Dear Momicillin Momma, My kid FREAKS out every time it’s time to leave the playground! Help! Signed, Freaked Out By Freak Outs Dear Freaked Out, I hear you sister! I remember hauling my twins kicking and screaming from the playground to the car looking like some sort of linebacker with two stuck pigs under my arms. Not pretty. Not fun. And I hate to break it to you but there are no quick solutions to this problem. Well, that’s (...Read More)
About LindaLinda spent thirteen years functioning as a working mom (where “functioning” grossly overstates her mental condition and “working” means “income-contributing”). Recently, she joined the ranks of stay-at-home moms (where “stay-at-home” means “working-for-free”), managing her household of six: herself, hubby “BigG,” daughter “Jay” (b.1994), identical tweens “Clyde” and “Tanner” (b.1998), and rescue dog “Lola” (b.1996?). Without diapers or refrigerator letters to explain her new status, Linda spends too much time justifying—to herself—her zero-earnings existence, which leads her to occasionally go where few moms bother to tread, like the end of a 20-foot ladder installing remote-control blinds. Having bluffed her way through toddler- and childhood, Linda only hopes that she and her kids can survive the angst and drama (and jacked-up auto insurance premiums) that precede adulthood. So far so good: C&T are kind, smart, happy guys who are easily entertained. And aside from periodically exuding PMS-induced tension, Jay is an atypical teen who is not really into fashion or boys and actually likes her mom and dad.
My dear sweet children, I don’t know how to state this delicately, so I’ll just get straight to the point: will you please—for the love of all things true, beautiful and quiet—stop talking to me every second of every minute of every day. You do not need to say aloud to me every thought that passes through your little minds—or big minds. Whatever. The size of your minds is not the issue here. The point is that I need time—perhaps (...Read More)
BigG and I have claimed Mischief Maker as one of our favorite red wines. Now if you’re a wine connoisseur and particularly hung up on details like never breaking the white wine with poultry rule, I’m not talking to you because we’re not in the same league. I like cheap wine that tastes good; those are really my only criteria. At less than US$15 per bottle, Mischief Maker meets the cost criterion but the taste is what keeps me faithful. (...Read More)
Yesterday, while C&T played catch and BigG worked on his bike, I sat with my face in the sun thinking about Clyde’s monstrous backpack and what it might reflect about his character. Two feet by two feet, Clyde’s olive drab behemoth surpasses his breadth by 18 inches and weighs approximately 900 pounds—at least that was my guess. After I sent Clyde to weigh his pet mammoth, I learned I was wrong. At age 13, Clyde weighs in proudly at 93.3 (...Read More)
Tonight, I’m driving my boys and two of their friends home from track practice. The pre-pubescent hormones are flowing (if that’s possible), windows are down, they’re shouting at girls they know, and their friend Casper says, “When I’m older and have a girlfriend, I’m going to rip my shorts off and say, ‘I’m sexy and I know it!’” They all laugh, but Clyde says, “I don’t know dude. I don’t think that’ll work for you.” But Casper’s confident: “Sure it (...Read More)