Readers, I have bad news. There has been a terrible tragedy. You see, a few days ago, in an attempt to afford my children time to play in the fresh air and sunshine, I took them to the park. It started off well enough. We arrived to the playground with minimal whining and only one threat of disownment. Not exactly Nobel-worthy, but pretty good for us. So the kids ran and played and skinned their knees. Raymond praised himself for his cartwheeling prowess. Sophia read her book under a tree while deftly avoiding the social death that would certainly come from accepting Emma's invitation to play colonial times. And Gianni chatted up a little girl about his potty training regimen. (He gets 1 M&M for pee, 3 for poop, FYI.)
I recently learned from Reddit that there's an 11-year-old on the New York subway that sells emotional advice for two bucks a pop. No lemonade stand for this kid. It's a pretty interesting business prospect. Emotional advice from a ball of hormones, angst, and ironic Wicca worship. Who wouldn't pay $2 for that? Sure beats your mental health co-pay.
A long time ago, in a kitchen far, far away... Actually, it was five years ago, and the kitchen was in my old house, about two miles from where I'm sitting now. Yeah. I've really gone places. All I had to accomplish was one phone call. My daughter, S, was sick. Who knows what she had, but I had a newborn, a sick kid, and an addled brain that had been ravaged by a constant barrage of Disney and unanswerable questions. (People think Mommy Brain is hormonal, but have you ever considered the collective brilliance that would come from the world's population of moms if they no longer had to come up with intelligent answers to "What color is a princess's fart?")
If you met me today — if you saw the successful, suburban, mini-van driving mother of four I am now — I’m not sure you’d believe that I was once a juvenile delinquent. My mom friends that I’ve told about my past, either giggle and say, “I don’t believe you!” or they back away slowly, covering their kids’ ears and suddenly remembering a casserole they left in the oven. Come to think of it, there aren’t a lot of people in my current life who know about my, um, past. I guess this is my coming out moment. Hello. My name is Nicole, and I was once a hooligan.
Everyone is looking for advice these days, and who better to ask than a 5-year-old boy. I sat down with my son to get the answers to some of life's most serious questions.
It is possible that my consummate, unadulterated, and downright child-like passion for all things Christmas and magical may be coming back to bite me. You see, I have a bit of a--let's say "feverish obsession" with convincing my kids of the existence of magic. As you may recall, I am a bit infatuated with Christmas and Santa Clause. In my house, Santa brings the presents on Christmas. He has magical elves who watch over my children all year and report to Santa on their behavior. Sometimes the elves leave letters for the kids, or inadvertently tip something over, leaving evidence that they've been there.
For grown-ups it's really quite easy: Give the toothpaste tube a light squeezy. Load the brush with paste, scrub your teeth in good taste, Then rinse off your toothbrush completely. But like mosts tasks we think of as simple (Like sitting or talking a little) For children the steps Are much more complex, And require … Continue reading How to Brush Your Teeth: A Limerick
If you are expecting your first baby, congratulations! You are about to embark on the most awesome, emotionally overwhelming, and piss-your-pants surprising journey of your life. (Literally. You will most likely piss your pants at least once. I hope you've been doing your kegels.) It may sound like I'm trying to discourage you. (Too … Continue reading Pocket-Sized Terrors: How your new baby will scare the living s*!@ out of you