My Childproof Bathtub Bomb Shelter (take me away)

Chuckle #392 | January 27th, 2010
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I like taking baths. For a busy mother of three, taking a bath is a self-indulgent escapist luxury. I highly recommend it. Multi-tasking is impossible when you are submerged in a tub – ergo no need to feel guilt. Should a child knock, simply yell, “I'M IN THE BATH, NAKED,” and for some reason, kids go away and stop bothering you. The bath is a magical place, warm and soothing like a womb. Secure as a bomb shelter. Safe from inconsiderate pint-sized intrusions. Most of the time.

Bathing is a little more complicated for the mothers of babies and toddlers. For those of you with very little kids (likely to be severely injured if left unattended), put your husband in charge, then get in the bath. If you can accept some well-intentioned football related negligence, your husband can enjoy some "hover free" parenting time. And if you are in the tub, you can't get pulled into the middle of any pseudo crisis that occurs on his watch.

Make it even more fun for Dad by suggesting an activity for him to do with the kids while you bathe, like making mommy a special "do not disturb" sign for the bathroom door, then ordering pizza. You know how much Dads enjoy crafts (and take-out.)

I learned the concept of “tub as sanctuary” from my mother. She would routinely disappear into the bathroom with a book, run the water, dump in some “Calgon bath salts” (remember “Calgon take me away?”) and emerge hours later in a much better mood. We were fine with it because we could run wild while she was in the tub, and no matter what we had done, Mum was in a much better state to handle the madness AFTER bathing than before. Taking long, luxurious baths is something mothers HAVE to do…really…for the sake of their children.

Besides, you NEED to wash, so while you are enjoying a little “me” time, you are also getting a much needed chore done. Bathing is no ‘guilty pleasure’. Showering may accomplish the same “cleaning” task in less time, but it doesn’t have nearly the same mental health benefits.

Bathing has many, many benefits. Bathing uses less water than showering, so it is environmentally friendly, and you can stay in the bath as long as you like, (all afternoon if you can get away with it.) A hot bath takes the place of anti-psychotics, and is good for migraines. You could even wash the dog in your old bath water, thereby ‘greening’ the indulgence even further. A glass of wine balances nicely on the edge of the tub – not so in the shower. I once brought a glass of wine into the shower and it promptly became unpleasantly diluted and undrinkable. (Plus I ended up smelling like beef bourguignon from basting in the red wine vapors.) Probably not one of my better ideas…

Be forewarned…it is very easy to lose track of time when you are sublimely submerged. Be sure to put a watch on the side of the tub. I once had to leap directly from the bath into sweats, sprint barefoot to the car and drive in a panic to religious school to pick up a forgotten child.

I then had to apologize to our Spiritual Leader while wearing an inappropriately damp sports bra and struggling with a yoga pant wedgie. That pretty much ruined the vibe of my bath. Nor was my kid all that happy that I was late. This is the child who would rather pluck out her own eyeballs than stay at religious school for an extra 10 minutes. (Definitely fodder for another column.)

So for the sake of your family, buy yourself a really good inflatable bath pillow and get in the tub. For best results, remember to LOCK the door and keep an eye on the clock!
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I Bite My Tongue (and little Johnny bites IT)

Chuckle #391 | January 20th, 2010
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Little Johnny is standing up in the front seat of the shopping cart, again, reaching for the Oreos, while mom peruses the mac n’ cheese from 20 yards away. There is NO WAY that mom can reach Little Johnny before he falls, smashes his head open on the cement floor of the grocery store and ends up in a coma. Yet I bite my tongue and stroll on by. Little Johnny’s mother is Little Johnny’s problem. If he survives the fall.

I bite my tongue a lot because parents everywhere allow things that I NEVER would. In my admittedly, very opinionated mind, these are bad parents, many of whom deserve a visit from social services. (Especially the ones holding their two year olds on their lap while they drive.) These are people who were born with brains that were just a wee bit too small to accommodate parenting skills. Normally evolution would have taken care of this problem, but these days just about anyone can reach childbearing age. Hence the need to bite my tongue.

Some parents are too ignorant to be helped and some simply don’t care. But sometimes there are smart parents, with properly sized brains, who’ve simply given up the battle or don’t know how it’s fought. For them I offer the BEST advice I ever got from another parent, a guidance counselor at a high school, who was constantly being asked, “What can I do about my rotten kid?” This advice is worth sharing.

Discipline starts at BIRTH, not age 13, or even 3. Don’t give up on a single battle with your kids, or you’ve lost the war, and your world will become a living nightmare of badly behaved kids and people who don’t want to be near you. You will end up friendless unless you are willing to lock your kids in a closet (along with your badly behaved dog) every time people come over.

If you are willing to never let your children see the light of day in a public place, then go ahead, let them run amok from day one. There is NOTHING you can do about your rotten kids once they are teenagers and you’ve screwed this up, (despite the ads you hear on the radio) except maybe boarding school. And that’s an expensive cop out.

So, if you want to live a normal life (and save $30K a year), tell little Johnny to sit his little butt down in the shopping cart or else he goes home. If he doesn’t, abandon the cart, drag him kicking and screaming from the store, into the car, back home and put him in his room. Suck it up and feed everyone peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Because you cannot cave, you cannot cajole, you cannot hit. But in the end you must always win. You are not your child’s friend. You are his PARENT. I hope this doesn’t come as news to anyone.

Parents make rules, set limits, and establish clear consequences. Then they consistently and lovingly enforce all of the above. And that’s just part of the job description.

I’ll be the first to admit that none of us know how hard this is going to be going in. Had I known that for the first two years of a child’s live that I wouldn’t sit down for a meal for more than 10 minutes, I might have waited a little longer, and gone out to dinner more. I would NOT have uttered my now famous last words, on a lark, “hey sweetie, lets see if we can make a baby”.

“Winning” as a parent means that when your children are older, you will be able to take them on vacation with you and not want to kill yourself, or them. In restaurants, complete strangers will come up to you and tell you what fabulous children you have. You will BASK in their approbation and you will LIKE being with your children (85% of the time). And you will NOT lock yourself in your room just to get a way from them, at least not very often.

Well behaved kids come with benefits. Grandparents will happily volunteer to babysit while you go away on romantic weekends with your husband. (You might even end up with more kids.) All its takes is a will of steel, an iron fist, never giving in no matter how tired you are, (and only allowing ½ hour of TV per day.) Stick to your guns. You can always apologize to a kid if you’ve been a bit too harsh and feel remorse. They are very forgiving.

And while part of your job is to dole out tough love, you can never love your kids too much. Make sure they know that, too.
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Too Many Irons in the Fire

Chuckle #390 | January 13th, 2010
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Some time, some where, some ONE (most likely a man) decided that wrinkles were bad. Not the wrinkles on our faces (which ARE bad) but the ones in our clothes (which in my mind are inconsequential.) A torturous new chore for women was thus invented, and from the anger of women and the ashes of scorched men’s shirts everywhere, the dry cleaning delivery industry was born.

I iron only three times a year. This is because over the years I have denied myself ANYTHING that requires a hot iron, including hairstyles. If I can’t wear it directly from the dryer, it doesn’t get bought. This lightens the ironing load considerably. That and splurging on an awesome door to door dry cleaning service that picks up my husbands work shirts each week.

Since Mr. Minuteman entered my life, so many years ago, I’ve never once had to defend exactly how and why my activities prevented me from the important task of picking up said hubby’s shirts. God Bless Mr. Minuteman (his dog treats) and his bi-weekly visits. There is something to be said for women’s liberation from the iron. And that something is pure marital bliss. On the other hand, I have friends who enjoy ironing EVERYTHING, including their sheets. Some women (or men) like to iron because it’s therapeutic and induces a strangely peaceful (psychotic?) trance-like state. That’s ok. Ironing as therapy is better than taking tranquilizers, drinking an entire bottle of white wine by yourself (it’s happened), or fighting with your husband (or wife) about missing shirts.

There are only three things that I find worthy of ironing. My grandmother’s Irish linen napkins (it’s my way of honoring a special lady); cheap valances (my mother taught me that cheap valances should at the very least be wrinkle free); and “iron on” patches (a misnomer, but the application of which prevents my daughter from giving her classmates a peep show via the extraordinarily large holes in her jeans.)

I also used to iron on about 100 Brownie and Girl Scout patches each year but those days have mercifully come to an end. No disrespect to that great organization, the Girl Scouts, but I think “patches” should be a little harder to earn. Some of us don’t want to spend 50 hours sewing on patches that were awarded for such Brobdingnagian achievements as “learning about hygiene”, or “how to make snow cones.” I hereby BEG the Girl Scouts to do away with patch “inflation,” or at least teach our girls how to sew on their own patches at the very first Brownie meeting. (Feel free to give them a patch for that.) I ask not for me, because I am so done with that, but for the sanity of all future Brownie moms.

We all know that iron “on” is an overstatement. If you’ve ever ironed “on” a patch, you know that it will surely fall “off” the next day. If someone created a stronger bonding agent for iron on patches they could make a FORTUNE from lazy mothers like me. I don’t think the technology behind those things has changed in at least 40 years. Surely NASA has developed a new super strength, gravity resistant, non-carcinogenic adhesive that could improve the patch? If I were a chemist I would seriously look into that.

In the meantime, I am forced to both iron AND sew on the “iron on” patches. Ironing is not a permanent solution. It merely keeps the patch in the right place until I have the time and energy to find a needle and thread. But to be honest, sewing and ironing make me feel very “womanly,” in an old fashioned kind of way. Yes, there are the severe burns, finger pricks, and the accompanying outbursts of inappropriate language; but there is also a Martha Stewart-like feeling of gratification. There is nothing better than laying my grandmother’s perfectly smooth napkins neatly in the buffet for the next holiday dinner, and knowing that my daughter’s butt is completely hidden from view.

Got a womanly chore that you’ve warmed up to lately? Making potpourri, canning zucchini, or milking the cow perhaps?
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New Year, New Yurt...New Friends?

Chuckle # 389 | January 6th, 2010
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Every person should have at least TWO New Year’s resolutions. One of them should be relatively easy to accomplish and the other should be nearly impossible. That’s how you achieve that warm feeling of smug self-satisfaction, without short-changing yourself. For example, Resolution 1: Buy New Underwear. Resolution 2: Solve World Hunger.

Easy right? Now you try it.

Not to appear overly SMUG, but I have already taken my own advice and completed my first resolution of the New Year. I have put away ALL the holiday decorations, with the exception of the tree, before the Epiphany. (Which has become, for some unknown reason, the official Christian deadline for “decoration removal”.) Boy do I feel good.

To understand why this is a “resolution” at all, you need to know that holiday decorations usually languish in our house well into March. Some never get put away at all, which has caused a touch of spousal friction over the years – nothing serious, but I could sense the 800 pound gorilla in the room, (and yes, he was wearing a Santa hat.) So this was an epic accomplishment, and was NOT a lame resolution, despite what my friends are saying.

I could stop with the whole resolution thing right now and be completely fulfilled. But the point of resolutions is to challenge ourselves to become better people, or so I’m told by those same busy-body friends. Who, as you guessed, are very opinionated, but there’s nothing I can do about them barring a resolution to make new friends (with less combined intellect and altruistic urges.) But that is what I kind of like about them. So I’ll keep the friends, and instead…

In 2010 I will seek enlightenment. As part of this quest I will exhaustively research, conduct a feasibility study, and establish a timeline for building a YURT in NH. Some women are into Feng Shui. I’m into Yurts. They fascinate me. This ancient nomadic dwelling is a lot like the Native American Kiva, except above ground…and without the religious overtones…and cuter. I find round structures strangely compelling on many levels. Perhaps if I lived in one I would become enlightened, or at least less “encumbered”. Not a bad resolution, eh? I’m very proud.

Surprisingly, I’m encountering some “Yurt Resistance” from within my family. My children do not want to live in a Yurt. They have made this abundantly clear by creating a YouTube video titled “I will not live in a Yurt”, (which has been viewed 2 million times despite being banned in Mongolia) and by saying things like, “Don’t think we wouldn’t put you in a nuthouse.”

My children do not fully appreciate (or seem to care) what the Yurt means to me symbolically. Teens are selfish that way. (Unlike Yurt pushing mothers who only want what’s best for their children.) For me, the Yurt stands for freedom. Freedom from housework, (how hard can it be to sweep out a yurt?) and freedom from the encumbrance of stuff. I vaguely remember a time when I could move ‘cross country with all my STUFF in the back of my Toyota Corolla. A time when I was a young nomad.

Now I am an old nomad wannabe saddled with surprisingly narrow minded children who fail to grasp the inherent beauty of Yurt Living. But because I love them, I will convince them that the Yurt is not simply a glorified tent for vegetarian yuppies or an alternative to hay bale construction. It’s a new way of thinking about life. (Especially when you take into consideration the composting toilet.)

Wait. Am I having a midlife crisis?

Just because I’m questioning the value system on which my life is built doesn’t mean I’m having a midlife crisis…does it? Maybe a resolution to move my family into a Yurt is a bit extreme. Maybe I need a new resolution. But it should be something really challenging, like winning the Nobel Prize in Economics or raising my children to be Kind and Selfless.

Let’s take a moment and think about this “new resolution” as if we were highly educated, but still yurt-obsessed people. Say we took all the government mortgage crisis bailout money and used it to build everyone in America an energy efficient Yurt (including myself of course.) We would solve the housing crisis, the energy crisis, AND unemployment in ONE bold move. We could all be nomads again, including the now jobless economists who used to study workforce fluidity. Ironic, yes, but this new “resolution” could win me the Nobel!

Or maybe I should simply resolve to stop inflicting my crazy Yurt Dreams on my innocent family. It would make them happy, and keep me out of the funny farm. And it would be a Kind and Selfless act. Good behavior to model for the children. But no rush, I’ve got a whole year to think about resolution number two. And while a Nobel Prize (with free Yurt) is awfully enticing, in the end, will it make me a better person?

I’m sure my friends will know. Good thing I’m keeping them.
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