Mommying The Mommies


Can I just say that raising children is tough? But raising kids amongst other mommies has to be the toughest. Along the way, there are so many theories about what to feed them, how to punish them, how to talk to them, what activities they should do, what activities they shouldn’t do. And then all of those theories filter down into subtheories with each mother having an opinion or a clause that they cannot wait to share with you.

If you feed your child kale boiled on a moonless night with two drops of ginger mixed into it, their immunity will be built up, but only against infectious shark bites.

If your child makes the track team, make sure they don’t get Mrs. Paperstitch as their coach. She likes to make the children put on ballet slippers and sauté down the field while she dresses up as a mouse and screams for cheese.

If you always talk to your child in a whisper and never let them hold a match but always let them hold the dragon-shaped firework obtained from the tallest fairy in the mushroom patch, they will grow up to be doctors.

So many darn theories.

And it does not matter.

It always happens.

At every single open house.

School event.

Mommy meeting.

Words of wisdom and advice will be given.

And sometimes I can hear them coming from my own contaminated lips. The words rolling from my open mouth before my brain can shut the fleshy doors to the sounds. My advice probably not needed. My council preferably not recommended. My need to share more for my own validation than for another’s benefit.

And yet, we all do it.

We mommy other mommies.

It is as though becoming a parent to one or a few has made us capable of judging all of the other parents out there simply by how we are deciding to do things. Oh, I do it, too. In fact, I do it all of the time. In my mind, I am probably even slow motioning a theatrical, “Ohhhhh,” as my inner eyes roll and my gavel bangs down. Of course, some mothers make it all too easy to prosecute them. I am not speaking of those select few. I am speaking of the average mom. The mommy with chocolate on her pants and shredded cheese on the floor of her car. The one who got tired and bribed her child in front of you or gave the kid a form of food you would not feed your own.

Can we agree to stop this nonsense? To form together and not care what Joan is feeding Timmy or what teacher little Suzy got. Guess what? It will all work out. It really, really will. Suzy will be just fine with Mrs. Prudence. Timmy will grow up to become a vegetarian. And no one will remember what your child did. They will remember only how you made them feel about their own child.

I call a truce.

No more mommying oth…


Did you hear?

No, it really is true!



All you have to do to make your child behave is to dress them entirely in blue from the age of four to the age of ten and feed them milk from a tig…

*If you are wondering if someone set me off to write this post. Well, they did… It was me. Ugh, sometimes that woman deserves more than an eye roll.

Also, please do not attempt any theories read on this post at home. I heard the mommy who invented them is crazy. At least that is what one voice in my head keeps telling me.

My Assembly Line Failure


It started out innocently enough.

My family had gathered around the dinner table intent on eating quickly, having our nightly mandatory conversation, and then dispersing to finish our individual evening tasks that we each must accomplish before the impending rush of nine o’clock arrived and with it, the end of the day.

We manage to get through these motions each and every night.

Last week, it went a bit astray.

Blame the end of summer vacation and the beginning of a nightly school routine. Blame a hurried evening as my husband had to make two separate runs to the grocery store as his scatterbrained wife kept forgetting an ingredient for dinner as she completed the process. Blame the scolding of the dogs as they inched their way closer to the table in their eagerness to catch a falling scrap of food, despite it turning out to be a napkin and not a taco morsel.

Blame the following question from my son:

“What came first, the automobile or the airplane?”

I will not bore you with the details as my husband and I delved into what we could recall of the Wright brothers, and modern air travel. It is enough to know we ended up on Henry Ford.

My son asked, “But didn’t Henry Ford invent something besides the automobile (we corrected this, but we are going to ignore this bit of trivia for the story’s sake)?”

As I started to say, “no,” my smarter husband replied, “He invented the assembly line.”

“What is an assembly line?” My son innocently asked.

“Well, imagine we are all building a group of dolls,” I stated. “Now imagine that each of us is in charge of building just one part of the doll.”

I pointed to my daughter, “You would be in charge of putting the doll’s head on its body.”

My husband pointed at my son, “And you would be in charge of painting the eyes.”

I assigned myself the task of making sure the doll’s arms were secure and my husband decided to tackle the torso and legs. This seemed to be an easy enough concept to explain and understand. I thought we had done a good job of it. It was silent at the dinner table. My children’s foreheads were furrowed in thought. I assumed they were contemplating the history of the assembly line. I assumed wrong.

Suddenly it began.

“Why do I have to do the head?” demanded my daughter.

“Yea… I don’t want to paint the eyes. I don’t even know what color they want them,” my son complained.

My son and daughter turned to each other.

“Let’s trade,” my daughter said to my son.

“Okay.” They even went so far as to shake hands over the deal.

It all happened faster than I could blink an eye. I am surprised they did not form a union and demand better pay. I suppose it is only a matter of time. This imaginary assembly line business was doomed before it even ever started.

I guess it is for the best.

I really have no idea how to attach a doll’s arm. But it has to be easier than explaining history. Or dealing with children who have gone on strike.

The poor dolls never had a chance.

Dear Children: Being A Stick-In-The-Mud,


Call it a fuddy duddy. Stick-in-the-mud (which by the way sounds better than being mud, doesn’t it?). A party pooper.

These are all society’s acceptable names that seem to be okay to call someone who does not give into peer pressure.

Guess what?

Your mommy is proud to have been called all of them.

Because sometimes, well sometimes, it’s important to stand up for something you believe in.

And people are going to feel threatened that you might not agree with their actions.

By you refusing to do an action with them, it calls into question their own morality.

People don’t like that.

But you should “stick to your guns anyway.”

This will probably lead them to result to name calling. Those words will hurt. Don’t think they won’t. But not as much as your soul will hurt if you go against it. The names they will call you may cut deeper than a “stick in the mud.” And as hard as this will be, you must ignore them.

When I was a child there was a nonsense little saying that went like this:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.”

That saying is ridiculous. Words are the most powerful thing in the world.

You might also notice that in Mommy’s time people were kind of obsessed with sticks.

I can’t explain this.

There must have been more trees back then.

This probably explains the many leaf idioms, as well.

But even back then, people fought the word, “no.”

Maybe they never learned differently. Maybe they just want to make their own choices. And that is okay. As long as you get to, too.

Because you should respect the use of someone else using that word, too.

Otherwise, we might as well all be made of sticks and leaves. And even stones.

Being human is more than that.

At least, it should be.


If your friends or adversaries still will not understand your decision to not conform to their decision, well, I guess they “got the short end of the stick.”
Maybe you could, “Help them turn over a new leaf.”
If not, have more confidence than one can “shake a stick at.”

In today’s terms:






Dear Mommy: What Does The Mommy Say?


Dear Mommy,

What does the fox say?

Your child

Dear Child,

We have been through this. Why is this a question? Or a song?



Dear Mommy,

I cannot wait to leave this house! I am going to live on top ramen. I am going to eat it every night. I can’t wait!

Your child

Dear child,

Why didn’t you tell me before? That sounds fantastic. I cannot wait to come over. Next, you will be telling me you are going to be all fancy and eat off of paper plates and use plastic forks. What would I wear to such a fine establishment? I think we should try this immediately. I will start making you a separate batch of top ramen all to yourself. We will eat our home cooked meal that took me two hours to make. You will get your five minute meal instead.

I am nothing if not a dream maker.

I look forward to serving you. Maybe I will even lay out some of that fancy cutlery you like. I think I have some from the drive-thru laying around.



Dear Mommy,

I can’t find my other shoe!

Your child

Dear Child,

It is 8:40. We and your two-feet-in-shoes were supposed to leave the house five minutes ago. I am so very thrilled to run around and look under every piece of furniture we own for your other shoe. Why, I aim to please.

Speaking of which, I bought you three pairs of shoes two months ago. Surely we have a set to one of those. No? Well, could you wear a mismatched pair? No? What’s that? We only have the right ones? Okay. Mommy is just going to lay here awhile. Maybe whatever took your left shoes will come back. For me.



Dear Mommy,

I love you.

Your Child

Dear Child,

Awww. Okay. Okay. You can have top ramen AND the “real” dinner I made.

And I found all of your left shoes in the dog food bag, along with my favorite necklace. Which you can, of course, borrow tomorrow.

And for the record, the fox says, “I love you, too.”




* This post was a little extra one I just wrote for The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge.