Headphones & Hormones

They've outgrown the highchairs, they can't hear a word you say, and you don't know whose hormones are worse, yours or theirs. Here's my take on parenting teens as a perimenopausal single mom in 2025.

  • Remember when you told yourself that the holiday hell would be over on December 26?  Well, take a look at the current state of your living room.  Does it look a little like a Toys R Us warehouse imploded on itself?  That’s because December’s fat lady has yet to sing, darling.  There’s still much to be done.

    Has anyone seen the kids?
    Has anyone seen the kids?

    Here are some of my post-Christmas observations and declarations from this year’s edition of the yuletide insanity-fest we call the holiday season:

    Why don’t toy companies just throw a toy in a box and leave it alone? Maybe if they wouldn’t shackle every inch of the damn thing to a piece of indestructible cardboard, then perhaps they could save a few bucks on materials and charge a little less for the overpriced, plastic piece of crap.

    Never purchase a talking toy with no off button.  The only way to shut it off is to back over it with your SUV.

    If a child is too lazy to peek inside a plain, white, unmarked box, throwing it immediately aside to move on to the next package as though it were just a pair of socks and not the ONLY gift he asked for all year long, then he kind of deserved to think Santa didn’t bother to bring it.  At least, for a little while.

    10a.m. is not at all too early for a drink on a holiday (mimosas, anyone?).  Especially not when you’ve been on autopilot for the past 48 hours, alternating between cooking, baking, gift-wrapping, and occasionally pausing to feed the children.

    If you stash 25 empty cardboard boxes in some random corner of your bedroom, simply because there was nowhere else to put them at the time, you WILL inevitably fall and bust your ass in the middle of the night when getting up to pee.

    Getting socks for Christmas as a child? Couldn’t be lamer.  Getting socks for Christmas as an adult? Totally awesome.  You can NEVER have too many socks.

    For some reason, toy companies believe that they need two versions of every toy they make: the regular version and the pink version.  Just because your child has a vagina does not mean that every single toy she owns must match her lady parts.  It is perfectly acceptable to purchase non-pink toys for a little girl.

    Did you like to use your couch for sitting?  That’s a shame.  Because you probably won’t even see it again for a week.  You’ll find a place for all these new toys when your desire for a soft spot to place your ass finally begins to outweigh your disdain for reorganizing the kids’ bedroom/playroom.

    Taking the tree down is nowhere near as much fun as putting it up.  Wine helps.

    Of all the clever little spots where you creatively placed your elf on the shelf in the past month, you’re about to put it in the very best place of all- the attic!  Buh-bye, creepo!

    Remember when you were buying all the kids’ gifts and you knew you were doing it partially for your own benefit, because their little excited faces on Christmas morning would just be so priceless?  Channel that feeling on December 26, after you’ve been forcibly extracting toys from boxes, unscrewing battery compartment covers with your blistery, screwdriver-holding hands, and exhaustively trying to fit “part B” into “slot F” for three straight hours—with no end to the toy-assembling madness in sight.

    Though the spoiled brats, ahem, kids, have about a thousand new toys to play with EACH, they are still nonstop fighting over the same stupid toy.  You can take the toy away, hide it, toss it, or throw it under the tires of your SUV with its talking counterparts, but the bratty darlings will simply find something else to fight over.  Give up trying to break the endless cycle — just let them kill each other.

    School is out for a week.  All rules about no TV-watching and no video game-playing are nullified.  Activate winter zombie child mode and don’t look back ’til it’s 2014.

    Good news: now that Christmas is finally over, New Years is only a week away! WOOHOO!! Party time! Oh wait, you have kids.  Never mind.

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    We all have ’em.  Here are some of mine:

    I sometimes have to try REALLY hard not to laugh when my son is sounding out words when we are reading together because he sounds like a dying moose.

    I occasionally “borrow” a few bucks from my kids’ piggy banks for takeout when I have no cash on me.  Also, my son doesn’t know it, but he paid for his last two school trips, as well as his teacher’s holiday gift, with his very own money.  I’ll put it back…..someday.

    When I was pregnant, I used to deliberately leave my coat wide open (even in the dead of winter) so people could see my big belly and give me a seat on the train.

    I re-gift.  When my kids get doubles of something on Christmas or their birthday, or something outside of their age range, I don’t exchange it at the store. It just goes in the good old re-gifting pile up in my attic.  Sorry, friends with children.  What can I say?  These birthday gifts add up.

    I broke the blinds and told my husband that my son did it.  Twice.  Okay, three times.  I’m very clumsy.

    I have wiped my kids’ noses with my own hand.  Many, many times.

    I’m a big co-sleeper.  My kids honestly believed their crib was just a large prison for stuffed animals.  It isn’t because I’m some attachment parenting hippie chick looking to strengthen the bond between mother and child and all that.  It’s because I don’t like getting up out of bed in the middle of the night to tend to crying babies.

    On that note, I also breastfed my daughter for thirteen months.  Go me, right?  Wrong.  I’d have probably stopped A LOT sooner if she would have just drank  from a damn bottle.  I thought people were just joking when they said “I’ll stop when the teeth grow in.”  They are not kidding.  Um, OUCH.

    Every time I make my kids a box of mac-n-cheese for lunch, I end up eating half of it.  It starts with “just a taste” to make sure it’s cooled off, and goes downhill from there.

    My son has been occasionally watching PG-13 movies for a while now.  At his four-year-old checkup, while lying on the examination table, he reenacted a scene from the first Ghostbusters movie where a woman is possessed and rambling demonically.  I had to tell his doctor that he was “in a big monster phase.”

    We sometimes eat McDonalds.  And Burger King.  And Wendy’s.  Not often, but it happens.  It’s cheap, easy, and freakin’ delicious.  Get over it, Jamie Oliver.

    Neither of my children have ever watched a single episode of Barney.  I simply won’t allow it.  Of all the obnoxious TV shows for kids out there, and believe me, my kids have seen them all, I draw the line right in front of that big purple jackass.

    My son often watches TV on school nights.  From the TV in his bedroom.  He knows how to operate Netflix and he picks out whatever he wants.  Usually I can hear whatever he’s watching to know that it’s okay for kids, but one time my husband caught him watching Breaking Bad.  Whoops.

    I accidentally turned the hot water on my daughter during a bath when she was two weeks old, resulting burns on her leg, arm, and back.  I honestly thought I wasn’t fit to be a mother anymore, until I found out that almost everyone has their own “I almost killed my own kid” story.  It doesn’t usually happen even before the umbilical cord falls off, or result in spending a whole night in the hospital, but whatever.  She’s alive now, right?

    When my son was a baby, we didn’t buy him any Christmas gifts.  Blobs don’t care about gifts.

    Every morning, I find myself psychotically screaming at my son to make sure he’s brushed his teeth before we leave for school, as though there will be a dentist standing outside each classroom checking for plaque buildup and bad breath.  Yet on the weekends, if I even remember to ask if his teeth are brushed, it’s usually a lot closer to dinnertime than breakfast.

    The last parenting book I read was What To Expect When You’re Expecting.  The best piece of parenting advice I ever heard didn’t come from some hoity-toity parenting book or child-rearing expert; it came from a stand-up comedian.  Louis CK, a hilarious, divorced single dad who regularly jokes about how miserable his kids make him, had something to say in one of his acts that led me to reexamine the way I view child punishment.

    (sorry for the shitty quality).

    As I’m writing these, I’m beginning to wonder if you are all nodding your heads in agreement, or teetering on calling CPS.

    So what are your dirty little mommy secrets?

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    I really, really want my kids to have a great Christmas.  It’s practically a requirement for me, as a parent and lover of all things Christmas, to make sure every holiday season rocks their little green and red socks off. Unfortunately, it seems to be getting harder every year to keep Christmas awesome while keeping my sanity in the process.  

    Today I fantasized for a quick moment about happily handing over some candy canes and hot chocolate to my kids, then engaging in a mature conversation with both of them (yes, even the two-year-old) on how to behave at Christmastime.  It went a little something like this:

    Our tree exists purely for festive decoration.  There is nothing festive or decorative about a half-naked Christmas tree.  Please stop incessantly removing every ball, toy, ribbon, and bow that has been placed on the bottom half of the tree, or else next year Mommy is installing an electric fence around the entire living room.

    Our vicious Christmas tree guard dog.
    Our vicious Christmas tree guard dog.

    The gifts that are already wrapped and placed under the tree right now are NOT for you.  Stop shaking them before you accidentally break the new wine glasses Mommy bought Grandma for Christmas.  I’d hate to have to replace them with the ones I bought for myself.  Nobody comes between me and my holiday buzz.

    Santa brings your gifts on Christmas Eve, not me.  But, just so you know, Mommy and Daddy (mostly Mommy) tell Santa EXACTLY what to get you every year.  And then we pay him.  LOTS OF MONEY.  That’s right.  Mommy and Daddy give entire paychecks over to Toys ‘R’ Us, ahem, SANTA CLAUS, in exchange for him to bring everything on your wish list come Christmas Eve.  It’s a real holly jolly kind of business transaction.

    That tattling little elf on the shelf is ALWAYS watching.  This means that when you feed your broccoli to the dog under the table during dinner, Mommy might not see you, but that creepy elf dude sure does.  So stop doing it before he rats you out to Santa.  Dog farts are masking the pleasant aromatics of my Christmas cookie-scented Yankee Candles.

    If we end up spending over two hours in line waiting to take an overpriced picture with that credit-stealing fatass in the cheap, red suit, you had better be smiling brighter than the sun when we finally get to the front of the line.  I don’t care if you have to pee so bad you might leave a yellow stain in his lap; I don’t care if your mouth is drier than the Mojave and your sippy cup has nary a single drop of juice left; I don’t even care if you just caught a glimpse of Santa secretly grabbing an elf’s ass and now you’re mentally scarred for life.  You better just plop yourself right down on his germ-infested lap and put on the biggest shit-eating grin you can muster. You’ll deal with the rest of it in therapy later on.  We have Christmas cards to mail out, for pete’s sake.

    There are children all over the world who are much less fortunate than you.  Like, starving children who own nothing but the clothes on their back and maybe a stuffed animal they once found in the gutter.  Remember these poor babies on Christmas morning when there are no gifts left to open and you even think about throwing a bratty little tantrum because Santa got you the wrong action figure or whatever.  I truly hope the six-year-old boy from Bangladesh who made that action figure kept it for himself when no one was looking.

    Mommy loves playing with you.  Really, I do.  But on Christmas Eve, as well as the day or two before that, my to-do list will be at least seven miles long and I’ll have not even one minute to spare for coloring, reading, playing LEGO’s, card games, hide-and-seek, peek-a-boo, couch forts, or really anything at all besides cooking, cleaning, shopping, wrapping, baking, and running errands.   I can, however, flip on the TV show of your preference, if you’d like.  But only if it’s DVR’d or on regular TV.  I won’t have the patience to fumble around with that exhausting “On Demand” menu that day.

    I know you’re Dreaming of a White Christmas, and Walking in a Winter Wonderland, and thinking about all that redundant “Let It Snow” bullshit.  But the people who wrote those snowy seasonal classics probably never had to visit several family members residing in separate boroughs of New York City in one day.  Holiday traffic is bad enough by itself; throw a blizzard in and I might as well just pull over on the side of the Belt Parking Lot, whip out a fishing pole, then catch and make dinner right there under the Verrazano Bridge using the EZ Bake oven I bought my nephew for Christmas.  So do me a favor and go tell Frosty you’ll see him in January.

    Everybody loves Christmas cookies.  They’re fun to make and yummy to eat.  You can even get a little messy while making them.  But you need to understand that the key here is a LITTLE messy. The goal should not be to cover yourself in flour, from head to toe, then do the same to everyone around you (see picture below).  At least try to keep the flour within a ten-foot radius of the kitchen table.  Just try.  Do it for Santa.

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    Per a new holiday tradition, I will allow you to watch A Christmas Story with Daddy on Christmas Eve, despite the fact that you’re probably a little too young for it.  But be forewarned, you are never to ask for a BB gun, lick a frozen pole, utter the “queen of all dirty words,” or ever even consider owning a giant leg-shaped lamp.  Or else you’ll be downgraded to watching A Muppet Christmas Carol by yourselves next year.  No offense, Kermit.

    The reason the delivery man keeps bringing all of those boxes to the door, you ask?  Oh, it has nothing to do with online Christmas shopping at all.  I’m actually building a small village out of cardboard boxes for bears to hibernate in during the winter.  Where is it, you ask?  I can’t tell you, there are bears already living inside.  It’s much too dangerous.  Now stop asking questions and go lay under the Christmas tree to stare at your reflection in the shiny balls.  It’s fun.

    Christmas day is December 25.  Putting the Christmas tree up DOES NOT magically change the date to December 25.  Today is not Christmas day.  Tomorrow is not, either.  Nor is the day after that.  You *MUST* stop asking me every fifteen minutes if it’s Christmas yet.  It is not Christmas yet.  Do you understand?  Christmas. Day. Is. Not. Here. Yet. Believe me, when December 25 rolls around, you will be WELL aware that it is Christmas.  Until then, do us both a favor and keep your ugly sweater on, alright?

  • Just going to dive right in with this, as I haven’t got much time today.  There’s food to make, cookies to bake, and  a couple of crazy kids giving me a headache 😉

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    The Six Worst Things About Thanksgiving:

    The family divide and conquer trick – I’m no magician, so unfortunately I can’t slice myself in half and spend any single holiday with both my side of the family and my husband’s side.  Even if I attempt to magically slice just the day in half, giving some time to each side, I usually spend much more time in traffic than anywhere else.  And if you (like me in the picture above from 2008) were brave enough to say screw it and just invited everyone to your own house this year, well, good luck with that.

    Christmas is coming– Um, people are Christmas shopping already?  Unless I draw a little Christmas tree on the front of my rent check,  it’s going to be a while before any of my purchases reflect the upcoming most wonderfully expensive time of the year.

    The food is not that big of a deal to me– Seriously, don’t people know they sell turkey all year round?  Stuffing too!

    Being a mom – Moms don’t really get to enjoy holidays.  We rarely do.  We just get to hone our multi-tasking skills, while counting the minutes until the kids finally tire of chasing each other in circles all day and pass out in the car on the way home.  Or on Grandma’s floor.  Wherever.

    Happy Thanks-for-overeating Day! –  Call me a cynic, but in what way does “I plan to eat as much turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes as I can comfortably fit inside of my body without possibly exploding, then take a short break, and continue the fatass fest by shoveling even sweeter, more fattening food down my throat and into my ever-expanding gut” mean that we are thankful for what we have?  Look, I’ll probably stuff my face all day just like the rest of this shamefully gluttonous country tomorrow, but let’s just tell it like it is. This holiday has very little to do with giving thanks for anything more than the right to ask for seconds, thirds, fourths, and fifths.

    Black Friday – Everything about Black Friday gives me anxiety. Waking up at the crack of dawn (or earlier), fighting insane crowds, waiting on long lines, spending too much money, and possibly being trampled to death.  Sound inviting to anyone?

    The Six Best Things About Thanksgiving:

    The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade – I don’t go, but I ALWAYS watch.  It brings back childhood memories of a happier time when Thanksgiving didn’t conjure thoughts of overeating and fighting with relatives.

    Cyber Monday – Why do people kill each other over half-price toasters or whatever, when half the time it’s almost as cheap online?

    Stuffed mushrooms – ‘Nuff said.

    Socially acceptable afternoon drinking – Sign me up!

    Leftovers – Undeniably better than the original meal.

    Christmas is coming – I may be the Grinch who stole Thanksgiving, but I’m no Ebenezer Scrooge.  I actually really do love Christmas.  Everything is silver and sparkly and magical and pretty, and if it didn’t cause me to further my credit card debt even more each year than the year before, then  it really would be most the wonderful time of the year.

    Happy Thanksgiving!

  • Before I was ever responsible for the health and nutrition of another person, my diet consisted mostly of pop tarts and alcohol.  My most impressive feat in the kitchen was making these little biscuit-type thingies that my family lovingly referred to as “Jeannine’s Balls.”  They consisted of unmeasured ratios of water and Bisquick pancake mix, rolled up into little balls and then flung into a hot oven ‘til kinda, sorta done-looking.  I made them for the first time when I was ten years old, and they continued to be my specialty dish at home until sometime around my mid-twenties.  For those of you with dirty minds, you can just go ahead and say it aloud with me: my family ate my balls for fifteen years.  That is, indeed, what she said.

    My husband chose to marry and procreate with me (though not necessarily in that order) despite my severe lack of cooking skills, but after having my first kid I decided I better learn a thing or two about feeding a family.  You know, to bring out my well-hidden, potentially non-existent, inner domestic goddess and stuff.  So I went and purchased these culinary masterpieces:

    Fullscreen capture 11262013 105106 AM

    It’s been about six years since I learned how to boil water, and I’ve come a LONG way.  Now I can even MIX things with water (jello, anyone?).  I’m just kidding.  I’m actually an okay cook.  My kids and husband are still alive, so that’s some proof of my kitchen skills, right?

    As it turns out, my inner domestic goddess really was in there somewhere.  Well, the one that does the cooking was there.  The one that does the cleaning and the laundry?  Ehh, notsomuch.  But one out of three ain’t bad.

    So what’s a decent blog entry without an oddly-numbered list of some sort?  I’ve compiled a short list of random things I’ve learned that have made my life easier ever since I purchased those pathetic books.  I’ve got some tips, tricks, and admittedly, a couple of totally unpaid advertisements as well.  I apologize, in advance, if you have neither Costco nor Trader Joe’s nearby.  And I’m also very sorry to hear it.

    Make rice in the oven.  I can’t make rice on a stove to save my life.  For those of you who think you just boil water, throw it in and wait, you have either never made real rice or you’re making some easy-peasy, minute rice copout shit.  Minute rice is WAY more expensive than the real stuff, and I’m on a budget over here.  There’s no fancy schmancy quick-cooking rice in my cabinets, people.  Oh, and if you are using the real stuff and your rice still comes perfect after a mere hot water bath, then good for you. Go audition for the Next Food Network Star or something.  For me, rice was always the enemy.  So after years of abuse from smug friends and family about my inability to make rice, a light bulb finally went off in my head.  Make it in the OVEN.  Totally works every time.

    Trader Joe’s is not as expensive as you think.  I love Trader Joes.  Let me repeat myself: I LOVE TRADER JOE’S.  When it first opened on Staten Island, I couldn’t care less.  I was like, ugh, screw that expensive, health food, yuppie bullshit.   I’m good over here at my local Pathmark.  But then my son started attending preschool next door to TJ’s and I decided to give it a try after all.  Be advised: this is not a paid advertisement.  I wish it were, because then maybe I could afford to buy that fancy minute rice after all.  But I’m being as genuine as I can be. Their stuff is mostly inexpensive and of better quality than a lot of the crap at the supermarket.  This is my favorite item, because I use it like four times a week and it’s cheaper and much better tasting than the crappy one I used to buy at Pathmark.  And I promise they have better stuff than chicken broth, but that shit’s just a staple in my kitchen. If you live near a Trader Joe’s and don’t shop there, you are doing a great disservice to yourself.  And if you don’t live near one, then maybe try moving?

    Make kale chips – I know I lost a little bit of street cred with the whole Trader Joe’s obsession, but I’m about to make it even worse.  Because I think roasted kale chips are the best thing to happen to a vegetable since eggplant parmesan.  I’m not even exaggerating.  They are easy to make, loaded with all kinds of healthy vitamins and ministers, and most importantly, delicious.  VERY delicious.  Delicious enough for children to eat willingly despite their green appearance and vegetable categorization.  Here’s what you do: go buy fresh kale (not those stupid pre-cut bags; don’t be lazy).  Wash the leaves and pull off the stems.  Chop it up into big pieces.  Toss with some EVOO (what up Rachael Ray?!  That’s extra virgin olive oil, for those of you non-30-Minute-Meal-watchers).  Add some salt and pepper.  Lay it out evenly on a baking sheet and roast at 375 for about 10 minutes, or until kale is crispy but not burnt.  Put it on the dinner table. Tell the kids you made “green chips” as a side dish because they were just so good that day (ha! Imagine?). Then pat yourself on the back because your family?  Is happily eating KALE.  That totally deserves a scoop of ice cream with your after-dinner glass(es) of wine.

    Costco makes the best rotisserie chickens, ever – Costco sells a lot of the best things ever, but we don’t have all day here.   I have no idea what kind of yummy scrumptious awesomeness they put in their chicken recipe, but I don’t even care.  You know how there’s always that one night during the week, after a particularly long day, that you’re just not in the mood to cook?  So you order pizza or Chinese food.   And then another night comes along and, again, you don’t feel like cooking.  But you already ordered out one night, so then you eat leftovers or maybe sandwiches.  And then a third night rolls around and you’re like, shit, I might have to actually put on the stove tonight.  That’s when you should head to Costco and grab one of their amazing chickens (for just five bucks!) and boom, another night free of cooking.  Except for a simple side or two.  Tomorrow night, you’ll make a feast.  Promise. Well, maybe.

    Always make your own salad dressing – Most store-bought salad dressings are nasty.  At least, in my opinion, they are.   You might agree or disagree, but you certainly have to admit that home-made salad dressings are way better.  And really, is it that hard to mix oil and vinegar?  My favorite salad dressing recipe comes courtesy of my mom: two parts olive oil, one part lemon juice, one or two teaspoons of sugar or sweetener, salt, and pepper.  Shaky, shaky, and done.   So easy, and I promise it’s the best dressing ever.  I usually add a little parsley, fresh or dried- whatever you have.  Now, are you ready for my favorite trick ever?  Here it is: when you squeeze lemons, (should you be adventurous enough to opt for fresh lemons over the store-bought, pre-squeezed, bottled kind) squeeze them out over one of these bad boys Fullscreen capture 11262013 105327 AMto avoid getting pits in your dressing.  Everyone has one of these handheld grater things.  Even I have three of them, for some reason, and my kitchen is basically the size of a walk-in closet.

    Food Network + the Internet = perfectly fine cooking education – I’m so grateful to live in an age where, when I have a cooking question, I can just type it into Google and have several hundred pages of answers a second later.  As you might recall, when I was living home with my parents, I was unfortunately too busy getting drunk and eating pop tarts to bother paying attention to my mom in the kitchen.   And my grandmother passed away before she was ever able to fulfill her necessary Italian Grandma duties by insisting I learn the way of the wooden spoon (when it wasn’t being broken over some poor, misbehaving sibling’s head).   So when I finally moved out, I had all my shiny new pots and pans and spatulas but didn’t know the difference between a saucepan and a frying pan. So I turned to my new best friend: The Food Network.  Oh Giada, Bobby Flay, and Rachael Ray! How you’ve shown me the way!  I suppose this is neither a cooking tip nor secret, but more of a statement of fact: as long as there are entire channels dedicated to teaching people how to boil water, as well as awesome websites like Allrecipes and Epicurious, you’ll be alright.  Your food might even eventually taste almost as awesome as if your mom, or maybe even your Italian grandma, made it herself.  Almost.