WARNING FOR NEWBIES: If you are new to this site, this is not where you want to start. Trust me. Start from the beginning or pick another entry, but don't start here.
WARNING FOR MEN: If you think you can handle the literary terrain of this page, take a moment to brace yourself first. On second thought, just leave. Don't try to be a tough guy. In about 5 seconds you're going to be wiping sweat off the back of your neck and looking for an emergency exit, so it's best if you just cut your losses and leave now. I will miss you, but you can come back for the next installment. Get out.
SIDEBAR FOR SINGLE FATHERS OF YOUNG DAUGHTERS: You guys might want to stay. You will enjoy NOT ONE WORD of the following discourse, but the info may come in handy if you have a young daughter. And I'm sorry.
The other night my daughter, Sweet Pea, who is almost four-years old,
unexpectedly announced that her gynie smelled like chicken. A "gynie," as you might have guessed, is a vagina. I have a crazy heightened sense of smell and I have never once noticed anything smelling remotely like poultry coming from that region. I think I would have picked up on a chicken smell--I'm not a vegetarian. A bit concerned, and having no prior training in this area, I quickly picked up the phone and called my girl, Busy. I relayed Sweet Pea's chicken proclamation and not only agreed with Busy's response, but conceded with comfort when she said: "Well, it's better than tuna."
Somehow, the Kentucky fried gynie topic resurfaced again over dinner with several of my close friends. I was not prepared for their response. I got yelled at, in unison, by everyone. Apparently, this gynie thing is a big deal. I did not know that. It turns out that I'm the one at fault for chicken vagina. I'm not doing enough to maintain and inspect "the area." I'm expected to get in there and check for redness and all kinds of other stuff.
What the hell? I've got a 19 month old in diapers and I already spend a good part of my day with a face full of that gynie (and sometimes that one has poop in it). Plus, I have my own gynie to worry about-- and it's not like I only attend Jr. on days when I see the gynecologist. NO. I'm on it. I don't let that s%@# go. This ain't the 70's. That kind of current dedication to two gynies begs the question: Is that not enough gynie in my life? Must I put Sweet Pea's gynie back on my "To Do List" as well? I thought I was granted freedom from her southern area the day we picked out her big girl undies.
I was wrong. The Day of the Gynie is not over. We're in there with wipes now, minimum: twice a day. Back in the gynie. We do a quick wipe once in the morning when she changes from pull ups to undies, and once before bed. Gynie maintenance. I'm janitor of the gynie. I still don't notice anything weird or off in the air, but now that Betty Bagina is back in the daily routine, it does seem like a fairly obvious item for the hygiene chart. Who knew? Respect the gynie! (Two fist pumps to the heart and a peace sign).
Yeah, and if you're still here--wishing you weren't--it's your own fault. You were
warned. You thought you were so tough, didn't you, Mr. Tough Guy? Mr. I'm-Not-Scared-Of-No-Chicken-Gynie. It was not the easiest thing to read, I know, but it is real...and evidentally, it's pretty important. I hope you come back in spite of this installment. They won't all be like this, I promise. Oh, come on! You're not CHICKEN, are you?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Uh Oh
My nineteen month old daughter, Lovey, is just starting to talk. You probably don't care, but you know what? Not everything is about you. She's got words like "baby," "baba," "bow wow" (at least I think that is what she's saying), "more," "boots," "poops," "dah-dee," "ba-oons," and the always popular amongst the youth: "no." (Yes, I am aware that "mommy" is not on the list. Thanks). Her favorite, however, has to be "uh oh." Fun to say and fun to do. Sweet Pea, who will be four-years-old soon, also loved "uh oh." She used to whip things across the room and then, very innocently, exclaim "uh oh" as in: "What just happened?" Lovey isn't quite the bruiser that Sweet Pea was, so although her precision and arm aren't going to win her many stuffed animals at the State Fair, the inevitable "uh oh" outcome is still very much the same.
Lovey is currently at the age and stage where, if there is a shopping cart available at the store, we could go either way. In a hurry? Need a lot of stuff? Ass in cart. Got some time? Only need a few things? I usually let her stroll. I only needed two things at Michaels craft store so I felt strolling would be OK. That is because I'm stupid.
There she was, dropping paintbrushes and boxes of chalk, all the while happily
exclaiming"uh oh" like she did something really impressive. It's not that impressive. I can do that too. Sometimes the "uh oh" would come out during the actual drop, but sometimes it would come out after the item would hit the floor. Either way, annoying--and also, Newsflash: IT ISN'T AN "UH OH" WHEN YOU'RE THE ONE DROPPING THE ITEM.
But there I was: Backtracking every few seconds to bend over and pick up whatever Lovey chose as her next victim--each and every time to a continuous chorus of shotgun "uh-oh's." At first, I honestly didn't mind. There was a cute guy in one of aisles (yeah, I also asked myself why a guy was at Michaels--I feel like that's not really a guy place) who totally thought we were the most adorable mother/daughter team ever. I was still OK with it as some lady and her daughter looked over because I know she was reminiscing about the days when her daughter was that age, and I know one day I will be like that too. But then, some other lady and one of her friends smiled at us and I wasn't into them at all, they looked weird, so I told Lovey I was done. At this point, my back was killing me and I really didn't care if freakin' Eminem was there to witness the cuteness of the "uh oh." I was over picking up stuff and trying to figure out where the hell it was supposed to go and I just wanted Rainman to zip it. They pack a lot of stuff into that Michaels store. I was done.
But Lovey wasn't.
The little pack of Doodle Alphabet Scrapbook Stickers never had a chance. I tried to stop her but everything was happening so fast and I seemed to be moving in slow motion. My protest of "Noooooooooooooo" came out small and defeated as Lovely shot me a look of "What chu gonna do about it, madre?" With a powerful smirk and an "uh oh" that was almost a whisper, those scrapbook stickers were on the ground before they knew what hit them. "Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh!" repeated Lovey. And as I breathed out a big sigh, wishing someone would have left an empty cart in the aisle, I moved away from the scrapbook stickers. Yes, you caught me. I left them there, alone and on the floor, awaiting someone better than me to help them find their way back to their scrapbook sticker home. I was tired and I was done so I guess I must have missed that one. "Uh Oh."
Lovey is currently at the age and stage where, if there is a shopping cart available at the store, we could go either way. In a hurry? Need a lot of stuff? Ass in cart. Got some time? Only need a few things? I usually let her stroll. I only needed two things at Michaels craft store so I felt strolling would be OK. That is because I'm stupid.
There she was, dropping paintbrushes and boxes of chalk, all the while happily
exclaiming"uh oh" like she did something really impressive. It's not that impressive. I can do that too. Sometimes the "uh oh" would come out during the actual drop, but sometimes it would come out after the item would hit the floor. Either way, annoying--and also, Newsflash: IT ISN'T AN "UH OH" WHEN YOU'RE THE ONE DROPPING THE ITEM.
But there I was: Backtracking every few seconds to bend over and pick up whatever Lovey chose as her next victim--each and every time to a continuous chorus of shotgun "uh-oh's." At first, I honestly didn't mind. There was a cute guy in one of aisles (yeah, I also asked myself why a guy was at Michaels--I feel like that's not really a guy place) who totally thought we were the most adorable mother/daughter team ever. I was still OK with it as some lady and her daughter looked over because I know she was reminiscing about the days when her daughter was that age, and I know one day I will be like that too. But then, some other lady and one of her friends smiled at us and I wasn't into them at all, they looked weird, so I told Lovey I was done. At this point, my back was killing me and I really didn't care if freakin' Eminem was there to witness the cuteness of the "uh oh." I was over picking up stuff and trying to figure out where the hell it was supposed to go and I just wanted Rainman to zip it. They pack a lot of stuff into that Michaels store. I was done.
But Lovey wasn't.
The little pack of Doodle Alphabet Scrapbook Stickers never had a chance. I tried to stop her but everything was happening so fast and I seemed to be moving in slow motion. My protest of "Noooooooooooooo" came out small and defeated as Lovely shot me a look of "What chu gonna do about it, madre?" With a powerful smirk and an "uh oh" that was almost a whisper, those scrapbook stickers were on the ground before they knew what hit them. "Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh!" repeated Lovey. And as I breathed out a big sigh, wishing someone would have left an empty cart in the aisle, I moved away from the scrapbook stickers. Yes, you caught me. I left them there, alone and on the floor, awaiting someone better than me to help them find their way back to their scrapbook sticker home. I was tired and I was done so I guess I must have missed that one. "Uh Oh."
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Rubber Gloves
We've all been in the store, at least once in our lives, when some cute little girl suddenly goes from saccharine to Satan. She's the one having a complete and total meltdown because "No" was the answer she got as she begged for the new Dream Dazzlers Stylin' Hair Salon. (Not that I blame her, that thing looks awesome). But you've seen that kid, right? I have too. If I was a nicer person, I would feel bad for the parents, but I'm not that nice so instead I think to myself: "That kid is a pain in the ass, have fun being her parent." I then take a moment to kiss my beautiful girls on their heads and tell them that if they ever pull that crap in a store, I will grab a wire hanger and go Mommie Dearest on them. (I'm totally lying about that last part. I hate wire hangers.)
Being completely and utterly petrified of a possible Dream Dazzler tantrum, I have always made a point to very calmly get in my kids' faces and quietly talk them down from the top of the tantrum ladder. It has always worked and I thought it was because of my mighty mommy methodology.
It didn't take long for my unfounded cockiness to catch up with me.
My daughter, Lovey, is only 19 months old so even if she attempted to have a tantrum, I'd just laugh at her and tell her to come back soon. My other one though, Sweet Pea, has reached the point where she is always ready. She is almost four and she carries a conniption colt that is unlocked and loaded. For the most part, I can catch her before she goes for the trigger, but not always.
A month or so ago, I took the girls to my friend's house. Let's call her "Caren." Caren has two little boys and the girls had a blast with them. This didn't surprise me because a) Caren's boys are great and b) my girls could have fun sitting in nosebleed seats at a tractor pull (that will never happen, by the way). When it was time to go, I threw down the "five more minutes" call but Sweet Pea wanted no part of it. No big deal, (hair flip) I can work through that.
I went to my go-to tactic. I got on her level, gently placed my hands on her shoulders, looked her in the eyes and patiently and calmly explained that it was time to go. This usually works but this time, no dice. She flat out ignored me. Regroup. I can handle this. I took her into Caren's kitchen and AGAIN very calmly explained the deal, blah blah blah... Again, nothing. I felt like one of the adults in a A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Wah Wah, Wah Wah, WAH." WHAT THE HELL? Sweet Pea was frozen. She wasn't listening to me and she wasn't looking at me. It was like she was looking THROUGH me. I actually turned her around to face the other way because I honestly thought her head would spin and I wanted to see if would go the whole 360 degrees or just 180.
When she decided to trade in her statue state for full freak-out mode, I was the one who was paralyzed. I had never seen her like this. She was having a total fit. It was surreal. I was so taken aback by everything that was happening that I didn't even take a moment to be embarrassed. Everything was a blur and there was no end in sight.
Of course, the storm eventually passed and Sweet Pea snapped out of it. After careful dissection of the situation, and others since, this is the conclusion I have reached: There are no answers. We're screwed because meltdown mania is, unfortunately, one of the necessary evils of being a kid, and a parent.
Sometimes our kids just need to freak out. They're carrying a lot in their little bodies and every so often they just need to let it out. As parents, all we can do is the best we can do. Nothing I could have done during Sweet Pea's unscheduled exorcism would have altered her behavior. She had an unconscious agenda. I think our best bet is to get ourselves some rubber gloves and hold on tight. We can look at that kid in the store flipping out over a Grow-to-Pro Basketball Net and think that "that kid sucks," but we also have to admit that sometimes, just sometimes, ours suck a little bit too.
Being completely and utterly petrified of a possible Dream Dazzler tantrum, I have always made a point to very calmly get in my kids' faces and quietly talk them down from the top of the tantrum ladder. It has always worked and I thought it was because of my mighty mommy methodology.
It didn't take long for my unfounded cockiness to catch up with me.
My daughter, Lovey, is only 19 months old so even if she attempted to have a tantrum, I'd just laugh at her and tell her to come back soon. My other one though, Sweet Pea, has reached the point where she is always ready. She is almost four and she carries a conniption colt that is unlocked and loaded. For the most part, I can catch her before she goes for the trigger, but not always.
A month or so ago, I took the girls to my friend's house. Let's call her "Caren." Caren has two little boys and the girls had a blast with them. This didn't surprise me because a) Caren's boys are great and b) my girls could have fun sitting in nosebleed seats at a tractor pull (that will never happen, by the way). When it was time to go, I threw down the "five more minutes" call but Sweet Pea wanted no part of it. No big deal, (hair flip) I can work through that.
I went to my go-to tactic. I got on her level, gently placed my hands on her shoulders, looked her in the eyes and patiently and calmly explained that it was time to go. This usually works but this time, no dice. She flat out ignored me. Regroup. I can handle this. I took her into Caren's kitchen and AGAIN very calmly explained the deal, blah blah blah... Again, nothing. I felt like one of the adults in a A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Wah Wah, Wah Wah, WAH." WHAT THE HELL? Sweet Pea was frozen. She wasn't listening to me and she wasn't looking at me. It was like she was looking THROUGH me. I actually turned her around to face the other way because I honestly thought her head would spin and I wanted to see if would go the whole 360 degrees or just 180.
When she decided to trade in her statue state for full freak-out mode, I was the one who was paralyzed. I had never seen her like this. She was having a total fit. It was surreal. I was so taken aback by everything that was happening that I didn't even take a moment to be embarrassed. Everything was a blur and there was no end in sight.
Of course, the storm eventually passed and Sweet Pea snapped out of it. After careful dissection of the situation, and others since, this is the conclusion I have reached: There are no answers. We're screwed because meltdown mania is, unfortunately, one of the necessary evils of being a kid, and a parent.
Sometimes our kids just need to freak out. They're carrying a lot in their little bodies and every so often they just need to let it out. As parents, all we can do is the best we can do. Nothing I could have done during Sweet Pea's unscheduled exorcism would have altered her behavior. She had an unconscious agenda. I think our best bet is to get ourselves some rubber gloves and hold on tight. We can look at that kid in the store flipping out over a Grow-to-Pro Basketball Net and think that "that kid sucks," but we also have to admit that sometimes, just sometimes, ours suck a little bit too.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Stamp of Approval II
The following things are OK
(At least as far as I'm concerned)
It's OK to go out for dinner as a family once or twice a week. It's great to be home, but it's also good for your kids to learn how to act in a restaurant--and even better not to have to clean up after them.
It's OK to go out without your spouse and spend some time with friends or by yourself. Get dressed and get OUT. You will be a better parent and a better partner when you come back. If your kids are going to be up when you come home, try not to come back drunk.
It's OK, on occasion, to leave your sink filled with dishes because you're just too exhausted to deal. Free pass. It's gross, yes, but you'll get to them in the morning. Just do them in the morning, because if you don't, that's really gross and even I can't help you out of that one.
It's OK to work, whether you need the money or not. Unless you're a hooker, your kids should understand that either you have to work or maybe you just like working. Being a parent and working is a tough balance because there is always a part of you that feels either your job or your kid isn't getting your undivided attention. As long as you're not a total loser at either job and you're doing the best you can, (fist pump) your kids will grow up respecting you for it.
It's OK to stay at home with your kids. If you're able to afford it, more power to you. And even though there's no pay stub for the stay-at-home work, it's a bitch of a job. I doubt you're hanging out popping the proverbial "bon bon," but if you are, I guarantee you're on your feet while doing so. My friend, LoGo, once said: "There are many days when I sit down for dinner and I realize that it's the first time I have sat down all day."
It's OK to delete a photo of you and your kid even though your kid looks really cute. If you look like crap, it's out.
It's OK to ask your kids to do stuff you don't feel like doing (e.g., letting the dog out, answering the phone when it's a telemarker calling, putting out a fire in the oven, etc.) That is, after all, one of the main reasons we let them live with us.
It's OK to lie and say the after dinner coffee is regular even though it's decaf. Your ass doesn't have to be up all night just because your friends are speed freaks.
It's OK to call your kid in sick to daycare even though she's not--you just want to hang out with her. And even so, you don't get penalized for sick days. It's freakin' day care.
It's OK to be really ready for your kids to go back to school after a snow day, a weekend or 10 minutes.
It's OK to keep a pen and pad of paper in your glove box so you can leave note on the car that is arrogantly taking up two spaces. It's also OK for that note to say: "I hope you don't F&%$ like you park."
It's OK to wonder why it's called a glove box. Does anyone ever put their gloves in there?
(At least as far as I'm concerned)
It's OK to go out for dinner as a family once or twice a week. It's great to be home, but it's also good for your kids to learn how to act in a restaurant--and even better not to have to clean up after them.
It's OK to go out without your spouse and spend some time with friends or by yourself. Get dressed and get OUT. You will be a better parent and a better partner when you come back. If your kids are going to be up when you come home, try not to come back drunk.
It's OK, on occasion, to leave your sink filled with dishes because you're just too exhausted to deal. Free pass. It's gross, yes, but you'll get to them in the morning. Just do them in the morning, because if you don't, that's really gross and even I can't help you out of that one.
It's OK to work, whether you need the money or not. Unless you're a hooker, your kids should understand that either you have to work or maybe you just like working. Being a parent and working is a tough balance because there is always a part of you that feels either your job or your kid isn't getting your undivided attention. As long as you're not a total loser at either job and you're doing the best you can, (fist pump) your kids will grow up respecting you for it.
It's OK to stay at home with your kids. If you're able to afford it, more power to you. And even though there's no pay stub for the stay-at-home work, it's a bitch of a job. I doubt you're hanging out popping the proverbial "bon bon," but if you are, I guarantee you're on your feet while doing so. My friend, LoGo, once said: "There are many days when I sit down for dinner and I realize that it's the first time I have sat down all day."
It's OK to delete a photo of you and your kid even though your kid looks really cute. If you look like crap, it's out.
It's OK to ask your kids to do stuff you don't feel like doing (e.g., letting the dog out, answering the phone when it's a telemarker calling, putting out a fire in the oven, etc.) That is, after all, one of the main reasons we let them live with us.
It's OK to lie and say the after dinner coffee is regular even though it's decaf. Your ass doesn't have to be up all night just because your friends are speed freaks.
It's OK to call your kid in sick to daycare even though she's not--you just want to hang out with her. And even so, you don't get penalized for sick days. It's freakin' day care.
It's OK to be really ready for your kids to go back to school after a snow day, a weekend or 10 minutes.
It's OK to keep a pen and pad of paper in your glove box so you can leave note on the car that is arrogantly taking up two spaces. It's also OK for that note to say: "I hope you don't F&%$ like you park."
It's OK to wonder why it's called a glove box. Does anyone ever put their gloves in there?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Dollar Store Discourse
Welcome back to Part II of this truly captivating and informative piece on Dollar Stores. In this installment, we will dig even deeper into the depths of the Dollar Store to uncover a timeless life lesson living just beneath the dust. You will need a dollar and you will need to know what the word "budget" means. And oh, there is a very, very slight chance that you or your child MIGHT need to get treated for lead poisoning. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made in order to impart or heed
the wisdom of necessary life lessons.
My husband, Cody, is one of the owners of an overnight camp for kids in Northern Michigan. Our family lives at camp during the summer. Last summer, my daughter Sweet Pea (three-years-old at the time) got her first lesson in budget restraints at one of the Dollar Stores up north. Here's how it went:
I needed to run some errands and I wanted Sweet Pea to go with me. Sweet Pea wanted no part of leaving camp--too much action. I offered up a proposition: "If you are good while I take care of business, I will take you to the Dollar Store for a treat." She was intrigued. Sweet Pea was thus far unfamiliar with Dollar Stores, but now the promise of a treat was in the air. She was solidly committed.
After we finished our errands, we headed towards the highly anticipated final destination. As we walked through the door, Sweet Pea was instantly overwhelmed by all the goods. She wanted everything. The crappier, the better. I had anticipated her reaction to the store, and true to form--she didn't let me down. While I, very casually, stocked up on calculators with absurdly large buttons and ceramic rainbow pins for all of my friends, Sweet Pea quietly lost her mind in the toy aisle.
As I figuratively squinted through the knock-off Apple Jacks and irregular underwear, I saw my opportunity and I seized the moment. I walked over to my little Sweet Pea who was swimming in Dollar Store treasures and I squated down in front of her. I looked her right in the eyes and said: "Dude, we made a deal and you held up your end. You were a very good girl during our errands and because you have been so good, and because I promised, you can have anything in the store that you want, ANYTHING IN THE STORE, but it can only be one thing.
G-D speed. Choose wisely.”
Sweet Pea had no idea that she was, at that very moment, on the cusp of her first lesson in how far a dollar will (or won't) go. She was a 3-year-old on a mission and on a budget.
I can't buy my girls something every time we go out. It's not good for them and it takes away from the money I get to spend on me. Occasionally, I will spring for a totally unexpected treat (I want them to look back on their childhood and have at least one good memory) but for the most part, if we are going out and Sweet Pea is getting a treat, she knows ahead of time why she's getting it. Conversely, if we are going out and Sweet Pea is not getting a treat, she has been made privy to that info before entering the store. "We're going to get your friend Blah Blah her birthday present. I need your help picking it out but know this: you're not getting anything. It's not in our budget for today. If you'd like to pick something out to work towards for another time, that is totally cool, but you're not getting anything today and I rule."
Budgets are a way of life, unless you're crazy rich and then maybe they're not--but I would hope that even The Richies are implementing some sort of exercise in budget cognizance so their kids aren't expecting a Ferrari when they turn sixteen. Maybe kids of the rich aren't getting their first lesson in financial restraints at the Dollar Store, but I guess it's all relative. The way I see it, as long as we are doing our best to bring up our little consumers to understand
"value," and the importance of working for or towards something--it wouldn't hurt to use a little bit of budget reserve to reward ourselves for being ridiculously awesome parents.
the wisdom of necessary life lessons.
My husband, Cody, is one of the owners of an overnight camp for kids in Northern Michigan. Our family lives at camp during the summer. Last summer, my daughter Sweet Pea (three-years-old at the time) got her first lesson in budget restraints at one of the Dollar Stores up north. Here's how it went:
I needed to run some errands and I wanted Sweet Pea to go with me. Sweet Pea wanted no part of leaving camp--too much action. I offered up a proposition: "If you are good while I take care of business, I will take you to the Dollar Store for a treat." She was intrigued. Sweet Pea was thus far unfamiliar with Dollar Stores, but now the promise of a treat was in the air. She was solidly committed.
After we finished our errands, we headed towards the highly anticipated final destination. As we walked through the door, Sweet Pea was instantly overwhelmed by all the goods. She wanted everything. The crappier, the better. I had anticipated her reaction to the store, and true to form--she didn't let me down. While I, very casually, stocked up on calculators with absurdly large buttons and ceramic rainbow pins for all of my friends, Sweet Pea quietly lost her mind in the toy aisle.
As I figuratively squinted through the knock-off Apple Jacks and irregular underwear, I saw my opportunity and I seized the moment. I walked over to my little Sweet Pea who was swimming in Dollar Store treasures and I squated down in front of her. I looked her right in the eyes and said: "Dude, we made a deal and you held up your end. You were a very good girl during our errands and because you have been so good, and because I promised, you can have anything in the store that you want, ANYTHING IN THE STORE, but it can only be one thing.
G-D speed. Choose wisely.”
Sweet Pea had no idea that she was, at that very moment, on the cusp of her first lesson in how far a dollar will (or won't) go. She was a 3-year-old on a mission and on a budget.
I can't buy my girls something every time we go out. It's not good for them and it takes away from the money I get to spend on me. Occasionally, I will spring for a totally unexpected treat (I want them to look back on their childhood and have at least one good memory) but for the most part, if we are going out and Sweet Pea is getting a treat, she knows ahead of time why she's getting it. Conversely, if we are going out and Sweet Pea is not getting a treat, she has been made privy to that info before entering the store. "We're going to get your friend Blah Blah her birthday present. I need your help picking it out but know this: you're not getting anything. It's not in our budget for today. If you'd like to pick something out to work towards for another time, that is totally cool, but you're not getting anything today and I rule."
Budgets are a way of life, unless you're crazy rich and then maybe they're not--but I would hope that even The Richies are implementing some sort of exercise in budget cognizance so their kids aren't expecting a Ferrari when they turn sixteen. Maybe kids of the rich aren't getting their first lesson in financial restraints at the Dollar Store, but I guess it's all relative. The way I see it, as long as we are doing our best to bring up our little consumers to understand
"value," and the importance of working for or towards something--it wouldn't hurt to use a little bit of budget reserve to reward ourselves for being ridiculously awesome parents.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Dollar Store Shakedown
Dollar Stores are kind of gross. How do I know this? Because I shop there. The products are all dusty. It makes me wonder: Do they come out of the cartons that way or have they been sitting around awhile? I’m going to ask next time I go. I need to know. All I know now is that when I leave, my hands feel dirty. It’s gross. Also, Dollar Stores smell funny. I don’t know what the smell is, but all Dollar Stores have the same smell. They just do. I can’t describe it, but I don’t like it.
So, why do I shop there? Because. EVERYTHING IS A DOLLAR.
There are traps though. Dollar Store traps. I'm not proclaiming familiarity with all of the traps, but I am a fairly seasoned shopper so I have uncovered a few. Following is a list that outlines the traps I have uncovered. It may not be worth much (probably only a dollar) but if I can save one person from getting caught in the net, my job is done.
Trap #1: Not all Dollar Stores are created equal. Some sell items that are over a dollar. Lame. These stores are Dollar Store imposters. Yes, they boast the obligatory dusty products and the Dollar Store smell but they have many items that far exceed a dollar so GET OUT. It’s a trap. Make sure to give the store a dirty look on your way out.
Trap #2: How many times have you been to Target and spent over 100.00 only to ask yourself: “What the hell? What did I buy?" It’s work to get out of that place for under a hundo. Maybe you’re one of the few who sticks to your list (you’re probably real smug about it too--calling your friends as soon as you get to your car all “I only spent 46.00. I stuck to my list.” Blah Blah Blah. BARF. You‘re annoying) but the majority of us get home with stuff we don’t need because it’s-pink-and-so-SO-cute-and-I-might-use-it-one-day-for-something-but-I-don’t-know-what. This can happen to the best of us and if you think it can't happen in a Dollar Store, you're sorely mistaken. The s%&t adds up. Fast. You didn’t come in for the multi-colored clothes line clips but you’ll be damned if you’re leaving without them! The fact that you don’t own a clothes line has become sadly and oddly overshadowed by the fact that those awesome clothes line clips are only a dollar.
Trap #3: Let's pretend that the Dollar Store is a casino in Vegas. Everyone knows that the odds are against you "beating the house." The odds are in the favor of the Dollar Store; it has a built-in house edge. Just by walking into the store, you're at a loss because you can't not buy something (yes, I'm aware of the double negative, get off me). You can, however, balance your receipt and avoid their trap by beating the Dollar Store at its own game. For example: If you see something that you need like a package of Ring Pops and each package has three pops in it, don’t jack yourself around, it’s a no brainer. GET THEM. Three in a pack. One pack for a dollar. You’re at .333 per Ring Pop. JACKPOT! Congratulations. You not not only beat the house, but you're also a Ring Pop wearing bad ass.
Knowledge is power. We all know that. Armed with trap awareness, we can utilize these Dollar Stores and make them our bitches. If you're still not convinced, (hater) I invite you to brave the aisles with me once again in Part 2 of this undeniably riveting Dollar Store series. Don't forget to bring a couple bucks, some wet wipes and a stuffy nose if you're lucky enough to have one.
So, why do I shop there? Because. EVERYTHING IS A DOLLAR.
There are traps though. Dollar Store traps. I'm not proclaiming familiarity with all of the traps, but I am a fairly seasoned shopper so I have uncovered a few. Following is a list that outlines the traps I have uncovered. It may not be worth much (probably only a dollar) but if I can save one person from getting caught in the net, my job is done.
Trap #1: Not all Dollar Stores are created equal. Some sell items that are over a dollar. Lame. These stores are Dollar Store imposters. Yes, they boast the obligatory dusty products and the Dollar Store smell but they have many items that far exceed a dollar so GET OUT. It’s a trap. Make sure to give the store a dirty look on your way out.
Trap #2: How many times have you been to Target and spent over 100.00 only to ask yourself: “What the hell? What did I buy?" It’s work to get out of that place for under a hundo. Maybe you’re one of the few who sticks to your list (you’re probably real smug about it too--calling your friends as soon as you get to your car all “I only spent 46.00. I stuck to my list.” Blah Blah Blah. BARF. You‘re annoying) but the majority of us get home with stuff we don’t need because it’s-pink-and-so-SO-cute-and-I-might-use-it-one-day-for-something-but-I-don’t-know-what. This can happen to the best of us and if you think it can't happen in a Dollar Store, you're sorely mistaken. The s%&t adds up. Fast. You didn’t come in for the multi-colored clothes line clips but you’ll be damned if you’re leaving without them! The fact that you don’t own a clothes line has become sadly and oddly overshadowed by the fact that those awesome clothes line clips are only a dollar.
Trap #3: Let's pretend that the Dollar Store is a casino in Vegas. Everyone knows that the odds are against you "beating the house." The odds are in the favor of the Dollar Store; it has a built-in house edge. Just by walking into the store, you're at a loss because you can't not buy something (yes, I'm aware of the double negative, get off me). You can, however, balance your receipt and avoid their trap by beating the Dollar Store at its own game. For example: If you see something that you need like a package of Ring Pops and each package has three pops in it, don’t jack yourself around, it’s a no brainer. GET THEM. Three in a pack. One pack for a dollar. You’re at .333 per Ring Pop. JACKPOT! Congratulations. You not not only beat the house, but you're also a Ring Pop wearing bad ass.
Knowledge is power. We all know that. Armed with trap awareness, we can utilize these Dollar Stores and make them our bitches. If you're still not convinced, (hater) I invite you to brave the aisles with me once again in Part 2 of this undeniably riveting Dollar Store series. Don't forget to bring a couple bucks, some wet wipes and a stuffy nose if you're lucky enough to have one.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Greatitude
A note about comments:
I love reading the comments after the blog entries. For those of you who take the time to leave one, please know how excited I am to read it. Good or bad, the comments make me so happy (good is better than bad).
It's probably best for me to write and be done, but I tried that and it wasn't working so I will probably get in the fray from time to time. For those of you who are reading and not commenting, thank you so much for giving me some of your time. I hope I'm not wasting it and I hope you guys stick around for awhile.
If you know of anyone else who has kids, wants kids, hates kids...anyone who might be adopting, thinking about adopting, having a baby, thinking about having a baby, or just has 5 minutes to kill with their coffee or wine, please send them over. I'd be grateful for the nod and so appreciative of any feedback.
All my best,
~Robyn
I love reading the comments after the blog entries. For those of you who take the time to leave one, please know how excited I am to read it. Good or bad, the comments make me so happy (good is better than bad).
It's probably best for me to write and be done, but I tried that and it wasn't working so I will probably get in the fray from time to time. For those of you who are reading and not commenting, thank you so much for giving me some of your time. I hope I'm not wasting it and I hope you guys stick around for awhile.
If you know of anyone else who has kids, wants kids, hates kids...anyone who might be adopting, thinking about adopting, having a baby, thinking about having a baby, or just has 5 minutes to kill with their coffee or wine, please send them over. I'd be grateful for the nod and so appreciative of any feedback.
All my best,
~Robyn
Big Dogs and High Horses
I used to have a Golden Retriever named Barney. He was not our family dog; he was my dog. He was named after the store in NYC. Barney was very handsome and very regal--and he carried himself as such. He wore a Burberry collar, he stayed clear of lake water and he made me blow dry his fur if he got caught in the rain. Barney was my guy throughout my single years and when he died (the night before I got married) it broke my heart.
A month after our wedding, my husband (Cody) and I adopted Floyd. We found him at a Golden Retriever foster home. We were taken with his big head, stubby tail and kind eyes. We didn't know he was out of his mind. Floyd chases cars like he's in a video game. He's the first to jump in the water and he will roll in anything--he doesn't care whose ass it came from. When I feed him, he eats like he just got out of prison and if it's thundering out, he will rip down an entire door frame. Floyd is nothing like Barney. He is, however, the cutest dog ever (that's what it says on his dog tag) and I don't know of a sweeter dog anywhere.
My girls are lucky to be growing up with Floyd. He's big but he's harmless. He's by their side if they're crying and under their feet when they're eating. I have always said that Floyd is the best dog for your kid to meet if your kid is scared of dogs. If you're still unsure, then don't come over. Just kidding. You can come over. You even can ask me to put Floyd away, and I'll do it because you're the guest, but I won't be happy about it--and neither will he.
I'm not suggesting that you take your kid to a dog park and leave her there to fend for herself as you run away pointing and sticking your tongue out. I'm just saying that if you DO have a kid who is scared of dogs, it's a good idea to help abate her fears. Maybe think of someone you know who has an awesome dog (like mine) and go visit that person (but not me unless you know me--I'm not running a petting zoo over here). Go and hang with the dog. Walk your kid in slowly and have her put her hand out so the dog can sniff it. Keep her hands DOWN. No one is "under arrest" and dogs sometimes jump when little kids hold their hands up high. A love affair might not emerge from the first date, but it's better than avoiding the issue all together. Plus, you have to start somewhere.
No one wants to be scared of dogs. Scared is sad. Cautious is smart. It's smart to be cautious; I'm actually a little worried that my kids aren't cautious enough. I don't think they know that they can't go up to every dog and take a bone out of their mouth while they're chewing. Not every dog is as patient as Floyd. I'm not as patient as Floyd.
Floyd is our poochini. He's our poochikins (Cody hates when I call him that, so I say it all the time when he's around). I love Floyd like he's my child so I have no problem admitting that I'm on a high horse when it comes to him. I'm going to get down now but NOT because you're done with me. I'm getting down because if Floyd were to see me--he'd probably hump the horse.
A month after our wedding, my husband (Cody) and I adopted Floyd. We found him at a Golden Retriever foster home. We were taken with his big head, stubby tail and kind eyes. We didn't know he was out of his mind. Floyd chases cars like he's in a video game. He's the first to jump in the water and he will roll in anything--he doesn't care whose ass it came from. When I feed him, he eats like he just got out of prison and if it's thundering out, he will rip down an entire door frame. Floyd is nothing like Barney. He is, however, the cutest dog ever (that's what it says on his dog tag) and I don't know of a sweeter dog anywhere.
My girls are lucky to be growing up with Floyd. He's big but he's harmless. He's by their side if they're crying and under their feet when they're eating. I have always said that Floyd is the best dog for your kid to meet if your kid is scared of dogs. If you're still unsure, then don't come over. Just kidding. You can come over. You even can ask me to put Floyd away, and I'll do it because you're the guest, but I won't be happy about it--and neither will he.
I'm not suggesting that you take your kid to a dog park and leave her there to fend for herself as you run away pointing and sticking your tongue out. I'm just saying that if you DO have a kid who is scared of dogs, it's a good idea to help abate her fears. Maybe think of someone you know who has an awesome dog (like mine) and go visit that person (but not me unless you know me--I'm not running a petting zoo over here). Go and hang with the dog. Walk your kid in slowly and have her put her hand out so the dog can sniff it. Keep her hands DOWN. No one is "under arrest" and dogs sometimes jump when little kids hold their hands up high. A love affair might not emerge from the first date, but it's better than avoiding the issue all together. Plus, you have to start somewhere.
No one wants to be scared of dogs. Scared is sad. Cautious is smart. It's smart to be cautious; I'm actually a little worried that my kids aren't cautious enough. I don't think they know that they can't go up to every dog and take a bone out of their mouth while they're chewing. Not every dog is as patient as Floyd. I'm not as patient as Floyd.
Floyd is our poochini. He's our poochikins (Cody hates when I call him that, so I say it all the time when he's around). I love Floyd like he's my child so I have no problem admitting that I'm on a high horse when it comes to him. I'm going to get down now but NOT because you're done with me. I'm getting down because if Floyd were to see me--he'd probably hump the horse.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Violence in Medicine
Have you ever observed a bunch of kids playing soccer and casually say to another parent: "Your kid is going to be the next David Beckham..." or maybe you've seen a little girl dancing around in a tutu and think to yourself, "She could be a wonderful ballerina one day." I'm sure you have. If not, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. If not, you're kind of dumb.
Every now and then my 3-1/2 year old daughter, Sweet Pea, will abandon her princess costumes in favor of her fully loaded doctor coat. When that lab coat goes on, a transformation occurs. She might as well come flying out of a phone booth because when she is wearing The Coat, she firmly believes herself to be a doctor. In fact, if visitors are over and they observe her style and behavior, they usually proceed to tell us that there is a good chance she may become a doctor one day. Those well meaning visitors keep a bit of vital information to themselves though. They think we don't know, but oh...we do. The truth is, if Sweet Pea does, in fact, become a doctor-- those people will never make an appointment with her and they're never going to recommend her, because not only is she the meanest and WORST doctor EVER, she doesn't accept insurance and her bedside manner blows.
Dr. I'm-So-Mean will prance around the house, faced wrapped in a surgical mask of delusional arrogance, and give shots. It's very misleading because you think she's going to be all nice and professional as she politely asks: "Can I be the doctor to you?" But after you comply, you're done. Every once in awhile she will take your temperature and pronounce it as "18-42-1 80" but most of the time, she doesn't bother. She won't even take the time to do a routine look-in-the-ears, listen-to-the-heart and stick-out-your-tongue exam. As soon as you give her the green light and agree to being her patient she will declare, with a great deal of authority, that "You need a shot." And it's never just one shot. Today I got a shot in the arm, one in the rib and one in the forehead. Yo, unless that syringe is full of botox, back off the forehead. She's a hack. Board certified? Negative. I think she got her diploma from some school in the Caribbean.
When Sweet Pea finally puts the shot down, little 19-month-old Lovey picks it up. Now I've got that one running around the house, completely aimless, screaming like a deranged lunatic looking for someone or something to stab. Good luck, honey--the shot you're gripping is upside down. Doesn't matter. She nails me. Right in the thigh. She goes for the thigh again. Same spot! She is giggling, I'm not. Wait. Is she leaving? Oh no... I think she's going to re-load. Take your time.
She'll be back. They'll both be back. It's futile for me to hope they return with some compassion (Nurse Ratchet was nicer). I'm not even expecting a procedural explanation or an alcohol swab. I'll take my shots until they move on to something else; I'm the mommy and that's my job. A Hello Kitty band-aid every once in a while really wouldn't kill them though.
Every now and then my 3-1/2 year old daughter, Sweet Pea, will abandon her princess costumes in favor of her fully loaded doctor coat. When that lab coat goes on, a transformation occurs. She might as well come flying out of a phone booth because when she is wearing The Coat, she firmly believes herself to be a doctor. In fact, if visitors are over and they observe her style and behavior, they usually proceed to tell us that there is a good chance she may become a doctor one day. Those well meaning visitors keep a bit of vital information to themselves though. They think we don't know, but oh...we do. The truth is, if Sweet Pea does, in fact, become a doctor-- those people will never make an appointment with her and they're never going to recommend her, because not only is she the meanest and WORST doctor EVER, she doesn't accept insurance and her bedside manner blows.
Dr. I'm-So-Mean will prance around the house, faced wrapped in a surgical mask of delusional arrogance, and give shots. It's very misleading because you think she's going to be all nice and professional as she politely asks: "Can I be the doctor to you?" But after you comply, you're done. Every once in awhile she will take your temperature and pronounce it as "18-42-1 80" but most of the time, she doesn't bother. She won't even take the time to do a routine look-in-the-ears, listen-to-the-heart and stick-out-your-tongue exam. As soon as you give her the green light and agree to being her patient she will declare, with a great deal of authority, that "You need a shot." And it's never just one shot. Today I got a shot in the arm, one in the rib and one in the forehead. Yo, unless that syringe is full of botox, back off the forehead. She's a hack. Board certified? Negative. I think she got her diploma from some school in the Caribbean.
When Sweet Pea finally puts the shot down, little 19-month-old Lovey picks it up. Now I've got that one running around the house, completely aimless, screaming like a deranged lunatic looking for someone or something to stab. Good luck, honey--the shot you're gripping is upside down. Doesn't matter. She nails me. Right in the thigh. She goes for the thigh again. Same spot! She is giggling, I'm not. Wait. Is she leaving? Oh no... I think she's going to re-load. Take your time.
She'll be back. They'll both be back. It's futile for me to hope they return with some compassion (Nurse Ratchet was nicer). I'm not even expecting a procedural explanation or an alcohol swab. I'll take my shots until they move on to something else; I'm the mommy and that's my job. A Hello Kitty band-aid every once in a while really wouldn't kill them though.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Stamp of Approval
The following things are OK:
(As far as I'm concerned)
It's OK to tell your kid that your "ears are hurting" if you want her to stop talking for one second of her life. Just one second. Of her life. ONE second with no talking. Please. I beg of you.
It's OK to take an hour or so every once in awhile to get your hair colored, get highlights, or do something just for you, that YOU want, that is not truly necessary. If my approval is not enough, (and it really should be) you can justify the time spent as setting a good example for your kids. If they see that you keep your $%#& up, they are likely to do the same.
It's OK to tell your daughter that today is Mini Skirt Day if you are dying for her to wear the skirt she always says "NO" to.
It's OK if you are out to eat and your kid is not quite able to communicate what she wants, to order two things that you really want and give her some. If she knew better, she would want those things too.
It's OK to let your dog sleep in the bed if your husband is watching TV in another room. It's also OK to let your dog sleep in the bed even if your husband is in the same room, and in the same bed.
It's OK to take a full day off work on your favorite celebrity's birthday because you feel it should be a holiday.
It's OK that you know the words to many of the songs your kids like. What's In The Fridge by the Imagination Moviers is a jam. It is, however, a little odd to still be listening to the CD when the kids are no longer in the car and then, around 5 minutes into the drive, realize that the CD is not only still playing, but you are singing.
It's OK to borrow the awesome necklace you set aside for your daughter because she's not old enough to appreciate it anyway.
It's OK to do a fun color on your toes when you get a pedicure, even if you feel you should stay conservative with the manicure. I keep the party on the bottom while my fingernails are all business. The mani/pedi is really the "Mullet of the Millenium."
It's OK to be just as excited as your kid when it's finally time to pick a treasure from the box at the doctor's office. There is good stuff in there. Who wouldn't want in on some of that?
It's OK to let your pooch help clean up after mealtime. It's him or it's you.
It's OK to be happy that you weren't the one home when your baby crapped herself and then happily distributed the goods to her crib and sheets.
It's OK to finish what you are doing while your child is wailing and the baby monitor colors are hitting rainbow status. You know your kid. You know the different cries. You know she's fine and you know she's safe. She's just ready to get out. Whatever with that. Finish what you're doing. You'll get there soon enough. A little patience is a great lesson to learn early on. Do you really want her to turn out like...well, like me?
(As far as I'm concerned)
It's OK to tell your kid that your "ears are hurting" if you want her to stop talking for one second of her life. Just one second. Of her life. ONE second with no talking. Please. I beg of you.
It's OK to take an hour or so every once in awhile to get your hair colored, get highlights, or do something just for you, that YOU want, that is not truly necessary. If my approval is not enough, (and it really should be) you can justify the time spent as setting a good example for your kids. If they see that you keep your $%#& up, they are likely to do the same.
It's OK to tell your daughter that today is Mini Skirt Day if you are dying for her to wear the skirt she always says "NO" to.
It's OK if you are out to eat and your kid is not quite able to communicate what she wants, to order two things that you really want and give her some. If she knew better, she would want those things too.
It's OK to let your dog sleep in the bed if your husband is watching TV in another room. It's also OK to let your dog sleep in the bed even if your husband is in the same room, and in the same bed.
It's OK to take a full day off work on your favorite celebrity's birthday because you feel it should be a holiday.
It's OK that you know the words to many of the songs your kids like. What's In The Fridge by the Imagination Moviers is a jam. It is, however, a little odd to still be listening to the CD when the kids are no longer in the car and then, around 5 minutes into the drive, realize that the CD is not only still playing, but you are singing.
It's OK to borrow the awesome necklace you set aside for your daughter because she's not old enough to appreciate it anyway.
It's OK to do a fun color on your toes when you get a pedicure, even if you feel you should stay conservative with the manicure. I keep the party on the bottom while my fingernails are all business. The mani/pedi is really the "Mullet of the Millenium."
It's OK to be just as excited as your kid when it's finally time to pick a treasure from the box at the doctor's office. There is good stuff in there. Who wouldn't want in on some of that?
It's OK to let your pooch help clean up after mealtime. It's him or it's you.
It's OK to be happy that you weren't the one home when your baby crapped herself and then happily distributed the goods to her crib and sheets.
It's OK to finish what you are doing while your child is wailing and the baby monitor colors are hitting rainbow status. You know your kid. You know the different cries. You know she's fine and you know she's safe. She's just ready to get out. Whatever with that. Finish what you're doing. You'll get there soon enough. A little patience is a great lesson to learn early on. Do you really want her to turn out like...well, like me?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Birthday Bashing
Somehow, over the years (when I wasn't looking) the birthday party bar was raised. Organizing a fun and memorable fiesta for your kid now seems tantamount to planning a flippin' Bar Mitzvah. What's more, when all is said and done, the kids are expected to send out the thank you notes, which really means that the moms are saddled with the job.
I don't remember my mom ever sending out thank you notes after my birthday parties. When I was a kid, we always had the party at the house. My mom put up decorations, ordered some pizzas, watched us beat the living daylights out of a donkey pinata, and then she served a cake with a red roller skate made out of frosting. It was great. Finally, it was time for presents. Everyone sat around and "ooh'd" and "aah'd" as I opened my brand new box of Fashion Plates, my twelve ESPRIT drawstring bags and some puffy stickers. Point being: That is when the "thank you" came out. It came out during present time and it came out of my mouth.
My brother and I were taught to say "thank you" when we got a gift. Whether we actually liked the gift or not, was inconsequential. We said "thank you" and we acted all happy about it. I was planning on teaching my kids to do the same. That's not enough? Why can't that be enough? A note still needs to be sent? As far as I'm concerned, a "thank you" during gift time is way better than sending a note. In fact, I'm going to go so far as to say that we're actually doing our kids a disservice by sending out thank you notes. What is that teaching them? THEY'RE NOT EVEN THE ONES WRITING THE NOTES--and don't tell me that they are..."Oh, they are...they signed their name." No. That doesn't count. It's still extra work for mommy and the kids don't understand the value, and they don't care.
On the other hand, teaching them to throw down a "thank you" and feign gratitude during presents will prove to be quite the useful tool to fall back on throughout their lives and, at the same time, we're seamlessly eliminating the need for a thank you note. Everyone is happy. Win-Win. Right?
Oh, wait. I almost forgot...we're not supposed to let our kids open their presents during the party anymore. WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS THAT???
I don't even really get that. Is it a time saver? Is that the deal, or is it so we can keep kids safe from "present rejection" in the event that the present they brought sucks? If it's the latter, are we really protecting our children by banning the opening of presents during a party? It's a brutal world out there and I don't think it's going to get easier anytime soon. No better time to prepare your kids for rejection and pain than while eating cake.
Besides, what's going to happen that's so horrible? The present your kid brought is actually a blowzer and some other kid is going to heckle it? Who cares? That kid is a loser. He was only invited because another unwritten rule is that we're expected to invite the whole class (also lame, by the way).
I vote to bring back presents during party time and, in exchange, lose the thank you notes. There is plenty of time for thank you notes when the kid is older and able to do all the work without any help from mommy. Everyone in favor of revising the Birthday Party Constitution, Say "I!" The rest of you think I'm lazy, but I'm really not. By the time the party is over, I'm just done. I need to move on to other things. I already planned the party, I hung out the whole time and I paid for it. Your kid had fun. I saw him. He ate until he was close to barfing, he was entertained enough so he wasn't sniffing glue in the corner, and he walked out with a goodie bag loaded with lead-filled toys.
Shouldn't I be the one getting the thank you note?
I don't remember my mom ever sending out thank you notes after my birthday parties. When I was a kid, we always had the party at the house. My mom put up decorations, ordered some pizzas, watched us beat the living daylights out of a donkey pinata, and then she served a cake with a red roller skate made out of frosting. It was great. Finally, it was time for presents. Everyone sat around and "ooh'd" and "aah'd" as I opened my brand new box of Fashion Plates, my twelve ESPRIT drawstring bags and some puffy stickers. Point being: That is when the "thank you" came out. It came out during present time and it came out of my mouth.
My brother and I were taught to say "thank you" when we got a gift. Whether we actually liked the gift or not, was inconsequential. We said "thank you" and we acted all happy about it. I was planning on teaching my kids to do the same. That's not enough? Why can't that be enough? A note still needs to be sent? As far as I'm concerned, a "thank you" during gift time is way better than sending a note. In fact, I'm going to go so far as to say that we're actually doing our kids a disservice by sending out thank you notes. What is that teaching them? THEY'RE NOT EVEN THE ONES WRITING THE NOTES--and don't tell me that they are..."Oh, they are...they signed their name." No. That doesn't count. It's still extra work for mommy and the kids don't understand the value, and they don't care.
On the other hand, teaching them to throw down a "thank you" and feign gratitude during presents will prove to be quite the useful tool to fall back on throughout their lives and, at the same time, we're seamlessly eliminating the need for a thank you note. Everyone is happy. Win-Win. Right?
Oh, wait. I almost forgot...we're not supposed to let our kids open their presents during the party anymore. WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS THAT???
I don't even really get that. Is it a time saver? Is that the deal, or is it so we can keep kids safe from "present rejection" in the event that the present they brought sucks? If it's the latter, are we really protecting our children by banning the opening of presents during a party? It's a brutal world out there and I don't think it's going to get easier anytime soon. No better time to prepare your kids for rejection and pain than while eating cake.
Besides, what's going to happen that's so horrible? The present your kid brought is actually a blowzer and some other kid is going to heckle it? Who cares? That kid is a loser. He was only invited because another unwritten rule is that we're expected to invite the whole class (also lame, by the way).
I vote to bring back presents during party time and, in exchange, lose the thank you notes. There is plenty of time for thank you notes when the kid is older and able to do all the work without any help from mommy. Everyone in favor of revising the Birthday Party Constitution, Say "I!" The rest of you think I'm lazy, but I'm really not. By the time the party is over, I'm just done. I need to move on to other things. I already planned the party, I hung out the whole time and I paid for it. Your kid had fun. I saw him. He ate until he was close to barfing, he was entertained enough so he wasn't sniffing glue in the corner, and he walked out with a goodie bag loaded with lead-filled toys.
Shouldn't I be the one getting the thank you note?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Bribery in Disguise
We all parent our children differently; that's why all of our kids are messed up on different levels. Whether you choose to admit it or not, your kid is messed up. Maybe not yet and maybe not a lot, but it will happen--and though some of it is environmental, I truly believe that some of it can be controlled by us: The parents. That is, after all, the job we signed up for. It just doesn't pay well.
One of the more popular and highly regarded parenting techniques is positive reinforcement. My translation: Bribery laced with motive resulting in an outcome that proves to be beneficial to the parent.
My daughter, Sweet Pea, for too long, was really mean to my other daughter, Lovey. I'm not an idiot. I know that Sweet Pea is 3-1/2 and I know she loves her little sister, and I know that siblings instigate and agitate each other (just ask my brother) but one night, in the car, Sweet Pea's outright contempt for Lovey got to the point where I could see it possibly doing some real damage down the road.
Sweet Pea "Mommy, daddy--daddy, mommy?"
Us "Yes?"
Sweet Pea (In a conspiratal voice just above a whisper) "Let's pretend Lovey isn't here."
We looked at each other, completely shocked and wide mouthed, before erupting into hopeless laughter. (Yes, we laughed, that was bad. We tried to keep it muffled, but we did giggle because the comment was funny and though we didn't want to encourage Sweet Pea by letting her hear our reaction, at the same time we couldn't ignore the undeniable humor eroding from the bomb she just let off in our car)
But poor Lovey! I looked in the back seat only to behold my scrumptious little Lovey. So cute and so sweet just sitting there in her car seat, kicking her chubby legs, smiling and nodding, completely and utterly oblivious to the lingering comment that is but one on a list of many coming from her sister as of late--comments that could very well take a bite out of this sweet little girl's character if she actually understood a word of English. I thought to myself: If we don't get on this, it's only going to get worse and pretty soon Lovey will understand what Sweet Pea is saying...and one day, probably in high school, we'll get a call that Lovey is on the top of the building with a rifle (but not our rifle because really, what Jewish person has a rifle?) yelling: "Sweet Pea was mean to me and it ruined my self-esteem and now I'll never have the confidence to go after the hot guys, and I'll always settle for being the bootie call, and my mom could have done something, but she SUCKS!!!"
So, here's what I did (and it worked AND it cost less than 5.00!)
I asked Sweet Pea what she wanted more than anything in the world. She asked for a Snow White costume. Shocker. Fine. Done. No problem...but she had to earn it.
We went to the store and we looked for Disney stickers and poster board. I let her pick out any color poster board she wanted. I'm a giver. She picked blue. It was 69 cents (I only remember the price because it was 69 cents and I'm immature). We already had markers at home so we were ready to rock. Side note: If you don't already have markers or crayons at home, you're pretty much already failing as parent, but thanks for that because you have actually succeeded in making me feel better about how I'm doing.
When Sweet Pea went to bed that night, I decorated the 69 cent poster board with the Disney stickers and, using the markers, I made a path that mapped out "The Road to Snow White." (This is the part where you are probably rolling your eyes and mumbling to yourself, "This isn't new. I've done this before, whatever with her!" But listen--I told you I was going to "Jessica Seinfeld" the hell out of this blog in my first post, so you were warned, so whatever with YOU).
The next morning, Sweet Pea was all excited when she saw my very beautifully decorated 69 cent poster board and we went over the rules: If you're nice to your sister, you move up the road. If you're mean, you move back. The object is to get to end. That's how you'll get your Snow White costume. I found a Snow White magnet lying around so that is what I used as the "mover piece." Sweet Pea wanted that Snow White costume BAD so she was ready to rock. Thankfully she messed up quite a bit in the beginning because I still needed some time to actually acquire the costume. The whole process took about a month and it actually worked out very well. In fact, towards the end, we sometimes forgot all about our original motive of Sweet Pea being nice to Lovey and just started arbitrarily moving the magnet mover piece back whenever she pissed us off, and moving it forward whenever she wasn't bugging us.
The icing: When Sweet Pea made it to the end of the poster board path, my girlfriend, Busy, had a Snow White costume that her daughter grew out of so I got the prize for FREE. (If it's free, it's ME). Busy even dry cleaned it for us. Sweet Pea was beyond excited to get her Snow White costume, and she genuinely earned it. We were very proud of her, she was proud of herself and quite unexpectedly, in the days since the poster board has been put away, it has become almost habit for Sweet Pea to continue being nice to Lovey... at least when I'm looking.
One of the more popular and highly regarded parenting techniques is positive reinforcement. My translation: Bribery laced with motive resulting in an outcome that proves to be beneficial to the parent.
My daughter, Sweet Pea, for too long, was really mean to my other daughter, Lovey. I'm not an idiot. I know that Sweet Pea is 3-1/2 and I know she loves her little sister, and I know that siblings instigate and agitate each other (just ask my brother) but one night, in the car, Sweet Pea's outright contempt for Lovey got to the point where I could see it possibly doing some real damage down the road.
Sweet Pea "Mommy, daddy--daddy, mommy?"
Us "Yes?"
Sweet Pea (In a conspiratal voice just above a whisper) "Let's pretend Lovey isn't here."
We looked at each other, completely shocked and wide mouthed, before erupting into hopeless laughter. (Yes, we laughed, that was bad. We tried to keep it muffled, but we did giggle because the comment was funny and though we didn't want to encourage Sweet Pea by letting her hear our reaction, at the same time we couldn't ignore the undeniable humor eroding from the bomb she just let off in our car)
But poor Lovey! I looked in the back seat only to behold my scrumptious little Lovey. So cute and so sweet just sitting there in her car seat, kicking her chubby legs, smiling and nodding, completely and utterly oblivious to the lingering comment that is but one on a list of many coming from her sister as of late--comments that could very well take a bite out of this sweet little girl's character if she actually understood a word of English. I thought to myself: If we don't get on this, it's only going to get worse and pretty soon Lovey will understand what Sweet Pea is saying...and one day, probably in high school, we'll get a call that Lovey is on the top of the building with a rifle (but not our rifle because really, what Jewish person has a rifle?) yelling: "Sweet Pea was mean to me and it ruined my self-esteem and now I'll never have the confidence to go after the hot guys, and I'll always settle for being the bootie call, and my mom could have done something, but she SUCKS!!!"
So, here's what I did (and it worked AND it cost less than 5.00!)
I asked Sweet Pea what she wanted more than anything in the world. She asked for a Snow White costume. Shocker. Fine. Done. No problem...but she had to earn it.
We went to the store and we looked for Disney stickers and poster board. I let her pick out any color poster board she wanted. I'm a giver. She picked blue. It was 69 cents (I only remember the price because it was 69 cents and I'm immature). We already had markers at home so we were ready to rock. Side note: If you don't already have markers or crayons at home, you're pretty much already failing as parent, but thanks for that because you have actually succeeded in making me feel better about how I'm doing.
When Sweet Pea went to bed that night, I decorated the 69 cent poster board with the Disney stickers and, using the markers, I made a path that mapped out "The Road to Snow White." (This is the part where you are probably rolling your eyes and mumbling to yourself, "This isn't new. I've done this before, whatever with her!" But listen--I told you I was going to "Jessica Seinfeld" the hell out of this blog in my first post, so you were warned, so whatever with YOU).
The next morning, Sweet Pea was all excited when she saw my very beautifully decorated 69 cent poster board and we went over the rules: If you're nice to your sister, you move up the road. If you're mean, you move back. The object is to get to end. That's how you'll get your Snow White costume. I found a Snow White magnet lying around so that is what I used as the "mover piece." Sweet Pea wanted that Snow White costume BAD so she was ready to rock. Thankfully she messed up quite a bit in the beginning because I still needed some time to actually acquire the costume. The whole process took about a month and it actually worked out very well. In fact, towards the end, we sometimes forgot all about our original motive of Sweet Pea being nice to Lovey and just started arbitrarily moving the magnet mover piece back whenever she pissed us off, and moving it forward whenever she wasn't bugging us.
The icing: When Sweet Pea made it to the end of the poster board path, my girlfriend, Busy, had a Snow White costume that her daughter grew out of so I got the prize for FREE. (If it's free, it's ME). Busy even dry cleaned it for us. Sweet Pea was beyond excited to get her Snow White costume, and she genuinely earned it. We were very proud of her, she was proud of herself and quite unexpectedly, in the days since the poster board has been put away, it has become almost habit for Sweet Pea to continue being nice to Lovey... at least when I'm looking.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Walt Disney's Progress Report
My girls aren't big into TV. That has nothing to do with great parenting on my part, they're just not really into TV. Wait. I stand corrected, they do like the "Imagination Movers," but outside of that, TV is not really their thing.
Disney movies are what's big in our house. Are you at all familiar with Disney movies? Exactly. I have to believe that Walt Disney and his people had to have known, on some level, that his movies were going to be big. He was a pioneer on the forefront of delivering magic through form and animation. He was The Beatles of rock and roll, he was the Nivana of whatever that kind of music that is, he was the Eminem of rap. He was "the guy," and when you're "the guy," it comes with a certain amount of responsibilty.
Did he not know this, or did he not care?
He could have SO easily thrown parents a proverbial bone by adding the following dialogue to Snow White the movie: "Snow White eats all of her vegetables and Snow White believes ALL you kids should eat your vegetables too. That way when you grow up you will be big and strong, and you can help mommy and daddy pack because when your ass gets into college, they're moving to Boca." Or, I'm sure he could have found room for this line in Cinderella: "Cinderella thinks it's a good idea to ALWAYS listen to mommy and daddy because they are the smartest people in the world, especially mommy, so if you want to grow up and have a sweet ride like this (gestures toward the carriage) and a smokin' hot husband who doesn't really talk much, but buys you lots of jewelry, you should do everything your parents say and never give them any problems, EVER."
Instead of taking an extra minute here and there to slip in a subliminal, yet helpful, parental shout-out, he ignored us: THE SUCKERS WHO ARE BUYING HIS MOVIES. Now, instead of helping us to raise children with honorable and respectable values like the ones stated above, I've got a kid who is jacking up the paint in my kitchen as she drags the Swiffer stick (void of the actual Swiffer cleaning device) out of the laundry room, hitting everything in her way, so she can find a good place in the house to "be like Cinderella and clean." Meanwhile, her cleaning sucks. She's no Cinderella so now I AM the one stuck with the aftermath of her half-assed "cleaning like Cinderella," while she's moved on to bugging the crap out of me--asking me why she can't wear her Snow White costume ALL THE TIME, including bedtime, because "Well, mommy, Snow White does. Snow White wears her dress all the time, even to sleep. Even to sleep, mommy. She sleeps in it." Thanks for the Swiffer stick nicks on my walls and the invaluable lesson of good bedtime hygiene, Wally.
And my other kid? She won't say "mama" unless she is prompted by me, but she will happily point and exclaim "Rel-la!! Rel-la!!" the minute she sees a Disney princess--or at this point, anyone pretty who has long hair-- on a book, a puzzle, a TV, wherever. WHAT IS THAT? She's not even really watching the movies. She's only in there because the other kid is! I'm your freakin' MOM, dude. I birthed you, I bathe you and I'm the one who dealt with the "spredder" you had yesterday that forever ruined the pants of an outfit I loved AND reunited me with my gag reflexes but, yeah, OK... "Rella" was inducted into your vocabulary before "mama." Thank you yet again, Mr. D.
If I were to do a progress report for Walt Disney, I would check the box that says "Not performing up to his potential" because had I been around when he was just getting started, and seen what he was capable of, I would have expected a lot more from him. He's really lucky I wasn't his teacher...but I bet you wish I was.
Disney movies are what's big in our house. Are you at all familiar with Disney movies? Exactly. I have to believe that Walt Disney and his people had to have known, on some level, that his movies were going to be big. He was a pioneer on the forefront of delivering magic through form and animation. He was The Beatles of rock and roll, he was the Nivana of whatever that kind of music that is, he was the Eminem of rap. He was "the guy," and when you're "the guy," it comes with a certain amount of responsibilty.
Did he not know this, or did he not care?
He could have SO easily thrown parents a proverbial bone by adding the following dialogue to Snow White the movie: "Snow White eats all of her vegetables and Snow White believes ALL you kids should eat your vegetables too. That way when you grow up you will be big and strong, and you can help mommy and daddy pack because when your ass gets into college, they're moving to Boca." Or, I'm sure he could have found room for this line in Cinderella: "Cinderella thinks it's a good idea to ALWAYS listen to mommy and daddy because they are the smartest people in the world, especially mommy, so if you want to grow up and have a sweet ride like this (gestures toward the carriage) and a smokin' hot husband who doesn't really talk much, but buys you lots of jewelry, you should do everything your parents say and never give them any problems, EVER."
Instead of taking an extra minute here and there to slip in a subliminal, yet helpful, parental shout-out, he ignored us: THE SUCKERS WHO ARE BUYING HIS MOVIES. Now, instead of helping us to raise children with honorable and respectable values like the ones stated above, I've got a kid who is jacking up the paint in my kitchen as she drags the Swiffer stick (void of the actual Swiffer cleaning device) out of the laundry room, hitting everything in her way, so she can find a good place in the house to "be like Cinderella and clean." Meanwhile, her cleaning sucks. She's no Cinderella so now I AM the one stuck with the aftermath of her half-assed "cleaning like Cinderella," while she's moved on to bugging the crap out of me--asking me why she can't wear her Snow White costume ALL THE TIME, including bedtime, because "Well, mommy, Snow White does. Snow White wears her dress all the time, even to sleep. Even to sleep, mommy. She sleeps in it." Thanks for the Swiffer stick nicks on my walls and the invaluable lesson of good bedtime hygiene, Wally.
And my other kid? She won't say "mama" unless she is prompted by me, but she will happily point and exclaim "Rel-la!! Rel-la!!" the minute she sees a Disney princess--or at this point, anyone pretty who has long hair-- on a book, a puzzle, a TV, wherever. WHAT IS THAT? She's not even really watching the movies. She's only in there because the other kid is! I'm your freakin' MOM, dude. I birthed you, I bathe you and I'm the one who dealt with the "spredder" you had yesterday that forever ruined the pants of an outfit I loved AND reunited me with my gag reflexes but, yeah, OK... "Rella" was inducted into your vocabulary before "mama." Thank you yet again, Mr. D.
If I were to do a progress report for Walt Disney, I would check the box that says "Not performing up to his potential" because had I been around when he was just getting started, and seen what he was capable of, I would have expected a lot more from him. He's really lucky I wasn't his teacher...but I bet you wish I was.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Ode To Sippy II
Lovey has no love for the sippy cup.
She will drink out of it, but there is no zeal, only malice. She will take a swig, maybe two, and then give it to me with an audible grunt. Translation: "Take this away and bring me my bill!"
Her allegiance is with the bottle. Sometimes she will drink from the bottle with such ferocity that I can't help but throw up an enthusiastic fist pump while chanting "Drink! Drink! Drink!" (That's just good parenting).
I don't mind giving her the bottle before bed. After all, she has only been on this earth for eighteen months and it's the one time when I know she is taking in a decent amount of milk. It's a warm, comfy time and the bottle is a great fit-- but during the day? No. Negative. I'm sorry, but it's time we try and move on. The sippy is where you live, sister, and that's just how it's gonna be.
When Sweet Pea was around the same age, she actually put up the same kind of fight. For months I pushed the sippy and served the bottle only at night. For months I worried that she wasn't getting enough milk so I found other ways to get it to her (yogurt, cheese, etc). Looking back I realize that eventually she did give up the bottle in favor of the sippy, and after all the stress I laid out during the process, I can't even remember it being that monumental of a moment. Point being: In time Sweet Pea came around and so will Lovey. For now, though, it seems that Lovey has stolen a tune right out of Sweet Pea's song book and even though the girls came to us in two very different ways, they have, (unbeknownst to them) created their first sisterly bond over their crusade against the sippy:
Oh, Sippy Cup
Oh, Sippy Cup
I picked you up
I love milk
I will throw you to the ground
I will never give up the bottle
Oh, yeah--bottles rule
She will drink out of it, but there is no zeal, only malice. She will take a swig, maybe two, and then give it to me with an audible grunt. Translation: "Take this away and bring me my bill!"
Her allegiance is with the bottle. Sometimes she will drink from the bottle with such ferocity that I can't help but throw up an enthusiastic fist pump while chanting "Drink! Drink! Drink!" (That's just good parenting).
I don't mind giving her the bottle before bed. After all, she has only been on this earth for eighteen months and it's the one time when I know she is taking in a decent amount of milk. It's a warm, comfy time and the bottle is a great fit-- but during the day? No. Negative. I'm sorry, but it's time we try and move on. The sippy is where you live, sister, and that's just how it's gonna be.
When Sweet Pea was around the same age, she actually put up the same kind of fight. For months I pushed the sippy and served the bottle only at night. For months I worried that she wasn't getting enough milk so I found other ways to get it to her (yogurt, cheese, etc). Looking back I realize that eventually she did give up the bottle in favor of the sippy, and after all the stress I laid out during the process, I can't even remember it being that monumental of a moment. Point being: In time Sweet Pea came around and so will Lovey. For now, though, it seems that Lovey has stolen a tune right out of Sweet Pea's song book and even though the girls came to us in two very different ways, they have, (unbeknownst to them) created their first sisterly bond over their crusade against the sippy:
Oh, Sippy Cup
Oh, Sippy Cup
Be gone from my life
You're a royal pain in the butt
Mommy shoves you in my face
Mommy shoves you in my face
I push you away
She just doesn't get it...
I will never cave
I picked you up
It was a tease
I just wanted to show
That I can do it with ease
I love milk
And bottles are the only way
Keep comin' at me, sippy--
I will make you pay
I will throw you to the ground
You won't spill, but it will hurt
Sometimes you will hit tile
Somtimes you will hit dirt
I will never give up the bottle
You can fly me to the moon
Don't think I won't take it there
And on my honeymoon
Oh, yeah--bottles rule
Sippy cups suck
Keep pushing if you wish,
I don't really give a &%#$
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Playbill: Cast of Characters
Cast of Characters:
My husband and I have a daughter who was adopted from China in 2007. She was 11 months old when we picked her up. Her birthday is April 17, 2007. When she was a baby, I had bibs made for her that say "MADE IN CHINA." I thought it was funny. You might not. Should you choose to stop reading now, I will completely understand and ultimately, I will never know. If you instead choose to continue on this journey of intermittent inappropriateness and decide to further explore my spin on parenting, please note that I will hereby refer to this daughter as “Sweet Pea.”
We have another daughter, a biological daughter, who was born on June 25, 2009. This daughter came into this world via emergency C-Section. I didn’t see that coming and it upset me. My OB swore that the scar would be covered by a bikini. I think the last bikini he ever saw was the one his Grandma wore because that is the only kind I can imagine covering the scar. I told him that and I was really loud about it. I will hereby refer to this daughter as “Lovey.”
We also have a stubby-tailed Golden Retriever who is somewhere between nine and ten years old. We are not the ones who clipped his tail. He came that way and although everyone’s initial reaction is “Ohhh, that is so sad,“ they learn to love the stub. We got our Golden in 2003 through Golden Retriever Rescue. He is almost always stinky, he will rip down an entire door frame during a thunderstorm and he eats poop. Outside of those teeny-tiny shortcomings, I don’t know of a sweeter dog anywhere. I will hereby refer to him as “Floyd.”
My husband is very special. I often say that if I wasn’t married to him, I probably wouldn’t be married. I am like a spinning top pretty much all the time. I have a “pause” button, but no “off” button. There is almost always something happening, or something I feel SHOULD be happening. My husband lets me lead until I start dangling off the edge and then he grabs me before I fall. He never lets me fall. He is a great husband, an amazing father and he provides the necessary balance that makes our family whole. Also, he’s hot. I will hereby refer to him as “Cody.”
Since my girls may not remember everything that goes on during these early days, I want to make sure some of the memories are preserved. They should know that some days they make us very happy, and some days they make mommy want to take a bath...with a hair dryer.
My husband and I have a daughter who was adopted from China in 2007. She was 11 months old when we picked her up. Her birthday is April 17, 2007. When she was a baby, I had bibs made for her that say "MADE IN CHINA." I thought it was funny. You might not. Should you choose to stop reading now, I will completely understand and ultimately, I will never know. If you instead choose to continue on this journey of intermittent inappropriateness and decide to further explore my spin on parenting, please note that I will hereby refer to this daughter as “Sweet Pea.”
We have another daughter, a biological daughter, who was born on June 25, 2009. This daughter came into this world via emergency C-Section. I didn’t see that coming and it upset me. My OB swore that the scar would be covered by a bikini. I think the last bikini he ever saw was the one his Grandma wore because that is the only kind I can imagine covering the scar. I told him that and I was really loud about it. I will hereby refer to this daughter as “Lovey.”
We also have a stubby-tailed Golden Retriever who is somewhere between nine and ten years old. We are not the ones who clipped his tail. He came that way and although everyone’s initial reaction is “Ohhh, that is so sad,“ they learn to love the stub. We got our Golden in 2003 through Golden Retriever Rescue. He is almost always stinky, he will rip down an entire door frame during a thunderstorm and he eats poop. Outside of those teeny-tiny shortcomings, I don’t know of a sweeter dog anywhere. I will hereby refer to him as “Floyd.”
My husband is very special. I often say that if I wasn’t married to him, I probably wouldn’t be married. I am like a spinning top pretty much all the time. I have a “pause” button, but no “off” button. There is almost always something happening, or something I feel SHOULD be happening. My husband lets me lead until I start dangling off the edge and then he grabs me before I fall. He never lets me fall. He is a great husband, an amazing father and he provides the necessary balance that makes our family whole. Also, he’s hot. I will hereby refer to him as “Cody.”
Since my girls may not remember everything that goes on during these early days, I want to make sure some of the memories are preserved. They should know that some days they make us very happy, and some days they make mommy want to take a bath...with a hair dryer.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Brain Storage
Remember when Jerry Seinfeld's wife came out with that book about deceptively hiding vegetables in food so kids would eat them? I thought that was such a cool idea but all of the sudden moms everywhere were saying "I have been doing that FOREVER! I could have written that book!"
This is that kind of blog.
I'm not a doctor, I'm not selling a product and I'm not a parenting expert (or an expert on anything for that matter). I wrote a blog a few years ago for my oldest daughter and people seemed to like it. My husband had it made into a book and then two more spawned from that. Lately, I've been having visions of my other daughter one day calling me out on those books. "Why didn't you ever do a blog on ME? You like her more than me. Buy me a car."
So, in efforts to keep the peace in my family and save buckets of money on therapy later, (not for her--for me) I'm starting a new blog. Plus, I like to write and I need to clear my head. It's getting pretty crowded up there and there's no basement.
This is that kind of blog.
I'm not a doctor, I'm not selling a product and I'm not a parenting expert (or an expert on anything for that matter). I wrote a blog a few years ago for my oldest daughter and people seemed to like it. My husband had it made into a book and then two more spawned from that. Lately, I've been having visions of my other daughter one day calling me out on those books. "Why didn't you ever do a blog on ME? You like her more than me. Buy me a car."
So, in efforts to keep the peace in my family and save buckets of money on therapy later, (not for her--for me) I'm starting a new blog. Plus, I like to write and I need to clear my head. It's getting pretty crowded up there and there's no basement.
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