Tag Archives: children

July 9, 2011 · 2:44 pm

Mommie Dearest

Always and forever, I am blown away by the seemingly trivial things my kids remember about their lives. The stuff that apparently pools and coagulates in the corners of their minds, having made some sort of lasting impression upon them for whatever reason–good or bad.

“…like the time I was sick and stayed home from school and you hurt your knee chasing Jack (aka: the damn dog) around and around the living room. Remember, Mom!? He had a piece of CAT POOP in his mouth and he wouldn’t let you take it! We laughed and laughed so hard!”

“…like the time I ran really fast down our front hill, tripped over the curb and got pebbles stuck in my hand. They stayed in there for FIVE WHOLE DAYS! Remember, Mom?!” (Read: the time I wanted to hurl because of the sickening thud your body made when it hit the pavement, never mind the torrent of queasiness that washed over me when I realized THOSE WERE ROCKS EMBEDDED IN YOUR FRICKING HAND!)

What’s more, I am completely fogged by the way my charges can recite verbatim the vat of horribleness I’ve delivered on more than one occasion (most of which have involved orange juice spillages, bath tub deluges and missed school buses). More specifically, the shameful string of words that pour unremittingly from my stupid mouth despite KNOWING how infinitely wrong and hurtful they are (i.e. the parenting tirades from hell during which the wheels fly off and Mommie Dearest rears her ugly head).

I’m also floored by my kids’ uncanny ability to remember virtually everything about the legions of stuffed animals they possess. The cushiness of this one, the plumpness of that one. How completely cuddlesome and decidedly irreplaceable the lot of them are (despite any number of deformities that may exist–to include missing eyes, gaping “wounds” and mysterious aromas).

Good God.

Further, they can readily recall specific times and circumstances under which said gotta-have-it-or-I’ll-die items were originally acquired. “Yeah, Mom. I got Mister Big Head Dog at the Dollar Store as a prize when I was seven. Doncha’ remember taking me there and I took like 15 minutes (translation: fucking forever) to decide?”

“And I won this fuzzy-eared rabbit (read: dilapidated piece of schlock) at the Fair one time when I threw some darts at balloons. Except I wasn’t very good at it, so I didn’t pop any. But the nice man (likely, the one sporting a mullet and the suggestion of teeth) gave me a bunny anyway.”

Me: (Fair? What Fair? Did I actually take you someplace where cows and pigs WERE the main attraction?!)

“And how ’bout the time Daddy tried to drown me in the shower at the Adirondacks?” (i.e. a date which will live in infamy during which he slathered said child’s filthy face with soap, mistakenly assuming she’d have enough SENSE to rinse it off, as opposed to inhaling voluminous quantities of water and/or soap suds).

Likewise, I am baffled by the intimacy my brood shares with their beloved rocks–OH, MY HELL, THE ROCKS! The ones that adorn their dressers and windowsills. The ones that spill from my Jeep’s nooks and crannies. The ones now housed in my garage (forever and ever, amen). The ones for which a special affinity has grown to a frightening degree. That said, my heathens know from whence each stone came and, perhaps, more disturbingly, why each particular nugget of earthy wonderfulness was harvested and hauled home in the first place, “…because my friend gave it to me and said I should keep it forever,” “…because it spoke to me and I just had to add it to my collection. Each rock is a memory, you know. Why do you always want to take my memories away, Mommy?”

As if that blurbage wasn’t enough to ensure that I will, in fact, die a slow, horrible, guilt-induced death, I recently learned of another cardinal sin for which I will pay dearly.

Child: “I ate a napkin once, Mommy.”

Me: “You ate a what?! A NAPKIN?!”

Child: “Yep. A napkin. I sort of nibbled and nibbled it till it was gone.” (touches fingertips to lips, pretending to gently gnaw imaginary napkin so that I might then know what a “nibble” looks like)

Me: “You ATE AN ENTIRE NAPKIN?! When, where and why on earth would you do such a crazy thing?! People don’t eat napkins (for Crissakes)!” (hands on hips, appalled by the notion)

Child: “Well I did. Back in kindergarten. At snack time. Besides, my friend ate a tag right off her shirt one time ’cause it was bothering her. I saw her do it. People DO eat paper-ish stuff sometimes, Mom.”

Me: DEAD SILENCE coupled with a look that likely suggested I had gone off the deep end (shock does this to people I’m told)

Child: CONTINUES WATCHING SPONGE BOB, ENTIRELY ENGROSSED IN SAID OCEAN-INSPIRED IDIOCY, UNAFFECTED BY MY HORRIFIED EXPRESSION

Me: “But WHY?! What possessed you to do such a thing?!” thinking, of course, this HAD to have been the result of some kind of twisted dare that five-year-olds routinely engage in.

Child: “I was hungry,” she said plainly.

Me: “You were hungry?!” (clutches heart, gasps)

Child: “Yep. You didn’t pack enough in my snack and I was still hungry; so I ate my napkin,” she stated simply, as if telling me I had forgotten to fill her squirt gun, so she commissioned some other schmuck to do it.

At this, of course, I cringed–deeply ashamed of the atrocity I had unknowingly committed, wanting ever so desperately to crawl beneath a rock and die.

…a slow, horrible guilt-induced sort of death. One entirely befitting of Mommie Dearest (i.e. she- who-would-deny-her-child-adequate-Goldfishy-sustenance).

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with an abundance of tasty napkins and an unbearable burden of guilt). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under "G" is for Guilt, "S" is for Shame, Mushy Stuff

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

July 4, 2011 · 5:00 am

A Family Affair

I’m quite sure I’ve attended plenty of social gatherings that have fueled MORE anxiety within me than the five-generation brand of reunion my husband’s family hosts each June, only I can think of none at the moment. In a word, said get-together is a behemoth-sized affair during which minutes are read, motions are made, budgetary concerns are discussed and officers are elected. Yes, elected—ostensibly, over three-bean salad and barbecued chicken. It sounds absurd. I know; especially if you hail from a small clan like mine—one that would be hard-pressed to polish off the deviled eggs and blueberry pie. Never mind come to a consensus on anything.

However my husband’s crew (to include his seven aunts and uncles and more first, second, third and fourth cousins than I can readily wrap my mind around) is a different story altogether—one that features in excess of 30 picnic tables, a monstrosity of a salad bar lined with buckets and buckets of ice and a table that houses sinful quantities of steamed foods. And let us not forget the grill that is roughly the size of a well-nourished water buffalo and the hydraulic lift called upon to hoist the beast at will. That said, his family views the whole let’s-get-together-and-have-a-picnic seriously.

As one might expect, fliers are mailed out months in advance of the occasion, urging everyone’s participation and a supply of pertinent updates so that the database (yes, the database) can accurately reflect any changes that may have taken place in a year’s time. Needless to say, the aforementioned lineage can, indeed, be graphically represented with a roots-trunk-and-branches sort of family tree—as long as it’s a sequoia.

Confession: I dread my husband’s family reunions because, of course, I am a social misfit who has great difficulty interacting with throngs of people—people I cannot remember to save myself. Nor can I recall who is related to whom, from whence they came and of what they speak. Translation: I struggle to interpret much of the convoluted speech patterns thick Pennsylvania Dutch that pervades the airspace beneath our larger-than-life-sized pavilion. Granted, the event described above smacks of a small convention in a large tree-lined field, one that is perhaps capable of unnerving many a dutiful wife with kids in tow—especially one who is fairly preoccupied with the notion of keeping her brood out of poison ivy patches and away from the cussed cornfield that is likely teeming with ticks. But I digress.

That said, I’ve learned to embrace the experience by dividing it into three basic stages, each of which lasts for an undetermined, yet finite, period of time. Initially, I clamber out of our Jeep-turned-oasis and make my way to the celebrated pavilion, mindful of the wretched plants and blood-sucking vermin that collectively seek to ruin my day. I then receive a warm welcome from swarms of people who converge upon me like a small, yet suffocating, army. I can only guess that this is what a panic-stricken amnesiac must feel like, surrounded by a sea of friendly faces, not one of which is readily recognizable. Lord only knows why they tolerate a lout like me.

My husband, being the gregarious creature that he is, immediately begins to mix and mingle with one and all, taking great pains to re-introduce me to everyone I ought to know but have sadly forgotten. I, of course, smile and nod, resisting the overwhelming desire to whip out a big, fat marker and scrawl everyone’s name on his or her brow. Heaven help me if there’s a quiz.

After the swell recedes I relax a bit, reveling in the knowledge that EXACTLY NO ONE within my husband’s entire family mistook me for the first wife. For that alone, I love them dearly. True to my less-than-gregarious/socially-inept self, I then attempt to fade into the woodwork by finding a table, filling my kids’ plates and hoping like crazy they didn’t stuff themselves silly with snacks en route to this feast to end all feasts. My charges and I then toss a Frisbee around in the field that encircles the picnic area, because it would be decidedly gauche to graze ALL damn day.

Once we’ve become thoroughly exhausted (and rightly retreat to the lemonade-infused refuge of the pavilion), that is the point at which I usually stumble across someone I actually know. Not surprisingly, I barnacle-ize myself to said buoy-like individual, refusing to let him or her leave my side until we’ve talked about practically everything from the Boston Red Sox to the brownies that were slightly addictive. Eventually, though, the crowd begins to disperse, wending their way through the grassy field—dishes and Frisbees in hand, smiles and hugs all around.

I can only hope I continue to be a part of such a wonderful (albeit, freakishly large) family—one that really knows how to host a reunion, 80 years and counting.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (hoping to guess the weight of next year’s watermelon). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Family Affair, Normal is Relative

Tagged as children, family, family reunions, humor, kids, parenting, picnics, summer

June 27, 2011 · 5:00 am

The Benefit of Boredom

As fellow columnist Scott Lowery (of Scott on Sports fame) cleverly predicted, it’s barely summer and already the dreaded words, “I’m bored,” have been uttered here. I had hoped we’d make it through a goodly portion of July before my brood succumbed to the evils of ennui. But no.

The fearsome phrase, in actuality, surfaced shortly after school let out—which is almost inconceivable given the embarrassment of activities my charges have been afforded since that time. To date, Thing One and Thing Two have engaged in roughly 37 epic squirt gun battles, 20 bazillion glee-filled runs through the sprinkler and untold face painting sessions that frequently gave birth to goatees, hideous-looking mustaches and Cesar Romero-inspired eyebrows. Oy.

They’ve also had immeasurable fun analyzing clouds and bugs, building forts and baking mud pies, launching Ken and Barbie into the stratosphere (don’t ask) and, of course, chasing the fleet of ice cream trucks that frequent our neighborhood. Frisbees, too. What’s more, they’ve logged countless hours on their beloved scooters and bikes and reveled in the company of both PhotoBooth and their Wii (i.e. the hi-tech household contrivances I have yet to fully embrace despite their collective allure). Furthermore, they’ve had the luxury of attending a multitude of wonderful camps, a handful of baseball games and picnics, a ginormous family reunion and at least one road trip during which the Alphabet Game was played till I was ready to spew forth consonants. As one might expect, they’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time holed up at friends’ houses, consumed enough S’mores for six people and disappeared within the pages of more books than I even owned at the tender age of ten.

That said, their whiny claims of “having nothing to do” are completely unfounded. Of course, this is largely due to the fact that I tried very hard to preclude tedium from ever darkening our door—filling our calendar impossibly with that-which-seemed-perfectly-feasible-at-the-time. Better still, I lived up to my tyrannical repute by filling my brood’s hands with some fairly brilliant workbooks as soon as the last school bell rang and laid down the law with respect to playing a certain French horn and clarinet.

Needless to say, my demands were less than popular with the aforementioned youths—the ones who passionately proclaimed they’d be scarred for life. “Nobody else’s mom makes their kids DO WORKBOOKS AND PRACTICE INSTRUMENTS ALL SUMMER LONG. That’s just plain mean.” At which point I named names and provided compelling data in order to prove that I wasn’t the only horrible mother on the face of the earth. Furthermore, they were in good company which became increasingly evident to one and all. Lo and behold, after weathering a brief period of time during which there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth, my mandates have since been met with only the slightest of grumblings each morning.

Even still, they grouse about a so-called dearth of diversions to occupy their precious time—the time, apparently, when they are not engaged in any of the abovementioned pursuits. Such thinking doesn’t even live on the fringe of logicalness in my mind, and quite frankly, I resent being saddled with the arduous task of finding stuff for my perfectly capable progenies to do. What am I—the Entertainment Captain?! The glorified Coordinator of Fun and Unending Amusement?! Like Amy Sorrells, a Times Sentinel Columnist recently lamented in her article, “The Day I Resigned as Camp Counselor,” I, too, begrudge the thankless post.

Besides, there is a school of thought that suggests boredom is a good thing. Peter Toohey, author of Boredom: A Lively History, argues that said affective state has been an essential part of the human experience for thousands of years and is thought to be a constructive force—one that has stimulated creativity in both art and literature the world over. Geez, I’d be happy to learn that it drives idle kids to action—better still, to extract joy from that-which-was-once-deemed-dreadfully-banal.

In light of the above, perhaps I should celebrate the words, “I’m bored,” and brace myself for the deluge of inspiration sure to come.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (helping my charges leap into the great abyss of boredom—one idle moment at a time). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as boredom, children, humor, kids, parenting, summer

June 25, 2011 · 4:51 pm

A Stitch in Time

My mother-in-law once gave me a sewing kit as a gift—one whose contents she gathered herself and chose with great care. It was the size of a shoebox and was stuffed to the very brim with everything one might imagine using for the repair of clothing and whatnot. It was bulging actually, as if it might suddenly burst at the seams, spilling forth spools of colored thread and a hodgepodge of patches.

Looking back, I couldn’t help but dwell on how strange the whole thing was, given that I can’t sew to save myself. Maybe she was sending me a message. I didn’t measure up. Everyone OUGHT to know how to sew. Maybe she felt it would inspire me to delve deep into the wonderful world of thimbles and pincushions. With an arsenal of mending wares at my side, how could I POSSIBLY go wrong? Maybe she was just being nice and wanted her son and his family to have a wardrobe with something other than gaping holes about the knees and buttons that dangle perilously. Besides, who would see to it to fix things when she was gone?

Nevertheless, I resented said gift. Of course, I should have reminded myself that the woman was raised during an era in which dresses and slacks were made right at home with tissue paper patterns scattered about and the endless hum of sewing machines filling the air. Back then, people thought nothing of darning socks, of crafting their own curtains and costumes, of hemming and re-hemming pants, of resurrecting garb that might otherwise be forsaken. Indeed, it was a thoughtful—if not entirely practical—gesture to provide me with the means to remedy whatever garment-related woe might befall us.

But the whole idea of having something thrust upon me—something I have loathed since the dawn of eighth grade Home Economics—completely rankled me to the core. But I am not one to speak up in such matters. That said, I stewed in silence, dutifully fetching the sewing box whenever she visited so that she might mend what my brood had gathered since her last visit. Grandma’s To-Do Pile it was soon dubbed. The place where our favorite duds (read: hideously dilapidated things we should’ve been ashamed to wear) were resuscitated. The place where stuffed animals came to receive lifesaving (and sometimes, largely experimental) treatments—namely stitches to repair the gaping wounds through which stuffing and pellets poured. Needless to say, our dining room table served as more of a triage center than anything, with the most critically injured patients near the top of the mountainous heap that awaited Grandma and her renowned healing powers.

Amazingly enough (and as promised) she always delivered—no matter how tedious the task or how difficult the patient. There were monkeys in dire need of lips that would stay put, lizards whose tails had been all but detached, frogs with flesh wounds, snakes without tongues (forked or otherwise) and, of course, lions and tigers and bears (oh my!) with an array of serious injuries, all of which required a surgical solution. And Grandma had just the thing. What’s more, she gave play-by-play as she prepped and patched each creature, providing all interested parties and next-of-kin with gory details of the procedures performed as well as updates on vital signs and overall prognoses. Her bedside manner was stupendous to boot.

Grandma has been gone now for more than four years, leaving a void so great no one could have imagined the collective toll it would take. For a time (and against all logic and understanding), we continued to pile the clothing and wounded animals on the dining room table—a sad reminder of what was lost. Perhaps we did it out of sheer habit. Perhaps we thought it would inspire action. Perhaps it allowed us to hold on to the idea that the great and powerful repairer-of-fabric-y-things would return again, as promised.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (still mourning our loss). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Tagged as children, Grandma, kids, loss, mending, parenting, stuffed animals

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.