dear sir on the slide

Dear Sir on the Slide:

I think it’s wonderful that you and your son are so obviously close.

It was fun to listen to his shrieks of delight as you chased him around the playground, pretending that you couldn’t catch him.

And kudos for the way you coaxed him up the stair ramp to the big tunnel slides when he got scared and stopped. I’m sure his mommy will be as proud of him as you promised she would.

However

Due to our close proximity during that juncture, I must comment on your attire, since either your wife did not, or she did and you chose not to listen.

As you know, the stairs that lead up to the tunnel slides are narrow and on a very steep incline.

They are also enclosed as a tunnel themselves. So as I’m sure you won’t soon forget, when a parent leads their child up the stairs, their back is hunched against the plastic and their face is pretty much at the mercy of the backside in front of them.

Which is simple to avoid when traffic moves.

And understandably, you probably didn’t notice my toddler and I behind you when you stopped suddenly.

Or all of the children behind me, caught midair, unable to back up.

You were focused on your son, and he was scared.

And it was your job to get him moving again. Which you did. Eventually.

But sir, you should not have left the house without wearing some kind of undergarment beneath your running shorts.

I understand that these types of polyester, ultra beefy 3/4 split deals are great for running. And many are designed with a quick-drying brief lining the inside.

Yours for some reason, did not include that feature.

Maybe you thought they did. I know I wished they did.

But they didn’t.

Sir, you’re old enough to understand that you don’t freeball-it at the playground.

You just don’t.

Especially when there’s a chance that some unfortunate mother will be stuck behind you without the option to look away.

Because I tried, Sir.

I tried.

And I couldn’t.

Not because I was intrigued by the thought of watching your knackers aerate, but because I was escorting a one-year-old who didn’t yet understand the concept of waiting.

A one-year-old who had no problem crawling under your legs instead of keeping still. And it suddenly became my duty to keep her head from nearing your bollocks.

All I could picture was your package getting stuck to the slide as you skidded down with your son.

And that I’d have to go down the slide after you.

My jeans-only wardrobe FINALLY paid off.

And gratefully my daughter was still small enough to sit on my lap.

But Sir, seriously.

I appreciate that you weren’t on your blackberry.

I do.

But next time, please conceal yourself.

Sincerely,

Founder and President of the “We Don’t Want to See Your Balls” Club

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. Although, given the topic of this post, you probably shouldn’t attempt touching anything. Seriously.

railings

I sat at the edge of your bed again tonight
Acting as the railing you had me remove

I smoothed out your sheets
Moved the hair from your eyes
And kept a hand on your head
Or your arm or your leg or
Whatever was thrashing

It sounded like the terrors were taking you back
To the place where we don’t love you and
We gave you away or we
Tossed you out with the trash and
Happily lived on without you

A place I spend much of the day
Trying to prove doesn’t exist
Even though you don’t understand
Why you think it does in the first place

I sat you up in bed and
Pulled you on my lap and
I walked you around the room
And helped you drink water
And even though you looked right at me
I couldn’t call you out

So instead I sat back down on the edge of your bed
Acting as the railing you had me remove
Until your body went limp,
The sheets swallowed you whole
And the room was quiet again.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

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privacy policy

Dear ONE,

The more I think about it, the more positive I am that you still don’t understand what PRIVACY means. And now that you’re requesting it for things like playing with your friends or spending time with your 16 year-old cousin, I feel this is the perfect time to review exactly what it is you’re requesting.

PRIVACY is leaving someone entirely alone, even for a short amount of time. Creating a somewhat false, but relaxing, atmosphere in which they feel hidden and safe.

Allow me to elaborate:

• PRIVACY isn’t just for you. I’m glad you’d like it while in the bathroom, but I do too. This includes, but is not limited to, no longer speaking to/screaming at me from the other side of the door, not “checking to see if the door is locked” (it’s always locked). And seriously, stop telling me that you’d rather I didn’t have magazines in there. Where else am I supposed to learn about what’s happening in the Entertainment Industry? I need to feel conversationally relevant too. Back off.

• While we’re on the subject of bathrooms, let’s address Public PRIVACY. I’m oh-so-glad you can reach the restroom door lock. Really I am. I celebrate the childless morons who didn’t think to add a second, higher-up lock for parents who have to cart small inquisitive minds everywhere with them. But don’t open the door while I’m mid-stream. And don’t teach your sister to do it, either.

• You don’t get PRIVACY to tattle-tale. Everyone knows what you’re going to say when I give you a time out you call to your dad and ask to speak with him in your chambers “privately.” Time-out is the Ultimate PRIVACY. I know I enjoy it. You should invest in learning to also.

• Personal PRIVACY means, and don’t roll your eyes because you clearly don’t get it, not running around with untethered loins. Sure it’s fun and exciting and apparently refreshing at the pool. But I don’t want another incident of you telling the lifeguard “TWO was looking for my belly button and she poked my vagina” when I can’t reach you to make you stop because I’m struggling to get your wet, angry sister into clothes. Because first of all, if you didn’t shove yourself in her face while you were buffing it, she wouldn’t have the opportunity and second, it’s only July. The summer is only going to get hotter. Don’t get us kicked out of the pool.

• The other side of Personal PRIVACY means relinquishing your right to opinionated commentary while I’m getting dressed. I’ve said it many times, and someday I hope you’ll believe that I really don’t care that you wish I’d wear prettier, princess-y panties like you. I won’t. I never will. If you want us to match, make us bracelets. In quiet time.

• Personal PRIVACY also extends to other people. Strangers. A phrase like, “Why when he bends over his butt falls out?” is not appropriate when the person is right in front of us. I’d say you shouldn’t be staring at his butt, but I understand why that’s impossible. To spare us both the follow-up question, I’ll just state for the record that I don’t know why he’s wearing tight, fitted jeans belted below his ass with a t-shirt kind of tucked into his boxers which are up around his ribs. At least in my day the jeans were baggy and heavy so you could almost understand the whole “sagging” look. But I don’t get it with the tight jeans either.  Regardless, it’s inappropriate to yell about it on the escalator. File it under a “wait until we’re in the car conversation.”

Short story long, I’m happy to give you PRIVACY, but I want it in return. And not pouty, moaning, resigned PRIVACY. I want the real-deal.

Let’s give it a go.

Quietly back away from the bathroom door, I’m gonna be in here for awhile.

Got that?

Regards,
Mama

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. Pun intended.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

cutter No.5

Even to this day, the scent of Chanel No.5 terrifies me.

Boo!

Not because of its light and relaxing fragrance.

Or its iconic black casing.

But because growing up Chanel No.5 meant one thing.

Grandma was coming to babysit.

That was not good.

There would be no games, zero stalling, an early bedtime, and no use of the good hand towels. And by “good” I don’t mean fancy, monogrammed ones; we didn’t have that kind. “Good” to Grandma meant the ones that weren’t threadbare. She’d actually put away the soft towels and dig around in the linen closet for the ones my mom used for dusting.

Grandma was hard-core depression era.

But back to Chanel.

My mom didn’t wear a lot of it.

Just a few dabs on her wrist and a touch or two behind her ears.

Always a special occasion that required the application of eye shadow and the reemergence of her engagement ring.

Things unnecessary for evenings at home. With us.

And the scent of the perfume, along with the steam from the bathroom made No.5 seep into the furniture and linger in the air all night long. A reminder that Mom wasn’t home and if she didn’t make it back alive we’d get stuck living with the yellow boat car driving, polyester pant-suit wearing, pregnant looking Grandma who bought the cheap markers that dried up as soon as you opened the package.

On those nights I hid at the top of the stairs until I witnessed my parents walk through the door and heard Grandma’s boat chug down the street.

So maybe it’s masochistic, but I’ve always wondered what smell would define me to my kids or make them panic at the thought of my departure. Would it be my everyday light mist of a Bath and Body Works spray? Or would it be my going out Armani?

Turns out I needn’t have worried because ONE and TWO love their babysitters so much that ONE often asks if I would just leave so the sitters could come over. And at the word, “babysitter” TWO jumps up and down and yells, “YA! YA! YA!”

I had all but given up hope on leaving a fragrant imprint on my offspring when we entered the park the other day. And as we passed a woman on a bench ONE stopped short and exclaimed,

“MAMA! She smells just like you!”

I died a little inside.

First of the general mom humiliation that comes when your kid exclaims something you have to physically turn around to understand and second, because the woman was spraying herself with this:

THAT is what I smell like to them.

Not Armani. Not Bath and Body Works. Not even dirty ass Chanel No.5 (which I swore I’d never own, but at this point, I might as well.)

Freakin’ Insect Repellant.

This Mom-Thing just gets better and better.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass gonna stank like Cutter’s Delight.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

how to cry (publicly) in one easy step

Watch your itty-bitty, beautiful, ham-of-a-daughter (who refused to wear her camp t-shirt because “it doesn’t match anything”) perform on stage for the very first time.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

dressing room truth

A girl can lie to herself about herself anywhere.

ANYWHERE.

As long as she’s clothed.

But the moment she stands before herself in a dressing room, everything changes.

Especially if she’s shopping for a bathing suit.

And even when a girl has made great strides coming to terms with what is left of her post-child body, it’s still disappointing when she looks at her stomach in the mirror and see this:

Not the face part, although when my daughter gets bored and jabs my belly button I can play the old sailor game of making my stomach “sing.” Or was it making the mermaids on their muscles swim? I digress…

It’s the skin.

The extra freakin’ skin.

It’s been 20 months since my stomach was stretched and made this extra skin appear out of nowhere. All fall, winter and spring I imagined it was something else. I tucked it into my jeans. I hid it in sweatshirts. I promised myself that maybe this summer when I looked at my stomach again it would be gone. But then I looked down and there it was. I mean, where did I think it would go?

And there’s no place to hide it in a dressing room. (Facing the truth should not be a summer activity. Especially when the very loud OMG Girls!!! are also trying on and comparing bikinis in nearby dressing rooms.)

And what’s the payoff?

Wearing the bathing suit.

In public.

Seriously.

After grumbling and packing and trudging and digging for pool passes we arrived at a new pool. (There are several we can visit with this membership.) I led us through the muggy dressing room, sticky bathrooms and found myself facing a surprise hiding place.

The PERFECT hiding place.

Just like everything else in Northern Virginia it turned out to be all about location! location! location!

Location of the baby pool.

I’m pretty sure that this particular baby pool was designed by a woman who gave birth several times because it was isolated and fenced off from the rest of the main pools and splash attractions.

It was like an island.

Far, far away from the OMG Girls!!! and hot ladies.

Populated only by moms and little kids.

Looking around I saw nothing but swim skirts and tankinis and exposed extra skin. There was even a woman who wore her pants and a t-shirt in the water (which had to violate some kind of health code, but we’re on a chlorine-filtered Mom Island here. Who am I to judge?)

It was surprising and refreshing and empowering.

I never would’ve thought the pool would be the place to shake off Dressing Room Truth and blend in.

And as it turns out, BLENDING IN is the greatest form of hiding.

And it’s a damn good thing it is.

Because we still have to go 6 more times before we get our money’s worth out of this membership.

And I’m just cheap enough to slap on a bathing suit, face my adominal remains and make sure we do.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and expect a water-lodged wedgie. That’s right. I used the word “wedgie.”

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

performance review

So I’ve been a professional mom for about 4.5 years now. Some days I congratulate myself on landing this job, other times I wish they’d just fire my ass. And now that ONE is old enough to properly communicate (and spends her days pointing out the injustices of life), I felt it was the perfect time for a performance review.

On myself.

It’s important for a Type-A to know where she stands.

(Currently TWO can kiss off if she thinks she has a say. Until she stops shrieking in my ears as a form of communication and rolling away mid-diaper change, her opinion cannot be trusted. She’s lucky she’s still employed.)

My strengths: I love them. I looooove (and totally respect) their daddy. I’m consistent. I admit when I’m wrong and apologize. I encourage them to explore and try new things. I kick ass at story time. I’m protective, yet I don’t jump in to solve their problems. I let them make their own decisions without guilting them. (Go ahead, ask TWO how that sand tasted. She’ll tell you.)

My weaknesses: My patience reserve is at an all-time low. I get bored just thinking about how I’ll have to play with them; I’d rather space out in front of the computer. I still have the itch to multi-task, which used to be an asset but now only leads to less patience and more boredom. I still have an irrational fear of death; I hear a strange noise, either coming from my children, their room, or their general direction and I’m sure I’ll find them dead. I still get pissed when my firstborn wakes me up several times a night. Like last night. It will never be okay.

Where I see myself in 5 years: Still crazy in love with my husband, sterile, still the mother of (only) two and still writing. Pretty much exactly where I am now, just older. And sterile.

*                    *                    *                    *                    *

Comments from my sometimes boss, sometimes co-worker and sometimes employee. (We’re still trying to nail down our job descriptions.)

What do you like that I do?

I like when you give me hugs and kisses. That makes me feel good. And I like when you put make-up on, I want to put make-up on. And you put some on me. You always come in my room before you go to bed just in case I sleep the wrong way you can fix me.

What do you wish I’d do more of?

Well, on hot days I wish you would take me and my sister to get ice cream more. And milkshakes. I wish you could color with me more. And that you’d pick the beads for me to put on my necklaces and bracelets when I make them.

What do you wish I’d stop doing?

I wish you’d stop giving me time-outs. And getting me in trouble. I wish you would stop writing for a long time and play with me and my sister instead. Because then we have to bring the toys by you and that makes you mad.

What else makes me mad or sad or angry?

When I hit my sister. Or when I throw a temper tantrum.

What makes me happy?

A picture I draw and a hug and a kiss. When I give you presents and flowers even though it’s not your birthday. (You’re not going to grow any bigger than you are now, right? Why?)

What do you think is most important to me?

Me and my sister and daddy and Maggie (our dog). That’s what I think.

*                    *                    *                    *                    *

Rating: Satisfactory.

(Gotta work on the fact that I have no desire to improve my “playing” skills…)

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass will be next to face the review board.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

the dos/don’ts of surviving preschool camp

DO sign your child up.

DO NOT sign yourself up.

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DO pick a camp t-shirt that “fits.”

DO NOT grab a child’s M for yourself, even though it looks closest to your size. It will shrink after washing, which not only makes you look totally 90’s, it encourages impromptu rounds of the  “belly button” game while you’re trying to get a headcount.

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DO pump the kids up for song time.

DO NOT sit in front of them during the “whistle” song.

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DO enforce mandatory potty breaks between all activities.

DO NOT sit behind 14 children during story time, even though they swore they used the toilet. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself if you’re caught downwind…

Speaking of downwind, DO NOT let Big Potty initiate shoeless story time. 14 pairs of 4 year-old feet reek when they’ve been without socks all day long. All of this together = bad news for you.

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DO praise and encourage all children within your group. This week is about them, not you. Even though you plan to leave these memories at the camp, they take theirs with them.

DO NOT be surprised when other kids like you and ask to sit on your lap.

DO NOT be surprised when it feels like cheating on your own kid.

DO NOT be surprised at the twinge of sadness because your lap was available in the first place due to the teenage girl’s lap your child picked over yours.

*

DO get suspicious the moment all 14 children are quiet on the playground.

DO race over before your daughter cries out, “Mama! Come here, quick!”

DO NOT ever underestimate the compassion of little kids. It’s not always trouble or bleeding or silly. Sometimes it’s a baby bird that fell out of a nest. A tiny, little, hairless thing that has to be moved because the tree is in the center of the playground.

And after you’ve raced around with this thing in a cup and found someone to take it to a nature reserve, DO NOT be taken off guard when your daughter leads the other kids in hugging you.

DO admit that, dangit, KathyB! was right.

There’s nothing like being a hero in front of your daughter and 13 other children you wouldn’t mind seeing again.

Just NOT all at one time.

And definitely NOT at your house.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and my army of 14 will be marching your way. I will let them loose in your house and you will beg for mercy.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

race to gray

ONE still sees things very black/white. To her it’s either right or wrong.

I know the time is coming when it will all be about Gray. How quickly she can prove that what she did, or said, was somehow okay. Somehow within the boundaries of what was allowed. That it was a matter of interpretation and that I missed something.

I know it’s coming because Gray is a childhood art form.

One I took on as a personal challenge until I became an adult and realized that I was actually cheating myself and the people I loved. And that there was no one to make up the difference for me.

So now, as I watch her process and reason, I appreciate the way she sees things. And I work really hard to make sure that what I present her with is honest. Because I know at some point my honestly, especially regarding the little things, will make an impact on how she chooses to respond to things in her own life. Myself included.

And as I’m sure you know, it’s really hard not to lie to a kid.

Not in a mean way, but sometimes it’s hard to be entirely honest with a child when you know they won’t understand. (“Why don’t they have a home?”) Or when what you say will lead to a discussion that is beyond their comprehension. (“But if she died, then when will you die? And who will be my mommy then?”)  Or you just want to get the hell out of the store without an unnecessary meltdown. (“But whyyyyyyyyy can’t I say that? It’s the truth. Daddy said we don’t wear clothes like that in public!”)

It has always been important to me not to lie to my kids. About anything. Sure I’ll word things in a way that an adult would know that I’m actually dodging her question or trying to change the subject, but when it comes down to it, I tell her the truth. (I’m not saying that I’ve never lied, Santa does visit our house, just that strive not to.)

Enter Gray.

ONE loves WordGirl. As an ex-PBS employee I celebrate that show with her because PBS is awesome. If you haven’t seen it, WordGirl is a superman-type show about a secret superhero 5th grader who uses advanced vocabulary words to save the world from evildoers misusing the English language. (Secretly set in Northern Virginia? Perhaps…)

Anyway, at the start of each episode Becky Botsford. (Clark Kent) realizes that something is amiss and has to distract those around her so they don’t notice her disappear to turn into:

The other day ONE was watching the show and called me into the room (yeah, yeah, I don’t watch TV with her. I’m one of those. I admit it, BACK OFF).

ONE: Mama? Is WordGirl a liar?

ME: (DAMN, I really need to watch these shows with her…) Why, Pea?

ONE: Well, it’s just that she told her parents that she was going to catch butterflies, but she wasn’t. She was going to turn into WordGirl. So she told them something so they’d believe her, but it wasn’t true. That makes her a liar, doesn’t it?

ME: Wow. Yes. You’re right, she is telling a lie.

ONE: Hmmmmm…

NOOOOOOOOOOOO PBS, how could you do this to me?

I know, I know.

1) She’s a little young for the show. 2) It’s the superhero dynamic. If WG didn’t do that, she’d be putting family in danger of being hurt by villains, or 3) her parents might fear for her safety and keep her in the house, thereby allowing villains to run free and do bad things to other innocent people.

But stripping all of that down to the black-and-white brain of a 4 year-old, WordGirl IS telling a lie.

Some might say a “white lie,” but regardless of the color, it’s still a lie.

So anyway, I bring this up because I’m curious about how other people handle this kind of situation.

Do you think it’s a relative issue? Is there really a sliding scale of lies? Or are white lies really just a gateway lie? Is a lie a lie? Or is it a sometimes lie? Am I blowing this out of proportion? (I’m not above admitting that.)

I know this is one of those judgmental-type topics, so please feel free to comment anonymously. (>>click here<< and scroll down to the bottom of the page for instructions on how to do that.)

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and shame on you. I think you need to go back and re-read what you’re stealing.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

hey, teacher!

Some women are not only born to be moms, but they’re also born to be enthusiastic nurturers of kids attending the community camps.

• Other women sign their kids up for camp so that they can spend their mornings burning off energy with those enthusiastic women.

Some women find so much extra “umph” inside of them that they volunteer for the tough stuff first. Like leading the actual camp activities, or wrangling the kids that attend. They do this. On purpose. Nurseries are set up to care for their babies so that these leaders can be involved.

• Other women, after signing up their preschoolers, get greedy. And  in a moment of weakness, imagine how nice it would be to have both children at the camp, even though it means having to volunteer so that their baby gets a nursery slot. So they volunteer for snacks, or photography, or something else non-kid orientated.

Some women jump at the chance to replace a preschool volunteer who dropped out last minute. They’d be thrilled to find themselves a “helper” in their daughter’s group. A group that includes 5 other girls and 9 boys, all age 4.

• Other women consider pulling their child out of the camp instead. But can’t because their child is excited. “Mama! Now we can spend ALL DAY together!”

Some women take charge. To them, every role is an opportunity to lead.

• Other women panic when they realize that “helper” actually means “leader.” “Leader” who was given no training, no games, no arsenal of anything. Just a clipboard, a packet of name tags and an extra kid whose mother dropped him off early. And, go!***

Some women remember all of the songs (complete with hand gestures and dances) from childhood. They smile. A lot. They jump around in the humidity. They need zero help.

• Other moms have to ask the teenagers at the camp what games they’re playing with their preschoolers. What transition activities and songs they’re singing. Because even though their child is a preschooler, she is only 1 preschooler. Adding 14 more kind of changes the dynamic. And as it turns out, kids just like teenagers more.
  

Some women engage, engage, engage!

• Other women get stuck on bathroom duty. For the boys. Under her supervision, one decides to play hide-and-seek with his crocs in the bathroom (Newsflash, Crocs Float!), another boy pees all over his underwear, his pants and his name tag. And then refuses to wash his hands without a fight before leaving the bathroom. And a third boy announces, “Hey, Teacher! I got a big penis at home. Did you hear me? I said, I got a big potty at home. Like this on the wall. And my daddy doesn’t want me sitting on these potties, so I want you to pick me up so I can pee in this one on the wall.”

(Other woman may be a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. She directs the boy towards a stall and instructs him to please close the door behind him. No one wants to see his Big Potty.)

Some women appreciate their children the moment they are born.

• It takes other women a little longer, but they eventually realize how lucky they are to have intense, creative, bossy girls who don’t need help in the bathroom. Suddenly a day at the pool sounds lovely. Now, if she could only make it to the end of the week…

***Guilt kicked right about here and I feel the need to justify at this point that I’m faking it really well in front of the kids and they’re all having a great time. So if your kid is in my group, even if it’s Big Potty, no worries, really. There are two other moms leading the group and together we = at least one awesome teenager.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m comin’ after your ass when camp is over. Trust me, you won’t want a piece of me after a week like this.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

lines (then/now)

Lines (Then):

Waiting in line at the grocery store? No lines in front of Mom’s fridge.

A+

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Looooong line to get a good seat at the Lilith Fair (in the years before Husband, as I’m sure he’d want clarified).

A+

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Intimate line behind five bridesmaids to walk down the aisle.

If I remembered it at all, I’m sure it was an A+

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The middle of a loud line with several hundred other kids in caps and gowns anxious to get the hell out of college.

I remember it and A+

*          *          *          *          *          *

Lines (Now):

Linea Negra. Sh*t was supposed to be gone by 6 months post. I last gave birth over 19 months ago. I can still see it.

F

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Waiting in the car for the mall play area to open and noticing all of the other moms/nannies in their cars with the same damn idea because it’s raining. Again.

F

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Waiting outside of a preschool at 5am with two dozen other parents to get your kid on a waiting list. Not registered, just put on A WAITING LIST. Not for college, for PRESCHOOL.

So this is planet Arlington…

F

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Waiting in line at the gro…I said NO. No, you may not eat that candy….what do you mean you already opened it? Put that magazine down, stop looking at the cover. Yes, you’re right. It does look like she’s naked but…Don’t hand your sister that balloon! It’s nice of you to share, but it’s not yours and she’s going to scream when it’s time to leave and…wait, how much did you say all this came to?

F-

*          *          *          *          *          *

Other then/nows

Naked Dinner

Denny’s

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and you’ll be waiting in line at the ER. That’s right. I said it.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.