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.

  • Once Upon a (Childless) Time

    Big M is in Atlantic City for a bachelor party tonight and the kids just went to sleep. So yea…this is happening 😉

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    I’m not going to lie, I’m insanely jealous of Big M.  Not because he’s hanging out with a bunch of single guys who are likely to end up, at some point, in a strip club tonight. Not that kind of jealous.  I’m just jealous that he’s lucky enough to be out of this crazy house for a night, drinking until his liver hates him, gambling away money we definitely don’t have, and maybe going to a club where I really hope all of the employees are wearing clothes. Pretty much everything I used to do BC (before children).  Right now that lucky bastard is drinking beer, playing roulette, and probably enjoying really good music in the company of really good friends. Meanwhile, I spent the day handing out juice boxes, playing peek-a-boo with one kid and Nintendo Wii with the other, and watching every single godforsaken show on Nickelodeon.  So you better believe I’m jealous as hell.

    It’s isn’t actually about Big M—really I’m happy he’s going out tonight.  He doesn’t go out often so he deserves a night out, and I have a bunch of DVR’d episodes of Days of Our Lives to catch up on anyway.  It’s just that it’s a slightly depressing reminder of how much life changes when you have kids.  There is so much you have to give up…

    Once upon a time I could kill a whole day lazily watching movies in bed.  I could consume as much ice cream as Ben & Jerry’s could stock in my local supermarket’s freezer and not have to fear the inevitable return of the 45 pounds I’d gained during my first pregnancy. Once upon a time I actually had the time to regularly organize my favorite new songs into iPod playlists in order to have good music to listen to while running on the treadmill.  That was when I actually knew what the newest songs out were and I also owned a treadmill (and even used it once in a while).  Once upon a time I could call my friends on any random day of the week and spontaneously make a plan to go out (dare I say it?) that VERY SAME NIGHT.  Then I could go out and blow my entire paycheck without fearing I’d just spent all the money I’d been putting aside for the kids’ summer wardrobes.  Once upon a time I’d visualized living in a great big American dream house that I’d bought with the money I’d earned at my great big American dream six-figure salary job (not quite the apartment-renting stay-at-home-mom that I am today).  Once upon a time I could sit and peacefully eat a whole entire meal without getting up even once to refill a sippy cup or wipe up spilled juice, or cut someone’s meat into fifty chewable little pieces; and I could also take a whole entire shower without someone walking into the humid, fogged-up bathroom and leaving behind a toilet full of steaming turd (not to mention forcing me to reach my hand out and saturate an entire roll of toilet paper in order to to aid in butt-wiping procedures).  Once upon a time I could even hold my liquor, much better than now anyway, and easily stay awake until the sun came up–not the least bit worried about being up in approximately twenty minutes to change diapers and make breakfast for two tiny, hungry humans.

    But then again…

    Once upon a time I also didn’t know how it felt getting amazing tiny hugs from those tiny humans.  I didn’t know anything about that feeling you get when you watch them sleep, and their sweet little lips pucker back and forth like they do when they are drinking their milk, and their little eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, and you’re compelled to touch their cheek very gently with the tip of your finger, just because not even the finest quality of silk in the world is half as soft as their smooth, precious skin. Once upon a time I couldn’t comprehend the seething rage or the blinding fury you could feel toward anyone or thing who dared to hurt your child, even in the smallest way, and the way you’d literally move heaven and earth to make them never get hurt again. Once upon a time I didn’t know the way every rock-hard bone in your body could be reduced to a pile of mere jello, that every cell you were composed of could melt into an enormous puddle those first few unbelievable times your sweet little angel smiles at you. Once upon a time I didn’t know that my heart could literally explode with pride and joy at little things like a school picture, or a successful doctor’s visit, or a pre-k graduation, or from merely watching your child dance around the living room to an upbeat commercial jingle. Once upon a time I couldn’t even conceive of feeling this wildly unconditional and insanely overwhelming amount of love for anything at all– a feeling so dynamic that it encompasses your entire being and is essentially greater than any other feeling you’ve ever felt before or likely will ever feel again.

    Once upon a time I was certainly a lot more free. But I wasn’t entirely me.  My children have awakened a part of me I never even knew existed until they came into my life.

    And that? I wouldn’t change for all the parties and drinking and clubbing and sleeping-in and Ben & Jerry’s and free time and uninterrupted showers in the world.

    On that painfully mushy note, I think I’ll make this my last glass of wine….. 😉

  • No Gabba Gabba

    I don’t know about you, but I actually find myself getting more excited when a new episode of my kids’ favorite show comes out than they do. When your kid loves a show, they want to watch it ALLLLLL the time. This can feel like a cartoon version of Chinese water torture after a while. I often find myself singing along with the songs, mouthing the words to the entire show, and even rolling my eyes when an episode I don’t particularly like is on. By bedtime, I’m usually so sick of the Disney Channel that I’d rather watch Storage Wars with my husband than another episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (which I’ve opted not to pick on today, so hot diggity dog for them!). So here’s a short run-down of some of my kids’ favorite TV shows, from an adult perspective.

    Yo Gabba Gabba– This show is, hands down, Little D’s favorite. I don’t know what it is about DJ orange beanpole, but when this show comes on she is more drawn to the TV than a whole playground full of kids are to an approaching ice cream truck. I also don’t know what kind of 60’s hippie psychedelic drugs the writers are on when they sit down to write each episode, or how they get fairly big celebrities like Tina Fey and Jack Black to guest star, but however they do it, they should keep right on doing it. I mean, I’ve definitely told my kids not to bite their friends once or twice, but the Gabba gang really helps drive the point home. Just keep in mind that this show is definitely aimed at the littler ones—the older ones might start asking awkward questions about Muno and Foofa.

    Backyardigans – This quintet of backyard-dwelling quasi-rodents– Tyrone, Tasha, Uniqua, Austin, and Pablo– might be the most culturally diverse polygamist family in suburban Utah. Just think about it for a moment. Ever watched Big Love on HBO? I mean, I like my neighbors as much as the next person but we don’t feel the need to share a whole backyard. Anyway the songs are catchy and the dancing is super realistic, but I wonder who they will get to replace Tasha and Uniqua someday when they are married off the compound?

    Octonauts – Think Star Trek, for children, but take them out of space and dump them in the ocean. I thought of this clever little analogy after the hubby recently turned me into a bit of a Star Trek geek. The little sea-dwelling astronaut creatures hang out on the Octopod (a.k.a Deep Space Nine), go out on missions in little ships called gups (a.k.a. shuttles), and meet various different species that live throughout the ocean (a.k.a. space). There’s a captain, a medic, and various other members of the Octonaut crew (a.k.a. Starfleet). Coincidence? I think not.

    Doc McStuffins – Poor, delusional Doc McStuffins. She talks to her stuffed animals (who, by the way, talk back to her), she thinks she’s capable of diagnosing “patients,” performing surgery, even prescribing medicine. Her assistant is a talking stuffed hippo, and her sole medical reference guide (which she, herself, has written) is called “The Big Book of Boo-Boos” and consists of such ailments as squishy-itis, deflate-alosis, stinky-salami-breath, sandy-scoop-syndrome, and repeat-itis. Get it together, McStuffins. You might need a doctor yourself.

    The Fresh Beat Band – This is more of a warning than a description; once you get a Fresh Beat song stuck in your head, you will NEVER get rid of it. I don’t know why, but they’re like crack for your eardrums. You will wake up rambling about friends giving friends a hand and then walk around all day thinking that you’ve got you’ve got you’ve got loco legs. And don’t think sleep is an escape, you’re sure to drift off dreaming about how you had a great day, and it was a super way, to spend some time together…… Seriously, I just screwed myself for the next week by writing this paragraph. You’re welcome.

  • To Be or Not to Be…Crunchy

    I have a friend who, bless her heart, as the southerners would say, is kind of batcrap crazy.  She’s the sweetest person on earth, she would totally give you the shirt off her back, but her passion for the things she believes in makes her come off a little nuts.  She drives me nuts because she makes me second guess every decision I make as a parent (and I’m out of Xanax refills so I can’t afford the additional anxiety).

    She is one of those “crunchy” people, as I’ve come to learn they call those who are very into everything green and organic.  I think this chick would rip out her walls and replace them with organic sheet rock if she could.

    I’m about as crunchy as cream cheese.  The cheap, generic store-brand of processed cream cheese that’s about as far from organic as possible. Well, at least, I used to be. I’m getting better. I try to buy organic when it goes on sale and I’ve begun using less harsh cleaners around the house.  But I’ll never be like my dear friend, psychotically scrutinizing ingredients and cleaning the toilets with vinegar.

    When we were kids, our parents didn’t have to make the decisions we have to make today.  They just threw us in the old station wagon and let us roll around in the backseat while they smoked cigarettes in the front and turned around to smack us when we were misbehaving.  Times, how they have changed.

    But there’s no definitive answer as to what is right and what is wrong, and I’m starting to go a little batcrap crazy myself trying to figure out what’s best for my family.  The problem is, the more I ponder these types of issues, the more I feel like my buddy Bart Simpson– damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

    To vaccinate or not?  There are people who will SWEAR that autism rates are currently 1 in 88 because kids get poked with more needles before their first birthday than a heroin addict on a binge.  Some studies say there is absolutely no evidence to support this theory, but many parents of autistic children will tell you their child was perfectly normal one day and then suddenly something went very wrong right after they had their shots at a checkup.  Still on the other side of the argument, there have been recent peculiar outbreaks of diseases (measles, for example) that haven’t been around for decades and people are pointing a finger at the non-vaccinators.  So as parents, here’s the choice we get to make: would you rather your kid catch smallpox or develop Aspbergers?

    To eat organic or not?  In an ideal world, food would never be genetically modified, fish would be wild-caught but mercury free, chickens would all be free-range, produce would have no traces of pesticide, and all ingredients would be a maximum of three syllables long.  But unfortunately, that’s not the world we live in today.  The economy is in the toilet and people can’t afford a 300% percent price increase on their grocery bills just because someone slapped a little green “organic” label on all of their food.  So what’s better? Your family presumably gets cancer OR you go broke and subsequently die of a heart-attack brought on by the stress of being unable to provide for them?

    To use bug spray or not?  Mosquitoes love my kids and me. Like, they really love us.  If they were around on Valentines Day every year, they would take us out to dinner and buy everyone thorny, blood red roses.  I don’t know why, I’m no scientist, but it’s a fact that these annoying little pests attack my whole family from June all the way to September.  I used to just spray everyone with some Off and go on with life.  But of course, like everything that makes life easier, there is a catch.  Apparently, chemical bug repellents can cause damage to brain cells.  Awesome, right? West Nile Virus or brain damage– take your pick!

    Let them watch TV or not?  Those annoying people at the AAP (American Academy of Pediatrics) have recommended no TV for kids under two and less than two hours per day for children older than that. Which would be all well and good if real babysitters were as cheap and readily available as Dora.

    Rear-facing carseats or not? The latest guidelines for children’s carseats indicate that kids should remain in a rear-facing seat until at least two years old or longer, and be secured with a 5-point harness for as long as possible.  There is no question that these are the absolute safest measures and thus the best way to go.  But…. What if your child is old enough to be sick of watching you in their backseat mirror watching them through the rear view mirror; what if they have an older sibling next to them who gets to stare at the vast world beyond the windshield, and then jealousy settles in– and the shrieking starts, then the tears, and feet are kicking and fists are flailing and you’re just trying to get everyone to grandma’s house in one piece? A child in the backseat having a meltdown can be a major driving distraction. Pulling over won’t even help because the tantrum will only resume when you start driving again. So you are forced to continue on, attempting to tune out the mayhem going on behind you and give the road your full and undivided attention. Good luck with that.

    With all of these contradictions, how is anyone supposed to decide what’s best for their family? It’s enough to drive any sane person mad, so maybe I shouldn’t blame my friend at all.  Maybe I’m really the crazy one……

  • Bug Bashing: Me Versus Them

    I just came upon a story about a Florida man who found a hornet’s nest the size of a small CAR in his backyard.

    Holy. Crap.

    I am not a fan of insects.  Having moved from Brooklyn to Staten Island, I sometimes feel like I’m stuck in a bad episode of Wife Swap where a fast-paced city mom switches lives with some country bumpkin and never gets to go home again.  In Brooklyn, we had our share of monstrous, ugly waterbugs and those gross, zillion-legged centipedes, but the sightings were mostly few and far between.  You’d spot one, you’d scream like a total maniac until your dad/husband/brother/sister/mother/cousin/aunt/anyone with a pulse came to your rescue with a tissue and a big shoe (hopefully not yours).  You were traumatized  for a day or two, and then life went on.

    In Staten Island, however, insects are unfortunately just a part of everyday life.  For one thing, I see spiders everywhere, everyday, and in all different variations of shape, size, color, and grossness. In the summer you seriously can’t go outside without becoming some mosquito’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, and every meal in between.  This year we are lucky enough to have these huge, red-eyed cicadas literally raining down from the trees. They are EVERYWHERE. I need full body armor and a broom in each hand just to leave my house.  And don’t even get me started on the crazy carpenter ants that sneak in through the cracks under the door and crawl up to the ceiling, only to fall and land on my head while I’m sitting on the couch watching TV.

    But still, I adapt.  I can overcome my bug-hatred because I really have no choice, and because at least I know the nasty little pests are generally harmless.  So I tiptoe over the cicada carcasses littering my front lawn, and in the hotter months, during mosquito season, I spray myself head to toe with Avon Skin So Soft Insect Repellent (you have to love the marketing genius implied by that name– skin stays soft while bugs drop dead!).  I’ve even started catching spiders with a plastic cup so that I can throw them outside instead of killing them. Because spiders eat other bugs; spiders are our friends!

    But I have my limits, and I draw the line at anything that stings.  I don’t do bees, or wasps, or hornets, or whatever other miserable stinging buggy jerks they are related to.  Being approached by one of these devilish, scary things usually has me running faster than a Justin Bieber fan in super stalk mode.

    Let me tell you, I’m totally psychotic about leaving all screens and windows in my house closed at all times–you get three total seconds to quickly open and close a door.  If you take longer than that I can’t be responsible for your concussion. Yet, despite that fact, last week two wasps still somehow found their way into my BEDROOM and were buzzing around my bed probably looking for a place to hide while they plotted their attack on me.

    This is my husband sucking them up with the vacuum cleaner. We totally watched them spin round to a beautiful oblivion (90’s music reference!).  Harsh, but can you think of a better way?

    So basically if my house were within a five-mile radius of that gargantuan hornet’s nest, I’d put it up for sale and move across the country.  End of story.

  • Why Is My Daughter Trying to Kill Me?

    No, she hasn’t tried to choke me with a chicken nugget or smother me in my sleep with her giant stuffed Brobee doll, but she is DEFINITELY trying to give me a heart attack.

    At the tender age of just eighteen months old, she has somehow managed to figured out how to open every single door in my house.  She grabs her little blue Fisher Price chair from her bedroom, drags it across the floor, props it up against whichever door has been absentmindedly left unlocked, then hops up like an Olympic gymnast and twists the knob with her tiny fist until the door gives way. Once I turned around for a second and she was out the front door, halfway to the garage.  She has climbed on every piece of furniture in my house, to heights I never knew toddlers could even fathom.

    The other day I had to run outside, IN MY BRA, stepping barefoot in dog piss on the way, to grab her up when she meandered into the backyard to play tag with the beady-eyed little cicadas that have infested every square inch of Staten Island.

    The next day I walked into her room and found her laid out right in the middle of her top dresser drawer with the remote in her hand aimed at the TV.  Totally just chilling.  When I walked in she just gave me this look that said “yo, you’re blocking the TV.”

    Then there was the terrifying day my son forgot to drain out the water after his bath and my little darling daughter sneaked into the bathroom after him.  After a heart-stopping minute looking all over the house for her  (yep, my house is THAT BIG– a whole entire minute to search high and low), I finally found her sitting in a pitch-dark bathroom, fully clothed in a tub of water gleefully emptying the contents of a shampoo bottle over the edge.  That was a super fun “holy crap my kid could have just drowned” moment in parenting history.

    And here’s another classic: one day I looked at her and noticed she was definitely chewing on something.  I figured it was one of the Cheerios she usually tosses over the side of the high chair to save for later (really, doesn’t everything taste better off the floor?).  So I reached into her mouth to rip open her little clenched jaw–and out popped a dime AND a toothpaste cap!  Two choking hazards for the price of one!

    I don’t get it.  She really is a sweet little girl.  That’s why I don’t fully understand why she’s trying to send me into cardiac arrest.  Or at the very least, give me a bleeding ulcer. Isn’t merely keeping your child alive like the most basic aspect of parenting?