©Lisa Barker
My four-year old son is not buying my stalling tactics any more. It used to be that if he really wanted something at the store I could say, “next time” and that would suffice. If he wanted to play a certain game, I could say, “tomorrow” and he was good with that and this is mostly because he had no long-term memory and no sense of time.
Now he wants to now WHEN. “When next time? When is tomorrow?” He’s got morning, noon and night down pat. He associates those times logically with breakfast, lunch and dinner. So now I specify ‘later’ with phrases like ‘after dinner’. And he remembers. Oh, let me tell you how he remembers!
As soon as we sit down for dinner he announces that we will be eating candy for dessert. Then, as soon as his plate is clean he declares, “Candy time!” and Lord help us all if I don’t keep my end of the bargain.
Now he’s trying to figure out days of the week. If I say we’ll go to the park ‘tomorrow’ he’ll ask what day that is. “Tuesday,” I’ll tell him. Then he gets up in the morning and asks me if it is Tuesday already. He’s ready to go to the park as soon as he gets his clothes on, forget about breakfast. I’m not ready to go until ‘later.’
He’s figured out that Dad stays home on Saturday and Sunday, but he doesn’t know when those days will be. So every morning when he gets up and sees that Dad has left for work, he knows it’s one of those other days...and so far they don’t matter much because when Dad’s home we play video games. When Dad goes to work, Mom makes a big mess of things and then puts it all back where it belongs. She calls this cleaning and it’s boring.
So I have to be choosier with my delays and start naming months. He has no idea about those yet. “Momma, can we go to the air show again tomorrow?”
“In September.”
“Is that tomorrow?”
“No, it’s a long time from now.”
“When?”
“Next YEAR.”
“When is that?”
“When you are five.” He realizes that’s a long way off and sometime after his birthday. But now that his long-term memory is kicking in he’ll probably blow out the candles on his birthday cake and tell me I’m taking him to the air show, which I will have forgotten by then because my long-term memory is going.
As my son develops a sense of time he’s moving on to developing a sense of direction.
“Momma, where are you going?”
“Crazy.”
“Can I come?”
“Sure! You’re driving.”
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Friday, December 28, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Jump House Releases Inhibitions
©Lisa Barker
My husband is a conservative introvert who is set in his ways. This gives the impression that he’s no Mr. Fun. But park a jump house on his front lawn and be prepared to meet his inner side.
My sister and I recently got our families together for a barbecue and rented a jump house. It was the best hundred dollars I spent in a long time. The kids had a great time, but the adults had a blast.
The day started off a bit tense. My husband insisted that the kids not jump for fifteen minutes after they drank something and for thirty minutes after they ate. He didn’t want anyone throwing up in the jump house. This never occurred to me. I was thinking to let the kids do whatever and he was thinking about rules, regulations and orderly fashion.
Finally we were on the same page and the rest of the day flowed smoothly...which means I finally got to jump in the jump house. My husband assured me that it provided great entertainment for the ‘adults’ sitting in the house, watching out the window.
I invited him in, but he wouldn’t budge. There were hamburgers to grill, conversations to be had, rules to impose on the children and various other boring adult things to do, and yet....
He climbed in the jump house out of curiosity, I think. Without a word he slipped out the front door, the rest of the adults unaware. When I found him, he was in the middle of a rousing game of blind man’s bluff, circled by a bunch of bouncing children chanting how cool Dad/Uncle Simon is. It was a bit of a surprise to see him stumbling about, bouncing off the walls, breathless with laughter.
“Ahem!”
“I am NOT jumping, woman, I’m CHASING!” he insisted, as he dove to catch one of the squealing children, but it didn’t deter my cheesy grin. He’d been caught having fun.
And according to my husband (the Mr. Rules & Regulations side) we were supposed to pack it up at dusk, but Mr. Fun had emerged and that jump house was bouncing until well past dark.
“I thought we were packing it up.”
“It’s not that late!” He was the last to emerge from the jump house, losing his balance and rolling onto the grass and into the children.
There’s nothing harder than soda to drink at our house but you wouldn’t know that by the way my husband staggered into the house – the inevitable result after using muscles that have not been used in decades.
He’s been stiff these last few days, but I suspect the pain is more than worth it.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane... Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom™, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
My husband is a conservative introvert who is set in his ways. This gives the impression that he’s no Mr. Fun. But park a jump house on his front lawn and be prepared to meet his inner side.
My sister and I recently got our families together for a barbecue and rented a jump house. It was the best hundred dollars I spent in a long time. The kids had a great time, but the adults had a blast.
The day started off a bit tense. My husband insisted that the kids not jump for fifteen minutes after they drank something and for thirty minutes after they ate. He didn’t want anyone throwing up in the jump house. This never occurred to me. I was thinking to let the kids do whatever and he was thinking about rules, regulations and orderly fashion.
Finally we were on the same page and the rest of the day flowed smoothly...which means I finally got to jump in the jump house. My husband assured me that it provided great entertainment for the ‘adults’ sitting in the house, watching out the window.
I invited him in, but he wouldn’t budge. There were hamburgers to grill, conversations to be had, rules to impose on the children and various other boring adult things to do, and yet....
He climbed in the jump house out of curiosity, I think. Without a word he slipped out the front door, the rest of the adults unaware. When I found him, he was in the middle of a rousing game of blind man’s bluff, circled by a bunch of bouncing children chanting how cool Dad/Uncle Simon is. It was a bit of a surprise to see him stumbling about, bouncing off the walls, breathless with laughter.
“Ahem!”
“I am NOT jumping, woman, I’m CHASING!” he insisted, as he dove to catch one of the squealing children, but it didn’t deter my cheesy grin. He’d been caught having fun.
And according to my husband (the Mr. Rules & Regulations side) we were supposed to pack it up at dusk, but Mr. Fun had emerged and that jump house was bouncing until well past dark.
“I thought we were packing it up.”
“It’s not that late!” He was the last to emerge from the jump house, losing his balance and rolling onto the grass and into the children.
There’s nothing harder than soda to drink at our house but you wouldn’t know that by the way my husband staggered into the house – the inevitable result after using muscles that have not been used in decades.
He’s been stiff these last few days, but I suspect the pain is more than worth it.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane... Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom™, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Help, We Are All Being Held Hostage
©Lisa Barker
You’ve got to be really, really ill to want to stay home in our family. My eldest daughter had a fever one night. Her head felt like it had swelled five times its size and her throat and ears ached. Still, she dragged herself by her teeth down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. She was bent on going to school.
But she only summoned the strength to stand for five minutes. She was desperately sick with the flu and reluctantly went back to bed on my command.
Soon enough, the four-year old awoke. My daughter tried to stifle her breathing. If he heard even the faintest noise from her room—like the death of a skin cell—she would be found out. Sure enough, she inhaled and he pounced.
“Rachel’s home! Rachel’s home! Rachel, are you home? Are you sick? Are you staying home all day?” and so began his incessant chattering.
“Momma!” she croaked.
“Aiden, leave your sister alone. She doesn’t feel well.”
There is no one who looks more disappointed than our four-year old when he can’t visit with an ill sibling. And being under the weather is one thing, but being sick and feeling guilty is too much to bear. Eventually, Rachel gave in and camped out on the sofa.
“Rachel! Move your feet! I’m sitting there! Move your feet! Momma, Rachel’s not moving her feet!” He pestered her until she woozily sat up. “Play Candy Land with me!”
She relented.
“NO! I’M RED, YOU’RE BLUE! I WIN, NOT YOU!”
Her head must have felt like shattered glass. This is why my husband drags himself off to work everyday no matter how he feels. He’s got an office all to himself. If I had a room all to myself at home, I’d be in it. I’m sure the teens feel the same way.
But there is no escaping the little one, though I’ve tried. I have to lock the master bedroom door as well as the bathroom door to ensure a few moments of privacy, but sooner or later somebody picks the locks and I am found out. Even my husband will ask what I am doing.
“What do you think? I’m in the bathroom!” (Oh, sure, it’s just me, a bag of chocolate and a stack of magazines to catch up on, but they don’t need to know that.) Everybody has their hiding place and stashes of goodies to soothe them.
We don’t know when the four-year old took over the house. It was probably when he started screaming “NO!” as a two-year old and then whined through age three. We’ve given up. We’re being held hostage – HELP!
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
You’ve got to be really, really ill to want to stay home in our family. My eldest daughter had a fever one night. Her head felt like it had swelled five times its size and her throat and ears ached. Still, she dragged herself by her teeth down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. She was bent on going to school.
But she only summoned the strength to stand for five minutes. She was desperately sick with the flu and reluctantly went back to bed on my command.
Soon enough, the four-year old awoke. My daughter tried to stifle her breathing. If he heard even the faintest noise from her room—like the death of a skin cell—she would be found out. Sure enough, she inhaled and he pounced.
“Rachel’s home! Rachel’s home! Rachel, are you home? Are you sick? Are you staying home all day?” and so began his incessant chattering.
“Momma!” she croaked.
“Aiden, leave your sister alone. She doesn’t feel well.”
There is no one who looks more disappointed than our four-year old when he can’t visit with an ill sibling. And being under the weather is one thing, but being sick and feeling guilty is too much to bear. Eventually, Rachel gave in and camped out on the sofa.
“Rachel! Move your feet! I’m sitting there! Move your feet! Momma, Rachel’s not moving her feet!” He pestered her until she woozily sat up. “Play Candy Land with me!”
She relented.
“NO! I’M RED, YOU’RE BLUE! I WIN, NOT YOU!”
Her head must have felt like shattered glass. This is why my husband drags himself off to work everyday no matter how he feels. He’s got an office all to himself. If I had a room all to myself at home, I’d be in it. I’m sure the teens feel the same way.
But there is no escaping the little one, though I’ve tried. I have to lock the master bedroom door as well as the bathroom door to ensure a few moments of privacy, but sooner or later somebody picks the locks and I am found out. Even my husband will ask what I am doing.
“What do you think? I’m in the bathroom!” (Oh, sure, it’s just me, a bag of chocolate and a stack of magazines to catch up on, but they don’t need to know that.) Everybody has their hiding place and stashes of goodies to soothe them.
We don’t know when the four-year old took over the house. It was probably when he started screaming “NO!” as a two-year old and then whined through age three. We’ve given up. We’re being held hostage – HELP!
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Help, We Are All Being Held Hostage
©Lisa Barker
You’ve got to be really, really ill to want to stay home in our family. My eldest daughter had a fever one night. Her head felt like it had swelled five times its size and her throat and ears ached. Still, she dragged herself by her teeth down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. She was bent on going to school.
But she only summoned the strength to stand for five minutes. She was desperately sick with the flu and reluctantly went back to bed on my command.
Soon enough, the four-year old awoke. My daughter tried to stifle her breathing. If he heard even the faintest noise from her room—like the death of a skin cell—she would be found out. Sure enough, she inhaled and he pounced.
“Rachel’s home! Rachel’s home! Rachel, are you home? Are you sick? Are you staying home all day?” and so began his incessant chattering.
“Momma!” she croaked.
“Aiden, leave your sister alone. She doesn’t feel well.”
There is no one who looks more disappointed than our four-year old when he can’t visit with an ill sibling. And being under the weather is one thing, but being sick and feeling guilty is too much to bear. Eventually, Rachel gave in and camped out on the sofa.
“Rachel! Move your feet! I’m sitting there! Move your feet! Momma, Rachel’s not moving her feet!” He pestered her until she woozily sat up. “Play Candy Land with me!”
She relented.
“NO! I’M RED, YOU’RE BLUE! I WIN, NOT YOU!”
Her head must have felt like shattered glass. This is why my husband drags himself off to work everyday no matter how he feels. He’s got an office all to himself. If I had a room all to myself at home, I’d be in it. I’m sure the teens feel the same way.
But there is no escaping the little one, though I’ve tried. I have to lock the master bedroom door as well as the bathroom door to ensure a few moments of privacy, but sooner or later somebody picks the locks and I am found out. Even my husband will ask what I am doing.
“What do you think? I’m in the bathroom!” (Oh, sure, it’s just me, a bag of chocolate and a stack of magazines to catch up on, but they don’t need to know that.) Everybody has their hiding place and stashes of goodies to soothe them.
We don’t know when the four-year old took over the house. It was probably when he started screaming “NO!” as a two-year old and then whined through age three. We’ve given up. We’re being held hostage – HELP!
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
You’ve got to be really, really ill to want to stay home in our family. My eldest daughter had a fever one night. Her head felt like it had swelled five times its size and her throat and ears ached. Still, she dragged herself by her teeth down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. She was bent on going to school.
But she only summoned the strength to stand for five minutes. She was desperately sick with the flu and reluctantly went back to bed on my command.
Soon enough, the four-year old awoke. My daughter tried to stifle her breathing. If he heard even the faintest noise from her room—like the death of a skin cell—she would be found out. Sure enough, she inhaled and he pounced.
“Rachel’s home! Rachel’s home! Rachel, are you home? Are you sick? Are you staying home all day?” and so began his incessant chattering.
“Momma!” she croaked.
“Aiden, leave your sister alone. She doesn’t feel well.”
There is no one who looks more disappointed than our four-year old when he can’t visit with an ill sibling. And being under the weather is one thing, but being sick and feeling guilty is too much to bear. Eventually, Rachel gave in and camped out on the sofa.
“Rachel! Move your feet! I’m sitting there! Move your feet! Momma, Rachel’s not moving her feet!” He pestered her until she woozily sat up. “Play Candy Land with me!”
She relented.
“NO! I’M RED, YOU’RE BLUE! I WIN, NOT YOU!”
Her head must have felt like shattered glass. This is why my husband drags himself off to work everyday no matter how he feels. He’s got an office all to himself. If I had a room all to myself at home, I’d be in it. I’m sure the teens feel the same way.
But there is no escaping the little one, though I’ve tried. I have to lock the master bedroom door as well as the bathroom door to ensure a few moments of privacy, but sooner or later somebody picks the locks and I am found out. Even my husband will ask what I am doing.
“What do you think? I’m in the bathroom!” (Oh, sure, it’s just me, a bag of chocolate and a stack of magazines to catch up on, but they don’t need to know that.) Everybody has their hiding place and stashes of goodies to soothe them.
We don’t know when the four-year old took over the house. It was probably when he started screaming “NO!” as a two-year old and then whined through age three. We’ve given up. We’re being held hostage – HELP!
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Friday, December 7, 2007
Lost & Found: One Mind
©Lisa Barker
Many times my husband will come home from work and ask me how my day went and I will tell him, “I know I was busy all day, but I don’t have any idea what I did!”
Well, I finally figured it out. I’m not losing my memory I’m losing my mind.
Every day I make a list of things to do and every day several things get crossed off the list, but I can’t even remember doing them. Now I know why. My four-year old has been checking things off my list behind my back.
See, I told you kids are out to get their parents by giving them gray hair and dementia!
Another thing he does is un-do everything I’ve done right after I’ve done it. I’ll clear the table, leave the room to fold laundry, then come back and see the table set again. While I’m second guessing myself in the dining room, he’ll be in the hallway dumping clean clothes into the hamper.
I think he’s ready for school. It’s time that he messed with the mind of some other adult. The teacher will collect papers, then turn around and see more papers to collect. Where did they come from?
While she’s collecting those papers, my son will be taking out blocks. Before she sees who did that he’ll be doling out snacks. And knowing my son he’ll recruit helpers.
I thought it was an odd coincidence that each teacher my eldest son had was only one school year away from retiring. Well, they better hire a bunch of fresh recruits because his little brother has been a great understudy.
My mother calls him a leprechaun. My sister, who calls her son Wheels, just shakes her head. One of the last times we visited her, my four-year old tore through her house getting into things at breakneck speed, grabbing her cell phone for the great finale and speed dialing before she could catch him. Apparently he was calling command central at 666-####.
This is the same child that takes off running the minute we open the van door when we arrive somewhere. If we walk anywhere near a patch of dirt he drops and rolls in it. If there are buttons to push and switches to flip, he’s doing it.
I used to want more babies, but now I just want a nap. Some people hire a ‘mommy’s helper,’ but I can’t imagine having another adult in the same room I’m in telling my son what to do while I veg out. Oh, wait. Yes, I can. I do that the minute my husband walks in the door at the end of the day.
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Many times my husband will come home from work and ask me how my day went and I will tell him, “I know I was busy all day, but I don’t have any idea what I did!”
Well, I finally figured it out. I’m not losing my memory I’m losing my mind.
Every day I make a list of things to do and every day several things get crossed off the list, but I can’t even remember doing them. Now I know why. My four-year old has been checking things off my list behind my back.
See, I told you kids are out to get their parents by giving them gray hair and dementia!
Another thing he does is un-do everything I’ve done right after I’ve done it. I’ll clear the table, leave the room to fold laundry, then come back and see the table set again. While I’m second guessing myself in the dining room, he’ll be in the hallway dumping clean clothes into the hamper.
I think he’s ready for school. It’s time that he messed with the mind of some other adult. The teacher will collect papers, then turn around and see more papers to collect. Where did they come from?
While she’s collecting those papers, my son will be taking out blocks. Before she sees who did that he’ll be doling out snacks. And knowing my son he’ll recruit helpers.
I thought it was an odd coincidence that each teacher my eldest son had was only one school year away from retiring. Well, they better hire a bunch of fresh recruits because his little brother has been a great understudy.
My mother calls him a leprechaun. My sister, who calls her son Wheels, just shakes her head. One of the last times we visited her, my four-year old tore through her house getting into things at breakneck speed, grabbing her cell phone for the great finale and speed dialing before she could catch him. Apparently he was calling command central at 666-####.
This is the same child that takes off running the minute we open the van door when we arrive somewhere. If we walk anywhere near a patch of dirt he drops and rolls in it. If there are buttons to push and switches to flip, he’s doing it.
I used to want more babies, but now I just want a nap. Some people hire a ‘mommy’s helper,’ but I can’t imagine having another adult in the same room I’m in telling my son what to do while I veg out. Oh, wait. Yes, I can. I do that the minute my husband walks in the door at the end of the day.
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Cooking Up A Comedy of Errs
©Lisa Barker
Last night I, Lisa Barker, did not burn, cut or maim myself when I cooked dinner.
Don’t laugh. This is a big feat. If there were chain mail I could wear while cooking dinner my husband would buy it for me. But he would have it asbestos-lined because, he reminds me, metal is a great conductor of heat and without him to look out for me, I might be writing a future column from the burn unit of a hospital somewhere.
So the next day I ventured into the kitchen, perhaps with a bit too much confidence, and burned my finger and stabbed it twice before I got dinner to the table.
My body is a battlefield of scars and nicks from the culinary wars. The end result is usually a great meal, but not without sacrifice.
Take cheese graters for example. I never know which knuckle I’m going to sacrifice that day. Hot oil. That’s a burn waiting to happen whether it’s a splash, a spill or worse, a deep fried fingertip. So I try to limit the amount of deep fried food we eat—for my own longevity. I don’t think our insurance covers accidentally french-frying yourself.
I can’t even cook toast without injuring myself. How, you might ask? It’s very simple. My hand is drawn to the hottest spot on the toaster. Yeah, that’s right—the part where the bread is supposed to go.
The most injuries happen just before I serve. It never fails. While kids are clamoring and tripping over themselves to either help or get first dibs on the food, Mom is earning a new scar. I’m in a hurry and the kids are congregating and the same thing happens every night.
“Mom, what’s for dinner?”
“Food!” everyone else replies.
I don’t have to say anything anymore because the rest of the family chimes in to give the same answers to the same questions asked every night while I drop a hot potato pancake on my foot.
“What kind of food?”
“Edible food!” they chorus, while I cut my hand on the sharp edge of the lid of the applesauce can.
“What did you do now, Woman?” My husband is tallying the bruises, blisters and cuts for the evening.
“Nothing,” I always say.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I can kill myself just fine on my own.”
Later the kids are inspecting the sausages carefully and wondering out loud if any looks like a finger. “Tastes like chicken, right?”
You know, after an evening of this I need something I can do to relax. My husband suggested I get a hobby. I like to do home improvements.
So I bought power tools....
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Last night I, Lisa Barker, did not burn, cut or maim myself when I cooked dinner.
Don’t laugh. This is a big feat. If there were chain mail I could wear while cooking dinner my husband would buy it for me. But he would have it asbestos-lined because, he reminds me, metal is a great conductor of heat and without him to look out for me, I might be writing a future column from the burn unit of a hospital somewhere.
So the next day I ventured into the kitchen, perhaps with a bit too much confidence, and burned my finger and stabbed it twice before I got dinner to the table.
My body is a battlefield of scars and nicks from the culinary wars. The end result is usually a great meal, but not without sacrifice.
Take cheese graters for example. I never know which knuckle I’m going to sacrifice that day. Hot oil. That’s a burn waiting to happen whether it’s a splash, a spill or worse, a deep fried fingertip. So I try to limit the amount of deep fried food we eat—for my own longevity. I don’t think our insurance covers accidentally french-frying yourself.
I can’t even cook toast without injuring myself. How, you might ask? It’s very simple. My hand is drawn to the hottest spot on the toaster. Yeah, that’s right—the part where the bread is supposed to go.
The most injuries happen just before I serve. It never fails. While kids are clamoring and tripping over themselves to either help or get first dibs on the food, Mom is earning a new scar. I’m in a hurry and the kids are congregating and the same thing happens every night.
“Mom, what’s for dinner?”
“Food!” everyone else replies.
I don’t have to say anything anymore because the rest of the family chimes in to give the same answers to the same questions asked every night while I drop a hot potato pancake on my foot.
“What kind of food?”
“Edible food!” they chorus, while I cut my hand on the sharp edge of the lid of the applesauce can.
“What did you do now, Woman?” My husband is tallying the bruises, blisters and cuts for the evening.
“Nothing,” I always say.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I can kill myself just fine on my own.”
Later the kids are inspecting the sausages carefully and wondering out loud if any looks like a finger. “Tastes like chicken, right?”
You know, after an evening of this I need something I can do to relax. My husband suggested I get a hobby. I like to do home improvements.
So I bought power tools....
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
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