Turns Out I'm a Little More Country and a Little Less Rock and Roll

I recently bought tickets to see the Zac Brown Band in October, and I started contemplating all the concerts I have seen over the years.  I thought, based on my ipod playlists, that I had pretty eclectic tastes.  I’ve got Barry Manilow, Hank Jr., the Beastie Boys, CeeLo, Conway Twitty, Def Leppard, Elvis Costello, Gotye, Harry Chapin, Ice Cube, Willie Nelson, Jane's Addiction, Janis Joplin, Juliana Hatfield 3, David Allan Coe, Kid Rock, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, The Byrds, Metallica, Michael Buble, N’Sync, Led Zeppelin, Juice Newton, Neil Young, U2, Neil Diamond, OMD, Ozzy, Paul McCartney, Pink Floyd, Pure Prairie League, Ronnie Milsap, Johnny Cash, Salt & Pepa, Sir Mix-a-Lot, the Sundays, and Taco, to name a few.  That’s eclectic, right? 

Then I started thinking about the concerts I’ve actually attended.  Turns out I’ve got a bit of a “type.” 

Beach Boys – this was my very first concert.

Coolio – ‘member?  He had that song?  I think it was 5 bucks a ticket in college.

Indigo Girls – and this was before I even owned Birkenstocks.

Reba – I’m kinda over her now . . .

Tony Bennett – I went by myself.  Hubby bought me a single ticket (so I actually had a really good seat) because he was promoting his Duets album and he’d be singing with James Taylor.

Free Bird!

Lynyrd Skynyrd – what?  Nobody else is wearing their sterling bead necklace?  This place was like a Jorts Convention. 

Toby Keith – the man can rock a stage and I can rock some Miller Lites.

Brooks and Dunn – we took Large to this concert in the Baby Bjorn when he was about 5 weeks old.  Best.  Parents.  Ever.

Alabama – I knew they were in town when I saw their trailer parked at the HoJo’s where I lived my freshman year of college.  (Long story.)

John Denver – I have great memories of sitting on the lawn at Wolf Trap listening to John Denver and his guitar.  To hear "Rocky Mountain High" live was to be close to God.

Kenny Rogers – he still sounds great but he needs to embrace his age.  Embrace it, Kenny.  Don’t fight it.

Justin Roberts - He's a children's performer, but his stuff is so catchy.  We're total groupies and we're  kinda stalking him.

Justin Roberts.  Hot, in that nerdy sorta way . . . 

George Jones – He showed up.  George Jones fans will understand why this is a big deal.

Phil Collins – I knew the words to EVERY song.  Hello 1988!

Genesis – not as good as Phil by himself.  Totally different vibe and many more old people mumbling about Peter Gabriel.

Toad the Wet Sprocket – College roomies were really into Toad.  If you are cool, you just call them Toad.  Toad.

Barry Manilow -  very sparkly.  Loves me some Barry.

James Taylor – um, I’ve seen him once or twice.  Hehe.  James Taylor is the only concert for which I’ve spent the night outside for tickets. (And it was in the 90’s, not the 60’s!)  I’ve seen him almost every year since 1992.  I’ve gotten his autograph, had my photo taken with him, and traveled to various cities to see him perform live.  I've been to the Today show more than once when he's been a guest.  I even saw him in concert 9 days before I delivered Large, when I was HUGELY pregnant and it poured rain.  I like him.  A lot.

Hello, James.  It's me again . . . 

Ben Taylor – James’s son. 

Kate Taylor – James’s sister.

Steve Miller – I was worried it wouldn’t be a great concert because of all the instrumental “stuff” they’ve got going on, but it was flippin’ awesome.

Chicago – so very 80’s.

Carole King -  it was a package deal with James Taylor.  She made me feel like a natural woman though.

Hootie and the Blowfish - bought the tix for Hubby because I thought he'd be psyched.  Big birthday disappointment.

Kenny Chesney – before he got big . . . I think he was opening for Toby Keith?

Simon & Garfunkel – Saw the Old Friends tour.  They are geniuses, and it’s a great memory because I saw them with my friend “Mary” who passed a few years later.

Bon Jovi – saw them in Vegas when we were on our Babymoon, and I’m pretty sure I got high from second-hand smoke.  It’s all good, man, but puff-puff-pass.

Don Henley -  he was at a charity gala, which is cool if you’re a big fan, which I am not.

Eddie from Ohio – used to see them in local bars.  Now I listen to Robbie Schaeffer on Kids Place Live.  My, how times have changed.

Keith Urban – I’m gonna say it . . . not a HUGE fan. 

Sugarland -  I group them in the Reba category.  A little too twangy and forced for my taste.  I’m more of an acoustic type of gal, and I always feel like I want to give her a lozenge.

GooGoo Dolls – in Seattle when Hubby was on a business trip.  Wore ear plugs.  I like them, but I’m in my 30’s for goodness sake.

Clearly I was born in the wrong generation.  I know all the words to "White Rabbit," but I can't tell you the difference between the GooGoo Dolls and Green Day, and don't get me started on the new boy bands.  I'm still trying to figure out how Justin Timberlake evolved from that curly-headed adolescent geek into the man who brought sexy back.

The Birds and the Bees

It’s time.

Our curious boys are starting to ask significant questions about babies and how they get in a mommy’s belly.

I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the need to tell an eight-year-old, who still believes in Santa, the Elf on the Shelf, and the Tooth Fairy, about the Birds and the Bees.

It used to be that they were curious about the differences between boys and girls.  Large once (at a packed movie theatre line in Manhattan, of course) reached up, touched my boob, and asked “why do you have these?”  Hubby told him, “everybody has them.  You have them.”  Large’s response?  “Not as big as Mommy’s!”  We explained that girls have them so that they can feed their babies when the time is right. 

I nursed all our kids, so eventually this all made sense to him.  Naturally, he was a little inquisitive when we brought Small home, but both Large and Medium seemed to accept the idea that Mommy was feeding the baby.  No big deal.

And as far as differences go, we have explained that when they go to a friend’s house for a sleepover and the friend has a sister, we wear pajamas, not just our skivvies, and act appropriately.  Just because we all pee with the door open around here (some of us by choice, and some of us because there is no friggin’ privacy anywhere in this house) doesn’t mean we do so in mixed company. 

Lately, however, the questions have been coming more frequently.  We want to keep those lines of communication open and we have told the boys that they should always ask us if they need an answer instead of discussing it on the bus or on the playground, etc., because Mommy and Daddy are always going to tell them the truth.

I’m afraid the time has come.  To tell them The Truth.

I’m persweaty already.

We fielded a lot of questions when I was pregnant with Small. 

• How did the baby get in your belly?  Well, when Mommy and Daddy love each other and decide they want to have a baby, the Mommy gets pregnant.

•  How come the babysitter doesn’t have a baby in her belly?  She’s not married. 

• Uncle Justin’s not married and he has a baby.  Dammit, Justin!

• How is the baby going to get out of your belly?  When the time is right, Mommy will go to the hospital and the doctor will get the baby out.

But recently we’ve been getting more detailed questions as their little brains process the logic behind all our previous answers.

• Where’s your penis?  Girls and boys are different.  Girls don’t have penises.

• Why do you have hair there?  Because I haven’t had time to get a wax.

• Do Mommy dogs have babies?  Yes

• Then how do their puppies get out of the dog's belly?  Um, they go to the Vet.

• Do you have a baby in your belly?  Nope.  Just fat.  Thanks.

• How come you don’t have a baby in your belly right now?  Our family is complete already.

• How do mommies get babies in their belly?  Remember I told you?  When mommies and daddies love each other . . .

• But don’t you always love Daddy?

Yikes.

We also discovered the other day that Large thinks the doctor gives Mommy a shot and then she gets pregnant.  Learned that one on the bus.

So I think it’s time to offer some clarification. 

Personally, I learned the details from a friend in 4^th grade.  Her parents had sat her down and explained it all and I remember thinking that her parents must have thought she was mature enough to handle it.  I went home and asked my mom, but . . . crickets.

I was in high school before my mom left Ann Landers Talks to Teenagers About Sex on my bed.  Because when you think Sex, you think middle-aged-advice-columnist Ann Landers.  She had checked it out from the library.  I read it from cover to cover in one afternoon and took it back downstairs to my mom, who returned it the next day.  We never spoke of it again.  That was my complete lesson in sex education.  

I don’t want my boys learning from some kid on the bus who doesn’t have all the facts.  And I don’t want them learning from a teacher who is required to use technical terminology deemed appropriate by the public school system.

It is OUR responsibility.  I want to treat the boys with respect and help them realize they can ask us anything.  I’ve got to put my own issues aside.  I’ve told Hubby we either need to do it together or he needs to Man up.  (Because I know if we do Rock, Paper, Scissors I’m SO gonna lose.)

Stay tuned . . . this could get interesting.

Ridin' the Rails with Stinky Stinkerson

Hubby was working in NYC all last week, so the boys and I thought we’d go visit for the weekend, catch up with old friends, and hang out at some of our favorite spots. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Since we’ve spent many long hours sitting in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike and said turnpike does NOT bring out my better qualities, we decided to take the train.  We would leave at 6:05, and since Small’s regular bedtime is 7 pm, I assumed he would fall asleep . . . a precious little angel all snuggled in my arms and rocking to the gentle rhythm of the swaying train.

Um, that’s not how it went down.

Everything started out great.  The boys were excited to be taking the train, I had packed the ginormous suitcase and put it in the Swagga Wagon, and traffic into DC was bearable.  We arrived at the train station right on time, parked, got dinner to-go, and headed for the line to get ready to board.  The line was at least 100 deep, which made me think it wasn’t for our train, as we still had a half hour before departure.  Sure enough, a redcap flagged me down, asked me where I was going, and said “follow me.” 

I LOVE it when people are kind and helpful.  It totally restores my faith in humanity.

He parted the crowds like Moses and the Sea and led us to a secret entrance to the tracks.  He found us four seats facing each other and stowed my luggage and bid us adieu.  Best 5 bucks I ever spent.

Then the squirming started.  Ever traveled with a toddler who was so beyond exhausted that his eyes started rolling back into his head?

Two. And-a-half.  Hours.  Of squirming/screaming/wriggling.  It was like trying to hold onto a bag full of cats.  Remember that scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation where Rusty realizes Aunt Bethany has wrapped the cat as a Christmas gift?  Like that.

I have never been so happy to see Hubby as I was when we got to the top of the escalator at Penn Station and he was waiting with open arms.  But that was short lived, because our next stop was the tiniest hotel room known to man. 

All five of us squeezed into a hotel room.  We had our bed, a pull-out couch for Medium and Large, and we stuck Small in the pack-n-play in the bathroom.  There were two main problems with this configuration, however.

1. Once we got everyone settled in bed, there was literally no space to walk because of all the quality hotel furniture, the stroller, and our luggage.
2. Since Small was asleep in the bathroom, if you had to pee you were out of luck.  Which may be why certain members of our entourage had “accidents” the first night. 

That’s a whole lotta family togetherness.

The trip home didn’t start out much better.  We boarded the train after finding a redcap to help us with our luggage.  We looked like sherpas . . . wearing as much clothing as we could and with backpacks strapped on every available shoulder.  As we were getting settled into our seats, Hubby and I both smelled something.

Of course, our first inclination was for each of us to ask, “was that YOU?”

Cute.  But veddy, veddy steenky.

Oh, right.  The baby.  

So don’t judge us, but we were already on the train, and those train bathrooms are comparable in size to an airplane restroom.  We were desperate.  We did what we had to do.  We took Small a few rows back, away from as many people as possible, and quickly changed his stinky.  While Hubby did the actual procedure, I stood at the ready so that I could transport the offending diaper to a trashcan outside the train.

But you know SOMEBODY had to make a comment.

I got the stink-eye from a young woman a few rows up.  I cringed apologetically and said, “sorry.  We’ll be done in a second,” because I realized this was not an ideal situation.

“Ugh.  Seriously?  Can’t you do that somewhere else?” she replied.  Because she’s what?  20?  And she knows what it’s like to travel with a family of young children, one of whom is probably going to start screaming soon and who will be way unhappy if he has to fester in a dirty diaper for the next 3.5 hours?  “You can’t use the restroom or something?  Those restrooms are huge.”

Possible sarcastic responses:

• “Yes, I could, but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of engaging you in polite conversation.”

• “Really?  Huge?  Judging from the look on your terrified boyfriend’s face and my impression that he’s not allowed to have an opinion, I’m guessing your idea of “huge” and mine are two different things.”

• “We could have used any number of restrooms we passed along the way, all of which were line-less and gleeming with cleanliness and sanitation, given we’re in friggin’ Manhattan.  But I decided to wait until 2 minutes before departure time because I like the excitement of having a deadline.”

Stuff.  Lots and lots of stuff.

I get it.  No one wants to smell poop.  But what were we supposed to do, really?  There’s no changing table in a bathroom that consists of a metal toilet and the equivalent of an upside-down water fountain.  We couldn’t disembark with our family of five, a stroller, 2 suitcases, bags, and five winter coats, travel up the escalator, undress the baby, change him, travel down the escalator, find five seats together, stow our luggage/stroller/bags/coats, ETCTERA, just so you don’t have to plug your nose for what amounted to about 30 seconds of unpleasantness.

So pipe down. 

Oh, and a private note to the mean 20-year-old with no sympathy for haggard parents of a stinky toddler: you got off at Newark.  Newark.  You think this is the last experience with STINK you’re gonna have today?  Happy holidays . . .

More Helpful Advice for the Suburban Mommy in the Big City

A continuation . . . 

11.  Make sure your child’s immunizations are all current.  You won’t have to worry as much about Hepatitis when a sweet little Hispanic lady says to you, “your son lick elevator.” 

12.  On the subject of hygiene, I’ve never been one of those Purell mommies.  (You know the kind that have the travel-size hand sanitizer in a little holster on the side of their purse?) I tried to make sure my boys washed their hands often when we were in the city.  They loved to hold onto the pole on the train and the thought of the thousands of people who have touched that same pole throughout the day skeeves me out.  And then of course, there’s the licking.  Again.  It SHOULD go without saying that “we don’t lick the pole,” but it’s worth emphasizing.

13.  Remember the Geriatrics at Golden Corral who are experts at raising my children?  It’s worse in the city.  There’s the added threat of having a little mommy vs. toddler screaming match at the playground documented on isawyournanny.blogspot.com.  Isawyournanny.blogspot.com is a special website where random strangers can tattle on your childcare provider if she dares to talk on her cell phone or discipline your child for sticking a wet lollipop on that nice dog.  I worried that someone might assume I was a nanny, take a photo of me doing the one-arm wrangle with my toddler, and post it on the website.

I'm sure rodents don't use this sand as a litter box when we're not around . . . 

14.  There is no shame in wearing shoes that are practical for your situation.  Just because every 13-year-old girl on the Upper East Side is wearing Chanel shoes and carrying a Louis Vuitton bag does not mean that you should sport such accessories to the playground.  I once saw a Prada mommy standing on the side of the sandbox trying to coax her preschooler to get out of the sand.  That little girl knew there was NO chance her mother was gonna hop in the sandbox to retrieve her.  Since I logged a lot of time at the playground with my dirty little sand throwers, while wearing J Crew flip flops and stylish ensembles from Old Navy, I may have silently snickered at this scenario.

15.  Do not let your children play with the ashtray in taxi cabs, lest you notice something in your child’s mouth and discover that he is indeed chewing someone else’s previously chewed gum. 

16.  Hope you like pets!  We had mice while we were in New York.  Lots of them.  Hubby has never moved so fast as the day he called the exterminator and insisted he service our apartment immediately as, and I quote, “my wife is losing her sh*t.”  It started when I caught half a mouse under a plastic cup.  I’ll wait while that image sinks in. . .  HALF a mouse was caught under the cup while the back end (the half with the long tail) was wiggling furiously outside the cup.  We came home from a trip one time to find a mouse carcass in the middle of our bedroom floor. Hubby once had to call a colleague to stop by our apartment on his way home to help me dispose of a mouse, which involved us duct taping it inside a paper plate and carrying it out to the curb.  But the incident that put me over the edge was when Medium came into the family room and announced excitedly, “I petted the mouse!”

17.  Teach the kids good balance.  Climbing onto a crowded city bus with a diaper bag and your stroller strapped to your back while your children clutch the tails of your shirt so you don’t get separated does not guarantee you a seat.  Many people have little sympathy for children on public transportation.  The fact that children can’t reach the handle is irrelevant to some weary travelers, but unfortunately it means that when your bus stops suddenly for a wayward jaywalker, your kids are going to go flying towards the front of the bus with the velocity of a roller coaster.  And then you’re gonna have to put all your crap down and go retrieve them.

18.  The subway stations are a maze of germs and danger.  The trains pull into the station at breakneck speed, so when our kids were standing close to the edge of the platform so that they could count the black rats, (always a fun game!) we would tell them they couldn’t stand on the yellow warning part; instead they had to stand with their backs pressed against the wall.  It was the lesser of two evils.  Expose them to Hepatitis or risk being hit by a train?  Your pick.

19.  The preschool process is an absolute nightmare.  We applied to preschools that wanted $30,000 a year for tuition. . . to cut paper, eat glue, and draw stick figures!  Unless the school has crayons made out of pure gold, our kids aren’t going there.  We knew we were out of our league when Hubby and I went to an informational meeting and looked up to see Spike Lee sitting 3 rows behind us.  It is safe to assume that we are NOT in the same income bracket as Mr. Lee. 

20.  Know that you are being assessed when you take your child for a preschool interview.  (Yes, there are interviews.  Perhaps your child isn’t ready for ALL of the letters of the alphabet . . . )  I mistakenly showed up for an interview where Medium was taken into a playroom with other children his age and I was shuffled into a conference room with the other mothers.  I was wearing a wool sweater, jeans, and Ugg boots.  (While hideous, they are warm and comfy for city walking.)  One of the other mommies was all decked out in a fancy suit, Prada shoes, and one of those Berkin bags that Samantha coveted on Sex in the City.  Medium was not accepted at this particular preschool, although his fate was probably sealed when I asked how they handle “spirited” children. 

These are just a few helpful tips for the Minivan Driving Mommy who will need to get used to schlepping children around in the City That Never Sleeps.  (And neither will your children, until they get used to the incessant noise.)  Good luck!

Advice for the Suburban Mommy in the Big City

I have an acquaintance who is about to embark on her New York City adventure as her husband is being transferred.  Similarly, Hubby and I lived in Manhattan for three years while he did a rotation with his firm.  Millions of Manhattanites raise their children in the city, but when you are a suburban girl moving to the big city, there are many nuances of which you are unaware.  It’s the Country Mouse and the City Mouse all over again, except with offspring and a lot less parking.

My advice to a Suburban Mommy on becoming a City Mommy:

1.  Teach your children early that Manhattan is a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities.  This will save you from embarrassment when your 3-year-old sees a Hassidic Jew and loudly proclaims, “look!  It’s Abraham Lincoln!” 

2.  Locate all the Starbucks and Barnes and Noble locations because they have restrooms.  Unfortunately, when your child has diarrhea in front of the Toys R Us in Times Square, none of these locations will be close enough.  Don’t ask me how I know this, but trust that I know of what I speak.  The good news is that a bout of gastric evacuation will gain you more personal space than you have EVER had in Times Square.

3.  You know how when you’re walking down the sidewalk in your neighborhood and you pass someone you don’t know you smile and say good morning anyway?  Don’t do that in the city.  In the words of my shrink, “stop smiling at people.  They think you’re a freak.”  For this I paid her big bucks.

4.  That wasn’t a squirrel.  It was a rat.  A big one.

5.  Your stroller will not fit into any retail establishment.  Buy a bike lock, leave the stroller outside, and enjoy wrestling your wiggly kids in the Ralph Lauren flagship store.  Lock it, or you will see a homeless man transporting all his wordly possessions with your Bugaboo.

6.  Finding  a sweet parking spot on the street is a huge responsibility, and it is not to be taken lightly.  When the street sweepers come through, you will need to remove your car from that spot, but ONLY for the duration of time it takes the street sweeper to sweep that spot.  What I mean is, you need to pull out of the spot into mainstream traffic and block traffic until he passes and you can, fingers crossed!, pull back into your spot before some jackwad races in there.  This is how it’s done, folks.  Ambulance behind you?  Wait in line, buddy; nobody’s getting my spot!

7.  While I can’t stress enough how important it is to teach your children sidewalk safety immediately, I might suggest being aware of your word choice when doing so.  It can be frightening to be waiting at the curb with the aforementioned melting pot ingredients and have your child remind you that we don’t walk until the White Man tells us we can go.

8.  Speaking of which, you cannot cross Park Avenue in one light cycle by walking.  You need to grab your kids and run, or else you’re going to get stuck in the median (which is lovely with its spring tulips, by the way,) and have to keep the hair out of your eyes as yellow cabs whiz past you as if they are getting ready for take-off at LaGuardia.

9.  You can purchase gorgeous fresh fruit and vegetables from street vendors.  And also pot.

10.  Your stroller is your primary source of transportation, but be careful not to overpack.  You will be carrying that bad boy UP the stairs in the Subway station, along with all your accoutrements AND your children.  Plan accordingly, because it’s about 50/50 that someone will offer to help you.

To be continued . . . 

Unadulterated *ss-Kissing

I have recently begun a campaign to get a shout-out on the Rants From Mommlyand blog.  (http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/)  These ladies, Kate and Lydia, are hilarious - they have this blog and now they've gotten a writing gig and everything.  Remember how Ellen campaigned to get on the cover of Oprah's O Magazine?

Ellen just kept talking about how she wanted to be on the cover of O Magazine, which was funny because Oprah is Queen of the Universe and she's the only one who is ever on the cover.  But it worked!  


So this is my campaign to get a shout-out on RantsfromMommyland.com.  They have a section called "Blogs We Love," and my current goal in life is to be ON THAT LIST.  

I sent them an email this morning, detailing all the reasons why they should love me:

1.  I loves Target.  When I lived in Manhattan, I used to take the subway 2 stops into Harlem to get my car out of the garage so I could drive it 45 minutes into Queens or Connecticut just so I could go to Target.  

2.  I have three boys, because even God knows that this house is only big enough for one princess.  And that would be me.

3.  I truly believe that if I am reincarnated, I will come back as Ms. Dolly Parton.  In fact, my signature karaoke song is "9 to 5."

4.  Though I birthed my last child a little over a year ago, in reality I've been trying to take off the baby weight (which consists mostly of chocolate and Doritos.  Original, not the Cool Ranch,) for about 8 years.  I am a Lifetime member of Weight Watchers, and I've decided that this means I will be struggling with my weight for the duration of my lifetime.

5.  I have the mouth of a sailor - but there are certain words I do NOT say, and I do my best not to HEAR them either.  I refer to nether-regions. 

6.  I was recently told by a perfectly respectable Tarot Card Reader that I am a deep person, and I have therefore dubbed myself the Dalai Mama.

7.  I need to find a way to make money doing this blog thing.  I'm a SAHM, and I would love to not have to justify to anyone my 7-days-a-week coffee habit.  My husband works hard to support our family . . . and apparently my caffeine addiction based on the amount of money and time I spend at Starbucks.

8.  My misadventures at the gym are Pulitzer Prize worthy.  You can't make this sh*t up. ( http://boymommynyc.blogspot.com/2011/01/zen-of-nugget.html)  You know the fabulous woman in the cute workout clothes whose hair stays perfectly coiffed throughout Body Pump?  (kate.)  That's not me.  I'm the fat girl in the back.

9.  I, too, have a shelf.  It's where I keep my crumbs.  I inherited it from my grandmother, who also called it her shelf.  Like me, she took pride in all of her chins and swore that her kidneys were next to her eyeballs, which is why she was so emotional.

10.  I buried my mother in a pair of Tweety Bird socks because I knew she wouldn't want to be wearing pantyhose for All Eternity.  Mama raised me right.

Check out their blog at rantsfrommommyland.com.  When I'm a rich and famous writer, world-renowned for my biting wit and sarcasm, I'll buy you a car.  I promise.

Facebook Posts That Sum Up My Life.

. . . is wondering why Medium isn’t wearing any pants.  Again.  (5.20.08)

. . . is wondering why nobody ever buys my crap on ebay.  (5.30.08)

. .  .is wondering if anyone else thinks the duck on Word World sounds dangerously like Dr. Phil.  Or am I just losin’ it?  (6.2.08)

. . . thinks the First  Aid station at Yankee Stadium is the size of a closet.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  (7.18.08)

. . . snuck a 6-pack into the Stepbrothers movie last night – it really does make it funnier!  (8.5.08)

. . . is trying to make it ‘til Tuesday without sticking my head in the oven.  (8.28.08)

. . . is cooking dinner.  And by cooking I mean heating fish sticks and waffle fries.  (9.8.08)

. . . went to Pilates yesterday.  Now it hurts when I sneeze.  (9.11.08)

. . . is continuing to hold.  My call is very important to them.  The next available representative will be with me shortly.  (9.22.08)

. . . is ready for Hubby to be home from Chicago.  And I’m off to PTA.  (next step?  . . . apparently, vice presidential running mate.)  (9.24.08)

. . . almost lost my side mirror to a NJ Transit bus in the Lincoln Tunnel.  (10.2.08)

. . . wishes the PTA would serve frosty beverages at tonight’s Halloween party.  Mommy needs a glass of wine.  (10.30.08)

“Charlie Bit My Finger” makes me laugh every time I see it.  And it makes me want to speak with a British accent.  All the time.  (11.13.08)

I have made a decision: when the answer to “is it dirty?” is “I wiped a booger on it,” the answer is YES.  (12.2.08)

Sittin’ poolside in Orlando.  (. . . OK, it’s the baby pool, but still.)  (12.8.08)

Just skidded and left my a$$ print on a snowy NYC sidewalk.  So graceful.  (12.19.08)

. . . is wondering of Stepbrothers will get an Oscar nod.  (1.2.09)

My 3-year-old just said, “Daddy’s a nice boy.  YOU’RE like a stepmom.”  NO more fairytales!  (1.8.09)

. . .watched Cops last night.  Watching shirtless men with mullets try to elude police always makes me feel better.  (3.2.09)

I am feeling better; thanks for asking.  Not 100% by any means, but I am no longer praying for the sweet release of death, so that’s a plus.  (3.18.09)

A Kindergartener complimented my mad art skillz.  It’s gonna be a good day!  (3.24.09)

Just kicked my husband out of the house for the ‘Heels game.  I can’t take the yelling and it scares the daylights out of the dog.  So, you see, he HAD to go.  (4.6.09)

Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs are a gift from God.  (4.7.09)

My goal in life is to squeeze Tim McGraw’s biceps before I die.  (5.13.09)

. . . is watching a woman try to pluck her stiletto out of the rubber flooring at the playground.  Perhaps heels aren’t the best option for the playground?  (5.20.09)

Medium just told me, “no shows, no snacks, no tattoos, no nuffin!  I am NOT happy!”  and stomped his foot.  Alrighty then.  (5.28.09)

. . . is hoping we don’t have a repeat of the “naked temper tantrum” in public again today.  I was worried there’d be footage on the 11 o’clock news of me, disheveled and frustrated, trying to hail a cab on York Ave. while holding a screaming, kicking, wet, naked child.  (6.16.09)

. . . is celebrating a decade of marriage.  I’d get married all over again!  (Maybe even to my husband.)  (6.26.09)

. . . was sitting poolside and wondering . . . why can’t I look cute, sexy, and sassy while eating potato chips straight out of the Utz Big Bag like the 2 bikini-clad twentysomethings across the patio?  Sigh.  (7.6.09)

My darling husband hacked my facebook account and went Farmville-crazy . . . apparently because he wanted a free cow.  (7.31.09)

Just kicked Large’s a$$ at Wii Frisbee Dog.  Take that, 6-year-old!!!  (8.5.09)

Medium:  “Mommy, can you fix this?”  Me:  “Sure; what’s wrong with it?”  Medium: “I accidentally peed on it.”  (8.9.09)

A conversation between the boys – Medium: “Large!  WHAT has gotten into you?”  Large: “YOU don’t talk to me that way!”  Hmmmmm . . . .   (8.13.09)

It’s sad when Medium starts the day by saying, “if we go to Target today . . . “  (9.11.09)

Hubby came home from work in the middle of the day and caught me doing . . . housework.  I hate that.  I like his expectations to be LOW.  (9.18.09)

According to Large, “coffee is for ten-year-olds.”  (9.22.09)

. . . only has one fully-functioning nostril and a killer sinus headache.  Feel sorry for me.  (10.1.09)

Had fun in Old Town for L’s bachelorette party. Nothing says “we’re here to party” like a pregnant bridesmaid!  (10.4.09)

I think God invented the drive-thru Starbucks because He really wants me to be happy.  (10.21.09)

According to my husband, watching a pregnant woman with hot rollers in her hair apply deodorant while hiking up her dress and revealing maternity pantyhose is NOT sexy.  Who knew?  (11.7.09)

First Time-Out of the day at 7:03 AM.  It’s gonna be a long one . . . (11.11.09)

Just shaved a few years off my life by accidentally seeing a photo in US Weekly of John Gosselin doing yoga.  My eyes!  My EYES!!!  (11.16.09)

Last night’s dream:  The Jonas Brothers were on trial for some sort of hunting infraction, and they were in the front row in court, dressed in full camouflage regalia.  Only two were on trial though – the third was just there for moral support.  (11.24.09)

Mommy:  “Whatcha doing?”  Medium: “Nuffin, Just makin’ a card for Jesus, since it’s almost his birfday.  I need to draw girl hair, cuz Jesus looks like he has girl hair.”  (11.30.09)

Medium just walked into the living room with a Power Rangers mask and a pool noodle.  Hmmmm . . .  (12.7.09)

. . . is a little concerned that my four-year-old is reciting, word for word, the Touch and Brush commercial.  (1.5.10)

You squeeze!  You roll!  You press!
Now your bathroom looks a mess!
There's GOT to be a better way . . . 

My four-year-old is wearing only a t-shirt, underwear, and socks, and is singing “Rockin’ the Beer Gut.”  I pray he’s not doing the same thing in 20 years.  (1.11.01)

Both my children vomited during dinner.  And you wonder why I don’t cook.  (1.25.10)

Medium:  “I can’t stop smilin’. My cheeks are freezed.”  (1.30.10)

Medium:  “Mommy, why is your belly round?”  Mommy:  “Because I have a baby in there.”  Medium:  “When the baby comes out it will be regular?”  Theoretically son . . . theoretically.  Sigh.  (2.1.10)

Medium just rode his laundry basket down the stairs.  Those of you who know Medium will not be surprised . . . (4.13.10)

Nothing good comes out of “Mommy, I had a booger but I didn’t use a tissue . . . “  (4.27.10)

. . . is a little disturbed that we live in a world where Ashton Kutcher is considered one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World.  (5.17.10)

Medium has a playdate this morning, so I reminded him to mind his manners and be on his best behavior.  He responded, “Forget about it, Mom.  I’ve got it covered.”  Sigh . . . that child!  (6.2.10)

Just received notice that my Starbucks reward card has been promoted to Gold Level!  Somehow I think Hubby will not be quite as impressed as I am with my latest accomplishment.  (I also got a Thank You card from the Gap today.  They love me!)  (6.2.10)

It was seven years ago today that I told Hubby I thought I was in labor, to which he replied, “Do I have time to order Chinese?  I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch.”  (6.27.09)

Hey, Lady at Dutch Wonderland Amusement Park, I asked if you could move your chair, not donate a kidney.  Pipe down.  (7.9.10)

A rainy day at home, baby vomit on my arm, race track on my family room floor, iCarly on two different Tvs, whites done and darks in the dryer.  Just another ay in Paradise!  (8.18.10)

Only 7 shopping days until my birthday. Hubby’s going to buy me Starbucks so caffeinated it will disable my blinking reflex, everyone's potty-time aim will be perfect, & the dog will poop OUTside. Boogers will go in kleenexes - not on my couch and no bodily functions and/or secretions shall take place on/near me. Someone please notify my family that this is the plan!  8.27.10)

I’m getting flak from the 7-year-old because he needs the computer for homework, and “I REALLY need to learn, Mom!”  (9.20.10)

Hubby’s in a cab from LGA to Montvale, NJ with a cabbie who has no GPS and “thinks” he knows where he’s going.  He texted me (Hubby, not the cabbie,) that they’ve stopped for gas.  I’m thinking the cabbie’s inside asking where’s a good place to hide a body . . . (10.4.10)

Gonna get my GTL on, except without the G or the T.  (That’s Gym-Tan-Laundry, for those of you not versed in the Jersey Shore lingo.)  (10.8.10)

I might shower today.  Haven’t decided.  (11.10.10)

You know what happens when you send an unaccompanied 5-year-old with $10 to the Scholastic Book Fair?  You become the proud owners of a Justin Bieber book.  (12.8.10)

Doing Pilates today.  (But according to an automatically corrected text I sent yesterday, I’m doing pilots.)  (1.4.11)

It's Soup! Made of PEOPLE!!!

We survived Thanksgiving, and we’re still married, in case you were wondering after my last post. 

As you know, My Beloved called from work last Monday to “suggest” that we leave later that same evening so we could get a head start on our Thanksgiving Festivities.  Unfortunately, Hubby has very little patience for travel, especially with the offspring.  Never mind that I flew from New York City to Seattle with a 2-year-old and a 16-month-old BY MYSELF.  But that’s neither here nor there.  (Except that I am awesome for doing so.)

On Tuesday and Wednesday we took the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge.  This proved to be a good idea because they were able to burn lots of boy energy before being cooped up in the house at Granny and Papa’s.  Unfortunately, I allowed my husband to check in while I stayed in the Swagger Wagon with two (and a half) boys who were unbuckled and poised at the doors in anticipation of water park enjoyment.  He came out after having purchased an extra package o’ fun for the boys.  There was so much fun involved, we almost didn’t get to complete the fun-having in our allotted two days.  The fun was SO fun, at one point Large asked if we could save some fun for next time, and also “can’t we just get in bed and watch tv?” 

Water parks, in general, do not bring out the best in me.  I only look cute when I’m dry and lounging, save for the fact that I am a 37-year-old woman who wears two ponytails to the pool.  I am not destined for bathing suit greatness, and water parks force me to acknowledge and embrace this fact.  I have a variety of sassy little cover-ups for the pool.  You will never see me struttin’ my stuff in a standard-issue towel because, in general, they don’t fit all the way around my voluptuousness.  Water parks preclude the use of cover-ups, however, because you’re going to get wet, which means I have to stand in line in nothing but my swimsuit.  This does not make me happy. 

"Man, that lady sure LOVES her kids!"

Ever wonder why I LOVE my children so much at a water park?  It’s because if I’m hugging them and holding their little bodies close to me, I can cover up this-area-right-here.  (The areas to which I am referring are my gut, which makes me look like I’m wearing a fanny pack underneath my clothing, and my flat a$$, which is pretty much an extension of my back straight down into my legs.) 

Furthermore, there is NO graceful way to mount a giant inner tube.  Do I spread my legs wider than God intended and then sit?  Do I position the tube and then flop backwards while praying that the tube has not shifted thereby causing me to fall a$$ forward into the water in front of all those nice people waiting their turns?  Do I sit with my a$$ suctioned into the opening and my boobs literally resting on my knees?  Do I step into the tube and then try to maneuver one leg out at a time, causing potential swimsuit slippage and inadvertent flashing of lady parts? 

And then there’s this - I know I’m being a snob, but here goes:  I have a strict flip-flop policy.  People with ugly feet and/or unkempt toes should not be flashing those puppies around in sandals.  There are a lot of ugly feet at a water park.  In fact, water parks are rife with yellow toenails, ill-placed tattoos, and unsightly skin conditions.  Please, for the love o’ pete, take care of that.  The thought of lounging in the hot tub with some of the worst offenders makes me cringe . . . ALMOST as much as the fact that I actually had to explain to one of my children why we don’t drink the water from the hot tub:  “Think of ALL the people whose bodies have been in this water.  It’s like People Soup.”

a steaming bowl o' People Soup

Three Random Thoughts That Look Fancy Because I Used Roman Numerals.

I.

 

What IS this?

Don’t get me wrong – I let my kids do the little tattoos that you put on with water, but an entire tattoo writer, complete with super-fun tattoo gun?  When WE were little we played school.  (I was the teacher, OF COURSE, and I once tried to convince my “students” that the correct spelling of a particular southern state is Mrs. Ippy.)  We also played restaurant, but I got grounded when I used kitty litter to make my brother a lemonade.  A very special lemonade.  Now the kids get to fight over which one will be Kat Von D when they play My First Tattoo Parlor.  What’s next, Barbie’s Brothel?  G.I. Jonesin' for a Fix?

II.

During a recent foray into refined culture and fine literature, I noticed this in my People Magazine:

"Snack?"
"No thanks.  I had a Nerd for lunch and I don't want
to have to put on my buffet-eatin' pants."

I loves me some Dylan’s Candy Bar, mostly because it was an excellent bribe incentive for getting the boys to eat a good dinner at Patsy’s across the street.  Dylan's used to have a giant bathtub filled with gumballs that they don’t want children to touch.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  I also washed one of my children in the sink there after a particularly messy diaper blowout, the magnitude of which forced me to sheepishly tell a store employee, “you’re gonna need more paper towels.”  

But seriously, would you ever eat HALF a Tootsie Roll Midget? 

“Would you like 10 large jelly beans?  Or perhaps 16 carefully counted pieces of candy corn?”

“Whew!  No thanks!  I was gonna eat five Tootsie Roll Midgets, but I had to stop after that last half!”

In order to eat a half a Midget, one would have to hold it with two hands and gnaw on it like a chipmunk does.  I am more likely to stuff four-and-a-half Midgets in my mouth at one time than I would be to eat them in half-bite servings.  In fact, I may have done this once or twice in my lifetime.

III.

Medium’s homework was to write a sentence, using correct capitalization and punctuation, about his mom.  How sweet, I thought!  Surely he’ll talk about how much he adores his mama.  Or maybe he’ll mention how much I love him.  Or that I take him to fun places, or that I make a mean racetrack, or that I sing crazy songs, or that I read cool books.  

But no:

Originally it was “My mom is tired every day,” but I made him amend it so his teacher won’t have visions of me hiding under the covers and refusing to get out of bed while mumbling something about how I barely have the will to live, let alone get up and make PopTarts.  Not that that would be far from the truth, but still . . .    

Off My Island!

As promised – a list of people I am going to vote off My Island:

Ahem.

1. Caitlynn’s mom from Teen Mom.  I don’t watch this show religiously, but I have seen a few episodes.  The back story is that Caitlynn and Tyler got pregnant and decided to put their baby up for adoption because they wanted a better life for her than they were prepared to provide.  Except Caitlynn’s mother calls her own daughter a b*tch and chides her for her decision because Cailtynn had the audacity to give away her granddaughter without even asking her.  Lady, you’ve been doggy-paddling in the shallow end of the gene pool and your daughter just provided your grandbaby with a life preserver.  Shut yer yapper and go have another cigarette.

"Thank you for calling Time Warner Cable.
The steam coming out of your ears powers the NYC public transit system."

2. The Manhattan office of Time Warner Cable.  Specifically, the employee who tagged my account so that when I called I was told, “we’re not allowed to speak with you anymore Mrs. BoyMommy.  It says here on your account that we’re supposed to refer you to management.”  You see, I didn’t enjoy playing their little choose-your-own-adventure number labyrinth all in an attempt to speak to an ACTUAL person.  Here’s an idea:  communicate to your employees so that when they show up to my apartment, all heavily belted and tighty-whitie showing, they have a CLUE as to why they’re there and perhaps even which equipment it would have been nice to have.  And don’t get all pissy when I call to complain (I mean politely voice my concern) that I stuck around my apartment all day waiting for said employee, only to find that the equipment he brought was actually worse than what I already had.  Further, please just humor me and assume that I, a college-educated woman, changed the batteries in the remote already – batteries are not the problem – it’s your friggin’ malfunctioning remote.  Good customer service does not include me packing up my two children, carrying the stroller down two flights of subway stairs, taking the subway to Union Square, (which is packed with shoppers, students, tourists, movie-goers, etc. ALL of whom LOVE to see a woman pushing a stroller and HAPPILY get out of my way before I run their heals over with my MacLaren Death Machine.  Beep Beep, folks,) carrying the stroller UP two flights of stairs, schlepping over to your office, and waiting patiently in line – all before noon, lest you be on your lunch break upon my arrival – so that I can trade my old remote for one that actually works.  So yeah.  Put your manager on the phone.  I have a few things I’d like to say.

I'm compensating for something.  Can you guess what it is?

3. The Mexican drug people.  Give that poor woman her husband’s body back so she can say goodbye.  This one’s not funny. 

4. The Situation from Jersey Shore.  You can come off the island when you learn how to treat a lady.  We’ve seen your abs, so congrats on that and all.  Now put your shirt back on and contribute something to society, shall we?

5. Tariq and Michaele Salahi.  Speaking of contributing to society . . . I’m not sure what their line of business is, other than bullshi*t.  It bugs me that they portray themselves as cultured socialites and they seem to get away with it.  Let’s put them on my island and let them lead cheers and drink beer from wine glasses.  It would be win-win, because it seems to me they need a place to stay.  They’re the richest-acting homeless people ever.

My Island will be all Lord of the Flies meets the Donner Party.  Hopefully. 

Here’s a typical meeting of the minds on My Island:

Situation: Yo.  We goin’ out tonight?  It’s T-shirt time!

Salahis: Yes!  Here’s our invitation!  Oh wait, I forgot the invitation, but I have an email . . .

Mexican Drug People: We’re gonna have to swim there – who’s going in the water first? 

Caitlynn’s mom: Anybody gotta smoke?

Time Warner Cable: Your call may be monitored for quality assurance purposes.  (hehe.)  But I doubt it.

Salahis: I’m going to wear a sombrero and one of those Mexican blanket poncho thingys.  Because I’m blond and originally Midwestern.  Then I’m going to drink tequila from a coffee mug and Corona from a brandy snifter.

Situation: Yo.  I’m gonna hit that.

Caitlynn’s mom: I elect myself leader of this group.  I’m getting hitched to my daughter’s baby-daddy’s imprisoned father because, based on my living conditions, my smoking/drinking habit, and my fully-functioning though too old to be doing so baby-maker, I clearly make good decisions.  I needa light.

Mexican Drug People: Dude, smoking is so bad for your health.  Just say no.

Situation: Oh snap!  Should I do Gym, Tan, or Laundry?

Time Warner Cable: Press 9 for more options.

It's Monday. Again.

Crazy busy weekend.  Hubby was in the Big Apple for a wedding, so it was just me and the kids.  Overall, they were pretty well-behaved, although I feel I should send out a blanket apology to anyone who may have been at the Algonkian playground on Saturday and witnessed TWO GIANT TEMPER TANTRUMS thrown (free of charge!) by my spirited 5-year-old.

An apology also goes out to the kind patrons of the Starbucks in Herndon.  My girlfriend Amy was visiting from WV with her three children, so we met up with our friend Liz and two of her three boys.  We met at Frying Pan Park, where I narrowly avoided a conversation about where pigs come from.  It was touch and go there for a minute.  Medium noticed the piglets "snuggling" with their mommy, to whom I could relate for a number of reasons, and he wanted to know how the piglets got out of the mommy's belly.  Months ago we had explained that Small got out of my belly when I went to the hospital and the doctor helped - and voila! there was Small!  Just so you know, for future reference, piglets are born when the farmer helps the mommy - and voila! there are piglets!  This is a conversation to which I do not look forward.  Seeing as how I can't even say the word "nipple," (and it just pained me to type it,) I think the birds & bees conversation is going to happen with Daddy.  Further, body parts in our family are referred to as hoo-ha, nether-regions, weewee, poop chute, etc.  I don't need Betty Friedan to tell me I'm sexually repressed.  Just ask my husband; he'll tell ya.

Afterwards we headed to Starbucks for a caffeine fix.  (surprise!)  We set the eight children up at one table while the mommies visited at another table close by.  We plied them with juice boxes, crackers, bread, goldfish, markers, and paper, but alas, we pushed the envelope by about 10 minutes and chaos ensued.  At one point I actually said aloud, "who are you, kid, and why are you talking to me?"  It didn't work.  He kept talking to me.



So it's Monday again, and guess what?  I have more bathroom humor:

This is just ONE of the services we provide here at Chez BoyMommy.  When using our facilities, we don't want you to expend any extra effort by actually having to unroll the toilet paper, so we've done it for you.  Now all you have to do is grab a few squares from the end of the roll, conveniently located on the floor.

Note to self: when you hear giggling coming from the bathroom, it's time to worry.






A few weeks ago I posted the following photo on Facebook as my explanation for why dinosaurs are extinct:

Someone forgot to put the cover on the sandbox . . . 

Now I offer you another possible explanation:

A trip through the washer and dryer mighta done it.

And finally I offer you this lengthy rationale for why I'm not allowed to use Superglue.  A few years ago when we were living in our apartment in New York, we decided to play Superhero Convalescent Home.  We took all the Superheroes who were missing appendages and set up the aforementioned Superhero Convalescent Home.  The boys laid random plastic body parts on some bed pillows we had set up as hospital beds in our kitchen, and I got out my trusty bottle of Superglue, prepared for surgery.  Fear not, Spiderman!  Help is on the way!  After a few comforting reminders to "hang in there" and "be strong," Spiderman was taken to the Operating Room, previously known as my kitchen sink.  Dr. Mommy grabbed the bottle of Superglue and applied it to Spiderman's joint, in hopes of repairing his severed arm and returning him to his arachnid glory.  When I squeezed the tube, however, only a few droplets came out, so I figured the bottle was almost empty and I flung it into the trashcan.  

Except nothing flung.  The tube was stuck to my hand.  Apparently there was a hole at the other end of the tube, so when I was squeezing, glue was most certainly coming out, just not from the end I had anticipated.

So there I was, with an audience of wide-eyed, hopeful Superheroes to whom I could no longer offer my medical expertise.  My surgical career was over because my ENTIRE HAND was now glued together.  Superglue had dripped all over my hand and my fingers were fused together.  It was like wearing one glove and one mitten, except permanent.  "Why BoyMommy," you're saying, "now you have the perfect beauty queen wave AND you can drink beer right from your hand."  True, gentle reader, but I've lived my entire life with two hands, and I kinda like it.  

I decided to wash my hands with soap and water, acknowledging that it would take a little extra effort since it was Superglue and all.  Cold water didn't work, however, so I switched to hot, because surely HOT water and soap will work.  No such luck.  Desperate, I reach for the Goo Gone - that sh*t'll take the white off rice.  I couldn't get it in between my fingers though, and it has a horrible odor that was making me dizzy.  It should be noted that I was starting to panic.  My fingers are stuck together, I'm dizzy from the Goo Gone, and now I'm sweating because I literally cannot open my fingers.  I am freakin' out, man!

I read the label on the Superglue bottle and discovered that nail polish remover should do the trick.  Of course I didn't have enough nail polish remover because I really needed to soak my entire hand, so I was rubbing it on my individual fingers with a cotton ball.  I was like the Lady MacBeth of Superglue, all hopped up on Goo Gone fumes and adrenaline.  

Finally Hubby came to my rescue.  Once we realized I was going to need a lot more nail polish remover, he ran to the drugstore for me.  I couldn't go earlier, because how was I going to get Large and Medium in their shoes (which would need to be tied) and jackets (which would need to be zipped,) pack a bag (lest we have a diaper emergency,) take them down three flights of stairs, unfold the stroller, buckle them in, go to the drugstore, open my wallet, and pay for nail polish remover with one hand?  When Hubby walked through the door with the nail polish remover, I swear I heard angels singing from above.

And this, my friends, is why I'm not allowed to use Superglue, and why Brett Favre is going to have to retire "fo' reals" this time.

Brett Favre, the one-handed quarterback