The Suburban Jungle

Here is the original article I did for iVillage I gave you a bit more than a teaser this time because a lot was edited out.

When I first sat down to write this article I couldn’t help but snicker; not because this seems like an amusing predicament to be in, but because the topic tested my maturity level.  A nervous wave came over me as I reluctantly imagined this scenario and all I could think was “Awkward.”  As awkward as this circumstance is for the parent, consider the gut wrenching embarrassment from a child’s point of view.  I know, simply empathizing could make you red in the face.  In fact, at 30-whatever I am, I still wouldn’t want to have a conversation on the subject with one of my own parents.

So, what’s a parent to do when they’re confronted with such a touchy (no pun intended) situation?   (more…)

Warning to all parents, the web character Fred Figglehorn is getting his own movie — Fred:The Movie — which will air on Nickelodeon Sept. 17th. You may be asking yourself, “Who is this Fred, and why am I being warned of his impending flick?” Fred, a character developed and portrayed by teen Lucas Cruikshank, may be one of the most annoying personas ever created.Read More

On a summer trip to Hilton Head, SC I realized that I may actually be the most neurotic mom on the planet. I first noticed this when we were at the park and children where climbing to the top limbs of these winding ancient oaks. In Florida, we don’t have many climbing trees, unless you have the ability to shimmy up a palm. Growing up in Maryland, I remember climbing those trees, and of course the memories that stand out most to a neurotic mom are the one’s of the kids that fell out and broke their own limbs.

So, there I was an inch from my child, ready to steady him at his first errant step. At the same time I was prepared to jump under some random 10yr old Evel Knievel, 25ft up, and let him use my frame to break his impending fall. “Where are that kid’s parents?” I asked my husband, as I was quite certain if they had witnessed his indiscretion in the tree, they would be giving him a stern talking to. Then over walked his dad. The kid said, “Who thinks, I’m gonna fall off and die?” To which the sensitive dad replied, “Well don’t do it halfway. If you only break something we’re gonna end up spending the whole night at the hospital.” Maybe you found that obnoxious, maybe you found it funny, I found it horrifying. But it seems that the general parenting attitude – outside of these very sheltered towns I’ve managed to live in – is one of ease and nonchalance. My husband has this attitude; he believes everything will be all right, whereas I think those crazy things that seem so rare are common occurrences and second guess my every decision, for fear of what those choices may have unleashed upon my family.

One of these choices was to sign the kids up for a day of Adventure Camp. I wanted to take advantage of the amazing golf. Scratch that, my husband wanted to take advantage of the amazing golf. He’ll be happy I mentioned “him,” “scratch,” and “golf” in the same sentence. The Adventure Camp wasn’t so adventurous. It was mainly 4 and 5 year olds and boasted a 1:3 counselor to camper ratio. They took the kids crabbing on the beach and then raced their crabs. Then they brought them to a shaded pool, low enough to stand in.  Though I didn’t really care if we golfed or not, I reminded myself that sometimes your husband needs to do a bit of what he wants on a family vacation. Since, I rarely if ever put him first, or second, or third for that matter, I decided to let my kids enjoy a day at camp while we golfed. I know, it was the best choice for my kids and my husband, but for me, it was the one that caused the most anxiety. The other parents were in and out at drop off, but I spent quite some time saying my goodbyes, and assessing the counselors. I thoroughly interviewed them, asking about their lifesaving credentials, their head count procedures, and how I could contact them to check on my kids.

How many moms know how debilitating it is to worry over so many things at once? How hard it is to just enjoy something when scary scenarios keep popping into your head? I was relieved when we saw them at the pool in the afternoon; a surprise encounter that was only slightly planned on my part. Then in the hour between the pool and camp pickup a torrential downpour ensued and I had to start worrying all over again. Would the trolley skid or would someone slip on the wet brick pathways? After pick up I could breathe more freely, but I couldn’t help wonder, what kind of disservice I’m doing to my children by not allowing them to do things that other parents seem to have no problem with?

Comment Question:

What do you think, can you relate? Are you a worrier or easy goer?

Okay, here goes. I don’t like to harsh on people because we are all special. That’s what the purple dinosaur says. Even though he’s an over sized geek, I think he’s right most of the time – everyone is special. That being said, I don’t understand why my little brother is so hairy. I know, we’re all different, but he’s really hairy. I mean like, head to toe fur ball.

I’m worried about him. He doesn’t seem to be developing the way other babies do. Frankly, he just seems to be getting fluffier.

Read More

Talk about awkward. Here’s my take on explaining the unexplainable.

I always say it’s not a matter of “if” your child will walk in on you and hubs doing the deed, it’s a matter of “when.” Sure, there are lots of excuses: “Mommy and Daddy were just wrestling… naked.” “Oh, mommy slipped and her clothes fell off and dad was helping me up. Why are his off too? Well, he didn’t want me to feel silly.” “This is a special dance we do for rain, you know like on the National Geographic channel? Damn that drought and global warming!” And of course when they’re over a certain age, there’s just no explanation other than, “Okay, you caught us.”

READ MORE

Baby Ryan, based on someone I know all too well, is the knew blogger on Baby Banter, which is run by the fabulous site SheKnows.com. I say it’s time for those kids to pull their weight. Chicken fingers, pizzas, and hotdogs don’t pay for themselves, you know? Once my kids hit Kindergarten it’s time to pay the piper. So, along those lines, Ryan is a working baby writer. Sure, it was hard to teach her how to type, but I put her in front of the keyboard and told her she couldn’t have dessert until she could type 60WPM. Let me tell you about the power of a black and white cookie.

She also happens to be hilarious!!! I will list her posts here and if you’re intrigued click the link. Here’s her bio, so you know what you’re in for.

Ryan “The Rockstar”
Whassup, I’m Baby Ryan. Here’s what you should know about me, first of all, I’m a girl — people get confused by the name and lack of hair on my head. As you may have guessed by my advanced vocabulary, I’m crazy smart. I have an uncanny knack for telling it like it is, but deep down I’m still a big mush. Sure, I’ve been called ornery and stubborn, but those qualities are certain to help me at Kindermusik when some stinky little crybaby tries to steal my tambourine.

Contrary to common belief, I understand everything you weird, cooing people are saying. I’m also pretty sure that I’m royalty of some sort because you all act like my servants. It seems that many of you are simply here to entertain and amuse me, while the rest of you wait on me hand and foot. I don’t have to walk anywhere, scrounge for food or even lift a spoon for that matter. I can get insanely dirty and someone just cleans me up. Even more astounding, when I get you people dirty, you simply laugh and wipe the pureed bananas out of your hair. Best of all, I don’t have to poop in that crazy hole that sucks out your soul through your bottom. I simply need to cry (I wish someone would get me a bell) and you’re at my beck and call. Being a baby rocks!

Ryan’s Profile:

Age: 9 months

Likes: Catching sight of my future BF Zuma Rossdale in a magazine

Hates: The short annoying kid they call my brother and my “Spit Happens” bib

Favorite Word: No

When I grow up: Me and Zuma will live happily ever after

Post: Seriously? Not the Pea Plane Again!

Okay, I may have mentioned I’m a guilt ridden parent once or twice or a thousand times.  Well, I also have 4^th of July guilt.  Yep, I feel guilty if my kids don’t get to see fireworks on the 4^th of July.  Like many parents, I go to great lengths to make sure they get this Independence Day experience; long car rides, busy parking areas, throngs of people smooshing into parks and harbors… you know the drill. (more…)

Here is today’s news story.  It’s front page on iVillage and of course written by me.  Check it out if you drank during pregnancy, know someone who did, are officially an alcoholic or you like reading my stuff and finding out strange but true facts.
Want Grandkids? Don’t Drink (Much) During Pregnancy

According to the barrista at my Starbucks, I’m an awesome wife.  No, I’m not putting out for lattes like I once threatened to do and I’m certainly not ironing clothes for the lady who swipes my card –or even my husband for that matter.   I simply showed up at 7:45 AM to buy my husband his coffee on Father’s Day.  The staff at my Starbucks were taking bets on how many of their regular customer’s wives would show up for a Father’s Day coffee run.  The results: 2.  Yep, 2 wives, myself included.  They cheered when I entered, “Jenny, I knew I could count on you,” the manager said.  I thought I’d won a prize, maybe a frappe “my way?”  It seems I deserved one;  when I walked in to get my coffee this morning they were still talking about it.  They were talking about how shocked they were that on Mother’s Day they saw all the dads with the kids, letting moms sleep in and on Father’s Day the husbands still got the coffee.  I guess the men are the “weekend coffee getters” in our society.  Sure, they used to be hunters and gatherers, protectors, and providers, but now apparently getting coffee is as manly a task as we can bestow on our husbands. (more…)

In The Suburban Jungle’s newest segment:  Ask Jenny From the Blog, I answer important marriage and parenting questions with honesty, and wit.  Please do not hold me responsible for tantrums or divorce.

Recently a friend asked, “How do I  stop nagging my husband?”  I used the decade of marriage as a basis for my answer and gave it to her straight, “You don’t.  You just learn to nag more efficiently.” The definition of nagging is to ask or criticize someone repetitively, to the point of being bothersome.  Well, if they learned the first time you said it, you would be a brilliant wife and he would be husband of the year.  Let me impart a truth I have discovered after a 10 years of nagging. You have to train a husband, which is not unlike training a puppy.   Except that a husband takes much much longer.  If you saw my 6 month old puppy actually chewing the wall, this truth could send you running for the hills.

The key is to open the lines of communication and reward rather than reprimand.  I know that sounds cheesy and Dr. Philee, but it is something you may not realize until you’ve wasted much time trying to mold your man through bitter seething complaints and snide remarks.

I am still training my husband… everyday.  If I had known when I was first married what I know now, I think I would be giving much less correction, and much more Snausages.  I remember the conversation that started a new path to less nagging.  It was not so long ago.  I said, “there has to be some word, some signal that I can give to tell you that I am about to complain and possibly correct something you’ve done.  The signal would imply that what I am about to say may be critical and will most definitely annoy the crap out of you.  I know that, but I must get it off my chest if I am to remain happy.   I need you to hear me without sneering, ignoring, focusing on a mindless commercial or diverting your attention towards the kids.

Seems easy right, asking someone to listen and absorb when alerted to do so?  Well, men are stubborn creatures.  So, to make it fair, I agreed that the signal could be whatever he chose, as long as he agreed to open his ears and keeps his eyes from rolling.  He decided I should say, “I suck and you are awesome.”  Please, is that the best you can do?  In return for your full attention, I would have said, “I’m a psycho bitching wife who doesn’t deserve such a strapping specimen of a man, while flashing you and doing a jig, but we’ll just go with your suggestion.”

This is your chance to set some ground rules and have some fun while doing it.  Pick a signal that is totally disarming and let him know that the only person who hates nagging more than he does is you.  Most importantly, when he does a good job, don’t forget the praise… and the Snausages.

Please send questions to Jenny@thesuburbanjungle.com

Disclaimer-  Jenny is not a trained professional!  Though you may find her brilliant and insightful, she has been called odd and insane.  Please keep that in mind when following any of her advice. Also, no animals were harmed in the writing of this piece (in case you were wondering.)

Every women’s magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion.  “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.”  “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.”  “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.”  (Oh, I like that last one)

I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying.  If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.

When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.

Tip From a Writer with No Sense of Reality:  Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience.  Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids.  Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest

Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up.  Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.”  So, please have a better story than that.

Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie.  Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance.  Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.

As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh.  The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper.  Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.

Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea.  It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner  –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.

Tip From a Writer With More Than 24hrs in Her Day: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really?  As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen.  Now I have to add something else to my repertoire?  We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.

Tip that Makes me Say, “Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it!  Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim.  Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning.  Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary?   Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning?   SLEEP!

Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists.  Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having.  You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?”  I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.”  Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.”  If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.

Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children?  Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))

On Monday morning while half asleep and lying in bed, I reached for the remote, as I do every morning before my daughter wakes up  and begs to play “Barbies.”  I gently squeezed the “ON” button and received a wakeup call that I could not push “Snooze” on.  Your lifestyle is going down the toilet, well actually it said, You No Longer Have Direct TV Service.  Please Call Us, Deadbeat! Okay, there was no “deadbeat,” but all of the above was implied.  In a frenzy, I switched to my “Tivo List” looking for a prerecorded episode of Jersey Shore, to calm my nerves, but the Tivo service was also, no longer available. “WHY?” “Say it isn’t so.” and “What does this mean?” escaped my lips almost simultaneously.  Hello, the Bachelor narrows his bevy of possible flight attendants down to 12 ladies tonight, and what am I supposed to do while that’s happening… read?

Maybe this isn’t the first sign of my financial woes.  Has the proverbial alarm been buzzing and I’ve been sleeping through it?  Is it possible that being down to one credit card, that I randomly opened at Costco, was some kind of indicator that times are tough?  Is the credit card Roulette I play at check out not a real game?  You know, when you grab a card from your wallet at random and pray you don’t hear the dreaded “You’re Declined” which is followed by mental buzzer, while the contestant –me–  fishes through for another possible loser to swipe.

Now, in hindsight I feel almost silly.  I think there may have been other signals I missed.  Like when we cut out our annual vacations, or when we lost our savings in the market.  Darn it, have I just been phoning it in?  I’m not sure if those other signs are worth investigating, but the thought of missing the new Grey’s Anatomy/Private Practice crossover (that they haven’t stopped touting) could send anyone into a deep over-advertising induced depression.

In response to my wakeup call, I’ve done what any pop culture/ TV addict would do.  I pulled out my Costco American Express and called it in.  I know, it’s not tightening the purse strings, but I intend to skip grocery buying this week to make up for the loss.  Eating is overrated… especially after the holidays.  The truth is, I have a perfectly tasty cat just walking around the house.  Taunting me like a steak on wheels.  That’s ridiculous, why would I eat my cat when my dog is 40lbs heavier?   I may be poor, but I’m not stupid.