Just Say NO! (To Elves)

When my third child was around five or six years old, I briefly considered getting him an “Elf on the Shelf”. I quickly came to my senses when I realized that, in order to remember to move the elf nightly, I’d have to write it on my to-do list (this was before I had the whole “there’s an app on my smartphone for that” addiction) and that it would probably get misplaced somewhere (as all my lists are wont to do) and the child would see it, thus ruining the whole “This creepy doll moves itself nightly” idea.

As it turns out, that was probably one of the smarter choices in my life.

Because OF COURSE the overachieving moms had to get ahold of this. Now, not only does the creepy doll have to move, he does hijinks. Hijinks for cripes sake! There’s the cute kind (He plays cards with the other dolls and stuffed animals), the funny slash gross kind, (he’s pooping a starlight mint in the toilet, har de har har), the naughty kind, (he’s tp’ing the Christmas tree), and the naughty x rated kind, because we can’t just have nice things (he’s holding a $1 out to the naked, pole dancing Barbie doll).

Quick side note on Stripper Barbie…You just know that some smart ass Dad did that as a joke and that the Mom took a picture to post a “See what I have to deal with?” complaint but then all the people who have a sense of humor and don’t have a stick up our butt cracked up because, well, it’s funny. (For grownups, not kids! Geez people, get a grip.)

Anyway, so the damn creepy doll now does stuff and now I’m thinking, “Wait, I’m letting some stuffed creeper get away with behavior that my kid would get punished for, but it’s ok because it’s Ginger/Snowflake/Buddy (or whatever dumb, cutesy name they have) did it?” Yeah, this isn’t going to happen, sorry.

But wait, there’s more! If you order now, you can get the stuffed creeper to bring your kids more crap that they don’t need! Yes, that’s right, now they can bring movies, goodies, food, or toys, because Christmas isn’t already bringing a ton of shit that won't fit in your house until you rearrange the entire contents of every room just to be able to squish it in! It's almost as if someone said, "Let’ see, can we make December even more expensive? Yes we can!"

Plus, is anyone doing the math on this? If you start the elf when the kid is four, they are probably going to let you keep moving the elf until at least age 11 (because even if their beliefs change, they probably won’t tell you for FOMO on presents). This is eight years times 24 nightly shenanigans (provided the elf comes out Dec 1- 25) which totals 192. This is 192 different ideas that you have to come up with for a doll that is basically just Santa’s snitch.

I’m not saying that you couldn’t come up with that many ideas, I’m sure there are 1,000 web pages for this. There are probably Pinterest boards across the Universe pinned with smart, creative things to make the Elf antics fresh and imaginative. Just as I’m sure that people who pin these ideas might actually use them and not just pin 400 things that they have good intentions of cooking/making/doing, but then never do. (Ahem, not that I would ever do that!) It just seems like a lot of, well, effort. And time. And those are two things that I seriously lack in December. Because this month is already jam packed with tree decorating, ornament making, cookie baking, party hosting, present wrapping, and stress eating and I don’t think I have any spare minutes to fit in “creating unnecessary stress due to forgetting about moving an elf” every night. (Let’s be honest, in this household we’d probably have a “lazy elf” or at least, that’s what we’d have to tell the kids when he was in the same spot for twelve days.)

Yeah, this looks about right.
(Image credit: The Internet)

                As if this whole over the top crap wasn’t enough though, now those kids are starting to tell other kids what those damn elves are doing. This, in turn, is making all non-elf households feel the pressure. Like when the five year old comes home and tells me we need to get an elf on the shelf like kid x has. Uh, hell to the no. We don’t need this additional pressure. Now the overachieving “I have time to stay up until 3 AM every night creating elf miracles” is starting to affect the ‘I’m minding my own elf business” business.

Frankly, it’s just wrong.

So people, do your part, by just saying, “NO!” to elves. And just to be safe, maybe say no to shelves too. Honestly, what good are they anyway? They just fill up with dust catching junk and knick knacks. (And creepy, smirking elves that are playing hide and snitch!)

Hell no, we don't, uh, move from this spot until Christmas!
(Image credit: The Internet for the win!)

 

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My Life, The Hallmark Movie

Almost as soon as the Thanksgiving dinner dishes have been washed, the holiday season becomes THE HOLIDAY SEASON. (The capital letters make it even more important.) Everything becomes larger than life. The sun is brighter, the air is sweeter, the fruitcake is extra fruity, and the Christmas lights are extra twinkly.

Plus, it’s one of the few times my kids earn their keep.

No one questions your love of the holidays if you have young kids. It’s like you’re not allowed to be a Christmas loving freak of nature unless you’re doing it for your children’s enjoyment. (This would bother me a lot more if they weren’t the same people who also proclaim that anyone NOT in the holiday spirit must be a Grinch. What the eff people? Make up my mind!) If I wear Christmas earrings, go overkill on the baking and decorating, and look like Buddy the Elf on crack, everyone thinks it’s making the best of it for the kids.

Uh, yeah, for the kids…..riiiighhht. Totally not for me. Because that would be totally lame, right? But ya know, gotta pull out all the stops for those dang needy kids of mine. It’s sooo annoying. But it makes them happy so... grin and bear it I guess. Grrr.

Who has thirty two holiday movies on the DVR? Um, I think it was the dog. She really seems to enjoy a nice feel good movie this time of year. Give her some hot cocoa with marshmallows and she’s really in her glory.

Who wanted the decorations out before Thanksgiving since it was so late this year that they felt they were getting gypped of a full season of Claus, trees, and snowmen? That must have been my husband. What do you mean you don’t think so? Just because he barely notices the regular décor, it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a nice wooden Santa plaque or a snowman trinket. I mean geez, guys.

Who has a calendar of December events like tree decorating, ornament making, cookie baking, and holiday parties? Oh, that’s the five year old’s handiwork. You know, that kid just LOVES being organized. It’s really endearing to see him getting his shit together at such a young age. Yup, that kid’s going places alright.

Who has different wrapping paper and gift tags to differentiate between ahem, specific senders? Uh, that’s the dog too. See, she likes to watch those Christmas movies while she’s wrapping presents. It’s really one of her favorite parts of the month. Don’t believe me? Just ask her.

Okay, okay, you got me. It’s me. All me. I love it every little bit of it. The happy, shiny people who are nicer this time of year, the cold weather that makes warm sweaters and  hot cocoa ten times more awesome, the lights on the houses, the snow on the ground (that is 100% allowed to melt on December 26^th) and the gingerbread cookies. (Most definitely the gingerbread cookies. Yeah, sure, I could have them anytime of the year, but they just don’t taste the same.) I love the family gatherings and games and laughter. I like making those damn annoying salt dough ornaments for the 20^th year in a row and decorating our tree to within an inch of its life. I love it all, do you hear me? And I don’t care how crazy that makes me.

Because when you think about it, what’s NOT to love during that magical time between Thanksgiving and Christkwanzukka? (I think I safely encompassed the majority of holiday revelers there, right?) Between parties and food, family and friends, presents and presence, the whole season is way too short to be mashed into a few weeks. At least it is if they expect us to continue to work those 40 hours a week and be productive members of society anyway. (It’s always that pesky job that’s getting in the way of my leisure time activities. The nerve!) So I guess in a way, my life does start to resemble a Hallmark movie during this time of year….you know, the one with the delusional woman lives in a fantasy world that she created herself? But it’s okay, they all know me here. 

What’s that? Christmas carols? Count me in! Fa la la la la la la la la.

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The (Pre) Teenage Walking Dead in My House

Once you make it through to the double digit years, things become interesting. And if you’re like me, and your kids are already weirdos, things just get MORE interesting. And stinky. Especially if you have pubescent boys. The good news is that the funk that has become a permanent stench fixture in your house will eventually go away. Approximately three years after said stink bomb finally moves out.

But I digress. I believe I was heading somewhere else with this…

Oh yes, things become MORE interesting. After the sweet double digits, (ten, eleven, and if you’re lucky, twelve) you will enter the Twilight Zone. A.K.A. The Teenage Years. Each kid will demonstrate this teenage-ness differently. And at different times. Some kids may resemble human beings until they are as old as fifteen! Some may exhibit the signs of madness earlier. Since my son has always been a little bit precocious, he’s decided that twelve is a good time to tune up his teenager-y ‘tude.

Now, before you start the flogging, I want to preface this by saying that he’s still pretty much a good kid. And I still love him, even in his fits of douchery. But he’s also developing per the normal hormonal evolutionary chart dictates. Though this manifests differently in every household, it typically starts with “the sounds”.

My daughter sounded like an air leak in a tire. Every time I turned around, there it was: a hissing air noise akin to a deflating balloon that, lo and behold, actually came from my teenaged, eye-rolling, wind whistling kid o’mine. Now that my son has entered this phase, he’s started a more masculine version that is a cross of an 80’s teenager mixed with a zombie. Like a groan that vaguely sounds like a disgruntled exclamation of “Mo-om!” mixed with caveman grunting.

Although I will never admit this to him, I actually pretty impressed with the level of disgust that he manages to convey with a single (pre) teenaged sigh-groan. He really nails the whole “My parents are SOOOO lame” without uttering a single syllable. If he wasn’t such an athletic sports type, I’d definitely encourage him to try out for the drama club. Such skills! Like a child prodigy!

Then again, I may be biased. What with donating half of his genetic make-up and all.

Realistically I knew that we wouldn’t sail through the turbulent teenage years without some sort of rough seas and stormy weather, even with the kid who was once dubbed “the nicest boy they’d ever met” by an acquaintance of ours. But you can’t blame me for thinking that if it was going to skip a kid, it would be this paragon of virtue right here. The kid got an award for being nice. In sixth grade. When kids have long since found the dormant jerk gene that seems inevitably found in middle school. (Wouldn’t that make a good title for a self-help book? “Taming Your Inner Jerk Gene”)

Luckily we’ve gone through this phase before and we know that it only lasts until they graduate college. Kidding, we don’t actually know when it ends because all our kids are still jerks. Ha! Kidding again! College seems to knock the snot out of them for a few years and they regain their humanity. Or maybe it’s a class in their junior year. Either way it seems like they gain some respect and understanding of the real world, or at least enough that they realize that their parents weren’t just big meanies out to spoil their lives. (Or were we? Muah ha ha ha ha ha)

So for any or my fellow parents who are starting to hear their own “sounds” from their teens/pre-teens, just know that I am here for you. As long as you realize that by “here for you” I mean not there where you are but here, where I actually am. Probably hiding from my own teenage sounds. Not in a closet with a book, a flashlight, and a package of Chips Ahoy. Nooo, uh, totally not that. (Brushes cookie crumbs from shirt.)

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Just in Case, You Better Knock on Wood

There are two types of people in this world: Those who are superstitious and those who live their lives recklessly walking under ladders and jinxing the entire world with their taunting of the universe without the courtesy of knocking on wood.

You probably can’t guess which group that I fall into.

I don’t even know how I became so superstitious. I didn’t grow up with an Italian Nonna who made lentils on New Year’s or warned me of the dangers of someone giving me the dreaded evil eye. I didn’t grow up in ancient Aztec culture where humans were sacrificed to honor their Gods. I am not part of the Chinese culture with their hatred of certain numbers (Four is EVIL!!) and lucky feng shui furniture placement. I wasn’t even born in India, which according to the Google-meister is the most superstitious country in the world.

I know that there are probably people out there who subscribe to more than just a few old wives tales and hand me down folklore, which amounts to my level of supernatural paranoia. I am, unfortunately, susceptible to learning about NEW things to add to the list though. (Damn reading will get you every time!)

The perfect example of this is Mercury. That damn planet was in retrograde for like, EVER! Apparently you aren’t supposed to make any major changes during a retrograde period because your cat will spontaneously combust and your aunt will choke on her meatloaf. Or something. Hold on while I refresh my memory on this. (Sometimes I retain a fact but forget the why. Limited space and all that.)

<Insert pleasant hold music here>

Holy crap, information overload! Mercury in retrograde can cause irritability, moodiness, and forgetfulness. You shouldn’t start new projects or take trips. Don’t agree to anything. Don’t buy any new technology. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t make any life changing decisions. You know what? Just stay in the house. Retrograde only comes like 3 or 4 times a year and lasts about three weeks each period. We can all afford to hibernate in our homes for three months a year, right?

Realistically I don’t think that Mercury’s alleged backward movement is causing all the havoc that I mentioned. I really don’t. But then again, there’s this teeny part of me that says, "Well, why chance it?" Is it really hurting me to hold off my wild, impulsive decisions to quit my job and be a horse wrangler in Montana? Perhaps some introspection is needed here. Let me consult my tarot cards for clarification.

It’s not even planetary motions that got me whack. Do you know how many old wives tales that there are? Because I don’t. What I DO know is that I’ve probably heard a few dozen of them, probably in my impressionable, formative years. They stuck. And I pass them on to my kids, who will pass them on to their kids, thus repeating a very tidy superstitious circle. It doesn’t even matter to me if modern science manages to debunk that myth, I will still yell at you for going outside with wet hair because you WILL CATCH YOUR DEATH OF PNEMONIA!!! (I may not have had a Nonna, but apparently I am one deep inside where it counts.)

So if you’re planning on making an outrageous statement about the weather (“Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day!”) and you aren’t willing to knock on wood just on the off chance that the weather Gods are spiteful and want to (quite literally) rain on your parade, well, that’s your own fault buddy. Maybe next time you’ll learn a valuable lesson and throw salt over your left should when you spill it in order to nullify the effects of that penny that you picked up ON TAILS?!?!? GASP! (Shakes head.) When will you learn?

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Where Did Summer Go and Why Is There Pumpkin Spice Everywhere?

August was a busy month. In fact, I’m pretty sure I blinked and it’s already over. There’s too much to catch you up on everything, so we’ll just hit the highlights. (It’ll be like speed blogging.)

                It started with our summer mini vacation to Philadelphia. I guess I never actually realized how country bumpkin we were until we went to a major city. (Spoiler alert: Our hick level is pretty up there.) My husband and I found out that we aren’t cut out for the bumper to bumper mad traffic that comes with big cities. If you ever want to find out how quickly an argument can break out between you and your spouse, sit in traffic while hungry, frustrated and disoriented. (So. Much. Fun. Eye roll.)

Other than the crazy traffic, we also saw a professional baseball game. The youngest child and I were the only ones in our family that had yet to experience a “real” baseball game. It was pretty cool, even if it’s not really my thing. When we asked the littlest one what his favorite part of the game was he said, “When it was over.”

Oh.

Well, we always say that honesty is the best policy. Plus, you'll never have to wonder what he's really thinking!

The next day we checked out the Philadelphia Zoo. Apparently it’s “America’s First Zoo”. So if you want to know which city had the bright idea to stick large, man eating cats in a city full of, uh, men, look no further. We all enjoyed the zoo, but probably not as much as my step tracker did. There was a lot of walking and animals and at the end we let our kids pick an overpriced, touristy memento in the gift shop.

The middle child left his in the hotel dining room the day we left. (Insert palm smack to forehead here.)

Since the mini vacation was only 3 days, that’s pretty much the high points of our trip. Unless you count our trip to an Aldi that is even bigger than ours, which is pretty dang exciting! (I did mention that the hick level was pretty high, right?) And the hotel had a pool which, as it turns out, was very good for the 80 degree plus weather that we had during our stay. Incidentally, THAT was the favorite part of the five year old’s trip to Philadelphia. You know, the VERY exotic, only found on vacation, full of questionably hygienic strangers, pool. That one. (Insert second forehead smack here.)

The rest of the month passed by in an annual tradition called “I-can’t-freaking-wait-to-get-the-kids-back-to-school-because-I-ran-out-of-things-to-occupy-them-three-weeks-into-summer-and-I-am-NOT-an-events-planner-so-let’s-buy-ALL-the-supplies-and-clothes-and-shoes-and-dream-of-the-first-day-of-school-when-I-get-some-of-my-sanity-back”. (I’d shorten it but it would probably still be one heck of a long acronym.)

While this year is exceptionally awesome because ALL THE KIDS (!!!) are going to be in school, it’s also a little bittersweet as the five year old says goodbye to his daycare family that has been, well, like his actual family, for the last five years. His last day was super emotional for both of us (and by us, I mean the littlest one and myself since my husband usually shakes his head and rolls his eyes when at my overly mom-motional episodes) and although he has an awesome memory book that they made for him, it’s still a pretty touchy subject.

Which makes it pretty hard to gloat (outwardly) about how close we are to the first day of school. Not like I'm counting down days (hours, minutes...) or anything. Sure, mentally I’m doing somersaults and cartwheels, but I’m trying to be emotionally supportive so I have to keep it to myself. (And you guys. But I’m trusting you won’ tell him.)

If I’m lucky he’ll be wrapped up in finger painting and making new friends after the first few days, but if his refusal to join his soccer practice is anything to go by, I may be taking Kindergarten again. On the plus side, it never hurts to update your skills and my shoe tying and napping abilities could use some work. Maybe it’s a win-win for both of us.

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I Never, Ever Want to Hear the "L" Word

When you're a veteran parent and been through most of the small stuff, and quite a bit of the big stuff too, there's very little that phases you. Bloody noses, poop-plosions up infant's backs, catching your kids puke in your hands (which is completely nasty but easier than running the steam cleaner for 3 hours trying to get the stain out of the carpet)....it is just part of a parent's life.

Until the dreaded "L" word makes an appearance. No, it's not love, it's... (Insert dramatic dun dun dun musical effect here.) LICE.

Ugh. I can't hear/see/type that word without automatically getting the heebie jeebie scalpy itchy creepy crawlies. (Admit it, you just scratched your own head didn't you? It’s psychosomatic or something.) Now, to be fair, I'm not a fan of any bugs let alone ones that are shared between kids at the park. Although, I do find it ironic that we spend all this time teaching our kids to share and then it backfires when they bring things home the flu, chicken pox, or lice. Then we're like, "I take it all back! DON'T SHARE THAT! Give it back, give it back, give it back!"

I have dreaded the loathsome "L" word since the first time I dealt with it when my oldest was about 3 years old. Ever since then I've done pagan insect sacrifices and done the dance of the terrified parent people during the full moon just to stave off these disgusting critters. It must have worked, or perhaps I have just managed to have a really long streak of luck, because I've managed to dodge that bullet for multiple years and multiple kids. (I am not sure how many I actually have at this rate because I think that they multiple in dark corners when I’m not looking. Judging by the amount of food I buy though, there’s at least 14 of them.)

And then I get a message from the youngest kid’s daycare that there's been a child with lice and that we should be doing head checks to make sure that it didn't spread to anyone else.

OH MY GOD IT'S HAPPENING! THROW AWAY EVERY SINGLE STUFFED ANIMAL IN THE HOUSE! WASH THE BEDDING IN BOILING WATER! BETTER YET, BURN THE BEDDING! BURN THE HATS. ANYTHING THAT'S TOUCHED HIS HEAD, BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND!

Of course that panic attack manifests itself mentally as I’m outwardly calm and combing through the kid’s head, checking for the slightest sign of intruders while simultaneously praying to the Gods that he didn’t socialize with the infected and calculating how many bottles of RID I’m going to have to buy to treat the entire family. And because I can multitask like nobody’s business, all the while I’m texting the daycare woman for information.

“So, this kid that had the lice, how close is she to my kid on a daily basis? Like “let’s try on each other’s hats” or just casual acquaintances who meet at the sand box? What are we talking about here? I just need to know.”

Fortunately she’s experienced with the various and assorted versions of Mom paranoia and knows how to reassure me that my kid and this kid don’t really interact that much and it’s more than likely isolated to this kid but they wanted to make parents aware as a precaution. (And because kids are all “Let’s try on each other’s hats!”)

So as of now, the pagan insect sacrifices are still soothing the Gods and keeping the harmony and peace in the kid’s hairy neighborhood. I’m probably going to have to double down on the rituals though. He starts kindergarten in September. Or as it’s commonly known amongst us parents: The-cesspool-of-germs-and-goo-that-shall-not-be-named-but-will-probably-be-passed-around-the-playground.

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How to be Socially Awkward in Three Easy Steps

You know how they tell you to socialize your puppy when they are young so that they know how to interact with other dogs and don’t end up becoming one of those crotchety Grandpa dogs that doesn’t know how to act around other living beings? People are a lot like that too. If we don’t learn how to interact with other peoples, we turn into socially awkward weirdos.

Sadly, I am one such weirdo. (Great segue, right? I’m full of ‘em.)

Growing up socially awkward wasn’t hard because that term didn’t really exist then. Or at least it wasn’t as prevalent. When I was growing up they used terms like “loner” or “nerd” and sometimes (for the bus licking strange kids), “freak”. I was the shy, quiet kid (I know, that’s so hard to believe, but it’s 100% true. Ask my mom.) who liked to read books and pretty much be left alone. The basic problem with that though, is that there are no peoples in “alone”. Cue social awkwardness origin story.

If you are also socially awkward, or even if you know someone who is, you know that there are varying degrees of gawky behavior. There’s the foot in mouth syndrome where you channel your inner Yoda and just screw up all the words.

Person- “Have a nice day!”

Me- “Nice day you too!”/Me- “Later talk to you.”/Me- (Garbled response from too many brain synapses running into each other and firing simultaneously) “Urk.”

There’s also the kind where you blurt out extraneous information that no one needs to know but your mouth is a runaway train that jumped off your brain’s track and is going nowhere real fast. I am awesome at this one. I’ll replay that socially inelegant statement back in my head for months thinking, “Gah! I was such an idiot.” (Internal flogging is mandated by all those who are truly socially inept.) Yet that train keeps jumping off track, leaving me with fodder for my continual mental walk of embarrassment. I could give an example here but 1.) It was already a hot mess the first time and doesn’t’ need to be repeated and 2.) If the people who were involved somehow managed to miss the fact that I was an introvert in full mind meltdown, I don’t want to make them aware of it.

A fun variety of social awkwardness is the off brand humor. If you’ve perfected the oddball personality like I have, then you know that you have a unique sense of humor. Unfortunately, “unique sense of humor” sometimes translates into “no one freaking gets your jokes”. Whether it is an obscure literary reference or a nerd culture trivia fact, sometimes funny falls way short of reaching that punchline finish. There have been so many times I have had to stifle the perfect punchline because no one would understand the song lyric or the show reference or the book character quote. It’s hard to have quick wit in those instances where you have nowhere to throw that pitch. (My advice for this is to marry someone with the same sense of humor as you. This means you’re only losing half of your best material.)

Luckily, this societal ineptitude doesn’t have to be genetic. (In full disclosure, I am not a geneticist. You really can’t take my word on this. It may, in fact, be 100% genetic and I am thereby having a moment of awkward foot-in-mouth-syndrome at this precise moment. ) My 12 year old son comes from a socially gawky mom and a socially talented dad. So far he seems to be leaning towards his father’s community chat-ability. (Conversely, the five year old is a hermit that enjoys staying home, wearing pajamas, and snacks. So I guess you can take your pick on the genetics theory thing.)

If you or your offspring are in the socially awkward club, don’t lose all hope. There is a chance (albeit probably very slight) that social awkwardness can be, well, not cured so much as overcome. Eh, even overcome is still not quite the right terminology. Perhaps re-training your brain to recognize non-verbal cues in conjunction to societal norms would be a better phrasing. (If not better, it sure sounds like you know what you’re talking about, right?) The more you socialize, the more practice you have at removing that foot from your mouth until one day, maybe you don’t even need to mentally castigate yourself after an outing. Okay, so that might be a stretch, but it will definitely diminish over time. Constant exposure to people at gatherings and parties will mean that you can learn to have a conversation with someone that comes eerily close to almost normal. If I can do it, so can too you do it. 

Aw, crap.  And I was so close too.

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My Vicarious Surrogacy Through Famous Uteruses (Uteri?)

The last kid that you have is always a little bittersweet. No matter if it's the second or the twelfth (Which in and of itself begs the question: Dear God, WHY??), there are many mixed feelings about the child to end all children (in your household at least).

On one hand, you are 1,000% over all things baby. Pregnancy. Diapers. Teething. Poop-up-the-back blowouts. Tantrums. Potty training. They are inches away from starting school and you start to think you may keep a little bit of sanity intact to save for when they finally fly the coop one day.

But on the other hand....ooh, that excitement of finding out what you're having! Baby powder newborn head smell. (Ovaries worldwide just exploded at that mere thought.) First words. First steps. Buying extremely adorable miniature clothing....You didn't properly appreciate the last of the last but there's not more chances because even though you've ruptured an ovary thinking about brand, spanking new babies, you are still over it. Done. Nada mas por favor!

And yet...

I still find myself clicking on every damn gender reveal video I see on my social media feed. I can't help it. I need this like an addict looking for their next fix. There are no more babies being churned out of my Fallopian factory but there are plenty of people stepping up and taking one for the team in my place. And putting it online. Where I can watch what color balloons pop out of the box. Or what color dust is in the baseball. Or what cake flavor is under all that frosting. Or what color egg isn't hard boiled. (Yes, that's for really real. Mama and Daddy smashed blue and pink eggs on their forehead and the raw one was the gender. It was a boy by the way. #teamblue)

Just because my uterus resembles a ghost town (complete with tumble weeds and dusty prairie lands!), doesn't mean that my heart strings aren't yanked by those precious urchins-to-be. Hence the addictive viewing of online snippets into other people's baby joy. Hey, don't judge me, I've seen you watch cat/dog/tripping toddler/baby goat/sloth videos when you thought no one was looking. I even caught you watching that gender reveal with the creepy cake shaped like a baby head coming out a lady's va-jay-jay:

Just say NO to vagina cake.

(Wrong on so many levels. And probably wrong-er that I can come up with at least 3 inappropriate jokes right now.)

As if living vicariously through random stranger's gender reveal videos wasn't odd enough, I also find myself enraptured with celebrity baby news. If those celebs are popping out paparazzi potential pups, I want to know. That whole Megan Markle thing that just went down? I was beside myself with anticipation. Let me tell you, it felt like she was preggars FOREVER. Finally though, she had that royal bundle of joy, and just in time, since the suspense was just about to do me in!

But it's not just the royals that have my interest piqued, but any celebrity. I just gotta know, is it a boy? A girl? What whack ass name did you give them? I have mad respect for the celebrities who realize that you don't just name your child after the last thing that you ate or the object at the bottom of the junk drawer. Props to the famous folk who give their kids nice, normal names and don't name them "Silver Spoon" or "Psalm". (For the love of all that's holy, don't make their name a holy object. SMH.) Even the ones who give their kids strange names that would totally get their ass kicked if they weren't a celebrity's kid make me feel good about myself. I can think, "Hey, I may not be parent of the year, but at least I didn't name my kid Rocket. Or Apple. Or Cricket. Or Lazer. Or any single one of the Kardashian/Jenner kids names." 

So yes, I'm living vicariously through your uteruses. Uteri? (I feel like spell check knows what it's doing but uteri sounds really weird.) If you see me creeping up on your sweet newborn, don't be alarmed. I'm not attempting to kidnap them (I'm not starting over at this stage in the game dammit!), I'm just trying to sneak a sniff of that sweet baby smell.

 

Maybe, if I look really pathetic, I may even be able to hold that sweet baby for a minute? No? Because you don't know me? Fair. And because it's uber creepy? Also fair. Just one more sniff though? O-kay. And I'm backing away from the crazy eyed lady holding a taser now. 

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I (Barely) Survived My Family Vacation, And You Can Too!

We are freshly back from our annual insanity-fest (A.K.A. the family vacation) and though I have managed to survive, there were some moments that were iffy. If a family vacation is on your horizon, here are some tips on how best to make it through intact. (Or at the very least, make it through a less traumatized version.)

Pack an extra bag. Of sanity. Because when you cram your family together in a tin can with wheels (or a tin can with wings), it’s going to get real. There are only so many fart blasts from your 11 year old that you can take before you start wondering if he’s shat himself. Regardless if he’s tie dying his undies with chocolate streaks, you’re probably pretty fed up with it after the 4^th (or 20^th) time you’ve gagged and rolled the window down to help pass that gas from his ass to the underpass.

And pack two bags of patience. It’s probably frowned upon to leave a tantruming five year old on the side of I95. (Probably not the spouse either.) You might need to do some meditation practice before embarking, or in the very least at least pack some Xanax or a flask of happy juice. (Disclaimer: It is also frowned upon to drive whilst drinking happy juice so save that for the flying tin can or make it nonalcoholic happy juice.)

Take a lot of pictures. Yeah sure, we all hate the sight of our flappy arms or our crooked smile, but none of that is going to matter when you have an empty nest and you’re drinking wine and crying over how little your babies once were. Plus the grandkids will enjoy looking at the pictures and laughing at the funny clothes and funky hairdos, just like we’ve done with our own parents and grandparents photo albums for generations. Hey, it’s tradition, right?

You catch more flies with sugar than vinegar. Which is a dumb saying anyway because who the hell wants flies? Besides frogs. Do you know how I catch flies in my house? With a flyswatter. BOOM! Dead flies is what I have now. Wait, where was I again? 

Oh yeah, so when you and your honey bunny snap at each other, which is more than possible on an extremely long driving trip or airplane ride, make sure you sprinkle those barbs with terms of endearment to throw the kids off. Need an example? How about: “You are an extreme asshat my snookum wookems.” Or perhaps: “You’re driving skills are similar to a those of a blind toddler, darling dearest.” Maybe this: “If you don’t stop whistling my special treasure, I will rip your spleen out and beat you with it.” I guarantee that the kids won’t even bat an eyelash because of those endearing sweet words mixed in there. (Or the fact that they’re wearing headphones and watching a movie. One or the other.)

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. No, a little slower. I said slower. Now you’re hyperventilating. That’s great, just freaking great! Can’t we have one damn family vacation where something doesn’t go colossally wrong my sweet darling asshat?

EAT. THE. CAKE. Holy crap, what isn’t there to love about vacation food? It’s not just the snacking that you normally don’t allow yourself to do, it’s the rich foods that you splurge on for your regular meals. This year I decided I was still going to do my workouts, something I haven’t ever done during vacation, in the hopes that I might stave off some of the dreaded vacation weight gain. I still came home 5 pounds heavier. But at least I ate the damn dessert. So take that stupid cellulite! Yeah, you may have bested me this time but who got to enjoy the sunshine cake, huh? Mic drop!

Make the best of it. Maybe the weather isn’t cooperating. Maybe your five year old isn’t cooperating. Maybe your snookum wookums isn’t cooperating. Whatever it is, try to remember that this too will pass. (I am laughing as I write that because it is so damn hard to do in the moment… and I feel like people who give you sage advice are probably laughing their asses off on the inside because they have been there, done that. They know. But it sounds like they know what they’re talking about so you believe them.) Sure, that toddler diarrhea blowout sucks now but it’s going to be a great story to tell their own kids someday. You know the old adage “You’ll laugh about this one day”? You probably will. And if that isn’t the most helpful advice in the moment, well, it’s not the worst either. I mean, the worst would be like telling you to put butter on and then lay in the sun or something. Or wear a meat suit in shark infested waters.

If you are planning a trip with your precious loved ones soon, I wish you all the best. You’ll need it! But you’ll also love it. Maybe not every moment, but definitely enough that it’ll still beat having to go to work. And it’s definitely better than the shark/meat suit option.

Viva la vacation and carpe daiquiris!

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Spirit Children and Spirited Children Are NOT The Same Thing

If you ask any parent what raising their kid(s) was like, you'll likely get a different answer. Even if they have multiple children, it's probably not the same experience. Because every child is unique. In other words, every child is a a pain in the ass in their own way.

Sometimes, raising kids is almost effortless. They fool you into thinking that you can do this again! (And then the second child is almost always the exact opposite of their older sibling.) My oldest was like this. I thought that all children were as well behaved and this was normal, which was probably a good thing because not only was I young, I really had no idea what the hell I was doing. I raised my first child mostly on instinct with a strong dose of "winging it".

And then my daughter was born.

The quintessential wild child, she had no problems getting in trouble and pulling her older brother into it. She was energetic, enthusiastic, and like 14 other synonyms that mean "full of energy that is drains the energy of the parent, much like a host feeding a foreign parasite". She managed to give me a few breaks (She would try any food at least once and I barely remember potty training her because she was so easy.) but mostly, she was a fireball. She was nothing, however, compared to my youngest child.

In all my life, I have never met a child who has such a strong will, a strong opinion, from such an early age. He has been a thumb sucker from the age of brand spanking new baby. As much as I discouraged this, pushed pacifiers, pulled his thumb out of his mouth, he was determined to be a thumb sucker. He didn't let being born 9 weeks premature stop him, achieving all of the normal milestones at his own pace. He's stubborn, funny, and has the iron will of someone who is 5 times his age.

And he's freaking exhausting.

Have you ever hear a parent say, 'If he wasn't already the last one, he'd be the last one?" If so, chances are they have one of these freakishly stubborn, steel will forged in the fires of Hades, everything is a battle kinds of kids. Half the time I wish he had born to a much younger me, one that wasn't tired all the time and that could navigate these parenting minefields with one eye closed. The other half is grateful that there are 3 kids worth of experience in front of him because steering that ship through those choppy waters is much easier with all the knowledge I possess of his fore siblings. And believe me, there are plenty of rough seas to travel through with a spirited child. From picky eating (the pickiest) to weird quirks (like a sock fetish, even in summer) to melt downs over the most minute things (What do you mean I can't live in pajamas and have to wear real clothes every day? WAHHHH.) he has made my navigational skills on point.

He's not a feral child, which is ( I gather) the new term for wild child. He's more like an 80 year old man trapped in a 5 year old's body. He's always cold (probably explains the sock fetish), he has a rigid routine that he does NOT like to deviate from, and he complains if it's too loud. Conversely, his brother is a menopausal woman trapped in an 11 year old's body: Always hot, loves sweets, and enjoys Netflix way too much. (Which is just proof of how different two siblings can really be.)

Yet you aren't allowed to complain about raising children in today's day and age. As soon as you mention how exhausting it is to have daily battles with your kids to get dressed, someone manages to chime in with some trite saying like, 'One day you'll miss these days. Enjoy it while you can." Is there some unwritten rule that says we can't complain about the trials of child rearing without being made to instantly feel guilty that we aren't enjoying it? Let me ask you Donna, do YOU enjoy doing things that make you doubt your parenting skills and leave you frustrated and on the verge of tears? No Donna, I don't think you do. So instead of making me feel like some leper mother for daring to mention how hard parenting actually is, why don't you give me some emotional support. Say something useful like, "Some days are tougher than others. You'll get through it." Or maybe even, "Yeah, kids can be real assholes sometimes. Wanna go for a pedicure?"

So for all my fellow parents of those spirited-borderline-feral children, I feel you. I know your pain. I know your daily struggles, how many times you have wanted to cry (and didn't) and how many times you wanted to cry (and did!). So I just want to say, "Kids can be real dinks sometimes, wanna go for a margarita?"

Cardi-O, She Isn't Fooling Around

Six years ago, before my husband knocked me up like a teenage girl on prom night, I embarked on a personal journey to get myself in better shape. I lost almost 20 pounds, I was doing Zumba to tone what everyone was telling me were muscles, and I was probably, (Wait, I am vividly remembering how I felt about high school gym class.) no definitely, in the best shape of my entire life.

But pregnancy has zero regard for six months of hard work and undid all my progress in one single trimester. It made me crave fast food that I otherwise didn't care for, it cut through those barely toned muscles like butter, and left me shredded (and not in the good "six pack ab" kind of way) into a shell of something that once resembled "in shape".

But hey, I can roll with the punches, so I did the best I could to maintain a decent weight while being a sleep deprived new mom comforting herself with her hobby of baking. (Yeah, the irony isn't lost on me either.) While I mostly got some sort of daily exercise, I know there were long-ish periods where I wasn't. (Some of them might have been the months I convinced myself that breastfeeding, while burning a gajillion calories a day, was like a boob inferno of calorie burning epicness that meant I could shed baby weight with a mere flexing of my mammary muscle. Spoiler alert: It wasn't. Second spoiler alert: I don't think mammary muscles are a real thing.)

Fast forward six years to the present day. Since I have always marched to the beat of my own drummer, I decided February 25 was a better time for New Year's Resolutions than January 1. I mean, you gotta get to know the new year before you can commit to any sort of new relationship with it, right? I found out that we were super incompatible because I was somehow managing to gain even more weight, despite my best efforts to exercise and eat well. This meant that I had to start a new and personal relationship with a detested, loathsome, repulsive foe: Cardio.

If there's ever been one word meant to strike fear into the hearts of chunky, out of shape moobs everywhere, that would be it. Cardio is a relentless bitch who brings you just to the brink of heart attack before allowing you to do a stretch and cool down.

Oh, and she LOVES burpees, which are probably an exercise thought up by Satan himself.

Now, there's a certain age where workouts become, well, even more of a workout. When you have more work arounds than workouts, you might be getting a little too old to dance with Queen Bitch Cardio. When you can't do burpees because they hurt your wrist (carpal tunnel), when you can't go all the way down on left knee lunges because it's never been the same since you wrenched it 8 years ago, when you can't do the cobra stretching position because of your acid reflux....well, let's just say that you can probably retire your "Spring Chicken" plaque.

And if all those old lady issues weren't enough to get me down, my metabolism being in the crapper definitely is. Apparently six years older in human years is like 112 in metabolism years and it's so weak and can barely get up a good burn so that even chewing celery (a negative calorie food!) makes me gain half a pound. (Yet all the blood tests say he's fine... cagey old man.)

So if you have been struggling with adopting a new exercise routine, or trying to eat healthier (which would be so much freaking easier if things like chocolate cake and cheeseburgers didn't exist), just know that you're not alone. We can all form a support group where we drink gourmet coffee drinks (probably made with some soy shit to make it half the calories) and trash talk evil Cardio behind her back.




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Sad Sack January and the Great Holiday Switcheroo

I always feel a little bad for January. Following right on December's heels, with the lights and joy and holiday festivities, January is just kinda meh. Actually, it's probably worse than meh and downright blah.

Luckily, today is January 973rd.
Image credit: The Interweb

I'm not being too harsh on January. It's certainly not MY fault that it has a bad reputation. I mean, it's the month of exercise and resolutions for cripe's sake. (Is it cripes sake or cripe's sake? Does cripe own the sake? I can never tell if he's being possessive or not.) December is fun and food and presents and January is the hangover where you promise to never do that again, go on a cleanse, and try to lose the fifteen pounds of holiday cookies and spiked eggnog you've claimed as your own now.

But you've got to give January credit. It tries. It gives you the first day off, ostensibly to make resolutions that you're never going keep but in actuality more like giving you time to recover from giving the end of the year a proper send off the night before.  January begins gently, like it's trying to tame a feral cat. (Uh, yes, "we" are the feral cat.)

As if being likened to a feral cat isn't enough, January pretty much goes downhill from there. Store advertisements have workout clothing, weights, and other torture devices under the pseudonym of "exercise equipment". It's like finding pamphlets about the dangers of drugs from your mom except that treadmills are legal (yet possibly as dangerous). Nothing says "It's January" like dozens of flyers that say, "Hey Tubby! Time to trim that spare tire, dontcha think?"

It's not just the body shaming that got us down January, it's also the weather. It's colder than a witch's tit outside and while I have no friggin' idea how actually cold that is, it's probably A LOT. (Otherwise why would they say it?) When it hurts to breathe air outside, it's just too damn cold. I mean, it's not like I'm running a 5K out here, I'm literally just existing. That's it. Inhale. Ouch, frozen snot just stabbed me. Exhale. Ouch, icicles formed from my breath just stabbed me.

If the cold isn't enough, sometimes it comes with snow. That's always fun. Because there's nothing like telling your kid that they can't go play in the foot of snow that just got dumped on you because it's a measly 5 degrees out and you prefer your children in the non-popsicle variety. Plus, there's only so much snow that you can receive before you can't send your kid out for safety reasons. If there's 2 1/2 feet of snow outside and your kid is only 3 1/2 feet tall, now you're going to have to put a bell on them or dress them in dayglo orange for visual acuity. Even if it's only moderately cold when it snows, well, it's still snow. Snow stops being exciting when you have to drive in the crap because your work doesn't do snow days. You're an adult now cupcake, suck it up.

I think that they should have put Christmas in February. Think about it. January's overall suckiness would decrease because exercise equipment would now be March's problem. Snow is acceptable if it gives people their desired white Christmas. And the cold would be more tolerable too because you would be amazed how much warmer spiked eggnog can make you. Plus people would be too busy planning Christmas festivities to be bothered by January's blah-itude. Valentine's Day can get moved to December. If we just switched those two holidays, everyone could get through the winter a little easier, right?

While I may be waiting impatiently for winter to skedaddle and drop Spring off, at least there's hot coffee, wood stoves, and 15 blanket layers to help keep out the chill. And if all else fails, there are always Margaritas.




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