Thanks and Thangs

There's a lot to be thankful for - not just at Thanksgiving, but every day. Being alive, for example: I kinda like it. And all the other things everybody says when you ask them, like family. Friends. Health. We take tons of stuff for granted, truly.

But there are other things to be thankful for. Smaller, but equally meaningful and worth appreciating.

I'm thankful, for example, that I don't naturally look like this:


I mean ... no offense if your teeth are actually like that but it's not really a good look on me.

- I'm thankful for the times when my toddler squirts mustard all over the cat and his mattress while I'm putting sheets in the laundry, and climbs the counter to put his fingers in a freshly-baked Thanksgiving pumpkin pie, and scribbles on his brother's homework (yes, this all happened this morning). Why am I thankful for that? Because it reminds me that he is my LAST BABY* and that I'm almost done with this crap.

*Unless my husband keeps postponing his vasectomy like he has for, oh, two years now.

- I'm thankful for the Internet, so I don't have to go to the library to find the answers to my burning questions about "why are my dog's nipples so big" and "best ways to remove chin hair."

- But I'm also thankful that the Internet was not around when I was a dorky little kid.

- I'm thankful that no matter what I'm wearing or how crappy my hair looks, there's always somebody at school pick-up that is wearing something worse. Like sweatpants and a crop top and slippers.

- I'm thankful that my pets can't talk about the times when they're trapped in the bathroom with me while I stand in front of the mirror naked and jiggle my various parts to see just how wobbly they've become.

- Let's extend the previous "I'm thankful" to include when I stand in front of the mirror naked and dramatically lip sync to Iggy Azalea songs. What? Don't pretend you don't do it. (And if you don't, you totally should. But only in front of your pets. Like a black wi-dow bay-beeee!)

- I'm thankful for comfy things like my couch and my pillows and those big-ass fuzzy socks with pictures of cats on them. And elastic waistbands in my Thanksgiving pants because ALL THE TURKEY.

- Speaking of deliciousness, I'm thankful for pizza. Because even the worst pizza is still pretty damn good.

- I'm thankful for my mad poetry skillz so that I can write Thanksgiving poems like this one.


Whether you're celebrating Thanksgiving or not, I hope you have a lot to be grateful for. Happy Turkey Day, y'all!

Nagging Ain't Nice

My main mission in life is to raise sons that don't grow up to be, you know, assholes.

Sure, that means showing them examples of compassion. Gratitude. Work ethic. Leadership. Humility. Patience. (Okay, so maybe I don't exactly show them an example of patience so much as I show them what not to do.)

But there are also little things that I strive to teach them - things that I hope their significant others will someday appreciate. Stuff like table manners and toilet etiquette. Stuff like putting their dirty laundry somewhere besides all over the floor, and their wrappers and snotty tissues in the trash (hell, putting their boogers in tissues, for that matter), and cleaning up their own messes and not tormenting their siblings. And those things? Take a whole lot of nagging.

You'd never know it to see me in action, but I'm tired of nagging. Sick to death. Do you ever feel like you just say the same things on repeat, in various tones ranging from low and serious to shrill and obnoxious? My kids can learn a complicated maneuver in a video game within a matter of minutes - but when it comes to things I've been nagging - er, reminding - them about over and over, they're a little more thick-headed, because that crap still hasn't set in. After every meal, for example, they know they're supposed to clear their dishes from the table. I have reminded them after literally. Every. Meal. For years. And yet it's inevitable: I'm going to have to remind them again. At some point, that crosses the bridge into nagging.

It's not just that. I'm tired of saying, "Put your laundry in the basket," and "Close the lid," and "Leave your brother alone," and "Wipe up all that water off the floor," and "Wash your hands," and "Put some pants on," and every other thing I say, on freaking loop, a-bazillion-and-one times a week. It's like ... just do it and I won't have to remind you. And then we both win. Is that too much to ask?

I've tried framing the nags as "suggestions," and being polite, and calm, and using positive reinforcement and all that jazz. I've guilt-tripped myself into tears (and pints of ice cream) by reading blog posts about "why I stopped yelling at my kids." But there's something grating - and that's putting it mildly - about saying something over and over and overandoverandoverandoverandover and STILL not getting results.

I saw this brilliant tweet and did a slow clap:


Oh yes, Amanda. Oh YES.

The abyss is deep around here, y'all.


PS - I'm giving away a GORGEOUS necklace (just click up at the top on "Giveaways & Reviews"). ALSO, join me and a TON of amazing authors and bloggers (Jill Smokler of Scary Mommy, for starters!) tomorrow (Tuesday, November 25) at 9PM EST for a Twitter par-tay!! I'll remind (nag?) you about it on my Facebook page here beforehand. :)


The Five Stages of a Household Stomach Flu Epidemic


It only takes eight simple words to send me into a panic. Though I may appear calm on the surface - calmer than usual, even - inside, my brain is in a frantic tailspin. Because those eight words can be the harbinger of a mother's nightmare: "I feel like I'm going to throw up."

Yes, the stomach virus. It's never a good time for anyone. But if you have multiple kids, especially those under the magic getting-to-the-toilet-on-time age, it's a whole new level of hell. There's no telling when - or who - it's going to strike next. And it could be you. Which would mean the worst-case scenario: having to clean up someone else's barf while holding your own back. Because let's face facts ... it's not like we get time off for being sick.

Having a household-wide stomach virus is a truly traumatic experience. And at about one-thirty this morning, as I was scrubbing a three-foot path of undigested ham out of my carpet, I reflected upon how closely my experiences with this type of situation match the five stages of grief.

Stage one: denial. When the first child is stricken, the logical part of my brain tries very hard to override the panic. "It was probably just something he ate," I chirp lightly. "Sometimes our stomachs just disagree with us. Nothing to worry about. See? Everyone is fine." My we're-all-okay look is a little too forced, my smile just a little too wide, my optimism a little too ... well, optimistic. It's like if I say "it's nothing" with enough force, it might be true. It's nothing! Really!

Stage two: anger. Inevitably, though - usually around the kid's second trip to the toilet, or when diarrhea shows up to the party - I stop trying to deny there's a problem, and start getting pissed. I think about all the work involved. All the laundry. All the disgusting cleanup. All the nights of half-sleep, where I'm poised to spring out of bed at the first sound of anything remotely juicy. All the edginess of not knowing who'll be the next victim. All the marinating in germs for a few days while my kids fall prey to it one by one, like dominoes. All the Lysol-spraying, bleaching, washing until my hands are raw. And all for what? So I can get sick myself? IT'S NOT FREAKING FAIR, DAMN IT.

Stage three: bargaining. Since I have literally zero desire to do any of the aforementioned things (I mean, I don't even like laundry on a regular day), I start pleading to the cosmos. Please just let it be confined to this one kid. Please don't let it spread. Please let this little Clorox wipe kill every single germ. I promise I'll volunteer more. I promise I'll keep my house cleaner. I promise I'll stop dropping the f-bomb ... for the most part. I start disinfecting like crazy in a futile attempt to head off the virus. Look! I beg. I'm getting the bathroom really super clean! That should be enough to stop it, right? RIGHT? Pleeeeaaaase!

Stage four: depression. Eventually I realize that my bargaining never works. Because by this time, more than one of my kids has gotten sick, and I'm up to my elbows in soiled bedding and my hands feel like rooster feet from washing and sanitizing. I have calluses on my knees from scrubbing various surfaces. I have run out of paper towels like twice because kids have a knack for taking the two tablespoons of dinner they ate and magically turning it into gallons of vomit. I spray the Lysol with a heavy hand, even though all hope of it preventing anything has faded away. I slog through the mire of laundry and Pepto-Bismol, hair-stroking and back-rubbing, exhausted. I can practically feel my own immune system being overthrown by the very bacteria I've been relentlessly battling.

Stage five: acceptance. After a couple of seemingly-endless days and nights, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. The first kid to get it is over it, and the last kid to get it is feeling better enough to start whining. But as always, the damage control has taken a toll on me, and I feel the first rumblings of an unhappy stomach. Instead of trying to deny it, though, I just use the last hours of my relative wellness to make arrangements so that things don't go all to hell while my head is in the toilet. No use fighting it any more. I may feel like crap, but at least I'll get a few hours to lay in bed. And if I'm lucky I might lose a couple of pounds in the process.

... Yay?




PS - Today is the official launch of the book I'm so proud to be featured in - Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays! It's only $2.99 so go download it here for a good laugh!

Candy Crushed

It's nice when your kids get older and more self-sufficient. They can wipe their own butts. Take their own baths. Tie their own shoes. Each of these is a milestone.

But something else happens when your kids get older. They get sneakier.

Which is why I didn't get to pilfer much of their Halloween candy this year. Oh, the tragedy!

Usually I confiscate it after Halloween night, putting it somewhere they can't reach. Then I dole it out here and there when they pester me too much ask nicely. All the while, I'm taking a little off the top - an Almond Joy here, a KitKat there, a Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin or two ( ... or six). I'm in control of the candy, is my point. I can get my chocolate fix, the kids don't eat all the candy in one sitting and get cavities and stuff. It's a total win-win.*

*For me.

But this year something changed. Because I keep finding wrappers around that I know I didn't dish out - the "premium" stuff that normally I would have eaten myself. Then the other day, when I dipped my hand into the candy bucket for some chocolate, I was shocked to find only mini-bags of pretzels and a few random Smarties and some individually-wrapped LifeSavers ... you know, the last-resort stuff that no one wants to eat. This indicates to me that at some point in the recent past, my kids probably devised a plot to distract me while someone nimble climbed up to the top of the refrigerator and quickly skimmed all the really good goodies.

It was further confirmed when I was cleaning off my nine-year-old's desk and found this:


A sucker. Hidden inside the front panel of his printer. Not that a sucker is "the good stuff," exactly, but I have a feeling it's just the last of a sizable hoard that was once stashed there.

Next year I'm raiding the bucket early and amassing my own stash and hiding it separately. Or maybe I'll just go on a diet and not eat any Halloween candy.

Heh! Who am I kidding? Time to start scouting for good hiding places. I have a whole year.

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