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Posts Tagged ‘funny’

L demonstrated his lack of a firm grasp on numbers when he explained how he’ll always be older than S:

L: She’s only 2. I’m 4 now but soon I’ll be 5:30.

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Grandma recently took L to visit his great-uncle in a nursing home. It was time for weekly services, and L seemed puzzled by the congregation’s prayers:

L: What are they doing?

Grandma: They’re praying.

L: [Looks totally bewildered]

Grandma: L, do you know what praying is?

L: Yes, lions prey and jaguars prey….

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How boys play:

L: Here, S, take this magic wand.

S: ‘tay.

L: And this one is mine.

S: ‘tay.

L: And now… FIGHT TO THE DEATH!

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New mantra that I will share with L when he has a 4-year-old son (assuming we both live to see the day, and that my mantra is true enough for some woman to have kids with him):

He does not have a permanent personality disorder; he’s just 4. He does not have a permanent personality disorder; he’s just 4….

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WTF Tapas

Lately L wants to know not only what animal he is eating, but what part of that animal. He became upset yesterday over ham. Not because he was sad that he was eating pig, but because he was sad that the pig’s face had been removed.

Along these lines, when he asks what animal he’s eating, he checks to make sure he understands by doing an impression of the animal.

“What aminal is this from?”

“That’s chicken.”

“As in bok-bok chicken?”

“Yes, as in bok-bok chicken.”

These conversations have permeated S’s consciousness and now whenever she eats anything, she says “bok-bok” and does spastic chicken flapping with her arms.

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One of S’s favorite songs is Wheel’s on the Bus. Her favorite part is the horn going “toot, toot, toot” complete with horn honking motions. In our house, toots, and tooting have a whole ‘nother meaning. (Can you see where this is going?) Whenever S passes gas, she excitedly acts out honking a bus horn and shouts out “toot, toot, toot!” It’s so cute, it makes me just want to feed the kid beans.

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I’ve mentioned before that S has nothing interesting to say, and yet she talks constantly. I’ve tried explaining to her what ought to be said aloud, and what is not interesting enough to say. For example, while driving in the car in the afternoon, it is not necessary to observe, “Me no see moon.” One need not list all the things one does not see at a given time. I answered, “Me no see elephant.” She is not learning.

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Conversation with T at 6 AM this morning (we aren’t the happiest people at 6AM):

me: I ordered S her own clock so she can know when it’s morning.

T: What? Why?

me: What do you mean why?

T: Can’t we just rig one?

me: Rig one? With paperclips, weights and rubber bands? WTF are you talking about?

T: No, I meant with a lightbulb and a timer.

me: OMG, you’re a crazy man. She can have her own clock. She’s her own whole person.

S: Ya! Me me own person! Me me own person! Daddy, me me own person! Me me own person! Me me own person! Daddy! Daddy, me me own person…

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me to T: Maybe you could take L to the market with you and he might S-L-E-E-P in the car.

L (extremely excited): Does that spell “guns in the car”?

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Conversation over dinner the day after I came home from my spa weekend, proof that T watched hours Food TV with the kids while I was away:

L: Mommy, this is so good!

me: Thanks, L, glad you like it.

L: The pasta is cooked perfectly. And I love how the sauce is sweet and peppery at the same time. It tastes really good in my mouth. (This is all said with utmost seriousness, like a bona-fide food critic.)

me: Wow, thanks, L. That’s a really nice complement.

L: Yes. The sauce is very complemented.

On another night:

“All this flavorment is so great and awesome! I love the flavors and the, like, YUM.”

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S is fully potty trained. Yay! She now drops trou wherever and whenever she needs to pee. I have to keep a steady eye on this. Middle of the playground? In the library? Supermarket? Some places are better than others for this. Also, she is very independent and doesn’t always tell me when she’s going to go. I was outside with both kids and naturally paying attention only to my iPhone. I look up and S is running around with pants around her ankles. Soaking wet pants around her ankles. She’s not good at aiming, or pulling pants up apparently, but she’s perfectly willing to pee on the grass. Atta girl!

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Conversation in the car:

L: Mommy, did you know that peregrine falcons eat their own poop?

me: Really? Is that true? Did you learn that on Wild Kratts?

L: Yep. They eat it because they don’t have any other food.

me: Huh.

L: I mean, they have food. But they don’t have any money.

me: Peregrine falcons don’t have any money?

L: In their whole country there’s not enough money to buy a car to get the food home from the store.

me: And that’s why they eat their own poop?

L: It’s to survive.

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The fact that S blows kisses to me when she says goodbye has lost a little bit of its meaning ever since I saw her saying “bye-bye pee-pee” and blowing kisses towards the toilet as she flushed.

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I’ve mentioned before L’s favoring T over me. Nothing has changed on this front. On a recent Friday night L said to me at bedtime, “Daddy’s getting me up tomorrow. Can you please sleep or just stay in your room for a long long time?”

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S is proudly showing L all of her “artwork.” Instead of ignoring her and paying attention to the movie he’s watching. He hops off the couch and sits down in front of S. With each piece she displays, he exclaims, “It’s wonderful! That’s so beautiful! You made that?”

Heart melts. In moments like these I can almost (almost) forgive him for teaching S to say “Mommy is a stupid idiot.”
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Ahhhh, the Spaaaa

I’m tired. Not in the usual way though. I’m tired from staying up late and laughing too hard. I’m tired in a wonderfully refreshing way because I spent a weekend at a SPA with FRIENDS, WITHOUT KIDS! Somehow, it seemed appropriate for me to crash someone else’s girls weekend. This is out of character for me, but it felt like the right thing to do and I’m so glad I did.

The number one most awesome and unexpected thing (from a long list of awesome and unexpected things) to come from my blog is the relationships I’ve formed with a handful of other bloggers. I count these women among my friends, even though I have not met all of them in ‘real life.’ Kim, from Let Me Start By Saying is one of these bloggers. I don’t remember how our online friendship started, how we first found each other, but I was lucky enough to meet her in person at a blog conference. She is a tall, blonde, coffee-guzzling, hilariously funny, snarky, camera-wielding, lovely, moderately obscene soul mate for me who I couldn’t possibly not be friends with. So when she extended the invite to join her and her friends on their annual spa weekend, I jumped at the chance.

Over the course of 2 days the following things may have happened:

  • 4/4 of us had a face drawn on our chins with eyeliner. We may have then performed various solos and duets while upside-down wearing a pillow case over our heads, (What? That’s totally normal,);
  • 1/4 of us peed in her pants;
  • 4/4 of us fell on the floor laughing;
  • 1/4 of us took off her pants in public, twice, unrelated to the aforementioned pee incident;
  • 2/4 of us found ourselves running from compost;
  • 1/4 of us got I-love-you-drunk and spent hours looking through all of the photos of her kids on her phone;
  • 3/4 of us did not;
  • 4/4 of us ate, drank, and were merry.
I feel all filled-up in a way I haven’t for a long time. I feel calibrated. I have a song about clavicles stuck in my head. I gained 3 pounds and yet I feel lighter. I have two new friends who I have inside jokes with. And I have a video of a couple of chins singing “Mahna-Mahna.” “What’s that?” you say? I’ll let the professionals show you:

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L really doesn’t need as much sleep as we need him to have. We need the full 12 hours of rest from him and that’s why we put him to bed at 7. His natural time to sleep isn’t until about 8:30. That’s problematic because his parents’ natural time to sleep is 9:30. One hour of wakeful reprieve is simply not enough. So, we put S down at 6:30 and tell L he’s staying up late when he gets that extra 1/2 hour until 7. Then we slog through a bedtime routine full of more manipulations, chases, battles and tears than I care to think about. By 8:00 we’re ready to be on our own, relaxing. We expect our fully wakeful son to just stay in his room relatively quietly until he’s ready to go to sleep on his own. He does not do as we expect. (Which, really, is what we expect.)

All this is a long way of saying that when he comes out of his room every 22 seconds to tell us of an urgent need for water, a last hug, a toy he forgot downstairs, a band-aid, some itchy cream, etfuckingcetera, we are displeased. Instead of hearing a cute little voice in that annoying fake-sweet voice he puts on, we hear the manipulative little devil that he is.

But last night, I had a decent amount of wine. I was in a good mood. Also, yesterday I had 7 full child-free hours! So, I was in a really excellent mood. Instead of just yelling upstairs, I went upstairs. Instead of just unceremoniously marching him back into his room, I smiled at him, held his hand, and sat on his bed.

He then explained to me that he and his two teddy bears are lions. The big teddy bear is his brother lion and the little teddy bear is his baby son who he has to take care of. And they are a family. But they had no food to eat. And they already ate all the sticks. But they were still hungry. So they ate his brother, the big bear. They cut him right here and here and drank up all his blood, because that is what some people do. He then lovingly set up a bed at the foot of his own bed in which he tucked the small bear, his son. He sang a lullaby, kissed him, and gently covered him with one of his own lovies. His own lovey, people! 

After this whole strange scene I left thinking, “What a loving, caring and imaginative son I have!” Normally, I’d leave a scene like this fretting about my blood-sucking-sociopath 4-year-old. But like I said, I had a decent amount of wine.

Moral of the story? I think the moral is that I should drink more, but that seems like a weird moral. I’ll have to look further to see if there might be some other moral in there somewhere.

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We’ve all heard that the contents of a woman’s purse can tell you a lot about the woman. Unfortunately, I think this is probably true. It’s only unfortunate because of what the contents of my purse say about me.

The current contents of my purse:

  • my wallet
  • my phone
  • my keys
  • 2 tubes of Aquaphor (one small, one medium)
  • 1 packet of tissues
  • hand sanitizer
  • 1 emergency granola bar, squished
  • 1 emergency zip lock baggie of Goldfish, squished
  • 4 pennies
  • 1 pretend coin of unknown denomination
  • 1 leg of a small Lego person
  • 1 Cookie Monster phone
  • crumbs of various and unknown origins
  • something sticky and small stuck to the lining
  • empty sippy cup, but not quite empty enough to not leak milk
  • 1 pair of clean underpants for S
  • 2 pair of wet underpants from S
The addition of pee-soaked underpants prompted me to take inventory. I felt that actual urine, someone else’s no less, in my purse probably says something pretty loud and clear about me. Gone are the days of tiny bags with just a wallet, phone and lip gloss. So, what’s in your wallet?

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WTF Tapas

S finally said her first sentence! As a reprieve from her usual pointing, shouting a word and screeching, she said, “There’s bubbles in the bath!” We’re all very happy. She followed this up with pointing, shouting “bubbles” and screeching.

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In the car L suddenly exclaims: “Mommy, I saw 2 bears!”

me: mm-hmmm. (clearly I pay a lot of attention.)

L: No, not bears. Um, what are those things?

me: dogs?

L: No. I know. Bullies. I saw two bullies!

me: Bullies?

L: Yeah. But not the people kind. The other kind. With horns.

This is when I died of cuteness as I realized L calls bulls “bullies.”

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My kids drop things like cereal and gold fish on the floor like it’s their job. S is great about helping clean up. I’m always torn whether to make L clean up though. On one hand, he should because he dropped them, on the other hand, if he’s anywhere near them he is guaranteed to step on 5 and kneel on 8 making what was once an easy object to pick up into crumbs crushed into carpet. No amount of telling him to look where he steps and kneels helps. What is up with that?

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I’ve mentioned before how much L prefers T over me. T is like a rock star around here, and I’m like, uh, well I guess a servant that you really need around but don’t like that much. Anyway, the other night two things happened to illustrate this. First, L had a complete meltdown because he wants to marry T and he’s upset that T married me instead. (WTF?) Second, L comes out of his room after bedtime and says to me from the top of the stairs, “Mommy, can you please tell Daddy a message for me? Can you tell him that I love him more than you? I mean, that I love him more than I love you. OK? Can you tell him that?” Nice.

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WTF Tapas

Talking to L about a pair of identical twin girls:

me: Can you tell them apart?

L: Yes, it’s easy.

me: How? Which is which?

L: G is the one with the beaver.

me: The what?

L: Beaver. She has one and showed it to me.

I just chalked this up to a misunderstanding and ended the conversation there. 

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L: Smells good. What’s for dinner?

me: Chicken.

L: Chicken on the cobb?

me: Yup.

L: My favorite! You know those are dinosaur bones.

Chicken on the cobb is what L calls a chicken drumstick. I will never correct this.

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Discovery: I was talking to T about how I hate toys with multiple pieces. I hate cleaning them up, I hate trying to play and discovering missing pieces etc. I jokingly said, “I just want to throw all the puzzles away.”

He said, to my surprise, “You might as well. Whenever I’m cleaning up and I find a puzzle piece I just chuck it.”

“What???”

“I’m not going to go through all the puzzles and find which one it goes to. So I throw it away.”

No wonder we don’t have a single complete puzzle in this house. And here I was blaming the kids!

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S is the best person to share a sandwich cream cookie with. This is because she’s stupid unworldly. I twist the top off and hand it to her. I get the bottom with all the cream. We’re both happy.

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In the car the morning of S’s birthday, on the way to buy balloons:

me: L, when you were little you couldn’t say balloon so you said “babloon.” It was so cute.

L: (exaggerated, head thrown back laughter) That’s so funny. Now I can say things much better. I can even say ‘hostible’ [sic]. See, ‘hostible, ha-ha-hostible. ha-sta-bull.'”

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I’ve mentioned that L has a fresh mouth. Sometimes his attitude is slightly more subtle than calling me names. Here are a few conversations from yesterday and this morning that have me laughing and pulling my hair out.

 

L was given a container of cotton candy yesterday. In the car ride home, at 4PM, we had this conversation:

L: Can I please, please, PUH-LEEZE have some cotton candy when we get home?

me: No. I don’t think it’s the greatest idea to eat cotton candy right before dinner.

L: Just a little? Please? Just some?

me: Sorry, Honey. I still don’t think it’s a good idea right before dinner.

L: Why don’t you just think about it some more and then answer me.

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Conversation this morning after he took a book of Spiderman temporary tattoos and ruined them all by soaking them in the sink:

me: Why would you do that? You ruined them all! That was a nice thing I bought for you. It cost money. I’m not buying you tattoos again.

L: Don’t worry about it. You’ll forget about this really soon and buy me tattoos again.

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Conversation at 9:15 this morning:

L: Mommy, are you still mad at us?

me: I’m annoyed. I’m really annoyed because you two have been annoying me all day. [Not my finest parenting moment.]

L: No we haven’t. It hasn’t even been all day yet.

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Now my question is whether to publish this now, or wait the rest of the day to collect more smart-assery?
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Turns out toddlers have Cockney accents. Mine does anyway. This is most commonly expressed in that she now runs around saying “‘appy!” all day long. It’s clear that she means ‘happy.’ People she says this to think it’s adorable that this little child is telling them that she’s happy. She says it to check-out workers, random passers-by, just about everyone she sees. Only I know the true meaning. That is, she is not informing people of her pleasant disposition, rather she is demanding that they sing “If You’re Happy and You Know it,” her favorite song.

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For those of you who missed the Facebook post about this, I think it bears repeating. Yesterday I took L to Old Navy. Normally, I try not to take him anywhere that includes indoors/stuff he can ruin/other people/any waiting, etc. But he was in a sweet mood and we were shopping for T’s upcoming birthday, so I risked it. For the most part, he was good. So good in fact that I didn’t even notice that it was quiet for about 10 seconds while I paid for my items. Turns out, 10 seconds is exactly enough time for L to wander over to the mannequin family, undo the pants of the girl mannequin and pull them down. When I exclaimed, “L!” upon seeing this he simply responded, “I just wanted to check on her bagina.”

Words complete fail me as I redress the fake girl and get the F out of there.

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I’m now worried that L is a future adrenaline junkie and I’m going to spend my life in anxious agony as he spends his like those guys from Jackass. This worry stems from his love of ice-cold water poured over his head. I’m talking, ice-cold. For some reason, when T gives L a bath he allows this ridiculous activity. L keeps the tap on freezing, and continually refills a large container with the torture water and then dumps it over his own head. This causes him to convulse as  his body copes with the insult. As soon as the convulsions subside, he refills the bucket for more abuse. WTF?

These guys have mothers:

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WTF Tapas

L thinks the word “soaking” means “very.” It makes some sense, soaking wet does mean very wet. But he uses it in other contexts and I choose not to correct him because it’s too cute. “I’m soaking tired.” “That was soaking fun!” “These blueberries are soaking good!”

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I mistakenly and unthinkingly corrected L on something that could have brought me lots of pleasure had I left well enough alone. When I heard him singing, “He’s got the whole world in his pants” I told him the correct lyric is “hands.” Damn it.

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Lately L has been asking me impossible to answer questions. Real Mad Hatter stuff. Like, “Mommy, does 2 plus 1?” How do you answer that?

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Lots of little things happen that aren’t quite enough for a blog post. So, I’m trying something new – a post full of bite sized WTF moments. It’s like WTF tapas.

I am at odds with myself. My Risk Adverse Nature vs My Lazy Nature duke it out every time I have to cross the toy-strewn basement playroom carrying a heap of laundry that I cannot see over. Risk breaking my neck? Or stop and pick up toys?

Turns out I’m a risk taker after all!

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Conversation with L in the car:

L: What is the thing doing to the orf?

me: What??

L: The orf. What is the thing with the orf?

me: Are you saying ‘orf’? I don’t know that word.

L: ORF! The orf in the sky.

me: Where did you learn the word?

L: I just know it. Orf. The orf in the sky. Up in the sky. The orf.

me: The sun? It’s an orb. Do you mean orb?

L: No. The orf!

me: I don’t know what an orf is. Please explain it another way.

L: The orf you stand on.

Any guesses? At this point I figured it out. L was asking about the Earth and recycling. 

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I go to the Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru for coffee about once a week on average. Sometimes it’s closer to daily. Anyway, every time I order my coffee L yells from the backseat, “And some donuts for me!” This never works. I explained to him that they only listen to grown ups, and not little kids. Now each time I go through the drive thru, L puts on his best, deepest, most serious grown up voice – which sounds like Louis Armstrong on helium – and shouts “And some donuts for me!” So far, this still is not working for him.

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This morning I awoke to the cutest sound over the monitor from S’s room. L had joined her in her crib along with an armful of books, and was “reading” Brown Bear, Brown Bear to her. This is the stuff I love about having two kids. It’s a nice balance to all the annoying stuff they fight over. (Which is everything.)

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Help me stay in the top 10!
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I’ve slipped to #12! Please help me stay in the top 5. Thank you!!

Repost: Help a Girl Out

Have you noticed my requests for votes at the bottom of many of my posts? What’s that all about? I’ll tell you what it’s all about. Top Mommy Blogs is a site that lists (can you guess?) blogs written by moms. There are a number of categories ranging from Multiples to Humor to Adoption to Cooking to Crafts and several blogs within each category. TMB ranks the blogs according to how many votes they receive*. Readers can vote daily by clicking on the Top Mommy Blogs button displayed on their favorite blog(s).

So, what does getting votes do for me? The higher the ranking I have on Top Mommy Blogs, the more exposure to new readers I have. I don’t get any money or rewards or anything, just a stoke to my ego. As a blogger, by definition, I love readers. More readers=more love. Already committed to voting for another blogger? That’s OK. Voting for me doesn’t affect your votes for anyone else. I vote when I visit other blogs.

*The folks over at Top Mommy Blogs have some secret, complex algorithm for averaging votes received. This means that my number of votes can actually fluctuate up and down, which means that my ranking can fluctuate up and down. Let’s say that on a particular day (today, for example) I ask my readers to please vote for me and I get a bunch of votes. But then the next day I don’t get any votes, my ranking may not change despite that one great day of so many votes. Frustrating, right?

Here’s the deal: I will write the best posts I can and in return you’ll click on the TMB button each time you visit my site. Sounds fair, right? To vote you simply need to click on the button over there in my sidebar, or the one below. Your click counts as your vote, and you will be redirected to Top Mommy Blogs. Once at TMB you can look around and find other interesting blogs to read, or simply hit your back button and come right back here.

Thanks for your help!!!

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I have a confession to make: I have worn make-up just about every single day since the day Jerry Garcia died. I know this to be a fact because I found out the Big News while in The Body Shop in Harvard Square buying make-up for the first time. I was beginning what would be my slow metamorphosis from dirty hippie to normal girl. (I was never actually dirty. Well, except that one time I went 56 days without a shower. But there were extenuating circumstances – I was hiking in Nepal.) Anyway, back to Jerry and make-up.

Why have I worn make-up so faithfully since then? Here’s the real confession: I don’t have eyebrows. They haven’t been plucked or waxed off or anything like that. In fact I’ve never plucked them. The problem is that they are invisible. What few brow hairs I have are somehow the same exact color as my skin. Without a bit of brow make-up, I look like something is wrong with my face. For those of you who have eyebrows, and I assume that’s all of you, you probably don’t realize what a difference they make. A person really needs something to break up the distance between one’s eyes and hair-line.

Charlie Sheen without eyebrows

See what I mean? Check out this guy!

Back then I was young. I had young skin, young eyes, and most importantly no kids. All I needed was the brows. For years I looked like I wore no make-up, but secretly was drawing in my eyebrows every morning. Now I’m no longer young. My “no make-up” days have grown to include under-eye concealer. I look like shit on my “no make-up” days.

Strange things have happened to my face as I’ve aged:

  • My lips now go out of the lines. I mean, my lip shape is the same, but the color has bled like lipstick might. WTF?  Brows and concealer under my eyes and around my lips.
  • My nose is red like a drunken seaman’s. Brows and concealer under my eyes, around my lips and on my nose.
  • My cheeks are flushed. But not in an attractive, flirty way. Each cheek has a Rorschach-ian splotch of color. They don’t even match. Brows and concealer under my eyes, around my lips, on my nose and on my cheeks.
That’s pretty much my whole face. My whole damn face. On my make-up days I don’t actually cover my whole face with concealer. Once I realized that it was my whole damn face, I moved onto actual foundation. (I am a HUGE fan of mineral make-up and if anyone from Bare Escentuals is reading this, feel free to send me a check.) Am I the only one? Has anything happened to your whole damn face?

Like this post? Vote for me! Just click on the link below. Thanks for your support!
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With mother’s day coming up I’m sure all of you moms are just like me – anxiously awaiting a day full of pampering and relaxation and piles of gifts. My mother’s day includes (but is not limited to) a decadent brunch after a hearty sleep-in. A mimosa or two and good dark coffee. Then a manicure, pedicure, massage and flowers of course. Some fancy-schmancy chocolates. A few minutes with my happy children who are dressed and clean, and then whisked away. Dinner out in a very fancy restaurant where I have to wear a dress and heels. And I look hot and thin. And the food is amazing and rich but has the nutritional value of celery. And Johnny Depp is there…

Oh, you mean real mother’s day? If I’m lucky I get brown on paper thanks to L’s painting preference of gobbing on all colors, as much as he can until someone takes the paint away. Usually his masterpieces take 3 days to dry and weigh a pound. OK, I’m selling T short; he really is romantic and thoughtful and I’m sure he’ll do something sweet for me. But doesn’t that opening paragraph sound good??

Anyway, in case you’re wondering what to get the mothers in your life, the incomparable Susan over at Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva came up with a list of excellent gifts to NOT get. For anyone. Ever. (I think my favorite is #8 and I actually do kind of want it.)

Bad Mother’s Day Gifts

Moms this isn’t a list for you, but for those who are buying you gifts. Forward these to your adult children, husbands, boyfriends, partners or whomever else may be purchasing your Mother’s Day gifts.

So what gifts should you avoid? Well, many women (not this Mama) don’t like household items or appliances, so it’s best to avoid them unless you know for sure the recipient Mom is interested in such gifts.  Jewelry and spa days are widely accepted among every mother I know, but keep an eye out for the unusual or unique gifts like the ones below:

1. The Slipper Genie. I love slippers, and I know I just said I don’t mind household appliances (by that I mean Margarita Makers or Blenders for my fruit smoothies Strawberry Daiquiris), but don’t by the Mom’s in your life mops…or in this case any footwear that doubles as a mop.  Go buy her some super soft, comfy slippers she can relax and kick back in, not ones to clean your floor.

2.  Measuring Tape Belt. Most women would love new accessories.  New shoes, scarves, purses, belts, etc. are usually a safe bet. However, most women (especially those who have grown and expelled baby humans from their bodies) prefer not to wear their measurements on their clothing. Any belt that will show the width of a woman’s waist should be avoided. Oh, and if this is a joke, I can almost guarantee she won’t find it funny.

3.  The Cuchini. Have you ever tried to give a person hints through gifts?  For example, my brother bought my Mom a waffle maker one year because he loves waffles and *hint, hint* he wanted her to cook waffles more.  I’ve also bought a coat for my husband, even though he already had one, but it was because the one he was wearing was terrible.  Something that’s beyond terrible, even if the Mom in your life needs it is the Cuchini.  The Cuchini gets rid of camel toe (see photo below). Even if your favorite Mom wears bottoms that are too small, crotch cutting bathing suits, or tiny hot pants, don’t buy her the cuchini.  It’s got to be one of the worst gifts ever.

4. The Wine Holder Necklace. “But Susan, you said jewelry!” This is not what I meant.  I love wine and I love jewelry, but spilling wine is a sin in my book, and this is just absurd.

5. Facial Flex. Does your favorite Mom need and/or want plastic surgery?  Does she have loose droopy skin?  Although I would totally accept Botox as a Mother’s Day gift, you stand a good chance of insulting Mom by giving the gift of a face lift.  Also avoid products that claim to workout facial muscles.  She’ll still have saggy skin and she’ll look like an idiot.

6. Treadmills, Gym Memberships and Shake Weights. Even if the mother in your life complains that she needs to lose weight or get in shape, please do not buy her any kind of weight loss equipment, gym membership or get in shape quick product like the shake weight.  It’s almost always a no, no.

7. Portable Speaker Shoes. Does the Mom in your life love music…and shoes?  Well, look what I found over at Ladies Gadgets…no wait, don’t.

8. Privacy. What Mom doesn’t want a little privacy?  This, however, is not what your Mom is talking about.

9. Rejuvinique Face Mask. Unless your Mom is a serial killer, perhaps your money would be better spent on buying her a facial.

10.  This might belong with the exercise equipment, but it’s so ridiculous and I am personally familiar with this, so I gave it its own number.  My Mom owned this workout VHS.  She never would do the video around us, and I just hope to God we didn’t give it to her as a gift.

So go get that Mama you love some bling, a day at the spa, a gift certificate to her favorite store, but whatever you do, just be good to your Mothers and don’t get them anything on this list…

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I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again: the best and most surprising part of blogging has been the support, stories and commiseration I get from my readers. Not only am I lucky to have such great commenters, but people also send me emails. Mostly these are people who have longer stories to share or who can particularly relate to a post and want to reach out and let me know. These are (mostly) complete strangers to me and I love that they take the time to send me a line.

I think people who have a challenging L-like kid like to know they’re not alone. It’s nice to know that while I may have screamed at my kid and told him that his favorite superhero doesn’t want to be his friend, other people have done similarly crazy mean slightly less than perfect things. It’s also nice to know that while my kid has locked me out of the house in my underwear, other people’s kids have done worse.

I recently got a long email from a reader I’ll call K. She wanted to let me know that she can relate. Her son, M, is similar to L but a bit older. She also wanted to assure me that it gets better. (Yay!) She told me a story to demonstrate how M had a remarkable gift for pushing limits and driving her crazy.

K was very pregnant with her second child when M began artistically expressing himself with his own poop every morning. K tried every trick in the book (and wrote a few of her own involving tape) to keep M out of his own diaper. But he was determined. (Once again, good traits like determination and perseverance and even creativity suck on a toddler.) Finally she converted his crib into a bed in hopes that he’d just get out of bed in the morning instead of becoming a poop Picasso. It worked. Until one morning, when K was 42 weeks pregnant, (yes, 42!!) and she woke up to the sound of her friend in her house calling her name.

This must be disorienting. Imagine being 42 weeks pregnant first of all. Then you wake up to someone coming up your stairs calling your name. You roll yourself out of bed to find your friend holding your son followed by (can you guess?) a policeman! Apparently M decided not to bother his mom on this particular morning so he just went out for a walk. Poor very-pregnant-K was given a citation and investigated for child neglect, endangerment and abuse. Her house was searched and she had to undergo psychological interviews before she was cleared of any suspicion.

While I wouldn’t want to have gone through that myself, I’m a little jealous that she has such an awesome story. Do you have a crazy story?

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I found this too funny to resist reposting here. This is an excerpt from Ninja Mom‘s post called Toddlers: Your Mother Always Prayed for This. Something about this list just rings so true and totally encapsulates the living-with-a-toddler experience.

Toddlers exact ancestral revenge in many forms.

  • If your baby is a thumb-sucker (read: self-soother) you’ll rejoice until you one day realize that you can take away the pacifier but the kid carries that thumb everywhere.
  • If your baby is a pacifier baby, you will wait too long to take it away and convincing Susie that the baby ducklings at the pond need all her pacis will elicit the same reaction from her that beating ponies with puppies would.
  • Handing a toddler a broken cookie is like handing her a tantrum grenade.
  • So his shoes are on the wrong feet. Deal with it. You have a bigger battle ahead over the sleeveless top and dirty training pants he insists on wearing to Caregiver and Me Music Class in February.
  • You’re all ready to go to that doctor’s appointment, right? Wrong. Junior took a pit stop in the splash and play fun room otherwise known as the hall bath. And look, your car keys don’t float!
  • Parents of toddlers are to mental health professionals what year-end bonuses are to salesmen.
  • Even if the restaurant does have highchairs and booster seats, resist the urge to dine out with your toddler. You’ve heard the phrase like oil and water? Like IHOP and waddlers.
  • Christ was tested in the desert by Satan. You will be tested in the grocery store by a preschooler. You will discover that you are not Christ.
  • Young children love to play in the bath unless they are actually dirty.
  • Because toddlers throw all their food on the floor, animal shelters are able to unload dogs on young families.

Toddlers, the reason we start college savings plans.

Beating ponies with puppies, hahaha! Who thinks of this stuff? Oh, right, Ninja Mom does.

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I once swore I’d never take L to another marionette show. (You should click over and read that post, it’s a good one, I’ll wait….) At the time it seemed like a plausible thing to do, even though I doubted that I’d do it. I knew even then that one day the memory would fade and my hope for a fun outing would eclipse the dusty memory of a disaster.

That time has arrived. Next week the very same theater is putting on a marionette version of Pinocchio. L loves Pinocchio. (Which, by the way, is full of kidnappings, smoking children and donkey morphing, all of which I didn’t really remember or notice until I watched it as a mother.) He is four now, is he big enough? Surely the m&m debacle won’t repeat itself. But could it be a good outing?

Any outing that involves something new and potentially exciting, something new and potentially boring, any waiting, any sitting still, and any expectation of quiet on L’s behalf is an outing full of potential pitfalls – an outing that gives me anxiety. But then I think of how fun it could be, how different and special it could be. And all of that hope outweighs my anxiety and my right mind and I go ahead and do it. And then I end up bitterly disappointed and swear off any such thing ever again, again.

So, what to do? Buy the tickets? Give it a shot? He is getting big and sometimes he’s actually, surprisingly, well-behaved.

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Alicia is the funny and multi-talented blogger from Naps Happen and The Frazzled Foodie. If you haven’t checked out her blogs, do. Her kids are apparently narcoleptic (although she denies this) and she takes pictures of their various naps for (can you guess?) Naps Happen. These aren’t minor league cute nappers, like my kids who are adorable but generally in the vicinity of their beds. This is the majors: sleeping on stairs, buried under couch cushions, sprawled amidst toys on a hardwood floor, face-planted at the table. I defy you to look at these pictures and not crack a smile. With The Frazzled Foodie, she admirably maintains her passion for cooking and shares highly personalized recipes and stories of life as a mom of two (possibly narcoleptic) boys.

Why am I talking about Alicia so much? Because she has written a guest post for me. My first ever guest post! Here she paints a picture of a typical day in the life. This happens to be a WTF day. The kind of day we’ve all had where we wonder, how did I get here? How did this happen to me?

My special room in hell has been reserved. After weeks of poor weather, canceled preschool, and cabin fever, I am desperate to find a place for my four-year-old and my two-year-old to work off some boyish energy. I have brought my children to a McDonald’s Playland.

We are not McDonald’s people. William and Cormac do not ask us for fries or cheeseburgers. They do not know what a happy meal is. Neither of them actually recognizes Ronald McDonald, although I have read that he is more widely known among America’s children than Jesus. What my boys do recognize, however, is a big slide. What they are immediately drawn to is the impressive two-story network of multi-colored tunnels and plexiglass bubbles that fill this greasy-smelling room. Forget the Chicken McNuggets – these boys are ready to rumble.

They are, of course, not the only children who are going crazy for the indoor jungle gym. Roughly ten other children ranging in age from about two to seven are crawling all over the tubing like insects. Their screams echo off the walls of this amazingly acoustic, glassed-in cell like crazed fans at a high school basketball game. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an eleventh child come streaking out of the family bathroom in the corner. His mother chases angrily after him waving a wet wipe and saying something about hand washing.

I seat myself at one of the cleaner tables arrayed in front of the jungle gym, gingerly arranging the Happy Meal I’ve purchased for the boys and putting the straw into my mammoth Diet Coke. I scan the table to ensure I’m not about to rest my elbow in a pool of ketchup. The coast is clear.

William and Cormac have no interest in our Happy Meal, despite the masculine toy it contains: a red truck with stickers you can apply yourself. William has scaled the levels of the jungle gym with impressive speed and is already running back and forth in the tunnels at the uppermost levels, shouting unintelligible messages at me through the clear plastic bubbles that connect the tubes. He looks like an inmate at a hamster farm. Cormac is a little slower, which is understandable considering he is not even supposed to be in the playland until he’s three-years-old. Undeterred by his insufficient stature, he figures out how to shove his foot into the netting that forms the jungle gym walls, vaulting himself up to the next level each time. A woman behind me comments to her companion that she can’t believe that baby is making it all the way to the top. I briefly reconsider my choice to let him play there and wonder if I get an even more special room in hell for parents who let their babies break their necks at McDonald’s.

Most of the parents are hardly paying any attention to their kids, which is why nobody has noticed a four-year-old boy who is lying on the floor under the jungle gym stairs, eating a chicken nugget that was lying on the floor. The two women next to me have babies with them and are gossiping scandalously. Every so often a little girl with pigtails runs up to their table for a sip from her juice box.

An older woman in the corner is one of the few adults focused on the children in the gym. She is laughing at their antics and looks far less stressed-out than the younger parents in the room. Catching my glance, she nods at Cormac, who has managed to take his chocolate milk into the play gym with him and is running back and forth in one of the tunnels. “Just wait until you’re a grandparent,” she says. “It’s much better.” I roll my eyes in appreciation and liken my children to monkeys. She chortles appreciatively and tells me that William is a charmer.

My gaze is drawn to a table across the room. A girl who appears to be about five-years-old has come running to her mother, bawling. One look at her and I can tell why. She has wet herself and the entire crotch and inside legs of her pants are soaked. Her mother pats ridiculously at her legs with a stack of napkins and hastily begins packing up to leave. The girl is inconsolable, as if someone else wet her pants for her, without her permission.

I turn my eyes back to the play gym just in time to see Cormac have his own catastrophe. He runs toward the window of the plexiglass bubble in the center of the play gym and trips. As if it is happening in slow motion, I see his chocolate milk slide down the front of the bubble and leak out the bottom, dripping outside the gym and onto the floor. His lower lip trembles and I see his mouth form the sad words, “Sorry Mamaaaaaa…..” I am aware that nearly every parent in the room is looking at me. I grab a pack of baby wipes from my purse and crawl inside the bubble, uttering soothing words to Cormac and furiously working to wipe up the mess. He is somewhat consoled and exits the bubble with me, where I use another wipe to clean the floor under the gym. I turn to face my audience of parents and theatrically shrug my shoulders. One or two smile sympathetically. The rest are stone-faced.

As I sit down again at my table and hand Cormac a slice of apple from his Happy Meal, William comes running up. He has just come down the slide. “Mommy, my pants and my socks are wet.” With horror, I realize that the slide was the last location used by the girl who had peed herself moments ago. The girl is long gone but her presence is still being felt at the McDonald’s Playland, perhaps by several more children who are about to go down the slide.

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T read yesterday’s post and knew immediately what the blue stuff is. Any guesses?

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No?

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Are you sure you want to know?

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OK, here it is. Mystery solved: the blue stuff refers to the blue part of a flame. T and L were talking about camping and fires and s’mores and L fixated on the fact that parts of a fire are blue. Anyway, he was absolutely right about it: one should never touch it. It’s very, very hot.

So, now we can all rest easy. Our houses won’t be condemned. No need to worry about the cat’s fur. (Actually, this blue stuff would be very bad for a cat.)

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