Tag Archives: Humor

Show Me Your Teeth…

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is not just the name of a freaky & fun Lady Gaga song — it’s what I’ve been singing to my baby because she’s been teething for what feels like forever and still no sign of her first pearly white. I know it’s causing her pain and wrecking havoc on our “normal” routine so I keep telling myself that once it finally comes through, my sweet happy girl will return to us. Lately she’s been like Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde…happy and blowing raspberries one minute then screaming bloody murder the next. Teeth are the devil, I tell ya!

Why couldn’t mother nature have all the teeth pop through at once? Because it would be so freaking painful our heads would explode? Probably. I wish it were as easy as one night she goes to sleep with her toothless grin and the next morning she wakes up looking like those creepy toddlers in beauty pageants who were those fake “flippers” to present a flawless smile. Well, I don’t really want her to look like one of them, but if she woke up and had all her teeth at once, it would be a lot easier on all of us. Getting this first tooth to pop through is just the tip of the iceberg. How many teeth are in the human mouth? 26? 32? What a looooong road ahead of  more drool than Niagara Falls and more screaming than a banshee. My poor little bebe.

At the same time, I’m dreading the first tooth to appear because that means we’re really leaving the baby days behind us and I’d like to keep her little as long as I can. So maybe I should stop singing Lady Gaga and enjoy the toothless grins while I still have them!

The Olden Days

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

It dawned on me that my daughter will never know a world without cell phones, texting, sexting (god forbid), The Internet, and Facebook unless we move to the mountains of Appalachia and live amongst the Hill People. That’s never going to happen because her father and I love having indoor plumbing and 7-11’s on every corner.

When I was growing up we had one old IBM computer, a phone that plugged into the wall–a cordless one at tha t– and a Zenith TV you had to hit hard on the right side when the color went out. A far cry from today’s smart phones, laptops, and widescreen TVs.

I was nineteen or twenty when I got my first cell phone — a dinosaur by today’s standards. These days my daughter will have enough money saved up from the Tooth Fairy to buy her first phone by the time she’s seven. (This Tooth Fairy forks out a lot of dough, I hear.) Note to self: tell my daughter the Tooth Fairy retired.

I tried to imagine what my teenage years would have been like if we had cell phones, texting, and unlimited Internet. Cue the music from Aladdin because it woulda been A Whole New World! If I do break down and allow her to have a phone when she’s a teen I’ll have to take the good with the bad…just like The Facts of Life. Good: I’d be able to get a hold of her whenever. Bad: cyber-bullying and potential video-chatting with boys.

I guess I have to get over the fact that my daughter will grow up in a drastically different world than I did. Hopefully she’ll be an old soul and prefer how things were in the olden days — the days of Saved by the Bell Saturday mornings and when books were things on a shelf not in a Kindle. If not, guess we’re packing up and moving to Kentucky.

My Little Foodie

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“This smells like it already came out her other end,” I thought as I spooned pea green sludge into my daughter’s mouth. I expected her to turn into The Exorcist spewing pureed peas all over the place. But she actually liked it and opened up for another bite.

I don’t think I’ve EVER eaten peas in my life — except for ones hidden in a lasagna or casserole. I’m not a fan of vegetables unless they’re raw, and then they have to be smothered in a mayonnaise-based dressing for me to even consider them. The smell of steamed vegetables takes me back to being six-years-old and a victim of my brother’s stinky farts (my mom made a lot of broccoli back then.) This is just one reason why certain veggies trigger my gag reflex.

As I sat feeding my daughter her first taste of peas, it got me wondering how could I expect her to eat vegetables when I don’t even like them? I must admit that I don’t have a refined palette and I’d rather eat Skittles than brussel sprouts, but my tastes have matured over the past ten years. I used to survive on a diet of Frosted Flakes and candy but now I’ll eat asparagus and bell peppers…big steps for someone like me. I want to set up good eating habits early for my daughter — heck she’s already got me beat by a long shot. In my mind she’s going to become an accomplished chef making dishes with sunchoke tomatoes and whatever else fancy ingredients they use on Top Chef.

I think I’ll invest in one of those cookbooks where the vegetables are hidden in the dishes…pretty sad when it’s for my sake and not hers!

*Funnymummy apologizes for the gross-out picture…but a visual was neccesary.*

Not Your Mom’s Mom Jeans

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Pajama Jeans could very well be the best invention…ever. I wouldn’t know first-hand, but I’m guessing they’re fantastic! Stretchy pants that look like jeans? What in this world could be better? I dare you to find something that can stand up to comfort and style all rolled into one. You can bike in them, take your kids for a walk, go to the grocery store (all examples used in the infomercial) while still looking fabulously chic…or like you’re wearing faux jeans–which you are. One of their slogans is “They’re so comfortable, you’ll want to sleep in them!” Awesome, so I can roll right out of bed in the morning and be ready for the day? Tell me more!

Pajama Jeans are a new mummy’s dream-come-true. Who wants to put real jeans on after squeezing a watermelon from your nether regions? Not me! For one, I couldn’t fit into my actual jeans for a couple of months post-baby so I lived in my yoga pants and maternity jeans. While maternity jeans have come a long way, I’m betting they lack the comfort, not to mention the sophistication, of these pajama-like threads.  “Jeggings,” or leggings intended to look like jeans, are a close relative to the Pajama Jean, but they are just not an option for someone with natural, child-bearing hips (or over the age of twenty-two). So it seems Pajama Jeans is the way to go.

I’ve been tempted to order these clever duds because it would allow me to remain comfortable in my day-to-day wear while tricking my hubby that I’m not giving in to “The Decline”. But I just can’t make sense out of spending money on these imposters. I’d rather stick to my run-of-the-mill black yoga pants when I’m having a lazy day because then I wouldn’t be found out. I could just imagine someone noticing that I was, in fact, wearing Pajama Jeans. Would I be ashamed? Would they be jealous? It’s hard to say. It’s not like I wouldn’t give them a try if someone happened to buy me a pair. Just like I wouldn’t turn down a Snuggie or a Shake Weight either, but you wouldn’t hear me announcing that I owned these products.

What if these Pajama Jeans are the new “MOM” jeans? What if ten years from now they’re the equivalent of the belly button skimming, tapered, stone-washed jeans your mom would’ve worn in 1983? That’s a risk this Mummy is not willing to take…in public at least.

Me Time

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

A moment to myself…what is that? Is there time to escape to a tropical island? Nope. Is there time to eat a sandwich? Just barely. Thus is the life of a mom with a serial cat napper. It’s rare that my daughter will nap longer than 45 minutes. This makes it virtually impossible to get anything done around the house. Everything is always half-finished. This drives me insane! I don’t claim to be a June Cleaver or Martha Stewart (that’s my mother) but I like to keep a clean, organized space.

Since becoming a mummy I’ve had to say sayonara to the days of a neat and tidy home. I get twenty minutes to straighten up what was left undone from the previous nap and about a whole 90 seconds for “me time.” It seems she has a sensor that goes off when my butt hits the couch and I prop up my feet. As soon as I’m good and relaxed–pop–eyeballs! I can’t imagine how anyone with more than one child gets anything done. That’s got to be the reason why school was invented. Get these kids out of the house so Mummy can think straight, and while you’re at it, teach ’em something.

On the odd occasion she naps longer than 45 minutes, I don’t know what to do with myself. Plenty of time to do all my daily chores and thirty minutes to enjoy whatever show is on Bravo (even though I’ve probably already watched it twice already.) Oh happy day!

Is it bad to admit that sometimes I look forward to naptime? Well…I just did. I wish, as moms, we wouldn’t put these crazy impossible standards on ourselves. We shouldn’t feel guilty for indulging in a little Mummy time. That is what keeps us sane, right? That’s what the handbook said, anyway.

Fur Babies

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I would be so embarrassed if the world could hear how I yell at my dogs sometimes. Between the death threats I spew at them and terrible names I call them when they’re acting out, it would seem I went from exceptional pet owner to Michael Vick…well, I wouldn’t go that far. My death threats to them are all empty threats. These animals were once my babies. I confess that I was one of those crazy pet owners who treated her animals like her kids. I didn’t go as far as pushing them around in doggie strollers that is all the rage right now, but I did dress them up in silly outfits and put them on our annual Christmas card.

People kept trying to tell me that it would change once I had actual children, but I never believed them. I used to listen, nodding in agreement while inside I vowed to remain loyal to my four-legged babies. They were our kids for seven years before our little munchkin arrived so I was sure they wouldn’t be neglected, although this was something that worried me while I was pregnant. Fast forward to the day we brought the baby home from the hospital…the animals were excited yet confused on why there was this funny little bundle permanently attached to us. The guilt was strong, yet I didn’t have time to dwell on it what with taking care of a newborn. Their sad little faces were pathetic as they tried to figure out their new pecking order…they still haven’t figured it out. There were many days when I’d have the baby and both dogs on my lap.

I still feel guilty that the dogs don’t get walked everyday and they don’t get as much cuddle time anymore. I still think of them as my kids, we call them brother and sister to our daughter after all. But I definitely understand what everyone was trying to tell me. There’s really no comparison. I love my fur babies very much but I love my daughter beyond words.

A Little Bathroom Humor

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Has someone ever watched you go to the bathroom? Unless you’re a career criminal, the answer is probably no. There’s nothing quite as unsettling as a pair of peering eyes on you while you do your duty. It’s way more awkward than when you’re in a public restroom and you get stage fright and are unable to go or if the door won’t latch and someone briefly walks in on you. Mummyhood has meant goodbye to modesty in more ways than one, and this is one of those ways.

My hubby and I have never been one of those really open couples who uses the bathroom in tandem (surprising since we’ve only ever had one bathroom wherever we’ve lived). Call me old-fashioned but I like to keep some sort of mystery alive because after child-birth there really isn’t anything left to wonder about.

So when my daughter is in one of her clingy moods and Mummy needs to use the facilities, there’s no other option than to bring her along. In the few times that I’ve had to subject her to my restroom trips, she sits in her swing just as happy as can be. Only once did I have to actually wear her in the baby sling causing me to wonder if it qualified as child abuse?! To make your child sit in the bathroom while you use the toilet seems like some sort of punishment. Am I doing unnecessary trauma to her little psyche? Isn’t it better than leaving her screaming and alone in the other room making her feel abandoned? Or am I doing worse damage to where she’ll have flashbacks when she’s older to a horrifying memory of her mother sitting on the commode? Who knows. Soon she’ll learn that everyone poops (just like the book) and at one time in your life you might have an audience for it.

Pint-sized Bosses

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“Change my diaper! Bring me my binkie! Where’s my milk?” A mummy is somewhat of a 24 hour pro-bono personal assistant to her baby. And her client can be very demanding at times. Who am I kidding? More like ALL the time. Mummy is a personal assistant times a billion. P.A.s in general  take a lot of abuse and are required to smile while they complete their tasks. A poo-eating grin, if you will. But the poo involved here is literal and must be wiped and cleaned off your “employer” several times a day, sometimes even out of their hair or off the TV screen after a huge blowout (Yes, this has actually happened to me). The boss also has a free pass when it comes to your body — no grounds for harassment here. I never knew I could get pinched, slapped, and scratched so much while feeding my baby. Usually it makes me laugh because she doesn’t do any real damage, but once in a while she’ll make me say ouch. I’m just thankful she’s not the Naomi Campbell of babies capable of chucking a cell phone at my head. Those days are sure to come later. Hopefully she’ll be as sweet and gentle as a lamb and nowhere close to a demanding diva.

I knew all this when I “signed up” to be a mom. Funny thing is I couldn’t wait to be responsible for all the daily needs of caring for my baby: changing diapers, feeding, bathing, burping, cuddling, etc. Yes, my services were free but I knew I’d get paid in hugs, smiles, and the sweetest coos anyone has ever heard. The rewards of being a mummy far outweigh the demanding schedule that comes along with a baby and I know when she’s capable of doing things for herself I’ll probably be right there trying to “baby” her again. The days and weeks keep flying by and she’s reaching milestones quickly so I know her independence is right around the corner ,which freaks me out a little, so I’m content with playing personal assistant for a lot longer.

Guillotine of Fun

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Our baby is barely 6 months old and it’s already established that Daddy is “The Jester” and Mummy is “The Guillotine of Fun.” Daddy swoops in and is all about laughs and getting smiles while Mummy is all about cutting fun in half and making sure baby’s needs are met. It’s just not fair. I knew before the baby even joined us that Daddy would be the favorite. I was a Daddy’s girl too, so on one hand it makes me happy that she’ll have a close bond with her father (and extra pleased that she won’t end up a stripper with daddy issues) but on the other hand I don’t want to be the bad cop all the time, unless doughnuts are involved.

Case in point: there we were, a happy family of 3 sitting down to dinner. Baby was next to me in her highchair: bib on and ready to chow down. I had my plate and her bowl of mush. One bite for her, half of one for me. It wasn’t quite working for her. I was too slow. So Daddy shoveled his food in and took over. Next thing I knew he was making airplanes noises and her face was covered in said mush. She was smiling and loving every minute of it. “Boring ol’ Mummy just sits there and spoons it in, but this guy is grrreat.” I could hear her thinking. But he had barely given her any food and it was almost bath time. After a couple more minutes, I took the bowl back and got the job done before his antics threw off our entire schedule.

I guess if I have to let Daddy win one then it should be this. I’m lucky enough to get to stay home with our daughter all day making her squeal with delight whenever I please. He gets a couple hours a day tops, so letting him be “The Jester” is fine by me. He still makes me chuckle–not an easy thing to do– so I know he’s qualified for the job.

Your Mom Goes to College

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On January 18, 2011 I officially became a “your mom” joke. (“Mom jeans” and fanny pack to be issued at the hospital upon delivery).  I was, in fact, somebody’s mom therefore susceptible to this ever-popular comeback. A joke used by most males between the ages of ten and twenty or in my case, my twenty-nine year old husband. He likes to use it regularly. He’s also a fan of the ever popular, “That’s what she said,” which can, at times, be used interchangeably. Here is an example: “I like spicy sausage!” “Your mom likes spicy sausage,” or “That’s what she said.” Easy as pie and probably why the hubby likes it so. No thinking required!

It dawned on me that these two expressions might be going strong by the time my daughter is ten or so and I would be the butt of the joke. These little twerps running around making fun of me and I would be clueless. What’s a mummy to do? Grin and bear it? Tell them a grandma joke? “Your Grandma likes spicy sausage!” (Using their moms as jokes would be cruel, but grandmas would be fair game). But I couldn’t stoop to their level being the adult and all…or could I?

When my hubby and I were younger we bought shirts that read, “I heart your mom.” We wore them for a picture and our moms thought it was the cutest thing ever, totally missing the joke while we snickered in the background. Oh, if I could find that photo now… I guess everything comes full circle so it’s just a matter of time before my daughter laughs hysterically when someone says that her mom likes spicy sausage or that her mom goes to college and I’ll probably smile and think they’re just the cutest kids ever.