Some material may not be suitable for children.

"Mom, did you know that the worst, scariest movies are rated S?"

"X? Who told you about X-rated movies!?" Once again, I misunderstood my son. I'm sure I'm going deaf. Note to self, order Miracle-Ear.

"S! S! Rated S! They're really awful movies. It's the worst rating you can have."

"S? I'm pretty sure there's no such rating."

"For real. There IS!"

Oh, I forgot. A six-year old is always right. And, the only way to prove him wrong is to Google it. It was 7am. No one had breakfast. Everyone's hair still looked like we were at a Bon Jovi concert. I shrugged, started humming "You Give Love a Bad Name," and fired up the laptop.

"G. PG. PG-13. R. NC-17. See? No S." (And, no X either, by the way. Isn't X a real rating?)

"They must not have added S yet. It must be new," Madan offered up.

Of course it must be new. Because to be otherwise would mean you're wrong, Madan, and a six-year-old is never wrong. I decided to play along with my little Roger Ebert. "Okay. What is sooooo bad about an S-rated movie?"

"It has grown-ups and kissing. IT'S TERRIBLE! A kid at school told me about it."

Madan had a serious look of worry about him. I could see the ulcer growing in his stomach. Even though I'm deaf, I could hear his brain screaming, "Why would anyone film two people kissing? GROSS! I don't want to see that!"

"Don't worry, Madan. You don't have to go see an S-rated movie. Ever."

Relief washed over his face.

Some material may not be suitable for children, I guess.

Air Trantrums

We boarded our flight, anticipating a long travel day. Little did we know what we were in for. Within moments of taking off, the child in the row ahead of us began emitting ear-splitting screams. Nonstop. I've never heard anything like it in my nearly 40 years of existence. I contemplated prying open the emergency exit and hurling myself out at 39,000 feet. But, Michael Jackson just died and I was sure I'd get no coverage, except for Nancy Grace. I sat back, dejected. Kaila, who must be deaf, finally became curious.

What's wrong with that girl, Mommy?

(Nothing. She just deserves a beating, honey.) I held my tongue, gritted my teeth and replied: Ummmmmm, she's just having a "moment."

I think she's being funny.

Leave it to Kaila. Only my girl could find humor in that situation. While my ears were bleeding and the rest of the plane was getting royally p.o.'d, she thinks it's laughable that some screaming banshee is having a tantrum over a cracker. Mike was seated across the aisle, reading a 300-page hard cover book. I reached for it. Luckily, he knows me too well. He pulled it away. I was going to coldcock the mother and then the kid. I would have gotten a standing O.

Oh yeah, I know. Some of y'all will say I'm being overly harsh. If you knew Kaila between the ages of 2-3, you would know that I am 100% qualified to pass judgment on parents whose children wig out. To say Kaila was a nightmare is a complete understatement. When we left the house, I had to be prepared to make emergency exits from restaurants, grocery stores, birthday parties, you name it. And, when we flew, I packed Benadryl, Motrin, sippy cups, crackers, candy, puppets, duct tape you name it. My carry-on was a bag of tricks. I sure as hell wasn't going to be the Mom who got the looks and the tsk tsks.

We were flying back from Florida so the plane was filled with people 85 years and up. Despite removing their hearing aids, they still couldn't escape the blood-curdling screams. Finally, one woman kindly walked over to the Mother and offered to get some water for the Tasmanian Devil who was winding up again.

Are her ears bothering her? Why don't we get her a drink of water?

Sit down. She's fine. Just FINE. PLEASE return to your seat and mind your own business.

I looked at Mike in disbelief. Did this Mother just give the lady an in-air smackdown? Then, something caught my eye. I turned and witnessed tons of wrapped candy being frantically passed through the crevices of the seats. The woman next to me shoved her hand through to the next row. The Mother delivered another smackdown.

TAKE IT BACK. SHE'S TOO YOUNG!!!!

Whispering permeated the plane. Why the hell was everyone whispering, I wondered? You couldn't hear a fucking thing outside of the incessant screaming. A flight attendant walked by.

Stewardess!?! (I love how old people still call them that.)

Uh, yes? (Clearly shocked that she was called stewardess.)

Can you do something for that child? It might be her ears.

The flight attendant paused. The flight attendant reflected. The flight attendant offered this gem: "Babies cry." The flight attendant walked on.

I gave Mike my best WTF? look again. I asked him where his book was. I was gonna knock her ass out, too. The hardcover was safely hidden. The flight attendant wasn't going to help? Oh, we were fucked. What if something really bad were to happen?

Excuse me, flight attendant?

Uh, yes?

The wing is on fire.

Well, planes crash.

-- or --

Excuse me, Miss?

Uh, yes?

The man next to me stopped breathing.

Well, people die.

--or --

Excuse me, Miss?

Uh, yes?

That hairy man just removed his shoe and is lighting it with a Bic

Well, Jihad happens.

Eventually, the screaming subsided and the toddler passed out. The rest of the plane did, too. I reflected. Was I being too harsh on the Mom? I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was her child's ears. But, why didn't she try to give her a drink? Maybe her child was hungry? But, why didn't she offer food? Maybe her kid was tired. But, why didn't she rock her?

When you're a mother, shit happens. In fact, really bad shit always happens at the worst times. But, you try your best to be prepared. And, when you're in a plane, you do whatever it takes to make peace. In air is not the time to hold your ground. But, in the event of an emergency, when shit is spiraling way outta control, at least be gracious.

Yes, babies cry. But, toddlers don't always have to.

WTF?! Wednesday: The Invisible Trophy

I wish your camp lasted all day. Two hours is not enough.

Why?

Because, with the exception of sleeping last night, you and your sister have been fighting nonstop for 24 hours. It's 8am and you're arguing over insane things like how fast the race car on the Cheerios box can go! It's on A BOX. It can't go. Oh, correction. It's going NOWHERE FAST.

It's as if I'm invisible. No one hears me. The angry tennis match resumes.

I WANT TO SEE IT!

I WAS LOOKING AT IT FIRST!

NO YOU WEREN'T. I WAS!

FINE. THEN I QUIT. I QUIT EVERYTHING. I QUIT YOU. I QUIT LIFE.

Oh boy. When Madan gets pissed, it's pretty permanent. I did what any Mom would do at 8am. Ignored them and hoped the badness would go away. It did, but was replaced by a total non sequitur.

Mom?

Yup.

Can we go to Kalahari water park today?

(WTF?) Um, why do you ask?

Because it's raining and we can't go to the pool. So, let's go there. It's indoors.

That's a great, but incredibly expensive, idea.

I have dollars!

Not enough of them, Doobie.

Kaila has $20 that Aunt Lu gave her for her birthday!

Still not enough.

How much do we need?

(I exaggerated for effect.) $3,000, sweetie.

(Clearly, hyperbole is wasted on a five year old.) Do they take coins?

(Short bus chimes in.) I DON'T WANNA GO!

WELL, I DO! YOU'RE JUST A STINKY GIRL WITH A BUTT FAN.

Oh, Kaila. She had to go and ruin it. We had been safely diverted from the Cheerios box train wreck, but she put us back on a crash course with her refusal to hypothetically go to Kalahari.

So, therein lies today's WTF! It's going out to all you nutty kids who make us mamas crazy by arguing about hypotheticals. From what color your space ship should be to what the sun eats to who won the invisible trophy and gets to keep it in their room or whether the pet T-rex your bro wants will eat him or not.

If you're going to argue, at least do it about reality. How about you get into a fist fight over: Who gets the last cookie? Who's taller? Who's better looking? Global warming? Please, beat the snot out of each other over things that can be decided. Not imaginary things brought on by bouts of toddler insanity.

*Thank you to my friend Jen for today's blog inspiration. She's the one who owns the invisible trophy and is getting a vegetarian T-rex for her son.

WTF?! Wednesday...

... brought to you by Giant Eagle and the rotting crap they pass off as produce.
(Yes, this is a harsh post, but well-deserved.)

Dear Giant Eagle,

Good bye. I'm leaving you for Heinen's. After five years of sticking with you, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, I've had enough. Maybe it was the $9 bag of cherries I bought which looked good in the store, but were a wrinkly, rotten mess when I opened them at home. Or, maybe it was the onion I cut into that was rotten to the core. Or, perhaps it was the bag of baby carrots I barely recognized because they were freezer-burned beyond belief. You'd think any of those episodes would call for a legal separation.

But, no. What you've done to me is unforgivable, unforgettable and unthinkable. I will never get over this. Not even if you give me endless Fuel Perks. Never, ever, ever. Not in all my lives. (My people are Hindus who believe in reincarnation.)

You fucked with my fat-free cookies and cream ice cream.



First off, you sized it down. Yeah, I know. Everybody's doing it. But, does that make it right? This week, I had to buy two containers to feed my habit. That takes up valuable freezer space reserved for cheese bagel bites. How can I tell my daughter she won't have lunch because Mom needs to buy more dessert?

Secondly, you fucked with the flavor. Some product marketing genius, or maybe your CFO, realized it would be cheaper to make ice cream without the cream. I was okay with the fact that my cookies and cream concoction barely had cookies. But, now it barely has cream. You need to rename the crap Giant Eagle Ice. Or Giant Eagle Ass. Because, that's what it tastes like. I'm chucking my 3 oz. container out the window. The raccoons can have it. But, my guess is they'll pass on it, too.

So, it's without much sadness that I write this because I've had it. I put up with all I can take, but now it's time to throw in the towel. The relationship is unsalvageable. It's over.

Goodbye, Giant Eagle, equal opportunity employer.
Helloooooooooooo Heinen's, home of the hot cheerleader checkout gals.

The Pillow Fight Club

My parents visited us last month. While they were here, all hell broke loose. The kids were chased, tickled and tortured with love and brownies. One day, when there was a lull in the sugar high, my Mom decided it was time to test the durability of our Pottery Barn pillows vs. the Doobies' heads. A 15-minute pillow fight ensued.

Years ago, I would have freaked out. My expensive chenille PB pillows! But, I've since learned to detach myself from material things because the kids (or in this case, my Mom) inevitably trash them.

So, as I watched my kids get knocked down, get back up again and happily get KO'd again, an idea was born. Whenever the Doobies piss me off, I now use a pillow fight as a guise to get any aggression out. It's much more permissible than a real beating.

Talk about fun.

During our most recent sham-fest, some great fighting techniques were born. Try them! If you don't laugh your ass off while swatting your kids, you're not hitting hard enough. Or, you're a bore who deserves to be smacked upside the head.

Note: "Attacker" refers to preschooler coming at you with a way-overpriced PB pillow.

1. The Windmill: Hold two pillows and spin your arms. Just be careful. You'll need to duck and weave or the attacker might get your head.
   
2. The Zildjian: My personal favorite. Use two pillows and pretend to play the cymbals on the attacker's head. When striking, be sure to make a crashing noise for added effect.
   
3. The Powder Puff: Take one pillow and hold it in the center. Keep "puffing" the attacker's face until it looks like the chenille PB pillow.
   
4. The Chinese Star: Grab the pillow by the corner and give it a good chuck sideways. Note: This one might actually hurt the attacker. Only use in dire circumstances.
   
5. The Lob: Take two pillows. Launch one as a decoy and then use the second as The Powder Puff. Because the attacker is 5 years or younger, he/she will fall for it every time.

Happy fighting!

Piece of Shit Car

I vacuumed out my car for the first time in...six months? I pose it as a question because I truly have no idea and am wondering if anyone else does.

See, I found a hairy raisin on the floor. And, I'm curious. How long does it take for a raisin to sprout dreads? That would give me some indication of time. But, on second thought, it might not be a raisin. It could have been someone's kid I forgot to drop off after a playdate. Either way, Beetle Juice is gone now. And, I'm very sorry if any of you are missing a child. My guess is, you didn't really want him/her back anyway. You would have called. Or emailed. Or updated your FB status.

So...my car is clean! Or, clean on the inside, if you're a purist. The outside is a dirty, banged-up mess. It's a story only Helen Keller could tell (if she could speak). I wonder what all the dots, dents, dings, lines and scratches spell out? Hopefully, something really nasty. I'm not sweet, remember?

My car looks like it's been in a demolition derby. And, Mike won't let me get anything fixed. It's like a scarlet letter I have to wear all around town, announcing, "I cannot drive for shit. I hit the side of the garage. I hit a cement pole. I hit lots of stuff. Yes, yes, yes. I suck." I am the Hester Prynne of the highway. How humiliating. And, it's another reason why I'm so glad I have an arsenal of wigs -- and that big sunglasses are still en vogue.

For three years now, I've put "detailing" on my Xmas list, hoping someone in the family would oblige. No dice. They all want me to pay for my past abuses. I should probably change the title of this post from "Piece of Shit Car" to "Piece of Shit Driver."


P.S. If you've never heard Adam Sandler's song "Piece of Shit Car," please give it a listen. It's a work of art. Mike and I played it at our wedding. After re-reading the lyrics, it's a good thing half my relatives there didn't understand English.

P.P.S. I actually have a safe driving record. I only hit inanimate things when moving very slowly. I can carpool for preschool next year. Seriously. Trust me.

Pour some sugar on me.

Something is wrong with me. Terribly wrong. I read lots of mommy blogs and they're incredibly sweet. Sweet on kids. Sweet on life. Sweet on all sorts of stuff. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Suhweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

Aside from Hershey's Bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and ice cream and all of that mixed together, I don't do sweetness. It makes me queasy. Sweaty and nauseous, actually. I don't know why. I must be wired wrong. Oh, c'mon both of my friends will say. You're not Dick Cheney. We know you're a human being with feelings.

Um, no. And, I probably would shoot you by "accident" if we were hunting, too.

I screw up all sweet moments. Yesterday was a great example. I got yelled at for not paying attention to Kaila. For some reason, she wanted to show me how much she loved me. In case you're wondering, it was about this much, give or take a few ---'s.

| ------- |

In my defense, I was reading an email. I figured I'd be done before her outstretched arms would get tired. My bad. I really should multitask better. I could go on and on about my lack of emotional syrup, but I won't. Instead, I'll keep searching for my inner-saccharine to be a better person. And, I'll keep this post like the new me: short and sweet.

P.S. This has nothing to do with today's post, but I thought it was a great idea. The pediatrician suggested mixing milk and drinkable yogurt to up the kids' calcium intake. Kids will drink anything through a straw, right? Sweet!

And the award for loser of the year goes to...

Yup. C'est moi.

So, today was an action-packed day. It started with a family trip to Conrad's to drop my car off for a tune-up. It was early. I was bra-less, still in my PJs and Kaila wasn't wearing shoes. There was no time for shoes. Did I mention it was early? Plus, I'm not feeling well. I prayed no one would see me. I wore really huge sunglasses.

We returned home from Conrads, but somehow, I still had less than one hour to get some work done and then get Kaila to a friend's birthday party.

I showered. Barely. Grabbed the gift off the counter and did what all lame moms in a rush do: threw it in a wrinkly re-gifted gift bag, shoved tissue paper around it and chucked it into the car. Luckily, the party was a drop off. I screeched into the driveway, drop-kicked Kaila into the house and hauled ass to Target. An hour (and $75) later, I returned to the celebration just as gifts were being opened.

Kaila excitedly handed her gift to her friend.

Friend opened gift.

Mama's jaw dropped in horror.

Kaila screamed, "THAT'S THE WRONG GIFT. THAT WAS MY GIFT MOMMY! WHY IS MY GIFT IN HER BAG? I WANT TO GO HOME!"

I began to sweat. Holy shit, I am a total fuck up. Kaila's birthday was a few days earlier. I mistakenly grabbed the Fantasy Water Globe present my parents gave Kaila and put it in the gift bag. Even worse, it was used. I was mortified. Even more worse than worse, Kaila called me a total hoser in front of 10 girls. Where was an act of god when you needed one? Unfortunately, no trees fell on me, no hole in the Earth swallowed me up, no lightning bolt struck me dead. I was alive and stupid beyond belief. Luckily, the girls had already moved on to a doll that swims in the bathtub. The error was forgotten. But only by them.

If looks could kill, my baby girl's eyes would have slayed me on the spot. Who could blame her? I just made my four-year-old look like a turd. She made me pay, too. The whole way home, I was peppered with questions: Why was my present in the bag? Why did you do that? Why didn't you put the right one in the bag? Why are you such a horrible mother? Why don't you love me? Why? Why? Why?

An hour later, I returned to the party house, right gift in hand. The birthday girl was incredibly confused. Just like I was this morning.

American Idle

The other night, the unthinkable happened.

I went to the local wine bar with some running club friends. The weather was great, the conversation flowed and so did the drinks. I wore white pants and did not get a single speck of dirt on them. It was truly spectacular. It was also a Tuesday. I was missing the final showdown on American Idol. But, that was the sacrifice I was willing to make for some grown-up conversation. Besides, the DVR was rolling so I knew I'd be sitting in front of the tube, stuffing my face with an ice cream-peanut butter concoction later that night, enjoying the company of Adam and Kris, Ryan and all those other dogs.

When I returned home, Mike was watching another show. I assumed he didn't watch Idol yet because he wanted that to be our special moment of the evening. Oh, how wrong I was.

So, are you ready for the final two, I asked?

What?

(Excitedly like a teenager going to see Hannah M.) Idol. American Idol. It's what I live for, remember?

Then, he uttered three words that will forever live in infamy: There's a problem.

(Trying to stay calm.) What do you mean?

It didn't record. Well, only 20 minutes recorded.

(Not so calm.) WHAT do YOU mean?

Um, the DVR was full.

(Calm left the building.) ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Aside from our wedding, the birth of our children and every other Idol finale, this is THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT MOMENT OF MY LIFE. How could this happen!?!?!

Um, sorry?

(Irate/borderline psychotic.) This is all your fault! You saved every single episode of Celebrity Apprentice. Donald Trump, king of the comb-over, is the owner of my prized DVR real estate! (I fell to my knees. Completely inconsolable. I started screaming and hitting myself.) Oh, no, no, nooooooooo. Why do you hate me so much? Why? Why? Why did this have to happen?

Next, I did what any scorned woman would do: Didn't talk to Mike for the rest of the evening. While I thought of that as punishment, in retrospect, it must have been quite a treat. I've since recovered from Tuesday's trauma, having watched KISS, the Black-Eyed Peas and the final episode while eating ice cream. Loads of it.