Category Archives: Uncategorized

How to leave your kids. Not forever – just for a few days.

Posted on by
2

This week I’m traveling across the country and leaving my kids at home with my husband for the first time ever. Preparing for this adventure has been a learning experience, so I’ll share my top 5 tips for a successful getaway.

1) Have your toddler stage a sleep strike for two consecutive weeks prior to your departure. Make sure she skips naps, and demands that you wake up and rock her for 1-2 hours every night around 3 a.m. This will help get you even more excited to stay in a hotel where you will attend your first sleeping writing conference.

2) Leave your husband a painfully detailed day-by-day, hour-by-hour agenda of household activities he needs to cover in your absence. Consider telling him when he should go to the bathroom each day, but realize that might be overkill (you can text him that info later).

3) Tell your husband that you will prepare a few meals in advance that he can feed the family when you are gone. But then forget to do it.

4) Remind your husband 40-50 times that your toddler has developed a dangerous habit of running into the street to ensure he never leaves her unattended in the yard. Incorporate this reminder into a blog post as a subtle, yet annoying, means of reminding him yet again.

5) Pack only the essentials.

IMG_20140408_221923

Ok, so perhaps these are more tips to avoid vs. tips to follow. Details, details.

On the whiteboard, with black marker

Posted on by
3

It’s the start of a new month! I don’t know about you, but for me that means one very special thing – I get to erase the whiteboard calendar and start anew! Ahh nothing beats the aroma of a dry erase marker on a rainy spring morning. By the 29th or 30th of every month, I am breathless in anticipation of my wipe off / write on ritual.

If you do not have a whiteboard calendaring system, I suggest you get yourself to Storables STAT. Don’t be distracted by the pretentious food storage systems. Keep walking past those overpriced closet organizers. Focus, people, FOCUS. The most worthwhile investment is a stylish yet affordable whiteboard calendar. Does it need to be the 2014 model? No, you silly fool! With a whiteboard, you can change the date – including the year! It never expires!!

Tell me more, Amy!

The revolutionary ability to quickly wipe away mistakes or cancellations on a whiteboard allows you to change your entire schedule in just seconds. The only thing that would be easier is if some sort of machine or technological advancement made it possible to create and modify a calendar with the push of a button on a handheld device. But if you think that kind of futuristic robot exists, then I’ve got some land in Florida to sell you!

It’s so easy to re-do a whiteboard calendar that you can even let your kids try it. Last month my daughter had a blast sketching out the month as she wanted it to go:

calendar

‘Disnieland’ on the 1st, a ‘fashin show’ on the 15th, fly back on the 31st. So precious!

Now erase that hopeful garbage and fill that whiteboard to the brim with PTA meetings, swim lessons, doctor’s appointments, birthday parties, snack duties, field trips… Get after it and make it a good one! Happy April!

Overthinking it

Posted on by
16

My 2-year-old has been in love with the pacifier since the moment it touched her newborn lips. It soothes her like nothing else.

Leading up to her 2nd birthday, we reduced her usage (mostly) to naps and bedtime, knowing that we’d want to eventually break the addiction.

Then at her 2-year check-up, her doctor said we missed the window. She felt it would be better to wait until my daughter can understand and communicate more about why we are taking it away. Otherwise she could be scarred for life (not the pediatrician’s exact words, but something like that).

A week later, her dentist disagreed and said we needed to kick the habit ASAP. Otherwise my daughter’s teeth would be damaged for life (not her exact words, but something like that).

Conflicted to the core, I researched successful methods to kick the habit. Staging a visit from “The Binky Fairy” seemed to be a common approach, and was what our dentist recommended.

I also read several in-depth book reviews, and eventually purchased a delightful tale designed to empower and enable my toddler to say Bye-Bye to Binky.

And I sought advice from friends, one of whom explained that her daughter finally ditched her pacifier when they told her it would be given to a horse at a nearby stable. That was two years ago, and they still have to visit the horse regularly to make sure he’s doing OK.

There aren’t any horses in my neighborhood, but so help me, if that method works I considered driving 30 miles to find a farm.

Then two weeks ago a speech therapist gave me her recommendation. The conversation went something like this:

Speech therapist: “Cut the binky in half. When she asks you about it, play dumb and say you don’t know what happened.”

Me: “That’s it? Just cut it?”

ST: “Yes. Cut it.”

Me: “Should I stage some sort of elaborate scene to make it look like her toys did it? Maybe our Elf on the Shelf could be the perp?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I also damage something her sister loves so neither of them feels it is unfair and resents me for it later?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “To help ensure she will always see the glass as half-full vs. half-empty, should I tell her that a giant buzzsaw ripped through the city, but luckily, the only thing it managed to hit in our house was her binky?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I cry when I show it to her so she sees that I am empathetic and wants to confide in me when she is a teen?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I start to breastfeed her again as a means to compensate for her loss?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

Me: “Should I use organic scissors?”

ST: “No, just cut it.”

So I cut it. And that was the end of it. No tears. No drama. No interest in using a binky ever again.

binky

So simple, and yet so painstakingly researched. Well played, parenthood.

TGIF and S and P

Posted on by
6

I was going to write a stellar post for today, but instead I’m going to start a Kickstarter campaign to return clocks to pre-daylight savings time. I admittedly don’t really understand how Kickstarter works, but it seems to solve problems for other people, and let me tell you – this time change has been a PROBLEM in my house all week.

I won’t bore you with the details of my sleepless, grouchy children, which have in turn led to a sleepless, unproductive me. But I will give you some advice – whatever you do, do NOT choose the week of daylight savings to make other significant changes in your life. I’m not talking about potty training, or sleep training, or moving to a new house or having a baby. Those are minor blips.

I’m talking about things that are life-altering. Changes that will turn your world upside down. Specifically, I’m talking about switching your salt and pepper shakers.

Apparently my entire life I have been misusing salt and pepper shakers. I grew up putting the salt in the shaker that has a lot of holes, and the pepper in the shaker with fewer holes. Blame my Midwestern upbringing – frequent consumption of bland casseroles can lead to a salt addiction. I’m not a pepper person.

Little did I realize how much my flawed shaker system bothered my husband. He’s been shaking in silence for nearly 8 years. Then last week, when the salt ran out, he seized the opportunity to stage an uprising and overturn the shaker establishment. He switched the shakers without warning. He didn’t even bother to put an ‘S’ and ‘P’ on the front to remind me of the change. Cold turkey. Figure it out, Amy. You’re on your own.

All week long I have been inadvertently peppering my eggs, my dinners, my everything. On a normal week, it might take me a day or two to catch on. But this week? With my constant state of fatigue? It’s like Groundhog Day: Kitchen Edition. I make the same mistake over and over and over. Heaven forbid, last night I even over-peppered some tuna casserole. RIP.

I’m hoping that balance will be restored in the universe this weekend so we can all sleep and eat in harmony. Otherwise I will stage my own culinary rebellion and fill both shakers with salt.

So you think you can write

Posted on by
11

Next month I’m attending my first ever blogging/writing-related conference – the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Ohio. It’s an event for humor and human interest writers. I’m looking forward to it, but I’m also a little unsure about the whole thing. There will be people at this event who get paid to write – for blogs, media, books. They are legit and profesh. I, on the other hand, have written more than 10 blog posts about a masked baby doll.

She's pretty much my third child at this point

She’s pretty much my third child at this point

A very large portion of my brain has been questioning this decision since the moment I registered. I think that’s why I’ve had a mild case of writing paralysis lately. I love to write and I love to laugh, but it’s hard to justify that as something worthy of a cross-country trip with travel expenses, not to mention 3+ days away from my family. Especially when I have never left my kids before and OMG I HAVE NEVER LEFT MY KIDS BEFORE.

But at this point I need to quit doubting myself and embrace reality because I bought a non-refundable plane ticket. Ain’t no stopping me now.

The main reason I’m going to the conference is to learn and be inspired. I tend to look at writing as my guilty pleasure. My secret pastime. My excuse to tell fart jokes on the internet.

But the truth is that I often enjoy writing silly stories more than I enjoyed my 13-year career. And I invested a lot of time, effort and energy in that career. So why not put a little effort into my writing? After all, maybe there’s a better way to tell a good fart joke?

Ok, so perhaps I’m a little confused about why exactly I’m going to this conference and what I will gain from it.

But I do know this – writing is and has always been a passion of mine, and I blog because it’s fun. Going to this conference feels indulgent and selfish and weird and exciting, but I’m not going to overthink it or beat myself up for being a small fish.

Instead I’m going to soak it all in, appreciate the opportunity to meet and learn from people with similar interests, savor the chance to get a full night of UNINTERRUPTED sleep, and enjoy meeting fellow bloggers in real life for the first time (including Leigh Ann, who convinced me to attend. If it sucks, it’s all her fault. I kid!).

And if I start to doubt my reasons for attending, I will remind myself that I do have at least one legitimate, non-Creepy Baby piece of writing to author.

A few months ago my mom mailed me an obituary she had cut out of the newspaper. It was for a woman named Margaret who passed away at the age of 92. I didn’t know Margaret and neither did my mother, but she sent it to me because she thought it was well-written and peppered with an appropriate touch of humor. She wanted me to see it for reference, to serve as an example of the tone and content she would like in her own obituary – which she has tasked me with writing.

To be clear – my mother is healthier than I am. She just has a deep appreciation for good writing, a morbid desire to plan ahead, and a disturbing fascination with tributes to dead strangers. I don’t foresee needing to pen her obituary anytime soon, but given how important it clearly is to her that I get it right when the time comes, I think it’s only prudent that I attend a workshop on ‘human interest’ writing.

So you see? I kind of owe it to my mother to attend so I don’t let her down. And because I couldn’t find a conference for obituary writers.

Sorry for wearing my shoes in your dojo

Posted on by
9

First, I apologize for another sports-related post. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Blame the Olympics.

The other day I took my 5-year-old to watch a kid’s Aikido class to see if she might want to join. I admittedly don’t know much about Aikido except that it’s a form of martial arts, and supposedly less of the hit-kick-whack variety, and more of the Namaste variety. Or something like that.

I’m window shopping for a new activity for my daughter. She’s tried soccer, gymnastics and dance in the past with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Here she is enjoying one of her soccer lessons two summers ago. She’s the one on the right taking a nap.

cimg6001

I fully acknowledge that those soccer lessons were premature and a waste of money. On the upside, it made me realize how much I hate wasting money.

I find it sort of stressful to pick an activity for my kid. I realize she doesn’t need to do anything. She’s only 5. But she is a child who does better when she has a couple balls in the air. Otherwise she gets bored and starts throwing those balls through my windows.

But at this age, when they change their mind every 5 minutes and don’t necessarily always know what they want, you are inevitably projecting your own interests onto them at times. I mean, would Tiger Woods ever have played golf if it weren’t for his dad’s love of the sport? Would I have taken my kid to a martial arts class if I didn’t still lust after Danny LaRusso?

Danny LaRusso

So much hotness right there. SWEEP THE LEG.

So instead of just signing my kid up for the Aikido class because I think it sounds cool, I opted to bring her to one to watch and let her decide. I felt like this was a wise move. I am learning!

As usual, on the day of the class I was running late, it was pouring rain, and I was a wee bit frazzled. Long story short – on my way into the building, I somehow failed to see the 15 signs that said “NO SHOES IN THE DOJO,” “LEAVE SHOES BY THE DOOR,” and “NO SHOES BEYOND THIS POINT.”

So we traipsed right in like a bunch of ogres wearing our sloppy dirty sneakers, leaving a trail of crud behind us. Fast forward 7 minutes – the head of the dojo, Mr. Dojo, sees our offensive feet and walks over to my daughter, leans over her shoulder and into her face, and instructs her to “REMOVE YOUR SHOES.”

He wasn’t a jerk about it, but a) he was a big intimidating dude, and b) he was speaking in a stern whisper. It’s remarkable how frightening a whisper can be sometimes.

This in-your-face moment with the Dojo Whisperer scares the ever-loving-bejeezus out of her, she tears up, wants to leave, decides she hates Aikido, and says she will never ever ever return.

Well done, Amy. Well done. Golf, anyone?

Wordless-ish Wednesday: Raising a future Olympian

Posted on by
2

As a follow up to my last post about my non-sportsiness, I feel the need to report that my 5-year-old has indeed been inspired by the Olympics, as per my plan. Specifically, she has been captivated by the magic of ice skating.

To help her get a feel for the sport, my husband took her ice skating for her first time yesterday. She opted to wear the most formal dress she owns. Obviously.

ice skating

Even if she inherits my wankles, at least she’ll win a gold medal for style.

To the 12-year-old graffiti artist in my neighborhood

Posted on by
3

You are clever. So clever. Not in the traditional academic sense, but in the Bart Simpson sense. First you spray-painted this on our shed, and at least 10 others on our street:

IMG_20140210_165520

I bet Mike is with his friend, Ben Dover, at the tavern down the street.

Your comedic intent was so subtle in this first effort that I actually had to point it out to my husband. Lucky for him, my sense of humor is not unlike that of a 12-year-old, so I can often interpret the deeper meaning in these complex pieces of art.

Perhaps you sensed the possibility that your creativity may go underappreciated, because you took a much more blatant approach with your second installation:

IMG_20140208_224647

Seriously, Kevin. Enough already.

I cannot wait to see what you come up with next. Please don’t touch my car.

Teaching your kid about sports when you aren’t very sportsy

Posted on by
7

Yesterday was the Super Bowl victory parade for the Seattle Seahawks. There were 700,000+ people in attendance. I almost took my kids. Almost. But my husband couldn’t join, and I realized that navigating that crowd by myself with a 5 and 2-year-old seemed, uhhh, dumb.

But we have still been enjoying the Seahawks excitement this season. The Super Bowl was amazing, the energy in the city has been electric, and even if you weren’t a die-hard fan before this season (I fully admit that I wasn’t), you would’ve been hard-pressed not to jump on the bandwagon this year.

All this football hoopla has led to several conversations with my daughter about sports. I think she’s been fascinated to see how a game like football can excite and unite so many people. I do want her to know that playing sports can be a great experience – which is why for now, I will show her how other people do it, as opposed to telling her about my own attempts at athleticism.

I’m not exactly an Olympian – due in part to my wankles and other shortcomings in the areas of ‘coordination’ and ‘skill.’ I was on the tennis team in high school, but I mostly told jokes in the back of the bus on the way to meets (are they called meets? or matches? This question is representative of my tennis acumen).

I was also recruited by the girls basketball coach in the 8th grade. I’ll never forget how excited he was by my height and potential, and how disappointed he was when he actually saw me play.

I made it onto the golf team in college. Then again, I went to a small liberal arts school where anyone could be on the team. All you had to do was show up.

My dad was so excited about my interest in his favorite pastime that he bought me a set of golf clubs. On the first day of practice, I was highly alarmed to discover that one of my clubs was shorter than the other one, so I asked the coach if this would be a problem. She was not impressed by my knowledge of the sport. That was the beginning of the end of my golfing career. (That story still makes my father wince.)

Fortunately my husband is more athletically-inclined – although he is a more of a soccer person than a football person. Or shall I say, he is a “football” person, not a “football” person. Ugh I don’t even care what that means. Am I really writing a post about football and sports? I need to wrap this up before I injure myself.

I will do my best to help my kids enjoy sports if they want to, even though I am more of an athletic supporter (tee hee). My daughter is excited to watch the Winter Olympics, so that should be a fun chance to talk more about the hard work and dedication of athletes, the thrill of competition, the importance of helmets, the slipperiness of ice, the danger of steep hills, the differences between bobsled and luge (no clue), the discomfort of spandex, the humor of curling, and so on. I’m no Bob Costas, but I got this.

Why my husband will never guest post on my blog

Posted on by
13

Back in November when I was ruining the Internet with my daily blog posts, I came up with a real gem for a potential topic – a post about hoods. Specifically, how much I love to wear hoods.

I wrote a few sentences about how I wear a hood almost every day at some point, and noted that my prime hood-wearing hours are 8-10 pm and 6-8 am.

It was pret-ty fascinating stuff, clearly. Hard to believe it didn’t make the cut.

At the time, my husband was itching to do a guest post for me, but I was reluctant to put him in the driver’s seat. This is a professional operation, pal – you can’t be any geek off the street. Gotta be handy with the keyboard, if you know what I mean. Earn your keep!

Bloggers, MOUNT UP.

So instead I gave him a drawing assignment. If he did well, he would lose the training wheels and earn the right to write.

Specifically, I tasked him with drawing a picture to accompany the conflict portion of my post, which is – I have trouble finding hoods that fit me properly. JAW-DROPPING, I KNOW. Many hoods stop short and don’t fully cover my head, because apparently I have the neck length of a baby giraffe.

Pretty interesting, no?……………………….? Wake up – I’m almost done.

Anyway, I was just going back through my garbage drafts folder, and stumbled upon the picture that my husband drew:

Amyinhood

Apparently this is what my husband thinks I look like.

He drew me as a zombie, because he is 12, but that still doesn’t explain why I look like a 50-year-old man. Thanks, dear, but NO POST FOR YOU.