Tag Archives: World’s Best Mom

Continuing to Cultivate Genius

27 Replies

The other week I posted some pictures of my son, Oliver’s invention: a slide made from the playroom coffee table placed at an angle, along with a large stuffed animal “sled.” Simple. Safe (hey – no one got hurt!). Brilliant.

And now my younger son, George has astounded me with yet ANOTHER new invention made from household items.

[In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that he probably got this idea from seeing me dislodge a bead from a straw (yes – most of my daily accomplishments now run along those lines…) But regardless, his entrepreneurial spirit can’t be denied.]


So tell me – what would you make with a small, blue orange juice cap and a vacuum cleaner attachment?


An awesome blow gun of course!

AND an extra long one:



Here it is in action:




Even I had to try it out:

I know – I’m pretty gorgeous right? Sadly, I’ve never been one of those people who comes back from the gym glowing… And seriously – it couldn’t have occurred to me to splash on a little makeup before taking those pictures?


Wait – why do you suddenly bring up Botox? Back to the invention…

As usual, my pictures just don’t do justice to the subject. So I took a video:

OUCH! That hurt. But don’t blame the invention – no injuries were sustained during actual blow gun activity. (And how about that dirty wall? Yikes! Time to do some cleaning…)

Hours of fun! Can’t wait to see what they come up with next. Eleanor doesn’t show much interest in this area, but you never know what she might do with some glitter and a few My Little Ponies. Stay tuned…

Rookie Mistakes, Crazy Talk and Being For-dick-a-less

26 Replies

Okay. So I’ve been a mom for over four years now. Pushing five. And I’m pushing forty myself. I babysat my ass off when I was a teenager (and much later into my twenties than is considered normal). And I actually remember quite a lot about about being a kid myself.

Yet – none of that seems to matter. I still make rookies mistakes, I hear myself spouting bizarre statements with earnest sincerity, and on occassion, I act like a complete tool. All regarding my children of course (shut up Chris).




I’ve had some real winners lately, so I thought I’d post a random sampling today.

First the rookie mistakes. All of that experience with small children under my belt, and I still:

Leave a full and OPEN bottle of bubble bath sitting next to the tub while I duck out to grab the shampoo.


Buy bath markers (Why do I keep doing this? It’s like I have amnesia every time I browse the bath aisle at Target, “OH bath markers – that looks like fun!” sigh)

Leave the house without diapers even though my three year old twins are only 50% potty trained.

Leave an open jar of peanut butter on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

Assume that if I don’t hear a peep from the kids for a long period of time they are playing nicely, and enjoy the little break from the chaos (because we all know what I usually find when I go looking for them…)


Leave an open jar of Vaseline on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

Leave an uncapped tube of toothpaste sitting on the counter while I run downstairs to switch the laundry.

(I also have amnesia about the kids getting into everything that should be far out of their reach. And I do a lot of laundry.)

Then there are the crazy sounding things I say without a hint of irony:

Hmmm. That’s strange…I can only think of one recent one. Maybe it’s like that amnesia thing above and I’m just saying the same crazy thing over and over without realizing that I’ve said it before. Anyway – here it is:

We NEVER pee on people.

Hold on…I just remembered a couple more:

[When one of them wanted to help me bake cookies] “Okay – you can help…but you have to wear underwear. It’s like – my only cooking rule.“

[George loves to play in our sliding door closets] “Come on George! It’s time to go. No more playing in the closet – we have to leave. No – I’m serious – it’s time. Get out of the closet now. I said now. I said come OUT of the closet George!“

As for acting like a complete lunatic…I think my personal best was a debacle at nap time last month.

First, I should explain that George and Eleanor still need their nap. They are complete monsters (I mean more than usual) when they skip it.


But they went through a phase of refusing to settle down and sleep. During that time, they would just play in their room.

This would have been fine if they played quietly and acheived some modicum of “rest.” But they didn’t. Whatever I heard going on one level up sounded like a scene from Fight Club. They literally shook the house with their…whatever it was they did.

And the worst part was that what they were doing seemed to involve taking off all of their clothes, including their diapers. And having accidents. On the floor. Like puppies.

I seriously thought I was going to lose my mind, and eventually, I kind of did.

I decided it was time to lay down the law – no more Mr. Nice Guy – the madness would end.

So you can imagine how well that went.

First, I told them very calmly and quietly that if I heard one more sound from their room, they would be in A LOT of trouble. And they were to keep their diapers ON. If I came upstairs to find naked children and wet patches on the carpet, there would be spankings (a punishment I rarely enforce but often threaten).

They just laughed at me.

I closed the door, thinking “yeah – we’ll see who is laughing the next time I’m up here…“

Minutes later when I felt the first sonic boom, I was up the stairs and in their room, ready to show them who was boss. I yelled and fumed and made my scariest face possible. All while re-attaching diaper tabs.

I then gave them “one more chance” (because I’m a soft touch) and promised spankings the next time I had to come upstairs.

They just laughed at me.

And of course it was less than 10 minutes before I returned for a little demonstration of tough love. THIS time it was no more Mr. Nice Guy.

Which ended up being true when I saw how they had ripped apart the room. Their crib mattresses (on the floor as we still need to get them toddler beds) were over turned and sheets and blankets lay in heaps. The CD I had put on was skipping and the lamp was on its side. And of course, they were naked.

They saw my fury – and they just laughed at me.

I very calmly and quietly told them that it was time for spankings. And each of them got one very hard smack on their bare bottom. Unheard of from their previously gentle and soft spoken mother.

There was howling and unintelligible toddler cursing as I re-diapered and dressed them. But by the time I made my way back out of the room, I heard something that made my blood boil.

They were laughing at me.

Knowing that you should never approach a child in such a rage, I closed the door and waited until I felt that rolling boil return to a slow simmer. Then finally when I thought it was at a safe room temperature, I returned to the devil spawn.

I found them gleefully trying to rip curtains off the window. And that’s when the whoop ass can was opened. I didn’t spank anyone, but I raged and bellowed and pulled every single object out of that room.

First removed the entire curtain rod and tossed it into the the hall. Then I repeated the process with every book and toy I could find. Then came the sheets and blankets. Then the mattresses.

The twins watched in silent astonishment as I dragged the table, lamp and CD player out as well, and then finally pulled a clock off the wall.

I left the room completely bare (not too difficult of a feat since it’s a tiny room without space for a dresser – but still).

Then I walked out, leaving them in their diapers to either sleep or entertain themselves for the next hour.

This time they did not laugh.

In fact, they cried for a long time, and it took all of my willpower not to go to them. Instead I waited until they fell silent. Then I crept back in and put blankets over their sleeping potato bug bodies.

And I felt like a terrible mother.

Later when they woke up with no sign of resentment or remorse, they watched as I put their room back to rights. They commented on the various items and showed me where to put them.

When I put the clock back up on the wall, George said, “mommy throw the clock?“

And I had to kind of laugh at myself. I mean – what purpose did that serve anyway? I punished them by denying them their clock? Ridiculous.

So I said as much: “Yes George, that was ridiculous. I won’t take down the clock again.“

George repeated “For-dick-a-less?” And a new Hood family word was born. Because they often refer to things as being for-dick-a-less.

“But what about the diapers?” you ask. “Do they still take them off at nap time?“

No – they don’t. But it took one more outrageous act to stop that practice:


For-dick-a-less…but effective.

Like Somebody’s Mother

Leave a reply

This year, I realized that I haven’t worn a one piece bathing suit since I was twelve years old. And it’s not because I’ve been living the good life, giving the cast of The Hills a run for their money in the bikini department.

It’s simply because no matter what dress size I’m wearing, I always look a little less bad in a two piece. I’m short waisted and I tend to carry any extra weight in my hips and thighs. And I’ve found that covering my stomach just draws more attention to that.
Even post pregnancies – I’d rather show a little stretched out abdominal skin than wear a bathing suit that doubles for a neon arrow pointing to my cellulite. And even more importantly, I kind of don’t care anymore.

Back when I was a teenager and cellulite was just a twinkle in my genetic code’s eye, I really did care. I wore a bathing suit for no other reason than to get tan, and would only remove my shorts while in a horizontal position where gravity was much kinder. If I wanted a magazine that wasn’t within arm’s reach, I would get dressed before getting up to retrieve it.

Okay – that last one is a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the idea. I was a perfectly normal looking, exasperatingly self conscious and self absorbed young girl. And that’s when I chose the lesser of the two bathing suit evils.

Only once in in the past 20+ years have I even considered a one-piece. It was a summer in my early twenties and I was about to stay with my eight year old cousin for a week while his parents were in Europe. Knowing that I would be taking him to the pool every day and possibly be expected to engage in activities such as diving for quarters and Marco Polo, I felt it was a good time to put practicality before vanity.

One of my roommates had just gotten a super cute, albeit pricey one piece from J. Crew. It was very simple and black, and I thought it would probably be the most flattering option that I would find for myself. So I asked her if I could try it on.

Nothing prepared me for the realization that hit when I did. I stared in horror at how the fabric accentuated the curve of my hips and the roundness of my bottom. How I seemed to grow extra body parts below my waist line – ones that moved as I twisted around to get a better look at my backside. The effect fired childhood memories of my then hip level views of the women surrounding me at the pool and the beach. And I gasped, “oh my god! I look like sombody’s mother!“

Because that is the exact image that came to mind: one of those moms getting wax paper wrapped sandwiches out of coolers and donning big straw hats to protect already lined skin from further damage. One of those frugal home stewards who didn’t waste money on expensive bathing suits, and instead just picked something serviceable up from a bargain bin.

So that was that for the one piece idea. Being practical was one thing, but being mistaken for my eight year old cousin’s mother was another.

Now I am so entrenched in motherhood that the memory of that reaction perplexes me. What was so awful about looking like a mother? I mean, I technically WAS old enough to be a mom… But I felt so young then – and “mother” conjured up images of graying hair and sensible shoes and long afternoons of discount shopping. No matter how little sense it makes to me now, it sounded old to me then.

Being in my late thirties, I’d like to say that I could now care less about how I look in my bathing suit. But that wouldn’t be true. In my heart, I’m still lamenting my not-so-slender legs and kicking myself for an under appreciation of that teenage body when I had it. But…

I do care less. I’m too busy running after my small children, and I’m in pretty decent shape as far as the mommies around the baby pool go. And the truth is, no one else really cares.

And THAT has been the body image epiphany of my life. No one cares. I can look great for me or not so great for me, and all anyone else is really going to notice is that I’m a mom.

I’m either carrying a child on my hip or yelling at them to stop splashing. I’m digging through my bag for Goldfish crackers and wrapping shivering little bodies in towels. I’m taking pictures and pushing strollers and searching for lost Thomas trains.

I look like somebody’s mother. And it has set me free – free from that ridiculous egomaniacal fear of how my body is perceived.

I’m serious. At the beach last summer, I actually ran a good distance through a crowd to reach my four year old son who was wandering off into the surf. This from the girl who once said, “jog in my bathing suit? I don’t even stand in my bathing suit.“

Now I bend over to help build sand castles and ignore the inevitable stomach rolls that ensue. In front of cute life guards no less!

Because guess what? They don’t care! I’m now old enough to be their mother. A thought that makes me almost giddy with relief.

So when I realized that our family membership to the YMCA with access to an indoor pool would probably call for the purchase of a new one piece bathing suit, it didn’t give me a moment’s pause. Sure – I still think I look better in the bikini, but I also think it would be a bit out of place in a lap pool.

The result was a major milestone in my long journey to becoming a mature adult with well placed priorities. Putting aside old swimwear prejudices, I happily acknowledged the fact that I really do look “like somebody’s mother.”

I finally bought a one piece bathing suit.

And I bought it at Costco.

Yes Sir, That’s My Baby…

22 Replies







I’m so in love with my tree this year… And if you think that that sounds ridiculous, then you never read this.

Anyway – my photography skills are mediocre at best but I did try. Seriously, I think I took more pictures than a new mother does the day she brings her baby home from the hospital.

Since my actual children refuse to be still (let alone wear clothes) for a nice holiday photo, I might have to consider using one of the images above for our holiday card. I’m just kidding of course – like I ever get around to sending out cards…

I had some even better shots, but those damn human children keep leaning into the branches, knocking bows askew and breaking ornaments.

Let go of the apple and back away from the tree. Slowly!

Don’t give me that look. And for god’s sake do something about your hair!

But I must say – if Oliver was my only child, this would definitely be our (theoretical) holiday card:


Okay – so maybe the tree isn’t really my favorite baby… MAYBE!

Monday Muse: Something Musical Even!

7 Replies

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these… So I thought I’d actually go with Robin’s original inspiration and cover something involving music.

I’m currently caught between two muses: really awful kids’ TV music and the grownup CDs I’ve been listening to.

So first the embarrassing one. This would be The Fresh Beat Band. I have only caught one or two of the shows on Nick Jr. (it must be on when we’re not watching – which would be sometime between 8 p.m. and 7 a.m.) but their music videos play after almost every other show that airs. It’s bad, bad, kiddie crack. And I’ve taken one too many hits…

Should I be worried that I’m only half faking it when I dance with my children to this?

Yeah – that’s what I thought. So I’m going to wash my ears out with the antithesis of happy, snappy kid music.

I’m going with Pink. And she will have to be my savior since the disco and cheesy 90’s dance music that’s been making all too frequent appearances in our CD player when I’m left to my own devices will only get me half way there.

So Pink it is. I think I’ll start with this (said in my best “help me Obi One Kenobi – you’re my only hope” voice):

Sorry it’s not much of a visual – but I can’t embed the actual video. If you need something a bit flashier, go HERE. Either way, that oughta do it….

Don’t forget to grab a button and add your Monday’s Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

1581884212_57276dd550_o

It’s Just Like "Mr. Mom" Except I’m a Girl…

Leave a reply


When I became a stay at home mom several months ago, I expected that it would be a hard transition. I mean, I already knew my children. And they have never been an easy bunch.

Now you may be thinking that all kids are challenging and that it’s hard for all moms, and I would say that you are 100% right. But right now, I could kind of care less about any of that. I’m far too busy jumping through my own fire hoops and running my own pee pee scented gauntlet.

My twins just turned three, and I think that’s explanation enough for their contribution the daily chaos. And my oldest isn’t just a developmentally delayed four year old – he’s a HUGE developmentally delayed four year old with sensory issues typically attributed to a toddler. So I spend most of my days chasing a naked three year old with a pair of underwear under one of my arms and another naked three year old under the other, while screaming at a toddler in a six year old’s body to “GET OFF the table, and for god’s sake what happened to your clothes?“

The question that dominates my every second when those monsters are awake: “Why is everyone always naked?“

I do put clothes on them every morning…

Anyway – you would think that after a few months, I would have created some kind of order and structure in our house. I mean, wasn’t that the point of me staying home? To eradicate the misunderstanding that home is a vacation from school and daycare?

But I haven’t.

You often hear the term “insane asylum” thrown around regarding homes with small children. And while it is hyperbole used for effect, I do think it’s kind of accurate.

When my oldest son Oliver became a toddler (a “normal” toddler who had not yet manifested any noticeable delays), I would say that it felt like we were living with a crazy person. He would fly into a rage over the smallest of things. He could go from angelic to demonic at the drop of a hat. And he was a complete egomaniac.

He was a toddler: a crazy person in a tiny cherub’s body.

So none of this anarchy is unexpected. When you give birth to three babies in 18 months, you have to know that you will have three times the amount of id dictating your home life. Your own fertility has committed you to extended stay over the cuckoo’s nest.

And of course I wouldn’t change a thing. I count my blessings every second of the day. But at the end of the day, I do realize that I’m the grownup here and I’m kind of failing.

I’m that mom you see in Target who crammed all three of her children into a shopping cart and is using the under carriage (is that what it’s called?) for the purchases. I’m that mom who regularly hands her kids “forbidden” treats as a means of keeping them quiet, and not as a last resort. I’m that mom who takes one potty user in training upstairs to the bathroom only to find upon her return that an entire room has been dismantled.

I have so little control over my children…it’s almost like I’m a dad sometimes.

And I’m not talking about primary care giver dads. I’m talking about the ones who come home late in the evening after work and really only spend two full days with their kids during the week. The ones who spend most of their daily life on the outside with (for all intents and purposes) sane working professionals who are able to manage every biological function without the help of others. The ones who become completely overwhelmed by the Lilliputian hoard raiding the house and can only hope that the person who “usually handles this,” will arrive in time to help.

But I’m the person who usually handles things. Which is a scary thought indeed.

Just the other day, I left – you guessed it – Target with a cart full of children and no purchases. I made it all the way out to the car before I realized that I had left all of my bags sitting next to the register. So after five minutes of putting shoes back on feet and trying to unwedge my younger son from under the driver’s seat, I finally re-loaded the cart with kids and returned to retrieve my abandoned bags. The cashier laughed as I blindly grabbed for them, apologizing for being so scatterbrained.

She didn’t know the half of it. When we arrived home, I discovered an additional bag that did not belong to me. It was full of cosmetics, and I immediately pictured a woman frantically rifling through her bags in a desperate search for her new false eyelashes. And I couldn’t even rush back to return the bag since Oliver’s school bus was scheduled to arrive in 30 minutes.

I’m a bit of a disaster.

I am also incredibly patient and kind, and I keep emotion out of any punishment that is required. If I yell it is just to be heard over the clamor or to project a very clear impression that I am, in fact pissed. I will always give a hug to a child in distress, even if I really want to stuff them into a suitcase and check them in for the next flight to Peru. I care more about their feelings than I care about my own.

I have no desire to escape. I just want things to be better. I want me to be better.

And I don’t think there is any chance of that happening anytime soon.

Put me in my husband’s body, and I’m Mr. Mom. And I don’t see a Rocky soundtrack montage of me getting my act together anywhere on the horizon.

Maybe I’ll improve over time. Or maybe they will. Unfortunately, there is no crash course in full time parenting.

Every day offers a new lesson. The most recent one being that the next time I use Vaseline on dry skin, I will remember to immediately put it back up on a shelf. Because trying to get Vaseline out of a child’s hair is about as enjoyable as rebuilding a product display at Target while the Dream Team who knocked it over watches from their seats in the shopping cart, eating cookies and guffawing over how that silly woman ever thought she stood a chance…

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?*

19 Replies

As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:


My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:


If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:


Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling.


But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

EPILOGUE: It is now a year after I originally wrote that. And yes – the ceiling has of yet to be repainted. It’s like I don’t even see this stuff anymore…

*ANOTHER re post – but I do kind of love this one since it really gets to the heart of what it’s like to live in my house… And I’ve updated the pictures since back then I didn’t realize that you could select larger images OR add more than five per post (my ingenue period). Happy Halloween week!

When being a mother means choosing between a pee-soaked shirt or a possible call from child protective services.

17 Replies

Scary Mommy has thrown down the gauntlet and asked for other scary mommy stories. As in “mirror mirror on the wall, who is the scariest mommy of them all?”

Okay – so I don’t think she’s an evil queen or anything (or is she…), but she claims to be the kind of mom who is “scary.” This refers to “the anti-perfect mommy. The mommy who despite adoring her children to death, will admit to wanting to wring their little necks. The mommy who forgets to shower until bedtime. The mommy who drives through Chic-Fil-A to get fruit for lunch rather than deal with schlepping the kids to the grocery store.”

My first thought is, “you can get them to eat fruit? I’m intimidated.“

It would be hard to come up with a comprehensive list of what makes me scary. You can just click on any one of several labels on my sidebar (Oliver, George, Eleanor, Little Ones, World’s Best Mom…) I’ve covered everything from refusing to buy my kids toys that would drive me crazy (for their own good), to bribing them with candy (for my own good), to refusing to let them help decorate the Christmas tree (because a perfect tree makes Christmas even more special for children), to comparing my daughter to Mr. T (because I can), to letting them run around town looking like the cast of Oliver (they’re own fault for outgrowing perfectly good clothes)… I even wrote a list of reasons why I’m a scary mommy (although I called myself “that mom”). Twice. So as far as scary mommy status goes, I think I’ve really covered my bases here at The Big Piece of Cake.

But Scary Mommy isn’t asking for links. She’s asking for something new. And I do happen to have a rather cringe-worthy story that hasn’t been told as of yet…

A year ago, we visited my Aunt and Uncle in New Jersey. They live on a block of lovely little houses that happens to be positioned behind a large public high school. And directly across the street from their front door is a driveway that leads to all of the playing fields and tennis courts. A perfect venue for entertaining your three year old while your two year old twins take an afternoon nap.

So on that Indian Summer Saturday afternoon I walked hand in hand with Oliver down the driveway and into a wonderland of bleachers and dusty pitcher’s mounds. While it was already quite a distance for Oliver’s little legs, he heard the siren call of tennis balls hitting clay. So we went even further into the school grounds to watch the tennis lessons and recreational matches going on.

At this point, any games that may have taken place had ended so aside from the tennis courts, the fields were fairly deserted. We (he) could run up and down pathways between the chain link and exclaim over the very exciting ball smacking going on everywhere we looked.

After an hour of tennis, we took an abandoned ball over to the bleachers and played a complicated game of catch that involved jumping down, climbing up and throwing the ball far out of the catcher’s range just to watch them (me) run.

Needless to say, after an hour and change, we were exhausted. It was time to go.

About halfway across the playing fields, Oliver’s stubby little legs gave out and I was given the option of sitting down on the ground with him or picking him up and carrying him. Since I was used to hauling that big boy around on a regular basis (mainly to make him submit to my will – but same-same), I scooped him up with ease and made my way back down the driveway that led to my Aunt and Uncle’s house.

What I didn’t expect was to find an almost 6′ tall chain link fence blocking our path. Apparently, the gate is locked for the day once school activities conclude, and that time must have passed while we were climbing bleachers. I was feeling rather nonplussed since I didn’t even realize that there was a gate. But there it was…

And there we were… Tired, hungry and wet. Although Oliver had been potty trained for a while, I realized that I must not have taken him to the bathroom before leaving the house (a rookie mistake that I still make on a regular basis). So of course, he had an accident. Which was at that moment soaking through my shirt.

The only other way to exit the school grounds was on the other side of the tennis courts. Which would require about a mile walk around the huge block back to our destination. Holding an exhausted 50 lb. three year old. With pee pee soaking through my shirt…

I looked at Oliver. Then I looked at the chain link. Then I looked behind us at the tennis courts. Then I looked again at the chain link. Then I finally looked at Oliver, let out a long resigned breath and said, “yeah – we’re going to have to go over.“

And how does one go about hoisting a small child over a chain link fence? In my case, not very well…

First I explained the process to him, “okay Oliver – here’s how it’s going to go down. I’ll hold you up as high as I can over my head, and then you are going to throw your legs over the top of the fence. Then I’m going to dangle you over the other side, and count to three. When I get to three, I’ll let go, and you will jump to the ground. Sound good?“

After receiving a blank stare for confirmation, the plan was set. It was go time.

As it turns out, lifting 50 lbs of dead weight over your head is not as easy as it sounds. And Oliver was no help at all. Seriously, no initiative whatsoever – you’d think he was a child or something… But somehow, I managed it. And in less than a minute with only minimal scratches from the jagged fence top, he was dangling just a few feet over freedom.

I’ll admit that he didn’t quite stay on his feet when I dropped him, but he scrambled back up quickly enough (mommy’s little trooper) and received me with open arms – the better to climb me with – as soon as I joined him on the other side.

The rest of our walk home involved a very short trek through some underbrush due to ANOTHER chain link fence. Honestly – what are they keeping in that high school? The Hope Diamond? But this one seemed to just block cars from the driveway and much to our relief, we could make our way around it.

As soon as we arrived back, we changed into clean clothes and told our story to a spellbound crowd of admirers (or to a few horror struck relatives…potato-potahto…) But alls well that ends well, I say.

I did consider fudging the truth, but we scary mommies wear our poor parenting moments like badges of honor. Even if they just serve as a reminder of where improvement can be made, “right – never doing that again.”

And no – I have never lost my mind and tried to toss a child over a chain link fence since. But not to worry – I fall short daily, serving peanut butter sandwiches for dinner because that’s all they’ll eat…pretending that I’m not aware of them disobeying orders in the other room since it’s just easier that way…letting them skip teeth brushing because it will just provide another 15 minutes of evasion opportunity to an already late bedtime… A scary mommy’s work is never done. And I never leave my post.

Motherhood opened today, a movie about a mom/writer/blogger. Also, the director is a woman and a mom, too. We should really try to support this movie and show the studio heads that there is money to be had by making movies for US. I’m going to make an effort to get out there and see it – which is pretty huge considering that I have seen the inside of a movie theater about three times in the past four years.

And yes – I do owe you an update on the conference call with Uma Thurman…but I’ll try to do that next week (as usually, I’ve stayed a bit long at the party and this post is a beast). But here’s a spoiler: I could barely hear her, she got cut off several times, and I spent most of it running away from my whining children (thank god for the mute button). So yeah – it will be REALLY exciting.