There is often talk in my town about passing a law banning the use of cellphones in cars. I am both a proponent of this law and an unrepentant hypocrite for talking while driving without the use of a hands-free device.
Imagine that you’re feeling particularly worn down by consecutive nights of child-interrupted sleep and mornings of strapping unwilling children into car-seats. An older, more experienced parent notices that you are not your adorable, chipper self, and inquires as to your well-being. You explain in between yawns that you are being terrorized by your toddler and abused by your infant. But instead of a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, you are greeted with a smug and superior ‘Oh, little children little problems, big children big problems. That’s nothing compared to what I am going through….’
I made a bad parenting call yesterday. I got mad and stayed mad over something that I could’ve let slide had I not been so tired/hungry/worried over the fate of Downton Abby.
I recently came across a long forgotten gift card for a children’s store and I decided to use it to buy some things for my kids. Although I have been a mother for 8 years, buying children’s clothes is a new endeavor for me. My Bubbe was the shopper in the family. Apparently that is a recessive trait, or a gene that skips two generations, as my mother, my sister and I are not blessed with her patience and skill.
Like many a proud preschool mama, I receive backpacks full of exquisite art projects on a weekly basis. The mediums range from finger paint on construction paper to colored shaving cream on tin foil; and the subject matter spans ‘my family’ to ‘the dead raccoon I saw on Highway 80’.
My kids had their winter break last month. We spent the week with out of town family -museums, bowling, sledding, cousins, grandparents and an extravagant amount of ice cream made it a wonderful week. But I have to say, the highlight of the trip was the introduction of my family to Angry Birds.
Someone finally vomited on the new couches. I knew this day would come, and given that the ‘new’ couches are 11 months old, I am feeling pretty good about our collective ability to keep bodily fluids in their appropriate places. Perhaps we are slowly moving away from the land of ‘See! This is why we don’t have nice things!’
My son moved out. The top bunk where he sleeps is empty. His closet is bare. The trophies that proudly indicate that he ‘participated’ are no longer on his dresser. Gone are the halcyon days of sharing a room with his two younger brothers. Wanderlust set in, urging him to depart for the new horizon formerly known as The Guest Room.
I got a postcard in the mail advertising a free trail class at a local baby gym. I love free, especially when it comes with the added perk of interaction with other adults. So my daughter and I put on our gym shoes and headed out.
While we will not technically celebrate Purim for a few more days, in our home Purim came early this year as we were blessed with a series of miraculous events that made our holiday preparations non-disastrous and dare I say, fun.