Crack IS Wack!


I was like most girls in the late 80’s, early 90’s. I would dance in the mirror wearing a scrunchie in my hair and leg warmers. Whitney Houston’s songs would be blasting on the boom box. For those of you in your 20’s, a boom box was a portable radio with a cassette tape player that you could carry on your shoulder. If you were rich you had one with two tape players. Now, this was before Whitney married Bobby Brown. Cissy should have called Mr. Telephone Man to keep this bad boy away from her daughter. It is reported that Bobby Brown broke down sobbing on stage last night over Whitney’s sudden death. He is on tour with old members of New Edition. Perhaps these were tears of guilt and shame. He took the pop diva down this road. Sure, Whitney is also to blame. She had a life most people only dream of, but it wasn’t enough. I find her decisions incredibly selfish. Once you become a mother you don’t get to think about yourself first. Do you have any idea how many nights I would love to eliminate my stress by chugging margaritas? I can’t. I have three children who depend on me. Children I chose to have. Children I love more than myself. Whitney Houston obviously didn’t realize that is “The Greatest Love of All.” Otherwise, the pop diva would have taken one look at Bobbi Kristina and put down her crack pipe. Well, actually if she would have looked at Bobbi Kristina she would have realized her drug money should have been used to buy that poor girl some braces. You can drive a truck through her front teeth.

Don’t cough on me!

It happened. My body couldn’t fight it anymore. I am sick. I’m certain I caught this virus from the little girl coughing in my face at my son’s pre-school. Hey moms out there: If your kid has green snot oozing out of their nose KEEP THEM HOME. I know this may cut into your scrapbooking time. The stickers aren’t going anywhere. You can finish your tribute to Walt Disney another day. I actually overheard a mother the other day say, “He threw up last night, but felt fine this morning and didn’t want to miss gym day.” Plus, she needed to finish the wreath she was making for her front door.

My older son offered to take care of me, “After you make us breakfast and do the dishes you should go lay down mom.” At least he didn’t want me to vacuum too. Sure, it would be great if I could actually rest when I don’t feel well. However, the minute I laid my weary head on a pillow my children would scream.

My husband is useless in times like this.  He was raised in a family of boys. He didn’t have a sister and never learned basic survival skills. Forget about trying to do a load of laundry. The concept of not mixing colors and whites doesn’t resonate with him. “Why not just get it all done in one load?”

If I took a day off from being a mom I would just have to work overtime tomorrow to clean my house. If I was out of commission for two days my family would end up on a reality show on TLC climbing over feces and empty pizza boxes.

What the?



Michael Phelps He Ain’t

I am going to rent a movie tonight. I know, I know. Settle down party girl. This is how I roll on a Friday night. I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw a movie in a theater. No really, I cannot remember. I do know it was back when you could board an airplane without removing your shoes and my cell phone weighed 4 pounds. Truly, something happened to my mind when I got pregnant. I could say the children got the brains, but the jury is still out on that one. My daughter ate a piece of dog food today. My middle child regularly makes decisions worse than Snooki.

Here is a perfect example. My 4-year-old was taking a bath and decided it was the perfect time to show me he wasn’t afraid to go under water. He learned to hold his breath during a swim lesson earlier that day. So, in about 12 inches of water, he counted “1,2,3” and whipped his head back with such force it hit the bottom of the tub. Thank God he came back up.  Now, because I once saw a lady on Oprah telling me to praise a child even if he fails I said, “Good job honey! You went all the way under.” He wasn’t buying it. I am raising a tribe of perfectionists. Since he clearly misjudged the depth of our bathtub he needed a do-over. We counted together “1,2,3” BAM! I giggled a bit inside thinking, ‘Really? You didn’t learn your lesson the first time?’ If this continued I would either have to call David Hasselhoff (back when he wore a red bathing suit and ran in slow-motion. Not when he drove a talking car or was a drunk, drooling, hamburger-eating dad) I congratulated him again.


He was determined to get this right even if it meant suffering a concussion and forgetting  the important life skill he learned at pre-school that day: gluing popsicle sticks together. Now, every good parent knows when to intervene and put an end to these kinds of stunts: before there is blood. So, I told him that game was over. Tears. This kid can turn them off and on like a soap opera star. I thought about getting him an acting coach and agent. Then, I envisioned his future. He would end up being in a movie where he plays a twin, make friends with a socialite who tells everyone the color of his pubic hair, change sexual orientations, drink excessively and pose nude. So, perhaps we will stick to college. I held my breath as he attempted a 3rd time to submerge his head without knocking himself out. He nailed it without nailing it.