The Fun-Sucker: Yes, It's a Blog From Ted

“Don’t worry about a deadline. I just want you to have fun with it.” That was Rachel’s response to my query of exactly when she wanted my last blog entry. “Just have fun with it.”

Oh, Rachel. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. If only it were that easy. If only anything for me were that easy. Alas, nothing ever is, because I have the super-human-like ability to suck every last ounce of fun out of anything. I like to think of it as the mental equivalent of overcooking broccoli. What starts out as a delicious and dark green vegetable winds up a colorless, flavorless mound of something that my guinea pigs refuse to even nibble on. That is exactly what happens to “fun” once it meets my brain.

Let me clarify: it is not a matter of not being able to have fun. I can do that, especially when a couple of beers are thrown in. That is not my issue. Instead, my problem is that I am not “in the moment” for anything because I am constantly anticipating what is coming next. For example, while everybody else is enjoying the beauty of the beach on a sunny summer afternoon, I am anticipating how I am going to arrange the various beach items in the wagon to ensure the most efficient method of getting everything back to the car. On Christmas morning, when the kids are tearing off the wrapping from their presents, I basically have a game of Tetris playing in my head as I anticipate how to get all of that cardboard to fit into our one recycle bin that is allotted to us from our town.

Some (read: my wife) would call me an anal-retentive freak. Others may call me borderline-autistic, someone who could easily pull up a stool and join Rain Man in a hand at the blackjack tables. I, however, like to refer to myself as a “planner.” So, in my organized manner, let me go over the list of those for whom I plan:

1. obviously, for myself
2. for my kids, who are usually grateful that I have not forgotten any of the pivotal pieces of sporting equipment for their latest activity
3. for my wife, who is not nearly as grateful and repeatedly questions in a highly-sarcastic manner how she ever did anything with me not telling her how to go about each and every detail. And…
4. for fictional characters in movies

You were probably following me up until that last response. I am not one of those film geeks who is seeking out inconsistencies in plot or costume design. That is so not the case for me that I can’t even think of an example to include here (and I really don’t want to ever have to do a Google search for anything that starts with the phrase “Star Trek episodes.”) Also, I am not one of those movie-goers who is upset with the characters for making foolish decisions. On the contrary, I am usually thinking that if that woman is stupid enough to go into the basement when she knows that she is being chased by a homicidal maniac, then she fully deserves to be disemboweled.

Rather, I am the individual who happily pays a small fortune for admission and popcorn, and then sits in the darkened movie theatre unnecessarily obsessing over the logistics of each scene. For example, I can easily become fixated on any romantic scene in a movie that involves candles. The character in the movie is never using just one or two candles—to fully set the mood they have typically lit at least fifty candles. The sight of this overloads my brain with all of the practical elements that involve such an act. First of all, it takes a whole lot of time to light that many candles. Secondly, these are never candles that have been previously used, saving the individual from having to use a butter knife to dig out the remnants of the wick from the wax in order to light it again. No, these are pristine candles, which makes me question if the character has a closet full of dozens and dozens of new candles for this very purpose. These are inevitably not cheap candles from the Christmas Tree Shop. These appear to be high quality candles from the likes of Pottery Barn, where candles cost a minimum of $25 each. $25 per candle multiplied by 50 candles totals $1,250. That’s a good chunk of change I am sure could be spent on more practical matters. Wasn’t the person in an earlier scene complaining about their son having a rare bone disease and how they couldn’t afford the proper medical treatment? Hey, lady: Maybe your kid could get healthy if you stopped dropping a fortieth of your income on freakin’ candles! Come on, where are your priorities??? And speaking of practical matters, who really wants to spend their post-coital moments walking around the house extinguishing fifty candles? I don’t care how meticulous you are, with that many lit items in your home, you are bound to forget at least one. And then what? You are wakened in the middle of the night by the smoke detector, and trust me—that is never, ever romantic.

“But Ted, that’s not the point of the movie!”

I know! But I...just...can’t stop...myself...And again my brain is back on the candles. If the characters actually summon the energy to get up to blow out all of these candles, then I hope that they take an extra minute to make a trip to the bathroom before they return to bed. These characters just made mad, passionate love And look at what they are doing immediately following that act: choosing to fall asleep in one another’s arms. I have fathered four children and have thus been sexually active at least four times in my life. Since I can speak from that vast experience, I have learned that there is usually some clean-up involved after such acts. Yet these characters just lay there, taunting me in their refusal to even glance at the box of tissues clearly displayed right there on the nightstand. Hell, I would be happy if they just picked up the discarded tee shirt from the floor and used that to freshen up with. Please, I beg of you, do something, anything that will ultimately prevent you from waking up after a few hours of sleep and finding yourselves stuck to one another. And don’t even get me started on the female’s increased chances of developing a urinary tract infection if she chooses not to frequent the loo. (I sure hope that she likes cranberry juice, because obviously that is all she will be drinking for the next few days.)

I would love to tell you that I am exaggerating all of this for comedic effect. Sadly, it’s not the case. This unfortunately, is just the way my mind works and I need to accept it. I should get used to the fact that I will continue to almost always be on time for absolutely everything (and if I’m not, there is usually a damned good reason, i.e. alien abduction, anthrax attack, etc.). And I need to get accustomed to the fact that while everybody else is captivated by the interplay between Batman and The Joker, I will continue to be the lone individual obsessing over who is responsible for changing the oil in the Batmobile.

Dear Jon Gosselin:

People Magazine March 23, 2009 Vol. 71 No. 11

Seriously. If you had ever hoped you could “get away with” the whole cheating-on-your-wife scandal by playing the poor-abused-husband card while continuing to deny you ever cheated on Kate while married, you pretty much screwed that up by taking your not-cheating-on-my-wife-female-“friend” to France on a vaca with you.

Though your celebrity is rather new, (I hate using the word “celebrity” as a verb, it really should solely be a noun) you sure did graduate with flying colors from the Dairy School of Cheating, whose free-range mantra is “How to have the cow, make the cheese, and sample milk from as many bovines as possible, all while claiming to be hormone and antibiotic free.” Unfortunately, you’re not in very good company, what with the likes of Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, Senator Jon Ensign, and Governor Mark Sanford being alumni of the same college. Of course there are many more cohorts of the sort, but really, this is a blog and not a dissertation. In fact, have you every thought of running for office?

What is so very sad to me—and the millions of people who have become sucked into the Jon & Kate Plus 8 vortex—is how transparent your whole conundrum is. I’m lucky enough to be older than 32, and this looks to me like your run-of-the-mill mid-life crisis. Trust me on this: us women with children have an identity crisis almost hourly, which pretty much makes me an expert. Sub out the red hot convertible sports car for the big booming motorcycle (you have already clearly scored the much-younger-than-you-and-so-opposite-your-wife-girl), some late night partying, and trips to France, and there you go. The salve that will heal all your wounds from the life you didn’t plan on. While the grass does appear to be greener from a distance, I can assure you that up close, there are always brown dead patches, even on those manicured, pristine golf courses. Grass is grass after all.

Let me break it down for you and tell you how it ends:

1. Passive guy marries strong willed woman. Knowingly.
2. Couple gets pregnant with twins. Unforseen.
3. Couple gets pregnant with sextuplets. Really really unforeseen.
4. Guy gets bowled over by wife daily, but never says a word. Resentment builds. Knowingly.
5. Guy feels trapped by eight children he loves but didn’t plan on, while continuing to be bowled over by wife. Daily.
6. Guy explodes and refuses to “take it anymore.”
7. Guy finds a girl nothing like his wife, who "likes him for who he really is." Claims he isn't cheating, they are of course, JUST FRIENDS.
8. Guy divorces wife.
9. Guy publicly announces relationship with party girl ten years his junior, who is openly considered a “wild child” and who has a drug arrest. She also likes his motorcycle. Bizarrely enough, she has NO children.
10. Guy finds out that girlfriend is shallow and so is his life. Eventually.
11. Guy breaks it off with girlfriend—or she leaves him—and guy is now alone, divorced and his grown children hate him for cheating on their mother.
    

I’m telling you, this isn’t one of those win-win-win situations you never read about but hope will happen to you. You want to be friends with Kate? Hardly. I must admit that at the beginning of your reality show, I tried to keep an open mind about the connection between you both. You two appeared to know where the other was coming from and seemed to be realistic about each other’s personalities.

As the seasons progressed, I have to say I started to venture over to your side. Kate did seem to be condescending and rude, making fun of you at every opportunity and using your back to step up into the camera focus to show us her new hairdos and how “together” she is. Maybe having eight kids does that to you. I’m sorry to say, that if you thought she was overbearing, controlling, and yelled at you before, honey it’s bound to be nothing like what you’ll experience as the ex-husband. The ex-cheating-husband. The ex-cheating-leave-my-wife-and-eight-kids-husband. That’s a Kate we haven’t even seen yet, and I didn’t think anything could be worse than the shopping in the toy store episode. It made me want to hide under the bed and I’m on the other side of the television.

I must admit to being inexplicably fascinated by your family and story when the series was new. I watched to see how two humans could possible raise that many kids who are that close together, since I only have three children and would like to rip out all my hair most days. The kids were cute, you and Kate seemed so normal, and most of the time it looked like—at the end of the day—things were going to be fine.

But now I’m Switzerland. At 32 you’re no victim, and laying low taking her blows is 50% of the problem. Seems to me, instead of trying to “stick it” to Kate (which is sure how it looks out here in viewerville), you’ve gone and reduced your family to just another dysfunctional example of how not to live. I watched your life to escape my reality (to a degree). If I wanted to see and hear more family dysfunction, I need only pick up the phone and dial close family and friends. There’s plenty to go around. I’m sure I’m also not the first to remind you, unlike those of us who live in relative anonymity, your life is not only recorded, but will no doubt be available in boxed sets in the series movie section at the local Target. Instead of labeling them “Season One” or “Season Two,” your family video collection may be labeled “Jon & Kate Plus 8: Media Machine Virgins,” “Jon & Kate Plus 8: Things Get Ugly,” “Jon & Kate Plus 8 Separate,” and the last season aptly titled, “The Aftermath.” Not only can the world re-live your moments, but your kids will be able to watch them with a bowl of popcorn. And maybe a glass of milk you brought home.

Honestly? I'm not willing to watch your show anymore; it's lost its appeal. I'll get my dose of Jon and Kate drama from the local tabloid headlines, or perhaps my MSN homepage when I fire up my internet. But there is something sad about watching two parents try to give their eight kids a normal life--claiming it's their first priority--when the rest of us adults know how the story ends. When you're finished experiencing the "life you missed out on," you'll see it too.

Sincerely,

Rachel Vidoni, realistic ex-viewer

If You Give a Mom a Headache

If You Give a Mom a Headache...
(Adapted from "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" by Laura Joffe Numeroff)

If you give a mom a headache, (because of children who were up crying all night), she’s going to want a drink. Since drinking grain alcohol at 7 a.m. is taboo in our culture, she’ll head for the coffee maker hoping for a stiff caffeinated pick-me-up. After pouring her mug of coffee, she’ll need to have some creamer. She’ll open the refrigerator looking for the creamer and feel like Erin Brokovich because of the vast empty space looming before her. While she doesn’t spot a roach, mom will notice lots of molding food crumbs and sticky orange liquid that has melded underneath all the produce drawers. She’ll make a mental note to clean the fridge later.

Mom sucks down her coffee with creamer while scribbling miscellaneous food items onto a grocery list. While thinking of her grocery list, it will occur to her that her husband’s birthday is Friday, the in-laws are coming on Thursday night, and Easter is Sunday, and she has no food, no plan, and no lists going for any of those events either. Mom will sigh and wonder what is so wrong with drinking grain alcohol at 7 in the morning. Glancing at the clock to confirm it is still 7 in the morning will remind mom that she needs to call the doctor’s office when the phone lines open at 8:30, in order to take (one of her up-all-night) daughters to have her ear checked. Thinking of her poor, ear-achy child will make mom wonder if there is any way she could still go to school today and how long Motrin will last, but since child neglect is also a social taboo, mom calls the doctor and gets an appointment for 9:45 a.m.

Mom heads to the doctor with two children, three errands to do, and a scribbled down grocery list. While driving to the doctor, mom notices that her gas light is on and she needs to stop and refuel. She’ll stop for gas, even if it means she’ll be a little late to the doctor’s office because if she runs out of gas, she’ll be really late. After gassing up, mom drives to the doctor and gets the confirmation that her daughter does indeed have an ear infection. Mom will rejoice at the diagnosis, not because she wants her daughter to be in pain, but because it means her $30 cop-pay wasn’t in vain. Thinking about that little ditty makes mom laugh to herself because she is such a good rhymer. Laughing to herself will make mom think about how mentally unstable people laugh at themselves, and since she feels a little unstable, tired, and overwhelmed herself, mom makes it a point to be in a non-humorous mood the rest of the day, for fear of being thought crazy.

Being in a negative mood and thinking about crazy people will remind mom that the next stop on the list is Price Right. She’ll head to the grocery store to purchase ridiculously cheap food and try very hard not to think about why it is so ridiculously cheap. When she enters the grocery store, she’ll notice carrots, and noticing carrots will remind her to get out her grocery list, and as she’s searching for the grocery list, she’ll remember that it’s sitting on the front seat of her van. Too tired, too cold, and in too foul a mood to go get it, she’ll impulse buy from one end of the store to the other, throwing unhealthy snack foods at her two daughters to keep them quiet. One hour, 7 bags of groceries, and $96.72 dollars later, mom loads the kids, the food, and herself back into the van to go home. Upon getting in the car, mom will spot the list on the front seat and remember that she has to stop by the pharmacy to pick up her daughter's prescription so she won’t cry all night and will be able to go school tomorrow. Thinking about her daughter going to school the next day puts mom in a suddenly decent mood, and she speeds all the way to CVS. While at CVS she picks up the prescription and drives home to unload the kids and the groceries.

While unloading the groceries onto the counter, mom remembers the spilled orange drink and moldy food bits in the fridge. She decides to wipe out and clean the icebox since it is so empty and shouldn’t take long anyway. While wiping down the shelves, mom notices that the rubber lining around the freezer is caked with additional dried food bits. Mom moves from the fridge to the rubber freezer lining, using her fingernail to shovel out the nastiness. Deciding that she’d rather use a knife to unencrust the rubber grooves, mom goes to the silverware drawer to find a sharp, pointy object. While rifling through the drawer, mom will be grossed out by how many chunks of food live here too-and vows never to eat off her utensils until that drawer is clean. Thinking about how much the drawer needs to be cleaned reminds her that the hovel she lives in also needs to be cleaned before her in-laws arrive on Thursday.

Thinking about Thursday will remind mom that today is Tuesday, the very day that one of her assignments is due. She’ll glance at the clock to see what time it is and realize with horror that it’s already noon and she has gone to the doctor, purchased groceries, picked up a prescription, cleaned the fridge and freezer liner, but has not done any writing. Panic gripping her, she realizes that she also used a good portion of the baby’s nap to clean the fridge, instead of sitting at the computer to bang out her assignment—one that actually helps contribute to the family bank account. She races to put the food away, swearing about the condition of her house, and making another mental note to add it to the list.

While mom is downstairs in the office working, the baby wakes up. Her other daughter’s ear is hurting again. Her son comes home from school with a friend. They need to eat, they need paper, they need to use the phone, the baby is crying, can I have, can I get, can I go, can I bring…while being bombarded by the children and overwhelmed by the events of the next few days and stressed out by her deadline, mom gets another headache. And if you give a mom a headache, she’s going to want a drink to go with it.

Only now it’s not 7 a.m.

My Great Idea: Successful Communication Without Talking or Listening

I think I’ve found a new way to communicate with my children. No more long lectures about right and wrong. No more mom-o-logues about expectations and rules. The eye rolling will stop, the facts will get communicated, and what’s more, it will all be in writing. Those offspring of mine won’t have the chance to say, “I didn’t hear you,” or “I forgot.” I’m jumping on the “25 Things” bandwagon (a little late), and taking my family with me.

I’m a card-carrying Facebook addict; that social networking site that lets you rekindle all those dysfunctional relationships from high school. Not too long ago, the “25 Things You May Not Know About Me,” phenomenon swept through Facebook like a lighted gasoline trail. Everyone, including The Wall Street Journal , The Boston Globe, and the New York Times, has written and blogged about it. There are lovers and haters of this “25 Things” list. People who didn’t want to be burdened by personal information they would rather not know. People who loved reading about little nuances of friends and family. I happen to be a lover, enjoying the random personal tidbits thrown my way. That, and I’m a writer. Typing up a list of things about myself is right up my alley.

It occurred to me the other day, that creating lists would be a perfect way to start communicating with my children. Sure, they may only be nine, seven, and two, but I don’t think the list idea would be lost on them. I could impart all my motherly wisdom in chunks small enough to remember. My training in education comes in handy at this point, as I know full well that 25 things to remember is just not age appropriate. This, and my children have the attention span of a sand gnat, so I figure I’ll start a little more slowly, say with 15 things. My long lectures will be replaced by 15 bullet points highlighting only the most important facts at the time; “15 Things You Must Do Before You Can Play,” or in the future, “15 Reasons Not To Smoke or Do Drugs.” Bound neatly in a three-ring folder, labeled with applicable topics, it would serve as our family’s standard operating procedure manual.

The first list I’d like to share with my children is “15 Things It Would Be Helpful To Know About Me For Both Our Sakes.” I’d really rather not wait until my children are adults for them to come to grips with all my peccadilloes, or acknowledge that I am a person outside my mom jeans. It’s a blow when children come to the age of understanding that their parents are pretty screwed up all in all, and contrary to what I have told my son since he was born, we do not “know everything.” I think it would make the child rearing years go much more smoothly for my children to understand that I have some personality issues that helped form how I raised them, and not uncover those secrets in my diary while going through the attic junk after my funeral.

I compiled a list of the 15 things it would be most helpful to know about my personality. I figure if they read this, maybe my children can brainstorm some coping strategies on how to survive me, and be a support to one another as they get older. If nothing else, perhaps it will alleviate the number of counseling sessions in their future. Here’s my list:

15 Things It Would Be Helpful To Know About Me For Both Our Sakes

• My deep seated germ-a-phobic nature goes back to my childhood. I cannot explain it, but when you touch the escalator handrail, public trashcans, anything in the bathroom, anything in public, anything at all, I have a visceral reaction that defies logic. Sanitize, sanitize, sanitize.
• Life for everyone would be so much easier if you listened to me the first time.
• I am controlling. The sooner you learn and accept this, the easier it will be for you to blow me off when I am freaking out over how the dishwasher is loaded.
• I’m not the mom I always thought I’d be. I now know that ‘perfection’ is not a gene I was born with. You don’t have it either.
• I’m not a morning person. There is no single worse way to start your day than by whining at me. You don’t want to get up? Neither did I.
• When I say “in a minute” or “just a second,” it will never be a minute or a second. Never.
• Even though you may think I hate you (if not now, then you’ll think this in a few years) I love you so much that I’d give up my life if it would guarantee your health and safety for the rest of your lives.
• All of you children were surprises. The best presents I have ever gotten in my life. God knew that it was probably the only way you were going to get here, given my need to plan for perfect timing.
• It is much easier to do things my way. If we do them your way, it will take a lot longer, there will usually be a lot of crying, and eventually we’ll end up doing it my way. See #3.
• God gave me a very sparse dose of the Patience Virtue. It is sometimes so difficult to see, you might not think it’s in my being at all- but rest assured, the reason I only freak out at 85% of the things you do is because of what little patience I do have.
• When we stay at a hotel and I make you wear socks in the shower and while walking on the carpet, I’m not afraid you’ll get your germs on the floor, it’s the other way around. You do not want to know what people do in hotel rooms.
• I want you to grow up to be self-sufficient, capable adults. That’s why I’m teaching you how to clean the bathroom, start the laundry, and do household chores. It is not because I’m lazy, like you think.
• I pray for you every night and bless you before I go to bed. Then I pray for myself all day long.
• I love you each so much and am so worried for your safety that I often get up at night to double-check the doors and windows.
• There is often no real reason for many of my arbitrary rules, but creating them is one of the very few perks of this parenthood job and I’m going to use it to my full advantage. When you are parents, you can make up your own fun rules to torture your children.
  

So there it is. The list that will start our family S.O.P When my kids start to argue with me, I will simply point to the three-ring binder on their desk. Refer them to the lists in black and white. Reference page numbers and line items. Communicating with my children will be so much more effective when I take the talking and listening out of it.

Guest Blogger: Ted TenEyck

Introducing: Ted TenEyck. Guest Blogger, Social Worker and Funny Man. Close personal friend. If you're lucky enough to be on Ted's Christmas letter list, you already know how his mind works. Thought I'd pass the funny along and invite Ted to blog here now and then. Don't worry, he'll get his own blog up and running soon. Right Ted?

DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME??? DO YOU???

I love the promises people make to themselves about what what life will be like when they are a parent: “When I have kids, I am only going to feed them organic foods.” “I refuse to use the television as a babysitter.” “I vow to not let being a parent impact my relationship with my friends.” And sure enough, a few years later these same people are plopping Junior down to watch the same episode of Spongebob Squarepants for the fourteenth time while serving him some Jimmy Dean Pancakes & Sausage on a Stick: Blueberry (a real product, by the way). This, of course, buys Junior’s parents some time to go on Facebook and attempt to reconnect with friends they have had no contact with since they first learned the art of how to suction a baby’s nose.

As for me, my false promise was that I would not subject either myself or my kids to traditional children’s music. Nine years and four kids later, I have 5,670 songs on my ipod. And I listen to the same thirty-three songs by The Wiggles in heavy rotation until I am pretty sure that my ears are going to start to bleed.

This was not something that I ever planned, and it was surely something that did not happened overnight. No, it was a slow gradual process, which began when I realized that finding music to meet everyones’ needs and tastes is much easier said than done. As a result, I now have very stringent requirements for anything that may eventually wind up in my “Tolerable Kids Music” playlist. The following is just a brief sampling of what it takes to be immediately disqualified from ever making that exclusive and elusive list:

Songs that may cause my kids to one day need antidepressants.
I have learned the hard way that my cherubs do not enjoy any of the 193 songs that make up my “Despondency” playlist. My eldest son reported to me that the folksy songs from the soundtrack to Once were, “giving me feelings that I don’t like.” I wanted to shout at him to “lean into the pain and feel your emotions,” but I thought I should just cut my losses and play something different.

I-Would-Rather-Look-At-How-Much-My-Financial-Portfolio-Lost-Last-Year than listen to these songs:
Surprisingly, Alvin and The Chipmunks are not the main offenders in this category; even when they cover “Funkytown.” This is still more tolerable to me than anything associated with High School Musical. Zac Efron, I swear on my mother’s grave that if I ever run into you and your faux-basketball-playing cohorts, I will personally kick the crap out of each and every one of you. And not because you did anything to me personally; rather, I will beat you to a bloody pulp because you introduced my kids to the genre of musicals. If I ever have to take any of my kids to a matinee of “Cats,” I will hold you responsible.

Songs that mention any of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.”
Unfortunately, about a full one-third of my music library falls under this category. That probably wouldn’t happen if I had no taste and enjoyed “easy listening favorites.” Luckily, most of the time, the offending dialogue is really pretty blatant, allowing me to be a “good parent” and not play it for the kids. However...

One day while cleaning the kitchen, the song “URAQT” by M.I.A. started to play from my ipod. In a rare moment for me of pure excitement and joy, I picked up my daughter and danced with her for the duration of the song. Whenever we would hear the song again, my kids would beg me to do the “Silly Dance” with them. It quickly became a wonderful tradition. Around the seventy-fourth time we were enjoying this dance, my wife quietly asked me exactly what the words of the chorus were. Unsure myself, I looked up the lyrics on line. It was at that time that I discovered that the song is rather... well, filthy and profanity-laden. If I was capable of learning what the lyrics were, I was pretty sure that my kids one day would also discover what these lyrics were. And I thought that this was probably not the type of childhood memory that I wanted them to have of their father. There are already plenty of other memories that involve me that I wish I could permanently remove from their tiny little brains, so I did the only thing I could, and retired the “Silly Dance” immediately.

Songs that require me to have to explain how communist organizations work.
The Johnny Cash Children’s Album contains the extremely entertaining song “Why is a Fire Engine Red?” The song uses fun and silly word play, eventually concluding with the line: “The Russians are red. A fire engine is always rushin’ so it’s red too.” “I don’t get it!” my kids would shout when the song ended. “What does he mean by the Russians being red? Explain that to us Dad.” And that was the last time that I ever played that album for them again.

Songs that require me to have to explain how double negatives work.
I’m looking at you, theme from Ghostbusters. “Dad, I’m confused. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts’ actually means that they really are afraid of ghosts, right?” “Yes, kids. You are correct. The writer of that song is indeed afraid of ghosts and is apparently also an idiot.”

Perfectly good songs that I ruined because I’m an idiot.
The soundtrack to Shrek the Third contains the classic song “Cat’s in the Cradle,” by Harry Chapin. The kids would listen to the song and recall the funny scenes from the movie when that song was played. And then one day I had to go and spoil all of their fun by shouting like a drill sergeant: “Do you know what this song is about? Do you? It’s about a father who didn’t spend enough time with his kids. DO YOU SEE HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME? DO YOU??” Surprisingly, the kids never wanted me to play that song again.

Any item in the wildly bizarre Kidz Bop catalogue.
What is better than a CD compiling all of the most popular radio hits from the past year? If all of the songs were sung by eight year olds! That's the concept behind this apparently popular product line. Not only are these songs painful to listen to, but they are at times downright creepy. That's because the producers didn’t apparently think about the fact that lyrics that were intended to be sung by adults would now be sung by third graders. For example, one song contains the line: “I can have another you in a minute. Matter fact, he’ll be here in a minute.” Sung by someone who will not be able to get her driver’s permit for at least another seven years. Isn’t that precious?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just an abbreviated list of reasons why I have resorted to just listening to The Wiggles as I drive around all day in my eight year old van. Feel free to call me lazy or a conformist. These labels may indeed be applicable. But listening to The Wiggles makes my life easier, even though now I have to explain to the kids on a daily basis why Greg Wiggle is no longer in the group because he has been diagnosed as having “orthostatic intolerance.” Although not an easy task, it is still better than the alternative: watching my five-year-old daughter walk around the house singing: “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

Boogers, snot, and mucus; the childhood "triple threat."

I’ve spent the better part of the past two weeks watching my baby daughter perform magic tricks with her nose. (No, this isn't her. But I feel this parent's pain.) Every year February hits, and I’m crossing my fingers and legs that our family doesn’t get hit with the winter crud, but inevitably, everyone seems to come down with some version of the latest and greatest cold.

As a rule, my youngest daughter’s body tends to manifest colds and viruses in the form of fevers, ranging anywhere from four to ten days. I’m used to these fevers, know how to deal with them, and even keep a fever journal. It’s not uncommon for my daughter’s viral fevers to hit 105 degrees. I usually wait 72 hours, before taking her in, only to have our pediatrician tell me to “continue piggy backing Tylenol and Motrin, and come back in about 6 days if her fever hasn’t broken.” Well, okay. I can do that. The last time I brought my daughter in for her well visit, he asked me about her fevers.
“So, it looks like here (reading her chart) that she hasn’t had one of her fevers since November.”
“No, actually, she had another fever bout in December. It got up to 106,” I replied.
“You mean 100.6? Or 106? That’s a huge difference,” my pediatrician stated, with a tinge of worry on his face.
“No, 106,” I told him. “I just kept giving her Tylenol and Motrin, like we usually do.”
“Okay,” he starts off. “I know you’re used to dealing with her high fevers, but when it hits 106, we really should take a look at her,” he told me, incredulously. As I was leaving the office I overheard him telling another pediatrician, “…her child had a fever of 106, and she didn’t bring her in because she is so used to dealing with them…” laced with can-you-believe-this tone. Okay, point taken. Apparently there is a limit to how hot your child is allowed to be.

I mention this little episode, because until two weeks ago, my youngest had yet to catch the common cold, typical of every little person from birth to ten. Which is why I was so unprepared to deal with her nose. She didn’t sleep 24 hours a day like her feverish episodes. She’s in a quandary about whether to breath or suck on her binky, and at her very young age, has managed to create a hybrid system where she can do both. It’s suck-suck-suck-suck-BREATHE-uhh-BREATHE-uhh-suck-suck-suck-suck-BREATHE-uhh-BREATHE-uhhh. The binky’s enveloped in a web of snot, and she’s up, running around, leaving a slime trail all over the house.

One minute she’s playing with her toys, face clean as you please, and the next I look over and her head is a glistening pool of mucus. She’s got a snotty nose that could rival the best stereotypic-diaper-clad-trailer-park-two-year-old in winter. She was making some magnificent sounds the other day, until I looked over and found that the snot was bubbling around her vibrating lips, lending a new instrumentation that-while grotesque-was oddly pleasing. Curious to hear more, but feeling the mom-guilt stab at me, I grabbed for the tissue and put and end to her melody, but silently wondered what the rest of her opus would have sounded like.

In addition to her musical talents, she also performs a version of the rainbow-handkerchief-up-the-sleeve trick, wherein I’ll wipe her nose, and there’s a long string of booger that refuses to give in. I’m pulling-wiping-pulling-wiping, and it’s changing colors; it’s blue, now red, here comes the green one, next is yellow, and finally after pulling-and-wiping and changing tissues five times to no avail, I relent and break the dammed booger off, leaving the stringy end in her nose to be pulled again at a later date.

If it’s not the stringy booger trick, it’s the “where’s the slug?” trick. You’ve all seen this one; that thick yellow slug-booger slowly inches its way down the upper lip and just before you lean in for the kill, SUCK! its gone again. You wait, staring at your toddler’s nose for the booger-slug to emerge. Seconds later, there it is... the nasty little creature slimes it’s way out and down the lip, but you’re ready this time, you’ve almost got the fleshy booger in your grasp, and SUCK! it disappears. At this point I really want to yell at my 20-month-old daughter to “QUIT SUCKING IT IN!” but she’s running now, with the slug on her lip, and a new slug emerges, sitting-bitch to the next one, both going for a joy ride on my daughter’s face while she laughs and runs in the opposite direction from me. You can faintly hear those slug boogers chanting, “You can’t catch us, we’re the booger-slug men!” I finally trap my daughter in her room, coming after her with fifteen tissues, and find her “hiding” from me on her sister’s bed. “Hiding,” for my toddler, consists of covering her eyes and putting her face down so she can’t see you. Never mind she’s standing there in the middle of the room in plain sight. I make it over to her only to find…you guessed it. Dead slug-booger carcass all over her sister’s sheets. Lovely.

In fact, one doesn’t need to step too far into my home to see the slimy, gelatinous, mucus remnants from my daughter. There’s sticky residue on the light switches she reaches to click-on-click-off-click-on-click-off, there are clear stripes marking her place at the table, and of course the back of her chair where she pulls herself up. Clear dried residue from cheek to ear. Tacky little fingers encased in lint and dirt, from wiping her nose and playing on the carpet. At the height of the snot infestation, I would get her up in the morning to find a crusty, yellow conglomeration sealing the nostrils almost totally shut, save for two small air holes; looking like someone tried to paper mache a mask on her over night. The dried nose crust is the worst to try and remove. At some point in all our lives, we’ve tried to pop that little nose zit or black head, the one that makes your eyes water just contemplating, the one that you swear you’re going to let fester, because you cannot bear the pain of getting rid of it. I’m trying to figure which would hurt less; peeling the booger crustacean off with a putty knife? Chipping away at it with my pinky-nail? Trying to steam it off, with a humidifier and towel? Either way there is going to be screaming. My daughter is not going to be too happy about it either.

I’d like to know if anyone has ever thought of trying to harvest childhood mucus. My daughter’s yellow-ooze is so sticky I have a million uses for it at home. Hanging wallpaper, is one thing that comes to mind. Gluing the broken head on my Willow Tree figurine, is another. The kid’s many paper projects. Christmas crafts. Heck, I bet with enough snot, you could even use it as an adhesive under your laminate flooring. Forget super glue! Hot glue is so 90’s! Go “green” and repurpose your child’s infectious mucus. Imagine how much money you could save, if you follow the mantra, “Reduce, reuse recycle.”

But how to harvest the slime? A bucket around my child’s head, while cost-effective, seems a tad abusive and would get in the way of nap and bed times, which are prime booger-collecting opportunities. No doubt we’ve all got that classic blue bulb-syringe hanging around somewhere in the house. The standard-issue hospital parting gift, for dropping a few thousand at their facility to give birth to your baby. I love the fact that everyone gets one of these syringes, (which are sooo much more useful than, say diapers would be) and yet the pediatrician always tells you not to use them. My kids always had more fun using it as a teether (it can get way in the mouth for those back teeth cuttings) than I ever did trying to suck snot from their nose. We’ve all been there, one spouse trying to hold the child’s thrashing head still in vice-like grip, the other parent trying to keep the bottom of the bulb compressed while attempting not to give their child an accidental frontal-lobotomy cramming said bulb up child's very small nostril. No... decidedly, NOT effective.

I came upon the Nosefrida Nasal Aspirator, while doing a Google search on boogers. (It’s always amazing what you come up with when you Google such words.) This device actually has a mucus-catching reservoir, which would be perfect if you’re trying to use your child’s snot as family glue. Basically, you stick the reservoir end into the child’s nose, place the end of the tube in your own mouth, and then suck your child’s boogers right out their little nasal cavity. Don’t worry, you won’t get the salty mess in your mouth, thanks to the snot-trap at the end of the reservoir. Really, they’ve thought of everything. With only a $15 dollar investment, think how much snot you could harvest during a standard cold and flu season: 1 nose aspirator + 3 sick children= unlimited booger glue possibilities. Priceless.

Guest Bloggers!

Hey all! I wanted to let everyone know that I will occasionally be hosting Guest Bloggers on my site! This will give you an opportunity to read about perspectives other than my own (although freakishly similar, go figure.) I'd like to introduce my sister, Megan Rose; high ranking PR exec., fabulous writer, and mom extraordinaire! She's a hoot!