I’m away this week on a family vacation in CA/AZ, so I asked a few friends to send me guest posts. Some are new and some are golden oldies, but all are as fantastic as the women who wrote them.

Today, Ann from Ann’s Rants submits a formal letter of complaint. Ann is one of the funniest bloggers I read and I think she’s writing a book… Well if she isn’t, she should. In the meantime, we’ll just have to settle for her fabulous blog.

Welcome Ann!

*Ann Imig’s piece “Dear Human Resources Representative” was featured on humorpress.com. in 2009. She wants you to know that the situation has NOT improved significantly.

Dear H.R Guy,

I need to schedule another HR consultation. The situation grows increasingly dire with each passing day.

I’m referring to inappropriate language, touching, and even nudity. I’m referring to blatant insubordination, and untenable working conditions. As per your earlier instructions, I began documenting the offenses. Yet, as quickly as I administer warnings, new more egregious offenses occur. Our new found springtime weather—allowing for open doors and windows—only exacerbates the humiliation I endure.

Take a look at this incriminating evidence:

INDECENT EXPOSURE: 9am Two-Year-Old disrobed completely, diaper-flung in my general direction, and ran out the back door to “run da-round da-naked.”

SUGGESTIVE COMMENTS: Naked Two-Year-Old flaunts his miniature body, running around the backyard with crayon in hand, “fixing” things and screaming to our neighbors “I like to screw! I screwing, Mommy!”

INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING: Bath-time toes-in-butts situation completely out of control, as is inappropriate peeing-in-bath behavior demonstrated by both Two and Five-Year-Old. My “ucky pee pee water” warnings go completely unheeded, and may in fact have the undesired effect of increasing washcloth-in-mouth ingestions levels.

Frequent random poking and grabbing of “Mommy’s Butt” (and butt refers to a highly generalized area) should be noted.

VANDALISM is rampant around the toilet area as a result of pee tagging. When confronted, Five-Year-Old offers a weak explanation that “this happens if you close your eyes while peeing” And Two-Year-Old’s defense? He wants to stand and deliver, without handling the goods. So to speak.

Before I go on, I should share that your web seminar “Poop Talk: When Defecation Is The Conversation” proved effective. I highly recommend it to your other clients. We established dinnertime as a “Poop-Talk-Free (PTF) Zone,” and that five minutes of our day remains blissfully PTF! I, however, still suffer symptoms of PTD (Poop Talk Disorder) as is apparent when I unselfconsciously discuss poop consistency in mixed company, and occasionally yell ‘POOPYHEAD’ in a fit of rage. I’m working on it.

INSUBOORDINATION: As much as 1-2-3 Magic (also known as One-Two-Fwee Magic) seems perceptibly magical, when taunted with counting from my child-subordinates it creates a hostile environment. Or makes me laugh, rendering the whole process completely ineffective.

HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT: Lastly, Two-Year-Old now employs a torture tactic long-banned under the Geneva Convention—REPETITIVE RAFFI. “Willabee Wallabee Woo” is directly responsible for a substantial increase in insurance copays, as I now require weekly therapy. When coupled with nap-avoidance, REPETITIVE RAFFI creates a cruel and unusual workplace.

Please advise before your earliest convenience. And bring back-up.

Victimized,

Ann

Thanks Ann! I feel much better knowing my children are not alone in their ongoing struggle with public exposure disorder. Currently looking into starting a parent support group – I’ll add you to my distribution list.

I’m away this week on a family vacation in CA/AZ, so I asked a few friends to send me guest posts. Some are new and some are golden oldies, but all are as fantastic as the women who wrote them.

Today, Heidi from Fancy Feet has honored us with a new post that utterly charmed me as pretty much everything she writes does. She’s currently working on a book about her experience as a burn victim/amputee and has been posting the most incredible pieces of the story on Fancy Feet. Heidi is one of those rare individuals who infuses everything she touches with hope, humor and courage – and I’ll be damned if I don’t get to meet her in person one day!

Welcome Heidi!

I was at my four year old son’s preschool graduation a few days ago. Little girls and boys in costumes showed off their dramatic skills they had been learning for the month of June, projecting their voices and gesturing with their hands, playing their assigned roles. Later the preschoolers walked single file in their caps with tassels to return to the stage to sing us a few songs. While they made their way to their spots a teacher read out what each child wanted to be when they grew up. Parents and grandparents that made up most of the audience laughed and clapped as potential firefighters, teachers, and doctors, who won by a landslide, filed onto the stage. There were a few lone career choices out there. My son, Benjamin, was the only one that wanted to be a spy when he grew up, but I think my favorite was one four year old boy who very much wanted to be a Person when he arrived at adulthood.

It was cute and refreshing all at once. How does one grow up to be a Person? I know it doesn’t pay much or, okay, at all. It’s no doctor. But what makes up a successful Person? I guess it hinges on how we define success.

We are survivors, sculptors, and navigators in our lives. We create, explore, define what matters to us, fail and rise again. We’re storytellers. We share, eager to talk, to make others a part of our stories, our lives. We listen. We impact our families, our communities as they in turn impact us. We do this daily. We do it over and over again. We do it without thinking we’re so used to living life this way and, yet, it’s no small feat.

We’re often ‘woken up’ to what’s going wrong with our lives. On almost every talk show, in thousands of magazine articles we’re blasted with how lacking we are. But, lately, I’ve been asking what’s going right, what is good? I’ve heard it said life is about the journey, not the destination. I have wanted so badly at times for that statement to be false. To scream, “It is about the destination! Screw the journey.” But, as I’ve discovered repeatedly, life is more about the journey with some destination on the side. The pitfalls we learn to avoid and victories we claim, the small sighing moments where we come to a conclusion or reach a part of ourselves that we thought we lost long ago. The storytelling. These moments, both small and monumental make up our lives. And they’re significant. They matter. I don’t always know where I’m going but I have learned where I’ve come from and I know who I am here and now. That has to count for something. Something big.

We have choices at our feet and years of experience on our side. We get to be travelers in our lives. Successful travelers. Persons who leave their mark reaching multiple destinations along our way. Some journeys are great and winding and long. Others are shorter and steeper. And we keep moving, we keep going. Because we can. Because of the hope of what may be.

Thanks Heidi! I love this image of us all being travelers in life…let’s check our itineraries so we can meet up along the way and compare passports.

I’m away this week on a family vacation in CA/AZ, so I asked a few friends to send me guest posts. Some are new and some are golden oldies, but all are as fantastic as the women who wrote them.

Today, Jill from Scary Mommy tells us about her love/hate relationship with birthday parties (you may remember this one from last year). Jill isn’t afraid to show her scary side when it comes to motherhood, and she does it with a rare combination of grace and humor.

Welcome Jill!


You should know that I love birthdays. Truly. I love the never-ending countdown until the big day. I love to spoil my children rotten, waking them up with pancakes and balloons and making them feel like it’s the best day of the year. I love buying them gifts, wrapping them and hiding them, eagerly anticipating their reactions. It’s so much fun. Having said that, I’m not a big fan of birthday parties. As a host I find them draining, expensive and stressful. As a guest they rank pretty low on my list of what I’d like to be doing on a Saturday afternoon, slightly above a trip to the pediatrician and several notches below spending a rainy day at home.

For Lily’s third birthday, I handmade every stupid invitation from scratch, slaving over them for weeks. I cut, I printed, I drew, I glued, I tied. It was work. And they were good. A few days later she found a cheap Cinderella fill-in-the-blank in her cubby and asked why she didn’t get to have the beautiful princess invitation too? It was so much nicer that what she had. Lovely. Her most recent party was a joint effort during which I learned that I am way to much of a control freak to ever plan a party with anyone again. Ever.

When one of the kids get invited to a party, it’s rubbed mercilessly in the others face for weeks. Once the big day comes, the cheap trinkets the attendee brings home are suddenly the most desirable toys in the house. The fights over them can last for days. Balloons inevitably end up in the ceiling fan and the sugar crashes far outweigh the high that preceded them.

And what about the blowing out of the candles? I think this is the oddest of traditions. When else is it considered acceptable for a kids to spit all over communal food? After I’ve survived the pure chaos of a party, your kid needs to spit all over the cake that mine is about to consume? And then take another deep gasp and do it again? And again? How difficult is it to blow out five candles in one breath? And this is after the icing has inevitably been taste tested by a slew of grimy pre-school fingers. Yuck.

Am I the the only one gagging over spit on cake, or do I have some company here? Or have I just forever ruined birthdays for the rest of you?

Thanks for dropping by Jill…and for ruining birthday cake for me. You’re the best!