Tag Archives: parenting

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.

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.”
***********
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.

Thank you God for The Swing

That’s what I looked like after 24 hours of labor. And that’s pretty much how I feel at the moment.

However, I’m so completely in love with my daughter. I don’t mind the lack of sleep and discomfort. Not at all.

I want to tell my “baby story” but there’s no time between feedings, diaper changes, kisses and taking care of my boys. I just wanted to thank everyone for the comments and emails. We are overwhelmed by your love and support.
I’ll leave you with a couple pictures of the most beautiful girl in the world.

Boobs

We’re all sitting in the family room watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. There was a clip of a little boy taking the bra off of a mannequin. My boys went crazy, they screamed and were laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.
After they finished laughing, I asked them “why do boys like boobies so much?”
Ethan (HE’S FIVE) says “because they’re just so sexxxxay.”
*laugh*
Andrew: Because they’re so big.
Ethan: Big and juicy.
Andrew: hahahahhaha
Ethan: Oh yeah and don’t forget because they’re so jiggly.
We were laughing so hard, then I farted and they all stopped laughing and told me that I was so gross.
Excuse me, *I’m* gross? you guys are the ones talking about jiggly, juicy boobs.

Making Art With My Boys

Today after work I surprised my boys and took them to a little place called Art Attack. It’s a great little place where you can take kids to paint ceramic pieces. You pick the piece you want, then there’s a little room in the back with all the paint and supplies you need.
It took my boys a few minutes to decide on the piece they wanted but they finally decided on these cute little fish. They let you eat and drink in their while you’re painting, so about 15 minutes into painting, they were dying of thirst. Of course, I didn’t have any cash ( I never carry it) so we had to leave our stuff there, find an atm and get something to eat and drink. We grabbed some hot dogs and cokes at a little deli and headed back to finish painting.
Andrew and Ethan both took the painting very seriously. I had the best time watching them take their time, choosing which colors they wanted to use. I loved how they would ask me for advice on which color I thought they should use and how every 5 minutes they would turn to me and ask me if I liked it or if I thought they were doing a good job.
It’s the simple things like this that I love about being the mother of these two amazing little boys. I watched them take these plain white, little ceramic fish, with no color, no personality. With every stroke of the brush, they were making it their very own little masterpiece, adding their favorite colors and with each stroke it became a little more beautiful and unique. I thought of how being a parent is kind of like that. You are blessed with these little creatures, they come into your life and each day, like the stroke of the brush adding paint to the ceremic, you help form the unique individual this child will become. You instill the values that you hold dear, yet try to teach them to be their own person. It’s a beautiful thing watching these little babies, grow into beautiful, colorful human beings who bring joy and laughter to your life and to so many others.

Anyway, they have to fire and glaze their pieces so we won’t get them back until Friday. I’ll be sure to take some pictures to show off what great painters my boys are!

conversations with a 5 year old know it all

ethan: mommy, come wipe my butt
me: how about you wipe your own butt?
ethan: but mommy, i can’t i went diarrhea
me: (to the person i was talking to on the phone) oh god, trish, hold on i have to wipe an ass.
ethan: mommy, would you please stop saying A.S.S.?

**
ethan:*holding up monopoly money* this is real money, ya know?
me: no it’s not ethan
ethan: yes it is mommy, the only difference is there are no faces on it but it’s real.
me: no, baby, it’s play money
ethan:(angrily) NO IT’S REAL AND I’M GONNA BUY SOMETHING FROM THE ICE CREAM MAN!
me: oh reeeeeeeeeeeeeally?
me: ok, you go ahead and do that.

is it wrong that i can’t wait for the ice cream man to come so i can see the look on his face when he tries to buy something with his fake dollar bills?