Camping, Anyone?

This is the June edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

It was the hottest day of the year. Naturally, we decided to camp. But first, for added amusement, we spent the entire ninety-plus degree day on the lake with friends. All day we soaked in the sun and its glare off the water. Grown ups quenched thirst with beer while kids gorged on Cheetos and orange soda. We all got sunburned. As the hour got later, and hotter, friends questioned our choice to sleep in a tent. But we truly believed it would be fun.

Around six, when everyone else docked their boats and headed for the air-conditioned Nirvana of their suburban homes, we trailered up and parked ourselves at the campsite. A friend waved goodbye, saying “I’ll be thinking of you—tonight, when I flip my pillow over to the cool side.”

But we knew. We KNEW how to have fun. Not like those wimpy home bodies. We had hotdogs and tater salad and all the makings for perfect s’mores. First, we built a fire. My husband thinks of everything. Nevermind it was ninety-five degrees without a breeze. How else would we cook the hotdogs? While the fire blazed, the kids complained. Even the lake—by now one huge bathtub—offered no comfort. I gave my children ice from the cooler, which they rubbed on their reddened skin. The dog hung his head.

“It’ll be find once the sun goes down,” my husband reassured.

But he was wrong. Somehow the temperature increased after sundown. Even melted chocolate and marshmallow could not lift our spirits. In the darkness, we sat—around the place where the obligatory campfire had been. When it got too hot to expend the energy necessary to make up stories, we went bed. And by bed, I mean the ground, cushioned by a thick layer of nylon tent floor. Our spacious four-man (yeah, right) tent offered the added benefit of trapping the now liquid air.

The children and I whined and feverishly fanned ourselves with paper plates. Finally, we pleaded with my husband to go home. He wouldn’t hear of it.

“It won’t be so hot if you quit complaining.”

Our protests affect the air temperature, apparently. But you know what they say: pick your battles. So I sucked it up and persuaded the kids to do the same. We suffered in silence until I felt I might actually suffocate. I sat up and pressed my face next to the tent “window”, hoping to get some oxygen through the nylon mesh.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“Oh, nothing, Babe. Just breathing.”

That’s all it took—fear of spousal asphyxiation—to convince my husband it was time to go. The kids leaped into action. In the dark we packed the boat in record time. Our quickness was fueled by the joyful anticipation of sweet, cool A/C. I swear the dog smiled. Five minutes out of the campsite the air temperature dropped ten degrees. But that was nothing compared to the icy cotton at home, on the flipside of my pillow.

Smartass Family Politics

At breakfast the other day my daughter was being especially sweet to me. In an effort to extend this kind of treatment to my husband and son I told her how much I loved her, my sweet little sweetie pie.

“At least someone around here is nice to me,” I said.

“Sure,” my husband said. “You should hear her when we get in the car. She’s real nice then. That’s when she really makes fun of you.”

Not wanting to break the spell, my daughter launched a protest. “No I don’t. Daddy’s just saying I’m a bad person.”

I didn’t know how we’d gotten from teasing to morals. “Oh no, Sweetie,” I said. “He’s not. Besides, making fun of someone doesn’t make you a bad person.”

My son, who’d stayed out of it up to this point, let out one of those puffs of air that says oh-give-me-a-break-would-you?

“Mom,” he said. “You’re just saying that because you make fun of a LOT of people.”

This is the part where I stopped talking.

Suburban Housewife Rap

I can’t get this out of my head so I had to share it with you. And if you don’t live in the suburbs, let me assure you, it’s all true.

When You Want to Run Away

This is the September edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

When I was a kid I never wanted to run away and join the circus. Now that I’m older, I get it. Although it’s not my dream to tame lions or become the bearded lady, I understand the lure of escaping to some exotic life where the tightrope you walk is literal as opposed to the figurative balancing act we do here in the world of diapers, homework, and ear infections.

My mother tells a story about her mother, who would tell her children that if they didn’t behave she would run off to Tucumcari, New Mexico and they’d never find her. To which my mother calmly responded that they most certainly would find her – in Tucumcari, New Mexico.

Mom shouted similar warnings to my brother and I as kids. She would run away and never return. We didn’t have reason to believe her empty threats, but then again, you never knew. Moms are crazy like that. Our mothers and grandmothers didn’t mess with balance – work-life or otherwise. They didn’t have spa days or antidepressants or Oprah. They just woke up in the morning and did what needed doing. And if they lost it once in a while, well, they were entitled.

Genetics notwithstanding, I have yet to issue such a circus-running-off sort of threat. I prefer short periods of actual escape to fantasies of long-term flight. Running off for weekend writing classes and conferences recharges my depleted mama batteries and gives me strength to face the days of infinite laundry and incessant requests for Nintendo DS cartridges. I schedule my respites months in advance and write them on the calendar – in pen. In Sharpie even.

My retreats may not be as exciting as swallowing swords, but for me, some quality time with a spiral notebook and a half decent pen is usually enough to return equilibrium. And if it’s not, I run off to yoga class, where we make like a tree and stand on one leg, or rest our thighs upon our biceps. That’s balance. These are the things that keep me from losing it.

So next time you’re tempted to run away and join the circus, remember that you can juggle fire in your own kitchen and rig up a tightrope in your backyard. Just make sure you wait until after you’ve finished all that other balancing  – you know, the checkbook, the food groups, and the quality time spent with each child.

And if you hear of any writers’ meetings in Tucumcari, New Mexico, don’t come looking for me.

Lela Davidson is a Northwest Arkansas writer seeking to balance life, love, and laundry with a husband, two children, a dog, and an ever-changing number of fish. Read more at www.afterthebubbly.com.

Contest: Occupy Your Baby, Or Else

When I was young and childless and really enjoyed grocery shopping, I recall once asking my husband why anyone would bring a small child into such a peaceful place as a grocery store. Ditto for a restaurant. He responded that sometimes they just had to. It didn’t make any sense until years later when I too had to cart unruly and unwilling children off to Safeway or my favorite sushi haunt. Sometimes I just had to.

I used bribery of the food kind. Once, when I really, really, really needed the special kind of torture that is TJ Maxx, my son went through an entire bag of Goldfish. One at a time. As well as that worked, now we have something better. It’s called an iPhone! And if you thought Scribble rocked, wait until you check out Occupy Baby.

Occupy Baby is an iPhone/iPod app that plays a continuous animation of a farm with animals that moo, crow and oink. That’s WAY less annoying to your flight mates than a whining toddler. To make it even more convenient, there’s another new product: iBends. This is a stand for your iPhone or  iPod Touch. And the beauty of this gadget is that it’s made from a rigid piece of plastic that easily bends into use, and then goes right back to flat for easy storage in your wallet, purse or pocket so you can always have a place to hold your iPhone when you need it. iBends are great for watching movies on the iPhone too. Or even setting up your phone on your nightstand so you can see the time without have to reach for it or creating an instant night light anywhere.

Cool, right? You totally want these don’t you? If you have an annoying baby, the answer had better be yes!

Good news! I have three sets of iBends and three free app codes for Occupy Baby to give away. To be entered to win, all you need to do is share this post on Twitter or Facebook, and leave a comment telling us about the time you most needed these handy new tools. I’ll choose the winners at random next week!

Thanks for playing, and I can’t wait to hear your stories!

    

Bargain Hunting, Kids, and Genetics

I used to think that through careful parenting I could raise a couple of kids who were just as frugal as I am. What I’ve come to believe, however, is that like so many other things – thick thighs, unibrows, a penchant for sarcasm – there is a gene for parsimony. Those born with the nature of thrift will pinch pennies no matter how many they have to spare, and no amount of nurture will transform the imprudent child into a tightwad. How else can I explain the fact that my daughter comparison shops at the school carnival and my son can find a $6 loaf of bread at Walmart?

I’ve tried to provide my kids a decent financial education. When I worked in retail we used to hang the things that appealed to kids – stuff like Dora socks and anything made entirely out of sugar – at eye level. Kids’ eye level. Once they saw it, they had to have it and once they started screaming, they’re parents happily paid the cashier for the $10 pair of socks or the $5 lollipop shaped like a pretty princess. Aware of this evil genius, I vowed early on not to buy my children anything when they were at the store with me. When they got older I showed them how to seek out the store brands and head to the clearance racks first.

With one of my children, all my training paid off. She finds coupons for things we actually buy and knows when her favorite store is having a sale. She’s careful with the money she earns and, at nine, is already saving for her prom, her car, and her cell phone. Then there’s the other one who believes there is a fairy who sprinkles sporting equipment, Nintendo games, and Ralph Lauren polo shirts around his room at night.

I’m hoping those genome project people can figure out just which gene is responsible for the tendency to scrimp because parents need support. Even if we can’t do a thing about it – sure would be nice to know in advance who’s going to be able to care for us in our old age.

This post is part of a Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast.

**Don’t forget to check back Thursday for the contest!

Hey, ‘Sup Man

At back to school night I greeted one of my son’s friends: Hey, Dude, what’s up? My sixth grader averted his eyes and we walked away in silence.

Mom, what have I told you about calling my friends Dude?

Um… Is this a trick question?

I told you not to do it.

Oh. Okay. What should I say?

Just say, hi, how’s it going?

Just then we spotted a neighbor girl.

Here’s your chance. Practice on Mackenzie.

I obeyed: Hi, how’s it going?

Not like that.

How then?

Okay, don’t say that.

What am I allowed to say?

Just say: Hey, ‘sup man.

Sweet.

26 Ways to Torture Children

This is the August edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

This is a revenge column. Before school let out in the spring, my son’s class was assigned to write an ABC book. They could choose any topic they wanted as long as they came up with 26 things. My dear son decided to write 26 Ways to Annoy Your Mom. I had to get him back. There are many, many more, but here are my favorite 26 Ways to Torture Children.

A – Always serve spinach, occasionally with a side of mushrooms.
B – Beat them with a stick. Not hard, just enough to get their attention.
C – Cuddle them in public. Singing a favorite lullaby also works well.
D – Drone on about how totally rad the 80s were. Like, they, like, totally were.
E – Eat the last cupcake. Also, lick the frosting off their cupcakes. They hate that.
F – Fail to wash their soccer socks three times a week.
G – Gush over their dimples when their friends come by.
H – Hug your husband and call him Babe.
I – Invite the boy or girl over that they like, and cue up Barry White.
J – Just say no – to Poptarts.
K – Kiss them hello at soccer practice.
L – Limit Nintendo DS use to times when it is convenient for you.
M – Move the chips to the top shelf.
N – Never give extra chocolate sauce.
O – Order broccoli as a replacement for fries.
P – Punish them with chores. Start with poop scooping.
Q – Quit buying bread that that is softer than your pillow.
R – Remind them to pick up their rooms. Again.
S – Sing along to the radio during carpool.
T – Talk about puberty in front of the opposite sex.
U – Underestimate how long it’ll take if they come to Wal-Mart with you.
V – Voice your concern for their safety. Over, and over, and over, and over…
W – Withhold allowance.
X – Xerox their baby pictures and decoupage them on their lunch boxes.
Y – Yodel.
Z – Zing them with retaliatory comments in a public forum.

Brangin’ My Kids Up Right

Today we went on a nature walk. I let each of the kids bring along a friend to keep them company and to decrease their fights over who had the better walking stick. Everybody had a good time and I only heard one instance of ‘does it look like I’m talking to you?’ on the entire walk.

After we made the loop, we got out our picnic lunch and sat underneath the shade of a pavillion. That’s when my daughter turned to her friend and said:

I’m so glad I brung you.

Me: Do you speak English?

*eye roll*

Sorry, BRANG.

Passing the Clipboard

Last week my kids started musical theatre camp. Maybe you don’t like showtunes, maybe you do – not my business – but my kids do. And once you’ve seen your nine-year-old daughter belting out the Sally Bowles numbers from Cabaret, you’ll do just about anything to get some new songs into that head of hers.

So there we are, the kids, my husband and I, at the mandatory parent meeting (oh yeah, mandatory – these theatre people are serious) and they started passing the clipboards around. Personally, I never really met a clipboard I didn’t like so I had to check out where to put my name.

Costumes? No, didn’t want to prick my finger. Set design? Please – the curtains I took down in February so that my husband could repair the baseboard, which he did – in March? Still down. So I was pretty happy to see the Back Stage Parent list going around. Here was a way to stay plugged into the process and get some serious face time with the kids. And all I had to do was show up every single day the second week of camp and come early and stay late for both performances. Piece of cupcake!

You’re not doing that, said the Man.

Why not?

Did you see here where it says you won’t be able to watch the show?

I’ll buy the DVD.

You need to sit with me.

Awwwww. But they really need people. You’ll be okay.

It’s for both nights. Did you see that?

Yeah, so? You won’t have to come both nights.

So who’s going to sit with me at the bar?

We high-fived and I passed the clipboard. That’s romance.

Next Page »