Blog Posts by Manic Motherhood

Photo copyright TataPol

Dear D,

For years, you were the man of my dreams. You were skinny and I believe rather short and you constantly had a stream of mucus running from your nose, but I loved you. I know that because I still have my diary from when I was 7 and it very clearly says, "D gave me a keychain. I love him." Also, there is a heart with an arrow through it drawn below the words--which obviously proves that I was madly in love with you.

Because everybody knows that nothing says love like a heart with an arrow through it.

Of course, there were other ways we showed our affection. Every once in a while, you'd blow your nose instead of letting the snot just stream out. I found that to be really sweet, even though your mom would yell at you because you used your shirt as a hanky.

Because nothing says love like snot on your sleeve.

And there was the time your older brother was riding his bike and ran me over. You were the first person on the scene and asked me if I was okay. And

© Christopher Futcher

As the parent of a teen, I feel like I have very little time left to mold my son-if that's even possible now that he's 14. But there are still a few things I'd like to teach him.

1. Be happy. Look, happiness is like the ocean. Sometimes the tide is in, sometimes it's out. But over your life I hope you stay happy. I hope your life/family/friends surround you and that you keep the happiness you've found with me and Dad and friends and family.
   
   
2. I hope you recognize your talents and use them in the future. Your first word was "eat." The second word was "doggie." Since that time I have never seen an animal that didn't fall madly in love with you. I've also never seen anyone understand science the way you do. Or view art as you do. Or do those long equation thingies that I never understood. I've also never seen anyone stand in front of the open refrigerator as often as you do, but that's another story.
   
   Remember that what you choose to work at will be something you do for

At the end of the year, I like to look back and wave goodbye to all the stuff that happened. Yes, I'm usually drinking champagne when I do that. Anyway, it occurred to me that this year was actually the end of the first ten years of the new millennium. So I thought I'd wave goodbye to all of them with you. You need to provide your own champagne.

2000 - The world discovered that the Y2K problem was really more of a Y2Dud. Sadly, many of us had hangovers from discovering just exactly what it was like to party like it's 1999. In my house, Junior was 4. I miss 4. At that age, they don't sass and they still think you might be smart.

2001 - The 9/11 attacks occurred. I don't think America has been the same since and it still makes me sad. Junior started kindergarten, thus beginning the long journey in which he learns that I'm not that smart. I wrote my very first column for California newspapers-complaining about my kindergartner. I know. If I'd only realized that someday he'd be

So here's the deal. My name is Kirby and I am the main dog in the Manic Motherhood household (sure there's another dog, but she's not what you might call intelligent). Anyway, from time to time, I hijack the female human's blog. I'm helping her, really. Look, wouldn't you try to help out? The woman is running around like a crazy person. Her eyes are all wild and scary looking (although she says that's because she's allergic to the tree). And she has this list that she keeps checking and when she does, she starts muttering about "running out of time" and "holy cow, the line at Costco is going to be insane."

But you know she does this every year around the holidays. Personally, I don't like Christmas very much. First there's the tree. Why do you people insist on pulling a perfectly good tree out of the ground and then plopping it in the family room? Hello? It smells like squirrel. It reeks of squirrel, in fact. Do you know how stinky squirrel is? I have a sensitive nose. I don't

It is officially the holiday season (and when I say "official" I actually mean that it's December, rather than July which is when all the stores would like you to think the holiday season begins). Anyway, besides the fact that it is December, I know that it is officially the holiday season because I got something horrifying in the mail.

A holiday card.

Oh, not just any holiday card. No, I got one of those custom, cutesy, holiday cards with multiple photos of a smiling family doing stuff like sunning on the beach, skiing in some winter wonderland and graduating. It was like a year in photos of this family.

I hate those cards. I really, really hate those cards.

First, they are intimidating. I mean, come on. Who remembers to take pictures of every single event during the entire year? Okay, maybe you do. But I sure as heck don't. Oh, don't get me wrong. When Junior was a baby his every frown, diaper change and smile were well documented. So well documented in fact, that

istockphoto.com/FurmanAnna

It's the most wonderful time of the year…unless you are a stressed-out parent searching for this year's must-have holiday toy. Oh, don't deny it. We've all been that mom. The mom who frantically searches stores and stands in queues at 4 AM and does internet searches for that one, hot, perfect toy that will make her child's holiday.

But it needs to stop.

Seriously. I know this because I learned this lesson the hard way. It started when Junior was nearly 2 years old. Junior loved Barney. You remember Barney, right? Annoying purple dinosaur that sang an incredibly annoying song that my son sang over and over again until my ears bled? Yeah, that Barney.

Anyway, I had a love/hate thing going with the big, purple guy. On the one hand, when Barney was on every weekday morning at 8:30, I could take a shower. Do you know how pleasant that was? I took an entire shower, complete with leg shaving and nobody pounded on the door, yelling, "Mom! Mommy! Mom!"

On the other hand,

As I walked through the campus of the local elementary school the other day, I was mistaken for a hero. Or heroine. Or perhaps a rule enforcer. Well, I was mistaken for someone else, let's put it that way.

Yes, the children thought I was a yard duty.

There they were, a group of about twenty first-graders. And they were intimidated by me. Me. I'll be honest here. I'm more "kill you with kindness" than I am intimidating (although, as my husband once put it, "once you kill them with kindness, they tend to stay dead"). But such is the power of the yard duty that twenty or so boys and girls stayed frozen in line waiting for me to release them to play on the "Big Toy."

Of course, I couldn't release them. First of all, I wasn't sure what the Big Toy was-but I thought it was the giant piece of playground equipment sitting in a large sandbox just east of the waiting kids. But second-and most importantly--I'm not a yard duty.

And that made me afraid. I mean, what the heck

Thanksgiving is approaching and, as usual, I am hosting family and friends. I've done this for a few years and honestly? After all this time you'd think I'd be better at it, right? Sadly, no. I still can't cook and I really still can't make a turkey.

For one thing, I believe turkeys are intimidating. They're like mutant chickens. Hello? Anyone who has seen at least one 50's sci-fi film understands that having giant, mutant chickens running around will not end well. In fact, there's a very good chance that someday giant, mutant chickens will try to take over the planet when we aren't looking.

Or maybe I just watch too much TV. I think that could go either way, frankly.

Anyway, besides the whole "turkeys will take over the world" stuff, there is also the fact that I find choosing a turkey to be intimidating. Look, in the old days, when I was young and the world was a much simpler place, I chose from a fresh turkey or a frozen turkey.

And because I was young and usually