{Originally published on Foolery.}

The ability to put a child down to sleep for the night is one of the most important skills one can attain as a parent or babysitter. It is also the most elusive one.

Let’s start with bathroom stuff. First up: go to the bathroom. No, not you, though with the amount of time this operation will take, you may want to consider it first.

Get the child to go potty. Plan to run water in the sink for the child to spur her imagination — at least enough water to wash a Suburban with. Don’t be at all surprised if child announces a secondary plan, for which more time and toilet paper will be necessary.

After the toilet is flushed, the child will attempt to escape, but you must INSIST that the child first wash her hands. This usually involves at least as much water as you ran to make her tinkle, and about a quarter of that will end up on the counter and floor.

Before the child can run away, grab her by the waist and say, “Time to brush your teeth!” as brightly yet firmly as you are able with a squirmy, uncooperative and toothbrush-hating child in your grasp. You must let go long enough to uncap the toothpaste. After you’ve experienced once or twice chasing your child through the house while forgetting you have uncapped toothpaste in hand, you’ll be smarter and have the toothbrush loaded and ready to go while she’s washing her hands. This works even better once she has become territorial about the toothpaste, insisting upon doing the squeezing herself. (Don’t sweat the mess; you have to mop up after the hand-washing anyway.)

I like to allow the child to brush her own teeth, emphasizing “Don’t swallow the toothpaste — spit it!” about every five seconds. Plan to be spat upon. It also helps to pick a funny little tune to la-la while you brush her teeth: a personal favorite is the theme music to the old Benny Hill show, Yakkety Sax. This will not be your child’s favorite, however.

{Originally published on the Busy Dad Blog.}

How do you define a parent? Of course, there’s the biological way, but if our celebrity counterparts have taught us anything this year, a forty pound DNA match and Bugaboo stroller a true parent does not make.
No, to be a real parent you need to get into character a tad more (ironic isn’t it?). How do you know when you’ve successfully crossed over and truly embraced the biggest role of your life?

Here’s my list:

1. You don’t know what you’d do if they never invented the phrase “we’ll see.” Who is the genius who thought of this? He or she should get a posthumous Nobel Peace Prize. It’s the platinum card of our parental phrase arsenal. Why? Because it allows you to defer the “no” (and the whining) to a later, more convenient time or locale. When a request is made, the answer “we’ll see” is a win-win. The child holds onto the hope that this request may still be granted, and therefore withholds all protest. The parent buys extra time, during which the child may forget about the request altogether, or you’ve made it home, where whining can be sufficiently contained.
2. Your currency reference shifts to Bionicle (or other) toys – In my younger days, the CD served as my go-to currency reference. “What? Sixty bucks for this shirt? I could buy like four CDs with that!” As I got older, it became rounds – “Aw man! I could have bought at least five rounds with that. I’m never playing blackjack again!” Now that my transformation is complete, my money bitching resembles something more like this: “What? $3.30 a gallon? That’s like 1/3 of a Bionicle!”

Originally published on Three Bright Stars.

I go to the gym at least twice, and usually three times a week now. It’s enough of a habit that I feel okay telling you about it. I’m not about to quit any time soon, even though some of my gym co-members are odd and frightening. I have to tell you about one in particular.

To the casual eye, she is young, thin and blond. She has an unmatched dedication to the gym, and is always there when you arrive, and still there when you peel yourself out of the leg press and crawl off to the showers. She hangs on to the machines with cruel strength, works them in strange positions, and glistens from head to foot. Her concentration is magnificent. She must be, you expect, a specimen of physical perfection.

In time, you become accustomed to her presence. She only takes the elliptical machine marked “C.” She is always there, reliable. You call her Elliptical-C. You immerse yourself in your own workout, switch your iPod from Joss Whedon’s latest musical hit to Black Sabbath’s Sabotage, feel a surge of energy, and move past the 20 minute mark on your own elliptical machine.

Only when you achieve a certain level of physical exertion and mental focus do you begin to glimpse the truth of Elliptical-C. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice an anomaly. There is a strange convergence of details in your mind. They form up gently, but clearly, in your focused mental state.

Elliptical-C is not human. She is the Elliptical-C creature. She uses the elliptical C machine to send communications to her fellow creatures, who are trans-dimensional space creatures of immense age, intelligence, power, and malevolence.

{Originally published on Baby On Bored}

Let me just start by saying if you have an ultrasound picture of your baby stuck on your refrigerator with a magnet, you’re not someone I want to be friends with. And if you have someone else’s baby’s ultrasound picture up there, well, that’s just a cry for help. I’m never sure what I’m supposed to say when confronted with this. “Wow, that’s one sexy fetus?” I got pictures from my ultrasound too but I didn’t wallpaper the house with them. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to see a million pictures of your baby after it’s born? Now we have to see what it kinda sorta looks like before it even comes out?

I knew early on in my pregnancy I wasn’t like other pregnant women. When my husband and I went for my ultrasound, (yes, he came with me: there was like a 95% percent chance he was the dad we figured he should tag along), the first thing the nurse asked me was if I’d brought a video tape. A video tape? I must’ve looked confused because she explained to me “most people want to take home a souvenir of this magic event.” I nodded and said “Yeah, I definitely won’t need that. I’m barely on board with the whole pregnancy thing as it is.” To which the nurse replied that she was reporting me to social services. Okay, she didn’t say it out loud but I could see it in her stare.

Clearly there are many many people who do opt for the ultrasound video. If you are one of them, just know - I don’t want to see it. Oh, and that goes double for your skydiving video. About the only way I’d ever be interested in watching footage of your big jump …is if you don’t make it. It’s like the world is chock full of people with no clue of their capacity to be irritating. And pregnancy just magnifies it.

Pregnant women seem to take one of two paths when they get knocked up, although — being annoying– they’d probably refer to it as a “journey.”

First there’s the woman who loooooves being pregnant. You know her. She’s so excited to join the Cult of Mommy that she’s taking pregnancy yoga before the before the stick turns blue. Anyone who revels this much in being pregnant is suspect in my book…

{Originally published on I am Bossy}

After fourteen seasons and twenty-two Emmys, the popular medical drama E.R. is planning its final episodes which will air next February, prompting Bossy to say, “Wait—E.R. is still on?”

It’s been many years since Bossy watched this show—but in case you’ve never seen it, here is everything you need to know:

{Originally published on The Bloggess}

Yesterday someone asked me how to deal with trolls and haters. I have no damn idea.

Trolls are just like you and me. Only shittier. Or more honest. Or likely to murder gypsies. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know the motivation of everyone reading your blog but what I do know is that in real life you come across assholes and weirdos and someone out there is selling computers to these people. People like the guy who left me this comment:

“I was right, you aren’t that hot. Damn.”

I didn’t mind that some stranger thought I was un-hot but what was disconcerting was that in the photo the guy was referring to? I was seven. And totally hot.

Originally published on Deb on the Rocks

I have a theory that humans take a fancy to the things that keep them in a perpetual state of foreplay. Not in a perpetual state of pre-orgasm, because as we have established, constantly living on the edge of a volcano could be a bit too much. But foreplay, a continuous state of desire, arousal, exploration and craving, that is the human preference.

Baseball, politics, film, cooking, eating, organizing, Viggo Mortensen,
aquariums, god only know what you are into. I’m betting that if we
could start in the part of your brain where your love of whatever it is
you love resides and follow the sparking and frayed wiring past where
it crosses the blue synapses and the firing yellow connections and that
knot of red wire, we would find a glowing hotspot in your neural
network that’s throbbing and straining to break through a zipper.

That said, I love the roller derby.

(click title for more)

Originally published on Deb on the Rocks

Oh my god. What is this? OH MY GOD?!?!? Who is taking pills? I will not survive these high school years, I won’t.

What
is it, speed, painkiller, what? I’ve never taken anything that looks
like that. What am I going to do? I need to sell this house and
homeschool these kids in Idaho until they are 21.

Crap. I need
to go to the pill I.D. website and describe this thing and find out
what it is. Then I’m going to track down the dealer and go freaky
bloody Kill Bill ninja MILF-on-fire lioness on his pathetic dealing
skanky existence. Who would sell pills to kids?!?! I’m going to pluck
out his eyeballs.

(click title for more)

Originally posted on The Busy Dad Blog.

Editor’s Note: BusyDad is a master of parody. If you’ve never heard of or seen the show Iron Chef, this brief explanation will give you some background on what follows.

If memory serves me correctly… my newest
Iron Chef began his tutelage under legendary Iron Chef BusyDad in the summer of
2005. His journey into the culinary world began in BusyDad’s kitchen, honing
his creativity by finding ways to turn every kitchen utensil into a gun or a
spaceship.

As his apprenticeship progressed, this would-be chef cut his teeth by
helping his master cut green beans. With a butter knife. Perhaps his actual
teeth may have been a more effective tool for this, but an important lesson was
learned. Dull tools sharpen the mind.

And sharpen his mind he did, along with his craft. Known throughout culinary
circles as the catalyst for the “kid gourmet” movement, Fury has
dazzled critics and playgroups alike with his “rad” interpretation of
traditional fare.

Today, I welcome him to Kitchen Stadium as my newest Iron Chef. As
this is his debut battle, and seeing as he can’t reach the faucet, I have
decided to bring his master, Iron Chef BusyDad out of retirement today for a
very special tag team edition of IRON CHEF.

AND NOW, TODAY’S THEME INGREDIENT… FLOUR!
Allez Cuisine!

* * * *

Fukui: Oh! the Chairman has thrown us a curveball today by picking
flour as the theme ingredient! So basic, yet complex! Yes, yes. Let’s go to our
commentator on the floor, Ohta for some play-by-play.

(click title for more)

Originally published on Fuse Moms

The common denominator of first-time pregnant women is not distended
bellies or compromised bladders. It is not the fear of another human
being exiting their body. Instead, they pursue one goal – preparation.
Whether it’s stocking up on diapers or painting a nursery in a soothing
color, these gals feel the need to prepare for their new arrival. For
me, it was childbirth classes…

Round One

We are at the hospital’s four-session course about childbirth. The room is chock full of rotund ladies and their husbands.

The
nurse who is teaching the class has grown children. I’d prefer to talk
to someone who carries recent scars… I mean memories… of the joy of
childbirth. To chafe me even more, she is wearing a waist-cinching
belt. I don’t think anyone in this room can imagine fitting in a belt
again. This woman is cruel. I want to run her over with my car.

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