Only in Nebraska

by Patti

Every day that I leave my office to go home, it never fails that I get down the stairs and out onto the parking lot, only to turn around, climb right back up the stairs, and head back to my desk to retrieve my car keys. Or wallet. Or scarf. Or sunglasses. Or cell phone. It's gotten to the point that one of my coworkers, the one who usually witnesses those sheepish trips back to my desk, now asks me as I leave for the day, "Are you sure you have everything?"

Apparently, I'm kind of famous for that. Or infamous.

The other day I was in Nebraska for business. Yes, Nebraska! I actually drove down Cornhusker Highway and everything! Once we got to the meeting, I realized I had left my cell phone in the rental car. OF COURSE. Because, I told you, I forget things! I just made a mental note to get it after the meeting, and got down to work. After the meeting, my colleague had to stay behind for a few minutes to talk to somebody, so I told him I'd meet him in the lobby. I went out to the parking lot, eager to retrieve my phone and check messages, but when I got to the car, the cell phone was not where I remembered leaving it. Slightly panicked, I re-checked my purse and my portfolio; I checked under the seats; I checked the trunk; I checked the glove compartment. Of course, I had never even opened the glove compartment, but you know when you get desperate to find something and you hope against hope that maybe, just maybe you had opened the glove compartment and put that thing inside and just forgot that you did? EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DIDN'T? Yeah, no - it was not in the glove compartment. Confused, I even did a double-take on the car; after all, it was a rental car and I wasn't entirely familiar with it . Perhaps the real car was parked nearby, and my cell phone was safely waiting for me inside it. Alas, the rental car was electric blue, and the only electric blue car in the parking lot. In all of Nebraska, probably. So, I had the right car. Unfortunately.

Mystified, I headed back inside the office building and asked the ladies at lobby desk if anybody had turned in a cell phone. They shook their heads sadly, eyeing me with pity - that poor, screwed lady who lost her cell phone and every single contact in it - for the THIRD time in a year. I then retraced all of my steps, including visiting the bathroom, checking the stalls, the garbage can, the hand dryer... I walked the length of the building to the other side, where another lobby was located. I asked the security guard if anybody had turned in a cell phone. No, they hadn't.  Near tears, I headed back to the main lobby, and one of the lobby ladies offered to call my cell phone - you know, just in case? So she did, and as she stared hopefully at me, phone to ear, I started dumbly into my purse, waiting for it to ring. But it didn't, because my cell phone was NOT IN IT.

I decided to go outside and check the car just one more time because I apparently simply cannot face reality. Once again, I scoured the clearly empty rental car, and... nothing. Sighing, I slammed shut the door and began to head back, defeated. As I walked, I looked longingly back at the car, bidding a sad farewell to my obviously lost phone. And that's when I saw it: There, perched proudly on the roof of the rental car, glistening in the clear Nebraska sun, was my cell phone. It had sat there, silently, strongly, hopefully, all through my two-hour meeting and desperate, fruitless searches, waiting for me to claim it. Thrilled, I raced back to it, feeling like those lovers who run toward one another in slow motion in movies, and I grabbed my beloved off the roof, cradling it in my hands. We did a happy spin, my phone and I, in our own Nicolas Sparks movie. I ran back inside, laughing now, shaking my head at the sheer lunacy of it all. "You will NOT believe where I found my phone! I told the lobby ladies. "On the ROOF OF MY CAR!" We all shared a laugh, and I said to them, "You know, if I had left my cell phone on the roof of my car in Chicago? It would have been gone in ten seconds flat! Only in Nebraska!"

And then I got back on Cornhusker Highway and headed back to the airport, drawing a big, fat heart around Nebraska in my head.

Anatomy Lesson Gone Wrong

by Patti

A few months ago, Gaucho got his balls chopped off. Before you roll your eyes and think, "Oh, great! She hardly ever posts anymore, and when she does, it's to talk about her dog's balls?" fear not. This is not about my dog's balls at all. My dog's balls only serve as a backdrop to the story I am about to tell you. You see, Gaucho had a pretty, uh, obvious set of cojones, and they were the perfect opportunity to teach S about anatomy. "What are those?" she gasped.
And I, always one to get straight to the point, answered, "Honey, those are balls."

Flash forward to present day. S and I met my mom for coffee and sandwiches at Starbucks, when my mom asked me what was in my sandwich.
"Oh, some tomatoes and cheese, and it's toasted.."
My mom suddenly leaned in, her eyes wide. "Testicles?" she whispered discreetly.
"No, mom. TOASTED."
S began to laugh, 'Nono, you don't have to whisper it. It's no big deal! See? Testicles! Testicles! TESTICLES!" she shouted out freely, her arms waving above her head for dramatic effect.
I, in wonder at the lack of embarassment most 11-year olds would feel to even THINK such a word, much less shout it out in pubilc, joined in gleefully. "Testicles! Testicles! Testicles!" And then, feeling adventurous, I threw in a "Boobs! VAGINA!"

At that, S's face grew horrified and she gave me a swift, scolding punch to my arm. "MOM! STOP! That's so EMBARRASSING!"
Confused, I cocked my head at her. "Honey, I don't get it. You were just shouting out testicles. If that is not embarrassing, how is vagina embarrassing?"
Her face grew blank as she pondered this. And then, ever so carefully, "Wait. What's testicles?"
Recalling Gaucho and the anatomy lessons around his pair, I knew what I had to tell her to make it clear. "Balls."
And then her face flushed a deep purple as her hands flew over her mouth in horror. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT OCTOPUS ARMS!"

Let's get it straight: TENTACLES.

Thrown Under the Bus

by Cathy

"Kids say the darndest things."

So cute, so innocent and so...truthful. However, this so-called harmless honesty is not always the best policy.

The other day I was left to take Ari to her bi-weekly Kumon class - an academic summer camp of sorts that Joe signed her up for and was responsible for taking her to. Since I was not the one who sat through orientation on the way things work there, I got an ear-full when Ari showed up with only half of her workbooks completed and incompletely at that. After I got my instructional lecture from the director of the franchise, I made a note to self: always get involved in everything from the get-go.

Apparently, I wasn't the only parent that wasn't following directions. Ridden with guilt, or perhaps wanting to avoid the lecture from Ms. Trunchbull of Matilda, another mom volunteered to step into the line of fire.
"I promise, we'll be better about completing the workbooks too." She chuckled and looked at me as if wanting to commiserate. Then she added with a sigh, "It's like we're throwing our kids under the bus."

"The school bus!" I hooted as we both inappropriately broke out into fits of laughter.
The receptionist glared at us disapprovingly as she shoved even more workbooks into our kids' pouches.

 As if on cue, a dad and his young son walked into the waiting room and the boy plopped his pouch onto the receptionist's desk along with his book for the week. Without being prodded, he blurted out, "We didn't read that book."  
"Why not?" asked the receptionist.
"Because my dad forgot to read it to me." BAM! Under the bus!
"Hey!" retorted the dad quickly and in an effort to save his ass from being run over by said proverbial bus, he did what any other husband would do - he went into survival mode and threw his wife under it. "Mom was supposed to do that with you!" BAM! And she's not even there to defend herself.
Nice.

This tactic is nothing new. As parents, we are well aware the we are constantly being thrown under the bus by our own kids. Like if the phone rings and they get to it first and you tell them to say 'Mommy isn't home now,' of course, they say, "Sure. Hold on," and pass you the phone. BAM!

In the past week, Joe got thrown under the bus by each of our kids.

While dropping the kids off at a friend's house for a playdate, the little girl brought out some crocheted hotpads she made. As she was gushing on and on about how hard they were to make and didn't we looooove them??? Joe asks her if he can have one - just to be nice.

"I can use it for my morning cup of coffee!" he said politely.
The little girl's face lit up but quickly turned down when Bella screeched, "Whaaaat!?!?"
Everyone looked at Bella's oblivious face, contorted with confusion.
"Papi, you don't use hotpads for your coffee."
BAM! Thrown under the bus on Politeness Street.


Then, the other day he took Ari on a CTA bus and because he hadn't gotten a chance to fill up his bus card to comp her fare if necessary, he naturally lied about her age - even though he didn't have to because she was young enough. (Again, that survival mode kicking in.)
"How old is she?" asked the driver, just to be sure.
"Sheeeee's.....fooouuuurrrr," said Joe sounding rather unsure of himself.
Ari fists promptly fly to her hips and she blurts out, "Papi! I'm six!!"

BAM! Being thrown under the bus, WHILE ON the bus.

If kids can throw adults - their own parents - under the bus, they will have no qualms about throwing other kids under there either. This last Saturday, while waiting with Ari in a packed dance studio for Bella to finish her Nutcracker audition (yes, you heard right; and yes, it's still only August) she and Miche's four-year old son were finding ways to quell their boredom. Suddenly, we hear a loud crash near the reception desk. Miche instinctively jumps from her seat in time to hear her son say, "Uh oh." The large dry/erase board and the easel holding it up were both strewn face down on the floor. Ari was scolding him by repeating his name, in a manner which didn't allow him  to even think about throwing her under the bus for something she didn't do. Smart girl.
"What happened?" asked Miche.
"She let me do it," I overheard him say, not sure if he was trying to pin Ari or his sister, whom was nearby and he was squabbling with just seconds earlier.
 Now, if his response wasn't a clever way to attempt to get his little butt as far away from that oncoming bus, I don't know what is.

This is proof positive that throwing another under the bus is a natural, reflexive instinct we ALL resort to while in survival mode. Just keep in mind that that bus? Will always turn back around and come your way because it's forever traveling down a two-way street.

The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

by Patti

I have mastered the art of embarrassing my child. After all, isn't that what all mothers work so hard for? We don't lose sleep, hair and sanity for nothing, you know. And finally, after 11 years, I have honed my craft. I am officially The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as  an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.

But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

Can you believe there's actually a book? 

The other day I went for a run in the park across the street from our house. S was rollerblading with that same friend, and as I ran in endless circles trying to burn off the 45 lbs of kettle corn I had just consumed, I kept an eye on the girls as they skated and gossiped. As I rounded a corner, I saw them skating toward me, and I couldn't help myself - I shimmied. Yes, I shimmied as I ran and made a crazy face. S turned bright purple and her friend giggled fiercely into her hands, probably thrilled that I was much, much more embarrassing than her own mother - the Sweatpants and Evening Gown Monster. That night, S approached me. "Mom? Why did you do that today?"
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.

But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.

Oh, the delicious plans I have. 

Niagra Fails

by Patti


I was new in town, and to make matters more awkward, new in the town's high school. I was pleasantly surprised when, after a mere two weeks as a new face at the school, a group of kids invited me over to one of their houses to "hang out" on a Saturday night. I arrived, feeling surprisingly shy, but was made to feel welcome and at ease within minutes. I felt like maybe I had fallen into a black hole and landed in the 50's, because the kids were wholesome and white-toothed, and wanted to play charades. Charades! On a Saturday night! But I went for it, and found I was actually having the best time.

At one point, I had to "use the facilities", and quietly asked the hostess where the nearest bathroom was. She pointed me to small half-bath around the corner, and I went in, my feet surprised to find shaggy carpet. I did my thing, waving my hand around a bit to hopefully ward off any odors (because the New Kid in Town did not have smelly poop), and flushed. And then flushed again. My poop floated defiantly, refusing to be swallowed up. I flushed once more, and that's when it happened. My poop, more defiant than ever, began to rise in horrific slow motion, carried by a building tidal wave of toilet water, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I waved my arms over the toilet bowl frantically, desperately willing it to stop, but it kept coming, triumphant in its rise to the top until, in a victorious slosh, it was carried over the toilet seat and directly onto the shaggy carpet.

Mortified, I tried to stop the disaster from worsening, but the toilet water, not to be outdone by my poop, followed suit, and it was if the entire sewer system's worth of water in the whole town decided to make its appearance right then, right now. The water gysered and gysered, carrying with it toilet paper and more poop, right onto the carpet.

Finally, it stopped. The bathroom was silent except for my pounding heart, and in the distance I heard my new friends laughing. I looked around for a window, a trap door, anything to save me from having to go back out there. Alas, I had no choice. I wadded up some toilet paper and picked up what I could, and flung it back into the toilet. After scrubbing my hands like a surgeon, I opened the door and poked my head out and around the corner to call the hostess. She came to me, smiling and unaware, and I whispered the news to her, my voice croaking with embarrassment. What did she do? She HUGGED me and told me it was all right, nobody had to know. Then she shut the door, and that was that. I was alternately grateful beyond belief, and a little disgusted.

We went back out into her living room, my own personal natural disaster left behind closed doors, my poker face in place, and we got right back into the game, as if my poop hadn't just covered this girl's shaggy carpet, and I hadn't just flung that poop with my own hands. I called out phrases, and acted some out, and laughed a little too maniacally. Mostly, I made sure my secret stayed safely tucked in my pocket, and in the little half-bath around the corner.

Seduced by Velcro

by Cathy

It seems that we are constantly rushing through our tasks, doesn't it? We have so much to do, that we don't do things carefully enough. Things like making sure to triple-check your emails before you hit SEND and propel them into outer space where they can always be retrieved by someone at any given time. Scary, huh? Today I almost sent out a work email to a fashion designer in the industry. I meant to say, "I'm sure you'll go far" and at the very last minute, my eye caught it: I had written, "I'm sure you'll go fart."

If I can stop myself from laughing at my own carelessness long enough, I'd like to share with you another close call that would've been disastrous if not caught. It happened the other day in the midst of school-prepping morning madness. We were running late as we do every single morning, and my husband grabbed Bella's coat off the coat rack, where I had sleepily hung it the night before, freshly washed and dried and smelling like lavender-scented pine trees. He hurriedly tugged in onto her shoulders, she zipped it up and they were ready to go.

"Uhhh, mommy," said my husband slowly in his parenting voice, screeching the brakes on our Morning Rush Hour. "Aren't you going to need these?"

He turned Bella towards me and there she stood, oblivious to the look she would be sporting at school today. From two of the front velcro close tabs on her coat were hanging one Men's Jockey low-rise briefs and one of my black thongs. NO. JOKE. He quickly ripped them off and handed them to me while we all broke down in a belly laugh of belly laughs.

To make things worse, this wasn't the first time underwear decorated my kids' coats like a tricked-out Christmas tree. It happened the last time I washed their coats. That time, it was on Ari's bright, white coat, and from it was another one of MY thongs - this one in chartreuse green.  Thank Victoria's Secret, folks.

Here's what I don't get: why is it that only underwear - and only my husband's and my underwear - gets attracted to the velcro tabs?? Why couldn't it have been a sock or one of the girls' little undershirts or even a mitten? Those are all small enough to latch on. But why the parents' underwear? Why is that this velcro, which is soooo easily seduced, is determined to send my kids to school looking slutty-fied?

I'm not sure why, but hopefully, we will never be too rushed to realize that we are sending our kids off to school with Jockey briefs and thongs dangling from their coats. Hopefully...


P.S. A picture would've been worth a thousand laughs but alas, I forgot to take one. And plus, who wants to air their (at least it was clean) laundry out there? T.M.I., people.

Cuban MisLED Crisis

by Patti and Cathy

There is an equation that parents are all too aware of: Kids+Restaurant = Flying Food, Yanked Table Cloths, Toppled Wine Glasses, Punctured Conversation, Cold Dinner. Yet, we keep trying to change the outcome of this equation because we simply cannot let go of the idea that we once had so! much! fun! at restaurants. We can't let go of the memory of that lingered-over wine; that savored dinner; that gaze over the bread basket. Until one of those rolls from that bread basket clobbers your forehead and you sadly snap out of it. Then we remember that, oh yeah, we have kids.

We had a big reality check on the whole restaurant situation a few years ago. Our families were looking forward to trying out a new BYOB Cuban restaurant, and decided to plan a "double date" of sorts. Amazed that the stars of our respective schedules lined up, we foolishly thought it might be fun to bring our kids, too.....

Patti

I was so excited about our night out. We don't get to hang out very often with our families all together, and I was looking forward to trying out a new restaurant, cracking open a bottle of wine, and enjoying some spirited conversation. The restaurant was tiny but cozy, and they gave us a nice, long table by the window. We set up the girls at their own table, and they were thrilled to be all "grown-uppy", browsing the menu and enjoying their own conversation. Things seemed to be starting out perfectly. Almost too perfectly. 

The food arrived, steaming, smelling like Havana, and we all began to dig in, family-style. That is when Ari, Cathy's youngest and 2-years old at the time, decided she simply had to be with her papi. Joe took her into his arms, and tried to juggle his fork, his wine, and his little firecracker of a daughter all at once. Ari got more and more wiggly, apparently annoyed that her papi would dare pay so much attention to the rice and beans over her. Joe tried to pass her off to the older girls, telling her how much fun it would be to be at her own table, but Ari wasn't buying it. She knew the real fun? Was being had at our table. So she refused to budge. I could see little beads of sweat beginning to form on Joe's forehead. Joe has always been a "cool customer"; the kind of guy who "never lets 'em see you sweat". But tonight, he was being driven to the brink.

Knowing that Ari had always been fascinated by my Blackberry, I lured her over to my lap with the sparkling promise of YouTube clips from The Bee Movie. Joe, relieved to be free of that adorable albatross, gladly released her, and Ari scurried over to me. I hoisted her up onto my lap, and thus began the reprieve. We were back! We drank wine! We ate! We talked! Sure, I had to pause every 2 minutes to replay those damned clips, but it was a small price to pay for that freedom. But a mere 10 minutes later, mid-plunge into my Cuban fish, Ari got bored. No amount of replays worked. The little assassin sensed fun was being had, and she set out to kill it. She climbed back into Joe's lap, and began to methodically take us all down, one by one.

She started off by insisting she had to go the bathroom. Cathy got up to take her, but NO. It had to be Joe. Joe wearily got up and accompanied her to the one, small bathroom in the restaurant. Of course, the minute they went in, others lined up outside to wait their turn. They were in there forever, and when they finally came out, Ari was pantsless.
"Where are her pants?" Cathy asked confused.
"She didn't want to put them back on," sighed Joe.

Ari was walking behind him, her hair sticking up, her onesie unsnapped, her bare butt hanging out. That's when I noticed: she was not only pantsless, she was also BAREFOOT.

"Joe! She's not wearing shoes!" Cathy hurriedly looked around the restaurant, wondering if her toddler was violating some health code.
"I'm not going to argue with her!" Joe threw his hands up. He sat down to swig some wine, and Ari climbed back into his lap."No mamita, please get off."
Ari screamed. "NO! Papi chulo!" She clung to him, a little leech sucking the life right out of him.

Joe's face reddened, the "cool customer" facade cracking. "Cathy, TAKE HER, PLEASE." He unclenched Ari's grip from his chest, but her little hands boomeranged right back to his shirt, and she leeched onto him even more tightly.
"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Joe unpeeled her from his body, planted her on the floor, pantsless and barefoot, and stomped out of the restaurant. Ari, the ever-efficient assassin, set out after him to finish the job. I could see him in the vestibule, pacing in that tiny space like a caged lion, Ari now wrapped tightly around his neck, choking him. M got up to play mediator, and I could see them all in there, hands flying animatedly, Joe's mouth moving in anger and frustration while M tried to talk him down from the ledge. Ari remained coiled around Joe the entire time. I turned to Cathy, the beautiful spread of untouched food before us. "Girl, you have GOT to get a portable DVD player. 'Cuz this? Ain't working."

Cathy

No parent wants to be the one that all the other restaurant customers glare at sideways with that awful look of disdain on their smug faces. We know all too well what that feels like, and also know, that no matter what, we would never do the same to other parents in a bad situation because we know what it's like.

We've been to restaurants where spaghetti was being flung to other tables, tantrums were being thrown in high chairs and most of the food and drink ended up on the floor. But this night? Was out of control.

Ari had (and still has at times) moments where she just would NOT let Joe put her down. He was eating? She was on his lap. He was watching TV? On his lap. She even wanted to sit on his lap and have Joe read her a book as he was using the bathroom. Every video clip taken of Joe during my sister's wedding three years ago - had Ari pinned to his side. His arm was sore for days after that. So this night, was no different.

I knew things would go south when Ari insisted that Joe take her to the bathroom. And a few minutes later, I saw it: Ari darting into a dining area filled with people enjoying their night out, barefoot with her unsnapped onesie flapping wildly behind her. Joe was nowhere to be seen; I thought for a second that he might have escaped out the bathroom window. Instinctively, I thought I should just keep eating, conversing and drinking and pretend I didn't know who that crazy baby was. Which I did for a few brief moments before I got up to discreetly lure her towards me until I saw Joe, pale as the moon and a frown imbedded on his face, walk up behind her and try to smoothly pick her up, whereupon she threw a fit.

Joe was having no more of this. He hoisted her on his hip, her little dimpled butt peeking out of her open onesie, tears in full swing, no shoes, no coat, no nothing and announced that he was taking her home. His food was barely touched, his wine just waiting to drown his frustrations. I desperately looked at Patti and M; my look said it all. M immediately sprung to action and attempted for what seemed like forever, to talk Joe into coming back in. Begrudgingly, he did. And Ari remained on his lap for the rest of our now deflated, hurried, undigested meal.

The next day, I bought a portable DVD player.

No Dignity

by Cathy

Friends of mine know that if there's one thing I'm known for saying (among many), it's, "Once you become a parent, your dignity goes out the window."

Getting dressed up, acting cool, going out to nice dinners or even having a conversation with another adult with a baby/toddler/child in tow, takes on a whole new meaning. As many of our past blog posts can attest (and there are far too many to recall here, but check out our Embarrassing Moments whine label on the homepage) we have experienced several of our own undignified moments firsthand:

- I have been on all fours in a skirt and heels under restaurant tables retrieving pacifiers.

- I have lunged headfirst into the back seat of our car on expressways with my ass flying as high as our car to pick up dropped snacks/bottles/toys/sippey cups/books or to re-strap my little Houdini back into her carseat.

- I have looped off, around and back on expressway ramps, rummaging through ditches and weeds off the shoulder lane to retrieve one shoe from a newly purchased pair of Crocs that had been slipped out the window by my then-three-year old.

- I have driven miles back to a Walmart and run in crazed and delirious in the hopes of finding the ONE pillow that my child will only sleep with at night, or else the world (my world) would surely veer off its axis.

The other day I happened to capture this video of another mom, deep in conversation with a friend and obviously immune to the acrobatics her breasts were enduring. And I thought this sort of thing only happens to me:

This scene is eerily similar to an incident that happened to me years ago - a moment of undignified parental glory that I shoved deep into the gutters of my mind. It came while I was sitting in an uber-trendy outdoor cafe in Greece one summer. Bella was about two-and-a-half years old. It was late and she was sitting sideways on my lap about to fall asleep. During the spirited conversation with my cousins and friends, she tried repeatedly to get my attention several times with no sign of acknowledgment from me. After many failed, frustrated attempts, she did it: she cupped both of her little hands under each one of my boobs and proceeded to push up on them over and over again like she was raisin' the roof. "Mommy! I have to tell you something!" Up and down my boobs went bobbing for what seemed like an eternity before I grabbed her tiny wrists and swooped them away with lightning speed.  Before my strict reprimand could come out of my mouth, something came out of hers; she threw up. Not a lot, but enough to send me shooting up off my chair, unsuccessfully keeping it off my clothes.

Poor thing. That's what she was trying to tell me. But I wouldn't listen.

The whole humiliating experience, from the Boob Bobbing to the vomit, was my fault. This was one undignified moment that could have been avoided - among the thousands that will become a funny, fantastic blur. Lesson learned: I realized that when we have opportunities to avoid these moments, we dang well better take them.

We would love to hear about some of your most undignified moments! Add them to Your Whines on our blog homepage, our Facebook page or as a comment to this post!

Clown Car Purse

by Patti


I have openly and honestly mentioned here my tendency to be a little disorganized. Like most busy moms, I have alot going on in my life, and that "lot" seems to somehow always find a way to migrate into my purse.

The things I have found in my purse confound even me; things like wrenches and doll arms and duct tape and Goldfish crackers - they all reside in some surreal perfect harmony in my purse.

My purse is a one-man band. Every time I pick it up, the sheer weight of it causes it to inevitably slam into something, and when  it does, a cacophany of sounds rattle out of it. I walk and I sound like Mr. Freakin' Bojangles, my purse bruising my hip as it wildly swings.

The other evening I was at the ballet studio with Cathy, waiting for our girls to finish rehearsal. I was looking for something in my purse, digging through the depths of handbag hell to try to find it. As I searched, my purse transformed into a clown car, item after unbelievable item tumbling out of its cavern like so many little clowns. Cathy started laughing because not only had she seen me do this several times before, but also because SHE, too, does this on a regular basis.

So we decided to do all other fellow Clown Car Purse carriers a favor - we decided to film a dramatic reenactment of me looking for something in my purse. Yes, this is a reenactment, but I can assure you: It is totally realistic.

Behold:


I know there are many busy moms who manage to keep their purses organized and tidy and pared down to the bare necessities, and I admire these moms. How they keep their purses snack-free and toy-free and Sharpie-free and crumpled-up paper-free is a skill I have tried and tried to master, but no matter how many times I clean out my purse, it always slowly morphs back into Clown Car status.

So if you ever hear a clownish "HONK! HONK!" combined with some jingly-jangly footsteps, turn around and say "hi". Because it will most certainly be me.

The Hunchback of Bally Total Fitness

by Patti

The other day I was at the gym and when I was done with my cardio, I headed for the floor mats to stretch and do my sit-ups. As I waved my legs around in the air, feeling more ancient than ever, I noticed in the wall mirror that a man exercising on the stationary bike was staring at me. Immediately self-conscious, I lowered my legs and discreetly peeked at my crotch to make sure I wasn't giving some sort of free show. Nope. No holes. For once. I carried on with my stretching and leg-waving, when suddenly the man that had been staring at me was next to me. I told myself he had the right to stretch, but I still felt annoyed and uncomfortable, and I got up from the mat and headed for the weights.

No less than 3 minutes into my first set of weights, that man appeared on the machine next to me. I purposely cut my set short and wandered to another machine. He followed me. I did it again; he followed me again. Now I KNEW he was following me, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. After all, there I was, make-up-less, sweaty, lopsided bun.... I mean, seriously? WHY? After a good 20 minutes of feeling stalked, but not enough gumption to ask him why the hell he was doing it, I left. I ran to my car, convinced he was going to follow me out and chase me into some seedy ally.

When I got home, I told M all about it, trying to get a male's perspective. DO guys stalk ugly, sweaty, old bitches at the gym? Are they THAT desperate?

A couple of days later, I went to the gym again. I was relieved that Stalker Guy didn't seem to be there that day, and I happily worked out in complete, un-stalked oblivion. When I got home, M was sitting at the kitchen counter with S, and I threw down my gym bag and headed to the fridge for some juice.  "What is wrong with your BACK?" M practically shouted.
S laughed, "MOM! Your back looks so WEIRD!"

I craned my neck, stretching awkwardly to attempt to see what was freaking them out. S came around the counter and started lifting my shirt. She shoved her hand up my back and into my sports bra, did a little shuffling around back there, and, like a magician pulling scarves from his frilly sleeve, slowly pulled out the longest, thickest sock pretty much ever. Both M and S burst into laughter, while I stood there, completely shocked and bewildered, wondering how on earth I had possibly rocked the stair climber and weights and crunches as a complete and total hunchback.

M jumped from the bar stool and gleefully leapt into the family room, where he grabbed a couch cushion and shoved it up the back of his shirt.  Mimicking me, he puzzled out loud, "I wonder why that man was staring at me?" Then, his back deformed and protruding, he began to mime lifting weights and doing lunges. "I just don't get why that man was staring at me!" S and I were screaming with laughter.

The stalker's motives were finally explained. Let's face it: I'm the hottest hunchback at the gym.

Good Intentions

by Cathy

I vowed, when I had kids, that I would never be an embarrassing mom; I would never knowingly or purposefully embarrass my kids in front of their friends, peers, colleagues, or even...ahem...boys - unless of course they pushed me to the edge and really, in fact, deserved it. :)

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter came home from school with her snack barely touched. I asked her why she didn't eat her snack of apples, cheese and pretzels and could it have anything to do with the fact that her snack was APPLES? Because it would take an army to get her to eat all of the five crispy cut slices of the apple or any basically any kind of fruit. But, no. She claims she didn't eat it because she was embarrassed to pull out the pre-packaged snack in front of her friends.

Of course she didn't tell me this right away, and tried very politely (God love her) to imply that she felt embarrassed to tell me that she was embarrassed because of something I had done.

To be fair to her, I am willing to post a picture of what said snack looked like:

Laugh if you must, but when I saw these at the store, I thought they were an ingeniously packaged way for my kids to eat fruit. I bought one for my five-year old, and since I have to always be fair and buy them each the same (or similar) thing, I instinctively bought one for Bella too. Packaged with pretzels and cheese, I thought this would definitely aid in digesting the apparently offensive fruit.

It didn't occur to me that the Mickey Mouse shaped packaging and a picture of a quacking Donald Duck would, like, totally embarrass my ten-year old.

Mysteriously, however, the pretzels had all been eaten as had some of the cheese. Because of this, I finally got her to admit that the packaging wasn't the real reason she didn't eat the apples - it was just the plain fact that she didn't like APPLES. Okaay? "But still mom," she quickly retorted, "I didn't want to pull out the snack in front of my friends."

Boy, did I learn my lesson. What I think may be cute and appropriate for my five-year old may not necessarily be the same for my ten-year old. They DO have a five-year difference that includes varying stages of behavioral development. As an intuitive, supportive parent, I have to put myself in each one of their shoes equally and think how I would feel if [enter potentially embarrassing situation here] happened.

Their needs and life stages are so different and I can't assume they aren't or even compare them to each other. That would be like comparing apples to oranges.

The Backstory

by Patti

Have you ever walked by a freak-out in progress? I’m talking about those parenting moments had in parking lots or grocery store aisles or restaurants; the ones you wish would have been had in private, or better yet: not at all.

I have walked by many of those freak-outs (like the lady at Target who, in total Christmas Meltdown Mode, roughly yanked her son by the arm away from the toy aisle and, through gritted teeth, threatened to tell Santa Claus of his awful behavior. Or, how about the lady at Jewel who had a total exorcist moment and shoved her kid down into the grocery cart for what must have been the billionth time while screaming “DAMN IT, STOP IT!”, while her other kid yanked incessantly on her leg), and before I became a parent, I would shake my head in judgment and just know without a doubt that if I was in that situation, I would never be so.... out-of-control.

Ha. Ha. HA. HA HA HA HA HA! Life has a way of showing us, doesn’t it, oh yes, it does.

When S was nearly 3 years old, we were in one of those overwhelming party supply stores, the ones that have aisles and aisles and aisles of overstimulation in the form of confetti! And balloons! And costumes! And glitter! And fluffy sparkly things! I was trying to buy favors for S’s upcoming birthday party, and when I say ‘trying’ I do mean trying. S was so completely hyper-aware of every fun and sparkly and colorful thing in that store, that what should have taken ½ hour tops was now verging on forever. Things really reached a peak when S, in frustration at being forced to STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING, started THROWING THINGS ACROSS THE STORE to get me back for being so terribly un-fun.  I hastily paid while my demon continued to torpedo Fun! Party! Supplies! across the store, and when I turned to stop her, I was pelted in the face by a plastic bag of bouncy balls. Burning, I yanked her arm and dragged her out of the store. We got to the car, and I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her up in the air  towards the car as she kicked and screamed. I lost it. I shook her – not in that horrible, “brain shake”, kind of way – just in a “STOP IT I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE !” kind of way.  I was just.... SO MAD at her; she had driven me to my every edge of parental sanity.  At that very moment, a man was walking by, and shaking his head at me in disgust, said, “Some people should never be parents.”

The thing is… that man? Had NO IDEA what I had endured all day. He didn’t know that S had been cranky and crying and whining and defiant most of the day. He couldn’t know that she had been a monster in the store, running around, throwing things, challenging me every step of the way. All he knew was that I was out of control, and that my child was crying. And he judged me.

And I used to do the same.

Now? Having walked in the shoes of a mother who has lost control, I imagine the backstory: That poor mother, she is dealing with 3 kids and none of them are listening to her. She has been patient all day, and now she is spent. She tries her best, she really does. She is just tired. Tomorrow she will start fresh.

And that’s all we can do: Start fresh.

From Classy to Klassy

by Patti


The other morning it was chilly enough to break out my boots. A great lover of fall attire, I was excited to finally do away with those toenail barin’ strappy sandals and pull on my sleek, rich brown leather boots. The boots were from last year, but still looked pretty decent, and I decided to pair them with my new poncho, which one might say resembles Indian Reservation Couture Circa 1975. As I was getting ready to head out the door to work, I realized that the heel of one of my boots was all shredded; the leather was ripped away revealing the white part underneath, and the bottom of the heel was ground down to the nail. Of course. Right as I have to leave NOW RIGHT NOW to get the kid to the bus. Because I am in desperate need of shoes, there was no suitable quick-change replacement, NOR did I have time to change my whole outfit, so I did what any fast-thinking, resourceful fashionista would do: I colored in the heel with black Sharpie.

Once I got to work, I quickly assessed myself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom to see if anybody else might actually notice that my awesome Indian Reservation Couture look was actually marred by black Sharpie. So far, so hidden. As I was leaving the bathroom, my co-worker Kristin walked in, and I admired her boots (another lover of fall!): they were these vintage-y looking motorcycle boots that she had paired with a khaki dress; kind of “Girl Scout on a Motorcyle Safari”. When I returned to my desk, I shot her an email to tell her I liked her boots, and this began a chain of confessions that can only be shared between and understood by women: Kristin told me that they had been the boots she wore during her pregnancy, and that they were now way too big (so, although they looked cute, she was sliding around in them). I, in turn, confessed to her that my boots were actually not nearly as awesome as they appeared on the surface; that they were actually Sharpie’d and wasn’t I just so Klassy, and then, in a show of camaraderie, she then told me that she had once used Sharpie to cover a stain on her shirt. Kristin also told me that in the past, she had stapled her hem, and used industrial strength mailroom tape to cover up “inappropriate office boob” (because, as she told me, what may seem plausible in the dark at 6:30 am doesn’t always transition well to florescent lighting at 8:30 am.)

This made me think: The things we women do. I mean, if I were to confess to you right now the things I have done to appear put together…. Well, okay, I will:

1) Sharpie’d my shoes
2) Scotch-taped my purse strap. I had to use almost an entire roll.
3) Duct taped my nipples
4) Filled in a bleach stain with an ink pen
5) Used an earring to hold together a buttoned shirt
6) Put mascara in my hair
7) Worn my pants unzipped with a long shirt over them
8) Used a strapless bra as emergency Spanx
9) Wrapped black electrical tape around the heel of my black pumps to conceal a broken tip

Oh, I could go on, but some things are just better kept locked away in the Vault of Shame. The point is, no matter how organized or put-together a woman is, we have all, at one point or another, had to take ourselves down a few notches from Classy to Klassy just to get through the day. And although this Classy to Klassy Sisterhood is one that I seem to participate in more often than most, it is one that I am proud to be a part of.

Leg Lift

by Patti


I like to work out.

It makes me feel good about myself and gives me the opportunity to purge all the bitchery that builds up inside of me throughout the day.

What I don’t like is trying to maintain my dignity while figuring out how to use some of those damned machines. I mean, really, they’re not that complicated, but there are so many pins and slats and chains and heavy metal-y things; I’d rather just do push-ups.

I had been intrigued by a machine at the gym; this newfangled contraption that was huge and imposing, and looked like it would make me look buff in seconds. But it was always being used by sweaty grunting guys, and well, just… no. Finally, one day it was unoccupied, so I decided to give it a shot. The machine had this platform thing to stand on, and a little panel to program your weight, your resistance, and how many reps you wish to do. I did as instructed, and then WOOSH! The machine gave off this pressure-filled sound, which I found out was the resistance building up. As soon as the wooshing stopped, I began my reps, and woo(sh)! I was officially on my way to Madonna arms!

When I was done, arms shaking and feeling frail, I stepped off the platform. I put one foot down onto the ground first to steady myself, and never got the chance to put down the other foot. The machine’s platform, which was still buoyed by the pressure, literally shot straight up into the air, taking my left leg with it. There I was, one leg on the ground, the other totally perpendicular to my body, my pants threatening to split wide open.

I’ve always been a proud person; I’m the one you will see face plant into a moving treadmill and get right back up with an “I’m okay!”, even if I have a concussion and my nose is where my eyes used to be. Now, in this totally jack-knifed position, I was no less proud. I should have screamed out "HELP! HELP!” to the entire gym; instead, I tried to act all casual - like this split-in-half me was totally normal and exactly how I wanted to be - and very politely called out to the girl that was walking by. “Help.” I whispered. “Help?” But she was wearing earphones and didn’t hear me. And I was whispering, so there was that.

Seeing nobody else nearby, I somehow managed the craziest acrobatic feat of all time, and finagled my leg down from that platform. Once both feet were safely on the ground, I looked around to see if anybody else had seen the show, but it seemed that everybody was too into their own workout to notice or even care.

I nonchalantly plugged my ear buds back into my burning ears, and got on the ground to kiss it do push-ups.

Hanging On By a Treadmill

by Cathy


Bella was eight months old and her crawling stage was in full swing.

I, on the other hand, was still sleep deprived from not fully recuperating from middle-of-the-night feedings and tackling a new phase with Bella - teething.

By this age, Bella had been moved into her own nursery down the hall from our room. So in place of the bassinet I had next to my bed, now sat a treadmill. And believe it or not, I actually did use it now and then when Bella took her afternoon nap, until things started getting too hectic and it ended up sitting there mocking me and my fat ass.

Nonetheless, the treadmill sat there, next to me on the left side of the bed.

One night, in the midst of a mother's not-fully-asleep-expecting-the-baby-to-cry/crazy-dream kind of night, when you're halfway between the land of nod and being fully awake with ten thousand thoughts running through your head - I had a nightmare.

I dreamt that Bella, wearing the cute little yellow fuzzy sleeper with footies she loved to wear, took off crawling and I couldn't catch her. I was freaking out when all of a sudden I saw her, in my dream, crawling UP THE SIDE OF A BUILDING. So naturally, I did what any mother who saw their child crawl up the side of a building would do...I lunged after her. I mean, I physically LUNGED out of my bed and up and off to the left side with both arms outstretched and...got her!

The physical pain and the sound of my own voice yelling, "Joe, Joe, Joe! The baby!!!" startled me fully awake. I opened my eyes. There I was with my arms wrapped around the handrail of the treadmill, HANGING onto it for fear of falling down the side of the building, similar to a monkey in a tree. My face was turned towards Joe, who was now fully upright in bed, rightfully in his own sleep stupor/reality confusion. I kept yelling, "Joe! The baby!" And when he didn't utter a word, trying to make heads or tails of what was going on himself, I got the sneaking suspicion that things weren't happening as I thought.

He turned on the lamp and his jaw dropped at the sight before him. "What are you doing?" he asked me incredulously with only one eye open.
Still clinging to the treadmill handrail, I replied, "Oh my God, I just had this dream that Bella was crawling up the side of a building and I went to catch her!"
"My God, you need sleep. Go back to sleep," he said, turning off the lamp and settling back into bed. He literally just LEFT ME HANGING there.

After carefully unclenching my hold on the treadmill, I sat in bed, dumbfounded at what had just transpired. Whether it was from a sleepless delirium or because it was actually dang funny, I laughed so hard at the whole scenario until I cried; I had been literally hanging on to a treadmill, but mentally hanging on by a thread.

A few days later, the inside of my upper arms and forearms had bruises the size of dinner plates all over them; ugly ones, with every color of the rainbow and then some.

"Jesus!" said Joe. "You must have been really out of it! You really did a number on yourself!"

Yes, that's what we mothers do. We endure physical pain and make ridiculous, unbeknownst fools of ourselves all for the love and protection of our children.

That treadmill is now way gone along with the bruises from that night. But my need to love and protect my kids at any cost? That's still there and always will be.

Wipe Me!

by Patti


Potty training for S was a pretty non-existent affair. We basically bought one of those cute little training toilets, plopped it in the bathroom, and told her to use if she felt like it.

As a result, S wore diapers up until a few months after her 3rd birthday. One day, she just simply took it off and said, “I don’t wanna wear diapers anymore”, and that was that.

I don’t know if it’s because she wore diapers for longer than some, but it took her quite some time to catch on to the whole wiping situation. For years after she stopped wearing diapers, I would hear a “MO-OM! WIPE ME!” every time she was done doing her thing. And every time I heard her demanding little “WIPE ME!” I would almost always be in the middle of doing something completely and totally non-conducive to wiping somebody’s butt. But then again – what the hell is conducive to wiping somebody’s butt?

Each time I heard her command, I would enter to find her not on the toilet, but waiting for me in a literally teepee-like position, her hands flat on the ground, her pants around her ankles, her bare butt pointing straight up to the heavens. If her butt had its own choir it would have been shouting the Hallelujah Chorus.

S was never a convenient public bathroom-user. If we were in a restaurant, she would inevitably get the urge to poop the SECOND the plate I had been hungrily waiting for hit the table. It was as if the plate had a little alarm on its bottom that triggered S’s own bottom, because literally EVERY SINGLE TIME the plate touched the table, she would pipe up, “I have to caca!” And caca-ing for her was never an in-and-out deal; no, it was the kind of deal that would mean my getting back to the table when everybody was already leaned back with their pants unbuttoned and satisfied smiles on their faces.

At least at home I could leave her in the bathroom with a pile of books and let her take her sweet time doing her business. My only job was to swoop in and wipe on command.

One day, when she was already nearly 6 years old, we went shopping at the mall with Cathy and her girls. We were in the Gap trying on some clothes, and S needed to use the bathroom. Being that she was almost 6, I was trying to encourage her to be a little more independent in her bathroom duties (or is it doodies? Bad? Sorry!). The bathroom was one of those one-toilet bathrooms, so, seeing that it was just a few feet away from the dressing room, and figuring it would be another 11-hour pooping affair, I coaxed her to go in on her own while I took the opportunity to finish trying on some outfits. Cathy offered to stand by the door, and S reluctantly went in. I don’t know if it’s because S was in there all alone – because we all know how many monsters lurk inside toilets – but she hit a pooping speed world record, and before I could even zip up the pants I was trying on, I heard it: “MO-OM! WIPE ME!”

Cathy called out to me that she would handle it (only the best of friends offer to wipe the ass of a kid other than their own), and as I rushed to get back into my own clothes, I wondered why the hell my kid couldn’t poop this fast when my dinner was waiting, or the climax of the movie I’d been watching was finally happening, or I myself had to poop.

Suddenly I heard Cathy laugh out loud. I opened the dressing room door and looked down the little hallway towards the bathroom. Cathy had opened the door to help S, and from the dressing room, I had a perfect view straight to my daughter’s naked butt. There it was, vaulted to the flourecent light heavens, jubilantly singing the Hallelujah Chorus, patiently waiting to be wiped.

Tube Top Mystery

by Patti


The other night, I finally decided to attempt to make sense of the embarrassing disaster that is currently my closet. I folded the bunches of clothes that had somehow snowballed into one giant lump of fabric, began separating out the winter and summer clothes, and took a depressing inventory of my shoes, which, at this point, looked like rejects in the Salvation Army bin. During this process, I found an old tube top -- are they even CALLED that anymore - and my mind wandered back to what feels like a thousand years ago......

My friend Janie and I had just finished a singing gig at a hotel, and we had plans to meet up with M at Crobar - yes, it was that long ago - to go dancing. We were still in our jobbing cocktail wear, and we definitely wanted to hoochify it up to the club-level, but we had left our change of clothes in the car. It was winter, and at least 938 degrees below zero, and it was kind of blizzarding, so there was no way in hell we were going to shlep to the car, grab the goods, shlep back into the hotel to change, and THEN shlep once again BACK to the car. So, once we got out to the car, we decided to just crank up the heat and change in the parking lot. We each wrestled ourselves out of our respective clothes and wriggled into the hooch-wear, and hit the road.

Once there, I had to make sure I had all of my things together since, after the club, I was going to go home with M and Janie was going to go her way. I packed the red sparkly skirt I had worn, my high heels, and... "Hey! I can't find my tube top!"I frantically lifted myself off the seat to see if I had somehow sat on it. Not there. Janie turned on the light in the car and we both searched the backseat, under our seats, INSIDE the seats. Janie checked her bag to see if she had accidentally packed it, but it wasn't there. "What the hell?"

In the distance, I could see that M was already standing in front waiting for us, looking a little purple. The wind was blowing and the snow was flying everywhere, and he was hopping from foot to foot trying to stay warm. Torn between my love for my tube top and saving my husband from frost bite, I reluctantly chose my husband and sadly decided to end the search. "When you find it, just bring it to the next gig," I sighed. We got out of the car, Janie in her super-short mini-skirt, and me in my tight pleather dress with a zipper up the front, and begged our way into the club.

Once inside, my chest immediately felt the vibration of the Saturday night bass. BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH. The 3 of us made our way up the long stairs that led up to the second floor, and as we climbed, I noticed that my dress felt kind of... tight. "Weird," I thought. "It fit last week..." I ran my hands over my hips to try and smooth it down, and immediately felt the tire around my torso. Had I gained 30 lbs in one hour? I kept running my hands over my waist and hips, alternately mystified and horrified. Finally, no longer able to take it, I stuck my hands up my dress and groped myself. Suddenly, I felt something squishy, something... fabric-like. I grabbed hold of it and yanked it down and out and, just like that, I GAVE BIRTH TO A TUBE TOP ON THE STAIRS AT CROBAR!

I immediately doubled over in laughter. Janie and M were ahead of me and turned around when they heard my hysterics. I couldn't even talk; I just held up the tube top in all its glory. M looked more stumped than usual, but Janie totally lost it.

And there we were, laughing our assess off, the bass thumping in our hearts, my recovered tube top dancing wildly in my hand.

Insole Insult

One night, I was getting ready to go out to some industry event and was struggling between wearing my hot, trendy, can-only-sit-down-in-them shoes, or my more comfortable but frumpier looking shoes. Of course, I chose the former; can't be vain without pain.

In an attempt to curb some of the excruciating pain I knew I would be feeling that night, I had the bright idea to look for some shoe insoles that would make bearable the board stiff soles of those hot shoes, which felt just fine during the 1.2 minutes I wore them when I tried them on and BOUGHT them. After tossing stuff out of drawers and cabinets for several minutes, I ran across a super comfy gel insole that I had...brace yourself...ripped out of a magazine. There was ONE insole glued to the ad in the magazine as a sample. And I kept it. And that's the one I wore. Just one. So I said, "What the heck. I'll just keep switching it from shoe to shoe throughout the night and I'll be good as gold." I was so proud at myself for being 'quick on my feet' and thoroughly resourceful. I rocked.

As the night went on, I discovered I couldn't casually go off in a corner to switch the insoles out of my shoes while conversing with friends or balancing my drink. So I left it in the same shoe. Since I was standing so long, that foot started getting swollen since I had less room in there to accommodate expanding, tired feet. I made a quick exit to remove it, hastily shoved it in my purse and sucked up the pain for the rest of the night.

The next day, I had to make a quick run to Jewel for some milk. I slipped on my comfy walking shoes and grabbed my purse. At the checkout counter, I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. There, like Pinocchio's nose protruding off his flat face, the black insole, which had conveniently stuck itself onto my white wallet, stayed pointing skyward for several seconds before flopping over to one side and kept bouncing there.

Boing...boing...boing it went, slowing down with every bounce. I just stood there, along with the three other people in line and the young checkout girl, whose mouth was ajar in amazement, staring at this most ridiculous sight. Do you know how sometimes you are shocked so much by something that it takes you a while to process what's going on? That was me at the Jewel checkout line that moment.

I quickly ripped that insole off my wallet, shoved it back into my purse, hurriedly paid for my milk, and strode off.

At home, I immediately removed that insole from my purse before I would pull out my lip gloss or cell phone tomorrow and have that thing stuck to it. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and settled into my sectional to relax.

My feet were killing me.


-Cathy

Holy Tantrums, Batman

Ari, my little one, was just shy of two years old. I had taken my girls to church the week before Easter (Holy Week) to receive holy ointment. It's when the priest uses blessed oil on a cotton swab, makes the sign of the cross with it on your forehead, chin, both cheeks, palms and backs of the hand while reciting a special prayer. I've taken Bella, my older daughter, since she was little and she loved the whole process. I had also taken Ari when she was a baby with no problems, but this time, she was at the age where she was more aware of what was going on. And she wasn't having any of it.

As we approached the priest after waiting patiently in a long line for quite some time, I had Ari in my arms. Bella went first, no problem. So then I stepped up and presented Ari to the priest so she can receive her holy oil blessing. Well let me tell you, as soon as that swab touched her face, it's as though the priest was conducting some sort of exorcism. She flipped. She was jerking and resisting so hard she flung the priest's large, ornamented cross almost off his neck while nearly whacking the swabs out of his hands. I looked at the priest with a mixture of horror, embarrassment and apologetic pleading. After trying again to pry Ari's arms away from her beet-red, screaming face, he gave me a reassuring yet regretful look of his own, as if to say, "This isn't going to happen."

So after managing to receive my blessing, all while pinning Ari to my hip and breaking into a sweat, I mustered up my kid and what little was left of my pride, straightened myself out and started the long walk down the middle aisle of the church to exit. To give you an idea of the setup, that middle aisle was flanked by long pews on either side and then yet another aisle along the walls on either side where everyone was waiting reverently to receive their sacrament.

We almost made it out. As we were walking down the center aisle to leave, I put her squirmy little body down since she was hiking my skirt up with all her shuffling. BAD. MOVE. Still crying, she throws a TANTRUM - a sit-down and scream tantrum - smack in the middle of the middle aisle.

The church was packed to the rafters. When i squatted down to attempt to pick her up, balancing shakily on my heels and trying to keep my equilibrium while being weighed down on one side with my big-ass bulky diaper bag, since i brought everything under the sun to distract her, she starts leaning AWAY from me. So I lunged forward and pulled her back BY HER DRESS just in time before she was ready to start her way back towards the priest. In the process, the diaper bag swings around and lands with a thump on the pristine blue runner, just as I dragged her towards me and lifted her up. Yet again, I shakily squatted to pick up that heavy ass bag, while holding her backwards facing the crowd with the other arm, her dress hiked up to her neck, red-faced, kicking and screaming, all while trying to walk out of there (the aisle now seemed like an eternity) without dropping her and with what scraps of dignity I had left. I had broken into a full-out body sweat.

Bella, who had just turned seven at the time, was waiting patiently at the end of the aisle, smartly distancing herself from that whole fiasco, with a look of sympathy on her cute little face.

As I started speed walking to get out, I wondered if churches were considered safe havens for leaving children - you know - like fire stations and hospitals, because I TOTALLY would have left her there that day. Obviosuly, this whole experience was gut-wrenching.

But this all goes back to what I have learned and concluded:
When you become a parent, you have not ONE SHRED of dignity left. Ever. Anywhere. It all goes out the window. Don't try to save face, keep your nose up, dress in dressy clothes or heels, or wear nice jewelry. Just kiss your vanity and pride goodbye, take it in stride and laugh when you want to cry. Because looking back, you WILL laugh and realize that other parents won't judge you because they've been there too.

-Cathy

Lights Out

I'm driving home the other night with my two girls in the car, on the Edens expressway no less. It was about 10pm and I was following my husband and his parents home from a family visit in Northbrook. Since I got caught at a red light before getting on the Edens, they were way ahead of me.

I continued on, windows down, enjoying the warm evening breeze, singing along to a song on the radio while the girls were playing on whatever electronic device they had in the back seat, when something briefly appeared and caught my eye on the left, front side of my car. It seemed as though something flapped up against the car and went away. 'Strange,' I thought.

So I kept driving and singing, when I looped into a wide turn in the road, and the wind caught whatever was flapping right underneath it. And there it was. Staring me right in the face: MY HEADLIGHT.


If you squint a bit, you can see it sticking out over my dashboard, like a dog ear perked up to hear what's going on.

I drove like that down the Edens for about 10 more minutes, laughing my ass off the entire time at the absolute ludicrous circumstances that freely hand over blog fodder. When I exited, I snapped this shot.








So being the ever-resourceful superwoman that women have now evolved into, I took hold of that headlight, put it into position and popped it back in with my fist. Done...until next time when that headlight finds the most inappropriate time to rear its ugly head.

-Cathy