Have you ever noticed how adults start talking differently when they become parents? I don’t mean doing the baby talk stuff, which some certainly do, so much as the way they phrase things. Aside from trying to omit “bad words,” parents tend to phrase things in a way that won’t make them sound like assholes when the kids repeat stuff at preschool (which they surely will).
For today’s post, let’s explore a few things parents say to their kids and what those sayings really mean.
Of course, parents aren’t the only ones who have to say things more…diplomatically. Take the stranger who has been around your kid for all of five minutes, for example.
What’s your Parent Speak phrase?
Update time! I posted this on my social media accounts yesterday (and if you aren’t following me on there, use one of the links in the sidebar to like/add me), but I’ll share it here, too, for those who missed it.
I’m planning to release the book on November 28 in both eBook and paperback formats. I get nervous putting a firm date out there, since that is practically begging for something to go wrong, but that’s what I’ve told Amazon, so I suppose I can tell y’all, too.
Here is a 3D rendering of what the book will look like:
I’ll be doing a giveaway as the end of the month gets closer. Email me at dorkymomdoodles (at) gmail.com if you want to help promote the book later this month.
Have you ever seen those stickers and t-shirts that say, “I’m a teacher, what’s your superpower?” Maybe insert “nurse, mailman, or [whatever else]” for teacher. Well, I might not be a teacher anymore, but I am a mom, and by default, that means I have a number of superpowers. There are things I can do that no one else in my house has the power to do, and while they may not be as glamours as shooting fire from the palm of my hands, these powers are still pretty cool. (I’m being very liberal with my use of the world “cool,” by the way.) As such, I expect my invitation to the Justice League to arrive any day now.
Thanks to my super enhanced vision, I’m able to spot items that are too small to be seen with the naked eye. This comes in very handy around the house, and I often become The Finder of the Things.
Step aside, Superman. Your microscopic vision has nothing on mine. The only thing my enhanced vision is unable to detect is socks. As you’ll recall from my last post, they’re basically my kryptonite.
Wonder Woman can throw cars and the such, but can she do the one thing that no one else in my house has the strength to do?
That’s right, I alone have the strength to do things like remove empty toilet paper rolls and replace them with new ones. I’m also the only person strong enough to close a cabinet door. At first glance, you might think that doing such things would be easy, but based on my family’s inability to complete such tasks, I came to realize my own strength. Clearly things like cabinet doors, toilet paper rolls, and clothes — which the people in my house manage to get to the bathroom but can’t actually put them in the hamper — weigh a ton. I might not look like I have much in the way of muscles, but sometimes looks can be deceiving.
Have you ever noticed that children can be super vague at times when it comes to telling you what they want or whatever it is that they have a problem with? They sometimes give you the absolute bare minimum in the way of details and expect you to be able to figure it out anyway. Maybe not everyone could figure out what, “I want [incoherent mumbles]” means, but I can, thanks to being able to read minds. I’m basically Charles Xavier with more hair.
This comes in handy with lying, too. I don’t catch them telling lies often, but I always know when they do.
You’ve heard of spidey sense, but have you heard of mom sense? It works pretty much the same, only instead of being able to deflect the Green Goblin’s pumpkin bombs, I do things like catch a falling cup of milk and stop the kids from ending up in the ER.
Catching a glass of milk might not be as satisfying as deflecting a bomb, but at least I don’t have a mess to clean up.
So, yeah, I’ve got powers. The only things I’m missing is the ability to fly, turn invisible, and having super stretchy arms. Becoming invisible would be nifty when they’re annoying me and I want a moment of peace and quiet, and that last one would come in extra handy when we’re in the car.
What’s your superpower?
Book update time: “Don’t Lick That! [Tales of Parenting and Other Madness]” should be out within the next couple of months if everything goes as planned. (Self-published — it will be available on Amazon and other online retailers.) I’m in the final stages now and am trying to figure out the whole marketing thing. One suggestion I read was to form a “street team” (rolls eyes) to help with online promotion. If you’d be interested in doing that (I’ll form a Facebook group), email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. (I feel awkward as hell about this, but that’s better than other suggestions I read like making a video or podcast.)
Someone told me that I should give parenting advice on my blog. I snickered to myself when she said it, because what the heck do I have to offer people in terms of advice? I’ve been a mom for a decade, and I’m only slightly less clueless than the day I brought the first kid home from the hospital. I’m useless where getting picky eaters to eat goes. I couldn’t tell you how to get the kids out the door so you can get to school on time. And I definitely couldn’t tell you how to deal with tantrums, relatives who think they know how to raise your kids better than you, or how to keep car seats clean.
“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said, because I didn’t want to say, “I’m the last person anyone should come to for parenting advice.”
But then — nine months later (because it takes the same amount of time for me to have a good idea as it does to grow a baby) — I was folding clothes and I had a thought.
Oooh, SOCKS. Maybe I do have a little parenting advice to offer the world. (Well, if not the world, then new parents, at least.) It only took a moment of rage to figure that out. And then I started thinking about other things along those lines, and boom — I had enough stuff to make a post. Or two. Or three.
Here we go.
In my time as a parent, I’ve learned that you should never buy cute socks for the kids. Cute socks come in different cute designs and colors, and do you know what all of that cuteness means? NEVER HAVING A PAIR OF SOCKS THAT MATCH. I wish you could see my laundry basket right now. It is full of cute socks that are missing their mates. There is even a sock that fit my preemie sized Baby Girl in the basket that is holding out hope that one day I’ll find the other one. (I refuse to throw it away. I’ll take that baby sock to my grave if I have to.)
I don’t have a clue where the damn things go, either. It’s almost like someone is breaking in my house when I’m not home and stealing socks here and there. If you’ve watched Home Alone, then you’ve heard of the Wet Bandits, and now there’s the Sock Bandits. All they take is one sock from each matching pair, because they want to slowly drive you insane.
(If those guys look familiar, it’s because they made an appearance in a post I did where I mentioned using a bug spray of sorts to get rid of religious people showing up unannounced. I guess payback is a bitch.)
I’ve looked in all the drawers, under the couch, in the toy boxes, and I cannot find them. I get missing a few socks, but I have at least 40 socks in that basket.
Are the sock companies in cahoots? Do they rig the socks in a way that makes one of them self-destruct after a certain amount of time, so that you have to keep buying more? Because — aside from the self-destruct component costing more than the sock itself costs to be made — that’s a good explanation.
Or maybe there is a portal to another dimension in my house that only socks can access. There is another world completely filled with socks that don’t match. Or maybe it’s not another dimension at all and is just part of one of the circles of Hell that wasn’t mentioned in Inferno. Dante was all like, “Shit, socks are boring, so I’ma focus on people being ripped apart by dogs.” In a less exciting area, there was a pile of socks that the sinners had to sort through for eternity.
I can understand why he would leave that out, since writing about sock sorting in a poem is kind of lame.
(New thought: a series on the nine circles of hell, parenting style.)
So, take it from me — don’t buy socks with designs or colors or brand logos or anything. Don’t be like me and go, “Ugh, those plain socks are so fugly, I’m gonna get these cute stripey ones where each pair comes in a different color and maybe the moon and stars will align and none of them will get lost.”
It never fails that I get behind someone on the road who has one of those proud parent bumper sticker on their car. You know the ones — “Parent of a GREAT Kid!” or “Honor Student at [Made Up School]!” or “My Kid is Awesome and Yours Sucks!”
Maybe that last one is made up.
My car is bumper-sticker free. I do have a Hanson logo sticker on my window, though. My husband wasn’t wild about that, since he drives the car, too. He could remove it if he wanted, but I have one of those machines that lets me make any vinyl decal cutout I want, so it’d be pointless. Being the rolls-her-eyes-at-bumper-stickers hypocrite that I am, I also have a Duke TIP magnet for my son. But hey, at least a) it’s not a bumper sticker, b) it won’t mess up my paint, and c) I can remove it when he does something to piss me off. As we all know, removing a sorta braggy magnet is the ultimate middle finger to a tween.
(For any grandparents reading this, “C” is a joke, so don’t unleash your wrath in a strongly worded text message.)
Looking at those bumper stickers got me thinking — what if parents put honest bumper stickers on their cars? I mean, sure, it’s nice that your kid makes the honor roll, and I know you’re proud of that, but come on — you probably call your kid an asshole more in your head more times in your day than you think, “I’m so proud of my A and B making kiddo that I could pee my pants,” right?
Here are a few honest bumper stickers that are likely better suited to your (or someone’s) kid:
Now that we’ve got the honest kiddo bumper stickers out of the way, here are a few more that reflect #parentlife:
Do you know what school starting back up is synonymous with? Aside from early mornings where everyone bitches, doesn’t eat their breakfast, and then whines about being hungry? And also loses the mate to every single pair of shoes they own?
I’m pretty sure they shove the fundraiser forms at kids the second they enter school on their very first day. Forget school handbooks, emergency contact forms, and all that crap — fundraiser forms are priority number one. This means that basically from late August until mid May, anyone with a child is a social pariah. People will go great lengths to avoid being asked if they want to support Little Johnny popcorn or fruit crate fundraiser.
I hate school fundraisers almost as much as I hate zucchini, and that’s saying something. It’s like that song from Annie, It’s A Hard Knock Life, where the little orphans are singing about all the shit Miss Hannigan makes them do, but with adults and selling useless crap instead of cleaning.
It’s the hard-knock life for us It’s the hard-knock life for us Always making us sell useless shit To buy more cheap Chromebooks for your kids It’s the hard-knock life!
(Excuse me while I go rewrite the disgruntled parents version of Annie.)
When I was a kid, we had one big fundraiser for school where we sold wrapping paper. Apparently at Christmastime, there was a massive shortage of wrapping paper, so it was crucial to sell the same thing you could buy at Walmart at a 300 percent markup. And then there was a fundraiser with the softball team where we sold candy. Candy wasn’t a problem, since most people didn’t cringe when they saw you coming their way with those big boxes of M&Ms. Except for that one lady who yelled at me for trying to kill her because she was diabetic, anyway. (That’s every 10-year-old’s dream — to rid the world of the diabetics. Sigh.)
Things are different now. They sell lots more useless crap now, and depending on which school your kids go to (not the boy’s), the kids who sell the most useless crap are treated like celebrities for a day. One year there was a limo ride to a local pizza place, followed by playing in a bounce house rental. I think that was the same year, at least.
There’s also the “Fun Runs.” Little Man has repeatedly asked what the heck is supposed to be so fun about these Fun Runs, but I’m not really sure.
Maybe an inflatable obstacle course would be lots of fun, but jogging around a track or inside of a gym isn’t anyone’s definition of fun. Some years they do Color Runs, which I have a love-hate relationship with. On one hand, it’s fun to squirt my kid in the face with the colored chalk stuff, but on the other hand, I have to let him ride home in my car. We’ll call that the Sorta Fun Run. (By the way, I was so disappointed at the first Color Run. For whatever reason, I thought we got to throw large paint balls at the children. We did not.)
It is my dream that one day the schools will have fundraisers that the parents will actually enjoy. Instead of being forced to wait tables for a night at a restaurant so the school can keep the tips (whoever the hell came up with this horrible idea for a fundraiser can go straight to hell) or harass coworkers to buy garbage, we need fundraisers that are actually fun. There has to be a way a person can raise funds while not hating their own existence, right?
There are two ways you can go with this. First, parents vs. other parents. Charge $10 per participant and have fun launching balls at the heads of the other parents you loathe for an hour. Second, parents vs. kids. Same idea, plus you get to unleash some of that pent-up aggression over certain individuals leaving messes all over the house again. Borrow balls from the school, meet in a public space, and it’s all profit.
Instead of getting people to pledge a buck or whatever for your kid to walk a quarter-mile, how about getting people to pledge money for each glass of wine or beer you drink? Some of the…more seasoned…moms would probably be able to raise the rest of the funds needed to build the new playground in no time at all.
And if you aren’t a drinker, then get people to pledge money for each glass of water or Coke you drink. You’re with other adults, kid-free, having fun, and raising money, so it’s a win-win situation.
Adult Fun Raffle
Some schools have Fundraiser Raffles where they get people and companies to donate all sorts of stuff, you buy a bunch of tickets, and then you put your ticket in the bag for whichever item you want. Some of the items at these raffles are neat, but others just blow. (Why the hell would I want to put my ticket in the $1 oven mitt raffle vs. the beach weekend raffle?)
At the Adult Fun Raffle, there will be no oven mitts, kiddie art classes, or coloring book sets raffled off. Gift cards for the local pub, babysitting vouchers, date night supplies, etc. will all be raffled. Baked goods — but not the kid-friendly kind — will be raffled. You get the idea. We’ll even let Karen raffle off the rest of her Pure Romance stock, and we’ll take her word for it than everything is unused.
See? Fundraisers really can be fun. Or at least not kill-me-now painful.
If you could come up with a fun fundraiser, what would you choose?
Good news on the book front — I finished the rough draft. Anyone who emailed me about being a beta reader for the book can expect an email soon with a PDF file of the book. If anyone would like to be a beta reader and hasn’t already gotten in touch with me, email email@example.com.
Recently my friend Lindsay, who blogs at The Sensitive Giraffe, tagged me in a post on Facebook about lying to your kids. She suggested that particular topic would make for good blog material, and she was right.
I know what some of you are thinking — “It’s wrong to lie to your kids! You poopyhead!”
To which I say —
Just kidding. Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know.
For the most part, I like to keep it real as a parent. Well, as of around 2017, I have liked to keep it real as a parent. Prior to 2017, I only kept it real for topics that didn’t make me uncomfortable. I mostly didn’t outright lie, but I did a lot of omitting the truth and skirting around issues. (Don’t forget to vote for me in 2020.) Nowadays, if one of my kids wants to know something, I make every effort to tell them straight up, regardless of how much I don’t want to answer the question.
For example, Little Man has asked me this at various times throughout the years:
How was I born?
Before I became a [Sorta] Super Truther, I’d tell him that he appeared . Later I mentioned that babies were sometimes born by C-section, and we happily watched a C-section video, since that is better than mentioning my vajayjay. (He wasn’t born that way, but it was okay if he made the assumption.)
After I became a [Sorta] Super Truther, I told him point blank that he was born by vaginal delivery and came out of my birth canal. And you know what? He didn’t bat an eye. There was nothing to be uncomfortable about at all. (Parenting pro tip: just be super technical with this stuff.)
So, Liar, Liar. I’m a fairly truthful mom these days about the things that matter. Baby making, puberty, the chances of seeing more than a couple inches of snow during a South Carolina winter…I’m truthful.
There are, of course, a few things I’m not at all truthful about, and that’s mostly a matter of convenience. Saying something like, “Lindt chocolate is for adults only,” might make me lose a few mom points when they discover the truth, but it’s pretty damn convenient.
Here are a few other situations that I may have fudged the truth in:
As I’ve established on this blog in an earlier post, my kids definitely know that when the bra comes off, their mom ain’t doing anything. And part of that is because — at some point — I led them to believe that I require a bra to function outside of the house.
Anytime I say “Maybe” when they ask for something or to do something, it’s pretty much a lie. The above pie chart proves this.
That blasted Steve Jobs.
This also works with their Gogurt, Goldfish, and graham cracker treats. For the record, this is by no means a regular occurrence, but it has happened. (After they look at you like you’re the parent version of Judas, you’d lie, too.)
Amazon doesn’t have it. Target doesn’t have it. The whole Internet has run out of it.
I had actually forgotten about that lie until Baby Girl asked me if Caillou was still sick one day. I blanked at first, and then she reminded me that I had told her Caillou was sick and couldn’t be on TV. He eventually got better. Unfortunately.
I don’t care if you are the most honest parent in the world and never lie to your kids, there’s no way you can judge me for the last one.
I know what y’all are thinking — “Not another post about Daddy Finger!” No worries. When I wrote that title, I absolutely was not referring to the shitty songs that we parents have to listen to. Not even a little.
Instead, I’m thinking more along the lines of “Songs I’ve heard before that I never thought could relate to parenting, but actually do.”
And that is a mouthful for a title, so I went with Parenting Music.
There are a lot of songs that take on more of a deeper meaning when you have kids. Some of those are sappy, and we don’t do sappy on this blog (well, at least not today), so I’m focusing on the songs parents can relate to in more of a “This totally sums up parenting” way.
No Doubt – Don’t Speak
When certain individuals have talked for 20 minutes straight about Minecraft and I feel like my head is going to explode, this song applies. When other individuals have talked nonstop about which character from The Incredibles or Peppa Pig they want to be, or like the best, or want for Christmas or…you get the idea…this song applies. And when other individuals talk nonstop about Microsoft Excel and spreadsheets and Pivot tables, this song applies. Oops, the last one goes to my husband and not the kids, but still — DON’T SPEAK!
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
It really does hurt. My head. It hurts my head.
DMX – Party Up
This should be every parent’s anthem. It’s perfect for any situation where the kids are acting like little heathens and you want to express how they’re making you feel without letting loose a string of cuss words.
A little side story to this one — before a few months ago, I didn’t know who sang the Y’all Gonna Make Me Lose My Mind song (as I called it) or any of the lyrics beyond the chorus. At any rate, I knew the hell out of the chorus for some reason, which I sang whenever the kids did something that made me want to drop four-letter words.
Little Man took a liking to that song, and I’m pretty sure he intentionally pushed my buttons at times to get me to sing it. Anyway, one day he asked about the song, and I told him that I didn’t know all of it and offered to look it up on YouTube for him. I typed in “Y’all gonna make me lose my mind” on YouTube, clicked an official looking video, and went back to whatever I was doing when my husband came in and about had a cow when he realized what LM was listening to.
Well, no, of course not, but based on those few lines, how bad could it be?
He told me to pull up the lyrics. I did. Yikes.
Sting – I’ll Be Watching You
Y’all know how it is with kids. They are constantly eagle eyeing you, especially when you’re trying to sneak a cookie after you’ve told them no more junk, or are trying to check your texts after you’ve declared screens banned for the rest of the day. It doesn’t stop there with my kids, though. They’re straight up little stalkers. It doesn’t matter whether I’m on the toilet, asleep, or brushing my teeth, someone is usually there watching me.
It gets straight up creepy at times.
Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every poop you take
Every curse you make
I’ll be watching you
No, I’ll Be Watching You didn’t need a rewrite at all to be declared a parenting song, but I tweaked it anyway.
MC Hammer – U Can’t Touch This
What is it with kids touching everything? Even older kids can’t keep their hands off shit. Stop touching my phone, my snacks, and my toys.
Stop grabbing my tampons, my shampoo, and my pens. For the love of God, not the pens! I am very particular about the kind of ink pens I use (I prefer the Zebra stainless steel fine point pens or the Pilot Precise V5 pens), and they are always putting their grubby little fingers on them, which means they get lost. Don’t touch this!
Maybe if I adopted some of MC Hammer’s dance moves and sang out “You can’t touch this!” they’d be more inclined to stop. At least the older one would out of embarrassment, I hope.
Destiny’s Child – Say My Name
They say “the” is the most commonly used word in the English language. All parents know this isn’t the case when it comes to kids, though. Some variation of “Mom” or “Dad” is used at least ten times as much as “the,” and while it is often said in a way that can make your heart melt, it can also be said in a way that makes you die a little inside.
Say my name, say my name
The kids are always around you
Saying “Mama I need you”
Won’t you play another game
Say my name, say my name
Don’t say my name! Especially when you do it in a Feeny Call sort of way!
Bonus: Backstreet Boys – I Want It That Way
I don’t know which is worse, this song or the kids demanding to have everything Burger King style, but either way, the song is relevant.
The ultimate parenting version of the song:
Tell me why
Ain’t nothin’ but a headache
Tell me why
Ain’t nothin’ but a migraine
Tell me why
I never want to hear you say
I want it that way
Which song would you dub a parenting song after having kids?
Hello from the land of viruses, nasty colds, and migraines! Plus general busyness. I think everyone is mostly healthy now, so yay! Yuckiness aside, the past week has been good. My son landed a part in two plays he auditioned for (which most of y’all already know, but I’m still in proud mama mode), one of my posts was published on the Erma Bombeck site, HumorWriters.org, and my husband got our swimming pool open. Good stuff!
Now that I’ve got that out of the way, on to the funny…
We have a dog named Bilbo. We named him after a character from The Hobbit. If you haven’t read The Hobbit (or watched the movie), then you should know that the character is persuaded to go on an adventure with a wizard and a bunch of dwarfs to be a burglar, on account of him being small since he’s a hobbit. We are big Hobbit/Lord of the Rings fans in my house (to the point that I have three LOTR inspired tattoos), so Bilbo was the perfect name for the dog.
And it really was perfect, because that dog loves to steal stuff.
Before we got an invisible fence, Bilbo had free run of the neighborhood. (It’s a small neighborhood in a rural area, where other dogs have free run, too.) All of that came to an end, though, when he started bringing up stuff he’d stolen. At first it was a couple of balls, and then there was a beach towel, which wasn’t so bad, but then he brought up a wild goose, and that put an end to his freedom.
This didn’t stop Bilbo’s thieving ways, though. He has since turned his sights to food. He is super sneaky about it, too. For example, if a slice of pizza is on a plate with some other food, he can swipe it right off the plate without making a sound or knocking anything else over, which is pretty impressive.
Yesterday Little Man was eating a sandwich when the burglar struck again. He had it in his hand and was looking at something when Bilbo quietly sneaked up and took it. Little Man was surprised, but chuckled over it, and said the following:
Whoa! That was true (and hilarious), but whoa!
Now, as some of you have gathered from reading this blog (as well as those of you who know me in real life), I’m not exactly against using curse words. I try to be careful around the kids, mainly because I know Baby Girl would repeat them. Little Man has only dropped a curse word around someone once (in front of two preachers, sigh), but otherwise he knows better and will ask permission before using such words. So, even though “bad words” don’t bother me on any level, I was still surprised that he said that, since a) I didn’t realize he knew the word, b) he doesn’t drop such words without permission, and c) his sister was present.
(Bastard is one of those words that falls in the gray area for me, but if he dropped it at school, it would be a problem, so a bad word it is.)
Little Man was surprised by this.
I laughed and laughed over that. I explained that “little bastard” was definitely not a country saying, and something that he shouldn’t repeat at school or in front of his sister. I asked where he heard it, but he wasn’t certain.
Now let’s hope that Baby Girl doesn’t repeat this. She didn’t appear to be paying attention to any of it, so hopefully I won’t get any calls from the preschool in the fall reporting, “Baby Girl called a kid who stole her blocks a little bastard.”
(By the way, if you’re someone who likes to go on about how their kids would never say such words, this isn’t the place to post about it.)
If you’re planning to eat anytime soon — or are eating at the moment — save this post for later.
It has been a week since my last post, but no worries — I have not succumbed to fingernail jaundice. I’ve been dealing with lots of puke and two parties, and the two were not connected like they would’ve been in my college days.
It all started at midnight on Wednesday (well, technically Thursday). I was sitting in the living room waiting for my husband to come home from a Willie Nelson concert when Little Man ran into the living room. His wide eyes darted around in a sheer panic. Before I could ask what was the matter, he raised his hand to his mouth, and I knew. He dashed over to the trash can, but before I could yell, “The trash can is full [because I don’t like stinky things and I’m waiting on your dad to get home and empty it],” it happened. Puke everywhere.
I once described one of Baby Girl’s vomiting sessions as being like the nasty little girl in The Exorcist, but Little Man put them both to shame. If projectile vomiting were an Olympic sport, I think he’d have taken home the gold. He covered close to eight feet of my kitchen (including the trash can, island, and stuff on top of the island) with his vileness, which took me 1.5 episodes of Parks and Recreation (which he started watching while waiting to see if his stomach was settled before returning to bed) to clean.
I was hoping that it was something he’d eaten, since we had Baby Girl’s birthday weekend coming up, but it wasn’t. Not long after asking Baby Girl where she wanted to eat that night on Friday morning (her answers included “a wedding” and “chicky chicka,” a restaurant she made up), she covered me from head to toe with vomit. I jumped in the shower while my husband ran a bath to clean her off when I heard a blood curdling scream. I stuck my head out to ask what was wrong.
(I really hope you guys took my advice and aren’t eating right now.)
That wouldn’t be the last time we were puked on, as Baby Girl had an aversion to throwing up in the bucket we kept nearby. She informed me that she didn’t like throwing up in it, but wanted to throw up on ME. Just…what the hell did I do in a former life to deserve this?
Thankfully, like her brother, she was over the worst of it in about eight hours, and we didn’t have to cancel her birthday plans for the following evening. She spent her last day as a three-year-old snoozing in my arms between throw-up sessions. The puke sucked, of course, but I really enjoyed holding her all day and evening. It was like when I brought her home from the hospital again, except for instead of weighing five pounds, she weighed 30.
The rest of her birthday weekend went well. She had a Justice League themed birthday party, which was great, outside of The Pinata Incident. (Let’s just say that one should probably not take apart a t-ball set and give kids the adjustable tee to use to hit the pinata, as the adjustable part can go flying and hit one’s husband.)
So long, toddler years — they’re officially behind us, since we won’t be having anymore kids thanks to the snip-snip-sniparoo. Baby Girl should probably get a new blog nickname at this point (and so should Little Man, since he’s not so little anymore), but Little Woman and Medium Size Man don’t have quite the same ring to them.
Between my drafts folder and the multiple notes saved to my phone, I have so many things I could write about on this blog. I often jot or type things down when inspiration strikes and then go right back to what I was doing, having every intention of fleshing out that idea later. I have 30 drafts saved on my blog with titles of a few words or so. I have at least another 30 topics saved on my phone. Yet I struggle to come up with a blog post that will dazzle you.
If you’re a fan of The Office, then you’re probably familiar with this Michael Scott quote:
Sometimes I’ll start a sentence, and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.
That’s totally me when it comes to blogging. When I come back to many of those blogging topics later, I have often no idea where I was going with them at the time I wrote them down. And I stare at those topics and even attempt to write a few sentences about those topics, hoping that things will click and I’ll find where I’m going with it along the way. I usually don’t.
As you’ve probably already guessed, today’s post is going to be about the topics that I seriously don’t have a clue where I was going with them.
Cussing 100 yards, forget cleaning
I wish I had a clue what “cussing 100 yards” refers to, because it sounds like it would be funny. I’m certain that it doesn’t have anything to do with me hearing someone cussing 100 yards away, so there’s that. And “forget cleaning?” Well, I do that quite often, but why is it lumped together with the whole cussing bit? Am I the victim of autocorrect?
Dear past me — be a dear and kindly expound upon your blog post topics, okay? Surely something bland and boring like “sharing” has to be connected with a funny story, right?
More bubble bath
I’ve got nothing. I can’t think of any situation in which one of my kids requesting more bubble bath (and I’m assuming it’s them, because my husband doesn’t take bubble baths and I usually don’t, because my allergies/asthma is very picky about soaps and stuff) would be humorous.
Your face is a vulca
Okay, so “vulca” has to be “vulva.” It has to be. Now if only I knew why I wanted to blog about vulva faces. Did Baby Girl call Little Man a vulva face? Because that would definitely be a step up from what she usually calls him — a meanie or a brat. (Gah.) Clearly I thought it was so funny enough that I’d remember all of the details of it later, but nah.
This was on a separate note from “more bubble bath,” so I doubt they’re connected. There are a few things I could write about with something this generic, but nothing that strikes me as particularly interesting. I could write about the kids splashing water over all of creation from the tub, but…meh. I could write about Baby Girl drinking bath water, but…meh. Maybe that’s where I was going with it at the time I wrote it down and couldn’t see that it only had “meh” potential.
This is absolutely my favorite topic that I am clueless over. This one is older, so I know it absolutely isn’t related to when church people showed up on my doorsteps a couple weeks ago, when I hadn’t washed my hair in two days and wasn’t wearing a bra, but dang, it sure would’ve come in handy right about then. Surely I wasn’t planning on a bug spray for religious people, so what the heck was this supposed to be about? Or what the heck did autocorrect screw up and turn into something that makes me look like a heathen?
These are just a few of the topics that I have no idea where I was going when I wrote them down. And even on a couple of them that I have somewhat of an idea as to what I could be referencing, I’m still not sure how the hell I thought I’d get an entire post out of it.
Just so y’all know, this is pretty much every list I make. I used to not make lists, but then I started making them because I was told it would make my life easier. Ha. I’ll go into Target every so often and buy some Greenroom spiral 6×8 notebooks, which I use to keep track of all of my lists. And then I’ll inevitably lose one of the notebooks and start lists in a different one, and then find and lose another, and so on. Currently I have two notes on my phone plus pages of notes in three different notebooks for birthday party plans for Baby Girl’s party. When I try to take it all in and make sense of everything, I inevitably get overwhelmed and start a new list. The madness never ends.