Tag Archives: bad mommy alert

Running Away

Did you ever consider running away when you were a child?

I thought I was the only one until I read this post by Matt Posky, talking about his failed attempts at running away (often thwarted by his mother’s playing along).

Running away.

When I was in kindergarten, I often wished I were adopted. (Let’s just say I have never had a warm, fuzzy relationship with my mother to begin with. Blogging made me dig deeper into my childhood memories and helped me come to realize this unfortunate fact of my life. More about that one day…) Later in elementary school, when the emotional bullying started, in addition to wondering about suicide, I thought about running away. A lot. Just so I did not have to go to school and face my tormentors. Fortunately for me, I was both lazy and weak therefore I never really did carry out the plan. I kept on putting my departure day off, for one excuse or another. Of course there were the usual rationalizations: Where would I go? How would I pay for anything? Where would I take a bath?

The thought of running away (and the failure to carry it out) continued into junior high. I could not remember why now, but I did remember vividly how I convinced myself to stay put week after week:

It was this television series. At that time, a TV station in Taiwan was finally allowed to show a television program from Hong Kong. It was an epic Wu Xia series; nothing like that has ever been show before. It was on every Sunday night. And it became a sensation overnight (with a reported rating of 70%+). When it was on, people rushed home to be in front of the TV and the streets were deserted. If you were unfortunate enough to be caught outside and needing a cab at that time? You were out of luck.

I too was swept up by the fever. I kept on putting off running away because I really wanted to see the ending of the story. Every Sunday the show ended with a dramatic cliff hanger. Will the hero choose this girl over that other girl? Frankly, that’s all I wanted to know: whom he ended up with.

There were 65 episodes…

I know I was projecting when I became alarmed at my youngest, Mr. Monk’s obsession with the Harry Potter books. When he was devouring the books in rapid succession, I thought I recognized the longing in his voice when he recounted some of the more memorable scenes. All of a sudden, I felt a pang in my heart, and I felt sorry for Mr. Monk for having me as a mother. For having to witness some of the ugliness that a long marriage is sure to produce from time to time, to time. For having to deal with my bouts of emotional-ness followed by nonchalance. I do not want that for my children yet sometimes I would recognize that what I am witnessing could be part of a cycle, passed down from generation to generation. When I do, I panic and I spew out what pops up into my head.

Me: Honey, I just want to let you know… I am sorry. But I really did give birth to you. You are not adopted. Your real family is here. They are not coming to get you. I just want to let you know so you are not disappointed. You have to work with what you’ve got.

Mr. Monk: Mom, I don’t hate you.

A note for my dear friends and visitors: I am sorry for MIA lately. Long story short: My company has been acquired and we have been going through the whole merger, learning the new everything while having to meet the deadlines of old everything. Plus, as some of you may have heard my S.O.S. on Twitter and Facebook: I was given a Macbook Air by the very generous new employer and I realized I am actually, much to my chagrin, a Luddite. I do not know why but the whole Mac thing completely threw me off the loop. I have been stressed to the point that I have become extremely distracted: so far I have got myself into a minor accident, forgot to pick up my child, forgot about another child’s school open house. Yes, I kind of just want to run away right now from everything, including my very cool-looking, gorgeous, fancy Macbook Air.

Thirteen

24 Replies

My firstborn is thirteen today.

It’s official: I now have a bona fide teenager on my hand.

I am still wavering about whether I should have made this birthday into a big deal or not. I hope he was not expecting a big to-do. I hope he was not expecting a PlayStation 3 this morning as he opened the box containing a bunch of Wii accessories. They are all in black. That should count for something. If he’s disappointed, he did not show. This kid, No. 1 Son, is turning out to be a surprisingly thoughtful young man, despite his natural tendency to be a sarcastic smart aleck. (Well, I wonder where he got that? And son, if you are reading this one day, notice that I did not call you “smartass” on this post dedicated to you on your birthday)

He has shown great capacity for kindness and empathy (even though he could have shown more of this to his own younger brother…)

He has shown great potential for wisdom (despite the day-to-day harebrained ideas and actions).

He’s given me hope that he will turn out to be a-ok when he declared in the first week of being a 7th grader, “I’ve decided to not worry about being cool any more.” THIS and many other small moments were what prevented me from Homer-Simpson-choking him “You Little!…” during the more trying and frustrating hours.

To be honest with you? I am freaking out. I have been at the state of perpetual freaking out ever since I became a mother so nothing new here really. My husband knew me so well that in 2003, when No.1 son was only 5 years old, he flat out told me to skip the movie “Thirteen”, “You are going to freak out even more if you watch that movie.”

My freaking-out state reached a crisis yesterday when I received this SMS from No. 1 son:

By the time I got home from work, he’s already ready to forgive me, well, kind of, because I could not stop laughing even as I was apologizing to him, mind you, with the utmost sincerity.

So what did I do in the wee hours when my oldest was turning into a teenager during his sleep? I made someecards. What else?

The Unnecessary Saga of the Travelling Jacket

21 Replies

I have no idea what’s been going on with me as a mother. The fact that I am away from home on a business trip while leaving mu children to the care of a babysitter does not bode well for my chance of winning Mother of the Year anyway. But I did figure out why I am loving people over the Internet so much better in real life.

You do not witness my suckiness up close and personal.

You do not get to witness my parenting fails.

You do not get to be rubbed the wrong ways by my mere presence. My smugness. My suburban privileged life. My undeserved whining. My coy yet relentless pursuit of youthful appearances.

For that, I am grateful.

Mr. Monk my recently-turned-8 younger child came home with the wrong jacket last Tuesday. It was size XL, way too big for him. When I finally noticed it on Wednesday afternoon, I rushed over to the care facility where he had to stay that Monday and Tuesday because school was out and I had to work on those days.

I made the director at the center check the coat hooks. The cubbies. Different classrooms. I made her call the “suspects” aka kids who were also there on Monday and Tuesday and were BIG enough to be wearing a size XL jacket.

No dice.

I became more and more indignant.

What kind of parents would not notice that their son had gone home with a jacket that’s too SMALL for him?! Wouldn’t they have noticed by now since it is freezing?! Are they keeping our better and brand new (!) jacket on purpose?! Jerks!

I was also mad, unfairly, at my child for coming home with the wrong jacket and for not noticing it till Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, with the entire weekend forecast to be cold cold cold. And on top of that, I had to rush to get everything ready for Thanksgiving. It was hugely inconvenient to say the least. [Oh how I sound like a spoiled brat inside my own head!]

I had purchased the jacket from Gap when there was a 35% off sale. I did not want to pay full retail price. Mr. Monk did not want anything else but his old jacket back because he had been wearing the same style for several years. And if you ever wonder why I am calling him Mr. Monk in this blog: Extremely dislike of changes or disruption to routines and sensory sensitivities.

It was my personal, trivial, perfect storm.

Oh it was a saga alright. Albeit a perfectly unnecessary one. And if I really think about it, quite embarrassing and I really should not be writing about it for the world to know… (i.e. of course I absolutely need to blog about it…)

There have been quite a few coupons floating around in the Cyber space for Gap but none of them could be used for in-store purchase AND the online store did not have the jacket any more. There was ONE left in our local store and I do have a 35% off coupon for in-store but that did not become effective until this Friday. So on Wednesday, after much whining from Mr. Monk and everybody else that had to help him zip up the hand-me-down-too-big-and-a-bit-tattered-with-a-non-working-zipper jacket, I broke down. I called the store in the morning and asked for the jacket to be held for me till the end of day. I drove over there at night and lo and behold, the road to the mall was closed. No problem. I would take the detour. When I finally got there, with 10 minutes till closing time, LOOK! Best parking space ever! Why? Because the entire mall was shut down due to power outage!

I went back again the next day, clearly agitated, and paid for the jacket in full price, fully aware that if I had waited one more day, I could have got the jacket at 35% off. But I did not want to risk the possibility that someone could have walked in the store on Friday morning and snatched that stupid prized jacket away from me.

I hate paying full price. I absolutely hate paying full price for clothing items. I really really do. I hate it. Hate it. HATE IT!

I came home with the jacket and guess what? The zipper did not work!

By then Mr. Monk was so defeated and had come to terms with the fact that he simply had to live without his jacket. [Oh the Horror!] It was like Morgan Freeman telling me to give up on this stupid prized jacket and hop over to Lands’ End to order a jacket with their 40% off +Free Shipping promotion. I bit the bullet and ordered a damned jacket and by doing this, I triggered some Cosmic Law about lost clothing items:

Guess what? The jacket, the original one, came back.

When I picked up Mr. Monk from the weekly Chinese school on Sunday, he presented me with the beloved jacket.

I was horrified.

For this meant many things:

1. I did not notice that he had come home with the wrong jacket for an entire weekend PLUS the Monday AND Tuesday AND Wednesday Morning.

2. I had shown my indignation by mistake.

3. I now need to track down the too-large-jacket that he had come home with [Are you still with me?!] that I had shoved into the hands of the childcare facility director, mind you, with great, visible, indignation and annoyance.

4. I need to go over and pick up the jacket from the childcare facility director with my newfound humility and embarrassment, offering up apologies for causing her so much unnecessary trouble.

5. Then I need to bring the jacket back to the mother of the jacket’s owner who asked incredulously, “You mean, you did not notice it was the wrong jacket when you picked up your child last time?!”

She proceeded to tell me how she had made her son wait with her when the school ended.

“I told him that for sure the mother would notice that the jacket does not belong to her child and she would bring it back right away! How can you not notice that the jacket is too big?!” She laughed jocusingly (Joking + Accusing). And then she said it again for good measure, “You mean you really did not notice it until later that day?”

I did not tell her that not only did I NOT notice it that Sunday, I did not notice it until the following Wednesday afternoon…

As I was leaving the Chinese school with my boys in tow, crestfallen, embarrassed (Did I ever tell you that “fear of embarrassment” is one of the two driving forces in my life?), I was accosted by another mother who made an effort to traverse all the moving and converging children in the hallway to deliver her assessment of my appearance that day,

“You really do look cute in that age.” She delivered her line with a smug expression, indicating the hat I am wearing, pointing it out to the young girls surrounding us (who probably are in the right demographics to be sporting this hat…)

Bah Hum Bug! The hat I am sporting this winter season...

Did I ever tell you that I hate Other Mothers even though in a different telling of this story, I am probably That Mom?

I am on the down cycle (i.e. Y < 0 ). Catch you all when I come up from below the X axis…

Mother’s Day Double Feature: Why I don’t deserve a holiday in my name

16 Replies

This is the second part of a rare Double Feature, in celebration of Mother’s Day.

No, my dear readers, Chef Ping’s was sadly not on my itinerary… Not that I haven’t tried though. I decided at around 4 pm that yes, we are going to go to Chef Ping’s because It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. We didn’t manage to get out the door until 5 pm because my kids kept on saying, “Ok. Mom. Ok. Just until I finish this episode, this game, this chat…”

We drove to Chef Ping’s, not without a passionate discussion on WHY. The wait was to be 30 minutes.

My dear readers, I lied in my previous post when I said “No expectations. No disappointment.” Apparently though I had no expectations for my children to behave differently from any other day, I did expect to be able to go to my favorite Chinese restaurant at 5 pm on a Sunday! I was devastated.

I forgot that today is Mother’s Day aka The Bane of My Existence.

Choking back tears that surprised even myself, I resigned, “Let’s just go home. I will make you guys food, and I will have ramen noodles.”

“Mom. Let’s just go to some other restaurant! Because now you are just guilt tripping us!” My 12-year-old said with keen perception.

I kept an eerie silence as I drove aimlessly home. But not before I yelled at the boys for the 258th time to please shut their mouths if they could not stop bickering. The passive aggression was so thick inside the car I could practically lick it.

But I did still need to feed them. Taco Bell! A 90-degree emergency left turn brought me to the drive-through window.

“Do you want any sauce with that?”

“Yes. Medium and mild please.”

“Ok. Mild and Hot. Here you go. Happy Mother’s Day!”

“Wow. That lady’s hearing was not very good.” My 12-year-old made another keen observation.

” *sigh* I am too tired to correct her. Sometimes I am so tired of living here.”

“Do you prefer to live in Taiwan?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know what it is like to live in Taiwan. I have never had ‘lived’ in Taiwan for real… I don’t know. I was going to school, living with my parents, then I came here. I don’t think I know what it is like to live in Taiwan… It is confusing. I don’t know.”

“Yeah. It is confusing alright… Do you remember when you were a kid?”

“Yes. I do of course.”

“I don’t want to grow up.” My 12-year-old concluded after a pause.

“I hear you, honey.” Strike one, mom. Way to motivate your child!

“Being a grown-up sucks!” Interjected my 7-year-old.

“Being a grown-up is 99% of your life!” His older brother admonished him.

“Mom. Doesn’t being a grown-up suck?” My 7-year-old continued.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I think the sucky part of being a grown-up is mainly associated with being a parent…” Strike two. Good job, mom.

“HEY! Your life is going to be so boring and miserable if you didn’t have us!” My 12-year-old protested.

“Ha ha. You are right honey.”

“Have you ever wished that you didn’t have children?” My youngest pursued.

Beat.

I could not bring myself to answer this question. Strike three, mom. Let’s hope they turn out to be writers so they can use this episode in a positive way.

“I am sure she did when we really really pissed her off!”

So here I am. Making three different kinds of ramen noodles. But not before we went to Blockbuster, my youngest had a meltdown because he absolutely had to watch The Karate Kid III TODAY and his brother absolutely did NOT want to watch it, and my oldest and I had a passionate discussion on why we couldn’t rent Ninja Assassin…

Teaching Kids Simple Words: Egg

38 Replies

7 Year Old: Mom, what’s the yoky part of the egg?

Me: You mean the Yolk?

7 Year Old: No, I mean, which part does the baby chick come from?

Me: Ok, honey, the eggs you are eating? These are not the kind that baby chicks come from.

7 Year Old: Why?

Me: These are eggs that have not been… (Oh fuck!) Sigh. Ok. You know how in order to make a baby? … You need a mommy and a daddy together to make a baby? Well, the eggs you are eating only came from the mommy hen. There is no daddy involved.

7 Year Old: How come there are single mommies with children?

Me: *Inserting foot in mouth* There are daddies. It’s just that the daddy for some reason is not living with them any more…

Hind sight is 20-20. Why did I go into unnecessary details? I was all of a sudden caught in a panic that he might decide to not eat eggs due to the baby chick situation, he who only eats 5 kinds of food. I needed to reassure him that he’s not endangering any baby chics by eating eggs. I could not run the risk of eggs being off the menu.

Up next: Why honey was almost off the list.

Twelveteen Going on Thirty

32 Replies

The best description of what it is like to be a parent is a comment left by suesue on Merrilymarylee’s Weblog:

Having a child was deciding to have your heart walking around outside your body forever

My oldest turned 12 this week.

12.

That is a full Zodiac Cycle. I am sure it means something.

I am lucky in the sense that I only have boys; boys mature much later both physically and emotionally than girls, as I was assured by many moms with preteen girls. Therefore we really have not hit the “preteen” stage until recently. Like, a month ago.

The heralding moment? Facebook. As in,

“Mom. Can I have a Facebook account? Why can’t I be on Facebook? EVERYBODY ELSE is on Facebook!”

You should be scared. Very very scared when your parents are on Facebook...

It took me one month to go through the entire grief cycle and I am finally calm and collected enough to talk about it without sobbing uncontrollably.

It all started when he came home one Friday afternoon when I happened to be working from home. He seemed a bit jumpy. Happy jumpy.

“Mom… Can I tell you something? Hmmm… Well… Something happened at school today… NO. Nothing bad… Hmmm. Uhhhh.”

“Would you like to IM me about it? Would it be easier for you to tell me?”

“Yes!” He ran to the family computer and Ping! <<Begin transmission>>

son: mom

so…

me: yup

what’s going on?

son: um

i didnt tell u b4 but

ive always kinda…

me: i am fat?

son: liked

[this girl]

and

me: ohhhhhh

sorry dude

son: 2day

she said she liked me 2

🙂

me: awwww

son: happy

me: 🙂

son: 🙂

yay

bye <<end transmission>>

The 🙂 from me was a big fat lie. Acting skills came in handy in motherhood I learned. All through the exchange I was screaming inside my head. Headless chicken running around. WTF? He’s only in 6th grade! Elementary school. Why is he liking girls already?! Ohhh WOE IS ME! WTF?! Take a deep breath. Try to stay calm. You don’t want to make any wrong move. ’cause if you startle the snakes, you’ll never catch them again…

Thus began the Grief Cycle…

Denial: “No. Not him. Not my son. The 6th grader. Wasn’t he just a baby not too long ago? Aren’t 6th graders supposed to be safe from these things?!! I thought he hated girls. What happened to ‘Ewww. Girls’?! I thought I had to wait until Junior High for this? What’s happening?!”

Unfortunately, this phase lasted about 5 minutes since later when I signed his weekly school report, I saw:

“Dear Parental Unit…The best part is that the most beautiful girl in the scholl like me! Awesomeness!!”

Anger: “WTF? Why is this girl ruining my life?! Why is HE ruining my life?!”

My Facebook status read: “[Son] just said he wants a Facebook account. Then he showed me just HOW MANY of his classmates are on Facebook. 6th graders? With hundreds of friends? Already? Seriously? WT[beep]?! What happened to my baby?! I need to seriously get those evil women away from him…”

Ok. Maybe I won't be the worst mother-in-law in the world...

Soon the anger was channeled towards my husband who dared to laugh out loud when I informed him of the blossoming puppy love.

Unfortunately, this phase lasted for the longest time. I was mad in advance at the cruelty of my children, forsaking me for THAT OTHER WOMAN in the future. In my most irrational moments, I even called him SOB in my head as in ME being the Biatch. I said I was being irrational… Yeah, I know. I am going to be the worst mother-in-law in history. I can tell already from the boiling blood inside my skull…

Bargaining: “If I am a better mother, maybe he will not become wayward like this.” “I wonder whether supplying him with more video games will help divert his attention away from girls.”

The bargaining goes both ways – Facebook time & privilege has now become a major ACE in my card deck when bargaining with my oldest. I can also threaten him with, “I am going to write on your wall!” <cue evil laughter>

Depression: “Fine. He’s going to leave anyway. He’s going to grow up. My baby….”

This phase actually started from the beginning as I alternated between cursing and sobbing, especially when I went through his baby pictures.

Acceptance: “It’s going to be ok. I can deal with this. We can do this. I will survive without killing anybody.”

By talking to people about their “OMG my child is on Facebook” experiences, I learned that there are ways to tame this monster to your own parental advantages. After some trial and errors, Facebook turned out to be not as evil cradle robber as I expected. I can now ~~spy~~ check on my son and see who he is talking to, and what.

All in all, reflecting on this agonizing month, I am glad that I bit my tongue and played it cool. Yes, at the beginning there were a lot of dramas that provided record-high number of WTF moments in one sitting. 6th graders? Lamenting about love lost? Say what? Not to mention the “F” letter scattered throughout the conversations, most of the time unnecessarily. Do you seriously need to use LMFAO? The initial excitement over the “declaration” has apparently worn off. My son’s Facebook status now consists mainly of game score updates. THAT’s my boy.

As I said to my husband, I feel better that my baby still prefers video games to girls. I don’t mind if my boys are geeks. I am sure that Bill Gates’ mom didn’t mind at all. Not one bit.

You never know what’s going to remind you of your childhood…

29 Replies

My mom and dad called last Friday. Actually my mom did. Mom’s always the one that calls. And she always calls around 9 pm when it is the absolutely most friggin’ chaotic in the house. And she always pleads innocence saying she cannot figure out the time difference. And she always asks, “Have you eaten yet?” even after I tell her “It is 9 pm here. Ma!”

“It is cold there now, right? It is freezing here.” My mom says. Every single time during the winter. Did I tell you that they live in Taiwan? A sub-tropical island? The temperature in Taipei was supposed to reach 69 °F that day (as opposed to 36 °F here in Chicago and actually considered to be warm since it is finally above friggin’ freezing…)

“Ma. Sigh. You do know that the weather there has nothing to do with the weather here, right?” I could not bite my tongue and just let this one go.

“But it is really cold here. I bet it feels colder here.” My mom is a “last-worder” too: that’s probably where I got it. Between my husband and myself, my kids are doomed both nature- and nurture-wise. “Do you want to talk to your dad? Oh wait. Your dad wants to talk to you. Actually, he asked me to call you.”

Pleasantly surprised since my dad never wanted to talk to me on the phone, not that he loves me less but because he’s a man, I screamed, “Ba!” (The Chinese word for “Dad”) when my mom handed him the receiver. At 80, my dad is hard of hearing nowadays.

“Have you eaten yet?” He said, without a beat.

Sigh. “Yes. I have.”

“Is it snowing in Chicago because it is really cold here.”

Sigh. “Actually it is warmer today because it is above freezing.”

“Really? That’s something.”

“So… what’s going on? What are you doing today?” I know better than to expect my 80-year-old father to tell me something exciting in his plan for the day.

“Nothing. Just watching TV…. You haven’t called home for a long time. Is your husband still out of the country?”

“Yeah. He’s in Spain this time.”

“That’s what I thought when you didn’t call home for a long time. You must be very busy with the kids then.”

As if on cue, my oldest came to stand by my side and whispered loudly, “Mom. Mom. Mom!”

I glared at him and pressed my point finger to my lips. Ignoring my gesture, he continued,

“Mom! My gum hurts because my tooth here,” he proceeded to open his mouth with both hands so I could see better, “See? It is coming out. My tooth! My gum hurts!”

I turned my back towards him. He did not give up and came around to the other side, “So I need to go see a dentist…”

“Dad. Hold on. Just a sec.” I switched to English to deal with the dental crisis that was not, “Can’t you see I am on the phone with my parents? We’ll talk about this later.”

As if he did not hear what I just said, he switched to a brand new subject, “Mom, we need to pick up my new glasses!”

“I will. Tomorrow! I need to bring you with when we pick up your glasses…” I gritted my teeth.

All this time, Mr. Monk was on the floor pouring sugar into a bowl so he could make crystals according to the science book that he got last November. He never showed interest in the darn book until I was on the phone. Now he was next to me as well,

“Mom. What is a saucer?… Is it this?” He pulled out the biggest pot to show me, making a loud clattering noise.

“NO! That is NOT a saucer. And why do you need a saucer NOW for god’s sake?!” I raised my voice.

Seriously. They were quietly reading at the kitchen table before the phone rang. It just seems that EVERY TIME when I am on the phone, all of a sudden they have urgent information to share, questions to ask, emergencies to deal with. The sky is falling! We need your attention NOW!

I could hear my dad on the other side of the phone line: “It sounds like your children need you. I just want to hear you voice. We’ll talk later.”

“No. Dad!” He hung up before I could protest further. I frantically tried to dial my parents’ phone number. I am not making this up: in order to call my folks, I need to dial 22 friggin’ numbers. That’s right. 22. After the third try, the call finally went through.

“Mom. Is dad there? Could I talk to him?”

“He hung up on you, didn’t he? That man. He always does that. I told him to give me the phone and he said you were busy! Here he is.”

“Dad. You didn’t have to hang up!”

“But you are busy. You should go tend to the children.”

Exasperated now. “No. They can wait. They are not babies any more. They need to learn to be respectful!”

Of course, all this was said in Chinese so my children did not get any benefits from this lecture which explained why at this exact moment, at the same time, my oldest decided to play on a laptop that ran out of power and was struggling to get the power cord out from behind a desk at the risk of toppling everything that was sitting on the desk, and my youngest decided to pour sugar solution (sugar:water 6:1) from a sauce pot into a shallow saucer.

I watched all of it unfold in slow motion, and I could feel myself boiling. I did not even bother to cover the receiver as I exploded.

“WHY CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I AM TALKING TO MY PARENTS? HOW OFTEN DO I GET TO TALK TO THEM? I AM ONLY ON THE PHONE FOR FIVE MINUTES! DID ANYBODY BLEED? IS ANYBODY DYING? NO? THEN DON’T INTERRUPT ME! NOTHING IS THAT URGENT! Go to your rooms NOW! No. Don’t touch anything. Leave that on the floor. Just GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

Switching to Chinese, “I am back. Dad, what were you saying?” I was expecting him to give me another lecture about being more lady-like.

“Whoa. You sounded just like my mother when we were little.” My dad commented.

My grandmother had 14 children. I have never met her, and my dad has not told me much about his mother, that is, he has never really reminisced about his childhood. When I was around, I was too young to ask these questions; now that I am old enough, I am not around enough.

Not sure whether this was something I should defend myself against, I defended my grandmother instead. “Well. There were so many of you. If she did not yell like that, she probably could not keep all of you in check.”

“That’s what I said. You sounded just like my mother.” He chuckled. “That really reminds me of when I was a kid. We lived on a farm so she could yell like that without disturbing the neighbors.”

Maybe I was just imagining things, but he sounded like he had tears in his eyes when he said again, so quietly this time as if he weren’t talking to me,

“Wow. This really brings back childhood memories.”

Hello, December!

33 Replies

"Ma! There is nothing inside!"

If not for the end of NaBloPoMo, I would not have been so eager to see December, in all honesty.

Who's your daddy?!

Sorry, December. It’s not you. On second thought, actually, it is you.

I am just remembering the things I need to accomplish before we get on the plane to DC for Christmas on December 20. I am too scared to start making the list. Christmas shopping is the least of my worry right now. (Hello! Walgreens and CVS!) Real Fear #1 is that I may need to send out a Christmas card, NOT with the adorable picture of my kids smiling after I yell “DAMN IT! SMILE NOW OR I WILL DO IT FOR YOU!” which sadly is an annual occurrence, BUT of a picture of James Garfield since it is extremely tempting AND it just seems so much easier than trying to capture the smiles of my kids in the midst of whining, grabassing and soon sobbing.

(Do we have an English teacher in the house? I am sure the above sentence is a prime example for teaching your students how to fix grammatic errors. You can use it for free. You are welcome).

Real Fear #2, or perhaps it is simply Annoyance #1: Advent Calendar. HOW TO FILL THAT SUCKER EVERY SINGLE DAY MORNING? Oh, and REMEMBER TO FILL IT EVERY MORNING. That would help.

I forget, the way I forget that “tooth fairy brings a coin the night you lost your tooth”, saved only by crawling under the bed and yelling, “Oh, honey, look! It is here all along. It just fell!”

An advice to you out there without an Advent Calendar but are considering it: Do NOT do it. But if you must, make sure you get the Advent Calendar with BIG spaces for the stuff. Ours has itzy bitzy spaces that are meant for the Lilliputians. I kid you not. It is a great source of stress for me every year, trying to figure out WHAT in the hell I can shove into that tiny hole, for TWO kids.

I decided on Quarters last year. I was so proud of myself: Who does not like cash?

Well, my kids don’t.

You think I can get pieces of coals that can fit in that box?

Word of the Day: Disguise

26 Replies

“The secret agent is in disguise.” The caption of the picture says.

(No, I didn’t draw the picture. My 6 year old did).

I thought I’d use this picture to comment on the following pictures:

Baking

These pictures were meant for a post on how I was trying to be the Best Mom in the World and gave in to Mr. Monk’s plea that we make an apple pie right after our trip to an apple orchard on a Sunday night, how I for a fleeting moment thought I’d been missing a lot of opportunities to build childhood memories with/for my children by not cooking/baking on a regular basis, how I was impressed that he was so meticulous when he was doing THAT thing along the side of the pie crust with the fork (What is it called again?), how the pie ended up being a disaster “Not as good as Baker Square. Maybe we should just get our pies there from now on…”, how I learned the true meaning of “The journey of getting there is more important than the destination aka pie”, and how I wanted to strangle my kids when they refused to eat the pie because “Mom! You know we don’t like apple pies. When have you seen us eating an apple pie?”

Just be patient please. I am getting to my point. *cough cough*

Like many parents, I struggle with whether to put the pictures of my children on the Internet and how, and how much or how little to share. So as you can see, here is my pathetic attempt to disguise the identity of my son by taking pictures only of his “profile” and by covering up his name that’s on the apron.

I looked at these pictures again today and I had to admit that the attempt was not only lame but hypocritical. Maybe not hypocritical, but I would definitely label it as self-contradictory. Definitely half-assed.

Secret agent man.

p.s. I was relieved when I realized he was trying to write “Train 88” and not “Tehran 88“. I don’t think I can deal with a 6-year-old that follows Middle Eastern politics and histories. Don’t get me wrong, I would be very proud of him, but I don’t think I would be equipped with the necessary breadth and width of knowledge to explain the complexities…

Finally, Bacon Vodka is no longer just a myth…

7 Replies

To those who have not heard about my temporary relapse of sanity that led me to embark on this dark and lonely road of trying to make my own bacon-flavored Vodka, I announced my Bacon Vodka experiment in August. Much to my own surprise, I actually followed through immediately and went to Walmart for the supplies on the same day… (Well, part of the reason was because that was when I just discovered PeoepleofWallmart.com and I was really excited to check out Walmart as an ethnographic study. Alas, I could not bring myself to scrumptiously photograph people when they were obviously not at their best. Besides, Karma works in the most mysteriously ways. I don’t look forward to seeing myself on that website).

I also followed through with concocting the brew that day, but it is not until September that I was finally sober enough to blog about the 12 Steps to Bacon Vodka.

Here is a picture of the Bacon Vodka, with bacon in it, on Day 1. After 4 weeks of soaking… this is what the bacon looks like.

Really. Take a look at it. Because if you don’t, you will not fully appreciate the reason why I have been leaving it alone in the freezer until tonight, nor will you fully appreciate the fact that I am a brave soul. Or crazy. Or both.

My youngest has been on my case lately. “Why aren’t you drinking your bacon vodka?” “When are you going to drink your bacon vodka?”

He has gone straight past the obvious question of “Why?” to wholeheartedly accept the fact, yup, my mom has bacon-flavored vodka that she made herself in the freezer. He has also told several innocent bystanders this matter-of-fact-ly when we were out and about.

To not disappoint him further, instead of baking him cookies that he has also asked for, I told him after I came home from work on Friday night:

Do you want to watch me drink the bacon vodka?

(Yup. They are going to grow up to be great writers… I try my best to provide them with a childhood that is as extra-ordinary as possible)

So we did. I mean, I made a Bloody Bacon Mary out of my bacon-flavored vodka, and he watched me drink it with anticipation.

“Did it taste good?”

“Yes. It tastes like tomato soup.”

“Oh. Good!”

And that’s that.

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…