Category Archives: The Natives are Decidedly Restless

June 21, 2011 · 12:48 pm

Words to Live By

As a parent it sometimes seems as if there simply aren’t enough words at my disposal. Not enough to adequately address all that encompasses raising wily children anyway. And it is during the months of June, July and August that I feel most compelled to append Merriam-Webster’s somewhat meager offerings. Summertime, after all, is a language unto itself—a season bursting forth with events that beg to be defined. Translation: I need some new and exciting terms to describe life beneath this circus tent—nomenclature that has yet to earn a place in the annals of dictionaries and whatnot.

Toward that end, here are some less-than-official but oh-so-fitting words I crafted some time ago in the spirit of depicting parenthood more thoroughly. Be sure to visit me on Facebook (www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom, click on Discussions) to share some of the words and/or phrases you’ve coined in the trenches of Parentville.

Crocophobia [krok-o-FO-bee-ya] noun: An irrational and slightly debilitating fear of permitting one’s offspring to wear Crocs pretty much anywhere on the planet. Naturally, all-that-is-entirely-horrible (specifically pertaining to the health and well being of the wily beasts who beg to wear them) can and will happen as a direct result of donning said footwear.

“Alright already. It’s true that I suffer from Crocophobia, but mark my words: You’ll fall down on the playground and knock your teeth out if you wear those stupid things!”

Note: Not to be confused with Crocomania: a disturbingly euphoric state associated with the sheer joy of wearing Crocs.

Sunscream [SON-skreem] noun: What children view as the incarnation of wickedness (i.e. schmutzy cream, lotion or spray designed to protect one’s skin from harmful UVA/UVB rays, but suggestive of unadulterated evil)—which in all likelihood will cause one to scream unmercifully when properly applied.

“Mom, don’t you know this is PURE TORTURE?! I HATE sunscream and I HATE how it tastes! Do you want me to eat it and DIE?!”

S’moreapaloosa [SMORE-a-pa-LOO-za] noun: The celebrated and seemingly endless event during which voluminous quantities of S’mores are shamelessly consumed by one and all. Typically, an assembly line type of arrangement is utilized in order to facilitate the mass production of said fare and a second or third source of income is strongly recommended to fund the project for an entire season.

Note: S’mores (the indescribably delicious summertime snack which is thought to have originated with the Girl Scouts in 1927) consists of melted chocolate and toasted marshmallows sandwiched between two graham cracker squares. You know you want one—or several hundred.

“We’re having a big cookout and then later tonight, it’s S’moreapaloosa time by the campfire! Wanna come?!”

Kidskrieg [KIDZ-kreeg] noun: The swift and sudden onslaught of frenzied children (i.e. a veritable torrent of smallish bodies) eager to examine and appraise the digital snapshot Mom or Dad may have just taken of them. Perish the thought of enlisting the support and cooperation of all parties concerned as it relates to posing for another pretty picture. The aforementioned children will be far too preoccupied with the mauling-of-Mom-or-Dad and, of course, pawing at the cussed camera—the one with the fancy-schmancy preview thingy that spawned such delirium in the first place.

“Dear God, here comes the kidskrieg!”

Brusterized [BREW-stir-ized] transitive verb: A profoundly incapacitating state of mind in which an individual or group yields to the irresistible allure of Bruster’s ice cream. Such an indulgence typically occurs while en route to the next 47 things on any given day’s calendar, often stemming from having little or no meal-planning ability, considerable confusion regarding the food pyramid and/or the desperate need to quell any and all child-related disturbances in the back seat.

“Hey Dad, we got Brusterized on the way home from swimming lessons and Mom said that counts as a real meal.”

Conflatulation [con-FLA-chu-LAY-shun] interjection: An expression of acknowledgment and/or sincere praise for having performed the most impressive (read: the loudest, longest, or smelliest) stinker in the land. Said expression is employed almost entirely by children in their everyday speech patterns and, customarily, is used in the plural.

“Conflatulations! Your fart was AMAZING!!”

Grassathon [GRASS-a-thon] noun: A brutally interminable, thick-of-summer type of event in which children of all ages risk life and limb while sliding down steep, grassy slopes upon various sled and sled-like devices. Swim goggles and mosquito repellant are optional. Grass stains, assorted injuries and rashes are not.

Note: Lawns are irreparably damaged during the abovementioned event.

“Hey guys! We’re having a Grassathon in my front yard ALL DAY! Bring your sleds!”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (quickly becoming fluent in the language of summer). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

2 Comments

Filed under Kid-Speak, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, humor, kids, parenting, summer

May 10, 2011 · 9:12 am

Dear Mirena

Firstly, as a mother of three, I’d like to thank you for sprinkling a little amusement atop my harried-with-children sort of world. The television commercial for the birth control product you market is hilarious, depicting with remarkable accuracy the inexorable chaos that is parenting. That said, the grocery store scene was classic, wherein you nailed the idea that kids are kids are kids, and inherent within each smallish being is the irrepressible desire to poke and prod fresh produce until it topples to the floor. The watermelon was a superb choice, incidentally.

However, your writers crossed some sort of line between that which is refreshingly funny and that which has led to a profusion of child-generated questions for which I have no answers. Shame on you for that, my dear Mirena.

__________________________________________________

Imagine, if you will, my husband, our twin daughters (Seek and Destroy, who are soon-to-be fourth graders) and myself plunked upon our couch watching television one afternoon while an ad for your lovely product aired. Of course, we were greatly amused by the aforementioned supermarket circus as well as the other just-shoot-me-if-I-so-much-as-THINK-about-getting-pregnant-again portrayals.However a seemingly innocuous snippet of speech (i.e. “…you can try to get pregnant right away…or not…”) apparently piqued the interest of a certain nine-year-old, causing her to launch one of the most feared inquiries known to the parenting world.

“So how do you try to have a baby anyway?”

Stupidly, my husband and I sat there in stunned silence, slack mouthed and pitifully unprepared to respond with any semblance of coherent thought.

Again with the question–only louder and more insistent this time, “SO HOW DO YOU TRY TO HAVE A BABY?”

We glanced at each other with a look that shouted, “It’s your turn to field this one,” shifting uncomfortably in our seats and wishing like crazy the awkwardness would dissolve into our less-than-pristine-looking cushions. But it didn’t. If anything, it intensified. Like fools, we simply sat there and waited for a nugget of wisdom to fall from the sky–much like the time we expected the Difficult Question Fairy to swoop down from the clouds and address our child’s very real concerns (i.e. the much-heralded demand to know if daddy’s vasectomy involved removing all or part of his brain). Seriously. One of our dear charges actually asked this.

“Hey, guys!” I shouted, tripping over my pitiful inability to change the subject, “Look at the cardboard boxes! They’re MOVING! Doesn’t that look like fun?! Maybe we should scrounge around in the garage for some big boxes, and then we could cut windows and doors in them like we used to!”

Our less-than-delighted progenies promptly rolled their eyes and attempted to redirect the discussion, “Did you guys try to have us?”

“Yes, yes we did, in fact,” my husband offered, hoping to steer the conversation into the realm of that which was answerable. “We even went to a special group of doctors (Translation: we trekked to a faraway fertility clinic each and every time your mother so much as whispered the words, “Honey, I might be ovulating…”) and they were enormously helpful–those doctors–enormously helpful. So yes, yes, we DID try to have you and we couldn’t be happier about it!”

“Why’d you do that? Were you guys bored or something?”

Needless to say, the Difficult Question Fairy was nowhere to be found and nothing seemed to be falling from the sky–least of all wisdom. Ugh.

1 Comment

Filed under Ode to Embarrassment, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as birth control, children, family, humor, kids, Mirena, parenting

April 25, 2011 · 5:00 am

Ten Mom Duties I’d Prefer to Outsource

For the record, this is National Scoop the Poop Week, which, I can only assume, commemorates the thankless post of those who gingerly sift and subsequently remove masses of repulsiveness from rectangular boxes in cellars everywhere. Moreover, I’m guessing the week is also reserved for the purpose of honoring the countless individuals who manage (i.e. harvest or fling) varying amounts and consistencies of dog dung from grassy temptations in parks and neighborhoods near and far. And while such recognition is indeed richly deserved, it makes me slightly resentful as a mom—especially as one who routinely engages in less-than-pleasant tasks without so much as a hint of formal acknowledgment. Hrumph.

Granted, we have Mother’s Day in May, Father’s Day in June and, of course, National Parents’ Day in July; but even considered collectively, they pale in comparison to THE SOLID WEEK OF VALIDATION the pooper scooper people receive. Such a tiny portion of the calendar hardly seems adequate given the myriad of responsibilities that encompass the bailiwick of most parents in this day and age. Nevertheless, I’d likely forego any and all public acknowledgment—including the conferral of a week-long, national holiday in celebration of parental duties—so that I might outsource said horribleness instead. Here is a list of ten I’d farm out immediately or sooner.

1) Lord of the Loo. I cannot begin to express my displeasure as it relates to the aforementioned role, which includes but is not limited to the act of flushing and plunging toilets as necessary. Quite frankly, I’ve grown increasingly intolerant of my brood’s so-called inability to remember to push a stupid little lever and to refrain from using obscene quantities of toilet paper.

2) Gatekeeper of Information/Entertainment Sources. Given the prevalence and accessibility of data and entertainment (which ranges from good to completely dreadful both online and off), I am fairly exasperated by the impossible nature of the task at hand. That said, I cannot police every keystroke or channel surfing venture my heathens engage in, nor can I place digital controls on the devices in question because, admittedly, I am a poor tool.

3) Homework Nazi. Of all the hats I wear as a parent, that of academic taskmaster is my least favorite. Firstly, it gives my children yet another reason to loathe my existence. Secondly, I don’t possess the intellect required to grasp the “new math” and nothing would gladden my heart more than to watch it die a slow, horrible death. Thirdly, I fail to see the rationale behind inundating kids with reports and whatnot that are beyond the scope of their abilities. Translation: I am tired of making them jump through hoops when they ought to be climbing trees.

4) Bedtime Enforcer. Need I say more?

5) Explainer of That-Which-Is-Inexplicable. Think: Moammar Gadhafi, Charlie Sheen and pretty much any statement made by Donald Trump.

6) Thank You Note Tyrant/Cheerleader. Of course, I am indescribably grateful to those who shower my progenies with gifts throughout the year, but I absolutely abhor the commission of motivating them to churn out notes of thanks that are abundantly specific, palpably thoughtful and convincingly genuine. Never mind legible. Clearly, this sort of undertaking lives on the fringe of impossibility, seeking to destroy my dream of mediocrity as a parent.

7) Zenmaster of Closet Space. Confession: Each and every closet in my home is hideously disordered. And no one, it seems, is particularly interested in reversing the ill effects of our hoarding mentality—except me. To date, our dear closets house an embarrassment of clothing that no longer fits anyone, mismatched flip-flops, irreparably damaged umbrellas, lone mittens, sneakers in various stages of decomposition and hats from the early Paleozoic Era. Oy.

8) Resident Grossinator. Otherwise known as the CEO of Household Biohazards—to include pinkeye encrustations (joy), toenail clippings (grok!), unflushed whateverness, phlegm (gak!), fecal matter and/or fermented food contained within the hamster cage that no one else will clean and let us not forget vomit—the bodily fluid that once (before children) repulsed us. Now (disturbingly, I might add) we attempt to catch it, so that we might spare our lovely couches and carpets from the horrors of an unmistakable and decidedly permanent odor.

9) Laundry Lady. It’s not the washing that gets to me, especially. It’s the remembering what gets dried and what must hang-to-dry. And the folding. And the re-folding if the husband happened to have volunteered his services. And the stacking. And the picking up of the stacks that inevitably fall to the floor. And the taking care of the wretched piles I so despise—because it seems everyone else is physically incapable of doing so. Ugh.

10) Conflict Captain and Finder of Lost Toys. I sometimes think if it weren’t for the time spent mediating disputes and searching the earth for someone’s beloved toy, I wouldn’t know how to quantify my worth as a parent. Obviously, I wear other hats, too (see #s 1-9), but somehow they don’t seem as noteworthy. Not in the eyes of my children, anyway. After peace has been restored to the land and/or someone’s irreplaceable stuffed animal has been found, I am reminded, once again, that my post might not be thankless after all.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (longing to subcontract certain aspects of parenthood).

3 Comments

Filed under Rantings & Ravings, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, humor, kids, Mommie Dearest, parenting, rants

April 3, 2011 · 5:00 am

Training Wheels

My oldest daughter, more affectionately known as the woman-child, recently adopted a hamster—which is all well and good I suppose. She’s away at college so, theoretically speaking, the whiskered beast won’t add appreciably to the chaos that lives and breathes here. To date, we house a pampered dog, a self-absorbed cat and, ironically, five smelly hamsters—which is plenty, given that a number of children and house plants also reside here, making demands and a profusion of noise as a matter of course.

Well, not the plants so much.

At any rate, the aforementioned co-ed is a fairly responsible twenty-something who has waited a very long time to welcome a pet of her own—to feed and water said creature without fail, to scrub away stench and eradicate poo with glee, to know the horrors and complexities of cage assembly and the sheer panic of “misplacing” the dear rodent in question. But, in all fairness, she couldn’t be happier or more eager to embrace the notion that such a tiny (and admittedly adorable) being is now entirely dependent upon her ability to perform such tasks. There’s something to be said for delayed gratification, methinks.

However it has come to my attention that a certain couple of somebodies (namely Heckle and Jeckle) have a problem with their big sister’s new role as a bona fide pet owner. It seems that someone’s panties are officially in a bunch over the matter of obtaining (or not) parental consent for the purchase of the abovementioned hamster.

Once the news broke (i.e. the furry beast was deposited upon the coffee table for one and all to behold), the vociferous rant conversation unfolded thusly: “Does MOM know you got this!?” one of my soon-to-be-ten-year-olds shouted with indignation. “Yeah! You can’t just walk into a store and BUY A HAMSTER without Mom’s permission! She’ll freak! She’ll absolutely FREAK when she finds out!” my other soon-to-be-ten-year-old barked, visibly outraged by her sister’s alleged failure to follow family protocol.

“Hellooooo, I’m 22. Okay, almost twenty-THREE and Mom will be perfectly fine with this. You’ll see,” my oldest defended, almost comically.

Indeed, I was perfectly fine with it; but I was then faced with a thorny task—that of explaining to my fourth graders the

particulars that encompass perhaps the grayest of parenting areas: when, how and under what circumstances should we relinquish authority—great or small—to our children, especially to those on the cusp of adulthood. In doing so, I found myself wrestling with the intangible nature of age as it relates to maturity, struggling mightily to define the indefinable and ham-handedly muddling through the whys and wherefores that drive nearly every decision that ultimately leads to the conferral of independence.

Somehow (perhaps because the gods were smiling upon me that day) I managed to field the barrage of unanswerables to a satisfactory degree. That said, Heckle and Jeckle seemed reasonably content with the outcome of the Great Hamster Debate, and with my rudimentary manner of defining what constitutes the fringe of adulthood. Translation: They were slightly enthralled to learn that one day (albeit not particularly soon) they’ll likely be carrying iPhones and able to adopt a herd of llamas, with

or without my blessing.

However, this exercise in frustration got me thinking about the process itself, about the supreme challenge of knowing when and how much to surrender in the way of sovereignty, about what an inexact science it truly is—as if we, as parents, needed one more reason to second guess ourselves. It’s not enough that our grasp on the vestiges of control is tenuous at best; we must also deal with the uncertain nature of when to give it up. Naturally, the training wheels are the first to go, then it’s our presence they no longer require as they careen around the block, oblivious to the fear we routinely invite. Finally, it’s out into the world they rush, headlong, eager to make their own way and to cast aside the likes of training wheels.

Nevertheless, I’d like to think I’m on the right track, no matter how inordinately awkward I feel at times, doling out freedom in embarrassingly small chunks, gauging success one child and one liberating event at a time. It’s like loosening the reins or fishing in a sense; only the goal is not to reel in the prize, but to gradually—in fits and starts—release more line, enabling said prize to strengthen and to govern its own path in the waters of life. Inconceivably, we are then called upon to snip the line and watch in wonder from afar, which is perhaps the most difficult task of all.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (lamenting the finite quality of childhood).

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Filed under The Natives are Decidedly Restless, The Woman-Child

Tagged as children, growing up, humor, kids, letting go, love, parenting

March 28, 2011 · 11:03 am

Fool That I Am

Remind me to never again hire an incompetent babysitter. Ever. It’s hardly worth the aggravation I suffered as a result of inviting said twit into my home to care for my children. Granted, my husband and I enjoyed an enchanting evening together, which is a rarity in and of itself, and the delightful buzz derived from the three (or was it four?) glasses of something-or-other I quaffed was utterly decadent. However, those savory nuggets of goodness were but a distant memory once we crossed our threshold and laid eyes upon the mother of all messes.

The devastation we witnessed there was unconscionable. Rest assured, our charges were alive and well—and thankfully, hadn’t torched the place or climbed onto the rooftop to pet a squirrel. Just the same, I was baffled as to how our happy home had been transformed from the tolerable state of disarray in which we left it to the state of total annihilation in which we found it—just two hours later. It was inconceivable.

Dora the Explorer underwear, sweat socks and remnants of cheesy pizza littered the coffee table. Discarded clothing and half a roll of Scotch tape hung from the sofa like Spanish moss. Puzzles (Lord knows how many!) had been dumped and abandoned in front of the television set—which was blaring a lovely little blurb about Girls Gone Wild at roughly 120 decibels. A slew of videos and DVDs lay behind the couch like forgotten Frisbees and scads upon scads of marbles (which I failed to remember we even owned) were strewn about the place like chicken feed. I’m still finding the wretched things. Grok!

Needless to say, the floor itself was barely visible. Throw pillows, toys and a bevy of books lay like carnage throughout the house—as did unfettered markers and crayons and those pebble-ish clumps of Pay-Doh I’ve grown to know and loathe. And there were scissors (SHE GAVE THEM SCISSORS FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!) along with bazillions of confetti-like bits of paper scattered the world over.

At least I found no one’s ponytail amidst the rubble. There is a god.

Had I been sober, I might have recognized in an instant the telltale signs of ruin. Oddly enough, I do remember noting (yet pooh-poohing) the waist-high piece of string that led from my treadmill, where it had been crudely tethered, through the den, across the kitchen and into the vastness of the living room where presumably, it was tied to yet another stationary object—the babysitter, perhaps (i.e. the shiftless lump on the couch)?

It wasn’t just any old string either. Apparently those wily imps of mine had pilfered every blooming piece of lacing string, craft string and ribbon they could get their mitts on, purposefully knotting them together to form an anaconda-sized tightrope (read: a fiendish device for ensnaring unsuspecting creatures, great and small). They then must have wound the ends around key pieces of furniture in each of the aforementioned rooms, careful to keep it taut and thoroughly entwined every step of the way. It was masterful, I must admit. But WHERE ON EARTH was the babysitter during the eternity that it must have required for a couple of twerps (who can’t even tie their own shoes!) to construct something so profoundly complex and sinfully marvelous!? And why OH WHY hadn’t she put a stop to their foolishness by ordering them to put away the first behemoth-sized batch toys before piling into the NEXT behemoth-sized batch of toys!!? That’s just plain stupid. That’s what it is. Stupid.

So was the string thing.

What if instead they had decided to smear the cat with Vaseline, and then felt the compelling desire to festoon him with the vat of confetti they had created?! What if they had yanked every purple Popsicle out of the freezer and set it on the counter for the purpose of conducting some warped little melting experiment?! What if they had filled the tub with Gatorade or lime-flavored Jell-O?! I shudder to think. The string thing was bizarre enough.

But how could I (BLITHERING IDIOT THAT I AM) stroll past such a monstrosity without shrieking in protest and abject horror (at least within the confines of my own mind), knowing full well that something was terribly, terribly wrong with this picture!? Moms just know. At least they’re supposed to.

Then again, I’m supposed to have a handle on the incompetence thing as it relates to babysitters and whatnot.

So much for that.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (wondering whether I dare to hire another babysitter–ever).