"Moooommm?" It's five minutes past bedtime. Stories have been read, water fetched, lights turned out, soothing classical music is playing. But all is not well in my son's world: "I hear a tapping noise, and I think it's coming from the CD player. Could you turn on the light and see if there's a spider there?"
There's no point in citing the infinitesimal odds that there actually is an eight-legger in wooden clogs doing the cha-cha in his room. At eight and a half, he's going through an arachnophobic stage - "the more I know about spiders, the more I'm afraid of them," he says. I know it's best to respect his young fears, keep the ceiling corners clear of cobwebs and conduct the occasional CD-player spider check.
Later that night, my daughter wanders into our bedroom. "I had a bad dream," she confides. "There was a crocodile, and I fell into the water, and it was going to eat me, but then it ate you...can you come sit with me?"
Crocodiles show up in her nightmares often; she grabs my hand while walking through the zoo and aquarium just in case we happen to pass a croc tank. Sometimes it's ghosts, but the toothy reptile is tops on her terror list.
Soothing these nightly terrors is costing me a bit of sleep these days. But I just gulp an extra coffee (or two) and say a prayer of thanks that the only bad dreams they have are normal childhood fears of scary animals, which will go away in time. I'm grateful they don't have to live with the memory of the day far more evil monsters attacked their city and took away a nation's sense of security forever.
Born a few years after the attacks, my children are only just starting to learn what happened on that clear-blue September day. We use simple language, taking care not to overwhelm them with grim details, and offer reassurances that Mom and Dad will always do their best to protect them. For now, it is enough.
In years to come, they'll hear and understand more from the family members who actually lived through the horror. They'll learn how their father saw the towers collapsing from his office window and how he later saw coverage of 7 WTC - where he'd worked just a couple of years earlier - turning to rubble. They'll hear how their mother saw the buildings burning on her commute to midtown, spent a morning trying to get through to family on lines that went dead, then later joined the hundreds of panicked, tearful and stunned people walking across the 59th Street Bridge, hoping to get to a safety that no longer existed. They'll hear even more sobering memories from their paramedic aunt and Marine reservist uncle, whose son is named for a firefighter and former Marine lost in the attacks.
But my children have the blessing of distance. They and their peers will be shocked and saddened by what they learn, but it will never have a visceral impact on them, just as my generation can't fully comprehend the enormity of Pearl Harbor, Vietnam or the Kennedy assassination. (I'm told that after RFK was shot, I tried to comfort a sobbing aunt by saying, "Don't worry...there'll be another Kennedy.") Only a special subset of under-10 children will feel a true personal connection to relatives lost before they were born. For the rest of these 21st-century babies, September 11 will be a history lesson, not a part of their life story.
We parents, along with all who can and do remember, have an obligation to share the story and lessons of 9/11 to this new generation and the children who will come after them. We can't force them to mourn losses they don't truly feel - nor should we. But through our words, and more importantly, through our own actions, we can instill in them a pride in their country, a respect for those who serve it, a deep love and respect for all their fellow human beings and a passion for peace.
If we tirelessly make this our mission, then perhaps future generations of children will have nothing to fear but an imaginary spider in their bedrooms.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Won't You Please Repost This? (Pleeeease?)
We interrupt our regular Momsperiment parent-ramblings to bring you this important message:
So how many weeks along are you - four, six, twelve? And what are you craving - Reese's Pieces? Junior Mints? Salmon-skin sushi with spicy tuna topping, followed by boiled rutabaga and passionfruit sorbet?
And if you're three weeks along and eating doughnuts, does that mean you're not hanging your purse on the bedpost anymore? Or wearing a purple lace bra? It's so hard to keep track nowadays. But the important thing is that you're posting the message on Facebook and telling all your friends to do the same, because this will help raise awareness of breast cancer and make the world a better place.
Unless you can't do it just yet because your news feed is already taken up ("just for an hour!") by an awareness-raising message for cancer of all varieties...or domestic violence...or animal abuse...or bullying...or autism...or troops serving overseas...or mental illness...or omphaloskepsis.
Or maybe you've been overwhelmed by so many of these "awareness" requests that you've quietly begun to ignore them all, or to post a wise-ass parody like, "Please repost this if you know someone, or know someone who knows someone, or knows someone whose second cousin twice removed knows someone. And for Pete's sake, don't forget the hearts! <3 <3 <3"
You get the point. We've all seen these memes on our friends' news feeds, and possibly reposted one or two ourselves because we thought it was meaningful. But maybe it's time to think before we blindly do the copy-and-paste thing yet again.
This new "craving" meme for breast cancer awareness is misguided on several levels. First, as this blogger points out, it doesn't take into account the millions of women struggling with infertility who don't take pregnancy announcements lightly. They'd love nothing more than to share their bumps and cravings with their FB friends, and it hurts to see other women casually tossing around preggy-speak, however well-intentioned.
Second, how does passing along coy little messages about candy and bras advance the cause of breast cancer? It doesn't add a penny toward research or offer any real help to the women who are either living with the disease or reclaiming their lives after treatment. The message links to no pertinent sites, provides no follow-up, offers no information about a disease that's anything but sweet as Hershey's Kisses.
More baffling still, we're supposed to keep this secret from all the guys on our friend list - as if this were some cute little Girl Code about makeup or bachelorette parties. If anything, shouldn't men be brought more deeply into the dialogue? Shouldn't they learn more about the various types and stages of breast cancer, the targeted treatments, the odds of recurrence? Shouldn't they be encouraged to do some homework before buying pink-ribbon products to make sure enough of the proceeds are actually going toward research? Shouldn't they learn how to support and empathize with women terrified that their disease may cost them their femininity and sexiness - not to mention their lives?
That's the whole problem with these social media "awareness" posts. They give us a brief frisson of do-gooder satisfaction - Look how much I really care! - without actually having to go out of our way to do anything more concrete. In their most obnoxious form, they tack on a little guilt trip for good measure: 93% of you won't bother to repost this (and if you don't, it means you're an uncaring, un-American scumbucket who probably kicks little old ladies in the ribs for fun).
"But isn't it good that I'm making my Facebook friends aware of these important issues?" you ask. Sure, awareness is great. Knowledge beats ignorance any day of the week. But without action, awareness is pointless: it's like blowing a kiss and saying "Hang in there!" to a drowning man flailing in the water.
A breast cancer survivor may be grateful that her friends feel strongly about the topic, but given the choice, she'd probably prefer that they donate some money toward research, or better yet, bring some dinner to her family when she's too tired and nauseated from chemo to cook. A mom of a child on the autism spectrum may appreciate the thought that someone's aware of the condition - but when her child is having a sensory meltdown in the supermarket, will that "aware" person glare at her or make some comment about "mothers who can't control their bratty kids"?
Instead of creating or reposting yet another "awareness" meme, what if we were to post something specific we did as a result of our newfound knowledge? Imagine if our friends' walls were filled with messages like this:
My son and his friends were trash-talking about a classmate they think is gay. I'm sitting him down tonight for a long talk about tolerance and bullying, and I think the school principal ought to know about this, too.
Just got back from a nice lunch with a good friend. Her mother has Alzheimer's, and she was grateful for the chance to take a break from caregiving and vent a little. Here's what she wishes people knew about this disease...
Starting a bake sale fund-raiser on the 21st for IAVA, the first and largest organization specifically offering support to veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. Message me for details on contributing baked goods or to donate money to this worthy cause!!
Now those are the kinds of posts we all should be craving.
So how many weeks along are you - four, six, twelve? And what are you craving - Reese's Pieces? Junior Mints? Salmon-skin sushi with spicy tuna topping, followed by boiled rutabaga and passionfruit sorbet?
And if you're three weeks along and eating doughnuts, does that mean you're not hanging your purse on the bedpost anymore? Or wearing a purple lace bra? It's so hard to keep track nowadays. But the important thing is that you're posting the message on Facebook and telling all your friends to do the same, because this will help raise awareness of breast cancer and make the world a better place.
Unless you can't do it just yet because your news feed is already taken up ("just for an hour!") by an awareness-raising message for cancer of all varieties...or domestic violence...or animal abuse...or bullying...or autism...or troops serving overseas...or mental illness...or omphaloskepsis.
Or maybe you've been overwhelmed by so many of these "awareness" requests that you've quietly begun to ignore them all, or to post a wise-ass parody like, "Please repost this if you know someone, or know someone who knows someone, or knows someone whose second cousin twice removed knows someone. And for Pete's sake, don't forget the hearts! <3 <3 <3"
You get the point. We've all seen these memes on our friends' news feeds, and possibly reposted one or two ourselves because we thought it was meaningful. But maybe it's time to think before we blindly do the copy-and-paste thing yet again.
This new "craving" meme for breast cancer awareness is misguided on several levels. First, as this blogger points out, it doesn't take into account the millions of women struggling with infertility who don't take pregnancy announcements lightly. They'd love nothing more than to share their bumps and cravings with their FB friends, and it hurts to see other women casually tossing around preggy-speak, however well-intentioned.
Second, how does passing along coy little messages about candy and bras advance the cause of breast cancer? It doesn't add a penny toward research or offer any real help to the women who are either living with the disease or reclaiming their lives after treatment. The message links to no pertinent sites, provides no follow-up, offers no information about a disease that's anything but sweet as Hershey's Kisses.
More baffling still, we're supposed to keep this secret from all the guys on our friend list - as if this were some cute little Girl Code about makeup or bachelorette parties. If anything, shouldn't men be brought more deeply into the dialogue? Shouldn't they learn more about the various types and stages of breast cancer, the targeted treatments, the odds of recurrence? Shouldn't they be encouraged to do some homework before buying pink-ribbon products to make sure enough of the proceeds are actually going toward research? Shouldn't they learn how to support and empathize with women terrified that their disease may cost them their femininity and sexiness - not to mention their lives?
That's the whole problem with these social media "awareness" posts. They give us a brief frisson of do-gooder satisfaction - Look how much I really care! - without actually having to go out of our way to do anything more concrete. In their most obnoxious form, they tack on a little guilt trip for good measure: 93% of you won't bother to repost this (and if you don't, it means you're an uncaring, un-American scumbucket who probably kicks little old ladies in the ribs for fun).
"But isn't it good that I'm making my Facebook friends aware of these important issues?" you ask. Sure, awareness is great. Knowledge beats ignorance any day of the week. But without action, awareness is pointless: it's like blowing a kiss and saying "Hang in there!" to a drowning man flailing in the water.
A breast cancer survivor may be grateful that her friends feel strongly about the topic, but given the choice, she'd probably prefer that they donate some money toward research, or better yet, bring some dinner to her family when she's too tired and nauseated from chemo to cook. A mom of a child on the autism spectrum may appreciate the thought that someone's aware of the condition - but when her child is having a sensory meltdown in the supermarket, will that "aware" person glare at her or make some comment about "mothers who can't control their bratty kids"?
Instead of creating or reposting yet another "awareness" meme, what if we were to post something specific we did as a result of our newfound knowledge? Imagine if our friends' walls were filled with messages like this:
My son and his friends were trash-talking about a classmate they think is gay. I'm sitting him down tonight for a long talk about tolerance and bullying, and I think the school principal ought to know about this, too.
Just got back from a nice lunch with a good friend. Her mother has Alzheimer's, and she was grateful for the chance to take a break from caregiving and vent a little. Here's what she wishes people knew about this disease...
Starting a bake sale fund-raiser on the 21st for IAVA, the first and largest organization specifically offering support to veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. Message me for details on contributing baked goods or to donate money to this worthy cause!!
Now those are the kinds of posts we all should be craving.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Summertime, and the Living Is...Full of Homework?
A friend of mine pointed out this morning that today is the start of classes in Washington, DC, and nearby Prince George's County in Maryland. Another neighboring county opens its school doors next week.
That news might have shocked me - if I hadn't just returned from a family trip to Tennessee, where public schools started on August 8. It took us a while to figure out why the hotel staff kept asking our kids how they liked classes so far, and why the local amusement park was only open on weekends.
Nearly three-quarters of all U.S. school districts now start their year before Labor Day; we in New York are among the few September stragglers. While our southern neighbors are prepping for tests and marking soccer-match dates on their calendars, we're only just getting around to hitting Office Depot for pencils, dry-erase markers, marble notebooks and schoolwork folders (five two-pocket ones, each in a different color even if your child hates green and purple, and label each one with your child's name and check it every afternoon and try not to freak out when he forgets to bring his assignments home for the third day in a row, kthxbai.)
The issue of school calendar length isn't a new one. The summer break was established in the 1840s in response to poor school attendance in urban areas and the fear that a year-round schedule was bad for children's health. Now we seem to be moving in the opposite direction, with some education experts arguing that an extra month of school could improve grades and boost American students' embarrassingly low international ranking in math and science. One of Rahm Emanuel's first acts as Chicago mayor was to add more hours to the city's relatively short school day. Even in cash-strapped districts that have opted to shorten the school week - cramming five days' worth of learning into four - parents worry that the lost day will spell academic doom for their children.
I'm all for better grades and educational excellence, but I'd still hate to see our children miss out on a season that's brief enough as it is. One minute we're turning on the air conditioner and biting into the first luscious berries of the season, and in an eyeblink, we're picking up yellow leaves from the lawn and retrieving jackets from the closet. To a child, summer is a magical space between the wool-wrapped gotta-do months of homework, curfews and extracurriculars. It's pools and playgrounds, family trips and camp friends, fireflies and dandelion fluff. It's even a time to be just plain bored - a concept kids hate, but which actually helps nurture their creativity and lets them unwind (especially if we resist the temptation to fill their boredom with TV and hand-helds).
Bad enough that across much of the country, two weeks before the unofficial end of summer, anthills lie unexamined and roller coasters wait impatiently for the weekend. Fewer ice-cream cones are being eaten, fewer sandcastles built. The smells of new-cut grass, salty surf and sunscreen are being replaced by more cold-weather aromas: Crayolas, gym floors, science-lab chemicals, cafeteria tacos.
Have a great school year, all you early birds - and I hope you'll spend at least a few of your post-dismissal-bell hours appreciating the warm-weather joys before they're gone for another year. Knowing that we're among the fortunate ones makes me appreciate these days even more, and I'll do my best to make my kids' final vacation days memorable.
(NOTE: The preceding opinion subject to change without notice, depending on how many times Momsperimenter hears the phrases "Stay out of my room!", "You stupidhead!" and "There's nothing to doooooo!" prior to September.)
That news might have shocked me - if I hadn't just returned from a family trip to Tennessee, where public schools started on August 8. It took us a while to figure out why the hotel staff kept asking our kids how they liked classes so far, and why the local amusement park was only open on weekends.
Nearly three-quarters of all U.S. school districts now start their year before Labor Day; we in New York are among the few September stragglers. While our southern neighbors are prepping for tests and marking soccer-match dates on their calendars, we're only just getting around to hitting Office Depot for pencils, dry-erase markers, marble notebooks and schoolwork folders (five two-pocket ones, each in a different color even if your child hates green and purple, and label each one with your child's name and check it every afternoon and try not to freak out when he forgets to bring his assignments home for the third day in a row, kthxbai.)
The issue of school calendar length isn't a new one. The summer break was established in the 1840s in response to poor school attendance in urban areas and the fear that a year-round schedule was bad for children's health. Now we seem to be moving in the opposite direction, with some education experts arguing that an extra month of school could improve grades and boost American students' embarrassingly low international ranking in math and science. One of Rahm Emanuel's first acts as Chicago mayor was to add more hours to the city's relatively short school day. Even in cash-strapped districts that have opted to shorten the school week - cramming five days' worth of learning into four - parents worry that the lost day will spell academic doom for their children.
I'm all for better grades and educational excellence, but I'd still hate to see our children miss out on a season that's brief enough as it is. One minute we're turning on the air conditioner and biting into the first luscious berries of the season, and in an eyeblink, we're picking up yellow leaves from the lawn and retrieving jackets from the closet. To a child, summer is a magical space between the wool-wrapped gotta-do months of homework, curfews and extracurriculars. It's pools and playgrounds, family trips and camp friends, fireflies and dandelion fluff. It's even a time to be just plain bored - a concept kids hate, but which actually helps nurture their creativity and lets them unwind (especially if we resist the temptation to fill their boredom with TV and hand-helds).
Bad enough that across much of the country, two weeks before the unofficial end of summer, anthills lie unexamined and roller coasters wait impatiently for the weekend. Fewer ice-cream cones are being eaten, fewer sandcastles built. The smells of new-cut grass, salty surf and sunscreen are being replaced by more cold-weather aromas: Crayolas, gym floors, science-lab chemicals, cafeteria tacos.
Have a great school year, all you early birds - and I hope you'll spend at least a few of your post-dismissal-bell hours appreciating the warm-weather joys before they're gone for another year. Knowing that we're among the fortunate ones makes me appreciate these days even more, and I'll do my best to make my kids' final vacation days memorable.
(NOTE: The preceding opinion subject to change without notice, depending on how many times Momsperimenter hears the phrases "Stay out of my room!", "You stupidhead!" and "There's nothing to doooooo!" prior to September.)
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Stuff I Never Thought I'd Be Doing Today
-Attending a slightly belated birthday party thrown in my honor by an assortment of LEGO Star Wars figures and my old Dawn dolls.
- Watching said toys boogie to the "Episode II" soundtrack. (Orange fringed minidresses go surprisingly well with John Williams.)
- Reading the dress-code demands made of the guests at the Kardashian wedding.
- Wondering if any of the invitees will have the courage and self-respect to say, "I can't wear any color but black or white? Screw it - I'm showing up in hot pink and having a cameraman ready to videotape me getting booted out."
- Seeing my byline twice in a health newsletter.
- Getting a cryptic reply email and wondering if it's actually a nicely-dressed rejection.
- Engaging in an hour-long lightsaber duel against the resident Jedi Master.
- Being informed that I possess mad lightsaber skills.
- Asking my children to clean their rooms and hearing nothing but "Not now" - then witnessing their 180 when offered the chance to play with the neighborhood kids.
- Giving the Starving Ethiopian Children speech in response to various complaints that dinner contained such horrible ingredients as rice and peas. I have officially become THAT Mother. Heaven help us.
- Hearing my son say, "I have a bad feeling that my life is going to explode" and wondering when he suddenly turned 50.
- Spending all day with my kids, then oddly missing them during the brief time I was away from them tonight._
- Watching said toys boogie to the "Episode II" soundtrack. (Orange fringed minidresses go surprisingly well with John Williams.)
- Reading the dress-code demands made of the guests at the Kardashian wedding.
- Wondering if any of the invitees will have the courage and self-respect to say, "I can't wear any color but black or white? Screw it - I'm showing up in hot pink and having a cameraman ready to videotape me getting booted out."
- Seeing my byline twice in a health newsletter.
- Getting a cryptic reply email and wondering if it's actually a nicely-dressed rejection.
- Engaging in an hour-long lightsaber duel against the resident Jedi Master.
- Being informed that I possess mad lightsaber skills.
- Asking my children to clean their rooms and hearing nothing but "Not now" - then witnessing their 180 when offered the chance to play with the neighborhood kids.
- Giving the Starving Ethiopian Children speech in response to various complaints that dinner contained such horrible ingredients as rice and peas. I have officially become THAT Mother. Heaven help us.
- Hearing my son say, "I have a bad feeling that my life is going to explode" and wondering when he suddenly turned 50.
- Spending all day with my kids, then oddly missing them during the brief time I was away from them tonight._
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Going Bongos
We can all breathe a little easier now. Bongo is home where he belongs.
In case you missed it, Bongo is the stuffed toy monkey that went missing last week en route to a restaurant. Fliers were quickly plastered around his Park Slope, Brooklyn, neighborhood promising $500 for his safe return. After a few anxious days, a good Samaritan spotted Bongo on top of a parking meter and reunited him with his overjoyed parents.
That's right: parents.
You see, Bonni Marcus and Jack Zinzi consider their little Bongo - and his Beanie Baby "brothers," Doe, Ray and Me - to be their children. They've cared for the Bongster for 10 years, talking to him, taking him on vacations and forming a "spiritual connection" with him. Losing him threw Marcus and Zinzi into a fit of grief that affected their very relationship.
And you thought I was weird for photographing monkey toys at an amusement park!
Yes, call them eccentric if you will. Call them misguided or sad. Call them people who need better things to do with their lives than fuss over a wad of plush.
Then call me, and I'll tell you all about the week I've spent traveling with my two decidedly non-stuffed children.
I'll tell you about arguments over glances and touches.
About slapping and wrestling fights both real ("She STARTED it!") and fake ("We're just playing! We like hitting each other!").
About complaints of hunger, followed quickly by complaints of "Do I have to eat all that?"
About the same four bars of the same number from Little Shop of Horrors being whistled (albeit nicely on-key!) for roughly 45 miles.
About endless jokes involving poop and pee.
About demands for souvenirs at every sightseeing landmark and sweets at every meal.
About name-calling, tantrums, spilled crayons, spilled water bottles and refusals to brush teeth, pick up clothes or stop [insert behavior here].
Bongo, on the other hand, does none of this. You can even leave him in a hotel room if you need some privacy.
Plus his parents have no worries about diapers, homework, doctor bills, college tuition or general angst about whether their little monkey and his cloth brothers will grow up to be productive members of society.
Hmm.
In case you missed it, Bongo is the stuffed toy monkey that went missing last week en route to a restaurant. Fliers were quickly plastered around his Park Slope, Brooklyn, neighborhood promising $500 for his safe return. After a few anxious days, a good Samaritan spotted Bongo on top of a parking meter and reunited him with his overjoyed parents.
That's right: parents.
You see, Bonni Marcus and Jack Zinzi consider their little Bongo - and his Beanie Baby "brothers," Doe, Ray and Me - to be their children. They've cared for the Bongster for 10 years, talking to him, taking him on vacations and forming a "spiritual connection" with him. Losing him threw Marcus and Zinzi into a fit of grief that affected their very relationship.
And you thought I was weird for photographing monkey toys at an amusement park!
Yes, call them eccentric if you will. Call them misguided or sad. Call them people who need better things to do with their lives than fuss over a wad of plush.
Then call me, and I'll tell you all about the week I've spent traveling with my two decidedly non-stuffed children.
I'll tell you about arguments over glances and touches.
About slapping and wrestling fights both real ("She STARTED it!") and fake ("We're just playing! We like hitting each other!").
About complaints of hunger, followed quickly by complaints of "Do I have to eat all that?"
About the same four bars of the same number from Little Shop of Horrors being whistled (albeit nicely on-key!) for roughly 45 miles.
About endless jokes involving poop and pee.
About demands for souvenirs at every sightseeing landmark and sweets at every meal.
About name-calling, tantrums, spilled crayons, spilled water bottles and refusals to brush teeth, pick up clothes or stop [insert behavior here].
Bongo, on the other hand, does none of this. You can even leave him in a hotel room if you need some privacy.
Plus his parents have no worries about diapers, homework, doctor bills, college tuition or general angst about whether their little monkey and his cloth brothers will grow up to be productive members of society.
Hmm.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Today's Kid Imponderables
Longer post to follow, but I thought I'd share a few "whyizzits" to perk up your morning.
Why is it that the same child who, for weeks, refuses to sleep without a bedside lamp shining its 40-watt glory next to her face all night can, after just a few minutes of having Mom sit with her in the dark till she falls asleep, suddenly do a 180 and turn off the lamp on her own the next night without any coaxing?
Why is it that the child who calls for Mom at 4 AM because he's had a terrifying dream about a big, hairy tarantula coming down from the sky and crawling all over him and why did I have to write a school report on spiders and can you check the sheets to make sure nothing's there? - can then proceed to call for Mom four hours later to point out a period-sized spider in the bathroom sink, watch it in fascination and say, "Let's not kill it. Let's leave it alone"?
Why is it that the mouth that can observe of a theatrical character who turns from evil to good, "It's like she has a black heart and it changes to loving red, or maybe even white," can also be the same one that announces, "I have a cobra in my pants"?
Got any whyizzits of your own to share?
Why is it that the same child who, for weeks, refuses to sleep without a bedside lamp shining its 40-watt glory next to her face all night can, after just a few minutes of having Mom sit with her in the dark till she falls asleep, suddenly do a 180 and turn off the lamp on her own the next night without any coaxing?
Why is it that the child who calls for Mom at 4 AM because he's had a terrifying dream about a big, hairy tarantula coming down from the sky and crawling all over him and why did I have to write a school report on spiders and can you check the sheets to make sure nothing's there? - can then proceed to call for Mom four hours later to point out a period-sized spider in the bathroom sink, watch it in fascination and say, "Let's not kill it. Let's leave it alone"?
Why is it that the mouth that can observe of a theatrical character who turns from evil to good, "It's like she has a black heart and it changes to loving red, or maybe even white," can also be the same one that announces, "I have a cobra in my pants"?
Got any whyizzits of your own to share?
Friday, July 29, 2011
Momsperiment Commandments on a Friday Afternoon
1. Thou shalt continue with thy vow to get thine act together, in hopes that thy offspring mayest see thine shining example and follow it like unto Patrick following SpongeBob.
2. In attempt to do same, thou shalt continue to be merciless in thine attempt to organize office space. If thou wouldst not want to pack it if thou had to pack up thy worldly goods tomorrow, it's outta here.
3. Thou shalt not dawdle in doing so, hard as it may be to motivate thyself. If necessary, thou shalt give thyself the old Mama Berenstain Bear "You'll feel so much better when it's done" lecture.
4. Thou shalt not, however, wear a polka-dot duster cap.
5. If thou shouldst delay, thou shalt keep this memory firmly in mind next time thou seest thine children yanking out all their Legos or setting up a tea party even as the clutter gathers 'round them.
6. When necessary and convenient, thou shalt allot enough time in the day for adequate child-energy-burning. Thou shalt exercise patience and realize that in the eyes of the young, a day of swimming, playing games and painting murals in camp is considered merely a "good start." It doth not preclude 90 more minutes of scooter-riding and lightsaber-battling with the kids down the block, even as their dinner groweth ever colder.
7. Thou shalt not throw Mom Tantrums, even if thy children have just tossed a screaming and kicking fit of their own. Thou art the grownup, and as such must appear to be more in control than thou actually art. (Besides, adult tantrums don't even feel as satisfying afterward as childhood ones. Dang.)
8. Thou shalt not feel embarrassed about hanging on to old makeup sets. Thou never knowest when the visages of thy young may need to be covered in green eyeshadow for a space-alien party. (Purple eyeliner workest great for making extra eyeballs, too.)
9. Thou shalt remember the unearthed press release that emerged like a jewel under the piles of clutter and be grateful for clean desks, green eyeshadow, scooter rides and healthy children. (Thou need not, however, be grateful for polka-dot duster caps.)
10. Thou shalt not write another blog in pseudo-biblical language.
2. In attempt to do same, thou shalt continue to be merciless in thine attempt to organize office space. If thou wouldst not want to pack it if thou had to pack up thy worldly goods tomorrow, it's outta here.
3. Thou shalt not dawdle in doing so, hard as it may be to motivate thyself. If necessary, thou shalt give thyself the old Mama Berenstain Bear "You'll feel so much better when it's done" lecture.
4. Thou shalt not, however, wear a polka-dot duster cap.
5. If thou shouldst delay, thou shalt keep this memory firmly in mind next time thou seest thine children yanking out all their Legos or setting up a tea party even as the clutter gathers 'round them.
6. When necessary and convenient, thou shalt allot enough time in the day for adequate child-energy-burning. Thou shalt exercise patience and realize that in the eyes of the young, a day of swimming, playing games and painting murals in camp is considered merely a "good start." It doth not preclude 90 more minutes of scooter-riding and lightsaber-battling with the kids down the block, even as their dinner groweth ever colder.
7. Thou shalt not throw Mom Tantrums, even if thy children have just tossed a screaming and kicking fit of their own. Thou art the grownup, and as such must appear to be more in control than thou actually art. (Besides, adult tantrums don't even feel as satisfying afterward as childhood ones. Dang.)
8. Thou shalt not feel embarrassed about hanging on to old makeup sets. Thou never knowest when the visages of thy young may need to be covered in green eyeshadow for a space-alien party. (Purple eyeliner workest great for making extra eyeballs, too.)
9. Thou shalt remember the unearthed press release that emerged like a jewel under the piles of clutter and be grateful for clean desks, green eyeshadow, scooter rides and healthy children. (Thou need not, however, be grateful for polka-dot duster caps.)
10. Thou shalt not write another blog in pseudo-biblical language.
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