The Suburban Jungle

I went out shopping with my mom the other day and I felt guilty, not because I was breaking my necessary self-imposed shopping ban, but because I had left my kids. I had left them not with a babysitter, but with my husband. They were not doing child labor; they were simply going to a movie.

I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the feeling I was having. Maybe it was guilt brought on by the fear of sending them off alone with their dad. Would something happen without my guidance? He had never taken both kids to a movie, so the neurotic mom in me reiterated that popcorn is a choking hazard, and they should eat it one kernel at a time. I added, “Don’t let them go to the bathroom alone.” You never know who’s lurking in the stalls.

Maybe the guilt was over the fact that it was Sunday and I don’t get as much time during the week with my kids, considering they have no break between school and camp. Maybe I simply felt guilty about missing all the fun the “UP 3-D” experience had to offer: The sticky floors crackling beneath my feet. My daughter complaining that the 3-D glasses hurt her face and that watching without them hurt her eyes. One or both of them inevitably spilling something gooey or fluorescent blue on me. I know you’re thinking, stop romanticizing it.

The irony was that I had chosen to do something with my own mother instead. Should that not be of some value, spending time with her? Do I not have some obligation to spend time with my own mom even though I can wipe myself? Does my husband having a day with the kids not fulfill some need they may have for alone time with him?

I remember a therapist, who also happens to be my Step Mother, telling me a story once. She said, “There was once a mom who had one egg and three children to feed. Do you know what she did?”

“Split it 3 ways and feed her hungry children?”

“She went to her room, locked the door, and ate the egg.”

“Ugh, what a horrible story. The mom locked herself in with the egg? What did she do next, eat her children?”

“Jenny, what is the matter with you? The kids need the mom more than they need the egg. If she takes care of herself she can better take care of her children. She could have split that one egg three ways and then passed out and then what would they have?”

“Scrambled eggs?”

“You’re missing the point.”

Here of course is the point, which is easier to impart than to accept. Taking a break from being a mom doesn’t make you a bad mom. You are other things… a wife, a daughter, an (insert profession or hobby here,) you need to give yourself the freedom to be those things as well. Sometimes “selfishly” taking care of yourself makes you a happier person and therefore a better mom.

I know, the theory sounds so obvious, it need not be stated and yet I know only a handful of people so evolved as to live by it. I am working on becoming more evolved as we speak, I am ignoring my son, who is begging me to play Wii so, I can finish writing this bl

I am no stranger to laziness, but this is extreme, even for me.  I went to get refill blades for the Gillette Fusion, Mach 91, turbo, hydraulics razors that Mark and I use, but they were out.  So I got the Mach 90 version instead.  Being that the blades were a number off, our razor handles did not fit, but luckily, Mark had one from the last time Gillette came out with the “most powerful razor on the planet.”

We only had one handle between the two of us and since Mark shaves 5 times more often me, (I did the math) Mark got dibs.  Therefore, I had to remember to take his handle into the shower and put in my blade that waited on the shelf, anytime I needed to shave.

Today. It wasn’t until I got in the shower that I realized how badly I needed to shave.   Rather then open the shower door, walk all the way to his sink, and get the floor wet along the way, I decided the smarter call would be to hold the blade gently allowing it to pivot in my finger tips. Well , another brilliant idea borne by laziness.  I mean look at Benjamin Franklin; sure, kite flying isn’t lazy, but it certainly isn’t a grand endeavor.

I had finished one leg, when shampoo dripped perilously into my eye.  Rather than stop, turn around, and grab the towel hanging two inches from my face, I trudged on.  I mean, what could be the harm in pivoting a razor in my finger-tips, while precariously balancing, with only one eye?

Actually, I got a fabulous shave minus one nick and what I might have to term a divot. I am often amazed by the things I will do to avoid doing other things.

PS The kicker is that my wireless mouse just ran out of batteries, and I had to empty yet another remote to fill it  All, so that I could write this particular post about laziness… Oh, the irony.

I’d love to know if anyone has done other comparably lazy things.

In my attempt to be a Queen for a day I realized that if the Queen is knee deep in urine, whining, and is constantly saying things like, “I will separate you two if I have to,” and “Who’s pee is this?” than I am the Queen every day.

As the Queen, I assure you that when a Queen sits on the royal throne in the royal bathroom, there is a dog with his head on her lap while she pees, and small children running in and out asking the same question over and over like wind up toys.

(Excuse me, I have to calm the Princess who is crying because the Prince got her too wet … in the pool!)

OK, back to my story. I woke up this morning to a performance of the Royal Court Jesters, and a barrage of hand made cards and dances done by the Royal Artisans. Then as a good Queen, I gave the royal puppy (who is a royal pain) his walk. You see, I gave the dog walkers the day off to spend with their mothers. Of course, I gave into the prince and princess and halted our walk to play at the park. I had no make-up on, no-bra, and shorts way too short for public viewing, as I graciously gave my royal dressers the day off to spend with their mother’s.

(Pardon me, I have to rush and dry off the Prince. He needs to jump out of the pool to make a poop.)

Back to the park. First I pushed the swing, and then I pushed the swing, then I stopped the dog from digging a ditch under the swing. Then my princess went down the slide too fast, in her pull-up, and fell butt first into the mulchie dirt. Yes, my daughter was in a pull-up and she rode her bike to the park that way. That does not make me a bad mom, because it is Mother’s Day and the royal nannies are off and I can’t be expected to do everything. Don’t judge, she wore a helmet.

(One, sec. I have to confirm whether a floating bug is dead or alive.)

Okay, I’m back. I spent the next 10 minutes attending to a crying Princess who had gotten herself and her pull-up dirty. She refused to get back on her bike, for fear of getting it dirty. She demanded that I, the Queen, walk it back home. Since the royal bike walkers are also off, I walked it half way and then insisted she get back on. I then promised that I would call the royal bike cleaners away from their mothers to come clean her bike.

(Sorry I’ll be right back. The bug I determined to be dead has come back to life, and now I must verify whether it is a wasp or not.)

Back to riding back home. As soon as we reached the house, a teary Princess ran to the royal bathroom and screams quickly followed. I hurried over, only to find her having slipped on some royal pee on the royal floor. Ah, the King can not be expected to aim between the hours of midnight and 7AM, and because the royal pee cleaners also had the day off to spend with their mothers, it was not properly wiped up.

(Umm, this might take a while. I am being asked the questions, “Mom, what is it like to be in heaven? Where is heaven? How do you get your own place to live, with grass and a house and stuff?)

Okeedokey – back again. I, the Queen, have decided to stop attempting to write, and wait till tomorrow when my royal scribe arrives. Instead I will leave you with the conversation that is currently going on:

Princess: “Mom, ma, mom? Jake said he will splash me if I taaallkkk.” Whine whine.

Prince: “And Ryan kicked me for no reason.” Tattling voice.

Princess: “I don’t even care about you now.”

Prince: “Yeah, well, you have man hair on your back”

Princess: “Wellllll, I don’t care, cause I like it that way….”

The above is a true account of my day thus far, and it is only 10AM, though I can’t be positive as the royal time keepers are spending the day with their mothers.

We do it all, and we’re still Queens, doctors, nurses, secretaries, corrections officers, chefs, maids, servants, scientists, therapists, teachers, soothers, bus boys, friends… I could go on all day, but what’s a Mother’s Day guitar hero tournament, without the reigning champion?

Happy Mother’s Day!

A special happy mother’s day to my mom, who was all of those things and remains the best Mom ever!

Click here to go to the article.  Celebrity Momma’s Got A Brand New Bag

Enjoy

Another Great Lesson Learned

We walked into school today and Ryan was greeted by one of her favorite teachers.  She left the school last year and is subbing this week.  Ryan ran in with a big hug for the teacher and then started talking about pumpkins.

“Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mom, Ma (that’s my full name) can we pick the pumpkins?”

Now of course I am in Florida and it is May. We all know that there are no pumpkins, yet that weird connection we have with our children, quickly translated for me.

“OH, you mean the orange berries growing on the shrubs outside of school.”

I love when I’m right about these things.  It makes me feel oddly clairvoyant.  If only I had a similar connection with the stock market.

We found these “pumpkinish” berries yesterday.  They sparked an important discussion about not eating random fruits we see on trees, unless an adult i.e. parent, worker at grove or orchard, teacher on field trip, gives their permission.

Ryan explained that Miss Substitute, (I will not write her name because I truly enjoy her, when she is not teaching my daughter terrible terrible things.) ate one yesterday.

Miss Sub:  “Oh, I told her she could have one… if Mommy said it was okay.”

Really?  Really, Miss Substitute?  You had to pick and eat a berry from a random shrub, like Gretel, in front of my child?  Oh, and then you went on to tell her it was okay if I gave permission?

“What are they?”  I asked, just curious, not because I was even considering giving in.

Miss Sub:  “I don’t know.”

Oh, well, what a great lesson.  Were you that hungry?  You couldn’t have waited for snack time?  That tiny berry looked so filling that you risked poisoning yourself and making a hazardous impression on a class of 4 year olds, to taste one?

Why didn’t you just say, “I will try one of these berries because I am excruciatingly hungry and they look sooo good.  If  I do not die, children,  you should ask your parents if you too could eat some random, nameless fruit that grows near on a bush near a swamp.

In fact children, it is a fabulous idea to eat anything you find growing outdoors, it’s natural and hence, good for you.  If you take anything from the 2 days I am subbing, let it be that lesson.  The next time I sub, I will teach you all how to properly light your house on fire, and we’ll even play a traffic game called chicken.”

Can’t wait.

In one week Suburban Jungle will celebrate it’s first birthday! Yes, one year of building a following of tons of readers and 1000’s of visitors each month… sometimes each week.  One year of amazing comments, personal email responses, and whispers at the grocery store.  The gestation period for this baby was about 7 years longer than the standard 9 months, but it was well worth it.

I started this blog after signing up for FB.  Before I knew it, I had hundreds of FB friends, because I am extremely popular.  I realized, here is a huge audience of people that I can awkwardly and annoyingly push my material on.  Due to nostalgia induced guilt, they just might read it. Since then, it has grown into a legitimate site, read by people all over the planet, literally.  I have become a contributing writer for CityMommy, NewParent, SheJustGotMarried, and the JewishTimes.  I have been mentioned in Good Housekeeping, and I am contributing to a hilarious book!

Because of you, I am looking for an agent and working on pitching two books.  I have gotten multiple calls about writing a pilot and am very seriously working towards getting many of my articles published… articles that started out as blog posts, for your entertainment.  If I did not have such amazing people following the blog, commenting, calling, and emailing, I don’t think I would have been so inspired to pursue this dream.  So, I want to thank you.

This is around the time I would start to insult you, by saying something like, “It was you, the little people, the peons, that helped me, a titan of brilliant creativity.  Who would ever have imagined?”  But I wouldn’t dare, because I still need you little people.

I need you now more than ever.  Because I am focusing on making this a career, I can not focus on marketing the blog.  I need those of you who are technologically savvy to Stumble me, Mixx me, Digg me, Blog Roll me, Tweet me, and Tickle me.  I made the last one up, but who doesn’t like a good tickle?  For those of you who don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, please pass me on to friends, neighbors, class lists, and Mommy And Me programs.

This is an official amendment to our contract, like getting an annoying packet explaining the change in your insurance coverage.  I write a blog that is mostly article driven.  If I want consistent traffic without marketing, I need to be more “bloggish,” and POST, POST, POST.  So rather than let the Suburban Jungle suffer, I will enhance it with more frequent posts.  Not all will be articles, I am still just one insanely talented person.  But, I promise they will be witty, relatable, and sometimes short.

I will continue to give you the articles you love so much, and in return you will continue to enjoy the posts… that’s an order. You will talk about me at lunches, PTA meetings, water coolers, and play-dates.  You will sign up friends to the email subscription with out their permission.  You will annoy them with requests to join the Suburban Jungle group or networked blog on FB, and insist that they follow me on twitter.  Most importantly, you will ignore all spelling and grammatical errors.

I will hold you to our contract, which like an insurance company, I have the right to amend at any time, without prior notice.  Thanks for reading and inspiring every word!  You are truly the best audience ever!

Much Love,

Jenny from the blog

I always love feedback and hope to hear from you.

The FB Suburban Jungle group will receive articles only… not the entire feed, for the full experience sign up for the FB networked blogs thing-a-ma-who-ha.

I will not have as much time to post on LinkedIn, so if you find me there, sign up directly on my site, and feel free to link to me.

At Jake’s baseball game my mom started talking about the new post.

Dad:  “Oh you have a new post?  What’s it on?”

Me:  “My boobs.”

Dad:  “Great,” he said, with dripping sarcasm.

What father wants to read about his daughters boobs?…Again.

Mom:  “You really like to write about your tits, don’t you?”

Yuck, cringe cringe, mom saying tits is like fingernails on a chalk board.

Me:  “Yes Mom, my tits are my Muses.”

Dad:  It’s a good thing I never got you that boob job in college.  You wouldn’t have anything to write about.

Me:  Yes thanks, you gave me a lot of fodder…Fodder.

Ba Dum Bump.

Keep reading, for yesterdays post… if you haven’t read it yet.

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

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The week of the new year my site got 8000 visitors, 8 THOUSAND!!!  Insane, considering my first week I peaked at 3, and that was just my husband and my parents.  Even my step parents boycotted till I convinced them I had skills (around week 4).  SO, you can imagine my awe and excitement at the multitude of people who stop by Suburban Jungle.

My 10 Resolutions I Can Actually Keep article, the one that got me fired from my column, has been picked up by many sites… about 10, one of which is an amazing social network called City Mommy.  Here is a little info about them. I am not required to do this!  It is out of the goodness of my own heart, my love for this particular social network, and my need for exposure and cold hard cash.

If you arrived here from City Mommy, please take a look around.  And take a moment to subscribe to the emails, they will make your day!

ENJOY, in a city near you.

Come join other Moms in your area, check out CityMommy!

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The Principal of a local middle school was arrested for trying to strangle his wife in her sleep, with her hoodie string. The obvious question is …Who wears a hoodie to sleep?

While I was growing up, my Father was the one who took me on weekly shopping excursions, and patiently waited outside many a woman’s dressing room at Saks or Bloomingdales. My Dad is a Metrosexual. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term, which describes a straight man who likes shopping, manicures, trends, home décor, staring at paint chips, and reading Men’s Health.

My husband is Metrophobic. Now this term I may have coined. He is fine with homosexuals because they are overtly gay and there isn’t anything wrong with that. But Metrosexuals are a curious bunch. He can not understand how a straight man would waste time keeping up with trends, or wear clothing with labels and hardware that represent high-end brands. To be a Metroexual, you need a certain level of confidence in your ability to pull off styles that are forward or somewhat questionable, without losing the, “Oh Yeah, I could tag that” mentality.

When I first met Mark, he was malleable. I had him wearing trendy things, even hair gel. It was the 90’s okay? Stop questioning my judgment. But, I went too far. I got him a pair of Kenneth Cole clunky black shoes. At the time they were very in. The problem was that he is a size 12, and clunky 12’s are pretty, well…Frankenstein-esque. I saw it immediately, but couldn’t admit it because I wanted him to trust me and let me change him. However, his friends weren’t so courteous and Mark’s “clown shoes,” became a standard dig that would be referenced for years to come. That was the end of Mark’s experimental phase and the last time he let me dress him in anything other than “Country Club” attire.

He won’t wear anything too fitted, too shiny, too patterned, too sheer, too acid washed, too dark washed, or too trendy. On top of those requirements, he won’t wear button fly jeans or flat front khakis, as they do not provide the generous room needed to accommodate his balls. He won’t actually shop, so if I want him to have any style at all, I have to guess at sizing and acceptability. As an ex-personal shopper and stylist, you can imagine how it kills me not to be able to buy him a pair of beautiful Ferragamo shoes or perfect fit Sevens because of the metal hardware and giveaway pocket embroidery.

My father called me from Saks yesterday to run a gift for Mark’s birthday by me.

“Now Jenny, before you say anything, I have searched for an hour and found something so perfect. I would love to have it, and I think you could talk Mark into wearing it.”

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing from the buildup it is way over the top.

“It’s an awesome black ‘Seven for all mankind’ vest with stripes. It would look so great with jeans and a t-shirt.”

Now, I knew it was going to be over the top. I knew my Dad would throw out all previous knowledge of my husband and get something he would not want, but in my wildest, I would never have guessed a striped vest.

“Dad, no way in hell would he wear that.”

“Why, you don’t think you could talk him into it?”

“No.” If my husband wore a vest and t-shirt to dinner I would lead the charge at making fun of him.

“Don’t you guys go out to dinner? What does he wear?”

“Yes Dad, we go out to dinner, and he wears a button down.”

“That’s so boring… how about a new skinny tie, does he have any of those yet? They are very in for fall.”

“No, I don’t think he wants a skinny tie.”

“They’re not super skinny, just a little.”

“Dad, just get him a nice button down. John Varvatos is good, Ted Baker, Donna Karan, Old Navy…simple.”

“Would he wear one with an amoeba pattern, because I saw a beautiful Armani.”

In the end he got lovely shirt -simple nice stripes, good colors, and no patterns that you’d find under a microscope. No sheen, no metallic thread. Totally acceptable, except for a three metal snaps on the sleeve (My Dad’s favorite part.) One snap with a gun and one with a star and one simply, plain. In a department store with 10,000 variations of a basic button down shirt, he could not find even one.

When it comes to Mark, get him a gift certificate and I’ll go buy myself some shoes.

Though I love my current readers… I need more.  Please send the site to any friends and if you have not signed up for email updates please do!