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7:21 am.
Awakened by phone.
Son’s friend’s mother calling to ask about afternoon playdate despite being told many times before do not call before 8:30 am unless it’s an emergency, especially on a Saturday because that’s the only day I ever get to sleep in.
Tell her to call back after 8:30 am.
Irritated.
Climb back in bed.
7:37 am.
Still awake.
Reluctantly accept fact that chance to sleep-in ruined.
Even more irritated.
7:43 am.
Think of other ways to get the do not call before 8:30 am unless it’s an emergency point across because, clearly, plain English is not working.
Also think a playdate is not an emergency, and sure as Hell isn’t going to happen today.
7:46 am.
Realize this is harsh/unfairly punishes kids for mother’s behavior.
7:54 am.
Fantasize about retaliation/payback.
Wonder if I could live with myself if I called every night for a week at 12:01 to remind her do not call before 8:30 am unless it’s an emergency.
7:56 am.
Accept fact that I could not.
8:01 am.
Try to think of other alternatives.
8:02 am.
Have one idea.
8:08 am.
Post this.
8:09 am.
Go out for extra-large coffee.
Hear phone ring just as door is closing.
Know instantly who it is.
8:10 am.
Think disconnecting phone line may be only option.
KID: Are you sick?
PARENT: No.
KID: Then why do you look like you’re gonna throw-up?
PARENT: The President is talking about the economic crisis again.
KID: What’s an economic crisis?
PARENT: Well… Basically, it’s when everybody in the country suddenly realizes they’re fucked.
KID: GASP! You said a bad word.
PARENT: I’m sorry.
KID: You’re not supposed to say bad words.
PARENT: You’re right. Even with a situation as bad as this, I shouldn’t swear.
KID: Why is the situation so bad, anyway?
PARENT: The cost of living is going up. Real wages are going down. People’s houses are worth less than they owe on them. Nobody can get credit any more. We can’t seem to find a way to use less energy. And now the experts are saying the very foundation upon which our entire economy is based is cracked at best, and may actually be broken beyond repair.
KID: Wow. We are fucked.
PARENT: Now you said a bad word.
KID: Sorry. Do I have to wash my mouth out with soap now?
PARENT: No, but only because we can’t afford any.
As every parent knows, that’s actually a trick question because when it comes to being peed on, pooped on or puked on, you don’t have a choice: it’s not a question of if it will happen or even when it will happen – though probably in the middle of the night, right after you’ve put on your last clean shirt, or just as you’re rushing off to an important meeting that you’re already 20 minutes late for, etc. – but how often it will happen.
(Not to mention whether or not all three will happen at the same time, which is the parenting equivalent of hitting the “Trifecta,” even though – sadly – it isn’t nearly as rare.)
While the idea of being splattered in your own child’s pee, poop or puke makes non-parents squirm (and probably resolve to remain non-parents), most of us eventually come to accept it – even welcome it – because no matter how disgusting that is, it’s not nearly as gross as being splattered with some other kid’s pee, poop or puke – something that’s also not a question of if, or when, but how often.
From “Why Chicken Nuggets Are Better Than Prozac,” page. 83
When characters in cartoons get angry, smoke comes out of their ears, their heads explode or they undergo instantaneous genetic mutations that turn them into aliens, gigantic, green-skinned freaks, uncontrollable ninja-war- riors, ghost-demons, magical giants, etc.
While young kids believe this kind of thing is possible in real life, older kids eventually learn it’s not.
Or is it?
As bad as it can be for a parent to have a massive, screaming, meltdown – something that happens to everyone eventually, thanks to too little sleep, too much caffeine and a child with bad timing – allowing your offspring to glimpse “the monster inside you” can ultimately be good, because if you play it right they’ll wonder if maybe, just maybe, you might turn into some kind of mutant humanoid if they really, really piss you off.
All you have to do – and this is probably harder than it seems – is let your rage build almost to the breaking-point but then suddenly stop, turn, and walk briskly to the kitchen, hall closet, laundry room, etc. and grab the unlabelled bottle of vodka you keep hidden in there “just in case.” Pour yourself a shot, and then just before you knock it back, check to make sure your kids are close enough to “accidentally” overhear you as you say something like “That was close. Too close. I was able to stop the transformation this time, thanks to the antidote, but if something like that happens again, who knows. When the kids are older I’ll tell them the truth, but for now, it’s got to be my secret.”
If you’re lucky, the next time they decide to have an indoor water fight or shave the dog, they’ll maybe – just maybe – think twice.
(Although probably not.)
- Rain.
- Zippers.
- Things that won’t fit in suitcases.
- Politicians
- Scotch tape.
- The person in front of you at Starbucks who can’t decide between a mocha frappuccino and a cinnamon dolce latte.
- A computer – because even though it seems like it knows when you’re having a bad day and chooses that exact moment to crash, it’s just a glorified toaster. (Why doesn’t somebody develop some kind of curse-recognition software to replace online help? – i.e. the way you say “Damn it!” determines what kind of help you get.)
- Traffic.
- Stop lights.
- Delivery vehicles that double-park.
- Tire jacks.
- Bus drivers – aside from the fact that they’re encased in a sound-proof – and seemingly sight-proof – cocoon, they don’t care.
- Maps.
- Speed bumps.
- Street signs.
- Stairs (both the invisible one at the top of the landing and the non-existent one at the bottom).
- Pants that won’t button.
- Toys that get left in the driveway.
- Rakes.
- Pets (especially hamsters, who are too stupid to understand, dogs, who get their feelings hurt and cats, who get revenge).
- TV remotes.
- Automated telephone helplines – the only thing that happens is you get stuck in a loop where you say “Screw you!” and the computer says “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Could you repeat that please?” and no matter how angry you are you can’t outlast the computer, so you’re the only one who suffers.
- God (even if you sometimes feel justified).
- People on TV.
- Coaches, refs and players on Monday Night Football.
- Little League Umpires.
- The cable guy.
- Anyone who messes up your order at the drive-thru.
- Anyone in customer service.
- Anyone with a name tag that says “Asst. Manager.”
- Tour guides.
- A fetus that won’t stop kicking in the middle of the night.
- A spouse that won’t stop kicking in the middle of the night.
- The Post Office.
- The DMV.
- Pre-schoolers – because if they don’t cry, they gasp and say “You said a bad word!” and then repeat it the next day at school.
- Teachers – imagine having to tell your kid he or she has to repeat 3rd grade because the parent-teacher conference you had last week got really, really ugly?
- The other cable guy who comes to fix the problem the first cable guy couldn’t fix
- Anything you stub your toe on.
- Congress – because unless you’re making a major campaign contribution or have a radio show that reaches 20 million people they can’t hear you.
- Your boss.
- Your spouse’s boss – because if you yell at your boss and get fired, you have only yourself to blame, but if you yell at your spouse’s boss and he or she gets fired, you not only have yourself to blame but your spouse has you to blame, too, and if you think it took a long time to be forgiven for, say, denting the car, imagine how long you’ll suffer for this!
- Your parents.
- Your irons, putter and sand wedge. (But not, oddly enough, your woods because swearing at them does actually seem to help.)
- Bills.
- Yourself.
- Fate/providence/karma.
- Life.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good when you do.
ME: So… how much did I gain?
MY SCALE: You don’t want to know.
ME: C’mon, it can’t be that bad.
MY SCALE: Not if you’re sumo wrestler.
ME: What?!?!?
MY SCALE: Just think of yourself as being “fat but fit.”
ME: I think I’m gonna cry.
MY SCALE: Well… each ounce of tears weigh .0652 pounds, so that’s one way to lose weight.
ME: You make it sound like I’m obese.
MY SCALE: See that mirror?
ME: You mean the one I covered with a towel so I wouldn’t have to look at myself?
MY SCALE: If that’s not a cry for help, what is?
ME: You try losing weight at my age!
MY SCALE: Your age has nothing to do with it — besides the fact that whenever you think about it you get depressed and eat a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s.
ME: I do not.
MY SCALE: You think I’m lying?
ME: It wouldn’t be the first time.
MY SCALE: Please… Scales don’t lie.
ME: How else can you explain my weight?
MY SCALE: Uh… maybe the fact that you’ve been taking in more calories than you burn?
ME: I know for a fact that’s not true. Just look at what I eat? Fruit. Vegetables. Chicken. Fish. Whole grains.
MY SCALE: Plus ice cream and cookies when nobody is looking, half of whatever food you make for your kids but they don’t finish, a piece of cheese before bedtime, wine…
ME: Wine is good for you.
MY SCALE: A glass is good, not a bottle.
ME: Sometimes I just need something to help me relax at night.
MY SCALE: Or on weekends.
ME: That only happens every once in a while. And that doesn’t…
MY SCALE: You were gonna say “count,” weren’t you?
ME: No.
MY SCALE: I’m not judging. I get it. Sometimes you just need a double- chocolate brownie before you go to bed… Or a mocha frappuccino… Or some of that spinach dip from Whole Foods. My point is that all those calories count, even if you don’t count them.
ME: Says you.
MY SCALE: Do you really think that every time you step on the scale I’m secretly adding 20 pounds?
ME: No, not 20 pounds… more like 30 pounds.
MY SCALE: You’re hopeless.
ME: And you’re a liar. So you know what I’m going to do?
MY SCALE: Let me guess: stick me back in the closet until I learn to be more accurate.
ME: Exactly.
MY SCALE: That’s what you said last month.
ME: Right, and clearly you haven’t learned your lesson — because last month you were only off by 20 pounds.
Google is great for finding the answers to obscure trivia questions, getting directions, locating the only a 24-hour-a-day pet walker in your neighborhood, etc.
But it’s terrible for health symptoms.
Search: bloody nose
See 1 to 10 of about 1,234,784, 987 results for “horrible wasting diseases.”
You’d think a program that’s sophisticated enough to be able to figure out what you really want to search for even when you type in the wrong word or phrase – “Did you mean most commonly misspelled words?” – would be smart enough to filter out (or at least de-prioritize) the rare, deadly, one-in-a-million diseases that always seem to pop up when you search for something minor.
Search: headache
See 1 to 10 of about 1,831,187,321 results for “things you shouldn’t worry too much about.”
But no.
Instead, you’re faced with a page of terrifying results.
(If not 10… 20… or even 30 pages of terrifying results, but who really knows since the information on first page alone is enough to make even the most anxiety-proof person pass out from a panic attack?)
All of which would be fine – even amusing – if a visit to the doctor’s office (or emergency room, if you’re really alarmed) offered relief.
But it doesn’t because even if your M.D. has to muffle a snicker when you admit you googled your symptoms and freaked out when you read the results, the closest thing you’ll get to being told you’re 100% healthy is a vague reassurance that “it’s probably nothing.”
Why?
Because doctors use Google, too.
Search: malpractice
See 1 to 10 of about 4,876,876,987,382,876 results for “multi-million dollar settlement for not spotting rare, deadly, one in a million disease in anxious patient.”
- Door dings.
- Trash bins that are supposed to be animal-proof but aren’t.
- Dropped calls.
- FEDEX drivers who double-park.
- Stores that post the wrong hours online.
- Meter maids.
- Parents who bring their kids to daycare when they’re sick.
- Traffic.
- Drivers who make phone calls instead of turning.
- Construction delays.
- Drivers who don’t wait their turn at 4-way stops.
- Tele-marketers who claim they don’t have to heed the “Do Not Call” registry because you’re a customer of their subsidiaries’ off-shore cousin’s shell company.
- SUVs parked in compact spaces.
- Chatty baristas who don’t seem to care/realize there are now 37 people in line.
- The drive-thru (especially McDonald’s).
- Golf.
- People who don’t pick up after their pets.
- News promos that use the words “deadly,” “outbreak,” and “protect yourself” when all they’re actually talking about is the flu.
- Parents who call before 8:30 am.
- Activities that are canceled or postponed by e-mail a few hours before they’re supposed to start.
- Radio stations that have 25 minutes of commercials every hour.
- Things at the supermarket that are still on the shelves days, weeks or months after their expiration date.
- Cable-company DVRs.
- Apple Airport Extreme Wi-Fi.
- Universal remotes.
- Spellcheck.
- When your kids hide your keys.
- Saran Wrap.
If Eskimos have a thousand words for snow, shouldn’t we have a thousand words for life’s little irritations?
For most of us, a day doesn’t go by that God, the universe, fate, karma, quantum physics or all-of-the-above don’t needle our emotional well-being, usually when we’re running late, just had an argument with our spouse or suddenly realized we forgot to get a babysitter for tomorrow night so we could go to dinner and a movie and finally get a break from all this crap.
It doesn’t help that these cosmic paper cuts never seem to be isolated one- offs, either, but instead come in sets, like celebrity deaths and unsolicited parenting suggestions from opinionated strangers – it’s not just the long line at Starbucks, it’s having them mess up your order twice and then spilling your extra-hot, half-caf hazelnut mocha down the front of your shirt as you pull out of the parking lot.
The impact of these little irritations – and they are little, even if we can’t figure out how not to sweat them – increases exponentially as the day progresses, to the point where we find ourselves cursing some 82-year-old women with a walker because she’s not crossing the street fast enough, or threatening to ground our kids for the rest of their natural lives if they EVER give the dog another peanut butter and jelly sandwich again, or contemplating divorce because our spouse forgot (again) to fill up the car when it got close to empty, leaving us in the position of having to coast down the hill to the Shell.
Psychologists say the only reason any of this stuff annoys us the way it does is because it reminds us that we’re not really in control (no matter how thoroughly we’ve managed to convince ourselves otherwise) and that ultimately mastering the moment isn’t nearly as important as just being in it, regardless of whether that moment is good, bad, satisfying, awful, rewarding, stressful, happy, sad, amusing, aggravating, etc.
But as nice as that sounds (in a zen-like, higher-consciousness kind of way), who has the time to learn how to do that? Or the energy? Or the patience?
If learning to live in the moment can’t be accomplished in one 30-minute session two times a week, in the car on the drive home from work, or during one of those rare moments when every kid in the house is quietly pre-occupied, then it just becomes one more thing we don’t have time to squeeze in but try to do anyway – or would try to do if we didn’t have to wait for the knucklehead in the car ahead of us to get off the phone and go.
Note: It’s easy to complain about life’s little irritations, but it’s also important to point out that we could probably eliminate entire categories of irritation if we really, really wanted to – just moving to a remote cabin in Montana and living off the land, for example, would instantly rid us of driving-, shopping-, neighbor-, school- and work-related annoyances (though it would probably more than make up for that by adding starvation-, bear attack-, hypothermia-, and isolation-related irritations, so maybe that’s not such a good trade-off. Plus, let’s not forget that Unabomber Ted Kaczynski moved to a remote cabin in Montana so he could get away from it all and look what happened to him).
Gathering around the table. √
Spending some quality time together. √
Taking a break from DVDs, movies, video games and other passive forms of entertainment. √
Reliving fond memories of playing Monopoly as a kid. √
Trying to figure out which version of Monopoly to play. √
Watching the kids fight over who gets to be the racecar. √
Watching the kids fight over who gets to roll first. √
Watching the kids fight over who who the bowl of popcorn gets to be set down in front of. √
Threatening to send everyone to bed if they don’t behave. √
Enjoying five minutes of stress-free game play. √
Trying to explain to a younger sibling why they have to give their older sibling money just because they landed on Marvin Gardens. √
Wiping away the younger sibling’s tears. √
Using the parent voice to tell the older sibling not to be a sore winner. √
Getting competitive. √
Mentally adding up the cost of therapy if you decide to just completely bankrupt your kids. √
Reminding yourself the point is to have fun. √
Letting your kids win. √
Hoping Family Game Night will be better next week. √
Fearing that it won’t. √
Wondering if Family Movie Night would be a better idea instead. √
KID: Look at me. I have a beard!
PARENT: Wow. You do have a beard. You look like Grizzly Adams.
KID: I made it myself.
PARENT: I can see that. It looks like… Hold on… Come closer so I can get a better look.
KID: I did a good job, didn’t I?
PARENT: You didn’t use the permanent markers from my drawer, did you?
KID: I did — but it’s okay because when I was done I didn’t leave them out, I put them right back where I found them.
If it’s the cleaning lady’s job to clean the house, why do we always pick up before she comes?
(Usually just before she comes, too, with one of the kids stalling her in the foyer as we scramble to de-clutter the upstairs.)
It would be one thing if we were motivated by conscience, believing it unfair to have her clean everything, but this doesn’t seem to be the case. Are we worried she’ll realize we’re really just a family of slobs?
She can probably tell that already, thanks to dishes that occasionally end up under the bed and the collection of crumbs, coins and God-knows-what-it-is she regularly unearths from beneath the sofa cushions.
Do we think she’ll tell the H.O.A. how much more disgusting our house is than, say, the neighbor’s down the street?
(It is, but only because they have no kids.)
Or do we just not want anyone — even the cleaning lady — to find out how much of our lifestyle is an illusion, and that the only parts we have the energy to maintain week in, week out, are the ones that other people see?
(And if this is the case, is it a valid reason to switch to a cleaning service that relies on a small, anonymous army that moves too quickly for any one that’s a part of it to form any kind of impression of what a stye the house usually is?)
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- What do you do if you just don’t get it?
- Does that mean you’re hopelessly out of touch?
- Or that you have better things to do?
- If you do sign up now, doesn’t that mean the whole thing is that much closer to being uncool? And that everybody under 25 is already moving on to something else?
- What if you sign up and nobody wants to be your friend?
- What if you sign up and nobody wants to be your friend except people you don’t want to be friends with?
- If somebody invites you to be their friend but you have no idea who they are, should you still accept?
- And if you don’t accept, should you explain why?
- Will they hate you?
- If somebody doesn’t accept your friend request, should you take it personally?
- If you do take it personally even though you haven’t talked to the person in 10 or 15 years, is that strange?
- What if your boss wants to be your friend?
- Or your creepy neighbor?
- Or the person who got drunk at the last neighborhood block party and tried to hit on you?
- If you sign your parents up because you think they will get a kick out of it but then they start posting updates you find embarrassing, stupid or just a huge waste of time, will they cut you out of their will if you unfriend them?
- If you run into somebody you’ve unfriended at the supermarket, do you have to ignore them?
- Will they ignore you?
- When you create your profile, should you make it public or private?
- If it’s public, how much personal information should you share?
- If it’s private, how much personal information is too much personal information?
- Can you exaggerate?
- Is everybody else exaggerating?
- If you look at the photos of your friends from high school to see if they are fatter than you are before including your own photo, does that make you a shallow person?
- If you look at the photos of your friends from high school to see if they are fatter than you are before photoshopping your own photo, does that make you a bad person?
- If you don’t post very often, will your friends think you’re just too boring?
- If you post all the time, will your friends think you’re just too bored?
- What if your updates are stupid?
- What if your updates are pointless?
- What if your updates are way too long and personal?
- What if nobody ever responds to your posts? Ever? Does that mean you’re a loser?
- Or just offline?
- What if you just don’t want to tell everyone what you’re doing?
- If you are pissed off about something and/or drunk and you respond to a friend’s post with an update that’s mean-spirited or cruel, can you just send them an e-mail to say you’re sorry?
- Or do you have to make the apology public, too?
- Where does it all end?
- If you reluctantly sign up for Facebook, how long before you then have to sign up for Twitter?
- And if have no time for Facebook updates, how are you going to find time to tweet?
- What is a tweet, anyway?
- At what point does all this social networking become too much for anyone to keep up with?
- Have we reached that point already?
- And if we have, could somebody please go to Facebook or Twitter and say so?
Everybody draws a blank sometimes, especially tired, distracted, frustrated parents. So what do you do when you need a threat but just can’t think of one? Click the box below to randomly generate a generic threat that should work for just about any occasion.
| Threat: |
If you don't stop this minute I'm gonna hug you right in front of the school. | |
To generate other responses, just click the bold text in the box above.
CUSTOMER: Hi, I have a complaint.
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: I’m sorry to hear that.
CUSTOMER: Really?
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: No, we’re just trained to say that. Our real goal is to do the very least we can, in the least amount of time, and make sure you don’t throw a fit.
CUSTOMER: But aren’t I a valued customer?
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: “Yes” in the sense that without our customers we’d go out of business, but “No” in the sense that we don’t care about you personally.
CUSTOMER: But I spend over a thousand dollars a month here!
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: That might sound like a lot, but our margins are so tight, the profit on that thousand dollars probably won’t even cover what the company has to pay me to talk to you right now.
CUSTOMER: So the company is losing money on this conversation?
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: Yes.
CUSTOMER: Good.
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: Not really, because we then have to make cuts in other departments to make up for it.
CUSTOMER: Are you suggesting that the more I complain, the more other departments suffer, which means the more likely there are to be things to complain about?
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: Yes. I’m saying this is actually all your fault.
CUSTOMER: My fault?!?!?!
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: Truth hurts, don’t it?
CUSTOMER: But all I did was buy a chicken from you – a chicken that was rotten.
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: That’s right, you bought it. And now you’re complaining about it. Which means instead of having somebody in the poultry department making sure the chickens aren’t green and spoiled, we have to have somebody standing here belittling your complaints.
CUSTOMER: But that doesn’t make any sense.
CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT: We’re the Customer Service Department, we don’t have to make sense.
According to The New York Times, shouting is the new spanking.
But what ever happened to the old spanking? And how could anything be as effective as a cold, hard slap across the butt?
Still… if psychologists are to be believed, the problem with spanking is that it teaches kids that hitting is an acceptable way to solve a problem.
(Among other things.)
On the other hand, at least it teaches ‘em something – ‘cause as any non-spanking parent knows, you can only yell so much before your kids just tune you out. And then what? Waterboarding?
Poll:
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Lots of couples spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars on counseling when what they really need to do to improve their marriage is argue.
Not in person, but by text.
Arguing by text has a number of benefits. For example, in face-to-face arguments, tensions usually escalate because each person reacts (and over-reacts) to what the other is saying. But since SMS shorthand is so obscure and confusing — URAPITA? UG2BK? SHID? — how can you be outraged by something you can’t understand?
The 140-character limit helps, too, because it means you have to reduce your anger/frustration to its root cause before you can text it. Since most arguments end when the roots are exposed, however, starting this way means there isn’t really anywhere for the argument to go — You say you’re upset because you don’t feel like you’re in control of the relationship. Your spouse agrees you’re not. End of story.
As for those argument that proceed anyway, it’s important to remember that at some point, “principle,” ” being “right” and even just the need “to be shown a little respect” can’t overcome tired thumbs.
Which isn’t to say texting is flawless.
But keep in mind that if you scream something cruel and inappropriate at your spouse in the heat of the moment, you can’t ever take it back. But if you text it, you can say it was just a typo:
HUSBAND: No, I wouldn’t ever call you that. What I meant was you’re being a stitch, because I thought your whole argument was a joke.
WIFE: Oh yeah? Well then I guess I meant you’re a sucker.
TAFN.
- The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is look for somebody to blame.
- No matter what anyone says, you completely disagree.
- There are no accidents or innocent mistakes: everything everybody does to you is “on purpose.”
- You yell at your spouse for breathing too loudly.
- You yell at the dog for laying around the house all day doing nothing.
- You yell at your kids for almost anything, and then you feel so bad about you break down and cry.
- Even though you’re not hungry, you stand at the fridge eating (usually whatever you can reach, instead of something you might enjoy).
- You stop going to Starbucks because you can’t take the pressure.
- Everything you say ends with a threat.
- You find yourself staring at a stranger whose face is locked in a permanent scowl for two or three minutes before you realize you’re standing in front of a mirror.
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Most school districts have guidelines for homework, which are generally 10 minutes per night per grade. This information is usually included in the “Back to School” handout, or available on a web site.
What they don’t tell you is that they don’t mean students are expected to spend 10 minutes per night per grade doing homework, they mean parents are expected to spend 10 minutes per night per grade — usually just to get your kids to sit down and get started, too.
Add to that the time it takes to make them double-check their work, re-read the directions so they do it right this time, call a classmate when the finally admit they can’t re-read the directions because they “forgot” them at school, re-do everything one more time… and then suddenly it’s 10:30 and you’re wondering where your evening went.
And that’s on a good night.
On a bad night, you have to factor in the additional time it takes to wipe away the tears your grade school kid sheds because they’re afraid that when you scream you’re going to throw all the video games and game players in the house in the trash if they don’t focus “RIGHT NOW!” you actually mean it, or the time it takes to think up the increasingly harsh forms of punishment you threaten your jr. high or high school kid with to get them to quite screwing around and get their assignment done — note to Dick Cheney: getting a terrorist to write a detailed confession isn’t all that different than getting a kid to write a history paper, so imagine all the controversy you could have avoided if you’d just asked the nation’s parents to tell you what really works?
There’s also the time it takes you to work through the shame and embarrassment you feel when you realize you’ve forgotten so much Math, Science, History and Social Studies that even when you finally snap and scream “Here, just let me do it!” you can’t actually do it.
Cosine? Pi? The atomic number of ruthenium? The capital of Botswana? Uh…
There was a time when students got homework and if they didn’t do it they’d get yelled at the next day by their teacher, paddled, given detention, or forced to stay after class while everybody else went outside to play so they could write “I promise I will not forget to do my homework again” 100 times on the blackboard.
Now parents are responsible.
Which means when there’s a note that gets sent home because there’s a problem, it blames you, asking what the Hell kind of uninvolved, uninterested, unfit parent you are for failing on such a regular basis to get your kid to sit down every night to complete such a simple thing as each day’s assignment.
Or worse, all of the above plus the reminder that there’s a 25 page Social Studies report due on Friday:
YOU: I just got a note from your teacher.
YOUR KID: I know. I brought it home.
YOU: It says you have a paper due on Friday.
YOUR KID: Yeah, for Social Studies.
YOU: Have you started it yet?
YOUR KID: No.
YOU: Why not?
YOUR KID: ‘cause it’s only Wednesday. Duh.
What’s a parent to do?
If you’re like many, you’ll eventually turn to your own parents for help, asking them how they endured homework’s Long March.
But the only thing they’ll do is laugh and say there’s nothing you can do, and that as awful as your kids seem, they’re not any worse than you were when you were their age:
YOU: Wow.
YOUR PARENTS: Yeah, sometimes helping you with homework got so bad we had to stop and walk around the block.
YOU: I’m sorry I put you through all that.
YOUR PARENTS: We forgive you.
YOU: Thanks.
YOUR PARENTS: And when your kids call you in 20 or 30 years to say the exact same thing, you’ll forgive them, too.
YOU: I guess.
YOUR PARENTS: Besides, every minute of stress and frustration they cause you now, they’ll suffer when they get older and have to help their kids.
YOU: That’s supposed to make me feel better?
YOUR PARENTS: No, but it finally makes us feel better.
Ouch.
(On the other hand, whether it’s Math, Science or Social Studies when you’re a kid, or Parenting, Perspective and Anger Management when you’re an adult, it’s nice to know that you can still turn to your parents for help you with your homework.)
Husband: “Ready?”
Wife: “I was waiting for you.”
Husband: “Oh… I was waiting for you.”
Wife: “Well… I’m ready.”
Husband: Great. Shall we go?”
Wife: Sure – just give me five minutes.”
Editor’s note: when husbands were asked if they thought this joke was mildly-to-moderately amusing, 84% said “yes;” when wives were asked the same question, 91% said “What joke? You think it’s easy getting ready? We can’t just hop in the shower and be done. We have to do our hair, put on our make-up, and then clean up the bathroom before we leave because our husbands NEVER do. Seriously, do they want the babysitter to think we’re slobs? And how hard is it to hang up a towel and wipe down the sink, anyway? If you want to talk about getting ready to go out, men are the real joke, and we don’t think it’s funny.”
God bless Oprah and all the good she does in the world, but sometimes she – or, perhaps more accurately, her editors – get it wrong.
Case in point: the 10-point family guide to getting more sleep, which starts out sensibly enough, but quickly takes an impractical turn:
1. Make sleep a family priority.
2. Recognize sleep problems in your children.
For most parents, the problem isn’t recognizing the problem – it’s pretty obvious that kids don’t like going to sleep, ever, no matter how late it is or how tired they are – it’s figuring out what to do about it, other than turning to Benadryl.
3. Parents need to work together.
But we don’t.
It’s not “divide and conquer” so much as it is “You deal with it while I relax for a while and watch TV ‘cause I’ve had a rough day.”
4. Be consistent.
Ha.
5. Set a regular bedtime and wake time.
Parents already do this all the time, we’re just not very good at it. Because while most of us realize that bedtime should be 15 to 30 minutes before we finally reach the breaking point, and wake time should be whenever we finally get enough sleep to feel rested and alert – say 8:09 pm and 7:51 am – the reality is that bedtime is usually 15 minutes after the breaking point, and wake time is whatever time you absolutely, positively have to leave the house in the morning so you’re not late minus half the time you need to make breakfast, make lunches, make coffee, take a shower, get everyone dressed, settle whatever random fight breaks out that morning and kiss your spouse. (Unless you’re still fighting because you didn’t work together.)
6. Routine. Routine. Routine.
In your dreams. In your dreams. In your dreams – unless a “routine” can consist of a carefully planned series of random, unpredictable events to which no timeframe can ever logically be applied.
7. Dress and room temperature – not too hot, not too cold.
Oh, please – if one kid is too hot, the other is too cold, and if they’re fine, you’re uncomfortable. The only one who ever got anything “just right” was Goldilocks and she was make-believe.
8. Transitional object to ease separation – doll, stuffed animal, blanket.
Okay, but what do you do when the “transitional object” is Mom?
(While that might seem good for Dad, it’s bad for Mom, which means that ultimately it’s bad for Dad, too.)
9. Don’t share your room or your bed with your child.
Anyone with parents who weren’t hippies has heard this, but let’s examine the way it works in real life:
CHILD: Can I sleep with you?
PARENT: No.
CHILD: But I’m scared.
PARENT: No.
CHILD: And I don’t like being by myself.
PARENT: No.
CHILD: Why not?
PARENT: Because Oprah says you can’t.
CHILD: I hate Oprah. Oprah is mean. I’m never going to watch Oprah on TV again. (Unless she gives me a car*.)
Worse, the next night when your kid comes in it won’t be because there’s a monster under the bed, it’ll be because Oprah is there, too.
10. There’s always one last thing with kids, so anticipate.
Anticipate? One last thing? How about 10 last things? Or 20? Any parent who can do that is clearly psychic and should just hit the Atlantic City casinos and hire an army of nannies with the winnings.
For most parents, the most practical suggestion for getting more family sleep is to just be patient for 18 years or so, at which time the kids will finally be old enough to move on and sleep by themselves.
*Or recommends her audience checks out www.overcaffeinateddad.com.
No age group is immune to meltdowns, with even teenagers releasing their inner Linda Blair every now and then.
If you’re lucky, these unprovoked, uncontrollable eruptions occur in the privacy of your own home at the exact moment a parade of siren-wailing fire trucks, ambulances and police cars passes by, so there’s absolutely no chance the neighbors can hear anything and report you to the Department of Child and Family Services.
(And if you’re really lucky, you’re the parent of the one out of 1,000,000,000 kids who just don’t melt down. Ever. And not because they’re medicated all the time, either.)
Still, some places are worse for meltdowns than others:
Church
God won’t care, thankfully, but some of the parishioners sure will. And even though you are in a place of compassion and forgiveness, always remember that none of it will be directed at you if you can’t keep your kid quiet during the sermon.
Chuck E. Cheese
It’s only bad if your kid is the one who sets off the chain reaction of temper tantrums. And if that happens, get out of there fast.
At home, the minute before the new babysitter arrives
Because even if you manage to calm your kid down, you’ll clutch your cell phone the entire time you’re out, waiting for the babysitter’s exasperated call, making it all but impossible to enjoy the play, movie,
dinner, etc. (And if you don’t calm your kid down, you’re not going anywhere. Ever. Because now you’ve scared off the last babysitter in your neighborhood.)
Upscale, urban supermarkets
None of those people looking at you with disgust have kids, so none of them realize you’re about as responsible for a meltdown as you are for an earthquake.
School
If you can’t get your child out before things get really ugly, count on the fact that from now on, any time your child has trouble paying attention, or doesn’t understand an assignment, or gets in even the slightest amount of trouble, the teacher will assume it’s because you’re a crappy parent.
Around old people
Not because there’s anything wrong with old people in general – most are understanding, even indulgent when it comes to kids – but there are two sub-groups you can’t always avoid: those who never had kids and hate the fact that part of their taxes go to educate “your” dirty, greasy, uncontrollable monsters, and the “spare the rod and spoil the child” types who look at you like you’re weak for not just hauling off and smacking your kid across the face when he or she gets out of line. Sadly, both groups seem to go out of their way to let you know how they feel.
Somebody else’s birthday party
This is especially bad if the meltdown coincides with the opening of presents and all the other parents can hear your kid wailing about the fact that the birthday boy or girl is getting lots of cool stuff and your kid isn’t.
As awful as it is when your kid has a meltdown, another kid’s meltdown can be among the more satisfying of parental experiences.
All you have to do to feel really good about yourself is throw meltee’s mom or dad an empathetic look that says “Hang in there, compadre, and don’t focus on the fact that everybody in the entire food court is staring at you like you’re the worst parent in the history of parenting. Focus instead on the terrific way my kid is behaving and let his or her pleasant and well-behaved exceptionalness remind you that your kid will soon return to his or her normal behavioral state, and within a few weeks even the most shocked and horrified of the bystanders will have forgotten what you look like, at which point it will be safe to return to the mall, where – if you’re lucky – you will find yourself standing where I am now, offering a look of encouragement and compassion to somebody who most definitely needs it.”
Don’t let the credit crisis, the housing slump, gas prices, global warming, the cost of groceries, layoffs or the generally sad state of world affairs stop you from enjoying quality time with your kids.
Instead, let these troubles inspire you with the following games:
Mortgage, Mortgage, Who’s Got The Mortgage?
Kids sit in a circle with their fists closed, pretending to hold a button, which in this case represents a mortgage. As you go around the circle, everybody says “Mortgage, mortgage, who’s got the mortgage?” and then whoever’s turn it is says “Billy has the mortgage.” Billy must then open his fist to show everybody if he has the button/mortgage or not. The joke, of course, is that he doesn’t. In fact, nobody does, because credit is still so tight nobody can get one.
Stock Market Limbo
How low can it go? There’s one way to find out: put on “The Limbo Song” and see if you can make it under without collapsing.
Time Travelers
Take an imaginary trip to the future without leaving home. Just unplug the air conditioner, shut off the water main, and set the thermostat as high as it will go. The first person to pass out from heat stroke loses, the last one standing gets a half-glass of dirty water and a chance to play “An Inconvenient Truth: The Home Edition.”
The Crumbling Infrastructure Game
Just like “London Bridge is Falling Down,” only substitute something local.
U.N. Election Monitor
Help ensure the spread of democracy with this variation on “Kick The Can.” Select one U.N. Election Monitor, then divide everyone else up into two groups: voters and henchmen. While you turn your back and pretend every- thing is going really, really well, “voters” try to run up and kick the can before “henchmen” stop them.
Magic 81/4 – Ball
Buy? Sell? Forget your broker’s “opinion” and just ask the Magic 81/4 – Ball. It couldn’t be any worse.
Filibusted
Pretend you’re Congress and you’re trying to do something to re-ignite the economy, only you get so bogged down in partisanship you just stand around calling each other names.
The Coupon Game
What kid doesn’t like to cut things out? Here, you put yours to work helping you find enough coupons to make up the difference between what you make and what you spend. (While technically not a game, it would probably be helpful. Plus, you can give your kids bonus points if they find any coupons that are good for discounted liquor or anti-depressants.)
Chinese Toy Russian Roulette
Toxic? Non-toxic? Line up the toys and use a home lead-test to find out.
It’s easy to get mad at bad drivers, but sometimes there’s a simple explanation for why somebody stops at a green light, or makes a left hand turn from the far right lane, or just blatantly cuts you off.
(Besides being too tired to see straight because they have kids who still won’t sleep through the night.)
Where the ’70s had custom paint jobs, the ’90s had vanity plates. And even though they’ve become something of a cliche, they’re still an accurate way of understanding what a driver is thinking.
Why is the guy in the vintage car you’re stuck behind going 20 mph under the speed limit? Because he’s “N2PL8Z” not “N2 DRVNG.”
Why did that teenager just sideswiped your neighbor’s mailbox? “I♥TXTNG.”
And why is the Nascar wannabe in the 2007 Dodge Challenger next to you at the stop light revving his engine? Because he’s “2FAST4U” (though, unfortunately for him, not 2FAST4 the highway patrol car waiting behind the overpass up ahead.)
But as good as vanity plates are, they’re not nearly as insightful as bumper stickers.
If it’s “EARTH FIRST!” that means it’s good driving second, which easily explains why that bio-diesel conversion that smells like a giant french fry is driving the wrong way down a one way street.
Not to be too political, but if you’ve ever been driven off the road by a convoy of protesters racing to their next rally, you know that just because somebody’s “PRO LIFE” or “PRO CHOICE” doesn’t mean they’re pro-stop sign, pro-”Do Not Pass” or pro-speed limit.”
And while “MEAT IS MURDER,” running somebody over is just vehicular manslaughter, which is why that emaciated 20-something in the vintage Volvo seems more concerned with finding the only Vegan restaurant in town than looking out for pedestrians.
Not that anyone is perfect, of course, but why call attention to yourself?
It’s great to “PRACTICE RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS,” but not for every single driver who wants to cut in.
“WHAT WOULD SCOOBY DO?” He’d let Fred drive because he’s too stoned.
And if we’re supposed to “CALL 1 800 EAT-SHIT” to lodge a complaint, how can we do it from the car if we’re not allowed to use cellphones anymore?
Still, as irritating as other drivers can be, it’s not like we can just walk away.
- Appliance breaks.
- Appliance store where appliance was purchased less than six months ago says you have to call the manufacturer.
- Manufacturer’s 1-800 operator says “I’ve never heard of that happening before,” transfers call to the service department.
- Service department says they can fix appliance, but not until next Tuesday.
- Husband starts yelling at service department.
- Wife takes over.
- Wife calmly listens as service department says they’ll call Monday night to confirm that the serviceman is scheduled for Tuesday.
- Service department calls on Monday and says the serviceman will arrive on Tuesday sometime between 8 am and 5 pm.
- Wife starts yelling at service department.
- Husband eggs her on.
- Service department offers to reschedule but husband and wife realize this will only make things worse.
- Serviceman arrives Tuesday at 4:43, stays for 20 minutes and says he needs to order a part from the parts department.
- Parts department says the part can’t ship until next week.
- Sensing tension in the room, serviceman says husband and wife don’t need to make another appointment and that they can install the part themselves.
- Husband shakes his head in disbelief.
- Wife says “fine.”
- Serviceman heads for the door and then, at the last minute, turns and says “Of course, one of you will need to be here to sign for the part.”
- Husband goes for his throat.
- Wife grabs her 8-iron and beats him until he’s unconscious.
- Both string the serviceman’s body from a telephone pole outside the house as a warning to service departments, cable companies and deliverymen everywhere never to give an 8-hour window and then show up during the last 15 minutes without being able to fix the problem.
A is for “anxious,”
or why you’re awake.
‘cause B is for “boss”
with a decision to make.
C is for “cut-backs.”
Oh, when will they end?
Is D for “Depression,”
where no one can spend?
E is “economy,”
ours seems to be toast.
F is “You’re fired!”
the phrase you fear most.
G is for “Google,”
where you search for a job.
Joining H as in “horde,”
the great job-seeking mob.
I is not you,
but the “infinite” masses,
who flood all the “J-O-B” boards,
’til they’re slow like molasses.
401K was your net,
but it’s taken a hit,
meaning L is for “loss,”
— why you don’t have shit.
M is for “Me!?!?!?!
I’m supposed to be blessed!”
But N is for “No!”
You’re as screwed as the rest.
O is for “out of,”
what your luck seems to be.
And P? That’s “percent”
unemployed: 9.3.
Q is the “question:”
“What do we do now?”
“How do we “Recover”
from a financial KA-POW!
S is the “stimulus,”
which didn’t do squat,
T is the “Treasury,”
and the Main Street they forgot.
U is the “upside.”
But what could it be?
Making friends at unemployment?
Watching too much “TV?”
W’s for the “worry”
that’s become all-consuming.
And X is “Rx’s”
The anti-depressant biz? Booming.
In the end there’s just Y,
your unspoken plea,
repeated each night,
in the absense of “Zzzz“
KID: How can you lose a house?
PARENT: What?
KID: How can you lose something as big as a house?
PARENT: No, you can’t really lose a house. When people say that they don’t mean “lose” like when you lose your shoes or a DVD case, they mean they’re going to have to give the house back to the bank.
KID: Why does the bank get it?
PARENT: Well… when people buy a house, they go to a bank and borrow the money they need to pay for it.
KID: Oh.
PARENT: So even though they live in the house, it’s technically “owned” by the bank until they pay the money back.
KID: Did we borrow money to pay for our house?
PARENT: Yes.
KID: So then it’s technically “owned” by the bank, too, until we pay them back?
PARENT: It is.
KID: Awesome. Do we have any orange paint?
PARENT: Why?
KID: ‘cause even though Mom won’t let me paint my room orange, I bet the bank would since that’s one of their colors.
- All schools have a very specific procedure for dropping off kids in the morning.
- Some parents don’t realize this.
- Some parents realize this, but don’t actually know what the official procedure is.
- Some parents realize this, but don’t care.
- The more complicated the procedure, the more likely it is to change.
- The more complicated the procedure, the more likely it is to be written down, but since it will have been written by the same people who write those bizarre standardized testing story-problems, it won’t make any sense.
- The more time you spend trying to understand the procedure, the less time some other parent at the school will spend trying to understand the problem, thus maintaining equilibrium and ensuring that the drop-off will never, ever go smoothly.
- Parents who don’t follow the drop-off procedure always think they have a good excuse, but they don’t:
- “I’m running late” isn’t a good excuse
- “I drive a Mini so I’m not reallly getting in anyone’s way” isn’t a good excuse
- “I haven’t had my coffee yet” isn’t a good excuse
- “It’s just this one time” isn’t a good excuse
- “I forgot” isn’t a good excuse
- “I’ve read the procedure a hundred times but I just don’t undersand it” isn’t a good excuse
- “My wife usually drops the kids off” isn’t a good excuse
- “The person in front of me did the same thing” isn’t a good excuse (though certainly understandable, given our sheep-like tendencies)
- Saying “sorry” doesn’t help, but it’s better than giving somebody the finger.
- Before 9 am, nobody is polite.
- If you leave early, something will happen that will make you late – an accident,
road construction, freak snow storm, broken water main, etc.
- If you leave really, really early because you expect something will happen to make you late, it won’t. But then you will be so early, you’ll have to wait anyway because the crossing guards, door openers, teachers monitoring the playground and/or sidewalks will be late.
- The minute after you start screaming and yelling at your kids (for no reason other than you’re tired), you will realize the driver in the next car over who’s looking at you like you’re the worst parent in the world is the principal.
- You can always tell the parents who got a good night’s sleep from the ones who were up all night, unless you were one of the parents who was up all night, in which case you can’t really tell anything.
- Some parents take their time in the morning and you hate them for it.
- Some parents take their time in the morning and you are inspired by them, even if you have no idea how you could ever be patient and relaxed at this hour.
- When your kid says “I have to go to the bathroom” two blocks from school and you say “just hold it ‘til we get there,” half the time they won’t be able to and the other half the time they won’t be able to because going those last two block will take 25 minutes thanks to sewer maintenance.
- If there is a convenient, quick, easy place to stop and get coffee on the way to the drop-off, it will close just when you come to depend on it.
- Even if you stop in the drop-off lane because your child has just thrown up all over the backseat, the car behind you will honk and/or flip you off.
- The only thing worse than being late is being late on a day when the principal
is standing on the sidewalk opening doors.
- If four parents come to an intersection at the exact same time, the one with the most kids will go first.
- When you see a parent juggling a dog, a double-stroller, a cell phone and a coffee cup, watch out, because they aren’t.
- When you see a parent juggling a dog, a double-stroller, a cell phone, a coffee
cup and a 5-year-old, get your Handicam out because you’re about to witness an “America’s Funniest Home Video.”
- For some kids, being a crossing guard is their first taste of power, so don’t give them an excuse to flaunt it.
- For some kids, being a crossing guard is their last taste of power, which explains why so many will need therapy later.
- Your SUV may look like a school bus, handle like a school bus, and be as big as a school bus, but it’s not a school bus. Which means that empty stretch of curb conveniently located directly in front of the school’s main doors is off limits until the big, bright, yellow sign that reads “School Buses Only 7 am to 10 am” gets removed (during the day, by workers from the Department of Transportation, not at night by a couple of dads with a hack saw and a crow bar).
According to a recent research study, one in five adults who responded to a survey admitted to using Ritalin or Adderall to boost their brain power.
When asked where they got the drugs, most just mumbled and said “I can’t remember,” but speculation is they simply raided their kids’ medicine cabinet. And while this clearly breaches the bonds of trust between parent and child, when you consider how often kids raid their parents’ liquor cabinet, it seems only fair.
You’d think leaking pee would get soaked up by pants or tights, or if it did manage to seep down a leg, shoes and socks would easily keep it from spreading. (Isn’t that why kids wear socks in the first place, to soak up pee? God knows it’s not because they want to).
But no.
Pee goes where it wants to go, defying the laws of gravity and fluid mechanics, and targeting the things parents care about most like silk shirts, expensive upholstery, a favorite suit, new carpet, mesh car seats or anything else you’ve ever tried to keep from being ruined.
Pee is like a smart bomb, or a liquid Terminator, a soulless killing machine that can’t be reasoned with, can’t be bargained with, and can’t be stopped until it’s too late.
(Let’s hope it doesn’t form an unholy alliance with poop and vomit, as that would surely doom us all.)
“Can’t you hold it until we get home?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to put a bucket by your bed, just in case?”
“Don’t answer it. DON’T ANSWER IT!”
“The kids will love it.”
“I thought you were picking them up?”
“Okay, but only if you promise not to do it in the house.”
“Okay, but only if you promise to be careful.”
“Make sure you put that on the counter before the dog gets it.”
“Did you bring the tickets?”
“Relax, the kids have been asleep for hours.”
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