Laylee’s planning on moving out soon and I don’t think I’m invited. It has something to do with my personal appearance.
I am Not Responsible for Josh Groban
Dan has a hard time distinguishing between Josh Groban and Michael Bublé. I can understand the difficulty. They are both male and they both sing songs and both of their careers were created by the United States of Oprah, respectively. The difference as I see it is that Josh Groban is Oprah’s version of Andrea Bocelli and Michael Bublé is Oprah’s version of Harry Connick Junior. He still gets them confused so I say Groban — Vibrato, Bublé — bubbly brass section.
I’m pretty over Josh Groban at this point and it’s not because most of his songs sound identical or even the vibrato, because although he has a lot of vibrato, it is not constant and therefore can be tolerated. I’m not sure what it is but I’m just over him. Except for one song.
Remember When It Rained.
I love this song. I have no idea what it’s about. I think it may have religious connotations and I know one of you will google-wiki it for me and tell me what it means but I’d rather not know. In my mind, I prefer to think that it’s about making out in the rain, one of those completely unrealistic kisses where you just run to someone through the pouring rain, probably in the dark, likely wearing a dark-colored prom dress, and the first thing to connect is your lips and you’re maybe crying but you can’t tell because the rain is pouring down on your faces… or something like that. It’s not like I envision this scene every time I hear the song and sing along at the top of my lungs while planning the rain kissing chapter of my next book or anything.
So today I was driving along when that particular song came on my Zune completely by happenstance and for some odd reason my mind was drawn to that particular line of thought (the rain kissing thing), which caught me completely off-guard and I was forced to sing along with such fervor that I lost track of my speedometer. Blame it on the strings. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on Josh Groban if you must but I feel fairly convinced that I was not responsible for my temporary breaking of the traffic laws of this good land.
As I slowed down I started thinking, what would I have told the officer if I’d been pulled over during my…erm…performance/brainstorming session? I think I would have had to tell the truth. “Josh Groban made me do it. He’s in league with Dr. Phil and Oprah. I had no choice.”
In high school I had a friend who totaled his father’s car while taking it off a jump with some friends. He proceeded to tell his dad matter-of-factly that he was not responsible. He only did it because he was listening to the Beastie Boys at the time.
I imagine my Josh Groban defense would go over about as well. I haven’t seen that boy in… a while…
The Best Dance Song EVER
Promises Promises
I’ll try to stop actually hurting you as I brush your hair, if you try not to wince and scream out when you feel the brush’s aura approaching your head.
Read more of the promises I’m making to my kids this week over at Parenting.com.
Facebook Apps Are Scary
I will come out right now and just say it – Facebook Apps freak me out. I just denied a request from my sister to say we were related on an app. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I AM SISTERS WITH MEG! But I will not add the “family tree” application to my Facebook page. Not a bit. Her request was denied.
Do you want me to be one of your “best girls,” kill a zombie with you, throw a pumpkin at your neck, join a group to remove the mayor of Anaconda, MT from office, or take a quiz to show how similar we are so we can take our kindred spiritness to the next level? I’m sorry but I just can’t do it anymore.
I’ve done it a couple of times and then I’m always left wondering, “Is that app harvesting all of my personal information for nefarious purposes, the pure wicked evilness of which I cannot yet imagine?”
So now I just hit “deny” every time. It’s not because I don’t like you or think your purple roses to help fight toenail cancer aren’t noble and attractive, I just don’t want to be harvested by the aliens or whoever it is that creates all these apps in the first place.
Sorry mom. I’m still your daughter. I just won’t declare it in a Facebook app.
I also refuse to claim my 1,000,000 inheritance from my long lost Uncle in Sri Lanka. There’s just too much risk to these ventures. I’ve seen Dateline. I know.
To the Future Mothers on the Bachelor
I like a lot of you. I don’t know you. I don’t readily admit to watching your shenanigans and exploits. I just happen to catch the show every Monday night at 8pm PST completely by accident. You are not super-real to me but just real enough I thought I’d write you all a letter on the internet, from one mom to a group of future moms who are, like, so ready to be moms.
First off, Jason doesn’t plan the dates. When he takes you out in a blimp, a jet, a parachute, a helicopter, a largish kite, shoots you from a cannon, or in some way takes you soaring to new heights with a view of the world you’d never imagined was possible, he is not the mastermind behind the experience. He has a team of PRODUCERS PLANNING EVERYTHING FOR HIM.
When you’re married, the team of producers will no longer live at your house, feeding him lines, starting the campfires, decorating his mansion and making every moment perfect. Jason will likely change back into a normal human male, a human male with a 5-year-old son whom he loves more than you.
And it’s not that heating up your own Papa Murphy’s while desperately seeking a vegetable to feed the child and then trying to get him in bed early enough that you’ll still have energy left for quality time with your shmoop isn’t fun. It’s just different. He will likely never shoot you out of a cannon or write your name in the sky again, at least not on weeknights. He may ask you to do his laundry though.
Secondly, nothing prepares you for motherhood, not watching shirtless Jason on TV playing with his son, not holding your friend’s kid until it starts to squeak ever-so-slightly, not obtaining a college degree, not “getting all the partying out of your system,” not even being hosed down with boogers and diaper fillins for 6 months straight while someone screams in your ear at the top of their lungs. Nothing prepares you. I’m not sayin’ it ain’t wonderful because it is. You’re just not, like, so ready. No one is.
My Baby LISTENS
This morning Magoo emerged from his room with a large stuffed turtle tucked under his arm, rather than the small mangy dog he’s been carrying around for weeks as his “baby.”
“This is my new baby,” he announced.
“Oh really? What happened to your old baby?”
“He never LISTENS to me. This baby LISTENS to me so he’s my new baby now.”
I think this is good criteria for choosing a baby. As she’s drooling in the Bjorn and I’m expounding my great treasures of knowledge, is the baby really listening? Well if not… You never know who I’ll end up with the next morning. It may be a turtle or a purple frog but a baby who doesn’t listen doesn’t last very long in this household.
So he took his baby to church where he cuddled him, tossed him around and eventually dropped him on the floor. I didn’t see much talking or listening and I wondered how long the relationship would last.
Laylee retrieved the wide-eyed turtle infant from the ground and began moving it around in a pattern resembling play but which did not appear enjoyable in any way. And then she sneezed.
I know she sneezed because I heard the sound next to me and a moment later she was holding the turtle 3 inches from my face with a guilty, teeth-baring grin/grimace on her face. There was a largish boogie on the turtle.
Magoo hadn’t noticed the desecration yet and she whispered, “What should I DO!?”
I searched my bag in vain for tissues or wipes and then told her quietly to take the turtle to the bathroom and wipe him down with a damp paper towel. This seemed to please her, the idea of having any business important enough to excuse her from a church meeting giving an inexplicable maturity and importance to her very being. As she marched with dignity from the room, Magoo noticed the baby-napping that had just occurred.
“Where’s she taking my BABY!?”
“Your baby has a boogie on his head and she’s gone to clean it off,” I whispered.
At this point, please ask me how much I had gotten out of the church meeting? Not a lot. I did have a renewed testimony of baby wipes, even when your human babies are past the point of diaperhood but other than that, it had been a pretty unfulfilling service.
And Magoo seemed strangely pleased over the drama with his baby. Of course he longed for his safe return, but a BOOGIE ON HIS HEAD?! That was obviously scandalous and cool in a way that only a 3 or 13-year-old boy can truly appreciate.
5 minutes passed.
Laylee returned with the turtle, holding it boog-first towards me, the grimace still on her face.
“In the bathroom there was a sign that said ”˜DO NOT something-I-couldn’t-read.’ I was worried that I wasn’t allowed to wash the boogie off his head.”
How, oh how did I keep a straight face as I told my semi-literate daughter that I was pretty sure, like 100% sure, that the sign did not say, “DO NOT WIPE BOOGIES OFF THE HEADS OF STUFFED BABY TURTLES IN THIS BATHROOM?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I’m pleased to say that the baby has now been cleansed and his listening skills are as good as ever. Perhaps better.
You Need a Budget
Before I announce the winner, I want to let you all know that now through January 31st, Daring Young Mom readers can get a 10% discount on YNAB software by entering the coupon code “daring” on the YNAB.com site. Jesse was impressed with the response you all gave and wanted to help out because there are so many of us who are struggling with finances right now. Yay Jesse!
And the winner of the You Need A Budget software giveaway is Donna, commenter number 29. Please contact me and I’ll get you set up with your prize.
Emotional Outbursts are We
Emotional Outbursts are We – A Grammatically Correct Place Where a Kid Can Throw a Fit.
Things have been sort of climactic at our house lately. Everything is high drama. Both kids are going through a bit of a manic depressive stage. Either they’re twirling pirouettes joyfully around the house or they’re bawling their brains out. Magoo is especially bad because we’re trying to wean him off naps.
If he gets a nap, then he stays up all night with eyes as big as saucers. Blink. Blink. Grin. Giggle.
If we skip the nap, then he’s an absolute, fall-on-his-face-with-his-open-mouth-wailing, can’t-see-for-the-river-of-tears-blinding-his-eyes, mess. The slightest thing will make him bawl to an extent no one should ever bawl whose life is as charmed as his or whose cheeks are as luscious. If my cheeks were that rosy and edible, I would probably never cry again.
So a couple of nights ago I asked Laylee to set the table. We keep all our kid dishes in low drawers so they can get food and drinks for themselves while Dan and I sip sodas and watch YouTube videos of dancing cats.
Laylee very obediently and somewhat maliciously went about doing this chore as quickly as humanly possible. You see, she knows that Magoo likes to pick his own dishes at meal time, especially at dinner time, a time when he has been awake well past his ticking-time-bomb-of-a-brain’s point of no return. I watched her at work and thought, “NOT THE BLUE WIRE! CLIP THE RED!” Perhaps she was still disappointed that the police broke up our little fireworks soiree on New Year’s Eve and she wanted to see some toddleric pyrotechnics instead. Sadly I doubt she was moving that fast simply to do a good job. You could tell by the look on her face and the way she glanced over at Little Buddy that she was clipping the blue wire on purpose.
And he ERUPTED! “I wanted to pick my own plate. Don’t EVER EVER EVER pick my plate Laylee. EVER!”
“Sorry bud. You’re too late,” she said matter-of-factly.
“BUT I DON’T W-W-W-WANT THAT PLATE. I WANT TO PICK MY OWN PLATE.”
At this point I had already dished up his food and did not relish the thought of dirtying another dish. Magoo sat in front of the drawer sobbing as if his broken heart had fallen in a Humpty-Dumpty-like tragedy and the pieces would never be put together again.
The sobbing and the pleading, the sorrow and the lack of pity went on for quite some time until Dan stepped in with a brilliant idea.
“Here,” Dan said. “You wanna pick your plate? Fine. Pick your plate.”
He then carried the dish full of food over to the drawer, put it inside and closed it.
“Okay Magoo. Pick your plate.” Magoo opened the drawer, lifted the dish full of food, slid another plate from under it, sniffling all the while, and carried it pathetically to the table. His dinner remained shut in the bottom drawer.
Sometimes my greatest parenting triumphs involve not laughing at my children in their darkest hours. In their moments of greatest heartbreak, I often find my most fulfilling parental hilarity. It may be cruel but it’s the Way of Things.
As Magoo went to sit snifflingly up to the table, Dan reminded him to wash his hands and said he’d dish up for him while he was in the bathroom.
While Magoo’s hands were all a-lather, Dan quietly pulled the loaded plate from the drawer and switched it out with the nearly identical plate Magoo had so pathetilovingly chosen for himself.
And he didn’t notice. And I decided that maybe we could do just one or two more naps. Per week. For the next few years.
Yeah-No
The “yeah-no” has become quite the art form around our house. I give the kids the affirmation they need without actually allowing them to do the bizarre and sometimes impossible things they ask for. The goal is to say “no” with some sort of affirmative statement that lets them walk away with a smidge of dignity intact and smiles on their squishable faces.
[I’ve written up the instructions for the “yeah-no” at parenting.com]