How to make LIP (Low-Impact-Parenting) work for you. Tips for the lazy parent.

Being a stay-at-home mom, it was important to find ways to keep my kids happy with the absolute bare minimal amount of effort. That’s how my husband and I came up with Low-Impact-Parenting. It can bring a few tears at times, but oh well. Builds character. Here are a few of my favorites:

1. If your child has a door fetish like my does, build up a collection of Chevron Cars. They have doors that open and close. When they leave the room, line them up and open all the doors, hoods and trunks. Drives my son nuts for hours.

2. Sneakily remove all the crayons and just leave the wrappers. Then ask your kid if they want to color. That puzzled look lasts quite awhile.

3. Sit back, kick your feet up, and pretend you’re listening to your kid’s play conversation with their trains. In case you happen to doze off, I’ll give you a heads up. It almost always sounds a little bit like this:

Thomas the Train: Hey Daisy. What you doin’ here?

Daisy the Bus: I’m goin’ to the store to buy bread.

4. Glue the receiver to the base of their toy telephone. Then pretend it’s ringing. You’re covered for a good 40 minutes here.

5. Stand in one spot and kick a ball around your yard. Your kids will tire themselves out chasing it and your hands will be free to sip that much needed glass of wine.

xo

108,000 people have asked: Where’s my boob?

Don’t ask me why 108,000 people have watched this video, or why LaLeche of Italy used it for their annual conference (yes, they literally had to translate it). But, here it is. Back by popular demand, my husband and son doing their rendition of “Where’s My Boob?”

My son is now 2.5 and hasn’t nursed for over a year, but he’s still a boob man. Must be in the genes.

xo

My hateful love affair with Trader Joe’s…and its patrons

Unfortunately, there are certain things you can only buy at Trader Joe’s. Decent wine that you don’t have to dip into your kid’s college fund for. Coffee that doesn’t cost $25 a pound and still tastes pretty good. Those little yogurts that my son eats for breakfast. The only yogurt he doesn’t turn his nose up at. He needs three spoons to eat it. Don’t ask.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Trader Joe’s. I just don’t like the people that shop there. Everyone in the entire city of Los Angeles is shopping there at the same fucking time I am. Whatever time of the day that might be. And these people are idiots. 

Let’s start with the parking lot. Must you take up three spaces with your over-sized Suburban? I mean, there are only twenty parking spaces for 5,000 people to begin with.

And it gets worse inside the store. With aisles barely wide enough to fit Nicole Richie standing sideways, I can never get through with my cart. Some moron is always standing in the middle of the aisle like a fucking defensive lineman. I mean really. Get that package of organic-gluten free-no trans fat added-vegan-antioxidant nut and berry mix and get the hell out of my way. Better yet, here’s a link to the their product and label list:

http://www.traderjoes.com/labels_and_lists.html 

Give that a little look-see before you head out for those free Trader Joe’s samples. Maybe then you won’t be hogging the aisle trying to find what ingredients are in flax seeds. I’ll save you the trouble. It’s flax seeds.

And what’s with the traffic jam around the free sample area? Do you really need the free sample? Must you linger for minutes at a time savoring every crumb, only to not buy the product afterwards?

And can’t you bag your own groceries? Just because the cashier’s wearing a silly Hawaiian shirt and is making $9 an hour, doesn’t mean he should have to fill your environmentally conscious grocery bags because you’re on your cell phone and can’t do two things at once.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. Check out this person from Seattle:

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sea/130239058.html

xo

The art of bringing your uninvited kids to an adult dinner party

Friends of ours invited us to their adult dinner party Saturday night. They always have such a diverse group of people at their parties. Writers. Rafters. Photographers. Surfers.  You name it. They’ll be there. I can see it now. Conversations about current events instead of Spongebob. The entertainment industry instead of American Girl. Surfing stories instead of Thomas the Train stories. I can’t wait.

Wait a fucking minute! The invite says the party starts at 8pm. And I don’t think this week’s mailman is available to babysit that late.

Since when is 8pm late. Since we had kids. And since I’ve become too paranoid to hire a babysitter. Especially one that looks younger than our kids. Or looks like they might steal them, sell them, or eat them.

My husband: “I told you we should have a standing babysitter.”

Um, thanks Jackass, (that’s my pet name for him). I’ll just pull a babysitter out of my ass. Hopefully they’re free Saturday night.

This is where the art kicks in. Tricking your friends into thinking your kids will actually enhance their dinner party.

Here are a few tips:

1. Bring your kids already dressed in their pajamas. Nothing says “I don’t have finger paints in my pockets” like kids all snugly in their jammies.

2. Immediately survey the room for the person who has had way too much to drink. They’re more inclined to watch your kids.

3. After you ascertain that the hosts have a pet, sit your kids down in front of junk food and soda. You can blame a lot of shit on the family dog.

4. Bring “The Best of Whale Sounds” CD and suggest it for some background music. It’ll drown out your whining kids when they have to wait in line for the bathroom.

5. Throw everyone off the track by complaining about people who bring kids to adult dinner parties. No one will suspect they’re yours. Just don’t forget to grab them on your way out. Unless you want some alone time at home without them.

In the end, Saturday night turned out to be a blast. We mingled. Our kids rifled through the host’s personal belongings. And, best of all, they passed out in the car on the way home.

xo

Don’t knock the knockers

I went to the doctor last month complaining I had a sore back and sore chest muscles. I let him know my self diagnosis when I walked in the room (I’m a bit of a hypochondriac): It’s scoliosis or breast cancer or some disease I can’t pronounce.

This doctor has seen me maybe once or twice before. But, he does know enough to ask his staff to postpone his next appointment when he sees my name in his calendar. (Sometimes I can be a bit…paranoid.) Oddly enough, he also calls his nurse into the room while I’m there, which I notice he doesn’t do with everyone.

“Are you sure you don’t feel any lumps? Better check again.”

“Did you check both breasts?” “Twice?”

“Does my spine seem crooked to you?”

The doctor suggested I was having these aches and pains because of my poor posture. Poor posture? What? I most certainly do not have poor posture. Ugh! How insulting!

(note: poor posture to the right)

“You really need to work on your posture.”

Um, okay. Strap these girls on for awhile and see if you have good posture. I highly doubt it. These fuckers are heavy!

I came home and mentioned to my husband I was considering a breast reduction. From his reaction, you would have thought I told him he was going bald, (which I might have mentioned to take the focus off me).

“I’d rather pay for you to get a new spine.” “How would you like it if I got a penis reduction?” Uh, okay. So not the same thing.

“You can’t blame all your problems on your boobs. Your back just hurts from carrying around our 2.5 year old.”

This is probably also true, but that three-way combo hurts my back. Thank you very much.

He just doesn’t get it. I mean the dude eats sushi for breakfast, for fuck’s sake. What’s he know about boobs?

Oh well. It looks like a breast reduction is out. For now. What I’ll need to find in the meantime then, is a good support bra that doesn’t look like a straight jacket. I’m sure I’ll have more luck teaching my son to change his own diaper.

xo

FREAKIN’ TOYS! And I’m not talking about the sex kind.

Why do family members and friends insist on buying toys for your kids that make noise? I’ll tell you why. They don’t have kids. Or, they have kids that are grown and have forgotten how fucking annoying it is. Or, they just hate you. I’m guessing it’s that last one.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked past my son’s room in the middle of the night and have heard:

“I’m Lightening McQueen. Hey! Watch the paint.”

I’ll watch the paint. I’ll watch it while it melts in the microwave.

A friend of ours specifically told his family NOT to send their kids any toys that made noise. His sister sent one anyway. He immediately threw it in the trash, took a picture of it in the trash, and emailed that picture to his sister. Fucking brilliant.

And what’s with the volume of toys?  See all this crappy plastic play food? This was one of the gifts to the kids from my mother. We lugged all of that shit home in a suitcase at Christmas time. Its new home is the Salvation Army. I also had to donate a Tiffany lamp just to get them to even take it.

I decided to build up my 2.5 year old son’s toy collection with good quality toys (you know, one’s that don’t talk, don’t have screaming sirens, and aren’t made of plastic that melts in your hand when you touch it). Then I snuck into his room while he was cleaning the mildew out of the shower and disposed of the crappy toys. One piece at a time.

He did get a little emotional when he heard one of his toys talking from the trash can. Gotta remember to bring that trash bag outside quicker.

I find kids play better and behave better when they don’t have toys. My step-daughter was totally unruly one night. I told her all of her toys would be gone when she got home from school the next day if she didn’t shape up. Needless to say, other than art supplies and books, I stood true to my word. I took anything that could even be construed as a toy. That paper clip that kind of looked like a cat: gone. That piece of lint that could potentially become a caterpillar: gone. That lightbulb that could be used to make shadow puppets: gone. Okay, I did put that one back. It was pretty dark in her room. I filled TWENTY trash bags! How does a nine year old wind up with 50 Barbies? That’s almost 6 Barbies per year from birth.

Funny thing is, she doesn’t even miss her toys. She’s just as happy scrubbing the toilet. As for my son, he’ll be just as happy once he finishes fixing our roof.

xo

 

 

Frumpy is as frumpy does

Five excuses…er…reasons I’ve converted from being fashionable to being frumpy:

1. It’s becoming more difficult to shower. My 2.5 year old son insists on coming into the bathroom with me, making snide remarks.

“Mom? That’s your butt.” “Mom? That’s your boobs.” “Mom? That’s your big belly.”

Um, thanks kid. Isn’t Dexter on TV? Remember, I want a written synopsis on my desk by noon.

2. My closet is now full of wash and wear. Dry cleaning is for wimps.

My childless friend: “Ugh. What’s that on your t-shirt?”

Well, that would either be a Juicy Couture logo or my son’s snot. Thanks for noticing.

3. I don’t want to upstage the other moms at the park.

I’m lying. I actually don’t go to the park. I only have a few outfits that look good and I’m not wasting them at the park. I try to save them for the grocery store or the post office.

4. Make-up is overrated.

The last time I wore eye make-up, my step-daughter asked me if someone punched me in the eye. Then my son ran around the house screaming how he wants to wear make-up too. Wuss.

 5. Why bother doing my hair?

I spent a half hour straightening my hair only to have my step-daughter tell me it looked exactly the same. Thanks sweetie. Now be a doll and get me a glass of wine. And make sure there’s no cork in the glass like the last time.

xo

EDDIE THE GUTTER MAN

Eddie the Gutter Man has been staying with us for the past five weeks.  Ironically, we live in Los Angeles and don’t have gutters.  We do have something that resembles a gutter, but it’s currently being used by our resident possum as a step ladder to get onto the roof. 

Truth be told, Eddie the Gutter Man is my dad.  He’s addicted to everything gutter. 

Whenever we’re in the car, he has to point out the gutters on people’s houses.

“Look at that gutter. Probably hasn’t been cleaned in years. I’ll bet I’d make a killin’ if I moved to California.”

That’s what my dad always says.  California.  Most people would brag that they’re in Los Angeles.  Not Eddie the Gutter Man.  Over the course of five weeks, he called every single person in his cell phone directory (and he has a lot of numbers in there for a 67 year old guy from New Jersey), to tell them he’s in California.

I designed a website for his business.  This took the entire five weeks.  Not because the design was elaborate.  That took 2 days. It was the fucking picture taking.

I should probably mention here that Eddie the Gutter Man is also vain, and other than gutters, he loves nothing more than pictures of himself.

 “Here Kim, take my picture with this gutter.” 

“Should we get a shot of me standing in the gutter?”

“How about if we get a shot of me holding the gutter like a baseball bat?”

“Twirling it like a baton?”

“Over my shoulder like a rifle?”

“As a raft in the pool?”

Anyway, Eddie the Gutter Man also has a home improvement business.  We’re lucky that he made a lot of improvements to our house while he was here. For free!  But, you can probably guess what I’m about to say:  I HAD TO TAKE A PICTURE OF HIM DOING EVERY SINGLE PROJECT. 

 “Hey Kim, get a shot of me closing the toilet lid.  Make sure the caulking is in the picture.”

“Did I look alright?”

“Did you get the logo on my sweatpants?”

Here he is with his favorite helper.  His grandson.  He follows him everywhere.  Even into the bathroom.  Eddie the Gutter Man takes almost as many pictures of him as he does of himself.

“Look Kim.  Here’s a picture of my grandson walkin’ down the street.  Here’s his next step.  And the next one. And the next one.  Isn’t that cute?”

Don’t get me wrong.  I love pictures of my son as much as the next guy, but give me a break.  He takes little steps.  How different could each picture be?

Each morning I could hear him on the phone, talking about his new website.  “Yeah, it’s Eddie from Eddie’s Gutter Service.  I’m out here in California.  I need a testimonial for my new website.  Can you email me something?  You know, I’ve been doing your gutters for a long time.  Oh, you don’t have email?  Can you send it in the mail?  Oh, you’re really sick in bed?  Do you have a pen handy?  No?  Well, can you just memorize my address?”

Eddie the Gutter Man is old school Italian.  And like I said earlier, he’s from New Jersey.  Paterson, to be exact.  This means he has a slight accent. 

“Hey, yeah, Tony.  Yeah, it’s me, Eddie.  Yeah, I’m out here in California visitin’ my grandson.  Yeah, I’m here five weeks.  Yeah, my daughter’s got me working my fuckin’ ass off over here.  Yeah, she’s got me cookin’ sauce and meatballs all day.”

Embarrassingly, this is true.  Eddie the Gutter Man is also a rocking cook.  After a six hour flight, I insist on stopping off at the grocery store on the way home.  He complains he’s too tired.  “Come on, old man. Grow a pair,” I usually say.  He always gives in.  All the cashiers know him by name.  So do the fireman who regularly shop there. He typically causes a scene by offering to teach them how to make real Italian sauce.  Matter of fact, that’s how Eddie the Gutter Man cooks.  Like he’s cooking for the entire fucking Los Angeles Fire Department. 

“Nah Kim.  You need to buy 800 cans of tomato sauce.  Otherwise it just won’t come out right.”  “And you’d better get 400 pounds of chopped meat too.”  Um, okay.  We’re a family of five and I don’t eat meat.

Our neighbors love when he visits.  They think he’s a real character, and we have so many leftovers, they don’t have to cook the entire time he’s here.  Someone is consistently walking up and down the block handing out or returning tupperware, like an assembly line.  He leaves the front door open when he’s cooking so the smell will let the neighbors know he’s in town.

After three years, we hadn’t even met most of our neighbors until Eddie the Gutter Man arrived.  He’s always saying he doesn’t like people, but then invites neighbors we don’t even know over for dinner. 

“Hey, let’s invite Karen and Dave over for supper.  They’re not home?  How about Molly? She’s out of town? Okay. Let’s invite Jen and her parents.”  Jen’s parents like him so much they sent oranges and lemons from their garden all the way to New Jersey. 

Eddie the Gutter Man is also a manny.  No, not really.  But, I will tell you this: I didn’t change one diaper for five weeks; (yes, our son is 2.5 and not potty trained yet…shoot me).  At certain times of the day, I’d say, “I smell poop.”  And that would be that.  After he left, I mentioned to my husband that his diaper hadn’t been changed for quite awhile.  He pointed out it was my responsibility to change his diaper during the day.  Can’t Eddie the Gutter Man do it?  What?  He went back to New Jersey?  Fuck.

Eddie the Gutter Man loves taking his grandson to the park.  They go every day.  Sometimes they go to three or four parks.  Do you know how many pictures that is?  Let’s see:  5,000 pictures per park, 4 parks per day, 7 days per week, 5 weeks.  You get the point. 

Eddie the Gutter Man is back in New Jersey and we miss him.  Last night, I shouted out, “HEY, OLD MAN, WHAT’S FOR DINNER?,” and no one answered.  Good thing he cooks like he’s cooking for the Los Angeles Fire Department.  There’s 500 containers of sauce in our freezer.

If you live in the greater northern New Jersey area or upstate New York, and need your gutters done, or improvements made to your home, give him a call. He’s awesome!

 

www.edinthegutter.com

 xo

HOMEMAKER? WTF???

I signed our first-ever joint tax return yesterday. Next to my occupation, our accountant put: HOMEMAKER. What does that mean? I’m sure our accountant is trying to show the IRS that my income was zilch this year. Okay. I haven’t worked since I had my son. And, yes. That was two and half years ago.  But, come on.  Any of these non-paying jobs would have looked better: Writer.  Actor.  Musician.  Artist.  Even Mom would have been better. At least I would have had more room for my signature and the date. I’ve never met our accountant, but he’s clearly a bachelor who grew up in the 40’s with Ralphy and the sexy leg lamp.

Speaking of sexy legs, I tried on a pair of my favorite shoes recently.  They don’t fit.  Neither do the other 20 pair I tried on.  I suspected they wouldn’t fit while I was pregnant, but as I said earlier…that was two and a half years ago.  You’re probably thinking this is a great opportunity to go buy a whole new closet full of shoes.  You don’t know my husband.  

Here he is with our son. Yep. He’s on strike.  Don’t ask me why he’s smiling. Maybe it’s a smirk at the thought of me squeezing into those size 6’s.  Thank god for flip flops and Converse slip on’s. 

Well, gotta go for now.  There’s a shoe horn calling my name.  Remind me to tell you some day about my husband’s not-so-nice ex-wife.  I know.  Second wives always say that. But this “woman” (I put that in quotations since her figure resembles that of an out of shape linebacker) really isn’t nice.  That’s going to be one hell of a blog.

xo