Black And White Is Not Just A Cookie

Apparently, we can’t get rid of our cable because there’s nothing good on Netflix Instant Play. Everything we want to see is still on an archaic DVD, which we reduced to four per month plan because my thumb-head husband tends to leave the movie sitting around for two weeks before watching it.

He must think it’s wine. But no matter how long it sits, a crappy movie is still going to be a waste of time.

Since we’ve gone through every episode of “Family Guy” and “Bob’s Burgers” I suggested watching “The Twilight Zone” – it turned out to be the original series – in black and white.

After the opening scene, Zuki asked, “When is he going to open the door and go into color?”

“This is not the Wizard of Oz, buddy. It stays black and white.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and sunk back into his chair. “This sucks.”

By the third episode, both boys “appreciated” the show and it’s integrity. It was about the story, not the actors or the set or the special effects.

I never realized how much the actors sweat on the show. Good old fashioned sweat – not spray on.

Alas, the intelligence of the show was too much for them. When they couldn’t figure out what Rod Sterling had to do with the show – or what he was saying for that matter – they asked if they could watch something else.

And turned on “Family Guy”.

They will probably never go near a black and white movie or TV show again. If they do, their brain will automatically go into zombie mode because everything they watch on the screen now is over-stimulated. In high definition. With scenes and action for people with a three minute attention span.

The only thing they’ll ever desire in black and white – is a cookie.

url

Share

Need Some Help Here

I was searching for inspirational dinner music when my 10 year old requested Eminem.

Eminem?

Where did we go wrong?

It’s my husband’s fault.

He’s too forgiving when it comes to policing the quality of ethnically fused products that we don’t know much about like Rap music, Chi-Mex food, Keanu Reeves and Jello shots made by an adult-baby on Halloween.

Not only will he take Jello shots, he’ll insist – insist – that I do one or five of them, too.

Clearly, I should judge his parental judgements. After all, we had a 10 year old Wolverine and an eight year old Deadpool to bring home.

Ergo, I need some help here.

When the same 10 year old who requested Eminem dinner music, asked that I define the word “ergo,” my reply was that it was the same as therefore.

My example went, “The idiot wouldn’t stop his daredevil stunts, ergo, he wound up in the emergency room.”

Then he asked, “Does that mean he’s dead?”

“What? No – it means,”therefore, he’s in the emergency room!”

“Yeah, but is Ergo dead?”

Literally, my jaw dropped. As in, my mouth fell open – not as in, “Literally, I don’t know how to use the word literally.”

It occurred to me that one day – one of these days – I will take this boy of mine to Glasgow, Scotland. I’ll bet you, my bottom dollar, that he – full blooded Glaswegians – and my husband – will be in full fledged conversation.

They’ll completely understand each other.

Drink each other under the table, too.

And my head will (not) literally be spinning because I’m not Linda Blair, feeling I’ve spent the night with AWADDs (Aliens With A.D.D.) talking Scotch bubbles.

Ergo, this girl is still working on her career.

For the record, I did concede and told my 10 year old that Ergo was, indeed, dead.

His answer was, “Good. He sounds a lot like Samu.”

Need Some Help

Share

Post Mother’s Day

Before you become a mother, the only mother you really had to care about for Mother’s Day was – your own mother. After you join the team, however, you have to wish every mother and their mother’s mother a happy Mother’s Day.

How many times could I use the word mother in a paragraph? Eight, apparently.

So what do mothers do on their “special” day?

After taking an unofficial consensus, most moms cleaned the house with one hand. The other hand was either holding a beverage or a barbecued drumstick.

But seriously, cleaning was top on the list. What mom has time to battle other moms for brunch and have to pay for it to boot? And breakfast in bed? Not after seeing my boys attempt to make pancakes! Just add water, my ass.

As for gifts, my ADD son gave me his card a week early – lest he forget. Sure enough, on the actual day – he forgot.

My third grader showed me the progress of his card starting Friday and finally attached it with a Dove chocolate bar before handing it to me on Sunday morning.

Every 20 minutes or so, he’d check on the status of the chocolate bar.

“Did you open it yet?”

“No.”

“Well – when are you going to eat it?”

“I don’t know – when I crave chocolate, probably.”

His leg started shaking the nervous twitch he does when he’s excited and his voice quivered as he asked me, “Is it going to be today?”

Alas, I told him I’d share the chocolate bar with him when we were alone, just the two of us. God forbid I should give a piece to his big brother, after all it was bought with his own allowance.

We spent the rest of the day sorting through old clothes – putting away the winter gear and filling the donation bag with the items that were too small for the baby of the family. It occurred to me that I was pulling out shorts sized 8 for “the baby.” For my big boy, we’re putting away his father’s hand-me-downs.

Where is the time going?

Before I know it, I’ll be that mom who gets treated to brunch on Mother’s Day – by her own children. For now, I’ll just savor every bite of my special chocolate bar.

Chocolate small

Share

The One Track Mind

Our school just finished its third Read-a-Thon. What’s a Read-a-Thon? Well, it’s a fundraiser like a Walkathon only the sponsors pay money for reading rather than reenacting the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Over the past three years, we had on average a rather low number of participants. Of eleven-hundred students, barely one hundred turn in their collections. I’d give you the percentage but thanks to Common Core, I’m not sure standard math makes sense anymore.

After much deliberation, we decided that the prizes needed improvement. My allergic-to-reading son came up with a sellable top prize.

“I’d read for a Harry Potter wand!” He said.

So it was said. So it was done. That’s the beauty of serving on the panel. You kind of expect Yoda to show up and say, “Your ass it doesn’t seem you always think out of.”

Not only did we secure a Harry Potter Wand, it f*cking lights up. Even better than a vibrating broomstick!

End result? Out of 97 participants, 54 of them were boys.

Yep. Even without common core, I know that means more than half – were boys.

If you have one, you know the beauty of that – boys don’t like to read. A boy who does, couldn’t be bothered logging it. And if logging isn’t an issue, then I assume he’s only doing it because he’s smart enough to bribe you into being “paid” for it.

Boys have a one track mind. They’ll do what it takes to get what they want and guess what? They’re happy when they get it!

My son hasn’t brought home a reading log since the second grade – let alone made a ritual of logging reading sessions as well as he does his poop volume. For the Harry Potter wand, however, he logged every – single – minute.

When he finally got it, what did he do?

For starters, he tried to change a stack of looseleaf papers into a million dollars. Then he tried to change his brother into a bug.

After epic failure, his brother took the wand and tried to magically grow a beard.

Finally, their dad asked for the wand and demanded to turn the lights off. He shoved the wand up his nose and lit it up.

With a flashing blue nostril he turned to me and said, “Quick. Take a picture!”

Intelligence at its best.

Harry Potter Wand

Share

7 Costume Ideas for the Apathetic Halloweenster

My kids don’t get it – I hate Halloween. The memories I have of it are mostly…terrifying. Like that terrifyingly boring movie “Purge,” Halloween, in my time, meant dressing up in a costume enough to qualify for free candy – without being a clear target. The thugs, of course, wore their usual attire, to take off with your loot after they drenched you in raw eggs and Nair.

Like bachelor parties in Miami, bad things happen when you go all out on Halloween. Either you wake up with vague memories of doing jello shots with some serial killer or you realize the hard way that booze and prosthetic glue do not mix well.

That’s why simple is best – but not boring. This is New York, after all. Cat ears and a tail? A witch hat? Puh-leeze. People wear weirder stuff than that on any given day. Don’t look like a city mom wannabe!

Halloween is the one time, I wish I were a guy. If I were a middle-age rotund guy, I’d dress up like a woman every year. Contour my Moobs into a push up bra, flare skirt with boxer shorts showing off my hairy legs. Pumps. Red lipstick – and a tramp stamp.

I’d make my wife walk with me – no, have lunch with me – at the Thai restaurant on the corner of Queens Boulevard. Window seat.

But I’m not a guy – so it’s back to the drawing board.

Before kids, I could fit into outfits. Comic book characters. Bad ass women with guns, sneers and a belly button that wasn’t stretched into a smiley face. Now? Every accessory only emphasizes how tired I look.

Wigs give my eyes tremendous bags. Make up makes me resemble my dad and any outfit that’s not black, makes me seem like an emergency room escapee.

I stick with natural hair, dressed in black – no masks or black lipstick. Think, beer interference.

Oh yeah, and no boobs either. Wish I had those, too. If I had huge hooters, I’d tape a line of cotton across it, like one of those cocaine movies I can’t remember because I’ve never done coke. And I was probably hammered when I watched it – who makes movies about coke heads, anyway? You can’t understand them. Heroine addicts are way more fun to watch.

But back to the apathetic Halloweenster – my fifth grader is slowly becoming one. Compared to my half-assed costume ideas, his takes the slacker costume of the year. For the Halloween party, he was supposed to be Nick Fury of the Avengers. Since he rubbed off his goatee, he was to respond, “What’s in your wallet,” to the question, “Who are you supposed to be?”

To make matters worse, he lost his patch and because he was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt, people asked if he was supposed to be the singer from Journey.

Yeah, I don’t get that either.

On Halloween, the school paraded around the neighborhood in full Halloween spirit – and he was just too cool for it. While it’s okay to wear a Captain America helmet playing the drums, he couldn’t understand that it means nothing on it’s own. And no, a blue striped polo shirt nowhere near resembles the Captain’s uniform. “So I’ll go as nothing!” He said.

“I got it,” said Daddy, “how about wear the school uniform and go as a student.”

Eventually, we got him to dress as street clothes Rocky Balboa: fedora, gold chain, leather jacket and the piece de resistance: a blue punchball.

“If anybody asks who you are,” I coached him, “just say, Yo! Adrian!

He contemplated practicing his line but the slacker in him chose this excuse: “I can’t do an Italian accent, mom – I’ll sound Japanese.”

To him that made sense. Like Iron Maiden Steve Perry.

My advice, get yourself a long black coat – one that flares like a cape. Dress in black. After that, it’s just a matter of accessories. Of course, you’ll be a villain but who wants to be a good guy – they all wear tights.

  1. Heart shaped eye patch & sword: Stayne (Alice in Wonderland)
  2.  Sunglasses and boots: Matrix
  3. Horns and British accent: Loki
  4. Short white wig and black nail polish: Roy Batty (Blade Runner)
  5. Vampire teeth and padded butt cheeks: Underworld
  6. Clown make up and a stuffed crow: Eric Draven
  7. Split ends and a glowing ball: Balthazar (Sorcerer’s Apprentice)
Share

The Five Rings Of Battling Homework Battles

There’s a new resistance party. It’s called Opposition Homework. The party members are not like anyone you’ve ever known, they’re uber defiant, unbelievably stoic and under five feet tall. You wonder how such little people go without snacks or water and produce enough tears and snot to require a change of clothes – all because it was time for homework. I’d rather deal with my period than deal with my kid doing math at home.

Before I came to terms that I wasn’t the only parent with a homework defiant kid, I tried everything. Kumon, using a metronome or classical music, Yoga – still, all those sessions ended with me as the FINISH-YOUR-HOMEWORK banshee.

Now with a fifth grader (who hasn’t brought home a reading log since second grade) I admit, I’m still losing the homework battle. I have made two important discoveries through the interim: one, teachers don’t consistently check the content. So the homework – while done – is also crappy. And the second revelation is, it’s not the homework that needs to be addressed – it’s the work ethic.

The poor attitude towards homework is baffling because as a kid, I did my homework – no questions asked. If I “forgot” to do it – I was shitting bricks the next day – frantically cramming it in before the morning bell. But my guy? He once walked the whole five blocks to school before he realized he forgot his backpack and then had his dad “text” me to bring it.

Seeing that he can’t hide under the excuse of being a child anymore, I did some homework of my own. Using the elemental structure from the “Book Of Five Rings,” this new “way of the warrior,” is in the works to construct the ultimate, Homework Jedi.

Ring 1 Strategy: There are planners – and there are strategists. One does weddings, the latter does revolutions. A plan’s factor is usually time, whereas strategy is anticipating the reactions of the other side. Believe me, getting homework done – without stress – requires strategy. Therefore, when your kid starts flailing on the floor, wailing like the fat lady in a Puccini opera, just start doing his homework for him. At first, he’ll think you’re the stooge, until he realizes that for his name, you wrote “Meat Head” and at the end of every page, “I secretly love Selena Gomez.” He’ll never trust a ghost writer to do his homework again.

Ring 2 Spirit: To have the right spirit, you need the right stance. It might be old school, but I make my boys sit up straight with both feet on the floor (or a step stool for Merry Legs) and make them hold the pencil properly. You’d be surprised how many kids, especially in the upper grades, think it’s cool to hold a pencil like a neanderthal. They write like they took dictation from one, too. I advised them that it’s not real “essay like” to write “Ha! Ha!” as a conclusion and they seriously asked me if I speak English. Spirit is normalcy and fluidity – it’s the element of water. So when their spirit of homework is down, challenge them to the ice bucket – but please – don’t post it on Facebook. I don’t really give a damn who freezes their nipples.

Ring 3 Environment: Examine the environment. I know a mom who sends her son to his room to do his homework. She comes back an hour later to discover he’s been tooling around for the past hour. Despite his distraction-free, ergonomic, Ikea p.o.s. study desk – he exercises his free will to – get out of his friggin’ chair. We do our work at the kitchen table. When I’m preparing dinner, which is during the blue moon, I find holding the chopping knife adds just the right punctuation mark to “finish your math NOW.” For my boys, the kitchen table has become their “station” in which my husband and I can no longer occupy – we take our dinner standing by the island, like outcasts. When I clean their “station” I find scrap notes tucked away that says, “mommy needs a nap”.

Ring 4 Speed: “The quicker it’s done, the more you’ll have fun,” said – no woman ever. Unless she’s the lunch lady. She says it all the time. Speed is superior. Speed and accuracy – that’s Jet Li. To get to “Jet Li” status takes practice. In this world of rebooting at every major obstacle, however, what kid has the mentality to practice? They don’t. As my mom says, “It’s not in their genes.” Did you know that there’s an actual DNA to practice and the current generation completely lacks it? Either you’re born with the knack to play golf, swim, build a spaceship – or not. The arts as we know it, is dead. Photoshop, Pro Tools and death have made mediocre talent sellable, while real talent have to whore themselves off to a mouse named Mickey. But the good news is – YOU have the “practice gene.” Even if your kids can’t, you know how to keep at it. Monotony does rub off – take U2’s new album for example. Don’t misunderstand speed as being fast. When it happens without you knowing when it happened – that’s speed. And that’s what he said.

Ring 5 Void: “…void does not imply something lacking, but rather the elimination of what is superfluous.” Of course, what’s “superfluous” is a matter of opinion. I think fifteen thousand Lego pieces that wind up all over the basement floor is superfluous. My kids think toilet paper is superfluous. That’s what underpants are for. In the case of homework, it’s the actual homework that’s superfluous. If void is virtue, then quality and attitude are the void. To obtain that, you really just have to know – when to call it quits. Focus on the things that will matter in their future: doing the work. Thoroughly, righteously – proudly. Like the brown stains on their organic, cotton underwear.

“Never stray from the way”

Share

17 Signs That You’re Crazy

Seriously, people – I could use the money. It’s not that we’re starving, but my boys – they think money grows on trees. Literally. They no longer believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny – but don’t be messin’ with their Money Tree. It’s out there somewhere – like my camera charger.

Thus, this post at content blogging because Legos are not free and neither are tap shoes. Or cheese for that matter.

17 signs that you’re crazy:

1) You eat when you’re bored: Technically, you should be doing laundry. Everybody has dirty laundry. Loads of it. But nobody likes to do it. So you avoid doing it by eating cheese and crackers. You sort your food but not whites and colors…and there it is. Laundry is racist. You’re crazy.

2) You forget your keys: In the car, in the house, in the office – doesn’t matter. Why’d you do that? Because you’re crazy.

3) You stubbed your pinky toe on an exercise dumbbell: That’s your body’s way of reminding you that you should be doing something with them. For the life of you, you can’t remember. Here’s a hint: put down that box of Ding Dongs and move that dumbbell out of the way, you crazy ass.

4) You called your mother for advice: Everybody knows that at your age, your mom is the only person in the world who will tell you the brutal truth. At any age, really – moms never sugar coat anything. They hate sugar. Well, the moms I know, anyway. Not that they won’t eat it themselves but they love depriving their kids of it. So yes, if mom got you depressed for giving you the cold hard facts about your character, just tell yourself it’s not true, you’re just crazy.

5) You bake and suck at it but still try to make cookies: The good news is, persistence is a good character trait. The bad news is, you’re wasting food – not to mention gas and electricity making inedible pieces of shit. I have two words: baking soda. Even though the recipe only calls for a tablespoon or four, doesn’t mean it’s optional. If you have friends who are really good at baking, then pilfer their stash. Everyone knows crazy people can’t bake.

6) You apologize to inanimate objects: Walls, trees, lamp posts and parking meters – it’s really their fault for existing. Stop apologizing, it’s just craziness.

7) You talk back to the news: Then again, you apologize to inanimate objects so, this is a given. It’s when the screen starts talking back that you – mi-i-i-i-i-ght wanna check yourself in.

8) You don’t understand bubble tea: And why should you? Imagine – a crazy person drinking bubbles. In tea, much less. If there’s gotta be bubbles in a drink, it should be grass flavored. Crazy people just do drugs. Right…crazy person?

9) You cry watching commercials: ASPCA, starving kids in Canada – Gatorade. Why you’re crying, nobody knows. You’re crazy.

10) You sing along to supermarket muzak: It must’ve been love, ’cause it’s over now. Only crazy people double shopping for chicken liver and kale chips with Karaoke.

11) You distrust anyone who wants to be your friend: After all, it takes one to know one – so chances are they’re crazier than you. The sane people are the ones who are always excusing themselves from you. They’ll say, “Oh, hey – good to see you. Gosh! I gotta run, my anus is calling me.”

12) You hear the phone ringing when it’s not: Okay, this could be resolved if you’d just change your ringer. If only there were a ring tone that shouted, “I’ll clean up for you!” or “Have a bag of money!” You’d never miss a call – or answer the phone when it wasn’t ringing and have people stare at you on the bus like – well, you’re crazy.

13) You think you’re lucky sometimes: There is no such thing as luck. Life is based on endowment. Tall, male, white-ish, with hair and a set of teeth that shows impeccable dental hygiene practice – they get first dibs. When you go all the way down the list, you’ll find your break. If you find yourself feeling lucky, look around for the other shoe before it lands on your crazy brain.

14) You stick with tradition: Did it ever occur to you that your great-great grandmother was bonkers? In her time, she didn’t have all the amenities society has now – for example: information. There is a difference between routine and tradition. Tradition is something that’s followed without knowing why – and that’s just plain crazy.

15) You don’t see life as a musical: But it is. The only reason we don’t break into song and dance numbers at the office is because of Local 802. There’s also the lack of really big fans to blow your hair back but as long as you have your tap shoes on, a musical number could break any moment. If you don’t see it, you must be crazy.

16) You have faith in sunscreen: It may keep you from smoldering but it does not work for vampires. Might do your craziness some good to get fried.

17) You find happiness in accidents: Because you may be crazy, but that’s why you’re happy. Have you ever met a happy control freak? Sometimes it’s better to be crazy than be the boss. If you are the boss and you’re crazy, think about the poor souls who work for you. They must be maniacs.

If you agree with any five of these signs, then indeed you are crazy. What you need to do now is see a bartender and ask for something special. Bring money with you but under no circumstances, should you offer the bartender sunscreen.

 

Share

The Boys of Summer

The air conditioner in our bedroom is a noisy piece of crap. Every time it kicked on, it woke me up. So, counting on a mild August night, I turned it off and hoped the fan setting was enough. In five minutes, the room was boiling. A far cry from the luxurious accommodation of our weekend in Philly. As I labored for sleep, I remembered walking past a woman on her cell phone saying, “Well, sure but it’s hot as fuck out here!”

The bed started to feel like a fresh pizza. Finally, my feet hit a cool spot that just might remain cool enough to drift back to sleep when the door creaked open.

“Mama?” Said a little voice.

“Go back to bed.” I said.

“My head hurts.”

“That’s ’cause you should be asleep.” I said, and groaned because the cool spot was now – hot.

“And I’m thirsty,” continued the little pecker-head, as he proceeded to climb into my bed.

My limbs were groggy as I ushered him out to the bathroom and when I turned on the light, I was astonished.

Samu must’ve grown three inches in his sleep!

Suddenly, I’m overcome by a wave of melancholia. Or terror. Either they’re growing overnight or it’s an invasion of the body snatchers. But I realize it’s really him and not an alien who busted out of an eggplant when he filled his cup with water – dumped it – filled it again – dumped it again – filled it again and took just two tiny sips.

“I don’t want summer vacation to be over,” he whimpered.

It hit me, too. “Yeah, we had a lot of fun this summer – didn’t we?”

My mind took a brief inventory: Track & Field, Golf, Baseball sleepover and let’s not forget sunburn. Nothing like walking the streets of Philly with Daddy looking like a leper.

Samu and I shuffled our way back to his bed. My steps just as heavy and sad as his. Our fun in the sun – was done.

For me, it was more than that. This summer just might be the last when my boys are “boys”. Next year, Zuki will likely be the same height as me. And Samu – should at least have a butt that’ll hold a pair of swim trunks bigger than 3T.

In the dark, I could hear his tears hit the pillow. I could tell he wanted to sing the theme song he created combining the “Titanic” and “Lord of the Rings”. He’d been humming it all summer when he was sad – when he lost an eyeball for his Mixel, when the frog at the beach got plucked by a seagull.

But his big brother was snoring away. And, that kind of ruined it.

“How’s your head?” I asked as he held my hand.

He sighed deeply and answered, “I want to go back to the hotel in Philadelphia.”

I did, too. The air conditioner was quiet.

Boys of Summer

 

Share

Doing The Right Thing in Underpants

You know you’re in the right, when you’re in the minority. People hate the truth. They’ll ignore it rather than face it, even when it’s standing right in front of them, blocking their way forward. I had to sum this up for my boys after they watched “Lord of the Flies” recently.

They were profoundly affected by the story, they talked about it incessantly. They pondered why all the boys left the reasonable leadership of Ralph to follow the maniacal Jack and chalked it up to Jack being blond.

With that settled, they went on to discuss whether it was necessary – at all – to wear underwear if they were the only boys stranded on a deserted island.

Amazing what boys focus on.

Regardless what portion of the movie they happened to recall, they always went back to the camp fire dance in their underpants. I asked them if they saw a similarity in their own behavior, and they gawked. “No mom, we NEVER act like that,” they said.

Oh, really?

As soon as I said it was time to do their summer workbook, they flailed on the floor like fish out of water. They were kicking and screaming how stupid math and English were, after all who needs it anyway – if they had some pigs blood and ashes, they’d have marked their faces with war paint. In their organic cotton underwear.

Little savages.

Ironically, the summer workbook assignment for the day was to write a commercial about integrity.

“What is integrity?” Zuki asked.

“It’s doing the right thing, all the time – even when it’s not popular or fun. Even when you’re dancing around in your underpants.”

He was quiet for a while, which meant he was either thinking about it or he had imaginary flies buzzing in his head. Finally, he said, “Like Ralph and Piggy.”

At least he got it. Unfortunately, he also connected how those characters with integrity wound up dead or battered by the end of the movie – but what could I say. It’s not the Lego movie.

images

Share

Don’t Worry A Troubled Mind

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”
― Corrie ten Boom

“Worry Wart” was my middle name. I was born to worry. As a matter of fact, worrying was my main reason to become a parent. Parenting, I thought, was the perfect excuse to worry for every little thing.

Worry if the baby’s healthy. Worry if the child gets hurt. Worry if they’ll make friends and do well in school. Worry if my worrying is borderline psychotic and thus raise a serial killer with an unoriginal Modus Operandi.

That would be lame. Not even book rights. Oh my God, so much to worry about and so little time!

But like sleep and quiet moments, I soon learned that there is really no time to worry with kids. Shit just happens – regardless.

So I learned how to prepare.

There’s a distinct difference between worry and preparation. True, preparation is pretty much taking precaution on nothing more than an assumption; but to worry was just – immature. To give into it, gets you nowhere and actions based on it brings nothing but trouble. Just the thing worry was trying to avoid.

Ask anyone what they’re worried about and basically what they want to say is, “I’m worried that we’re gonna die.”

I didn’t want to worry to the point of becoming one of those moms. You know, the ones who are like, “Life? Oh no, that’s too dangerous for my children and I’m far too busy for that.”

It’s amusing how the modern mother became so irrational when the world became more accessible. They wipe everything clear of germs, pluck their children out of every challenging situation, fight their kids fights for them and then sit them down to a cardboard box of Chicken McNuggets because they forgot to pack a snack.

Their kids can’t eat fruit but they’ll eat mystery meat from a clown.

Okay, hungry children are demonic. Over time, we’ve accumulated a mountain of lunch coolers and water bottles to make sure my kids don’t “turn”. Our pantry is single-serving snack central and can city. All that’s missing is a Milky Way candy bar and we’d be ready for James Franco.

In all the years of outings with boys who are convinced we will resort to cannibalism when the subway stops, I’ve learned to be prepared.

While I can’t say that I never worry, I’m certainly not a wart anymore.

So, what are you worried about?

Troubled Mind

Share