The Old TIS

A few years ago I blogged for a paper under the heading of Hot Dogs in the Bath Tub – Tales from a Misfit Mom.  Here are some former posts broken down into categories on your right:  Memos from the Misfit, Aiming for Average, The Preschool Years and Sentimental Stuff.  While I hope you enjoy my observations, more importantly I hope you parents of little ankle biters realize that you aren’t alone.  There’s a lot of media out there that might make you feel like you aren’t doing the parenting thing right, and you worry and you second guess yourself and you feel guilty and your emotions swing all over the place from one day to the next.  Welcome to the new normal.

And don’t worry.  When my kids were little, I never wrote Cherish every moment when they are young because it all goes by so fast.  Never tell a mother of toddlers that.  Ever. I wanted to bite few heads off when I heard that.  I never did because my mother taught me to be a lady…but I sure as heck felt like it!

 

 

 

The Misfit Mom's Fabulous Flab Reducer

by Priscilla on July 13th, 2013

originally written circa 2008

The other day the tagline on Yahoo! read something along the lines of “Celebrity Moms Reveal Baby Weight Loss Secrets.” Please, there are no secrets to celebrity moms losing weight. They are called personal trainers, personal chefs, personal nannies and personal shoppers. Add those four personal “secrets” together and you come up with no personal post pardum flab.

I don’t begrudge my fellow moms their six pack abs six weeks after delivery. Just don’t try to package it in a neat little “this can work for you too, Mommy” self help book or magazine article.

How about publishers for once making room at the big table of diet books for one more plan from a real live mother living in the real world surrounded all hours of the day by her real live children and only her real live children? Splash in a few revealing photos of stretch marks tastefully done by what’s her name – the photographer in the middle of Ms. Miley’s Vanity Fair Fiasco – and you have yourself a best seller.

In fact, I here and now I submit Misfit Mom’s Fabulous Flab Reducer. Granted my way takes four years instead of four months, but who are you to judge my possible ability to inspire 439 women and pocket a cool $2500 in the process?

Sample Daily Menu (all meals are eaten standing over the sink. It is a fact that standing burns twice as many calories and you are there all day scrubbing sippy cups, water bottles and travel mugs anyway so what’s the point of sitting down.)
Breakfast – four pieces of crusts of toast, 2 ounces of orange juice (left in little Sophie’s princess sippy cup and 1 pot of coffee. Total calories 57

Midday Snack
Five pretzels found in car seat after dropping Seth off at preschool. 1 Pot of coffee. Total calories 8

Lunch
One chicken nugget and two bites of mac and cheese eaten off child’s plate as well as one spoonful of all natural applesauce and the five frozen peas that didn’t quite make it into the microwave steamer. Total calories possibly 150

Midday Snack
This one is tricky. Midday is the princess turns into a bear as she is awakened to pick up older brother Seth at preschool, then the whole gang is hauled onto both elementary and middle schools to pick up two more older siblings who must then be shuttled to piano lessons and swim team practice. You eat what they eat, string cheese, flavored water out of some kind of metallic pouch and the last of the grapes your children have by the looks of things chewed directly off the vine. 87 calories,

Dinner – Some kind of crock pot concoction served with salad and instant crescent rolls. (Sorry no starch free dieting allowed. The kids would starve what with no spaghetti, potatoes or mac and cheese). Tap water washes it all down. You are already at the sink anyway, right? Total calories 600 – inevitably you will cave and eat a second roll. After all, you can’t waste food.

This brings your total caloric intake for the day to 902. Since most physicians agree that adult women trying to lose weight at the healthy rate of two pounds per week should keep their calories between 1200-1600 a day, congratulate yourself. You are well on your way to complete exhaustion as well as anemia.

3 a.m. feeding. 1 pint Chunky Monkey (I never said it was the baby’s 3 a.m. feeding did I?) 3,489 calories.

Never fear. Next I will share with you my exercise secrets. I promise you can burn off that sinful nighttime dalliance faster than you think.

20 Questions...about Twins

by Priscilla on July 12th, 2013

 Originally written circa 2007/8 – I don’t know.  It’s all a blur.

I have to tread lightly on this one.  It’s been a long time coming.  Four years, five months, 30 days and 27 hours to be exact.  Ok, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but parents of multiples will all be nodding their collective heads here in a few sentences.  My own experience did not drive me to unburden myself on a very kind, very well meaning unsuspecting public.  No, I am resigned to carry my multiple’s mom cross gladly.  I, however, need to bear the torch for my very exhausted former college roommate. Three days ago she delivered twins….for the second time….in three years.

I was one of the privileged few she told when she received the good news the second time around.  “I’m going to get a t-shirt made that says, ‘No, I was not on Clomid,’” she emailed me. I laughed out loud knowing what she was feeling -what she and I had already encountered as mothers of twins and what was coming again round two for her.

First of all I want to state that I know children are a gift.  I love mine.  I do not take the fact that I am blessed with offspring lightly.  Not for a minute. However….. for my dear college roommate, and for all wiped out new moms of multiples just trying to get in and out of the store in under four hours and 37 minutes, consider this  a public service announcement for those of you who cannot resist a “cute” comment or question every time you encounter us out in public.

Please don’t ask us the personal question, “Were you on anything when you got pregnant?” Next time you do, I will ask you something personal in return like…ok, I can’t write anything here.  I thought of several very personal questions but my mom, my pastor and my meter reader might read this, and I am already in enough trouble with all of them at the moment.

Please don’t ask us if twins or triplets run in the family.  It doesn’t matter if they do or don’t. You really don’t want to know anyway. You want to stand there and tell us that your cousin had twins and your dad was a twin, but you never had any.  During this revelation my twins will have managed to tear the tags off of seven pairs of shorts and yanked five sun dresses off their hangers.

I KNOW you mean well, but if I had a dime for every time a stranger laughed upon seeing my kids, “Double trouble!” let’s just say my castle would make JK Rowling’s look like a charming two bedroom bungalow on Elm Street.

If you see us pushing our double/triple strollers around the store looking down it means we don’t want to make eye contact.  Eye contact means questions.  Questions mean precious time spent in the formula aisle instead of back home on the couch for five extra minutes of rest. Five minutes is nothing to sneeze at.

Please don’t approach all of us in the Mini Mart and say, “Twins?”  If you see two little boys, the exact same size, the exact same face, the exact same outfit, the exact same harried mother or father, you can pretty much guess that yes they are indeed twins.  A smile.  A nod, a kind comment such as “They are lovely,” or “You are blessed,” is always appreciated and understood.  But please, for our sanity’s sake keep your curiosity to yourself.  We know you are just being kind, but what you don’t realize is yours is the  357th time we have answered that question in the last hour.

Finally, and this may be a hard one for some of you to swallow, never, ever, ever make the very, very wrong observation, “My kids are 16 months apart so it’s almost like having twins.”  No it’s not.  I could give multiple reasons, multiple scenarios and multiple examples of why this statement is a falsehood, but trust me singulars it’s not the same. Oh, we smile and nod and say, “Oh, yes, you really do understand,” but inside we are cringing and thinking not very nice thoughts.

Ok there it is.  The truth.  Once again my name will be swiftly eradicated from the  Really Nice Mother Of The Year Award nominating committee sheet.  But I had to say it.  I love you all.  I love your children.  I love my multiple children.  But sometimes love must be tough.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go watch John and Kate Plus 8 on TLC.  After all, we have a lot on common. I have twins; that’s a lot like having sextuplets.

 

Banning Barbie

by Priscilla on July 12th, 2013

This was originally written somewhere around 2007/8.  I’m sorry to say I’ve succumbed to Barbie and her gal pals over at American Girl, but I did put up a long, courageous fight. 

I am not going to be popular with this one, but, like every cross dressing, who’s- the- daddy, ship-my kid-off- to-boot- camp guest of the Maury Povich Show, I am going to air my dirty laundry in public. Here it is…

Barbie isn’t welcome in my home.  Don’t ask me if Skipper or Ken can come over to play either.  They are banned for life.

It’s not because I am a feminist who believes Barbie is the root cause of the body image problems young girls experience. It’s not because there is no Barbie that correctly represents my children’s ethnicity.  (Anyone see Filipino/European Barbie?)  I don’t even care that Barbie lives in a nicer house than I or insists on walking around on her tip toes all day.  It’s all the stuff that little chippie drags around with her.

Barbie comes with 1,000 pairs of tiny heeled shoes that make their way into heating ducts and bathtub drains.  Barbie has purses.  She’s the Imelda Marcos of purse hoarders. I’m not even going to discuss the clothing.  Then there’s Big Headed Barbie.  You know the one – just the head so young cosmetologists can practice their trade. Big Headed Barbie includes 45 barrettes, nine styling combs and 18 makeup brushes.  Makeup not included.  Pilfer your mother’s bathroom drawers, the instructions read.

“Mommy, why can’t we have Barbies?” is the constant question on my little girls’ lips.

“Well, it’s like this,” I try to explain. “This place has dogs.  This place has a vacuum cleaner. This place has a mother who doesn’t need another ‘Core’  workout video because she averages 2,389 toe touches a day picking up your clothes and toys in order to vacuum and/or wrestle doll parts out the dogs’ mouths. If Barbie and her entourage move in here with her wardrobe and accessories, Mommy will throw her back out, and we will have to make numerous visits to the vet.  Trust me.  I can see the future.”

Despite the absence of Barbie in their every day lives, my girls know her intimately. She shows up everywhere we go. The blonde bombshell hangs out with them at their cousins’ houses.  She’s got a big residence at Nana’s, and she flaunts her shiny pink convertible in my face every time we go to their friends’.  But I’m onto her, and she is not going to win. This mother will prevail.

I do have one question though.  What’s the scoop on these American Girl dolls? They seem innocent enough.

If You Give Our Mom Some Mustard

by Priscilla on October 5th, 2012

Talented children’s author, Laura Joffe Numeroff, and equally talented illustrator, Felicia Bond, teamed up to create a wonderful children’s book series centering around a few animals exhibiting symptoms like those associated with Attention Deficit Disorder.  These mammals enter a young child’s life and wreak havoc with their minute attention spans, taking a solitary event (like giving a pig a pancake or offering a muffin to a moose) and creating more messes than one can imagine.  “Finally,” I thought upon my first read, “Literary heroes with which I can identify!”

 

My two daughters are showing promise in the areas of writing and illustrating. (One tells outlandish stories when caught at the scene of a crime, and the other draws murals in her ketchup.)  I surmise that if they collaborate on a book someday based upon their observations of their mother’s every day life, it will turn out something like this:

 

If You Give Our Mom Some Mustard

 

If you give our mom some mustard,

Inevitably, it will end up all over her new white t-shirt.

 

So she will groan, march upstairs to the laundry room, disrobe,

And then not remembering whether to use bleach, vinegar or soda, hot or cold water, she will go to the computer to google “mustard stains.”

 

Her google result will bring up a recipe for “honey mustard glazed chicken breasts,” and she will think, “Hmmm chicken, that sounds good for dinner.”

 

Going downstairs to take some chicken out of the freezer to thaw, she will be startled by the doorbell.  The UPS man will be equally startled by the woman opening the door wearing only a bra and very old sweatpants.

 

Mortified, our mom will grab the box, slam the door and runs upstairs to put on the clothes society and UPS delivery personnel deem appropriate for answering doors.  After finding a shirt, she will notice her closet is too full of clothing she will never wear again. So she will pad down to the linen closet to grab some trash bags and start her Goodwill collection.

 

But the linen closet will also contain the medicine chest.  “Hmmm she will ponder, I wonder if the Children’s Tylenol has expired?”  Checking the dates, she will realize it has.

 

“Come one kids,” she will shout grabbing her coat and keys.  We’ve got to go to the store for some medicine.”

 

The store will offer so much more than medicine.  There are hanging flower baskets, and Easter candy at 75% off.  After paying $38.79 for what was to be only one bottle of Tylenol and loading up the car, our mom will realize the car’s gas gauge is blinking “E.” So she will drive to the gas station and while pumping…

 

She will smell the aromas from the fast food restaurant across the way and notice it is almost time for supper, and all she has prepared is half a frozen chicken. She will top off the tank, pay the bill and make her way through traffic over to the drive-thru where she will guiltily order an unhealthy dinner for her hungry family. 

 

At home after feeding the kids, the dogs, the husband and the three guinea pigs, our mom will sit down to eat her own chicken sandwich.  But she will need some mustard.

 

And if you give our mom some mustard….

2+2= Too Many 4 Year Olds

by Priscilla on October 4th, 2012

One of my friends who has borne four children offered to take my kids for a few hours so I could emerge from the house alone and unfettered.  When I questioned her sanity she replied, “Once you have four, two more is nothing.”  Looking to her as an example, I in turn offered another friend the same service so she could get an overnight reprieve. (Please note that at the time of the proposal, I was ingesting painkillers after a root canal, and one could conclude that my judgment was somewhat cloudy.)

This incident led to an important mathematical discovery: 2+2 does not equal 2+0. Two more is not “nothing.” Two more four year olds in my case doubled the amount of coloring pages tacked up on the wall with double the amount of stickers. Last night after four baths, four sets of teeth brushing, four very long prayers blessing approximately 347 friends, pets, family members, teachers and PBS characters, we settled in for reading time before lights out. The following dialogue ensued (A special thank you to Felicia Bond author of The Day it Rained Hearts for leading us to a fascinating discussion.):

 Misfit Mom: “Then Cornelia August took an especially handsome heart and pasted it on a piece of paper.”

 Twin 1a: Why is she lying on the floor?”

 Twin 2b:  She is using scissors.  We are not allowed to use scissors unless Mommy is with us.

 Twin 1b:  Where is Corndella’s Mommy?  Does she have a mommy?

 Misfit Mom:  Her name is Cornelia.  If you let me keep reading, maybe we will see her mommy on the next page.

 Twin 2a:  I’m thirsty.  Can I get a drink?

 Misfit Mom:  No, it’s bedtime.  No more liquids.

 Twin 1b:  What’s a liquid?

 Myself:  Let’s get back to Cornelia and the valentines.

 Twin 2b:  She is using glue.  I can’t use glue unless Mommy is in the room.

 Twin 1a:  I still don’t see Cornelia’s Mommy.

 Twin 2a:  I have to potty.

 Myself:  Ok, you know where the bathroom is. Now, back to Cornelia.

 Twin 1b: Why is Cornelia lying down?  Is she sick?

 Twin 1a:  When I was a baby I was sick, and Mommy stayed with me in the hospital.

 Twin 1b:  Grandma came and stayed with me.

 Twin 2a: (from down the hall):  I’m pottied!

 Twin 2b: Cornelia is using string.  Mommy doesn’t let me use string unless she is in the room.

 Misfit Mom:  How about we finish up Cornelia tomorrow?

 Twin 1a:  I never saw Cornelia’s mommy! Is she sick?

 Twin 2a:  Is it ok if the toilet water is running onto the ground?

 Twin 1b:  Is water a liquid?

 Twin 2b:  Mommy doesn’t let me use a liquid unless she is in the room.

 This experience reinforced a mathematical truth for me: just because my friends accomplish simple addition with little or no difficulty doesn’t mean I should attempt to multiply in the near future.  

 

 

A Misfit and Her Phone

by Priscilla on September 15th, 2012

I laid the mangled piece of black and silver metal down on the Formica topped table with a sigh.  The dogs ate my cell phone, I explained to the young man at the cell phone store.  The teeth marks backed up my far fetched story.  Can you save anything?  My memory?  My info?  My sims card whatever that is?

 He just kept staring at the former telecommunications device in his hand disbelief registering on his face.

 I know.  I know.  I prattled on feeling I had to explain my pets.  They have never done anything like this.  They are good dogs.  A bit barky, but good.  They are mad at me for something and wanted to get back at me, but I don’t know what.  I can’t believe they did this.

 The poor kids was probably thinking, Look Chatty Cathy, I’m not the Dog Whisperer, and I don’t care about the temperament of your dog.  I’m just working here at the cell phone store so I can get the IPhone at 30% discount so would you please just shut your flap trap.  But he was kind and didn’t express his opinions out loud.

 Let me see what I can do. 

 He tried everything, but nothing, no information, no memory card; nothing could be extracted from my phone.  I handed over the credit card for a new phone, drove home where I shamefully confessed my predicament to all my friends and family in an email asking them for all their info again. 

 Did you get insurance this time?  my husband asked.

 No, I saw an expert on a morning show say that was a waste of money.

 Okay, he sighed knowing who he was married to and what messes she was capable of making for herself.

 That was six months ago.  This past Wednesday I dragged my kids back to the same store, sat at the same table and explained to the very professional young lady sporting a fabulous scarf in her hair (Hey, I notice the important things!), I can’t get the charger plugged into the phone.  I don’t know if it’s the cable or the phone itself.  Can you help me?

 She took one glance at the phone, and an odd look covered her face.  I’d seen that look before, and I knew my credit card was going to get involved here pretty soon.

 Umm, it’s definitely the phone.  It looks like a piece of wood is jammed in there, and I have no idea how to get it out.

 Oh, now I know what happened.  Yes, it all makes sense. Yesterday I was working out in my yard digging and mulching and moving plants around, and I had the phone in the pocket of my overalls because I was expecting a few calls.  I guess I left the flap over the plug-in and some mulch got in there.

 She just looked at me.  It was a nice look.  Kind of a sympathetic lady, you are one heckofa mess, but I like you look.

 Once again nothing could be done.  I loaded the kids back into the car, drove home, left a message for my husband and ordered another phone online.  That afternoon emails started coming in with the phone numbers of friends and family.  Our home phone rang.

 Mulch, huh?  My husband.  He wasn’t angry.  He wasn’t frustrated.  He just was.  Thirteen years of marriage to a misfit tends to teach one the habit of longsuffering.  Did you get insurance this time.

 Umm….

 Honey, get the insurance.  It’s not a waste of money for you.

 Alright,” I sighed, but the expert said…

 Priscilla, the experts have no idea what you are capable of doing to your phones.

 He’s right.  Experts never figure in the misfit factor.

Dirty Jobs

by Priscilla on September 14th, 2012

(originally written and posted circa sometime 2008 – Thanks to my attempts to get organized, I now cannot find my hard copy folder with all the stupid dates I had on this stuff.)

Eleanor Roosevelt, that great First Lady of the People, once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.  Average minds discuss things.  Small minds discuss people.”  She never commented on what kind of minds discussed TV shows, but this weekend found my niece, my sister-in-law and me talking about one of our favorite shows, Dirty Jobs, hosted by Mike Rowe on the Discovery Channel.  The premise of the show is that there is no job out there too filthy, too disgusting or too pungent for Mike to tackle. We took note; however, that there is one job to date Mike hasn’t attempted…Mama.

 I can see it now, Mike and the camera crew greeted at the door by a sleep deprived mother of four heading to work.  The camera catches her by surprise in the middle of changing her blouse on the way out the door thanks to a goodbye gift from her youngest. She leaves a to-do list with Mike and her four kids ages four months – 13 years.

 Good natured Mr. Rowe sets the baby in the hi-chair and heads to the kitchen sink where he discovers mounds of dirty dishes to be loaded and washed. After peeling and scraping every vegetable/meat/pasta combination off of the dishes and flatware, he starts the dishwasher. Cold oatmeal splatters against his face.  He turns to see the giggling baby. Cleaning off his face and the floor around the baby, Mike hears gurgling and whirls around to water spewing up out of the kitchen sink.  The dishwasher has backed up.  Upon further investigation, Mike discovers the two and half year old has used the machine as a diaper pail for his dirty pull up. Knowing there are older children who must have some babysitting skills, Mike sets off up the stairs but promptly trips and bottoms out on the stair landing.  Rollerblades.   Mike remains unhurt – his fall broken by  a pile of the oldest son’s grimy gym clothes discarded as he disrobed on his way up the stairs after soccer practice.

 As Mike limps back upstairs, he finds a nine year old female wailing in her bedroom/shrine to Hannah Montana, “Something’s wrong with my guinea pig!”  Mike enters the room just in time to witness a litter of seven piglets entering the world. The phone rings.  Mike answers to an excited mother-in-law announcing she’s coming today to surprise her grandkids with a new puppy; the call is interrupted by the father beeping in to leave a message for his wife – he’s bringing three colleagues from the New Delhi office home for dinner tonight.

 Turning to the camera crew, a dazed and confused Mike cuts the filming short, leaves his assistants to take care of the kids until the mother gets back from work and with relief moves on to a more realistic dirty job.

Outsourcing Mom

by Priscilla on September 11th, 2012

(Originally written and posted circa 2008)

I’m in danger of being outsourced.  Following the example of corporate CEOs, my kids want to trade me in for a younger, less educated model who works for cheaper wages. Well, scratch that last one. No tangible wages are cheaper than a mother’s.

It used to be upon my return home from work, my children would run to the door, hug my calves and scream in unison, “Mommy!  Mommy!” However, thanks to my finding several of the best babysitters in the history of babysitting (And no, ladies, I will not share their names and numbers, they are mine! mine! mine!),  my children no longer hasten to meet me when they hear the tell-tale sound of the garage door opening.  Instead, the instant I twist the doorknob the wailing and gnashing of teeth begins and continues on into full, yowling lamentations when my feet cross the threshold into my home, “No! No, Mommy! No!  We don’t want you to come home!  We want Susie to stay with us forever!”

Taking in the scene before me, I see Susie standing quietly in the kitchen behind a full scale model of the Barbie Dream House made entirely of play-doh that she had  whipped up from scratch.  Susie appeared to have created puppets out of sticks from the back yard and scraps of fabric from the sewing basket.  Today’s performance, starring the musical talent of Susie was Wicked.  Susie also persuaded the kids to eat raw broccoli and cauliflower by telling them a story of an enchantress who could break evil spells by eating vegetables. I had to admit that Susie staying forever didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

The full on whine fest didn’t hit though until I had paid Susie, and she strolled out the door to her car. My children, their noses pressed to the window, followed her every move until she drove out of sight.  “Mom, Susie has beautiful long, dark hair.  What’s wrong with your hair? It’s not very pretty. Why doesn’t it look like Susie’s.”  “Mom, Susie can draw gorgeous princesses with sidewalk chalk.  How come you only do smiley faces?”  “Susie told us when she comes back next time she’ll explain Einstein’s theory of relativity? Why don’t you ever discuss the mysteries of the universe with us like Susie, Mom?”

Don’t get me wrong.  I love Susie and the other babysitters I use who fully engage my kids’ imaginations during their hours together. But you Susie’s out there – and you know who you are – you are killing me!  I can’t live up to your standard.  I am no longer cute and perky. My camp counselor days are long gone taking with them my nonsensical songs and arts and crafts repertoire. But more importantly Susie, my energy supply is depleted; I used the last of it to give birth, and it never fully returned.  So, please, could you tone it down in the fun department?  My job as mom isn’t fancy.  It doesn’t come with a corner office and my expense account is laughable, but Susie, it’s all I have. In fact, I’ll make you a deal: next time you are in my employment, please limit the good times my daughters experience, and I’ll double your wages.  Also, if you could, talk up ol’ mom a little more. I’ve overheard them scheming to fire me on their 13th birthday, and believe it or not, I’d hate to lose this job.

 

 

 

Do Cows Have Nipples and other Discussion Topics

by Priscilla on September 7th, 2012

Experts are forever telling us parents to engage our children in conversation about anything and everything all throughout their lives in order to heighten their vocabulary skills (in the young ones), to create a sense of belonging (whether our teens want it or not) and to “encourage” our 28 year old sons to get a life and move out of the family garage.

 Since the experts are always right, I am always on the lookout for new and exciting discussion topics. So, when a flat bed truck  hauling a lifeless bovine the size of  Shrek pulled out on the road in front of me the other day, without thinking of the repercussions, I  blurted, “Look kids, there’s a dead cow on that truck in front of us.”  (No one can accuse me of sheltering my young ones.) The words were out before I could ask, “What is wrong with this picture?”

In all my Midwest dwelling years, I’ve never seen a lone dead cow being hauled away to that great herd in the sky.  I thought to myself, “Why is that?”  Well, it’s because most of the cows I have had the privilege of knowing spent their time getting hooked up to milking machines, frolicking out in the meadows (Ok so only the bulls get to frolic while their lady friends lie, disinterested chewing their cud for the 78th time.) or being served up medium rare in a noisy, dimly lit eating establishment accompanied by a floor full of shelled peanuts. I have yet to meet an expired heifer on her way to the glue factory.

 These thought raced through my mind about three seconds after I alerted my children to the scene in front of us.  Why they hadn’t raced through my mind before I shared my observation with the small beings occupying the back seat of my car?

 How did the cow die? I know, all the flies landed on it, and it got too many germs and died.  Where are they taking the cow?  Do cows go to heaven? Will the cow see Grandpa and Great Grandma?  Who’s driving that truck with the cow?  Do they know the cow is dead?  Can I take my teddy bear to heaven?  I don’t want to go to heaven. That cow sure has a big bum.  How can a cow jump over a moon? Do cows have nipples? (I’ve got one fascinated with anatomy and physiology.) Mom, I need to potty.

 That last one seems to end most of our family “educational” discussions.

 Years ago I had an education professor who proclaimed to us students that as future teachers we need to be ready for any teachable moment.  His instruction was all well and good for the classroom. But now that I have kids of my own, my mantra has changed: Knowledge really is overrated. Ignorance is bliss. After all, If God had meant for us to talk to one another in the car, GM never would have installed DVD players in the back seats. 

Dear Dixie Cups

by Priscilla on August 31st, 2012

To:  All you nice folks over at Dixie Cups and Plates

From: Misfit Mom

Re:  Time for what’s Really Important ad campaign

 

First of all, Dixie Inc., well, Georgia Pacific to be exact, I would like to thank you for your throw-away dish product line.  I especially am fond of the small cups littering my bathroom floor thanks to my children creating tiny swimming pools for their doll house characters. However, I think that you are woefully missing the mark on this latest advertising campaign of Giving You More Time to focus on What’s Really Important. As I’ve stated, I use your products, but I don’t buy those perky moms in your commercials who through toothy grins exclaim, I use Dixie because it allows me to spend more time on what really matters….my family!  Sir’s and Ma’ams, I use Dixie paper products because I am dog tired, and it’s all that gosh darn quality time I spend with my family that exhausts me in the first place.  

 Today I spent quality time with one daughter in the doctor’s office getting a strep test.  She aced it! This led to more quality time together at the pharmacy.  Later, my little family spent another hour on our hands and knees together in the bedroom digging 45 My Little Pony dolls out from under the beds along with large wadded up balls of Scotch tape, 37 small decorative river rocks and ironically, more little Dixie cups that apparently were used as pony watering troughs. This task had to be completed before I could run the vacuum without damaging it beyond repair.

 Oh, and then there was the trip to the store for, believe it or not, those great little Dixie cups with lids.  Your toothy TV moms were even more excited about these cups than your plates, and as promised, they did give me more teachable moments with my offspring.  On the way home from the store, my children discovered how to tattoo themselves with a permanent marker left in the back seat of the car.  This led to another 45 minutes of unity in the bathroom scrubbing away the ink until their skin was raw. 

 All in all, Dixie, you saved me enough time today to read Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus 11 more times than normal tonight at bedtime. So,  thank you again for your product line, but if it’s all the same to you, tomorrow I’m going to break out the wedding china.  I could use a few minutes alone at the kitchen sink. And next time why don’t you try speaking the language of real moms in your commercials? Something along the lines of  Use Dixie….Then Maybe You Can Take a Nap. 

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