days?” (a questions directly influenced by the males in my household.)

Me:  “Nope, not so much sports these days.”

Ryan:  “How about that weather, huh?”

Me:  “Yep, it’s crazy stuff.”

The chit chat went on for a while.  Luckily, I found it more enjoyable then I do when I’m forced to have it with people I didn’t birth from my womb.

(Which, by the way, is most people.  I thought I’d clarify that point.)

We went on to switch our make-believe scenario to a school situation.  Our imaginary play is like a game of Monopoly with stockbrokers or investment bankers, melodramatic, high stakes, and never ending.

The characters and situations in our games change, but it’s constantly being played: while I cook, nap, shower, pee.  (Did anyone read the Night Circus?)

Ryan (who is always the boss in make believe world… as well as actual world, come to think of it): “Let’s pretend you passed me a note in class and I was really popular and everyone liked me and you were shy and kinda weird looking, but I was going to be nice to you anyway, because I’m always nice.”

Me:  “Don’t do me any favors, kid.  I mean, how kind of you, no wonder you’re so popular.”  Just like in the real world.

Ryan: “OK, now let’s say you passed me a note and I answered all the questions correctly.  Like anything with math or spelling, you know?”

Quick what 7+5?

Me:  “Well, when people send notes they aren’t usually asking academic questions.  They’re saying stuff like, ‘Do you like Billy?’ or ‘Are you going to Jessica’s party Friday night?’ You know, more personal stuff.”

Ryan:  “OK OK, (exasperated, as if my explanation droned on for hours) I’ll make up the questions you are going to ask in the note and then I’ll tell you what I’m answering, as the person I’m being.”

Me: “OK”

Ryan:  “So you understand how it works, right mom?

Me:  “I got it.”  Clearly she thinks I’m a bit slow.

Ryan: “Explain it to me?”

Me:  Sheesh, no one takes you on your word anymore.  “OK Ryan, you’re going to tell me the question I supposedly wrote on our pretend note and then you’re going to also answer that question how you would answer it.”

Ryan:  “Good, now, Are you a vegetarian?  (pause to answer her own question) Yes.  Do you like hot dogs? (pausing again) No.”

Me: “Well, that was a really long pause for a vegetarian.”

Ryan:  “Moooooooooaaaaaam, stop, I’m still going!  Are you Jewish?  Yes.  Do you like ham? No.”

Me:  “ Wait a sec, can we go back a couple?  Wow, that religion question sandwiched in there between the deli meats caught me a bit off guard.  Did you ask for a reason?”

Ryan:  “I don’t know.  These are your questions, remember?  Ughhh, I knew you didn’t get it.”

Me:  “OK, I forgot.” Apparently, I go around asking people if they’re Jewish or maybe I wanted to see if she keeps kosher.

Ryan:  “K. Do you like presents?  Yes.”

Me: “Are we done?”

Ryan: “No, one more.  Ummmmmm… Do you like rainbows?  Yes.

OK, I’m done.  Now you be the person who wrote the note and react to my answers.”

Me: “Wow, Ryan.  We reall…”

Ryan:  “Pause game.  My name in the game is Ali. Sheesh.”

Don’t you just love when kids try to pause non-video games?

Me:  “Sorry, I’m on it, Ryan.”

Ryan:  “ALI!”

Me:  “Ali.”

Ryan: “OK, go on.”

Me:  “Wow, Ali, I see we have a lot in common.

Ryan:  “Really?”

Me: “Well, you like presents and I also like presents.

Ryan:  “You do?”

Me:  “Yep, and we’re both Jewish, so of course there’s the similarities in our religious, not to mention, social upbringing.”

Ryan:  “Uh-huh, there’s that”

Me:  “Yep, and you know what else I like?  Rainbows, except I really like unicorns.”

Ryan:  “OMG, me too.”

Me:  “What are the odds?  Two Jewish girls who don’t eat pork and like presents, rainbows and unicorns?

Ryan:  “That’s crazy, huh?”

This is what happens when you’re 7 years old with the attitude  7th grader, conversations are a cross between Clueless and My Little Pony.

OMG No One’s Gonna Take Care of Us When We’re Old

This conversation actually happened.  As a humor blogger, I see the “funny” in it, but it also opened my eyes to one possibility that no one’s gonna take care of me when I’m old!

I was diagnosed with Orthostatic Sycopate. See: (How to Retain Water and Lose Sanity and Altoids and Coffee a Deadly Combination? for more funniness on that).

Chief Tacky Costume

Indian Chief definition of orthostatic syncopate: Electrical malfunction when stand up, blood pressure drop like big ball in sky when night come, blood no travel to head, brain freak out like herd of buffalo, no air,  pass-out like Princess Drinking Slut after long night in tee-pee.

First, I want to apologize to all my Indian readers for doing such a cliche impression, plus that picture of that Indian on the left is pretty cheesy, I realize it makes me look totally ignorant to the American Indian culture.  To redeem myself a big “How” to all of you.  Okay, I think that’s better.

Frankly, Chiefs make technical stuff sound fun, like all people with British accents are smart.

Moving on, (please read the rest in a British accent as that is how I’m writing it) this diagnosis was just another one of those “aging” things.  Like cellulite dimples on non fatty areas like your calves, veins that are trying to escape from your legs or having to crack air into your vertabrae after standing or walking for upwards of 10 minutes.

Since finding out, I have not found myself suddenly unconscious.  I know, jig time.   Yesterday, I came uncomfortably close.  I realized that putting a Fat Burn powder boost in an espresso/frozen yogurt smoothie is not the best way to even out your blood pressure.   I know what you’re thinking: chromium picolinate, fro yo, and espresso… “that’s a heart healthy way to start the day, maybe you should chase it with a Red Bull and do a couple lines before going for a run.”

Don’t judge, I needed that fat burn boost to combat the calories in that one drink alone.  Anywho, racy and overheated, I lied down on the floor and put my feet up on the wall… to get blood to my brain. Never fear, my son was around, so I knew I’d be in good hands.

Me:  “Um, Jake, I think I might pass out”

Jake:  Frantically, “I’m calling 911.”

Isn’t that cute?

Me:  Calmly, “Don’t call 911.  I mean if I’m standing and just fall over, call 911, but if I mention it might happen and it does… call Daddy and he’ll tell you what to do.”

Jake listened and absorbed the instructions as to his course of action.  Then he looked at me on the floor, “Um, okay.  Bye.”  He said, as he zoomed out of the room.  I  then heard the chime of someone continuing a game on XBOX.

Me:  “Uhh, Jake. JAKE.   JAAAAKE” I screamed with all the energy left in me, as the TV was set a volume you would need if you were playing against someone across the street and they didn’t have an actual TV.

Jake:  “Whaaaat?”

Me:  “I hate to interrupt your game, but could you come back for just a sec?”

Jake:  Pause button hit, “What’s up?”

Me:  “A minute ago you were praying by my side and then ‘bye?’  You don’t even want to stick around for a few minutes and make sure I stay conscious?  How would you even know if I passed out?”

Jake: “You would yell, like you just did.”

Me: “I feel like something’s been lost in translation here.  You know what?  Stay here for a few, the TV’s so loud I don’t know if you’d be able to hear me if I scream to inform you that I’m no longer awake.”

Jake:  In the same matter of fact way he said ‘bye,’ “Okay.”

He then sat on the bed and asked me questions about calling 911 like, “Would they get mad if I called and then you woke up?”  “How do they know where to go?” and “Does someone answer the phone or is it a machine?” Distracted by his own line of questioning he sat for another minute or two, hopped off the bed and said “Okay, bye.”

Well, there goes the retirement home.

Where do I get one of these with Brad Pitt's face on it?

A Freudian Slip to Make Freud Blush | Oh, This Really Happened

I know he seems more angry than "blushy" but YOU try and get a picture of him embarrassed!

This post needs to be filed in the crevices of my mind where repressed memories are stored and then covered up by something to obsess about, like my cellulite, or the wrinkles on my face that multiply faster then the Duggar family.


Maybe I could slide this memory somewhere between my talent show version of Gonna Dress You up In My Love and my entire 7th grade year.  Well, here goes…Recently at a baseball game, a mom friend and I were having a bout of witty banter that went terribly horribly irrefutably awry.

I can’t blame myself for how far it actually went, as I’m quite sure something else in the universe caused these events to unfold as they did.  Some butterfly in Africa probably told a really tacky joke which set off the chain of events off in the first place.  You know, something that started with “An ant and a grasshopper are looking for insect porn.”  Well, I actually can’t pretend to know what kind of joke a butterfly would tell, but one can assume.

Me and this chick were joking about a penchant many women have to bedazzle everything. Frankly, I don’t know how every word on their t-shirts is bedecked and bejeweled or how they have so many extra gem filled grommets and studs on their jeans, their sweats, their shoes, their handbags, their children, and their cellphones.  I just know that the glare makes it hard to look in their direction for fear of burning a retina.

Amy: Jenny, why don’t YOU have anything bedazzled?

Me:  Oh, I do, you just can’t see it.

Amy:  Where is it?

Me:  My belly-button.  I have one of those sticky diamond tattoos in the shape of a baseball.  It helps me get into the game.

Amy:  You could tie your t-shirt southern style to show your support for your team.  The dads would love that.

Me:  No, I like to take the shirt from the bottom and pull it up through the neck hole.  You know, camp style? The dads will definitely enjoy that one ‘cuz a boob inevitably falls out.

Amy: And then your hubby could bedazzle something for the moms.

Me:  Done.

Amy: Noooo?

Me:  Yes, his penis is bedazzled to look like a bat… and when Jake’s up, Mark runs over and whacks me on the stomach with it and we all scream “Go Jake, whack that ball.”

Amy:  Nuh uh?

Me:  Yuh huh.

Oh, it went there.  There was no stopping this tacky reparte train, but what happened next turned said train into a locomotive careening off the tracks. I turned towards my hubby who was sitting on the other set of bleachers and screamed, “Mark, come on over here and show Amy your penis.”

Let me tell you two things in my defense.  1.  I meant to say “bat.”  “Mark, come over here and show Amy your BAT.”  You know, joke joke, wink wink, snicker snicker?  No harm done. No children traumatized for life.  2.  There were about 10 kids all aged 9 a row in from of us on the bleachers. ALL of which turned around and stared me right in the eye!

Amy looked at me, mouth agape.

Me:  Did I just say what I think I said?

Amy:  Oh…my…G-d, you did.

Kid on bleachers:   Did you just say penis?

Amy’s son:  Why do you want my mom to look at Jake’s dad’s penis?

That is perhaps one of the most horrifying questions I’ve ever been asked.  I can still hear it my head as if said in slow motion through a Darth Vader mask.

Amy’s son:  Continuing without pause, “Why would you say that?”

Oh G-d, a question worse than the first, which was punctuated by 10 sets of impressionable eyes trying to stare the answer out of me.

I looked to Amy who was giggling so uncontrollably she could barely stop long enough to say this: “Yeah, why would you say that?”

But she did.

After what felt like an eternity.  I replied, “Did I say penis?”

10 nine year olds in perfect unison: Yep.

Me:  Hee hee hee (fake laugh with snort added for good measure) Nooooo, I meant peanuts.  Your mom was hungry and I wanted Mark to come share his peanuts.  I can’t believe it sounded like that.  That’s so funny, right?  Hee hee ha ha ho ho snort.  Right?

“Ohhhhhh well it sounded like penis,” said the spokesperson for 10 inquisitive kids who enjoy nothing more than the mention of genitalia, diareah, or a good fart joke.

Me:  Just me crazy accent.  Dunt chew knaw? Yes, that was supposed to be “Don’t you know” and it was said in a desperate mix of Jamaican, Irish, and Bostonian with a dash of Catherine Hepburn.

Amy looked at me sidesways as if I was having some weird speech seizure and 10 disinterested kids turned back to watch the game.

Phew.  Thank goodness for easily bored, quickly distracted, ADD ridden children. Not everyone recovers from such a racy and totally inappropriate Freudian slip.  Boot eye deed.

Note to self: NEVER talk to Amy again and stop bedazzeling Mark’s penis!

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Conversations with Produce | How to Handle Ornery Oranges

On my way back from a recent trip to Whole Foods, I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid for. My grapes were imported from from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am!  So, I thought we could kill some time while stuck in traffic by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing.

The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

“Wow that was overly informational Grapes, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke from my biodegradable sack made of recycled hemp or some such product and  said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“Orange”

I know, not so creative, but it’s hard to think of a good comeback to fruit.

I continued, “It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. Sheesh, I was just trying to make polite conversation. That is the last time I talk to produce!”

Later that day, I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I squeezed him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass.  I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could send a message to other sour citrus.  (What, it worked for Keyser Söze)

Between this post and “Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage,” I feel I may be ordered into anger management.

By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I write false facts on Wikipedia.  The blog is gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop screwing up kid’s reports.

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

 

When Date Night Turns into a Seinfeld Episode

Certain names have been misspelled to avoid search engines.  I have faith you’ll know who I mean.

Ever have one of those nights that’s more like a Seinfeld Episode… Be warned: This is what can happen when facial hair goes terribly terribly wrong!

Now, I may be generalizing, but Atlanta seems to be a hotbed for outdated facial hair.  While on a recent trip to the ATL, my hubby and I found ourselves in a lovely upscale restaurant called Aria.  We were struck by our waiter’s very pronounced handlebar mustache (Please pronounce Moose-tashe for the proper feel) and pointed chin puff, basically the beard of the devil.

Not our ACTUAL waiter

Oh, the irony!

While ogling that for some time, he approached us, “Would you care  for a roll?”  “Oh, G-d did he say can I have your eternal soul?”  I asked my husband before answering.
After a few references to the “Joker’s Wild,” my husband noticed that seated at a ledge across from us was a man with a toothbrush mustache.

You may think you are unfamiliar with the toothbrush variation,   but it was seen on Charlie Chaplin, Hardy of Laurel and Hardy,

 

 

 

 

oh yeah and this guy:

I’d venture to say that the only mustache rarer and more disconcerting than the devil is what’s also known as the H1tler. In fact, I’d wager a bet that few people have rocked the H1tler since Adolph himself performed mass genocide on 14 million individuals.  Distressingly, this person not only donned the H1tler; he bore an uncanny resemblance to him, which made me that much more uncomfortable.  As a Jew in the South, no less, this guy actually sent a shiver down my spine.  Not unlike seeing a swast1ka on your neighbor’s replica WWII German war plane (which happened: see article here for that doozy).

No matter how handsome you look in a H1tler, I would think that after the war, it’s pretty much considered a fashion faux pas for anyone wanting to avoid public stoning.  I wondered if this gentleman was at our restaurant to visit his old friend, our waiter… AKA Beelzebub.

The man with the H1tler and his wife were out with another couple.  All I could think was, what if the couples hadn’t seen each other in a while or maybe he was the husband coworker?  How would one react if they found themselves at dinner with a man who looked like he’d be hired to make balloon swast1kas for a white supremist’s birthday party?

I looked at Mark as he was discretely pretending to text while taking a picture with my iPhone.  “Honey, this is an episode of Seinfeld.  In this scene George would be going on a double date with his new girlfriend’s sister and brother-in-law.”

Girlfriend:  George this is my brother-in-law Jan, Jan this is George Costanza, the guy I was telling you about.

George:  (After taking in the view and shuddering.)  Why would you be telling him about me?

Girlfriend:  Jan is into name genealogy, I thought he would want to look up Costanza I also gave him Seinfeld.

George:  Oh, so you’re into names and you found Costanza and Seinfeld interesting?

Jan:  mmm yes, interesting names, what Russian and Polish, no?

George:  Ah, you know I’m not really sure.  We never kept in touch with our ancestors… their boat sank.  Umm, Jan is also an interesting name?

Jan: Yes, it’s origin is Deutschland.

George:  Of course, If you excuse me, I’m just gonna make a trip, I gotta…

Jan:  Wait, I gotta hit the head myself.

Jan would then get up and goose step his way over to the bathroom.  George would look back at the girlfriend and return her cheerful smile with a forced one of his own and then run off.

Cut to:

Girlfriend: (to Sister) I see  Jan‘s gout is acting up again.

Sister:  Oh, He’s having a terrible flare up.  Between the gout and the arthritis he’s locked at the elbows and the knees.  You should have seen him trying to shave this evening.  I didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Girlfriend:  Poor guy.   I know how he hates the scar from his cleft pallet.

Cut to:

George:  (at the pay phone calling Jerry) Jerry, I’m at dinner with H1tler, H1TLER I TELL YA.

Jerry:  What are you talking about?

George:  Ingrid’s brother-in-law is a reincarnation of the man… he just did the deathmarch back to the table.  I’m telling you he’s looking up the origin of our names.  I think this is a set up, they’re in cahoots, they wanna exterminate me and if they get me you’re next, SEINFELD.

Jerry:  You gotta get outta their.

Of course it would go on from there, the usual… the brother-in-law would make a few off color remarks and motions alluding to his doppelganger, finally ending by heiling the waiter for the check. (Arthritis, remember?) In a side story, an orthodox Rabbi friend of Kramer’s who accused George and Jerry of being bad Jews would be seated across the restaurant taking the whole thing in to include in his next sermon.

Some couples have a romantic night at a nice restaurant.  We simply make fun of the staff and patrons.

PS By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I’m a do manscaping- just kidding – I do this blog.  It’s gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop shaving mens’ private parts, I mean, oh forget it.  JUST SIGN UP!

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage

Who knew the highly anticipated camp calls would be such a blow to my relationship? (BTW – I’m not always this overbearing, but when my baby is 1000 miles away for a month and I get 10 minutes to talk to him… it’s ON….)

Okay, it’s camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kids.  What I’m finding is that I want to strangle my husband during and after each call.  The crazy thing is, I’m apparently not alone.

Look, we moms are ready.  We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download and we’ve studied them.   We know what our kids have done each day and whether they look like they’ve made friends or they’re feeling left out.  We know whether they’re arms are around a friend or they’re sitting uncomfortably next to someone with their hands in their lap. 

We can tell every detail and our minds are racing to find out the truths behind the images and we want to hear their sweet little voices.  We also know that what we have to say is way more important than what our hubbies have to say and we let them talk simply because well:

DONOR, Ahem, Father

Me:  “Jake, your hike looked insane yesterday.  Was it fun?  How cold was the water?  Were the rocks slippery?  Are you wearing your sunblock?  Your headgear?  Do you love the rock wall?  How long is the zip line?  Who’s the other boy with braces?  Is he your best friend?  Is anyone mean?  Are the counselors nice?  What are you eating?  How big is the zipline?  Was your camp cooler looking than the one you played baseball against on Tuesday?”

Sure, I spouted off a lot of questions… there’s a lot to ask and only 10 minutes to talk.  After he gave me a one or two word response to each, I moved on to the next.  I looked over to see the frustration in Mark’s eyes.  A couple of times he started to butt in with an “ummm, Hey Jake, do you umm” and I bowled right over him with my inquisition.  Then he looked at me sideways and I whispered, in that angry whisper that would be a yell if you could speak louder, and say “What?  Have your questions ready.”

Mark:  Jake, have you gotten all my letters?

Jake:  Yep

Mark: Which ones?

Jake:  Ummmm, Well the one about my new team when I get home, and ummm, I don’t know, I don’t remember them all.

Is he f-ing kidding me?  I sit on hold for Verizon longer than the time I have allotted to talk here, and my husband wants Jake to rattle off about letters???  This is not an acceptable caliber of conversation!  And I’m am the conversation rater, I’ll have you know.

Mark:  Did you get the one where I bowled a 300?

Jake:  Oh, yeah.  That was awesome.  Did that really happen?

Okay readers, I have to interject here.  You’re thinking this is high enough caliber right?  Well, I mean how often does someone who is not a pro, actually bowl a 300?  What I should share is that he’s not so much talking about this:

as he is talking about this:

Yep, I’m listening to my husband waste time talking about Wii f-ing sports!

So, I interrupted again…. “How was your camp-out?  Were you scared?  Did you sleep through the night?  What song did you do in the lip-sync; you looked like Eminem.”

Again, Mark gave me the look, but this time he put the phone by his side in annoyance.

So, again I did the whisper/yell: “You are so selfish, you don’t want to hear him talk ‘cuz I’m asking all the questions?”

Me:   Do you have a girlfriend?  Do you like the go carts?

Mark:  How many go carts are there?

Did he just ask that question?  I told him last week there are 2.  TWO Freakin’ go carts.  Great, now he’s wasting my time with shit he already knows.  Tic, Toc, baby.

Mark then went on to rattle off the line up for his travel baseball team this season and tell him about the bat he just ordered…

Mark: Guess which bat I got you?

Jake: The Louisville Vertex?

Mark: noooo

Jake: the new Worth?

Mark: noooo

Jake: Nike Aero?

Mark: noooo, I’ll give you a hint, it’s made by Easton.

Is this happening?  Does anyone feel my pain here?

Apparently, you do… I had a friend tell me that she just took the phone out of her husband’s hand when she felt he was done. Two minutes she gave him and then she plucked it right away from his eager ear. They didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the night.

Another said she arranged all calls while hubby was at work.

A third said Her husband’s only question was, “Is your bed comfortable?”

“You gave him one question and that’s all he could come up with?” I asked.

“No, I would have given him more but he lost his privileges based on his first.”

And yet another told me she can’t deal with the calls because her hubby’s voice changes. “It gets all high like he’s talking to a dog– Hi Lindseeeeeeey, how are your Friennnnds? Are you, woushey woo having fun? Hmmm? Huh?”

Tell that man to "HEAL"


In the end, I realized that we moms want OUR time to be all ours. Even if the hub is right (and he was).  All my babe wanted to do was hear us and all I wanted to do was get answers to every thought and query I’ve stored in my head from the minute he set foot on the plane.

Luckily for my hubby the calls are infrequent enough that our marriage will withstand these bumps in the road. Next year, I’m just gonna tell him they did away with calls altogether due to the rise in the divorce rate.

Take a sec to check out some of the humor that any parent can relate to:  The Day My Son’s Ladybug Ran Away – who knew saying goodbye to an insect would be so hard?  or  I May Have Run Over an Elderly Person While Driving Carpool.  OH, ENTER TO WIN a robotic floor cleaner and a bag of goodies from iVillage’s “Stuff We Love” leave a comment here to sign up.

 

– JENNY FROM THE BLOG

 

Summer Trend Report : How to be a Chic Mom

In my latest assignment, I sat down with Andrew Taylor the director of a major company that just totally revamped to find out what’s hip for summer.  Wanna know?  You gotta watch:

http://youtu.be/NvgS39SkWhA

What’s your favorite trend for summer?

My Son was the Featured Student and I’m Pretty Pissed about it

Any mom who gets that “featured student” backpack sent home, with a stuffed animal and journal instructions, knows why this “honor” is better left to somebody else’s kid.

Don't let the smile fool ya. He was miserable... miserable, I say!

Last week, my son was the featured student in his class.  Oh, don’t get all congratulatory; I’m pretty sure his teacher picks the names out of a hat.  On top of this, my son wasn’t even happy to be featured student, and frankly, I understand why.


One of the perks of being “featured student,” is that both student and mother get extra “homework” each night, so that the class can learn more about said student.  Let’s not forget the obligatory schlepping around and journaling of a stuffed animal.  Sure, watching my kids carry around Clifford in nursery school was cute… well, minus the barrage of snot and germs each of the other kids left on him before it was our turn, but carrying a stuffed dog around in the 3rd grade could ruin a kid’s rep.


Day 1: Took a picture of my son pretending to play basketball with a stuffed dog, which he was actually using as the ball.  Who could blame him, a 5th grader was watching.  That evening I was required to write an essay about why I love my son, and what’s special about him.  (yet another writing assignment that I’m being underpaid for).

Let’s face it, writing about your kid for the whole class to hear is cheesy and prohibits you from saying what you’d really like to say.

Hello, parameters people.

Clearly I didn’t want to embarrass my son in front of his friends.  Hence, a sentence such as, “I love it each night when you beg me to come lie with you, and we giggle as I give you a kiss attack,” though true, isn’t advisable.  Also unacceptable: “You’re the best at insert sport, smartest at insert subject, and easily the cutest kid in your class, even better looking than insert name. Yep – extremes, though you’re certain are true, are totally frowned upon.

Day 2:  Took a picture of my son pretending to feed cereal to his stuffed dog, and ended up wiping spilled milk from both parties’ faces (secretly prayed that dog didn’t reek of rancid dairy by recess). We also had to find pictures for him to bring in which showed the major occurrences in his life from birth to date.  I printed a bunch from an SD card and wrote Disney with varying years on them.  (No one will be the wiser)

Disney 2010

Day 3:  Took pic of stuffed dog, among all my son’s other stuffed animals.  It was meant to be ironic, like in E.T., except it wasn’t because the stuffed dog is in fact also stuffed.

Notice how you can barely distinguish the dog from the stuffed animals? Crazy!

Also, pulled stuff together for “collection” day.  When my son asked what the heck he collects, I said, “Bring in the last 5 books I bought you, and tell them you collect dust.” Ba da bum. In reality, I handed him a bunch of pennies and said, “Tell the class each is from a different year.”  What, like someone’s gonna check?

Day 4:  Took a portrait with stuffed dog as if he was part of the family.  (That picture turned out good.  Note to self: photo-shop real family cat in later.)

Not a holiday card... but not bad.

Also, brought in a special lunch for the featured student.  After allotting an hour to get the stuff together, including cupcakes for the class, (a precedent some mom started 10 featured students ago,) I was ready to enjoy a meal with my kiddo.  I arrived to find that it happened to be “Lunch and a Movie Day.”  Yep, the kids were watching the “Cat in the Hat” on a huge screen at the front of the lunch room.  What the hell am I paying for at this school?  Oh right, I don’t pay… figures.

We didn’t get movies at school; we got some hostess pies, a roll that was seran wrapped with a pat of butter on top and a “full fat” chocolate milk, and a bunch of other deliciously fattening junk, that’s what we got.

Remember him?

“You guys are so lucky,” I said to my son and his friends.  A few of his friends responded.   My kid, who recently told me not being able to do more than one thing at a time was his downfall, was captivated by Mike Myer’s portrayal of Cat and barely nodded in my direction.  Correction, that wasn’t a nod, he was tilting his head to see around my head, as I was blocking his view… silly me.

I then conversed with a few of his friends about how my day was going and what they had learned thus far, but a woman screeched onto a mic and interrupted, “If you can hear me clap 2 times.”  We all clapped like cattle, ok, cows don’t clap, but you know what I meant…

Or Do They? Mawahaha

The woman continued, “Now, let’s use our movie manners!  We are not here to socialize so let’s not talk to our friends and let’s just eat and enjoy our movie.”

Really, they’re not at lunch to socialize?  They get like a 15 min recess and now they can’t talk during their 20 min lunch? – Which, didn’t even get them to the introduction of Thing 1… or Thing 2, for that matter.  (Leave it to a school to ruin movie lunch.)

Day 5:  We returned stuffed dog and I breathed a sigh of relief.  “I get a year’s reprieve from this awesome task.”  Maybe in 4th grade the boys can bring home something a little more masculine, like a sword… or a condom.  Well, that was just silly, a condom would look ridiculous sitting next to grandma in a family portrait.  Of course we could always photoshop in a pet snake or this guy:

See ya next year!

What is the worst thing the school has your child do?

If you enjoyed this, read about the time we got Clifford the Big Red Dog Drunk. Oh, and you have to read the Duck Porn article if you haven’t yet… it may be my all time fave!

One last question for a segment I’m doing on CBS:  How do men mess up on Mother’s day?

Laughter is Truly the Best Medicine

(Next to antibiotics)

getting a shot
Okay, let’s put it out there.  This blog is for the most part fluff.  Sure, it’s funny, sometimes insightful, ironic, relatable fluff, but fluff nonetheless.  Today, I had a conversation with a person 100’s of miles away, who reminded me that fluff has its purpose.  Continue reading

Have you Heard of this Childhood Epidemic: IDWS

Please take a moment to read and forward this warning about an epidemic affecting 7-18 year olds across the country. 

They call it IDWS (I Dun Wannagoda Skool).  My son has a chronic case of it and it appears to be going around.  Apparently, it affects the tummy leg and in rare cases, the elbow.

My son hates dislikes elementary school, as did his mother before him and her father before her.  It may be genetic.  Plus, I was the kid who complained of tummy aches on a daily basis and spent more time in the nurse’s office than in reading group, which makes it hard not to overtly empathize with him.  My vain attempts to make the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th grade, which he’s currently in, sound fun are thin veils over my bitter repressed memories.

Let’s be honest, unless you’re one of those nerdy kids who likes to stay quiet and screams “yippee” when the teacher give extra homework, elementary school does kinda suck.  Preschool was fun; you played and then you played,  and then you ate (while playing with your food) and then you napped, and then you played some more.  Then you went on a play-date, and then you went to sleep and started again on Tuesday.

In elementary school you have to be quiet and sit still.   You must control your shaking leg, your yapping mouth, your tapping finger, your automatic pencil clicking, and your wandering mind.  And that’s all before you’ve done a lick of work.  It’s a tough gig.

Many mornings my boy is overcome with “IDWS.”   His tummy hurts, his head hurts, his heart hurts.  Being a neurotic hypochondriac, I’m usually somewhere between, “give me a break,” and “call 911!”
Well, this morning he had it bad.  I knew last night I was going to give him a break, but to watch him work for it was half the fun.

“Ouch, my tummy!  My leg.  Oww,  cry cry, my leg, oh my leg.” fall to ground grab leg and writhe in pain. “I can’t walk.”

“Sweetie, what’s the matter?”

“My  leg hurts and also my elbow.. oww my elbow.  My elbow.”

Ah, the ever popular elbow pain, always adds a layer of truism.  Who is teaching him this, his father?  Definitely not me, a few lessons from a seasoned pro like myself and he would never pull this elbow pain crap.

“This tummy-leg-elbow thing sounds bad!  What hurts the most?”

“My elbow.  No, now it’s my leg… and tummy.  Oh, they all hurt.”  He whined, as he pulled the thermometer from his mouth for the 10th time.

“Still no temperature?”

“Oh, there’s temperature Mom.  It said 95 that’s high.  That’s like boiling.  Whoa, this time it said 98, Oh G-d, I’m getting worse.  Ow… my elbow.”

“Well, that is a temperature.”

I can’t wait to put in his absence excuse.  Please excuse Jake, he had a 98 degree temperature, which as you know is almost boiling.  Oh, and he had distinct, chronic elbow pain.

“It really hurts, I think need to lie down.” He said with the back of his hand to his forehead in a pretty good Scarlet O’Hara imitation.

“I know it hurts, but it’s probably growing pains. You’re getting taller and apparently you’re going to have one huge monster elbow.”

“That’s not funny, I’m sick.  My heart hurts… and my throat.”

I know, it was probably insensitive of me to joke at a time like that.

Soon, he’ll discover the old thermometer under hot water trick and when the display reads 107, I’ll gush at how high his fever is, like my parents, before me did.  Well, before they inevitably snickered amongst themselves.

Look, in my house you get points for creativity.  Once, I got away with wrapping a strawberry fruit rollup around my finger and chewing it off leaving a yucky red rash looking residue, which either fooled the nurse or I impressed her with my resourcefulness.  I know this because I got picked up that day after  putting an ice pack on it.

Or was it a hot water bottle?  Back then they treated everything with one or the other.  Headache… icepack.   Tummy ache… hot water bottle.  Stubbed toe…  icepack followed by a hot water bottle.  My son rarely sees the hot water bottle, but we do use a lot of icepacks.  Yep, that elbow-itis isn’t going to cure itself.

Ninety is the New Eighty | Jenny from the Blog

It’s hard to look younger when you keep getting older.

elderly ladies
They say forty is the new thirty, and thirty is the new twenty. The problem with everything being “the new”something is that it gives people (and by “People” I mean me)  less chance to look young for their age. Frankly, I feel about twenty most of the time, which I guess is the new ten. However, when I attempt to run up a flight of stairs or decipher the hieroglyphic message in the spider veins  on my legs,  I’m reminded that I’m not twenty anymore.

Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn? Continue reading

Interesting News about Your Child’s Personality Traits

What Personality Traits Will Your Kid Carry Into Adulthood?

silly kidsIs the person you were in the first grade the person you are today? To some degree, yes. A new study shows that personality traits are set as early as the first grade. The study looked at four personality traits: talkativeness, adaptability, impulsiveness and humility. Many subjects who were interviewed as children and again 40 years later retained the characteristics they had four decades prior.

Read More