No, I did nothing all day. I’m just a mother

It’s the year 2013, yet somehow, women’s lib forgot to notify the rest of the world that being a mother is a job.

Do I  work outside of the home? Why yes indeedy, I do. Do I make a paycheck week to week? Yes. Is it a large paycheck? No. For now. No Jewish girl wants to live on a small paycheck forever, I assure you that. I enjoy what I do, and like working, but what about my most important job. 

The one job that I cannot list on my resume.

I mean my boss, my 32 inch daughter, never hands me over a paycheck, so maybe it isn’t really–gasp–work.

Instead, I get paid in the following denominations:

temper tantrums

declarations of “No, Mommy. I sit by self. You sit there Mommy.”

Letters, shapes, colors, and number recognition.

The triumphant sound of her counting in French.

Saying her letter sounds while playing with magnetic letters.



Countless re-runs of “You’re a good sport Charlie Brown.”


tossed food

dirty diapers

and…dirty potties.

It won’t pay the mortgage, but how much does a healthy, well-adjusted child equal?

I wish men, and strangers would value child-rearing the way I do. I wish I didn’t have to hear how “easy” it is all day long.

Of course, it’s fun sometimes, and even easy. However, no one seems to remember the sleepless nights. My sore boobs. The shouts for toys in the middle of the store. The trips to the pediatrician. The tears. The temper tantrums because apparently asking your child to wear a sweater is akin to murdering Snoopy.

I don’t have a big paycheck. I only work part-time. I write, I teach, and generally, make people laugh.

What a friggin shock it is to be in my thirties and discover that even in the millennium, people do not value what they feel is woman’s work. Do you think it is fun to do laundry or food shopping while chasing after a pint-sized Castro? It certainly doesn’t give me an orgasm, but I would just love for the people telling me how easy it is, to do what I do, as well as I do.

If my child goes to bed happy tonight, I have done my job.

If my child goes to bed cranky tonight, guess what? I still have done my job. I probably didn’t give in to one of her crazy notions. I stood my ground and taught her that sometimes, you don’t get what you want, but you will survive.

For all you people thinking that your day job is somehow more work or more important than raising my child–or any child for that matter, I ask you this?

Can you be happy all day long, and emotionally balanced, even if you are having the shittiest day and the world is about to end?

Can you teach a child to read, write, sing, play, and laugh?

Can you nurse a baby while taking a shit, and trying to brush your teeth?

Can you do the laundry while potty training a child, and putting on your makeup for your night job?

if the answer is yes, then you are potentially qualified to do my job.

If the answer is no, then I offer you this:

Your job is way easier than mine pal. I will gladly trade you my vagina for your penis and get to be you.

Or maybe I wouldn’t because then I wouldn’t get to do nothing all day, while masturbating and eating bon-bons, and have so much fun raising the best, sweetest, and bossiest two year-old ever.


Dear Toddler: How You Can be a Better Child for me. Love, Mommy

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter is a seriously awesome little toddler, but there’s always room for improvement, right? Come on, even though every mom thinks her kids’ shits are better than gold, we all know that it’s never too late to work towards perfection, heh heh.

I mean, we parents are bombarded with manuals, books, articles, and seminars on how to be better parents. Aren’t we fantastic as we are? What about a little acceptance man?

Here’s my How to be a Better Child Guide.If I have to read manuals,articles, blogs, and recommendations, it’s time my kid follows suit.

#1 Acknowledge My Feelings

Today my child threw her pancakes on the floor. I was not happy. I said, “Mommy is not happy. Mommy is mad. You made a bad choice. I’m disappointed.”

She smiles until of course, I tell her she has to stay in her high chair while I clean her mess. *another way to be an awesome child is to not throw your damn food, but we will get to that shortly.

I say, “Mommy is mad.”

“No! No!” she shrieks from her chair!

No matter what I say, she says no to me. I feel like I am with a man–another person who doesn’t know how to acknowledge my feelings.

I am told to acknowledge my child when she has a temper tantrum or feels blue. How about she does the same for me, right? I scratch your back, and you scratch mine kid.

#2 Don’t throw food. Your mommy is a terrible cook

There is nothing more horrifying–minus discovering you missed a few pubes while shaving or realizing you are wearing your shirt on backwards–then watching in nail-biting slow motion while your child throws his or her food on the floor.

Listen ladies. I am not like the Pinterest mommies who bake and cook and do it with ease. It takes effort, serious Superman-like effort for me to whip up a decent meal. I finally started getting the hang of some 4 ingredient crock-pot recipes and learned where my broiler is (although I have yet to use it). It takes work when I hand her over a meal that may just take the average female a second to make, while they’re whipping up homemade soups, casseroles, and bread all in a matter of mere seconds.

When my child throws food on the floor, not only do I dread cleaning it, but I also dread the fact that whether later on or now, I will have to cook, again.

While I have to accept the fact that you my child, are short and have the patience of a flea, you must accept the fact that you weren’t blessed with Martha Stewart or even a mid-level chef for your mother. Eat every last drop of food, and don’t complain!

#3 Don’t ask to go on the potty after you’ve pooped, just to see Youtube videos.

Look kid. You’re short. You’re small. You will probably end up going to the prom in your rear-facing car seat, which only means I don’t have to worry about teenage pregnancy. If you would like to get a date before you are 30, please poop on the potty…not right before you go on, and then ask me to show you YouTube videos of Bert and Ernie and/or Charlie Brown. I get your game. You just want to watch the damn videos and have me change your diapers for the rest of eternity.

Just get ready for when I am back in diapers. I get constipated easily, and I will hold the largest poops just for you darling.

The final way you can be a better child…

#4 Stop paying attention to your dad all the time.

I know you’re a girl and that it’s normal to be obsessed with your father, but I suffered through hell for you. I was in the hospital for about 35 days with you, and barely ate. Truth be told, I was scared shitless of dying, and my resting heart rate after lying in bed for weeks was a 150. Yeah, I was not in good shape.

So just remember that when you’re showering your dad with love and ignoring me. He only had to make a quick deposit. Yup, it’s that easy for men.

Also, one day when you get your period and are moody and desperate for French onion dip and end up eating a whole bag of potato chips, just remember who will calm your father down once he realizes he is out of chips. Just remember who will buy you your first bra. Who will be there to show you how to put on makeup–I could teach you to wear tacky hot-pink lipstick with bright green eyeshadow if you keep favoring your father you know– it won’t be your dad.

If you remember this, I promise to never let you go out looking like a fool with a bra way too small or big, or in hideous tacky makeup. I also promise to let you eat all of your father’s junk food too when you’re PMSing, as long as you share some with me.

It’s wise to side with your mother as we truly are the ones who rule the house my dear. A penis-owning person merely believes he is in charge because testosterone causes men to experience senility faster. It’s mere survival of the fittest kid;stick with your mom.

5 Signs the World is Ending, according to my Toddler

Nothing is worse than a toddler having a temper tantrum. Sure, you can argue that losing money, getting an STD, getting red wine all over a white blouse, or running a marathon in six inches heels might be worse, but a toddler meltdown is akin to what I imagine the second coming of Christ looks like to a holy roller.

#1 First Sign that the world is coming to an end…

Super Why’s Dog, “Woofster” will not be appearing on the episode.

Woofster is the single most retarded name I can think of to name a cartoon dog. It certainly isn’t memorable, and worse, his voice is irritating, but she loves the show and I think it’s cute…mostly, so we watch the show.

“Where’s Super Why’s doggie? Where is he?No!!!!”

My toddler crumples in her little seat in a dramatic gesture similar to ones made by Italian Grandmothers at funerals. I want to curse PBS and my DVR for giving me an episode without Wyatt’s famed new dog. I want to stamp my feet and scream because I just want to take a shower for a minute, possibly even shave my you-know-what’s, while she bathes in Boob Tube bliss. The absence of Woofster has made it so my shower is pierced with complaints.

#2 Second Sign the World is Ending: Her mother tells her what to do.

Doodlebug, take off your shoes please.

Mommy, take off my sweater. No sweater.

Okay, just take your shoes off first please.

No Mommy!

She flings herself into the cross position, and wails. She kicks her legs when I remind her that she knows how to take off her shoes, and cries even harder. She begins to hack slightly as if she might throw-up, trying to show me how serious she is about her feelings.

Suddenly, my adorable child turns red and speaks tongues close to the Hebrew language. I see the signs of stigmata. I wonder why I didn’t just shut my uterus down for business in the first place. I hide in the bathroom praying she won’t remind me of my sins.

She cries for what feels like forever, and then finally gives up. I take off her sweater.

#3 Signs the World is Ending, number 3:

No Cantaloupe

My daughter could eat about 4 whole cantaloupes a week, maybe more. I fear she will turn into a large round orange boulder of a girl, and she will have to wear colorful stickers to the prom, instead of a dress.

When the cantaloupe runs out, you better leave town or prepare yourself to listen to her lament and shriek.

“Cantaloupe Mommy! Cantaloupe!”

“But I don’t have anymore.”

“Daddy buy more Cantaloupe Mommy!”

This goes on until finally, she cries and repeatedly asks me for cantaloupe. My ears start to bleed, and I wish I had joined the circus instead of had a child.  I wish that all the cantaloupe would magically disappear, so then she could just fixate on another fruit instead.

#4 Fourth Sign that the End is Near:

Charlie Brown’s Mayflower Episode is gone

I have no idea how many ways she has asked me–maybe thirty different times?– but my daughter keeps asking me to show her the Charlie Brown Mayflower episode. I cannot stand it. It is boring as hell. I’m not watching it again, at least not until next Thanksgiving. I keep telling her the Mayflower has set sail…she keeps asking anyway, and searching through the DVD’s for the disc.

I am an evil mommy.

#5 Final Sign that the Second Coming is Near:

Can’t find her Tinkerbell Washcloth

“I want the Tinkerbell towel Mommy.”

“Okay, we will find it. Do you really need it now while you eat?”

Screams for this stupid little Tinkerbell rag ensue. I tell her TInkerbell doesn’t want to get dirty. Tinkerbell wants to stay in the bathroom where she belongs. I petition for Tinkerbell’s right to stay food-encrusted free.

What the hell is wrong with me?, I think. It’s a damn towel. Tinkerbell isn’t a real person.She doesn’t think. She doesn’t exist, minus in drawings and television/movies. Why is my daughter turning shades of fucshia over a silly washcloth? Will she throw up this time? (No)

She is a good girl, my little bug, but sometimes I feel I am living with a Neanderthal. I suspect one day she will be clobbering me over the head with a wooden club, and asking me to go hunt for some food. It’s part of toddlerhood, and a totally understandable phase, but sometimes when she starts to develop horns and speaks in an evil tongue, I wonder if she isn’t possessed somewhat.

But then I feel better, because I know she didn’t inherit that from me. She most likely inherited that from my mother-in-law. I’m only responsible for the bossiness.

Lessons from my mother, part 1

My mom hasn’t been feeling well lately. I am not going to be pessimistic as I don’t have enough information to be pessimistic or worry unnecessarily, but I started to think about some of the things I have learned from my mother, both the frivolous and the important things.

Lesson One: Speak loudly, and carry a stainless steel army-issued spoon:

My mom liked to threaten us with this huge stainless-steel spoon. I remember getting smacked, but not with the spoon. It was more for decorative threat or role play. Not the kinky kind of role play, but the role play of “I will kick your ass you little piece of you-know-what” if you misbehave, except my mom always inserted the curse words. Mom was always forthright with people who she felt were threatening to her children. I remember the countless times when my mom, in jeans and sweatshirt, took her tall, stick legs over to my neighbors’ homes to remind them that if they didn’t stop teasing me, she would have her older daughters kick their pathetic male asses.

“Just wait til you go ta’ school, and the kids say girls kicked yaw ass. Leave my kid alone.”

She’d speak her mind, and slowly walk away, a cigarette dangling from her mouth and a romance novel in her right hand. A woman needed muscle and sweat if she was going to survive four girls.

Lesson Two: If it’s got Tires or Testicles, it’s gonna give you grief

That was a slogan found on a keychain I bought for my mother for her birthday when I was 12 years old. Yup, I knew already that men were trouble, and cars an expense and bitch to maintain because I had seen my parents milk and nurture the lives of the vehicles they had. Men? I know their deal because I grew up listening and watching while the older females around me complained or bemoaned the treatment or behavior of men.

My mom always seemed to be bickering with my dad, and so I knew that carrying a set of balls, literally, meant you were a totally different breed from the XX kingdom I was raised amongst. While I have a huge love for men and their mysterious, albeit usually simple ways, I still find them to be intriguing as if they’re another species.

Mom would gather at a table of her friends for a game of mahjong when I was just a wee kid still, and I’d hear the ladies gab away about their men problems while I smoked my pretzel rod cigarettes, and sat with my legs underneath me in an attempt to reach the height of the kitchen table.

I bought her that keychain as a token for her hardwork attempting to figure out my father and maintain a car properly. I felt that one day, I would understand the strains, stress, and hopefully, joys of love. Watching my mother as she dealt with my vertically-challenged dad in his Alfalfa “He-Man Woman Hater’s Club” t-shirt, I felt the battle between the sexes would be an endless war for life.

Lesson Three: Good Posture

Once I got boobies, my posture went to utter shit-ola. My mom constantly lectured me, “Shoulders up, back, and down! Come on!”

I heard her commands like a military sergeant, and reluctantly did the motions while sighing and hoping no one within five feet of us at the mall heard her. Now as an adult, I know good posture, a supportive bra (another lesson from Claire to be told soon), and chest presses would help out my ladies. Mom wasn’t kidding. Thanks to her, my boobs may look good for awhile. At 80? I don’t think so, but hopefully the guys in the old age home won’t mind since most of them will be senile and blind anyway.

More lessons from Claire to come soon…

I cherish the time we had together, as since my sisters were 6-10 years older than I was, I had more alone time with her than any of them. I fondly wish back to those days, and sometimes wish we could relive them. Thinking about some of those days makes me heartsick. Sharing a mom with three other people is always hard at times, and I will never forget the time together.

I am sure she would like to forget the numerous times I made her listen to gangsta rap, death metal, the Dead, terrible pop music, and other musical stages.

How she survived listening to King Diamond, one will never know!