What do softball and Vanilla Ice have in common?

On this episode of How I Embarrass My Children, I would like to take you on a little trip to my daughter's softball game.

And by the way, I'm so glad you're here! Usually it's just me sitting by myself on an uncomfortable bleacher and freezing my butt off while browsing through Facebook on my iPhone. Hanging out with you will be great! But hey, would you mind picking up Starbucks on the way? It can get a little chilly out here and the ball park coffee sucks.

Picture it: The brisk, spring wind blowing through your hair... the smell of honeysuckle vines in the distance... dirt all over your new Ugg boots (ugg!)... a belly full of grilled hot dogs and dill pickles... the sound of a bat cracking against a ball or the umpire yelling "striiiiiiiike"...

And me, singing Ice Ice Baby at the top of my lungs. 

You know the awkwardness you felt when you read that, like, "Oh my gosh, really? Is she seriously going to do that? I mean, who does that? How embarrassing. Nevermind, I'm never sitting with you at the ball park, ever. And get your own freakin' Starbucks!"

Now, close your eyes and imagine being my daughter. Ahem.

Bless her little heart. But certain things, I just can't help. They're involuntary for me like breathing or blinking.

Bailey is on a new team this year called EXTREME. The uniforms came in today. Aren't they great?

Trivia Question: When you hear the word "extreme", do you immediately start singing, "To the extreme, I rock the mic like a vandal. Light up the stage like a chump with a candle. Dance!..."? Yes or no?

If you answered "no", then congratulations! You are a normal person. You don't blurt out cheesy song lyrics at inappropriate times. You probably make your daughter very proud.

If you answered "yes", then welcome to the club! At our next meeting, we'll be singing "Whomp! There It Is" at a baby shower and "You Can't Touch This" at a Bar Mitzvah. And then our daughters will be so humiliated, they'll post pics like this to Instagram.

An actual photo from Bailey's Instagram account. 

The only thing that could make this any better is having t-shirts made with "Ice Ice Bailey" on them. Then I can walk around doing my best Vanilla Ice impression singing, "Ice Ice Bailey (da, dada, da, dada da dum), Ice Ice Bailey (da, dada, da, dada da dum)" That's daughter humilation GOLD right there.

Word to your mother.

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My Son is a F-U-a-Bomber

I picked up my 4-year-old from preschool last week, and his teacher and the school director met me at the door. And that can only mean one thing.

Uh oh. What did he do this time?  Stick Lincoln Logs up his nose? Painted stuff with paste? Tried to stink Lincoln Logs up his nose after he painted them with paste?

"Drew has been saying bad words today."

So I asked for details. One, because that's the good mother thing to do. Two, because that's as close as I'll get to a PG-13 movie in the near future. I don't even bother watching the Oscars, because if it's not an animated picture, I don't have a freaking clue what they're talking about.

Life of Pi? Yummy! I love pie! Do you have any key lime?
Argo? Don't you mean we go? Gah.
Beasts of the Southern Wild? Hey, are y'all talkin' 'bout opossums? Them critters is mean!
Lincoln? Ahhh!  Lincoln Logs!  Finally, one I understand.

She said that Drew was watching a little girl play computer games and shouted, "Sh*t! You lost!"

The teacher thought he said the word that rhymessssssss..hit, but discounted it with "There's no way Amanda's son would say that word" philosophy. Whew! Dodged a bullet there.

And that bought me some time until later when she took the kids to the playground to play tag. Drew shouted, "WHAT THE F**K?! Come back here!"

Awesome. And I didn't think it could get any worse.

This didn't actually happen, by the way (as far as you know).

Everybody knows that there's a scale for cuss words. If Ross said it on Friends, then it's lower-ranking, and certainly not okay, but probably won't get me a call from DFCS. But if it can only be said on HBO after midnight, and it's the mothertrucker of all cuss words, then I'm probably going to have to explain myself. (DFCS, call me.)

When Drew shouted that obscenity on the playground, all twenty pairs of 4-year-old ears heard it, along with several pairs of adult ears who decided that the delinquent kid's mother needed a good talkin' to.

Goodbye good girl rep! It was nice knowin' ya!

You know when a teacher talks to you about your toddler's potty mouth (No? Just me?), and suddenly, you feel the need to defend yourself, to prove that you're not throwing around four-letter words every other breath.

"Sh*t, why did he say that?"

I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Because, seriously, I do not say any bad words in front of my children, especially the impressionable little one who tends to stick paste-covered toys up his nose.  But it was hard to prove that after Drew used both cuss words correctly and in context. Ahem.

I was so embarrassed!

So just like our parents did with movies like Stand By Me and Goonies, I blamed the media for my son's less-than-stellar verbiage.

"Oh, you know what it is? It's those YouTube videos he watches. He loves to watch videos of teenagers playing Super Mario Bros, and occasionally, I'll hear them a bad word, so I'll tell Drew to find another video that is appropriate."

She was really nice not to point out that maybe I should look into better parental controls on YouTube and/or not allow my son to watch homemade videos of kids talking about Mario Bros while trying to look really cool.  Or, you know, 48-year-old gamers living in their mother's basement, whatever.  So then I felt the need to defend why I let him watch those videos, too.

I swear to you, there was more defensive strategy going on than in the NFL. But I kept fumbling the ball or some other really impressive football analogy that I would make if I knew a darn thing about football.

Hey, notice the use of the word "darn"?  See, it's totally not my fault.

Speaking of, on the way home, I forgot to turn into the grocery store, and I said, "Dang it!"  Drew said, "Mama! Dat's a bad word! I'm sworry, but you gonna hava go to time out."

When Drew talks to me in that sweet, little Toddlish language, I usually get lost in his cuteness. But I had to focus and seize the opportunity to talk to him about words that are okay/ not okay to say.

And what I learned was that Drew had a firm grip on almost every cuss word out there, not just the two that he brought to preschool that day for show-and-tell. It's like his superpower.

So there's no more homemade Mario Bros YouTube videos until he's at least 45.  And I'm putting his iPod Touch on the mantle, out of reach... right beside my Mother of the Year Award.





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It's not lost until Mom doesn't know where it is

My house is like a giant Memory game.

"Hon, have you seen my keys?"  "Yes, they're on Drew's dresser."
"Mama, where are my shoes?" "One is underneath the couch and one is upstairs in the laundry room."  "Where's my finger?"  "It's in your nose, son."

I'm constantly memorizing where everything is because I never know when I'll need to help somebody find it.  Of course, the downside is that my brain looks like this:

In a related story, Fridays are "wear your favorite sports team to school" days for Drew, so I decked him out in Chicago Bears wear.

He looked so freaking cute, it made Brian Urlacher cry.

Drew was really tired on Friday, and apparently, he really had to pee.  The combination of the two led to a golden shower the size of Niagara Falls on Drew's nap mat while he was sleeping.

NO PROBLEM.  That's why I send extra clothes (and socks, and shoes, and wet wipes, and Lysol) to Drew's school with him each day.

They changed his clothes and cleaned him up, and then they put his pee-soaked clothes in a grocery bag in his backpack.

After I picked up Drew from school, I picked up Bailey and her friend Sara from their school.  We went to Publix for the girls to interview the Customer Service Manager for their science project on bottled water sales trends.

I took Sara home and had a good long chat with her sweet mother.  Then I ran by Pizza Hut to pick up dinner because I promised my family a warm meal; I just didn't promise them that I would cook it.  

Hey, in all that seemingly unnecessary detail, were you all like, 'Listen, if I wanted to know what you eat and where you shop, I'd just friend you on Facebook.  And then I'd block your boring ass.'

Yeah, sorry about that.  It will seem more necessary in a minute.  Please don't block me yet.

We got home and ate pizza and then I remembered that Drew's pee clothes were in the car!  BARF.  I need to, like, triple wash them on the ASAP.

But I couldn't find Drew's backpack anywhere!

Ugh, where is that stupid thing?

Maybe I already took it up to the laundry room?   No.  Okay, in Drew's room?  Nope, not there, either.

It didn't turn up all weekend.  I asked Drew's school if I left it there somehow, but it wasn't there, either.

My perfect score in the Werdyab Memory Game was flushed down the toilet faster than you can spell P-E-E.

The good news is that Drew's backpack turned up today.  The bad news is WHERE Drew's backpack turned up today.  Which was Sara's house.  Ahem.

Do you think her Mom was pissed?  (See what I did there?)

And you people are still bringing bottles of wine or fresh flowers when you meet somebody for the first time?!  Pfft.  Overrated!

Because really, what says "nice to meet you" other than "urine-scented clothes"?  Well, I can't think of a thing.

Can you imagine the stench coming off that Bears jersey right about now after it's been fermenting for the past 5 days?

After I pick it up tonight, I'll be able to tell you exactly bad it is.  On a scale of 1 to making-me-involuntarily-gag-in-public, I'm guessing an 11.

Let's just hope she's a Packers fan.

Oh, and while you're here, would you like to cast a vote for Werdyab Blog?  You would?  Man, you rock!

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Disney or Bust

If you need to get in touch with me this week, sorry, I'm unavailable.  I'm on a plane bound for Disney World!  Yay!

The last time that I went to Disney World was in 2008.  Bailey begged us to take her before she was "too old to enjoy it".  And at the crusty old age of seven, we were a little worried that her best years were behind her, so we decided to go.  

I was 7-months pregnant at the time.     

But it's cool because I'm tough and I can take it.  Besides, this trip will probably barely even kill me.   

Drew's first trip to Disney World.  Think he remembers it?

The first day went great.  

"It's a little warm but that breeze is nice."

"It feels so good to get some exercise." 

"Oh, look!  Bailey is meeting Cinderella!!"

*wiping sentimental tear*   "I'm so glad that we decided to come to Disney World!"

Our bug glasses from Animal Kingdom

I was a little more tired on the second day...  

"What's the temperature again?  90 degrees?! You've got to be kidding me."  

"Brian, will you take Bailey on the next couple of rides and I'll just wait for you here?"  

*tearing up from exhaustion*  "Maybe we could go in a little early today?"

I'm giving that pumpkin a run for its money!

By the third day, it was getting ugly. 

"My back is KILLING ME!  I can't even get out of bed!  How the hell am I supposed to walk around Disney if I can't get out of bed?" 

"It feels like a freaking oven out here!  How do people live in this horrible place?"

"I don't give a crap if Mickey Mouse spoon-feeds me Rocky Road ice cream, I'm not walking all the way to that tent."

*sobbing*  "Why did I come to Disney World pregnant??  WHY was I so stupid?!  WHY... Why?!"

See that fake smile?  It's the same one that you smile right before you start crying from exhaustion.  NOT THAT I KNOW THIS FROM EXPERIENCE OR ANYTHING.

By the fourth day, I rented a Rascal to wheel around the park. 

"This is the best 50 bucks that I've ever spent."

Do you know that there's not one single photograph of me riding that motorized chair around the park?  I must have threatened somebody (ahem, Brian) within an inch of his life if he snapped a pic of me riding that ridiculous thing.   (Sorry, baby.  It was just the hormones talkin'.)

So here's the thing about going to Disney World during your last trimester: It will ruin a pregnancy faster than you can say, "M-I-C...K-E-Y...M-O-U-S-E".

Shortly after returning to Georgia, I started having chest pains.  Then that Disney trip became known as the precursor to cardiologist visits, hospitalizations, heart monitors, medications, bed rest, premature labor and an emergency c-section.

In short, Mickey Mouse can kiss my butt! 

But I'm hoping that Mickey and I can start over this week.  Maybe we can spend some time together, and I don't know, grab a Starbucks or something.

I'm willing to forgive him for making me have too much fun if he's willing to forgive me for drawing all those mustaches and devil horns. 

Sorry, Mickster.

I'm looking forward to a totally-not-pregnant trip to Disney World.   I think we're going to have a blast!  There's nothing better than spending a fun week with my family.

Until I return from the land of Mouse, 
Amanda 

P.S. Any good wishes that you can send to Mickey that he doesn't kick me out of the park on sight would be greatly appreciated!





I'll be hanging out on Facebook while I'm gone.  Do you want to hang out with me?  Really?  Cool!  Have you liked Werdyab Blog on Facebook yet? If not, please click and add.  And let's chat House of Mouse. 




Or, do you prefer Twitter?  I'm trying to get into it, but I have to be honest here, that 140 character limit gets me every time.  Obviously.  But if you're really good at Twitter, I'd love to retweet you.  Pretty please?

Back-To-School Paperwork

I hate back-to-school paperwork, not as much as getting a root canal, but definitely more than watching From Justin to Kelly.  And that movie was terrible.

Each year, we spend hours giving the same school the same information: name, address, birth date, parents names, emergency contacts, yada, yada.

Is there a "No Changes" option?  Listen, my time is valuable.  That True Blood isn't going to watch itself, you know.

A younger child's paperwork is always very detailed.  Drew's preschool was interested in his favorite foods, nap-time rituals, likes and dislikes.

And there's always an uncomfortable catch-all question at the end.

Here's where things get awkward.

If I leave it blank, then I'm a bad parent who doesn't give a crap about my kid's happiness between the hours of 8 AM and 2 PM.  Drew's well-being does not concern me at all.  I AM EVIL.

But if I write too much, then I'm a needy, overprotective parent who's going to be at the school anytime my kid sneezes or they need a volunteer for the Fall Festival.

Make that mistake, and somebody's asking you to be the PTA President.  No.Thank.You.

If I was nice, I would have done Drew's teacher a solid and written,

Dear Preschool Teacher, 

There is some information that you might find beneficial, so thanks for asking!

Drew has been known to expose someone's butt in public, which can lead to a WWF smack-down. You probably won't be able to understand him (bless his heart), so when he says his name is "Jude", remember that we spell it "D-r-e-w".  Oh, and last year, he gave his teacher crap.  And I mean that literally.

Basically, I suggest you stop by www.werdyab.com.  And remember, it's never too late to start a new career.   

You're welcome.

Sincerely,
Drew's Mom 

But I didn't.  Instead, I wrote, "Drew loves to play with puzzles and read books".

I need to get something off my chest here, THAT WAS A LIE.  Drew hates them both, but I felt like "video games and naps" wasn't as impressive.

As a parent, it's my job to convince you that my kid is the next Albert Einstein.  As a teacher, it's your job to figure out that I'm a liar.  

A 6th grader's paperwork isn't as personal, so I was flying through it.  In fact, I was going so fast that I misspelled my own name.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, when I signed my own name, I did not spell it correctly.  

But now, I'm totally off the hook for the Room Mom gig.

              Potential Room Mothers

1. Mrs. Smith's Room Mom from last year
2. Nice lady who volunteers for the PTA
3. Idiot who can't spell her own name. 

Below was an actual part of Bailey's school paperwork.  Is it 1994 and nobody told me?

Hey, y'all - if there's an emergency, just beep me with a  -911 and I'll pull over at the next pay phone to call ya back.

I didn't know pagers existed anymore, but guess what, you can still buy one!  Believe me, I checked.

So I've added "beeper" to our back-to-school shopping list for next year - right beside Nirvana Smells Like Teen Spirit CD and silk button down shirt with a floral vest.

"What's a pager, Mama?"
"I had one in the 90s.  We clipped them to our belts to get messages that were sort of like text messages, except it was just a phone number.  Then we'd use pay phones to call the people back."
"What's a pay phone?"
"There used to be phones at gas stations and at various places near the highway for people to pay a quarter to make a phone call."
"Ohhhh!  A pay phone!  So that's what Maroon 5 is talking about!  Why didn't you just use your cell phone?"
"Most people didn't have cell phones back then.  They were crazy expensive, like, several dollars per minute."
"Really?  How much was it to send an email?"
"Cell phones couldn't access the web.  In fact, when I had a pager, I did not have an email address or a computer. If I needed to write a research paper, I had to go to a place called the LIBRARY and read some things called BOOKS."
"Oh, Mama!  We have libraries and books now.  But what about Facebook?  Was there Facebook?"
"No, Facebook hadn't been invented yet.  Myspace hadn't been invented yet, either."
"What's Myspace?"
"Exactly."

Seriously.  I've GOT to get me a pager before next year!  I'll be the envy of all the moms who can actually spell their own names.

Signed,
Ananda

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First Day of School

Bailey woke up to an alarm clock and styled her own hair.  She packed her school bag and then her lunch.

She said, "Mama, will you get too emotional if I ride the bus instead of you driving me?"

Uhmmm, YES.

But instead, I said, "No, baby, that's fine.  You can ride the bus if you want."

We walked outside, and I snapped one quick photo with my iPhone.

She didn't give me a kiss or a hug.  Instead, she just smiled and I smiled back.

She quickly turned and walked up the hill.  Her freshly curled hair was bouncing on her shoulders.  She carried a small black purse in her hand.

I watched my 6th grader climb into the school bus from across the street.  I was careful not to wave or shout "Have a good day!" or breathe or do anything else that might embarrass her.

INSTANT FLASH BACK.  Bailey's first day of Kindergarten.  Princess backpack.  Purple bow in her hair.  A smile full of baby teeth.  A tiny little hand holding mine as we walked through those big hallways.

Wasn't that just yesterday?

Bailey and her cousins when she was in Kindergarten.

So I did what any mother would do in this situation.  I cried and ate waffles.

Yep, that's how my day started off.  And that was BEFORE I took Drew to his first day of Pre-K.

These schools should really consider handing out vodka and Xanax at the door.

When I woke Drew up this morning, he shouted, "I don't like Pre-K!  I like SLEEP!"  That's my boy.  He finally climbed out of bed based on promises of waffles and video games.

Hey, do I know how to charm the fellas or do I know how to charm the fellas?

Oh, did you think I actually cooked those waffles?  Sorry to disappoint.  I promised my kids a good breakfast on the first day of school.  I did not promise them I would cook it.

Waffle House does To Go orders and they're open 24 hours a day.  Remember that the next time you want to impress your children or your in-laws.  My hashbrowns taste just like Waffle House's?  Really? Well, I'll be. 

And hopefully, their waffles are better than their light bulbs.

Source

Since Drew has a November birthday, he has two more years until he starts Kindergarten.

The English to Werdyablish translation:  "WHAT?  I have to pay daycare for an extra year?!  I wish I'd thought about this on Valentine's Day, 2008."  *wink*

Drew's school was nice enough to move him into the Pre-K room early.  It's especially good considering that Drew has become so snobby about kids who aren't potty trained.

"I don't like to play with William because his butt always stinks like poop."  - Drew, last week.

So this means that Drew will have two years in Pre-K.

This morning, I felt like I should do him a solid and say, "Listen, dude - go ahead and color outside the lines and try putting a round peg in a square hole.  No matter what you do, you're getting held back this year."

When we walked into his classroom, the children were sitting completely still and quiet.  Nobody made a sound.  Seeing all those perfectly behaved 4-year-olds kind of scared me a little.

So I have two questions for Drew's teacher:
1) What kind of drug did you give those kids?
2) Where can I get it?

Drew turned to me and said, "Bye, Mama!  I've got to go to Pre-K now."

And just like that, he was gone.  No tears.  No hugs.  No clutching my left leg until it loses circulation.  Just "Bye, Mama!"

Check out this pile of I'm still 3 but I'm in Pre-K anyway cuteness.

It's been an emotional first day of school.  Not for the kids.  No, they were fine.  It was emotional for me.

Growing up is tough on us Moms.

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A Not-Over-The-Top Birthday Party

Bailey told me that she didn't want a birthday party this year because I'm always so over-the-top with it.  This was preceded by a pre-teen *eye roll* and an extra loud *sigh* for emphasis.

Me? Over-the-top?  Pfft.  Like that would ever happen!

Okay, sure - I've stayed up all night "helping" Bailey with her school project before.  And I might have gone a tad overboard on a #BloggersDance challenge or two.  But birthday parties?  No way.

Last year, Bailey wanted a camping party.

So I transformed the backyard into "Camp Bailey"!  Each camper received a backpack to fill with prizes from playing camping-inspired games.  We had a table full of camping foods -  including a batch of s'mores cake pops that robbed me of my sanity, my patience, and what was left of my youth.  I made miniature tents and custom-wrapped Hershey bars.  I stayed up for 40 hours straight before the party to get everything done.

The year before that, Bailey wanted a kickball party.

So I ordered team shirts in Bailey's two favorite colors that said "Bailey's Ballers" on them.  I rented out the park for our competitive (yet fashionable) game of kickball.  I ordered kickballs that matched the party colors with the team name printed on them.  And then there was the "Publix incident" when I asked the baker to re-do the blue cupcakes an hour before the party.  HEY, it was a shirt matching emergency.   I'm pretty sure that she spit in the second batch, so I only ate the green ones just in case.  

And the year before that, Bailey said that she wanted to pick up her friends and bring them back to our house.

So that's just what we did... in a black stretch limo, y'all!  All of Bailey's friends were dressed to the nines in rockstar attire.  Bailey needed a new dress, new boots (Taylor Swift phase), a hair appointment and a mani/pedi, but she looked adorable!  Each child was introduced to their fans (all the parents) while strutting down the red carpet (Christmas blankets) and being photographed by the paparazzi (grandparents with cameras).


There was a lot of giggling, balloon popping and loud singing going on in that limo.  I'm surprised they didn't charge me double.

Well, I guess looking back on it now, I might have gone a little "over-the-top", especially considering that Bailey would have been just fine with playing Uno in the basement.  And I probably could have bought a Ferrari with all the money that I've spent on birthday parties in the last decade.

So this year, when Bailey said that she wanted pizza, ice cream and a few friends to spend-the-night, I actually listened.  You know, as well as I can.  

I asked Dominos to make the pizzas look like softballs since all the girls are on Bailey's softball team.  Bless Dominos heart.  They tried. 

And we had an ice cream sundae bar.    

Now, before you leave any nasty comments, Bailey gave me permission to Amanda-fy this table and this table only.  She said that she felt sorry for me not having anything to decorate. 

God love that child.  SHE GETS ME.

It's been a long time since I've been to a slumber party, but not much has changed.   

1) 11-year-old girls eat like 400-pound truck drivers who have been held captive in a concentration camp for months.  Between the hours of 10 PM and 7 AM, they ate 3 large pizzas, 2 dozen cupcakes, a gallon of ice cream, 3 jars of pickles, a dozen doughnuts and what was left of the ice cream toppings.  AND THEN WE ATE BREAKFAST.  I almost had to take out a second mortgage to feed these kids.

2) There's no sleeping at spend-the-night parties.  Sleeping is for wimps.  And for kids who want their hands stuck in warm water until they pee.  

3)  Moms are soooooo uncool.  

The girls seemed to have fun, though.

This is what they looked like at midnight.

And this is what they looked like at 4 AM.

See the difference?  Yeah, me neither.

I felt more hungover after Bailey's slumber party than I did after all my college keg parties combined.   Next time, I'm hiring a 20-year-old stunt double who can actually function on two hours of sleep.  

I don't think that Bailey and Drew were feeling much better.  We stopped by my aunt's house the next day and...

But Bailey FINALLY had the party she actually wanted!  She was one happy girl and that made me one happy Mama.  Happy 11th Birthday, Bailey Faith!

P.S. Thanks for letting me decorate the ice cream sundae table.

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The Child Discipline Holy Grail

Child discipline is a tough issue for most parents.  We try to fall somewhere between allowing our children to act like total idiots and beating the snot out of them until Social Services knocks on the door.

Time outs?  Rewards System?  Behavior Charts?  Believe me, I've tried them all.

I've even taken the time to read a handful of books on the subject after I read the entire Twilight series.  Proprieties, people.  Priorities.

But today, I'm telling you to throw all those books out the window!  (The child discipline ones.  Not the Twilight ones.)  And forget all the advice that you've been given about child discipline.

Because this blog contains your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  And if you order today, I'll throw in a pink unicorn absolutely free.

How do you discipline your child?

SINGING.

What. You can't sing?  Can't carry a tune in a bucket?  Completely tone deaf?

EVEN BETTER.

Recently, I was driving my 11-year-old daughter and her friends to a restaurant.  During this short commute, I learned that eleven is the first time in a girl's life when she realizes that her mother is a total tool.  

The car ride was awkward with me being so uncool and all.  I longed for the days of old (you know, like last week) when Bailey and her friends wanted to talk to me.

But now, they were crammed into the back row of the SUV and trying to create as much distance as possible between themselves and "the Mom".  At one point, I think we were actually traveling in different zip codes.

Then the Carly Rae Jepsen song Call Me Maybe came on the radio.  What a catchy little ditty!  So I cranked it up and started singing.  I was hoping that Bailey and her friends would join me in a Girl Scout sing-a-long kind of thing.  What a bonding moment that would have been!



But I quickly realized that NOBODY was joining my crappy sing-a-long.   Unless, of course, they didn't mind getting shoved into a middle school locker later this fall.

I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Bailey's humiliated face staring back at me.  I saw her friends staring at me, too.  There was an uncomfortable silence that no amount of Radio Disney could fill.

I'm sure that most parents would have been embarrassed by this situation, but not me.  First, because I don't get embarrassed.  Have you read this blog?  Second, because I used it as a learning opportunity instead.

THIS IS MY CURRENCY.  This is how I OWN her.

Why didn't I think of it before?

Suddenly, I had a flash back to 1986.  Permed mullets.  Ocean Pacific.  Reebok High Tops.  Swatch Watches.  And my Mom belting out Bon Jovi in our minivan while driving me and my friends to the mall.

Oooooooh..... We're halfway there.... Whooo oooooh.... Livin' on a prayer...

If I wasn't 11-years-old at the time, I probably would have been proud because my Mom has an amazing voice.  But I was 11-years-old at the time.  Ahem.  So I was livin' on a prayer that she'd suddenly develop laryngitis, if you know what I mean.

SEE.  I was given a goldmine but I was too stupid to use it.  I bet that's exactly how Paris Hilton feels.

So now when Bailey gets out of line, all I have to do is sing a Justin Bieber song.  Quietly at first.  You know, taunting her.  And by the time I'm three bars into Baby, Baby, she'll be freaking out like Jim Carey playing The Quiet Game.

Her room will be so clean.  Her vegetables will be so eaten.  Her teeth will be so brushed.

I WILL OWN HER.

Linking up with Yeah Write.  Why?  Because it's awesome!

Be sure to check out all the amazing bloggers this week!  Come back on Thursday to vote for 5 favorites!  
(P.S. Voting for me is totally fine, too.)

popular vote winner

THE CHILD DISCIPLINE HOLY GRAIL BY AMANDA OF WERDYAB

‘Tweens all over America are going to wonder what’s up as more and more mothers start singing, instead of screaming, their children into submission. Congrats, Amanda, on the win.

Summer Guilt of a Working Mom

Summer break is just around the corner. Many Moms will start their countdown to sleeping in, hanging out by the pool and spending quality time with their children. But me? I will start my countdown to beginning another week just like the one before it.

We will still be getting up at 6:30 AM. We'll still be rushing out the door as I hand my kids a granola bar to eat for breakfast. And then I'll drive them to Summer Camp where they'll be crammed into a room full of other kids whose Moms also don't love them. (Sorry, that's the Mommy Guilt talking.)

And, sure - they will enjoy the occasional field trip to the zoo or aquarium to make me feel better, but mostly, they will just read or color or play video games eight hours a day.  

I remember how wonderful Summers were when I was a kid. We baked cookies at 3 AM, slept until noon, and spent the rest of our time swimming or playing at the park. Summer was awesome!

But I don't think it feels any different for my kids, and I feel awful about that. So that's when my guilt kicks into high-gear and I start eating cookie dough straight out of the refrigerator.

Social media has only amplified the problem.

Here's an example of the Facebook statuses that I'll see next week:
"Spending all day long by the pool!"
"Loving this time with my kiddos!"
"Every day is Saturday at our house!"

I bet Instragram will have to temporarily shut down from the millions of people trying to upload a photo of their feet with a pool in the background - but don't worry - one sepia tone and your's will look completely different.

Pinterest will be packed full of pins like "25 Things To Keep Kids Busy" or "Fun Summer Crafts". And even though none of us are actually going to do these things, I want to pin them anyway.      

The venting tweets will also begin next week:
"It's the third day of Summer and already my kids are bored!"
"I can't believe that my kids are still asleep."
"My kids are so lazy."

My iPhone will become a quiet reminder of what I'm missing because I work.

Do you know what day is Saturday at my house? Saturday. That's it. Just one day. And my Saturday is usually filled with things that kids love like scrubbing floors or folding laundry. Maybe even an occasional run to the grocery store.

My Instagram photos will be of my children posing in front of their Summer Camp building. There won't be any bare feet or gorgeous pools in the background, but I'll try to capture that big, green dumpster if I can.

I'll probably be pinning things like "25 Ways to Deal with Mommy Guilt" or "Tips for Working Mothers", or maybe I'll just skip those and go straight to the "Best Cocktails" pin.

I won't have anything to say on Twitter, so I'll just have to rely on retweets from Conan O'Brien or Dane Cook to fill my page.

And while your children are driving you crazy, my children will be driving somebody else crazy. I don't get to be annoyed with them for begging to go bowling. I don't get to yell at them for being lazy. I don't get to complain that, no matter how much I pick up, I just can't keep the house clean when the kids are at home.

About this time of year, I always want to quit my job, or at least go back in time to when a young, skinny, 20-year-old me decided that an Early Childhood Education Degree was a bad idea and slap the stupid out of her.

But yesterday, I saw the sign. (Did that make you think about Ace of Base? No? Just me?)

I used my lunch break to go to Bailey's school and look at the 5th grade Social Studies projects. They were on-display in the media center, which I still call the "library" because I'm so old school (literally).

I walked into the library media center and saw a group of Moms who were busy organizing materials for various teachers.

First off, let's talk about my private detective skills for a minute, shall we? How do you like them apples? I've learned that if you turn the flash off and pretend to be checking-in on Facebook, you can totally snag a photo without anybody knowing that you took it, probably.

I'm sure you can imagine the conversation that was going on here. It was a paper sorting freenzy, y'all. I think I saw the speed barrier broken at least twice, and if organizing worksheets was an Olympic Event, there would have been more gold in that room than on Nelly's teeth. I was so impressed with their hard work as volunteers.

I watched them for a couple of minutes. It got a little snarky. ("I thought you said the multiplication sheet went on top?!"... "Uhmmm, no, I said the bottom.") It got a little stressful. ("Five minutes left, ladies!  Five minutes left!") And they were making a huge sacrifice of their time.  ("As soon as we're done here, I've got to go to Mrs. Smith's room and help her set up for the party.")

These Moms were busting their butts - helping somebody else do their job - and probably receiving very little appreciation in return. That's exactly like a real job - throw in a pair of uncomfortable shoes and some crappy coffee and you've got a side-by-side perfect match.

Except for one thing - these ladies were paid NOTHING - unless, of course, you count the currency of a 5th grader rolling her eyes and whispering, "Ugh.  My Mom is sooooooo embarrassing."

But guess what? I get a free pass on all that crap.

Nobody bothers asking me if I can sort multiplication worksheets tomorrow because they already know what I'm going to say: "Awwww! Sorry! I have to work."

And there's more.

If my children wear wrinkled clothes to school or if I forget to put lunch money in their account, I'm forgiven. The teacher just sighs and thinks to herself, 'Poor kid. You know, that's what happens when your mother works.'

Charlotte's web can say, "Forget Wilbur and SAVE THIS HOUSE" in the corner of my living room and it's totally fine because I work.

And if my family wants a warm, delicious meal on the table at 6 o'clock - that's fine, too - because Dominos delivers and I work.

In that moment, I was reminded that being a stay-at-home-Mom is a really hard job.  One that never ends, one that doesn't get enough respect, and one that I probably couldn't handle.

I might not be starting my ideal summer vacation next week, but I'm not stapling worksheets together, either. I guess it all balances out in the end.

Lurker’s favorite by our new lurking judge Kristin W of That Unique* Weblog

I chose Amanda of Werdyab’s post Summer Guilt of a Working Mom. As a mostly SAHM, I was ready to put up my dukes and cock an eyebrow at her envy of the summer days of leisure. In the end, however, she pulled off an authentic appreciation of a different lifestyle while remaining confident in her own.

I also liked how Amanda combined the envy of moms who get to be at home with their kids with her relief that she won’t be. She writes, “And while your children are driving you crazy, my children will be driving somebody else crazy. I don’t get to be annoyed with them for begging to go bowling. I don’t get to yell at them for being lazy. And I don’t get to complain that, no matter how hard I work, I just can’t keep the house clean when the kids are at home.”

These days, it’s encouraging to see a parent who genuinely wants something different acknowledging that the greener grass we envy actually takes a lot of maintenance on all sides. And who can resist an Ace of Base reference followed by a Charlotte’s Web adaptation?

Congrats, Amanda, on the win and thanks, Kristin, for volunteering to be one of our weekly lurkers!

Lurker’s fave by mystery lurkers Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

Ellen: Guilt, especially mommy guilt, comes in all flavors. Amanda of Werdyab shared hers with us in a way that was poignant, honest, and still managed to make us laugh.

Erin: She lets us all off the hook. It was real in a way that we like here in The Sisterhood. It made us want to invite her over for some of those cocktails she’ll be collecting on Pinterest.

Ellen: We give her a cheer for her sensibility. She highlighted that we are all just doing what we do and trying to find balance while doing it.

Erin: It was warm, funny, and darn good writing,

Ellen: Her mad detective skills and Ace of Base reference put this one over the top.

       Congrats, Amanda, on the double-lurker win and on the top five finish! Thanks, Erin and Ellen,

       for the pick.

Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty Shades of Grey?  Pfft.  More like Fifty Shades of OMG, what the crap am I reading?!

E.L. James, the pseudonymous British television executive turned crappy author, gives us the gift of Fifty Shades of Grey. Uhmmm.. thanks? But hey, is there a return policy?  

This mediocre novel started out as an online Twilight fan fiction called Master of the Universe. Apparently, James was bored with all that glitter skin and unrequited six-pack abs kind of love, so she decided to skip the love part all together.

Here's the plot: Anastasia Steele is a 21-year-old virgin and soon-to-be Washington State University graduate. She falls for a rich, handsome entrepreneur named Christian Grey after interviewing him for her school newspaper as a favor to her roommate. Christian Grey is a self-professed sexual dominant who cannot show any real affection. He asks young girls to sign subordinate contracts in which Grey controls their appearance, hygiene, nutrition, exercise and sleep schedule. He wants them "ready" anytime he requests their "company" in his "playroom", and if they break a rule, they are punished in the whips and chains kind of way.

Christian Grey is controlling, manipulative and abusive. In short, he makes Charles Manson look like the Dalai Lama.

Steele is a young idiot who will do anything to please Grey, but she can't get past all the S&M, hot, nasty, monkey sex, which is detailed explicitly in the novel. She also has concerns about signing his beck and call girl contract. Steele eventually decides that she can't handle a relationship based solely on erotica.

Spoiler Alert: That's it.That's the entire plot.

If I wrote a novel this bad, I would use a pseudonym, too.

Check out the first paragraph of the book:

I scowl in frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair—it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanaugh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal.  I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my wet hair into submission.  I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet.  Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes with exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up.  My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope I look semi-presentable.

If there was an award for the longest run-on sentence and the worst use of the word "mantra", I would proudly present it to E.L. James now.

And I'm sorry to report this is as good as the writing gets, folks. Seriously, I was more intellectually stimulated by reading Hokey Pokey Elmo.

And unfortunately, everything that E.L. James knows about Seattle -  or America in general - is what she read in the Twilight series. The geography references in this book sound like something written after a weekend-long game of beer pong.

Oh, and the repetition! She repeats the same words over and over again. There is so much repetition.  She repeats herself over and over again. You will read the same things over and over again. It's so repetitious.

Did that annoy you? Then don't read this book.

I never thought that a best selling novel would have "oh crap" and "quirk up" appearing 842 times per chapter, but I guess I was wrong. Every sexual encounter begins with Grey "cocking his head to one side" and ends with Steele's "inner goddess doing cartwheels".

Pete and Repeat were sitting on a fence... that was obviously painted fifty shades of grey.

Look, I'm all for an easy (no pun intended) read, but I was completely blown (no pun intended) away by the immature writing style displayed by this "pro" (no pun intended). A New York Times Bestseller?  How did she do it (no pun intended)?  The weak plot allows you to see every so-called twist and turn coming (no pun intended) from a mile away. I hate to sound hard (no pun intended) to please (no pun intended), but I thought the book royally sucked (no pun intended).

Fifty Shades of Grey has been called "Mommy porn", which is a misnomer because this kind of porn isn't strictly reserved for mommies. It's for perverts, sex addicts and 16-year-old boys, too.

I'm still baffled by it's popularity among Moms, though. If I had read this book before it was famous, I would not have told tell a soul, except maybe a priest during confession. Before Fifty Shades, if you had admitted to liking "Mommy porn", you wouldn't have wondered who they would be gossiping about at the next PTA meeting; you would know.

But now, "Mommy porn" has become socially acceptable. Some people even blog about it. Ahem.

You must suffer through the weak plot and poor character development just to get to the sexy stuff.  That's not Mommy porn, people - that's actual porn.

If your favorite show was Red Shoe Diaries or if you can't believe that Jenna Jameson never took home the Oscar for Best Actress, this book is for you.  

And for all you mathematicians out there, I'll break it down in your love language. Fifty Shades of Grey is 90% sex, 2% character development, and 8% filler to get to 100%. And that's being very generous with the character development portion of the equation.

Supporters call this book a "love story". Well, sure - as long as you think that love is whipping someone until her guts fall out on the floor. I guess I missed that scene in The Notebook.

Other supporters say that they're inspired by the "relationship" in this novel. Yes, there were plenty of "relations" going on; I just didn't find any that ended with "ship".

Look, people - it's all about the sex. Don't let anybody fool you into thinking it's a love story or it's about a relationship. Let's call it what it is: socially acceptable sex. And not romantic sex or loving sex, but horrid, abusive sex.

Next time, I'll just stick with Hokey Pokey Elmo.