Merry Un-Halloween!

I am not a big fan of Halloween. I just don’t see the point: I’m perfectly capable of looking like an idiot in my everyday clothes; there’s no need to get expensive and/or uncomfortable costumes involved. As far as candy is concerned, when I have a craving, I just write passive-aggressive blog posts hinting that my husband should bring me said candy — I hardly see how traipsing about my neighborhood banging on strangers’ doors and demanding treats is in any way the easiest candy-procuring option. I haven’t celebrated Halloween since seventh grade, when I dressed as a laundry basket:

In the years since that brilliant display of creativity and half-assery (my sister is actually the one who deserves credit; she came up with this truly inspired solution when I decided at the last minute that I wanted to trick-or-treat with some friends), the only consideration I’ve given Halloween at all is which candy I should purchase for the trick-or-treaters that will provide me with the most delicious leftovers.

My attitude did not change even after having a child. Despite the fact that babies admittedly look ADORABLE in Halloween costumes, I’m sorry to say that I simply could not be bothered to do anything for Bubba’s first Halloween. He was a baby, for goodness sake — it’s not like he had any brilliant costume ideas to contribute, much less a desire for candy. I threw a pumpkin shirt on him and called it a day:

(Full disclosure: I didn’t even waste time or money getting him his own shirt; that was a hand-me-down from my sister’s kids. It’s a girls’ shirt.)

Now, this year, I really did intend to get into the spirit. I know that Halloween is fun for kids and I was ready and willing to do my part. We got some pumpkins at Trader Joe’s to add some fall ambiance to the house. I asked Bubba’s daycare provider if the kids would be wearing their costumes to school on Halloween (yes) and tracked down a costume. We went to a “Harvest Festival” and enjoyed various fall-related activities:

He even went to a pumpkin patch with his daycare and picked out his very own pumpkin:

He seemed to be enjoying everything, and I assumed we were “on” for Halloween this year. I even started looking forward to it a teensy bit, envisioning Bubba in his cute little firefighter costume, marching around the neighborhood and getting more and more excited with each treat added to his bag.

And then I tried to get him to put on the costume, and everything fell apart:

Mama: “Bud, come check out your fireman costume for Halloween!”

Bubba, cheerfully: “Nope!”

Mama: “Huh? Come check it out! Look at the hat!”

Bubba: “I jumping!”

Mama: “What? No, stop jumping off the couch for a sec. Look at this cool hat!”

Bubba: “Hat!”

Mama: “Yes, it’s a fireman’s hat! Try it on!”

Bubba: “Nope!”

Mama: “It’s for Halloween! Remember, everyone wears costumes and looks funny and we do trick-or-treating?”

Bubba: “How-ween cot-tumes!”

Mama: “YES, exactly! This is your costume!”

Bubba: “Yours!”

Mama: “What? No. This is YOUR costume, not mine.”

Bubba: “Mine cot-tume! Yours!”

Mama: “Yes! I mean, no about the ‘yours’ part; it’s not mine. Goddammit, pronouns are hard to explain. This is Ryan’s costume, I mean.”

Bubba: “Nope!”

HE WOULD NOT SO MUCH AS TOUCH THE FREAKIN’ COSTUME. I tried again the next day, and once again the day after that, all to no avail. He went off to daycare this morning in his regular clothes, and I am not holding out much hope that he’ll end his Halloween Strike this evening in time for trick-or-treating. I suppose he gave it some consideration and concluded that putting on a costume and begging for treats is simply not as fun as staying home and perfecting his dive-bombs off the sofa.

I can’t say I blame him.

Happy Halloween!

Some Practical Life Advice In Case I Die

Being a parent is daunting. You’re in charge of an impressionable little critter that knows absolutely nothing and it’s YOUR job to teach them good manners and how to treat people and what to eat and to avoid running out into the street to get a better look at a passing motorcycle. It’s a tall order, and while I think I’m doing pretty well so far (I always make him say “sorry” when he hits me and he ate 2 bites of a carrot yesterday!), I know it’s going to get more and more complex as he gets older. I’m fairly confident that I’ll be able to handle anything that comes my way, but what if I die tomorrow and poor Bubba is left with a father who means well but thinks the WWE is fine entertainment for a toddler and a hypothetical stepmother who simply pales in comparison to my supreme awesomeness?! Who will guide him?

Luckily, I think ahead.

Bubba, below are a few important tips to keep in mind as you grow up:

• Don’t be “too cool” for safety. Helmets aren’t lame, nor are seatbelts or speed limits or “no trespassing” signs. You know what’s lame? BEING DEAD, LIKE ME RIGHT NOW. Wear the freakin’ helmet and tell your idiot friends to STFU.
• If someone is being mean to you, remember that they probably have bigger problems, like terrible parents, or someone else bullying them (it’s a chain reaction). Or maybe they’re just having a bad day! The point is, it’s probably not really about you. Try not to let it get you down, and tell Dad or a teacher so they can deal with it (don’t worry: I promise you can alert an adult and still avoid being known as a tattle-tale; Dad will figure something out to cover for you. I’ll make a separate list of advice for him, and “protecting your child’s reputation” will be at the top!).
• Don’t forget that the internet is FOREVER…don’t let people tag you in embarrassing Facebook photos, and for the love of god, don’t create an angsty blog chronicling your pre-teen woes.
• Whether you’re at school or the park or boy scouts or baseball practice, there’s always gonna be some poor kid that everyone else makes fun of. DON’T JOIN IN, no matter how weird that kid is and how many awesome puns you can think of that rhyme with his unfortunate name. You will never regret being nice, but you WILL regret being a jerkface someday. Plus, if you’re a jerk, I will haunt you (I’m dead in this scenario, remember?).
• Listen to punk rock music from the ’80s and ’90s. Go to concerts and get destroyed in the mosh pit (but secure your wallet first and make sure to pick other people up when they fall; you can be a punk and still be a responsible human being).
• At some point you will have a “bad” friend who drinks or cheats or lies. You can still like them and even hang out with them (assuming they’re not an actual gang member and do have some redeeming qualities of some sort), but remember that YOU don’t have to be an idiot just because your friend is. You can be that guy about whom everyone asks, “why is that nice kid friends with that idiot?”
• If someone tries to make you feel bad for something you like, pay no mind — what kind of fun-sucking killjoy does that?! Do your thang and be proud! Unless the thing you like is something stupid like Insane Clown Posse, in which case they’re right and you need to reevaluate your life post haste.
• You will undoubtedly wear something stupid or adopt a lame hairstyle at some point. Unfortunately for you, photos will likely be taken and you’ll have to look back on your poor style choices forever. Learn from your mistakes so you can avoid them in the future.
• That said, go ahead and dye your hair blue in high school! It’s your only chance to look like a fool with no consequences.
• Don’t choose a college based on where your girlfriend is going, and definitely don’t choose a college based on your ex-girlfriend’s plans. Just…trust me.

I feel much better now, knowing that these little nuggets of motherly wisdom are preserved for Bubba, just in case I choke on a Snickers bar tonight. If I forgot anything, he can just write a mental letter to Dear Abby and think about what she would say!

Marriage 101: 5 Secrets to Ensure You Don’t Want to Murder Your Spouse

We all know that a shitload of marriages end in divorce, and according to the Investigation Discovery network and their many fine true-crime programming options, even more marriages end in murder. After having been married for four years, I must admit that these statistics aren’t too surprising; I’ve wanted to strangle my dear husband no fewer than six hundred times and I consider divorcing him every time he fails to read my mind and bring me the Snickers bar I am craving when he goes to the market¹.

The truth is, all married couples go through rough patches — there’s no avoiding it, and anyone who says otherwise is a filthy liar who doesn’t deserve a single delicious Snickers bar this Halloween. Wanting to maim and/or abandon your spouse every once in a while doesn’t necessarily mean that your marriage is doomed, though! As long as you follow my five simple time-tested (four years is enough of a test, right?) marriage secrets, you and your spouse can beat the odds and stay off the divorce register (and Dateline’s latest episode of “Surprise: It’s Another Spouse Murder!”):

1) Determine the boss of each task; if it’s not you, shut your face and follow the leader: From childcare to money handling to laundry, someone has to be in charge or you’ll fall into a cycle of either nothing getting done or, worse yet, arguing all the time over whose turn it is or whom to blame when things go awry. The solution to this age-old problem is to divide and conquer: figure out who is better-suited to each task and make it their responsibility. That part is simple, but the real key to success here is that the other party must follow suit and take orders when necessary, no questions asked and no complaining. For example, I am in charge of meal planning, so while I might ask my husband to help out by putting something in the oven, he knows not to complicate things by second-guessing the nutritional value of my meals or to ask why I let our son eat dinner in the nude while sitting on a step-stool in the kitchen — that’s my domain.

2) Remember that in every argument, someone eventually has to give up, and sometimes that needs to be you: Yes, even if you’re totally right and your spouse is being an idiot — sometimes, just shut up and let it go. You will be happier and your spouse will be less likely to murder you. Plus, he or she might feel guilty later and bring you a Snickers.

3) Give each other presents or send sweet text messages (and not just when you need to apologize): Surprising me with a Snickers shows me that you were thinking of me at the grocery store and that you know just what I like. A random “I love you!” text message in the middle of the day is nice, too, but Snickers is usually better.

4) Know what you hate about your spouse and find a way to deal with it: Don’t deny it: there are things you just cannot stand about your mate. For example, every time my husband sneezes, I want to punch him in the face because it’s so unnecessarily loud. IT’S OUTRAGEOUS, YOU GUYS. The important thing is that you acknowledge and accept these hideous flaws and find ways to make yourself feel better about them instead of seething in silence. In my case, I deal with my rage by mocking my husband relentlessly every time he sneezes, which is fun for everyone!

5) Remember why you liked him or her to begin with: Surely there are some redeeming qualities to your spouse, even if he or she sneezes super loudly and forgets to bring you a Snickers bar even when you’ve made it very clear that you would really, really like one. Make an effort to acknowledge and appreciate each others’ positive traits and don’t neglect to carve out some time for you two to do something special together, like watching a much-beloved movie or sharing a delicious Snickers bar². And make sure to take photos together whenever you can — even if they come out poorly, it’s nice to have photographic evidence of your love to reference when you’re mad at each other:

Marriage isn’t easy, but I promise it’s not impossible. Stay positive, and don’t forget the Snickers!

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Footnotes:

¹An important note to law enforcement: if my husband is dead and you are reading my blog because I am suspected of his murder and you’re looking for evidence against me, I SWEAR THIS WAS A JOKE. (I’ve seen a lot of crime shows, guys. I know they search the wife’s computer, and I know this won’t look good. BRB gotta go retain a lawyer.)

²Unless he forgot to get you one at the store, of course. Can someone just bring me a Snickers bar already? I REALLY WANT ONE³.

³This post was not sponsored by Snickers. I just really, really like them. Especially the peanut butter ones (in case the Mars Corporation is reading and would like to send me a few).

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Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“Your top 5 secrets to a successful marriage!”) for the inspiration!

Throwback Thursday: Sixth Grade Mo Had Deep Thoughts (and ADD)

On the first day of sixth grade, my language arts teacher handed out blank composition books and announced an exciting year-long project: we would use the notebooks to respond to writing prompts she’d provide periodically in class, then turn them in quarterly for her to read. How fun! I got to work doodling all over my fresh book immediately (by the time the year was through, I had filled up two entire books):

Man, I really missed my calling as an artist or graphic designer.

Being a huge nerd, I really was quite excited about the project. I liked writing, and the idea of a year-long assignment seemed so grown-up. I took it very seriously and looked forward to the days when our teacher would tell us to take out our notebooks and reply to a prompt she had written on the blackboard. For example, here’s my response to a prompt on best friends:

My friend, Brittany, is my best friend for many reasons. She is very loyal. I’ve known her since 2nd grade and she’s never left me. She’s funny when I’m sad or mad, and she’s also cheerful. She isn’t usually sad. It’s very fun to be with a cheerful person.

See? Please admire my accurate spelling, ambitious (if not 100% correct) use of commas, and the appropriately introspective tone to match the spirit of the assignment. (On a sidenote, I also urge you to take a moment to acknowledge my comically low standards for friendship. Brittany really was a great friend, but apparently just not ditching me in favor of cooler people and not being a total Debbie Downer was pretty much all I required.)

All quarter long, I dutifully answered each prompt and eagerly anticipated the day I’d get to turn my journal in for its review. I imagined my teacher reading through my thoughtful replies, sagely nodding at my intelligence and maturity and thinking to herself, “ah, that Maureen! What a gem of a student! If only all my students could be like her!”

And then about two days before it was time to turn them in, I overheard a conversation between some classmates and realized I had missed a crucial component of the assignment: we were supposed to be writing in these stupid things EVERY SINGLE SCHOOLDAY, not just when the teacher provided a prompt on the blackboard! Evidently, on the days when no prompt was provided, we were just supposed to get creative and write about something that happened that day or whatever was on our mind.

Whoops.

You see, I have a serious case of ADD, which unfortunately went undiagnosed until I was 25 years old. My school career was riddled with situations like this, where I zoned out and completely missed the instructions for an assignment or sat through an entire lecture and then later realized I had taken precisely zero notes (or that my notes made no sense) and thus had retained absolutely no information whatsoever. The good news is that by sixth grade, even though I didn’t know that my focus issues were caused by an actual diagnosable and treatable condition, I was familiar with the pattern and wasn’t all that shocked to discover that I had missed the instructions. As soon as I realized my mistake, I sprung into action and spent the next two nights making up journal entries for the previous two months.

Obviously, I couldn’t remember what I had been doing on each of those days, so I simply racked my brain for topics I thought might belong in a journal. I actually consider it a blessing in disguise that I initially missed the instructions, because the entries I came up with during that two-day crunch time are far more entertaining that anything I wrote during the rest of the year when I was actually doing the assignment daily as intended. Here’s a sampling:

I wonder what it’s going to be like in the future. I mean, it seems fine right now, but they still keep coming up with “breakthrough” technology. If we already have computers that cheack [sic] your spelling, VCRs that turn themselves on and off, radios that have remote controlls [sic], how much better could you possibly get?

I really could have used one of those spell-cheaking computers. Also, who the hell has a remote-control radio?! I don’t even think that’s a thing. And why on earth would I think that a remote-controlled radio (if they even existed; I’m dubious) was the best that technology had to offer?

I love to read. It’s like, my hobby. I read while I eat, drink Dr. Pepper, I even read while I watch TV. It’s really fun and exciting. I could read all day!

Dudes, I wasn’t lying. Please note the book, the snack, and the cup of Dr. Pepper:

See how FUN and EXCITING reading is? (PS: I still do this now; you could swing by my house on a Saturday evening and recreate this exact same photo, save, perhaps, for the sweet purple scrunchie.)

I wonder why the CTBS test makes you use a No. 2 pencil? Why not a 2.5 pencil? Who invented CTBS tests anyway? They seem dumb to me. They’re so easy, and they don’t challenge you. And they make you fill out so much info about yourself! It’s really quite boring, and it takes up HOURS of your time. What a waste!!

I was ahead of my time with that political stance against standardized testing. I also like my humble-brag about the tests being too easy for my brilliant mind. The test must have lacked a spelling section.

If I had to choose between being blind or deaf, I’d choose to be deaf because when you’re blind, you can’t do any of the things that you would normally do: reading, walking on your own, watching TV, etc etc. But if you’re deaf you can still drive, walk, read, etc. You just can’t hear the doorbell or the telephone, but you can buy phones that light up.

See, deaf people should never complain. All they have to do is buy a light-up telephone and their problems are solved! If you go blind, on the other hand…good luck, because your life is totally going to suck. You can’t even watch TV!

 

If you’re curious, my teacher gave my journal a 100% score that quarter, even though she had to have realized that I fucked up and did it wrong since all the prompted entries came first and were followed by a barrage of hastily-scribbled un-dated ramblings. I guess she was just that impressed by my deep thoughts!

Can you blame her? Just look at that seriously studious student!

Five Proven Ways to Make Your Mom Feel Like the Worst Mother Ever (GUARANTEED!)

Today I have another very special guest post from the one and only Bubba! I hope you enjoy his advice and that you’re sufficiently impressed by his advanced writing skills.

I may be seven weeks shy of my second birthday, but I already consider myself an expert when it comes to guilt-tripping. It only took a matter of weeks after my birth for me to figure out that my poor mother (whom I do love dearly; don’t get me wrong!) is something of a nutjob. I could see right from the get-go that she was quite nervous about messing something up or not spending enough time with me, so naturally I’ve made it my life’s work to exploit her insecurities and drive her insane. Unlike some lazy babies who are content to sit around playing and snuggling and sleeping, I’ve spent the last 22 months honing my craft, always on the lookout for new ways to mess with Mom. I’m happy to report that it’s working out swimmingly: my mom often feels bad and gives me exactly what I want! Even more importantly, this is all just really, really fun for me.

above: SCHEMING, always scheming!

If you aren’t a pro like me, don’t panic: I can help! Whether you’re looking for a quick way to drive your mom crazy at the store or if you’ve got a lot of time on your hands and want to begin an ongoing scheme (a long-con can be very satisfying), I’ve got something that will work for you. Unless your mom has a heart of stone, at least one of my tried-and-true methods should do the trick:

1) Wait a really long time to say “Mama.” Like, months after you start saying other words — she will obsess over it and start to wonder why you hate her, which is fun to watch. Plus, when you finally start saying it, she’ll be so happy to hear your sweet little voice calling her name that she won’t even mind that you’re being obnoxious and hollering at her to come get you out of bed or whatever.

2) If your parents are leaving you with a babysitter so they can have a “date night” (whatever that is; sounds super lame and not nearly as fun as hanging out with their beloved child, right?), cry hysterically and hang onto your mom’s leg as she tries to leave. Your mom will feel really bad and worry about you the whole time she’s gone (and of course as soon as she leaves, you can give up the act and have fun with the babysitter anyway!).

3) If you have a special teddy bear that you usually take with you everywhere you go and your mom asks you if you want to bring it to the park, say “no” and run to the car chanting “Park! Park! Park!” so she becomes convinced that the excitement of the park is outweighing your usual addiction to your teddy bear. Then, when you get to the park, ask her for the bear and rummage pathetically through her purse in hopes of finding it even though you know it’s back at home. Then cry about it. HA!

4) Short trips to the store and the like are perfect for a quick guilt-trip. Ask for water and very specific snacks, neither of which your mom brought along since she wasn’t expecting to be gone for long. Begging for water is really good, because what kind of monster would deny their child hydration? If she did bring water, you can always pretend it’s too warm and beg for ice!

5) If your mom works, point at her computer and say “puters” (as in, “computers”) and “work” in a really sad voice, like your little heart is broken that she spends so much time working on her ‘puter instead of playing with you. Classic, right?!

Now, before you soldier forth to employ these techniques, it’s important to note that balance is the key to success. If you act like a psychopath all the time, eventually your mom will probably start believing that you really are crazy and that it’s not her fault after all, and you definitely don’t want that! Remember, the goal is to make your mom feel a little bad every once in a while so you can reap the rewards of extra attention and indulgences (one time I got cookies while we were shopping!), not to get yourself committed to a toddler insane asylum. Sometimes, you’ve gotta just be a sweetie pie:

Then you go in for the kill!

Good luck!

The Time I Traumatized My Child, Possibly Irrevocably

Like so many toddlers, Bubba has a special teddy bear with whom he is quite enamored. Whether he’s eating breakfast or going to the grocery store, wherever Bubba goes, “Gokey¹” is at his side:

(Gokey’s in the bag…don’t think for one second that Bubba would go to daycare without him!)

His attachment to Gokey is super cute, and considering that I’m a 30-year-old woman who still sleeps with a baby blanket of her own, I am really in no position to judge or even think about discouraging this habit. Other than my constant low-grade fear that we might lose Gokey at Target or the park, the only problem I have with Bubba’s insistence that Gokey accompany us anywhere and everywhere is that the poor bear gets absolutely filthy, and it’s pretty much impossible for me to wash him. With the bear permanently glued to my son’s side, when, pray tell, am I supposed to clean the stupid thing? I can’t do it while he’s at school, because Gokey is at school too (he’s a very well-educated bear), and I certainly can’t do it while Bubba is sleeping, because he’s been known to wake up in a state of sheer panic when Gokey is just out of sight under the covers. I’ve managed to toss it into the wash a couple of times during the weekend while Bubba was occupied outdoors, but for the most part I just accept that Gokey is probably harboring ursine hepatitis or something and hope that Bubba’s immune system is strong enough to deal with the situation.

On Saturday morning, though, even Bubba noticed that Gokey was a mess (there were leaves matted into his fur; Gokey occasionally has a bit of a wild ride when we’re out and about). As soon as Bubba proclaimed him “dirty,” I leaped at the chance to rectify the situation without needing to sneak the bear into the wash for once and cheerfully tossed him right into the machine. I assured Bubba that Gokey would be clean shortly and assumed that we could carry on our previously scheduled activities in the meantime.

I assumed wrong.

Almost immediately upon starting the washer, poor Bubba began panicking. He screamed out Gokey’s name as if he’d been shot and made a valiant attempt to pry open the washer door. When that proved fruitless, he began sobbing. The sobs eventually devolved into wails and then came the classic toddler “flop onto the floor kicking and screaming” dramatics². I attempted to soothe him by showing him how he could see Gokey spinning around with the water and the bubbles, but that only made matters worse: every time Gokey went out of view beneath a shirt or a blanket, he screamed again, assuming that poor Gokey was gone for good. I might as well have been showing him a snuff film.

Needless to say, I felt terrible, and of course there was nothing I could do about it — we have a front-loading washer that locks while in use, so short of pulling the power and somehow draining the water, I couldn’t abort the process early to fish out the drowning bear (although I did consider it!). I was left to try to quell the mother of all tantrums (I think I have bruises from the kicking) and to beg him to believe me that Gokey would indeed survive his little washing machine adventure…FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

As usual, my dear husband was enormously helpful, laughing and telling me that this was probably going to be Bubba’s first memory. And to add insult to injury, my friend happened to be visiting from out of town and witnessed the whole meltdown. I tried to convince her that I’m not typically in the habit of traumatizing my child and that he’s usually pretty well-behaved, but I’m fairly certain we scarred her for life, too.

After what felt like an eternity to all involved, the washer finally completed its cycle and Bubba was reunited with a clean (and wet, but whatever) Gokey. He went about the rest of the weekend happily and I was hopeful that the incident had been forgotten, but while we were doing our pre-bedtime talk-about-the-moon routine last night, Bubba suddenly stopped in his tracks and got very serious. “Gokey. Dirty,” he said gravely, shaking his head. “Bubbles. No no no no no.”

My husband was right. For the rest of his life, my son is going to remember October 5th, 2013 as The Day My Mom Tried To Murder My Bear And Made Me Watch.

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Footnotes:

¹If you’re curious (and I’m sure you are!), his name is Gokey because I initially called him Mr. Bearski (for no reason other than it sounded cute, and what’s more important than cuteness?) and Bubba pronounced it “Gokey” instead. Incidentally, my husband is convinced that it should be spelled Goki and even orchestrated a Facebook poll to garner support for his idiotic convictions, but I refuse to capitulate. IT’S SPELLED GOKEY, LIKE SMOKEY OR POKEY.

²The first time Bubba pulled these shenanigans, I actually stopped dead in my tracks and gawked at him open-mouthed for like 30 seconds. I was horrified to discover that seemingly normal toddlers really do freak out like a bad movie cliche. I kinda always thought my kid would be better than that….NOPE. ‘Twas a sad day.

Throwback Thursday: Junior High Mo Had Some Hair Problems

In all my thirty years, I think I’ve had about six truly good hair days. When I was young, my hair wasn’t too troublesome, but there was an awful lot of it and the waviness had a tendency to cross over into frizz-ball territory on occasion. Until I was in 7th grade, my hair pretty much looked like this all the time:

Sure, I wasn’t a Pantene model, but I didn’t look like a freakshow or anything (multi-colored braces aside).

And then one day in seventh grade, literally overnight, my hair changed and my previously slightly-frizzy waves became a mess of super-tight ringlet curls. The bad news is, I did not know what one was supposed to do with curly hair, and neither did anyone else in my family (either that or they DID know and were just super-cruel and liked to watch me suffer), so I did what I’d always done with my hair:

I BRUSHED IT.

Did you know that you are not, under any circumstances, supposed to brush curly hair? Especially if the curly hair in question is the thickest, most voluminous hair on the planet?

This is what happens when you brush out thick, curly hair:

(FYI, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that my hair changed overnight. The above photo was taken just weeks after the photo at the top in which my hair looks semi-normal!)

You guys, it was bad. How did my mother let me out of the house?! And why didn’t anyone help me? I think we have to place some blame on my friends and family, right? On a related note, how did I even manage to make any friends looking like that¹?

I wish I could say that I quickly figured out how to deal with my curly mane, but that would be a lie. Here I am an entire year later, still not knowing what to do (and apparently still oblivious to how ridiculous I looked — I look totally happy and not at all embarrassed to be photographed like I should have been!):

This nonsense lasted all the way through 8th grade. Here I am again with my dear friend Caitlin on the day of our 8th grade graduation:

To make matters worse, as you can see above, at some point in 8th grade I used what appears to be a gallon of Sun-In to lighten my hair. It totally improved the situation, right?

Blessedly, at some point in between 8th and 9th grade, my hair calmed down a tiny bit and I got in the habit of wearing ponytails all the time (why did I not think of that before?). I consider it a stroke of supreme good luck that my hair issues were at their worst at a time when I was immature enough to not give a shit about what I looked like — believe it or not, I never gave a second thought to my frightening appearance at the time! When I look back on these pictures, though, I kind of want to cry from retroactive shame². On the bright side, I suppose it’s nice that we can be certain that my friends liked me for my charming personality, because they definitely weren’t hanging around me in hopes that my coolness would rub off on them.

That said, I’m going to call Caitlin up right now and yell at her for not telling me to put my hair in a freakin’ ponytail in 7th grade. YOU CALL YOURSELF A FRIEND?!

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Footnotes:

¹Perhaps they just wanted to hang out in my awesome bedroom. Please check out the SWEET 1989 Gameboy and note that my decor included a fried egg candle on the shelf behind me.

²I actually did cry at the sight of one of these photos once! When my little sisters turned 21, Jamie made a slideshow containing photos of the two of them throughout the years, and she included the photo of the three of us in overalls pictured above. When she played the slideshow at their party, I literally cried embarrassed-tears when it came up. In other news, I’m insane.

This is What Bedtime is Like When You Suck at Enforcing Rules and Routine

Since the day we brought him home from the hospital 22 months ago, getting Bubba to go to sleep has been a pain in the ass. He’s generally pretty good about staying asleep once he finally enters sleep-ville, but getting him to accept his fate and close his eyes has been a struggle since day one. With the rare exception of the days he hasn’t napped and is thus too exhausted to put up a fight (which has its own downsides), bedtime is a drawn-out and patience-sapping task that typically involves no fewer than seven visits to his room, fourteen songs, an absurd amount of milk, and multiple attempts to reposition the blankets for optimal coziness.

Truth be told, his bedtime antics are probably my fault. And by “probably” we all know I mean that it’s TOTALLY my fault. I know I should have established better habits early on, but I just didn’t like hearing him cry. And I suppose I could put an abrupt end to the situation tonight by simply refusing his requests, but, again: I cannot stand the crying. Is that so terrible?! See, I’m really just a hero who wants to save her child from developing infant-onset depression and abandonment issues! Who would have thought that my heroics would result in such unfortunate consequences?

Now, that said, I have a hard time believing that other toddlers just, like…go to sleep when you put them in bed. Is that really a thing? Because I’d feel a lot better believing that everyone’s bedtime routine looks like this:

7pm: Tell Bubba it’s nighttime and that it’s time to go to bed.

7:01-7:05: Go outside to look for the moon (sadly, my “moon out the window” fake-out only lasted a few days and we now have to actually venture outdoors to try to spot it). Talk in hushed voices about the moon and stars and how it’s nighttime and it’s dark and everyone is going to sleep. He whispers along with me and, like every night, I get excited and think that he might really be “getting it” and will go to sleep like a normal human tonight.

7:05-7:10: Sit on the rocking chair together and talk about the moon (or how the moon wasn’t out there tonight because it’s “too far away;” yes, that was the best toddler-friendly explanation I could come up with for nights when the moon isn’t visible).

7:11: Put Bubba into his crib.

7:12: Give him a bottle because I’m the worst parent ever.

7:13: Fix his blanket because it wasn’t “co-eeee” (cozy) enough.

7:14: Fetch him “anunner” (another) blanket for reasons unknown.

7:15: Wait, he needs yet anunner blanket.

7:17: Kisses, hugs, and I attempt to leave the room. Woohoo, bedtime is over, right?!

7:17 and 12 seconds: “MAMA?!?!?!”

7:18: I go back in there. He’s standing up in the crib and wants to tell me something. There’s a lot of babbling involved, but I catch the words “music,” “door,” and “moon.” These three words mean nothing without context, so I can only guess that he is asking me to turn his music on and to leave his door open, and apparently he just wants to remind me yet again that he really likes the damn moon. I tell him that I, too, enjoy the moon, then turn the music on and leave again, this time leaving the door open.

7:20: “Door?!” I guess I was wrong about his door request. I close it.

7:20 and 2 seconds: “GOKEY?!??!” Bubba’s in a panic because his precious teddy bear (the aforementioned Gokey) is buried under the 8-foot-tall stack of blankets and he can’t locate him. I fish him out and hand him over.

7:21: I leave again, closing the door behind me.

7:22: “DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR!” Sigh. I open it, say goodnight again, and make a run for it.

7:24: “Row-da-boat?! Row-da-booooooooat???” I know my cue, people. I hop up and enter his room and begin a rousing rendition of “Row, row, row your boat.”

7:25: I again attempt to flee the premises.

7:28: It’s been quiet in there for three solid minutes! Maybe he gave up and went to sleep?!

7:28 and fifteen seconds: “MAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” He sounds desperate and frightened so of course I leap to his aid. Obviously he’s fine — it’s just that he spent those last 3 quiet minutes sucking down his milk and now he wants more.

7:30: A milk refill has been provided and I leave for the fiftieth time.

7:32: “Mama!!! Co-eeee!” I want to call bullshit on this nonsense, because he has three freakin’ blankets on top of him and there is no WAY he’s not sufficiently cozy, but obviously since I’m a pushover I run in there immediately to assess the situation. To be fair, one of his toes is not completely covered by the blankets. I re-cover him and depart.

7:35: Sobbing. Surprisingly, not from me.

7:36: I give up and take him out of the crib so we can sit on the rocking chair talking about the moon in an attempt to distract him. Wait a minute…didn’t we just do this?!

7:37-8:00: Repeat.

This is my life, people. It’s a good thing he spends his days being quite literally the most adorable child on the planet:

Because if he was as annoying during the day as he is at bedtime, I think I’d have to quit this whole mothering thing altogether.