Just what we need in our house…more audible farts.

With the holiday season in full swing and my children’s ridiculous list for Santa growing bigger and bigger everyday, I have found myself less interested in what they really want and instead, am choosing items off their list based on their ability to drive me, less crazy.

It’s selfish, I know, but as any parent who has been subjected to the sights and sounds of Switch and Go Dinos will attest, sometimes not granting their every wish, is what’s best for everyone.

Enter the Despicable Me Fart Blaster.

About a week ago, while shopping for a birthday gift at Toys R Us, we happened to come across this little gem and my 5 year old son has been infatuated with it ever since. He talks about it at least twice a day, and over the past few hours I have noticed that he has begun speaking as though it is already under the tree. He has carved out a space in his heart for it, and a shelf in his room despite the fact that Santa is still on the fence about it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to make my son’s dream of triggered farting come true, it’s just that I personally try to steer clear of that type of comedy (dick and fart jokes) and am having a hard time encouraging my son to engage in it.

I understand a love for bodily functions is perfectly normal in boys his age and am reminded of that fact every time he utters the words “Baby Booty Poopie Pie” when I ask him if he needs to use the bathroom, but just because it’s normal doesn’t mean I have to like it.

My fear is that if I give him the one thing that he wants this Christmas, I am once again, setting myself up for frustration and of course, failure.

So the question for today is: Is there such a thing as responsible Fart Gun use? Can I teach my 5 year old how and when to use it appropriately, or when you give a kid a Fart Gun are you essentially saying “Go…Be an asshole”?

2013

2014  –  A new year…a new Santa…an almost identical reaction.

Well done kids.

We came home from school wearing this and despite the fact that we were genuinely relieved by it’s message, we were left asking what the f@$k is going on in kindergarten that we needed to point out our drug free status?

We caught her in an intimate moment.

We let the kids decorate the tree and quickly realized that our height was somewhat limiting in terms of ornament placement.

We went to Bloomingdales where we discovered that it, has already begun. 

We found out that love, really is, blind.

We went to the La Brea Tar Pits and discovered that nestled in the crotch of a super casual brown bear, is the last place he wanted to be.

One of those moments that I find hard to enjoy.

As stated in my very first post, I began writing this blog as an outlet for my my queries, musings and sheer frustration with the parenting process. I decided to call it 5 to fifteen because my mother has always said that kids are at their best between those ages. She promised, in no uncertain terms, that it would get easier and now that my son is well into his fifth year you may be asking, was she right?

To that, I say…well, sort of.

All, is not necessarily, good in my hood, but it is much better. We certainly have more good days than bad, which I absolutely consider a win and over the past few months, I have noticed a slow but significant transition into a more independent, less manic young man, which pleases me to no end.

I admit, that for a while there, I did question if things would ever get easier and now I can say with the utmost of confidence that there is a light at the end of this tunnel. I have even found myself counting down the years until both of my kids are over five so that my husband and I can enjoy a little time off. An idea, which now that I think of it, just makes me sad.

I realize as I write this, that being a parent is an odd thing. We all chose to embark on this journey and yet we find ourselves at times, wanting to speed it up. While all of those parents who are on the other side urge us to “enjoy the little kid moments while you can, because you will miss them when they’re gone”, I’ve most likely locked myself in the bathroom and am reciting the serenity prayer. It’s a funny thing because the days can feel so long but looking back, the years seem to have gone by in an instant.

This blog has been my daily reminder of how trying the parenting process has been for me and at the same time has helped me to remember what a gift every tear, every tantrum and every moment really is.

So I guess the point of this is, yes, it does get easier and my mother is thankfully correct, but I think it’s best that I try not to focus on the future, as hard as that may be, and instead be in the moment.  And let’s be honest, my son is only 5 and a half, things could go downhill pretty quickly from here. There is still plenty of time to prove my mother wrong and discover that my pre-emptive purchase of www.thisparentingshitishardatanyage.com, was, and still is, a good investment.

The leftovers.

From the moment your children join the ranks of the educated, they will be, as you probably were, forced to participate in the yearly tradition of school portraits. As a result, you the parent will be asked to choose a photo package that will no doubt, be looked at by your children as an indication of just how much you love them. Or at least, that’s how I remember it.

When I was young I can recall, quite vividly, rushing home from school to deliver to my parents, the all mighty Picture Day order form. Back then, there were 6 packages, listed A through F.  A was considered the deluxe package and was the Rolls Royce of photo packages. It boasted several eight by tens, a handful of five by sevens and twenty four wallet size photos. TWENTY. F@$KING. FOUR.

At the other end of the spectrum was F, the basic package made up of one sad little five by seven and four wallet size photos. Package F was the Ford Fiesta of photo packages and of course, the one that my parents chose every single year.

Needless to say, Picture Day was not my favorite, as I could only assume that my parent’s feelings for me were lukewarm at best, and that my dream of making it rain with wallet size photos, was not to be.

So this year, when my son brought home his order form for the first time, you can bet your balls I chose the biggest baddest package Lifetouch Photos had to offer. It didn’t matter how much it cost, so long as it screamed “Mommy loves you” while simultaneously sending a message of “F-U” to my withholding parents.

Of course, I realize now, as I sit here with 36 wallet size photos of my son that will absolutely go undistributed, that my parents weren’t actually being cruel or withholding, they just weren’t being excessive. The reality was that I was their third child and the fifth grandchild on both sides. No one wanted a portrait of me and my parents weren’t going to overbuy to prove anything to anyone. It was nothing personal, it was just good sense.

As it turns out, overcompensation is kind of a theme here in my house as both my husband and I find ourselves giving to our children all sorts of things (material and otherwise) based on some skewed memory from our childhood. The situation with the school pictures has reminded me that making a concerted effort to not put your weird shit on your kids is probably a step in the right direction in terms of raising well behaved, balanced, non-assholes.

Having said that, I know that next year I will not make the same mistake. I will have the good sense to choose a photo package based on the number of pictures I actually need and as a result, won’t be forced to give away five by sevens as parting gifts to our Thanksgiving guests.

In the meantime however, I would like to mention that the first 36 people to share this blog will receive an adorable wallet size picture of my son, courtesy of Lifetouch Photos and of course, my own stupidity.

A transcript from an actual conversation yesterday:

Nate:     Mommy, remember when Olivia was coming out of your…

Me:        Here we go…

Nate:     NO! Remember when Olivia was being born…?

Me:        Yes.

Nate:     Remember when I was sitting on the couch and Papa came in and said “Nate the baby is here!”

Me:        Yeah buddy I do.

(unusually long pause)

Nate:    Was that couch a sectional?

Me:        Huh?

(condescendingly) 

Nate:     Was…that…couch…a…sectional?

Me:        Uh..no, I think it was a pullout.

(long pause)

(returns to playing Lego)

Me:        Good chat Nate.

Look forward to more insight courtesy of my children coming soon.

You can’t go back.

Just this past weekend, I half jokingly said to my husband that I would “kill for a cold” because then, I would have an excuse to spend the day in bed.

I wasn’t looking for anything too severe, no strep or stomach flu, just a little something to justify eating my lunch in bed and watching t.v. all day.

Of course two days later, when I woke up with a sore throat and fever, I knew the universe had heard my call and granted my request.

Good news right?

Wrong.

What I neglected to realize was that as a stay-at-home mom, being sick changes nothing. In addition to a million other things, I still had to walk my son to school, do laundry, serve meals and play, it just meant that I felt like shit while doing so.

What I realize now, is that my fantasy was not just to be sick, but to be sick in my mother’s house, under her care and back when I was seven. If I would have been more specific in my wish, perhaps I would have spent the day watching Muppet Babies while being served root beer floats and jello instead of popping pills and counting down the agonizing minutes until my kids went to bed.

I learned today that despite my best efforts, there is no going back. I am a mother now and as such, must suck it up in order to keep the little people  I birthed, happy and alive. I must also come to grips with the idea that my children will not cease to need me just because Mommy is sick and instead, accept the fact that no matter how swollen my glands are, they will still want to know when their goddamn chicken nuggets are ready.

So here is to another day of motherhood and mucus. Wish me luck and pray that the rest of them don’t get what I have, otherwise prepare yourself for a series of blogs documenting my slow but painful journey into madness.

Wise beyond her years.

A transcript from an actual conversation yesterday.

Olivia:     Mommy?

Me:          Yes?

Olivia:     Mommy?

Me:          Yes?

Olivia:     Mommy?

Me:          Yes?

Olivia:     Mommy?

Me:          Yes?

Olivia:     Mommy?

Me:          Yes!?!

Olivia:     Nose.

Me:          You win Olivia.  You win.

Look forward to more insight courtesy of my children coming soon.

As a serial yoga pant wearer, I could not agree more.

I am not afraid to admit, and my husband will attest to the fact, that as of late, my relationship with my lululemon’s has become somewhat toxic. Despite the fact that they have literally been there for me through thick and thin and have made my life exponentially more cozy with their delicate blend of nylon and Lycra, they have also become my lazy mom uniform.

I do not wear them all day, everyday because I am in a perpetual state of cardiovascular activity, I wear them all day, everyday because they are easy and require minimal energy to get into.  Something that I cannot always say about my jeans. 

My yoga pants never ask me to button or zip them, they don’t require dry cleaning or fancy detergents and they go with everything including, but not limited to: flip flops, sweatshirts and unwashed hair.  As a stay-at-home mom, I have found no other item of clothing that gives so much and asks so little in return and that of course, is the problem.

Yoga pants worn by people like me, who don’t do yoga, has essentially created a culture of women who are choosing comfort over style which, in the long run, does us nothing but a disservice.  The truth is, every morning when I throw my hair in a bun and slip into my lululemons I don’t feel energized to take on the day the way a yogi does, I just feel lazy and that feeling stays with me until I slip into my pajama pants every night.

Over the past five years I have managed to convince myself that having style is no longer an option because, as a mom and apparently a martyr, I do not have time for anything but my children. Yes, I am busy taking care of the needs of others but not so much so that I can’t run a comb through my hair or god forbid, throw on a dress once in a while.

At this point, my yoga pants have become that shitty boyfriend that all of my friends hate, but who I keep dating because we’ve been together since college and our relationship is comfortable.

I realize now, that as much as I may think I love my yoga pants, it’s time to take a break, so that I can figure out who I am without them.

It pains me to say it, but I know now what I must do…

Done.

Goodbye Lover.

Seriously? Who has time for this shit?

Whilst trolling the internet over the past few weeks, I have become painfully aware that when it comes to all things Halloween, I am definitely failing as a mother. The number of Facebook posts, Tweets and Pinterest pins of adorable Halloween ideas for kids is astonishing and my having no part in any of it, prompts me to ask the question “who has time for this shit?”

Just yesterday, one of my favorite blogs, Red Tricycle featured an article entitled:  Adorable Lunch Ideas for Halloween and to be honest, it made me want to blow my brains out. Not because it didn’t feature the cutest little spooky lunch ideas I had ever seen, but because that very morning I had struggled to make my son a regular old bagel with cream cheese for his, very un-spooky lunch.  This post, (as seen in the photo courtesy of redtri.com) actually suggested making mini coffins out of pumpernickel bread and a Frankenstein head out of kiwi, two things you will never find in my kitchen.

The person who created this, and the four other Adorable Lunch Ideas for Halloween, must know that being the parent of a child who is in their target demographic, means that you have just enough time to read the instructions, but never enough time, or patience for that matter, to actually make said craft/baking/costume etc.

I can only assume that posts like this are intended to serve as a kind of porn for parents. You know the kind of activities that we fantasize about doing with our kids but will never actually do.  Instead we watch other people do it by means of step by step photos and “how to” videos, which in a very odd way, allow us to metaphorically get off.  Why just the other day when I came across a post for a very cool skull pumpkin design, I sat there for a good ten minutes looking at the pictures and imagined creating it with my kids, and just like that, I was done.  I was satisfied with the work that I put into it and understood that this particular activity, was not for me to pursue any further.

This is not to say that there isn’t anyone out there that will ever make the Adorable Lunch Ideas for Halloween or the cool skull pumpkin. A handful of superior parents will. It’s just that, as with real porn, despite the fact that the majority of the population will never do what they see on the screen they are, none-the-less, fulfilled by watching others who do it better, do all of the work.

So tomorrow, instead of looking up how to make spooky spaghetti or mummy crackers for my son’s lunch, I am going to remind myself that I am not that kind of mom and instead just write the word “Boo!” on the outside of his brown paper bag.  And if that doesn’t scare him, the smell from the tuna fish sandwich made with the questionable mayo certainly should do the trick.