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