Crappy Pictures

the uppers & downers of parenting (or, coffee & wine)

I am a drug addict. I use uppers and downers.

But only to make me a better parent. 

I never drank coffee before I had kids. At least not in a "Fresh Pots!" sort of way. We didn't even own a coffee maker. 

Back in those days, I looked down upon anyone who needed coffee in the morning. The more they required it the less I thought of them. They were weak. Slaves to the bean. Didn't they know it is a drug they are addicted to? Just stop drinking that shit and then you won't need it. 

Then I had two kids. 

Kids wake-up with energy. Kids wake-up with loudness.

Kids wake-up too fucking early. 

No I will not play with you. Go away. I need coffee. 

After coffee:

I don't need it. But they need me to have it. 

I'll stop drinking it just as soon as they stop waking me up before the rooster crows.

(We don't actually have a rooster. Did you think we did when I wrote that? That would be cool. Maybe I should take this out and let you think we have a rooster.) 

So that is my little helper pick-me-upper in the morning. 

 And then there is the evening.

Sometimes, after an especially rough day, I'm stressed out at night. 

Everything sets me on edge. I'm a bundle of nervous thoughts.

Go to bed. I can't handle one more minute of this parenting thing. I have to do this again tomorrow! How can I handle another day like this one? Nobody is listening to me! 

But then my husband hands me a glass of wine.

After wine:

Again, I don't need it. But they need me to have it.

So that is my occasional little calm-me-downer in the evening.

Coffee & wine. My unsung parenting tools.

And yours? 

 

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Blah blah blah, yes alcoholism sucks, blah blah blah, notice I said occasional, blah blah blah, did you know that judgmental people are ugly, blah blah blah. 

Eating entire pints of ice cream is another favorite unsung parenting tool of mine. As is sneaking chocolate. And snorting huge piles of cocaine. 

Just kidding about that last one. 

teaching the art of accepting crappy gifts

I'm still recovering from the holiday break. It is hard to get back into the swing of things after you've slacked off for so long. 

Really? I'm expected to put clothes on my kids again? Can't January be a pajama month too?

So before I jump into completely other random things I thought it would be weird if I didn't say something about our little holiday break. So I will say something...

 

We gave Crappy Boy a particular gift and he really didn't like it:

We already know he suffers from appreciation deficiency. But this was something else. This was him suffering from honesty.  

Turns out, pretending you like a terrible gift and saying "thank you" doesn't come naturally.

Fortunately, this happened at home. I still had time to encourage proper manners before we saw our extended family. 

I had a lot of teaching to do. I taught him that some kids don't have toys and he should be happy with what he has. I taught him that it is the thought that counts. I taught him about hurting feelings of other people. 

I also briefly mentioned something about returning and exchanging items. 

Then we left to be with family. His new knowledge would be put to the test. I was feeling very confident as a teacher. 

At first, I thought he was going to ace the whole exam.

He said thanks when I could tell he didn't like it.

But then something went wrong.

And this time? It was the teacher's fault. Oops.

Despite being embarrassing, it was also funny. Because embarrassing things are always funny. The gift-giver just laughed and said the gift-receipt was in the bag. Isn't it great when people are cool like that?  

Anyway, I was still concerned for Crappy Boy's apparent lack of skill in appreciating gifts and accepting them gracefully. Crappy Papa & I talked about it. Do we spoil him? Does he have an unhealthy sense of entitlement? Do we remember being like this when we were five?

Turns out, we were. I remember being upset over receiving the wrong kind of big girl underwear (I wanted The Smurfs but got something stupid, yes, I'm still bitter!) and Crappy Papa told me that he cried with tears over some lacing toy thing because he hated it so much. 

So we decided to cut him some slack. We were expecting way too much.    

The next day he received a card in the mail with cash in it. 

And he surprised us when we were least expecting it. 

Isn't that great when kids are cool like that? 

 

Do you have a crappy gift story? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year to All The Mamas!

Remember those days in 2011 when the laundry was done, the dishes were washed, the floors were mopped, the groceries were bought, your project was finished and the kids were napping at the same time?

Me neither. 

Here's hoping you get one of those days in 2012!

 

happy (non) crappy holidays

Since our families are a mishmosh, our winter holidays are custom-made.  

It is a jumble of food, festivities and fun. We like it this way. I can have my latkes and Rudolph too. 

Anyway, I'm unplugging for the next few days so I can drink it all in. And by that I mean lots of alcohol. 

No really, I'm looking forward to being fully present with the kids. I think that is probably the most important gift I can give them. To just be present with them. To give them my full attention. To not say "maybe later" when they ask me something. To just shut out the rest of the world and enter theirs.

I can't wait.    

 

Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah & Happy Solstice & Happy Kwanzaa & Happy Festivus & Happy Yule & Happy Whatever Else I Unintentionally Left Out. 

Happy Non-Crappy Holidays! 

Whatever you celebrate in your home, I hope it is filled with joy and laughter.   

See you next week. 

while mama was in the bathroom (episode 1)

I go to the bathroom sometimes. 

I know, it is really horrible of me. Neglectful even. I'm sure perfect moms store up their bowel movements for when they have back-up childcare.  I'm going to go ahead and admit publicly that sometimes, sometimes I have to go and don't wait.

I know my kids are safe during these 3-5 minutes. Hey, don't rush me! Sometimes I even read a whole page of a book! Or the back of a shampoo bottle!

As soon as I shut the door they continually and very loudly let me know that they are okay:

So I have always felt confident in my parenting choice. 

But just when I thought I had it all figured out, it changed. My bathroom system is broken.  

Now when I shut the door they dissappear. And they are quiet too.

Quiet is always cause for alarm:

Most of the time, they are totally okay. Playing with puzzles, looking at books and other non-bad quiet activities.

But sometimes, sometimes (often enough for me to start this series) in those 3 minutes they manage to wreak havoc on the house, themselves or each other. And sometimes all three for extra credit. 

To kick off, last week I emerged from the bathroom to find Crappy Baby in the kitchen... 

 

He has dark chocolate powdery looking stuff all over his face, body and floor.

Only it isn't just chocolate. Oh no.

It is better.

It is chocolate flavored instant coffee. And it is drooling out of his mouth.

Fortunately, he doesn't like it, "I no wike dis chocolate, Mama. Yucky." So I don't think he actually injested much.

Relieved, I clean him up.

And then make myself a cup of chocolate coffee. 

 

Anything happen while you were in the bathroom? Or are you at the door banging stage?

 

 

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He never did show any signs of having had coffee. I expected him to bounce off walls, talk like a squirrel and never sleep again but none of that happened. 

The coffee was on the counter (within his reach!) because I had intended to make a mug earlier but got pulled into their kidsanity and never got the chance. I usually drink real coffee. But this stuff is gooooood. In a bad good way. Like a hot cocoa/coffee hybrid with tons of sugar and ingredients that aren't food. My very fast junkie fix on days I can't be bothered to make a pot of coffee.

Since I called this post an "episode" cut to Crapmmercial:  

"Instant coffee, a busy mother's best friend. Just stir in the happiness! And how!"   

thank you for the Fisher-Price™ dog, no really

So the holidays are around the corner and I thought I'd do a snobby "what gifts not to buy my kids ever" type post. 

Like when my 2 year old gets a gift that is for ages 10 and up. "Um, thanks for this great gift that I have to store for eight years."

Or gifts that are so huge they take up my entire  living room. "Um, thanks for this great gift but we had to move our coffee table into the garage." 

Because really, it is all about me. Not the kids. When people buy them gifts they aren't thinking about whether or not the kids will like them. They are just trying to annoy me.  

But doing a complainy post like that will just bring people out of the woodwork who will say things like "you should feel fortunate that you can be so picky with toys because some people have to give their kids rocks and sticks" and that will just frustrate me. Because I'd rather give my children rocks and sticks than the toys I was going to complain about. Tongue-in-cheek, people. Relax.

Anyway, I already complained about toys. So I scrapped the idea and instead, I'm just going to talk about one special toy...

The infamous Fisher-Price™ Laugh & Learn™ Love to Play Puppy™ that everyone with a child under three should have stashed in a closet by now.

We got ours two years ago as a "Congrats on the New Crappy Baby" gift from someone. This means ours is one of the first-generation ones that don't move. (I understand that the newer versions walk and come with a machete.) 

My first impression is that it looks benign.

There is a tag tied around his wrist from the gift giver and I read it. 

It starts with the usual stuff "Congrats on the baby!" but then it says something else too. 

It says this:

And that is a direct quote. I saved the tag because I thought it was so funny.

Now if you are so annoyed with a toy that you have to remove the batteries what on earth makes you think I would want this thing making noise in my home? 

Once the batteries were engaged it did this:

Without the mad face. I added that in because that is what I think he looks like behind our backs. 

Truth is, I've never trusted toys that talk and "interact" with you. I've always thought they were creepy. Probably from growing up watching that Living Doll episode of The Twilight Zone, one of my favorites.

I can't have this thing stabbing me in my sleep. 

So the dog is sent to the car to live. Forever. 

I use it to bribe Crappy Baby since he hates his car seat. "Get in the car seat, you get the dog. Do we have a deal?"

The dog is like an old friend they suddenly remember exists every time they ride in the car.

The thing is, like my battery dislodging friend alluded to, this dog is sensitive. It starts chattering and singing and giggling from each and every bump in the road.

Even when I'm driving alone in the car. That doesn't happen very often. 

 

But last Friday I found myself driving alone in the car for a little over two hours. With no music. My phone just got replaced and I haven't loaded any music on it yet. The radio was playing nothing but shouty and angry "GET THE BEST DEAL EVER!!" ads so I turned it off. 

It was just me.  

Well, just me and the dog. The dog who wouldn't stop trying to make conversation. 

So I did what any person stuck in rush hour traffic would do.

I started talking to it. 

And we became the best of friends. 

So thank you for the Fisher-Price™ dog. No really! After two years of fear, I kinda like him now.  

But he still isn't coming inside my house. 

 

for the love of dump trucks

Crappy Baby loves dump trucks.

He fills his dump truck up with small toys and then dumps them out. And then repeats this process.

That is how they work pretty much. 

He calls them "dumpers" which I like very much. 

It isn't the only thing he likes to dump though. 

Bowls of cereal. Boxes of cereal. Cups of liquid. Purses. Bags of chips. Bags of chocolate chips. Laundry baskets. 

Really, anything that can be dumped shall be dumped.  

Last week, after tallying up the damage and realizing he wastes approximately $72.38 worth of food each day I caught him doing it again!

And I was fed up with it!

I was pissed!

But my choice of words was a very poor choice indeed. 

Because now when he does it, he proudly proclaims, "I is a dumper, Mama!" 

And how can I be mad at that? 

 

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I remember this "testing gravity" stage with Crappy Boy too. Ack! When does it end again?  

Also, remember my friend Debbie who wrote a cookbook for parents? And a number of you asked me to remind you when you can order it? You can order it right here. Plus, if you forward your receipt to her, you can get a signed bookplate & a card for gift-giving for free, which is pretty awesome. 

the flower (or, a magical moment memory)

Magical moment memories. Everyone has these. The funny thing about them is that there is often nothing particularly spectacular about the moment. Just a random snippet of a random day. An image perhaps. Or a scene.   

For some reason, this memory is so vivid that is stands out from all the other memories. And that is what makes it magical. 

I have these from my childhood. One is about sitting on the grass eating strawberry ice cream. Ordinary. Yet, magical. 

I occasionally wonder what magical moment memories my own children will have. But there is no way to predict this. 

I also have a few memories that glimmer and shimmer from early parenting.

This is one of them.  No words, just images...

 

(This was from Crappy Boy's babyhood, thus, no curl on his head.)

What is the first "magical moment memory" that comes to mind when you think of being a parent? 

 

the car show, illustrated with crappy pictures™

It is a Saturday. We have no plans. Crappy Papa suggests we all go to the 2011 Car Show. The kids are excited! 

We find out that kids get in free! Bonus.  

It is in a convention center that holds more people than the town I grew up in.

And all of those people are already inside.

I do not like overly crowded places. I get this terrible urge to bulldoze everyone in front of me. I don't ever do it but someday I might snap.  

I also don't really like cars. 

After wading through seas of people we get to an actual car on display: 

Crappy Papa is a dude so he automatically appreciates cars on a much higher level than I do. Even so, he isn't into cars. We are both doing this for the kids.

The kids who seem completely uninterested in this more-expensive-than-our-house" car in front of us.   

So we move on to the weirder ones:

This one was slightly interesting even to me, because it looked like the car from Sleeper. 

Them? No reaction. 

So we head to a sleek yellow one. They act like they can't even see it!

Because they can't see it.

This is what kids see:

Butt level.  

So we have to pick them up. Often. 

Even then the view is spotty. 

I'm pretty sure they are actually as bored as I am.

The treat requests start:

Because who doesn't like to solve boredom by eating? 

We saw a churro stand on the way in and we said "maybe later" which is the best possible answer we could ever give our children during an outing.

The "can I have it now?" and "is it later yet?" requests every five minutes don't bother me.

Using "later" gives us leverage in case of emergencies. This is not an emergency so we continue with the "later" answer.

We know there is a whole wing of cheaper, ordinary cars that they can touch and sit in. They will love this!

So we make our way through the sea of people again. 

Crappy Boy offers his review with a dissapointed tone. I feel bad. 

Eventually, we arrive in the normal people car section and I have high hopes.

The first thing they spot is a newer version of our own car: 

They are thrilled! Finally! They are happy!

They even get to go inside! Of our car. 

They had no interest in going in any of the other cars though. 

Yes, we brought them to a car show so that they could sit in a shinier replica of the car they ride in everyday.

Kids are so weird. 

But we have one more trick in the bank. And it isn't the churro. It is the kids' section. 

We didn't mention the kid section because if they knew games and rides were lurking in the building they would have run amok trying to locate it. And nobody wants a killing spree.

So we head to the kids' section. 

We have no idea what the kids' section has but it is probably awesome. There were signs for it everywhere. 

We get there.

It is a mostly empty room that is the size of an entire elementary school. In one corner is a bouncer. 

Just one bouncer. 

With a line. A very long line. 

An entire elementary school worth of kids. In line. 

I go to the start of the roped off line area and ask the woman who works there how long the wait is. 

She tells me:

And hands me a liability release form. 

I am willing to sign away my rights to sue the pants off whomever you sue the pants off in the event of a bouncer accident. These forms are common.  

But I am not willing to wait in line for 35 minutes for my kids to have a 3 minute turn.

Don't get me wrong, I can handle the wait. They can't handle the wait. And I can't handle them not handling it. 

I report the lengthy wait time: 

And Crappy Papa and I give each other a knowing glance. A glance that is tinged with fear yet a glimmer of hope.  

Saying no will lead to tears and sobbing and shrill sounds. 

Which means this is an emergency!  Time for pixie dust:   

Pixie dust is sugar. It solves all problems and makes kids fly.

Only in emergencies! (no, the fairies didn't give it to us)

The bouncer is forgotten and we make our way out.

Sailing the seas of cheesy people.

But when we get to the churro stand:

The churros have been had. By other people. 

Yes there were other treats. No, they didn't want those.

When you want a churro nothing else matters. 

They cry. Loudly. The churro stand is right near the exit so we remove ourselves as quickly as possible.

It is dark outside.

We make our way to the parking structure receiving dirty looks from every other human except the ones with kids who look upon us with pity. 

The kids continue to cry over the injustice of being churroless. 

This outing? Awful. 

Other than the five minutes of them sitting in a replica of the car that we are now walking to, it was a total waste of time. 

While pulling out of the parking structure, Crappy Boy says: 

Which is exactly the opposite of music to my ears.

I tried, I really did. I did it for them. I hate cars! Sigh. It doesn't matter, it was a total failure for all of us.  

Then a block later, he perks up and points out the window:

He sees a Jedi. His is elated!

The Jedi is actually a parking attendant with a lighted wand to direct cars:

I tell him that he is a parking guy.

Parking guy status does not replace Jedi status. They can coexist.

"Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is." - Said by Yoda, that was. Write like this forever, I could. Talks like this, my Dutch grandfather does.   

His elation unscathed, he asks:

And I say yes. 

Which causes him to change his assessment of the day:

 

 And within a few blocks, it got even better:

Anyone who can change the "worst day" into a "good day" totally has the Force.

So I didn't lie. He really was a parking lot Jedi.      

 

 

 

 

 

public toilets vs newly potty trained girls and boys

Do you know what this is? 

A public toilet? Wrong. It is the enemy.  

It is especially the enemy of newly potty trained boys and girls, who are completely inept and unready to battle it. As are the parents.  

Back in the early days with Crappy Boy, I couldn't wait for him to no longer use diapers. To be diaper free! 

Diaper free sucks.

Don't fall for that potty training propaganda. Keep them in diapers as long as possible. 

This is what it was like to take Crappy Boy to a public bathroom when he was very newly potty trained...

 

So I take him into the women's bathroom. Because I'm a woman. This means there are no urinals. Just a single toilet like the drawing above.  

The first mistake I make is that I lift the seat. Which reveals this:

And I didn't really need to see that. 

The problem with boys is that they pee standing up. 

The reason this is a problem is due to the height of an average potty training boy versus the height of an average public toilet:

Either the toilet is a tad too high, or it matches up perfectly so that the tip of his penis will make direct contact with the disease caked rim of the bowl. Lovely. 

And so I have to help make him taller:

By picking him up and dangling him in front of the toilet. 

Have you ever peed while being dangled in the air? Me neither.

He physically can't pee this way. Plus my arms are getting tired. 

So I use my knee to give him a little seat to perch on:

And this doesn't work either. 

Finally, he puts his feet down on the toilet bowl rim:

And we have pee!

(And now people finally understand why we are a shoes-off household. Because even though I didn't draw shoes, believe me, he has them on to protect from foot herpes.)

Right around this time, I get together with a friend who has a child the same age as mine. We commiserate about potty training and I whine about penis to toilet bowl height. She has a daughter.

She is a good friend so I make fun of her endlessly for this recent addition to her mama supplies:

Especially since she was the one who spent an entire trimester of her pregnancy carefully deciding which fancy designer mama bag to get. 

The bag that now carries a toilet. 

But on this particular occassion, she doesn't have it with her. Probably because I tease her too much.

I have to go to the bathroom to wash my hands and her daughter has to pee. So I offer to take her. 

She wishes me "good luck" and hums a smug little happy song as we walk away. I roll my eyes, thinking she has no idea how much harder it is to take a boy to the bathroom. Her daughter will be a cinch. 

When we get into the bathroom though, it occurs to me that her little girl can't masterfully squat above the toilet seat without touching it like I can. 

Oh. 

The toilet seat cover dispenser is empty. But this doesn't scare me. I remember back before those were common in bathrooms so I know what to do. 

I get to work making a toilet paper patchwork quilt on the seat. 

I have to work very fast because she is doing the pee dance already. 

I help pull down her underwear to her ankles and start to plop her on the toilet. 

And then realize that she will just fall straight in if I let go:

Why is her butt so tiny? This is no good. 

Oh, I see the problem!  Her underwear can't be on both ankles because she needs to spread her legs to anchor herself and balance.

So I slip it over one shoe and leave it around the other ankle. I continue to hold her steady. 

And we have pee! 

I did it! Take that, friend with a daughter. I totally handled this.

As I'm patting myself on the back, I notice her foot. The one with the underwear clinging to it. It is swinging. 

With two little shakes, the underwear slips over her shoe:

And it falls onto the sticky, urine laquered floor. Inside out. The part that touches her parts is contaminated.  

We walk back.

With weighted shoulders of defeat, I hand my friend the underwear:

I will never again make fun of the toilet in her fancy purse. 

And in return, she agreed to not say "I told you so" anymore. 

We made a truce and joined forces. The public toilet is the enemy! 

There is no competition for who has it worse when it sucks for everyone.

And it does. Oh yes, it does.