New Jersey Moms Blog

"Silly Band" Fever Is Giving Me A Headache

If you have a child between the ages of 5 and 15 and live in New Jersey, you have probably heard of "Silly Bands" or "Animal Bracelets" or whatever regional name is being giving to these "hot," stretchy, silicon accessories for kids.  Each pack of rubbery bracelets has a theme, from musical instruments to princess gear to farm and zoo animals, to aquatic life.  The goal is to buy and trade as many as possible.  Some kids acquire enough to pile them from wrist to elbow on each arm. 

The point is to trade them, but what I've noticed is that with young children, Silly Band mania has provided a playground for the opportunistic child to hone their skills of manipulation, bribery, and preying on the naivety of others.  And by "others," I mean my kind hearted 5 year old daughter who gets her bracelets swindled off of her alabaster arm every time I'm naive enough to allow her to wear them into school. 

DS at Dinner?

Our family happens to be one of the few in America that does not own a Wii, Playstation, XBox or hand held video game - the DS I believe they are called.  We have no type of moral opposition to the aforementioned video games, we just aren't big "gamers"  ourselves and with our children being between the ages of 2 and 5, the "need" for video games is a subject that just has not come up.  At least, not until a few weeks ago when my 5 year old started noticing her same age-peers bringing DS's on the bus and noticing Wii's at their homes during play dates.  Now, of course, she is begging for a DS.  Begging!

I've made it very clear to her:  It ain't gonna happen. 

Why I Hate Swings

I realized yesterday that there is something I hate. Loathe. Detest with every fiber of my being. I feel a visceral reaction when I see it: I want to panic, seethe, and curl into a helpless ball all at once. The bane of my existence. The thing I abhor:

I.  Hate.  Swings. 

Let me get more specific. I hate swings because my kids are obsessed with swings and I have to PUSH them on said swing for hours on end. Seems like an over-blown reaction to pushing a child on a swing, right? Isn't that all part of the 'joys' of motherhood? Well, there are other factors involved here. I'm not alone in a quiet field filled with butter cups, pushing one child on a tire swing suspended from a huge branch of a weeping cherry tree in full bloom... with no other distractions, obligations or annoyances. It's never so idyllic. For instance, there are never enough swings for all the kids on the playground, and I have at least 3 kids with me at a time, completely unable to pump themselves. This means, that only one child can usually swing at once, leaving the other 2 screaming and crying and whining. Or, they can't ever find a swing next to each other so it's impossible to push them at the same time. Which brings me to the next thing I loathe:  "Push me Mom!  Push Me!  Push Me!"...

When Two Words Collide

A neighbor of ours puts up a huge blow up lawn display for Halloween every year. It is an enormous Garfield the Cat wearing a witch hat (yes, random I know). Last year, when my daughter was not yet 3, she was obsessed with this cat which we drove by every day in October. When she first saw him, she asked who he was. I explained he was Garfield and a little bit about the character cat… he took lots of naps, he played with his dog friend Odie, and he ate lots of lasagna. As repetitive toddlers are, she’d always ask the same questions, fully knowing the answers, every time we rode by. “What does Garfield eat?” “Who does Garfield play with?”

This year, Garfield came up again. Since parents love any opportunity to test the brilliance of their children, I ask her “Who’s that?” as we drive by. Let’s see how much she remembers from last year. “It’s Garfield!” she shouts. “And what does Garfield like to do?” “Sleep!” she shouts! Oh, she’s brilliant! “And what does he like to eat? “ I query further, looking at her cherubic face and wide hazel eyes in the rear view mirror. “Vagana!”

Down With Goody Bag Guilt!

At some point, a group of people invented the "Child's Birthday Party" complete with accompanying paraphernalia and ritual:  Butter cream frosted cake, the very original Happy Birthday song, candles, gifts, hats and horns.  Somewhere in the genesis of the Birthday Party, the concept of a "Goody Bag" was also introduced.  I'd like to blame the invention of the Goody Bag on a man, as men are usually the ones behind such detestable things as the corset, big uncomfortable maxi pads, high heeled shoes and thong underwear.  But I really think women... mothers in particular...are to be blamed for this one.   Perky, Susie Homemaker, June Cleaver Mothers from an era long gone. I make this conclusion because I know of NO mother today who adores handing out OR receiving said junky goody bag at party's end.  I say, we mothers may have started this senselessness but it is within our power to finish it too. 

Seriously, I have yet to meet ANY mother who doesn't secretly (or not so secretly) loathe the ritual and expectation of a ticky tacky plastic bag filled with tiny dollar store items.  We only do it because we are supposed to. It's imprinted on our societal psyche.  I'm not really sure why. I don't believe there is any deep purpose being served.  Was it in Emily Post's book of Etiquette?  Wait here whilst I check my copy.  Hmmmm.  I must have lent it out.  Regardless, ladies, it seems to me that we are all on the same wave length here with the Goody Bag Insanity.  So what do we do about it?  Rise up?  Boycott?  Start to unravel one of America's largest pointless traditions breaking the hearts of kids everywhere (my own included)?  Yes. 

Bad Cheese Kharma

Somehow, there is a hiccup in my tiny space of the Universe. Everything is all messed up, discombobulated, and flat out annoying. What was sweet has turned sour. Where there was patience is aggravation. What was full is now empty and what was empty is ... still empty. I am annoyed at almost everyone and their annoying traits that never annoyed me until a few weeks ago. Mostly I'm annoyed at myself. I'm completely crabby, complainy, jealous, myopic, small-minded and can't even blame it on PMS. I blame it on the CHEESE. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

First, I need to explain that everything has really started to go down hill. Well, more downhill than normal. I realized this standing on the Interstate mid-three-hour-drive with 4 small hungry children in the pouring rain while my 3 year old was using the potty seat for the third time in 2 hours because the child's bladder is the size of a pea.  Usually I just laugh at the ridiculous mini-disasters that punctuate my day. But now, I feel like I'm literally stuck in some type of Bermuda Triangle of Ridiculousness. 

Apparently I Expand To Double My Size at David's Bridals

"Look at your BIG BELLY, Mom!" my 3 year old is loudly yelling, smacking my stomach playfully as I lay semi-conscious in my bed at 6:45 this morning. Ah, just what I want to hear before my first cup of coffee. Or, like, ever.

My 5 year old is on the other side of me, laughing while lifting up my T-shirt. "EEEEWWWWW. What happened to your belly button, Mom?" she teases.  "You and your sisters" I reply truthfully.

Since I was laying slightly to my side, the loose skin on my belly was nice and wrinkled up, looking strangely like an elephant's knee and rendering my belly button into a slit. This is what happens when you're a former size 2 who carries and gives birth to 4 bowling balls children. Though I have no stretch marks and have worked very hard to get (almost) back to my pre-baby weight and size, my tummy skin just hasn't bounced back. It's not noticeable when I'm standing erect or laying suspine.  But any other position is flab city.  Who cares, right? Riiiiiiiight. Not me... *sniff/sob/sigh*

Now that I'm feeling really hot and confident, I go to David's Bridal to try on and order my bridesmaid dress for my brother-in-law's wedding.

Wasn't Gov. Sanford Just Following "The Politician's Handbook?"

Governor Sanford is the latest to stand before us reading the same canned and overly-rehearsed speech apologizing to his family and the public.  It's the same drill, different names, different day.  Cue the phony tears of shame.  Is anyone outside of the situation every truly shocked? Sleeping around seems part of the job requirement once you have any bit of fame and/or power. In fact, I believe it's all there in black and white in the Politician's Handbook, Chapter 1, Section 4, Sub-section A.  Let's take a look, shall we?:

How To Become A Politician  *

* Though not necessarily a good one

Interested in Politics?  Here's what you do: 

1.  Major in Political Science, work hard, and never keep it in your pants.

2.  While you're getting established and gaining experience, find a great woman who will stand by you as you embark on this career.  Make sure she will sacrifice everything for you and your own gain, raise your children, and then cheat on her.  She may find out, she may not.  But if the affair is exposed, make sure it's super humiliating for her.   

I Need Milk, Therefore I Am Depressed

I need milk. I should really go to the store to buy milk. But, it's really gross and rainy out there. Plus, I'm totally unmotivated. I haven't changed the clothes I've been both sleeping in and wearing for 2 days straight now. I also haven't left the house in over 48 hours, unless you count taking the trash to the curb and checking the mail. That means, the kids have been couped up too. The kids should really get out. I'm always going out. Every day I go out. I hate being trapped at home. Why is it that lately I feel like I want to stay home?

Okay, we're going out. What else can I do today besides get milk? I can go to the wonderful story time at the Pitman Library today. Yes, we haven't been there in a while. That means I have to actually make the kids look cute. Yeah, that feels like it would take some energy. Plus, the baby will fall asleep on the way home and I'll miss the opportunity to do other things around the house while she naps. Okay, no story time. Now I feel guilty. I SHOULD take my kids to story time. Have they been to anything remotely educational all week? Yes, they've watched Nick Jr. Can I count that? Ugh, more guilt.

Confessions Of A Culinarily-Challenged Mother

Does boxed Macaroni and Cheese count as a home-cooked dinner?  Does that packet of powdered orange stuff count as a serving of dairy?  How many consecutive nights can you serve it, without an accompanying veggie, before your children get scurvy? 

Don't answer.  Please. 

You're answering in your head.  I hear you. 

I am someone who is both educated and interested in diet and nutrition, but cannot seem to translate my passion into practice.  I love collecting a variety of recipes and designing the perfect health-conscious meals in my imagination.  I am even one of the few people out there who actually enjoy grocery shopping. I love to read labels and dream of a pantry full of nothing but organics and a fridge full of fresh produce and hormone-free, grass and grain fed meats (sparingly).  But when it comes right down to it my talents as a chef, my budget, and the joy the physical ACT of cooking actual brings me all fall a little short.  That's a nice way of saying: 1) I'm lazy 2)  I'm cheap and 3) I'm no Rachael Ray.