Category Archives: Comedy

OneCrazyMummy

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

I might as well change this blog’s name to OneCrazyMummy because with baby #2 on the way I won’t be sane for a long time.

Yes, it’s official — the hubby and I are expecting a brother or sister for our darling daughter sometime in September. We’ve had awhile to get used to the idea of two little rugrats running around but sometimes the fear hits us out of nowhere. We’ll be out on a walk and suddenly realize there will be two drooly faces to wipe…(not to mention two dirty butts).

We realize that once this baby gets here, making us a party of four, we won’t be making any kind of reservations or leaving the house period. The hubby already scoffs at how much stuff is required just to make a simple outing to the park. Weighted down with multiple bags on his arms and the stroller in tow, he asks if the amount of stuff will double with the new addition. Duh! Like with everything else, it will become our new normal I guess.

This wasn’t exactly planned nor was it unplanned but we’re very excited for our growing family. Sure we have our moments of “what the hell are we thinking?!?!” but the thought of our daughter having a sibling so close in age eases those fears. At least until she’s a teenager and wants nothing to do with her brother or sister (or her parents, for that matter). Did I mention I was going to have myself committed by the time she hits thirteen anyway? A nice padded room with no sharp objects, just a bed and a pillow. That sounds like heaven!

Can’t Have Nothing Nice

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

Growing up my brothers and I trashed the house like most normal kids — spilling drinks, tracking mud, and breaking things. Our poor mother was left cleaning like a lunatic while my father shook his head exclaiming, “We can’t have nothing nice!” Well folks, karma has finally come back to bite me in the ass in the form of my daughter.

My chip off the ol’ block is a tornado of destruction, a whirlwind of chaos, a hurricane of devasatation…in other words she’s a full-blown toddler. Every day the house looks like an angry drunken bear has barreled through pillaging for honey and whatever else bears eat. There are potholders and whisks in the middle of the living room, clean clothes strewn down the hallway, and even tampons (unused of course) stashed under the couch all thanks to my daughter’s greedy little mitts. If it’s one of those days when I can’t keep up behind her, I’m afraid the hubby will come home and think we’ve been burgled.

I have grand (delusional) visions of living in an immaculate house close to the beach. My dream home, if you will. Every room ripped from the pages of a designer magazine. So clean and sparkling that when you walk through it seems as if no-one actually lives there. Yeah, I know it will never happen. Or if it does we’ll be too old and rickety to enjoy it.

What is that saying? Be careful what you wish for? Someday I’ll have those beautiful fancy rooms and someday I’ll be sad that they’re so clean and empty. No tiny socks next to the TV or BBQ tongs on the bed. What will I do with myself?

For now I’m keeping my inner-Martha locked up and enjoying a new definition of clean.

Late Bloomer

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

I hope my daughter is a big ol’ nerd, er, late bloomer (at least until the summer right before she goes off to college). Then she can blossom just like Tony Danza’s daughter in “She’s Out of Control.” She’ll lose the braces, get contact lenses, and finally brush her hair. Hopefully she’ll skip the jogging in slow motion on the beach to the Twix music. You know the song, the one that goes “Mmmm bount bount /ahhh /chicka chickaaaaa.”

Her new look will be acceptable since she’ll already have given her speech as valedictorian at her graduation and missed all those lame high school parties where her peers will either get knocked up or arrested or both. Then she can go off to college and do whatever she likes away from Mummy’s watchful eye. Well maybe not whatever.

I want my daughter to remain a kid as long as possible opting to take her pet bird to prom rather than a handsy teenage boy. I don’t want her to rush through life, like (I think) I did. But is it inevitable that she’ll always be looking to the next stage?

I tease that I raised myself as I was very independent at an early age. By independent I mean that I potty-trained myself and was born knowing how to read but I still relied on my parents for the essentials.

My hubby jokes that I was never a child much like Manny on Modern Family. His character is wise beyond his years enjoying poetry and Canasta. Some might say an old soul, some might say a stick in the mud.

As a Mummy with an old soul it’s been somewhat challenging to channel my inner-Elmo on a daily basis. But it’s a good thing. Maybe if I leave my old soul in the dust and act like a silly goose then I have a better chance of keeping my little girl little for as long as possible.

Breaking Lady Wind

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

I started taking my daughter to a music class for kids. We sing songs and dance around like fools. It’s fun especially when my daughter takes a break from trying to eat the instruments and busts out in a swaying dance. Makes the wiggling around like a twit completely worth it.

The class gets a CD with an array of children’s songs. There are a few I can’t handle listening to for more than three seconds but most of the other ones are fine. There’s one song in particular that makes me howl with laughter. It’s called My Lady Wind. You can run with it as far as you’d like. But it brings one thing to my mind — farting: an Olympic event in our household. Naturally my hubby holds the gold medal, my daughter the silver, and myself the bronze for ones that manage to sneak out in my sleep.

As I’ve mentioned before when I was growing up, my father thought it was impolite to say fart so he made us say, “Did you pass gas?” which sounds ridiculous, but in his presence we must have followed this rule. With my daughter I always use the word toot. But now that I know of Lady Wind I’m starting anew.

Although this name also brings to mind another word that my father would have forbidden in our house: starts with Q and rhymes with leaf. But I’m not going to refer to Lady Wind as that, it’s going to mean fart. I’ll simply ask my daughter, “Honey, did you break lady wind? Say excuse me.” Or “We only break lady wind in private, not on Daddy’s head.” But really I shouldn’t say anything — I should just let it be. I don’t want her growing up thinking she can’t be comfortable. Besides her Daddy says it’s a natural function so it’s not like he’s going to reprimand her for blowing her butt trumpet…he’ll probably high-five her.

Look Away!

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

The newest game with our daughter is we lift her shirt, press her belly button, and say “Boop!” Of course she thinks it’s hilarious and loves to return the favor lifting up Mama or Daddy’s shirt and jabbing our navels with her tiny little finger. I’m awaiting the day when we’re out in public and she raises my shirt to expose my less-than-flattering midsection to the world. I know it’s coming.

Even when we’re in the comfort of our own home, with no prying eyes I still have the same reaction to this intrusion of privacy. It’s not really an intrusion though. She’s my flesh and blood. She can punch me in the crotch, grab my boob, and put her head on my bum and I wouldn’t flinch. Well maybe I’d flinch, but it wouldn’t be weird. Just like it’s not weird that I have to slather her bum with paste five times a day and clean poo from her crotch biscuits.

I can’t help my reaction though. When she lifts up my shirt, I squeal and try to stop her. Mostly it’s because her hands are cold on my stomach, but the real reason is because I’ve never been good at exposing myself — unlike her father who proudly shows off any chance he gets (just like a man).

I’ve never taken to nudity. If given the chance I’d move to Alaska just so I could be bundled up year round. But I don’t want this for my daughter. I want her to be comfortable in her skin, at every age. I’ve told myself that I need to get over this hang-up so she doesn’t end up with it as well. But it’s not like I can turn back the prudish hands of time…especially when this body has been ravaged by pregnancy, too many slices of pizza, and not enough gym-time.

Being able to get dressed in front of my daughter should be no big deal. I shouldn’t hide my body from her. She should know that this is what a real woman looks like, and that those scrawny broads in magazines are 100% airbrushed. I hope I can do this for her later on. Right now it’s not that big of a deal because she’s not yet aware. But down the road when she’s capable of asking questions I hope I don’t hide in the bathroom or turn away from her. I will gladly share her pale, saggy, stubbly future with her.

Poor poor child.

Scarred For Life

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

The Soup is one of my favorite shows especially now that I’m a mom and have zero time for TV. It takes all the best clips from the worst TV shows and bundles them all together for your viewing pleasure. That way you don’t have to waste all of your time figuring out which Teen Mom most recently went to jail or what the Kardashian sisters are squabbling about. They bring it all to you in one concise hilarious half-hour. And that Joel McHale’s not too shabby either…what can I say I’m a sucker for a funny guy.

Can anyone say inappropriate?

We’ve all heard of Toddlers & Tiaras, but if you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. It’s a horrifying show that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs after I’ve seen it. It’s a train wreck that leaves you feeling ashamed and outraged. But it’s the parents of these young girls who should be ashamed. Any mom who dresses her daughter like a prostitute, fictional or not, (see photo) must be high!

These stage moms are on a different level. I know we’re all proud of our little mini-me’s and want to show them off, but c’mon when your daughter is wearing booty shorts and shaking her non-existent ass on stage in front of a table of judges, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Don’t you even worry about the molester groupies who are probably attending every one of these pageants? Sitting in the back of the room with their greasy comb overs and their hands in their pockets?

The clip on The Soup showed a girl no older than four dressed in a bathing suit showcasing her best stripper moves all for what? A plastic crown and $100? It’s appalling. I wouldn’t want my daughter dressing and dancing like that if she were twenty let alone four. Yet her Momma was probably happy as a clam, clapping and dancing in step with her daughter as if she was the one to win that itchy plastic sash.

I used to like watching the Miss America pageants when I was young. Something about those glittery dresses and big hair. Nowadays I’ll be happy if my daughter doesn’t even know what a pageant is. The only contests she’s going to enter will be spelling bees and science fairs. No spray-tanning, fake teeth, or gyrating required.

Now What?

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

Here we are. One year later. I’m no longer a new mom with a new baby. (I need to change my description over there on the side.) Now I’m just a mom with a 1 year old.

We survived her first birthday. It was a great celebration and I’m proud to say that I didn’t need that tranquilizer gun after all. I made it through the party without shedding a single tear. Maybe it’s because our whole family was cooped up inside our house due to inclement weather and it was too packed and loud to even think straight or become emotional.

It was a great party nonetheless. She smeared a beard of hot pink frosting all over her face and even managed to use some as eyeshadow before I called it quits and hosed her off. Of course she was beyond exhausted from not having a normal nap that morning. Naturally. She must have known she’d be called on to perform and didn’t want me to forget who exactly was in charge.

So now I’m left wondering where to go from here. It’s not like I have it all figured out — far from that — but I’m entering a new parenting phase and I hadn’t given it much thought yet. I guess that’s my problem though. If I think about all of this, I psych myself out and question everything I do or get overwhelmed thinking about her getting her license and talking to boys. I need to just go with the flow and look back in seventeen years and wonder how I survived it all.

It feels like I’m graduating out of the title of new mummy and settling in to being just Mom or Mum. (Even though I refer to myself as neither to her.) I wonder if I’ll feel like this with each passing year, getting a little more used to being a parent with each birthday. Or maybe I’ll always be surprised that I’m the boss calling the shots…at least until we reach those Terrible Twos. Aaagh.

No Longer a Baby

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Dear E,

Today was your first birthday! I don’t know how it happened because I swear the last thing I remember was…what was the last thing I remember? Who knows! The past twelve months have been a complete blur. But a blur of love, countless hours of laughter, and too much happiness.

You’re officially a big girl now. And you look the part. You’ve lost your baby face and you’re sprouting more hair (even though you barely have enough for a bow — sorry you get that from me). You’re so close to taking those first steps into toddler territory. You’ve taken a couple half steps here and there which is totally exhilarating, but you’re just not ready yet. And that’s fine. No need to rush everything!

To celebrate your first year on Earth, Daddy played hookey from work and we took you to the zoo. It was so much fun. You go absolutely wild over the animals. We fed a giraffe and although you didn’t get to pet it, you were thrilled to be so close to it. As we were driving home and you were in the backseat passed out and mouth-breathing, I had this feeling that I didn’t do enough for your birthday. I had this urge that I needed to do something really spectacular like set off fireworks or throw a parade, but then Daddy reminded me that you weren’t even aware that it was your birthday and I was doing a great job. I realized he was right and thought that spending the day together making memories is something that will last a lot longer than fancy fireworks.

After the zoo, we came home and gave you a cupcake with pink sprinkles and homemade frosting. You stuffed it right in your mouth like we knew you would. You are the world’s best eater and this was your first real taste of something sweet. We’re sure we’ve ruined you and you will demand cupcakes for every meal. But good luck with that. You’ll just have to watch us enjoy them while you nibble on veggies. Ha-Ha!

The dogs opened your presents for you and played with your toys more than you did. You were perfectly happy playing with the paper and cardboard from the boxes. So predictable. Now you’re sound asleep dreaming of cupcakes and giraffes and already working on getting older.

I hope you had the best 1st birthday imaginable because you’ve made my life happy beyond comprehension! I love you oodles!

Happy 12 months my love.

Level 5 Clinger

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Of course I’m not complaining that my daughter actually wants to spend every waking minute attached to my hip…soon she’ll be alerted to my momness and want nothing to do with me. But for now she’s a Level 5 Clinger. A term usually reserved for crazy, obsessive hose beasts who permanently attach themselves to their man like a barnacle on a boat. However, I’m using this term lovingly for my little girl who clings to me like a baby squirrel monkey on its mother’s back.

Separation anxiety is rearing its nasty head. There are times when I can’t even walk away from her for 5 seconds to put something in the trash without a screaming, teary meltdown. Mind you, I’m still within eyesight, talking to her the whole time so there’s no excuse for her end-of-the-world reaction. It’s not like I’ve left her starving, wearing nothing but a diaper out in the freezing cold snow. Now that would warrant such a meltdown.

Maybe it’s a bad thing I’m with her so much? Every waking minute we’re together and it’s been that way from day one. I’ve left her with grandparents, even a couple overnight watches, but the majority of the time it’s just the two of us. Daddy’s at work all day so it’s only natural there are times she wants my arms instead of his (which always makes me feel guilty but slightly smug — what can I say we’re both very competitive). Plus, what parent doesn’t get a bit of satisfaction when they’re greeted with tiny outstretched arms?

I worry about the future. What if she’s still a Clinger when she gets older and starts school? I doubt her teachers will let me sit in the back of the classroom and hold her while she learns her times tables or let me hold her hand while she gives a report on the Native Americans.

Deep down I know it’s not bad that we spend so much time together (it’s a great thing I’m lucky to have) and I know she won’t be a Clinger her whole life. Just when I want her to cling a little tighter she’ll be spreading her wings, ready to leave me in the dust..unless I get those wings clipped!

T- minus 1 Week

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

I have exactly one week left until my daughter turns one…let the crying ensue.

It seems so surreal. For the longest time it was strange to think I’d actually given birth, became a mom, and had a daughter of my own. (Some days it still feels surreal!) And now I have to wrap my head around the concept that she’s not really a baby anymore but on her way to becoming a toddler. Waah, it’s not fair.

My friends try to tell me that it’s an exciting time, not a sad time. But it is sad. Yes, I love all the new things she’s doing and ways she’s growing and changing, but I’ll never have my cuddly little baby back. Not to mention that she’ll be a teenager before I blink. I know I shouldn’t be complaining — I’ve had the opportunity to spend a lot more time with her than most moms get because they have real jobs in the real world, but I want more time. I look at pictures of her from a few months ago and I hardly remember her chubby cheeks and roly-poly body. The way she cooed or flailed her arms around as if they weren’t her own.

It’s such a weird thing to be a parent. One minute you’re laughing hysterically filled to the brim with joy and the next you’re bawling your eyes out for no apparent reason. Just your everyday schizo.

I’m going to try my hardest not to act like a complete nutcase on her birthday. I’m excited for the huge milestone, but I might need to be shot in the ass with a tranquilizer dart especially once the singing starts.