Posts Tagged ‘kids’

Shopping with boys can be a challenge.  But now I have a daughter, and she loves to shop.  At least that’s what I thought.  Turns out that she loves the indoor playground at the mall.  Shopping is a total loss on this one too.  But it took me a while to catch on.  In fact, I found out when we were bra shopping.

No woman wants to shop for a new bra, really, it’s a chore.  But from time to time it’s a serious necessity and you have to do what you have to do.  I was there.  It was time.  SO I asked my little pixie if she wanted to go shopping with me.

“ALRIGHT!!!  Can I wear my new shoes?”

She was so excited, I was thrilled.  I finally got a beautiful little angel that liked to do things I like to do, like baking cookies, getting your nails done and of course shopping.  LIFE IS GOOD!

We get to the first store and I am ready to do the chore of trying on 500 bras looking for one that fits.  She looks a little dismayed, “Mommy, this isn’t the mall.”

“No honey, we are looking for a bra.  You don’t need a mall for that.”


I dig around, looking for my size while she ducks under the clothes and peeks out from between hangars and night gowns.  Finally it’s time, we’re off to the dressing room.  I tried on a bunch, decided none of them would do and we go back to the racks.  “Mommy, I want to go to the mall.”  I am in the zone now, on the hunt, hell-bent I’m going to get the perfect fitting bra, and my chest will finally look like I am a perfect model shaped woman, magazine ready.

“Sweetheart, we are bra shopping.  Maybe we can go to the mall later.”


With the first and second stack of bras discarded, I find a third stack and head back to the dressing room yet again.  THE one has to be in here somewhere!  We go in the dressing room and I quickly toss my shirt on the chair and try on bra after bra.  All the while the pixie is now laying on the floor with her foot in the air, swinging it around and looking unbelievably bored, saying things like “When are we headed to the mall?”, “You know this isn’t a mall, right?”, “How far is the mall from here?”, “I bet daddy would like the mall better than this.”

I can hear other women snickering and giggling and one even piped in and said, “Yeah, the mall would be better than this.  That’s for sure.”

“Look honey, I think I found it.  What do you think?”  My eureka moment, I am a champion bra hunter, and everything is going to be just fine.

NEVER EVER EVER ask a bored child what they think.  Especially a smart one.

“Sure, it works.  Blue is pretty.  But daddy’s boobs are bigger than yours.”  All the snickers stopped.  Dead silence.

Now I am an experienced parent.  I know how to handle kids.  She is the youngest of 7 after all.  I should know what I’m doing by now.  I open my mouth and what fell out?  “No way!  My boobs are way bigger than his!”

After a few shocked seconds of silence, the entire dressing room erupted in laughter.  Oh crap, that really did come out of my mouth?  What have I done?  Sometimes in life, there are things that just can’t be unsaid.

“Ok sweetheart, let me just pay for this and we will go to the mall.”


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Yesterday I got the panic call from my beautiful daughter-in-law, “Mom, I’m sick.  Can you pick up the baby from daycare?”

This is the time when my mouth and brain are totally coming up with different things.  “Sure honey.”  Alright!  Super-grandma to the rescue!!  Can I pick up the baby?  Are you kidding me… I can’t wait to get my hands on that little ball of love!  “Oh, mom, you’re the best.  Thank you!”  “Any time sweetheart.”  Whatever dear, just hand over the baby and no one gets hurt.

So after a night of homework and giggles and snuggles, all the munchkins were off to bed and I crashed.  The alarm went off and I dragged my tired happy backside out of bed and started waking up little people, teens have alarm clocks, so they are on their own.  Made lunches, plus one for my grandson, and got kids off to school.  On my way to work, I bundled up my little man and took him to preschool only to realize his lunch was still on the island at the house.  Nuts, this preschool doesn’t do lunch on Friday’s and I don’t want my baby to starve.  But all’s not lost, I thought.  Honey works from home.

So I call honey, “Do you see his lunch on the island?”

“Yep, right here.”

“Can you take it to preschool?”

That’s where he started acting like my oldest child.  “Are you kidding me?  I have to work you know.  I have things to do, and you think I should just pop up and run a lunch to preschool?”

Well, that conversation didn’t end well, I mumbled something about going to the grocery store to pick something up for him before I hung up.  Strange, because we are typically a good team.  But by now I wasn’t thinking about the team work we normally perform like a well oiled clock, I was just mad.  I was in the car on the way to the shop yelling at poor innocent passers-by, any perceived slight, “Oh, you must be a man, huh?”,  “Too busy for a few manners today, jerk!” and it went on and on all the way down the road as I worked myself up into a pretty heavy-duty kind of mad.  That’s when the phone rang.  It was honey.  He didn’t apologize but he said he had an opening in his schedule and he’d be more than happy to take lunch to preschool.

So by time I got to the shop, one of the more perceptive ladies asked what was wrong, so I told her I was feeling guilty for being so angry with him over something so ridiculous.  This brilliant woman told me that one of her clients is a counselor, and she told her that men’s brains work like waffles.  They are compartmentalized into squares, and they have to do everything in that square before they can move to the next square.  But things aren’t supposed to spill over from one square to the next or they get frustrated.  But women brains work more like spaghetti.  Things in our world are mixed up and intertwined, and we slide effortlessly from one thing to the next.  That’s why men do not multitask as well as women.  Damn.  I don’t want her to be right, but she is.

Yep, it’s a special combination that very few can figure out how to do gracefully.  So next time he says something stupid, I will just need to slow down and remember the most ridiculous picture I have in my head of a waffle covered in spaghetti.  Cross your fingers.

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I hate socks

I often have this beautiful fantasy, we will pack all our belongings, and move to a tropical beach somewhere.  A beautiful place that’s warm all year round, and, where we can all wear nothing but sandals, flip-flops or even just go barefooted all the time.  What a glorious day it will be!  When that happens, I will “generously” dump donate all my unneeded socks on some poor unsuspecting charity, who will foolishly think they have gained some crazy wealth of socks.

I have 5 boys and 2 girls, who are the bookends.  The biggest fights in my house are over girls and socks.  The girls argue about girls, the boys argue about girls too, but for different reasons.  But they all argue over socks in the same way.  The fact that the dryer eats socks is a fact that is lost on the masses.  The fact that he/she is “stealing” my socks on the other hand is HUGE.  If you’ve ever raised a teenager, you know they buy their own stuff from time to time because “it’s the best”.  So of course, it’s theirs and theirs alone.  Heaven forbid anyone else should look at it cross-eyed.  But if it’s a pair of socks, all hell will break loose.

In my house, everyone gets a laundry basket with their name on it, I shove their laundry in their basket, and they put it away.  If I accidentally put the wrong shirt in the wrong basket, they would give it to the rightful owner, no harm, no foul.  But if I put the wrong socks in their basket all hell breaks loose.  It’s gotten so ridiculous my youngest, who is entirely too small to wear anyone else’s socks, puts them on and pulls them up to her thighs just to hear the boys freak out. I got so disgusted, I came up with a plan.  Yeah, yeah, I know, what was I thinking?  To keep me from being wrong and starting so many fights, I stopped sorting socks.  I just put all the socks in one basket.  Let them go find their own.  Problem solved, right?  WRONG!

I was woken up one morning by a massive growling fight in the living room, which was foolishly located next to my bedroom.  When I walked in the living room, I found 3 teenage boys beating on each other in a heap on the floor.  Of course they are all bigger than me by this point in their lives, so when I tried to break it up, one of them got out of the heap, picked me up, moved me to a safe distance and jumped back in the fray.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry with my kids, not that they didn’t deserve it, but that was just insulting.

I finally figured out that this whole mess was over one pair of socks, and out of sheer frustration I formed a grand plan.  I grabbed all the socks in the living room and threw them in the trash.  By now I was livid, and in the zone, I didn’t realize they weren’t fighting anymore, but, according to honey, they were all silently staring at me.  I pulled out every sock I could find from the laundry room, bedroom dressers, hampers and laundry baskets and was furiously throwing them in the trash.  One of them finally asked me, very gently, what I was doing.  I remember saying “Socks five or six months, brothers forever.  The socks gotta go.”  None of them was foolish enough to try to stop me, not even their dad.  They knew I was done.

I did eventually buy them all new socks, but I made them all go without for a week.  They just quietly buy more when they want socks now without fighting, and without discussing it with me.

I still hate socks.

If someone can give me the name of a really warm place to live where socks aren’t a necessity, please let me know.  I would love to live out my fantasy, sock free of course.

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