I went out shopping with my mom the other day and I felt guilty, not because I was breaking my necessary self-imposed shopping ban, but because I had left my kids. I had left them not with a babysitter, but with my husband. They were not doing child labor; they were simply going to a movie.
I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the feeling I was having. Maybe it was guilt brought on by the fear of sending them off alone with their dad. Would something happen without my guidance? Continue reading
Tag Archives: mommy blog
The Power of Thought
I was asking people their thoughts on positive thinking when my manicurist, Sandy told me a story about finding her “By the time I’m 40” wish list. One of the items on the list was not to do the nails of an elderly lady at her home in the evening anymore. She didn’t have the heart to cancel her weekly appointments, which had been long standing. “And would you believe it, the woman died right before my 40th birthday? For a while I thought I killed her,” she explained with an odd sense of accomplishment. “Talk about powerful thinking. What a stroke of luck.” “Yeah, I don’t know if luck is the word for that kind of stroke. I’m betting she would have preferred that you simply canceled on her.”
That tale made me realize that more interesting than the power of positive thinking, is the power we give our thoughts. I should probably warn you, I can control things with my mind. Bad things. Like Continue reading
Halloween tips for NBC Dressed as Katy Perry – Obviously
Here is one of the segments for NBC 6 Miami, Yes, I dressed as Katy Perry. I thought there would be some irony in a parenting correspondent dressing as Katy a few days after the whole Elmo debacle. I know, your thinking which Elmo debacle right? Yeah, he always seems to put his furry carpeted foot in it doesn’t he? Anyway, enjoy. I’ll post these segments as I get them.
Why are Men Such Wusses? Things husbands do when they’re sick
For four days I have been sick. Nothing crazy; just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing. Yet, in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning. My children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine. They made it to camp, and to baseball, and the Doctor. They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, or making them breakfast, or packing their lunches; so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.
Last night, I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4 hour “nap” I had the night before. At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening. At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.” Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight. “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.” “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time. “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water. By 3AM Jack had tried 12 different positions. Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you. He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets. “They’re white.”
In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours. Some could argue that this has been the case for the last decade. He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy. It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since. A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me. He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed. He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge. Jack and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to camp. Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.” Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee. I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out. Wait, scratch that and reverse it.
By 4:45 my son was back in the womb. “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?” For how many years will I get to hear that? At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me. We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryleigh’s head. Then she started complaining. “Its too hot with this blanket. Mom my PJ’s hurt. Mom I hate the color of your sheets.” Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.
I banged on my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed. Bang…Bang…Bang. “Please get the kids ready for camp. I was up all night.” Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal. “Grumble grumble… no.” “What do you mean you won’t help me?” “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me. Besides, I was up too.” “What kept you up? Was it the sound of your snoring? Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.” “I just can’t I’m too sick.” My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor. But, why go? It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence. He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of. Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone. He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure. All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.
Now, I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt. Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia. If you need to be babied, call your Mom. Better yet, go stay with her. I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours. I just ask that you go to a hotel until yours passes.”
Minutia Mom -The World’s Awesomest Superhero
It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker. The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress celebs are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process. For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time, while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.
When did this happen? When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane? I remember the ad, it read: Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer. Person will be overworked and underappreciated. It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references. Always on duty. Will pay nothing. Continue reading
Tip O’ the Mornin’ : How to Survive Holiday Visitors
So, the holidays are upon us. Christmas has just passed and visitors are abundant, but their welcome is wearing thin. I know, we all look forward to this time of year, but often in the midst of it, we realize the heavy meals have expanded our waist lines and our relatives have stretched our patience.
In-laws can be the toughest during the holiday season. I’m not talking about mine; they’re amazingly wonderful and never bothersome, NEVER. Mine aren’t even in this season, but I have heard tales of other in-laws who cause stress and frustration. The way they handle a turkey, as if it is not a breeding ground for salmonella, or the way they screw with the table settings that you took a painful amount of time arranging to look haphazard and shabby chic. I know, my “friends” sound like a joy to be around over the holidays, right? I am simply relaying their stories, I am in no way referring to specific incidences that may have happened in the past, which have caused me anxiety or to count to 10 by the medicine cabinet, while searching for Zanex .
Let’s face it, it’s harder to have tolerance for those who didn’t raise us: friends and non-immediate family included. We have a certain forgivability factor for our blood relatives; they can get away with more and feel the wrath less. We also tend to offend them less as they too have a forgivablity factor, towards us. Thank goodness.
So, while you count the hours till your guests get on their merry way, I suggest heavy drinking. Use the holiday traditions to mask your quick bout with alcoholism: Manischewitz on Chanukah, egg nog on X-mas, and champagne on New Year’s.
Remind yourself that you’re probably getting on their nerves as well. This is also not a problem I have, as I am always filled with an almost addictive amount of holiday cheer, but logic says: If they’re annoying you, you’re most likely annoying them. (Or did I read that on a fortune cookie?) Well logic or Confucius says that.
Grandparents, especially in-laws, really aren’t there for you in the first place. They’re there for your children. You’re just an obstacle. You and “Your Way” are hurdles to be tip-toed around, not jumped over. They don’t agree with your techniques, your rules, and your methods of punishment — or lack thereof. Though this is a point of un-verbalized contention between you and them, look at the positive. They would love for you to get out of the house, so that they can do and say what they please without feeling like you’re critiquing and judging their every movement – which, by the way, you are.
Don’t over think this one! Go out and let them babysit!!! And while you’re out, drink heavily.
Disclaimer: No in-laws, parents, or guests were harmed in the writing of this article!
Tip O’ the Mornin: Microdermabrasion, Do I Need it?
I have added a Tip o’ the Mornin’ to my regular repertoire of hilariously funny, thought provoking and possibly award winning articles.
RealSelf.com
Well in answer to the question, Do I need microdermabrasion? Yes. yes you do. I don’t know exactly who you are but your skin is probably dull and the elasticity is probably slack. Okay, I may be projecting, but along with suffering from dull slack skin, I selfishly envy fresh faced youth. It always makes me feel good to drive by a highschool, hang my head out the window and scream at the cheerleaders. Things like. “Your pores may be small, but your such a slut and everyone knows it.” or “So what if you don’t have any wrinkles now, one day your kids will stretch your nether regions beyond recognition and your HS sweetheart will be a cheater working a dead end job, and your face will show it all. I know what your thinking, Can I come?
If you think there’s a better way, then maybe you should try microdermabrasion. First it sandblasts your skin with an abrasive material or ultrasound, then it vacuums your pores clean like a shag rug in the bathroom and last it stimulates new collagen production. I have been trying to coax my collagen into regenerate for months now, so if this works, I can stop begging! It costs $100-$200 a blast and should be done by a licensed professional –it can cause damage in the wrong hands.
Will it minimize wrinkles? Probably not, but it can help with fine lines, sun worshipers with skin damage and those who went through that awkward teen acne. Who am I kidding, I still break out at “that time of the month.” That’s when I go to an old age home, hang my head out the window and scream, “I may have a zit or two, but at least I still get my period.”
If you have an experience with microdermabrasion, please share.
I Slept With Tiger Woods
OMG, I have to tell you guys something. I often turn to my iCarly diary with my darkest secrets, but this one is just too juicy. Here goes… I slept with Tiger Woods. You guys are probably freaking out, as Tiger’s reputation has been sooo perfect up until now. Let me be the first to tell you, he’s not the squeaky clean Jonas Brother, he pretends to be.
Our affair was rather recent. I must confess, he was passed out when I met him. Sadly, that’s not the first time I started an affair with an unconscious man. The other time was when this guy was hit by a subway car and I went to visit him in the hospital. His family showed up and took me for his fiancé. I went along with it because I was lonely and it was the holidays. Eventually, he woke up and I married his brother. Oh wait, that wasn’t me. DUH.
Anywho, with Tiger it was different. He was admitted to the hospital (where I am a candy striper) after a rather harsh battle with a fire hydrant. –See, it’s different already. It appears he and his wife play late night golf and he took his car to search for a stray ball, when the confrontation occurred. I can only imagine how far one of Tiger’s balls can fly (well, I don’t have to imagine anymore). –That was a sex joke, in case you didn’t catch on, LOL.
As it turns out, it was lucky that his wife was caddying for him, as she was able to use his iron to pull him from the wreck and beat off the fire hydrant. I didn’t even know fire hydrants could come to life, but I saw this movie about a car named Christine and she came to life. So, I guess anything’s possible.
Tiger even promised me a signed Fat Head of his best friend MJ. I can’t believe he can get in touch with Michael Jackson, but after the stint with the fire hydrant, I can see Tiger’s special. Other people can see it too. He also had sex with my friend Luanne who mops the floors. And then Gertie, who resides in the nursing home area. Oh, and Becky who was in the pediatric unit to have her tonsils out. I ran into him wandering around the Nursery. He says looking at the babies calms him. I get it, they’re so sweet and innocent.
I confronted him about all those other girls, but he said, “don’t worry honey, you’re my hole in one.” He said if we do it enough I can be his “double bogey.” I don’t know anything about the golf but the nicknames sure are cute. Oh yeah, he made me swear I’d never tell… Shit.
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I Am This Month’s Celebrity Host at Nickelodeon’s ParentsConnect.com!!!
Okay, if you wanted more of me, you finally get it. I am doing a daily post for Nick’s ParentConnect.com on how to find time to do stuff for YOU. Yes, I am their Celebrity host for the month of November. Either they are seriously hard-up or I am getting “awesomer.” What a fitting turn around from my last post… Humiliation on the Roller Rink, Circa 1984! I read on Page 6 that Patrick Star was slotted to host this November, but was forced to decline after an unforeseen jellyfishing incident. Also, he is illiterate, though reading was not a prerequisite for the job. I will be toiling away at my keyboard all month, so you can get stuff done. If you have had just about enough of me at one post per week, I must warn you, you will be getting an annoying update every morning that links you to that day’s Me Time problem and solution. I hope you stick around, read some… and even comment or join the site!
Yours,
Jenny From the Blog
I don’t have time for my Hubby:
Remember when you first met your honey? That look of love in your eyes? The way you could just go to a restaurant or a movie without having to call anyone but the reservation line? Do you remember when you could “get it on” in places other than your bedroom… with the lights off… while trying to catch an episode of The Amazing Race… and praying no one wakes up hungry, wet, or scared? It seems like forever ago, right? The idea of a date seems arcane, and the thought of uninhibited sex is nostalgic. Well, you’re together now, so you need to make time to enjoy yourselves.
How to find time for your mate: MORE
I don’t have time to work out:
There used to be a time before kids and before my 30’s when I ate chicken wings, nachos and burgers freely. Now I can trace the outline of a single Cheeto in my belly. Even worse, my thighs seem to be having a love affair with one another, which makes walking in corduroys a very noisy endeavor. If you want the bod you had pre-babies, you have to work at it. So, I will help you find ways to work working out back into your schedule.
How to find time to work out: MORE
I don’t have time for a hobby:
Since I loooove writing, this is one challenge I have a lot of experience with. I can tell you that it’s not easy to find the time. Our hobbies, crafts, and other creative endeavors get left behind by feedings, diaper changes and helping with homework. But whether you like to write, draw, knit, crochet, paint, sculpt, take pictures, play an instrument, scrapbook or make crafts, you don’t have to let go of the things you enjoy. Here are some creative ideas to find time for your artistic side.
How to find time for a hobby: MORE
Total Humilation on the Roller Rink, circa 1984
You know when you’re feeling a little big for your britches? (Using that phrase alone should nullify anything I’m about to say.) Then you get a flashback, a glimpse of some past experience that is earth shatteringly embarrassing and the universe puts you right back in your place?
Well, here I am trying to parlay this “CBS Expert Mom” thing into a piece for a national magazine. I am at my laptop touting myself as an “expert,” and trying to seem way more important than I am. Just as I am rambling on about my amazing qualifications to a senior editor, whom I shouldn’t be writing directly in the first place, Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” comes on the radio. I am immediately transported to Cockeysville Skateland circa 1984. Its Girl’s Skate, the disco lights take over the floor.
Now, if you are 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 cool as possible. You have to rock your shirt with the iron-on decal, those jeans with a comb sticking out of the back pocket, and those leg warmers you shoved up over them to add a “Flashdance” effect. The boys watch from around the rink 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. If you think they’re cute, you slap their out-stretched hand. Yes, it is an exercise in self esteem. Years of this did quite a number on my psyche.
On one 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 I am right?
Here I am doing my best tricks: The speed up and glide, the crouch down and stick one leg forward, the professional leg cross weave around the corners. I look around at the outstretched arms, More than a feelin, should be my background music. As a sensitive kid, I am an equal opportunity slapper. So, I slap the hand of anyone that puts it out there, unless they’re really dorky and everyone else is avoiding them, obviously! Those poor kids go home and make “kill lists,” or comfort themselves with their Star Wars figurines.
Then I spotted him, that cute preteen, he looked bad. I mean good bad. He probably drove here on his motorized dirt bike with his skates hanging from the handle bars and a switchblade hiding in his pocket. He was definitely from the other side of the tracks. You know, like Matt Dillon was 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 skate 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 slow 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… Shit, he gave me the “psyyyyych.”
To add insult to injury, or in this case injury to insult, 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 wall to pull myself in and slammed straight into it, then ricocheted off, and slapped to the ground. I am SO COOL! I got up quickly and ran to the bathroom to cry in a stall, while reading about who is ez, and who loves whom 4-ever. “Couple’s Skate” started without me, 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” or maybe Journey’s “Open Arms,” or some ballad by Foreigner or Styx. I also remember the pain, oh the pain and the uncoolness. Apparently, you can’t get too cocky in Cockeysville, cause someone will put you right back in your insecure, struggling, awkward place… where you belong. Unfortunately, I’ve been put in my place too many 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.
Dear Senior Editor- I am a lowly writer, eh forget get it.
This Mothering Stuff is Tough
I have something to tell you; please don’t spread it around, as it’s somewhat of a secret. I screamed “shut up” at my son today. “SHUT UP!” not “shush” or “sshhhhh” or even “ferme la bouche.” No, “Shut Up.” I didn’t say it in a whisper, or even hiss it through clenched teeth. I yelled it in a vein popping tone, and it felt sort of good, aside from the fear of having an aneurism. I hate to admit it, but in the moment I actually enjoyed the shock value.
In my house, “shut up” is still the “S” word. That and “stupid”…fine, it’s “shit” also (look, we’re not Amish). “Shut up” is a phrase that I – a person who has managed to use“Shniekees” and “Gaylord Focker” in place of harsher expletives for the last 7 years – have never uttered to my children.
Had I witnessed you on the street saying – no, screaming – that to your child, I would have judged you with disdain. I may have even considered calling child services on you. Now, I’m the one with the scarlet letter. I’m just a few more outbursts from a knock at the door.
I’m not going to tell you what my son did, but just know, he started it! Fine, I’ll tell you. He was yelling at me, telling me “No,” contradicting me, and being incredibly obnoxious all at once, and all at warp speed. He never took a breath. I didn’t know whether to punish or have him try out for the swim team.
The funny thing is, I just finished writing an article about the Spanking / IQ study, and here I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do… “ensuring my child will need hours of therapy.” Way to go Jenny. Though I don’t believe in it, I would have been better off calmly putting him over my knee; at least I would have had more self-control.
The worst part of this whole confession inducing incident was the look on his face. It was somewhere between “Uh-oh, you said a bad word!” and a lip biting, “Sniff, sniff. You said that bad word to ME?” As I’ve said before, I subscribe to the book of damage control parenting. Doing as little damage as possible, and controlling the damage you’ve done. This was one of those times I had to control the damage. Somewhat in shock myself, I had to regroup and think of my options: Apologize, use candy or some other bribe to gloss over it, or explain my actions. I went the obvious route, and when he finished licking the Kit Kat residue off his fingers, I said I was sorry.
I’ll tell you, when my kids were little, I would have sworn this day would never come. How could you look at those sweet chubby cheeks and imagine they could ever frustrate you so much? Conversely, when I told a few of my friends the story, they were shocked at how long I’d held out.
Wait a minute, I think there’s some praise in there. I amazed people with my nearly infinite patience. I deserve a medal, not a scornful eye. I take it all back… I am the best mom; it took me almost 8 years to tell my child to “shut up.” Wahoo! See, if you practice patience (but not too much), and bottle up frustration like seltzer (that your kids can agitate until it pops), you too can astound people. Then you can start a blog, and when you do terrible horrible things, you can seek contrition by telling hundreds, dare I say thousands, of people about them.
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My Gecko is Cleaner than Your Gecko
Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says. My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.
As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale. Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans. The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house. Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.
Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies. What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become. So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day. Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him. He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process. You know, lather, rinse, repeat.
It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before. He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all. Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail. I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.
When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.” I don’t know what this says about my family. Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard? Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall? or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.
I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off. Well, Jake would know more about that.