Once upon a time I confessed to the internet that I do not let my kids eat cookie dough because I’m too afraid they’ll get salmonella poisoning and quite possibly, die.
The conversation that took place in the comments was interesting. Some people were like “Raw eggs are dangerous! You are so right not to let your kids eat it!” Other people were like “JOY THIEF! You are depriving your children of being a child! LET THEM EAT THE DAMN CAKE BATTER!”
I’m proud to say I still do NOT let my children eat raw cookie dough/cake batter.
Today, I am confronted with another parenting dilemma in which I question whether I’m being a paranoid, over protective freak.
I will not let my daughter jump on a trampoline.
This issue came up a few times when the boys were little. They’d ask if they could jump on the neighbors trampoline and I’d be all “No!” And they’d be all “But mom! Why.. ha ha Did you hear my fart? That was the best fart ever! LET’S PLAY BASKETBALL!”
Gabby is not as easily distracted. She made a new friend in the neighborhood and this friend has a MOFO trampoline. She was invited over right now and the first thing out of her mouth was “May I please jump on the trampoline?”
Here is the conversation that followed:
Me: No. You can’t jump on the trampoline.
Her: Why not, Mommy? They’re so fun!
Me: Because they’re dangerous! You can injure yourself so easily!
Her: Oh my GOSH, Seriously, Mom? That doesn’t happen in real life! That only happens on America’s Funniest Home Videos!
(hahahahhahaha)
So, I ask you, Awesome People Who Read My Blog, do you (would you) let your child jump on trampolines? If yes, tell me why you’re not afraid they’ll flip off, land on their head and break their necks.
Category Archives: Parenthood
Missing Me
Last night, I returned home from a 5 day trip to New Orleans just a little bit after midnight. The kids were all fast asleep in their beds. That didn’t stop me from heading to each of their rooms to see their most beautiful faces. I tried to wake Gabby up, because she had made me promise to wake her up when I got home. She wouldn’t budge. So, I kissed her forehead and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water before I went to bed.
At the edge of the sofa, I noticed a piece of paper covered in familiar hand writing. I picked it up and began to read.
I can’t stop looking at your fase. How precious, I thought to myself.
I turned the piece of paper over to see if she had written on the other side.
She kept that photo close to her while I was gone because she missed me. She couldn’t stop looking at my face.
It feels good to be loved like that.
Love Is Made To Be Shared
“Did you see the picture I made for you?” my daughter asked.
“No, where is it?”
“Mom! It was on the driveway! I made it so you would be surprised when you came home.”
I had noticed the scribbles on the driveway when I had pulled up, but didn’t pay attention to what it was. I ran back outside to look. I had parked the car right over the beautiful picture she had so thoughtfully created for me. I went back inside, grabbed my keys and moved the car.
It was a beautiful picture of me and my daughter, holding hands. Next to the picture, she had written the words “Love is made to be shared.”
I stood there, looking at it, taking in every detail. My daughter’s love, poured from her heart, through her little hands, laid there in the driveway for me to see.
And I had parked my car right over it. Because I was too distracted by life to notice it.
Through that simple act of love, my daughter has reminded me to slow down and take time to appreciate the beauty in the small things. To absorb the love that surrounds me, and to then pass that love onto others.
Oh, Time.
Me and my boys, in 2002, the year that I started this blog-
Here we are, almost 9 years later.
Crazy, right?
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(Don’t forget to click over to the review blog to check out the Tropicana and Walgreen’s reviews/giveaways.)
Teach M(om)e How to Dougie
I was driving Andrew and his friend home from drama rehearsal. On a sidewalk of a busy street, there was a man wearing a Statue of Liberty costume, advertising a tax preparation service. I honked and did a little Upper Body Dance. Made the dude’s day, you guys.
My son turned to his friend and said “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
The both started laughing. I was all “Hey, that guy LOVED IT. Nothing wrong with my moves.”
That reminded my son of a story.
“Oh my God, Steven, want to hear the most embarrassing moment of my life?”
I expected him to tell a story about a time he tried to do a slick dance move in front of a girl and failed. Or something like that.
But, no.
“We were at Kam’s birthday party. All of my friends were trying to get Tyler to do The Dougie. One of my friends pulled his car up to the house, turned his radio on really loud and we all went outside to see if we could get Tyler to do it. Tyler refused to do it, but guess who went right into the middle of the circle and started trying to do it? MY MOM.. Everyone was laughing and cheering. Meanwhile, me and Ethan were standing there, mortified.”
My son’s most embarrassing moment of his life, brought to you by me, his mom.
I can’t figure out if this means I win or lose at parenting teenagers.
But I can’t lie, I feel like a winner.
Saved By the Burp
For weeks, my daughter has been asking if she could “please make some strawberry juice out of real strawberries?” And for weeks, I have been telling her “no.” Mostly because I knew that strawberry juice would taste gross and then I’d have to deal with the drama of Strawberry Juice Gone Bad. (And I know, I could totally google a recipe, but you know, LAZY.)
“But mommy!” She’d whine. “It won’t taste gross! It will taste good! Why won’t you let me try?”
Yesterday, I decided to stop being such a Mean Mommy! And let her try to make some mofo strawberry juice.
The thing about my daughter is that she doesn’t need help doing anything because she can do everything all by herself because she’s “strong and she’s brave.” In fact, she’s SO strong and brave, that the other day she was all “dude, you have no idea how brave I am. I’m not even afraid of aliens with the big black eyes. Except for when they touch me in my dreams.”
Not afraid of Aliens with big black eyes, dudes. She most certainly can make her own damn strawberry juice!
She gathered all of the things that she would need– Strawberries, a cup, a strainer, a spoon and a paper towel– and then she went to work, squeezing the crap out of those strawberries.
She worked so hard, getting as much juice as possible, all the while with a smile on her face because her strawberry juice was going to be SO DELICIOUS! She just knew it.
When she was finished, I suggested she add some water. She did not like this suggestion. She was all “Mom! I don’t need your help! And I don’t need water! It’s strawberry juice!” I pointed out how thick the juice was and, even though she did not like it ONE BIT, she agreed to add just a little bit of water.
She was ready to taste her strawberry juice.
She took a sip.
She made a funny face. Then her funny face morphed into an Angry Face.
“I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDN’T ADD WATER! IT TASTES SO GROSS!”
There I go, ruining my kid’s lives again!
The look on her face was one of pure disappointment. She had been so sure that she was going to make the best strawberry juice anyone had ever tasted. But it wasn’t. It was so bad (thanks, Mom!) I knew what was coming next… The Tears. All of her hard work had been ruined by me and my stupid ideas! She put her head down and closed her eyes and then, it happened.
She burped.
She burped so loud!
She looked at me, then she smiled.
“Wow, mommy. My strawberry juice tastes DELICIOUS when you burp it up! I TOLD YOU, I could make strawberry juice!”
Gabby totally wins at making strawberry juice.
.18.
Today, my first born child became a legal adult.
I have tried to put my feelings about this milestone into words many times over the past few days, but every time I sit down to translate these feelings into words, I break down and cry. I have cried so many tears over the past few days. I want to be happy about this new phase in his life. I remember turning eighteen– it was thrilling! I want to be thrilled for my son. But, the thought that in just a few months this child of mine will be free to live the life he chooses is too much for me to process.
Earlier today my son walked into my room when I was looking at a photo album filled with his baby pictures. Tears were streaming down my face.
“Are you CRYING?” He asked.
“Yes! I am crying. I just can’t believe that my sweet little baby is eighteen years old. Why did you have to grow so fast?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Mom, that’s life. Stop crying.”
But I can’t. I just can’t stop crying.
I know these are selfish tears, but I am allowing myself to experience these emotions, to process them. I can only hope that in the very near future I can come to terms with having an adult child.
I can tell you that in spite of the tears, I feel tremendous pride for the son that I have raised. He is kind– a gentle soul. He is considerate, respectful and loving. He is slow to anger, quick to forgive. He has the best sense of humor and isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
And man, is he good looking.
Happy 18th birthday my Nunu. You are the most wonderful son a mother could ask for. I promise I’ll stop crying. Eventually. Maybe.
Parenthood Is Gross
Can we talk about last night? Because I really need to talk about last night.
It was about 7pm and my knee was killing me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the hours I had spent earlier that day trying to not slip and kill myself in the snow or if it was from all of the dancing (and way too many times I Dropped It To The Floor) on Friday night. Whatever it was, I knew that a pain killer was in order (ha ha Party on Friday Night, Pain Killers on Sunday Afternoon. Welcome, almost 40. You are hilarious!) I took something, plopped myself on the couch and proceeded to fall asleep and drool all over everything in a matter of minutes.
Around 11:30, I was awaken by a familiar sound of a kid puking violently in the bathroom. I jumped up, ran to the bathroom and found Ethan on the floor with his head in the toilet. Apparently, he hadn’t felt well all afternoon (my boys spend every Sunday at church with their Grandparents and uncles and church friends.) When he was finished, I asked him if he felt better and he said yes, he did.
I went back to sleep.
Not 15 minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It was Gabby.
“Mommy, my tummy hurts.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“Maybe.” She replied.
I told her to go back to her bed and that if she felt like puking, to call my name while running to the toilet.
Maybe an hour later, I heard that awful sound again.
It was Gabby, puking in my bathroom.
I went in there to be with her and while I was holding her hair back, I thought “this can’t be happening. Not two kids in the same night.”
But it very much was happening because 30 minutes later, Gabby was running down the hall to puke for a second time at the same time Andrew had come into my room to tell me that Ethan was “puking all over the bedroom floor and in the closet.”
IN THE CLOSET.
Tony went into the bedroom to deal with the 13 year old who couldn’t be bothered to make it out of his room to puke in the toilet while I ran back into the bathroom to hold my daughter’s hair while she puked yet again.
When Gabby was finished, I walked to hall bathroom where Ethan had finally made his way, and questioned why he would roll over and puke in the closet instead of getting up to puke in the bathroom like his 6 year old sister.
“I didn’t feel it coming.” was his answer.
And the night only got worst from there.
Tony did his best to clean up the closet, carpet, blankets, mattress while I kept getting up with my daughter who kept puking repeatedly.
At one point, I started to cry.
For my kids. (I wish I could be sick in their place! I don’t want them to suffer!) For myself (I’m tired. Oh my GOD I’M SO TIRED! Also, why don’t I ever get the stomach flu? It’s such an easy way to lose so many pounds with zero effort!) For my husband. (He cleaned puke OUT OF A CLOSET.)
I was all “This is a nightmare. IS IT GOING TO END SOON? Because I don’t think I can take this for another minute.
But it didn’t end. It kept going until 6:20 in the morning.
I tried waking my only Non-Puking child up in the morning for school, but he begged me to let him go to school late because he couldn’t sleep all night due to the non-stop puke-fest. Normally, I would have told him “no!” But after having spent the night with virtually no sleep, the idea of being able to go back to bed and not having to drive him to school was too tempting to refuse.
I’m happy to report that my house has been Puke Free since 6:25 this morning.
I can only hope it stays that way.
I Love My Body So That My Daughter Will Learn to Love Hers.
A few months back, I had a conversation with my daughter about stretch marks. She had walked into my bedroom as I was changing. She noticed my stretch marks and she asked me about them. How did I get them? Did they hurt? I’ve been terribly ashamed of my stretch marks. I’ve written more than once about the hatred I have towards them. But I wasn’t going to tell my daughter that. What if she gets stretch marks? Do I want her to feel the way I do? Absolutely not.
I explained the marks to her. I told her they were called stretch marks. I told her I got them when I was pregnant with my children. I told her that I loved them. “These stretch marks remind me of when you and your brothers were in my belly. They remind me of how happy I was to have a little baby in my tummy. Every time I see them, I think of my little babies.”
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This afternoon, my daughter sat down next to me on the sofa as I worked on the laptop. She lifted up the bottom of my shirt and looked at my belly.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just looking at the marks on your belly.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You love those marks, don’t you mommy? “Because they remind you of your little babies and how much you love us?”
She does not look at my stretch marks with disgust. She does not find them to be ugly. She views them as a symbol of my love for her and for her brothers. Where I see ugly stretch marks, my daughter sees the beauty of a mother’s love.
I can only hope that through the example that I am trying to set, my daughter will be as kind to herself and her changing body as she grows. I know that as she moves through life, she will develop insecurities along the way. But I will be here for her to help her through those difficult times. And I will do everything in my power to teach her to embrace her perceived imperfections. Because I never want my daughter to feel shame about who she is, or the body that her beautiful spirit lives in.
Push Ups. (Or, The One Where I Pretend Like it Hasn’t Been 15 Days Since the Last Time I Posted Here.)
Last night me and my husband were sitting on the couch having a conversation. It was a normal conversation about normal things that married people talk about when out of nowhere, he used the world “swagger” (in the way the kids do, I might add.) I looked at him in the way that one looks at her husband when unexpectedly uses the word “swagger.”The Middle Child overheard this part of the conversation and piped in.
“Dad, please don’t ever use that word again.” He continued. “I mean, seriously, dad. SWAGGER? How old are you?”
Apparently, the idea that he is too old to use a word like “swagger” hurt my husband just a little bit. So, he started talking about all of the things that he used to be able to do, things like “100 push ups.. NO PROBLEM!”
The oldest child said something about Dad “wanting to relive his Glory Days.” which prompted my husband to blurt out “GLORY DAYS? What are you talking about? I can do 50 right now and not even sweat it!”
I instantly felt weak in my vagina for him because no he can not. He was going to lose so hard at push ups. But I had to be the supportive wife because this was definitely an Us against Them situation. Us being the Old, Nerdy Parents. Them being The Superior Teenagers who suddenly think of their parents as Old and Nerdy.
“You can do it, babe!” I shouted as I watched him assume the push up position on the floor.
He got down on the ground and BAM! He was doing push ups. But, like, LIGHTENING FAST push ups. I can’t even explain it except that maybe his (ego)adrenalin was pumping super hard and he couldn’t help himself.
Me: OMG, you’re going to fast, slow down!
Ethan: I bet that what you looked like on your wedding night, Dad!
Me: OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST HEAR YOUR SON? ETHANMICHAEL!
Andrew: HA HA HA HA. High Five, brother!
By the 12th push up, PigHunter started to slow down. Big time.
Me: Keep going! Don’t give up!
Ethan: Look at you, already slowing down. Just admit it, you can’t do 50!
Andrew: Listen to how hard he’s breathing.
PigHunter: breathing super hard while counting out loud and trying not to pass out from pain.
He got to 40 and I was ready to be all “IN YOUR FACE, TEENAGERS!” But then, at 47, he just gave up. He hit the floor and said “I can’t do it.”
He got up slowly while I said things like “you basically did it! You were only 3 away!” and the boys said things like “FAIL!”
While PigHunter picked himself up off the floor and tried to catch his breath, we laughed so hard that I may have “leaked a little” because, you know, OLD LADY. And as we laughed (and I leaked) I thought to myself, “I love this family of mine so much.” And also “I hope my Andrew- who is going to be 18 in March- never moves out because I never want him to NOT be here to make me laugh every single day” But that’s a story for another day.
The boys teased Tony for the next 10 minutes “You’re going to regret that in the morning, Dad.” Ethan said. “I already do. My arms are KILLING ME.” Such a good sport, such a good dad, that PigHunter.
I’m pretty sure my husband is never going to use the word “swagger” again.