This blog is currently on hiatus while we write a book. Please enjoy past posts!
This blog is currently on hiatus while we write a book. Please enjoy past posts!
These kids share what they think about their Mom. Would love to hear my kids reaction (but not after making him do his homework!!!)
Here ya go Moms…
A trip to Disneyland is like a visit from the bad-ass, sexy, ex-boyfriend that used to treat you like shit. Great to look forward to, great to remember, but 5 hours into it you’re going “what the hell was I thinking!!!???”
My son’s got the Box Top bug, which means that at Mommablog Towers we ALL have the Box Top bug.
Do you know what Box Top are? Nope. Neither did I till had a kid in kindergarten. For the uninitiated, Box Tops are a way of fundraising for schools. For every coupon clipped from the various items in your grocery bag (from participating companies), the school gets 10 cents. Since 1996 more than $475 million has been raised for education this way.
I’ve been very impressed with our son’s tenacity in finding these Box Tops but now it appears that we’re living in a Box Top war-zone, and there’s a lot at stake; when he takes a bunch of Box Tops in to school he’s rewarded by getting a sticker (a huge motivation for a five-year-old!).
Clipping them is an art form in itself. The first Box Top is hard. You might draw blood, get tissues all over the place, or throw pancake mix on the floor as you nick the bag. You’ll break out in a sweat as you try to hold your cool in front of your child…but then you get going, and suddenly you’re slicing Box Tops in under three seconds with one deft maneuver of your pocket knife. Success!
But don’t get too cocksure. Your Box Tops probably cost you an extra $200 in crap food you didn’t intend to buy – but hey, it’s all worth it for the $2 it will give to your kids public school.
Have you noticed that new shit in the world is always brought to you by the stuff that is essentially doing you in; cigarette and fast food companies are always sponsoring stuff, because they know they are half killing you anyway. You never walk into a library and hear “The new wing was brought to us by broccoli.”
(Here’s a thought, the next time the government wants a new stealth bomber, they should raise the funds in Box Tops).
But soon, against your will, Box Top Mania kicks in. You’re addicted. Nothing can get in the way or your obsession. You want to raid your neighbors home, and think about stealing stuff from the supermarket. You start plotting and planning borderline criminal acitivity. “Make a diversion in aisle four, and I’ll cut through all the Box Tops we can get in aisle two.”
Super greed sets in. You think about photocopying the coupons. Technically, it’s counterfeiting but thats’s okay, until the police are at your door. You blame your five year old, and now your kid’s got a record. Two to four for Box Tops. It’s a downward spiral. Crack is safer, surely?
Box Tops changes a person. And families. In the past, if I came to your house, I might rifle through your cabinets looking for some good gossip, now all I care about are Box Tops.
We went to visit my husband’s cousin last weekend. She’s a Mom of three, and in the ultimate act of love, let my son rummage around her kitchen in search of Box Tops. The whole family got in on it. Our son felt exceptionally triumphant at finding TEN total!
At one point he held a packet of Fruit Loops in his hands and looked at me confused. “Why doesn’t this cereal have a Box Top? You told me all the unhealthy, overly sugared cereals have them?” Wow, I didn’t know that little bit of trivia would stick to his brain.
But it’s all about one-upmanship. At school, when he proudly presented his ten Box Tops to the Teacher, one of his classmates loudly announced that he had collected over 400 Box Tops. FOUR HUNDRED???!!!
What is this kid, a Mormon?
Does his family rob houses at night?
So this holiday season, forget candy and Lego. Forget potluck and Spiderman games. Bring us your Box Tops. That’s all. Box Tops. Because it’s on baby, oh yes, it’s on!
Still can’t believe she has to protest this shit either. But I want to be a cool broad like this as I grown up.
Please America –make us women proud when you vote tomorrow, don’t set us back in bullshit.
If you were applying for the job of Wife/Mom, this is what it would look like. Now mind you, this is on top of the other full-time job that you do to pay the bills. You know, the one where you need to show up looking neat and clean. Yep, the one that is easy in comparison to this one. Seriously, NO PAY for all this? Ladies, let’s march on Washington. Who’s with me?
NEVER-ENDING OPEN POSITION: WIFE/MOM
Applications are invited for the position of a manager to a strong-willed team of individuals of varying ages, weight, height and common sense. Plus some pets.
The successful applicant will be required to perform the following functions: lover, mistress, occasional whore, companion, teacher, counselor, financial manager, buying officer, teacher, nurse, chef, nutritionist, decorator, cleaner, driver, child care supervisor, social secretary, and recreation officer.
Should be impervious to blood, urine, poop, vomit and tears when necessary.
Must be able to negotiate with a small person, and like an advance chess player acknowledge future consequences of every move.
Applicants must have unlimited energy and a strong sense of responsibility. They must be independent, self-motivated and able to work under stress, and adaptable enough to handle new developments in the life of the team, including emergencies and crises, in various states of limited personal hygiene and dress.
The must be able to communicate with people in all walks of life including in-laws, teachers, doctors, business people, dentists, shop assistants, fast food employees, people who have restrooms you need to use at a moment’s notice, teenagers, other people’s children and annoying strangers who mean well.
Creativity, sensitivity, compassion and an understanding of people is necessary as the successful applicant will also be responsible for the mental and emotional well-being of the team. An ability to craft things out of pasta is a definite plus.
Must also be able to keep your chin up and tits out for your husband.
HOURS: All waking moments, all sleeping moments (sleep not guaranteed), all the moments in between those and back-to-back 24-hours shifts fueled only by coffee, red wine, Advil, chicken nuggets, crayons and hope.
BENEFITS: Loads of love and hugs but no guaranteed holidays, no sick leave or maternity. No workers comp. AAA only if you remember to send off the payment, and can find the form.
PAY: Lots of love, sticky kisses, and the occasional macaroni sculpture.
Yesterday, my son spilled milk in the car. It went flying everywhere. He looked alarmed. Not as alarmed as I was when I realized my leather seats and Ann Taylor suit had just met Strawberry milk. Instead of modern rage and frustration, I immediately channeled my 1950’s inner housewife and tuned my brain into a Calgon commercial. Nothing short of Stepford Mom came out of my mouth…
With all the calm, sage, motherly wisdom I could muster I turned around , smiled and said “Oh, honey. Don’t cry over spilt milk. No good will ever come of it.”
My son looked at my like I was nuts and said “Why would I cry over spilled milk? That’s a dumb thing to cry over.” Then he just looked at me like I was the crazy one. Okay my little pint sized Buddha. That certainly puts your Mom in her tiny little place in the universe. My son simply utters “Don’t we clean up now?” Yes, no arguing with that logic.
Later that night, I had to clean out the car seat (most disgusting chore after years of not doing it), clean off the car mats, scrub down the seats and still had to take the car super cleaned (ants found the car, apparently my cleaning job not so good) and my suit in to be cleaned. My son may not have wanted to cry over spilled milk, but after a long day working and then the cleaning bill, I did.
Our son keeps telling his friends his Mom and Dad are Superhero’s…we see no reason to correct him…Happy Halloween to all.
Ok, this doesn’t qualify as funny, and I generally prefer funny…but it’s just so perfect. Everything you need to know about parenting in a nutshell.
Sure you may want your kid in Hollywood, crack habit and all, but that Lindsay Lohan thing ain’t that easy.
Getting your spawn to perform on cue when that’s the last thing they want to do is painful.
How do I know? Because, as you may recall, that’s what happened when mine was scouted to appear in a pilot. Unfortunately there were no other kids on set to take his place (big mistake when you’re dealing with child actors – hello, producers?), and my stress levels went through the roof trying to coax him out of his never-before-seen shell.
Why would I bother? Picture this: a 15-strong crew, producers, cameras and the sweet smell of time and money burning. What would you do? I caved, I begged, I bribed and then I gave up, and got us out.
The first thing I did once back inside the house was inhale six giant-sized Tootsie Rolls and a large glass of white wine. Yeah, I know, mature…I cope. I never ‘anxious eat’ but my traumatic stint as a showbiz mom tipped me over the edge. It was less a case of ‘Whatever Happened Baby Jane?’ and more ‘How the Hell Did I Get Through That Bottle So Quickly?”
Later that evening, after supper and bath-time, when the three of us were snuggled up in bed together, I asked Jett why he was so against filming. This is what he said: “I didn’t want to be left inside the TV, I want to keep living with you and Daddy.”
Oh my gosh. Now it makes sense. How did I not know? I was so consumed with what I would wear to the premiere that I failed to look at it from a five-year-olds point of view.
And this is the adorable and heart-breaking part – he actually thought, just like Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon, that if he did any filming he would be left inside the TV and be separated from us.
No wonder he didn’t want to be on TV, for him it was a matter of life and death.
Oh, now I get it. Didn’t then. Duh. Parenthood ain’t for pussies – that’s all I’m saying.
Kid = Oscar winner.
Mom and dad = Razzie runner-up.
Hollywood came a knockin’ on our door just the other day. Knocking…Literally…in the form of a beautiful TV star acquaintance we met in our neighborhood. Gorgeous starlet presented our handsome five-year-old son Jett with a seemingly golden ticket to stardom. The kind people hope for all their lives. She asked us if Jett could perform a stint as an actor for an upcoming prime time show’s pilot she was producing. Jett’s character is a lead. The task was relatively simple- our son was to pretend to wake up from a nightmare screaming “Mommy! Mommy”. Easy enough, especially since Jett delights in screaming for Mommy to startle me every time I walk in a door. Happy husband and I can hear the sound of college funds, and we are relieved. Our spawn is special! The lead! My son can go to Harvard and I can go to Aruba!
As I pop a bottle of Champagne in my brain, it occurs to me we left out one small detail. Does Jett want to do it? We ask. Quite clearly, he says “No”. “No?” “No, filming” he says, without missing a beat. “Don’t want to”, he declares. Is this the kid that howls with delight at my Flipcam? We ask him to just give it a try. “Please? Mommy wants a Hermes jacket.” Jett gives me a kiss and says “no filming, no thank you”.
Good parents that we are, we say yes and take Jett anyway. We tell him…“let’s see, let’s be curious like Curious George”. We arrive to quintessential Hollywood..many producers, camera’s and a craft service table (“look honey, licorice”). Our son plays with toys, eats pizza and Red Vines, but won’t change his mind…”no filming, no thank you.”
The stage was set, the lights were shining, people and expensive cameras all around…waiting for our beautiful son’s debut. I get in bed with him to show him what to do. He does it with me, but as soon as I go, he gets up to go too. Uh, oh.
We tried several times. Several takes. Several more times. I look around and start calculating their production budget. I can smell the money burning. More uh, oh. It’s starting to hit me, he’s really not going to do it.
Call us bad parents, but we begged him to complete the task just this one time, promising that he would never have to film again. No dice. We offer extra sessions of Angry Birds at home (yup, less than 2 hours in show-business and we’re sucking up to our own kid). Still no dice. Jett stuck to his guns, refusing our offer and furthermore his golden ticket into the entertainment industry. To Jett, all that glitters is not gold, and he clearly has no interest in the situation.
People always say to “follow your heart,” and for our son, this meant ending his Hollywood career before it even started. Show business? More like no business.
We left the set with our heads hung low. Bad news, no college fund. Good news, we’re pretty certain our kid will not wind up the subject of an E! True Hollywood Story. Well, except this one.
We took our 5 year old son kayaking for the first time in Morro Bay and it was glorious. We sat still in our kayak and observed a sea otter up close. Suddenly, the sea otter turned around, showed us a tiny new baby pup she was holding and swam away. We all gasped with delight.
When we returned to shore our son spotted a stuffed sea otter in a store and asked if he could have it. “Yes, Yes, Yes!” I proclaimed still giddy with delight. We bought her, named her Lefty and took her home.
A few days later I overheard our son in his room “introducing” his new stuffed otter to his other stuffed animals. He had all his stuffed animals together on his bed and said “My Mommy is going to be the Mommy of all of us. And my Daddy is going to be the Daddy of all of us. Now, when you are hungry and want food, if you ask my Mommy and tell her you are hungry she will always give you food.” He paused, then continued…”If you ask my Daddy for food and tell him you are hungry he may not always give it to you. Sometimes he will tell you you should have eaten at dinner.” He leaned in close and then told his audience quite seriously, “Still, it is sometimes better to ask my Daddy for food first because when he cooks, it tastes better.”
Was driving down Venice Boulevard when I was startled my then 4 year old son was reading signs.
“Girls, Girls, Girls” my son exclaims with great pride from the back seat. OMG! He is reading the sign!!!
I look over and see what he sees…a huge, red neon sign screams “Girls, Girls, Girls”. I’m elated, overjoyed, startled. “Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s right, Jett. That is what the sign says.” I reach over at a red light and give him a high five. I beam with pride, and in my head, I begin planning my son’s application to Berkley .
“Is that a store of girls?”, my son asks with curiosity.
“Ugh. Kind of”… I stumble, am confused, and suddenly shocked.
“Can we play with them?”, he quizzes with sheer joy and innocence.
“No, not today” I respond. I feel flop sweat swarm over my entire body.
“Another day?” Jett adds, mimicking my usual sort of response.
“Sure. Another day”….you know…give or take 15 years.
And that my friends, is how I realized my son is reading, and motherhood can be a serious f#$%g minefield at any given moment.
I know it’s illegal to drink and drive, but that afternoon driving down Venice Boulevard, I certainly wanted to make an exception.
Wow! This is fascinating. Genius spot. This 60 second clip shows exactly why our (and by “our” I mean girls/women) perception of beauty is absurd (and impossible). As a publicist I spend so much time manipulating images. I know it’s all work, and I know that the image woman are shown of beauty is impossible and false but that doesn’t make it hurt any less when you are measuring yourself up. All women/girls should see this. Kudos to Dove.
Leading media training seminars for work and packing my bags to travel for a few days. Sweet son hugs me tights and whispers in my ear “I’m going to miss you so much. I’m going to think about you every day, all the time.” There is a pause and then he adds, “But sometimes I’m going to think about Spiderman.”
Sure, they say “one size fits all”…but really, it doesn’t.