March 9, 2014 · 8:51 pm

I Am An Award Winning Bag Of Awesome!

Today, I awoke to the wonderful news that I have been awarded the Liebster Award by the swagtastic, Daddy Anarchy (check him out; hi-to-the-larious). I shall take a moment to let the applause die down.

Liebster Award BadgeWhat’s the Liebster Award, you might ask? Why, it’s only the most awesome award ever. I get to share all about me, and then get other bloggers to share all about themselves. We bloggers as a whole are a shy bunch, unlikely to reveal too much, so this is the perfect opportunity to get us out of our shells.

Now, this is not an award I take lightly. It comes with great responsibility. I have to state 11 facts about myself, answer 11 probing questions from Daddy Anarchy (tee hee, I used the word “probe”), and then pass the torch to at least three other bloggers (who have less than 3,000 followers), and ask them compelling questions about themselves. They in turn give this great honor to other bloggers and so on and so forth until we are all joined in one giant bloggy hug. It’s good stuff.

So, here we go. Eleven super fantastic fun facts…

  1. I am originally from the great state of California, and I moved to Ohio to attend The Ohio State University. Don’t forget the “The.” They take it seriously there.
  2. I hate snow. Passionately. Every single flake. And I’ve lived in a snowy state for 18 years. FML.
  3. I was a Classics major in college, which means I spent four years studying ancient Greece by analyzing pots and old plays. (Spoiler alert to anyone else majoring in Classics, or Greek and Latin as it is now known, it does not lead to a real job once you graduate)
  4. For roughly eight years, I worked on the websites at two different news stations in Columbus. There were amazing highs and soul-crushing lows. I wouldn’t trade it for anything as I met two of my best friends and earned a great deal of perspective on the world at large.
  5. I took a sabbatical from college and lived in San Diego for a few months. I worked at the Natural History Museum, and I had the opportunity to help dissect a mountain lion that had been attacking dogs in the area.
  6. When I was little I did voice over work for commercials and I had the opportunity to work with Lorenzo Music, also known as the voice of Garfield. I’ll give you a moment to get over the jealousy.
  7. I was the Twister champ in high school.
  8. I have visited every mission in California. My favorite part of the mission to visit was the cemetery. I used to make up stories about the people that were buried there.
  9. Never have I ever… watched any of the Rocky or Rambo films. I know I’m missing something culturally, but I just can’t bring myself to watch them.
  10. I could eat my weight in Cadbury Creme Eggs. The great joy of my life was traveling to London and realizing they sell them year round. Oh, and I liked the city too.
  11. My first date with my husband was at a college date party, wearing a pelt and viking helmet. One of his friends felt me up when I was dancing with him. I ran away shrieking in terror, slipped on a puddle of beer and slid into a folding table, bruising my shin. It was a great way to make a first impression.

Now, on to the probing questions.

  1. Who is your favorite author? It’s a toss up between Jane Austen and Margaret Atwood.
  2. Who’s your biggest hero? My dad. He’s smart, creative, caring and has a very insightful humor. He has never failed me. Yes, he is flawed, but what great hero isn’t?
  3. If you could change one thing about your physical appearance, what would it be: I would have abs of steel. I want to be able to bounce a quarter off of them.
  4. Leno or Letterman? (and don’t be a smartass and say “Leno’s not one anymore” or “what about Conan, or the other guys?”) Before the whole Conan O’Brien thing, I would have said Leno, but I thought that coming back was kind of a kindergarten, taking my ball back, kind of move. I also feel like I can’t say Letterman, because he seems so bitter. So, if I have to pick, I’ll go with Leno. He had genuine comedic skills and he passed the torch on to the HILARIOUS Jimmy Fallon.
  5. Have you ever mixed french fries with a Wendy’s Frosty? No, but I did eat fries with ice cubes. Does that count?
  6. Now that I’ve introduced you to mixing french fries with Frosty’s, will you try it? I shall!
  7. Favorite 80s hair metal ballad? Poison. I love me some Bret Michaels.
  8. If you were a comic strip character, who would it be? Hobbes. I am the sassy sidekick type.
  9. In the next 30 seconds, name as many different words for “ass.” Go! Butt, tuchous, hind quarters, flanks, marshmallow pillows, fluffin’ stuff, junk in the trunk, badonkadonk. I think that was 30 seconds worth.
  10. Team Edward or Team Jacob? Team Jacob. Edward was so whiny and annoying. Plus, who sparkles? If my husband came home sparkly, I would he assume he spent the night in a stripclub. If he came home, transformed into a wolf and snuggled up to me, I’d be okay with that.
  11. What, if any, stereotypes do you fall into? I am a terrible woman driver. I learned to drive in California and I also have horrible spatial skills; I am always trying to squeeze between cars that really cannot accommodate my massive minivan.

Now, for my nominations…

  1. The Monster in Your Closet – Intellectual and introspective. I feel smarter for having read her blog posts.
  2. ComfyTown Chronicles – Random, and delightfully so. Plus you have to respect anyone who posts a picture of herself in a chicken hat.
  3. The DoctorDiva Gets Healthy – She’s funny and a doctor. One day I’ll ask her to look at the weird growth on my husband’s hand (seriously, what the heck is that thing?).

And, my questions to them:

  1. What do you want to be when you grow up?
  2. What is your favorite ice cream flavor and why?
  3. If you could change one moment in history, what would it be?
  4. Pick the ultimate superpower.
  5. Cats or dogs?
  6. How did you pick your blog’s name?
  7. What is your favorite post that you have written?
  8. If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?
  9. You can only eat one thing for the rest of your life. What is it?
  10. Describe yourself using one word.
  11. Any regrets?

Okay, that’s it. Way too long of a post, even for me and I am the most verbose person I know. Enjoy what I’ve whipped up and pass the love along to others. Namaste!

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Aside

I Love Social Media, But It Makes Me Hyperventilate

I have been swimming in the social media space for a couple of months now, but there are times when I feel great anxiety about proper netiquette. Like, “hand me a brown paper bag” anxiety.  When it flares up alongside spelling and grammar worries, I might as well sit in a corner and rock until the feeling goes away.

But it never does.  It’s probably because I am, at heart, an introvert and people pleaser. I might as well get “LOVE ME!” tattooed on my forehead. At least then people know what they’re dealing with. My need to be loved, looks like this in the real world:

Pinkie Pie

Pinkie Pie, as drawn by moi.

I wanted to use a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch photobombing U2, but I had a panic attack about what was legal to use. Then, I thought I’d use a photo of Pinkie Pie, who is a needy and energetic, and suitable to represent my people-pleasing angst. Once again… copyright. I do not want to tick off the Ponies. So, I decided to draw my own image of Pinkie Pie. I know. It’s awesome.

Twitter
Ah, yes. Twitter.  It’s 140 characters, chock full of wit & wisdom. I understand the basics; tweet a few times a day, don’t promote only your stuff, interact with your virtual friends, and don’t tell the world when you’re using Twitter in the bathroom. What I get stressed out about is…. When do I favorite? I usually favorite a tweet that I find amusing or when someone has tweeted me. But, what happens when I’ve had an interaction, but really don’t have more to say? Do I just favorite? Do I add a winky face or emoticon? Is the person on the other end of the tweet sitting there, waiting for my reply and thinking, “Is she still there? Why is she not continuing this conversation? Forget her. I’m taking my ball and going home.”

Other things I worry about…. When retweeting, if I want to add a response, but there aren’t enough characters, is it ok to delete parts of someone else’s tweet? It reminds me of college when I’d ask a friend to read one of my term papers to make sure it made sense and they would start shuffling my words around. Stick in an Oxford comma or tell me to tighten things up, but don’t squirrel with my words. It’s not cool. Does the same thing apply in the Twitterverse?

And, when is it OK to unfollow someone? I was following someone who I thought was humorous, and then their tweets turned into selling their own stuff and links to other random things. No real thought or interaction. For the longest time, I kept following them because I thought they followed me too, when I finally checked out their feed to see if they did tweet anything other than self-promotion, I saw they weren’t following me. I nipped that twit-lationship in the bud real fast.

Speaking of unfollowing, why is it that some people will follow you to get a followback, and then unfollowing you? In the words of Stephanie Tanner, “How rude!” Why is that a thing? I am probably putting more into Twitter than need be, but I follow people that I think I’ll find interesting, or at least will promote the heck out of me when I am my hilarious self. It just seems so cheap and dirty to do otherwise. All I can say is, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Blogging
When I started blogging, I thought I would whip up brilliantly humourous blogs every other day, no problem. I had outlined several topics, set aside time to write, and had been inspired by other bloggers via Facebook and Twitter. I burned through a couple topics, and then it struck. Writer’s Block. My muse left and I could only muster up my Dorothy Parker-esque wit every few days (okay, I’m no Dorothy Parker, but, you know, maybe one day). Then, worry set in. Am I not REALLY a writer? My readers will leave me! And if I’m not writing, I’m not commenting!  And I look ungrateful! I am an uninspired, ungrateful hack!  Commence heavy breathing into a paper bag! In, out, in, out, in, out…. Getting light headed here….

PR Friendly
I read an article that compared labeling oneself as “pr friendly” to having a sign that reads, “Will work for cupcakes.”* Part of me thought, “Hey! I like cupcakes! I would work for those.” And then another part thought, “Am I tarting myself out for cupcakes just to be left with an empty wrapper when the company is done with me and my Twitter followers abandon me for being such a tart?” Other than obviously putting too much thought into cupcakes and tartery, I was faced with a moral dilemma. Would my blog/twitter feed/whatevs turn into me promoting stuff? Would I feel compelled to write things like, “Hanging with my hubs on our new #SealyPosturpedic mattress. I’m getting good sleep tonight!” The thought makes me want to vurp. Or maybe that’s the sushi I had for dinner.

You know… some slutty cupcakes might make me feel better. I think I’ll eat them on my Sealy mattress.

*I can’t find that article anywhere. If anyone knows what I’m talking about and has the URL, let me know. Thanks, love you, mean it.

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March 4, 2014 · 10:21 pm
February 24, 2014 · 9:43 pm

Volunteer They Said. It Would be Fun, They Said.

I have always wanted to be the working mom who could have her cake and eat it too. Preferably two slices.

This year, I decided, during the Meet the Teacher extravaganza, to volunteer for every field trip and room party for the year.

I think I ate the whole cake.

Honestly, after the first field trip to pick apples I forgot that I had volunteered for EVERY party. Then I got the email for the Halloween party and I remembered.

Fuck me. I am going to take time off work and spend it with 30 first graders. You couldn’t pay me enough money to do that. And, after going to these school events, my kid’s teacher does not get paid enough. I’d like to start a campaign to raise the pay of first grade teachers by 50%.

Pretty much, the parties consist of kids rotating from station to station making crafts, eating snacks and making enough noise to deafen everyone in a three-mile radius.

You know, the first few parties I was on ring toss and musical chairs patrol and it wasn’t terrible. Okay, it was. There were some really sweet kids, and I made it a point to talk to my son about them afterward and not so gently nudge him in their direction. And there were obnoxious kids and I prayed that he wasn’t friends with them.

“Gee, isn’t Olivia sweet? You should talk to her.” Or, “So… are you friends with Wyatt??? No? Well, maybe that’s best. I think you should definitely keep having lunch with Tyler.”

Once again, I don’t know how teachers handle it all. I had a few kids who came up that I could pinpoint as bullies. The cocky boys who would grab at the rings to toss, or the ones who would look at me with a raised eyebrow and ask, “So, whose mom are you?” Little shits. I hope they stay far away from my kid.

Then, there were the greedy kids. They wanted two turns, three prizes, and they would hang on me, hoping I would give in. If only I could have treated them the way I did my own children. I would have said, “Oh, hell no. Get your sorry ass in time out and stop begging.” Instead, I was all sunshine and saccharine, “No, no. You just get one lollipop. Now move on to the treat table.”

And, oh my Jesus. The treat table. There was one mom who made all the treats because she had one of those kids who can’t have gluten, or nuts or anything fun. But, seriously, I would have eaten her treats. She made GIANT Rice Krispie treats, coal made out of Oreos and marshmallows, mini cupcakes with hearts, and she brought the good juice boxes. Not the Honest Kids crap, but Hi-C fruit punch. When does she have time for this? I would have brought bagged graham crackers and store bought cupcakes, and then I would have thought I did an excellent job.

Each party was so painful, but I kept going back because my son seemed to love that I was there. And, frankly, I really didn’t know how long that would last. When will I become an embarrassment to him? When will I be banned from these parties?

Finally, I was vindicated. At the last party for Valentine’s Day, I was told that I was labeled by the kids as, “the fun mom.” Because of this, I was allowed to leave the purgatory of ring toss/musical chairs and man the Bingo table. I didn’t know I had been the bastard stepmother and relegated to the ring toss corner because no one knew what to do with me. I just thought that was where I was needed. Nay, nay. I was not cool enough for Bingo. Not until I was, “fun mom.”

Each kid grabbed at the giant rolling cage that housed the Bingo balls and wanted to turn it themselves. I relented and let each kid turn it once. One kid said breathlessly, “Even Max’s mom doesn’t let us turn the crank.”

Yes, that’s right I am cooler than Max’s mom. Suck it, judgy parents.

I still wanted to put the little bastards who clung to me and grabbed at the Bingo cage in time out, but I very gently encouraged them to fuck off.

Finally, the party was done and I could take my little boy home. He walked tall and held my hand on the way out. And that is what makes me the “cool mom.”

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February 19, 2014 · 3:25 pm

Defending the “Bad Mother”

I recently read an article on Salon.com attacking “Slacker Moms” and, frankly, it really toasted my buns because the author ripped all of the imperfect parents apart without really understanding what it means to be a “bad mother.”

I won’t describe the article in detail, but suffice it to say, it got me thinking about this cadre of women that I have recently joined. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been failing at motherhood for seven years, but I just started talking about it in January.

For centuries there has been a portrait of perfect motherhood. It shifts decade by decade, but it’s there and has been weighing on women the way the world rests on Atlas’ shoulders.

Mean Girls

Curse you, Regina George!

In the recent past, the perfect mother had a spotless home, happy husband, polite children and a pineapple pot roast on the table every night. When they joined the workforce en-masse, they were expected to have all of the above as well as a level of committment to the work that rivaled their male counterparts. It doesn’t help that there are Mean Girls who try to rip other women to shreds.

It’s no wonder that there was a backlash against trying to be perfect, and the subsequent rise of the self-deprecating parent. This is the woman who is helping one kid put cottonball sheep into a diorama due the next day, helping another with math they themselves forgot how to do 20 years ago, while making dinner, and tripping over the family dog, who is trying to snap up any food scraps that fall to the floor.

Cake Pop

My attempt at Hello Kitty cake pops. It was all downhill from here.

She is not exactly the “perfect” mom who breezes through homework, surfs Pinterest for convoluted pinecone crafts, and bakes cakes with an entire Minecraft landscape on top. Damn, I wish I could be that woman, but only for birthday parties. It’s too tiring on a daily basis.

But never for one minute do any of these imperfect parents ever claim to not love their children. Their kids may bring them to their knees in agonizing desperation, but those children are always loved. These moms (and, yes, dads too) are up late after their kids go to bed, making lunches, putting artwork created that day on the fridge, surfing the web to find replacements for kitty costumes that were outgrown years ago*, and, overall, worrying about how to not screw up these tiny humans who, for whatever reason, have not been completely traumatized by inept attempts at parenting.

(*Seriously, she’s 5. How can she fit into a size 24-month costume? And if anyone knows where to find the Carter’s pink kitty costume in a 6x, let me know. I’m pretty sure my daughter’s butt is eating the tail on the thing.)

Yes, these bad moms vent, but they are not intimidating monsters reveling in the fact they tossed their kids a snowball and Mountain Dew for dinner and called it a day. It’s about chronicling this surreal journey and knowing that we are not alone.

I know that I am not the only woman who will flip out in the middle of Target and leave a full cart in the middle of the aisle because my kids are pitching a fit about the DS game or Frozen doll I won’t buy.

I am not the only woman who whips up carrots and dill as a side dish, just to be asked, “Why are the carrots moldy? I am NOT eating moldy carrots.”

I am also not the only woman who wakes up most weekends to my 5-year-old crawling into bed for a snuggle, or who spends an extra 15 minutes telling stories to my 7- year-old starring his stuffed lambs.

There are great joys and great pain in parenthood. I am not superior to anyone, nor have I been made to feel like I wasn’t “bad enough” to call myself a terrible mother. And, frankly, if anyone does degrade another human being (let alone another parent), then they are just bad people, not bad mothers. So, let’s let everyone parent go their own way, and I’ll go back to  trying to make cookies with my daughter, using her Easy Bake Oven and choking down the disgusting results. Agreed?

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February 14, 2014 · 11:04 pm

Rise, Shine, and Yell Your Way Through the Morning

I am not a morning person. I am also not a night owl. That pretty much leaves nine hours in the day that I am not sleeping or dragging my ass through routine tasks. The worst time has to be the morning, when I am trying to herd my tiny cats, I mean children, toward the door and get them to school.

The sage words I’ve heard on the topic are that I should should get everything ready the night before, and that will allow me to sail through my morning, easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Yeah. No. I could pack lunches, lay out clothes, and have backpacks waiting by the door, and it would still take twice as long as I think, because I have children. Children that move as slow as turtles tromping through peanut butter.

Complicating this is the fact that I am prone to speaking at a high volume. Okay, I yell. A lot. My mother says I inherited it from her, and she inherited the gift from her mother, and so on and so forth all the way up my family tree to Eve, the first yeller. She probably had to yell at Adam to pick his damn fig leaf up and get a fresh one. My mother very optimistically says that since she yells less that her mom and I yell less than her, that one day we’ll eliminate the horrible gene. I am not convinced of this quite yet.

My morning usually goes a little something like this… Alarm goes off, hit snooze two times, drag myself unwillingly into the bathroom, pee and then go downstairs to release the dogs from their crate. Unleash the krakens in the backyard, let them in, feed them breakfast, and then let them back out so they don’t take a dump in my living room. Because, seriously, I hate poop. And when I have a crapton of things to do (see what I did there?), the last thing I want to do is clean up dog poop. Next, comes coffee prep because if I am not caffeinated, I might have to shiv someone. The world is a cold and scary place without caffeine.

By this time, the kids are awake. In theory, they are supposed to get dressed, eat breakfast, brush their teeth, and be prepped for school transportation. What REALLY happens is the kids stay in their pajamas, and play with their toys. Or, worse, they get into my purse, knock over laundry I need to put away, and generally wreak havoc on EVERYTHING. I threaten my daughter with jeans, and since she hates them with every fiber of her being, that spurs her along to put on her usual uniform of leggings and a t-shirt. Yes, even in winter. Occasionally, I’ll find my son buck naked and playing with Legos. Or DS. Or reading a book. I throw his clothes at him and check on his sister. This usually results in me finding her dressed, but with a used pull-up lying in her room. I throw that out and go back to my son, who has returned to Legos.

Then, the yelling begins. “Holy Mary, mother of God, why are you not dressed?” The boy then leaps up, cattle prodded by the shouts and proceeds to throw his underwear in the air, shrieking about about how I am the bad mommy there to hurt him. Seriously? I have never hurt him physically. Emotionally, yes. That’s why I’m saving up for therapy. Physically? No. I grab the clothes and help him into them. “Why do I have to get you dressed? You are seven. I should be able to trust that you are getting ready on your own!” My voice rises in pitch and anger. There are more shrieks, accompanied by my son’s monkey-like hold around my neck as I wrestle him into his navy pants. Every couple of weeks, I notice that the pants are way too short on him. I let him wear them, because there is no way I can find a new pair with the amount of time left in the morning and vow to pick up a new pair on the way home. That never happens. Poor kid always looks like he’s waiting for a flood.

Finally, I get the kids downstairs. They race around grabbing the iPad, iPhone or anything else that lights up and rots their brain. I argue with them, vainly snatching at the electronic devices and telling them they need to get ready before they can play anything. The next five minutes is taken up by me trying to pry what they want for breakfast out of them. Cereal? No response. Oatmeal? No response. Eggs and toast? Nothing. Then, a request from my daughter for Doritos. Well, I’d like Cadbury creme eggs for breakfast, but that isn’t going to happen either.

As I feed my tiny beasts, I work on making lunches. I struggle with this. I try to be thoughtful and keep all of the peanut kids in mind and not make PB&J too often because no one wants to be banished to the peanut table like a biblical pariah. Poor peanut pariahs, eating their sad turkey sandwiches, wishing for some insensitive mother to stop sending peanut products to school. That leaves me with the option of sending my own sad turkey sandwich or having my son buy lunch. Luckily, my daughter is in daycare and they have a perma-peanut table for the peanut pariahs. Since I’m usually throwing together vegetables, fruit and whatever else looks edible into my daughter’s lunch before someone needs something, like for me to take a banana peel, I make a split-second decision that I cannot deal with this lunch crap anymore and he’s buying. I don’t care if it is the orange chicken he hates.

Now that the kids are not naked, have food in their bodies and will not starve by mid-day, I move on to the dreaded tasks of combing hair and brushing teeth. When my son brushes his teeth, he stops every few seconds to ask if he’s done yet. My daughter looks at the toothbrush and says she’s done. Then she breathes her brontosaurus breath on me to confirm how clean her mouth is. When I insist on taking my turn brushing, she cries, whines and tries to hide behind the toilet. I am about to lose the cheese on my cracker. I just want to be done with the teeth. I know that next, I have to try and brush her hair. She has very fine hair, which is prone to tangling. I went through four different brushes (including a “detangling” brush – my ass) before I found one she would tolerate. I still manage to rip out wads of blonde hair as she sobs. In the end, she looks more like a mismatched hobo than anything else, but I can’t complain. I am really just too tired to do so.

You’d think that I should be done with the insanity now, right? No. There are socks, shoes, and backpacks to pull together. I can’t count how many times I thought I was ready to walk out the door, and I realized that my daughter was missing her socks. Honestly, by the time I get to the dropoff, I am ready to shove those kids out the door and throw their backpacks right at their heads. I am toast.

I love my kids. Between the hours of 9 and 8.

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February 9, 2014 · 5:14 pm

Did I Really Just Say That?

There was so much that I did not expect when I became a parent; the mind-numbing exhaustion, wearing my child’s blowouts, and the things I would end up saying to my offspring. There is great joy in the stereotypical, “Because I said so,” or, “You get what you get and you don’t pitch a fit,” but then there are these choice nuggets:

  1. No, I will not wipe your butt. You’re 7. Which probably leads to…
  2. Please don’t wipe your poop on the wall. I mean, seriously. How messy can they get when wiping up? And how, after using a half a roll of toilet paper, do they still manage to get it all over their hands? And why do they think their poop hands should touch the wall? There is so much I just don’t understand.
  3. I don’t care how nicely you ask, you cannot have a Ring Pop for breakfast. My kids somehow think that if they put “please” in their request that I will acquiesce. Then, they are sent into hysterics when it doesn’t work. “But, you said to ask nicely! I did ask nicely! YOU LIED! I’m never going to ask nicely again. I’m going to eat this Ring Pop anyway! As soon as I can get it open!” Tears, rolling around on the floor, and leg kicks ensue.
  4. Why is there a used pull-up in the middle of your room? My daughter still uses a pull-up at night, because she has a bladder the size of, well, a small child’s bladder. I don’t care about pull-up use, as long as it doesn’t extend into the teen years, but what I do mind is going into her room after a long day and finding a sodden pull-up or two in the middle of her floor. Why doesn’t she throw it out? Does she like the smell of rotting urine in her room? Is it like fresh napalm for her? I mean, I don’t leave my feminine products lying about after I’m done with them. Because that would be DISGUSTING. I might lose my mind if, as a teen, she does the same thing with pads that she does with her pull-ups. I might even get nostalgic for the days when it was just a pull-up I found.
  5. Yeah, well, you smell like rat-patooties. I am ashamed to admit this, but I have been known to sink to my kids’ level when I am at the end of my rope. I would love to be the perfect parent who always takes the high road and is so awesomesauce that they never even get into a fight with their child because they and their child are so well behaved, fighting is not in their lexicon. Since our family is on the opposite spectrum, I end up saying things like “rat-patooties” and, “no… you are!” We’re all 5 in this house.
  6. You have lost TV in the morning, TV in the car, and when you get out of school. This is something that sticks out, not for the words themselves, but because I said them while trying unsuccessfully to get my daughter to bed. I start by offering her rewards to stay in bed, like watching Sheriff Callie in the morning or snuggling when she wakes up. Then, after about the third time, the punishments get doled out. I try not to take too much away at one time because I’ll run out of bargaining chips pretty quickly. There are nights when I do run out and have to make things up, like, “Your grandparents won’t pick you up from school now.” They weren’t planning on it, but dammit, I don’t know what else to say. It’s either that or, “Go the f to sleep!” in my best Samuel L. Jackson voice. I like to think I made the right choice in that situation.
  7. Who pooped in the hall and ate it? Oh, wait. That’s something I say to the dogs. Nevermind.

While I’m glad I haven’t had to resort to the violent, old-school chestnuts such as, “I’ll give you something to cry about” or, “If I have to come up there….” I still wonder on a daily basis, what the hell am I saying? Is this normal? Am I raising some seriously screwed up kids? I guess as long as I don’t have to ask the kids if they ate their own poop, things can’t be too bad, right?

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