tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-344105932009-07-05T21:35:48.239-07:00DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-35517282688699723422009-07-05T21:35:00.001-07:002009-07-05T21:35:44.395-07:00

I hate potty training. A lot.  Diaper changing just isn't a big deal to me. It can always wait until a phone call is finished, I'm out of the shower, or a whole cup of coffee is in my system. Potty-training is a RIGHT THIS MINUTE issue. And I am so not a fan of sitting near a toilet for 15 minutes, reading books or playing trains. That's just icky. Unfortunately, my husband has put his foot

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-73484732482554840402009-06-28T10:39:00.000-07:002009-06-28T10:40:08.927-07:00

The other day, I was sitting at my desk. It was one of those days when everything's completely quiet until I'm silly enough to actually sit down and try to concentrate on some work. And then the yelling started. Not my kid. He was playing quietly in his room. No, it was our neighbor's daughter, who really is a perfectly nice girl. But her mom was either out of earshot or ignoring her on purpose.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-91971111601939066932009-06-26T21:09:00.001-07:002009-06-26T21:09:48.107-07:00

One of the best bad mommies I know is someone I've never met, but read about on a loop. A virtual friend of a friend. This woman's daughter would sometimes get very surly and uncooperative when she and her mother went grocery shopping. The mom was always completely cheerful. She'd just give her a big smile, take a deep breath, and start belting out "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" at the top of

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-4898900174762666502009-06-24T15:36:00.001-07:002009-06-24T15:36:42.774-07:00

Here's my Real Bad Mommy story: We live on an acre+ in the woods, and we don't really socialize with our neighbors. When the leaves are on the trees, you can't see any other homes from our property. We love the privacy. Nearly two years ago, a loose dog came through our front yard. I walked across the street to see if he belonged to the people who had just built a new house. He did not, but

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-10840241524188086772009-06-22T17:07:00.001-07:002009-06-22T17:07:58.699-07:00

My son was being very sarcastic and rude, and I was annoyed. So when he went to take a drink, I kept making goofy faces and weird noises so he would splutter every time he tried to so much as sip. I must have tortured him for a solid five minutes before we arrived at an agreement that both of us would act like civilized human beings for the rest of the evening, at least.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-3965913740910653072009-06-20T17:26:00.001-07:002009-06-20T17:26:42.457-07:00

When I tell my kids that I'm going to make a cup of coffee, or read to myself all by myself for a little while, or something equally demanding and absurd, I add in a very serious, wide-eyed way, "Is that all right with you?" Of course it drives them insane every time. But it does get the job done.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-55031670046992968402009-06-18T20:42:00.000-07:002009-06-18T22:08:05.853-07:00

My son spends ninety percent of his time at the park running around like a loon, because that's his job. I spend my time there sitting in my little portable chair, because that's mine. We only run into trouble when he decides every once in a while that he wants to sit down, and I point to the ground and invite him to pull up a patch of grass. He inspected my chair ruefully on a day like this. "

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-74934608767273791432009-06-16T11:16:00.000-07:002009-06-16T13:10:42.133-07:00

The littlest one was colicky and screamed and screamed, never napped,   and only slept through the night in two- or three-hour bursts. When   she could finally move around under her own power, the noise blissfully   stopped. Apparently it was the confinement making her miserable. We   set her down and let her go.  Enjoying our first bit of quiet in many   many months, we suddenly realized it was

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-47358994047753661402009-06-15T10:17:00.001-07:002009-06-15T10:17:46.298-07:00

My kids were always yelling to me from wherever they were in the house.  I got tired of it, so I came up with what I thought was a good policy.  "I'm in the kitchen if you want to talk to me," I told them. This worked great, until they started telling me, "I'm in the backyard if you want to talk to me."  I had to explain that it really doesn't go both ways.  I still don't think they get it.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-5281373103575052332009-06-13T21:15:00.001-07:002009-06-13T21:20:34.984-07:00

Okay, it's been way too long. I have stories saved up -- some of my own, some from friends, some from total strangers -- and it's time to start posting again. I promise to start posting regularly. In fact, after this public service announcement, I'll post something actually funny. But will you please, if you think about it, send in some Real Bad stories of your own? It gets so lonely without

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1165901270697489422006-12-11T21:16:00.000-08:002006-12-11T21:27:50.716-08:00

So, wanting to be a good, dutiful parent rearing a sweet and culturally literate child, in honor of the season I just read my nine-year-old son "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry. We got to the end of the story, and my voice cracked just a little on those last sentences about how the idiots who sold their best stuff to buy presents for each other were wiser than the wise men who brought

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1165738584913356212006-12-10T00:16:00.000-08:002006-12-10T22:48:45.526-08:00

At this time of year, I just can't stop quoting a Calvin and Hobbes comic to my son (who also loves C & H, naturally). It's the one where Calvin asks his dad about when they'll be putting the Christmas tree up and the dad starts messing with his head -- saying that they'll put it in the garage or something. What sticks in my head is when the dad adds, "And that way if you get a present…"

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1165448302767100562006-12-06T15:36:00.000-08:002006-12-06T15:39:19.650-08:00

During the election last November my youngest child was especially interested in the increased cigarette tax. We talked a lot about diseases caused by smoking and how they're treated. Whenever we were out and he saw someone smoking he'd say (sometimes quite loudly), "That person is going to have to pay a lot of money for their cigarettes, and the goverment will give it to hospitals to take care

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1165118827596104792006-12-02T19:58:00.000-08:002006-12-03T23:24:59.106-08:00

I just gave two children a stern, solemn lecture on the dangers of salmonella poisoning from the raw eggs that go into the chocolate-chip cookie batter, selflessly protecting them from licking the bowl or beaters of the batch we'd just mixed up. Then, as soon as they were safely out of the room and down the hall, I chomped a generous spoonful of the dough. In fact, I got my secret stash of

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1165089180502247242006-12-02T11:45:00.000-08:002006-12-02T11:53:00.513-08:00

It had been a week since my last big clean. It was time to buckle down to doing the dusting, vaccuuming, and scrubbing our house obviously needed. Or was it? I looked around. There was my son, wistfully looking up at me, holding a board game in his hand. And there was my husband, working at home with a flexible schedule that easily included some of the quality time with his family that had

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1164783088673268782006-11-28T22:43:00.000-08:002006-11-28T22:51:28.680-08:00

One night my sons came home from having dinner out with Daddy -- a treat! -- and could hardly wait to tell me the news. "Mommy! Guess what? Daddy took us to a bar!" After I picked myself up off the floor, my husband sheepishly explained. He had taken them out to eat at an inexpensive Mexican restaurant, not realizing that the place didn't take credit cards. Of course they didn't take checks,

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1164528029087203962006-11-25T23:56:00.000-08:002006-11-26T00:02:20.143-08:00

So my daughter came home tonight from her public-schooled neighbor's house. She casually flipped me the bird and said, "This isn't a 'bad word', is it, mom? Because my friend said it is -- that can't be right!" I explained to her that it is a very vulgar gesture, one that only the lowest of low-lifes use...people who don't know how to use words to express themselves with class and respect.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162618660335186292006-11-03T21:30:00.000-08:002006-11-03T21:37:40.343-08:00

I read about a brilliant Real Bad Mommy in some humor column years ago -- can't remember where. This mom had a couple of kids who were too young to keep track of time in terms of the date and the day of the week and all that, so whenever the kids wanted to do something that the mom didn't want them to, she wouldn't tell them no or argue with them. Instead, she'd say that they could do it on

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162498479135243852006-11-02T12:09:00.000-08:002006-11-02T12:14:39.143-08:00

Before he was old enough to keep track of what he had, I shamelessly raided my son's Halloween trick-or-treat stash. At least I wasn't as bad as another mom I know. She took her baby out trick-or-treating when the kid wasn't even a year old and couldn't eat any of her haul. The mom drove half an hour to the rich section of a town she didn't even live in so she'd get the really good candy.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162449270795751072006-11-01T22:32:00.000-08:002006-11-01T22:34:30.803-08:00

A woman told me that she was visiting Disneyland with her six-year-old son for the first time. He had never been on a rollercoaster before, so she wanted to try him out on something easy to see how he liked it. The height requirement for the Matterhorn was low, so she assumed that the ride was okay for him. Well, they got on the ride, and as soon as they got to a dark point her son started

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162336722634630032006-10-31T15:15:00.000-08:002006-10-31T15:18:42.643-08:00

Today is October 31 -- Halloween. I have a five year old, an almost four year old and a 2.5 year old (all homeschooled). They do not know today is Halloween because I do not want to hear the moaning and crying to get dressed every five minutes. I'll tell them when it gets dark. How many years do you think I'll be able to get away with this????

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162274529277343982006-10-30T21:53:00.000-08:002006-10-30T22:28:16.743-08:00

Every year, I get the holiday boxes out a little closer to the actual date of the holiday. We celebrate holidays other people barely notice. I have a whole box just for St. Patrick's Day. What can I say? I was very energetic, once upon a time. I used to be so big on Halloween, it was hard to wait until it was technically October to get all the decorations and storybooks and doodads out.

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162066246405903092006-10-28T13:01:00.000-07:002006-10-28T13:10:46.413-07:00

I never used the television as a babysitter. But once when my son was a baby, I was holding him in my lap and he turned and started gnawing on his bassinet. It was padded on the edge, and I guess the firmness underneath the quilting felt good on his gums. I was so relieved at just being able to sit down, I read for twenty minutes before I thought about the fact that the bassinet had been a

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1162010512672553762006-10-27T21:32:00.000-07:002006-10-27T21:41:52.686-07:00

When the kids want to take a bubble bath, I just squirt a little dish soap into the tub. Hey, it's bubbles, right?

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34410593.post-1161926173324552042006-10-26T22:06:00.000-07:002006-10-26T22:16:13.343-07:00

My son was not quite two years old, and I was still getting the hang of mothering, cleaning, and prioritizing. One morning, he was following me around with a story book in his hands. "Read? Read?" he asked. "Okay, honey," I said. "Let me just make the bed." He waited quite patiently. As soon as he noticed I was done, he waved the book again and repeated, "Read? Read?" "Sure, sweetheart," I

DMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06820905940304729280noreply@blogger.com0