Twenty Ways Cats Are Like Toddlers

Twenty Ways Cats Are Like Toddlers

1.  Watch you go to the bathroom

2.  Philosophy:  what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is mine, that which

      you may want in the future is mine.

3.  You do not own them.

4.  Must have dirty paws all over the keyboard as you type        

      - or better yet, lay down on it.  Newspapers too.

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5.  Choose not to come when called.  

6.  If you want them to go anywhere, you must pick them up and

      carry them. 

7.  Act like dead weight when #6 occurs.  

8.  Climb up on kitchen counters and eat other people's food.

9.  Look incredibly cute when asleep.  

10.  Act surly and uncooperative when taking pictures of them.  

11.  Have nine lives.   

12.  Act totally unconcerned when caught creating a mess.

13.  Lap up water from the door of an open dishwasher

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14.  Like big cardboard boxes.  

15.  Have a fascination with toilet water. 

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16.  Don’t like wearing clothes.

17.  Like to ingest small items—preferably living, but may be recently

        dead.  

18.  Obsessed with Chuck E. Cheese commercials

19.  Go bat-crazy when vacuum cleaner is turned on.

20.  Like to eat goldfish. 

What Mothers Say

What Mothers Say

Go.

Go on, walk to Daddy.

Please go to sleep, angel.

Go get me another diaper.

Go play on the slide.

Do you need to go potty? 

Go knock on the door and say “Trick or Treat!” 

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Go put away your toys.

Go watch Barney.

Please go play!  Mommy’s tired!

Go on in the classroom.

Go say hi to her.

Go sit on Santa’s lap.

Don’t go out too far.

Go do your homework.

Go ask dad.

Are you going on a field trip?  Sure, I’ll drive.

Go get your soccer bag.  No, I don’t know where it is.

Take it with you when you go. 

Why should I go to school to bring it to you?  I reminded you ten times.

Go get one out of Lost & Found.  I’m not buying another.

You need to go up a size. 

Go do your chores.

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Do you want to go to the movies?  No, I don’t have to stay.

When are you going to team camp?  No, I know you don’t want me to drive.

No, you can’t go with Hannah on Spring Break.

Go take off your outfit.  You’re not wearing that.

And that skirt doesn’t go in the floor.

Will you go to the grocery for me?  Take my car.

You’re not going to the party!

All those clothes on the floor don’t go in the dirty clothes hamper.

Go get your money.  You can pay for it.

Buying Chanel requires that you go get a job.

Who are you going with to the prom?

Let’s go shopping for a dress.

You’re not going anywhere until you pick up these clothes.

Are you going out again?  I just gave you money yesterday.

Do you know where you want to go to college?  

Why don’t you stay in tonight?

Stay under the speed limit.

Your hands stay on the wheel, sister!

Stay strong.

Stay off the phone!

Why do you stay in your room all the time?

Will you stay near the dressing room and give me your advice? 

Stay with your sister.

Stay away from him.

Stay focused.

If your grades don’t stay up, the phone is mine!

Why do you have to stay for detention again?

Yes, you have to stay for the study session. 

You’re staying in tonight!

Stay true to yourself.

Are you staying at Sarah’s?

Stay in touch.  And you better answer your phone.

Don’t stay up all night.

Please stay awake.  It’s a long drive.  Do you need money?

Stay aware of your surroundings.

Is he going to stay for dinner?

Don’t stay if they’re drinking.

Stay calm.  I’m coming.

Stay on top of your college applications.

Stay positive.

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Do you want to visit and stay in the dorm?

Stay close to God.

Are you staying in the sorority house?

Stay and watch The Notebook with me one last time. 

You’ll always stay my little girl.

Stay sweet, honey.

Is it time to go already?

Please. Stay.

Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

Happy Halloween everyone! 

       In between all the school parties, costumes, carving pumpkins, candy, and everything else you didn't get to, hope you can take a minute to read this—because it all goes so fast......

Halloween From the Eyes of a Parent

        When my children were in pre-school, Halloween was a much-anticipated, momentous occasion. It was a night in which the young were free to imagine, to giggle and scream, and to be who they truly were, deep in their five-year-old hearts. 

       Back then my kids put great thought into their elaborate Halloween costumes. My daughter was enraptured by Cinderella, and we bought the Disney maiden’s shiny blue dress weeks before the big night. Of course, a blond wig and tiny glass (plastic) slippers were essential.  

       Every piece of her costume had to be perfect; but unfortunately, because she had modeled the get-up for her daddy several times, my showgirl forgot where she put the show-stopping shoes. They had to be somewhere in the house. After tearing our living quarters apart for a solid hour, I glanced at the china cabinet.  

       Lo and behold, the silicone slip-ons sparkled in the illuminated display, occupying a place of distinction beside my glimmering wedding china. She forgot she had stashed them there, secure from her baby sister’s grasp. She concluded that the logical hiding place was, of course, among the china.

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        Where else would you put “glass” slippers?

        As dusk approached on every All Hallows Eve, my husband and I spent grueling hours getting three kids ready, taking pictures, and simply striving for a photo in which no one was ogling at the camera with their nostrils against the lens. After I smoothed Cinderella’s hair and attached the last sash on my swashbuckler, my kids’ reality melted into a misty fantasy of fairy godmothers and fiery galleons on stormy seas.

        Whether the night was clear or whether a perfect storm brewed, a magical, mystical electricity penetrated their rationality. It stirred them into a suspended disbelief that vampires morphed into bats and goblins greeted those who dared to approach a house with no porch lights on. They relished the paranormal pageantry under the aura of dim streetlights but within safe range of strong arms.  

        Each stage of life melted into the next, and this year I must reluctantly adapt again.  For the first time, my son won’t be home this Halloween to steal peanut butter cups from his sisters’ pillowcases of loot. And there will be one less flickering jack-o’-lantern lining our entry hall of horrors as a glowing memorial to each family member.

        In May he walked across his high school stage and through the looking glass into another world. An adult world in which the roads are paved with promise and you have to pay for your own gas. On graduation day he donned his four-cornered tasseled hat and raised his treasured scroll. But my heart still pictures him donning his three-cornered pirate hat and raising his trusty scabbard. I turned around and a real five o’clock shadow replaced his black-marker mustache which was often eclipsed by a Gatorade one.

        Back then, each scrape and scar had a salty story, and a damsel in distress beckoned around every corner. At age five, he strode out the door to chase his dragons, and just a few months ago, he strode out the door to chase his dreams in college.  

        May his ship be guided by the compass of faith, and may his gleaming sword slay every giant that stands in his way.

        Through the years my little girl swirled into adolescence too. She traded her sparkly princess gown for a shimmery prom gown and now glides gracefully down the stairs in five-inch heels. 

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        But I still see my Cinderella clack-clacking down the stairs in Barbie high heels, not bothered a bit that her crown slips precariously over one eye as she bounds over the last three steps. I cherished all the memories because I knew that in a moment her chubby little hands would clutch car keys instead of a candy pail.

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        Years before, she flew out the door to carve her jack-o’-lanterns. And pretty soon she’ll fly out the door, trying out her wings in a great big world, carving her own future.  

        May her every pumpkin turn into a gleaming coach, and may she find glass slippers in the most unexpected places.

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

"Don't make me come back there!" Day

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

My teenagers dream of me morphing into an invisible valet that drives them around, keeps the fridge stocked with chocolate milk and, for God’s sake, doesn’t talk to their friends.  

My kids say I embarrass them.  I’m not sure why, on account of I try to be cool.  Ya’ feel me?

But that’s life.  I’m entitled to embarrass my offspring until my last breath because of all the toddler tantrums they threw and the sibling fights I had to break up in church which caused me to cuss in front of the preacher.

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Apologizing to store clerks used to be my full-time job.  Once, in the grocery store, I turned around for five seconds and my two-year-old dumped a whole bottle of Hersheys chocolate syrup over his head.  I figure that gives me the right to pucker my lips and throw up a few gang signs when we take group pictures before the Homecoming dance.

I don’t think a kid should complain about her mom embarrassing her unless that kid can pay the mortgage.  When I’m driving and jammin’ to Prince, my daughter should just put on her Ray-bans and silently slink down in the car like every other teen as I get my raspberry beret and my Dance Fever on.

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When I drop my daughter off at the movies and she walks toward her friends, I like to crank up Justin Timberlake and pretend to rope the girls disco-style with my air lasso and drag them back.  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout if you boogied to You Dropped the Bomb on Me back in the ’80’s, word.

The other day I was horrified when one of my friends got in my car and almost barfed due to the mildew smell from a bag of wet towels my daughter brought back from camp and left under the seat for a week. 

So the next time I drove her and her friends to the mall, I decided the wet towel humiliation gave me free license to follow a teenage driver into the parking lot, pull up beside her, and scold her for incompetence and for almost hitting me.  My daughter, hyperventilating, could hear the lonely clang of my hammer nailing her coffin shut.

I’ve blocked out of my memory many occasions in which my children have embarrassed me.  That’s how moms avoid slipping off the precipice of sane into the swirling maelstrom of manic.  However, I can usually recall any incident involving law enforcement.

Years ago a state trooper pulled me over for speeding, and I assured him that I usually drove under the limit.  

Making small talk, the deputy peered through the window and asked my five-year-old son, “Is this your mom, buddy?”

He looked straight at the officer and said, “Yeah, and don’t believe her.  She speeds all the time.”

Two hundred fifty dollars later, I think I’m entitled to scream his family pet name during soccer games any time I darn well please.

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The next time my embarrassed kids wish I’d develop superhero skills and disappear into the woodwork, I’ll just use my sweet air lasso skills and drag them back to reality. 

Special K and Chardonnay

“Why I Need Happy Hour” Friday

Special K and Chardonnay

Thursday night I finished my dinner of left-over lasagna and searched for something sweet.  I poured a glass of chardonnay because I deserved it on account of I hadn't had any since yesterday.  

        Special K Bars lined my pantry, but they’re made of cardboard, and cardboard does not go with chardonnay.  Everyone knows that cardboard is chiefly paired with Mogen David Rosé or strong coffee in the morning.  That came out wrong—I would not suggest Mogen David in the morning.  I’d love to have a big, chocolate Krispy Kreme most mornings.  Or a few calorie-inflated granola bars, but granola gives me gas.  However, I digress. 

 

Anyhoo, as I was trying to find something to satisfy my insatiable chocolate monster, I read the side of the Special K Bar box for kicks.

“Drop a jean size in two weeks (double exclamation points)!!  The Special K Challenge.”  

           Really.  I couldn’t drop a jean size in two years.  They should have an asterisk beside that.  I’m 38 (woo hoo!  Chardonnay just came out of my nose) going on 68 and I’m fixin’ to drop a Size 8 trou to a Size 6?  After three kids and a metabolism that shut down in 1998, I could really rake in the ratings on The View if that actually worked.  

So... I read the scientific "spin" on the side of the box.

MEAL #1:

Kick-start your day with a serving of Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) (oh yay) with 2/3 cup skim milk.  ENJOY with fruit.

It didn’t say how much a serving of cereal was.  I couldn’t translate the hooo-hah on the side of the box because I couldn’t translate metric into American.  So, I poured my artificially flavored Chocolate Special K into my usual cereal bowl and poured the thimble of SKIM in.  Well, I was sure the Special K people would like to avoid a big ‘ol lawsuit because of me choking on dry cereal so I poured just a Biggie size Wendy’s cup tad more milk in.

Meal #2:

“Replace another meal with a delicious Special K Protein Meal Bar, Special K Protein Shake, or another serving of your favorite Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) with 2/3 cup of SKIM milk and fruit.  

Since I didn’t have any strawberries without fur on them, I used a can of strawberry pie filling from last Thanksgiving.  That’s when I stopped talking to Aunt Billie Rae because she was being hateful and brought her “blue-ribbon” (I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that) strawberry pie to Mama’s for Thanksgiving when she KNEW that I had signed up to bring it.

Meal #3:

Eat your third meal as you normally would.

This was cool.  So, my husband was out of town.  Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.  That would not be up for debate with my kids.  I thought I needed a little protein since I was on a strict diet, so the bacon added a nice touch.  Sipping my chardonnay and boiling my noodles, I thought this diet’s working out OK.  

I’ll let you know when I’m gonna be on The View.

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Recently I laughed through a magazine article entitled “Coaching, Not Nagging, Motivates Teens,” written by a revered “organizing coach.”  Since nagging is my full-time job, I perused it while trying to guess who’s gonna get tossed off Redneck Island, which is my other full-time job.

The author reflected on the teenage stage with rosy nostalgia.  Studies actually show that ten out of ten moms agree raising teenagers feels like getting your eyes pecked out by a chicken.  Her kids may have been responsive to her “coaching,” or they were frightened to death of her, which in that case, gives me a new, profound respect for her.  

Her suggestions would never work in my house.  For example,

#1:  Clearly communicate to your teen what you expect.  

Oh wow.  Never thought of that.  If they don’t understand my expectations the first time I scream it, then they need to get the headphones out of their ears.

#2:  Teen won’t get up in the morning?  Put an annoying alarm clock as far from the bed as possible.   

Tried that.  He can’t even hear the fire alarm, but tinkling his car keys beside his ear and whispering, “Goodbye little Kia” usually works.  I’ll have to send that one to the “organizing coach.”

#3:  Place a laundry basket in the bedroom closet, cautioning your teen not to put damp items inside.  

For funsies, let’s assume my teen puts clothes in a hamper.  And I’m not sure anyone would even notice a mildew smell over the noxious soccer bag in the closet.  Or the hamster I suspect died in there.  At least he shouldn’t smell like mildew.

#4:  Keep bathroom time to a minimum.  Set a timer by the mirror.  

Um... really?  I would suggest doing a Facebook run into their bathroom at 7:15 every morning before school with a camera, shouting excitedly, “New profile pic!”   That could backfire though.  Their expertise in hi-tech treachery triumphs over age every time.

#5:  Help them clean out their clothes closet.  Make two piles: keep or donate.  

We need a lot more piles than that, like “friends’ clothes I am keeping,” “friends’ clothes I may give back after I try on,” “friends’ clothes I can’t wear around them because they don’t know I have them,” and “clothes I can only wear if parents leave the house before I do.”

#6:  Give encouragement by recognizing ways in which your teen is already organized.  

What???  Ok, let’s see.  

“Hon, I love the way you organize your argument when you’re trying to persuade me to buy you another shirt from Allotamoney & Fitch.”  Case in point:

Teen logic:  (Premise #1):  “You always give us kids money to buy
                                                    presents for each other at Christmas.”

                   (Premise #2):  “I remembered Sis didn’t get me anything
                                                for Christmas.”  

                              (Action):  “So I bought this cute shirt for myself 
                                                 with my own money."  

                      (Conclusion):  “You owe me $35.”

     

My kids effortlessly ignore my nagging, but I rather enjoy it.  It perpetuates my fantasy that I’m actually someone’s boss.  You know, I bet I’d be the first one to get voted off Redneck Island.