My son walks into my bedroom. He has discovered something in the depths of the bathroom linen closet or perhaps buried on a back shelf of the medicine cabinet. It’s about an inch square.
And here we are, the quintessential stay-at-home red button crisis issue. Our kid is only kind of sick, and we can’t figure out if we should send him to school or not.
When my son was 3, I signed him up for skating lessons at the local ice rink. Somehow now, four years later, I’m a hockey mom. And I spend a lot of time lacing up skates in boys’ locker rooms.
I am sitting on cement bleachers at an ice rink southeast of Chicago’s O’Hare airport, our home ice. The kids and I are nearing the end of our day, I am tired and my butt is cold. I would like for the women seated near me to stop talking. Endless, mindless chatter about nothing. What merit is left to silence?
A friend recently asked me for advice on how to manage mornings better. Evidently in her house, mornings were stressful, with much yelling and nagging and conflict.
The trouble with gift-giving is that for it to be a good gift it’s got to be something someone else wants and not what I want to buy them.
On the great big long list of things I’m really good at, just underneath donating money to solicitations with baby polar bears on the front, is overpaying for everything.
“Believe you can and you are halfway there,” said Theodore Roosevelt. That may be good advice if you are running for president or you’re a little engine trying to bring toys to the good little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain, but children’s stories don’t always work out that way.
This past summer, the summer of my daughter’s entry into tweenhood, I rediscovered something I had almost forgotten, french onion dip.
My iPhone is broken and I am eating nonstop, a bona fide bender. Contemplating driving to the nearest Krispy Kreme donut store, but it’s 30 miles away.
A skinned knee, a skinned elbow, a 4-inch scar, a bee sting in your foot and mosquito bites on your forehead, your neck and your legs. Your father pulled two ticks out of your head yesterday.
I have kids and they knock over everything, including my beer. There seems to be some direct proportional relationship to the amount I spend on a beer and how fast it ends up in my shoe. Beer at the ball park, two sips and yup, I’ve got soggy socks.
My daughter and I took a walk to the park today. An ordinary day and ordinary walk, except that today is the last day of our summer vacation. Her hair bleached by the sun and chlorine from the pool, days at the lake and afternoons at the park.
It’s late summer so we are doing summer things, like going to art fairs when its 90 degrees outside. There is no dad in America who thinks this is a good idea.
A new diet is based on what our prehistoric ancestors ate, the ones with the intelligence of the neighbor’s dog who had a life expectancy of 27. Halfway through the first chapter, I decided to come up with my own diet.
In my opinion, as soon as a woman decides she wants to be a mother everyone is full of opinions: when to get pregnant, how to get pregnant, fertility, adoption, single parenthood. And that’s just conception.
Knowing how much fun it can be, I asked my 8-year-old in the back of the minivan, “How do you spell Mississippi?” She hollers out in a single breath with a lilting rhythm, “M, I, S, S, I, S, S, I, P, P, I!”
This morning my 4-year-old daughter and I went to visit my 106-year-old aunt. I held my daughter’s hand as we walked down the long hallway to my aunt’s room and told her not to be afraid. As we walked, I also noticed the personal objects in people’s rooms.
Today, as I hurried through the grocery store parking lot, I walked past a minivan, the same color as my own. On the back was a bumper sticker, “In loving memory of Corporal C. J. Boyd. August 19, 2010, USMC.”
I recently read a quote by Albert Einstein, “Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with the important matters.” Okay Albert, how about the tooth fairy?
Last night I was putting the world’s best pizza wheel away in the drawer full of all those kitchen utensils that don’t go anywhere else, and my son asked, “Hey, can I play with that?” He was reaching inside the drawer for a yellow plastic funnel.
I want to remember 4. Blond curls, blue eyes and the excitement of a lollipop. Princess dresses, tutus and bangs that are too long. I want to remember what you said in the car that was so perfect, just a few hours ago, but now I can’t remember.
I have spent hours today on college savings accounts. I messed up the automatic deductions so they were coming from this account and they are supposed to be out of that account. With my oldest, somehow I messed up the portfolio allocations, and not in a good way.
I’m sitting in the church parking lot, in a car with the engine running, waiting for a drop. I’ve got 40 bucks clenched in my fist, nervous that I won’t have it ready once she gets here. I’m worried that she won’t show.
Before I had children of my own, I made certain judgments about other people’s parenting. I mean, really, how hard could it possibly be to travel with a young child on an airplane? My penance for not being more compassionate? God is really sticking it to me on this one.
At 3 o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, I am sitting on a bench in a children’s museum listening to an exhibit ask what the difference is between boogers and snot. I think the answer is obvious.
My son is standing on the sidewalk covered in blood. He’s got a gash on his chin and a tongue that looks like someone took a steak knife to it. Pogo stick. I’m trying to decide if I have to take him to the emergency room. I am grappling with the conflict between my role as parent and the truth: I don’t want to go.
Today is James’ birthday party. “Choo Choo James is turning Two!” read the invitation. This morning I received a text from his mother. “James has a cold and cough and totally understand if you don’t want to expose your children!” I remember when I used to send out similar messages, back when I was a new mother, one who hovered.
When my first child was an infant, I had fantasies about motherhood and parenting that were sweet and gentle. One of my fantasies had to do with books. I decided that for holidays I would buy books relative to the celebration and keep them in a decorative basket in the front room. Then at story time we would sit together and read.
As I am predictably running late getting my kid to the ice rink, I notice the license plate on the BMW Roadster in the parking space behind me. “40 BDAY.” I roll my eyes, thinking, “You have got to be kidding me,” and try not to hit it as I parallel park my minivan.