Archive for the ‘Kiddles’ Category:
My Lips Are Sealed
God knows I’ve made enough mistakes in my youth that I could expound on them ad nauseum. However, after much deliberation, I decided that reviving a post from the past might work best for the following challenge:
What memory or story from your youth would you never share with your own children and why? And if there’s nothing from your history that you wouldn’t have them know, why is that?
What I’m offering up is a true story that both embarrasses me and amuses me endlessly but I’m not sure I could, in good conscience, tell it to my children until they are adults, mainly because I wouldn’t want to make light of or trivialize my stupidity or all the bad things that could have happened to me but didn’t.
Soooo… I give you “Don’t Take the Pot” back for an encore from the 2006 archives of IzzyMom.
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Don’t take the pot.
Yup. You heard me. This message is directed to all you kids out there that are sneaking the computer and going through your mom’s blogroll
Okay, okay. I was just being funny and imitating my parents there. What I really mean to say is don’t SMOKE the pot.
Why? Why, you ask?
Well, because you might decide, at the wise old age of 14 or maybe 15, that when your friend calls you on a Saturday and tells you she got a joint from that stoner guy who rides your bus, that it would be a smashing idea to go to the gazebo by the lake and get high.
So you lie to your parents and say you need to get something from the drug store and instead you get on your yellow 3 spd bike (with the dorky baskets on the back that are better suited to towing people than carrying stuff) and you swing by your friend’s house to pick her up. You guys take turns towing each other to the gazebo only to find there are people there feeding ducks.
Puh! Hopeless dork losers that they are, you leave them to their duck-feeding while you and your friend try to think of a place where two unbelievably cool teenage girls sporting feathered hair and black eyeliner and wearing those little nylon Dolfin shorts (you know, like Richard Simmons and the Hooters girls wear) can go burn one without being too terribly conspicuous.
You end up deciding that the little tunnel of bushes behind the Publix Supermarket will afford you the privacy needed to get baked. While puffing away, some stock boys from Publix follow their noses to your hideout and you guys have to share with them. They are kind of cute and you decide this is for the best since you’re already way too stoned. Being a novice pot smoker, you always let this happen. You never quit while you’re ahead. Dumbass.
As the stock boys depart, high as kites, talking about what kind of food they plan on swiping from the store, you and your friend finally exit the bushes, too, and you get on your bike.
Realizing your condition, you wisely decide to walk the bike instead. As you guys get closer to home, it starts to rain and your friend casually announces that she has to leave now to go to her aunt’s house with her mom.
Whoa, whoa, wait a second. Your brain, in it’s compromised state, is about to catch on fire because it’s working extra hard to process this bit of confusing and bad, VERY BAD, information.
“You’re leaving me? Like this? You can’t. I’m sooo stoned and I can NOT go home like this. I need someone to hang with until I can go home.”
But in the blink of bloodshot eye she’s gone and you are alone, in the rain, high.
Hmmmm. What to do. What to do.
And then you have a brainstorm. You will go to the house of the people for whom you babysit.
Yeah. They’re pretty cool. He’s a cop and keeps weed in a Tupperware in the bathroom cabinet. And they’re swingers. Remember those Polaroids you found? Ewww. Don’t think about that part. Doesn’t matter. They’re nice people. They are. C’mon.
And before you know it, you’re ringing the bell. Mr. Erlich (Officer Erlich) opens the door and you ask if his wife is home. He smiles and kindly welcomes you in while explaining that Karen and the boys are out but will be home soon. He’s just watching a movie and you’re welcome to hang out and wait. Trying your hardest not not let him see how gross and pasty your mouth is (because then he would know for sure that his teenaged babysitter was totally high) you decide to grab a pillow, lay on the floor and watch the movie. This is an awesome plan, you think to yourself as Mr. Erlich brings you an orange soda. Yes, indeedy!
As you open your eyes, you hear a little voice saying “Mommy, Daddy, she’s getting up!” You look up and there they are. The whole Erlich family looking down, smiling widely at you like you just did something hilariously funny.
Oh wait. You did. You fell dead asleep on their floor for 2 hours.
Grinning sheepishly and silently praising the sweet baybay Jesus that you’re not high any more, you apologize profusely and get the hell out of there.
If memory serves you correctly, the Erlichs never ask you to babysit again. You don’t care, though, because you’re really embarrassed (and they never had any good food to eat anyway.)
But still. You know you did something really dumb and you’re pretty sure the Erlichs knew. How could they not? And you hope to God they don’t ever tell your parents. Your dad & stepmom wouldn’t understand. They weren’t young enough to indulge in the Summer of Love and all that cool hippie stuff. They called it taking pot, for pete’s sake.
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Ahhhhh, to have the luxury of being young & stupid…
My parents never did find out about that Saturday afternoon, thankfully. They would have been very disappointed in me. I was the kind of kid that did bad stuff but got good grades and was generally very responsible. The kind of kid that fools all adults…
I smoked pot many more times after that but I finally had to throw in the towel and admit that I was not a good pot taker. I couldn’t drive (well, I could. But only at speeds under 20 mph). I couldn’t go into a store or do anything remotely normal. I could just eat A LOT, read the same line in a book over and over and then fall asleep. I wasn’t much fun.
These days, however, I have hard time sleeping unless I’m dead tired and taking the pot seems like maybe not such a bad idea.
But the eating. The unabated crap-eating…
Arghhhhh…
Maybe not.
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To read more posts based on this Flashback Friday topic, visit these fine blogs:
And hey — if you want to play along on your own blog and do this week’s Friday Flashback, let me know and I’ll link you here.
My Parenting Book Deal Should Be Coming Any Day Now
I was woken up this morning with a tampon being waved in my face, unwrapped and thankfully, unused. I guess my son took a detour to the bathroom before coming to wake me up and demand “chocktick mook.” Can you decipher that? It’s chocolate milk. Yes, I’ve become one of those moms who gives their kid chocolate milk (Shut up! It’s Ovaltine. It has vitamins) instead of white milk because that’s all their preshus darling will drink. Seriously though, I just got tired of finding half drunk milk sippies all over the house and decided that a little chocolate milk never hurt anyone and that’s how we roll now. And I NEVER find half drunk milk sippies anymore. Am brilliant.
I’m also using Skittles to bribe my son to use the potty. I’m sure many of you are thinking that if I were more devoted and less lazy, I wouldn’t have to resort to sugary sugar-coated sugar nuggets and perhaps there’s some truth to that but honestly, I’ve been through potty training before and bribery often works just as well as following your child around all day asking them if they have to go. But alas, my confidence in the superiority of bribery is flagging lately because that method is not working quite as I’d intended.
See, he has been taking himself to the potty for months now (he’ll be three in June) which is great, right? There’s just one small glitch. He’ll only use the potty if he already has no pants on (not an unusual occurrence) The fact is, he just won’t take his pants down to go potty, opting instead to take the path of least resistance and go in his pull-up. I assume this is primarily attributable to laziness. He is, after all, my son. And honestly, who hasn’t wished at least once to be able to just pee into a nice absorbent diaper for the sake of convenience?
What? Is that weird?
So anyone who has an opinion, which is everyone, says I should just put him in underwear and pants and not use pull-ups anymore since he clearly knows when he has to go and is capable of taking himself to the bathroom without any assistance from me. And I’m all WHAT? Are you crazy? Do you realize how many pair of pants and underwear we’ve gone through already with that approach? And his sneakers? Peed upon right along with the sofas and the carpets. Were it not for Stanley Steemer, my house would smell like a freaking nursing home and if you’ve ever been to one, you KNOW what I’m talking about.
It seems we’ve reached an impasse. I can just let him go everywhere without pants on, which is tempting, or I can keep him in pull-ups until he’s like ten which is even more tempting except that those suckers are pricey and I’d rather spend that money on myself something more practical than character-festooned disposable underwear to pee and poop in, which, when put like that, actually sound downright absurd.
I’ve got to get him out of those things. Le sigh.
The Age of Unreason
Well, I’m back after a brief trip to Camp Unspeakable. I cannot, however, tell you specifically where I was or what I was doing because the first rule of Camp Unspeakable is that we don’t talk about Camp Unspeakable.
So, you are please to be missing me, no?
I missed you, too.
Not to prattle on incessantly about that which cannot be spoken (hello ad network agreements) but I really did have a great time there. Uh uh…don’t even ask. What happens at Camp Unspeakable STAYS at Camp Unspeakable.
Suffice it to say that spending time eating, eating, oh, and eating (they fed us well) and attending a jam-packed day of weird (feed your kids Splenda!), wild (rBGH is perfectly fine!), wacky (1,4 Dioxane is harmless!) and somewhat frightening (Uterine prolapse can be fixed!) corporate edumacation with a few of mah favoritest bloggy betches was just what I needed.
Unfortunately, it’s just like when I used to go to camp every summer as a kid and then come home all deflated because what could possibly top four weeks of playing spin the bottle and slow dancing to Freebird every Friday night? Ummmmm. Nothing?
So I’m home and it seems more…noisy and chaotic. But otherwise, it’s just the same as I left it except my mostly occasionally angelic kids are now behaving like obnoxious, whiny and inexplicably loud crack monkeys. Because? It’s spring break, of course.
Did I ever mention that I loathe spring break only slightly less than having my eyeballs penetrated by an army of flying salad forks. Well, I do.
And my son, almost three, recently entered the “age of unreason”. You know, it’s the age where rational thinking and rational behavior are NONEXISTENT? The age where tantrums are thrown over Every. Little. Thing?
But since I’ve been home, he’s taken things to a whole new level. Now, when he hears something he doesn’t like, instead of just throwing himself to the floor in a kicking, screaming heap, he’s added LOTS of high-pitched whiny, squealy, screamy, brain-bleed inducing howls of protest to his repertoire. DONOTLIKE.
And the banging. What is it with little boys banging on everything?
ARRRGGGHHHH
On the upside… The devil pills? I don’t seem to need them anymore. Well, for now anyway, although I may take them anyway if this new behavior doesn’t cease and desist soon.
A peek inside the imagination of a mom on the verge:
“Here,” said Betty as she handed Joan the little brown bottle labeled Devil Pills. “I call them my Mother’s Helpers and they’re simply marvelous! Just take one whenever you feel anxious. I’ve got to run now and put a roast in the oven. Jim’s boss is coming for dinner tonight. Cocktails around three?”
“See you then. Don’t forget that gelatin salad recipe!” Joan called after her, wondering when the man would arrive to fix the Frigidaire — the thought of cocktails without ice made her shudder.
Heh. I know just how she feels.
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Congratulations for making it to the end. Your reward? Photos from Camp Unspeakable here and here. Try to curb your enthusiasm :)
The Free Ride is Over, Mama
In a recent discussion with my mother-in-law, I lamented over the fact that her late husband told us he’d set up a pre-paid college plan for my daughter but as it happens, he didn’t. It’s put us way behind in saving for college. And yes, I’m kind of irritated.
Now as in-laws go, I could have done worse and for that I’m thankful but not quite so thankful when she said “You’ll just have to go back to work when P goes to kindergarten”
Something about the way she said it rubbed me the wrong way; like I’ve just been on an extended vacay for the past seven years because, you know, staying home and running a household and managing the lives of three other people is SO! EASY! and the isolation is REALLY! FUN! and being looked at by the rest of the world as “just a mom” is GREAT! for my ego.
The free ride’s over, mama. Your ass goin’ back to work!
(Actually, it would have been a lot less insulting and far more amusing if she’d phrased it like that)
Bearing in mind that this is coming from a woman who hasn’t worked outside the home a day in her life since getting married eleventy hundred years ago made it almost laughable.
But I bit my tongue and instead opted to remind her —yet again— that I DO work, both as a mother and as a designer/writer/editor of interwebby things upon which i cannot elaborate lest she find out I have this whole other secret life. And that I blogged about her.
And she replies “Well, I don’t know what you do on your computer,” as if this is the first she’s ever heard of it.
*Blink*
And then my daughter, little spitfire that she is, chimes in “Mommy works at night on the computer and she makes money, too”
BOOYAHHHH!
Must high five daughter later for her awesomely awesome awesomeness.
For Two Days I Was a Better Mother and a Better American
You may or may not have noticed that this site was down for almost three days, as were all the other sites hosted on my account like Green Mom Finds and Moms Speak Up. I blame the butthead that had twelve MILLION files (literally) on the server.
At first I was agitated when i couldn’t get to any them. I actually didn’t know what to do with myself at night as I spend a significant amount of time each night tending to all things blog-related, like the fabulous new Green Mom Finds.
But suddenly, I found myself with plenty of time in the evenings. Time to fold laundry; time to pick up the house, time to work on other projects, time to flip through magazines and of course, watch more non-CNN-on-in-the-background-while-I-work-TV. I’m talking trashy reality TV, multiple recorded episodes of Nip/Tuck, random music videos. I even watched something completely vanilla and pedestrian during primetime. Yes, I admit it. I watched the pilot of Lipstick Jungle. And I liked it. My status as a good and obedient couch-indenting, TV-watching American is now official. *preens*
During the day, I was like Supermom! I devoted countless hours to the desires and whims of my children. Trips to procure Valentine’s junk for school, to the duck pond, to the pet store to peer at various rodentia in their aquariums, master-planned playdates lined up, extremely healthy yet tasty snacks made on demand, the reading of an untold number of books…
In short, I played more with my kids, was generally more domestic than is good for me, and I was a far more productive and attentive human being than I’ve been for the past 2.5 years. It’s kind of pathetic. And even more so because I know I could never have done all that in two days if my sites weren’t down. The lure of the computer… she is irresistible, no?
Now who wants to throw me an intervention?
