Prologue:
Jennie: “I don’t know mom. He’s only 3 weeks old. I don’t think he’s supposed to be around that many people yet. Plus, I also have a one year old. I’m not sure I can fly with both of them, by myself.”
Jennie’s Mom: “It can’t be that big of a deal. My cousin flew all the way to France with TWO toddlers and a newborn. Plus, I’ll do all the work once you get here. How hard could it be?”
Narrator: Jennie was about to find out that it was, indeed, going to be very, very hard.
Like most things in my life, my religious background is…entertaining. I was raised Episcopalian. I attended Catholic school from 6th-12th grade. Meanwhile, every Easter we traveled to an island where we attend the First Union African Baptist Church. When it came time to send my kids to preschool, we chose to send them to the local Jewish Synagogue. I have stories of accidentally attending the Spanish Christmas Eve Mass with my grandmother, as well as tales of shopping for gefilte fish and horseradish for the preschool Seder. So, when I had an epiphany while preparing spaghetti squash one day, I was taken aback.
Continue reading “In the Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spaghetti Squash”
“SEX IS BEAUTIFUL!!!! LOVE YOUR KIDS!!!”
These are aggressive statements. Especially when they are yelled at you from across a dining room table by an 85-year-old nun. I was 18, and sitting in my “Family Values” religion class. Sr. Delores, or Sr. D-Lo as she was more commonly known, had been a teacher at our school for years. By the time we were seniors, she wasn’t healthy enough to travel to the school to teach. Therefore, every afternoon my classmates and I walked across campus to the convent where the nuns lived. This became especially interesting when it rained, snowed, or Sister forgot we had class and didn’t unlock any of the doors.
I could feel the women’s jaws clench in unison as the pizza man walked across the room. The scent of sauce and cheese, usually a smell of comfort, hung like a harbinger of doom as the kids took their seats at the table.
“I was really good yesterday. I had a hamburger, without the bun. But I did eat a few of the French fries.”
“I haven’t had pizza in months. It’s been so long that the just the smell makes me sick to my stomach. It’s so weird how my body can’t even stomach the thought of unhealthy food anymore.”
“I’ll have just a half piece of cake. With two forks. Sharron and I are going to split it.” Continue reading “I Don’t Care About Your Diet”
I had a super hot date with a married woman last night. She was about 5’5”, blonde, with a wicked sense of humor…it was me guys. I’m talking about me. I took myself out to dinner for the first time in my entire life. I’m not talking about a random stop at a fast food place, or ordering enough Chinese food for 4 people to eat by myself. I’m talking about a full on, fancy, dress up, dim lighting kind of evening.
Want to scare yourself? Scroll through your newsfeed and catch up on current events. Want to terrify yourself so badly, that you crawl under the covers, and rock back in forth in a cold sweat? Scroll through your newsfeed, and then look into the eyes of a toddler (preferably yours, or ones that you actually know. Otherwise it’s creepy) and think about the fact that you are responsible for raising them in this crazy world. I promise, you will never sleep soundly again. Continue reading “I’m Terrified of My Toddler”
I married a serial hobby starter. Maybe the more accurate term would be hobby abandoner. Our home is filled with the ghosts of hobbies past, remnants of projects collecting dust in the basement, attic, and shed.
First there was the cigar box guitar. Then there was wood carving. Gardening left me with a 5’x’5 trench in the middle of my backyard, that now serves as a dust bath for my chickens. I’m still finding plastic bottles from the failed batch of home brew, and I will never be able to rid my house of the flour left behind by the baking phase.
My heart raced as I ran towards the kiddie pool. Taking a clue from my children’s guilty faces, I expected the worst.
“Where is she?!” I demanded.
“She’s just taking a nap after her swim.”
Lifting back the drenched towel cradled in my daughter’s arms, I gasped at what looked more like raw chicken breasts than an actual bird.
…and that was the day I learned how to do Chicken CPR.
Continue reading “What They Don’t Teach You in Parenting Classes”
