Guaranteed Ways to Make Kids Laugh

See that monkey?  That was me
with kids before I had my own.

Before I had kids of my own I was soooo awkward with children.  Like scary awkward.  Like ‘why-is-she-holding-my-baby-like-Rafiki-held-Simba-during -the-intro-to-The-Lion-King?’ awkward.  I just didn’t know what to do with them.  Scratch that – let’s be honest - I was afraid of looking stupid.  Which in turn resulted in me looking even stupider.  The trick to being good with kids is that you have to purposefully make yourself look stupid to adults.  That is the only way to get kids to trust you and, if you are lucky, crack a smile instead of treating you as if you were Freddy Krueger. 

Why is it important for non-parents to be non-awkward with kids? Because if you are able to get a kid to like you, their parents will love you.  Also, if you are a guy, this helps you score major bonus points with the ladies – remember Uncle Jesse from Full House?  Need I say more?

So in the interests of helping out the child-challenged adults out there, I have compiled a list of guaranteed ways to make a child laugh – specifically, a child between 9 months and 2 years, which I have found  is the age group that is most awkward for adults to interact with.  The key is to remember that a child will love you if they think they are smarter than you are.  Which, come to think of it, is probably why my husband is naturally so great with kids.   Anyway, my point is, it is really not all that hard to get kids to like you.  Just try:

1.  Peek-a-boo – This child pleasing classic is always a safe way to get some giggles.  Kids love it and it is a well-known game, so the looking-stupid factor is reduced.   But if you are going to try it you have to fully commit to the role, which means making crazy surprised faces  and saying stupid lines like `where did (insert baby name here) go?’  If you a had bad experiences in your childhood that involved getting whacked upside the head during a game of peek-a-boo, thereby making you averse to the classic hide-behind-your-hands version, you can always play peek-a-boo by hiding a favourite toy or stuffed animal and asking the child ‘where did (insert object name here) go?’ and make a big show out of looking for it.  The only problem is that most of the time kids like this game so much that you will be forced to play it over and over until watching Barney actually sounds like a good idea.

2.  Pretend something stinks - Typically this is a technique used to keep a child engaged when you are trying to change their diaper, which, as any parent will tell you, is important because it stops them from trying to play with their own feces.  However, this game also works well if you pretend to smell their feet and then make exaggerated “Phee-ew!” noises complete with hand-fanning and nose-holding.   This may not be the best option if you are trying to show-off your non-awkward kid skills in the line at the grocery store as you may insult the parent by insinuating that their child stinks.   My rule of thumb is, if you know where they live, it’s ok to pretend they smell.

3.  Bring up Elmo – I really don’t think this needs a whole lot of explaining – whether you show a child Elmo, draw a picture of Elmo, impersonate Elmo or simply acknowledge that you know of Elmo you will automatically be ‘cool’ in the child’s eyes.  If you carry around a picture of you and Elmo hugging it out (like I do) then you will attain a God-like status.  With the kid that is.  The parents will think you are a loser and will start screening your calls and deleting your emails until you befriend a more adult-friendly celebrity, at which point they will miraculously have much more free time.

4.  Tickle – I left this for last because I wanted to make it clear that it is not ok to randomly tickle strange children.  That is just creepy.  This is exclusively for use with children who you are related to (or you or your children have thrown up on) and even then this should be used with discretion.  My suggestion for making tickling cool is to take a clue from Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar and have your hand turn into The Claw or The Tickle Monster or whatever.  The point is that you are no longer able to control that appendage and are forced to wrestle with your own arm to try and stop it from tickling.  Think incredible hulk meets lamb chop.  It’s fucked up, I know, but kids love it.

So next time you are stuck babysitting your niece or nephew, instead of feeding them candy and letting them watch TV until they look like zombies, try out one of the above methods of amusing the little ankle-biters and who knows?  YOU may actually have some fun.   Hey, at least you won’t have ‘The Circle of Life’ stuck in your head for the next three weeks.  Damn Elton John and his catchy song writing abilities!

-Wendy

CSI: Mommyland

Not what you want to wake up to

 Saturday, September 24^th, 12:15pm:  I stumbled across the crime scene early Saturday afternoon.  After a rare unbroken 12 hours of sleep I came downstairs and discovered the chaos that was my house – at least I was pretty sure it was my house – the extreme state of disarray that I had encountered upon coming downstairs so confounded me that for a minute I really hoped that I had somehow ended up sleeping at the neighbours.

12:17pm:  After recognizing the broken shards of the ugly vase Aunt Sue gave me for my wedding all hopes of neoghbor crashing fled and I was forced to face reality.  My house had been trashed.  How and why, I had yet to determine.  I immediately pulled my iphone out of my bra (where I keep it at all times) and began to systematically chronicle the evidence at hand in order to determine what exactly had taken place.  

Exhibit A - Tablecloth Graffiti

12:21pm:  I stumbled across my first clue – see Exhibit A, or as I like to call it, The Tablecloth Graffiti.  The perpetrator (or at least one of the perpetrators, at this point I had a hard time believing that just one person could wreak such havoc) had decided to leave his mark on my tablecloth in permanent black marker.  Oh the humanity!  What had the tablecloth ever done to deserve such mutilation? But I digress; this Van Gough wannabe had now pissed me off and I was more determined than ever to bring him (or her) to justice.

12: 25pm:  Upon finishing my ugly cry I entered the kitchen.  The first thing I noticed was that, of the four kitchen chairs, only one was left at the table – the others were scattered around the room.  The pantry doors were wide open and one of the displaced chairs was practically in the cupboard and the contents of the pantry were strewn about the kitchen (see Exhibit B).

Exhibit B - The destruction
continues...

This led me to the hypothesis that a short angry cook ransacked my house after being unable to find the proper ingredients for his clandestine meal.  The ‘short’ part of my hypothesis was substantiated by the fact that another kitchen chair was pushed up to the kitchen counter, which was covered in a brown substance that, after forensic testing involving my tongue licking the counter,  turned out to be cinnamon.  Then I found the gelatine.

12:30pm: It was sitting in a frying pan on the stove.  An entire box of gelatine.  Covered in cinnamon.  Sitting in melted butter, in a frying pan.  An actual box of gelatine – not the contents of a box of gelatine – an actual BOX of gelatine (See Exhibit C):

Exhibit C

What could this mean?  Was someone trying to send us a message?  Was it a threat of some kind – “Stop blogging or will cook your box!!??” (That’s what she said).  I wasn’t sure.  All I knew for sure was that we were dealing with one twisted son-of-a-bitch.

12:35pm:  I spent the next few minutes taking stock of the rest of the damage. Dirty dishes thrown in drawers, spilled bottle of vanilla extract, cranberries sprinkled haphazardly throughout the living room as if a fairy with a UTI had gone crazy.  Just then, Edward came home.

12:42pm:  I braced for Edwards inevitable freak-out complete with high squeaky voice and dramatic hair pulling.  When he just said “Hi” and proceeded to take of his shoes (as if he could possibly make the house any messier) I knew something was up.  After an intense round of interrogations involving a turkey baster and a leather horse whip (don’t ask) all was revealed.

Insert Flashback Music Here

Saturday, September 25^th, 8:30am:  Edward is gently reminded that it is his day to get up with the kids and is then not-so-gently pushed out of bed.  After being beaten with a pillow for attempting to return to his nocturnal nest he gives in and crawls down the hallway to collect Simba then collapse in Prince’s bed with the two boys.  After being pummelled in the head with Buzz Lightyear for fifteen minutes he grudgingly agrees to get the boys some breakfast. 

8:52am:  Edward makes the trek downstairs with one child on his leg and the other hanging off his neck and manages to subdue them for a time with yogurt and bananas only to be bombarded with requests for cookies.   After firmly stating “NO” he collapses on the couch in exhaustion.  He wakes 30 minutes later to the disaster area formally known as our house.   At which point Edward realized how much shit he is in and decides to flee the scene of the crime.   They then went for ice cream.

End of Flashback Sequence

Saturday September 25^th, 1:12pm: Suspects Prince and Simba are now in custody on charges of disorderly conduct, assault with an astronaut, vandalism, and cookie theft.  They were denied snacks and are currently awaiting time outs.  Edward has been reprimanded for sleeping on the job and sentenced to clean-up duty, during which he promptly fell back to sleep.  I ate some ice cream and daydreamed about what life would be like if I didn’t live with two pint-sized hoodlums.  

For starters, my house would probably look more like this....

And this... Oh well.  Ya win some, ya lose some.  Then you eat some ice cream.

Dum-da-dum-dum.  Dum –da-dum-dum DUM!

-Wendy

Do-Overs

I am a huge fan of do-overs.   The fact that they are essentially a custom made up by children only reinforces my belief that this practice needs to be perpetuated into adulthood.  Just think about it – if a concept is so simple that children are able to figure it out without any adult interference, than it must be pretty fundamental to human nature.   

I am not sure at what point in life do-overs become unacceptable; one day you are playing hide-and-go-seek and slip in some mud 2 feet from home base and the fact that you can have a do-over is what makes up for the fact that you just ruined your $80 white Club Monaco sweater (are those even a thing anymore?).   Then the next day you are being introduced to your blog partner’s fiancé and blurt out that he bears a freaky resemblance to James Van Der Beek and your request for a do-over is denied and you find yourself in the market for a new blog partner. Unless your blog partner is Alice.  She totally supports do-overs, along with any other things associated with the eighties, including, but not limited to hair teasing, My Little Ponies iron-on t-shirt decals and (unfortunately) leg warmers.

When you are an Automatic Dumbass a parent do-overs become all the more necessary.  Who wouldn’t want a do-over after the Boston Pizza Diaper Incident or Alice’s Babysitting for Wendy Incident?  To date our blog is basically made up of empirical evidence to support the need of do-overs for parents.  Yet there is one incident that I have only mentioned in passing for which I would officially like to request that the powers at be grant me a do-over. 

You may recall that a few weeks ago in my Home For a Rest post I mentioned that when me and the kids flew home (sans Edward) for our most recent vacation, Prince puked on the plane.  What (for rhythmical purposes) I did not mention in that post was that Prince didn’t just puke into those too-small paper airsick bags from the comfort of his seat.  He didn’t even just puke over me, which wouldn’t have been so awful.  He puked in the aisle of the plane when everyone was trying to get off.  And we were only six rows from the front.  So, to the other 300 passengers who had to hop over a gi-normous puddle of puke in order to exit the aircraft, I would like to formally apologize and request a do-over.



Ok, maybe Prince didn't turn quite
that shade - I just like any excuse to
stare at that dress and try and figure out
how it stays on her boobs.



If I was to be granted this magical second chance I promise that I would do things differently.  For example, when, during our decent, Prince started coughing and turning a pale splotchy -green color reminiscent of JLo’s imfamous barely-there Grammy’s gown I would not decide to hussle his behind off the plane as soon as the seat belt sign turned off in the hopes that we could avoid pukage until we were somewhere with large garbage cans.  I would instead remain seated and allow him to puke all over me in his attempt to aim his vomit in a tiny paper bag, because that would be so much better than having to say “I’m sorry- really sorry; mind the puke” three hundred times as people tried to escape the bile-scented tunnel that had become our plane.

I know that lady with the crutches who gave me the death stare will be a hard sell.  To be fair, she was sitting next to the aisle where Prince lost his lunch (and supper, and airplane snack box) and may have gotten sprayed by the splatter that resulted when the puke hit the floor.  But please remember that I was flying ALONE with two children – one of whom I had to tuck under my arm like a football in order to attempt to drag my puking child back into the seat so he would not puke directly on your broken leg. I did what I could people.  Do not blame an exhausted, disgruntled mother who had spent four hours cooped up in a 3 by 4 foot area with her 1 and 3 year olds for wanting to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

So search the back of your closets, dig out that old Club Monaco sweater and remember how kick-ass do-overs truly are.  And then make sure you take that sweater with you the next time you fly.  Because, if there is one thing you have learned from reading our blog, it’s that you never know when a strange child is going to puke on you.   That, and the fact that apparently telling someone that they look like James Van Der Beek is not a compliment.

-Wendy


(Editor's note from Alice - although Dawson may not have taken it as a compliment, I did! Have you seen JVDB in that Ke$ha video? HAWT!)

Automatic Dumbass

At Escape From Mommyland we always try to provide you with up-to-date information on the latest Mommyland discoveries.  We were the first to discover Helpless Husband Syndrome and are at the forefront of Mommybrain research.   Today we bring you the latest Mommyland Medical Discovery – a condition known as Automatic Dumbass.

This is big people.  You know all those times you yelled “weeee!” when taking your child down the slide at the park?  Or the time you sat in your kids stroller at the Santa Claus Parade because the ground was too damn cold?  Or the time you forgot that you had let your daughter help apply your makeup that morning and dropped her off at preschool oblivious to your resemblance to Krusty the Klown?  I could go on, but the point is that none of these situations were your fault.  Apparently, when you become a parent you become an Automatic Dumbass.  Stay with me now – you become an automatic dumbass because, in order to be a good parent, you will be forced into situations in which you will have to look like an idiot.  And the worst part is that it is not accidental – you don’t become a dumbass from sleep deprivation or watching too many episodes of Elmo’s World (though neither of those things really help the matter any).  To be a good parent you have to purposefully act like an idiot, which I am pretty sure is the definition of being a Dumbass.

"Congratulations DUMBASS!"

Remember the dad from That 70’s Show?  You know, Red Forman, the one that called everyone a Dumbass?  Well, when you give birth to that screaming, poop -factory-of-joy that some call a baby, picture Red Forman at the foot of your bed saying “Congratulations Dumbass” because it seriously happens that quickly – hence the ‘automatic’ part. Take the classic example of putting a child to sleep.  It seems simple enough at first; rock a baby in a chair until they fall asleep, then put them in their crib and walk away.  Yet I maintain that the majority of parents cannot complete this seemingly simple task without looking like a dumbass.  The problem is that you have to transfer the child from your arms to the crib without waking them up.   Generally this involves having to complete an intricate series of movements reminiscent of Crouching -Tiger Hidden -Dragon, in slow motion, while upside down and straddling a crib. Then comes the hardest part – the retreat.  Sometimes this is done on tip-toe, other times crawling; a few times I have even had to slither out like a snake.  And God forbid you crack a joint or have a squeaky door because then have to stop breathing while you wait for the inevitable freak out that will result in you having to start this process all over again.  Now, are you trying to tell me you can do all that without looking like a dumbass?  I thought not.

The put-to-bed example is far from the only dumbass parenting moment out there, and unfortunately, unlike the put-to-bed example, most of them happen in public. Like when your kid freaks out because you won’t buy him another unnecessary piece of plastic at the toy store and you are forced to carry him like a very wriggly football back to your car, while simultaneously fending off sympathetic glances from other parents and convincing the non-parents at the store not to call child protective services.  Oh, and when the alarm at the door goes off because your kid shoved said unnecessary piece of crap in your bag when you weren’t looking, you should just suck it up and plead DUMBASS.  It may not be complimentary, but it works.

So, as you can see, being a Dumbass is not always a bad thing.  In fact, I purposefully look for friends who are dumbass’s too.  Which is probably why me and Alice get along so well.  The first playdate we ever had involved me and Alice playing Ring-Around-the-Rosie for about 2 hours – something that is very difficult for someone over the age of 5 to do without looking like a dumbass.   The fact that someone I had just met was willing to forgo grown-up conversation and caffeine(which, let’s face it, are the real purposes of playdates) and instead dance in a circle for an hour just because my kid kept saying “Again!” told me that this girl was real friend material.  The fact that I later learned that she likes to dress up like Barbie and the Rockettes on the weekends was just icing on the cake. 

So I say we should embrace our dumbass status.  I would rather be a labelled a dumbass for splashing in the puddles with my kids then to be thought of as ‘Normal’ any day.  Not that many people would consider me “Normal” even if I did stay out of the puddles.  I think that ship sailed a long time ago.

-Wendy, A.D. (hey, I always wanted to get to put initials after my name!)

Good Karma

I take it back.  Karma is not in fact a bitch.  At least not all the time.  Once in a while she can really save your ass. 

I suppose it all starts with my obsessive/compulsive need to be early for everything.  I say ‘early’ and not ‘on time’ because, as far as I am concerned, if I arrive right ‘on time’ I consider that late.   Yes, it is fucked up I know, but there it is.  And the weirdest thing is that I don’t hold others to this kind of rigorous earliness – just myself, and my husband, because his timely arrival (or lack thereof) reflects on me.   Yet if I have a dinner party or some such thing I don’t expect my guests to be there until right on, or even after, the pre-arranged time.   But I digress.  My point is, years of constantly being early for everything have finally paid off.

How you ask?  Well before I get into that I would just like to say that what you are about to hear is a true story.  It may seem improbable, or even impossible, but I swear I was just as flabbergasted at the monumental coincidence of these proceedings as you will be.  I would also like to take this moment to confirm that yes, every word of my last post on the Most Mortifying Mommy-Moment Ever was also true (or at least the truth as Sheen told it to me).  You cannot make shit like this up, people. 

Anyway, as I was saying, my years of being early seem to have cumulated to such a point that Karma figured I deserved a free pass to save my ass from being late.  What is so amazing about that you say?  Well Karma (or whatever you want to call it) actually arranged for me to be exactly ten minutes early for an appointment I didn’t even know I had.  

It was a typical Tuesday when I got home from shopping for new shoes for the boys.  Prince was complaining about his back being ‘sore’ and I took a look and he appeared to have a bit of a rash.  So I called the doctor’s office and asked if I there was any way I could get in that afternoon to see our family doctor.  I was told there was an opening at 1:45pm or 2:50pm. I randomly chose 2:50.

It was the perfect doctor visit – my butt didn’t even have to touch one of the germ-infested chairs in the waiting room; we were brought right in to see the doctor.  Within 3 minutes we had a prescription for a cream for the non-serious rash and were heading out the door.  This is where Karma kicked in.  On our way out I waved to the receptionist and she called out “Is that Simba you have with you?” and I said “yes”, thinking this was a weird question.  And the receptionist said “because our schedule shows that Simba has an appointment to have his next round of Immunizations in five minutes.”  WTF?  I pull out my phone – there is no mention of said appointment in my calendar.  Then I remember that Edward is the one who booked Simba’s appointment, and I must not have written it down. 

I couldn’t believe it.  Due to a seemingly random string of events I managed to make it to an appointment I didn’t even know I had.  Prince just happened to get a rash on this particular day and I just happened to choose an appointment time 10 minutes before my unknown appointment?  It was too weird.

Hence my conclusion that this is a work of Karma.  It knew about my previous post and wanted to clear it’s good name, not to mention pay me back for all the hard work I put into being on time early.  Now some people will say that this wasn’t Karma, it was just a case of my subliminal mind realizing I had an appointment and finding a way to get me there on time.  To this I say:  I am not that smart people, consciously or unconsciously.  Have you not been reading this blog for a while now?  Come on.  The person who can’t work manual headlights on a car is able to subconsciously get to appointments on time?  I don’t think so.

So there you have it Edward.  You are no longer allowed to get pissed at me for nagging you to be on time.  I mean early.  Whatever.  And, btw, you are not allowed to book the kid’s doctor appointments anymore.  I don’t think Karma likes me enough to save my ass twice.

-Wendy

The Most Mortifying Mommy-Moment Ever

I never thought I would hear of a Mortifying Mommy-Moment that would top the time my kids puked on Alice.  What could possibly be more mortifying than having your kids puke on your brand new friend the very first time that she babysits them?  Oh, I don’t know, maybe overdosing on WORM medication and having to have your MOTHER-IN-LAW call poison control and take you to the hospital????

No, thank God, this did not happen to me.  But while I was home I had the chance to catch up with a mommy-friend of mine who filled me in on the whole embarrassing, mortifying, never-live-it-down story.  Due to the excruciatingly high embarrassment factor of this story it took a lot of convincing to get my said friend’s permission to share this story with you all.  But after a few bottles of wine and seeing all the embarrassing stuff I have shared with you already, she agreed.  I promised said friend that I would not mention her name or any details that could be used to identify her.  So for the purposes of this post I will call her “Sheen” after Mr. Charlie, who is the only person I know of who has done crazier shit than this, and her child will be known as “Bobo” just because I say so.   

So how do you end up overdosing on worm medication of all things?  Well, first of all, your child has to have worms.  No, I don’t mean as a pet; I mean nasty little intestinal worms that you check your pets for but generally don’t think about you or your children getting.  Sure, your grandma may have warned you that you can get worms if you eat raw eggs, but, as with most parental and grand-parental advice, you ignored it as archaic advice that did not apply in this modern day and age and kept eating that cake batter anyway.  Yet apparently intestinal worms are something you (or more likely, your children) can still catch, but it is much more likely that they would catch them from playing in a sandbox than from eating raw eggs.

But regardless, Sheen found some little white critters in the potty one morning and did what any good mom would do – searched the internet and made herself crazy.  Long story short – she talked to a doctor and ended up getting some medicine that was supposed to get rid of the worms.  The only catch was everyone in the household had to take the medicine as they had all been exposed to the worms and could possibly be infected themselves.   And did I forget to mention that they were living with her mother-in-law at the time?  That would not be a conversation I would want to have with my MIL – “oh, btw, you should probably take a dose of this medicine tonight cause my child may have given you worms.  But thanks again for letting us stay with you!”

Now in all fairness to Sheen, this must have been a very stressful situation.  Anytime your child is sick it is stressful and having to live with your MIL would be no picnic either.  So the fact that she accidentally confused teaspoons with tablespoons when she went to dose herself with the worm meds should be understandable and not an excuse for ridicule.  Come on, who among us hasn’t done that while baking at one time or another?  Sure, it should have been a clue when she emptied the whole bottle, but let’s give her a break shall we?  

In the end it was Sheen’s MIL who noticed the mistake and called poison control while Sheen sat quietly in a chair pleading with God to not let her die from stupidity and an overdose of worm medication.  Poison control were apparently not much help and just scared the you-know-what out of Sheen and her MIL by telling them to get to the nearest hospital ASAP – though they did call ahead for them so they wouldn’t have to wait in the emergency room.   Apparently dosing yourself with worm medication makes you a VIP in the ER.  According to Sheen the nurses did try their best to make her feel like it was not utterly ridiculous to overdose on worm meds – as Sheen tells it, one nurse said something to the effect that “just because we have never seen it here before doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen all the time.”  Thanks Nurse Bullshit, that seems highly probable and not at all condescending.  

 Anyway, after being admitted  the nurses had Sheen drink some sulphur concoction that was supposed to make her throw up, but halfway through drinking it the doctor came in and told the nurses that after careful consideration overdosing with worm medication did not warrant forced puking.  So in the end Sheen was just made to stay for observation for a few hours and sent home.  Where she proceeded to poop out black sulphur for the next two days.  At least she could feel sure that she didn’t have worms. 

So thank you Sheen.  Not only have you educated us about intestinal worms and the dangers of confusing tsp’s and tbsp’s, but you have created a legend in Mommyland.  From now on if anyone is having a bad day, all they will have to say is “at least I didn’t overdose on worm medication” and they will feel better.   I’m just glad they won’t be saying “at least my kid didn’t puke on the babysitter” anymore.  But I am sure that someone at some point someone will do something even crazier than overdose on worm meds and you will be off the hook.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Ok, probably not.  But thanks anyway.

-Wendy

 

You Might Be a Mom If...

Spending the past three weeks with my young and hip (non-mom) friends made me realize that I am not as young or hip as I would like to think I am.  Don’t get me wrong, I still think of myself as fairly young and somewhat hip – I have been keeping up with the Kardashians after all – but I think we can all agree that the fact that I am slightly obsessed with the Backstreet Boys and can still remember the last time that leg warmers were in fashion puts me out of the running for trendsetter of the year.

Anyway, due to the success of my “It Might Not be a Good Thing If...” feature, I thought I would good to elaborate on our Jeff Foxworthy-inspired theme and share with you some of the signs that you have officially reached “Mother” status.  You don’t have to have experienced all of the moments listed here to know you are a mom but if you burst out laughing at any point or yell out “I have totally done that!” you either are a mom or you should be, cause you obviously get it.  So put on your leg warmers ladies and read on because...

You Might be a Mom if...

1.  You Never Drive at Night Anymore.  While I was home on vacation and actually had a babysitter and a reason for leaving the house after 7pm, I realized that I hadn’t driven in the dark in months.  Unfortunately, I realized this because when I got in the car at midnight to drive home, the only glasses I had with me were sunglasses, which is all I need when I drive since I am basically on house arrest after the kids are in bed. And to make matters worse, I had my dad’s old car that has manual headlights, which I didn’t realize until I was halfway home – see, being young doesn’t always work in your favour –  why the f*ck did they ever make cars without automatic lights anyway?  Sure, you hear people say that they could drive home with their eyes shut all the time, but try driving home:  In the dark.  At midnight.  Wearing sunglasses.  With no headlights.  Let’s just say it was a total mom-moment.  Unfortunately, the cops didn’t buy that as an excuse.   Thank goodness I know a really good (and cute) lawyer.

2.  You Can NOT Understand how Someone Could NOT Find Your Kids Cute.  It starts when they are little – you take your baby to the grocery store and random strangers stop you to rave about how cute your kids are until you expect that when you go anywhere.  Three and a half years and another child later you still expect strangers to fall at your feet exclaiming you have the most beautiful children on earth.  So when I went out for Pedi’s with Bridget while I was home and had to bring the kids with me due to a lack of babysitters, I figured that the other people in the salon could only benefit from basking in the glow that is my children’s presence.  Seventy-five dollars and an hour and a half later Bridget says to me on the way to the car that she hopes us having the kids their didn’t ruin the experience for a bride who was sitting next to us getting her nails done.  WHAT???!!  Insert screechy record noises here cause this comment stopped me in my tracks.  How could my kids possibly have ruined anything for anyone?  I thought they had done so well – there was no temper tantrums, crying fits, knocked over display cases, hair pulling, punching or kicking – this was a good outing!  Ok, so there was that time when Simba started doing his high-pitched screaming thing that sounds like a kettle whistling.  Oh, and Prince did have a few time outs.  And I guess that big shit Simba had didn’t really add to the aromatherapy aspect of the spa visit.  Apparently I have become immune to how annoying my children can actually be.   Which is probably a good thing considering I have to live with them 24/7.

3.  You are Prepared for Anything.   As I mentioned in my last post, one of the major events of my vacation was the wedding of my friend Dory.  Her wedding was amazing – she had beautiful weather, gorgeous bridesmaids (I was oneJ), and fantastic food.  I walked away from her wedding with so many great ideas on how to make a wedding spectacular – including making sure that you have a mom in your wedding party.  Why?  Because no matter what you need at any given time, a mom will have it.  Starving during your wedding rehearsal?  A mom will have emergency snacks in her purse (btw, you’re welcome for the raisins Dory).  Bobby pin falling out of your updo on the big day?  A mom will snatch one from the head of your maid of honour and fix that rouge curl (sorry about that Bridget, and again, you’re welcome Dory).  Need wet wipes to touch up smeared mascara? No? Well, if you did, your mom friend would have them on her (I totally did).  Point is, if you have random stuff shoved in your purse ‘just in case’ then you are probably a mom.  Or one of those people from that Hoarders show.

These are just a few of the ways that you can determine if you are a mom.  The easiest way of course is to simply look down and see if you have a human being clinging to your leg, as I do for most of my day.   But spit-up stains, bags under your eyes and an odour of sour milk are also all good indicators.  And of course, an empty wallet, but that can be a sign of many other things as well – like getting married (or being a bridesmaid for that matter).  Anyway, stay tuned for future instalments of You Might be a Mom if... I know I can’t wait to hear Alice’s take on things.

Oh, and you should probably take your leg warmers off now.  I may not be hip but I still have enough fashion sense to know that those things should NOT be worn in public.

-Wendy

Home for a Rest

It’s official – I am in desperate need of a vacation from my vacation.  Can it even be called a vacation if you were busier during your vacation then you are normally?  Ok, so it was a shit-load of fun too, but that doesn’t mean I am not exhausted now.  That being said, I have decided to fill you in on my amazingly-awesome, super-fantastic vaca in true Mommyland fashion – with a vacation Mommy-mix. 

If you missed out on our previous Mommy-mix, it involves taking a song and re-writing the lyrics to better reflect reality as it is in Mommyland.  So in this case I took the classic Canadian drinking song “Home for a Rest” and changed the lyrics to describe my vacation.  In this case, I have left the chorus the same, because it already described my vacation perfectly, which is why I chose this song.  If you are not familiar with this song make sure to check out the video first before reading my new lyrics so you can experience the joy of having this tune permanently etched in your brain (as I have for the past 3 days while writing this). 

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best.  I’ve been gone for 3 weeks, I’ve been drunk since I left. These so-called vacations will soon be my death, I’m so sick from the drink I need home for a rest.”

We arrived at the airport and Prince puked up in
The aisle of the plane, this is how we begin.
We drove to the Island the very next day,
Thank God Prince didn’t puke the rest of the way.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best.  I’ve been gone for a week, I’ve been drunk since I left. And these so-called vacations will soon be my death; I’m so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest. Take me home!”

On the Island it wasn’t so bad,
Aside from the bugs and the bad cold I had.
But my Dad brought some Rum and it cleared up my head
And I managed to sleep, despite Prince in my bed.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best.  I’ve been gone for a week, I’ve been drunk since I left. And these so-called vacations will soon be my death; I’m so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest. Take me home!”

Back in Hali we had so much to do,
Bachelorettes, birthday dinners, riding Theadore Too,
Spent my days at the lake, but when the sun went down,
Every night we went out for some drinks on the town.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best.  I’ve been gone for 3 weeks, I’ve been drunk since I left. And these so-called vacations will soon be my death; I’m so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest. Take me home!”

As a grand finale, Dory tied the knot
Her wedding was great but we all drank alot
So I’m back at home with a hangover now
And I have to look after my two boys somehow*

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best.  I’ve been gone for 3 weeks, I’ve been drunk since I left. And these so-called vacations will soon be my death; I’m so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest. Take me home!”

-Wendy

*Disclaimer:  These song lyrics may have been embellished slightly for humorous (and rhyming) effect.  Please do not base any judgements on my parenting (or drinking) abilities based on this post.  

Funniest Things YOUR Kids Can't Say

This is it.  We finally have incontrovertible proof that our kids are not the only ones whose speech is harder to interpret than Nicki Minaj’s lyrics.  So thank you for proving that we are not in fact incompetent mothers due to our kid’s lack of verbal prowess.  Now if you could only make us feel better about our kids eating and sleeping habits we would be able to seriously cut back on our wine consumption. 

But seriously, we always love hearing from our readers -you all have more entertaining stories than Perez Hilton.  And apparently many of you are potty mouths like our Alice because about 50% of the Funniest Things Your Kids Can’t Say have to do with swear words.  Yet, while I admit that reading about a toddler who insists that he ‘fucks’ his thumb is cute, it may not bring in the kind of audience we are looking for, so we tried to pick some of the less Risk-ay versions of the Funniest Things Your Kids Can’t say to share with you here.

So without further ado, here is the grand finale of our Funniest Things Trilogy: 

The Funniest Things YOUR Kids Can’t Say:

Alphabet – R.J from PE writes “Isn’t it bad enough that Elmo is now found everywhere from socks to lunch boxes? According to my son he now has a permanent place in the alphabet as well: A-B-C-D-E-F-G, H-I-J-K- ELMO-N-P.  Oh, well, it could be worse.  As long as Big Bird doesn’t start showing up where he doesn’t belong we will be ok.”  

Delicioso – S.W from BC writes “I don’t think Dora is doing a very good job of teaching kids Spanish.  For months I wondered what my daughter meant when she yelled out ‘Baby Wuffalo!” at dinnertime.   I finally realized what she was actually saying when she was watching Dora and yelled out “Baby Wuffalo” after Dora said ‘Delicioso’.  Not the same thing.  Not even close.”  

Accent – M.W from ON writes “I think my daughter must have lived in the southern United States in a past life.  Despite being born and raised in Canada, when she gets really worked up everything she says comes out in a southern accent.  For example, if her younger sister tries to take her toys she will grab the toy in question and yell out “Don’t evah tuch it” (Translation: don’t ever touch it).  I really hope she grows out of it soon – I really don’t want a teenage Scarlett O’Hara on my hands” 

Lady Ga Ga Lyrics – J.T from CA, USA writes “My daughter loves to sing and is always singing along to the radio.  Yet for some reason she always screws up on Lady Ga Ga’s Poker Face.  Instead of saying “Can’t read my Poker Face” she will say ‘ca-ree-ba Poke Her Face.’ Apparently this song is more violent than I realized.”  

Watch Out  –  L.B from NS writes “Let this be a lesson – if you don’t know what your child is saying, just duck.  When on vacation recently I was souvenir shopping at a little craft store with my young son.  We were walking through the store holding hands and I was pointing out various items to him when he started pulling my arm and yelling “Wha-ta, Wha-ta!”  I had no idea what he was saying until I took a few more steps and walked straight into a display of wind chimes that were hanging from the ceiling. After spending 10 minutes untangling myself from 6 different sets of wind chimes I will be happy  if I never hear another damn chime again.  And if anyone yells “Wha-ta” I will be on the floor faster than you can say ‘Watch Out.”  

Seat  - M.C from TX, USA writes:  “One day my son got so frustrated with me.  He kept asking for a “seeet” and I couldn’t figure out what he was requesting.  I tried asking if he meant a sheet, something to eat, you name it, I tried it.  But every guess just made him yell ‘NO” lounder, until finally he got fed up with me and screamed ‘No, something to SIT on!”  Next time I will ask for a definition up front and save us both the frustration.”   

Thanks again to everyone who contributed.  Damn, it is nice to write about the stupid stuff that other people’s kids do for once.  So despite the fact that this trilogy is over, feel free to write in anytime to escapefrommommyland@gmail.com with your crazy kid comments, if for no other reason than to stop us thinking that we are the only ones out there with kids who get stuck in the toilet and insist on shoving peas in their nostrils.  But maybe it would be best if you kept the thumb-fucking stories to yourself.

-Wendy & Alice