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Monthly Archives: June 2011

Wardrobe Malfunction


My kids just went to NY with their father to visit with my in-laws without me.  The plan was for my in-laws to take them to a family party while my husband went to the Mets game.  I did all the packing of course, with clear guidelines about what clothing was to be worn to the party. 

When they came home this morning the party clothes were in the bag, clean as a whistle, untouched.  I asked the kids what they wore to the party. 

Michael said “My super-heros shirt.” 

Sam said “My Unicorn shirt.” (I’m sure Ralph Lauren would be thrilled to know that his polo player emblem could be easily mistaken for a unicorn.)

By the way, the clothes they were talking about were the ones they wore to school on FRIDAY, when it was 85 degrees, and then sat in a car with them for 4 hours to  NY.

“Um – those clothes were dirty.” I said with horror.

They both looked up at me innocently, “We know….we just kept wearing dirty clothes all weekend.” Michael said with a shrug.

Ok – it’s not the end of the world, but I would prefer if my kids didn’t go to family parties with people that we don’t see a lot, wearing dirty, filthy “Unicorn” and super-hero shirts like a couple of homeless people.

I threw the bag down and went in the backyard to question my husband.  Michael followed me trying to protect his Dad…”No Mom, it was all Granny’s fault!”

“Um – the kids said that your mother made them wear their dirty clothes to the party instead of the nice clothes I packed.” I said, hoping for a logical explanation.

He was leaned over filling up the kiddie pool, sweating. 

He looked up – rolled his eyes, and said “They’re lying.”

Ok – it’s Father’s Day – I decided to let it go.

I went inside to help the kids get into their bathing suits.  I told them to take off their cargo shorts and shirts and leave them on the bed to change back into after they were done with the pool. 

“But we have been wearing these clothes forever!” Michael
said.

“Yeah – these are our pajamas,” Sam said as he tossed them into the hamper.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“Mom – Granny made us wear these clothes as our pajamas last night.” Michael said with a horrified voice for effect.

What the hell goes on? Why would small children be put to bed in khakis?

I didn’t push it with my husband – seeing as it is Father’s Day and all.

Later my sister-in-law called and I told her the story – she laughed and said “It’s worse than you think – Sam went to the party in just a wife-beater.  His other shirt got
dirty at the park.”

This is a picture of my 4-year-old at the graduation party - that's appropriate right?

Ok – nobody was hurt and my MIL made a point to tell me that she bathed them twice, and she watched them, etc.  But really – sending my preschooler to a party like a crystal
meth addict and my 5-year-old to bed in heavy constrictive clothing is CRAZY!!  Mothers cannot leave their children’s side for a minute!!  

This is the "pajama top" my son wore to bed with his cargo shorts......

I was going to go on and on about how I can’t trust my husband to make sure things get done properly; but that would not be nice in the spirit of Father’s Day.  I will save that for another post.

The fact is – even though Moms usually do everything perfectly – there are some times when Dads come in quite
handy.  He does the yard work, he kills the bugs, he puts together toys, he grills, he takes out the garbage, he plays sports, the list goes on and on of activities and chores that I refuse to do – and thank God – he does!  

I love my husband – and even though he (and his family) have no regard for my wardrobe guidelines or proper party attire he is a great Dad. We are lucky to have him (upstairs right now doing air guitar with the boys to music) while I finish my blog.

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Tangled


This week I took my kids for haircuts at a “kids haircuts” place.  It’s ridiculous to pay $18 for a buzz cut!! But they love going, so once in a while I will take them.  The reason why they love it so much is because they can play video games and listen to weird songs about haircuts sung by creepy animated scissors and hairspray cans. 

When I went to the counter to pay I noticed a sign that said:

 “IF WE HAVE TO COMB HAIR FOR MORE THAN 10 MINUTES TO GET TANGLES OUT, A FEE OF $16.95 WILL BE CHARGED.”

I said to the girl at the counter, “Just out of curiosity, why do you charge for this?”

She said that her staff was wasting a lot of time and running late a lot because of unexpected “snags” in their schedule, when parents would bring kids with rat’s nests on top of their heads.

“But how often does that really happen?” I scoffed.

She raised her eyebrows, “Enough for me to have to make a new policy and put that sign up.”

I wouldn’t let it go.

“But what do parents say? Are they annoyed or at least embarrassed if they have to pay the fee?”

“No – they don’t care, as long as they don’t have to deal with it, they say that they don’t brush their daughter’s hair for weeks, because they cry and they don’t like it.”

So let me get this straight, you let your kid walk around looking like Amy Winehouse so that she doesn’t have to experience the unpleasant feeling of a tangle.  What the hell is happening to this world??  Since when do kids rule our world? Comb your daughter’s hair for god sakes!!! Or don’t have kids!!

And this is not a white-trash, “my mother is a prostitute and doesn’t wake up in time to comb my hair” situation.  This salon is in a well-to-do town where ½ the moms are home with their kids and just can’t be bothered to groom their children.  I have seen this phenomenon far too much since we started preschool, and thanks to Justin Beiber, even boys come in to school or to the bus stop looking like heroine addicts. 

There is a 2nd grade boy at our bus stop who has hair that looks like this.......

 That would be the day that my father would let my brother walk around with long hair with big matted tangle balls hanging out of it, while my mother watched Days of Our Lives and talked on the phone.   If he ever came home after a long day of work and saw his son looking like one of the ratty ass kids I see all the time….he would commit my mother to a mental hospital.

Now – some of you are going to say “Oh – she has boys – she doesn’t know how hard it is to have girls.”

AM a girl. I had nappy frizzy hair to my butt and my mother put “No more tangles” spray in every night – and sat there and combed that shit out.  I hated it and I cried.  Nobody cared. 

And we are not doing these girls any favors by not letting them experience the discomfort of a snarl in their hair.  IT IS LIFE!!! Unless you want your next hair cut to be a “Brittney Spears meltdown”….Deal with it.

And moms -if you can’t handle your child’s slight discomfort from a comb in their hair…exactly what can we look forward to seeing at the bus stop when they get their periods?

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Italians Do it Better

Italians Do it Better

I grew up surrounded by Italian people.  If you drove through my hometown it basically went like this; Dunkin Donuts, pizza, tanning salon, nail salon, Dunkin Donuts, pizza, tanning salon, nail salon, etc. etc. 

There were a lot of inappropriate lions at the end of driveways and many of my classmates spoke fluent Italian at home.  I’m not kidding when I tell you that, for example, these lions….

Would be placed in front of a house like this:

I am 1/2 Italian and 1/2 Irish, but really just sooo Italian that people don’t even believe me when I tell them I’m Irish – which is fine by me.  My husband is also half and half – but much more Irish. 

So what do you know – we have one fair-skinned child that says he can’t eat pepperoni because it “spices up his mouth,” and one that was born with a moustache and would eat pepperoni for breakfast if we let him.  (Is it weird that I measure things in pepperoni?)

I went to school in NY and my college roommate was so Italian she made me look like Howdy Doody – and even though my husband acts Irish – he at least has a nice Italian last name – so I think I must have thought there would be Italian people everywhere I went.  Oh how wrong I was…..

Now here I am, a Connecticut housewife in this town, a land of Lily Pulitzer-wearing, lacrosse playing, no make-up wearing, pasty-skinned, no hair-product using, do you see where this is going??

NO ITALIAN PEOPLE.

I mean none.

There are approximately 65,000 people in this town and do you know how many tanning salons there are?

ZERO.

Do you know how many lions there are?

ZERO.

There are two good pizza places out of 17 to choose from, and I have witnessed first hand on two separate occasions, people serving PIZZA HUT (gasp) to people at a birthday party.  Like it’s acceptable food! Like we don’t live in the Tri-State area! Like we live in Wisconsin and we have to eat cardboard instead of real food!!

WTF? This crust is bigger than my house. Madonna could sustain Malawi with just this one piece of crust.......and what looks like some craisins, purple onions and one mushroom???

Three times, making small talk about what to make for dinner with random moms, I mentioned frying up cutlets and they said “What are cutlets?”

INSERT LOUD RECORD SCREECH HERE

Really?

Cutlets are what we make when we don’t feel like being creative.  What you make when you are too tired to do anything but dip chicken in egg and breadcrumbs and throw it in a frying pan.  Is it really possible that you don’t know what that is? If so – I don’t want to be your friend.

Food is a very important part of our life.  It’s all we talk about, it’s all we think about.  It’s what we look forward to, it’s why we love holidays, it’s how we figure out how much to give you at your wedding.

I try to stress the importance of good food to my kids.  I try to point out foods that are unacceptable, and make them try almost everything.  Before our “Sopranos-style” Sunday dinners with friends and cousins – they will help my husband make the meatballs and enjoy heaping piles of macaroni with sausage and tons of grated cheese.

When my Irish child went to kindergarten he was allowed to buy pizza on Fridays.  The second Friday – he came home starving.

“It wasn’t pizza today – it was pizza dippers.” he said with disgust.

“So what – it’s a breadstick and you dip it in sauce…that’s good,” I said.

“Yeah – but I couldn’t eat the sauce – because Italian people didn’t make it,” he said matter-of-factly.

I was so proud. My hard work in the kitchen was paying off!

But we hit a small snag last week when he told me that he was in love with a girl in his class (we will call her Irish McIrish.) 

“Michael – you don’t even know what “in love” means – it means that you love her so much that you want to marry her…”

He pondered this and said, “Well I would kiss her hand and I would marry her.”

“Well, that’s fine – but just a heads up – she’s Irish.”

“So what? I don’t care!” he said.

“Well you will care when it’s dinnertime,” I said, “But that’s ok – I will bring you dinner every night,” I joked.

He considered this quietly.  He sat straight up suddenly.

“No wait Mom! I have a great idea!  I’m Italian! I can cook the dinners!!”

OMG – How proud could an Italian mom be of her first-born son?

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