Planet Mom

April 12, 2016 · 11:48 am

The Lingo of Parenthood: A Curious Addendum

I’m convinced there aren’t enough terms in the English language to adequately reflect upon my harried life as a parent. More specifically, there ought to be words that, when cobbled together, help us to more effectively define the indefinable and/or express the mélange of exasperation, angst and joy we sometimes feel throughout the course of a typical day. To that end, I’ve developed a handful of new terms to expand upon the current vernacular.

CELL PHONE CIRCUS: The crazed barrage of texting/phoning that takes place in order to arrange for a friend or relative to pick up one’s child/children after school or an activity in the event you can’t possibly do it. Of course, you don’t realize you can’t do it until it’s almost time to pick up the aforementioned waifs, at which point you become panic-stricken, not to mention mortified by your failure to anticipate such a circumstance. Out of sheer desperation, you then phone or text eleventy-seven different people, highlighting your stupidity, spelling out the logistics involved with the proposed pick up and promising a pony to anyone who says “yes.” With any luck, someone will come to your rescue and haul your brood home.

PARKING LOT PURGATORY: The indeterminate wedge of time (i.e. roughly a century) during which parents sit in their cars in the parking lot at school, at the soccer field, etc. in anticipation of the emergence of one’s child at the conclusion of the event in question. Naturally this happens because the scheduled end time isn’t remotely related to the actual end time. Invariably, we are the last to know. To add insult to injury, our kid clearly has a knack for being dead last. Every. Single. Time.

FESTIVAL OF MOODS: The kaleidoscope of emotions our progenies (especially of the teen and tween variety) demonstrate, ranging from the pinnacle of euphoria to beyond the point of surly. Over time, we have come to expect the unexpected, yet we never quite know which disposition will be featured at any given moment—which makes dealing with it even more thrilling (not so much). The only thing we can be sure of is its highly changeable nature. And drama. Lots of drama. Like so many things that fall under the umbrella of parenthood, it goes with the territory.

DREAD-MONGER: A parent who is routinely plagued by an overwhelming sense of irrational fear as it relates to an unfounded belief that something horrible has happened to one’s child. The trigger could be the text you receive informing you that he or she might have incurred a concussion. Of course, your child assures you there is no reason to be alarmed—unless you find certain statements disturbing such as: I’m a little confused and nauseous because a huge shelf fell on my head and “…IT FELT LIKE MY BRAIN BOUNCED.” It could also be the itchy rash that mysteriously shows up three weeks into a course of antibiotics—the rash your child cleverly documents with a series of photographs, texting them to you in succession from school to make you INSANE with worry to brighten your day. Making matters worse, you Google the symptoms and brace for impending doom. It’s what you do.

EMBARRASSMENT BY ASSOCIATION: The act of offending one’s offspring simply by being alive. More specifically, when your kids reach that magical age we all know and love, they become completely mortified by your presence—to include the way you walk, talk and breathe. Heaven help you if you happen to sing in front of their friends, set foot in their classroom or step within 400 yards of their school bus.

NEW AND IMPROVED WALK OF SHAME: The familiar excursion you make from your car to the school office, delivering yet another item your child forgot—something vital to his or her existence. Like so many times before, you hang your head as you place said item on the counter, vowing that it will be the last time you behave like a helicopter parent. Probably.

RANDOM HUG FEST: Spontaneous displays of affection in the form of hugs, given freely by one’s child/children for no apparent reason whatsoever. The impulsivity and genuineness of such an expression of warmth, if nothing else, reminds us that we are loved despite our innumerable flaws. Savor each and every one of them.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Join me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as "the struggle is real", children, humor, parenthood, parenting, teens, tweens

March 22, 2016 · 3:30 pm

Trust Me; The FBI Wouldn’t Want my iPhone

I have an iPhone, similar to the one that caused the hullabaloo in the news cycle in recent weeks. As you might recall, there is a great deal of controversy surrounding the issue of privacy and national security as it relates to the San Bernardino shooters. In sum, the FBI wants to extract data from a particular iPhone owned by one of the gunmen, Syed Farook, in hopes of obtaining more information about the December attack in California.

Like a lot of people, I have mixed feelings about the matter since I can clearly see the benefit of unlocking the device in order to learn more about the crime’s particulars, yet I can also envision the potential negative of such an encroachment, setting an unwelcome precedent that may affect law-abiding citizens. As is the case with so many conundrums, knowing what is right is far more difficult than doing what is right.

One thing I know for sure, however, is that the FBI wouldn’t want my iPhone under any circumstances. Trust me. If, in fact, the government were to confiscate it, I’m certain they’d be disturbed by a number of things that would likely cause them to chuck it in the nearest river. First and foremost, they would be horrified by the egregiously unimaginative set of numbers I’ve assigned to its passcode—much like the predictable nature of those I use to guard practically everything in my life.

What’s more, they would be appalled to learn how many times my kids text from school to tell me they forgot

something of vital importance, how often I ignore the directional advice of Google Maps and wind up perfectly lost, or the amount of time my husband and I discuss dog poop. Yes, dog poop. (It’s a long story and you probably wouldn’t be interested). At any rate, officials would also discover the unhealthy obsession with which I text in complete sentences, almost always using proper grammar, capitalization and punctuation—to a fault. My teens, of course, have come to expect such dysfunction in our family, but even still they roll their eyes at me. “Who does that?” they’ll ask with more than a little disdain.

Furthermore, I have serious issues with misspelled words and inadvertent omissions within my messages. Needless to say, it kills me to send them out into the world like that—broken and/or woefully incomplete. That said, I am positively fixated upon retyping them until they’re right. It’s a sickness, I know. By the same token, using abbreviations for common words or phrases would imply that I’m beyond lazy, and I’m simply not ready to admit anything of the sort to the government or to anyone else. Also, relying upon Siri to translate my speech into text while I’m driving is just asking for trouble. Quite frankly, she never gets it right, and then I have to pull the car over, delete her drivel and retype the stupid message—the one that could have been delivered long ago had I simply taken the time to hunt and peck on my tiny keyboard.

In a related matter, I’m convinced that AutoCorrect is demonic and revels in its ability to thwart my repeated attempts to curse. After dealing with Siri’s ineptitude, it’s no wonder I feel compelled to use colorful language. So, of course, I persevere despite being hampered by the evils of spell-check gone awry. If nothing else, the FBI would be inspired by my determined efforts. Probably.

By contrast, it’s likely they would be largely uninspired by the cache of photos stored within my phone—the ones that feature food on a plate, unabashed selfies with my dogs and a PROFUSION of odd pictures and videos that my kids have taken upon hacking my phone. Because, of course, they think it’s funny to zoom in on chin rolls and nose hairs.

In sum, I think it’s safe to say that my iPhone won’t be seized by government officials anytime soon.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Join me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Normal is Relative, Techno Tripe

Tagged as children, humor, iPhone, marriage, parenting, smartphones, technology, texting

March 8, 2016 · 4:39 pm

Voices in My Head

I’m a writer, which implies that I spend a sizeable chunk of my day staring off into space or glowering at my laptop, stabbing at its keys in hopes of crafting coherent sentences on occasion. For me, the process of putting words on the page, virtual or otherwise, is never easy—which, of course, fills me with dread much of the time and leads me to believe that the universe hates me. What’s more, the allure of social media shows no mercy, consuming me like the ruthless beast that it is. And despite the fact that I know it to be a ruthless beast, I find it impossible to resist its wily charms.

Out of sheer necessity, I’ve devised a handful of strategies to help me be more productive—to concentrate more and dawdle less. Further, I’ve learned to silence the rumblings of doubt, if only for one sentence at a time—which, I remind myself daily, is all it really takes to move forward.

Needless to say, the tedium of parking myself in a wooden chair for hours on end is enough to kill anyone’s muse. As a result, I find that a little fresh air and exercise help me generate new ideas and make connections that I might not otherwise make. Further, I try to limit my time on the Internet, often using it as a reward for progress. Translation: I am a kindergartener, only less disciplined, and I rely on positive reinforcement in order to accomplish anything noteworthy. Instead of receiving glittery stickers, I get to generate irreverent tweets and post pictures of my dogs on Facebook.

Also, I ensure that my environment isn’t too quiet. For whatever reason, listening to Neil Young helps me churn out more words, as does the early music of Candlebox, Collective Soul and the Black Crowes—at a barely perceptible decibel level, I might add. I’m guessing it’s because their lyrics melt seamlessly into instrumental riffs, failing to compete or interfere with the jumbled mass of words inside my head—the ones that struggle to escape in some semblance of order and clarity.

Oddly enough, I often don’t know how I feel about a topic until I actually sit down and type the words. So to invite other words inside my brain AT THE SAME TIME almost always ends poorly. Case in point: The yammering that emanates from a television set drives me fairly insane, as it’s somehow funneled to my ears no matter how many walls separate us. If it happens to be tuned to Fox News during an election year, it’s patently debilitating.

Likewise, being within earshot of my husband spells disaster for my writing, too. This, of course, is because the man has no filter and he talks incessantly—to me, to himself, to people on the phone, to our idiotic dogs and even to the houseplants, I assume. More specifically, he has an irksome habit of reading aloud Facebook posts, select emails, newspaper headlines as well as outrageous excerpts from letters to the editor. While it’s true, I am often entertained by the aforementioned, it seems reasonable to request that it could wait.

Similarly, if, in the course of his crazy-busy day, he happened to have stumbled into 17 people he knows, I can count on receiving a synopsis regarding each of the chance encounters the instant he walks in the door. If he is about to change the cat box, has trimmed his toenails recently or has walked to the street to retrieve the mail, I’ll assuredly receive a report. What’s more, if he has taxied our brood anywhere throughout the day, I’ll get a detailed accounting of the logistical nightmare involved, along with a verbal transcript of the teen-inspired diatribe to which he was undoubtedly subjected.

In all fairness, I’m quite sure he has no idea HOW BERSERK this makes me as I hunt-and-peck at the keyboard, attempting to string sentences together. Naturally, I stew in silence until I can’t stand it anymore—at which point I shout STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY HEAD. It’s as if he has crawled inside my cranium with a megaphone in order to more effectively deliver the soundtrack of my life—which would be fine if I weren’t wrestling with my own warped commentary. It’s crowded enough in there without his ramblings.

Then again, the man endures my ramblings, so I guess it balances out in the end.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, trying (and often failing) to silence the voices in my head. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, The Write Stuff

Tagged as columnist, distractions, humor, husbands, marriage, writer, writing

February 16, 2016 · 2:56 pm

Namaste for Dummies

Here we are, in the thick of February—a time at which I should be comfortably settling into the exercise routine I ostensibly adopted on New Year’s Day. But such is not the case. For whatever reason, I found Groundhog Day to be a more inspiring square on the calendar—possibly because Groundhog Day, the movie, made me realize what a horrible rut I had fallen into with regard to my physical self. Each day I repeated the same bit of idiocy—that of exercising an undying devotion to being sedentary. More specifically, the pathetic nature of my fitness program had come to be defined by walking my dogs, followed by the rigors of channel surfing.

At any rate, seeing the movie sparked within me the impetus to put down the remote control and to crawl out of the burrow of blankets I had built on the couch so that I might unearth one of 17 Yoga-for-Beginners DVDs I currently own but have rarely viewed. Of course, I chose yoga because apparently I enjoy pain. And I chose to work out in the privacy of my own home because I’m enough of an embarrassment to myself, let alone to others. The struggle is, indeed, real. I don’t need an audience to attest to that fact.

To say that I am inflexible and ill equipped to bend and twist in a manner that many would consider insufferable is an understatement. My limbs are decidedly defiant and my muscles practically scream in protest each time I reach for my toes. Admittedly, I’m a poor tool when it comes to contorting my body into that which is suggestive of a pretzel. What’s more, I’m unbalanced, I don’t breathe properly and I incorporate far too much wincing into my half-hour routine. I’m quite sure that yogis everywhere cringe as I lurch around my coffee table, attempting to clear my mind of distractions. What am I saying? I AM A DISTRACTION. I think about the mounds of laundry I ought to be sorting, the toenails I should have trimmed and the fact that I’m out of ideas for dinner. Again.

Besides, who wants to deal with the misery of pushing one’s body to the extreme and far beyond its comfort zone when one can instead Google the bejesus out of absurd Super Bowl commercials? Confession: Each time I haul my yoga mat from the bowels of the closet, I have to walk past my computer and fight the very real urge to sit down and type in the words PUPPY MONKEY BABY. Clearly, it’s tough to compete with the allure of a creature that is as mesmerizing as it is disturbing. But I digress.

Let us just say that sticking to my daily yoga regimen has been difficult at best. But I’m managing so far. Today will mark the 15^th consecutive day I’ve hit the mat and groaned audibly. Meanwhile my dogs look on from their perch on the couch as if to say, “Enough with this foolishness. It’s time to turn on the tube and spoon with me.” Likewise, my cat monopolizes my mat space, deciding it’s a fantastic place to loll around and give himself a bath—never mind that I’m busy failing at yoga here.

And because I’m completely mad, I invited my family to practice the routine with me one morning, thinking they might make the experience less of an effort and possibly more fun. When they finished rolling their eyes and/or laughing hysterically at the suggestion, my husband agreed to humor me, “…just this once.” Of course, he divided his time between mocking the instructor (Gumby Man), blowing in my ear to derail my tenuous state of concentration and moaning in pain. Admittedly, however, it did make me feel better to know there was at least someone on the planet less flexible than myself.

Namaste.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, failing at yoga much of the time. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Me Time, Namaste, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as fitness, humor, marriage, Namaste, New Year's Resolutions, parenting, yoga

February 9, 2016 · 12:00 pm

Valentine’s Day in the Trenches of Parentville

Somewhere in the great continuum of life, my children evolved from toddlers to teens—seemingly overnight. And although I don’t miss the blur of early parenthood, projectile vomiting or the abundance of Legos I trod upon in the dead of night, I do miss delicious experiences like shopping for valentines with my brood.

Stop laughing.

Never mind that it was a painstaking process, watching them pace back and forth in store aisles attempting to choose the ultimate Disney-themed design from the hoards that were available. Even more painstaking was the process of helping them fill out dozens for classmates and beloved teachers, since the children in question had yet to master the art of writing their own names. But that was part of the fun—witnessing their determined efforts and the care with which they tackled the task year after year. In the end, it was always worth it.

So it’s sort of sad that the celebrated valentines-exchange-gig is over for my kids. Sadder still is the fact that mass marketers never seemed to have capitalized on consumers like parents—an enormous segment of the population that could potentially benefit from trading sentiments related to being in the trenches together. Just for fun, I came up with a handful of ludicrous valentines that moms and dads might find fitting for the occasion.

1) You look ravishing, Valentine…especially when you find time to shower and brush your teeth after a harrowing day with the kids.

2) Can’t wait to be alone with you, Babe…right after we read 47 bedtime stories and wipe the pasta off the dining room walls.

3) You had me at “I’ll go to the parent/teacher conference this time. You just make yourself comfy on the couch, have a big glass of wine and read a great book.”

4) There’s nothing that says LOVE like offering to fold our brood’s laundry (the right way) and find all their missing socks.

5) You’re never sexier than when you’re unplugging the kids’ toilet or helping them with their godawful homework.

6) Be mine, Valentine! The kids are at a SLEEPOVER!