Today’s guest post is from John, who writes at The Adventures of Daddy Runs A Lot. I can’t remember how I found his blog, but I suspect I followed him after reading one of his thoughtful comments on someone else’s blog or one of his funny tweets. All I know is once I started reading, I was hooked.

Enjoy!

***

The thing about writing for an audience that is, essentially, just like you (what, you’re not all tall, bald, musician, marathon-running bloggers with twisted, possibly-heretical senses of humor who can’t sing?) is that it’s easy to run out of ideas. We’ve all been there . . . it’s not that life is bad, it’s just that, well, current events just aren’t blogworthy. It’s not that we don’t want to write for our blogs — it’s just that we’re not feeling it.

In short, blogstipation strikes.

1. The first rule of advice for when blogstipation strikes is the same advice that any doctor worth his salt¹ will tell you — don’t force things. Forced writing can lead to really, really bad things . . . most notably, a loss of the enjoyment of writing. I’m just as guilty as the next guy² about forcing a smile. And, of course, I’ve forced writing before — and, every time I’ve done it, I’ve taken an unexpected break from everything, in the hopes that my love of dick jokes the written word would come back to me. So far, it always has . . . but, more & more, when I find that I just don’t want to sit down and write, I don’t. A day or two later, I’ll be back with a vengeance.
2. Every little bit helps. If you took a peek through my drafts, you’d likely be afraid, because my thought process is awkward, and I have a plethora of quasi-completed posts that really only barely make sense. But, sitting down and getting something out, provided that you’re not forcing, and lead to a great deal of relief.
3. Next, as long as I can, I read what others have written. Just like picturing a river flowing might help one overcome a shy bladder, reading what others are writing can help get the words flowing. It might be a turn of phrase that someone uses reminds you of your 3^rd grade teacher, which reminds you that cursive is a completely useless skill, like being able to tell when squirrels are afraid, which was Janitor’s sixth sense in Scrubs, and then you find yourself writing a list of your favorite sitcom characters of all time . . . which is always a great post because people can stop by and commiserate that they just don’t make television like they used to³ and those young whippersnappers need to get off of my lawn.
4. The blogging world may be the one place where people actually want to look at your vacation pictures — use this. Use this well.
5. Dick jokes are loved the world over . . . as are boobs. Write about them, and people will come. Who cares if they’re disappointed when they get there? Heck, some of the funniest, and easiest blog posts are those about the wacky search terms that lead people to their blogs⁴.

I wonder…

About the Writer:

My brain is ping-ponging this week. I have ideas, baby. And those ideas are running my life, even though I suspect it should be the other way around? Or should it?

I do not know.

You’ll be thankful, I think, that I came to my senses and deleted most of this post before inflicting it upon you. I was bumbling around, writing about my high school reunion (I don’t want to. Go, that is. Period.), the gigantic bruise on my behind (it’s impressive, but not post-worthy, I don’t think. Or photo worthy, so don’t even ask.), Kindle Singles, and pancakes. I was about to launch into some of the aforementioned life-running ideas and whatnot, when my brain temporarily righted itself.

Maybe we’ll chat about some of those other things another day, but for today I want to tell you about one of my new favorite things: Kindle Singles.

Hold on! Come back!

I can’t make any grandiose promises (what am I, a politician?), but I’m pretty sure this post isn’t total dullsville. If you hate books and reading, then move along. But if you like literature and stuff, hang around. I have recommendations for you. And cookies! (The cookie part is a lie. Maybe I am a politician…)

So here’s the thing. I’m a huge fan of real, hard copy books, and as long as books are printed I will buy them. There’s no denying, however, that electronic reading is an idea with some stickiness.

There was a lot of talk at BlogHer Writers about the future of publishing, specifically around this electronic revolution’s impact on the industry. Nobody has a definitive answer just yet, but it’s clear that we’re looking at boundless possibilities for content, surpassing anything we could achieve in print. Publishers are experimenting with music downloads, video extras, and tie-ins, such as games.

We’re on the precipice here, people.

It’s all pretty exciting, but I was still slow to warm to the eReader, until I spent a weekend on my sick bed, browsing Amazon to entertain myself. Kind of by accident, I discovered that you don’t need a Kindle to get content; you can download an app and get content on your computer, iPad or iPhone. Forty eight hours later, I’d read The Hunger Games trilogy on my computer and I was hooked – on The Hunger Games and on the convenience of an eReader.

We now own an actual Kindle (thanks Mom & Dad!), and by we, I do mean Mark. It was technically his Christmas present, but I borrow it. Often. I like all the free and cheap books Amazon offers, because I’m more willing to take a chance on books that I might otherwise consider risky (don’t you hate it when you pay $25 for a book and hate it? Hate is much more affordable on the Kindle).

But my favorite, favorite thing about our eReader is Kindle Singles. Do you know about these? I am in love. Kindle Singles, according to Amazon, “offer a vast spectrum of reporting, essays, memoirs, narratives, and short stories presented to educate, entertain, excite, and inform.”

Indeed.

I read a single or two each week, sometimes more. The length is perfectly suited to someone with Ping Pong Brain. Lately I’m so sleepy at night that it’s taking a mighty long time to finish reading a book. I’ll continue to plug away at full-length books, but it’s nice to read a single or two, as well, and feel like I accomplished something.

Since I love them so, I decided to recommend a few of my favorite Kindle Singles today (in alpha order, because that’s fair):

:: Cooking Solves Everything: How Time in the Kitchen Can Save Your Health, Your Budget, and Even the Planet by Mark Bittman. There’s a whole post – or two or three – coming about this one. Bittman explores ways we can improve our lives, and so much more, by cooking simple meals at home.

:: The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life by Ann Patchett. Writers, this one’s for you. I desperately want to sit down with Ms. Patchett and have a cup of coffee. She seems like a fascinating and perfectly lovely person, full of wise words and a dry sense of humor.

:: The Long Run by Mishka Shubaly. Stunning. This is the story of a man who ran his way to sobriety. The subject of addiction is close to my heart – another post for another day – and I’m drawn to stories of survival. Although Mr. Shubaly’s definition of sobriety varies a tad from my own, his tale is no less riveting. I related to him even though we seemingly share a lot more differences than we do similarities.

What are you waiting for? Go on.. download and read!

I wonder…

:: Were you an early adopter of eReaders or are you still holding out?

:: If you’re a Kindle Singles fan, what are some of your favorites?

***

NOTE: Once again, I feel the need to tell you that I am not an Amazon affiliate, nor am I receiving any compensation from Amazon or these authors. I’m just sharing this info because I like you.

Every once in while, as you bob and weave through the blogosphere, you read something and think, Yes! Exactly! and Thank you! That’s why I read blogs, and – truthfully – why I write one. Because sometimes we (the readers, the writers) find each other on just the right day. Today’s guest post was one of those. Amy sent it to me on a day I was busy lugging around a load of disappointment in… myself. I read her words and the negative internal dialogue went poof!

I’m excited to host Amy here today. We met first on Twitter when I stalked wrote to say I loved her book, and have since had the chance to hang out a couple times. This is the truth: Amy’s every bit as fabulous in person as she is on the page (or screen). She’s the real deal, people. And I’m thankful I know her.

With that, here’s today’s guest post…

***

I’m just dipping my toe in the Pinterest waters these days. I’m not sure that I really need another social media garden to tend, but it’s calling to me, and I’ve been lurking a bit, searching, not knowing what I’m even looking for. Sometimes life is like that.

And then I saw this:

And the gift of that statement socked me right in the solar plexus, taking my breath away.

What if, at the end of today, I didn’t look back and castigate myself for the things I didn’t get done?

What if, at the end of today, I don’t hate myself because, after twenty minutes of my child shrieking at me, I shrieked back?

What if my second book, my screenplay, my blog, all my writing that fills up my time without my children and fulfills my need to create, could bring me joy without a sense of obligation? What if I could think to myself “Lucky me! I got twenty minutes to write today!” rather than “Twenty minutes? And you call yourself a writer?”

If any of us are ever going to get anything done besides being a mother, if we are to create at all, we need what Martha Graham called

a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us
marching and makes us more alive than the others.

But the world won’t end if I don’t get to the gym this week, if I order pizza for dinner, if the speech I’m giving in March goes untouched for one more day, if I am a mother and writer and woman who is less than perfect. For my work, I need the blessed unrest that keeps me marching. But for my husband, my family, my life, I need to let whatever I do today be enough.

I wonder…

:: Why is this a lesson so hard for many of us to learn?
:: Do we as women and mothers have a harder time with this than men do?
:: And is that fault in the stars, or in ourselves?

***

About the Writer:

Amy Wilson blogs at whendidigetlikethis.com. She is the author of When Did I Get Like This? The Screamer, The Worrier, The Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget Buyer, and Other Mothers I Swore I’d Never Be  and the play Mother Load.  This spring, she is directing the New York City premiere of Listen To Your Mother. Join the When Did I Get Like This? Facebook page or follow Amy on Twitter.

Last Valentine’s Day was a bloody mess.

I’m not trying to pretend I’m British. Last year there was actual blood, and lots of it.

And crying.

And a trip to the ER.

And, ultimately, an anxiety/exhaustion-induced chocolate binge that would put Night-Before-the-Diet-Starts-Oprah to shame. To shame.

The story, published previously on this blog, is below. Spoiler Alert: Although the blood was plentiful, the wound itself ended up being fairly tame. But… the whole thing still bothers me.

It bothers me that no matter what I do to keep my kids safe, they can still be in danger.

It really bothers me that danger lurks at my own dining room table, of all places.

It bothers me that ever since “the incident,” when you say Valentine’s Day, I say blergh. Not because it’s a ridiculous holiday (it kind of is), but because forever more I will equate the day with a trip to the ER, and with the terrifying worry known to mothers around the world.

But. Even though there’s no undoing the association, I have to admit these things:

• It all ended up just fine. In the grand scheme, our Valentine’s Day ER Adventure was but a flesh wound. (Not dead yet! Anyone want to name the film?)
• My kids are of the age when any reason to eat candy is most excellent. Therefore, Valentine’s Day rules.
• Who am I kidding? I love to eat candy. Therefore, Valentine’s Day rules.

Therefore… I’m going to enjoy the class parties with my kids, and make them heart-shaped toast on Tuesday, and give them boxes of chocolate. Because I love them, dearly, and as we’ve established more than once (today and previously), I love candy.

As for you, I wish for you a Happy Valentine’s Day 2012. I wish you love. At the very least, I wish you chocolate. The good stuff, not that creepy pink sugary filling crap.

For the new people around here, last year’s story follows.*

*Modified slightly from it’s original version. The facts and the characters remain the same, though.

***

I was feeling a bit behind on life. I felt like I was moving at warp speed, focusing on all of it – family, work, writing, blogging, all that other stuff we have to do every day – and none of it, simultaneously.

Then, around 6:15 on Monday night, Valentine’s Day 2011, my world stopped momentarily. The blog, the writing, my life and everything in between disappeared.

We were sitting at dinner, about to give the boys their little Valentine’s treats. P, who is 21 months old, was strapped into his booster seat. The seat was, of course, strapped to the dining chair. In his excitement over presents (“Prays!” he says), P pushed his feet against the table and launched straight back, like a tree falling in the forest.

And let me tell you, it does make a sound when a tree falls. It sounds like a clap of lightning followed by screaming. So much screaming.

I launched out of my own chair, Mark later noting that I looked like a cartoon version of myself, feet spinning, the air moving like a tornado around me. I bashed my arm on another chair, my hip on the table, nearly slipped, and narrowly missed falling on top of my wailing child, who was still strapped in his chair.

Mark and I reached P simultaneously. Mark undid the buckles while I scooped P, his mouth wide with a scream, into my arms. Instinctively I put my hand on the back of his head. I registered warmth and wetness.

Blood. And lots of it.

According to witnesses (okay, just Mark), my face went from Mom-Fear-Thinly-Veiled-as-Mom-Comfort to Blank to Panic in a sort of slow motion montage. No question, an ER trip was imminent.

As only parents can do, we put on our grown up pants, made our faces calm and our voices even. We rallied older brother, H, into the car and gently loaded P into his own seat.

I had this brief, bizarre internal debate with myself over strapping him into his car seat. I wanted to hold him, but I knew that I couldn’t. What if we had an accident on the way to the ER? The debate didn’t last long, but deciding to put him in a car seat made me ache, deep in my chest, down through my gut. Down into the mom soul.

My little debate with myself was another reminder that there is no end to a mother’s ability to feel… what?

To feel pain, guilt, fear, doubt.

To feel strength, courage, faith.

I wonder if I’ll ever know where to put all of these feelings, how to manage them. It’s as if they’re all careening around my heart and my mind, jockeying for my attention. Be proud! Be worried! Be joyous! Be pissed off!

P cried as I strapped him in the seat. He wanted to be held as much as I wanted to hold him. So the feelings jostled about, forcing me to use my brain and my heart together, ultimately putting his safety first and figuring out how to comfort him (and a worried big brother) in the process.

The rest of the story is standard fare, thank God.

P calmed down as soon as the car started rolling. He talked about the lights and cars we saw on the way, and I was reassured. A mother’s mind automatically goes to brain injury when her child’s head splits open. It was comforting to hear him chatter, to see him coherently take in his surroundings.

In the end, P got two staples in his head. He took them like a champ, sat up and said, “Home. Night-night.” Mark and I looked at him and said, “Yes, sir. That is exactly what we have in mind.”

And then I choked back a sob of grateful relief.

This was not our first trip to the ER. It was not even our first trip with P. Twice before – before this Valentine’s Day fiasco – I’ve felt time freeze and had fear render me temporarily blind, numb, breathless.

Twice, and now a third time, we’ve been abundantly blessed. The accidents, while scary in the moment, have been mild. Things often look way worse than they are. Yet another lesson motherhood hands us.

In my life with this little daredevil, danger magnet, I’m sure there will be more scary moments. And I will never be prepared for any of it. How could I be?

My prayer, though, is that it’s never scarier than this. That when it’s all said and done, we’ll be laughing, joking about our little Massive Headwound Harry, and saying prayers of thanksgiving that the world only stopped for a moment. And once that world started turning again, we were all whole, healthy, and together.

The boys:

Karate stance, crazy leap/kick, hi-ya!

We’re injas! (Ninjas, that is.)

Hey, you sit here, with your head down, and I’ll jump over you!

If we pull this table over here, and stack these bean bags over here, and put this tray on top, and put this bucket on our heads, we can slide down our fort!

Me:

Please don’t point your finger-guns at people. Or any living thing. Ninjas don’t even use guns.

Get off of your brother’s head.

No, you cannot use my tray to slide down your bean bag tower. I don’t care if you have a bucket helmet. I’m not worried about your head, I’m worried about my tray.

I said, get. off. your. brother’s. head. now.

It is not funny to fart on people’s heads.

No, it’s really not funny.

Dudes, that’s gross.

End scene. Only it’s not a scene. It’s my life.

I am alone, people. The lone sane voice in a testosterone-fueled house, where danger is equivalent to fun, gross is equivalent to hilarious.

I know girls do this stuff, too; I’ve witnessed little girls go all in with the gross-out humor. But anyone who lives with boys knows that high energy rough-housing, often flavored with disgusting sounds and smells is more than a once-in-a-while activity. It’s a way of life. The jumping, running, shooting, building, burping, and farting never stop.

So we send them outside to play and enroll them in sports. We make sure they have constructive ways to burn up that energy.

Although I appreciate, and even embrace, their wild nature, I am also so grateful that my tiny neanderthals love to read. Both of my boys will happily look at books, and even more happily listen to stories, with patience you wouldn’t believe possible after witnessing their active playtime.

My guess is that nearly all young kids appreciate story time, but I’ve heard from people with older kids that reading can lose its appeal as kids grow. Some things never change, and apparently it’s still not cool to be a book nerd. While I don’t want to be Tiger Mom-like in my zeal, I do want to encourage a love of books.

One of our favorite authors around here is Jon Scieszka, who writes the Trucktown books. Both of my boys love all of the crashing, smashing silliness in Mr. Scieszka’s books. In fact, yesterday after P. finished leaning over the back of the sofa, dropping cars as though they were bombs on the fire truck below, we read Truckery Rhymes three times. We cuddled under a blanket, stopping often to talk about the pictures and compare the original versions of the rhymes to the truck-ed out versions.

I live for those moments. The moments when non-stop motion ceases, a soft cheek rests on my shoulder, allowing me to not-so-secretly breathe in my son’s subtle sweaty-yet-sweet scent… well, that’s heaven on earth.

Recently, I went in search of more information about the man behind Trucktown, hoping to order a few more books moments. My search led me to Guys Read, an online literacy program started by Mr. Scieszka. According to the site, Guys Read is focused on helping boys (young and old) become self-motivated, lifelong readers.

Research shows that boys are having trouble reading, and that boys are getting worse at reading. No one is quite sure why. Some of the reasons are biological. Some of the reasons are sociological.

But the good news is that research also shows that boys will read — if they are given reading that interests them.

I find that disheartening and thrilling at the same time. Disheartening, because I don’t want my bookworms to give up on reading; there’s not an awful lot I can do about their biology (see: farting on brother’s head). But it’s thrilling to know that there are people like Jon Scieszka and resources like Guys Read.

Perhaps there’s hope for this generation of boys.

Perhaps my guys will never outgrow the thrill of a good book.

I wonder…

:: Whether you have boys or girls, how do you foster a love of books and reading?

:: Will you push them to read even if they say they hate it? How will you combat the “it’s not cool to read” argument?

:: Do you have any great guy-themed reading resources?

** PLEASE NOTE **  

This post could be a review for Jon Scieszka/Trucktown/Guys Read, but it’s not. I’ve never met or talked to Mr. Scieszka, and I am not being compensated in way, shape, or form. I just wanted to share this information with you, because I think it’s awesome. The end.

I love Wednesdays, and I hope you do, too. Why? Because it’s guest blogger day! Today’s guest is Kimberly, from All Work and No Play Makes Mommy Go Something Something. You’re guaranteed to feel something when you read Kimberly’s writing: she’ll leave you in stitches, tears, awe, and often all of the above. She’s also a kind & generous blog friend. I’m so happy to host Kimberly today, so let’s get to it!

***

 I was elbow deep in the sink washing dishes when he blasted through the door.

“Today is the best day of my life!”

I snapped my head towards his direction.

He’s never this happy when he comes home.

Seriously.

And I may or may not have a slight complex because of that.

“Did we win the lottery?”

“Oh. My. God. Babe, this is so awesome. I have to call Ken.”

Ken, my husband’s BFF.

If Ken had a vagina, my husband would be all up on that.

That man crush runs deeper than their thick chest hair.

I watched as his hands excitedly punched in Ken’s digits.

“Wait. Whoa. What is going on?”

“This is epic. The Ti….Ken! Did you hear? Is this not the best day ever?”

“Babe, what is going on?” I asked…

Okay, it was more like, “What the f*ck is going on?”

But since this is not my blog, I will keep this story as clean as possible.

Because I’m a f*cking respectable person like that.

“Shhhhhhh…Babe. Seriously! You are ruining my moment!” he whined.

My eyes zoned ferociously into his soul as I clenched my jaws and burst into
flames.

“Gah…ok…fine. The Detroit Tigers signed Prince Fielder.”

:::Blank stare:::

“Babe, he is a baseball God. This, this is just the best day of my life.”

:::Record Scratch:::

I’ve had a lot of days in my life that I would consider to be the best.

Like when I found a really good hairdresser.

When my boobs grew big enough to fit in a real bra.

When I got my driver’s license.

When I graduated from Nursing School.

When I lost my virginity and thankfully had my period the next week.

That one night in Niagra Falls.

When I met my husband.

And the day our son was born.

Those are “best” days.

The Detroit Tigers? Prince? What?

I will never understand my husband’s undying love for his favourite sports teams.

Never.

I could never get him to look at me the way he looks so lovingly at balls.

Baseballs, footballs, basketballs, and I’ll throw in a puck.

Get your mind out of the gutter people.

I will also never understand how a team could hire a dude for $214 million to play baseball for nine years.

And how this man, Prince Fielder, this “epic” moment counts as one of my husband’s best day of his life?

My husband doesn’t even own the team.

He’s a fan.

A fan.

As my stomach turned while watching him squeal in delight with his beastly bromance, I decided to not deflate his testicles that had puffed up with Tiger pride.

Instead, I slipped him our MasterCard bill and gave him a peck on his cheek.

Because I’m a good wife like that.

His eyes widened and his knuckles turned white as he grasped the phone.

He reached for a pen.

And wrote this down:

“Pft. It’s going to be bigger when I buy season tickets this year.”

Touché Shawn.

Touché.

I wonder…

Bromance.

About the Writer

Kimberly is a mom, wife, nurse, postpartum depression and bipolar 2 disorder ass kicker. She longs to run her fingers through Chuck Norris’s beard hair. When she’s not busy baking the best facking cookies ever and earning frequent flier miles at her psychiatrist’s office, she blogs about the chaos she calls “Her Life.” You can follow along on the blog, Twitter, Facebook or StumbleUpon.

I bought a road bike. She’s* real pretty. I got shoes that clip in and a fancy saddle so my delicates won’t hurt.

My new ride.

And now I guess I have to ride this bike.

I know it’s ridiculous, but this bike scares me. The clips scare me, because I will fall over. It’s simply a matter of when, not if. You all can start a betting pool now.

But it’s not only falling that scares me. Road rash and shame, unappealing though they are, are temporary. I’m much more afraid of that bike gathering dust in my garage. I look at it and hear the two voices that are constantly bickering inside my head:

Whheeee! A new bike! Just imagine all the great rides ahead of you.

vs.

When, exactly, do you plan to do all of this riding? And do you really expect to ever achieve anything bigger than finishing a little sprint triathlon? Who are you kidding, lady?

A) Don’t tell me you have peaceful silence in your head. Please tell me that you, too, have conflicting self-talk going on.

B) That second voice is bitchy, right?

I think that this latest fear – and doubt – are only a glimpse into my psyche. And possibly a lot of other psyches, as well. I can’t be alone, or else Pinterest, wouldn’t be plastered with quotes like this:

I’m a realist: I know that failure is always a possibility. I tell my kids that it’s much better to work hard and fail than to wonder what if…? And I believe that. I do.

And yet… I think I let the idea of failure hold me back more than I like to admit. You know, if I’m going to tell my kids that they have to be okay falling on their faces, I need to fall on mine sometimes.

I’ve heard people quote this line a few times – What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?

There’s something to that; I kind of think you do have to approach your goals under the delusion that you cannot, will not fail. But you also have to be prepared to fail, and accept failure as part of the learning process. Is that too Pollyanna?

Just for grins, if I could guarantee success here’s what I would do:

An Iron Man

This may truly may be hilarious, since I’m clearly never getting rid of my plantar faciitis, but still. This is a no-fail scenario, so bite me, plantar faciitis.

Act, On Stage, In a Play

I’ve always said I couldn’t be an actor, because I’m awful at it. That may be the case, but I have no idea if I’m awful or not. My last role was Big Billy Goat Gruff in kindergarten. But since this is a no fail thing, I’m probably going to walk away with a Tony.

This is real life, however, and not my no-fail la-la land. So I’m going to start by taking that bike out for a ride. If you see me, please maneuver your car way far away from me, so that you don’t run over me. And also so I don’t try to wave at you, causing me to lose my balance and fall over because I couldn’t get my feet out of those clips fast enough.

I wonder…

:: Cheesy though it is, what would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?

:: What are your wise words on tackling goals and trying new things?

*The bike is a she and she’s nameless. Any thoughts?

It’s Wednesday… Guest Post Day! Today I’m excited to host the one and only Literal Mom, and guess what? Her name is Missy. She’s most definitely my second favorite Missy, after myself and before Missy Gold (remember her? Benson? Sister of Tracey?).

As I was saying, Missy of Literal Mom fame writes about being thinking parents, and she’s here today with a funny post about some of the babysitters she’s met over the years. Enjoy!

***

I’m so thrilled to be here at the fabulous Wonder, Friend today. Missy is such a thoughtful and beautiful blogger and I love how she wonders about various topics.

Here’s something I’ve wondered about for some time. And until Missy invited me to appear at her lovely location, I didn’t really think about putting it into words.

How do Babysitters get to be the way they are?

I know some of you don’t do babysitters. And more power to YOU for being able to parent around the clock without them. My husband works long hours, so having babysitters has been part of my and my children’s lives since my oldest turned one.

And I’ve found that babysitters run a full spectrum from “AWESOME! SHAZAM! BOOM!” to “OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST LEFT MY CHILD WITH THAT PERSON.”

So today I thought it would be fun to talk about them a little and maybe see if you have any Babysitting types I missed.

Babysitter Type A – The “I don’t listen to your suggestions babysitter”

This babysitter nods sagely to your to do lists, bedtime routines, snack allowances and TV watching limits. You feel pretty good that they “get” your needs for the kids. Then when you come home, you learn the kids have been watching TV for hours, chewing gum, eating snacks and creating TENTLAND in the living room. And they’re still awake at 10pm.

This babysitter type can be anyone, but most often, this type is known as . . . GRANDPARENTS.

Babysitter Type B – The “Messy Sitter”

This babysitter leaves your house significantly dirtier than when you left. She leaves the dinner dishes on the dinner table with the food congealing, she doesn’t pick up (or encourage the kids to pick up) the toys. You may find toothpaste globs on the bathroom sink and dirty clothes on the floor.

I once had a sitter not clean up a potty accident one of my children had. She just breezily stated as she walked out the door, “Oh, she had an accident. It’s on that chair over there.”

These sitters are only in it for the money or because their parents are making them do it. Or they’re lazy. They clearly did not take the Red Cross babysitting class.

Babysitter Type C – The “Crafter”

This babysitter will do crafts with your kids THE ENTIRE TIME YOU ARE GONE. Even though this sitter is prone to also have Babysitter Type B qualities (likely due to her artistic leanings), you don’t care because she has mentally engaged your children. That and she’s done something every single one of us maybe a few of us dislike. Crafts. Shudder.

I wonder where their energy comes from, but don’t really care because of what they’ve done with my children.

Babysitter Type D – The “Side Chooser” Sitter

Rare is the sitter who can identify with all children in the house. But, the side chooser clearly favors one of your children over the other and the “unfavored one” notices. Becuase that’s what kids do.

These sitters usually don’t last long in our house. Too sad for the unfavored one. And really – how hard can it be to love a child who loves jumping on the furniture?

Babysitter Type E – The “Personal Space? What’s That?” Sitter

This sitter will let your kids jump on YOUR bed, do fashion shows with YOUR clothes in YOUR room, and then take pictures of it on her cell phone and proudly show them to you when you get home. And when you go up to your room, the fashion show remnants are still lying all over your bed and floor.

Think I’m kidding? Don’t I wish. I STILL wonder what this particular sitter was thinking.

Babysitter Type F – The “Disengaged” Sitter

This sitter comes and talks on her phone, texts and emails her friends and listens to her ipod while watching your kids. The kids don’t quite know what to do with her level of disengagement, so they tend to be very well behaved out of fear.

Babysitter Type G – The “Mary Poppins” Sitter

This sitter listens to your instructions, follows them, reads to your kids, reads your kid’s individual personalities and can address their individual needs, and then, THEN! After the kids are in bed, she empties your dishwasher, tidies up your house, straightens your counters, and folds the kid’s laundry if you “accidentally” leave it where she’ll see it.

Rare is this sitter. Keep her if you get her. We have one like that right now and I’m hanging onto her so tight she might not be able to breathe sometimes.

I hope you have enjoyed this Babysitter Type Tour.

I wonder…

:: Did I miss any?

:: Have you ever wondered how they get to be the way they are? I have, only because I’ve had so many interesting ones.

:: What do you think?

***

About the Writer

Missy Bedell blogs at Literal Mom, where she encourages all parents to be thinking parents. She uses wit, humor and sometimes even tears to communicate with her audience (and her kids!). You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter.  Oh, and that yummy newish love of hers, Pinterest.

P: We wuv wemontimes! Mmmm-mmm. Come wook, dey are in da bowl, and I happy!

Translation: We love clementines. There’s an entire bowl full of them, and that makes me happy!

Wemontimes.

Happiness. It comes so naturally to children, and I think growing up makes us get all wonky on the topic.

I want to do something different today, and just ask you some I wonder… questions without providing commentary first (anyone who knows me knows that this is a challenge akin to, say, becoming an astronaut). Your answers could be featured in an upcoming post that I’m working on about happiness. I have some opinions on the matter (shocker), but I’m curious to see where other people fall.

Thanks for helping me out. I intended to make sure the questions weren’t leading in any way, but may have failed. This is just one of the many reasons my news-ed journalism minor never got much use… objectivity is hard. *You should have read those last few words in a sarcastic, nasal whine, just FYI.*

Anyway.

I wonder…

:: Are you as happy as you thought you’d be when you imagined life as an adult? More? Less? Different? 

:: Are happiness and joy the same thing? Discuss…

:: Can failure and/or pain ever lead to happiness?

:: Does success equal happiness?

:: Are some people simply wired for happiness and other people wired for a life of Debbie Downer-ism?

:: What does true happiness look like to you? When and how often do you experience that?

Today’s the day: the first in a series of guest posts here on Wonder, Friend! Today’s guest is the talented Genie in a Blog, my friend Leigh Ann. I’m so fortunate to know her in real life, and am thrilled to share her writing here today!

Let’s get right to it…

***

The other day I was perusing the mother of all time sucks, Pinterest, and found what could be a life changing thing for me: a Daily Quick Cleaning Checklist that boasts that even I can get my entire house in order with only 30 minutes a day.

Sign me the freak up! I have a house. It’s not very neat, thanks to the three small children who make the messes and a good dose of laziness on my part. Surely I have 30 measly minutes in which I can complete this checklist, right?

Okay, let’s get started. The kids have just finished breakfast, so this is my prime time to get something done before they realize I’m not really there with them and start to self destruct.

Kitchen

Clear out and wipe down the sink, put dishes in dishwasher (5 minutes): Right! Thanks to my superior mothering skills, my kids have already brought their dishes to the sink. The husband has not. Lament extra seconds wasted in gathering his dishes. Get to loading dishwa–GAH! Kink in the plan! I run my dishwasher at night, and now I have to unload. Okay, deep breaths. This’ll only take about 5 extra minutes. A nice clean house in 35 minutes instead of 30 isn’t the end of the world. Sip coffee. Now stop talking to yourself and load load load! Oh, wait. Serious drama in the living room over a plastic frog. Must referee.

Wipe down countertops and stove (1 minutes): This one I can do. I knew lack of available counterspace would come in handy. Sip more coffee. Man, it’s good. Wiping, wiping…okay whose McQueen is this? Ooh look! A coupon for $.75 off mayonnaise! Where’s my coupon file…meh just put it back on the counter. Sip more coffee. Glance at the stove with it’s egg spatters and Cheerio crumbs and call it a lost cause. I don’t want to fall farther behind schedule!

Wipe problem spots on the floor (2 minutes): I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Exactly which problem spots are you giving me 2 minutes to wipe up? How do I choose? If this is an all or nothing game, I think I have to skip this one. Besides, I’m being summoned to the bathroom. May as well give up in here and get to work in there, right?

Bathroom

Wipe out the sink (30 seconds): You’d think this would be my sweet spot, what with all the time I spend in here waiting for various children to do their business so I can be their butt butler. Two minutes in and all I’ve done is pretended to be Holly to my kid’s McQueen…yes, while she was doing her business.

Leave bathroom to hand out post potty bananas because when did it get to be 10:30? (2 minutes): And yes I washed their hands.

Wipe the toilet seat and rim (15 seconds) and swoosh the toilet bowl with a brush (15 seconds): Yeah, that sounds gross. I’m going to save myself 30 seconds and leave that one for my knight in shining Clorox. I’ll just close the lid instead. Problem solved. *wipes hands together in satisfaction*

Squeegee the shower door (30 seconds): Ha! I don’t even have any shower doors! Man, I’m getting through this list like gangbust–OMG what is going on in there??? Do NOT step on your baby sister! Oh, you were “just kidding?” I’ll step on you and show you “just kidding!”

Stand in middle of house trying to remember what you were doing before your pesky children interrupted you (60 seconds): I’m really good at this one.

Bedroom

Make your bed (2 minutes): Easy peasy. I’m glad this part of the checklist doesn’t include “do something about all that laundry laying over your footboard.”

Do something about all that laundry laying over your footboard (4 minutes): Gah! They got me. Fold t-shirts reluctantly. Shoot dirty looks at overflowing laundry basket in corner. Laundry basket does not respond by sorting itself into color piles or walking itself to the washer. Children have now climbed into bed, tossed pillows askew, and knocked folded clothes on the floor.

Straighten nightstand (30 seconds): Sorry, it took me 30 seconds just to collect all of last night’s snot rags from these blasted cedar allergies.

Living Room

Tidy the sofa (2 minutes): Straighten cushions and pillows, fold throws, watch as three children run in and one by one throw themselves over the back of the couch. Straighten cushions and pillows, fold throws, watch as three children run in and one by one throw themselves over the back of the couch. Straighten cushions and pillows, fold throws, watch as three children run in and one by one throw themselves over the back of the couch.

Pick up crumbs with a handheld vacuum (1 minute): Um, I actually don’t have a handheld number. Besides, my husband loves to vacuum. I’ll save that job for him and the crumbs for the dog. I will, however, pretend I didn’t see that shriveled up grape under the couch. Ew.

Clear major clutter (5 minutes): This is fancy talk for “get rid of the children,” right? Come on. You know it takes me at least 10 minutes to get shoes and socks on just one of them.

Oh hell, why bother? It’s almost 5 pm and time to go mess up my kitchen again. But tomorrow? I’m gonna own that list!

So I wonder…

:: Do you too feel like you are fighting a losing battle with the housework?

:: Is there any point in getting anxious about it?

:: Are you jealous that my husband loves to vacuum? (because that part wasn’t a joke–he does.)

***

About The Writer

Leigh Ann Torres is a writer, artist, wife, mother, cook, maid, bookkeeper…all around genie in a bottle, except you only get one wish, and it has to be reasonable. She lives with her family in Austin, TX, where she writes about the good, the bad, and the ridiculous of life with twins plus one at Genie in a Blog. You can also follow her at @latorres or on the Genie in a Blog Facebook page.