Last week, I took a trip to the Apple store. Oh, the Apple store. It’s like a Dylan’s Candy Bar for adults. Like it’s namesake, in the Garden of Eden, or in the hands of Snow White’s evil stepmother, APPLE was so inviting… so enticing. There it was, in all of its overcrowded, 8 gazillion watt minimalistic splendor. Continue reading
While writing a piece on translating “Momisms” into what we really mean, I realized there are some commonalities among moms of each sex that bond us together. Every child is different … I know they’re not all girly girls — which is why you should check out “You Know You’re the Mom of A Boy IF…” and see how many ring true, as well.
You Know You’re the Mom of a Girlie Girl IF…
1. You do more pretend cooking in a miniature kitchen than you do actual cooking in the full sized one (and frankly, you’re not sure which tastes better).
2. You secretly wish there was some mommy competition involving your child’s trendy crafts because you’re a freakin’ whiz on the Rainbow Loom, you make a mean potholder, and you’re not so bad with a spool of gimp ahem, lanyard.
3. You find yourself searching “How to Do a Fishtail Braid” on YouTube.
4. You wonder how young is too young to start plucking her eyebrows? Continue reading
While writing a piece on translating “Momisms” into what we really mean, I realized there are some commonalities among moms of each sex that bond us together. Of course every child is different, but if you’re the mom of a boy, I’m guessing some of these will sound (and smell) all too familiar.
You know you’re the mom of a boy if …
- You find yourself holding a living creature that you would usually run away from screaming.
- A girl makes eyes at your son and you have this weird urge to pull her aside and call her a tramp (whether she’s 6 or 16).
- You have an unhealthy knowledge of the point/gem system for Temple Run, Dragonvale, Bakugan, Plants vs. Zombies, Cube Runner …
- You can’t muster the brain power to recall what you ate for breakfast, yet you can inherently transform a Transformer (without the 30 pages of directions it came with). Continue reading
I fear this story may mean I’ve earned cougar stripes (or should I say spots?). I mean, there was no official “welcome to the club,” but I find myself wearing more animal print spandex, my gel nails are abnormally long, and I do let out a sigh when I see a meme of Ryan Gosling, so I think all the signs are there.
It was the summer of 2009, my daughter was about to turn 5 and though we were pretty sure she was destined to be a landlubber. We had tried swim lessons since she was 6 months old — again and again. We took classes. We took private lessons. We switched instructors, and offered rewards. I had made one last appointment, vowing that if this failed, I’d simply keep the baby fence around the pool until she left for college. Continue reading
The other day I was attempting to parlay these NBC segments I’m doing into a piece for a national magazine. As I typed away, touting myself as an “expert,” trying to seem way more important than I actually am, and rambling on about my amazing qualifications to an Editor in Chief (whom I shouldn’t have been writing directly in the first place), Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue”came on and I was immediately transported to SKATELAND in Cockeysville Maryland, circa 1984.
It was Girl’s Skate and the disco lights had taken over the floor.
Now, if you’re unfamiliar with roller skate culture, Girl’s Skate is the precursor to Couple’s Skate. During Girl’s Skate, your job, as a girl, is to look as totally awesome as possible. You have to rock your Flashdance style off-the-shoulder-shirt with splatter paint detail, and your acid-washed jeans.
The boys watch from around that short wall AND If they likes what they sees, they put out a hand for you to slap. The “hand out” also implies that they would like to Couples Skate with you. SO, if you think the boy is cute, you slap his outstretched arm, buuuut if you think he’s too dorky, you hold your hand super close to your body in an overly dramatic fashion that says: “I’d rather be caught dead than be seen skating with you.”
Yep, it’s an exercise in fostering self esteem.
On this particular day, I had my eye on a very cute older boy; he may have even been a preteen! I spotted him from across the crowded rink, as my dad laced up his skates trying to catch up to my speedy entrance.
Oh, I didn’t mention that my dad skated with me every week? How could I forget that detail, this story is about how cool and awesome I was, right?
There I was, doing my best tricks:
- The speed up and glide.
- The Shoot the Duck (crouch down and stick one leg forward).
- The professional leg cross weave around the corners.
I looked around at the outstretched arms, while Electric Avenue played in the background. As a sensitive kid, I was an equal opportunity slapper. So, I’d slap the hand of anyone that put it out there. Well, unless they were super nerdy and everyone else was avoiding them, obviously!
Then I spotted him, that cute preteen. He looked bad. I mean, good — bad. He probably drove there on his motorized bike… Skates hanging from the handle bars and a switchblade style comb in his back pocket to flush up his mullet. He was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks. You know, like Matt Dillon in Little Darlings
I noticed that he wasn’t really offering his hand to too many girls and in a defensive action, started to skate towards the middle.
As I got closer, he did it. He eyed me and then threw out his hand.
Holy crap, that’s for me and now I’m so far on the inside I’ll never make it, and then we won’t get to Couples Skate. I won’t be able to hold his hand, which I’m sure will be cool and big, not small and sweaty, like the other boys I always couples skated with. He may even be good enough to do the envied backwards hands on hips skate! My life is officially over.
Move Jenny, move!
I weaved through a few of the slower girls and reached as far as I could to touch even a fingertip. Then in a crushing blow he pulled his hand back and pretending to slick his hair. Holy shit, he gave me the “psyyyyych,” before the “psych” was actually invented!
To add insult to injury, my arm had overstretched to meet his teasing gesture. I felt myself going down. Think slo-mo in some cheesy 80‘s film, “Ohhhh Nnnoooo.” I grabbed at the short wall to pull myself in ricocheted off it and slammed straight to the ground a few feet away from him.
Yep, COOL, I was! (if you say that with a Yoda accent, it has the truest effect.)
I got up quickly and ran to the bathroom to cry in a stall, while Couple’s Skate started without me. Seriously, it just began like normal, as if the most horrifying incident had not just occurred on that concrete slab of rejection.
I remember the song perfectly, it was Air Supply’s, “All Out of Love” I also remember the pain. Oh, the pain and the “uncoolness.”
“I’m so lost without you.”
Apparently, you can’t get too cocky in Cockeysville or anywhere, because someone will put you right back place. Unfortunately or maybe fortunately, I’ve been put in my place more times than I care to remember.
Even as an adult, a simple song can bring back an experience that sends you to rock in a corner. I guess you’re supposed to dust yourself off and get back in the ring or the rink as the case may be.
So back to my pitch:
Dear Editor in Cheif – I AM A kick ass writer and I’m not half bad on a pair of skates…
PS : I got that job – eat your heart out mullet boy, everyone knows rat tails are like way hotter anyway!
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Yes, every one of us has had an attempt to get a little peace backfire like this (and you men think our lives are so rosy)…
I’m finally getting a long overdue pedicure and a long overdue moment of respite ( or so I think). This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting? I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom. Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”
The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on a metal gum wrapper. Eeeek.
Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish. This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule. It implies that your “me time” is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.
Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was wearing a vampire’s French pedicure. Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.” “I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer. Then she looks up at me and asks if I’m aware there’s a Hello Kitty sticker on the bottom of my foot. “Oh, my daughter was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it. “Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10. Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.
I lie, well shimmy back, trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage. I can’t seem to relax. I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.” I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough.
She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event. She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).
“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall. I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos. In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture. I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture. The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.
I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage. I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil. Then she literally beats the tension out of me. “Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.” She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name. Probably because she picked the tag out of a basket this morning.
No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless. Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades. She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck. Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair. I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket. No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing a good orthopedist can’t fix. Seriously, ALL of my attempts at relaxation seem to stress me out!
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It’s that time of year again… Time for that timeless Jewish tale that should be read the night before Christmas after eating Chinese and watching whatever movie your kids talk you into.
I’m not gonna throw myself under the bus and call my children spoiled, as I would have only myself to blame. I will say, however, they have an extreme sense of entitlement, which I am sure has little to do with them being lavished with gifts undeservedly.
My children want everything they see, hear about, could get as a party favor, could find in a McDonalds happy meal, a cereal box, a piñata, or view in a commercial.
“Mommy can I have that? Will you buy me that? Mommy my friends neighbor has that. I want that. When can I have that? Mommy? Ma? Maaaaaaaa? MOM! This exchange of words usually ends with, “If you mention it again, the answer will be never.” “Never? I can’t even have a Fijit my beat friend when I’m 25?” “Sure. If you still want a Fijit my best friend at 25, you being it with you to therapy.”
“How about I get it for my next birthday, or maybe Kwanzaa?” My son is already eyeing a camouflage pencil set for Secretaries Day, and has informed me that, although we are Jewish, he will be giving up vegetables for Lent.
My childrens’ Hanukkah wish lists are so comprehensive, I may be forced to explore alternative channels in my gift search. Consequently, I have sent a friendly letter asking someone who has slighted me in the past for help. Some might say it’s more of a formal accusation, but really it’s just a hand delivered note that needs to be notarized and signed on receipt. It goes:
I have never complained about you forgetting us Jews in the past, but times are tough. I mean, I don’t want to threaten you or anything, but let’s talk religious profiling, shall we?
I’m sure the fact that we don’t believe in you has something to do with you snubbing us year after year. Do we, a people known to produce a whiner or two, complain? No, some of us, me included, have made an effort to believe.
Let us not forget Christmas of 83’ when I sat on your lap asking for a Speak N’ Spell, a Magic Eight Ball, and Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron” 45. I have a laminated picture from Macy’s to prove it.
Do you not bombard us with your festive songs and holiday movies made with delightfully animated reindeer and elves? Do Jews get to go a-wassailing? No, we have one song… about kids gambling.
Has Dreidel ever starred in a delightfully animated holiday movie? Even the Rugrats sold out, ahem, converted.
Has Snoopy, or Barbie, or a single Disney character ever lit a Menorah? Maybe in the privacy of their own homes, but certainly never on camera (it’s in their contracts.)
We’re okay with that, because we wrote those contracts.
Sure, we take advantage of your sales and vacations. We watch your shows, and sing your catchy songs. We’ll decorate a tree with blue and white twinkle lights, top it with a six pointed star, and call it a Hanukkah bush.
Santa, my Roth IRA is down 40%. I deserve a little holiday cheer. You can look me up, I’ve been nice, and I’d like to keep it that way.
My daughter wishes to receive more of those squeaky –and possibly poisonous– Zhu Zhu pets. She would also like the newest Bratz Doll, which comes complete with Brazilian waxing kit and requisite diaphragm.
My son “just has to have” Ubisoft’s Rocksmith “I Choked on My Own Vomit Tour,” the iPhone 4s that he thinks will answer any question, including where he left his last cell phone. Oh, and some alone time with my daughter’s Bratz doll.
I will forward you the unabridged version via zip file. I look forward to us all getting along!
Frustrated Jewish Mom
P.S. I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. I didn’t mean to sound so hostile. Santa, just tell me what a girl’s gotta do to get some Christian love? I can be naughty if necessary (wink, wink).
Want more Holiday Humor? Check out Little Things That Make me Wanna Convert and of course, please share this tale as a holiday treat
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Why would you eat me?
I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a sleep disorder that ups my productivity.
I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel.For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned.I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by.Things like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).”What, I’m also trying to learn sleep Spanish.
Anyway, the first night… nothing.I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school.Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?
Last night was different.I didn’t dream at all.No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes.
I woke up feeling funny, disoriented.
My souffle was not rising.
My bed was not made.
My buttocks were not tightened.
My cat litter was not scooped…
Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.
Now, this may seem like a setback.
Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese.I’m looking at the silver lining and calling it a success.
So, things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy.Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak.Sorry, hairball.
Call for an appointment.Your money back if I eat your pet.GUARANTEED.
Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable.Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included.Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies.Price where prohibited.You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..
When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country. Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely fabricated, yet universally understood by all it’s regular patrons.
Like any new country, when you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the obvious language barrier.
You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.
The baristas, or should I call them caffeination interpreters, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino. My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car. When he sees it drive up, he starts my drink. He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.
He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.
But sometimes, even I, a citizen with a green card – or should I say gold card – am shocked by how intricate requests can get. I think some of these drinkers actually believe they’ve learned another language and take an odd pride in this false sense of intelligence.
Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda – extra dry – machiatto – with extra foam – on the fly.
Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans? Or does the dryness have something to do with the foam?”
Caffeination interpreter: “No the consistency of the foam is directly correlated to the frothiness.”
Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA?
And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 140°.
My barista, who writes Jenny from the blog on every cup, actually figured this out while analyzing my drinking habits.
Caffeination interpreter: “I’ve noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 20 degrees fahrenheit.”
“Shit, I think in Celcius. I like to pretend I’m European… like Madonna and Gwennie P.
Caffeination interpreter: “There’s no reason to get smart with me. I’m hypothesizing about your needs, I’ll investigate further.”
Soon coffee analyzation and Starbucks interpretation will be something you can major in, like criminal justice. At the very least Bravo will make it into a show, “CSI Starbucks.”
“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI Starbucks unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here.”
“There is nothing to see here, please disperse.”
“What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”
Disgruntled Customer: “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokeonitccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”
The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van.
The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. “One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt,” he says as he rubs some across his gums.
“Well your first problem is this is only 16 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155° and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”
Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”
“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss Flo with civilians. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the Captain, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time.”
“And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”
When I was growing up, my father was the one who took me on shopping excursions, and patiently waited outside many a woman’s dressing room at Saks or Bloomingdales. We studied the nuances of collectable cars from the lines of the body to the details of the interior and yes, we buffed our nails, polished our shoes, shared our Coogi sweaters and of course… spent many hours antiquing all over the East coast. Just last month we had a murse off (which he won – picture is at the bottom)
My Dad is a Metrosexual.
There, I said it. He’s finally out of the dressing room closet and I’m sure will be helping design the t-shirts for their first chevron patterned parade.
I wish I’d coined the term … Metrosexual: A straight man who likes shopping, manicures, trends, home décor, staring at paint chips, and reading Men’s Health.
Anywho, in an unfortunate turn of events, my husband has turned out to be “Metrophobic.” Now, this term I may have coined, and if you use it, you owe me royalties. I certainly didn’t know this when I married him… it never came up. All other sexual orientations are totally acceptable to him and had I went down a checklist trying to cover each of these categories I may have learned of this prejudice earlier. As it turns out he finds Metrosexuals to be a curious bunch. He can’t understand how a straight man would waste time keeping up with trends, care about quality of leather on a sofa or use the term mani/pedi without chuckling.
In my defense – when I first met Mark, he was malleable. I had him wearing trendy things, even hair gel. It was the 90’s okay? Stop questioning my judgment. But, I went too far. I got him a pair of Kenneth Cole chunky black shoes. At the time they were very in. The problem was that he is a size 12, and chunky 12’s are pretty, well…Frankenstein-esque. I saw it immediately, but couldn’t admit it because I wanted him to trust me and allow me to change him … obviously (is that not every girls goal?)
However, his friends weren’t so courteous and Mark’s “clown shoes,” became a standard dig that would be referenced for years to come. That was the end of Mark’s experimental phase and the last time he let me dress him in anything other than khaki shorts or jeans and tee’s.
He won’t wear anything too fitted, too shiny, too patterned, too sheer, too thick, too acid washed, too dark washed, or too trendy. On top of those requirements, he won’t wear button fly jeans or anything slimfit, as they do not provide the generous room needed to accommodate his package “take it easy, Jon Hamm.”
As if those weren’t enough parameters – He won’t actually shop, so if I want him to have any style at all, I have to guess at sizing and acceptability. As an ex-personal shopper and stylist, you can imagine how it kills me not to be able to buy him a pair of beautiful Ferragamo shoes or perfect fit designer jeans because of the metal hardware and giveaway pocket embroidery.
My father called me from Saks yesterday to run a gift for Mark’s birthday by me.
“Now Jenny, before you say anything, I have searched for an hour and found something so perfect. I would love to have this item myself and I think you could talk Mark into wearing it.”
“What is it?” I ask, already knowing from the buildup it’ll be way over the top.
“It’s an awesome black ‘Armani’ vest with stripes. It would look so great with jeans and a t-shirt.”
Now, I knew it was going to be over the top. I knew my Dad would throw out all previous knowledge of my husband and get something he wouldn’t want, but in my wildest, I would never have guessed a striped vest.
“Dad, no way in hell would he wear that.”
“Why, you don’t think you could talk him into it?”
“No.” Honestly speaking, if my conservative husband wore a vest and t-shirt to dinner I would lead the charge at making fun of him.
“Don’t you guys go out to dinner? What does he wear?”
“Yes Dad, we go out to dinner, and he wears a button down.”
“That’s so boring… how about a skinny tie, does he have any of those yet? They’re still big this fall.”
“No, I don’t think he wants a skinny tie.”
“They’re not super skinny, just a little.”
“Yes, I got it, not a bolo.”
“No, way thicker than that, but not too thick.”
“I promise, I get it, not a leather tie with piano keys a la 80s rockers, just a thinner than an average tie.”
“I can measure it — the first knuckle of my pointer is exactly one inch, I use it to guestimate.”
“I know you do, Dad. Just get him a nice button down. Think Ted Baker, Donna Karan, Theory, Old Navy. You know, simple?”
“Would he wear one with an amoeba pattern, because I saw a beautiful Robert Graham.”
In the end he got lovely shirt – simple nice stripes, good colors, and no patterns that you’d find under a microscope. No sheen, no metallic thread. Totally acceptable, except for a three metal snaps on the sleeve (My Dad’s favorite part.) One snap with a gun inlay, one with a star and one simply plain.
In a department store with 10,000 variations of a basic button down shirt, he couldn’t find even one?
It was returned.
When it comes to Metrophobics buy them gift certificate so their wives can get some shoes or at least a mani/pedi.
I live in a house of extremely competitive people. We have family races to bed and guitar hero rock-offs complete with behind the head Hendrix style antics. My son at 5 was using phrases like, “I’m gonna crush you” and “you just got schooled.”
The latest thing in my house is family superlatives. You know like, “Most likely to make their bed” or “Best looking in a Barbie wig,” (thankfully my daughter won that one). My son is doling out the titles and my little girl wants in on the good ones. Each day she asks me to think of things she can be the best at, because Jake already has throwing, catching, guitar hero, whistling, streaking and tying his shoes.
So, I gave her “Noise Making” and “Underwear Putting On.” Listen, this has been going on for a week or two, we’re well past “Most Spirited,” and “Best Smile” I’m running out of accolades… I’ve even managed to assign “Biggest Flirt.”
Last night at dinner, while giving themselves some big ones like “Artistic Ability,” “Most likely to be President,” and “Best Imagination,” I hear, “Hey Mommy do you know what you’re the best at?”
Finally, I’m in. “What?” I replied excitedly. “Is it best dressed?”
Pause, small snicker… “Nope.”
No pause, big snicker as if to say ‘As if’… “Nuh-uh”
“Singing, accents…laundry?” at this point I’ll take anything.
Anything but that.
Jake: No Daddy wins “Best Farter.”
Ryan: No Mommy doe s.
Am I really listening to this debate? Continue reading
–Dealing with a lost pet can be extremely daunting… even if it’s a ladybug.
I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son Jake’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old (or 4 day old bug – whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the ceiling of our gondola and made a mad dash for freedom.
Jake jumped out of his seat and bounced towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging was strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”
Jake continued searching, intensely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said desperately, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use. Continue reading