Blog Posts by Manic Motherhood

  • If it's January it Must be Mom's Swimsuit Season

    Something happens in January that I hate with a passion. Oh, it's not the whole "new year, new calendar" thing. Although, if you must know, I did forget to get a calendar until two weeks ago. Do you know what was left in the calendar section? Yes, "12 Months of Cats" or-and I'm not joking here-"Porn for Women." Yes, I chose the cats. I wanted to be daring, but it seemed weird to write my husband's dental appointments on another man's bare…chest.


    Anyway, something worse happens in January. Because that, my friends, is when the stores put out the swimsuits. It's like a conspiracy. The swimsuit industry waits until we've all eaten our fill of cookies and pie and turkey and roast beast and then they dare us to stuff our fat butts into tiny pieces of Lycra without having the Lycra explode.


    Yeah, like that's going to work.


    Anyway, normally I can just walk right by those bathing suits and not feel a thing. Oh, whom am I fooling? I hate them. They are objects of torture

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  • What is the Deal with Kids and Elevators?

    Have you ever noticed how obsessed kids are about elevators? Seriously. There isn't a child on the planet who can walk into a building, see the elevator and NOT ask to ride in it. It's like a Disneyland E-ticket ride, only without Mickey ears or an entrance fee.


    We adults don't have as much love for the elevator. Oh sure, we'll use them to get us to the next floor because we're too lazy to use the stairs. But if we're comparing Disneyland tickets here, to an adult an elevator isn't even a C-ticket.


    I don't know why there's such a difference, but to a child an elevator is a wondrous thing. It starts with the outside. First there are buttons to push-and what kid can resist that? Even if a child isn't planning to use an elevator, he'll push the elevator call buttons. In fact, that child will run straight to the call button and push it with all his power while his parent yells "Don't touch that #$%& button!" I know. I've been that parent.


    Of course if the elusive lure of the

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  • Year in review...from the brain of a busy mom

    Despite the fact that I cannot usually remember what happened on last week's episode of "Real Housewives," I have worked my tuschy off to compile an exhaustive list of the most important happenings in 2009. Don't thank me. It's a public service. Really.

    January: Is it just me or does it seem like January 2009 happened a full year ago? You know, people just do not understand how many brain cells you lose when you become a mom. Oh, that's it. Octomom popped out her puppies in January. Yeah, that says a whole lot about 2009, doesn't it?

    February: Junior had a birthday and officially became a teenager. Shockingly, his metamorphosis from sweet, non-teen boy into semi-surly teenager didn't cause our house to implode. Of course, we're only in the beginning of the surly teenager phase. Consider yourself warned if you live within a two-block radius. In other, clearly not as important news, the economy kept falling and a bunch of idiots on Wall Street starting pointing fingers at

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  • Cutting Down The Christmas Tree

    My family has survived a holiday tradition. We have cut down our Christmas tree.

    Sure, it sounds like fun. A happy family skips through the tree farm and finds the perfect tree. Dad cuts it down easily, without using any swear words at all. The kids watch him while sitting on logs and drinking hot chocolate. And Mom? Well, she's snapping pictures for their holiday scrapbook.

    That's not my family.

    No, my family is the one trudging through the tree farm, arguing over which tree would be perfect. We're the ones who have scoured the entire place for hours and still haven't found a tree. It's getting dark and cold. We're all out of hot chocolate. And pretty soon, we've walked so far, we can't even see the tree farm. In fact, we can't even see any trees at all. So we turn around and hike up the hill.

    After we get back to the tree farm, we're a lot less picky about our tree. We find one-but now comes the hard part-sawing it down. Have you ever used a saw at a Christmas tree

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  • How Not to Write a Holiday Newsletter

    Dear Friends and Family,

    Festivus Greetings from our family! Another year has flown by and the holidays are upon us. And no matter what holiday you celebrate, we're sure that you are surprised to get this newsletter from us. Oh, I know I said I'd never do one-but we've gotten so much joy from reading all of yours that we really felt that this year, we'd return the joy to all of you.

    Let me start this-our very first newsletter EVER-by saying thank you. Through the years, your pages and pages of anecdotes and updates as to your monetary status have never failed to elicit chuckles-and sometimes outright guffaws-from us. Sure, there are days when we wonder why we only hear from you once a year-but then we get your newsletters and we realize that you are too busy visiting tropical isles, collapsing the worldwide economy or buying your child into an Ivy League school to return a phone call to us. So truly, we don't mind.

    And of course, we are thrilled-just THRILLED-that you

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  • 'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

    With apologies to the original and to its author (either Clement C. Moore or Henry Livingston, Jr., the authorship is apparently disputed) I present "'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving," as seen through the eyes of my son.

    'Twas the night before Thanksgiving, when all through the house,

    Just one creature was stirring and it wasn't a mouse.

    Mom was in the kitchen, baking pies with care,

    In the hopes she could produce some edible fare.

    Daddy and I were hiding in my room under the bed,

    While visions of cooking disasters danced in our heads.

    My mother was frantic; her baking skills were the worst,

    Why hadn't she just called the bakery from the first?

    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

    Daddy and I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

    Away to the window we flew like a flash,

    Tore open the mini-blinds and poked a hole in the sash.

    The moon on the breast of the lawn never mowed,

    Gave the luster of mid-day to

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  • Just Another New Moon

    "Three things cannot be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth."
    Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism

    I'm seriously starting to hate the Internet. Oh, sure many find it useful. Look, even I remember the dark old days when I had to get my celebrity gossip the old-fashioned way-from a weekly subscription to People magazine.

    But the Internet has brought with it something called "social media." I know it's a fun name. On the one hand it's "social," so we can keep in touch with all our friends. And on the other hand it's "media," so it's like everybody is famous-or infamous, depending on your point of view.

    But like all good things, social media has a capacity for evil. And I have met that evil firsthand. In fact, I have washed that evil's underwear and cooked that evil's breakfast and taught that evil its ABC's. Yes, that evil has a name. And its name is Junior. I'm telling you, that kid has discovered the rotten core of social media and he is not

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  • Spring forward? Fall back? Does anyone know?

    I hate Daylight Saving Time. Okay, I do love summer nights when it doesn't get dark until late. But I swear, a raving lunatic invented this time change stuff. Who else would think it was convenient to change the time by an hour every six months? I mean, please. Find a time you like and stick to it. Is that so much to ask?

    Every October and April my body clock gets completely out of whack. I never know what time it is. I'm hungry either early or late. I don't know when to get up and when to go to sleep. I don't even know what time I am on-I could be on Daylight Saving Time, Daylight Standard Time or Eastern Siberian Yak Time for all I know. It drives me insane.

    And then there is that whole "change every clock" thing. Please. There are clocks in everything. My kitchen alone has at least 5 clocks. There are clocks in the appliances, clocks on the wall. And throughout the house there are even more clocks. In the thermostat. On the VCR. Alarm clocks. Watches. The list never

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  • Halloween Candy: Trick or Treat?

    You know from time to time I get to use this blog to perform a great public service. Okay, maybe not a great public service, but a public service nonetheless. And what, you may ask is this public service I'm about to perform?

    I'm about to tell you all about the ins-and-outs, the do's-and-don'ts of picking your Halloween candy. Oh, sure it doesn't sound like a big public service, but trust me it is. You have no idea what it's like when you hand out the wrong thing on Halloween. Those children who look so cute in their costumes will turn on you like a pack of wild animals when they see you handing out sunglasses or, worse, sugar-free gum.

    Do not ever hand out toothbrushes.

    Look, I don't care if you are a dentist. If you have children and you value their lives, do not hand out toothbrushes on Halloween. For years after your children will be taunted and teased with cries of, "look, there's toothbrush boy," or "hey over there, it's brushy girl; brushy, brushy, brush, brush."

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  • Catalog Kids: Aliens in Your Mailbox

    A strange thing happened to me the other day. I opened my mailbox and discovered that aliens had taken over. Trust me, they're in your mailbox too. In fact, you've probably already brought the aliens into your home-and you may have already recycled them.

    You see the aliens are in the children's clothing catalogs.

    I know it sounds weird, but how else do you explain the fact that in all of those catalogs there are pictures of little boys playing football and not one-NOT ONE-is dirty? Please. These are boys. They are playing football. Dirt is part of the game.

    If you don't believe me, grab a catalog and look at the pictures. Those boys have to be aliens. Real boys don't stay clean five minutes after they've taken a shower, let alone playing football. Not to mention that getting a real boy into the shower in the first place requires an act of congress or the threat of never seeing their Wii again.

    And it wasn't only that the boys were clean-their clothing was also

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