Dear Friendless,
I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.
I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.
I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.
Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.
Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.
Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.
I married that guy.
I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.
But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.
I’m sitting by the cheese dip.
And eating out of the bowl.
And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.
Laugh
Showing posts with label diaper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diaper. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Toxic Baby Poop
I've had a request to run this column again. I can't think why. Once you've waded into biological warfare this intense, you don't usually choose to re-enter the battlefield. Somebody must have lost a bet.
Nothing brings Moms together like a discussion of dirty diapers of the dynamic kind. When it comes to Toxic Baby Poop, We Are Family. No matter what gruesome tales are told, we all feel that our own baby would capture the prize in a diaper-runneth-over derby.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling, chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage. Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Suddenly a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory-fresh box of Milk Duds.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden. Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Nowadays that baby is a responsible citizen with a job and a hearty appetite.
And we know the plumber by first name.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tales of Toxic Baby Poop
Nothing brings parents together like a discussion of dirty diapers of the dynamic kind. When it comes to Toxic Baby Poop, We Are Family. No matter what gruesome tales are told, we all feel that our own baby would capture the prize in a diaper runneth over derby.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she'd just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. She had to blindfold him and seal off his nasal passages with a clothespin before he could face the offending creature, which makes it more of a pin the tail on the donkey tournament that a simple task of diapering. I mentioned that she could accept wagers from the neighbors over which household item would be the next to sport a diaper, my guess being the family tabby Bubba, but she did the wise thing and sent hubby to live with his mother until the tyke starts school. All the same, I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage.
Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Accompanied by an intestinal drumroll and trumpet blast, a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory fresh box of Raisinettes.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden.
Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Now that very same baby is a responsible young man with a hearty appetite. And we know the plumber by first name.
One friend, whose daughter is a new player on the baby poop battlefield wrung her hands (and the blouse she'd just washed out) as we discussed the adventures that come with having a baby. Her husband was no help on the field of battle, she said, because every time he approached the offending area, he would gag and retch, thus making a bigger mess than the original culprit. She had to blindfold him and seal off his nasal passages with a clothespin before he could face the offending creature, which makes it more of a pin the tail on the donkey tournament that a simple task of diapering. I mentioned that she could accept wagers from the neighbors over which household item would be the next to sport a diaper, my guess being the family tabby Bubba, but she did the wise thing and sent hubby to live with his mother until the tyke starts school. All the same, I couldn’t help but recall my first foray into deep doody.
When my oldest son was just a couple of weeks old, we ran into the constipation Wheel of Fortune. The doctor advised a little of the apple/prune juice available for babies. It came in a small, innocent bottle in the baby food section of the grocery store and sported a label bearing a smiling chubby-cheeked chap obviously free of intestinal blockage.
Our little guy found the taste quite agreeable and downed the whole bottle.
All at once the sky grew dark, the ground trembled, and people snatched their children from sandboxes in the back yard as they ran to take cover in their basements. Accompanied by an intestinal drumroll and trumpet blast, a volley of semi-solid ammunition erupted from the baby and coated the family like a factory fresh box of Raisinettes.
Even Bounty wasn’t a quick enough picker upper that day. We just ran the garden hose through the living room and washed the waste outside to fertilize the garden.
Nothing has grown in that patch of ground since.
That first diaper demolition derby was a long time ago. Now that very same baby is a responsible young man with a hearty appetite. And we know the plumber by first name.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I'm Not Hip
The style these days is for young people to wear hiphuggers. From what I’ve seen, these pants don’t just hug; they hang on for dear life. It’s not that I mind the lowcut styles. It’s just that when I see that much of a child’s behind, I have to fight the urge to puff it with a cloud of baby powder and slap a diaper on it.
Ever the hitchhiker on the fashion superhighway, I ventured into the local Hip Bones R Us to give the new style a try. Sure, I wore hiphuggers when I was a teenager, but that was two children and a chocolate laden post-divorce feeding frenzy ago. Maybe now I need something a little more forgiving. I don't want to give the impression that my underwear might spontaneously combust when I walk across a room.
I came out of the dressing room like an American Idol contestant that sang Happy Birthday to Simon in the key of X. When the saleslady cocks her head to one side and calls you Sweetie like you’re the last one left on the Atkins diet, you know something’s wrong. I was going to call my husband for support, but my cell phone was wedged under what I think used to be my hip bone. My appendix buzzed every time I missed a call.
The belly shirt I rolled on with the outfit did nothing to hide my personal information from random passers by. The janitor at the mall now knows I had two emergency C-Sections and an unfortunate run-in with a weed eater, and you can Mapquest my stretch marks on the Internet.
It seems to me it would be a good deal more flattering if the shirts were hip huggers and the trousers were belly pants. Then I could have an extra muffin for breakfast without tipping off everyone at the office as to how many poppy seeds were involved.
I’ve read that fashions are designed for size zero runway models who exist on soy shavings and bottled water and who have legs longer than a New York traffic jam. If so, I can see why these pants are all the rage. It's road rage.
Ever the hitchhiker on the fashion superhighway, I ventured into the local Hip Bones R Us to give the new style a try. Sure, I wore hiphuggers when I was a teenager, but that was two children and a chocolate laden post-divorce feeding frenzy ago. Maybe now I need something a little more forgiving. I don't want to give the impression that my underwear might spontaneously combust when I walk across a room.
I came out of the dressing room like an American Idol contestant that sang Happy Birthday to Simon in the key of X. When the saleslady cocks her head to one side and calls you Sweetie like you’re the last one left on the Atkins diet, you know something’s wrong. I was going to call my husband for support, but my cell phone was wedged under what I think used to be my hip bone. My appendix buzzed every time I missed a call.
The belly shirt I rolled on with the outfit did nothing to hide my personal information from random passers by. The janitor at the mall now knows I had two emergency C-Sections and an unfortunate run-in with a weed eater, and you can Mapquest my stretch marks on the Internet.
It seems to me it would be a good deal more flattering if the shirts were hip huggers and the trousers were belly pants. Then I could have an extra muffin for breakfast without tipping off everyone at the office as to how many poppy seeds were involved.
I’ve read that fashions are designed for size zero runway models who exist on soy shavings and bottled water and who have legs longer than a New York traffic jam. If so, I can see why these pants are all the rage. It's road rage.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Personality Test - A True Story
When the kids were wee, innocent producers of diaper-filling by-products, I remember gazing into their tiny faces and thinking with motherly love, “If I don’t get these guys potty trained soon, I’m taking a one-way cruise to Tahiti.” They giggled and cooed and made those adorable crinkly-nosed baby faces that God gave them so that mothers wouldn’t try to return them to the factory before the warranty expired. If I had only known then that they were actually saying, “Just wait until I’m sixteen. Then we’ll see who can achieve flight in a Chrysler,” I’d be sunning myself in a Tahitian lounge chair right now.
These days the oldest child is tucked safely away at college on the ten year plan. The youngest is a high school senior, hovering on the brink of independence. He’s been hovering on the brink of independence since he was one year old and refused to eat anything that had seeds, roots, or crust. Now at seventeen, he doesn’t just march to a different drummer, he counts cadence.
For reasons beyond my fathoming ability, the local high school deemed Son Two fit for college courses and tucked him into a program that allows for an earned semester at the local community college during the high school year. It’s my job to be late for work while I chauffer him from one institution of higher learning to the other. As a mother of teenagers, institutions fall within my area of expertise. This morning, Son Two hopped into the car after class, filled with glee and the joy of life. That’s a bad sign.
“Guess what?” This is a generic term that means something has happened that makes his planets align like three bars on a Las Vegas slot machine. He has an odd sense of humor. Gets it from my ex-husband, The Defendant.
I gave him my best Mommy’s Listening to Your Needs look and wheeled up to the Stop sign at the exit of the college parking lot. “What?”
“We took a personality test in Psychology today.”
So far, no speed bumps on the road to higher education. How did I miss the road sign that read Caution: Do Not Enter?
“It listed famous people whose qualities we share.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who’s Hannibal Lecter?”
They tell me the city will replace the stop sign and insurance will pay for the damage to the car. But I’m probably going to put my therapist’s child through college. I hope he’s not taking psychology. That was Hannibal's major, too.
These days the oldest child is tucked safely away at college on the ten year plan. The youngest is a high school senior, hovering on the brink of independence. He’s been hovering on the brink of independence since he was one year old and refused to eat anything that had seeds, roots, or crust. Now at seventeen, he doesn’t just march to a different drummer, he counts cadence.
For reasons beyond my fathoming ability, the local high school deemed Son Two fit for college courses and tucked him into a program that allows for an earned semester at the local community college during the high school year. It’s my job to be late for work while I chauffer him from one institution of higher learning to the other. As a mother of teenagers, institutions fall within my area of expertise. This morning, Son Two hopped into the car after class, filled with glee and the joy of life. That’s a bad sign.
“Guess what?” This is a generic term that means something has happened that makes his planets align like three bars on a Las Vegas slot machine. He has an odd sense of humor. Gets it from my ex-husband, The Defendant.
I gave him my best Mommy’s Listening to Your Needs look and wheeled up to the Stop sign at the exit of the college parking lot. “What?”
“We took a personality test in Psychology today.”
So far, no speed bumps on the road to higher education. How did I miss the road sign that read Caution: Do Not Enter?
“It listed famous people whose qualities we share.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who’s Hannibal Lecter?”
They tell me the city will replace the stop sign and insurance will pay for the damage to the car. But I’m probably going to put my therapist’s child through college. I hope he’s not taking psychology. That was Hannibal's major, too.
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