Don’t Give My Kids Ideas

I get it, sometimes it's hard not to swear in front of children. But, if you say the words: ice cream, park, toys, prizes, treats, candy, cake, soda, or adventure in front of my kids and don't have one in your pocket, I will unleash the fire of a thousand suns. {mrsmommymack.com}

One of my favorite comedians, Jim Gaffigan, hit the nail on the head when talking about children and their one-track minds. He joked about how he and his wife were nonchalantly talking about ice cream and his child screamed “CHOCOLATE!” for the remainder of their road trip. Despite their desperate pleas, the child never stopped.

This is what it’s like having a toddler.

Every.
Single.
Day.

I don’t know if this is something new for us Millennial Parents, because my mom seems to have completely gone off the tracks when dealing with my sons leech-like mind. For example, we took a trip to the zoo recently. Boy were we excited! After an an entire morning packing, a half-hour drive and a good 20 minutes getting us out of the vehicle, we arrived! My mom, my 3-year-old son, one-year-old daughter and I grabbed our tickets and headed in, right past the gift shop.

“PRIZES!” My son exclaimed at unnerving volumes.

I began my spiel of, “Oh now, nice! Aren’t those pretty? Look! I think that LION KNOWS HOW TO TALK!” In a 100% effective way to distract him from the fluorescent monkeys.

My mother, however, apparently had a stroke on the trip over and blurted, “I will get you one of those prizes on the way back, my dear, sweet baby angel!”

I whipped my head around in hopes my son was (temporarily!) missing and did not hear my mother’s pirate mouth. No such luck.

From that moment forward, no matter how many white lies I told about the animals abilities to talk/walk/play poker at night, my son was over it.

“Yeah, I’ve seen enough animals. Time for a prize!” He said after merely passing a chipmunk on the way to the first animal exhibit.

That was it. That’s all we heard. Every step we took further away from the gift shop, the more my son hated animals for even existing. So, the trip lasted a quick lap around the zoo and my son raced into the gift shop. My mom then proceeded to tell my children they could have anything they wanted because, Lord knows we should give the little hustler the Taj Mahal. After careful, intricate, meticulous, hair-pulling deliberation, my son chose a pen. That was his prize. My daughter “picked” a monkey (she’s 1, let’s face it, I handed it to her and it was the best thing that ever happened to her) and my son could have had anything in the store and he picked a pen. Priorities.

So, after the zoo trip, I have been coaching friends and family not to speak of anything children might even fathom to enjoy unless you have it in your pocket and don’t ever want to see it again. Things have been moving smoothly, until today.

You see, I just got myself a double stroller and my husband has been taking our car to work. That means: anywhere we want to go is by foot with me pushing 60 pounds of toddler through 85 degree weather. Today, we had to drop some paperwork off at the insurance office. It was only a little over a mile away, but it’s hot, my kids and squirrely and I’m fat. By the time we got there, I was red as a plum, we were all out of water and I had to shit. In other words, we were done.

The receptionist decided she wanted to strike up a conversation, however. She was: talking to the kids, advising me on putting some more sunscreen on myself due to the fact that I looked like I was melting and then asked if we WERE HEADED TO THE PARK NEXT. 

Instantly, I had visions of taking her padded headband and shoving it down her throat. But, there were too many witnesses.

My son instantly shot up, “YEAH!!!! The park!!! Let’s GO!!!!!!”

Mind you, the park is three miles away and I’m nearing cardiac arrest. So, don’t judge me for not schlepping us across town.

After shooting the deepest death glare I could muster at Little-Miss-Parky-Pants, we left. I tried so hard to change the subject. So fucking hard.

I pointed at a seagull, “Hey buddy! Look! It’s an eagle!”

“Cool mom! Maybe he wants to come to the park with us?”

Next attempt, “Aren’t you getting thirsty? I bet you can’t wait to get home to have some SODA! What a treat!”

“No thanks, Mom. I will be thirsty at the park!”

Again, “Don’t you want to wash down that soda with some ICE CREAM! You can have Mom’s special ice cream she hides in the ice maker for after you go to bed!”

“Hmmmm, maybe later, Mom. We gotta go to the PARK!”

Finally, I shot it to him straight, “OK, Mom didn’t want to tell the lady at the office this, but the park is closed today. We can’t go there! But we can go tomorrow and you can tell DAD all about it when he gets home from work?”

Pause…

“OK!!!! Now, let’s go have soda and ice cream all day!!!!”

So, now I have to deal with the guilt of: not killing myself trying to get them to the park, LYING to a CHILD, and the fact that my husband will have to hear about the park for an entire two hours tonight when he gets home.

Looks like tomorrow I’m getting a workout.

Pregnancy Tip #547: For the LOVE OF GOD Shave Your Ferocious Bush. Learn From My Mistakes.

Pregnancy Tip #547: For the LOVE OF GOD Shave Your Ferocious Bush. Learn From My Mistakes. | mrsmommymack.com

I decided to take a trip down memory lane today. I wanted to write something that will captivate my audience. If I know anything about my audience, you want to laugh and most of the time at my expense. I dug deep into my brain for some of the most embarrassing times I have endured. Surprisingly enough, most of these memories involve feces — and after writing about my daughter eating poop, I figured I would spare you for a bit.

Being a mom isn’t easy. It’s always full of hysterics, tears and heart-bursting happiness. When my daughter was about to be born, however, life just wasn’t ready for the Lifetime movie moments I had dreamed of.

My daughter’s birth was a planned c-section. After having a terrifying three-day horror show of a birth with my son that ended up in an emergency c-section, I opted to cut to the chase. I wasn’t thrilled about being gutted like a fish again, but I was thrilled about immediate pain relief.

My husband and I met my mother at the hospital before my daughter was born. We were all glowing with anticipation to meet this little girl. My husband lugged paisley u-shaped pillows, piles of polka-dotted blankets and more than one tutu into our hospital room. We were ready.

I laid on the bed in my starchy gown ready to get this over with. During my first c-section, the time between the announcement of necessary c-section and the moment I heard my son’s first cry was less than 10 minutes. I was expecting this type of urgency during round two and was sadly mistaken.

The elderly nurse that would be preparing me for surgery waltzed in immediately and cut to the chase.

“Did you shave?” She croaked, no doubt just stepping in from a cigarette break.

“Huh?” I said, quickly glimpsing at my loved ones’ bright red faces seated next to me hoping she was talking about my armpits.

“Your bikini area, did you shave it?” She asked again, this time with much more vigor in her turkey neck.

“I was not told this was necessary…” I whispered, hoping I could avoid what was certain to be mortifying.

“No problem. I will take care of it,” she said and with the whirl of one liver-spotted hand she had a hedgetrimmer between my thighs.

Did I mention my mother is still sitting right next to me?

“Holy hell!” I squealed as I watched the scene before me unravel.

“The Packers play tonight, eh?” My mom quickly questioned my husband at ten higher octaves than normal to be heard over the landscaping that was taking place in the room. I’m not sure my husband ever answered her as he was vomiting up giggles so hard he couldn’t function.

While I stared at the ceiling, pinching the fat of my thighs willing this moment to be over, I heard the trimmers stop. The room grew silent with happiness as the awkward cloud began to dissolve. Before I could let out the pained breath that was gripping inside my rib cage, I heard ol’ Turkey Neck screech.

“We need another clippers in here!” She bellowed out the open door of my room to apparently catch the attention of every on-looker in a 30 mile radius.

My lack of a beauty regime in the prior nine months was wielding a monster that could not be tamed by one go-round with a trimmer. My mother’s face was puce as she looked on from her rocking chair. A chair she, no doubt, envisioned holding her granddaughter in for the first time, but instead watches an Afro pile at the feet of a nurse who should have retired during the Clinton Administration.

My lower half burned while this woman wrenched, tugged and buzzed every inch of my bits. We could have eaten dinner off my loins that evening. She didn’t give up though, not until 30 MINUTES passed and I whimpered in pain. Pain for both my bikini area and shriveling pride.

If it wasn’t for the distraction of the surgery and soon-to-be newborn, I am sure I would have died more than once of embarrassment that afternoon. Moral of the story is: even if you can’t see your va-jay-jay for six months, it still needs to be at-the-ready no matter what the circumstance.

Dizzy Castle

We have been in the Portland area for two weeks. Other than: staring at the umpteen boxes we have yet to unpack, rolling around on a deflating air mattress, and taking two trips to the complex indoor pool, we haven’t done much and, yesterday, I realized if I didn’t take the kids out to burn some energy off they might internally combust.

So, I took to the internet and discovered many area moms raving about a local indoor playground called Dizzy Castle. I decided this would be an inexpensive way to calm them. We packed up early and headed out.

We arrived completely underprepared. Both my husband and I were wearing flip-flops and did not realize that we not only needed socks but workout fatigues and an hourlong warm-up beforehand. We settled for purchasing some chintzy, too small “socks” from the counter and headed in.

The plan was to eat at the little food court prior to heading into battle, but my son had another idea. He ripped off his shoes and headed in. Thankfully, he was a little overwhelmed by the colors, swinging punching bags and sweaty children that he stuck close by. I quickly ran and ordered some food and sat back thinking I would relax, watch him run himself ragged and head home.

Wrong.

I was able to put off the inevitable by haranguing said two year old back to the table with a pirate ship filled with grilled cheese and potato chips. After a few bites, he was off again with potato chip in hand. This time, his fuel gauge was full and he was much more brazen. Considering most of the children were much older than him, I decided to follow him in. We played with some foam balls for a considerable amount of time before I saw his poop face. I tried to keep his public display a little more private, but he stood directly in front of the entrance with a purple vein throbbing in his forehead while he worked out his #2. I quickly shuffled him back to Dad for a run to the men’s room and took my daughter into the toddler area. We sat quietly while she crawled around with sweet little babies and we all cooed and laughed jovially while relaxing on the bright red mats.

Before my inevitable demise.

About a half an hour later, my husband and son returned. My husband looked like he just completed an entire month of P90X and my son looked crazed like he was hopped up on jungle gym. Between gasps for air my husband said, “I just went down the slide 11 times. It’s your turn.”

Being the show-off I am, I thought: How dramatic. 

I was so wrong.

I quickly learned that the slide entrance wasn’t merely a set of stairs. The first step to get to the top was army crawling up a set of foam logs. Mind you, I have never army crawled in my life. As children piled up behind me waiting for me to lug my frame up the logs, I felt horrified. Thankfully, my toddler wasn’t quite that quick either. At the top of the logs, you needed to squeeze through a two-foot by two-foot hole. Not only was I horrified that I might not fit through this hole, I also felt claustrophobia clutching my insides. Since there were about forty sweaty children behind me, there was no turning back. I pushed my breasts in and wedged through the hole. Much to my dismay, there was another whole set of Logs of Death. I was more motivated this time as I could see the top. I could see the end in sight and was looking forward to feeling like I wasn’t in a coffin. However, once I flopped on the platform, I realized the ceiling was only two-feet tall.

This was where I stopped breathing.

My son was unfazed. He leapt on the slide and soared to the bottom. I took the next track of a slide to quickly follow him down. Due to the fact that I was wearing yoga pants, I sizzled down the slide. I started breathing for a few quick gasps, until I saw my oblivious child jump into my track. Quickly, I tried to grab the sides to stop my body from careening into my offspring. Other than getting plastic burn on my palms, nothing happened. I rocketed off the bottom of the slide, bear-hugging his little body in hopes that this wasn’t an episode of Rescue 911.

Not only was he alive. He was hysterical with happiness.

I, on the other hand, had sweat soaked through my pits, my hair was matted and I had a Charlie Horse. He still wanted to race back up the logs, but I lured him out of the building with promises of cookies and Mickey Mouse.

Next time, I will be prepared.