The Suburban Jungle

For four days I have been sick.  Nothing crazy; just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing.  Yet, in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning. My children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine.  They made it to camp, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, or making them breakfast, or packing their lunches; so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.

Last night, I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4 hour “nap” I had the night before.  At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening.  At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.”  Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight.  “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.”  “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time.  “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water.  By 3AM Jack had tried 12 different positions.  Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you.  He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets.  “They’re white.”

In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours.  Some could argue that this has been the case for the last decade. He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy.  It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since.  A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me.  He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed.  He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge.  Jack and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to camp.  Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.”  Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee.  I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out.  Wait, scratch that and reverse it.

By 4:45 my son was back in the womb.  “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?”  For how many years will I get to hear that?  At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me.  We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryleigh’s head.  Then she started complaining.  “Its too hot with this blanket.  Mom my PJ’s hurt.  Mom I hate the color of your sheets.”  Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.

I banged on  my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed.  Bang…Bang…Bang.  “Please get the kids ready for camp.  I was up all night.”  Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal.  “Grumble grumble… no.”  “What do you mean you won’t help me?”  “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me.  Besides, I was up too.”  “What kept you up?  Was it the sound of your snoring?  Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.”  “I just can’t I’m too sick.”  My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.

It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor.  But, why go?  It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence.  He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of.  Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy team.

He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone.  He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure.  All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.

Now, I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt.  Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia.  If you need to be babied, call your Mom.  Better yet, go stay with her.  I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours.  I just ask that you go to a hotel until yours passes.”

On the 4th of July, Real Housewife of Orange County, Alexis Bellino’s stroller rolled into a pool with her 2-1/2-year-old twin daughters on board. Luckily, there was a quick response and everyone was fine, but many people across the internet are incensed, calling her irresponsible and negligent. The truth is, regardless of what you think of Bellino, accidents like this can happen in the blink of an eye. As parents, we all have those moments — the ones we look back on and think, “Wow, that happened so fast!” Usually, they’re little things; one minute you’re walking with your child and you notice his shoe is untied, the next he’s tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and broken an arm.

One of my scariest and most self loathing moments was when my son was about 6 months old. I accidentally locked him in my car. READ MORE

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…)

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…)

CBS 4 featured ME as the news segment.    Yes, it’s true, I wasn’t commenting on whether to spank or not, or talking about the holidays; I was talking about the blog (That you all read!) and the book that I contributed to. Frankly, I’ve found myself news worthy for some time, I’m just glad someone else finally thinks so.  My local girls rocked it and it was so freaking fun.  That’s right, I said the “F” word and I totally meant it.  Check out the footage (click the video in the top right corner).

Thanks for your support,

Jenny From the Blog

Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I said that… I’d have a nickel. Like, Katherine Heigl, Tara Reed, and Janet Jackson before her, this woman’s wardrobe malfunction was someone else’s eye candy. Well, in this case I wouldn’t call it eye candy, though I must admit, I stared at her nipple for quite some time. In a train wreck kinda way, while I debated my moral obligation as a fellow female. At first, I thought I should say nothing. She clearly spent serious man hours getting those boobs to bust out of her bra and reveal the tattoo of a phoenix emblazoned across them. But, as I stared at the protruding circumference, I couldn’t help but think, “I hope someone would have the decency to point out my nipple peeking from my bra. Sure, it would be more embarrassing to hear it than to say it. And she would probably dislike me for pointing it out (no one likes the messenger,) but like the girls who go on the Bachelor always say, “I wasn’t there to make friends.” – which is totally true, I rarely seek new companions in line at the register.

After about 10 minutes of internal turmoil, I took a deep breath and whispered the words I hope not to utter often in my life. “Excuse me ma’am, your nipple is showing” (more…)

On a Mission Monday – The Suburban Jungle is having a contest to give away a gift basket from ConAgra Foods

- The gift Basket will include ConAgra Foods grocery coupons, a branded reusable grocery bag, “Desperate Housewives” on DVD, and other great items.  I will choose the winner using a random drawing site, so everyone is equally elligable!

To sign up for The Suburban Jungle contest, simply let me know what you’ve done or are doing to Fight Child Hunger, whether it’s a donation, volunteering, bringing food to a food bank, or doing a rally… whatever you do (big or small) makes you eligible to enter. (more…)

I realize that 13-14 year olds, Crackheads, homeless people, cheap hookers, and teenage pop stars should not be having children. I’m not, however, taking a stance on moral or political issues; I’ll leave that to Paris Hilton. As a pretty normal adult, with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first. I remember leaving the hospital thinking, “He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory bowel movement, and I demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?”

Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license? Think about it, you need a library card to take out a five dollar novel, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over. You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house, or be a lifeguard. You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.

(more…)

Today, I took my daughter to the pediatrician for her 5 year check up. I know I probably should have been concerned about how she was going to freak out about the 4 vaccines and finger prick that are required to move on to Kindergarten, but I was too preoccupied what she was touching in the waiting room. I am one of those irrational parents that is forced by serious neurosis to take my kids to the doctor over every phlegmy cough. Unfortunately, I am also one of those parents who is quite sure that bringing kids to the doctor’s office pretty much guaranties that they pick up some other snotty kid’s infection, which is far worse than their own. So, you can imagine how going in for a well-check really throws me for a loop.

As I surveyed the waiting room, I noticed that the plastic kitchen in the corner was dripping with mucus. No, I didn’t bring my black light but, a baby had just finished mouthing the oven handle and I’m quite sure his sister picked her nose and tried to cook her reward in the faux microwave. (more…)

It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker.  The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress celebs are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process.  For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time, while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.

When did this happen?  When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane?  I remember the ad, it read:  Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer.  Person will be overworked and underappreciated.  It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references.  Always on duty.  Will pay nothing. (more…)

Okay, so the title isn’t exactly PC.  Sure, they tell you not to make-out with your kids, but sometimes it’s a fine line between so cute and ummm, scary.  What parent doesn’t secretly love it when their child says they want to marry them?  I mean for how many years are they going to want to make-out with, hug, snuggle, or hold your hand?

This morning my daughter came in to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day, to give me a stunning hand-made card, and to neck.  “Oh, this card is awesome.  Come give Mommy a kiss,”  I said in a very innocent non-incestuous way.  My daughter, maybe wanting to show me the magnitude of the holiday, grabbed my face with both hands and planted the biggest smooch on me, I almost started to giggle mid-peck.  But, she wasn’t done; she started turning her head from side to side in her best iCarly imitation.  “Ummm, okay cutie,”  I said feeling partly amused and partly violated. (more…)

Today, I learned how quickly you can turn a friend into an enemy.  Sure, the obvious ways are rather simple: run up to them, tap them on the shoulder, and when they turn around give ‘em a pop in the kisser.  Insult their cooking, their attire or worse, tell them how they should raise their children.

Those are no-brainers, if you’re in the market to lose a friend.  They’re also too malicious for my taste.  No, today I did the one thing that can make a mortal enemy while trying to make polite conversation.  I asked the non-pregnant receptionist at the salon I go to, when she was due.

You hear about people uttering the dreaded, “When are you due?” to those “not” with child or to those who just had a child, all the time.  We all know better than to ask that question unless we’re 110% sure. Frankly, I think you should witness the Clear Blue line on the pregnancy test before ever uttering that phrase.  But there I was, saying it as if I were a lovely, caring, wonderful person.  But when she replied, “due for what?” and then I watched as she processed my meaning while the color drained from her face, I realized, I was no friend of hers.  I was the devil!

I can think of so many awkward moments brought on by social ignorance.  My daughter pointing to someone and saying “Mommy, that man is sooo fat!” with said man inches away.  My son running up to a large black woman, grabbing both her breasts, and yelling across a Foot Locker, “Look at this Mommy, her boobs are HUGE.”  Yes, I’ve had my share of explaining to do, but short of my husband grabbing that same woman’s bosoms and yelling across the Foot Locker, I can’t think of a more “foot in mouth” situation than I had today.

“When she asked due for what?” it sent my mind a flutter, holy crap, she’s not pregnant –is there some  other way to respond: “Due for a teeth cleaning.   Due for a pap smear.  Due for a subscription renewal of Cosmo, “Yes, I just took a job doing magazine sales to earn extra cash to redo my kitchen, and I just wanted to give you a great rate on a full year of the magazine of your choosing at half the newsstand price!”

No, there was no other answer, though I stood silent for quite some time, thinking out the magazine salesperson script.  I went with, “I am soooo sorry.  It’s just that those damn empire waist shirts make everyone look pregnant, frankly you’re the 5^th person I’ve asked today.  And then when I saw that glow to your perfectly clear skin, I just I… “ (she had walked away mid-sentence, no joke)  I think she may have gone to cry or print out a picture of me to throw darts at.  Either way, I’m in the market for a new salon –if you of any!

Question: I want to know. What’s your worst foot in mouth moment??? Feel free to answer in Comment section.