I wonder sometimes if one of the reasons some people age horribly and die, is because they have stopped hanging out with friends.

Of course, if they are REALLY old, they may have stopped hanging out with friends because there's not that much to do in the cemetery.

But for people (naming no names) who are perhaps just beginning to be on the older side, whose friends are still (mostly) alive, it's just as much fun to hang out with friends as it was years ago, when we all skipped last hour Chemistry to pile into someone's blue Corvair and head out to the State Park to meet guys.

When my children were little, and it was almost impossible to get away and hang out with friends (partly because it was purt nigh impossible to get away, and partly because they had small children also; living a hundred or a thousand miles away contributed to the level of difficulty. . . .) those few and far-between episodes of getting together quite possibly saved what little sanity I do have.

When we meet now, and yes, Virginia, we still meet at least once a month, the only thing that's really changed, besides our faces, hair, bodies, and big purses, is the fact that we no longer have little children at home. Some of us have GRANDCHILDREN. Not me, though.

Ahem. Are my children reading this journal?

But the giggles, the nonsense, the silliness, the goofiness, the sheer love and devotion, are all still there in full force; possibly in fuller force than when we were younger.

Yes, definitely. Fuller force.

Maybe because, THEN, we knew what we had but didn't fully understand that it could vanish in the wink of an eye. We were young, we were attractive, we knew it. And it would last forever. How could it not? And NOW, we know what we had and we know what we still have and we understand completely that yes, it could very well vanish in the wink of an eye, and that yes, some of it already has. (We have mirrors.) And even though we no longer have some of 'it,' we also know that, whatever 'it' was, we still have SOME of 'it.' And we aren't afraid to use it, either.

No, not THAT kind of 'it.' Although, now that you mention 'it'. . . . . . . . . . .

Those of you with small children: be sure you make time for your friends. "Hanging out" isn't just for teenagers. You need it more than they do. Hire one of those teenagers to watch the little kids, and go meet your friends for a few hours. Keep doing it until you are dead. I'm serious as can be: hanging out with friends can save your sanity, save your health, save your marriage, and make you a better person from all angles. Do not allow marriage and children to put your friends on the back burner. Keep them close to you, even when circumstance very naturally keeps them apart from you. Good friends won't intrude into your marriage, but they will BE THERE when mere marriage isn't enough and your sanity and your SELF need expression that isn't found anywhere on this earth except in the company of FRIENDS.

Friends will listen to you, give you advice (needed and unneeded), comfort you, hug you, bowl with you, eat cheeseburgers with you, share a giant margarita with you, recommend books for you, laugh (or cry) through a movie with you, and just simply BE there with you, and for you, in ways that no husband could ever be. Not for want of trying or intentions, but simply because women need other women, and not even Hugh Grant or Colin Firth will do, when it's FRIENDSHIP we need.

Um, a handsome, educated Brit can come over and keep me company any time, actually, but even so, it's not the same as good friends who keep you company when not even a homely, ignorant Brit will give you the time of day.

Husbands are good for companionship, friendship, romance, true love, sex, dancing, and partnership, but it takes a woman friend to really, really UNDERSTAND. Women need friends, with whom to have fun with and just hang out with.

Your older children and possibly a husband who won't be requiring any sex for a while, might make a comment about how "hanging out" means something entirely different on an older woman with, um, body image deficiency. Remind them all that they know where the food is kept, and that the sofa sleeps one person very comfortably indeed. And then leave.

Get out there and use 'it.'

Readers may interpret "it" as they please. All answers are probably correct.

Posted by Mamacita at 9:45 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written for Mommybloggers by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. It has been a joy to pass over the reigns to her today.

My daughter is much cooler than me and she’s two. Yesterday she wore cammo pants with a red tutu – and she pulled it off! People stopped to take her picture. Believe me I had been worried about her future because her mother is a failure in that department. No one’s ever stopped to take a picture of me in my banana clip.

You may not know at first glance that I’m not hip. I mean, I’m wearing my “vintage� shirt, but, unfortunately for me I didn’t pay 35 cents for it at a thrift store or 3,500 at Fred Segal. No, sadly, I got it at Wet Seal, the store that caters to the 11 to maybe 18 set. I’m 40. I actually do a lot of shopping there. I know. it’s true. I’m a member of a club that would never admit it’s own existence. But, I’m coming out of the closet. I’m one of them. The tragically unhip. I’m not nor have I ever been uncool enough to bring it full circle and be geeky in a hipster way. I’ve slipped through the cracks.

And I’m not one of those people who cool doesn’t matter to. You know, a Wall Street type who’s mad for Dave Matthews and knows the world is on his side on this one or someone who calls Dr. Laura introducing themselves as “Hi Dr. Laura, I’m My Kid’s Mom� or uses the phrase “Ah ha moment� with serious purpose. No. I’m not oblivious to my unhipness. I wish I was. What I am is so much worse. I’m a dreaded wannabe.

It started in early grade school. In our studio apartment, my mother collected green stamps like it was her job and my clothes were ordered for me from the Sears catalog. But here’s the catch, I liked it. Yeah, I didn’t groan like a future Janeane Garafolo, I looked forward to the delivery of my purple polyesther pants suit with white fringe and the daintiest 100% plastic flowers surrounding the turtleneck white collar with glee. Oh yeah, I used words like glee.

In sixth grade I made an early attempt at hip. I begged and begged to get a “real� professional haircut by a real professional hair dresser. Up until that point, my mother thought it was perfectly fine and a great money saver to pull out the old Singer sewing scissors and chop away until I had a straight wall of bangs well above my eyebrows. Finally my mother relented. Only, it wasn’t at a “salon� it was a friend’s mom who cut hair out of her house on the cheap while enjoying a few gin and grapefruit juices – but hey, I thought, at least it wasn’t MY MOM. The hairstyle I wanted, naturally, was the infamous Dorothy Hamill - the haircut of the pre-pubescent ice skating, gymnastic, freshly ear pierced set. But the “hairstylist� may have been more familiar with the work of Olga Korbut. The result didn’t look cute and girly on me, hitting my jawline just so and flipping up delicately. No, I just looked like a boy. Possibly a cute boy. But a boy. I didn’t become aquainted with layers until my twenties.

After that, there were Toni home perms that went awry (are there any other kind?), Sun-In, self tanning lotions that made me look jaundiced at best and other misfired attempts at hip. It seemed to always be my fault too, seeing as the other girls in class managed to pull it off. And, I swear over twenty years have gone by and the self-tanners still turn my skin colors not found in nature. But I’m still trying.

Shorty after the perm incident that went awry, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party. Okay, not exactly a friend. More like a girl’s whose mother made her extend an invite to all her 6th grade classmates. I obsessed on what to get her for her present and decided on a record, not just any record but my favorite record. Janis Ian. Even my mother thought it might not be a great idea but I loved Janis Ian. Not just the song “At Seventeen� but all the poignant, angst filled songs that I cried and sang along to in my room wishing I was a folky, 20-something, unruly haired singer who could literally make people’s hearts ache with a specific chord change. And pull off a beret.

At the birthday party, I presented my gift with bated breath waiting to finally be accepted, perhaps even celebrated. My heart swelled with pride while she unwrapped it. But the recipient, Debbie Shindower, gave me a look of pity I’ll never forget. I’d gotten it so wrong and they all knew it. Smirks gave way to laughter and exclamations of “Who the fuck is Janis Ian?� Debbie went on to open Shaun Cassidy, The Bee Gees, Olivia Newton John and other far less navel gazing lesbians, apparently more appropriate for a 10- year-old girl.

In another misguided attempt to fit in with the cool kids in my semi-tough neighborhood, I played along with some clumsy sexual games in the alley behind my house. A few of the girls had gathered and were daring each other to rub up against the 5th grade boy who lived across the street from me. Not wanting to do it and not wanting to refuse, I participated. This escalated to making him pull his pants down and one of the girls suggesting we touch his flaccid penis with a leaf. Then we were dared by our leader to “touch it� which I did for a millisecond (it felt like sand paper). So, years later I found out that the boy had been mildly retarded. So if semi-molesting a mentally challenged 5th grader made me cool then score one for the home team!

Continue reading "Tragically Unhip" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written especially for Mommybloggers by our guest blogger, Julie of Mothergoosemouse.

I was a Girl Scout for five years. While I earned my share of merit badges and went to sleep-away camp each summer, the area of scouting in which I really excelled was cookie sales. And not because my grandmother bought a dozen boxes of Thin Mints each year (which she squirreled away in the freezer and brought out as a treat in the heat of August).

Not because I was a fabulous salesperson either. And certainly not because I spent every afternoon trekking around the neighborhood, ringing doorbells.

No, it was because I knew how to use the telephone properly, and I wasn't scared to do so.

I called all of our neighbors. And my grandmother's neighbors. And my parents' friends. I dialed, I identified myself, I asked to speak to them, I made my pitch, and I wrote down order after order after order - all while I was snug and warm inside my house.

I never called anyone who wouldn't recognize me. Nor did I send my order sheet to work with my father. I only sold cookies to those people who would have happily invited me into their homes anyway.

Fellow troop-mates accused me of cheating. I pointed out that the order sheet specifically said "A telephone call may mean a sale" and collected my prizes (along with dozens of cases of cookies that DID have to be delivered in person).

Continue reading "Why Miss Manners Isn't Entirely Full of It" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written by our featured blogger, Kelly. It is one of her favorites that she wanted to share with Mommybloggers.

Special… having my own bathroom.

Not so special… having people need me only when I’m in the shower and try to talk through the door that’s 5 feet away when there’s water rushing through my ears.

Special… having friends ride the bike trails with me now that they know I ride with some frequency.

Not so special… having people stare at me when I’m riding like I look like some sort of prize in my bike helmet and tank and shorts (Oh, note to the Bubba who spoke to me through his pickup truck window: No, thanks. Not ever. No. No. No.)

Special… having my husband agree to make dinner even though he works full-time.

Not so special… just having a bowl of cereal while he spends time wondering what to make for dinner.

Special… having Morgan wake up early to make me muffins because he loves me.

Not so special… having Morgan eat all the chocolate chip muffins and leave the lemon poppyseed ones for me.

Special… getting a free lip gloss mailer from Bath and Body Works.

Not so special… having to spend $10 just to get the free lip gloss.

Special… listening to my husband tell me how proud he is that I just rode my bike 25 miles.

Not so special… listening to my husband say, “Wooooo… you stink!� after riding 25 miles.

Special… working up a sweat, even if it’s not an appreciable quality for those who have to smell me.

Not so special… boob sweat. What’s up with that?

Special… reading a comment on my blog from my friend Joe-in-the-Netherlands.

Not so special… reading a comment about missing my Date in Delft with him online because of my shit Monday. I’ll make it up to you.

Special… getting the low down on where Mallory is all the time even though she’s 20 years old and doesn’t have to tell me.

Not so special… wondering if “Going fishing� or “Playing ultimate frisbee� is a euphamism for “Getting drunk.�

Special… having my family do all the laundry since Mommy is so busy with reading and writing and taking class.

Not so special… having my family ruin my expensive Victoria’s Secret bras by putting them in the dryer.

This essay was originally published on Mocha Momma on June 27, 2006. If you want to read more by our incredible guest blogger, Kelly, visit her personal blog, Mocha Momma.

Posted by mommybloggers at 7:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written especially for Mommybloggers.com by Izzymom

I was reading a post tonight that got me thinking about a really embarrassing moment that I experienced about 10 years ago. Of course it didn’t feel like a moment. It felt like an hour. An excruciating, in-slow-motion hour that still makes me cringe to this day.

I cordially invite you to share in a little skate down embarrassing memories lane…

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For more from this week's guest, visit Izzy at her personal blog Izzymom or see what she thinks is cool at Cool Mom Picks. Oh, and be sure to visit her for your graphic needs at Designs by Izzy.

Posted by mommybloggers at 7:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

Why, oh why, for the love of all that is scared and holy, does the world insist on changing things that are perfectly good just as they are? I take is as a personal affront when the landscape around me changes without my categorical say-so. The burgeoning condo explosion in Minneapolis renders me positively unhinged. Someone decided it would be great to tear down my elementary school and build a new one, and I subsequently careened into a tizzy from which I have still not yet recovered. I yearn to find who is responsible for the offense and offer them a piece of my traumatized mind. How dare they alter the landscape of MY CHILDHOOD! How inconsiderate. I mean, really.

It’s the lack of warning I find so unsettling. If someone had told me my elementary school was being torn down, I could have taken pictures or something. I could have made a scrap-book (I have never in my life composed a scrap-book). But NOOOO. Now it’s too late. I discover these things after the fact. I drive down the street and come face to face with the new structure and the shock of a transformed landscape, and I am supposed to just shrug my shoulders and accept it. It’s not that easy for me. When I am left with only what memories remain in the not-so-reliable recesses of my brain, I worry that I won’t be able to conjure them up ever again. Memories like the smell of the old lunchroom (sour milk) or the monkey bars I used to do penny-drops from. They were painted green and badly chipped. I worry that those memories will disappear forever.

Last night Jim and I had a hankering for Ice Cream, so I made a run to the local DQ. I perused the menu and noticed that the Mister Misty is no more. Mr. Misty is DEAD with a capital “D�. Deader than a door nail. In its place is a totally extreme concoction called “Arctic Rush� which begs the question, what the Hell happened to Mister Misty, and why did no one consult me before knocking him off? Mr. Misty was perfect just the way he was.

When I was 9 or 10 years old I would scrounge change from my mother’s purse (sorry Mom – I had a short-lived stint as a delinquent that ended promptly when you said to all four of us in the back-seat of the car “someone has been taking money from my purse. I think I know who it is and I would like it to stop�. At the time I slouched and avoided eye contact, but 27 years later I can admit IT WAS ME!!!). I would take my pilfered coins and ride my bike to Dairy Queen where I would order a Mister Misty. Usually a red one. Then I would go down the street to Fanny Farmer and order a small bag of gummy bears, and sometimes some red licorice bits. Then I would eat my illegally acquired contraband treats in solitude and ride my bike home with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I attribute the nausea more to shame than to sugar. It was about that time that I learned that things taste much better when the acquisition of said things does not involve stealing from your mother. Shame really has a way of sucking enjoyment out of an experience. That lesson stuck with me.

So really, Mister Misty taught me that stealing is wrong, and that nothing good can come of dishonesty and general sneakiness. And Mister Misty is dead. You can see why I am so upset now can’t you!

Why does everything need to be “rush� or gush� or “huge� or “tiny� or otherwise totally insane and extreme? Some marketing executive somewhere figured out that as parents, we will accept nothing less than shockingly bright colored, reminiscently fruit-flavored, edible treats that go way beyond just tasting good. Those edible treats must be so totally extreme that they will make our children’s eyes roll back into their heads whilst catapulting their brains down the rabbit hole and into another dimension. All for an economical price that can be purchased in bulk. Now THAT’S extreme value.

Back in my day, we entertained ourselves by combining Two liters of Rondo, Sunkist, Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew and calling it “suicide�. We felt quite riotous and rebellious drinking our brown-colored carbonated concoctions. And "suicide" was just a name. No one actually died. The negative outcome was limited to a nap-inducing sugar crash. At least we used a little creativity. Another game we played involved combining liquids found in the pantry (think liquid smoke, vanilla and peppermint extract) and daring each other to sip it. That was also pretty extreme. Extremely gross. And we were all GIRLS! I shudder to think what boys did for fun.

Arctic Rush. Fruit Gushers. X Treme Jello. So that’s what the kids are doing these days. Oh, my dear Mister Misty. If someone had the manners to ask my permission before they aced you, you’d still be around. Had I known Mister Misty was being laid to rest, I could have toasted his departure into the afterlife. Alas, it was not to be. Goodbye Mr. Misty. I miss you already.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I admit it. I am not the most conventional mom out there. Stories such as this and this will prove that if there is any doubt. I love my children more than anything in this world, but I have no problem messing with their minds every now and then. (Don’t judge. We all need our forms of entertainment!) But here is one for you where I can guarantee I am not alone.

My boys—especially on the weekends—are like little badgers or raccoons. I usually hit the bed earlier than they do on the weekend, so they have time to forage in our kitchen. I am never surprised when I wake up in the morning to see traces of my little badgers’ night-time scavenging for food in the kitchen. Wrappers here. Crumbs there. Tell tale signs of chocolate on their adorable (ahem) mouths. I know when they have found the mother-load by the lack of treats left the next morning. If they have taken the trash out, I don’t even want to know what they consumed.

So I had to resort to drastic measures.

Just last Saturday night I thought I was alone in the kitchen and reached for a box of Cheerios.

“Mom, can I have some of those?� asked my 12 year old.

“No. These are mine. You cannot have them. Go have some of that sugary cereal over there.�

“But I am in the mood for Cheerios, Mom.�

“Ummmm, well….you can’t have them.� I stammered. “Seriously, look at all of that sugary goodness in that pantry! Yummmm,� I said licking my lips and rubbing my stomach. "That should keep you wired all night. Besides, I don't eat that other stuff. You kids do."

"Yes you do! You totally do, Mom!�

"Well, tonight Mom wants and needs her Cheerios. Choose the sugary goodness, son, or nothing at all."

Confused, my son left the kitchen without a snack probably wondering why his mother was pushing sugar on him rather than a healthier alternative.

Let me let you in on a secret. That box no more had Cheerios in it than I am the Queen of the PTA. Stashed inside that box were my Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mints to be exact. AND a box in Pepperidge Farm Milanos. (Indulgence in a bag!)

Yes, I hide the good stuff in the healthy food boxes knowing there is no way my children would forage for such a healthy snack without the watchful eyes of Mom on them. In fact, that box of Oatmeal front and center on the second shelf? Nope. My favorite chips. The flour container? Please. As if I back from scratch. That has the bite size Snickers in it. But wait, let’s move to the freezer. Right there in plain site is the store brand ice cream. Whatever flavor they want. But see that bag of frozen vegetables? Totally not veggies. Ben & Jerry’s Everything But The… pint sized is stuffed in there. (This rocks until I go to cook dinner and really NEED vegetables. But I get over it fast when I realize I get Ben & Jerry’s after the kids go to bed during the week.)

And let me just tell you about the guilt.

There is none.

The way I see it, those little buggers will snag up anything they can get their hands on after hours when Mom is in bed or when Mom is out running errands.

I am considering moving the Thin Mints, though. He was too curious about my intense need for Cheerios. I am thinking a box of Shredded Wheat should do it. Neither one of them would go near that unless forced to or paid to do so.

So call me selfish or call me a hoarder, just don’t call me when I am reaching for the veggies, because chances are I will be hiding in my closet devouring their forbidden fruit!

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

When my parents brought their second child home from the hospital (which happened to be me), they walked up the front steps of our home and found an irrefutably clear statement from my older sister Julie regarding her feelings about being the big sister. Julie pooped in the middle of the front porch. She was only two and a half years old, but had apparently mastered the concept of how to communicate metaphorically. She didn’t use the words “like or “as�, but rather, a giant pile of toddler doodie, to effectively communicate her feelings about sharing her parents. Using the power of fecal sculpture, she said “this is precisely what I think of you people and that ridiculous funny-looking creature you insist on bringing into my house.�

I think she felt a little jilted. I can’t blame her. I didn’t sign up for my place in the family order either. But hey, I am here, and that's a good thing. I think.

When I was young and stupid, as opposed to being grown-up and stupid, I was sure I would end up with a gaggle of kids. As I grew older, reality set in. I had a hard time juggling life before I became a parent. I currently have a hard time juggling life with one child. How on God's green earth am I going to throw another kid into the mix? Who do I think I am anyways? In addition, that whole childbirth thing was really a drag. I came home from the hospital with a third degree tear and crippling baby blues, and said “NEVER AGAIN. One is going to have to be enough.� As my daughter would say: “Aah-dun!� I was glad to be off of that scary ride, thank you very much.

I suspect that any woman who says she loves to be pregnant is lying through her teeth. Either that, or she possesses a gene that I just never got. I am the kind of person who would just as soon skip the pregnancy and childbirth part and start out of the gates with a 6 month-old.

I don’t want to go through it all again. It was exhausting the first time around, and I am 2 years older and more decrepit now.

But there, in the back of my mind, is a niggling that won’t go away. I grew up second in line out of four sisters. I like to say that I got so shortchanged, I even had to share the title of middle child.

However, for every pity-party I threw for having to share resources, money, clothes, and my parents attention (which happened on a near-daily basis), I have thanked heaven about 50 or 60 times for the sisters I have today. By the time I am an old woman, that ratio will likely have quintupled. I would not trade a single one of my sisters for anything. And I mean anything. Not all the tea in China, or all the riches in the world.

Having my three sisters is like having a lifelong membership in a club of mutually insane people. We grew up in the same crazy family, and share the same wacky sense of humor, rife with things like off-color “Little House on the Prairie� innuendos and a fascination with the weird. We are irreverent, off-the-wall, and we find ourselves and each-other endlessly entertaining. We tend to share similar neuroses, though the manifestations vary. They just make me laugh. With them, I always fit in.

My family would have been so different if my parents would have stopped at one. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t be here if they stopped at one. I can’t speak for my older sister Julie, although I hope she agrees that the sacrifices were worth it. Each addition to our family brought another unique child into the mix. I read once that in families with more than one child, every kid essentially grows up in a different family. The family morphs into a new, crazy work of art with the addition of each unique personality. That always made sense to me. I don’t want to know what life would be like without a single one of them.

I am afraid though. I am afraid that I am not a good enough mother to one child. If my time and energy is divided further, how could I possibly keep it together? How can I give my kids their fair share of my time and attention? How can I distribute the love fairly? How could I love another child as much as I love my daughter? Can we afford it? Is it fair to Maggie to have another baby? Is it fair to any of us to risk stretching myself too thin?

I don’t have the answers. I do believe that life takes you where is it is supposed to, when it’s supposed to. It might be time to think about getting back on the scary ride. Perhaps fate will intervene and make the decision for me.

Only time will tell.

If we do have another child, and if Maggie chooses a form of expression similar to that of my older sister Julie, I will explain to her that she can poop on the floor all she wants. It’s okay to feel mad. That sibling is her team-mate for life, and she can make that relationship what she wants. I will tell her that if she is anything like her mother, when she is my age, she will thank her lucky stars for the gift of a sister or brother. Perhaps by then, she will want to save her doodie for other, more important statements.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 4:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

What clears out a swimming pool faster than screaming “SHARK!�? Anyone who has seen the movie “caddyshack� can tell you. A floating baby ruth clears out a pool in approximately a nanosecond. In fact, it doesn’t just clear out a pool. A baby ruth in the pool catalyzes a screaming, disgusted mass exodus.

On one hand, I can say that we have our daughter potty-trained at 18 months. Hooray! It’s a miracle! We have a genius on our hands. Clearly such an accomplishment means we are master parents. We are practically professionals. On the other hand, instead of going in a potty chair or “the big pot�, our daughter considers our bathtub to be her personal toilette. Like clockwork. Put the child in a warm tub for more than seven and a half minutes, and dollars to doughnuts, a floater will eventually gently bob to the surface. This is my cue to shout “all-done!�, grab her under the arms and unceremoniously heave her out of the funky water in short order.

I am not sure what it is about the warm water, but it works like a charm every time. Madge + warm water + seven and a half minutes = floating terdlets. Every single time.

This could be considered a good thing. I mean our failsafe recipe for poop is certainly a reliable homeopathic cure for constipation. Speaking from experience, it hurts to watch your child struggle in pain to evict their own feculence. As a caring parent I am more than willing to don rubber gloves, fish around for floating terdlets, and soak her tubby toys in Lysol, as long as the end result is a happy child with a lighter load.

In fact, if this warm water laxative phenomenon last into the teenage years, we can use it as an extra-credit exercise when she reads Dante’s Inferno. We can drop Barbie and Ken into Malebolge, the ditch of excrement, and watch them suffer for their sins of flattery. If she is a real academic go-getter, she can videotape and edit her own reenactment of the eighth circle of Hell. Perhaps we can hook up some kind of tubing so that offal spews forth from their mouths when they speak.

A pessimist might be saddened, disgusted and disappointed by their child’s penchant for pooping in the bathtub. Not me. I see it as an opportunity to show off some good parenting, a homeopathic cure for constipation, and a potential multi-media extra credit exercise to help her gain a fuller understanding of a timeless literary classic. Chalk one up for our family! Way to go Madge! Keep up the good work!

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

We've all been in the position. You're in your car. You forget that your windows are not actual shields from the outside world. You get lost in the realm of your own little reality.

And you begin to sing. Out loud. Very loudly.

Now, very few people can pull this off and look good doing it. Most of us look like we are just contorting our faces in time to the music. Others look as if they are escapees from Bellevue. Granted, there may be one or more people out there who can pull it off. (No, not you. Don't even think it could be you. You know better.)

So, here is my evening. I finally escaped the quarantine of my home to go get medicine. (Oh yeah, my big night out is filled with excitement and adventure.) I am scanning the radio stations. I am alone in the car (a rarity in itself), so I turn the volume up way high. (You know you do it, too. Don't judge me.)

Now, I am not going to sit here and tell you I had some really great song on or that I was listening to something that would not totally embarrass me. (Nope, no Toadies here. Nope.) I stopped at "You're So Vain". And started to sing.

Now, I don't care who you are, unless you are Carly Simon in concert, you're not going to look cool singing this song out loud at the top of your lungs. (No. Not even you.)

Yeah, you know where this is going.

So, I look over to the car beside me. They look back.

This is what they see: A worn out thirtysomething mom in her sweats with her hair pulled back, no make-up. Car seat in the back seat. PTA lanyard (complete with PTA badge attached to it) hanging from my rearview mirror. (No. I don't think that is cool. I am just such a scatter-brain, I forget to grab it when I go to the school. And they are very serious about you wearing your badge anytime you are in the school. It is to save myself trips home, people. I know it is dorkish and rather pathetic. We don't really need to discuss it, do we? I didn't think so.) You know it baby... they see the total embodiment of coolness. Oh, did I mention that my window was halfway down, too.

This is what I saw: Two studly twentysomething guys in their sports car staring back in wonderment and shock. (And maybe fear. I can't be sure. It was dark out and all.)

I have several options here.

I can pretend I wasn't singing and looking like all that. But, really, is that an option? We all know that I was busted.

I can laugh it off and shrug. Admitting I was caught in a most embarrassing situation. Roll up my window and pray to myself that the light changes very quickly.

Or I can do what a mom cooped up in a house too long with sick kids and who is not thinking clearly would do.

Oh yeah, I looked over at them. Winked. And said, "Hey baby. How you doin'?" In my best cheesy pick-up line way. Then gave then one of those completely pathetic, air-kisses.

I wish I had a picture of their faces. Was it fear? Was it shock? Was it dismay? I am not sure, but it was pretty damn funny!

I think they may have left skid marks on the pavement when the light changed green.

Me? I laughed so hard I almost couldn't drive!

I am all that!

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (1)

When I became a first time mom, I'll admit it, I devoured the parenting how-to books. I am pretty sure I had all of the most popular titles as well as quite a few of the lesser known as well. I read whenever I could. While I was pregnant, I went to Childbirth Education Classes and a How to Breastfeed Class every week for about 6 weeks. I surrounded myself with the tools and advice of the self-proclaimed experts. I wanted to make sure I did this "mothering" thing well. I looked to the experts and those who had gone before me to reassure me that I was capable of raising this little person without causing too much harm to his psyche. I bought the latest in nursery decorations that were sure to stimulate my baby's brain. I listened to classical music as I read to my baby in utero. I researched all of the "right" ways to burp, change and rock a baby. I was ready. I was armed with knowledge. I am mother hear me roar!

When I became pregnant with my second son, I bypassed the Childbirth Classes and the Breastfeeding Classes. I settled for a 1 hour seminar on sibling rivalry and how to best handle it. I was down to buying just two books that basically covered how to prepare your child for their new sibling. I think I got through the introduction and skimmed the rest before actually having my son. (Besides, who had time to read anymore? I had a 2 year old and a newborn to deal with. Read? I wish! I was just hoping to take a shower before they went off to kindergarten.) I didn't worry about how to burp, change or rock a baby this time around. I knew that he would burp when he needed to (usually in a crowded room when it was quiet) and changing diapers was not rocket science. As for rocking a baby? Please! Everyone knows that the very instant you sit down with a drowsy or sleeping baby, they will wake up with a start as if you laid them down on a bed of nails. The real skill is in knowing when they have hit the point in their sleep when the "bed of nails" phenomenon is no longer a threat. I had been here before. I was ready. I am mother hear me meow!

By the time I became pregnant with my daughter, I was so over the experts and the advice of the pros. The real pros are the moms that I met at the playground, on the soccer field and in the McD's playplace. As I reached the final week of my pregnancy, I glanced at the titles of the books in the parenting section of my favorite bookstore. I laughed. They really should divide the parenting section into subcategories.

--First Time Parents.
--Having Another?
--Been There, Done That Again!
--Are You Kidding Me??

You see, that time around I wanted a book that dealt with a completely different set of issues than the ones the first time moms deal with. I wanted a book that dealt with the things that a mom of 2+ deals with. I needed chapter titles that read something like:

--Successful Strategies for Breastfeeding Your Newborn While Playing Soccer
--How to Find Something To Entertain 3 Children Ranging in Age From 2-10 That They All Will Enjoy
--Sleeping With Your Eyes Open For Beginners
--Have a 'Pre-pregnancy Jeans Burning Party' Without The Tears
--10 Surefire Ways to Call Your Child By His Correct Name Every time
--How to Convince Your Youngest Child That Hand-Me-Downs Are Cool
--How To Embrace Those Last 10 Pounds That You Will Never Lose And Make Others Envy You For It
--5 Ways to Convince Your Husband That The Vasectomy Was His Idea
--Going to the Store Alone--A Dream You Too Can Achieve
--Drinking-It's Not Just For Happy Hour Anymore

I mean, seriously, this has Bestseller written all over it! You tell me if you wouldn't snag that book up after you've already been through the parenthood thing more than once. See my point? I know that I am a good mother when it comes to the basics. I have been down this road more than once. I know how to do the mechanics of childrearing. I needed something different the third time around. I was ready! I am mother, hear me snore!

In fact, the more I think about this real life parenting book, the more I like it! Who wants to sign up for advanced copies?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night, my husband returned from a week-long business trip to Los Angeles. He travels much less than he used to. I secretly like the occasional trip, and in years past, I would take advantage of the change in routine to stay up to all hours, doing projects that I had been neglecting. Still, after a few days, I'm bored with the novelty of sleeping alone and keeping odd hours has lost its thrill, and I begin to watch the clock for his arrival.

As his return approached, I caught a good look at myself in the mirror. I was overdue for a 'night of beauty.' I checked the schedule. His flight wouldn't land until 9 pm - I figured I'd pretty myself all up after I got the kids to bed, and then lounge casually but seductively on the bed when I heard his car pull in. Heeeelloooooo, husband.

When eight o'clock rolled around, the kids were still not tired. At all. No. They were not. I decided that perhaps some vigorous exercise was called for, and turned on some dancing tunes. After five rockin' songs, they were still going strong. I, on the other hand, was laying on the couch, fanning myself and panting. Exercise gives some people a fine, rosy complexion. After approximately 30 seconds of aerobic exercise, I turn mottled red like Alien Nation and pass right through the dewy stage to sweat-circles.

This is not the 'pretty' I had in mind. Clapping my hands together, I turned off the tunes and marched the kids to the bath. I poured in a generous dollop of relaxing lavender bubble bath, and piled all three nuditos into the tub. They began cavorting and sloshing suds onto the floor from the moment the hit the water. Sigh. The floor needed a good mopping anyway. I threw a towel on the puddle, and turned my attention to my eyebrows.

The kids used soap bubble covered hands to reinact several scenes from the Spongebob Movie, ("Are you a goofy goober, yeah? I'm a goofy goober yeah!" followed shortly by chants of "I'm ready! Promotion! I'm ready! Promotion!) while I trotted to the other bathroom to fetch my tweezers.

I spotted the box of hair color on the counter as I grabbed the tweezers - I've been having my hair done by my stylist, but in an effort to quell our family spending, I'm going to color it myself until summer. I grabbed the box of color as well. Why not? I can get my head slathered while the kids are in the tub, and by the time I have them out and into pajamas, I can leap into the shower and rinse it off. See how smart I am?

I checked on my little porpoises in the next room, and then returned to bathroom #2 to do the stinky assult on my head. I snapped on the gloves, mixed up the stuff, and squirted and massaged and squirted and massaged and tried not to breathe or pass out. Ah yes. This is why paying someone else to color my hair was SO WORTH IT. I was excited about budgeting, forgetting the stink that is hair dye. Whew!

Unable to secure my coated hair in a neat french twist like the gal on the box, I sort of wadded my hair into a ball and wrapped a hair elastic around it. Stray strands whipped me in the face, leaving purplish, gooey stripes on my cheeks. I added a few barrettes to my 'do, and marched to the other bathroom to assess the damage wrought my the three amigos.

The smell of lavender did not seem to be having the desired effect. There were puddles everywhere, and the kids were busy slathering on full beards of suds and laughing. With tweezers in hand, I decided to go ahead and pluck stray brow hairs where I could supervise the kids.

I leaned forward on the vanity, standing on tiptoes, and placed my elbows on the countertop, nose a millimeter from the mirror in my short woman standing brow plucking stance. I made up cusswords, hissing under my breath as I yanked one, two, three hairs in quick succession. The fumes from my head mixed with the scent of the lavender were overwhelming, and I felt ill.

"Hey! Stop splashing!"

"Sorry, Mooooom." Slosh, splash.

Sigh.

I returned my eyes to the mirror. Grabbing a burly hair near the bridge of my nose, I yanked. It snapped in half. I regripped near the root and yanked again. Holy crap. It's a bleeder!

I made a grab for a tissue, and pressed it to my forehead, cringing as a rivulet of blood snaked down my nose. "Huzzuh muzza bumble shigga" I muttered. A glance at the clock showed that I had five minutes before the hair color could be washed out. I got a fresh tissue and left it pressed in place, a curtain of white dangling from my forehead as I gathered towels for the kids.

No one wanted to come out. There was a mighty protest, and as I struggled to pull the beasties upright to rinse them free of bubbles, my head was splashed. The tissue fell in the bath, I felt hair dye running toward my eye, and I had both hands engaged in my toddler's armpits.

I dropped her back into the bubbles and lunged towards the towel rack, blotting my face and leaving a nice smear of purple goo and blood on the white towel. I moved into hyperdrive, and managed to get all three kids rinsed and into towels and herded towards the living room for a show while I wondered what horrific damage I was inflicting on my scalp as the 30 minute mark passed by.

I threw pajamas at the kids and ran to the shower. Rinsing the color out in record time, I leaped from the shower to find my kids, completely nekkid except for their towels, sound asleep on the couch. I struggled them into pajamas, and carried them to bed.

Then I poured a big glass of wine.

I had about 30 minutes before my husband would be home. I gave up on the eyebrows, and mopped up the soap suds in the bathroom. I started a load of laundry, and pulled on my funny striped long-johns. After drying my hair, I crawled into bed and figured I could still try to be seductive, but the 'beauty' just wasn't going on. I was snoring, loudly, when my husband got home.

Ah yes. Cleopatra can just move the heck over. Jenny Lauck is in the house.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Tunkie. Bottom. Butt-belly-button. Wee-wee. There are just no good euphemisms for female privates when trying to nonchalantly teach your toddler the appropriate word for her girl-parts.

My seventeen month old daughter’s language development is exploding. She averages at least one new word a day. She has learned the names of animals, foods, and body parts. She points to my eye and proudly utters “eye!� I ask here “Where are Maggie’s fingers?� and she wiggles them with gusto. I can tell she is happy to be an active participant in this whole language thing, which until recently she merely observed. She is pleased as punch to be a part of this new club. You can see it in her eyes when she says something, and I seem to magically understand what she meant. It's priceless.

As a parent, I want Maggie to have a healthy body image. I want her to feel comfortable in her own skin. I have daydreamed about how I will expertly handle discussions about puberty, development and sex. In my mind, I am able to calmly explain to my adolescent daughter how things work, and make suggestions for ways to cope with the general freakiness of pubescent body changes and sexual pressure. I visualize handling this all with aplomb, grace, and most importantly using the precise technical terms. I don’t bat an eye, and certainly don’t give my daughter the impression that her body is anything to be ashamed of. I certainly don’t give her the impression I am the least bit embarrassed.

One word sent all my bravado tumbling down like a flimsy house of cards. During her bath, Maggie discovered her privates, and set forth exploring this new territory with the utmost enthusiasm. I FORCED myself to stammer the correct anatomical noun for her female genitalia and made a very conscious effort to remain matter-of-fact. It’s just another body part, right? Like an arm or a foot. I heard my voice take on a false sing-songy quality. I was talking to a toddler with a limited vocabulary. A toddler who can not yet link words together, and I felt like an idiot. I sat next to the bathtub and cringed at myself. I hoped my husband didn’t hear me stumbling, because if he had, I needed to brace myself for the inevitable impending mockery.

I considered using the term the Home-Visit Nurse used after I had Maggie when she asked if I wanted her to check the healing progress of my third-degree tear. “Would you like me to take a look at your bottom?� she asked.
“Um. No. That’s okay.� I said awkwardly, as I limped and hobbled her towards the door. “I’m sure it’s healing quite nicely, thank you.�

I considered my other options for words to use as a substitute. My nieces used to refer to theirs as “butt bellybuttons�. I will give that one a 4 out of 10. I thought of my my friend’s grandma who used to call it a “tunkie�. When she got her pj’s on her Grandma would tell her “Don’t forget to take off your underpants so your tunkie can breathe!�. I just about fell over laughing when she told me that one. “Wee-wee� sounds too much like a euphemism for boy parts. Nothing seemed to fit. I was stuck using THE WORD.

I ultimately decided to keep trying to utter the correct biological term without shuddering. I hope that if I muddle through the word enough times, it will become a non-event, and I will stop cringing as I say it. Clearly I am not as free from body issues as I had hoped, and clearly this is mommy's issue and not Maggie's. The sweet child had not yet learned to be embarassed by nakedness, and that's a good thing. She has nothing to be ashamed of, and neither should I. And yet.... there it is. THE WORD. I will get through this. I have to. I am suddenly terrified of the prospect of the teenage years. Perhaps when the time comes, I can call in a consultant or coach to help me explain the ins and outs of adolescence and sex. Because clearly, Momma’s gonna have some trouble with THAT one. Oy. Vey.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Today at Mommybloggers, we turn the site over to Y, who treats us to a favorite from the archives of Joy Unexpected. Enjoy!

I tried to come up with something original for my guest post, but after sitting here for TWO HOURS, it became clear to me that my brain didn't want to cooperate. My back started to ache, and I started to say The "F" word a lot.

(Oh my GOD, she's a mom and she says THE "F" WORD? The horror!)

As much as I didn't want to do this, as much as I told myself that it's TOTALLY CHEATING to do this, I have decided to use a post from my archives.

I couldn't decide whether to go with ""The Serious", The Cheese or The Master Impersonator. In the end, I decided to go with The Poop.

"Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this"

Gabby's naptime is also known around these parts as Time To Do Everything You Can't Do While She's Awake. That's when I'll shower, do laundry, pay bills, check my email, write something, read something, and occassionally, take a dump.

I say "occassionally" because I'm not very "regular" I can go DAYS people.

Today, I was happy to "feel the urge" and decided that I would make a visit to the bathroom as soon as I layed Gabby down. It didn't work out that way because the urge went away, so I called my sister instead.

Twenty minutes later, The Boss Of Me woke up and instantly, The Urge came back. Dang it!

I couldn't hold it til the next nap, so I was forced to come up with a plan on how to take a dump while the girl was awake.

I decided to set her bouncy seat in the doorway and leave her there whilst I did my business.

I was a little uncomfortable at first, which is weird, considering I shit a little during the birth of all three of my babies. Yeah, that's right, they don't tell you about The Birth Poopie during childbirth classes. I'll never forget that moment as long as I live. Pushing my first baby out and screaming "I THINK I WENT POOP" and the nurse telling me "No, you didn't, keep pushing!" WHILE SHE WAS WIPING MY ASS. I'm so glad we captured that moment on FILM.

I got over my discomfort pretty quickly and proceeded to take my dump while my daughter jumped, laughed and waved "hi" to me. I sat there on the toilet, waving back and clapping all the while doing my business.

The moment went from slightly odd to TOTALLY AWESOME when Gabby got quiet and I heard a huge grunt, followed by a severe fart, followed by another grunt.

MY DAUGHTER WAS TAKING A DUMP WITH ME.

I started kicking my legs and shouting "YAY! GABBY'S POOPING WITH MOMMY! YAAAAAAY!" and she started clapping and saying "AYYYYY".

I wanted to leap off The Pot and squeeze her so freaking hard, but, for the love of an unwiped ass, I didn't. . But as soon as I finished My Business and washed my hands (for 30 seconds, like Oprah said!), I picked her up, ran up and down the hall and kissed her stinky little cheeks until I was all puckered out.

(Of course, I changed her diaper as soon as we were done celebrating Our First Simultaneous Poop)

Read more from our hilarious friend Y at her blog, Joy Unexpected.

Posted by mommybloggers at 8:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday I got the “Ding!�. It happens about once a week. The annoying noise my car makes when it’s nearly out of gas. Driving along, searching for a good song on the radio, deep in thought, and suddenly I am jolted from my stream of random thoughts by a ding from my dashboard. This announcement, indicative of a near-empty gas tank, typically happens when I am late getting to an appointment for work, or eager to get home to see my family. It’s annoying. Can I just say how irritating it is when inanimate objects make demands on your extremely limited time via “the ding� or “the beep�?

“Please take the ticket.� Oh? Is that what I do when I park in a garage? Take the ticket? Thank goodness you told me! I was thinking of putting the car in park right here in the ramp entrance, setting my car keys on top of you, Mr. Machine, and walking away! That instruction may be helpful for someone who, say, hasn’t left the house in fifteen years, or perhaps a visiting aborigine (assuming they had learned to drive a car during their stay), but really, how often does that really happen? Why do we all have to listen to it? Who doesn’t know what to do when they enter a parking garage and a machine spits a ticket at them?

Or how about when its 2 degrees outside with a wind chill of 15 below, and you are at the pump trying to maneuver your back to the wind to keep your face from freezing while pumping some Godforsaken gas in your car? And the pump starts making all these aggressive beeping sounds? “Beep!� Would you like a car wash? “Beep!� Flip the lever stupid! “Beep!� You put the card in the wrong way. Moron. “Beep!� How about some beef jerky? It’s on special! “Beep!� Are you sure you don’t want a car wash? “Beep!� Are you really, positively sure you don’t want a car wash? Because you can have one! For only $4.99! And I want to raise my middle finger and say “Beep you Mr. machine! It’s cold out here, you heartless bastard! Stop asking me insipid questions! I just want to get some gas and go home! I just want to go HHOOMMEE! �. I am not a violent person, but by about this time, I want to punch the machine in the digital display with my frozen, throbbing exposed knuckles.

And I jump through hoops and try to press all the appropriate buttons as the flesh on my fingers begins to freeze to the metal gas pump handle, and my ears begin to develop frostbite. I finally get the gas pumping, return to the protection of my car and heave a sigh of relief while the gas tank slowly fills.

Then it starts again. “Beep!� your tank is full! “Beep� do you want a receipt? “Beep!� Last chance for beef jerky! And I begin to kick the gas pump with my frozen toes.

One might ask, what kind of person allows an inanimate object to draw such deeply rooted ire? And then writes about it on the internet? Me, that’s who. I am not sure what that says about me. It can’t be good. But there it is none the less.

Is detailing for you my hatred for gas pumps the point of this exercise? No, believe it or not. That was just the warm-up. I have yet to have a point.

Yesterday, as I battled the cold and lamented the drill sergeant-esque beeping demands of the gas pump, I looked around me and observed the people filling up their cars at the station.

There was a man in a funky leather jacket gassing up his blue Subaru, and another man scraping the ice of the back window of his Hyundai. Protected from the wind inside my car, I tried to discreetly size each person up based on their physical appearance. Then, I tried to determine how their choice of car fit in to the overall image.

The guy with the cool leather jacket was wearing slouchy, worn Levi’s and was pretty cute. Perhaps he was a musician. At least I wanted to think so. His car, though, was a bright blue Subaru. The color just didn’t quite jibe. It was a bit girly, really. I thought to myself, “maybe it was his mother’s, and he is a struggling musician, and the only reason he drives it is because it was free?� Satisfied with my imagined justification for his choice of car, I looked the other direction. There, I observed the man driving the Hyundai. He was young and also cute. He donned a big parka, and had a 5 O’clock shadow. He looked like a poet, or a writer. But he was driving a Hyundai. Perhaps he was another starving artist. The Hyundai was a little disappointing though. A more fitting car would be an ’82 Cutlass Sierra or something. Something different and un-pedestrian. Again, the car didn’t match the image. “Maybe he won it in a contest� I thought. Yes. That’s it. Satisfied with my conclusion, I glanced at the gas pump to see if my tank was full yet.

And then it hit me. I was observing these people around me, sizing them up by their cars and judging their choices from the safety of my MINIVAN. Yes. My MINIVAN. I DRIVE A FREAKING MINIVAN. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I mean, I practically had to be dragged kicking and screaming to get to the point of minivan owner. In fact, the entire story about how exactly I went to South Carolina for a funeral, flooded the bathroom, and came home with a minivan can be read here. But my point, if I have one, and your opinion regarding that matter is clearly subjective, is that while out there gleefully throwing stones for my own entertainment, I live in a big old glass house. A glass house in the form of a silver Town & Country minivan.

I would hate for anyone to look no farther than my minivan to size me up, regardless of the fact that my license plate reads “M-L-F� (no lie. And it’s not a vanity plate, but an infinitely amusing coincidence).

I never thought of myself as a minivan type person. I gaze longingly at Mini Coopers and red convertible Cadillacs from the 70’s. THOSE are the kind of cars I would choose for myself. I would hate to be sized up by my car alone. Just like I would hate to have anyone judge me or my abilities based on any one single facet of my life. Motherhood for example. Or Mommyblogging. Or running marathons, or my political affiliation, or the fact that I have an irrational hatred for beeping gas pumps.

But there I was, committing the crime myself against unsuspecting people at the gas pump. Glass minivan indeed. I am guilty as charged.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

The alarm clock sprang to life at 6:15 this morning, heralding the return of our regular schedule. I burrowed under the covers, only emerging after the fourth slap of the snooze bar. The rest of my family was already up, eating breakfast and watching television. It was a very educational program, nothing like Spongebob. I've held true to my pre-child ideals of no commercial influences. Yes, my children are low-brow comedy prodigies, discovering wedgies and slapstick violence through my readings of Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, as well as The Little Princess and other classics for children that contain the word "little" in the title.

Coffee in hand, I scrubbed my fingers through my hair and frowned at the calendar. January 2nd. On the date, I had carefully applied a "back to school!" sticker at the beginning of the school year. I checked the handout from the school. Winter Break ends on December 31st. Barely surpressing an upwelling of glee, I marched to the closet and started selecting outfits for my little monsters, who, by this point, were doing some sort of chicken dance alternating with patting their butts and screeching while karate chopping the couch. That Laura Ingalls Wilder. She was a wild'un.

As I pulled socks from the drawer, I got a little carried away.

"You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"

They got into their outfits. I packed lunches, and after grooming them until they sparkled, I kissed them both and shoved them out the door after my husband. They skulked down the walk, and I stood in the door, waving and blowing kisses and offering up little nuggets of love. "Bye-bye! Love you! Have a great day! Cover your cough!"

Can't you see the bluebirds circling my head, and my freshly starched apron, pearls shining around my neck?

Actually, I cracked my knuckles and plopped down in front of the computer, coffee cooling in my favorite mug. My three year old was curled up on the couch with her abacus and other educational toys, totally not watching Dora the Explorer. I contemplated the screen for a moment, and typed a few sentences. Then I erased them. And then I retyped them. Yes! I was on a roll!

With a bang, the front door swung open, sending a cold gust of air rushing through the kitchen. With excited voices, my children announced that I was mistaken. Oh-ho! Today was a school holiday! The husband, also off from work! Things? Totally not back to normal!

Well, great.

After showing my disbelieving husband that the school handout DID NOT mention the holiday status of today, he insisted that I should have jumped onto the district's website to find out from the primary source. He sat down in front of google and typed in the name of the district. And then he tried the name of the school. And then he tried a few other combinations. Ten minutes of trying, he finally finds the calendar, which indicates that yes, today is a holiday.

Just, nuh-uh. I am not going to verify all school handouts to the district's website.

I was rousted from my warm bed, filled with hope of a little peace, a little accomplishment. Instead, I get another day of 'vacation' with my children and husband. Perhaps we will fill the day with educational worksheets and a knitting lesson. Perhaps we'll read more about Half-Pint and the gang.

Or maybe, I'll let them watch Spongebob and rot their little brains. It is vacation, after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

I always thought I would be the kind of mother who would not allow Barbie dolls as toys. I believe they perpetuate the pressures girls and women feel to attain an unrealistic and unattainably perfect physical appearance. The oversized eyes and vacant expression never did much for me either. Barbie definitely does not look like anyone I would want to hang out and have a beer with. First of all, I am not sure if the jointless elbow would allow her to get the actual beer to her mouth, and that would lead to a real spectacle with all the spilling and missing, not to mention a waste of perfectly good beer. Second of all, that doe-eyed stare is really pretty creepy. It just doesn’t look like Barbie has much going on in a cerebral sense. She doesn’t seem very witty or bright. And I like having beer with people who are witty and bright.

The “happy to be me� doll always seemed like a good idea. She was the doll with a reasonable waist to hip ratio, normal sized breasts, and big flat feet. I have big feet, and I would bet a large sum of money that my daughter will have big feet. She carries the genes of her size 11 shoe donning mother and her size 12 shoe wearing father. Sorry Madge! You might have to special order your shoes from the Bigfoot store. This is just one reason why I prefer that her toys resembling the human figure (however loose the translation) not make her feel like a flat-chested Amazon freak in comparison.

The recent reports about Barbie mutilation have changed my mind about the entire subject of the busty doll. Why deny my daughter the opportunity to use her budding creativity to concoct new and unusual ways to mutilate an unrealistic fashion icon? I mean, there is SCIENCE involved! Don’t girls need more science? What happens when plastic is microwaved and set on fire? Is she flammable or does she just melt? How high does the flame need to be? When Barbie is scalped, girls can examine the way the plastic hair is manufactured to fit into the tiny holes on her head! These are great, thought provoking experiments, people! What happens when Barbie is submerged in acid? Alkalaine solution? How long does it take for a golden retriever to chew up and ingest her? How does a journey through the digestive system of a Canine affect Barbie’s hair-do?

I learned firsthand about the flammability of the bionic woman’s plastic breasts when, at the age of 9 or 10, I held her chest over the flame of my parent’s gas range. Okay, she was the Bionic woman, not Barbie. But the whole reason I was melting of her bosoms was because I had no Ken doll. The bionic woman was a little taller and a little bigger than Barbie, so when I managed to melt off her plastic lady lumps she made an odd-looking sort of man who reeked of melted plastic char. So really if you think about it, she might have been the very first transgender Barbie. In stores soon. Remind me to contact someone about my fair share of royalties for that one.

The bionic woman’s transformation might not be considered true Barbie mutilation. It was not gratuitous in that I had a purpose in mind. I needed a male doll for all the love scenes I played out as a manifestation of my budding curiosity of human sexuality. I watched WAY to much love boat as a child. Barbie mutilation did come later though.

In a recent Christmas eve white elephant gift game with my family, one of the most coveted prizes was a severed Barbie doll head. Her hair had been shaved in front, and she had been defaced with permanent markers. That was just her head. I can only imagine what terrible fate her plastic torso and appendages has succombed to. She was one artifact that remained from the childhood of eight grown women (my three sisters and I, and our four cousins who are all women).

My Nieces, who are now 13 and 14 have had their own fun with Barbies. They threw them in the street to see what happened with buses ran over them. Their surviving Barbies are used as models for their own version of project runway (head trauma Barbie is still able to model in spite of her injury).

Looking at the Barbie phenomena this way, in which Barbie mutilation is a rite of passage I would never want to deprive my daughter of, I can now feel free to shower my sweet daughter with them. I would be doing her a disservice by not providing her with the materials with which to explore her budding creativity, experiment with plastics in varying environments and manifest her disgust for things disposable and commercialized. She can get in touch with her inner degenerate. I will empower her to reject Barbie’s inanimate blank stare by giving her the opportunity to deface and maim if she so chooses. And if she asks me for assistance and ideas, I am here to serve. As far as I’m concerned as long as she doesn’t move on to mutilate living creatures, it’s all harmless exploration and expression.

And the final score is: Kids: 1, Barbie: 0, Mattel: $6 Billion in annual revenues

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

If there is anyone reading this who does not feel a tiny bit strange stomping their feet, singing happy birthday and shouting “hooray!� along with a poor soul in a mouse costume, a handful of three-year-olds, and a group of men and women you have seen put more beer away than you can count, please raise your hand. Because I was recently right there, and it struck me as just about the oddest thing I have ever experienced.

Last night my husband and I attended the birthday party of our friends three year old daughter. The party took place at a local pizza parlor, marketed to children. An establishment not only marketed to children, but also to the parents of children who see the clear and obvious value of throwing a birthday party for 8 kids at someone else’s place. Where the cake, food, and paper party-ware are included, and someone else cleans up. It was the kind of place where the kids are given fistfuls of tokens and are sent off to busy themselves with video games and seizure-inducing flashing lights. What in the world is not to like about that? I, for one, can certainly see the appeal.

In attendance were several men and women I have known since long before they were married and had children. Men and women I have traveled with, played with and partied with for years. And there we all were, laden with baby bjorns, donning diaper bags, wearing silly expressions and dancing with giant cartoon characters.

So, when did this happen to us? I wonder if, a decade ago, I would have ever thought I would be sitting at a table with a toddler in my lap, looking at my good friend dancing enthusiastically with her daughter and an enormous mouse. This is the very same friend whose grandmother once dragged her out of a keg party in front of our entire high school. My good friend who one day after school, snuck her grandma’s car silently down the alley in neutral, and drove me home from her house a solid 2 years before she was old enough to get her drivers license. She was fearless, and she was either always in trouble, or avoiding trouble by sheer luck and the skin of her teeth. And there she was, beaming and dancing away with her pre-school daughter who was also beaming and dancing. And it was a beautiful sight to behold.

As I looked around the room at my friends, I wanted to laugh. Not because of the sillyness of it all (and it is really kind of silly), but because of how funny it is the way life changes when you have children. My friends and I might have looked at a group of people like us years ago, looked at each other, and mouthed the word “LOSERS!� My GOD would that have looked lame to us back then. We would have mocked us mercilessly.

But the fact of the matter is that when you have children, you do things that feel silly simply because it makes them happy. Seeing them smile is worth making a fool of yourself. You do it because you love them. And you really don’t care if the barely twenty-somethings are pointing and laughing at you. Because you know how much they have to learn about life, and you remember the days when you were the one doing the pointing and laughing.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, a client of mine, who is the father of twins, told me that life does not end when you become a parent. You just have what he eloquently called “a different kind of fun�. So the keg stands have morphed into jitterbugging with a giant mouse named Chuck. The beer is often times replaced with fruit punch, and we no longer have to sneak our parent’s cars out of the driveway. The thrill is not so much in getting away with things we might get into trouble for. The thrill lies in things that are yet to be. The firsts for our children, and the proud smiles that beam from their faces like white light become the thrilling moments. First steps, first words, first day of school, first ride on the bike without training wheels, first day of college, and maybe someday, our children’s first moments as parents.

So there we all were, having a “different kind of fun� with our children and, presumably, a teenager making minimum wage in a large mouse costume. And I was happy because the three-year-old birthday girl was happy, and my daughter Maggie was happy. Besides, we can still get our grooves on, as veterans, in our own right. We just have to make sure we have sitters lined up.

But we don’t ever point and laugh, because we know an infinitely greater amount of humility now than we did then. Children have a way of teaching you that.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was six years old, I tried to mess with Santa, and I lost. Badly.

Being a true believer, I was electrified with anticipation the night before Christmas. I could never get to sleep, I was so excited. That, and the grown-ups downstairs were usually well into the wine, and tended to speak over each other, loudly, until the wee hours of the morning. I was a jangled nerve ending of anticipation.

The excitement nearly caused me to implode. After finally falling asleep in spite of myself, I awoke before the sun. It must have been 5:00 a.m. Maybe earlier. It was so dark, I could barely see. I held my breath, careful to be quiet as I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. I don't know what I was more afraid of. The dark, or each and every creak of the stairs as I stealthly made my way down the the living room. My three sisters and I each got our own chair on which Santa placed our gifts. I made my way to the chair that was tagged "Meghan". MY CHAIR! THERE WERE PRESENTS ALL OVER IT!!! SANTA HAD BROUGHT OUR PRESENTS WHILE WE WERE SLEEPING!!! It was too much to wrap my young brain around!. I was awestruck. I crept over to the plate of cookies we had left for him, and sure enough, he had taken a few bites. Holy cow.

My plan was to get a sneak preview of the bounty, and slyly make my way back upstairs to bed with no one the wiser. I took my time looking at each gift, delivered just for me by the big guy himself. When I had documented it all, I decided to creep back up to my bed. As I moved toward the staircase, I passed the chair holding my older sister Julie's gifts. Something caught my eye. A plastic red calulator in the shape of a school house. I picked it up in the dark. I pushed a button. It lit up. I couldn't add. I could barely read. But I wanted it. I wanted it because it was red and shiny and it lit up. It was spectacular.

Without a second thought, I plucked it from Julie's chair and placed it on mine. I was certain I was the first one to see the gifts Santa had left us, and what Julie didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right? Right! It was going to work! I knew it! Satisfied with my ingenious plan, I snuck back upstairs and into my bed.

I rose with the rest of my family an hour or two later. I did my best to act surprised. I "ooh"'d and "aah"'d like a pro. Happy as a carp in muck, I played with my toys. That is, until I realized something was a little off. My parents. They were whispering to eachother and looking at me from across the room. I was certain it must have been my expression that had aroused suspicion. I busied myself with my new goods and concentrated on looking excited and angelic and most importantly, nonchalant.

"Uh.....Meghan?" my mother cleared her throat.

"Yes mom?" I replied, as innocently as I could act.

"Daddy and I think Santa wanted Julie to have that red calculator."

"No. I think Santa wanted me to have it. He put it on my chair."

I racked my brain, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong. There was NO WAY they could know that. NO WAY.

"Meghan, Daddy and I are pretty sure that calculator was supposed to go on Julie's chair."

"Why would Santa put it on my chair if he wanted Julie to have it?" I tried in vain to up the ante.

"Meghan. Daddy and I think Santa DID put that on Julie's chair."

Uh-oh. How in the sam hill had they figured me out? I was completely baffled.

"Meghan, you didn't put that on your chair, did you?"

"No." I lied.

"Well, Daddy and I happen to know that Santa wanted to give that calculator to Julie."

"How do you know that?" I was grasping at straws. And I knew it.

"We just know. Now give Julie the red calculator."

I sullenly walked to Julie's chair and set it down. It had been mine but for a moment, and it had slipped right through my fingers. I was totally counfounded as to how my parents had figured me out. It was as though they had eyes in the backs of their heads. Santa DID see me when I was sleeping, and he knew when I was awake. And he had told my parents! Santa had totally turned me in. I had been left high and dry. In the back of my mind I started worrying about next year. I figured this was the end of the line. I would forever be on the bad kid list. No more Santa presents for this lying kid. And it was all my fault for trying to pull a fast one. Why? Why had I done it?

Fortunately for me, I found out the following year that Santa was either very forgiving, or had a very short memory, because I miraculously ended up on the good list AGAIN. It must have been by the skin of my teeth. I tell you what, though. I never EVER messed with Santa again.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 2:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

There was a time I believed that parents had pet names for their children as a sign of affection. A term of endearment. I thought it was sweet and strengthened that parental bond. I have since learned that is not always the case.

It is because parents cannot actually remember their child’s name. Now don’t look at me like I am horrible. I happen to know for a fact that I am not the only mom to do this. My own parents were guilty of it. They still are! I grew up known as Michelle-Chris-Jennifer or some variation of that. I would answer to all three names or any combination of them, usually offering a correction as to my real identity if I was so inclined. Unless of course there was trouble. Then I kept silent and let the wrong name sink into my parents’ subconscious hoping that it would give my brother or sister a karmic demerit somehow and earn me a free ticket when I most needed it. The truth is, it all evened out in the end.

Even today, I am occasionally referred to by my sister’s name. As a defense mechanism, my sister and I have added 5 grandchildren to the list of names my parent’s can choose from when talking to us. I am quite confident that within a few years I will just been known as The Youngest Daughter with the Most Kids. (I plan to sign things simply: Younger. It is kind of catchy.)

Now that I have three children of my own, I find myself getting their names mixed up. (Though I swore I would never do that. Just like I swore I would never hide the good cookies while giving the kids the multi-pack of the cheap brand. And like I swore I would never tell my children that when I was their age, I would never have [fill in the blank].) I, too, have resorted to giving my children cute pet names. Out of affection? Sure. But mainly because I just really can’t remember their names at the drop of a hat. I tried to come up with nicknames that might trigger my brain into remembering who they are before anyone catches on that their real names have escaped me. When I look at them, I can see their nickname. Let me just tell you, it has saved me more than once when I draw a blank. In a fit of frustration or when put on the spot, I cannot be expected to know their names. It just isn’t possible when I have things floating around up there like ATM pins, phone numbers to the quickest pizza delivery place and way too many urls to count. I can say, however, that I have become more efficient than my parents were. My kids at least get partial names—BranZarGab-- when I become stuck rather than the full treatment. That should count for something.

I was ahead. I should have known better than to add to the mix. I should have known that I was maxed out on information, but I got cocky.

The other day my oldest son was acting, well, like a tween acts. I had enough. In a fit of frustration I blurt out, “Harley! Knock! It! Off!!�

I was immediately aware of the silence.

“Harley?� my son asked in astonishment. "Harley?! Mom, for crying out loud, you just called me by our dog’s name!�

“Yeah, well...� I stammered. “Stop acting like an animal then. And just to be safe, no talking back, kiddo, or when your dad, Mr. Man, gets home, you are in big trouble.�

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (1)

When my husband and I were first married, we lived in a 2-bedroom apartment that felt like a castle. It was ours alone. We even had a spare bedroom! After that lease was up, we decided to move to a smaller apartment because the $495/month rent was rather steep. We went smaller. Cheaper. We didn't need a lot of room for just the two of us. It was in one of these tiny, cheap apartments we affectionately referred to as Our Shoebox that we found out we would be having a baby. A new person to bring into our cozy home. He would be so small and it isn’t like he would be doing many activities. How much stuff can one tiny person have? We saw no reason to move. We were fine where we were. It took about a day to realize the error of our thinking.

We were using standard mathematics and logic when it came to this new little person. What we should have been using was the Parental Addition of a Child Chaos Relativity Theory. That sounds like a complicated, but truly, it is quite simple. The theory states that for every child you bring into your home, your chaos and clutter will increase a minimum of ten-fold whereas the amount of space you have as a couple will exponentially decrease. It’s a proven theory. Look it up. Better yet, ask a parent.

Now that my husband and I are outnumbered three to two by our children (four to two if we count the dog—and we do), we have completely given up on having any order or personal space to call our own. They win.

After a completely hectic and overwhelming child-centered week, I approached my husband in exasperation about the entire situation.

“What are the possibilities of converting our garage into an apartment?�

“Why would we want to do that?�

(Sometimes the sheer limited thinking he has is mind-boggling.)

“Think about it. Let’s just let the kids have the house. I mean, it is their stuff all over the place. Their mess. I went into my closet for my slippers yesterday and find a child. A CHILD. They’re even in my closet! We’ll never win, you know. We will never gain the upper hand on homeownership again. We just pay the bills now. But! We can just move into the garage and they will never know!�

“What do you mean they will never know? They’ll find us, you know. They will find the apartment and will take it over as well.�

He had a point. I began to pace the floor and think. “I’ve got it!� I shouted as I pointed towards the garage. “We tell them that we are working in the garage. That it is hard work. Manual labor. With no pay. We tell them that we could really use their help with chores in the garage. We actually invite them into the process. We emphasize the work part and the hard part. Especially the free part. What child would go within 20 feet of that place?�

I began to see the exciting possibilities flicker behind his eyes. I knew he was coming around to my way of thinking. “And the cars? Won’t they notice that we never put them in garage anymore?�

“As long as we are hauling them around town at their whim, they don’t care where the cars get parked. They just want to make sure they get to their next big destination.�

That night we sat in our bedroom and giggled as if we were a young newly engaged couple planning our future. We created floor plans and planned on how we would decorate our new apartment. We envisioned the parties we would throw, the lazy mornings that we slept late then read the paper in bed and the freedom we would have to trip over our own shoes and not theirs. The next morning we awoke to the sound of children fighting, the dog barking and one of the little people screeching for a pair of socks. We glanced at each other and sighed as we hit autopilot and started our day. Both of us grinning, though, as we passed the door to the garage.

We have not given up the dream of having our own place. (Would you?) If you need us, check the garage. I am not saying we live there or anything, though. Why? What have you heard?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 3:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

What’s that? What’s happening, you ask? Oh. The red and khaki clad Target employees running towards the toy aisle with mops and pails! No, no one’s precious progeny piddled on the floor. What happened to my head, you ask? Why are you speaking to a bloody stump of a neck where my head used to be? OH! That. Don’t mind me. Christmas shopping for my toddler just caused my head to explode. Oh, and where are my manners? Here, let me get you a tissue. Pardon me AND my skull fragments for two weeks.

Elmo and Big Bird. Baby Einstein DVD’s. Developmental toys. Fingerpaints and Flashcards. Things to push and things to pull. Do I buy her Crayons? Play-doh? What about a goldfish?

Will my child even remember any of this?

Good heavens I have to buy her SOMETHING! Something to put under the tree! Something to develop her Brain! Something to develop her talents! I start sweeping toys off the shelf and into my cart with wild abandon. If I don’t buy her these things, what kind of parent am I?

I am the kind of parent who feels like a total sucker. I buy into this stuff hook, line and sinker. I am sure I will spend at least $200 on the child before all is said and done. Meanwhile, her favorite toy is a duct-taped dilapidated shoe box we pull her around in on the carpet of her bedroom. That, and a tennis ball. She is not even old enough to produce a Christmas list, yet I am out scouring the toy section to buy the perfect toy. The perfect toy that will likely sit deserted in a pile of a hundred other perfect toys while she intently examines a tube of my concealer for 45 minutes.

The truth is, I could slap on her cowboy boots, hand her a bowl of strawberries and plop her in her favorite shoebox for a few pulls across the floor, and she’d be as happy as a dingety-danged pig in slop.

So why do companies market to children? Children have no money! They are lucky to have a regular supply of food and shelter! Mine has not earned a single red cent in her 15 months outside the womb. She has never even taken out the garbage, yet we toil away day in and day out, and the kid gets a free ride. Sheesh.

You want to know why companies market to kids? Take a look in the mirror at the sucker who hands over their hard-earned dough. That person is precisely why companies market to kids. Their marketing allows us to fulfill the fantasy. The question is, whose fantasy is it, really? Is it the child’s fantasy? Sometimes. Is it the parent’s fantasy of providing a blissful toy-filled childhood? Likely, often the case. But the fantasy truly belongs the guy making a 60% profit on the hunk of plastic manufactured in China he just unloaded on you. The hunk of crap you bought because you are convinced that it’s going to stimulate your child’s intellectual development, hand-eye coordination, artistic capability, whathaveyou. The hunk of crap you will unload at a garage sale in the near future for one tenth what you paid for it. THAT GUY is precisely who is fulfilling their fantasy here. One hundred percent. Fantasy. Fulfilled. Cha-ching.

Sometimes I am convinced that the great American pastime has become fighting in vain to prevent someone from separating you from your money. It’s a difficult game to win.

This is the time of year when the dogged pursuit of our dollars is truly relentless. I mean, the health of the American Economy is depending on our holiday spending, right? FOR PETE'S SAKE.

I admit, I am a skeptic when it comes to these things. On a certain level I am aware of the sickness of materialism. How it distracts us from what is truly important. We derive great satisfaction from filling our homes with vast collections of stuff while we avoid thoughts of human suffering and abject poverty.

I am aware of all of this, and it disgusts me. Yet, I still went out shopping last weekend and came home with a stuffed elephant toddler chair, finger paints that my daughter can’t use for a year and a half, an Elmo doll that sings “Shout�, neon pink Duplo blocks, a 100 piece plastic pretend food set, and a frigging pink leotard and tutu. I was drunk on Christmas spirit. Smack-addled by visions of my daughters beaming face on Christmas morning. I had lost all control. I failed miserably at fending off the spending. I hit rock bottom, baby. I didn't even know what hit me.

In other words, I am a sucker who knows she is a sucker. Is that better than being a sucker who doesn’t know she’s sucker? I would like to think so. I suppose it’s optimal to not be a sucker, and to know that you are not a sucker. Although that might be a bit boring, really.

Maybe someday I will get there. But I doubt it. For now I think I am allright with being a sucker who knows she's a sucker. I sold my soul for a moment of parental bliss in which I get to watch my beaming toddler grow rapidly and inevitably more materialistic while simultaneously modeling to her that stuff, and giving stuff to people that you love, is extremely fulfilling. Oh? You want to separate me from my hard earned money? By all means! Just give me a shopping cart-o-crap for it and everyone's happy! In the mean time, I will be sure to let you know when I plan to hold my next garage sale. Because odds are there will be a crap load of barely-used children’s toys for sale at one tenth what I paid for them.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Are you hungry? Want to take a look in the pantry for a snack?
Here. Put on a protective helmet. And take this flashlight and machete. You are going to need them. It’s a risky venture, opening that cupboard door. There are cans and boxes stacked precariously from top to bottom. Careful there. If you move that can of chicken broth, it could all come crashing down on your head. Just like “jenga� but with cans and boxes of non-perishables instead of small rectangles of wood.

When it comes to food, I am a hoarder. Plain and simple. There are two adults and one toddler in our family. Based on the contents of my pantry, one might think we are parents to at least 5 ravenous teenagers. We are not. One might think we live in a bomb shelter and are preparing for the big one. We do not. My name is Meghan. I am 33 year old food hoarder, and I am not afraid to admit it.

We went to Costco on Saturday. I spent three hundred dollars. I came home with two flank steaks, two large pot roasts, 5 pounds of boneless short ribs, two whole chickens, 6 pounds of boneless chicken breasts and a five pound package or chicken sausage. And that was just the meat section. There are two adults in our household. Two.

So why the scarcity mentality? I wish I knew. I was fed as a child. Every day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. My mother cooked for us every single day.

My sisters and I did have to improvise every once in a while. We made our own bag lunches for school. When the cupboard got a little bare, we had to get creative. Like the times we made “Doritos� out of stale taco shells and table salt. Not so good. My younger sisters once made a seven layer cake of wheat bread, margarine and cinnamon sugar. Visually, it was a masterpiece. Their excitement turned to disappointment when they took a few bites and went into nauseated margarine overload. It looked like cake, but really, it was just heavily buttered bread piled up with cinnamon sugar. Hic. Excuse me. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

I used to make my own “mounds� candy bars after school. While watching “Inspector Gadget� in the kitchen on our black and white television, I would pile coconut and chocolate chips on a piece of saran wrap and cook it in the microwave until it became a bubbling, smoking, rock-hard lump. Then I ate it. Happily. I can only imagine what ingesting melted saran wrap fumes has done to my insides.

The good stuff went fast at our house. When my mother came home from the grocery store, we would make a mad rush to “help her with the bags�. The kind of help we offered was not altruistic. Oh no. We helped with the groceries so that we could take a silent inventory of the treats, and then stash the fruit roll ups and oreos away. We could then return to gorge on them with no one being the wiser. Our hungry, beady little eyes scanned the brown paper sacks. Bag of oranges… broccoli… cheerios….BINGO! CHOCOLATE CHIP GRANOLA BARS! There are eight, so I need to make sure I get at least four of them before Molly, Betsy and Julie spot them! If I act fast, I can do it!

Everyone was out for themselves. It was dog eat dog.

One time, I managed to be the first one to get to a box of Twinkies our grandma brought over. I stuffed my pockets and snuck out of the house. “I’m going for a bike ride!� I said as I slyly slid six twinkies into the basket on my banana seat bike. I ate all of them during my covert bicycle mission. I pedaled home weakly, and retired to my bedroom in a nauseated stupor. That was the end of my love affair with alll things Hostess.

Our father used to try to beat us at our own game. He hid cookies in the upstairs hall closet, behind a pile of musty sleeping bags. We always found them. It we were lucky, we got to them before the dank closet smell permeated the box and made them taste funny. If we got there too late, we typically ate the foul, stinky cookies anyways. It wasn’t about taste, it was about WINNING!

I suppose my food hoarding did have some historical rooting in the family culture that we all helped create. The scarcity mentality continues today. I just like to eat exactly what I want, when I want. My husband Jim loves leftovers. I let him eat them all. I have no interest in dining on food that was cooked yesterday. That is so, well… yesterday. I like to ponder what exactly it is that I want to eat, and then make it and eat it. This requires a well-stocked pantry and freezer.

If we are ever faced with Armageddon, and my family survives the initial attack, we could easily hole up and subsist on the contents of the pantry for at least 3 months. All we need is a can opener.

Let me think……hmmmm……Tonight…. I want……. pasta with pine nuts and brasied short ribs. Now hand me that helmet and flashlight. I’m going in. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the fire department. I've likely been concussed by a can of garbanzo beans.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 8:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

When I became a first time mom, I'll admit it, I devoured the parenting how-to books. I am pretty sure I had all of the most popular titles as well as quite a few of the lesser known as well. I read whenever I could. While I was pregnant, I went to Childbirth Education Classes and a How to Breastfeed Class every week for about 6 weeks. I surrounded myself with the tools and advice of the self-proclaimed experts. I wanted to make sure I did this "mothering" thing well. I looked to the experts and those who had gone before me to reassure me that I was capable of raising this little person without causing too much harm to his psyche. I researched all of the "right" ways to burp, change and rock a baby. I was ready. I was armed with knowledge. I am mother hear me roar!

As my children aged, the books changed. As they went from one phase to the next, the books became fewer; the parenting from the hip style became more apparent. The books have also become more focused on one or two aspects of parenting rather than covering entire phases. Welcome to the teens; you’re on your own! The experts have left the building. (Unless of course you count the true experts. The parents. We are the ones standing on the sidelines of our teens' lives looking perplexed and a bit overwhelmed.) What I need is a book with practical advice on getting through this. Something with chapter titles like these:

“How to Make Yourself Invisible When Dropping Off Your Teen Anywhere, Anytime.� Because let’s face it, your teen will need you to drop him off many times at various places but really wishes you didn’t actual exist. I have discovered that singing “It’s Getting Hot in Herre� is not appropriate drop-off behavior. Which of course, means I do it more often when he give me attitude!

“My Teen Only Writes In IM-Net Lingo…Will He Ever Get Into College?� With the ever increasing popularity of Instant Messages, most teens have created their own language. AAMOF, U need the 411 if u have POS, KWIM? (Translation: As a matter of fact, you need this information if you have your parents over your shoulder. If you know what I mean.) See? I don’t see Harvard all over that essay.

“Getting Your Teen to Speak To You: Going Beyond Whatever, Huh? And The Four Syllable Version of the Word Mom� How often have you tried to speak with your teen about his day or his social life only to be rewarded with a riveting “Whatever, Mooooooom!� There must be a way to have a conversation with more than one word responses that do not involve the words “I need� and “money�.

“Toilet Training Made Me Mental But Teen Training Just Might Kill Me!� There was a time I couldn’t wait until my children were old enough to do things for themselves. Now, all they want to do is to do things for themselves. By themselves. With nothing but my money to aid them. Certainly, there is a middle ground in there somewhere. Show it to me.

"Convincing Yourself That Eyerolling Really Does Mean ‘I Love You� My children have always been masters at eyerolling. Masters. But honestly, I believe there must be a secret class taught in middle school that helps them to bring this skill to a mastery level. I have yet to see a teen who is not the master of the eyeroll.

But as I said, I have yet to see this book. Have you? What chapters would you add if you could?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 4:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (0)

"It’s the new Meghan Townsend!" I proclaimed as I donned a new, huge afro wig and strutted my stuff all the way into the school dance. My High School peers jaws gaped down to their polo oxfords, which were tucked neatly into their tapered Girbaud jeans. They all fell silent. The only noise to be heard was Cris Cross’s “Jump!� blasting through the gym. They began whispering to one another and pointing. Oh no. Not again. In my effort to distinguish myself from my siblings I had made a mockery of myself AGAIN. Why were people always laughing AT me and not WITH me? Why wouldn’t anyone sit next to me on the School bus? Why did I feel compelled to eat my school lunch burrito sitting alone in a stall in the girls restroom? Why did that social service worker keep calling to ask about the cats gone missing from the neighborhood?

I guess it wasn’t THAT bad. But I was a middle child. Technically the second of four girls. I like to say that my sister Molly and I got shafted so badly that we even had to share the title of middle child. Just like we had to share everything else we ever got, from fruit roll-ups to chicken pox and head lice.

Middle Child Syndrome. The words conjure up images of a desperate, needy, neurotic Jan Brady-type. A clingy “me-too! Hey! Remember me? Hey! Wait up guys! Come on! Wait up!� kind of a kid. In a way, I suppose that is part of who I am. A person hates to admit that. But yeah, I am an annoying pesky middle child at heart. I feel it in my center. The need to be included. The desire for approval. Loathe the thought of being left out of anything. Like a dagger through my heart.

I have a distinct memory of asking my mother for ketchup on my bologna sandwich. I was about 4 years old. I did this because my sister Julie had asked for mustard on hers. What’s the opposite of mustard? Ketchup! I shall have ketchup on my bologna sandwich! My mother must have thought I was nuts, or at least lacked any sense of taste. But that is the way I thought it was supposed to be. My choices, even then, were dictated by someone else’s. I thought I had to be the exact opposite of my older sister. Not that any one ever told me that, mind you. It was an underlying assumption on my part. Four years old and already making an ass of u and me.

For much of my life, I had an underdeveloped sense of identity. If asked the question “So, who IS Meghan?� I probably would have stammered a bit and responded with “ummm... I don’t know. What do you think?�. This lack of self-definement is characteristic of middle children. I measured myself through the eyes of others. I watched for clues and gauged how I was doing by carefully monitoring the facial expressions and body language of the people around me.

I had a couple of “jail break� boyfriends. Guys I went out with because they had cars and could drive me places. They could drive me away from my house and my family. I also belonged to a gang of girls. We weren't a “Gang� like the kind that wear bandanas and flash signs. But we were a gang of girls in a sense. We were so close back then, we really kind of raised each other. At least through the teenage years. Most of those girls are my closest friends to this day.

I read on the Dr. Spock website that “Middle children...often learn non-aggressive strategies to get what they want, such as negotiation, cooperation, or seeking parental intervention�. I don’t remember beating my younger sisters up per se, but I do remember implementing tactics of full-on psychological torture. I would hide my sisters security blanket just to watch her sob in bereft agony. I would literally sit and watch my parents, exhausted from long days at work, as they searched high and low for her beloved dingy piece of fabric so they could put Molly to bed once and for all. I watched them frantically tearing the house apart, and envisioned her blanket, folded and hidden carefully under the cushion of my father’s favorite armchair. I watched them and chuckled demonically.

Deviant and sick? Why yes! That’s me! Deep rooted feelings of anger for not getting enough attention? Yes! And that is why I derived pleasure from watching my little sister shudder and weep in her suffering. MAN that is twisted. Molly, if you are reading this: I AM SORRY!!!! You were an innocent victim. My middle child comrade. I had Jan Brady syndrome, but with more sociopathic tendencies thrown in. I always ended up giving the darn blanket back, though. And surprising as it may be, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy as an adult. You might not have predicted that back then.

But I guess it’s not all bad. Apparently most middle children possess a well developed sense of empathy (aforementioned story of sibling torture clearly an anomaly, perhaps I will donate my brain to research). We make great diplomats. We are used to getting a bit lost in the shuffle. I also read on www.DrSpock.com that “Middle children take a general interest in getting to know other people...Middle children are often quiet about their needs; they may be more likely to withdraw than to make a fuss� (or perhaps resort to deviant behavior, which apparently was the case with me). So if I had learned to clearly express my needs (NEED LOTS OF ATTENTION!) I may not have had to work out my feelings of juvenile rage through insensitive sibling torture. I was doing the best I could with the resources I had at the time. So was everyone in my family.

Being our only child so far, Maggie will be spared the title of "middle child". If we are lucky enough to have another child, or even two or three more, Maggie will be the oldest. According to Dr. Spock, eldest children have their own unique neuroses. Overzealous parents, without other siblings to tend to in the early years, tend to focus more attention on the oldest child. Oldest children learn how to please their parents, and they do it well (subsequent children apparently learn to not give a hoot what their frazzled parents think). "Ironically, their very success often leads to anxiety: If being special hinges on performing up to high standards, what happens if they fail? To protect against this disaster, many firstborn children set even higher standards for themselves than their parents do, and, as a result, are rarely satisfied."

I do hope that Maggie grows up to be okay with who she is. I hate to think of her berating herself for not measuring up to some unattainable standard. To offer Maggie the best of both worlds (as a parent with only one child to focus my crazy on) I think I will introduce Maggie to her imaginary older sister. That way she can be both an oldest and a middle. Maggie, meet you sister Sara. She's real bossy, and she might beat on you every now and then, but she will take all the pressure off. Maggie, my love, you are now free to go through life as an empathetic, diplomatic middle child slacker.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 4:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night. We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest. "Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce. "MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door. "Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed.

Whew! As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling
youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper. We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house.

After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, and my baby's second and third waking of the night.

I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on August 20, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Sometimes in a family of 5, you need to sit the kids down and have a Very Serious Talk about attitude. (This week on a very special episode of Family of Five, the family pulls together for a Very Serious Talk about attitude. A must see episode for the entire family.) Of course for the children it is best if you can do this as a group. You are more likely to not be the only one taking the heat. We as parents know this. Which is why we did it one on one. Or rather two against one. (Seriously, did my parents derive this much giddiness from watching The Squirm that the kid on the hot seat does? Sick bastards we are!)

So we call in the oldest and start talking. We have this rule when we have these talks. You can say anything. As long as you are being constructive and not just trying to get some digs in and being ugly. If you are mad, let us know. If you feel like it is unfair, let us know. Say Anything.

Well, it can get tense when you have these talks. Especially when you are feeling like you are on the hot seat and getting the lecture. I am not one to do well with super tense scenes. My sarcasm and dry wit tend to overcome me before I am even aware of it happening. So I look at my son and say with a perfectly straight face, "So, would you like to talk about sex now? I know the word penis and I'm not afraid to use it."

*Cue shocked and appalled look from my son. He replies to me in a very preteen, angsty way, "Mooommmmmm!"

Seeing that I have pushed a button, demon mom kicks in.

"Seriously. Shall we talk scrotum? Which, by the way, is the plural of scrotum scrotums? Scrotumeses? Scroti?....."

*Shocked look from my son who is actually looking for something sharp to jam into his eardrums, but realizes he is stuck with nothing but his own fingernails that were trimmed that morning and would never work.*

"...I am sure it is probably scrotums. But don't you think that scroti sounds more scientific? For example, 'In our family we have a ratio or 3 boys to 2 girls. Therefore, we have a plethora of scroti in our home.' See? It just sounds more official and scientific."

At this point my son is writhing in agony on the couch praying for death or a psychologically freaked out induced coma to get out of this situation and never have to hear his mother say the word scrotum again.

Then I get The Stare. A glazed over look was behind The Stare. But nevertheless I know that the stares means, "Mom. You've gone too far. You can no longer shock me. Give it your best shot."

If you know me, you know that I just do not have the ability to walk away from such a challenge. Especially from one of my children. I stared back. Then, in my most perplexed and inquisitive manner, I looked at my son and asked, in all seriousness, "Speaking of this, I was wondering, since you are Mr Science, do flies have scrotum? I mean seriously. I guess that depends on whether they have a penis or not. Do you know?"

At that my son gets up, rolls his eyes and says, "I think this talk is over now, Mom. I mean really!" He walks out of the room. Only to hear his father scream from the living room, "Son, are you looking it up. Fly. Scrotum. Google it."

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are going to parental hell for this one. But damn it was funny!

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on November 15, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When the geek movement first arrived in my life, I did try to resist it. When my husband Clint had a BBS before we got married, I still vowed to love him in spite of the geek factor being blown off the scale.

I resisted becoming a geek.

Oh sure, I logged on, got a great user name and chatted with the other users, but I was NOT a geek. Honest. And yes, I did go with him to the sysop get togethers. (But man, those geeks can drink!)

Yet, I resisited becoming a geek.

After Zarek was born in 1995 I became a full fledged insomniac. Clint's answer? Show me the internet. Teach me how to navigate the World Wide Web. Our conversations went something like this:

Me: What do you mean I can find a website on anything I want?"

Clint: "Just type anything you want to know in that box and it will take you to that website."

Me: *typing* 'anything I want to know' *SMACK to the forehead* "Ohhh, you mean type the TOPIC of what I want to know?? Like if I type 'coffee' I can read all about the different brews?"

Not only did I find coffee related sites, I found PARENTING sites! And JOURNALS! And CHAT sites! (I could suddenly chat with anyone, anytime!) I really did have something new to do with those middle of the night sleepless hours. I was going to like this new Internet thing. (Thanks so much, Al Gore. I heart the Internet!)

Yet, I resisted becoming a geek.

Years passed. I set up a few different websites of my own. I discovered IRC and went to real live get- togethers with these people that I met in *gasp* a chat room. I joined an awesome online Moms groups when Gabriella was a newborn. Even starting my very own blog in 2003 didn't bring me to the realm of full fledged geek. It didn't matter that I wrote on the internet. Or that I actually learned HTML. Even the fact that I knew what people were talking about when they spoke geek. I wasn't there yet.

That moment arrived a week or so ago. It was in that moment that I realized not only had I arrived in the World of Geek, I just may have to try to be their queen.

Clint was in the family room with his laptop doing something geeky online. I was in the bedroom getting ready to call it a night when I had a moment of inspiration. I grabbed my laptop and (giggling like I am being a bad girl) sent him a very suggestive instant message asking him to meet me in the bedroom.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Perhaps my IM was too suggestive and not blunt enough. Fine. I can do blunt. So, I decide to send him a steamy IM that was in no way shape or form questionable about what I was talking about. Dirty words and all.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Nothing.

My first thought is, 'Oh my god! What if I IM'ed that to a friend or worse my Dad?!' In a panic I double checked and was relived to see that I had not propositioned either.

Then I got pissed. What the hell is wrong with me that my own husband isn't responding to a very blatant invitation? It then dawned on me that maybe it wasn't his fault.

I grabbed a robe, stormed into the family room hand on my hips and demanded, "Do you or do you not have porn blocking on your instant messenger?"

Stammering, he replied that he did and then proceeded to try to figure out why he was in trouble for NOT having porn on his laptop.

"Nevermind," I sighed turning on my heal and leaving with a pout.

Back in the bedroom, I gave it one more shot. This time it worked.

Can I just share something with you about propositioning your spouse through IM, though? It really does lose something when all of the "dirty" words are spelled with an asterick smack in the mid*dle of them.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on January 29, 2005

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

This post is about poop, but not just regular poop. Giant FLOATING poop. It's also about ice cream, cigarettes, coffee, and prune juice. Oh, and Scalding. This post is also about scalding.

Maggie and I met my family for ice cream yesterday. We shared a small scoop of blueberry yogurt and Maggie sampled the wares of everyone else at the table who couldn't resist her hopeful gaze and gaping little-bird mouth.

We followed up the ice cream with a visit to a small toy store that carries all sorts of fun things for kids. This should have been a happy experience, filled with wonder and giggles, but alas, it was not to be. Something was wrong. Maggie stood red faced, with tears straming down her cheeks. Her nose started to run. She screamed and screamed. She crouched and winced. She was trying to work out a poop that was just not working out. It was not working out and it was wreaking havoc on her little insides. It's very distressing to see your child in pain and not be able to help. This disruptive terd had taken on five adults and a child, and it was winning. We were helpless.

In desperation, we tossed some ideas around.

Feed her fruit? No. That would take too long. Coffee and a cigarette? No. Not until she is at LEAST 8 years old. Liquids! Prune juice! That's it! Prune juice!

We walked to to the local co-op to find some magical prune elixer for my little backed up baby.

I gave her the juice. Nothing happened. On the ride home in th car she seemed to calm down. I fed her a dinner of fruit, fruit and more fruit. More prune juice, more fruit. Then it started up again. The screaming in pain. It hurt just to look at her. In desperation, I started a warm bath.

She sat in the tub and instead of her usual larky splashing about, she stared at me as though to say "THIS is what you came up with? A BATH? Will you just help me already? This giant terd is about to kill me and you start a BATH???? THIS HURTS! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FIX IT. DON'T YOU GET IT?"

Perhaps that was more my own inner dialogue.

Maggie started wiggling and wailing in the tub. Helpless, I could see her pain was escalating. She stood up, screeching in agony. She gripped the side of the tub with both chubby hands, pressed her head to it, crouched over, and out it came. Emerging from sheer toddler willpower and the mouting pressure from within her tiny little colon.

This poop had absolutely no business coming out of the bum of a one year old. It was the meanest, hardest, biggest, ugliest poop ever created by a butt that small. So compacted, I thought the pressure must have formed a diamond inside. I was SHOCKED by the sheer size of this monster. Tommy two-tone. A marbled combination of three days worth of toddler meals. I nearly cried with relief for her. Having seen the sheer size of it, I wanted to buy her a toy or a sticker just for getting the damn thing OUT. My daughter, the bravest strongest, most determined pooper in the world. The diminutive queen of extreme danger-pooping.

I was feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out that a warm bath would help relax those muscles and move the poopy beast along. Jim donned rubber gloves and victoriously searched through the bubbles to fish the massive logs of excrement from the tub. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Giddy, in fact.

My pride turned to horror as I pulled Maggie from the tub and saw her red little legs. Overzealous in my efforts to work the fecal frankenstein out, the warm bath I had drawn was TOO WARM. I may have coaxed the culprit out, but seemed to have scalded my daughter's lower half in the process. "Is there no end to this madness Dear God?" I wailed, "WHY? WHY??"

Why? Do you know why? I think I do. It happened because, as a parent, you can't get too cocky. You think for one moment, you have it figured out. You and your co-parent are high-fiving eachother, oblivious in your pride and self-congratulations for emerging, victorious, from battle. And out of nowhere, you get knocked with a left uppercut you NEVER saw coming. This is to keep us on our toes. Ever vigilant of the next totally stupid moronic thing we, as parents, are about to do.

I carefully pulled Maggies Pajama bottoms over her chubby red legs. Mercifully, Her red legs slowly turned to pink and eventually back to their lovely normal flesh color. We let her play while we ate dinner. I picked her up for her bedtime bottle and story and she laid her head on me as if to say "Please. Just put me to bed already. This day. Let it be over. The poop. The burning hot water. enough already." She struggled to keep her eyes open through "Goodnight Moon" and I put her to bed, exhausted. She was out cold within seconds.

Another day of well-intentioned but grossly mediocre parental blundering behind us.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 1:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)