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My kids used to be really excited about going back to school. But as they got older and graduated from play-based learning to full on elementary school academia, their attitudes changed. To say their feelings are mixed is an understatement. While theyāre looking forward to seeing their friends and finding out which teachers they have, for the most part theyāre dreading it. And so am I. More
Watching camp videos and trawling through photos has become de riguer. My younger sons think itās part of their bedtime routine. When weāve been out of town on a weekend, I canāt help but track down WiFi. Or wait patiently for my tiny iPhone screen to work its magic. Last week I downloaded a picture of a boy jumping off an enormous diving tower. Only after I sent it off to my mom did I realize it wasnāt even my son! More
When summertime finally comes around, what could be better than packing off your children and sending them off to camp? Sending them off to a camp that reflects who you are and who you want your kids to be, of course. Sure youāll miss them (at least a bit) but theyāll enjoy their independence while gaining a sense of adventure, empathy and respect ā all qualities to be learned and mastered by being away from home during the summer holidays. And if theyāre living the life you thought you would? Well, thatās not half-bad either… More
As a mother, Iām used to being an unpaid chauffeur, cleaner, cook and caretaker. But collection agent? I donāt think so. Yet that’s what precisely happens when you offer to organize the teacher’s “group gift.” People go AWOL. They donāt respond to emails. On one occasion in the past, I paid for the gift card upfront and still have yet to see the contribution from one errant parent. Of course by the time school resumed in the fall, I was too tense to acknowledge the debt, but every time I bump into that person, I wonder if sheās thinking what Iām thinking: that she owes me $30! More
Lately, when I drop my kids off at school, the talk among moms is less about parenting and more about where to find the best vibrator.
Thatās right. With practically every mom in the schoolyard having finished or about to embark upon the “Fifty Shades” Trilogy (including Fifty Shades of Grey), talk is of nothing but the books. And itās gone way beyond whether ā or when ā people plan on reading them. One woman I know confided sheās been masturbating non-stop for weeks and is currently on her second reading of the third book. Another āfessed up that she bought a set of nipple clamps. Even one of the teachers, upon overhearing yet another Fifty Shades conversation, smiled knowingly as she hurried to her car. Had she read the books, someone asked. āDamn right,ā she replied, cheeks blushing hotly. More
A few weeks ago, my 3-year-old disappeared. My husband and I had taken separate cars to a party. My son insisted on going home with his daddy, so I left. Moments later my man called, asking me if Iād taken our youngest son home. Sure enough, heād taken off while my husband tied up our other sonās shoelaces. Luckily, the mad dasher was found by a lovely woman, a stranger who spotted him running through the parking lot.
Iām now reconsidering my view on the leash. More
In our world, Little League is run by parents, for kids. Whether hockey, soccer, basketball or baseball, competitive āhouseā leagues are reliant on moms and dads to coach our children. Aside from showing up and planning games, a key responsibility is teaching the kids how to be good sports. Hopefully, they lead by example. Often, they fail. More
āFuck meā¦ Iām pregnantā was my reaction after watching the thin pink line creep across ā and stay ā on the urine-soaked test stick. But little did I know that would be my mantra for the next nine months! Hormone swings, swollen ankles and puking were, of course, well known side effects of being knocked up. But becoming a voracious sex fiend? Who knew?
I have three children and, while all three pregnancies couldnāt have been more different, two things were constant: they all yielded boys and they all turned me into a big fat horndog. More
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āTis better to give than to receive, the old adage goes. But when itās holiday time and you have a large family, I say itās better to skip out on the soirĆ©es altogether. More
The first time my oldest son inadvertently said the F-word, we thought it was hilarious. And when my middle son came home from camp asking about the various terms for āpenis,ā my husband and I exchanged looks and stifled our smiles. Now, when our youngest, whoās three, accidentally says āshitā instead of sit, the whole family howls with laughter. We know itās ridiculous, but we canāt help it. More
When I was pregnant with our third child, people warned me that the jump from two kids to three was biggie. One friend even joked that her first was Daddyās boy, her second was Mommyās boy and her third was Nannyās boy. I promised myself that would never be the case in our house. More
As parents, we canāt help but be proud of our childrenās accomplishments. Whether theyāve conquered toilet training, mastered the art of writing or aced their first test, we are thrilled. And maybe even a little bit relieved that age-appropriate milestones have been reached. Most of us try not to ram our kidsā good work, good luck or good fortune down the throat of other parents, though, understandably, it sometimes slips out. I like to think thereās a difference between sharing good news and lording over everyone else. But of course there are the braggarts, big mouths and know-it-alls who hijack each victory and turn it into their own.
Weāve all met them: the soccer dads, stage moms, grandparents and relatives who swear no one is as bright, brilliant or beautiful as their very own talented offspring. Their child isnāt merely smart, she’s gifted. Their son isnāt just musical, heās a prodigy. And their daughter? She isnāt sporty, sheās a future Olympian. And on it goes. Recently, however, Iāve noticed a new trend in parental one-upmanship: the āmineās worseā phenomenon. More
When we think of learning, we think ABCs, 1-2-3s, and, at our house, the birds and the bees. We didnāt know when ā or how ā weād approach The Sex Talk, exactly, though my man and I figured weād know when the time was right.
And so, when I was pregnant with my third child, we read our two older sons a book called Itās Not The Stork by Robie H. Harris. The boys, then ages 3 and 5, looked at the pictures with disinterest, and only wanted to know how the baby got into my tummy. And, more importantly, how it would come out. More
