on the blog

A guideline for my kids

My kids are very independent. This isn’t a humblebrag; I’m sure I could stand to be a bit more managerial as a mom. But I was raised in a household of independent people, and past a certain age— the age where we children had largely figured out what will or won’t immediately kill us and policed ourselves accordingly— the kids and parents moved into a sort of roommate situation. [Read more…]

get your shittin’ pants ready.

I took the kids camping a couple weekends back.

We were doing the campfire horror story thing, and here’s what Taylor came up with.

SHUT THE FUCK UP. NO HANDRAILS?!? Sleeping with all the teddy bears tonight, you guys.

oh, hey, I should update this

Lately my darling son has been a real dick.  Yeah, that’s the story I’m leading with, do you have a problem with it?  IF SO I WILL GROUND YOU.  I am pretty much the best at grounding people lately.

I think the most frustrating part of his recent behavior at school, which has been mostly about him refusing to do the things he is supposed to do, is that I don’t get it.  It doesn’t seem smart, and I don’t handle Not Smart very well.  If Behavior B gets you in trouble, but Behavior A gets you rewards and fun, WHY WOULD YOU KEEP DOING BEHAVIOR B I MEAN COME ON YOU ARE A LEARNING ROBOT ARE YOU NOT?  I was only rebellious at school when I wouldn’t get caught, which wasn’t until I was a senior in high school.  It’s a little cocky for this seven-year-old to think he’s going to get away with it.

Today I picked him up and the first words out of his mouth were, “My necklace is bad luck.”  And I’m like, “(head-tilt, question-mark eyes)” and he’s all, “It’s bad luck because I had a bad day today.”


Anyway, parenting is fun.  Thanks for letting me get that out.


We survived our four-day trip to Phoenix.  Next time I want to stay long enough to be able to forget the horrors of the flight out there before we have to get on a plane home, though.

One of the main reasons for this trip was for Andrew to meet My Entire Redneck Family.  I have to improperly use caps there because it’s the only way to stress the Entirety and the Redneckedness of My Family.  And there are many of us gun-toting, truck-driving motherfuckers.  I have four brothers and two sisters and my parents and all my grandparents are, miraculously, still alive so what I’m getting at here is POOR ANDREW.  But he survived.  The children also survived a total of eleven hours on a plane, BUT IT WAS CLOSE.

After we had checked our luggage, Maya screamed “HE STOLE OUR BAAAAAGS” woefully in the middle of Tampa International Airport and that was sad.  One night Andrew and I were out without the kids and as we drove back, we seriously considered bailing to Mexico, but we didn’t, and that was sad too.

Now it is wedding-planning time, so excuse me while I go hyperventilate into a paper bag.


i’m not jesus. duly noted.

I took Maya to the doctor earlier this week so Doc could figure out two weeks of what I will only, for your sake, describe as “intestinal distress”.  It was her intestines and my distress, just to be clear– We are not even one full month into 2011 and I have already reached and exceeded the number of times any human should be vomited or shat upon by her own offspring within one calendar year.  MY MOM QUOTA HAS BEEN REACHED.


Maya’s doc put her on a bland diet, to see if it’s dietary or an infection of some sort.  She is allowed to only eat bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast, plus water. I promptly went about making this into a Big Fucking Deal. Not in a negative way, oh no. I had to make a very precocious three-year-old feel like every piece of dry toast is a manna from Heaven and she’s the only one in the family chosen to partake in such a feast. It was going well, swimmingly actually, until the end of day two, when we headed to a restaurant. I know that sounds unusually cruel– to take the child who is on a cardboard diet to a restaurant where dozens of other diners will be happily enjoying their tasteful vittles– but we had been snowed in and needed to get out of the house before I was forced to swathe my stir-crazy son with duct tape.

So we’re at this restaurant and I’m just exaggerating the shit out of the water to Maya. “Oh my God Maya, you’re not even going to believe it, this restaurant has the best water on the whole east coast. No, I read a review– Five-star water. I’m sooo jealous that you get to imbibe The Water and I have to force down this measly Coca-Cola.”  You know, just really laying it on thick– which, I feel a little bit bad about, like in thirty years is she going to be talking to her therapist about the time Mom LIED ABOUT WATER?– but she’s eating it up, she’s just so excited about this glass of tap water, and when the waiter drops it off she looks at him like George Fucking Clooney just brought her a glass of Dom Perignon with an engagement ring and a pony made out of lollipops in it.

The whole time, Taylor is across the table rolling his eyes and pffft-ing and shaking his head, but I’m throwing him the “you keep yo’ mouth shut” look because I’m just trying to help Maya be okay with this shittastic diet, and IS THAT A CRIME, SON?

Maya takes her first sip of The Water and slowly, her eyelids, which at first were planted firmly on her forehead in anticipation of The Water, fell, and she gave me the most contemptuous look I have ever seen a human being give.  The secret was out– It was not The Water. It was just the water.

So I’m preparing for the meltdown of the century when Taylor pauses between sips of his apple juice, looks me in the eye, and coolly says, “What did you think would happen? You can’t change water. YOU’RE NOT JESUS, MOM.”