A certain club we belong to

My friend and I had a conversation about how rude it is to be exclusive, especially when telling people what they would and wouldn’t understand (e.g. “only a mom would know what I’m talking about” or, “you won’t know what I mean until you’ve had kids”).

So to said friend, I’m sorry (I agree with you!!)… but this is pretty funny.

Click here to read about the woes of having a big toddler.

Buenas noches, Luna.

Kate may have beat me to sharing this by putting it on her Facebook page, but I found it first.

Regardless, enjoy the most brilliant deconstruction I have ever read:

Click here to read “All of my Issues With the ‘Goodnight Moon’ Bedroom” as featured on the blog, The Ugly Volvo. You won’t regret it. And you certainly won’t look at this classic children’s book the same way again.

Other People’s Kids

I’m not going to lie.  It has been a busy, hectic, stressful month and it’s only day six.  That’s why you’re getting two internet-linked blog posts in a row.  But this collection of humor truly brought a smile to my face and I’m hoping that the levity of the other parents out there (via Twitter posts) brightens your day, too.

Click here to enjoy!

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The Secret

I am one of those comically bumbling parents who lead with entertaining anecdotes.  These stories make up more than 1/2 of the blog contents thus far.  Can you blame me?  Humor unites us as human beings– parents and non-parents alike.

Photo on 10-4-15 at 3.42 PM

Well, a recent article has finally exposed parenting for what it really is.  It turns out that we are more than just custodians of the destruction forged by our wee ones.  Lo and behold: we love our kids.  A lot.  Check out “I Really Love My Daughter, but I’m Not Supposed to Talk About That” by Jennie Yabroff as featured in the Washington Post blog.  Here is an excerpt that I especially like:

Much of the daily routine of caring for a small person is low-stakes. My daughter and I share a bagel. At the pet store she tells the fish she is happy to see them again. The only way to transform these mundane events into anecdotes, which can then be strung together into a narrative, is to neuroticize them. So I emphasize frustration, embroider calamity. Our daughter sticking her hand in the tank to “pet” the fish, then scooping her wet hands into the bin of bird food while I shriek at her to stop, agitating the rabbits, which start banging in their cages . . . now we’re getting close to a story.

I tell this story to my husband when he comes home at night, hoping to make him laugh. I tell this story to underscore how hard this job is, how poorly I am executing it, how utterly I am at the mercy of a three-foot tyrant in sparkly tights. I tell it to reassure him that I am still the sarcastic, ironic person he married, that motherhood has not made me soft-headed and moon-eyed, liable to weep at a Diapers.com commercial (though I do). I tell it to practice what I will say to the other moms at Saturday morning gymnastics, where we stand around with our puffy eyes and takeout coffees, trading polished complaints about our ungrateful, ill-tempered little monsters, additions to the canon of stories of parenthood as the worst thing that can happen to a minimally self-aware person other than not having kids at all.

The joy of parenthood is not a story; it has no plot. It is a series of moments, unspoken. At the park, a father swoops up his son and kisses the top of his head in a single, flowing gesture. At the pizza place, a mother and daughter share an after-school slice, the daughter wiggling on her chair, waving her hands, the mother listening, smiling. Glimpsing these moments, I wonder what other, secret joys these parents are hiding, what furtive raptures they harbor. I wonder if they, too, sometimes wish there were more words to bridge the public story of being exasperated by your offspring to the point of defenestration, and the profoundly intimate experience of having a tiny pair of hands reach inside your ribs and wrench your heart open like a stuck window. I haven’t yet found a way to ask. I haven’t yet found a story to tell of this: On the way home from the pet store, my daughter held my hand for three whole blocks, not just the intersections. The top of her head still smells like honey.

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Copy + Paste

So… I try to alternate original thoughts with sharing what’s out there online, but [empty office]  +  [light workload]  x [Friday effect] / [internet distractions] = [unoriginal blog entry].

Wait– here’s an original thought.  Lucie is almost 1.5 years old and is pretty much an expert at the Terrible Twos.  Does that mean that she’ll be playing varsity as a freshman and attending college at age 16?  A parent can dream– or at least try to look on the bright side.

Baby stare-down
Baby stare-down

What Parents Tweeted This Week (via the Huffington Post)