Tag Archives: motherhood

I Have Found A Way To Add More Productive Hours To Every Day!

My theory on the principal who attempted to “sleep” strangle his wife with her hoodie string, is that he was actually lucid and when she awoke he pretended to be asleep. This is something even a 4yr old can do. I know, my kids and husband are pros at fake sleeping, especially when avoiding a chore or when trying to get away with murder.

I told my theory to my Mother-in-law, who was very offended by my ignorance in sleep strangling. “Don’t you watch Oprah?”

“Umm, is she on Cartoon Network?”

“She has people on that do all kinds of stuff in their sleep. They eat, they clean, they garden, they cook. They are on video doing it.”

I had no idea how productive one could be when sleeping. And here I am wishing for more hours in the day, when they were there all along. I feel so lazy. To think, all these years I ‘ve been using my sleep to explore my unconscious desires and true feelings about people I’ve lost touch with, movie stars I will never meet, and ego shattering incidences that I never address or admit to in my waking world.

“Now, these people on Oprah that you speak of, are they complaining about these afflictions?”

“Well sure, they are in sleep therapy, and studies. They are trying to find cures.”

“Are they nuts? If we have any say in the sleep disorders we are plagued with, I call sleep cooking, then sleep cleaning, sleep aerobics, sleep showering, and sleep sex. Wait, scratch that last one, I’ve already mastered it.”

Can you imagine if sleep accomplishments could be taught? The next Hollywood craze could be Sleep Kabbalah, and Sleep Striptease workouts with Carmen Electra. I am certain a few celebs are onto it already. Ryan Seacrest, Steven Speilberg, and Martha Stewart, who up until now I was sure were androids or at the very least vampires, are clearly doing sleep stuff.

Take Martha, who has enough time to cook a meal in multiple courses, invite friends to eat it on hand written notes, calligraphied on hand dipped paper, make season appropriate place cards that are not only edible, but look like wreaths, and can be reused as lingerie drawer sachets, and still have time to make shady deals and verbally abuse the help? (That’s just breakfast.)

If I were still in college, I’d take slumber learning 101. Then I’d party all night, and sleep through all my classes. Everyone does the latter anyway. It’s a brilliant idea, learning to learn in your sleep. It would be like asking a genie for more wishes. That would be the one class that I could actually apply in real life; certainly more than English Lit. I can’t tell you the last time someone wanted to analyze the symbolic meaning of the labyrinth in “The Name of The Rose,” but I can tell you the last time I slept… last night.

I am going to try giving myself subliminal messages all day. If all goes well I will awake in a bed that is already made, refreshed, clean, with firm thighs, taught buttocks, and the smell of lobster risotto and bananas foster filling my home. If all does not go well, I may strangle my husband in his sleep. I’m gonna do a pro/con chart on this one, but I’m thinking the reward outweighs the risk.

PS- Mark if you’re reading this, don’t sleep in a hoodie.

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10 Resolutions I Can Actually Keep

This time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this new year, I would balk at a request to play Stairway To Heaven, saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2010.

2. Gain weight

I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode including ice cream.

3. Work out less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.

4. Forget an old language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.

5. Stay out of touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I will start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads “I never liked you in the first place.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be less patient

I will be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole Elementary Education is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”

7. Hold grudges

This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.

8. Stress more

I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I have just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become addicted to something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the new year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced due to a torrid affair. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

A Confession of A Mother’s Addiction

I have many addictions, most of which are harmless and routine. My penchant for pot…child’s play. An affinity for gambling and my small cocaine habit…blips on the radar. Compulsively stealing Percacet, Oxyconton and other prescription drugs from people’s medicine cabinets…a mere misdemeanor. But G-d do I love me some sleep. You know the stuff. That in the bed, eyes closed, not awake kind of sleep. I am currently not sleeping to write this and I am just jonesing for some shut eye. Ahhh…sweet, sweet slumber.

I’ve been addicted to sleep for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, my Mom tells fantastic tales of my having to sleep multiple times each day. Sometimes I sleep for long stretches; I go to bed at one time and wake up at a totally different time. I know this as it is dark when I start to sleep, and light when I wake up. I also I have a clock.

I am so dependent on sleep that if I skip a single day, one day, I start to go through severe withdrawal. My head aches, my eyes twitch and dark circles form puddles under them. My speech is slurred and nonsensical, and my decision- making becomes impaired. I have this overall look of exhaustion that is a tell-tale sign of my addiction. Like any hard-core addict, I make excuses. “I fell.” “My husband is beating me.” “I’ve been shooting up.”

I get so high on sleep, that I completely lose my appetite. Some nights I can go ten hours without eating. In fact, I rarely eat when I’m sleeping. There are other side effects, like crazy hallucinations. I’ll be having sex with Ben Affleck and a shark will eat him and then I’ll scream and freefall off some huge ledge and end up on Oprah’s talk show couch, except Oprah is a white male midget with 8 tentacles, each of which is attempting to feel me up, which is odd because he’s gay.

You would think that would scare me straight, but it’s doesn’t. I’ve tried over and over to kick the habit. In college, I used tons of caffeine and ephedrine in hopes of weaning myself off sleep. But I ended up partying all night, only to relapse all day and miss extremely practical classes, like bio 403 -The history of infectious diseases.

After having babies, I used breast feeding as a form of “rehab,” but I fell off the wagon and did something too horrible to discuss. That’s right, I got my own kids hooked on the stuff, like little crack babies. I forced them to try it, and they were so smitten with the sandman, they indulged two, maybe three times a day. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I even joined them from time to time.

Look, I am not proud of what I’ve done. For years I’ve tried to hide it. Only a select few guessed… my carpool, they knew. I knew they knew, but I still relied on explanations. “You say I look so fresh faced and well rested? Well…that must be my Nars bronzer, Orgasm.” “Oh, that dewy glow, that’s cause I just had an actual orgasm.”

Now I am telling the world, because the first step is admitting you have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jenny, and I’m addicted to sleep. I apologize if my habit has harmed or affected those around me and I vow to get help… in the morning.

Woman sleeping comfortably photo

Why Are Men Such Babies?

For 4 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 school, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, 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 4hour “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 Jake 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 9 years.
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.  Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school.  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 Ryan’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 school.  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 football 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 your’s passes.”

Those Blond Haired, Blue Eyed, Big Boobed, Skinny Girls Are Annoying

This morning while my friend Susan was driving back from carpool she decided to complain about the sun. The conversation went something like this:

Susan: The sun this morning is relentless. I can barely see. I think it’s because I have such blue eyes that I’m so sensitive to the light.

Me: (mocking in a overly dramatic proper accent, ala Stewie from Family Guy) Ohhh, the curse. Oh, me with my blue eyes and the blond hair. How do I get through the day? You may think you know the intensity of the light Jenny, but you have no idea you with your doody brown eyes. You don’t even know the true beauty that is all around us.

Susan: Seriously, I almost had to pull over last week. Light eyes are really sensitive.

Me: Really, you are going to continue? Tell this to one of your Arian friends in the club you can start on facebook. You need people to commiserate with.

Susan: Oh shit I just almost hit a car.

Me: Well, it must be the boobs. Ohhh, damn these perky boobs! Jenny, you have no idea what it’s like to be so buxom. They get in the way of everything. A three-point turn is like solving a Rubics cube. Oh, and the skinniness. I can barely turn the wheel I am so frail, with my skin and bones. It is so hard to be blond, blue-eyed, big bosomed, and skinny. Those flat-chested brown-eyed girls like you really have it made. They have no idea the obstacles I must overcome.

All Dressed Up With No Place To Go

I believe my last post was on “momnesia,” though I can’t recall. Well, at some point you read about my “momnesia,” and here is a perfect example: This weekend I missed a wedding. Yep, a bona fide black tie, husband’s biggest client, save the date on the fridge, fortune per head kind of wedding.

It was Saturday afternoon; my kids were getting ready to go to my mom’s for a sleepover. A sleepover I had to make my mom cancel plans for. I went to the mail pile to pull out the direction card. I grabbed it and did a quick once over of the invite. Please join bla,bla at bla, bla, on Friday, the 28th of November. I reread that thing 7 times and grabbed the Post just to confirm that this was in fact the wrong day. You know, just in case there was a typo on the invite and the 28th was actually Saturday and no one caught it till this very moment. Alas, it was the 29th, the invitation writer really checked her facts.

“Mark… Mark… all right, don’t kill me, but…” “We WHAT? THE WEDDING WAS YESTERDAY! You’re kidding right?” “Ummm, nope.” Both of us just stood silent and contemplated how bad it was. How really, really bad it was. After many minutes he got on his tux, I got on my gown, we put the kids in the car, dropped them off at my mom’s, came home stripped down, watched R rated movies, cussed out loud, talked about adult stuff (like insurance), ate ice cream without sharing, shtupped with the door open, and went to sleep.

What? A night off is a night off. My mom was none the wiser… till now.

Sticking It To The Man

 

Before the NASDAQ bubble of 1999 popped, I used to be the Man.Now in light of current economic conditions, I am getting joy out of sticking it to him.This money consciousness is not new to me.As an ex-personal shopper for the very wealthy, I know the importance of finding a bargain; because shockingly no one dislikes parting with money more than those who have it.

It probably seems obvious that in these rough financial waters I should stop buying coffee at Starbucks and make it home for 1/100th the cost, but I say “nay.” And I rarely say “nay,” unless I’m singing Old MacDonald.Like you, I am addicted to Starbucks, and fear what vice I might take up in it’s absence.Cocaine?Gambling?Cat juggling?Who’s to say?Therefore, I will continue to give Starbucks my hard earned dough and vow to bankrupt them with my ever popular “Ghetto Latte.”It requires two, I mean dopio, shots of espresso and a grande cup of ice.I add milk and voila, iced grande latte for half the price.

Unfortunately, the staff at Starbucks is trained to look for such wily money saving tactics, so if you plan on ordering this drink the barista may warn you and then the manager may ban you a week later, hypothetically speaking of course.I mean, I wouldn’t know this for sure. I am just guessing at how they might crack down on “ghetto lattes” or filling your baby’s bottle from the fixin’s bar, when you just happen to be in the neighborhood, every 3 hours.

Last week I had my daughters 4th birthday.I spent hundreds maybe thousands of dollars on balloons from Oriental Trading.I had a ton of latex pinks, purples and lavenders, plus, mylar balloons in the shapes of cell phones, life sized Bratz dolls, purses, lipsticks, and diaphragms (you know, “girlie” stuff.)

The supermarket charges a dollar per latex and two per mylar, to blow them up.“It seems a bit much for air.Last year they didn’t charge me at all,” I said hoping to strike up a deal.“You’re right, but the price is the price.”“I do have quite a lot of balloons here,” I nudged on, still trying to negotiate.“Maim, this price hike came down from corporate. I can’t change it for you.”

I knew he wouldn’t budge, by the tone of his voice.It was like a chipmunk.Apparently, he found it amusing to take a drag from the tank before putting his foot down.This is an example of the “Man” high on power.That’s right I called the guy who works the helium tank the “Man.”

So do you know what I did?I bought that air and then the next day when I went to throw away the latex balloons that last all of 97 minutes.I cut the ribbon off each one and put it with my gift-wrapping stuff.That’s right, I showed him.The next time I have to wrap a present, no larger than a 6 inch square, for a little girl or effeminate boy, he’ll be sorry.Of course, the disposal of my non-Earth friendly latex balloons will sit in some landfill for 200 years decomposing, and most likely end up choking a baby seagull.But, I will think of the birthday girl’s smile, and lay guiltlessly on my seagull down pillows.

Now your thinking this girl is so brilliant it’s scary, or maybe you’re just plain scared.However, my most genius strike at the “Man” happened today.I was making eggs for my daughter this morning and one was yucky inside.One brown organic, cage free, extra omega egg that probably cost about fifteen bucks.That’s a ballpark figure, but I think I’m close.I would never feed such an egg to my daughter, and my husband wasn’t around, so I did the next smartest thing.I went in my yard and planted it.That’s right, and soon I will grow a chicken tree. Before, you know it I’ll be out there, on a crisp 95degree Florida autumn morning, picking chickens.Then I’ll have all the eggs in the WORLD!!! Who will have the last cluck then “Man”? Who?

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The Day Jake’s Ladybug Ran Away


I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son’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 floor and made a mad dash for freedom.

 

Jake jumped out of his seat and flew towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling backward out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging is strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

 

Jake continued searching, solely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said with desperation, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.

 

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered his stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab at freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

 

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back, I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

 

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

 

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry. “Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

 

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

 

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

 

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolving to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

 

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

 

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