Ninja Mom

Naptime Writing and If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

2012-05-22T13:19:00.000-04:00

Supercalifragilistic, it's expialidocious! It's time to ride the Character Assassination Carousel! If you're new to the Carousel here are the Cliffs Notes. Each month a participating assassin will roast a beloved children's book. Click on the pretty pony above and get full the scoop. Anyone 36" or taller who has a blog can ride this ride.

Today's assassin is:

Christine at
Naptime Writing.

Click to read why the book "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" is really a primer for turning your kids into the next Dexter Morgan, serial killer extraordinaire. You doubt the dangers of this book?

Here's a teaser:

Tell me that's not a murderous rodent, eh?

Previous assassin: Ellen and Erin at Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms.
Next assassin: Farrah at The Three Under.

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Now who doesn't like a good assassination attempt? Click the banner below to vote yes for literary carnage!

Are you mom enough to shut up?

2012-05-18T12:36:00.000-04:00

Well, I’m famous now. I expect you’ll see shots of me in popular tabloids as I exit the grocery store. “Ninja Mom buys extra-absorbent toilet paper! She’s just like us!” But probably not. However, I am enjoying a bit of popularity on NickMom.com this week because of a Time “Mom Enough” cover spoof I did. People are throwing the lemons of backlash at Time magazine; I squeezed them to make humor lemonade. (If that’s not the worst metaphor I’ve ever made, it’s certainly in the running for last place.)

See my piece here: Are You Mom Enough?

The reaction to my covers has been about the same as the reaction to the original at which they poke fun. I wrote about beating kids at video games, eating stale McNuggets, messy crafts, and naughty time in the bedroom. In a response that makes perfect sense if you’re deluded, comments on the NickMom Facebook page are along the lines of this made-up quote.

“How could that mother breastfeed her own child without causing any harm to any other living person and in no way interfering with my own life choices? I’m simply outraged. Also, I’m completely unaware that this is a humor page but I will take this chance to rail about my indignation because I have a right to complain.”

Rebuttals, certainly related to my Frogger mention?, fell on the opposite end of the argument like this other made-up quote.

“It’s criminal not to breastfeed your child until he/she chooses to wean, even if that means accompanying him/her to college where you can carry him to classes in a sling and offer on demand nursing between finals. Anything less than complete attachment and selfless devotion is an insult to motherhood.”

Or something like that.

I even got a hater that proclaimed, and this is a direct quote, “Moon sand is from the devil.” Well, that might be a true fact.

Like these feisty commenters, I also have an opinion on Time’s manipulative piece of rabble-rousing. They have achieved the publicity they craved without remotely furthering healthy discussion of parenting paradigms. Indeed, I contributed to that publicity. But I’m not particularly moved to weigh in for or against Dr. Sears--style attachment parenting.

What I am moved by is the inability of lots of us to separate opinion from fact. I strongly believe that people should opt for shutting up. I strongly believe that someone else nursing a nearly four-year-old boy is none of my business. I strongly believe that someone else using formula from birth is none of my business. I strongly believe that people who can’t get over the fact that the controllers on the “Wii” cover are really PlayStation controllers need to take a proverbial chill pill.

You know that old saw? The one that says you can saunter down the block, swinging your arms as much as you like so long as you don’t hit anybody else with them? I think that should be a guiding philosophy when we interact with each other as parents. You may raise your kid however you like, so long as you don’t breastfeed my kid when my back is turned because I didn't hire a wet nurse, thank you. Or, conversely, you may raise your kid however you like so long as you don’t rip mine off of my tender nipples and pop some Hi-C in his cup. Even if he is wearing 5T Underoos.

I invite us all to shut up about other people’s parenting. Right up until the point where a crime is being committed. That’s a pretty simple rule to live by.

What I do advocate for, equally as strongly, is asking people about how they do things at their house. Reading books, seeking advice, trying alternatives, sharing ideas, breakfast for dinner, Matt Damon, and afternoon lattes. These are the things I can get behind. But after we share advice and check my facts against yours and vice versa, I’ll be getting back to my own affairs and letting you get on with chewing your kid’s food for him.

So, friends, if you see me on the mean streets of Frogger about to let my tadpole get run over by a big old, 8-bit truck---speak up! But if you see me and my froglets hopping about aimlessly, but harmlessly, don’t make it your mission to get me to the other side of the road. I’ve got my own controller for that.

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MORE FROM ME AT NICKMOM.COM

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MORE FROM ME AT BRITELY

Read "Disney Channel Shows You'll Never See" by Nicole Shaw at Britely!

Read "Disney Movies You'll Never See" by Nicole Shaw at Britely!

Read "Karaoke Parent: Pop Song Pusher" by Nicole Shaw at Britely!

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Click on the banner to vote for Ninja Mom Blog on Top Mommy Blogs. If you're MOM ENOUGH! (Or Dad, or human, really. I'll take anyone's vote.)

Mother Mine.

2012-05-11T14:00:00.001-04:00

Do not miss out on a whole bunch of funny in only six words. I'm at The Mouthy Housewives today with other fabulous moms (like The Bloggess, for realz) summing up motherhood in only six words.

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I’m fairly sure that the occasional raging temper I have will be a point of concern in my children’s development. To this I say, watch Sally Fields in Sybil and get back to me, whiners. Because while I don’t enjoy losing my mind, or scaring my kids, or realizing they gave me the wrong latte well after pulling away from the Starbucks drive-thru, these are the burdens of bumping up against other human beings. We are flawed, dangerous creatures, who are frequently disappointed at drive-thrus.

Jeez, this was a terrible choice for my Mother's Day post. (Source, stolen from Wikipedia, dir.)

That doesn’t mean I forgive myself the traumas I have sometimes inflicted on my children. I acknowledge them, apologize, and get better at controlling my temper (I certainly have not gotten anywhere trying to control the kids). Largely, I have things under control. In no small part because my kids keep forgiving me and welcoming me back to into their hearts with invitations to play Barbie in Welcome to my Tea Party: I’m Still Naked.

That’s not an honor they’d extend to just any mother---forgiveness and naked Barbies. They maintain an open invitation to love them, no matter how I may have messed up, just for me, their mother. Because the power of motherhood (both when wielded for good, like She-Ra, and when wielded for ill, like when Katie Holmes puts Suri in heels) is that we want to love and be loved by our mothers. We want to have the devotion of that one woman, biological or adopted, step- or fairy godmother. At the end of the day, most mothers and children don’t look at other versions of their relationship and wish to trade. We might wish to improve ourselves, to be more like some other mothers or have children who behave more like some other children, but not to give up the bond we have with our own brood. We don’t want to make a return or an exchange. These people are our people. No gift receipt included.

We belong to each other. I belong to my mom, my kids to me, and reciprocally up and down the line. We are sinews---fibrous, invisible tangles in a long history of relationships. It’s not the birth, or the adoption, or the marriage into a family of children that makes us mothers. It’s the relationship and the desire to hold onto that rope and be able to look backward and forward and claim your connection to the women behind you and the children stretching out before you.

I possess a great love for my kids and my own mother that is that often glorified, somewhat mysteriously powerful love that we call maternal, motherly, devoted. But it’s not so difficult to define. It’s nothing more than claiming your connection and fostering the burning longing to belong to each other into something healthy and vibrant.

I’m giving myself a gift this Mother’s Day. I’m going to try to see myself through my kids’ eyes. I’m going to try to appreciate my own accomplishments the way my mother might. I’m going to enjoy my own company, the way I relish the company of my mom. I’m going to smile like the children are watching.

This Mother’s Day, I’m going to belong to my children, and thank God that they belong to me.

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NINJA NOTES

Big fat congratulations to last night's winners at the #MakeMomBrite Twitter party! We laughed, we drank tea and wine, we fantasized about dinner with men other than our significant others. And we gave away prizes! Congrats to Marian at Just Keep Swimming who won the Grand Prize $250 SpaFinder.com gift card. Also, holla for the four winners of the $50 Amazon.com gift cards who came to the Twitter party last night:

Lori @ln77
Heather @Zoesmomma76 from Momma's Time Out
Ronnie @HappyFamilyTrav from Happy Family Travels
Farrah @momofthreeunder from The Three Under

Thanks, too, to Britely for making it all possible.

If you missed it, here are my Mother's Day Brites. Enjoy!

I require minions for Mother's Day.

Maybe, Disappoint Me Day.

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Oh, just click it. You like me, I like you. It's all good.

#MakeMomBrite, tonight!

2012-05-10T10:40:00.003-04:00

The party is on, friends.

1) You have until 7 PM EST to create a Brite for the #MakeMomBrite giveaway. We announce the grand prize winner (a $250 SpaFinder gift card) tonight at the #MakeMomBrite Twitter party.

2) The #MakeMomBrite Twitter party kicks of at 9 PM EST. You should come. I'll be there and we will be giving away four $50 Amazon.com gift cards. RSVP here. (Or just show up at 9 and use the hashtag #MakeMomBrite.

I will like you more if you come. That's the truth. You can buy my love.

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Click! It burns .00000005 calories. And it casts a vote for Ninja Mom Blog on Top Mommy Blogs.

Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms and Fox and Hen Together.

2012-05-09T10:00:00.006-04:00

Today's assassins are:

Ellen and Erin at
Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms.

Click to read and HEAR their Jersey Shore spoof of every parent's nightmare: a book without words. "Fox and Hen Together" is trippy enough without narration (hello? roasted sea monster!), but the girls give new direction to the paternity reveal when they take this thing street.

Here's a teaser:

I want to say, "There are no words." Because, in fact, there are no words to this nutty picture book.

Previous assassin: Robyn at Hollow Tree Ventures.
Next assassin: Christine at Naptime Writing.

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NINJA NOTES

Have you made your Making Mom Brite book yet? There's a $250 SpaFinder.com gift card in it for you if you win.

Don't forget to join me and my co-hosts tomorrow night on Twitter for a #MakeMomBrite Twitter party! We'll be online at 9 PM EST tomorrow to announce the grand prize winner and chat about Mother's Day, making Brites with Britely, and giving away four $50 Amazon.com gift cards.

Be there, mommas. I'd love to chat with you. All you have to do is show up and use the #MakeMomBrite hashtag. You could also RSVP by clicking on the Making Mom Brite icon up there and signing up at Mommy Shorts.

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Now who doesn't like a good assassination attempt? Click the banner below to vote yes for literary carnage!

If I’m almost broke, school must almost be over.

2012-05-08T13:24:00.000-04:00

There are only a few weeks of school left. Just enough time for the school to have a class trip to the zoo, a field day, a carnival, some fundraisers, a bubble gum day (not making this up), and probably a Cinco de Bye-o party for the end of school. Just the usual obligatory, end-of-year, throw-money-and-snacks-at-the-kids stuff. Might as well burn a pile of Chex Mix and dollar bills in my backyard fire pit.

It’s this time of year when my zest for service has become a zest for drinking Riesling on the back porch while waiting for the pizza guy to show up. My money has been earmarked for sunblock and muffin top reduction in the form of a new bathing suit with built-in Spanx. I’ve shelled out big chunks of change on museum memberships and back yard toys. I’ve stopped thinking about PTA meetings and school fund drives and started thinking about what I’ll do with all these kids underfoot for the next few months.

And for that I’ll need all the energy, cash, and Chex Mix I can hoard. Underwater chess camp doesn’t pay for itself.

Luckily, we’ll spend a significant amount of time visiting and being visited by our relatives. I would prefer that we lived closer to family. I would prefer that we were able to get together on a weekly basis for lunches, BBQs, and birthdays. But the upside to having to drive for 12 hours just to hug Grandma is that when we do visit, we make it count. That means that my summers are not, in fact, full of camps and classes and other scheduling nightmares. They are full of visitors with the desire to suck up to my children by taking them to all of the places on my “Not in This Lifetime” List.

These fun summer activities include, but are not limited to:

Chuck E. Cheese’s
That “petting zoo” with the toothless guy who claims to have a cross bred dog-pig
The candy store at the mall
The toy store at the mall
The mall
Build-A-Bear Workshop
Roadside attractions
The McDonald’s Play Place
Things that involve water, sand, or both
Things that involve grown up participation

I’ve spent a long year as a team player. This summer I’m gearing up to be a sideliner. I’m not about to let a little something like entertaining my kids with hands-on parenting get in the way of my US Weekly reading.

Here’s to summer visitors! May they bring their own sunblock and fanny packs. I hear it gets hot at the interactive children’s farm and roller derby.

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In case you missed it, I'm co-hosting a giveaway with Ilana at Mommy Shorts and Kim at Let Me Start By Saying.

You could win a $250 SpaFinder.com gift card just for making a Brite about Mother's Day. Click the icon to enter.

We'll announce the grand prize winner during a Twitter party this Thrusday at 9 PM EST. Join Ilana, Kim, and me, as well as our funny moderators Alicia @NapsHappen, Allison @motherhoodwtf, and Susan @NoDomesticDiva. Plus, you could win one of four $50 Amazon.com gift cards during the Twitter party.

I know. HUGE.

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Vote for me! Just click the banner below and in return I'll blog about my mother's unfortunate decision to take the kids to the creepy puppet show and whittling fair this summer. Swearsies.

Mother's Day disappoints me. So let's have a contest instead.

2012-05-04T10:26:00.000-04:00

There are people in this world who style themselves as "laid back." Then there are the people who actually are laid back. The latter don't style themselves at all; that would be a violation of the laid back lifestyle, enough that their license to wear wrinkly clothes and their passive decision-making credentials would be revoked.

I'm the former. I spent many years telling people things like "I go with the flow! I'm easy. I'm up for anything!" All false. Not that I'm particularly high maintenance, just that I do, in fact, have an opinion on everything from where I'd like to eat to who I will spend a 14-hour road trip with. No hitchhikers, please, my laid-back friends. Even if they have good drugs.

What this has come to mean is that I try to prep myself for a low-key, come-what-may Mother's Day and I inevitably fail.

Me: I don't need anything. Really! No gifts. A card is enough.
Hubs: You're sure?
Me: Of course! Your love, and the love of my children, is the manna that sustains me in the desert of life.

On the morning of Mother's Day I'm wondering if they were so overwhelmed by their devotion to me that they just had to get me a little something. By lunch I'm hoping the handmade cards (yes, they are darling) and the hugs were a prelude to something else, not that I need anything. By dinner I'm a little hurt that they didn't even get me a Hershey's bar. By bedtime I'm on my third glass of wine entertaining an internal dialogue that goes, "Well, I guess I know what I'm worth around here to these losers! THESE UNGRATEFUL, LIFE-FORCE SUCKING LOSERS!"

Maybe you're familiar with the Mother's Day Letdown. (Not a breastfeeding euphemism.) I even made a Brite about it.

Because isn't it actually "Really, you SHOULDN'T HAVE Day"?

And you can make one, too! Except, unlike my sarcastic attempt to vent my crushing disappointment that my children and husband don't love me enough to ignore my obviously empty assurances that "I don't need anything for Mother's Day," your Brite is worth a $250 SpaFinder.com gift card.

All you need to do is enter the Britely.com sponsored Make Mom Brite! giveaway at Mommy Shorts. Just pop over to Mommy Shorts for the details. It as easy as faking your excitement over a misshapen lump of clay that is a gift from your children.

After you've made your Brite to qualify to win the gift card, join co-hosts Ilana (@MommyShorts), Kim (@LetMeStart) and myself (@NinjaMomBlog), for a Make Mom Brite Twitter party on May 10 at 9 PM EST. We'll be discussing Mother's Day, our Brites, and giving away four $50 Amazon.com gift cards.

Be there, or be less Brite.

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No, really, you don't have to click my banner (ingrates). I don't need anything for Mother's Day (even though I SLAVE AWAY on this blog). Your love is enough (No).

I'm two years old. And fully potty trained.

2012-05-01T11:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday Ninja Mom Blog turned two. Two years of blogging and I still like it.

I took some time to look back over a lot of my earlier pieces. While the typos are, and continue to be, egregious, I'm more horrified by some of the terrible posts from my first year, which, are horrendous. I imagine a lot of bloggers feel this way about their first efforts. If they don't, maybe they aren't really doing it right. Writing should grow with practice. It has to be something that fails a few times so that it can succeed later. I'm on that track, I hope. (But I fully expect to look back on this very post in two more years and cringe.)

So, in honor of my second blogiversary I'm giving you The Worst of Ninja Mom Blog. Think of it the same way you do old school photos. You know you thought you looked good at the time, but what the hell was up with your hair?

8/25/10: Cheese and crackers. Will I never stop with bad song parodies? This is lame not only because I rhyme “kid” with “kid” but also because it inadequately captures my burning, passionate love for the school bus that relives me of car pool duty.

10/25/10: Although the post by The Didactic Pirate that inspired this piece was fantastic, and my reaction was genuine, who the hell wants to read blogs about blogging? According to the stats for this post: no one.

11/1/10: The one where I announce that I’m participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I quit within a week, making it National Novel Writing Few Days. Note to self: Nobody cares about self-imposed writing contests, except the other people in the contests. Spare your readers the snooze.)

12/4/12: I sing. AND IT NEVER ENDS. Also, try showering before vlogging.

12/23/10: A Ninja Mom Christmas Carol. A failure in three parts. At least I’m no quitter.

Ad nauseum: Any and all posts where I refer to things as “ninja.” Ninja mommying, for sure, but also ninja diapering, lessons of the ninja mom, ninja fiber laxatives. . .

I'm certain there is a lot to make fun of in 2011, but the truth is that nothing turns my stomach quite so much as my first year's work. But it's how I got here today. And I barely even get heartburn when I look back over 2011 and beyond. So that's something.

Thanks to all of you for reading, sharing, and responding to my writing. Now, who remembered to buy the birthday cake?

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For my blogiversary I want you to click this banner. The easiest gift you'll ever gift.

Advice, It's What's for Friday.

2012-04-27T09:39:00.000-04:00

I'm a guest blogger at the Mouthy Housewives!

When I didn't have children to neglect, I found I had lots of time to fantasize about the ordered, rule-bound world I would impose on my offspring. I had Big Ideas and Grand Schemes.* Now I have a cable connection and a hidden stash of chocolate. I'd wager to say I've strayed from my ideals, but I wouldn't know because I've forgotten what they were in the first place. Likely something about no high fructose corn syrup.

The kind of advice I'm capable of giving these days is of the reactionary brand. Something egregious happens and I react. For example, three-year-old Roo digs a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer and runs through the house screaming "I get you!" No worries, I'm on it. "DANGER! Roo! No running with knives. Run with these children's safety scissors instead."

You think I threw myself a softball there, don't you? It's true that most of my rules involve the obvious. Don't hit each other. You won't like the way that Vick's Vapor Rub tastes. You can touch your penis after I wipe the poo off of it. But that's the kind of thing my kids require of me. What if I had adult problems to address? What if the complicated world of grown-up living needed someone, someone like me, to speak up and alter the course of a bad decision?

Wonder no more! Today I'm guest posting at The Mouthy Housewives! Not only is this hip and happening advice blog brimming with sagacious comedic talent, they also appreciate a good Ryan Gosling meme. Check out my words of wisdom for a wife who does a little flirting on the side. Spoiler: I don't advise her to touch his penis, even if it's poop-free.

* I once told a nun---because they are authorities on motherhood what with the abstinence and everything---that I would not send my kids to school before kindergarten.

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Here's a bit more advice by way of my latest Brites:

Resist the puppies. And definitely skip the talking parrot.

I have a face painting obsession. Thank God I have kids to paint on.

Really, not kidding. I can flat-fold fitted sheets. Thanks to Martha Stewart.

Not so much advice as it is snarky Mother's Day humor.

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My advice? Click the banner below to vote for Ninja Mom Blog on Top Mommy Blogs. Thanks!

It Takes an Idiot to Raise a Village

2012-04-25T17:10:00.000-04:00

There isn’t a parent alive who hasn’t begged a child to avoid certain mistakes, to learn from mommy’s bad habits and to swerve away from daddy’s childhood obsession with mimes. And there isn't a child alive who has listened.

But you should not feel so all alone; all kids ignore their parents' exhortations, otherwise we'd have no need to ask, "If all of your friends jumped off of a bridge . . .". Nor should you feel so surprised. Your child can’t remember to brush his teeth without daily reminders, do you suppose asking him to learn from your mistakes is going to be a success?

Human beings, particularly children, learn best from failure. Children have an inborn faith in the theoretical. They are scientists in every aspect: social scientists, chemists, epidemiologists. They live to test the if x than z theory, discovering that jumping off the back of the couch onto their younger siblings will, in fact, result in a time out. They have extensive data about the ways not to clean up their own messes (using the dry cleaning, library book pages, their hands). Give them all the paper towels you like, they'll learn better by using the cat to mop up finger paints.

Older children are willing to play for bigger stakes. They try lying about finishing homework at school and consequently need to make up a ton of missed assignments over Spring Break. It doesn't help that you told them so. It does help that doing 500 math worksheets while the rest of the family is at an amusement park sucks.

Adventurous and curious teens learn that mixing a little bit of everything they find in the liquor cabinet, while a good way to keep the booze bottle looking full, is also the best way to meet the toilet face-first. Mommy could have told you that Bailey's, Malibu Rum, and Peppermint Schnapps is a recipe for a self-pumping stomach, but you wouldn't have listened, would you have, teen?

Our gaffes and goofs could save our children the pain of learning from their missteps. We could have told them; we have told them. But there's no lesson quite so powerful as the one they learn firsthand.

The only people capable of learning from other people’s mistakes are the special fools who've lived through oopsies of their own. Specifically, grown ups. Especially parents. Because in parenting, if in no other endeavor, we'd really, really like to have the instruction book. We would be certain to follow all the installation steps, not just open the box and try to assemble a grown up from the baby parts we're handed. Nobody wants leftover baby parts when the child-rearing is over.

In that spirit I’ve joined Anna at My Life and Kids and nine other fantastic bloggers as a moderator of The My Life and Kids Community on BlogFrog. It’s a place where we can talk, share, laugh, and, if you’re willing to trot out your mistakes for everyone to see, learn from each other.

Like a jester to a court, a comic scapegoat to a 30-minute sitcom, and an idiot to a village, I’ll be there to illustrate how not to parent, possibly even how not to function in polite society. Join us and know that there will be at least one person there to make you look good.

So, what could make this better? A giveaway. Anna's put up a $50 Amazon.com gift card for each new member of the community who joins in the next few days. You can even earn an extra entry by following myself or any of the other moderators on our Facebook pages.

Enter below!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Painless. Click the banner, add a vote for Ninja Mom Blog at Top Mommy Blogs. Even the village idiot can do it.

My mother's apron: It's not what you think it is.

2012-04-18T15:57:00.001-04:00

This is an apology. Sorry, Paula, no pregnant woman should have had to see that.

The story starts like this: After the twins were born it’s fair to say that my belly area became something like a fifth appendage. Need to store a few small items but nary a pocket in sight? I can hold your pen, a few coins, and a Polly Pocket under the fold of my “pendulous apron.” In less frightening visual terms, it’s also known as a “mother’s apron.” That sounds quaint. An apron rimmed in rickrack perhaps, not one shot through with silvery stretch marks.

Mine, while useful for squirreling away small snacks, is not so terrible that it can’t be flattened down and tucked into a sturdy pair of spanx. In fact, when I was in the throes of my post-twin workout craze, my tight abdomen paired with tight jeans tricked onlookers into exclaiming, “I can’t believe you had twins!”

Fooled you.

One friend, Paula, pregnant with her first child, couldn’t get over how fabulously flat my belly was. We were at a girls’ night out with half of a dozen other friends when she began complimenting me. With an optimism I should have guessed had something to do with her own hopes for a fit post-baby body, she enthused about my tight abs. This made me feel, obviously, pretty pumped about my body image. But it also conjured in me a need to show her it was a parlor trick with denim. I wanted to prove my membership in the club of women who have come out on the other side of pregnancy with stretch marks, scars, a weak bladder, and the facial hair of a circus bearded lady. No poseur, I.

Wanting to show her my club membership card, for no conceivable reason, I pulled out the flap of belly that was tucked behind my waistband.

Less handy in the kitchen than I might like. Useless apron.

She went pale. Somewhere in her psyche a toned, hot young thang cried out “DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE!?!?!?” Her fear over one day having to tote around a third, squishy boob stretched from hip to hip in the vicinity of her still taut abdomen (I say vicinity because it’s awfully hard to pin that flap down to a permanent location, it’s just so migratory) was palpable. In short, I had scared the crap out of her.

“Don’t worry!” I backpedaled, trying to undo the damage. “I had twins, this won’t happen to you!” If I could have swaddled her and rocked her on my lap, I would have, with a bottle full of whiskey to calm her nerves.

Slowly the stress abated as we all chatted across the table, distracting each other from my revelation. But I think it’s fair to assume that, sometimes, when she closes her eyes before bed, she’s startled out of sleepiness by the great white reality of my apron.

Ultimately, Paula had a healthy baby girl. She was spared the mother’s apron as evidenced by the post-baby belly tattoo she got on her still firm tummy. But I’m sure she has some physical change to lament. We all do.

I've yet to meet a previously pregnant person who relishes the loss of breast tissue and skin tone. But there is something chummy about being able to share the battle wounds of pregnancy. “My episiotomy almost went all the way to my back door,” a woman might admit in hushed tones over bran muffins at book club. “Yeah, I have a varicose vein that goes from ankle to butt cheek,” her friend could say.

Or maybe there are stretch marks that run up your back? Does one breast hang lower than its mate? A million things can change with your body after pregnancy and it’s not always easy to shrug it off and love what’s left.

These days I sometimes fixate on the problem areas (“problem” as if my saddle bags are the type to interrupt class by standing up on a desk and flipping the bird at the teacher). There are many ways in which I would like to improve the look of my body. None of them include Pilates or expensive creams. I've passed that stage and require nothing less than a surgical intervention to put things back where they started.

However, I like to think that at any given moment, myself---any of us, all of us---are turning someone’s head. Say, the guy in the car next to you at a red light who winks, not because he knows a thing about your training bra sized-breasts or your pancake belly, but because he likes your smile. Maybe there’s someone behind you at the grocery checkout who likes your rear view and envies it for herself. Your shoulders, neck, arms, legs, curves and contours, twinkling eyes, and bubbly wit are drawing appreciative looks at any given moment.

My neck and shoulders remain rather svelte despite getting no attention from me whatsoever. Take that, pregnancy!

The best way I can make up for my gaffe, my moment as the boogeyman to my pregnant friend, is to say that there are still lots of things I like about my body. And even more---especially since becoming a mother---that I like about the woman I've become. Let’s all of us veteran moms, whose bodies have been in the trenches, do the would-be mothers of today a favor. Let’s smile, twinkle, and be witty. We should always assume that a pregnant woman is watching us live comfortably, happily in our bodies, flanked by our families, and thinking, “I hope I look exactly like her post-baby. Smile and all.”

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I will stop flashing my mother's apron as soon as you click the banner below to cast a vote for Ninja Mom blog at top Mommy Blogs. Your eyes will thank you.

Britely, Briter, Brite.

2012-04-17T15:22:00.000-04:00

I've been busy making more silliness with pictures at Britely.com (formerly BlinkBooks). It's been a fun, time-sucking way to make jokes and crack wise on everything from fish to fetuses.

For your clicking ease, below are links to my new Brites (click here to see my first round of books). Read, laugh, share. It's the right thing to do.

And while you're there, join up. It's free. You can make a book of your favorite spring flowers, a recipe collection for summer BBQs, or a snarky list of things your kids do to torture you. (If you make that last one, I want to know about it!) Really, it's up to you. Try it out and let me know what you create.

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An ABC book for mom. A snarky, rhyming look at a day in the life of a mom.

Some parenting situations call for the liberal application of libations.

There just isn't enough fish humor in the world.

My post on pregnancy in a handy Brite. Pictures enhance the horror.

My post on newborns in a handy Brite. Pictures enhance the horror. Again.

My post on Toddlers . . . oh, you get the idea.

Romance and marriage, not remotely the same thing.

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No reading involved, just click the banner below to cast your vote for Ninja Mom Blog at Top Mommy Blogs.

Character Assassination Carousel: Hollow Tree Ventures and Babar.

2012-04-13T09:33:00.001-04:00

Today's assassin is:

Robyn at Hollow Tree Ventures.

Click to read her take down of Babar. Her post title says it all, "Babar Gets Poached." I cannot begin to express the laughter that issued from my pie hole when I read about the spoiled, runaway elephant girl of Babar-land.

Here's a teaser:

Previous assassin: Jessie at Jester Queen.
Next assassin: Erin and Ellen (or Ellen and Erin) at Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms.

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NINJA NOTES

Don't forget to read yesterday's post about my festive approach to decorating for Easter. Pee on the floor!

I'm still making lots of Britely.com Brites. Little eBooks for your Brite ideas. See mine here. And sign up and make your own Brites!

***

Now who doesn't like a good assassination attempt? Click the banner below to vote yes for literary carnage!

There is no “P” in Mom.

2012-04-12T14:58:00.001-04:00

I had a lovely Easter. It was a beautiful, warm day flooded with sunshine coaxing spring smells from the tulips and lilies. We had a grand time at church, noshing beforehand on hard boiled eggs and sweet baked goods, celebrating Christ’s return to life during the service, and afterward running behind the kids with our cameras out while they hunted for seasonal sugar bombs. A lazy afternoon followed back at home with my children, my husband, and my mother-in-law. We ate Easter egg salad for lunch as per usual, but parted ways with Easter ham in favor of a beef brisket. I won’t forget this Easter. It was memorable.

Not least because I peed on the kitchen floor.

I have a long history of being a pee-pee dancer. A preference to wait until the last moment that I see in my own kids who wiggle and sit on their ankles as a kind of Little Dutch Boy with his finger in the dam. I tell my kids to “Stop wiggling and just go pee already.” I remind them that it only takes a minute and that they won’t miss anything exciting while they avail themselves of modern plumbing. This is advice I share in the parental tradition of “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even my first grader is on to me. “Mom, do you have to pee? Sheesh! Just go.”

It’s true that I will sometimes put off a visit to the potty so I can finish up a little task or twelve. So long as the chores don’t include running water, I can make it. But on Easter I attempted to rinse off a few dishes while toting a full bladder. One dish, two, I needed to back my lower half up, bending at the waist and leaning my forearms on top of the sink’s edge. You know this move? It’s a maneuver which, simply by pushing your butt out away from the rest of you, gives you a false sense of control, convincing you that you can wait just a minute longer until running for the loo. It worked long enough to get me through dish three and four. A strategic knee bend, a meeting of the thighs, I was going to make it if I hurried.

Somewhere around dish six I had one of those transported-through-time memories. I was standing at the water’s edge on a beach in Barbados, feeling the humid breeze in my hair and looking down at my feet through nearly a foot of water. I was smiling because I’d never before stood in water that was nearly the same temperature as the air, nearly the same temperature as my body. It was such a strange sensation because it felt like I wasn't wet at all.

Ditto peeing down my right leg at a very slow trickle. It almost felt like I wasn't wet at all. Like, maybe it was all a dream. I wasn't really a grown person with my rear thrust out behind me, a queer kink in my knees, and a mini crouch intended to delay the inevitable so that I could finish rinsing off a plate that, as far as I knew, had nowhere urgent to be---all this instead of making the ten foot trek to the bathroom where I easliy could have deposited my urine without flushing my dignity.

So, it took me a few seconds to recall that I wasn’t on my honeymoon; I was in my kitchen, failing at potty training. There was a short time when I realized what was happening, but was unable to stop myself. I almost called out for assistance, but what would I have said? "Bring a bucket!" Or, "I need an adult undergarment!" No, I decided it would be best to keep quiet and I spent those precarious moments begging God to keep my dirty deed secret.

You'll be glad to know I made it to the bathroom. After I cleaned myself up I was lucky to walk back into a still-empty kitchen. A few sprays with the all-purpose cleaner and a single paper towel were enough to soak up the evidence.

But know you all know. I’m airing my dirty laundry on my blog. I'm tattling on myslef not only because potty humor rules, but also because I cannot carry this embarrassment alone. I operate under the belief that these kinds of things happen to everyone. Asking a new mom when her baby is due, making fun of your boss without knowing she's standing right behind you, tooting in an elevator, buying tuna fish sandwiches from vending machines---we all make these mistakes. Sharing these mistakes makes us feel better about ourselves, the same way that a boy who trips up the stairs in the senior hallway between classes feels better a week later when he can laugh and point at the girl who drops her lunch tray on the school heartthrob. It's better self-esteem through ridicule.

I’m hoping that I’m not the only 35-year-old mother of four (how could I expect my bladder to perform under these circumstances?) who now finds she watches Depends commercials with more interest than usual. I see an actress twisting a water-soaked pad between two vises and I’m relieved there is no leakage. Tell me that you, too, find hope in the proof that adult diaper technology is on the cutting edge of dryness.

Yes, friends, I can handle humiliation in the public sphere, as long as I know I’m not alone. I can smile in the midst of taunting if I know there’s a great cause to be served, a purpose for my pee. I’ll be the brave face of the Incontinent Mother’s Movement---a Kegel in every groin and a pad in every purse. We will not let our frequent need to urinate nor let our child-bearing weakened pelvic floors dampen our resolve to finish the dishes. There is no “P” in M-O-M; it’s running down her leg.

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I just told you about me peeing on my floor. I think that deserves a pity click. Click this banner to cast a vote for Ninja Mom Blog at Top Mommy Blogs.

Imaginary Elbow Strikes

2012-04-03T12:11:00.003-04:00

Scene: Elementary school front doors. A harried mother jogs up to the entrance, her child’s school folder clutched in her hand and a thirst to make photo copies in her heart. A man opens the door before she can hit the intercom button.

Mr. Principal: Is that folder for a student?
Mom: Well, yes, my daughter. But I’m also here to volunteer for Ms. First Grade Teacher.
Mr. Principal: We’re on lock down.
Mom: Hmm, uh-ha.

Lock down. It means, roughly, “Ain’t nobody gettin’ in here and sure as hell ain’t nobody gettin’ out." Unless you’re the quirky, perpetually late mom who is there to make photocopies and grade spelling tests for your first grader’s teacher. They let her in; I should know, I’m her.

This was the case last week when I arrived slightly out of breath from power-swallowing a fast-food breakfast. There was a lock down at my daughter’s school. Lock down not to contain a harmful person on the interior, but to keep one out.

When I trotted up to buzz the intercom and state my purpose (to avoid paper cuts), I was met by the principal instead of the disembodied voice of the school secretary. I’d thrilled for a moment, dreaming I’d won a prize or, like a visiting dignitary, he was coming to personally deliver a greeting from the grateful students of my daughter's class. “I just can’t tell you how impressed we are with your hole punching and collating skills. Remarkable!”

On the contrary, he was there to announce the lock down, which, during an awkward pause when neither of us spoke, I was sure would be followed by some directions telling me how to proceed. After gazing at my trustworthy face for a bit and recalling that I’m one of the hundreds of nameless moms who talks at him as he passes in the hallway, he let me in.

I wondered if they were having a drill. No, a glance from the secretary was enough to tell me this was, as they kids say, for realz. She held a phone to her ear, listening for important information I presumed was from the National Guard, SWAT, or another vital public safety agency, perhaps animal control. Good Lord, had one of the zoo animals escaped? Tersely, she told me to head to the teacher workroom. Something was decidedly going down.

Ever curious and hopeful to catch a glimpse of an escaped capybara, I trotted out into the halls and had a look around.

Capybara. Its name means "Damn that's a big rat."(source)

“You shouldn’t be in the hall. They don’t want us in the hall.” The only other volunteer had emerged from nowhere to scold me. “What’s happening? Do you know what’s happening?” I asked. Hey howdy, maybe the meerkats had made a run for it. “There was a shooting at one of the other elementary schools.”

When forced, I can be sincere and serious. An armed person shooting up the schools smacked the zoo breakout fantasies from my mind.

I’m going to jump ahead and let you worriers off the hook. There was not a shooting at one of the schools. There was only a poor soul who’d been shot in his garage and the schools had taken the cautious route and gone into lock down for about an hour.

But for the ten minutes between learning about the shooter and hearing from Mr. Principal that the lock down had been lifted, I entertained the gravest bit of imaginary crime fighting I’ve ever indulged in. My daughter was only a few doors down the way. Only one straight shot from the playground entrance I now doubted the older woman in the orthopedic shoes hovering near the door was capable of securing.

I was scared. I was also motivated.

I saw myself tossing fists in the air with my eyes shut and obscenities tripping off my tongue, aiming for the soft tissue, gouging eyes, cracking skulls. No way was a criminal getting past me and at those kids. My daughter in particular.

I was magnificent. I was the make believe kung fu master of the elementary school. I was Jackie Chan being thrown through the air, javelin-like, by Chuck Norris. I was Wonder Woman wrapped in a suit of kick ass.

What strikes me now, days later, is how many times since I’ve imagined myself in life-saving scenarios. At the little pond feeding reluctant fish I saw myself throwing my body over my clutch of kids, shielding them from a Compton-style gang drive-by. In the car at a stop light, I considered that if a person came up to the car to violate its security, I could use any number of non-lethal door opening attacks. A tailgate to the chin with just the push of a button; my driver’s side door opened with extreme prejudice.

I have no real sense whether I would be a flight person or a fight person if pushed to the limit. I’d like to think I would lay down my life for the protection of my children. I’d like to think I’d at least get off a swift kick to a private area before being taken down. But, like most of us I suspect, I am unlikely to be faced with such violent realities. So I’m left with a bit of lingering adrenaline fueling my make-believe exploits as super mom and crime stopper.

After the lock down was lifted, after speed-walking down the hall to hug and kiss my girl and fight off tears of relief that we were not in a crisis, I collated 50,000 Scholastic book order forms without a single paper cut. That’s my reality. I think Chuck Norris would be proud.

***

Chuck Norris has a team of ninjas that click his buttons for him. Sadly, you are not Chuck Norris. Click the banner below to cast a vote for my blog at Top Mommy Blogs.

Character Assassination Carousel: Jester Queen and Tootle.

2012-04-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

Today's assassin is:

Jessie at Jester Queen. Click to read Jessie's none-too-gentle sniping of the Golden Books Classic: Tootle. A train that makes having fun, being creative, and forging your own path look like a descent into Hell. There's a flag on the field, people, and Tootle committed the foul.

Previous assassin: Ilana at Mommy Shorts.
Next assassin: Robyn at Hollow Tree Ventures.

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Now who doesn't like a good assassination attempt? Click the banner below to vote yes for literary carnage!

I'm not cheating on you, I'm cheating for you.

2012-03-26T15:05:00.004-04:00

NOTE: Thanks, all of you, for making me number 25 at the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms contest. I owe you one.

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It's been a whirlwind of activity here since I volunteered to be a part of my neighborhood association's events committee. We had an egg hunt yesterday and there's some last day of school hoopla to plan.

I've also recently joined the board at our church, where I bring a certain smiling enthusiasm and Jesus-y jazz hands to the group that reads, "Why yes, I can pitch in!" All of this and the release of the latest Angry Birds Space game (right, and the kids I'm supposed to be caring for) and I've had barely a moment to blog.

But that doesn't mean I haven't been writing.

You may have seen me promote BlinkBooks here, on my Facebook page, or on Twitter. What are these ebooks, you ask? And I ask you, what aren't they?

Click the captions below my BlinkBooks thumbnails to read any of my first ten books (very short, very easy to read) and tell me, have I abandoned you or have I just enhanced your blog reading experience? I think we can all agree that the answer to that is: more Easter chocolate.

Enjoy, comment, share, and have faith. After I'm done organizing the church-wide What Would Jesus Wear?: A Birkenstock Revival, I'll be back in action bringing you blog posts you'll forget within ten minutes of reading them.

Ninja Mom's BlinkBooks Library

Click the caption to read the book, I promise you'll like it.

You're favorite Murphy's Mom's Laws, now with pictures!

Um, it's nine things your teen will thank you for later, with pictures.

No, I don't condone getting drunk while parenting, but it's not the worst idea.

Wipes warmer or babysitting fund? Choose wisely.

Ha, ha, dogs are funny. Dumb dogs.

Ha, ha, cats are mean. Bitchy cats.

Have swagga? Neither do these guys.

This one's no snark, all sentiment.

Why do you think I was drinking when I wrote this?

Okay, I was drinking when I wrote this.

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Click to vote! Ninja Mom is in the top 100!

Look Kids, I Have to Go Do Something That is Not This.

2012-03-20T16:14:00.003-04:00

In an attempt to share my passion for parody, I showed the kids this "I'm Elmo and I Know It" video.

Sure, you've all seen it. The whole world has seen it. Even Elmo has become self-aware and has Googled it.

I'm not highlighting it because I think you missed it. I'm highlighting it because I need to know. Can YOU grown folks watch this parody and NOT sing the LMFAO version? Out loud? Even if it's under your breath?

Some damn fool couldn't stop herself from busting out with "I'm sexy and . . ." Do not assume I'm that fool.

But, yes, I'm that fool. Because of my indiscretion, even in the face of Elmo bustin' some fine moves on the crackPad, my children prefer to trot out the source material.

"Don't say 'sexy'!" I half beg.

"Why not?" they ask. A natural question. Okay, I'm a grown up. I'm a parent and I knew there would be questions like these, questions that force me to put on my adult diapers and supply an answer that is both brief and honest.

I faced my kids and put on my interested expression, my look that lets them know that not only do I care about their questions, I'm about to share something more important than "I bought fruit snacks at the grocery store!"

I took a moment to focus, then said, "I'm glad you asked! Oh no! I think I smell the laundry burning." And then I ran.

I settled, after they asked for the umpteenth time, for telling them that " 'sexy' is a word grown-ups use when they are dating." Cleared that mystery right up.

Yesterday, Zippy, who is four-years-old, asked me "How do babies come out of your bottom?" I was on the way out of the garage to stand with Bee next door as we waited for the bus. I stalled, "I have to go stand with Bee next door while we wait for the bus" (and figure out how not to address your question). By the time I came back she was recruiting an army of Polly Pockets to secret in her schoolbag for a playground ambush. Questions about vaginal delivery did not resurface.

The problem for me is not so much that I don't want to be honest with my children, to be a guide in a curious and confusing world. The problem is that I'm just not good at it. I don't know how to address issues of sex and procreation, dating and marriage, republicans and democrats, gays and lesbians, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, why the sky is blue, and where Donald Trump buys his hair. I know precisely what the answers to many of these queries are (he buys his hair from camels); I just can't settle on how much my kids need to know (almost nothing about The Donald).

When it comes to keeping it simple, I find this is akin to telling a person, "Whatever you do don't imagine Newt Gingrich naked!" Naturally you can't help but imagine Newt Gingrich naked and consequently you have a wild desire to liberate your inner eye by removing the outer ones.

Child psychologists remind us to keep explanations simple, to the point, and not to respond beyond the scope of the inquiry. Whatever may come, don't elaborate! The next thing I know, I'm looking up visual aids for identifying the vas deferens, telling cautionary tales about pole dancing, and imagining Newt Gingrich in a g-string.

Ignorance may not be bliss kiddos, but asking probing questions of your mom is hardly a joy ride.

***

Folks, friends, peeps. I NEED you. Some behemoth of a blogger has entered the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms competition at the eleventh hour. By which I mean yesterday afternoon. And she's nearly pushed me out of the running. So, please vote. Today AND tomorrow. I'd like to hang in there and I can't do it without you.

Also consider supporting some of my other non-behemoth blogger friend: Naps Happen. She's only one step ahead of me in the polls and voting ends tomorrow.

***

Other ways to love me include: Gifts of chocolate, free babysitting, and clicking the brown banner below to cast a vote for Ninja Mom Blog at Top Mommy Blogs. Thanks!

Not misdirection, REdirection.

2012-03-14T12:59:00.000-04:00

There's so much housekeeping I need to do today, both in real life and here on Ninja Mom.

First things first. I'm near the bottom of the list at Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms. Some kind friends have been trying to drum up votes for me this week. It's about time I did the same.

It's the last week of voting over at Circle of Moms, so if you'll forgive me a daily dose of begging, we can all get through this together. Click the pink button below to visit the Top 25 Funny Moms page. To vote for me, or any of your favorite blogs, just click the thumbs up icon next to our entries. You can vote EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And I will be thankful for eternity, or until I am next distracted.

Please share your love with The Bearded Iris, Let Me Start By Saying, Motherhood, WTF?, The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva, and Naps Happen. Funny ladies all.

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Second order of business. BlinkBooks are here! I'm part of a team of creative folks (including Kim at Let Me Start By Saying and Alicia at Naps Happen) who are making these fun, easy-to-read, short eBooks. Here's my latest offering, click the image to see the Blinkbook.

S#!t Dogs Think

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Third notice. I understand that Google Friend Connect (the way over 200 of you follow my blog) is going away soon. If you are hooked up through GFC and don't want to miss Ninja Mom updates when it goes away, please subscribe to my RSS feed, add me to your favorite reader, come "like" my Ninja Mom Facebook page, and/or follow me on Twitter.

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Fourth and final bit. I'm linked up today over at Finding the Funny, a great way to find new bloggers that make us laugh. It's hosted by Kelley of Kelley's Breakroom (also a NickMom writer) and Anna at My Life and Kids. Both very funny ladies in their own right. Today I shared my post: The Duct Tape Protocol. Go, read, share.

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If you made it this far, you might as well click on the brown banner below to cast a vote for me at Top Mommy Blogs. One Click = One Vote.

Why I hate Kate Gosselin.

2012-03-13T14:56:00.000-04:00

I hate that Kate Gosselin. Not because she's fake famous for having lots of kids and no discernible talent. Hell, if I had that many kids I'd contact every network known to this and adjoining countries. Anything for a little help padding the college funds. No, I hate her because back when she couldn't afford salon dye jobs or designer-label kicks, she was facing down eight small children without the help of a full-time nanny.

Five years ago, on a lovely spring day almost exactly like this, I discovered I was carrying twins. "Carrying," like they were teacup Yorkie-Doddles in a Channel hand bag. No, they were tiny humans that I wasn't so much carrying as they were squatting in my body cavity in a space previously reserved for lunch and urine storage. The twins were not good neighbors.

Today I can tell you, with a straight face and no crossed fingers, that twins are fantastic. They play together (instead of constantly begging for my attention), they share clothes, they are conversation starters in grocery stores, and from a tax-deduction standpoint they are aces.

But five years ago, on a lovely spring day almost exactly like this, I was sitting on the floor sobbing while listening to Kate Gosselin tell the world how she was raising a million higher-order multiples without any professional help (TV network gophers excepted). That overachieving bitch.

If I haven't told you the story of how we found out about the twins, how I believe the fertilized egg I was carrying split as a result of hubris and a God with a wicked sense of humor and justice, here's the story.

In February, on the morning of Bee's second birthday, I found out I was pregnant. Having had a history of baby-related weirdness, I went in for an early ultrasound to see just how far along this pregnancy really was. Not far, as it turned out. They sent me away and asked me to come back a few weeks later for a second ultrasound, at which time they would be able to accurately guess the baby's gestational age by seeing whether or not it was ready for kindergarten.

Out in the lobby, waiting to meet with the doc to discuss the pros and cons of eating cold cuts while pregnant, I met a lovely young woman, who was pregnant for the very first time. At about 20-weeks along she had just discovered, yippee!, that she was having twins. "That's baby a and that's baby b," she pointed out on the blurry ultrasound picture, grinning and glowing and gushing as if she'd never be unhappy again.

When I called my mother after my appointment, I distinctly remember telling her about the young mother I'd met. "She has no idea what she's in for, the fool!"

A few weeks later I was lying on my back, belly covered in blue goo, blinking stupidly at the tech who said, "What did we see last time? Just one baby . . .?"

Well played, God.

And so I drove home in shock, wondering if we'd be better off with a foreign au pair that my husband might run off with or a stout, older domestic nanny that I'd have a hard time bossing around. When I found myself in front of the TV, still trembling with surprise and fear, watching Kate Gosselin describe a routine for her clones that didn't involve any nanny, I flipped from scared to sad.

I stayed that way for six weeks. Six weeks passed and I vacillated between being convinced I'd never make it without a live-in, or at least a night nurse for the first few months because TWINS *alarm bells*. Six weeks of mild spring weather went by unnoticed because I was experiencing postpartum depression of a sort, except I wasn't waiting for the kids to erupt, with preemie and colic attack skills at hand, to put me into a deep, dark funk.

Through it all I kept thinking, "To hell with you Kate Gosselin! So what if I do need help with these babies? You think that makes you a better mother? Are trying to tell me I'm less of a woman, you smug, child-exploiting, made-up TV star?"

Six weeks of that. Six weeks as the angriest member of the Kate Gosselin UnFan Club. Six weeks of hating everyone and thinking the worst kinds of thoughts about what waited for me on the other side of the delivery room. Until, one day, I remembered that spring was in the air, and that it was passing quickly into summer. I was reminded that we can't stop time. Things would come to pass, some great, some terrible, but pass they would.

"Okay, God, I have no idea why you thought I would be a good choice for this project, but you did. And I haven't taken the time to say 'thank you' for this gift. It is a gift?"

It got better then. Maybe because I got God involved. Maybe because I had finally accepted the reality of it and the possibility that there would be joys as well as trials. Maybe because one can only hate Kate Gosselin for so long before she decides to turn off the TV and get some mid-morning ice cream (eating for three, you know!).

Either way, I've forgiven Kate (she has her own problems). I never hired a nanny, or a nurse, or a personal assistant. I did accept lots of food and gifts and friendship. And here we are, grateful for our twin gifts, who are currently destroying my basement in a quarter of the time it takes one child to do so.

***

I ne-e-e-d your love. Baby, I really need your love. I'm nominated once again for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms list. Currently I'm at 25. Now, I love a little tension and excitement to make the contest interesting, but I promise it would be just as interesting if I were, say, at number 18. That's where you come in. Please click this link or the pink button above and cast a vote for me! Just find the Ninja Mom Blog entry on the list and click on the thumbs-up icon to vote for my blog. You can vote once every day (please do!) and you can vote for multiple bloggers (please do!).

Consider also voting for my particular favorites: Let Me Start By Saying, Motherhood, WTF?, Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva, The Bearded Iris, Naps Happen, and Mommy Shorts.

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You know what's easier than watching a Jon and Kate Plus Eight re-run? Clicking on the brown banner below to cast a vote for me at Top Mommy Blogs.

Bring Your Own Cheese.

2012-03-09T12:37:00.002-05:00

It was a night like any other night, filled with after school obligations and community gatherings of the preschool kind. It was Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday, they all blend together in an endless sea of book fairs and family fun nights.

On that evening, our preschool hosted a fundraiser at the local McDonalds. The teachers manned the fry station and the drive-up window. They took Happy Meal orders.

On that night, there was one mother fretting over the most unhappy of meals.

My dear, wonderful, somewhat neurotic friend Margaret is a champion of organic eating, sanitary environments, and bibs. She believes that the alternatives are likely to ruin her children’s lives. Or, at least, get them sick with rhino-viruses and incubate pre-cancerous cells. When it came time for the preschool night at McDonald’s, a hotbed of germs, mechanically separated chicken, and USDA certified NOT organic foodstuffs, she was feeling a bit anxious.

Three Days Before The Event

Margaret: Are you going to this thing?
Me: Yes, of course, but you know I’m not remotely concerned about my children’s health. You going to be able to swing it?
Margaret: I don’t know! Of course the kids want to go. They are hearing about it at school every day, but . . . do you think I’m crazy that I don’t want my kids to eat there?
Me: No! It’s a terrible place to eat. Horrible. McDonald’s represents all that’s evil in healthy eating.
Margaret: But you’re going.
Me: I’ve demonstrated a solid track record of making bad choices. Why quit now?
Margaret: I have to think about it.

Two Days Before The Event

Me: Why not feed them dinner at home, show up for some ice cream, and be done with it?
Margaret: Maybe. You know, we have eaten fast food before, but I just don’t like to do it. And never McDonald’s.
Me: If you do go, I’m thinking burger is the better choice. I mean, I don’t know what they make the nuggets with. “All white meat” they say. Define “white meat,” I say.
Margaret: I need a Xanax.

One Day Before The Event

Margaret: We’re going. I decided to not be super crazy.
Me: You’re not crazy, you’re concerned. Hey, you could get apple slices instead of fries for the kids and you can have a salad. How bad can that be?
Margaret: Oh good Lord! I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to eat.
Me: Don't forget to bring the hand sanitizer.

The Event

Here we all were, herds of preschool- and French fry--lovers at the local McDonlad’s where the teachers for the two-year-old classes had organized a crush of families into ordering lines. The school’s director was probably in the back melting lard or salting the salt.

I ordered my children Happy Meals and set the whole bunch down at a table that looked relatively clean. They dropped fries on the seats and ate them anyway. Their feet dangled above the floor; the seats are a bit too big still, and when their shoes fell off they crawled under the table to retrieve them. I was unfazed.

By contrast, Margaret had pulled out plastic placemats that stick to the table. Her children were able to put their meals out before them without having millions of microbes cling to their burgers. The younger boys had bibs. Their oldest, she’s five, was sitting with her shoes firmly attached to her feet. There were no French fries in front of her kids. There were no nuggets.

Margaret finished setting up her brood and said to me, “I brought my own cheese.”

Her kids were eating high-fat, low-quality burgers under less-than-sanitary eating conditions, but Margaret managed to exercise a bit of control over a situation that was clearly stressing her out. She brought cheese from home. Trustworthy cheese. Familiar cheese. Organic Colby-jack cheese. BYO Cheese. Rather than argue that it didn’t make a difference — look, my kids were dipping nuggets in their chocolate milk and were only moments away from trying to eat French fries with their toes —I argue that it was the only sane thing she could do.

Sure, her husband and I (he’s arguably less concerned about the McDonald’s experience) had a little chuckle when he described Margaret packing a baggie of cheese for the road. But it was a chuckle I’d just as quickly have had at my own expense.

Because, when it boils down to the high pressure demands of parenting, the ones that require us to be deeply concerned about every aspect of our children’s’ life, from consuming trans fats to redshirting kindergarteners, we all have BYO cheese moments.

We flounder to know what to do when the big stuff happens: bullies, failing report cards, medical ailments. But we also grapple with smaller concerns like how much TV to let them watch and what kind. Whether our small children should brush their own teeth or if we should do it for them. How we handle things like “pink is for girls” and “that’s a boy toy.” What to say when the seven-year-old starts saying “stupid” all the time.

We need to make room in our lives for moms who, like most of us, are just trying to figure out what’s important to them. When they show up with a few slices of cheese, we can show them the journal we’ve been keeping to track every time our kid writes her name upside-down.

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Vote for me as one of the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms! Just click the big pink button to get to the voting page. Find my blog entry and click on the thumbs-up icon. It's that easy! You can vote everyday, and for multiple bloggers.

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There's a name for that.

2012-03-05T10:03:00.004-05:00

There's something about expecting a child that I miss: picking names.

It’s thrilling to chase down the perfect moniker, one that doesn't remind your spouse of that weird guy in chem. class with the hairy mole or that girl in college who was destined for the strip club.

I still have my unused names—those would-be characters in the ongoing tragicomedy that is my life—stockpiled in case of an emergency. Like, spontaneous conception. Or, maybe the maternity ward has fallen prey to a virus that renders everyone mute and unable to use writing utensils. They need me to rush in and name all the newborns before the gal who handles the social security forms goes away on a cruise.

"Harriet!" Ka-pow!

"Graham!" Zing!

"Dashiell and Wendy!" Double Wham!

I'd be a super hero, like Linda Carter but very flat chested and in a very visible, dirty minivan.

But maybe I'm more villain than hero?

I do this all the time to pregnant people (mostly women). I ask them what names they have picked out, and should they flounder, or admit that they are at an impasse with the baby daddy, I whip out my favorites like throwing stars, pinning stunned silences and awkward smiles to my victims.

"We are going to name her after my great-grandmother, Belulah—

"But you're still not sure it's the right one?"

"No, we're sure—"

"Penelope."

"What? Is that? Are you offering me a name for my—"

"No need to thank me."

"Yes, no need."

Truth be told, Penelope was in the running for one of the twins. Well, I had it in the running. It's possible it never got out of the starting gates for the Hubster. But I had a back-up plan for that. I assumed I'd just agree to whatever he liked, then, when the baby was crowning or breaching or evacuating with extreme prejudice, whatever happens during that ring of fire thing (how would I know, I had c-sections), I was going to call out, "I want the baby's name to be Penelope! OH MY GOD I THINK THE BABY IS COMING OUT SIDEWAYS! THE PAIN!" Surely only a cad or Satan would deny me in that circumstance.

Actually, I did do something last minute and a bit scheming like this when Roo was about to be born. We were in the prep room, I was already semi-sedated, and it occurred to me that maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe I was carrying a fourth girl. And there we'd be, staring at a nameless baby.

"If it's a girl I want to name her Naomi."

"What? Babe, it's a boy."

"Yeah, but if it's not, let's name her Naomi."

"But it's a boy."

"But if it's not . . ."

"It is."

"Fine! Then you have no problem agreeing to name our not girl Naomi! Crap! Can't you throw the woman about to have major abdominal surgery a bone?"

It was a boy. I got over my Naomi thing.

I'm into Lucy these days. Know any pregnant ladies looking for a hero? Sha-Bam!

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I'm at number 13 in the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms poll. Thriteen feels so teen horro movie. Let's fix that, m'kay? Just CLICK THIS LINK and you'll be taken to the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms page. There, find Ninja Mom Blog and click on the thumbs-up icon next to my entry. You can vote EVERY DAY, lucky ducks. And? Thanks a bunch.

(You can vote for more than one blogger. Here's Team Ninja Mom: Let Me Start by Saying, Naps Happen, Mommy Shorts, Divine Secrects of a Domestic Diva, and Motherhood, WTF?.)

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Character Assassination Carousel: Mommy Shorts and Oh, The Wonderful Places You'll Go.

2012-03-02T08:21:00.000-05:00

Today's assassin is:

Ilana at Mommy Shorts. Click to read Ilana's rewrite of Dr. Seuss's "Oh, The Places You'll Go!" She's recast Dr. Seuss's perennial graduation favorite as a new mom wearing nothing but 5-day dirty sweat pants and a shirt covered in spit-up. You'll be inspired.

Previous assassin: Doc Cynicism at Cynicism 101.
Next assassin: Jessie at Jester Queen.

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While you're here, won't you cast a vote for me as one of Circle of Moms 2012 Top 25 Funny Moms? If elected (I think it's an election), I vow to continue to goof off in the Blogosphere. Just click the link below, find my blog in the list, and click on the "thumbs-up" icon. Thanks!

Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms - 2012

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Now who doesn't like a good assassination attempt? Click the banner below to vote yes for literary carnage!

Hand-me-down memories.

2012-02-29T12:39:00.000-05:00

There are clothes the kids love that are not things I've picked out for them. At least, not this year (or last). Maybe it's a pair of overalls from three years ago when my oldest was still happy to have me put her hair in pig tails. They prefer pants torn at the pockets from three girls who all stuff their pockets to bursting with untold treasures snatched from the grass, the toy chest, my bedside table.

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That's the start of my short essay for this week's Trifecta writing challenge. The inspiration word is "wretched." Click below to read the rest and then go visit Trifecta to see other submissions, maybe even submit your own. You can do it.

READ MORE . . .

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While you're feeling clicky, visit Kelley's Breakroom and Anna at My Life and Kids for a Finding the Funny link-up. I was in the top five most clicked links last week, thanks to you happy clickers. See if I make it this week with my Murphy's Mom's Law post from December.

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Last click, to vote for Ninja Mom Blog at Top Mommy Blogs, just click the banner below. You'll be repaid in good karma.

I'm covered in figurative pee.

2012-02-24T16:32:00.003-05:00

During the time I'd normally be writing, I was trying to squeeze blood from a stone. And the blood is actually pee and the stone is actually my seven-year-old. Third time to the loo with the sterile cup was the charm. We won't mention the first two times; I'm not read to talk about it.

But I did manage to get myself interviewed.

Mom's New Stage, a mom blog by a dancer, has posted an interveiw I gave conducted entirely through the magic of email. (A dancer! I can not trip when I walk and that's as far as my dance skills go.) I share my secret for homemade lunches (get stabby) and the time I jinxed myself into having twins.

Go and read and maybe chuckle and be sure to give Mom's New Stage a look-see. She's a funny, sharp blogging momma.

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I also managed to participate in another Trifecta writing exercise.

See my 33-word anthropology-themed come-on here. Or, better yet, go see mine and all the other talented participants' entries here.

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