Terrorized by Neon

May 17, 2013 by 18 Comments

Happy Friday, pals! I’m out of the office today, so one of my favorite bloggers (and people) offered to cover for me. She’s here all weekend answering phones and making you laugh; it’s the lovely Meredith from The Mom of the Year! She’s also in the hilarstical (new word, Merriam-Webster?) momthology I Just Want to Pee Alone. I’ve obviously left you in good hands.

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I have a confession.  I am scared, very scared of neon.  This isn’t something I say lightly.  At first, I didn’t even realize it was happening.  I had innocently placed one of my obsessively regular orders to Carters, the mecca of young children’s clothing.  The package arrived and I tore it open in the gleeful anticipation.  What 24 mo. treasures had Carter’s delivered for my daughter?  I ripped open the plastic bags with bated breathe, then promptly screamed in pain as the glaring hues permanently seared my eyeballs.  What had happened?  I ordered pink and received blinding horror.  WHAT IS UP WITH THE NEON??

It would have been easy to assume that my fav clothing company had sold me out, or at least placed some color-blind chiquita in charge of design for the season, but then I started to see neon creeping up in other places at an alarming rate.  We went for dinner; the pretween at the next table was rocking a fluorescent orange mini-skirt.  I went to Target to quickly grab a new jacket; nothing but neon denim.  Had the 80s officially made their re-debut and no one had told me??  Darn, I knew I was screwing myself by being too lazy to read my latest Star magazines…

The good news: this phase will likely pass before my children are old enough to select their own clothing.  The bad news:  Holy-heck-Almighty, pass me my sunglasses!

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Until this phase passes, it is probably best that I avoid Gap like the plague.  (My budget agrees with this.)  Many people have fear of lovely, normal things, like spiders, or snakes or impending doom.  I fear neon.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me a good Wilson Phillips tune as much as the next gal, but the side pony-tails and their complimentary neon t-shirts are going to have to step aside because my retinas are limited, and let’s be honest–the hot colors are just hideously ugly.

Your adorable matching prints and/or pastels?  OBSOLETE.  It is time to go hideous or go home.  If you can’t drink the Kool-Aid and rock your squint-worthy hues, join me hovering in fear in the corner.  I have extra sunglasses–and the really good dark ones you can totally put over your regular glasses.  We will hide out together and ride out the trend.  Here’s to 2013 in all it’s 1980s glory.

Meredith blogs at The Mom of the Year, dedicatedly earning her title one epic parenting fail at a time.  When her kids aren’t busy pummeling each other with legos or requiring their 16th sippy cup refill of the day, she tries to offer quick, relatable laughs for fellow parents of the world and all their empathizers.  She remains entirely terrified by crafts, promises to never share any useful household tips, and is fully committed to a less serious look at the world of parenting.  Social media is beyond her comprehension, but she makes a pass at Twitter and Facebook.




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I Got People. And Free Stuff.

May 16, 2013 by 19 Comments

Remember how I was super annoying begging for votes so I would win the Scary Mommy contest? Well, it paid off because, friends, WE WON! Jill Smokler is officially coming to the Steel City (Pittsburgh, duh) on Saturday, June 29th. She’s holding a public meet and greet/book signing at The Sheraton in Station Square from 4-6pm and if I were any more excited I would be a bunny in heat. If you’re local or willing to travel for Scary Mommy, please join us!

Because it’s physically impossible for me to hug each and every one of you in thanks for your support and votes, I’m just going to give you stuff.

I have a dear friend who created an awesome app for kids called Picnic in the Park. You may have noticed his button under “Sponsor Love” in the left sidebar here on my blog. Click it. Learn about the app. Notice that the app was created by an educator. The app is perfect for iPhone and iPad fun for preschoolers through 8-year-olds. Now fall in love with the app. Go on. So, you want that app? Okay, it’s yours.

PicnicInThePark_giveaway

 

All you have to do is leave a comment on this post and my pal, the app creator, will choose FIVE of you to win the free game! And it’s a really cool game; no violence, no confusing instructions or requirements that force your child to ask you 224234 questions whilst playing, and the best part? You’ll get the WHOLE game. It’s not like one of those downloads that gives you the first few levels and then your kid is coaxed into buying more dragons. Or whatever. This is legit. If you don’t have a kiddo, you can still enter and just gift your winnings to your nephew, your granddaughter, your neighbor’s cousin’s husband’s kid. So, yeah, leave a comment below and you’re automatically entered. Winners will be announced one week from today.

Speaking of sponsors, the second listed in the side bar is a woman I’ve come to know through blogging,  Ms. Leah Vidal (you may know her as Little Miss Wordy), who has recently published a book called Red Circle Days. You’ll be hearing more about her and her book in a couple of weeks, but I wanted to give her a proper shout-out for being an awesome sponsor and a ridiculously talented writer. She also home schools her kids!! RIGHT?!

I’ll continue my girl crush on Leah later. For now, I have to pack my bags because I’m off to the SITS Girls Bloggy Bootcamp tomorrow! My pals Christine and Janene from More Than Mommies and Amanda of Questionable Choices in Parenting and I are headed to Charlotte to learn some things, drink some things, and share beds. It’s like college all over again!!

And I’ve got a fantabulous guest blogger all lined up to regale you with tales of neon gone wrong tomorrow.

Scary Mommy.

My pal the app creator.

Leah the Lovely.

Christine, Janene, and Amanda–oh, my!

Guest blogger.

See what I mean? I got people. I got good people.




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Because Grace.

May 15, 2013 by 43 Comments

Being tied down and sawed in half like a magician’s assistant made holding my newborn impossible. The nurse hoisted him up to my face and our noses touched ever so slightly. Our first kiss, an Eskimo kiss. Weeks, months went by and I never thought about that “kiss,” never replicated it. One afternoon as my handsome guy was learning to crawl, he scrambled over to where I was sitting on the living room floor, pulled himself up, and found my nose with his.

Because kismet. 

MeandB

My husband was throwing a batting practice to his baseball team before a big game. I was on a different field watching another game when I felt it. Just it. I turned around fully expecting someone to be looking for me, and there he was. A player’s father had come to tell me about the accident. Long months of surgeries, eye-drops, precautions, and prayers; my husband’s eye is fully healed and he is still coaching.

Because connection.

Lying in the hospital bed, in and out of consciousness thanks to the Percocet, I struggled to sit upright, to keep my chin from crashing onto my chest. A figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway; was she a vision or really standing in front of me? With her caramel complexion came a wave of calm. Mop, clean linens, and garbage bags piled in her hands, she smiled. She didn’t ask me to label the pain with a number; she spoke kind, comforting words.  I slept better that night than I ever have, but despite my best efforts, never found her to thank her.

Because divine intervention.

A misunderstanding. Misplaced anger. Dreams deferred. A 10-hour car ride to stand by his side, fighting back tears while hats were held to hearts and music swelled around us. Frigid temperatures. Falling rain.

Because family.

 

Nightmares can yield happiness.

Plans gone awry become our foundation.

The unexpected gives us exactly what we need without us ever realizing we need it.

 

Because grace.




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Oversharing: But I’m Bleeding

May 14, 2013 by 28 Comments

Did you wake up this morning hoping a new pal would Overshare and make you laugh and maybe wince a little? Excellent! We aim to please over here at WhenCrazyMeetsExhaustion, so feast your eyes upon your new friend Jill (aka Ms. PC). She wasn’t always the sophisticated, well-mannered, air-brushed lady you know her as today. In her teenage years, she went through a period of… oversharing. Lucky for us, she’s back to her old ways. At least for today…

OversharingPresents_BackHomeBlog

After spending my childhood being embarrassed by everything imaginable, one day I discovered that everyone is embarrassed constantly. I found this extremely liberating and just ran with it.
In high school I was a “late bloomer,” as parents like to say. God, is there any phrase more mortifying? But it’s accurate, I guess. I didn’t start puberty until I was almost 16. When I finally got my period, it was like an angry volcano that had been buried under the surface for too many years.
Perfect. So now I had a love of oversharing plus something to overshare. I passed my free time regaling my friends with embarrassing tales of feminine protection gone awry. And they loved it. But I still shouldn’t have assumed that everyone would appreciate my openness.
One day in Participatory Government (stupid class), the teacher made me move seats because I was talking too much (shocker). As soon as I moved seats, I asked her if I could go to the bathroom. She stared me down, trying to figure out if… this was some kind of trick, I guess? She was kind of dumb. Anyway, she said no.
That’s when I blurted out “But, I’m bleeding!“
The whole, entire class gasped in unison. I mean, God people, that dramatic, really?
She informed me that the correct thing to say was that I was having feminine lady issue problem times or something. I wanted to argue with her those phrases were just euphemisms and I shouldn’t be made ashamed of my bodily functions but, at this point, time was a factor.
So I just said “Ok, can I go?” And she continued to lecture me. “Ok, can I go?” I repeated. And finally my freedom was granted.
I’d like to think I learned my lesson after that but I have vague memories of traumatizing my now best friend Rachel the first week of college by talking about tampons or something.
I’ve gotten better since then though, definitely. I mean, except for this story. And most everything else on my blog.
Jill is a comedy writer in New York who never got over her adolescent obsession with sitcoms. In fact, she’s currently in production on her first independent web pilot (about which she alternately complains and gushes). <— (Editor’s note: she should totally cast me. Thanks.) Her blog is supposedly about her adventures in living with her new husband and divorced dad, but really about whatever comes into her head.
Blogging every weekday at backhomeblog.com.
If you’re feelin’ the itch to Overshare, submit your story to WhenCrazyMeetsExhaustion [at] gmail [dot] com.



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Don’t Be a Judgy Wudgy

May 13, 2013 by 52 Comments

I read an article this morning that really got under my skin. You can read the irritating piece HERE or just let me sum it up for you:

Well-educated mother-of-three, Michele Weldon, has deemed a sense of humor about parenting detrimental to rearing children. In fact, she suspects that “cool moms” like Jill Smokler (Scary Mommy) and Nicole Knepper (Moms Who Drink and Swear) are likely to raise children who get in trouble for things like underage drinking. She also says that American moms have it so good that we shouldn’t complain. To prove it, she compared us to moms in the Democratic Republic of the Congo who are brutally raped and who have their clitorises cut off.

Right.

JudgyWudgy

So here are my thoughts for Michele, in no particular order:

1. I’d like to take you out for a drink. You need to relax.

2. Because Jill, Nicole, and Reese Witherspoon don’t embody the kind of “motherhood in the Courtney Love/Britney Spears brand of alcohol-soaked anything goes” of which you write, I can’t help but wonder if you picked on three popular ladies for the sake of your SEO.

3. None of us are perfect; some of us just aren’t afraid to admit it.

4. There is a stark contrast between complaining about motherhood and being realistic about it. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows and anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or comatose.

5. If it takes a village to raise a child, it must take an assistant professor of journalism at The Medill School of Northwestern University to dictate how.

6. Parents from all over the world submit their deepest, darkest fears and admissions anonymously to the Scary Mommy Confessional. The blanket of anonymity allows us to share more freely, but I wonder if it would be as necessary if other parents like you weren’t constantly passing judgement on the rest of us.

7. My husband and I are both teachers and we often lament over the steady decline of our students’ work ethics and lack  of empathy. While I think you have a valid point that today’s parents need to step up their game, the ones who are articulating their experiences in writing aren’t necessarily the ones who deserve the bulls-eye on their backs. If we’re looking for a solution (and we are, aren’t we? I mean, we’re not just pointing fingers and brushing our shoulders off, right?), let’s start with the poverty levels and educational systems.

8. A friend of mine once asked what I’ll do when my kids discover the blog posts where I’ve discussed things like their failed potty training endeavors or how every Friday, like clockwork, my son would morph into demon spawn and make me want to take the bridge. I’ll tell you what I told my friend: I’ll have an honest conversation with my kids about how I was feeling at the time I wrote those things, explain that writing is cathartic, and then I’ll push a piece of paper and pen their way and say have at it.

9. There is an underlying current in your article that insinuates we who laugh at our mistakes do not love our children as much as you love yours, and that we don’t appreciate being a parent as much as you do. At first, that pissed me off. Now I just feel sorry for you because you must not be enjoying parenthood as much as I am.

10. You believe that “Kids deserve better from mothers. Mothers deserve better for themselves.” So what do Mothers deserve from other Mothers? We are behind the likes of Finland and Spain because those countries have a solid support system for mothers by other mothers. You are simply perpetuating the snarky Mom Competition that we need to move away from before we can progress as women or as a country.

I can’t speak for everyone, but I know I’m trying my best with my kids. I love them with all my heart, and I would do anything for them. Sometimes I stop what I’m doing and just stare at them because I can’t believe they were once in my belly or that I am blessed enough to raise them. It’s incredible. It’s indescribable.

Other days, I stop what I’m doing and just stare at them because I can’t friggin’ believe my daughter tried to bite her brother’s toes. Again. Or that my son bashed dents the size of my pores into the wall with his toy hammer. Those are the days where I take to my blog and use my sense of humor to deal with the chaos in my home. And if that puts me in your category of  ”dismissive approach to motherhood” so be it. I’d rather hang out with Jill and Nicole anyway.

 




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Don’t Worry Kids, That’s Just My Gallbladder Exploding. And a Giveaway

May 9, 2013 by 23 Comments

Before I traded in my day job for two rug rats and a computer, I used to function as a public member of society; as in, I wore pants to work. One day at my pants-are-required job, my gallbladder almost exploded. Shall we stroll down memory lane?

So there I was, collecting papers from my students when all of a sudden, I was doubled over in pain. I felt like Chuck Norris had drop-kicked me in the gut. I remember thinking to myself, “Don’t scare the kids, just make your way to your desk, and take deep breaths.” By the time I got to my desk, I was drenched in sweat. As I thought death was imminent, I asked a student to call the nurse from our classroom phone.

Side note about our nurse: She once grabbed my arm when I was on hall duty and started yelling in my face to get to class. I reminded her that I had been a teacher in the building for TWO YEARS, and asked that she kindly loosen her Kung Fu grip on my arm. In short, the nurse was a moron.

Back to our story.

I get to the hospital where I am informed that my gallbladder hated me and it would have to be removed. And removed it was.

Since that day, I have had stomach issues and, consequently, bathroom issues. So when The Motherhood gave me the opportunity to collaborate with them, pediatric dietitian Michelle Harringon, and celebrity chef/mom of four/television host/NY Times Bestselling Author Melissa d’Arabian, I was game.

So here’s the deal: I’ve been challenged to replace my regular milk with Lactaid. This will not be easy for me; I am a milk girl. BUT if it will help my digestive track (and keep me from running to the bathroom five seconds after eating ice cream), I’m willing to give it a try.

If you have sensitivity to dairy or if you just like free stuff, enter the wouldn’t-format-properly Rafflecopter giveaway below for a free Lactaid product. The winner (and my experience with Lactaid) will be announced on May 27th!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

*This is a sponsored post written on behalf of The Motherhood*




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Masturbation and Rap Music

May 9, 2013 by 6 Comments

Well, hello there!

I’ve written a how-to manual for one of today’s topics, masturbation or rap music. You have to get clicky to figure out which!

To read the masturbation piece, click HERE

To read the rap music piece, click HERE

My daughter turns two today, so if you need me, I’ll be curled up in the fetal position in the corner of my living room. I’ve yet to decide if it’s because I’m sad my baby is no longer a baby or if it’s because I’m frightened of her. It’s probably the latter, but don’t tell her I told you–she’ll throw her shoe at the back of my head while I’m driving again.

Happy Thursday, pals!

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Will you help me win a contest?! Click HERE, “like” Scary Mommy’s Facebook page, click The Book Tour, and cast a vote for the adorable blonde kid on the potty with the iPad! We can vote once a day (from our phones AND computers!) until noon on May 12th. THANK YOU!!!!




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Character Assassination Carousel: The Little Engine That Could.

May 8, 2013 by 29 Comments

The incredibly witty and wicked smart Ninja Mom (you may know her by her street name, Nicole) hosts this thing called the Character Assassination Carousel. In English teacher speak, it’s employing the deconstructing literary theory on a text. In everyone else’s terms, it’s destroying the bloody hell out of beloved children’s classics. A previous assassin,  from Don’t Chew on the Dinner Table!, throttled Dr. Seuss’s What Was I Afraid Of? and up next is Jean from Mama, Schmama.

But today, pals, it’s my turn. Welcome to my classroom. I’m about to school you.

 

Ninja Mom Blog University

The Little Engine That Could
But Shouldn’t Have Because I Just Ripped Her a New One

WhenCrazyMeetsExhaustion

Character Assassination Carousel

Ms. Nicole Leigh Shaw

May 8, 2013

Hey, kids! Who wants to play with knives (4)?!  Apparently all of the good little boys and girls who live on the other side of the mountain because that’s what author Arnold Munk is sending them in his classic horror tale The Little Engine That Could. Also included in the jolly load (that’s what she said) are toy engines, tops, dolls that will kill you in your sleep, and quite the political statement. Turn the page with me, won’t you?

I have two children and neither of them have ever included “teddy bears with almost no necks at all” on their Christmas lists (2). They prefer their toys whole, unbroken, and not tainted by Satan.

What’s that? You don’t remember Satan as a character in The Little Engine That Could? Silly, you know the fallen angel always disguises himself! Allow me:

clown

That creepy mofo is fixin’ to cut a bitch with his flag.

Anyone who knows anything about clowns will tell you that they live in sewers, lure children with balloons, and grow fangs with which they eat the unsuspecting child. So, yeah, the devil.

I’ve got to switch topics so I can sleep tonight.

Moving on to the food.  If the good little boys and girls who live on the other side of the mountain have really been that good, what’s up with the promise of fresh spinach (5)?! Because it’s every 5-year-old’s favorite? And to ensure fresh breath and choking after wrangling said spinach out of the kids’ teeth, let’s pop a peppermint drop, shall we? I can barely suck on one without hacking up a lung, but by all means, offer a handful to a kid who still puts his pants on backwards and believes in the tooth fairy. And, I have to ask, are the children who misbehave not allowed to eat? The book repeats the phrase “the good little boys and girls” about four gazillion times; is this to impress upon the young readers that if they don’t listen to Mommy and Daddy, they will starve? Perhaps the death-by-peppermint drops are for them.

Someone has called Child & Youth Services by now, right?

On top of the nightmarish toys and unsavory food options is the blatant stereotypical prejudice that oozes from the pages of the book.

Exhibit A: The Passenger Engine, AKA The Republican

Republican

So what if this shiny new engine prefers to assist only the wealthy, leaving those in need to fend for themselves? Not just anyone can sit in “soft arm-chairs and look out of the big plate-glass windows” (13). This is America, dammit! If the Passenger Engine is weary of the burden the hungry and poor impose upon him, he has paid for earned the right to ignore the cries for help. Lay off!

 

Exhibit B: The Freight Engine, AKA The Venture Capitalist

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Having the invaluable job of sharing the written word by means of “big machines (that) print books and newspapers” (19), this big strong engine prefers to keep his mind on his money and his money on his mind. Maybe if Mr. Munk had been an entrepreneur instead of a freelance writer he would have understood the thrill of a regular paycheck. Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.

 

Exhibit C: The Rusty Old Engine, AKA: The Grandpa

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Ageist, much? Just because this engine is exhausted from a lifetime of back-breaking labor, are we to shun him? Make him feel bad for not picking up the young whipper snapper’s slack? His mantra, “I cannot. I cannot. I cannot” (24), leads readers to believe that he is a quitter, a pile of rust aiming to reap the benefits of another’s hard work.  He is but a tired old man looking to score an early bird dinner at Denny’s followed by a nap. Or a Democrat.

 

Don’t despair, kids. Even though the aforementioned engines don’t get the job done, hope remains. Hope in the form of a female engine with bright blue eyes and a can-do attitude. If there is to be a redeeming quality of this tale, it’s certainly the idea that

Getstuffdone

                                       Source 

 

But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. Look closely:

Blue

A typical matriarch, the responsibility falls squarely onto The Little Blue Engine’s shoulders. And much like society’s appreciation of Moms, this goose is about to shit all over her, too.

And what’s up with the “she tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged, and slowly, slowly, slowly…” (32)? Is the engine ascending the mountain or giving the clown a hand job? “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can” (33) get his rocks off before the children interrupt. I feel ya, sister.

To summarize today’s important lessons: Mr. Munk’s message of hate targets politicians, businessmen, and senior citizens. The heroism of The Little Blue Engine is but a decoy; upon closer examination, we recognize that she is nothing more than the perpetuated stereotype of a 1950s housewife. Adding insult to injury, I present the last page:

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Now that everyone has their goodies, please note the lonely Blue engine in the background. Leave it to a man (who wouldn’t even put his real name on the book) to have his way with a lady and then ignore her. *Spits

 

Works Cited

Piper, Watty (AKA: The ball-less wonder Arnold Munk). The Little Engine That Could. New York: Platt & Munk, 1982. Print.

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Will you help me win a contest?! Click HERE, “like” Scary Mommy’s Facebook page, click The Book Tour, and cast a vote for the adorable blonde kid on the potty with the iPad! THANK YOU!!!!

 




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Oversharing: My First Body Wax of the 2013 Season

May 7, 2013 by 33 Comments

Today’s Oversharer, Kim from One Classy Motha, had her feet in the sand and her hairless crotch soaking up the sun’s rays when she sent me her story. Oversharing whilst on vacation?! Now, that is commitment to The Series. If you’re interested in humiliating yourself in the name of laughter (other people’s laughter directed at you, to be exact) or want to read past submissions, check out the Oversharing page (list across the top of my blog), and email your story to whencrazymeetsexhaustion at gmail {dot} com.

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I was so excited when Steph asked me to guest post for her Oversharing series! You see, I have so much TMI to share with the world, but my husband breaks out in a rash when I do it around our friends & family, so to safely share it here is truly an honor! Thanks Steph!

Last Wednesday was my first body waxing of 2013, and I needed it! I swear I looked like a bear coming out of hibernation.

So I headed down to my local nail salon, walked through the doors, and asked if they had anything like a “Wooly Mammoth Special”. The available technicians argued in Vietnamese and proceeded to do Rock, Paper, Scissors, complete with elimination rounds and customers placing bets. I’m assuming it was the loser that escorted me to the back room…or as I call it “The Room of Tears”.

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When we arrived, I stripped off my pants and she gestured for me to lay my trembling body upon the paper lined table (paper that would later be stuck to my ass). Hopping up and closing my eyes, I tried desperately to remember the Hypno-Birthing techniques taught to me over 10 years ago.

*Side note: What a waste of $200! I ended up having a c-section because he had a big head and zero intentions of vacating my womb. Fact: I’d still be pregnant today if they didn’t open me up.

After examining my legs and bikini area, she gave a clucking noise and mumbled something like “How I use weed killer in jungle?” She had a thick accent and I thought maybe I heard her wrong, but when her shoulders slumped and the light in her eyes died a little, I knew I hadn’t.

She got right to work, ripping and tearing like she was at war- it was her against a billion hairs and I was harboring the enemy. At one point, I thought she might spit on me in disgust.

Throughout the whole ordeal, including the part where my legs were hooked behind my head, I tried different methods of pain management. I tried inhaling on the rip, exhaling on the rip, singing through it, even reverse psychology- “I welcome you, Pain. Thank you for reminding me that I’m alive!” It didn’t work. The closer she got to my vagina, I found myself screaming things like,

“Please stop!”

“I’ll keep my legs crossed!”

“I’ll wear a swim dress!”

and

“Can we just French braid it and call it a day?!”

But she had heard these cries before, from the hundreds of hairy women who came before me, she knew to keep going. So I did the only thing I could do, I dried my tears with the back of her shirt and went to my “happy place,” a land where women are admired for their excess body hair, cellulite is sexy, and wrinkles are a sign of intelligence. I think I might move there one day.

One Classy Motha - Kim is a SAHM who spends her days trying to outwit her children, and her nights sipping wine in bed while offering bad advice and embarrassing family stories on her blog www.oneclassymotha.com. It is her hope that her children never read her blog; family therapy is expensive.

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Scary Mommy Book Tour Contest Countdown: 5 days!

PLEASE click HERE to cast a vote for the boy on the potty with your Facebook page. One vote a day (or two if you’re using your computer AND phone!) until noon on May 12 will help bring Jill (Scary Mommy) to my hometown! And if you’re the sharing type, feel free to beg your friends to vote, too. I am!




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Project Optimism: We All Survived

May 6, 2013 by 30 Comments

On Friday night, I babysat four kids under the age of four in order to give my best friend a much-deserved night out. Two of the kiddos were mine, so I was feeling confident that I could manage.

No, I was not drunk. I’m just a good friend.

After a successful dinner, the older kids were running around giggling like maniacs and it was pretty much the cutest thing ever. I fed the baby and he quietly fell into a milk coma: mouth slightly agape, face scrunched up in concentrated slumber, a little hand wrapped around my thumb.

Heaven.

We headed upstairs for a potty break, but when I flipped on the bathroom light, the bulb flickered and went dark. I made a mental note to remind my friend to replace the bathroom bulb. Enough residual daylight was streaming through the window that we could still see. No biggie.

Baby boy was deposited in his bassinet, older kids’ hands washed, and we returned to the living room on the first floor.

When we got there, I noticed it was strangely quiet.

Hadn’t the TV been on?

My laptop was running on the battery, the kitchen light was off, and the radio was silent.

Well, shit.

My first instinct was that we were being stalked by a mass murderer who was waiting for nightfall to kill us. Of course.

I remembered the dead bulb from upstairs and wondered if we had blown a fuse. I mustered all the courage I had and headed into the basement fully expecting to be taken out at the ankles as I descended the steps. Killers go for the Achilles heel, or so I’ve been told. The fuse box showed no signs of a short, so I sprinted headed back up the stairs.

It wasn’t storming. There weren’t strong winds. WHY oh WHY were the lights out?!

I started to sweat, but wanted to remain calm for the oblivious kids who were playing trains.

PUSSY! my daughter yelled.

Don’t call me names! I’m frightened! I cried.

That’s MY Percy! my son wailed, as he yanked Percy the train away from his sister.

Ooops.

Simmer down, Stephanie. You’re the adult. Maintain control.

I needed flashlights.

Candles.

Prozac.

I noticed a neighbor outside, so I stuck my fat head out the window and a little too desperately called to him, ” Do you have power? Do you have any idea when it will come back on? Do you know I’m babysitting four kids? Please don’t take that as in invitation to rape me.”

He confirmed that he was also in the dark and that he had heard a substation had exploded and said a bunch of other things I didn’t hear because the realization that a murderer wasn’t our biggest problem was dawning on me: pretty soon it would be pitch black in the house and what in the HELL was I to do with four kids and no electricity?

I would have been the first to die on the Oregon Trail.

Fortunately, the neighbor’s lovely wife brought a lantern over for us: You need this more than we do. Her words were kind, her eyes said, “You crazy.”

The kids and I put on our PJs and awaited the inevitable: the black-out.

I thought it best to be on the same level as the sleeping baby, so we made our way back upstairs, snuggled together and watched Madagascar on my laptop.

You got to move it, move it! 

Everything was going swimmingly!

You got to move it, move—-

Until the DVD froze.

A slew of curse words flew into my mouth, but I swallowed them in the name of innocent ears. I re-started the movie. All was well.

Until the DVD froze. Again.

MOTHERFU—PIECE OF SH—SONOFA—

Again, I censored myself. I began a creepy narration à la Caillou of my emotions: Okay kids, I am feeling very frustrated right now. Does everyone know what frustrated means?

Three small faces stared back at me, willing the return of their movie.

SUCCESS!!

The movie was back. All was well.

Until the laptop battery died.

I tend to sing when losing control of a situation, so I proceeded with I’m gonna lose it, lose it! The children clapped along.

I explained through gritted teeth that I would need to retrieve my friend’s iPad from its spot on the couch downstairs. I positioned the little lantern in the hallway so that the kids wouldn’t be in complete darkness and I wouldn’t break my face falling down the steps. My daughter was not pleased with this set-up; how dare I leave her sight without written consent?!

I grabbed the iPad and immediately heard a BOOM! followed by wails.

It’s not what you think.

All of the kids were safe. The lantern was not.

My soon-to-be-2-year-old daughter had spiked the lantern to the ground like a football in the end zone, smashing it into pieces.

Fanfuckingtastic.

My son: I wanna go home!!!!!

My daughter: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

My friend’s daughter: So, is the movie over?

My friend’s son: Zzzzzzz…

The planets must have aligned at that very moment, because this sad excuse for a Girl Scout was able to reassemble the lantern by the waning glow of a flashlight. Feeling pretty fly for a white guy, I popped my collar and we played a Mickey Mouse game on the iPad.

What’s up now, electricity?

The kids’ increased yawns and incessant eye rubbing could mean only one thing: sweet slumber would soon be ours. Eyelids fluttered, sweet voices quieted, and squirming bodies stilled. So…close…

I wish I could say that the rest of the evening was smooth sailing, but my daughter was a psychopath and when my friend and her husband returned home, as all parents will understand, their toddler interpreted their arrival as a green light to go bat shit crazy. I had done so well keeping everyone alive and stuff, and that’s what my pals came home to. Oh, well. At least they got a night out, right?

The moral of the story? An Apple a day will keep the murderers away.

Okay, so maybe I missed the mark on that one, but I’m still recovering from the babysitting gig. Either buy me a drink or go vote for for the boy on the potty so I can win the Scary Mommy contest. Click HERE to make me the happiest gal in the world.

 

 




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