Category Archives: parenting

Another Easter Bunny Bites the Dust

Yes, it was probably about time. The Kid is eight, after all. Eight and half, she’d say.

Yes, I was careless and maybe wanting to be found out. I left the jelly bean bag in the cabinet where she could find it. Where she could put two and two together. Where she could begin that bumpy journey of losing her innocence.

“Mom, why are these same type of jelly beans in the cabinet that were in the eggs I found in the yard?!” she accused this weekend.

I had a choice. I could continue the lie with a oh-no-they’re-different or it-IS-odd-isn’t-it? But I took a few seconds and bit the bullet. I confessed. Those plastic eggs in the yard, the ones we reuse each year hello!, I put them out there.

And guess what? My little sophisticated, singing and dancing, runway modeling, eight-going-on-eighteen daughter cried. A lot.

And then created this gem for me:
I’m a “tairable person.”. .

We’re both still sad here. Her, for the loss of the Easter Bunny and being lied to by her parents.

Me, for her taking yet another, big step into growing up, up and away.

Damn bunny.

Girly Cupcakes

Just so you know, the Hubs said I shouldn’t blog about this, so Hello! You’d think he’d have learned by now….

This post is brought to you by Facebook and its new anti-privacy rules, because it was a friend of a friend who I have never heard of who posted this photo and my friend, a guy I actually do know, “liked” it.

Which apparently means the whole world gets to see it now, in case you just got out of that coma don’t know Facebook is raping you daily, right now.

Hold onto your britches. Take a gander at the girly cupcakes:
Puts new meaning in the term variety pack, eh?

Okay, focus, readers. Are ya with me? I posted this because I want to ask if you think it was would be outrageoushorrendousdisgusting of me to show this photo to my eight-year-old daughter?

Purely, a hypothetical question, Mrs. Child Protective Services, for the purposes of discussion.

I mean, if I did, I wonder if my child would guess right away what she was looking at or needed a hint from me.

I wonder if she’d then drop her jaw first, and then with a twinkle in her eye, her own drawers to show me hers as comparison to the frosted ones.

I also wonder if young girls should possess a relaxed, secure knowledge of their amazing, delicious cupcakes body.

Purely hypothetical, ya’ll. Don’t go get your panties in a–oh, never mind.

What do you think? Would you show a daughter and not a son? Is age a factor?

This is the kind of thing that happens when lawyers are mommies.

[“Dear tooth fairy, I lost my tooth that I lost today. I am really sorry that its not here….We swear the above statement is true.”]

During the holidays, the Kid was inconsolable at losing the tooth she had just lost, so I suggested a letter to the tooth fairy (btw, Santa she is beginning to question, but the tooth fairy…this is more believable?), and all the adults would swear it was true. No, we had no notary, but it calmed her anyway. We hoped the tooth fairy would go on the honor system.

And she did! Whew! Close one!

School started.

‘Nuff said.

A Motherly Confession

It’s time I confessed. See, there is something I’m ashamed to admit.

I don’t know why. I mean, others have probably gone through the exact same thing. Why should I want to hide it?

I’m talking about my case of PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and absolutely nothing else.

What event occurred to cause these symptoms (according to the Mayo Clinic definition)?
PTSD:
Feeling emotionally numb
Avoiding activities you once enjoyed
Hopelessness about the future
Trouble concentrating
Difficulty maintaining close relationships
Irritability or anger
Overwhelming guilt or shame
Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much
Being easily startled or frightened
Hearing or seeing things that aren’t there

What happened is that since she lost gave up her last sippy cup, the Kid knocks over her drink every freakin’ time. On me. Everywhere, our house, Disneyland, restaurants, airports, our house, the ferry, someone else’s house, our house. Every. Where.

I’ve got the nervous twitch to prove it. Just bring us our beverages make mine a double, and I’ll show you.

And I have those symptoms. I avoid giving her drinks unless she’s choking; I swear I hear the dumping sound of a full cup of milk when there is no cup; and I jump and gasp like a freakin’ kangaroo (yes, they gasp, pretty sure) if the Kid’s hand goes anywhere near anyone’s glass at any time in any place.

I am drinking too much ok, possibly not related; I don’t want to be anywhere close to her; I feel terrified of tall, skinny glasses (oh, SO tippable); and I feel hopeless about the fact that she will never ever stop doing this.

It has made me irritable screw you, that’s why, I tell you!, and I have trouble concentrating which is wholly unrelated to Twitter or Facebook usage.

The first step is awareness, right? So, there we go. Hello, PTSD!

Now, I’d like a sippy cup of Grey Goose, please, while I go online to order more quick-dry pants.

Are you suffering any known diseases? Don’t be ashamed! Confess!