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?
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