Thursday, August 31, 2017

Maybe I'll save this state! One square of toilet paper at a time

A Connecticut mother, Natalie Van Komen, recently got lost in the woods. Governor Malloy immediately enacted a "Lost Mother in the Woods" tax, which will cost tax payers an extra $100,000,000 a year. More Connecticut people will decide to move, and the state will become even crappier and more destitute than before.

Just kidding.

In all seriousness, did you hear? The mother went for a walk close to dark with her two children and dog, lost her way, lost use of her cell phone and ended up spending the night in the woods—through rain and a thunder storm—"terrified."

I can only imagine. I would have been an absolute wreck. 

The story itself isn't as horrific as what's going on in Texas and other parts of the country right now, but what is horrific are the comments on Facebook about the story. People are afraid for our future "because millennials have no common sense." 

Poor millennials. I work with some of them; if you sift past their sensitive side they're actually pretty enterprising.

Then there are the people who can't believe the mother didn't know about the impending storms. I mean, none of us has ever gotten wet due to a pop-up shower or—horrors—not kept track of the weather predictions for every second of every day. Never, ever.

There are others who can't believe the mother didn't have a fully charged cell phone with her or, gasp, water for the children and dog. I guess I can't argue with this. I know that every time I leave the house for an impromptu walk in the woods with the kids I bring a fully charged cell phone, a spare cell phone, a portable charger, a walkie talkie, several flares, three 10-gallon jugs of water I saddle on the dog and kids—they love it—and then a Morse code machine just in case all other methods of communication fail. I also dress the entire family in fluorescent yellow. Did I mention I wear a tarp that inflates into a 3-story structure, complete with bay windows (can't hide from the bad guys if you can't see 'em!), hand sanitizer stations and of course, sticks for roasting S'mores (those "natural" sticks from the woods are bacteria-laden!).

Sweet Lord. I mean, the perfection of some. It must be lovely to live in that garden and to snip a daily bloom upon which you can gaze, content in that smug reality you inhabit. 

Makes me downright sick, I tell you. 

Should she have wrapped the family in bubble wrap and simply stood outside her home at 4 o'clock instead of going into the woods at dusk? Sure. But even that is full of cautionary what-ifs. I mean, what if she lives on a busy road and what if she waited on the sidewalk in the daylight without remembering sunscreen and sunglasses? She could have been blinded momentarily by the sun and lost sight of the dog, who could have run into traffic and been flattened like a pancake. And the children! What if she didn't read the warning label on the bubble wrap? It magnifies the sun! They would have been sunburned. Roasted! 

And people would rant about that too. 

You can't win.

It's why I've been blogging less. Seriously. I just can't take it anymore: the snark, the rudeness, the lack of compassion. I haven't been hit with it personally, thankfully, but lately it's felt better to tune out rather than tune in. 

I commend Van Komen for sharing her story. I once shared a similar story on this blog, though at the time I didn't let on just how scared I was. I went into a large corn maze at a farm I didn't know in a Connecticut town I didn't know and I got lost inside the maze. 

The corn was so high the only thing I could use for reference was the sun. I was seven months pregnant and I had my toddler with me. We were the only ones at the farm, besides the man running the maze, who had some screws loose and probably wouldn't have even noticed if we'd never come out. I had left my cell phone in the car. Chuck didn't even know where I was.

It was frightening. 

The thing that saved me? My pregnant bladder. 

So you see, shit happens! Or, in this case, pee. To all you perfect people living in your perfect gardens, that won't actually water your flowers, per se, but I'd be more than happy to stop by and lift my leg for you.

I mean, come on! It would be so worth the "Woman Pees in Asshat People's Metaphoric Gardens" tax Malloy would create. And it might just save the state...

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Yep, that third kid is so amazingly easy going

"Cam, please pick up your cars now."


"I'd like you to pick up your cars."


"Would you like a time-out?"

"No time-out."

"Then help pick up your cars."

"Mom, w'as dat?"

"That's a car. A car to pick up."

"No pick up cahs."

"One more chance. It's time to pick up cars."

Looks at me with disdain, then slowly picks up one car and throws it in the basket.

"Let's not throw cars. Let's place them gently."

"No gently."

"Yes, gently."

"Mom, w'as dat?"

"That's the dog. Keep picking up those cars, Cam."

"No tell. No cahs."

"Ok, time out."

Slowly picks up one car and places it in the basket.

"Great job! Keep going."

"No say gweat jaaab."

Slowly picks up another car and places it in the basket.

"Mom, w'as dat?"

"That's the garbage truck."

One more car. Then another. One by one. 

"What a good listener you are."

"No good wist'ner."

"You're not a good listener?"


"You're almost done. Then we can go outside."

"No done. No 'side."

"No really, you're almost all done."

"No all done."

Puts last car in basket.

"Hooray! You did it. Let's go outside."

"No hooray." Throws self on floor.

Under breath: "Fine, that was craptastic and we're never going outside again. Is that better?"

My father always said that patience is learning to wait without complaining. My entire childhood—that's all I heard. I'd like to amend that so it's more appropriate for today. Patience is NOT learning to wait without complaining. It's learning to parent a toddler without swearing, drinking, screaming, running away or chewing on glass.

Make laundry fun — and punishable

I don't know why there's so much effing laundry. Yes, there are five of us, but we aren't going anywhere. Part of me feels ...