The F-words

Bad Mommy!
 I find myself dropping the F-words 
a little too frequently. 

That's right, French Fries. Fast-Food.

Why junk food? Click here to read more.

No, really, I am afraid of baboons

I am afraid of balloons. Absolutely hate them. In my worst times of anxiety, I have actually lied to my kids about balloons.


"Oh, those balloons, they're for orphans... Sorry."
"We can only buy balloons on rainy days, Honey."
"No, I said not on rainy days, Honey."


My mother in law used to mail balloons to the girls, the kind you blow up at home. I used to throw them away before the kids saw them. (My God, what was she thinking? Doesn't she know what these things are capable of? They can take out an eye, choke a baby, pose a strangulation risk, and cause an audible popping sound!)


I know it was a crazy fear, but it was my crazy fear. My looney-momma-protect-the-children-even-if-it-means-saying-no-fear.


Admittedly, as the years have gone by, I have gotten better about balloons.  My kids have managed to beg, borrow, steal, or be-gifted enough balloons over time to inhibit my fears and guarantee that their childhood's have not been balloon-free. Plus, I have always allowed mylar balloons.  I mean, I wouldn't want to deny them, right?  And there was one year where I actually put tiny toys into balloons and had all the party-goers sit on them to POP'EM and retrieve their prize.  Wow, that was brave.


Tonight the girls brought home balloons from a birthday party. Nice, Safe, Mylar balloons, which lasted all of a half-hour before they decided to pop them, on purpose, then heal them with duct tape.  It was only an hour before they were in the trash and the little one was asking for more baboons. Because I am now so-grown up and fearless my kids have me trained so well-- I will probably be at the dollar store tomorrow trying to replace the broken baboons.  Do you think they'll laugh at me if I show up in safety goggles and ear plugs? 

Do you like Orange Juice? My son loves it. Click to read more.

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Hide & Seek, toddler rules

When Alex started wailing for his orange juice today, I didn't think much of it. After all, OJ is the only thing he drinks, so demanding I find it didn't seem like much of a problem. I figured he misplaced his sippy cup... not a big deal. Probably under a toy bear or something.           


I couldn't find it anywhere; so I did what any reasonable mom would do- I made a new one.

"No cup! NOOOOO CUUUUPP! JUICE. BOX." 

No. No. No. No. No and no. No type of cup, no color of cup, no cup was gonna placate him. "No Mommy, notta new juice. I need my orange juice. I need my juice BOOOX." Clearly "box" was the operative word, the one meant to clue me in... but I failed to get it.

This went on
and on
and 
on.

No juice box and Mom with No-Clue.

Why?

BECAUSE HE WAS LOOKING FOR THIS

OMG, look how tiny it is.

Techincally, it is "orange juice"; and technically, it is a "box"; and technically, I don't have a "huge" house; but 2200 square feet to play "Find-The-Juice-Box-When-You-Don't-Even-Know-WTH-You're-Looking-For" is not exactly my idea of a fun afternoon.                                                        
I found it.

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