Coronatine 2020

I’m a writer by profession, but I enjoy writing in my spare time as well. I love expressing myself on my blog, but lately I’ve been so busy and haven’t found the time to write. Well…I’ve got nothing but time at the moment. Maybe you’ve stumbled upon this essay because you’ve found yourself with a whole lot of time as well. Welcome to the Great Coronavirus Quarantine of 2020, also known as the Coronatine. I’m writing this in an attempt to understand…well, pretty much everything. I am currently in a state of denial, anger, sadness, hysterics, and terror. I cannot be the only one feeling this way. So I’m asking for help. Much of the help I’m about to ask for will be an impossible request. However, knowing that I’m not alone will help profoundly. If you’re currently seeking the same type of help, please know that you’re not alone either. So here we go:
My son is a nine-year-old away from school “indefinitely,” Can someone please explain what “indefinitely” means? A few weeks, a few months…what, exactly? I know you can’t explain it to me because if you’re a parent, you’re likely grappling with the same question. Please help me dry my son’s tears as he asks for the millionth time if his friends can come over to play and I have to tell him no.
Currently, my son’s school has extended spring break an extra week. After that, it’s virtual learning where much of the time, I get to be a teacher. I stopped understanding his math lessons in first grade, so fourth grade math is going to be a bit of a challenge. Please help me get through this home-school adventure and I’ll help you get through yours. Share your frustration and struggles freely, please. If we can talk openly, maybe we won’t feel the need to smash our laptops to bits.
Please help me in thanking teachers. As we currently freak out about home-schooling our own children, let’s remember teachers have 20-40 (yes, some have 40!!) kids in a classroom per day. My son who claims to hate school is begging to go back. Thank you, teachers!
If you know Cesar Milan and where he’s quarantined, can you have him contact my dog via Skype? She seems to think the only reason we’re home all the time is to let her in and out of the house. This is NOT why we’re home.
Unresolved issues and anger with friends and loved ones currently mean nothing to me. Not when everyone in the world is trapped inside their homes. There are people I’d like to reach out to (by phone, of course) but I’m not sure my contact would be welcomed. Can you contact them for me and let them know they’re in my thoughts? I shouldn’t be afraid of doing it myself, but I am.
Please help me with suggestions on where to hide the snacks that are in my home.Or maybe we’ve eaten them all already. The days are blending together and I seem to be getting wider.
Based on what I’m reading on social media, the current motto for our country is “we’re all in this together.” If we’re all in this together, why do some people have more toilet paper than they’ll ever need and others are running low or have none? Can you explain the hypocrisy to me?
I’m worried I’ll lose my job. I’m worried the economy will never bounce back. I’m worried food supplies will get low. I’m worried about my husband and my son. I’m worried about people dying. If I bring up the economy in conversations, people seem to think I don’t care about the health of my family and others. Can you help me make them understand working is how I provide for my family? I’m stopping a virus by staying indoors. I’m also halting an economy by staying indoors. Both have consequences. Can you help me understand which is worse? At this point I’m not sure.
Please help me pray for doctors, nurses, any and all medical personnel. Pray for grocery store employees, CEOs, government officials. I will say a prayer for you and your family. Please pray for mine as well. I want to believe “we’re all in this together” and the best is yet to come. I’m just having trouble right now.
When the Coronatine is over, I look forward to the day we can all hang out again. I wish you all the best as you navigate this new world. Good luck with the toilet paper.

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5 Observations From Milwaukee’s Newest Uber Driver

“Hi! My name is Katie, so nice to meet you, total stranger! Won’t you hop into my car so I can take you where you want to go? Hope you’re not armed!”

Ok, so this isn’t exactly how I greet people when I’m Ubering (is Ubering even a word? It is now!) but you get the idea. About two months ago, I was asked to go “undercover” as an Uber driver and write about my experience. I had…concerns. Quite a few, actually. I’m a female picking up total strangers in my car and driving them to who-knows-where? Sounds totally safe, sign me up!!! After some thought, however, I decided to accept the assignment. I’m so glad I did. Over the last couple of months, I’ve had the opportunity to meet some great people, some not-so-great people, and learn valuable lessons that I truly believe will stay with me the rest of my life. Based on my experience, (I can’t stress this enough. This is MY experience and mine alone) here are 5 observations I’ve made as Milwaukee’s newest Uber driver:

  1. Some of the kindest people I have ever met are covered in piercings and tattoos. When I log into my Uber app as a driver and a ride request comes through, I am told nothing about the person I’m picking up other than how far away they are. When I accept the ride, I’m given a first name and directions to the pick-up location. On one particular Tuesday morning at 7 a.m a request came through for a pick-up at a West Allis location. I pulled up to the building and saw a man with a lime green Mohawk covered in leather and big army boots. He had about four piercings in his nose alone and huge disks in his ears. He also had a scowl on his face. I was concerned. Would I have been as concerned if he was wearing a suit and tie? Probably not. (Remember this. We’ll come back to this topic.) He hopped in my car and immediately broke into a huge smile. “Ahhh, air-conditioning! It’s sooo hot!!” I smiled back and teased him gently, telling him that most people don’t wear leather jackets in 100 degree heat, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. He wasn’t. He laughed and told me he wasn’t changing his style for any weather, hot sun be damned. The man told me his “look” doesn’t win him any fans, but he’s happy with it and that’s all that matters. I was embarrassed to recall my own fear from moments ago. This guy was great! We had a lovely conversation that lasted about 8 minutes as I dropped him off in downtown Milwaukee. So…I stereotyped. I saw the piercings and leather and assumed this would be a horrible ride. It was the best part of my day. I’m not saying you should ignore your gut instinct-if a situation doesn’t feel right or safe, remove yourself from it. But I’m slowly learning not to judge a book by it’s cover, or a man by his leather. 
  2. Some of the biggest jerks I’ve ever met wear suits and ties and douse themselves in Drakkar Noir and Hugo Boss cologne. They may look “respectable” on the outside, but they’re arrogant and rude on the inside. Recently, the city of Milwaukee hosted an event and thousands of young urban professionals from across the United States visited the city. I thought it would be a great opportunity to Uber some of these young people. My first pick-up was two well dressed gentlemen heading to an event downtown. I smiled and said good morning. They stared at me and said nothing. I’m not sure what came over me this particular morning but I repeated myself, louder, “GOOD MORNING!” One of them mumbled something back and the other glared. My next pick-up was a young woman who became very upset with me for not making a left turn when there was clearly a no left turn sign directly in front of us. The Uber app isn’t always accurate and I politely explained I wasn’t willing to get a ticket in order to drop her off at her location one minute sooner. She grumbled and glared and gave me a bad review. My favorite young “professional” pick-up was the group of rowdy drunk twenty-somethings who proceeded to turn the volume up on my radio in retaliation for having to chug a beer before entering my car since I wouldn’t allow alcohol in my vehicle. Maroon Five is not meant to be listened to at ear-splitting decibels…or maybe not at all, but I’ll let you be the judge of that. Hey, remember I was nervous about Mohawk guy? I kinda miss him. 
  3. I drive for Uber, I’m not a therapist. But sometimes I feel like one. Not everyone who sits in my backseat is chatty, but those who are really seem to need a listening ear. I’ve had people tell me of their failed marriages, naughty children, depression, and meddling relatives. It always amazes me that people are willing to be so open with a complete stranger about their personal lives. At the end of trips like these, the passenger always looks at me gratefully with a “thanks for listening” as they exit my car. Age, race, and gender do not matter…we all just want to be heard. I realize I’m not changing the world here, but it feels good to let a person vent for a couple minutes before they go back to their real lives. 
  4. Milwaukee is a beautiful city, especially in the summer. I’ve lived in Milwaukee my entire life without fully realizing this fact. Downtown, the Third Ward, lakefront..gorgeous. It’s kind of fun getting to explore the sights myself as I drive people around. 
  5. People are mostly good with a few bad seeds sprinkled in here and there. Call me crazy. Call me naive. But I truly believe this with all my heart. I’ve never been the most trusting individual so the fact that I’m allowing strangers in my car is laughable. For every arrogant idiot, there’s a single mom who’s coming home from a 12 hour work day and can’t wait to hug her children. There’s the college student who’s working hard in between summer classes so he can afford a down payment on a car. The good people in this beautiful city far outweigh the bad. 

Overall, I’ve re-learned some basics: Treat others the way you want to be treated. Don’t pre-judge anyone, you know nothing about their life. Most of all, this Uber side gig has taught me acceptance. Black, white, gay, straight, everyone is welcome in my car. Just don’t touch my radio. 

I’m Not Here For It

I’m 38 years old, but I feel about 80. Over the last couple of months, I’ve had more doctor’s appointments and seen the inside of more hospital rooms than I care to think about. The hospital train doesn’t seem to be slowing down anytime soon. There are days when I cry. There are days when I rant and rave and scream about the unfairness of it all. There are also days when I try to forget all my medical issues and focus on being happy. The happy days are few and far between, but I still celebrate and welcome them. My mother passed away recently and that along with my current medical situation has me contemplating death quite a bit. Settle down, I don’t know that I’m climbing the stairway to heaven anytime soon. This is assuming I won’t be descending a lower, hotter staircase (don’t judge, I might see some of ya’ll down there as well.) I’ve already experienced Hell in the form of my son’s PlayStation and Fortnite, so I know the devil truly is alive and well. 

Look back on your life and think about this: Have you ever kept your mouth shut when you shouldn’t have? Ever let people bully you or make you feel bad? For most of us, I’m fairly confident the answer is yes.  If you can say no to both questions, God bless you, Susan. You’re amazing. You’re everything I aspire to be. I’ve always tried to keep my mouth shut and avoid conflict. Many times, it was at the expense of my own feelings. However, after realizing that I’m living on borrowed time (we ALL are), I have to ask myself why? Why don’t I stand up for myself more often? Let me be clear, I’m not suggesting we all wear boxing gloves to the grocery store and punch people who skip us in line. Looking for conflict is even worse than avoiding it. But if I feel disrespected or belittled or bullied, I will no longer keep my mouth shut. This is a promise I’m making to myself because life is short and I’m not here for your shit. You shouldn’t tolerate mine, either. Will arguing lead to some uncomfortable moments? Yes, for sure. Does arguing resolve all hurt feelings? No, not always. However, I guarantee you’ll feel better after airing your grievances (Festivus…look it up). There is NOTHING worse than bottling feelings inside yourself for days, weeks or years. I promise one day your ass will explode like a champagne bottle on New Year’s Eve. That’s not fair to yourself or those around you. 

I am no longer here for negativity. We all have bad days. They’re a part of life. There’s nothing quite like coming home from a particularly rough work day and venting to your spouse, best friend, etc. We’re all negative at times. However, if you’re surrounded by negativity constantly, it’s time to break free. If a friendship or relationship feels like a boulder weighing you down, just say no. Cut the cord and take your life back. Don’t allow yourself to be dragged into someone else’s misery.

Live your life the way you want to. Eat the cake. Don’t play Fortnite (ever, seriously, no!!). Say what you mean. Don’t be fake. Scare yourself. Take risks. Most importantly, no Fortnite. Ever. I can’t stress that enough.



We Need To Talk About Elf On A Damn Shelf

Mom! Mom! Come see! Look what daddy bought at Target!” I heard the excitement in my son’s voice and I must say, I became excited as well. What did my husband buy that could elicit such happiness from my eight-year-old son? I walked towards my son and that’s when I saw it. There it was, just laying there on the coffee table. OMG. No. Just no. Is that… ugh, it is. Right there in my living room, laying on her side with a painted on smile on her face, was Elf on a Damn Shelf. 

I’m embarrassed to admit that once upon a time I wanted to invite this creature into our home for the holidays. However, I quickly realized what a pain in the ass the elf would be. Who has to hide this thing? Me. Who has to come up with creative poses and new places to put the elf every single day? Me. Quite honestly, like most parents, I have enough shit to do without worrying about this damn elf. What if I forget to move her one day? Will my child discover the truth and the magic of Christmas  be ruined forever? One look at my son, though, and I knew this bitch had to stay. “Can I name her Elsa, Mom??” Fine. Elsa it is. 

I know there are plenty of moms and dads  who love themselves some Elf on a Damn Shelf. They are able to come up with clever hiding places and anecdotes for the elf in seconds. I applaud you people. I really do. I wish I could be more like you. I’ve heard you talking in the drop off line at my son’s school. “Abby was so excited to discover the elf in the pantry!” “Trevor loved seeing the elf suspended in the air while holding a banana!” Yeah, that’s great. I still want to take the thing to my driveway and back the car over it. 

My kid has already questioned the existence of Santa. He’s point blank asked me if my husband and I are the ones wrapping the gifts and pretending they’re from Santa. The kid is a cynic, yet he truly believes a plastic fucking elf from Target is moving  around our house when we are not looking! “I wonder where the elf will hide tomorrow, Mom,” he says so sweetly with that glimmer in his eye. Maybe she’ll “accidentally” catch fire while hiding near the stove. Maybe the dog will “accidentally” rip her to shreds. Accidents happen every day. 

My son wants to install a camera near the elf every night so he can catch her in the act of moving. The only thing he’ll be catching is my tired ass waking up in a cold sweat because I forgot to move a plastic doll and I have to hurry before he wakes up and sees me touching the damn thing. The whole purpose of this doll is to scare children into behaving around the holidays, right? Why the hell am I the one who’s afraid? 

Here’s the bottom line: My son won’t be eight years old forever. There will come a day in the very near future when he won’t care about a plastic elf. He will no longer believe in Santa or elves or reindeer and I’ll be drowning in tears in a corner of my house somewhere missing the days when my boy was still little and believed in the magic of Christmas. So until that day comes I will hide this sorry ass plastic elf and do it with a smile. I will ignore her evil sneer and focus on the happiness on my son’s face. Let the countdown to Christmas begin. 

5 Things No One Tells You About Being A Caregiver

 

I have spent the past several years caring for my mother in home as her dementia slowly progresses. A few short years ago my mom was a ball of energy. She spent her days cooking amazing meals and chasing her grandson around the house. Today she has trouble walking and doesn’t always know how to hold a fork. Being a caregiver has changed my entire outlook on life. For better or worse? Well, that depends on the day. Some days I can easily find the joy in life regardless of my situation. Other days I want to crawl under a rock and sleep for weeks. I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking of my mother’s illness, my caregiver role, and the affect it has on the family and close friends in my life. There will come a time in most of our lives where we will either become caregivers or need a caregiver of our very own. I’m no expert on caregiving. I’m a student. I learn something new every day and it’s not always pretty. There are many misconceptions and notions about being a caregiver and I wanted to share my feelings in this blog because it can be very very difficult to share them in conversation. Again, this is MY experience. Yours may be completely different. These are the five things no one tells you about being a caregiver: 

  1. The isolation. I spend my days working from home in order to care for my mother. Once my husband and son leave for work and school, it’s just my mother and myself all day long. Let me be clear: I am blessed and lucky to have a job that allows me to work from home for extended periods of time. I know this. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. No one is beating down my door to hang out with Dementia Lady and her sidekick. When my phone vibrates with a text or incoming call, you bet your ass I’m diving for it. That’s my lifeline to the outside world. I’m sure as hell scrolling through my Facebook feed as well. Who wants to read about the ham sandwich you ate for lunch? Me. I do. It’s a distraction. You can even tell me about the Dijon mustard you put in there. I’m all in. I’m a social person at heart and social media rocks. Facebook and Instagram drama exist, but my daily drama is worse. So please, check in to that car dealership and tell me you’re about to get an oil change. Hope you get a free car wash, too. 
  2. The level of exhaustion. Ok, yes, I imagine you realize that I’m tired. Maybe that’s not a newsflash. Remember the story of Rip Van Winkle? I’m jealous of that dude. I’m jealous of a fictional character. He slept for twenty years!!! Twenty!! Can I get three hours of sleep? Three hours of uninterrupted sleep would be a dream come true. 
  3. I am questioned more than an FBI suspect. No lie. “Omg, why isn’t your mom in a nursing home?” “How can you do this to your family?” First of all, my mom is a member of my family. There may come a time when I sit down with my husband and son and we discuss placing my mother in a nursing home. I cannot predict the future. Placing a loved one in a home is a difficult and arduous decision. I’m not ready to do it yet. Is it stressful changing and feeding and walking my mom every day? You bet it is. Is it tough on my family? Oh, yes. But my husband and son support me every step of the way. I don’t expect people to fully understand, but the judgement is unnecessary and uncalled for. I’m simply doing what is right for me at this particular time. 
  4. My body aches. I don’t need pity. I don’t want pity as I have made the choice to take on this caregiver role. The toll dementia has had on my mother is far greater than the toll it will take on me. However, that being said, my muscles and bones pop and crack like I’m a 92-year-old woman. Some days my mother walks perfectly fine. Other days I have to lift and carry her to her wheelchair. I never know what I’m getting. If you see me walk past you in the grocery store and wonder why I’m limping, don’t. That’s just the way I walk now. You should see me run. Pull up a chair and pop some popcorn. It’s a good show. 
  5. I feel like I have four different lives. One life revolves around caring for my mother and being available to meet her needs. One life is the role I take on in my family, being a wife and mother. Life number three is the way I present myself to my friends. I adore the friendships that I have but sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by my daily life that I can’t connect with others the way I used to. I struggle at times to be happy, fun Katie because it’s too exhausting. Finally, life number four is just me. That’s the hardest life to live. I feel inadequate as a daughter, mother, wife, and friend. Forgiving myself for the mistakes I make daily is damn near impossible but I have to learn to do it. I’m stuck with me for the rest of my life. Better make the most of it.

For better or worse, this is my life. This is my experience. If you’re a fellow caregiver reading this, take my words with a grain of salt. My deep dark secret is that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Im just living this life one day at a time. 

10 Things You Will See At Any Elementary School Dance

It has recently come to my attention that my son’s school is hosting an event that every parent should beware of. It’s an elementary school event brought to you by the letter H, as in hell. I am of course referring to the ever-popular elementary school “family fun” dance. If your idea of family fun is equivalent to a root canal or Pap smear, then yes. You will have so much fun at this dance. As for the rest of you..well.. here are ten things you will witness at your child’s school dance:
1. Candy for sale. Let’s talk this over, shall we? Who in the hell decided this was a good idea? I would like to have been a fly on the wall at the PTA meeting where a parent stood up and said, “Hey! I have a great idea! Let’s turn off all the lights, blast music as loud as possible, and sell candy out in the hallway so our kids can get a sugar high and run around in the dark! Won’t that be fun?!” No, Brenda. No, honey. That will not fucking be “fun”. That sounds like a nightmare. Get your shit together and sell carrots instead.
2. Loud music. As in LOUD music. Do NOT leave your earplugs at home. Add to that the sound of hundreds of screaming children and you, my friend, have landed in New Orleans at the children’s version of Mardi Gras. Does that sound terrible? That’s because it fucking is.
3. Inappropriate song choices. It’s inevitable. It’s going to happen. The deejay will try to sneak a popular song into the playlist, and it will be a popular song that is NOT age appropriate. Do you want to see young kids dance to the soundtrack of Fifty Shades of Grey? Me neither. Stay home.
4. The awkward dad dancing. Pull up a chair and watch him grind in the middle of the dance floor. There’s one in every crowd. Trust me.
5. The screaming and crying child. Or, I should say, children. There won’t be just one. Someone will have stolen someone else’s Gummy bear, Tootsie Roll, or Blow POP and I guarantee a shit storm will ensue. If you thought the general “yay, we’re at a dance, we’re so happy!” screaming was bad, wait until you see the angry cry. Please say a prayer for the poor parent who will have to haul this demon home and attempt to put him/her to bed. Please.
6. Glow sticks. Oh, I’m sorry, did you think the last time you’d see a glow stick was at the rave you attended in high school? Buckle up, buttercup. You’re about to see tons of K4-5th graders lose their collective shit over a glow-in-the-dark stick. Enjoy.
7. Alcohol. Hahahah! Just kidding. But you’re going to wish this school had an open bar. My advice? Drink at home before going. You will need a little something something to take the edge off.
8. Brenda, the PTA President, getting her groove on right next to awkward dad. This is the same woman who tried to guilt you into baking those 100 cupcakes for the school bake sale. You better pull your phone out and film this. You’ll need that shit for bribing her later.
9. Your child’s teacher. Please say hello and make eye contact with this poor person. Please remember him or her at Christmas and during teacher appreciation week. They didn’t ask for this shit. They’re not getting paid to chaperone in hell. They’re there because they want to be. Why? Who the fuck knows but please thank them.
10. Heat. I don’t care if it’s -20 outside with a wind chill. It’ll be hotter than hell in that gym. Dress accordingly and please drink plenty of liquids before arriving. Water, beer, whiskey, I don’t give a shit. Just drink.
So. Those are the ten things you will see at this dance, but I also know something you won’t see: your kid. It’ll be so dark in that gym that you’ll lose track of your kid immediately and start panicking. Don’t you worry. Junior is having a blast. Seriously, though, when you find your child, can you help me look for mine?

Five Parents To Avoid In The School Drop-Off Line

As my son navigates his first year at a brand new school, I’ve found myself engaged in new learning experiences as well. I’ve learned which route is the fastest from my house to school. I’ve learned the best places to park near the school and which areas to avoid. I’ve learned the names of all my son’s new buddies. I have so much more to learn and process, but there is something that happens daily at my son’s school I plan on avoiding for the foreseeable future. I watch this event unfold much the same way one would watch a train wreck. I’m talking, of course, about school drop-off. More specifically, I’m referring to the parents who use the school’s parking lot drop-off system. Don’t get me wrong: The drop-off system is a beautiful thing when done correctly. You pull over, your child exits the car in a designated area, responsible adults are waiting to escort your child in the school building, and boom, you’re done. However, I’m more concerned with the parents who have no idea what the fuck they’re doing. These are the five parents you should try to avoid at all costs during drop-off:
1. “The rules don’t apply to me” parent. Um, yes. Yes they fucking do. You are not entitled to tailgate the car in front of you because you have to get to work. We all have to get to work. You are not entitled to cut someone off because you woke up late. Wake up earlier tomorrow. Repeat after me, Psycho Mom. “The rules apply to me as well.” Say it like you mean it. Please ,for the love of God, don’t raise your child to be as entitled as you are. Wait your turn and dial down the crazy.
2. The “tires squealing skid mark” parent. Hey! Did you hear that noise as you were pulling away? That was your child being dragged up the sidewalk by his scarf because you didn’t come to a complete stop. Come to a complete stop before letting your kid out of the car. Common sense, 101.
3. The “snail” parent. Hurry. The. Fuck. Up. This is not a Starbucks social. Put your latte in the cup holder and move along. There is a line of cars behind you with parents waiting to drop their own kids off. I know you want to say hi to your friend Carol and catch up on all the amazing shit she’s been doing, like finding all the deals on Target’s Cartwheel app, but the drop-off line is not the place to talk. Send Carol a text and be on your way.
4. The “blocking traffic” parent. Honey. Pull OVER. What the hell are you doing? You cannot parallel park in the middle of an effing parking lot! Have you lost your damn mind? Do you remember taking drivers ed? Actually, forget drivers ed: You should be required to pass an aptitude test in order to participate in the school drop-off system. Stupid should not be allowed in school parking lots.
5. The “confused” parent. You know this one all too well. This mom or dad has been using the drop-off line since September and still. Doesn’t. Have. A. Fucking. Clue. Sir or ma’am, I would like to direct your attention to the other parents who know the rules and have been paying attention. The Confused Parent is a combination of the above-mentioned parents with a little extra stupid thrown in. You’re allowed to be a bit confused the first week of school. You’re not allowed to be confused several months into the school year.
I will be completely honest: I’m slightly jealous of all these parents, no matter how dumb they are. My son likes for me to walk him to the door so I’m not allowed to drop-off from the safety of my car. However, in about two years the child won’t want to be associated with me at all so I will walk him to the door carrying all his shit like I’m his butler. This is what moms do. As soon as I’m banished to the role of chauffeur, I’ll see you in the drop-off line.

Five Things I Wish My Kid Would Never Say Again

School is out, the weather is warm, and having my son home every single day is wonderful. The problem? Um, let’s just say that seven-year-old boys are not the most quiet of humans. The sheer amount of talking, yelling, and screaming that comes out of that tiny little mouth is staggering. As much as I love hearing my son speak and voice his opinions, there are five things I never want to hear him say ever again:
1. “Hey, Mom, watch this!!” No. I can’t. I fucking can’t watch this. I am told to “watch this” 7,345,355 times a day. It’s a rough estimate, but pretty damn accurate. While “watching this”, I usually stand in one spot with a frozen smile on my face and pretend to be impressed with the incredibly boring shit that my son is doing. Sometimes, “watch this” is followed by a dangerous stunt that has me simultaneously yelling and sending up silent prayers to the heavens. I have yet to be impressed with anything that follows a “watch this.” Listen up, kid: Are you working on something educational that will benefit your life? Yes, I will be happy to watch that. Are you perhaps doing a science experiment and attempting to find the cure for various communicable illnesses? I would LOVE to watch that. Are you standing in the middle of my kitchen in your underwear balancing a spoon on your nose while you hum “The Star-Spangled Banner?” Then no. I can’t watch that shit for the millionth time. Sorry.
2. “Hey, Mom, are you ready?!” No I am not fucking ready. In my house, an “are you ready” is followed by anything from a football to the face to the possible launching of an atomic bomb. I am ready for none of it. Not a single fucking thing. Perhaps if the child followed an “are you ready”with a homemade pie or a poetry slam, then I would be ready. I’m always ready for some poetry. I would also be more than ready to read a book or draw a picture. I’m never ready for a tiny child to hurl various balls at me full speed.
3. “Hey Mom, I’m bored!!” I haven’t been bored in seven years. I would give anything to be bored. “Bored” means sitting on my ass not doing anything. Bored is fucking amazing!!! Unfortunately, children don’t agree. It doesn’t matter how many toys my son has. It doesn’t matter how many games I play with him or how many times he runs through the outdoor sprinkler. He is always bored. I’m so jealous. Don’t you worry, though. I have a plan. The next time my son says he’s bored, I will pile math workbooks in front of him and watch the horrified look on his face. He won’t be fucking bored then.
4. “Hey Mom, wanna play?!” Yes I know. I know some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking aloud what kind of sick, selfish person wouldn’t want to play with her own son? Me. I’m the selfish person. My son’s favorite part of playing a game he invented is laying down the ground rules. The most important rule in every game he invents is this: I am NOT the winner. Ever. If I happen to be winning, the rules will suddenly change mid game and he will emerge victorious. So do I want to play a game where I’m always the loser, no matter what I do? Do I want to play a game where I can’t do anything correctly, no matter how hard I try? Absolutely not.
5. “Hey Mom, it’s not fair!” Suck it up, buttercup. Neither is life. Before you judge me for being too harsh, I must explain what the boy is referring to when he says that something isn’t fair. The child is referring to EVERYTHING. He’s not allowed to eat chocolate for breakfast, lunch and dinner: Not fair. He must brush his teeth daily: Not fair. He must pick up his toys and put them away after he’s done playing with them: Not fair. I’m not entirely sure he understands what the word “fair” even means. I could go the rest of my life without hearing that something isn’t fair, especially when it is.
This summer I am vowing to completely eliminate these phrases from my child’s vocabulary. You have your goals, I have mine. Pray for me.

The 5 Stages Of A Mom Attempting To Lose Weight

Here’s how it begins: You finally have some time to yourself away from the kids and you decide to spend the day clothes shopping. That’s right: You’re treating yourself to a fun shopping day. Of course, it’s only a fun shopping day until you find yourself locked in a dressing room stall under extremely harsh, fluorescent lights attempting to zip up a pair of jeans in a size that you swear you could fit into just last week so what the hell is wrong with the zipper? Why is this store selling jeans with defective zippers? So you try on a different pair in the same size and….those refuse to zip as well. So it’s not the zipper. Your ass has just gotten bigger. When did that happen? You couldn’t have eaten that much chocolate, right? RIGHT?! Now you’re panicking. You peel off the jeans, throw them back at the nearest size zero sales associate and resist the urge to feed her a hot dog (and eat one yourself) as you run out of the store. As you’re driving away, you’ve already made the decision: You vow to start exercising and dieting tomorrow. However, you may not have realized that dieting is a process, especially if you’re a mom with kids and many other responsibilities. Losing weight is a full time job and it’s NOT going to be easy. Here are the five stages of a mom attempting to lose weight:
1. Optimism. You spend every waking minute of your life thinking of other people: your kids, your husband, your boss, your friends, etc. It’s about damn time you did something for yourself. So you’ll start with improving your physical appearance and health. A little exercise, a little healthy eating…you’ve got this. How hard can it be?
2. Reality. Wow. Dieting is hard. Like really fucking hard. So is exercise. You can no longer eat the remaining Goldfish crackers your kid can’t finish so they don’t “go to waste.” You start taking the stairs instead of using escalators. Friday family pizza night comes around and you’re the only one sitting in the living room trying not to gag over a bowl filled with kale. You start lifting weights instead of lifting plates. Welcome to the reality of trying to be healthy. It sucks a little bit, right?
3. Hanger. You’re hungry. You’re angry. You are hangry. Your kids refuse to finish their dinner of fried chicken. You look up from your cauliflower (yes, that’s all you’re eating…cauliflower) and lose your shit, grounding them for life. Your husband forgets to buy milk on his way home from work and you’re Googling divorce attorneys. Your boss tells you your work has been less than stellar lately and you tell him to go screw himself…then say you’re only kidding because you really really need this job, ha ha, so sorry. When you get to this point (and trust me, you will) do the world a favor and eat a carb. You’ll feel a bit better.
4. Depression. You’re sad. So sad, thanks to kale. Food is delicious, but kale is not food. It’s a punishment you have forced upon yourself. You’re wallowing in your diet misery. You can’t lift another weight. The sight of a treadmill makes you cry. You would do anything for a cookie. Really. Anything. As soon as you’re ready, finish your tofu (yeah, you’re eating that shit too), dry your tears and move on to:
5. Acceptance. This is what you wanted. You wanted those jeans in your size, and now you have to suffer a bit. You can mourn the loss of your cookies, but you will avoid them because you want those jeans more. Why do cookies have to taste so damn good anyway?
After you’ve gone through all these stages you will come to a realization. You can eat cauliflower, but you can still have a cookie. Just one, put those dozen cookies down. Those jeans you wanted so badly will be out of style in a month. You’ll enjoy exercising for the way it makes you feel, not so you can wear a particular item of clothing. You will no longer want to be society’s version of “skinny”, you will want to be your own version of healthy. You’ll still hate kale, though. Trust me.

An Open Letter to First Grade Math

Dear First Grade Math,
I want to begin this letter by telling you that I have been trying to understand you since September. Six months. I have given you six months of my life. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. I pull you out of my son’s backpack every evening, blink back tears, and work so hard to explain you to my child. My son and I both want to accept you. We both understand that we need you in our lives. You’re important, First Grade Math. We know that adding and subtracting is a valuable life skill and we have no choice but to allow you to enter our home. We want to like you. We really do. But you make it so. Fucking. Hard.
What? You want examples of the ways you make us miserable? Ok.
1. Word problems. Word problems in first grade. Are you kidding me? My kid just started reading for real last week. When I say “for real” I mean he finally started looking at the words and sounding them out instead of making shit up and guessing. So guess who has been reading your word problems, First Grade Math? That’s right. Me. I thought I was done with school. I graduated college. I went to a real, accredited university. I wrote papers and everything. I thought I was smart. Sitting next to my kid and trying to explain your word problems has shown me that those four years of college were a HUGE waste of money. I’m a total dumb ass. Remember your word problem about the frogs on the lily pad and how it almost made me cry? “If ten frogs are on a lily pad and two jump off, seven frogs jump back on, three drown and twelve more jump on the lily pad, how many frogs in total are on the lily pad?” Too many fucking frogs. I had a long day at work and now I have to help my kid calculate frogs? Thanks, First Grade Math. You suck.
2. Does my kid really need to know that I’ve always been terrible at math? Does my kid really need to know that I still sometimes use my fingers to add the frogs and other shit you stick in your word problems? No. No he doesn’t. Thanks for exposing me for the dummy that I’ve always been.
3. Math has changed so much since I was in school. You weren’t supposed to change, First Grade Math. You weren’t supposed to become more complicated. When I was in school, 12+3=15. Boom. Done. Now you want us to show every single number combination that will equal 15. You throw in number lines, charts, graphs, etc. You want DNA samples and clothing fibers. Why are you making our relationship so much more complicated, First Grade Math? 12+3 still equals 15. Leave it alone.
4. You create more drama in my house than a paternity test on The Maury Povich Show. As soon as your presence has been announced, children cry, dogs hide and parents drink. Why do you insist on being such a nightmare? Why did you pick first grade to rear your ugly head? When I was in school, shit didn’t get real until at least the fourth grade! Thanks for making us doubt our parenting skills sooner rather than later. You rock.
Honestly? I wish we could break up. I wish we could quit you. But I know that we can’t. We have to stick with this relationship. I have to make sure my son graduates from college and finds himself a career that doesn’t involve asking people if they would like fries with that. In order to help my son, I need you,at least through June of this year. After June, you’ll be replaced with Second Grade Math. Then Third Grade Math. I will suffer through each of these relationships until I die a slow and horrible mathematical death. I will suffer for the benefit of my child. You may have the upper hand now, First Grade Math, but mark my words. I will learn all your ways by the end of this school year. You’re going down. As soon as I stop crying over these damn frogs on their lily pad.
Sincerely,
Katie