Pat (not his real name) called for a cab to the airport. He told the cab company there would be five people in the group, even though he and his wife had more than five children. One of his older sons turned to me and scowled.

“He’s always lying like that,” he said.

Ouch. Dad thought he was simply saving a few bucks, but he was also losing his son’s respect. Bad trade. I’m sure other great things about Pat balanced out the lesson he was teaching through a taxi ride, but the incident was a wake-up call for me.

There have been times in my life when I have been, well, um, not 100% perfectly understanding and patient with my wife and children. These absolutely understandable and unavoidable and totally forgivable, simply human lapses on my part seemed like no big deal to me. They were more of a big deal when the girls started mirroring that behavior.

“Where did you learn to treat other people that way?”

“From you, dad. That’s how you talk to __________.”

“That’s different. That’s what grownups do. It’s okay if I do it, but not you. And you’re wrong, I don’t do that. But even if I did, it doesn’t mean you can, because I’m your FATHER and I’m a flaming hypocrite, that’s why.”

Right. Good answer.

Sometimes, it seems to us that the kids aren’t listening, that they really don’t care to hear what we have to say. They are listening, though, and they are learning from us all day long. What they learn isn’t always what we intend, but that’s more our fault than theirs.

In an internet age, it’s smart to remember that there’s always a camera somewhere, ready to capture your most embarrassing moment and share it with the world. Before the internet, parents always had video systems and listening devices tracking them. We called them children.

Sometimes, you get lucky, of course. One evening, Susan was a little bit snotty to the pizza delivery guy. When he left, I gave her a lecture about respecting the work people do to put food on the table and take care of their families. The discussion didn’t go well, or so it seemed.

A few months later, Susan’s sitting with a friend at the kitchen table and the friend starts to mock his father’s job. “Don’t you ever make fun of the way your dad puts food on the table,” Susan says.

In another room, out of sight but within earshot, Susan’s dad does a happy dance.

Michael Rosenbaum is 5 Minutes for Parenting’s first dadblogger. He is a business consultant, playwright and author of Your Name Here: Guide to Life.

Michael blogs on life issues at Your Name Here Guide to Life and manages the Adult Conversation discussion group on Linked-In.

Originally published at FriedOkra on November 5, 2008.

Bean and I went to McDonald's this weekend for lunch last week, just the two of us. I got her a Happy Meal.

See, I'm doin' everything I can lately to earn Good Mama points because frankly, I'm not a lot of fun to be around these days what with being completely exhausted, and I figure a few months of outright buyin' her love with sugar, salt, fat, Disney TV and about 4 million rounds of Candyland at which I let her cheat blatantly and never ever say anything like, "BEAN! YOU CAN'T JUST DIG THROUGH THE STACK AND PULL OUT THE ICE CREAM FAIRY EVERY TIME. THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU PLAY! FINE THEN, I'M NOT PLAYING WITH YOU ANYMORE! HMPH!" won't kill either of us, and maybe it'll hold my place in her heart for awhile so the real me can climb back in and reassume my old position when the steel rod finally comes back outta of my you-know-what and I can smile a smile at her that doesn't look like there's been a painful jolt of electricity and a couple dollops of rubber cement involved.

Anyway, the Happy Meal came with a miniature Barbie-ish doll wearin' roller-skates, and this diminutive girl on wheels - a TOY, meant for CHILDREN, was proudly sportin' what amounted to a molded plastic bra and the micro-est micro-mini I have ever lain my eyes upon. It was actually just a ruffled belt, truth be told. And she was also displaying both her carefully sculpted plastic belly button and about 9 miles of bare plastic leg.

(But don't you just know that of COURSE she had on all of her safety equipment, includin' her helmet and a pair of sassy kneepads, 'cause you know, safety first, y'all! We wouldn't want to give kids a toy that might subliminally teach them roller-skatin' without your kneepads (despite the fact that every other square inch of your body was exposed to God-n-everybody) was okay, would we?)

We were eatin' our lunch sittin' elbow to elbow with an older gentleman, and we'd been making polite banter with him for a few minutes by the time Bean pulled Skirtless Skatin' Scandal Barbie outta her bag, and then all conversation came to a lung-deflating halt so the old man and I could do a pair of classic, sit-com quality double takes at this doll. By the looks of it, we were staring for entirely different reasons, though.

Grandpa! Put your eyes back in your head, man!

I grabbed Barbie out of Bean's hands and looked my child straight in the eye and I leaned in close, "Bean, before you start playin' with this doll, let me tell you sumpm. SHE DOESN'T HAVE ON NEEEEEEARLY ENOUGH CLOTHES. Her attire is COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE, and her Mama and Daddy would be horrified if they knew she was out in public lookin' like that."

The old man beside us then proceded to laugh so loud and so hard that I thought he was gonna fall off his McChair onto the floor leavin' me no other option but to locate and deploy the McDefibrillator on him. Bean skated her doll around on the table a few times while she finished her lunch and then we said a polite goodbye to Grandpa and left.

A few days later, Bean's preschool class had Pajama Day, and she got to go to school wearin' her little The Children's Place 100% cotton, 100% modest long-sleeved pajamas with the musical notes and ballerinas all over 'em, the ensemble complemented by her pink elastic-ankled fuzzy slippers.

As we were collecting her back pack and puttin' on her coat that morning, on our way out the door to deliver her to school, Bean looked at me and worriedly wondered, "Mama! What is Daddy gonna say when he finds out I went out in PUGLICK in my bajamas? He's gonna be horriblefied!"

At least I know she was listening, right?

By Melodee

First, a recipe.

Keri’s Fudge Sauce (I got this from Keri in Wyoming–I don’t know where she got it)

1 cup sugar
2/3 cup cocoa
3 tablespoons flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cup milk
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla

In a saucepan, mix sugar, cocoa, flour, salt and 1/4 cup of the milk. Blend until smooth, then add remaining milk. Cook, stirring constantly, over low heat, until sauce boils and is thick. Remove from heat. Stir in butter and vanilla. Serves 12-16.

——————————————————————————–

Lately, my efforts to teach my boys seem futile. How many times do I correct, suggest, direct, redirect, show, instruct and scold? Countless times. How many times do I remind, cajole, explain? Why do I have to say the same things over and over again? For instance, “Proper nouns begin with what? That’s right, a capital letter.” Or “CLOSE THE CUPBOARD DOORS! PLEASE!”

I am reminded of how pointless it is to pour hot fudge sauce over cold ice cream. The chocolate just slides down the cold, creamy slopes and puddles around the edges. Just like my words and their brains.

I worry that nothing I say actually sticks. They will never routinely flush toilets, wash their hands, and put punctuation at the end of sentences. They will always leave their shoes in the middle of the floor, forget to pick up their cups, and leave blobs of toothpaste in their sink. They will never clean out their ears, brush their teeth or comb their hair without a reminder. Shane will always say, “Six times eight is fifty-six, right?” and I will always repeat, “No, six times eight is forty-eight. Always has been. Always will be. And so shall be forevermore. Amen.” They will never LEAVE my house because they will remain 11 years old forever.

Honestly, if we are making any forward progress, it is measurable in millimeters.

And yet, I keep scooping the fudge sauce over the top, over and over again. I hope one day, something will stick before the ice cream totally melts and makes a sticky mess. And I hope my kids will eventually become valuable citizens of the United States, remembering to brush their teeth and close and lock the door when they leave the house. (Please, I hope they leave one day.)

In the meantime, I need fudge sauce over ice cream over brownies.

Originally posted at Actual Unretouched Photo.

So I had a little break today. I took the kids to my inlaws around noon because I had a doctors appointment at 12:30. I was then going to Louisville to get a massage (my mother's day gift) and to make a trip to my favorite place…TJ Maxx. I've been rollerblading again so I'm beginning to see a glimpse of my "old" body - one that includes a waist and okay looking legs. Feeling confident, I put on a cute little denim skirt (pre-Aiden-pregnancy attire mind you!) and a simple black shirt and cute turquoise necklace. I had my hair pulled back because I showered last night - as is the case most of the time - after the kids went to bed. But I actually did my makeup (the kids slept long enough to let me do it for once) and I have to admit, I felt…dare I say it…hot.

After dropping the kids off, and going to my appointment, I was sitting at a light when I noticed an open-topped jeep wrangler loaded with a bunch of young guys. I was instantly reminded of the times when I would drive around without a care in the world, hoping to catch the eyes of guys just like these. As I turned left at the light and the jeep passed, I heard a "Woo-hoo". Wait a second…were they hollaring at me? I looked in my rear-view mirror to see if they were turning around or anything. They weren't, but I know I heard it. My confidence soared.

I spent the next few minutes pulling the rearview down to check myself out. 'This mascara does really bring out my eyes' I thought.

As I accelerated over a small bump, my ego was crushed in an instant.

I heard the faintest "Woo-hoo" once again, and realized it was my son's toy Kung-Fu Panda from the happy meal daddy bought him. It was laying on the floor behind my seat. I was quickly reminded that I am not the spring chicken I once was. I am a wife and a mommy - and I wouldn't change it for anything. And besides, according to my husband I am the hottest mommy in the world.

This post was originally published on June 12, 2008 at More Skees Please.

If you would like to be considered to be featured at A Dose of Humor, please email your submissions to doseofhumor@gmail.com!

So yesterday we took the kids to get their flu shots. There wasn't a lot of debate about it - two of our three kids are in a high-risk group for flu complications AND they get everything. After school, I calmly packed the three of them into my mom's car and we headed across town to get the needles.

The Baby got hers first, clutching her toy stuffed chipmunk who goes EVERYWHERE with her. She winced and it hurt but nothing worse than that. She looked unhappy, so a pretty young nurse pointed out a table full of paper firetrucks and firehats and she happily enough trotted over to grab them. I was crouched next to The Boy, who was about to get his needle, and so she ran over to see me - and fell RIGHT onto her face, splitting her lip open. I comforted her and handed her over to my mom, who sat on the other side of the room.

The Boy had his shot - and it hurt, poor fella - and then it was the Girl's turn and she's scared of needles and she was DRAMATICALLY oppossed to getting it, so I was dealing with THAT, when suddenly my mom called: "Becky! She says she feels sick to her stomach!"

I looked across the room and my baby was turning grey and losing conciousness.

I dashed over and grabbed her and RAN to the nurse's station. A large, calm, elderly nurse took her out of my hands and screamed at the other health workers to CLEAR THAT TABLE OFF NOW. My child was limp and blue and not breathing in her arms. "Her heart is slowing down!" she yelled at the other nurses. "Get that emergency box open NOW! She is IN SHOCK.  WHERE IS THE AMBULANCE?"

My child - my little 28 pound girl, my noisy little firecracker - lay completely motionless and grey and cold on a table. Her toy chipmunk lay beside her limp, motionless hand. I thought she was dead. I thought I was looking at my child's dead body.

My mother was in the room again - I had screamed at her to take the other kids OUT, to not let them see this - and she told me later that she thought she was seeing her for the last time, that this was the last time on earth she would see our darling. A nurse who I know came running in and screamed "NO! NOT HER!"

They got the box open. The nurse readied the Epi-Pen, and then looked carefully at my child. She bent down, her ear next to my child's ear.

WHAT WAS SHE DOING, I screamed.

"I'm listening to her," she said calmly. "She's telling me something."

I looked over, and my child's grey lips were moving, her eyes screwed shut.

The ambulance attendants loaded her onto the stretcher. Her eyes were open again, and she pressed her toy chipmunk to her chest, her face grey and her eyes huge and frightened.

She was signifigantly recovered enough by the time she had been in the ambulance for a few minutes to complain about the quality of the ambulance driver's driving. "This is bumpy!" she muttered. "Don't you people know I'm not feeling good?" And then, a few minutes later while I held her icy hands, she whispered to me "Mama, I'm scared. I'm scared of what is happening in my body." And my heart broke and I died.

Her dad came running to meet us, his face white. The Baby was herself enough to want to walk in, and she was instantly surrounded by fussing nurses who took her blood pressure ("again!" she crabbed) and checked her heart and her vital signs and the young doctor came in and told us that she'd had a severe vasovagal synocopal episode - which means basically that the combination of stress + pain had made her pass out and the blood stop going to her heart.  So it wasn't, let me be clear, a reaction to the INGREDIENTS in her flu shot. It was the pain of it combined with falling on her face and watching her sister's Dramatic Freak Out that did it. It WILL happen again. Oh grand, says I.

She's okay today.  Kind of pasty, but she's curled up in my bed with her brother and sister - who were SO horribly worried about her - and they are reading her stories. Will I ever get over this? Probably not. But she's okay, and maybe someday that horrifying image, the worst thing I ever saw, will fade. Maybe.

I still remember the first time I heard my baby’s heartbeat.

It was January 5, 2001. I was sick and miserable. I had never been sure I even wanted children. Now, deep in the throes of first trimester yuck, I was even less sure.

My husband accompanied me to my first OB appointment. We had no idea what to expect. I went through the usual pre-visit routine – urine sample, weight check, blood pressure, please enjoy this lovely paper gown and wait for the doctor.

When the OB came in, she asked a few questions then informed us she wanted to check for the baby’s heartbeat. We had no idea how far along I was – long story – so we were both surprised and intrigued. She squirted the goo on my stomach, plugged in what looked like a toy microphone and pressed it into my abdomen.

It took a minute, but then we heard it – the tell-tale sound of a baby’s heartbeat in utero.

And my life changed forever.

I wrote in my journal later that day:

I’m not exactly a pregnancy novice. I mean, almost all of my close friends have been through this process before me. So I knew that people talk about hearing the heartbeat in terms normally reserved for the Second Coming. I really didn’t think that I would be that extreme.

But it was really an amazing experience.

Maybe it was extra-special because we weren’t expecting to hear it. But when [the doctor] moved the sonar microphone over to my right side and we heard that distinctive “woom-woom-woom” … well, it blew me out of the water.

Then, to make things even more otherworldly, the baby moved – and of course, I didn’t feel a thing! It was so weird to lay there and think that I have whole other human being living inside of me – and I can’t really tell.

Wow. I’m still thrilled.

Shock and awe. I’ve never gotten over it.

This past Friday, at my 12-week OB check, I got to hear this baby’s heartbeat. It took a while to find, but all of a sudden, there it was. Loud. Fast. Strong. “Woom-woom-woom-woom.”

My OB grinned. I grinned back.

And my own heart began to beat in time with that little one.

I hope I never get over it.

Kelly is currently expecting her fourth and final child. She blogs about her life, faith and family at Love Well.

I have a year left of school and have spent the past year networking and searching for opportunities. I have came across many. Some too good to be true. Some too perfect to imagine. Some that I had to let go.

I am stuck in a place of confusion right now. I am not sure where I am headed or how I got to where I am. I was sitting in class the other day and our professor passed out this prayer. I wanted to share it with you:

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
-Thomas Merton

I think that we all have been there at one point or another. Looking for answers that cannot always be found. Searching for the truth when it is hidden. Finding out that life is a dance and sometimes you have to pretend that you know the steps.

Cassie blogs at Cassie Boorn.

A few nights ago the girls from my neighborhood all went out for dinner together, and inevitably our conversation turned to Saturday's Trick-or-Treating and related festivities.  We all really love seeing our kids and one another's kids in costume, we love bundling up and trudging along with them, the herd of Star Wars characters, superheroes and assorted furry, fluffy, adorable animals followed by another, slower herd of us parents - the paparazzi - cameras, wagons, strollers and hot beverages in tow.  It's one of my favorite nights of the year and I'm really thrilled Bean and Peabody will have these great Halloweens to remember as some of the highlights of their childhoods.

What I'm not too thrilled about is getting left holding the bag.  Of candy.  Mounds and mounds of Mounds.  And Tootsie Rolls.  And Lemon Heads and Sweet Tarts and Twizzlers and ginormous Pixie Stix.   "Uuuuugh… I really don't want all that candy in my house for weeks on end after Halloween," I lamented to the other moms at the table and Mama-heads nodded all around.  And then my friend Jenn shared an idea.

My friend Jenn shared a wonderful awful idea!

Her children, both boys, make it a point each year to come home with PILLOW CASES full of candy.  And she says they bring it home and make big piles of it on the floor of her family room.  And sort it and stack it and trade it.  And they eat it, lots of it.  For a few days.  And after those few days, Jenn has her boys pull out 20 or so of their favorite remaining pieces of candy, and the rest they package up in bags.

FOR THE GREAT PUMPKIN!

They leave the bags full of their remaining candy on the doorstep overnight, and that old Great Pumpkin?  He rolls on by and collects the candy (assumably for next year's supply for Trick-or-Treaters) and leaves each child, in exchange, a small gift.  A toy, a book, maybe a few dollars?  Nothing overboard, but something the boys will enjoy and see as special and fun enough to justify the "trade."

I really thought this was an extremely clever idea and I'm going to do it with Bean (Peabody didn't get any candy this year because he's too little yet) tonight.  Bean really loves getting new books, and I love having special seasonal ones to keep put away and just bring out for a few weeks each year, so I'm going to my local bookstore tomorrow to see if I can find some fallish and/or Halloweenish books on SALE to wrap up and leave for Bean to find Tuesday morning.

I'm so tickled with this plan, I just thought I'd share it with you other parents who might be looking for a way to get that candy GONE.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think need to go snag the Twix bars and Hot Tamales out of that candy bag before it's too late!

Megan blogs at Fried Okra.

I had just told my seventh grader something slightly outrageous (to her) and disagreeable (to her).

She replied, "Dude?!' and then immediately slapped her hand over her mouth and blushed, continuing, 'I can't believe I called you dude!"

I said it was okay.

"Well, I only say dude when I am being very serious," she explained.

The idea a word like "dude" would be reserved for a serious situation made me laugh. I remember when it invaded the slang scene in the Aquanet, jellied, florescent 80s. To use slang from today, it went viral. Of course it had been around for a century as a western code word for clueless easterner. Once teenagers have claimed a word it is never, like, the same.

So I was dude for 5 seconds one day. It is no big deal because my name is constantly changing.

I've gone from mama to mommy to mom to mother to MOTHER! to mama. The word my kids chose when they address me often signal their intentions.

When I am mama or mommy, they need cuddling, a cookie, or some sort of rescue.

Mom helps them with homework and signs permission slips. Mom folds the laundry and expects kids to put the piles away. Neatly.

Mother is a woman of wise audacity who cannot be denied. It's used by my first-born when she feels persecuted by suggestions her lost shoe could be under her bed. It's also used when she feels self-conscious or embarrassed by my ever-helpful suggestions.

Sometimes, I have the urge to check my driver's license to see what my name is and how much I weigh. This mommy, mommy, mama, mother, MOTHER! life can make a woman forget who she was before a small voice murmured and hummed the call.

Once you answer, you can never go back.

Gretchen blogs at Lifenut.

As all parents know, we should take every opportunity to teach our kids important lessons. Halloween is no exception.

Yeah, the kids like to think it’s all fun and games, costumes and candy, but we know better. There’s no holiday quite like Halloween for teaching our progeny the most important ethical and social values. Among the most important rules of the holiday:

Take care of others. Mom and dad are much too old to be sticking out our jack-o-lantern buckets and pleading for candy, so it’s important that you kids do it for us. We put macaroni on the table for you all year, so now it’s time for payback. Sounds fair to me.

Be prepared. Know in advance whether dad wants the Almond Joy, which has nuts, or Mounds, which don’t. Being prepared is a critical life skill and studying dad’s candy list is a great way to start.

Thrift is a virtue. Our daughter only thought she was wearing the same costume four years in a row, but it was all part of our lesson in thrift. After she grew five or six inches, that cute little pumpkin costume was transformed into a carrot—so she got a second costume for free. You’re welcome, honey.

Recycling is good for the earth. It’s important to conserve resources, so mom is only buying a starter bag of candy corn and gumballs this year. After an hour, she’ll start recycling the candy you bring home, but only after separating out the parental portions.

Pumpkins are people too. A pumpkin had to die to make your jack-o-lantern, so it’s important to be respectful. There will be no throwing pumpkin parts at your little brother and no sticking pumpkin seeds up your nose, little missy. Of course, if dad decides to smear some pumpkin guts on mom’s forehead, well that’s just the way grownups say “I love you.”

Just as it’s important to teach lessons to the children, it’s also important for parents to observe proper Halloween etiquette. All Hallows Eve protocol requires:

Never talk nutrition. Yeah, we know, it’s all sugar and it’s not good for them and they’ll be bouncing off the walls until midnight if we let them eat as much as they want. One day a year, though, it’s okay. And after we siphon off mom and dad’s share, there will only be a limited amount available on day two.

Never take any candy from the donor’s bowl/tray/box/dumpster. Never point to the candy your child should take and never correct your little tyke if she grabs the candy corn and leaves a Heath Bar behind. If you haven’t taught your youngster about your candy preferences before they ring the bell, you are a really bad parent.

Don’t go to the door with any child over the age of six. Adults at the door are never cute, but especially when the child is old enough to read the candy wrappers all by himself. Stand five feet closer to the sidewalk for each year your child is over six. Once you’re far enough back to be on the sidewalk, they can handle this themselves.

There are more rules, of course, but right now there’s a bag of Snickers that’s so heavy it’s crushing the Milky Ways. I have to go reduce the pressure, if only I could figure out how……

Michael Rosenbaum is 5 Minutes for Parenting’s first dadblogger. He is a business consultant, playwright and author of Your Name Here: Guide to Life.

Michael blogs on life issues at Your Name Here Guide to Life and manages the Adult Conversation discussion group on Linked-In.