Category Archives: Parenting

A Review of my 7-year-old’s Nail Salon

Posted on March 7, 2024 | 4 comments

Located in an up-and-coming section of uptown Dining Room, My Daughter’s Nail Salon is a small, locally-owned business that opened seven minutes ago. It’s a new venture for owner Esmerelda Sparkles, who recently decided to expand her burgeoning beauty empire. Working with an untied shoestring budget, the salon prefers to drum up business the old fashioned way: By word of mouth. 

“Would you like me to paint your nails?” she asked as I walked by. 

“You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?” I asked in return.

“I was your hairstylist a while back. Remember? Back when I was a hairstylist?”

“Oh right. It’s all coming screaming back to me now.”

I had previously met Esmerelda one bright and extremely painful afternoon when she opened My Daughter’s Hair Salon in downtown Living Room and gave me what she referred to as a “blow-up.” 

“So, can I do your nails?” she asked again, pulling me out of my trauma-induced haze. 

It was with no small amount of trepidation that I agreed. But seeing as how I’m always willing to help out an ambitious female entrepreneur, I reluctantly sat down and settled onto the proffered upturned five gallon bucket. 

“I can also do your hair after I’m done with your nails,” she added, a hint of hope in her voice.

“NO!” I exclaimed, subconsciously reaching for my bald spot. “I mean, you did such a good job the last time, I don’t think I need my hair styled…ever again.” 

As she arranged the bottles on the badly scarred IKEA end table she had laboriously dragged over for the occasion, she mentioned to me that she was also a mother. 

“How did you know I’m a mother?” I asked. 

“You’re not wearing any makeup,” she replied. “I’ve got 10 kids myself. How many do you have?”

“Two.”

“Two? Wow. That must be easy.”

“It often feels like a lot more.”

Esmerelda gave me a sympathetic smile and took a hard look at my nails. 

“These are in really bad shape,” she told me. 

If there is one thing you can say about My Daughter’s Nail Salon, it’s that the business lives and dies by the motto “honesty is the best policy.”

“I do a lot of housework,” I replied sheepishly. 

“No, you don’t,” she said. 

Some might say brutal honesty. 

Esmerelda gestured to the wide range of nail polish she had set up on the table. 

“What color would you like?”

“Is that my good Chanel polish?” 

“No. So, which color?”

I pointed to a dark red that looked suspiciously like one I had owned very recently. 

“How about this one?” I said.  

“Hmm. Nevermind. I’m just going to do every nail a different color.”

As I watched a line of sparkly pink flirt dangerously with the second knuckle of my pointer finger, I asked Esmerelda what made her decide to get into nail art. 

“Well, I can’t get anyone to let me do their hair anymore so I thought I’d try this. I’m so good at it too!” she said as a swath of pale blue appeared on three-quarters of my middle finger. 

“Should we lay down some newspaper?” I asked with gritted teeth, unable to look away from the precariously tipped bottle of polish in her hand.

“Oh no. I hardly ever spill.”

While Esmerelda’s bold, unconventional style might not be for everyone, I did admire how she didn’t let little things such as the natural lines of the nail interfere with her artistic vision. As she bathed my ring finger in metallic green, which juxtaposed nicely with the vibrant orange that took up most of the real estate of my pinkie and a shade simply called Sequins! on the top half of my thumb, I mentioned to Esmerelda that I felt this might be a better fit for her than her previous occupation. 

She sighed dramatically before staring off into the middle distance. 

“Yes, but doing hair is my real passion.” 

She then asked me for eighty hundred dollars. Luckily for me, she was having a sale apparently. 

“Wait, what about my other hand?” I asked with a mix of confusion and pre-emptive relief.

“Eh. I’m bored now. Are you sure I can’t do your hair?” she asked as I got up to leave. 

“Oh, I’m sure! All the sure. But you know who I bet would love to get their hair styled?” I replied as I caught the panicked eye of my husband walking by. “That gentleman. And if you start running now, I bet you can catch him.”

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Posted in Beauty, Family, funny, Humor, Parenting

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A birthing story worthy of Hollywood

Posted on February 17, 2024 | 1 comment

My son, my baby boy, is turning 10 tomorrow. Hitting the double digits. It’s a big milestone and not just because this means puberty is lurking dangerously on the horizon, ready to attack and destroy our lives as we know it. Time, that mean ‘ol fickle thing, is moving much too fast. 

It’s enough to make one nostalgic. To think back on how this all started, on how he came into this world. 

It was just like you see in the movies…

****flashback wavy lines flashback wavy lines flashback wavy lines****

It was the middle of the night. I burst through the bedroom door suddenly, breathing hard. 

“Honey! It’s time!” I yelled. 

My husband woke up in a panic before glancing at the time, groaning, and rolling back over. 

“Calm down,” came his muffled reply from underneath the blankets. “You aren’t set to be induced for another five hours.”

“This baby is a week late. Get up so we can get this little bastard out of me.”

“Technically he’s not a bastard.”

“I will eat you,” I growled. “Now, get the hell up and let’s go.”

He drove like a madman. All the way out of the driveway and around the corner before we immediately hit Greater Boston traffic. As we sped along at 5mph, I winced and let out a little groan. He grabbed my hand.

“Are you ok?” he asked, concerned.

“Yeah, I just really have to fart.”

“Again?” he asked, now extremely concerned. 

“Yup.”

He frantically rolled down the window. 

An aromatic 30 minutes later, we finally arrived at the hospital. While my husband fell out of the car, gasping for air, I promptly walked up to the front desk, asking for my wheelchair. 

“Do you need a wheelchair, ma’am?” asked the very confused receptionist. 

“I mean, I thought it was included with the whole deal,” I said, gesturing to the planet I had under my shirt. “Gratis-like.”

“We don’t really do that anymore.”

Soon after WALKING to my hospital room and settling in, my doctor arrived and examined me. After soaking her hands in dry ice, of course, as is custom. 

“Still not dilated, I see. We’ll get you started on the pitocin,” she told me before rushing off to give some other poor woman freezer burn in her nethers. 

A few hours later, I felt my first tiny pang of a contraction. 

“GIMME THE DRUGS!” I roared, grabbing my husband by his lapels. 

“Is the pain bad already?” he asked, staring deeply into my eyes and brushing an errant hair gently off my forehead. 

“Oh no. But I’m doing this for all the women who had to give birth before epidurals were invented. I want to feel zero pain. For them. They would want it this way.”

A brusque man came in, followed by a pixie I was informed was a nurse. She was so slight I had a fairly legitimate concern she would get pulled into my rotund stomach’s gravitational pull, unable to escape. As he prepared the world’s largest needle, she told me to “lean your head into my chest and squeeze my hands when the pain hits.” I laughed and laughed and replied “I will break you,” in my best Dolph Lundgren voice.  

But then the pain hit. I gasped and squeezed as a needle penetrated where no needle had ever dared penetrate before. And suddenly Nurse Itty McLittle turned into pure steel. A tiny mountain made of diamond and graphene. She was like if Henry Cavill’s abs were a person.  

What followed next was a blur. Watching movies on my laptop. Complaining about being bored. Complaining about being hungry. Complaining about the movies I personally had picked out to watch.

Thirty-three hours later, I was still barely dilated. After wrestling away a plastic knife from me, the doctor, in her infinite wisdom, decided a cesarean might be in order. I emphatically agreed. As did my husband. As did the orderly I stabbed. 

I couldn’t see what happened during the actual procedure, courtesy of a lovely blue tarp placed directly against my chin. Which was for the best. Because while I did not feel any pain thanks to drugs I’m assuming were made out of unicorns and the souls of teacup piglets, I did feel a bunch of tugging and pulling and generally horrific rootin’ around. 

And then suddenly there he was. A raging red-haired angry ball of perfection. 

A few days later, I walked out of the hospital (casting a long, lingering glance at all the unused wheelchairs) and the three of us drove away. Slowly. And not just because of traffic this time (although also because of traffic this time).

We got him home. Set him down. I looked lovingly down into his face and he immediately started crying. I turned to the newly minted daddy beside me with panicked eyes and asked “now what?”

Now what indeed. A decade later I can confidently say I still ask that same question every day. In various tones and with a fun assortment of punctuation. 

And the answer has always been an adventure I can’t wait to continue (looming puberty notwithstanding). 

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Posted in Family, funny, Health, Humor, Parenting, Pregnancy, Women

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Mom, am I fat?

Posted on February 7, 2024 | Leave a comment

“Mom, am I fat?”

My body freezes while my distracted mind chokes and sputters into high gear. I knew this moment was coming but I didn’t think it’d come so soon. I look down at you, with your tutu and pirate eye patch, your sword in one hand, magic wand in the other. Your one visible and crystal clear eye looking back up at me. 

I stumble over all the things I’m supposed to say, hands still dripping with soapy water from the sink. Body positivity. All bodies are good bodies. This is how the body works; bones, ligaments, muscles. 

I quickly lose you and you kindly say “ok mama!” before skipping off to slay some princes and make the dragon your pet. 

But you, my little girl, deserve a better answer. 

So here it is. 

Are you fat? 

When you were born, I had no idea how much you weighed. I’m sure someone told me. I’m sure it’s written down somewhere. But I was too busy staring into your face to care. Even though it was so small, I couldn’t take it all in at once. Each tiny, perfectly sculpted detail had to be admired individually. A whole human being suddenly there, in arms that were empty just a moment before. I was in awe. I still am. 

Are you fat?

The first time you saw the ocean, you ran straight for it. On still wobbly legs. A force of nature meeting a force of nature. 

I took you to a rock climbing gym when you were three. You made it to the top of the wall before I even had both feet off the ground.  

Each night, you make us check for monsters in your room. One night, after checking yet again, I went to take off your socks and found a toy knife stuffed into one of them. Those monsters don’t stand a chance. 

Are you fat?

Some people don’t believe time travel exists. To that I say those people have never tried my grandma’s fudge. She made it every year at Christmas and it tasted like everything right in the world. She died before you were born but a few years ago, my aunt Joan sent me a batch of fudge she laboriously made using the same recipe. Suddenly I was right back there, in my grandma’s living room on Christmas Eve, surrounded by family, everything loud, chaotic, bright. Happy. 

It was one of the best gifts I ever received. 

Are you fat? 

Speaking of food, the three best meals I’ve ever had are, in no particular order: 

An authentic Irish breakfast at a tiny table outside a tiny cafe in Dublin two years ago

Fried chicken and warm bread from some small, nameless place in Panama when I was 16

Cold leftovers from our wedding dinner at midnight, eaten in bed with my new husband

I don’t know if the food was actually that good. But the memories they are connected to are priceless. 

Are you fat? 

There will come a day when your heart will break. It’s not just a saying. When it happens you will feel it actually break. Your hands will go to your chest as you try to catch the pieces until you look down and realize you can’t. 

There will also come a day when that same heart will swell with joy until you are certain it will burst. You cannot believe how much a heart can hold until this moment. You will bring your hands to your chest again, so as to make sure you can catch it should your body be unable to contain its power.  

This is what it means to be alive. So far, in my experience, it’s all been worth it. 

But are you fat? 

By now you’re probably wondering why I’m refusing to answer this question. Or perhaps you’re beginning to suspect I don’t understand what you’re asking. 

But I know this question. I know this question intimately. And I refuse to let another one of us fall victim to it. I refuse to watch as yet someone else allows herself to get so hungry that the salt from her tears tastes delicious. 

When I die this question dies with me. I will drag it, screaming and raging, to my grave, clutching it tightly to my decomposing body until I am finally the bones it always told me to be. Bones that are now a cage of its own making. 

And you. You, my beautiful summer-scented tangled freckly wilding daughter, will never have to waste a moment of your big, beautiful life with it haunting you. 

Are you fat? 

We aren’t asking that question anymore. Are you kind? Are you adventurous? Do you feel loved? Safe? What are you capable of? What do you want? Are you afraid but doing the damn thing anyway? These are questions that are worthy of you. 

The only thing I want you to worry about is if you are full. Full of life, full of laughter, full of joy, full of experience, full of wonder. And yes, full of mouthwatering, flavorful, fragrant food. You deserve nourishment in every form. Let me say that again because you’ll forget. So many of us forget, myself included. 

You deserve nourishment in every form. 

So, are you fat?

There are few titles more powerful than that of cycle-breaker. That’s us. You and me. It ends with us. The only thing you have to be in this world is yourself. Unabridged. Unabashed. Unencumbered. 

In a world that makes you ask if you are fat, defy them all and simply be overflowing with everything you are. 

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Twas the Night Before Christmas: Parent Edition

Posted on December 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring…

…except for the children they had put to bed AN HOUR AGO

“I said go to sleep before I throw your presents OUT THE WINDOW!”

The stockings were hung by standing on a wobbly chair 

In the hopes that vertigo would not appear

The children were defiant, still not snug in their beds

“Yes, I see you, so help me I’ll throw a damned sugarplum at your head!”

And Mama in her sweatpants, fully done with everyone’s crap

Had just settled in with her very full nightcap 

When from out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter

Her dreams of a relaxing moment now utterly shattered

And what to her bleary eyes should appear 

But Daddy with the toolkit and an equally full beer

As he pulled out a screwdriver, her eye began to tic

She knew in a moment the rest would be no picnic

Oh dammit, oh bullshit, oh bloody stupid hell

“Oh come on, are you kidding me, I’mma need more zinfandel!”

So many toys that had to be assembled 

Their only comfort dark fantasies of elves being dismembered

So up until midnight the parents they toiled

Muttering to themselves about their offspring being too spoiled 

At one point poor dad had to pull ‘ol mom off the roof

Before handing her an eggnog that was 50 percent proof. 

Her bosom it shook like a bowlful of jelly

Filled as it was with rage and pork belly 

His face went all red, like an over-ripe cherry

That vein in his forehead throbbing until it was scary

They spoke not another word but went straight back to work

The nerves in their back and knees going completely berserk  

As the night wore on, the existential growing in their dread 

Their sanity began hanging on by a very thin thread 

By 3 a.m. they had finally reached their limit 

Not to mention they were out of the much needed liquid spirit

But the children they heard them, ‘ere they stumbled out of sight

“Happy Christmas to all and to all screw this shite!” 

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Family Fight Night II: Hardcore Holiday Havoc

Posted on November 22, 2023 | Leave a comment

Hello and welcome to another epic battle here on Family Fight Night! And what a historical evening it’s shaping up to be. We’re your announcers for the evening, Stan Boomvoice and Tucker McThundercords. 

Historical is right, Stan. If you remember our last brawl, Mom and Dad came out on top with their expertly executed tag-team move, Just Desserts Means No Desserts, but tonight we’ve got the perfect storm brewing. It’s the holiday season and you know what that means.

Big Feelings, Tucker. Big Feelings all around. 

Right you are, Stan. It’s anyone’s fight tonight. I mean, just look at this lineup! You’ve got the Fourth Grader Dictator, the eldest with the edicts, who’s been dealing with fractions AND infractions all year long. Then there’s Little Sister Savage, that baby beast in baby pink, who is going through a fierce independent streak right now. And to top it off, here comes Daddy, the Big Bad Bacon Bringer himself, just coming off an excruciating three weeks of overtime. 

He can bring home the bacon but can he bring the pain? And let’s not forget the Matriarch of the Madhouse, Tucker. She’s taken on the full brunt of the domestic duties these past three weeks while also elbow deep in holiday prep and you can tell she’s starting to feel the effects. 

Elbow deep is right, Stan. Just ask the Thanksgiving turkey. Stress levels are at an all-time high on the whole, but particularly for Mumsy Mayhem today.

Just don’t let her hear you call her that, Tucker. Or she’ll be elbow deep in you.

Ha ha! She truly is terrifying, Stan. And speaking of Mommy Dearest, here she comes, straight outta the kitchen, wielding a ladle and lecture!

And we’re off! She’s coming out strong with the Why Is No One Helping Guilt Trip. What a power move! And it looks like it’s working. The kids are already looking to Daddy for help. What do you think is the right defense here, Tucker?

He could always try the Sincere Apology or the ever popular Play Dumb Gambit. But no! He’s going with The Gentle Reminder, telling her that not even 20 minutes ago she kicked them all out of the kitchen because they were getting in her way. Talk about risky, Stan!

Risky indeed. If it doesn’t diffuse the situation it’s bound to act as a powderkeg. And I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! He got away with it! Receiving only a Glare-and-Growl from the Matriarch. They don’t call him The Stable Stallion for nothing, Tucker.

If you can’t stand the heat, get back into the kitchen! But this Proactive Progenitor isn’t off the hook yet, Stan. It appears a Sibling Skirmish has broken out, resulting in a full-on Remote Control Rough And Tumble. Oh, the humanity! 

I’m not surprised, Tucker. The rivalry between them has been simmering harder than mom’s gravy ever since this morning. The dynamics of The Dynamite Duo have changed over the past few months and it looks like The Sassy Lassie is ready to light a match! She is straight up dropping taunts like they’re baby teeth. 

Brother Bash isn’t liking that. Stan. 

No he is not, Tucker. Oh! They are really going at it! There’s a lot of moves Dad can pull here but remember, it’s a holiday, so it’s highly likely both Grounding and Go To Your Rooms are off the table. 

Do you think he can expect an assist from Mom here, Stan? 

Unlikely. She’s too busy whipping potatoes to whip some ass right now, Tucker. 

And would you look at that! It appears Papa Penalty has had enough after several failed Compromise Attempts and is coming in hot with the You Know What!? followed by the Power Off Flex. There’ll be retribution for this, for sure, Stan.

Oh, I can almost guarantee it, Tucker. And there it is! The Shrieks of Self-Righteousness. In stereo, no less! Oof! That’s gotta hurt. He’s getting it from all sides. 

But wait! What’s this? Saved by the dinner bell! Unbelievable!  

And just in time too! I don’t know how much longer Dad would have been able to hold out. But the kids aren’t done with him yet, Tucker. Looks like they’re teaming up to pull a Sulk & Pout at the table.

It’s a clever maneuver, Stan. Mom isn’t going to want to deal with that now that she’s finally got a chance to sit down. They’re likely hoping she’ll take their side and put the blame fully on Dad. 

Any other night it might have worked but the Sibling Squad forgot to factor in Mama’s Holiday Pour. 

Yes, they did. She’s three glasses of wine in already and using the Big Glass, Stan. She’s ignoring the whole dramatic display! Which can’t be easy, considering she cooked for 16 hours only to watch her kids eat rolls and mac-and-cheese while scowling. 

But these Chaos Kiddos refuse to give up. The Fun-Sized Femme Fatale is going straight into Fake Tears while The Son of Slam immediately goes on the defensive with his favorite go-to move, She Started It. Mom easily deflects it with I Don’t Care, I’m Ending It.

Sensing an opportunity and looking to gain favor, The Mischievous Maven switches effortlessly from Fake Tears to Full-On Fawning, giving Mom a gentle chokehold.

I believe that’s called a hug, Tucker. Oh-ho, but it appears there’s an ulterior motive! A Very Pointed Smirk thrown directly her brother’s way and behind Mom’s back! This Disney princess must have a death wish.

But what’s this! From out of nowhere! An Illegal Roll Throw from across the table! Hitting his sister right in the kisser! It’s well known that he doesn’t like to lose and he’s willing to risk it all to prove it. And here comes Mom, flying off the ropes with the expletives! It looks like The Mental Load Carrier has finally gone mental! Oh, I tell you, Stan, I’ve never seen the vein in Mom’s forehead throbbing this hard before.

Looks like in an act of desperation, her current opponent has decided to double down with The No One Understands Me Storm Off! We haven’t seen this move since Tuesday’s spaghetti night, Tucker. 

Mama certainly does not look happy. And if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy and she is willing to throw hands to make it happen. But what’s this now? Hold up! The unthinkable has happened! It looks like Mom is waving the white flag, using the only weapon left in her arsenal, The Tears Of The Unappreciated. 

And just look at that! Talk about an emotional gusher! Actual Crocodile Tears! And at her age, still able to do it! One has to wonder, Tucker, where is Daddy in all of this? 

Regardless, it looks like it’s working, Stan. Both kids are executing a perfect Head Hung In Shame followed by a Mumbled But Still Fairly Sincere Apology. We haven’t seen this kind of turnaround since her Disastrous Birthday Dinner of 2020. 

It’s not over yet, Tucker. Because here comes Dad, from his mysterious doings in the kitchen, walking in with the rarely used I’ve Got Something Hidden Behind My Back Gimmick. Whatever it is, it better be good. Things are looking pretty bleak. 

He’s starting with a powerful left swing and it’s…a cheesecake! With cherries AND a chocolate crust! Good start, good start, but Mom is still giving her Fake But I Appreciate The Effort Smile. Yet to be deterred, he’s now swinging in hard with the right, revealing …Another Bottle Of Wine! 

OH! I think I might go blind from that pearly-white-from-ear-to-ear grin Mom just whipped out of nowhere! And can you believe it, the children are actually applauding!

It is quite the anti-climatic ending, Stan, but a heartwarming one nonetheless. 

Looks like everyone’s a winner here tonight, Tucker. That is until the Who Has To Help Clean Up Fracas that is looming, but unfortunately that’s all the time we have. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 

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Posted in cooking, Family, Food, funny, Holidays, Humor, Marriage, Parenting, Sports

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An offer letter to that creepy and obviously haunted house for sale

Posted on October 31, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dear owners of the sweet, dilapidated Victorian house that is clearly haunted,

My name is Aprill and my husband and I have been searching for the perfect home for our growing family for years. In fact, at this point, we are searching for anything with a roof that isn’t being sold for half a million dollars. So when we saw yours listed for significantly below market price, we instantly fell in love. We think it’s the perfect price to slide ever deeper into crippling debt. But with your beautiful decrepit home, it will be slightly less crippling debt and a great space to make amazing memories with our two beautiful children and adorable little puppy. 

I mean, a 5,000 square foot crumbling house with seven bedrooms, four bathrooms and a horrific past? Not to mention the six acres, complete with its own pet cemetery and a spooky well? Dream. Come. True. At least in this housing market. Even with the clearly haunted aspects. 

Poltergeist? No problem. I already wake up nightly to small, heavy breathing, terrifying presences standing right by my bed, demanding water and another bedtime story. 

Strange banging sounds and an evil spirit yelling “GET OUT” at all hours? Not an issue. We currently live on the second floor of a triple decker and our downstairs neighbors hate us. Like, HATE US. They are always banging on the ceiling when we dare so much as to sneeze and are constantly trying to get us evicted. So we will feel right at home. 

Blood coming from the walls? Good with it. My dog once had diarrhea on the couch. And my bed. And the stairs, because they are the only carpeted part of the house. Also, ever since I hit my 40’s, my periods are straight up like that elevator scene from “The Shining” so I am far from squeamish. 

There was a murder? A suicide? A murder-suicide? Cool. Cool cool cool. I’ve been sharing one bathroom with my husband and children for a decade now. Trust me, nothing is more ghastly than what I have faced walking into that space on the daily. 

Oh, an old gross ghost lady always hanging out in the bathtub, you say? As long as she lets me poop in peace, it’s fine by me. 

Demonic possession? Have fun dealing with my chronic anxiety and insomnia, my dark friend. Plus, I once had a child projectile vomit mashed potatoes all over me and the kitchen table, so no biggie. Besides, my kids are 7 and 9 right now, and we are staring down puberty, just right over there on the horizon. That’s when I’ll really need an exorcism, am I right? 

Look, it’s pretty hard to scare me at this point. And nothing is scarier than this ridiculous housing market. My expectations could not possibly get lower, which is why I can already see myself hanging out on your tumbledown wraparound porch, sharing a coffee with my new poltergeist bestie. The two of us happily watching while my dog frolics with the reanimated cat corpses, and my son plays chase with the spooky girl who comes up out of the well, and my daughter is busy whispering murderous secrets with the creepy Victorian doll she found up in the attic. 

Now I know, even with the steep discount, your home is still a bit out of our price range, because our ideal price range is zero. But we just had to take a chance on an offer because it’s everything we’ve ever wanted in a home. Or at least everything we are willing to put up with in a home in these dystopian times. 

And I know you probably already have many other offers because the world has gone insane, but I assure you my family and I will go out of our way to make every horrific entity that lives in your house feel right at home. 

Thank you so much for your time and consideration. And please tell Bathtub Granny I said hello. 

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The Post-Summer Pre-Back-to-School Domestication Process for Children Who Have Gone Feral

Posted on August 24, 2023 | Leave a comment

Good morning, small humans! I know, it IS really early. So I hope you all had a long, restful sleep. Just kidding. I know you were up playing in your rooms until midnight despite repeated and increasingly explicit warnings to go to bed. But that all ends now. School starts in less than a week and the time has come to reintroduce you to proper society. Which has super fun things such as rules and schedules!

Which brings us to our first lesson. Allow me to introduce you to Clock. This is your god now, children. And it is a cruel god. When it says jump out of bed, you say how high. When it says it’s time to go, it does not mean 45 minutes from now. 

No, no. We do not hiss at Clock. Nice Clock. Pretty Clock. Clock controls all now. You will obey Clock. 

Next item up, pants. P-A-N-T-S. Say it with me, kids. PAAAAANTS. They go on your lower body. Along with underwear. And not underwear from three days ago that you picked up off your floor and turned inside out and therefore are declared “still good.” No, clean underwear. From a drawer. Say it with me now. DRAAAAAAWER. 

OK, can anyone tell me what these things are? Ah-ah! Stop. Drop it. I said drop it. Just look. Now sit. Good children. These are typical breakfast foods. Bagels, eggs, fresh fruit, cereals not prominently featuring marshmallows. Every morning you will choose one or more of these items and eat it at the actual table. No more root beer and Cheez-Its eaten in your blanket fort while playing Minecraft.

Whoa! And no more of THAT language, thankyouverymuch.

Speaking of which, where does cursing belong? That’s correct! In the #$%&*@! home. Not in the classroom. I do not want a repeat of the 2018 Preschool F Bomb Blitz. And the 2020 Remote Learning Shit Show. And last year’s But A Bitch Is A Female Dog Fiasco. 

Alright, moving on. Pop quiz, kiddos! How often should one take a bath? Yes, with soap. AND shampoo. Yes, they are different. So, how often? Um…good guess but no. Also ew. The correct answer is every day.  And then after our bath we…are you kidding me? Stop gnawing on that! Give it here! After bath we brush our hair with this hairbrush. What do you mean why? Yesterday a bird tried to nest in yours. 

Who can tell me what shoes are? Anyone? Anyone? OK, we’ll come back to that one. 

Now this should be an easy one. Do you remember this object? This is called a book. It’s just like your tablets but without videos or games or music. No, stop swiping at it. You open it. See? And then you read the words…stop swiping it, it doesn’t work like that. You read the words…poking it doesn’t work either! …and then you can see the story inside your head! Pretty cool, huh? OH MY GOD, STOP TRYING TO SWIPE THE PAGE. 

Hoo boy. Well, I’m just going to assume you aren’t ready for pencils again either. Can you stretch your hands out yet or are they still molded in the shape of the Nintendo Switch controllers? Oof. Remind me to call your pediatrician. 

Let’s circle back to shoes. Ring any bells yet? No?

OK then, let’s discuss possibly the most important lesson: Appropriate topics for what we did this summer. When people ask you, you can tell them all about the beach trip we took last week, or how we got a new puppy this summer, or that fun outing to the science museum. What you should NOT bring up is that time the plumber came to fix our bathroom and we all had to pee in a bucket your father affectionately nicknamed The Chamberpot. Or when the TV broke and the little one somehow got ahold of a knife and threatened to go back into my womb until she could watch Bluey again. Agreed, I never should have explained to her what a C-section is. 

And please, please do not bring up that 3-hour traffic jam during our road trip to Canada where mommy threw a tantrum and you all learned a new and very naughty word. I never should have called all Canadians that. Yes, you are correct, they both start with the letter “c”. But I never should have said it. Look, it doesn’t matter what it means, all that matters is that you don’t repeat it. NO! DO NOT TURN IT INTO A SONG! STOP DANCING!

Oh god…

OK…

You know what? 

How does everyone feel about homeschooling? 

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An Ode to my Fellow Carriers of the Mental Load

Posted on June 1, 2023 | 1 comment

Two weeks and two days. That’s it. That’s all that stands between me and an entire golden-hued summer of memory-making freedom. The last day of school is so close now I can almost taste it and it tastes like cheap popsicles and the still drying glue on 14 comically large art projects handed to me in an awkward, sticky pile. 

The best part is we have an epic summer family road trip planned immediately after. We’re gonna pick them babies up from school, hurl them into the back of the van, burn those hazardous waste dumps they call backpacks in a ceremonial fire and then BAM! We are hitting the road for two and a half weeks, starting from our home in Boston and heading west, halfway across this majestic country of ours. 

All that’s left to do is a mere few small minor end-of-the-school-year tasks. Volunteering at Cultural Heritage Night, chaperoning a field trip, attending the PTA meeting, creating a Galileo costume, making something for the Family Breakfast event, meeting to discuss a possible IEP for next year, attending the ice cream fundraiser, buying the teacher gifts and finding and returning all the books from the school library that are currently missing, which I’ve just been informed number in the lower double digits. 

And then BOOM! The best summer ever can begin! Did I tell you the first stop of our road trip is Ontario, Canada? I found this quaint little resort right on the shores of a crystal clear lake. There’s even a fire pit. It’s exactly what we need after a long school year. And once I find our passports, swim shoes, floaties, water guns, water gun bucket, beach towels and goggles, and buy everyone new swimsuits and those swimming kickboards the kids requested and a vat of super strong sunscreen and bug spray for the inevitably friendly but nonetheless still very much there Canadian bugs, we are good to go! Oh, and firewood and starter logs for the firepit. Which I can pick up when I buy the store-bought muffins for the Family Breakfast because, let’s be honest, I was never going to really make something from scratch anyway. All of which I can do right after downloading the ArriveCAN app that makes crossing the border easier and then filling out all the required information. 

And then. BADA BING, baby. It is Relax City. 

And after Canada, it’s off to Ohio to visit my family. And let me tell you, I cannot wait. So many people to see, so many things to do! People and things I have missed so much. And after a quick two dozen emails back and forth and roughly 67 text threads and ten or so group chats to try and coordinate everyone’s schedules so we can squeeze a month’s worth of visits into 72 hours, we are all set. BADA BOOM. Simple. Barely even worth mentioning. 

Next up is Kansas, off to see Grandma and Pop-pop and the rest of the in-laws. It’s going to be a beautiful drive straight through the heartland. Albeit a long drive. But as soon as I find the best routes and coordinate drive times with hotel pool times to make sure the kids can swim before they close and gather all the confirmation emails and map out good places for potty breaks and buy more children’s dramamine and allergy meds and gather together activity kits for the kids to do in the van, I can focus on what really matters and that’s spending time together with family. 

And, I mean, just think of the wonderful memories we’re going to make. The kids will remember this trip forever. I’m not the kind of person to use the word “magical” to describe things, but I think this trip might come pretty close. 

And it’s all almost within my grasp. 

So yeah, all that’s really left to do now is a few small housekeeping items (including actual housekeeping) and sending out the rent check, prepaying all the bills, putting the mail and newspaper on hold, rescheduling the occupational therapist appointments, canceling the regular therapist appointments, moving the dentist appointment, attending that Zoom meeting next Wednesday, following up with the doctor, going to the block party, juggling three playdates, buying a gift and attending that birthday party we were invited to, finishing up that freelancing gig, sending out the W9 form, making an appearance at the end-of-the-year Girl Scout event, and WHOOSH! Off we go on our adventure. Yup, just gotta do all the laundry, pack, have the kids pack, repack everything they packed, get the van to the mechanic for a checkup, check the bank account, buy all my daughter’s birthday gifts and pre-plan her party since we don’t get home until the day before her birthday, get road snacks everyone will actually eat, buy more hand sanitizer, get more Tylenol and Ibuprofen in case anyone gets sick while we’re gone, pick up more shampoo and conditioner, respond back to the flurry of last minute emails sitting in my inbox, let the board of directors know I can’t make next month’s meeting…

And for all of you out there who have made it this far because you can relate on some level to this madness, just know I see you. And I salute you. With this wine I am drinking straight out of the bottle because I cannot stand the idea of doing one more thing, namely the handwashing of a wine glass because the dishwasher always breaks them. 

Here’s to all the carriers of the mental load. 

And to the best summer ever. 

Eventually. 

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Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting, Travel, Vacation, Women

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A Love Letter to my Husband on our 13th Wedding Anniversary

Posted on March 1, 2023 | Leave a comment

Dearest husband, 

Where do I even begin? Where does one start with a love like ours? After 13 years of marriage it’s still as strong as ever. When I look into your eyes I still see the…wait, wait, come sit on my other side, I slept weird last night and my neck won’t turn that way now. 

As I was saying, when I look into your eyes, I still see the eyes of the young man I married. 

And some crazy long eyebrow hairs. Wow, those really went to seed over the years, eh? Oh, that reminds me, did I tell you I found another hair on my chin the other day? Black as night. I feel like a lady dwarf. 

Where was I? Right. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t change a thing (that blowout fight we had about whether the Hulk is actually a hero notwithstanding). I still remember our wedding day as though it was yesterday. And I remember the hangover the following day even better. The sight of champagne still makes me want to die. Remember when I lost my shoe? Heh. 

Seriously though, you’ve made me a better person. I always replace the toilet paper roll now, ever since The Great Toilet Paper Roll Argument of 2012. You are such a patient and gentle and kind person. And let’s be honest, I can be a ridiculous creature from time to time, so it can’t always be easy…OK, you don’t need to nod quite so vigorously… 

We’ve been through so much together. Moving across the country, not once but twice. Traveling the world. That time I got bangs. 

We even survived a pandemic together. And through it all we’ve only grown closer. Especially now that you’re back in the office three days a week and I’m able to swallow my intense rage at your VERY LOUD ZOOM VOICE. “HEY CHRISTINA, LET’S CIRCLE BACK TO…” Oh yes, you are that loud. I’m not exaggerating, buddy. Not even a little. 

But most importantly, you’ve given me two beautiful children and for that I can never thank you enough. Remembering the smell of their tiny heads and their soft breathing against my chest and their little baby giggles brings me such joy and helps me slog through this new phase of their childhood filled with endless eye rolling and getting called “dude” multiple times a day. 

We’ve built a beautiful life together in our beautiful home. And even though we still have to rent that home because house prices skyrocketed the second we started looking to buy, the memories we’ve made here can never be evicted. That reminds me, did you remember to call the bank? Or was I supposed to do that? We should really get on that. And that first time home buyer program thingie. Hang on, I’m going to make a note in my planner. Oh! I’ll make it right beside the note that says “buy anniversary card and gift.” Sorry about that. But hey, check out this marriage related meme I found yesterday. Hang on, hang on, where is it? There it is. Check it out. Your cheaters are on top of your head, babe. I know! Funny right? 

Look, I know things are always crazy now with the kids and the activities and work schedules and play dates and speaking of which I completely spaced on scheduling one of those so we could go out. Dammit. 

Well, how about tonight I cook us a homemade dinner? Steak, perhaps? Oh crap, what time is it? Nevermind, it’s too late to defrost them. OK, how about I order us a home cooked meal? Yeah? What’s the name of that place you like? Oh god no, I hate that place. The other place. Yes, the one I love. That’s the one. I’ll order us a nice meal and even call the restaurant myself this time when they’re late with the order and it arrives cold again. Oh! I do have that board meeting tonight at 6 pm, I just remembered, and our youngest has science club after school and the kids need a bath but then, maybe when the kids go to bed we could…oh wait, I haven’t shaved. It’s been like two weeks. Kidding. It’s three. And I already put on my good sweatpants (for YOU, of course). Are you still working from home Friday? Maybe after I take the kids to school and run to Target for a razor (I think the last one committed suicide) we can finally celebrate physically (WINK). Yeah, oh yeah, check your meeting schedule first and get back to me. 

But you know what? It doesn’t matter how we celebrate. Or when. The point is we’re still in this together and still in love and I look forward to spending 37 minutes picking out something to watch tonight and then pausing it so we can get the one kid a glass of water and tell the other kid that we can talk about which dinosaurs would win a fight against a hoard of zombies tomorrow and then falling asleep within 10 minutes after that on the couch and then growling like a feral coyote at you when you wake me up to go to bed because every time I sleep on the couch my neck gets all wonky. 

Happy anniversary, my love. There is no one else I’d rather embrace the suck with than you.

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Airing our dirty dishes

Posted on February 16, 2023 | Leave a comment

It’s the tedium of the whole thing, is what it is. That’s what makes it so unbearable. Day after day after stupid dumb day. 

No. You know what? It’s the hopelessness. That’s it. That’s exactly it. The knowledge that no matter how much I do, there will always be more to do. More of the SAME to do. It will never end and someday they will find my body slumped over the sink, pruny hands still plunged deep into the dirty soapy water. 

And even THEN, it’s likely no one in my family will notice and still put a dirty dish on the counter beside my rotting corpse, casually waving the flies away from their face as they skip gaily out of the kitchen. 

I am living in a dystopian hellscape and it’s all because our dishwasher is broken. 

It has been exactly 11 calendar days since The Great Breakening and chaos is quickly descending. Already there is a new currency in my household; paper plates and plastic cups are more valuable than gold. I’m spreading peanut butter and jelly with my bare hands and drinking wine out of a Dixie cup. Dinner last night was just soup cans with a hole drilled in the top. One of my kids asked for a spoon and I just laughed and laughed as I handed them a biodegradable straw and the instruction to “suck fast before it disintegrates.”

This morning I actually asked my husband, “honey, do you think I could cook a whole chicken on a pile of disposable napkins instead of a roasting pan?”

And still, despite my efforts, the dishes, they come. Plates, pots, pans, cutlery, colanders, cups. OH THE NEVERENDING DIRTY CUPS. Prior to this I was under the assumption there were only four of us living here but based on the number of cups I clean every day, I have a baker’s dozen or so of other children and an additional spouse or three that I forgot about. 

You know, before this I had hopes. I had dreams. I had hands that weren’t wrinkled and withered like some sort of ancient cave dwelling swamp witch hag.  

But now… 

Oh now…

Now there is only me and the sponge and the tupperware permanently dyed orange from spaghetti no matter how much I scrub. Blobs of dried ketchup haunt my dreams. The sight of an abandoned spoon with half eaten peanut butter on it makes me burst into tears. 

Sometimes, to pass the time when I’m standing at the sink AGAIN, I stare out the window into the middle distance (the most dramatic of the distances to stare) and imagine that I am some beautiful and tragic 1950s housewife who will never reach her potential. Or I’m an Irish immigrant from the early 1900s who came here for a better life, only to find more dishes. Or even a medieval scullery maid who was forced into indentured servitude but longs for freedom. Freedom from an existence that is solely populated by other people’s dirty dishes.  

The thing is though, at least the 1950s housewife had a prescription for Valium that was washed down with a carton of cigarettes and the ability to kick her children outside for hours on end to help her cope. And in 1900, soda had cocaine in it. And medieval villagers got to start swilling mead at breakfast because the water would kill you.

See, that was their reward for doing dishes all day, every day. But now water is non-lethal, and our Coke is drugless, and cigarettes kill us, and apparently doctors these days don’t consider having a broken dishwasher a good enough reason to give me unlimited access to powerful pills. Not to mention, I can’t force my children to roam the streets until it gets dark, less because some nosy, terrible neighbor will call the cops on me for neglect than I am genuinely concerned my kids will actually do something illegal. 

So I’m stuck with drinking my weak ass wine from my Dixie cup while I slowly turn into a grizzled and hardened dishwasher from some greasy spoon diner. Seriously, a few days ago my daughter told me the fork I gave her was still dirty. I grabbed it and spit on it before drying it on my sweatpants and handed it back with a glare that would make flowers wilt. 

“Anything else look dirty to you?” I growled at her. 

“No ma’am,” she whispered. 

The good news is we should be getting a new dishwasher any day now. Once the plumber and the water heater guy figure out where that mystery water leak is coming from and how to stop it and if the entire kitchen wall needs to be torn out and rebuilt due to water damage from the burst pipe that happened during that recent cold snap. 

So…yeah…any day now…

*sounds of intense sobbing and slurping from a Dixie cup*

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