Category Archives: Comedy

It Runs In Your Genes

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“Diarrhea is hereditary. It runs in your jeans.”

And if this is the kind of joke I think is funny, my daughter is sure to loathe turning into me.

Becoming your mother is every daughter’s worst nightmare. But why is that? Why do we shudder when we use a mom-ism? Why do their nervous tics become ours? Is it because they’re always right (well maybe not always, but most of the time).

I love my mom very much and am proud to be like her in some ways, but am completely horrified to be like her in others. I know my daughter will grow up to feel the same way, which is a little hard to swallow, but completley normal. Just like it’s normal to deny that your parents ever had sex despite your very own existence. It’s just not something you want to acknowledge, ever.

I shouldn’t take it personally when she doesn’t want to be my little clone. That’s not what I want for her anyway. Yes, I would be over the moon if she has a passion for reading, loves animals, and plays sports. But she might not like any of those things, which is fine (she said through gritted teeth).

There will come a day when she says something that will freeze her in her tracks because she hears my voice coming out of her mouth. I want her to know it’s normal because it’s in her genes, and there’s nothing she can do about it! It happens to the best of us.

Right now she thinks I’m pretty great. She laughs and giggles at most everything I do. How I wish it would stay this way forever. But it’s just a matter of time before she wishes her mother wasn’t such an embarrassing dork, a dork who she will never be like.

I hate to break it to her. She will be her mother’s daughter…no matter what (she said triumphantly).

Really, Summer’s Eve? Really?

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I’m sure most of you have seen these new commercials for feminine hygiene products that ask us ladies to “Show it some love” or to “Hail to the V”.

What’s next — an erectile dysfunction ad that says, “Bow down to the P?”

Ick.

For those of you who’ve missed out, you can guess what the V stands for. That’s right — va-jay-jay.

The first time I saw the ad, I wasn’t quite sure I heard correctly. But yes, they were talking about our private parts. It’s a clever advertising scheme as it has created a lot of buzz around its product. However, it seems a little inappropriate.

I’m all one for girl power and feminism, but even I get a little skeeved out with these commercials. They preface it by saying “It’s been fought over for centuries,” and “It’s the cradle of life.” While this may be true, at the end of the day, my lady business is nobody’s business.

Just like I don’t want to watch blue liquid poured into maxi pads or Jamie Lee Curtis talking about her regularity — I don’t want to hear that I should be throwing a parade in honor of my lady bits. I don’t need a catchy slogan to feel empowered that I indeed have a “V” to hail to.

Lately, it seems like the V-word is a go-to for an easy laugh on many sitcoms, and I’m not talking about the watered-down version borrowed from Grey’s Anatomy. I’m talking about the correct anatomical word…which I can’t bring myself to write because it’s become too cliché. (Yeah right, it’s because even in my writing I’m a bit of a prude.) Yet, soon I have to face the dilemma of what to call said body part in regards to my daughter. But that’s another post for another day.

Not Wrong, Just Different

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Somehow my brothers and I survived our childhood with few broken bones and only a couple stitches here and there. My mom laughs about not having car seats for us when we came home from the hospital or helmets when we rode our bikes — so it’s a wonder I’m sitting here today in one piece.

It’s been 30 years since my mom raised a baby, so it’s safe to say A LOT has changed. But it’s also safe to say that nothing has changed, as all babies really need is food, a clean diaper, and love.

Seeing all the gadgets and thingymajigs that I have for my daughter: the fancy stroller with its 5-point harness and shocks, the diaper genie that magically swallows dirty diapers, the video monitor, the shopping cart cover…it all makes my mom feel like she did everything wrong.

When I told her that some of my daughter’s first solid foods were mango and avocado, she looked at me as if I’d given my baby a shot of tequila. I reassured her both mango and avocado were on the “first foods list” from wholesomebabyfood.com, but from her reaction she clearly thought I was insane. But she didn’t have the Internet when I was a baby, all she had was one Dr. Spock book. So how would she know? Plus, it was the 80’s — people were drinking Tab soda and organic wasn’t even a blip on the radar.

I know how she feels though. I constantly question whether I’m doing things right. In 30 years, if my daughter has children, there will be a whole new parenting style with a whole new set of gizmos to accompany it. I’ll feel like an utter failure when she asks me what I used to do with her. I’ll laugh like a crazy person and say, “We used to put you in a car seat! Can you imagine?” Because by then, we’ll all have flying cars and babies will be equipped with ejection seats and parachutes.

The way my mom did things, and the way I’m doing things isn’t wrong, it’s just…different.

Slutty Lions, Tigers, and Bears, Oh My!

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Halloween is fast approaching, which we all know means a free pass to dress like a slut for one night. Who ever saw a kitten in fishnets? Or a nurse wearing a corset? A police officer in thigh-high boots? Not me!

A random catalog for costumes came in the mail awhile back. I flipped through it with such excitement, eager to find my daughter the perfect outfit for her first Halloween. I was drawn to the girly costumes like Tinkerbell and Snow White, thinking she’d look so precious in the glittery tutus. While these costumes were adorable, I came to the realization that she’d have plenty of time for Disney princesses later, so maybe I should choose something a little more neutral. Lambs and panda bears were more our speed.

I kept flipping, coming to the tween costumes. Let me just say that there’s no way I’d let my daughter even model some of these costumes, let alone purchase and wear out of the house in the dark of night. She has another thing coming if she thinks she’s going to be anything other than a ghost, completely covered in a white sheet, until she’s 18 years old. The only thing exposed will be her eyes…a mom can dream, right?

Mummy’s worst nightmare

While carefully trying to decide which costume was least skanky for a baby, I somehow managed to do one worse. The costume I ended up buying her (which I thought was so funny and innocent) actually makes her a giant, yellow wiener banana. The image of her dad and myself dressed as monkeys carrying around our little banana was too cute for words. I wasn’t even thinking how she’d be a huge yellow phallus. You think it would’ve dawned on me when I put the “tip” of the banana on her head. She’s going to be so embarrassed of the pictures when she’s older…so maybe I did do something right?

Mummy Milestone #28

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I finally became one of “those parents” with the screaming child in the restaurant. However, in my defense it took a good 9 months for it to happen, so I think I deserve some kind of pat on the back. (But it’s not like she’s been out to that many eateries — probably under 10.)

I’ll have you know that I promptly left the restaurant once she let out her first, ear-piercing shriek. I wasn’t about to stay and enjoy my spicy sesame chicken when it was my fault for bringing her out in the first place.

The wheels were set in motion when the hubby called to ask if I wanted to join him and his mom for lunch. Why yes, going out to lunch during the middle of the week is one of my favorite things to do (or at least it used to be), so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. But the timing could have been better…a whole lot better.

I take full responsibility because I knew my daughter was tired and due for her afternoon nap, but I thought that she’d be fine if I was holding her. I was just thinking that my trade-off for her not napping like a “normal” baby was that she’s almost always very mellow and well-behaved when we’re out and about. Well, damn if they don’t love to prove you wrong.

I almost called and canceled, but the lure of midday dining was too strong (and I’m completely selfish). So I kept the date and met them against my mummy’s intuition. We sat down and threw every toy at her from the diaper bag. We even let her play with the chopsticks despite the jagged wooden edges. They were keeping her happy…for the moment.

At first I didn’t worry too much, even brushing off my husband’s concerned look at her first sign of fussiness. The din from our fellow diners and the music overhead was pretty loud, so her first squawks went unnoticed. But as I walked back to the bathroom to rinse her pacifier for the second time after she spit it on the floor, a blood-curling screech followed me, prompting a reaction from an older lady sitting at the sushi bar.  I knew then what I had to do.

Get the hell out of there!

I did not want to be “those people” with the screaming kid, garnering angry stares from everyone sitting around us. So I quickly inhaled a few bites of chicken, gathered her up, and went home.

There you have it. I reached a new mummy milestone and I survived. Scratch that off the list and wait for the next one.

How Did This Happen?

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Today is my baby’s 9 month birthday…makes me misty just acknowledging it.

So in her honor, I’m going to borrow an idea from SquareOneNotes’ blog and write her a message to commemorate this momentous day.

SweetE — you are getting so big I can hardly remember the days when you used to curl up in a tiny ball and sit on my chest. Or that every time I blinked, you pooped your pants. Or how we used to sit up through the night, holding you while you slept, watching crappy movies because that’s all that’s on at 3 am.

You’re crawling all around the house now and no matter how many times I sweep, you look like Pigpen from the Peanuts’ gang — your own little solar system of dust orbiting around you at all times. You have two bottom teeth and while you haven’t tried to rip my nipple off (yet) I continue to put myself in harm’s way for your nutrition. (Now that you have teeth, you seem like you’re 9 months going on 3 years.)

When I look back at your baby pictures, you have changed so much I hardly recognize who you were. Your father and I were so worried when you were itty bitty that your belly button would always look how it did after your stump fell off and that you’d never grow a neck…but the stump flattened out and you’re slowly getting a neck…phew. Nobody told us these things. (Despite these worries, you’ve always been the most beautiful munchkin ever.)

Your daddy and I live to make you laugh. If there was one thing I could bottle, it would be your laughter. It is positively priceless. There’s nothing your father and I won’t do for a giggle or a smile, including hopping around like a couple of monkeys. You enjoy being scared, and despite the fact that startling a baby is probably bad karma, I continue to make you jump. You just love it so.

You’ve taken a dump in the bathtub twice now, so I know you’ve got quite the sense of humor and you’re going to be the ultimate prankster.

You’re becoming very opinionated and you’re not afraid to make your voice heard. Just like this morning when Mummy was singing Ariel’s Lament from The Little Mermaid to you and your response was fart sounds. I can take a hint and I applaud your honesty.

In closing, I love you more than is humanly possible and I’m so thankful for you (even though you send Mummy on a rollercoaster of emotions on a daily basis).

Happy 9 months, my snuggle bunny.

‘Fraidy Cat

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When did I become such a scaredy cat? I used to live for blood and gore, ghost stories, and serial killers on the loose (at least in the realm of horror flicks). But now that I’m a mom I find that I don’t have the same tolerance for this type of thing anymore. I’m the one peeking through my fingers as they shield my eyes, when I used to be the one making fun of wusses like that.

The Walking Dead, a TV show about zombies and the apocalypse, just started its second season last night. The hubby and I watched every gruesome minute of the first season and couldn’t wait for the premiere. It’s quite graphic and I’m always surprised by what they can get away with since it’s on standard cable. Zombies getting shot point-blank in the head, in slow motion. All the blood, guts, and dismembering a horror fan could ever ask for. However, there was a scene with a horse I couldn’t bear to watch in season one, but that was just because I’m an animal-lover, not because it was too gross. I usually pride myself that I can handle my gore.

So the hubby and I hunkered down for the premiere, our daughter safe and sound in her crib way out of earshot. I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to see if the show would still be as riveting as the first season. But as soon as the eerie background music started up — you know the kind, it’s in every horror movie ever made — I wanted to turn off the TV and run screaming from the room. I didn’t want the heart palpitations and unnecessary anxiety — the very thing you watch these kind of shows for.

After repeating “Are you kidding me?” and “Oh no!” every fifteen seconds through the opening scene of the show, I noticed the change in myself. I was no longer the thrill-seeker I used to be. I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I wanted to be assured that nothing like this would ever happen in my lifetime nor my daughter’s lifetime. I never want her to have to stab a flesh-eating zombie in the eyeball repeatedly with a screwdriver to save her own hide.

Is it because the horror films I grew up watching were so fantastical and outrageous that they seemed impossible of ever coming true and that the films and shows of today are so true to life that you can see it happening to the world around you?

Maybe I’m just getting older — I am 30 after all. No longer a little kid watching Nightmare on Elm Street or Poltergeist and loving the sheer excitement of being scared to sleep with my back to the door or dangle an arm off the bed. Now I have too much to lose and so much to protect that being afraid is just plain scary. Besides, all this self-induced anxiety is probably giving me more gray hairs, and that’s one thing this Mummy doesn’t need any help with!

Don’t You Judge Me

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“Don’t you judge me” is my new mom motto. As much as I think it, it should be tattooed on my forehead. Or maybe just printed on a T-shirt for me to wear every single day.

This morning a plumber came to install a toilet and a sink in our master bathroom. He didn’t look like any plumber I’d seen before. He was missing a beer belly and that famous plumber’s crack…thank god!

Having any kind of handyman in the house gives me anxiety. So it’s safe to say I was a big ball of awkward. Throw a tired, cranky baby in the mix and I was even more on edge.

Naturally, the plumber showed up right when my daughter was to take her morning nap. Lately I’ve been putting her down while she’s still awake so she can learn to put herself to sleep. She usually cries for a couple minutes before conking out. I’ve become immune to those cries.

Sure enough, as soon as I closed the door behind me, a wail erupted from the depths of her bowels. A scream I’ve never heard before. Someone was surely torturing her. That was the only logical conclusion. So I went back in. She was fine. To the contrary of her screams, no-one was killing her. I placed her back down and told her it was nap time. As soon as I left, the same god-awful shriek.

It’s not enough to allow a stranger into your home to judge your living conditions, but now that I’m a mom, my parenting skills are on full display and up for debate. I just knew this guy was judging me as an unfit parent for letting my baby cry. But what he doesn’t know is that’s how we roll.

She was asleep within a minute, and I could finally exhale.

Needless to say, she woke up 40 minutes later thanks to the plumber banging around in the bathroom.

As I signed the check over, holding my daughter on one side, he looked at her and said, “So that’s the little one who was crying. Never knew such a loud sound could come out of a tiny person.” I wanted to give him my best “Don’t you judge me” look, but like always with these guys, I just gave a nervous laugh and said, “Yep. That was her. Not a fan of napping.”

See, if I had that tattoo or that shirt, he would’ve gotten my message loud and clear.

Bibliophile in Training

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Like many expectant parents, I read to my baby while she was in the womb hoping she would come out loving the written word. It seems this experiment didn’t work. Not yet, at least. My daughter would rather eat her books than listen to me read them.

As a bibliophile myself, this kills me. I want her to know what it means to lose herself for hours at a time reading her little heart out. Staying up well after I’ve told her lights out with a flashlight illuminating the pages of her favorite book as she hides under the covers.

I know it’s probably an attention span thing and will get better with time. Being a baby and all I’m sure she has the attention span of a gnat (although if you ask me, she’s a baby genius).

It comes down to timing. When we read her stories in the morning, she’s all about The Very Hungry Caterpillar, following along and waving good-bye to the butterfly at the end of the story when he flies away. But if it’s close to bedtime and we’re curled up in her rocking chair with On the Night You Were Born — forget it, she doesn’t care if the wind and the rain are whispering her name or if heaven blew every trumpet on the wonderful, marvelous night she was born. She just wants her woobie and to go to sleep, thank you very much. None of that drivel.

According to my mom, my first word was read so naturally it’s my dream for my girl to follow in my footsteps. I want her to have a hearty appetite for books, devouring each and every one she gets her mitts on. But not like she does now — devouring them with her mind.

And if she doesn’t like to read?

I’ll bribe her until she does. Just kidding.

I guess letting go of your expectations and realizing your kids are their own people complete with their own likes and dislikes, separate from your own, is all part of becoming a parent.

And if you don’t want to give up your expectations, bribery probably works wonders.

Perpetually Late

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I make plans and the baby laughs so hard she pees her pants. Good thing she wears diapers.

Whenever I try to plan something or say I’m going to be somewhere at a specific time, my daughter decides to take a marathon nap. No joke. Every. Single. Time. It’s like she turns into Stewie from Family Guy but she doesn’t want to kill me, she just wants to murder my plans.

When she takes these spontaneous long naps, you know there’s no way I’m going to wake her up to stick to my schedule. What am I completely nuts? If that baby is asleep, it’s a gift from God and I run with it…or sit my butt on the couch and enjoy every last moment of serenity. Screw my plans and arriving on time. The world can wait, dammit.

My mom told me to get used to it, that it was all part of being a parent. I know she’s right. But it’s hard to give up my punctuality. I was always on time before, and now I’m perpetually late. Friends and family are subjected to last minute texts that read, “Sorry…on my way” or “Just leaving now.” Or “Baby  just pooped and barfed everywhere…be there never.” This is expected with a little one but it takes some getting used to.

There is the rare occasion where I can get the diaper bag packed with everything from the nursery, the babe fed, changed, and strapped in, my wallet, my phone, my sunglasses, and keys and be out the door with just enough time to arrive ten seconds early. But it’s a full-blown production involving precise coordination and a functioning brain, so sometimes things get left behind.

Luckily, most everyone is understanding. They know how unpredictable being a Mummy is. I, on the other hand, need to get used to it, because I have a feeling I’m going to be running late for the rest of my life.