On March 23, 2016 we came out with the post Lose Yourself. It was an announcement post of sorts: We decided as a family we were going to take a shot at branding Dim Sum and Doughnuts.

It’s been almost 2 months and I have learned so much. My daughters, who the blog is named and written for,

are right there with me. We are learning about time management, social media promotion, work ethic and integrity. We are learning a new business. (They are also handing out pens, cards and chip clips to anyone who wants one.) My husband is at camp, getting everything ready, but he somehow manages to take care of business when we need him, no matter how busy he is.

And then there’s you guys. No one would even know who the hell we are, or what we’re trying to do, if it weren’t for you guys.

You are the ones taking the time to read, comment and “like” the posts. That means everything. When you read something and you share it, that means everything and more because that’s how we grow. You’re bringing awareness to Dim Sum and Doughnuts, which helps us bring awareness to so many other things: Good things, positive things, things that deserve attention.

Truth be told, had I REALLY known what was going to be involved with taking Dim Sum and Doughnuts to the next level, I probably wouldn’t have done it. I already have a job. And kids. And camp. I didn’t realize what I would be taking on. I just thought I’d be writing. Nope.

But that’s how it goes. Anything worth something means hard work.

And we’re working hard.

Thank you to everyone who has shared or invited friends to the Facebook page. We know who you are. The Facebook page is like our house and every time someone new shows up, we are happy to have them. Parties are fun, but even better with friends.

And speaking of friends, thank you everyone who is part of the Facebook page. Many of you I have never even met in real life, but that page is a party because of you. Posts don’t get shown in the Facebook newsfeed unless people “like,” comment or share—and you guys are the ones keeping it afloat, and keeping it fun.

Thank you for sharing the blog posts. You’re helping to promote what we believe in, and you’re showing us that you appreciate what we have to say, whether you agree or not.

The blog subscribers: You guys are getting the posts in your email before anyone else, so you’re the first to decide if it’s good or not. If the blog is the heart of Dim Sum and Doughnuts, you’re the life support. Thank you for your loyalty. It does not go unnoticed.

If you follow us on Instagram— #weloveyou #welovehashtags #wethinkwearefunny

Twitter is still a little sketchy, but we are working on how to use it for more than just stalking @Eminem and yelling at hip hop artists who ignore us.

We recently discovered Snapchat and we can’t figure out how we have lived without its total and utter ridiculousness for so long.

Thank you to the haters, non-supporters and non-believers: We use you as fuel to keep us going and you’re the ones we would strive to prove wrong— if we cared. #byefelicia

Thank you for the positive feedback, it’s what keeps us going.

Thank you for the negative feedback, it’s what keeps us learning.

A very wise author once wrote “You never know what you’re going to get with Dim Sum and Doughnuts: Sometimes controversial, sometimes comedic, but always a voice that’s powerfully honest and entertaining. “

We try to live up to those words every time we post, as we only want to give you something worth reading and sharing.

And lastly, thank you for being on this ride. We hope you stick with us as we find our way—and if you’re having as much fun as we are, please consider telling some of the people in your life who are also looking to promote positive things, make mistakes and have SUM fun.

Love,

The Dim Sum and Doughnuts Crew

He was cool. We all thought so. Teachers weren’t really teaching in jeans at this time, and if they did, they were the kind that went all the way up to your armpits—not the faded, broken-in 501’s that this teacher wore.

Teachers are professionals (or they’re supposed to be). They’re expected to rise to the occasion when they enter the classroom, and part of that professionalism lies in their appearance. When I taught high school, I never wore jeans. Maybe I would have if my teaching jobs were more permanent, but probably not. No matter where I taught, I always seemed to get into trouble, so wearing jeans probably would’ve made things worse. Plus, I was young—not that much older than my students—and I needed them to know WHAT WAS UP. They needed to RECOGNIZE. I may have only been 6 or 7 years older than them but I was in charge, yo—and jeans, for me, wouldn’t have relayed that message.

Jeans worked for my high school teacher though. He was able to wear jeans, teach, and command respect all at the same time.

His clothes were a metaphor for his personality (which was so totally appropriate because he was an English teacher). He personified balance: Business on top, party on the bottom.  It was the “mullet” of ensembles. Many of us suspected he had a wild side when he wasn’t teaching, and he had the pants to prove it.

But every day he showed up ready to teach, regardless of what he did the night before.

The work ethic required for a camp counselor is very similar: Work hard, play hard. That’s probably why a lot of camp counselors become teachers.

Like teachers, camp counselors WORK—and they work hard. Being responsible for the welfare of children is not easy. Kids are NUTS and they demand a lot of attention (A LOT) so any amount of time away is both treasured and well deserved.

Hanging out with staff members who are also in the trenches, wearing something nice(er) and getting off grounds is all necessary to keep things fresh. Time off avoids burn-out. It’s also (from what I’ve heard) crazy fun, so the nights can go late.

And late nights equal rough mornings. It’s not always easy when the early bugle blows, but too bad. Being a camp counselor requires respect and whether it’s a day off or a late night in the cabin, it doesn’t matter. When morning comes, it’s Go-Time—presence is not only expected, it’s required.

The camp environment shouldn’t diminish the responsibilities. Being a camp counselor is like any other job. Everyone is expected to show up and be ready to work. And with counselors it’s not just the campers that are counting on them, but the rest of the staff as well. Everyone plays a part at camp, and there are no small parts.

My teacher used to say “In short stories, every word counts.” The same goes for moments spent at camp. Show up for the moments, they all count—and one day they will be great memories.

Plus, you can pretty much wear anything you want, including jeans.

Every once in a while I do a NO BOYS ALLOWED post. This is one of those posts:

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I should have known that Monday was going to be rough. It started with me waking up at 4:28AM. That’s never good because I can’t get back to sleep. I try to count sheep, but somewhere around 12 I start contemplating scenes from Mad Men, and then I stress that I can’t sleep, and then, of course, I have to use the bathroom.

Speaking as someone who has gone to bed at 4:28 in the morning and woken up at 4:28 in the morning, the former is more fun.

After an hour or so, I finally made it back to sleep and when I woke up I looked like this:

Just kidding. I looked like this:

And I felt like it too. But when you’re a mom, the day calls for you whether you’re up for it not.

Our morning routine was uneventful and once I got my kids off to school, I worked and did mom stuff before it was time to pick up my younger one (JJ, 5) from pre-school. She had dance in a few hours and it was Picture Day. I still had work to do, but I remembered to carve out 5-7 minutes so I could get her into costume and make-up.

After that, it was time to meet the bus and grab my older daughter, F, who is 7. JJ and I discussed what kind of mood F would be in when she got off the bus. There are only two moods for F: Good or Bad. Thankfully, she was good.

Traffic was bad on the way to dance, so we were running late. Testing F’s good mood, I asked her if she would be a “nice big sister” and take JJ in while I parked the car. I was very proud of myself for multitasking the drop-off/car park. I don’t think I would have been able to do that a year ago. (Honestly, I’m not even 100% sure that I should have done it this year, but F is responsible and their dance studio is great. I knew my kids would be safe.)

When I walked in, I noticed that everyone in JJ’s class looked perfect while she, though very cute, looked a little disheveled. She was the only one without a ponytail (oops) so we searched until we found a rubber band. I also didn’t think to bring a brush so F and I had to finger brush her hair which left it all bumpy.

It wasn’t until class started that I realized bobbie pins might have been a good idea because her hair wasn’t staying in the band, and also her costume was all jacked up in the back. (See kid on the right.)

She was a mini hot mess. I felt bad. I let her down. But she made it through, unscathed.

When we got home, it was dinner and homework time. The girls usually play while I make something (something they will complain about) for dinner. I never know what they’re doing when they “play,” and I really don’t care as long as there is no crying or blood. Normally they come in and out of the kitchen to bug me, but F only came in once—and it was so she could borrow the broom.

Wait. That’s weird.

Me: F! Hold up! What do you need the broom for?

F: Nothing, Mommy. Don’t worry.

Well, that’s never good, so I followed her. Sure enough, in my bedroom, there was a trail of hair leading to my bathroom. Chunks of hair. And then JJ, on the floor in the bathroom:

JJ: Hi, Mommy! We cut our hair!!!

Oh, goodie.

And since my husband is not around (he’s in northern Michigan living at camp) it’s on me to do everything, and suffice it to say,”cleaning up hair” was not an add-on I was looking for.

And the girls? They thought since Mommy was laughing, she wasn’t mad. They don’t know that sometimes when Mommies laugh, it’s not because something is funny, it’s because we have LOST OUR MINDS.

Her hair:

She cut one big chunk out, Sixteen Candles style.

At least F’s cut was a little more symmetrical, she kind of gave herself layers. Either way, I needed to get them both professional appointments ASAP.

I didn’t yell. I wasn’t mad. I was tired: Tired of not getting ahead and from not enough sleep.

They took that to mean they could go play though. WRONG. I wasn’t the one playing Vidal Sassoon—they made the mess, they can clean it up.

And they did. And then, since we were already in there, they did my make-up.

Finally, it was time for them to go to bed, but it was garbage and recycling time for me. That’s when I really, REALLY miss my husband. I managed to get everything down our driveway (I drove it) but just as I got to the end, a man and his dog were walking by.

I didn’t hit them. (This story would’ve had a much different ending.) I did chat with them though, and even though the last thing I wanted to do at that point was talk to anyone, I managed to hold my own.

But once I was back in the house, washing my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw what the man saw.

I totally forgot that the girls did my make-up!

And then, RIGHT then, as I wiped excess lip gloss off my teeth and sighed in defeat—in defeat of the day, but hopeful that the next one would be better, I got my “P.” P for PERFECT. I didn’t even see it coming or I would have worn a different pair of undies. And I sank to the floor.

And as I sat amidst the chunks of hair that we didn’t quite get, I realized that I truly am very fortunate to be in this position. As moms, we have days like this: Manic Mondays, Turbulent Tuesdays, Wacky Wednesdays…they are “Mother’s Days.” They’re part of the job, a (more often than not) thankless and exhausting job for which we get no money and few accolades, but an important job nonetheless—quite possibly the most important job.

I hope all the Moms out there have a very special Mother’s Day. You deserve only good things today, (unless you are a horrible mom).

And as for me, I think I’m going to treat myself to some new undies.

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Happy Mother’s Day!

My girls aren’t big into TV. They like the show Imagination Movers, but outside of that, TV is not really their thing.

Disney movies are what’s big in our house.

I have to believe, on some level, that Walt Disney and his people knew his movies were going to be big. He was a pioneer on the forefront of delivering magic through form and animation. He was The Beatles of rock and roll, he was the Nivana of grunge, he was the Eminem of hip hop. He was “The Guy,” and when you’re “The Guy,” it comes with a certain amount of responsibility.

So, did he not know this, or did he not care?

He could have SO easily thrown parents a proverbial bone by adding some subliminal dialogue to his movies. For instance, Snow White would have been the perfect person for this message: “Snow White eats all of her vegetables and Snow White believes ALL of you kids should eat your vegetables too. That way when you grow up you will be big and strong, and you can help Mommy and Daddy pack because when your ass goes to college, they’re moving to Boca.”

Snow White would have been perfect for that.

Or, I’m sure he could have found some room for this line in Cinderella: “Cinderella thinks it’s a good idea to ALWAYS listen to your parents because they are the smartest people in the world, especially mommy, so if you want to grow up and have a sweet ride like this (gestures toward the carriage) you should do everything your parents say and never give them any problems, EVER.”

But he didn’t. Instead he threw in a wicked stepmother and pretty much ruined everything for all step moms until the end of time.

He was not super helpful. He ignored us, the suckers BUYING HIS MOVIES. So now, instead of helping us to raise children with honorable and respectable values like the ones stated above, I’ve got a kid who is jacking up the paint in my kitchen as she drags the Swiffer stick out of the laundry room, hitting everything in her way, so she can find a good place in the house to “be like Cinderella and clean.”

Meanwhile, her cleaning blows. She’s no Cinderella, that’s for sure, which basically means I’m the one stuck with the aftermath while she’s moved on to bugging me—asking me why she can’t wear her Snow White costume to sleep because “Well, Mommy, Snow White does. Snow White wears her dress ALL THE TIME, even to sleep. Even to sleep, mommy. She sleeps in it!”

Gross. Thanks, Walt–not only for the Swiffer stick nicks covering my walls but also for that valuable hygiene lesson.

And my other kid? She won’t say “Mama” unless she is prompted by me 300 times, but she will happily point and exclaim “Rel-la!! Rel-la!!” the minute she sees a Disney princes (or, at this point, anyone with long hair).

She’s not even watching the movies! She’s only in there because her sister is! I’m your freakin’ MOM, dude. I birthed you, I bathe you and I’m the one who dealt with the “spredder” you had yesterday that forever ruined the pants of an outfit I loved, but yeah, OK… “Rella” was inducted into your vocabulary before “Mama.” Thank you yet again, Mr. D.

If I was Walt Disney’s teacher and I had to do a progress report for him, I would check the box that says “Not performing to his potential.” I would have seen what he was capable of and I would have expected a lot more from him. He could have really helped parents out in ways he totally neglected, and I would have been all over him about it. He’s lucky I wasn’t his teacher…

…but I bet you wish I was.

Thanks for being here!

~R

For some reason, whenever I voice a concern about my kids, there is almost always someone who feels the need to weigh in with the following response:

“Oh, just wait. That’s NOTHING… Just wait until she is (fill in whatever age their kid is), because that’s way worse!”

I can’t stand that.

Currently, my younger kid is still pooping in her diaper. She’s going to be 3 years old soon and she still doesn’t tell me when she needs to go. I would think she’d want to tell me but no, she is quite content walking around with a rump full of dump.

And not only that, but when I approach her about the VERY obvious poop in her pants, she simply replies: “It’s OK, Mommy!”…Really? Is it? Is it OK that you are walking around with a giant POOP IN YOUR PANTS?”

(Kid in the green/yellow is the one who still poops in her pants.)

(Yep, that one.)

As a parent to a little one, I feel like my complaint is valid. I’m over my kid crapping her pants. I’m looking for someone to help me, to give me some advice. I’m not looking for this:

“Just wait…Oh, just wait…I have a 17 year old son who just brought a hooker to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah and also, he does bong hits at the dinner table.”

I’m sorry, but did I ask to hear about your 17 year old train wreck of a kid? No, I did not. I have a kid who is literally CRAPPING her pants. I’m not interested in your horror and “whore” stories. Thanks for nothing. Go clean your kid’s bong.

I guess it’s normal for the Been There, Done That parents to use the  “Just Wait” scare tactic. They’ve earned it. They paid their dues. They already went through all the stuff we’re dealing with. They’ve moved on. I get that.

But it’s not really helpful.

It’s about perspective, yes, but please understand–everything is relative. If you’re talking to someone who hasn’t been a parent as long as you have, someone who has a valid complaint about what is currently going on with their kid, a kid who’s walking around in denial about a diaper that smells like 4 day old Indian food, I can tell you with a great deal of confidence that perspective is not what they’re looking for.

Most parents (especially new ones) are beat up and worn out. We want someone to listen when we have a concern—a if you’re offering an effective solution, we’ll gladly take it.

We want help. We want support.

Raising kids is like any other part of life. It goes in phases and we have to ride each one out. We suit up and bear down through the rough phases while we wish, in vain, that the fun phases would last forever.

When we complain about parenting issues, we’re either asking for help or looking to vent.

But if you choose to respond to our pleas with “Just Wait…blah blah blah blah blah annoying” well, that’s totally fine. But I think YOU should “Just Wait” too…and I think you should do it over there, with my kid, who just pooped in her diaper. Again.

Thanks for being here!

R

The term “play date” has always been of interest to me. There aren’t many like it in the English language. It’s really the only term I can think of that is filled with formality, necessity and stupidity all at the same time.

On the formal side, a play date is like an arranged appointment for playtime. Actually, I’m sorry, it’s not like an arranged appointment for playtime, it is an arranged appointment for play time.

I can understand why playtimes need to be arranged: We’re busy. A scheduled play date helps to keep things organized.

It just seems so formal to me. Formal and forced. Like I’m going to receive a confirmation call the day before the event. Like the kids should be wearing little tuxedos, or at least one of those t-shirts with the pre-printed tuxedo on them.

Of course, I know the actual play date isn’t formal. It’s just the term that breathes formality to me. We didn’t have a term for play time when I was a kid. We had this:

Kid: Going across the street!

Mom: Bye! Try not to get hit by a car!

Sadly, those days are over. At least for me they are. We’re fortunate during the summer months because we live at an overnight camp full of kids so my kids are in a very safe, self-contained, utopia-style environment. They can walk anywhere and we don’t have to concern ourselves for one minute about their wellbeing. I may have worried once about the possibility of my two-year-old walking into the water by herself, but they don’t get more than 10 feet without being bombarded by no less than 15 campers yelling: “Hi! What’s my name? You’re so cute! What’s my name? Do you remember my name?”

But during the off-season, we live in a neighborhood where the houses are kind of far apart and the closest kid is a bit of a walk. When I was growing up, my mom would let me jump on my bike and ride to pretty much anyone’s house, but things are different now.

I don’t know if the amount of questionable men lurking around neighborhoods in hoopty green station wagons has actually increased over the years, or if we are just more susceptible to media warnings and scary stories. Isolated playdates seem to have become the standard no matter where you live.

I consider my neighborhood to be extremely safe, but I don’t know if I’ll be so quick to let my kids run the hood, unattended, looking for people to play with.

They’ll probably be restricted to the house across the street and the one next door.

Unfortunately, they’ll be screwed because the lady who lives next door will be none too thrilled if my kids show up looking to play with her kids since a) she doesn’t have any kids and b) it seems she is still not over the time when my dog, Floyd Coden, got into her yard and ate all of her cat‘s food—like it was some huge inconvenience or something. (Trust me, Mrs. Roper, it turned out to be a much bigger inconvenience for me at 4:00 in the morning.)

And the house across the street probably isn’t the most ideal spot for my kids to play either since I’m fairly certain that the lady who currently inhabits that house is dead.

For now, my kids are still happy to play with my friends’ kids because they have no say and they don‘t know any better.

But one day that will change. One day they are going to request a play date and I’m going to have to arrange it.

That is not unreasonable. I had friends outside of my neighborhood when I was a kid. I wasn’t a total loser.

We didn’t refer to those times as play dates though. I don’t think we had a name for them. We just did them. My mom would drop and then she would go.

It was a good system but someone, somewhere must have disagreed because that person decided that we, as busy parents, were no longer able to do the Drop-N-Go. That person (not me, definitely not me) decided that the parent who was dropping the kid off would not go, but instead, STAY.

It’s a Play date. Not a Stay date.

My kid is the one who wants a play date, not me. I’m good. Don’t be hurt. It’s not you. I like you and you‘re really nice, but I don’t have time to see the friends I do have. I need to have you over? I don’t think so.

Oh, your kid won’t stay if you’re not there? Well, I guess that means no play date at the Coden house!!

It’s my house that you’re concerned about? Ok! Come in! Take a look around, go through my stuff, count the smoke detectors, whatever you want—but the play date is for my kid, not me. Hit the bricks, yo. I got it covered on my end. If  little Brooklyn is still wailing after 15 minutes, I’ll call you and you can come pick her ass up.

If she stays, great! I’ll feed her something decent for lunch. I promise not to let her go crazy on the Oreos and I’ll keep her fingers out of the outlets, but you gotta go. I have s**t to do. The reason I asked to have your kid over in the first place is because I need someone to play with my kid so I can actually get some stuff done. I promise my kid is much nicer than I am, and believe me, your kid will have such a blast at my house, you can skip your trip to Disney. Anyway, don’t you have an errand you need to run, a manicure you want to get, or a friend you want to spend some time with?

As you can see, I’m really not such great company anyway.

I love it. I use it. I say “NO” to my kids a lot. (A LOT.) Just for the helluva it:”NO.” Sometimes I don’t even listen to what they’re saying, it’s just “NO.”

I say “Yes” once in awhile too, but they’re not used to it so it’s funny to watch them look around trying to figure out if it’s a trick or not.

Another thing I like to do with my parental power is push certain sports teams, recording artists and causes. I want my kids to be proud and to support great things. …And if you want to support great things, what do you do?

YOU REPRESENT.

The things we represent in our family, they’re all good. At least we think they are. Many will argue with our allegiances, but we are ready. Part of being a loyal supporter is playing defense. And defend we do, no matter what.

Not all of the things I push are controversial though, some are no brainers:

We adopted our older daughter, F, at 11 months old, and she’s been repping adoption with us ever since. She’s not walking around in a shirt that says MY MOM AND DAD ADOPTED ME AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT, but she represents. We all do.

In fact, if you were to go up to either one of my daughters looking to discuss adoption, they would gladly engage. (You might even be sorry you asked!) But they have a lot to say because we have nothing to hide. We couldn’t even if we wanted to. I mean, unless people choose to assume that I had a wild night of sexy time with a Chinese guy, it’s pretty obvious that at least one of my two kids is adopted.

But one is not. And because she’s not, she sometimes feels a little slighted. Her back story isn’t quite as intriguing as her sister’s and try as she may, she can’t figure out a way to spin it. Her go-to is to tell everyone that she had to be “CUT out of Mommy’s stomach and it was an EMERGENCY!”— but sadly, no one (besides me)really cares.

So, over the years I have given her other things to rep:

But now my kids are getting older and they want to make their own decisions. Apparently, they don’t need me in their face telling them what I think they should support. I do it anyway, but now they have final say. I’m allowed to offer up a suggestion, but it can only be a suggestion.

Like Autism Awareness. I recently offered that up as a cause we should boost and they looked at me like “WTF is Autism?”

To be fair, Autism isn’t an easy thing to explain. I tripped over my words quite a bit, but by the end of our conversation they understood that awareness and knowledge of Autism is important. Not just for them, but for all of us, because we are all growing up amongst the wonders of Autism.

So, we decided to do a post on the Dim Sum and Doughnuts Facebook page asking others to tell us what THEY want us to know about Autism.

We then asked for people share that post because Autism, like any other cause worth garnering attention, is everywhere.

The people that have Autism need to be recognized for how special and awesome they are, and so do their parents. I don’t know their road, but I imagine it’s not an easy one. Parenting is hard enough, but parenting a child with special needs requires extra special parenting. The parents of children with Autism are doing the best they can, and a little support only helps, especially on the rough days.

There will be claims that I’m exploiting my kids because I make them step up, but I don’t care. I’m doing what feels right to me, as a parent.

Still, I’m not an idiot. I know there could be a day when one or both of my kids  end up on a therapist’s couch, blah blah blah’ing, when all of the sudden, they yell (hands to the sky): You’re right! It IS my mom!! She did this to us! She said “NO” all the time and “YES” only to mess with us, and also: SHE MADE US REPRESENT!!!!

But that’s OK. I’m fine being the one to bear the brunt of all their neurosis. I can take it. I just hope that they know I meant well—and that one of them is wearing an Eminem shirt.

How about you? Your kids? What sports team, worthy cause or artist do you represent?

That’s parenthood. It’s unstable, unpredictable and, often times, thankless. It doesn’t suck all the time, obviously—or no one would do it, but it’s not an easy job to raise a good kid. And if you’re a good parent, raising a good kid, you can’t ever get too cocky because as soon as you do, your kid will do something to remind you that you still have a lot of work to do.

It doesn’t even have to be something big. With little kids, like what I have, it’s usually something small. The thing is, something small can turn into something big if it’s not acknowledged.

For example, my little one, JJ, lost her tooth the other day and the tooth fairy (Penelope) brought her a dollar, a lipstick pen and a Kit Kat. (I don’t know if Penelope is a high rent tooth fairy or if she is low rent, but that’s what my kid got.) JJ was thrilled.

Her older sister, however, was not.

As soon as the Tooth Fairy treasures were displayed, the older one came into the kitchen whining and complaining that “JJ got a Kit Kat and I didn’t, and now JJ will get to have it after lunch and I don’t get ANYHING!! (Whine, whine, whine…cry a little bit and stomp out.)

How JJ’s Tooth Fairy haul was even ABOUT her, I don’t know.

I was so completely dumbfounded by the pre-pre-pre menstrual situation that just occurred, I called her back to the kitchen so I could calmly explain that she also gets stuff from Penelope when she loses a tooth, and she doesn’t always share those things with her little sister.

That should have been enough, but it wasn’t. There was arguing—unnecessary and exhausting arguing.

I started to get aggravated as she argued with me and I finally defaulted to asking her what, if anything, in her life she was missing…?

I will tell you what she’s missing: Nothing. But she argued that too. She somehow even managed to bring the argument back to her sister and then started complaining about a bunch of other random stuff that had nothing to do with ANYTHING in this world.

At that point, I was done so I explained that NONE of this was my problem and if she wanted some of the Kit Kat, her best move would be to go to her sister and ask HER!

It seems, as of late, that this kind of thing has become a trend in our house: My kids concentrate more on what they DON’T have instead of what they DO have.

It never lasts more than a few seconds, but it annoys me. My kids have a good life—the exact life my huz and I work for them to have and want them to have—but sometimes I wonder if we are giving them too much? They complain and whine about the dumbest stuff. A little perspective would be nice sometimes.

Part of it is their age. They’re still little. They don’t know of all the bad stuff that is going on in the world, and they shouldn’t. Or should they?

Maybe a little.

There’s a part of me that wants to protect them while I still can, but I also don’t want to raise spoiled brats. There are some days when I get scared because I feel like they are going in that direction. Those are the days when I think they need to know a little more of what things could be like for them if they didn’t have parents who are as AWESOME as us.

That’s probably why, last night, when the girls and I were in JJ’s bed, petting and loving on our dog, Bruno, we somehow got into a conversation about how some people aren’t so nice to their dogs. And some people aren’t so nice to their kids. In fact, some mommies and daddies even HIT their kids, OPEN HANDED!

And I didn’t stop there. We talked at length about kids who don’t have it as good as they do. Kids who get the crap beat out of them for saying stupid s**t, and kids who don’t ever get Tooth Fairy visits. I felt bad for a second because, you know, probably not the best bedtime story ever, but it seemed like I was making my point, even if it was only going to last a few seconds.

Sometimes those seconds are what helps our kids become decent adults though.

I believe there are times when we need to indulge youth and innocence, and let our kids only know happy times, but sometimes they need to know that there are worse things than not getting a Kit Kat when your sister does.

Also, telling your kid about horrible parents who beat their kids keeps the bar real low for us so we look good and get a win—even if it’s only for a few seconds.

But I didn’t.

What I did do was step up our walks, and on those walks I have learned some things. Here are 10 of them:

1. Nothing will humble you more than scooping up and carrying around a bag of dog s**t. I don’t care how cool you think you are, it’s hard to be “The s**t” when you’re walking around carrying a bag of it.

2. Don’t rush to judgment. There’s a dog in our hood that is mean. I’m sorry, but he is. I assumed when I approached him that he’d be nice like all the other Golden Retrievers I have known, but NO, he wasn’t. Bruno has the opposite problem. Most people are scared to approach Bruno, and some have admitted that it’s because he’s big and black. Racists!!

3. Slow down. The walk I take with Bruno may be the biggest part of his day, but I’ve got s**t to do. We need to keep moving. Sometimes, though, Bruno likes to slow down and take things in. That’s how he rolls, and I am trying to do the same.

4. Fresh Air is good. (I feel like that one is pretty self explanatory.)

5. Don’t get The Lazies around The Crazies. Keep walking. There’s this one dog who barks NON-STOP when we go by. We call her Felicia. Felicia is nuts. Felicia wants Bruno to stop and hang with her so badly, but Felicia needs to work on her approach. Until then…

6. Let your freak flag fly. Bruno loves the ladies. Izzy is his love but he also has a side piece: Roxy. (We call her Foxy Roxy.) I have no doubt that the ladies know about each other because A) they can smell it on him and B) women know. But Bruno isn’t a one woman kind of guy. Bruno is a ramblin’ man and he doesn’t apologize for it.

7. The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. There’s this lady who walks her dogs every morning in her pajamas with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She never says anything to us, just yells at her dogs—and I swear on everything in this world that is holy to me that if her little yippie ass dogs were people, they would be exactly like her.

8. Just because someone can’t communicate to you they’re in pain, doesn’t mean they aren’t. Yesterday, Bruno kept stopping on our walk. I was all “Come on, Mr. 10 lbs!” until I realized that he had something caught in his paw. I felt bad. Not everyone can articulate the pain they’re in, and sometimes it’s up to us to notice the signs.

9. If some Mind F**k is messing with your head and they can’t decide if they’re in or out, decide for them. There’s this one dog who loves Bruno, but she keeps teasing him. She’ll bark for him to come near her and then when he does, she bails. She did this 3 times the other day and finally Bruno was like, Later, sister. Get back to me when you get your act together. We outtie.

10. Don’t overstay your welcome. When we visit with other dogs, we try not to hang too long or they might not want us back. Bruno likes to leave them wanting more. And so do I.

Happy Walking!

The story goes that the bee was buzzing around her but she stayed really still and he left. But then he came back. She says he came back and hid inside her pants until she was inside our cabin playing with her sister—and then he stung her on the leg.

It hurt my daughter when she got stung. Getting stung by a bee hurts. I haven’t been stung since I was a kid, but I remember it NOT fondly, and if I could go through life without it ever happening again, that would be great.

But let’s be honest, getting stung by a bee isn’t the worst thing ever. There are worse things. I gotta believe getting something cut off, like a finger, would be worse.

Not to F! Even after we got through the tears and the Benadryl, we had to re-live the story like 30 times. Her answer to everything for the next several hours was either “I can’t, my leg STILL really hurts!” or “I’m never going outside ever, EVER again!“

Ok, yes. Bee sting. It hurts for a bit but OK. Time to move on, yo!

It’s possible I pushed her to move on a little too soon though. She is, by nature (or nurture, I’m not really sure because she’s adopted) a bit on the dramatic side. I was over the bee. Time to be done with the bee!

And it wasn’t just me. I think everyone who was around for the bee aftermath was feeling the same way, I was just the only one who said anything. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just a really impatient b**ch of a mom.

And if that’s the case, trust me, I got mine.

Before I tell you what happened, in order for it to make sense, you need to know something:

I am a very big Eminem fan. (Many, many years.)

I love Eminem for many reasons. Suffice it to say, the days I get to see him in concert are GOOD days. Those days are like my birthday x 1 million zillion trillion. I don’t want to meet him, but I do love to see him, and this past Friday, right before he got on stage, right before I was about to be in a very happy place, I got stung by a bee. IN THE FACE.

I was in the “Pit” section of the stadium. That’s the area right in front of the stage that houses a bunch of other big Eminem fans—commonly referred to as “Stans.” (My husband calls me “Stan.” He got me this license plate. He thinks he’s funny.)

I am either the biggest fan or the biggest loser, it really could go either way at this point. Anyway, the concert was outside at Comerica Park in Detroit and it was pretty hot out (and even hotter in the “Pit”). The other “Stans” and I were cramped into some pretty close quarters and most of us had been there for around 2-1/2 hours. People were sweaty and yucky and anxious— and for the life of me, I still can’t figure out why a bee would want to come into that mess.

But one came, and it came for me.

It came RIGHT for me, with a vengeance. It literally came from OUT OF NOWHERE and got all up in my face and started going psycho. I totally freaked and started waving my hands all over the place. The people around me were like What the hell?? And right when I thought it was over, right before Eminem took the stage, that little a-hole somehow got up under my baseball cap and stung me, BAD, on my forehead.

What is that about, you ask?

I’ll tell you what. It’s karma. I warn my kids all the time that if they do bad things, bad things will happen. I’m not saying bad things won’t happen if you do good things (we all know that’s not true) but I am saying that it’s probably smarter to err on the side of trying to be good. It just usually seems to work out better.

Unfortunately, I sometimes do bad things, nothing big, but usually something bad pretty much every day, so right after the sting, I started scanning my brain for some kind of viable reason why a bee would come out of f’ing nowhere and sting me 2 MINUTES BEFORE something I was so excited for.

At first I thought Eminem sent the bee over to me because he was mad that I wasn’t close enough to the stage, but then I thought That’s his fault. He should make a section just for me. And then I remembered something from earlier that day that I maybe shouldn’t have done and decided that’s why I got stung. Good enough for me! The show was starting so unless my face started blowing up all crazy and stuff:

I was just going to ignore it and move on. It throbbed and it hurt, and I was a little concerned about whether or not the stinger was still in, but whatever, it was show time, baby!

The next day though, things got worse. My forehead was redder and everything was itchy and parts were starting to swell up.  One of my girlfriends helped me decide that my “bee incident” was definitely karma related, but not for the reason I suspected. She thought it had more to do with how I dealt with F when she got stung. It seems that I could have treated my daughter with a little more patience and compassion. It’s possible that not everyone gets over pain as quickly as I do.

I apologized to F straightaway. I figured I was home free after that. There was a hug and everything! Nope. Things only got worse. The next morning, I woke up to all kinds of bad stuff happening on my face including my right eye being swollen shut.

So there I was, standing in my bathroom, pleading with the ceiling… “I GOT IT!!! I’m the worst parent EVER!! I promise to be more patient and compassionate, just call off this crazy karma curse!”

I’m able to see better now in more ways than one.  The next time F needs some extra attention, I’m really going to try and buy into it. I’m going to try and not get annoyed by the fake crying and the relentless complaining. I’m going to try and embrace the dramatics and let her whine until even she can’t stand to listen to herself anymore.

I’m going to try to do that because even though to me, getting stung by a bee in the grand scheme of things isn’t THAT big of a deal—to my kid, in her world, it is.

I got it, Karma. I swear, I got it. MESSAGE RECEIVED.