Tag Archives | kids

Second Grade

It was rough last year when my daughter was in second grade. While I have the absolute highest respect for anyone that works with children since that shit isn’t easy, my daughter’s teacher and the hummingbird didn’t quite mesh. The bird completely adored her teacher but her teacher seemed to have some harsh things to say about the bird.

We also heard nothing but RAVE REVIEWS about this teacher from every-fucking-body who heard her name. So, I was confused about how she talked about my daughter the way she did.

I don’t mean to make a big deal about it but it still bothers me after over a year. This was one of those unexpected situations I’ve had since being a parent. Of course, every day as a parent deals with unexpected situations.

When we walked into “Mrs. Second Grade’s” classroom for our first parent/teacher conference, I went in expecting nothing less than how cooperative and attentive the hummingbird is.


She dived right in to tell us how the bird takes her time with each task and doesn’t “transition” from task to task as expected.

I’m not making excuses, but kids. move. so. fucking. slow.

So, I was baffled at how annoyed Mrs. Second Grade was. She actually said “Please, tell me how to handle your daughter?”



What the fuck, lady?

I’m sorry if she takes her time to do things right the first time.

Counting preschool, we’ve heard nothing but positive things and critical criticism about our daughter which I’ve taken to heart. But never anything so grim sounding, like our kid is a disaster and doesn’t know how to handle my child because she doesn’t always jump to attention.

Yes, she’s as slow as a snail but what kid isn’t? Oh my god, they move like they’re sinking in quicksand. It’s like pulling teeth in the slowest possible way ever when it comes to kids getting ready for school, or going to an activity, or getting dressed, or brushing their teeth… etc.

Yet, this teacher made it seem like that was the strangest thing for a kid my daughter’s age. Sure, I get frustrated on a daily basis with my little snail but I’m around her friends and they also take time to do things. You have to remind them 10 times when it comes to practically anything.

Especially, when a play date comes to an end. We have to give at the very least, 20 minutes to prepare to depart from one another.

Even then, it usually takes an additional 10 minutes to say goodbye.

Anyway, it was very frustrating for the bird’s teacher to be so down on her. I don’t doubt at all that Mrs. Second Grade is a great teacher. I do know, however, that when my husband volunteered at our daughter’s school last year for a handful of teachers, he said that while helping out with the class, Mrs. Second Grade reminds him of the drill Sargent he had in Officer Candidate School.

I know part of it is also the fact that this teacher went straight to the negative things about my then 6 year-old. Seriously, though. She was only 6 years-old.

If I may speak freely, that is such bullshit. A teacher being so hard on a kid at such a young age. When I was six, one of my favorite things was sniffing crayons and wishing they were edible.

My daughter still talks about that teacher with such love and I just hold my tongue.

I have to say it again.

She was just 6 years-old. My aspirations for my kid at that age were not to fart at the dining room table and to wash her hands… WITH SOAP. You have to add the soap part.

The teacher she has now is a much better match, thankfully. I was so nervous about this parent/teacher conference but then I ended up in the hospital so I missed it. What my husband told me was so much different than what we heard three times last year.

The hummingbird is working really hard, too. She’s getting extra help in math. I’m guessing it’s because common core math is such a fucking nightmare. I was even having trouble explaining her second grade math to her and trying to understand what the fuck they’re doing and why they’re making math more difficult than it should be.

The bird also had 4 fucking torturous nights of homework in second grade every week. I know it will just become more work as she gets older but she has less homework in third grade than she did last year. Thank you, sweet baby jebus!

Because if there’s ever a time for yelling and tears for both of you, it’s during your kid’s homework time.

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I Don’t Have The Ability To Shrink Clothes When Washing And Drying Them Like My Mom Did When I Was Young. I’m So Bummed.

While growing up, my mom would wash and dry our clothes and she had the magical ability to turn my 5T sweater into a Barbie dress. The most amazing experience I’ve ever witnessed was when I was visiting her in my early 20’s for a holiday.

My bra needed to dry and I usually air dry it but I was in a rush so my mom threw it in the dryer. She took the clothes out of the dryer and we were baffled when we couldn’t find my bra.

Then, we saw it.

My bra, that poor, dear bra had melted into the back of the dryer. My mother had to actually peel the bra from the back of the got damn dryer.

There it was. A crumpled and burned mess. On one hand, it was my only bra that didn’t annoy me so I wanted to take a sledgehammer to that dryer. But, on the other hand, it was just a weird mishap and fucking hilarious.


Fuck you, dryer.

The point of the story, I’m guessing, is that I can’t shrink my daughter’s clothes the way my mom can. I actually wish I could.

No, really.

The hummingbird is small for being 8 years-old. So, there are clothes I buy and have to know what runs small or big. I bought these fleece pajama pants for her that was a 7/8 and they seemed to fit but I was really surprised by how big they were on her when she tried them on. The younger size was too small so she’s in the middle. She will most likely be able to wear them through 9 years-old.

I washed them and put them in the dryer for longer than needed but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

They didn’t shrink.

Hmmm… I think my mom needs to come back to Maine so she can work her magic and shrink some of these clothes that I have for the hummingbird.

I just don’t have the magic touch that she has.

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Bad Seeds

I bought a different brand of clementines recently, since they didn’t have halos and cuties. I have found through my 8 year-old that they are not the same. I repeat, they are not the same. Run for cover. The clementines I bought have seeds. Oh my god, the horror!

When I was a kid, I thought I had it tough because I had to watch commercials and sit for long periods of time to record a song on the radio that the dj would be talking through.

I had to work my ass off when making mixed tapes. It took time and dedication. To top it off, that mixed tape I would work so hard on would get stuck in the player and the tape would come out.

Sometimes it was salvageable just by sticking a pencil in one of the holes of the cassette tape and rewinding it.

So, no, I didn’t have to walk 10 miles to school with a broken leg when I was younger but damn it, if I wanted to know who played that actress in the movie with that other actress, I couldn’t just Google or look on imdb. I had to suffer through not knowing until 20 years later.

That’s hardship, ya’ll.

I was giving my daughter a snack and while she was fast forwarding through the commercials of the show she was watching on the DVR, she sighed.

“Ugh. These aren’t halos. They have seeds. I don’t like these kind.”

“Oh, cry me a damn river.”

Okay, I didn’t say it but that’s certainly what I was thinking.

Instead, I was able to use my “when I was younger” lines.

When I was younger, we had to watch commercials.

When I was younger, we used a thing called a landline.

When I was younger, people thought and still think mullets are a smart life choice.

When I was younger, I had to eat whatever my mom cooked.

When I was younger, my family couldn’t afford the kinds of food we eat now.

When I was younger, my family could only afford to go clothes shopping once a year.

Before I could drive my daughter crazier, she stopped me and said “Okay, the seeds aren’t that bad.”

She ate the clementine with those icky, bad, and horrendous seeds that were causing her to have a bad clementine experience without any more complaints.

Mission Accomplished!

Now, does anyone have a pencil I can borrow?

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Where The Fuck Are My Scissors? Part 1,894

My good pair of scissors have gone missing, nowhere at all to be found. I hid those fuckers pretty good, too.

I bought them over the summer because try as I might, my secret, hidden scissors are always found. When they are found out, whoever is borrowing them gets me talking like a possessed person. GIVE ME BACK MY SCISSORS AFTER YOU’RE DONE, I say low and slow.


As a mom and parent, I share all my shit all of the time. I shared my body for nine months with one of these people. And yet, they can’t put my damn scissors back where they’re supposed to go.

I need to invent mom scissors. I have no idea what that would entail but I do like the sound of others getting a tiny zap every few seconds when my family doesn’t put them back in an alotted amount of time.

Even our crappy, will not cut anything scissors are gone. That’s probably for the best though.

I saw that my husband had that pair in the bathroom with him when he was trimming his hairy berries for his vasectomy.

So, yeah, on the bright side, I know my good scissors weren’t used in that Edward Scissorhands moment.

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ETA: I changed the name of this post because I didn’t want pervs googling people peeing in their pants and getting off on it. Ewww.

I’ve had a cold for the past three days. I am such a fucking baby when I get sick and feel the need to tell my husband I feel like shit every hour. He, on the other hand, is made of steel. Steel, I tell you! I practically have to beg him to help him out on the rare occasion he gets sick.

The thing that pisses me off (pun intended) about being sick, well, besides being sick, feeling like shit, and coughing up my lung is peeing every time I cough. My 15 year-old self would have laughed at my *mumbles* year-old self the first time I had to buy pee pads. I started out with period pads but after the hummingbird and then Ben three years ago, I can pee myself so bad that it goes through my underwear and pajama pants.

So, I held my head in shame when I first bought pee pads and it’s all thanks to my darling children. Damn it.

This is totally fucking karma because when I was a teenager and was at the store with my mom, I would ask her why she bought pads since I knew she used tampons. Like any young person or child, my voice level came across as “WHY ARE YOU GETTING THOSE PADS, MOM?”. I pretty much knew why but teenagers are assholes so there you go.

There are those extra embarrassing times when I may sneeze my nose off or get into a coughing fit and actually pee my pants and the pee might start running down my leg while I haul ass to the bathroom. Just one of the many things to love about motherhood.

Since I’ve been sick this week and coughing my head off, I’ve gone through several pairs of underwear and pajama pants that I’ve been washing every day. I could just easily wear pads (which I occasionally do) during times like this but my vagina is claustrophobic. Or, so that’s what it tells me but I can’t really understand what it’s saying while being crammed up against whatever the hell pads are made out of.

For some reason, I also shun pads because I’ll think “My vagina can handle anything!”

Why can’t men pee their pants also once you have kids? What’s up with that?! Then you can both share the embarrassment together. When are they going to have their vagina stretched out so much that a clown car could drive through? Granted, they don’t have the genitalia, but still.

What really gets me is while coughing and sneezing set off the crotch fountain, there have been times where I’m not doing anything that I deem strenuous but then what do I know? A little pee will just randomly come out. Really, vagina, REALLY?

I used to think those vaginal rejuvenation surgeries were laughable and now I want to kiss whoever came up with the procedure.

Yay to motherhood for making me piss myself.

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Go To Bed. Go To Bed. Go To Bed.

By the time my kid was seven years-old, I didn’t think sleep would be an issue for her.

It is.

Fucking fuck.

There’s always some ailment that needs tending to and is causing her to stay awake. Like that invisible scratch on her ankle, or she needs a hangnail cut off, or another good night kiss.

Well, a new bedtime hell has taken over the house and it’s all Bloody Mary’s fault. A classmate of her’s told the hummingbird how if she says Bloody Mary in the mirror three times, she appears.

Now, it’s all about Bloody Mary coming to get her and she’ll get up out of bed three or four times before she falls asleep.

Also, a few weeks ago, we had two power outages a few minutes apart. It was early in the morning and it woke her up.

So, besides Bloody Mary, we have to assure her that if it rains or snows, there’s most likely not going to be a power outage.

It doesn’t matter though. It’s just one more excuse for her to use to try and get out of going to bed. If only she knew that I know ALL of the tricks. But, she seems so sure that she’s pulling one over on me.

Sleep, how I miss you.

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A Hairbrush In My Coffee Cup

Me:*Sips coffee* C’mon, brush your teeth and hair! The bus will be here soon!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: Please, hurry up! Brush your teeth and hair!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: *Sips coffee and thinks to self to record this mantra that I tell my daughter so I can play it back every morning*

Me: What are you doing?? You need to brush your teeth and hair!!

Hummingbird: Okay!

Me: C’mon! Let’s go!

Hummingbird: I did it! Can I brush your hair now?

Me: *Sips coffee* Sure!

Hummingbird: *Leans over me on the chair* *Hairbrush PLOPS right into my coffee*

Me: Me on the outside… That’s okay, it was an accident. Get your shoes on because the bus is going to be here soon. Me on the inside… *OMG, I’m actually drinking warm-ish coffee and I’m almost at the delicious bottom of my awesome coffee and a hairbrush falls in my cup. What are the fucking odds? Dammit! I almost had a whole cup of warm-ish coffee. Bahfuckinghumbug! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And this is part of the reason why I’m drawn to the icky crack liquid of Red Bull. It’s already cold and you can chug it in between yelling at your kid to hurry up and get ready for school.



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