It Matters Whom You Marry

Things I want to remember to tell my daughter.

THE CHRISTIAN PUNDIT

My husband and I were once with a youth group. There were three kids sitting across from us at a meal: two guys and a girl. The one guy was a computer geek with glasses. The other one was a college student with slightly cooler hair and no glasses. The girl was obviously with him. But while the computer geek was busy serving everyone at the meal, clearing plates and garbage, the college student got angry with the girl for a small accident and poured red juice over her leather jacket and white shirt. She picked the wrong guy, and the juice didn’t seem to change her mind. She is in for some grief if that relationship continues and especially if it leads to marriage.

So to all the young, unmarried Christian girls out there, listen up: who you marry matters.

View original post 1,596 more words

the food(s) children DON’T get to eat (“But Mo-o-o-o-o-um…!”)

Mmmmmmmmm…Can’t you just smell it?  Mom’s making “Adult Soup” again kids

Unfortunately there is only enough for 4 people.  And there’s only 4 cute little bowls.  And she’s having company tonight.  So…you’re getting…macaroni.  At the kids’ table.  You’re welcome.  

__________________

My sordid past

When I was a kid, my mom made Adult Soup ALL THE TIME.  Okay, well, she made it when company was coming over.  Which was hardly ever.  But it felt like all the time.  I was 10.  Doesn’t everything always never happen when you’re *like* 10 ?!

It’s not like she was making the delicious dessert “Sex in a Pan,”  my mom’s “Adult Soup” was G-rated.  I still have no idea why I wasn’t “ALLOWED” to have it.  Or taste it.  Yeah, she was THAT stubborn.  (Looking back I wonder if it was because she knew if I had one sip I would eat. it. all.)  That made me want it.  I didn’t know what it was, but it smelled sooooo good.

I have since learned that its official name is “French Onion Soup.”  And now that I am an adult I get to have my own bowl of it and keep it from my kids (sinister laugh).

Not that they would want it anyway.  Picky eaters don’t want French Onion Soup.  Apparently.

So I’ve made a list.  This way I can save you the hours of research time, and you can just direct your kids to this post, which clearly states that some foods are for “ADULTS ONLY.”  Because everything you find on the internet is true.  Today only.

__________________________________

Foods created for **Adults Only**:

  • Coffee
  • Biscotti (crunchy Italian cookies you dip in your coffee that will make teeth fall out pre-maturely) (also banned from seniors)
  • Rum Balls (note the alcohol flavoring…don’t get them started young)
  • Brandy Beans (same category as Rum Balls)
  • Sex in a Pan (just. don’t. even.) (if you do, send me a link to your blog)
  • French Onion Soup (because when you grow up tortured, you learn to torture)

___________________________________

My sordid present future

To be honest, I’m not looking forward to those “SPECIAL MOMENTS” at Grandma’s house where I have to tell my PICKY EATER that she has to at least make 3 choices or she doesn’t. get. dessert.  (She usually picks:  a Bun, a Carrot and some Cheese.)  Seriously.  Never even tried turkey.  And she had a dream about mashed potatoes once, and in the dream, she hated them, so she will “never try them again!”)  Did I mention she’s 10?

So what to do?  I forewarned the grandparents.  It’s not like they don’t already know.  But I just had to address it before the “COMPANY” arrives for Christmas dinner.

Well, that’s it.  That’s my battle plan this year.  Eventually she has to choose to eat.  Right?  Right?

Because I love my daughter, I shall now conclude this post with a list of things ADULTS don’t get to eat:

  • My Hallowe’en candy
  • My Sunday School candy
  • My Christmas candy

Oh.  That.

o friggin’ Christmas tree (sorry kids, mommy’s having a moment)

Maybe it’s just me.  But I just didn’t understand WHY everyone else was taking pictures of their Christmas trees and posting them on Facebook. Really?… Really?  

But now I understand WHY I felt that way:  I hated my o friggin’ Christmas tree.

______________

Out with the Old?

Not when I first got it, of course.  It was beautiful then, and I loved it the kids loved it.  It was a unique-looking 6′ tall skinny little Charlie Brown sort with more bark than bite.  I decorated it with hand-painted ornaments and gingerbread men kids stuff.  It was cute.

Well, the “cute” lasted about 15 years (please hold your applause).  The last few years, Charlie has been making my nose w-r-i-n-k-l-e.  (And not like Saint Nick’s…Cuz his nose is already wrinkly.  Mine is WAY too young to be behaving like this.)

So, a few weeks ago I just gave it away to a friend.

Done with it.  DONE.  Dust hands, done.  I thought I (might?) be jealous that my friend had it (a classic case of If-I-can’t-enjoy-it-no-one-can syndrome), but when I walked into her house, it didn’t look anything like my tree.  It looked good.  Like it belonged there.  Sort of like when you give your dog away and she is happier with her new owner.  Like that.  Win-win.  Except for one problem.  Now we had no Christmas tree.

Sorry kids.  Mommy’s having a bad day. Maybe you can have a Christmas tree next year.”

______________

In with the NEW?

I wasn’t planning to buy a new tree.  Are you kidding me?!?!  $500?!!  Whatever.  So I told the kids we’re not going to have one this year.  Lucky me…they didn’t seem to care.  Good.  We won’t be home for Christmas anyway.

BUT THEN (little-drummer-boy roll please)…Yesterday happened.  (Exhibit A:  SHRIEK of LARGE BOWLS FULL OF JELLY!!!)

I was having coffee (Exhibit B: Hot & Delicious) (mom’s you need to try this) with a friend in a local Nursery.  After a few hours of this glorious, uninterrupted conversation, I asked her if she wanted to see if they had any NINE FOOTERS.

Then we saw it.  There was ONE.  But THAT ONE was the before-mentioned retarded price.  So we walked around some more.  All the artificial trees in the back were 60% off.  (I know what you’re thinking:  Didn’t you say you were in a Nursery?  I didn’t know nurseries served coffee.  That was weird.  But…don’t nurseries have LIVE trees and stuff that is *like* ALIVE?  Isn’t this like having artificial babies in a Nursery?  Lame.)  But wait.  None of this really matters because I pulled an amazing move:  I talked to somebody about it (a skill I have developed for emergency situations and moments like these).

“A-hem.  Could you tell me if this tree is part of your sale?”  I ask.  Or was it my friend?  I can’t be sure.  It’s a blur.

Long story short (Exhibit C).  Cuz I think you already guess what the answer was.  60 FLIPPING PERCENT OFF!!!  I screamed “SOLD!” but it was okay because we weren’t in a library.

So I spent the ENTIRE DAY yesterday finding ornaments that were also 50% off (not every store has started the “SALE” phase yet).  Then hauling it home, setting it up, breathing when the lights were challenging my Christmas spirit, and the hours felt like mere seconds.  I was late.

So…I finally went to pick my kids up after school.  Did I mention, LATE?  I offered an excuse (and candy):  “Sorry I’m a bit late today, I was working on a Magical Christmas Surprise…”

My daughter screams (yep, she’s MINE) (we weren’t in the library then either so it was okay), “WE GOT A CHRISTMAS TREE!!!!!!!!!”

SO yeah.

Now I like totally have my Christmas tree up on Facebook.  Cuz I get it now.

Wayward advice for ALL Parents:  Candy heals all wounds.  And sales.  (You’re welcome.)

yes, I cut my kids’ hair. I’m good like that.

My husband won’t let me cut his hair.

I can’t figure out why…

Maybe it was the “BED HEAD” haircut I attempted on his brother that fateful night, 15 years ago. I dyed his hair. White. In the shape of a halo.  But seriously, THAT was in the name of CREATIVITY.  And it was YEARS AGO.  This is totally different.

At least my 8 year old son lets me cut his hair.  In fact, he INSISTS that no one else cut his hair.  *Do you hear that Hair-Cutting Universe?!!  I’m someone’s hero, dammit.*

Actually, it’s part of my plan that when he grows up and leaves home, he’ll be addicted to me coming home AT LEAST every six weeks to see his mommy.  You know.  For a hair cut.  And a kiss.

Now that I have your attention, you may be wondering how I achieved this amazing life skill…?  Did I go to school?  Nope.  Watched professionals for hours?  No.  Practised on my Barbies?  Not even.

I’m afraid the only thing that qualifies me is that my mom cut my hair when I was a kid.  Well, that, and I own a pair of scissors 🙂

Thank you, thank you very much.

My Advice to All Do-It-Yourself Moms:

If you start on them when they don’t care what they look like, (like say, 1 year old), you will have them for life.  That, and you will, like, totally be a “real” Hairstylist (even if your husband doesn’t believe in you, I do.) Trust me.  I should know…

I’m the drama queen around here, not YOU. (Give back my title you little brat.)

This is it; I have to start a blog about parenting.  I have no choice.  My daughter is the ripe age of 10, and it’s already happening:  The red face, the conniving, the manipulating, the screaming, the hair pulling, the bathroom hogging, the refusing to eat.  And those were my choices just this morning.

I just need to laugh at it.  And know that I’m not alone.  That among the stupid decisions I make, I am a steady person in her life and we are going to make it through this.

__________________________

OK.  Story time:

I have a picky eater.  She calls herself a “Vegetarian” but she doesn’t eat vegetables, so I frequently refer to her as a “Candytarian.”  But that’s a whole ‘nother blog.  The point is that she controls what she eats and she always has.  We decided a long time ago that this wasn’t a hill to die on.  However, besides trying to get her to shower, it’s the biggest issue right now.

Me:  “What are you going to eat for dinner?”  (Don’t mistake the question for catering.  Her options are limited:  1.) Learn to cook or 2.) Eat what mom makes.)

Candytarian:  (Shoulder-shrug of a girl scorned by abject poverty.) “I dunno.”

Me:  (I take a bun out of the freezer and began to instruct her on how to make her own stuff.)  “Ok, so I just took this bun out of the freezer, and now I’m going to put it in the microwave for 12 seconds.  Then I’m going to cut it in half with this knife.  Then, we lay the cheese on.  Then we turn the oven on broil and…”

Candy: “BROIL!!!  BROIL????  I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO THAT!!!!”

Me: “Like I was saying, you press the “BROIL” button right here and then press “START…”

Candy: “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!!!  I CAN’T DO THIS!!  Like, how do I even know how long to put this in the oven for?  THIS IS TOO HARD!!!”

Me: (Imagining that I’m dealing with a three-year-old is the only way I can stay calm at times. I explain to her that you have to leave the door open and stand by the oven and watch it until it “looks like you want to eat it.” )

Candy:  (Tired of dealing with insolent slaves, she walks away.)

Me:  “Come back here and watch your cheese melt.”  (While we wait, I pass her an oven mitt to put on her hand.)

Candy: (Flinging the oven mitt, it falls onto the floor.) “THIS IS TOO BIG!  LOOK, IT JUST FALLS RIGHT OFF OF ME!”

Me: “Well, you have two options.  You can choose to burn your hand off OR you can wear the oven mitt.”

Candy: “Burn my HAND OFF?!!  (Snort.) OH REALLY……………..”

Me: “Well, maybe not.  But you could burn your hand badly enough that you beg me to CUT IT OFF.  You could do that if you wanted.  I guess.”

At this point I don’t know whose eyes were rolled further back into whose head because neither of us could see each other.

When the cheese was bubbly, she faked a panic attack.  Getting no sympathy from me.  I forced, YES FORCED her to take the plate out of the oven on her own with gigantic oven mitts.  Seriously.  She had done NOTHING up to this point to prepare her own meal, except chastize me and say that she doesn’t even like hot bubbly cheese on buns.  It was her turn to do something.

With my encouragement she pulled out the oven rack.  Removed the plate.  Put it on the stove.  Success!  Good job, Candy.  I was proud.  We made it.

Not quite.  Continuing with basic panic attack protocol (In no way am I making fun of genuine panic attacks here. I realize they are indeed real, however, but my daughter is only perfecting her dramatic interpretation of a real one).  She GASPED.  She PANTED.  It was as though she had just spent 30 minutes in a sauna and, unzipped her sweater, flinging it on the floor, she ran away to ‘COOL OFF!’  yelling, “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH I’m SO HOT!!!!!!!!”

She returned about two minutes later to eat her buns with a scowl on her face.