Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

Happy almost Mother’s Day!

On the way to work this morning, I was listening to the radio. In anticipation of Mother’s Day, one of those moronic wacky morning shows had listeners call in and share the biggest lie their mother ever told them.  Well that’s easy. When I was around 5,  my mother lied and told me that I chose my bedroom wallpaper. The ugly wallpaper with ugly pink, ugly green, ugly yellow and ugly white hexagons all over it. (Did I mention it was ugly?) For years she told me that horrible wallpaper was my first choice even though I distinctly remembered picking out white wallpaper with little pink flowers all over it.  Twenty years later, she finally admitted that I hadn’t picked the hideously ugly wallpaper. Liar, liar, pants on fire! 

I did not call the radio show to share my tale of deception because, let’s be honest, no one really cares about the story of a little girl and her wallpaper. No one except for my therapist. Wait, that’s not true. My therapist doesn’t care either.  But the radio show did make me wonder if one day my sons will be telling stories about the lies I told them.  (Yes, sometimes I lie to my kids. A shocking revelation, I know.)

Let’s see…  

Little Lie #1:

Me:  What would you like to do today? (Please don’t say go to the children’s museum. Please don’t say go to the children’s museum.)

Son: Let’s go to the children’s museum!

Me: The children’s museum? Oh, no! The children’s museum is closed today.

Son: Closed? Why?

Me:  It’s closed so they can clean it.

Son: Why don’t they just clean it at night?

Me:  They do, but, um, a bunch of kids made such a huge mess that they needed an entire day to clean up the messy museum. 

Son: Oh, OK.

Nah, my sons won’t be telling stories about this lie later in life. Too ordinary.

Clever Lie #2:

Son: Happy Mother’s Day!

Me: Thank you. You’re  going to be good today right?

Son: Yeah. Why?

Me: Didn’t you know? Mother’s Day is the one day a year that if kids are bad, mothers can return their children to the hospital.


Me: Yes, it’s true!

Son: I don’t want to go back to the hospital. I’ll be good!

Yes, my children are gullible. Definitely one of my better lies. 

Boldfaced Lie #3

Son:  Who discovered heaven?

Me:  Heaven?  Who discovered heaven? Well…uh…heaven…let’s see…um….PONCE DE LEON!  Ponce de Leon discovered heaven.

Son: Oh, OK.

Anyone know when kids learn about Ponce de Leon? Because it’s going to be pretty awkward if my 8-year-old declares that Ponce de Leon discovered heaven.
Oh yeah, this is the lie that my sons will be sharing with their friends. And their therapists.


Ode To A Game Show

I was going to write a new blog post but I was on vacation.

Then I was busy washing my hair.

Then the dog ate my computer.

OK, the truth is I’m just lazy and haven’t posted in forever.

I’m still too lazy to write something,  so in the meantime, please enjoy this freeform poem written by my 8-year-old son.

Wheel of Fortune

On Wheel of Fortune you can get a big jackpot with just one spin.
Lots of money and of course puzzles.
More fun than Jeopardy.
Both created by the same person.
PS – I love Wheel of Fortune. I watch it almost every night.

Handwriting Fail

My last post was about a stupid patient. This post is also about an idiot. But it’s not another patient. The idiot featured in this post is me.

Two days ago I was the poor son of a bitch the lucky parent who got to take J to a birthday party at Pump It Up. Oh yay, another Pump It Up party. Two hours of fun for the kids, a 120 minute headache for the adults. I grabbed J, the present and the invitation and headed to Pump It Up for the kabillionth time.

When we got to Pump It Up, there was a large group of kids and adults inside. A large group of unfamiliar kids and adults.  Who were these people? I didn’t see any of J’s friends or their parents.  I assumed our party was already in the play area, so I approached the front desk.

Pump It Up Employee: Are you here for [unknown kid]’s party?

Me: No, we’re here for [known kid]’s party.

Pump It Up Employee: There’s no party for that kid today. Do you have the invitation? Maybe her party is at the other Pump It Up.

Me: SHIT! If her party is at the other Pump It Up, I’m going to be SO PISSED! (I didn’t actually say this out loud, although it seemed pretty loud in my head.)

I pulled out the invitation. Was I at the wrong Pump It Up? Nope. The address on the invitation was exactly where I was standing. The invitation also said the party was November 21, 2010.

So where the hell was the birthday party?

The Pump It Up employee looked up J’s friend’s name on his handy dandy computer. Then he gave me the bad news. Her party was not November 21,2010.  It was November 24, 2010.

November 24?

Wednesday November 24?

Wednesday November 24, the day before Thanksgiving?

How could this be? Who has a party the day before Thanksgiving? Plus, the handwritten invitation said the date of the party was Nov. 21, 2010.  It didn’t say Sunday Nov. 21, 2010, but it did say Nov. 21.

Or did it?

I took another look at the invitation. Upon closer inspection, I realized what I thought was the 1 in 21 was really a very skinny, very messy 4 in 24.

The party was not November 21, it was November 24.

Me: Does this look like a 21 or a 24? It looks like a 21, right? I’m not an idiot…I’m just the innocent victim of sloppy handwriting, right?

Pump It Up employee: Yes, it looks like a 21.

The Pump It Up employee agreed with me – I wasn’t an idiot. But he was probably just humoring me so I would leave him the hell alone. 

OMG, I was an idiot! An idiot who showed up to a party on the wrong date. An idiot with a 4-year-old kid who thought he was going to play at Pump It Up today.  How was I going to explain this to him?  I could tell him, “Mommy made a mistake and thought the party was today because your friend’s mommy has shitty handwriting.”  Or I could have him join that unknown kid’s party already in progress. Honestly, who would notice an extra kid?

But we didn’t crash a stranger’s Pump It Up party, we went home. I still had the invitation, so I showed it to my husband. He said I was right…it looked like a 21 not a 24. And he wasn’t just humoring me so he could get in my pants.

Maybe I’m not an idiot after all.

I’m A Hot Mom

I’m a hot mom.

Gosh Lori, that’s kind of conceited.

No, really it’s not. I don’t think I’m a hot mom…my 8-year-old son thinks I’m a hot mom.

Gosh Lori, that’s kind of creepy.

No, really it’s not.  It may sound creepy like a Greek tragedy. Or a 5 hour Lifetime movie. But trust me, it’s not. Read on….

R: You’re a hot mom!

Me: Thank y-….wait, what did you say?

R: You’re a hot mom.

Me: Hot mom? Where did you hear that? I know, you heard your father ask me when Hot Mom Day at the pool was, didn’t you?

R: No.

Me: Why would you say I’m a hot mom? What do you think “hot” means?

R: That’s the grown up way to say you’re pretty.

(OK, all together now: Awwwww! How sweeeet!)

R: You’re the hottest mom in the world!

(One more time: Awwwww! How sweeeet!)

Me: Really? I had no idea that I was the hottest mom in the whole world!

R (ponders his last statement): Welllll, maybe not the whole world. But definitely the hottest mom in Chicago!

So, there you have it.

I am the hottest mom in the whole world Chicago.

Who am I to argue with an 8-year-old?

Wordless Wednesday


This picture is in desperate need of a caption.

Who’s got one?

2:00 AM

2:00 AM


Zzzzzzz…. Wha? Huh?


Mumble, grumble….grumble, mumble.

I get out of bed, still half asleep, and walk down the hall to R’s room.

I put my hand on his door knob and wonder what I’ll find behind the door. 

Is he sick? Are his allergies flaring up again? Did he lose his teddy bear?

Please don’t let it be vomit.

Me: What’s wrong?

R (sitting up, holding one sock): I can’t find my other sock.

Me: I’ll find your sock. 

(I pull back his covers to look for his sock)

Me: I found your other sock. It’s on your foot. You’re wearing it.

R: Oh. OK. Good night! Zzzzzzz…..



Oh Poop!

Everyone poops. It’s true. There’s even a book that tells us so titled…you guessed it…Everyone Poops. Everyone may poop, but not everyone talks about it. There are, however, several groups of people who like to talk about poop:

  1. Moms – Moms often have poop on the brain.  It’s a little known fact that after you have a child, part of your brain actually turns to poop. And this is the reason moms will repeatedly tell you that Little Baby Poopypants poops 9 times a day, whether you want to hear about it or not.
  2. The elderly – Old folks talk about their poop all the time. They are fixated on their bowel movements. So if Gramps doesn’t poop every day at exactly 10:37 AM, he’ll babble incessantly about his lack of poop until Matlock is on. Then he’ll babble incessantly about Matlock’s lack of poop.
  3. Gastroenterologists – Gastroenterologists like to talk about poop because they get paid lots and lots of money to talk about poop.
  4. My 4-year-old son

Yes, ever since he became potty trained, my son has been very interested in his poop. You could say he’s become quite the poopologist. His bathroom experience isn’t complete until he jumps off the toilet, peers into the toilet and checks out his poop.  And he won’t flush until he comments on what he sees:

That one’s long like a snake!

Four round ones!
That’s a BIG one!

This goes on for several minutes. Then it’s my turn to comment: 

Hey kid, quit staring in the toilet…you’re not going to find a pot of gold in there, just a pot of poop!
You think that giant turd you pushed out is impressive? Puh-leeze! You know what’s impressive? Pushing 2 HUMAN BEINGS out…that’s impressive! Take that poop boy! 

It’s not just his own poop he’s interested in. Oh no. For some strange reason, he wants to know all about my business. My bowel business.  Whenever I exit the bathroom, my son bombards me with questions.  It’s like the Spanish Inquisition…if the Spanish Inquisition was about poop:

Did you poop?
What did your poop look like?
What color was it?
Was it big or small?
How many did you have?
What shape was it?
Was it mushy?

These are the questions my son asks me every. single. day. And because I’m still gunning for that Mother of the Year award, I answer his questions every. single. day. But I’m getting a little tired of having to play 20 Questions: The Poop Edition with my son. How can I make it so my son is longer interested in my poop? I know – the next time my son wants to quiz me about my bowel movements, these are the answers he will get:

J: Did you poop?
Me: Go in the bathroom and take a whiff – that’ll answer your question.
J: What did your poop look like?
Me: It looked just like Betty White.
J: What color was it?
Me: Mostly brown with a hint of burnt sienna.
J: Was it big or small?
Me: Big? It was ginormous! I’m talking full-fledged anaconda. Needed the plunger to get that sucker down!
J: How many did you have?
Me: Oh man, I lost count at 12.
J: Was it mushy?
Me: Not at all – it was hard as a rock.  I think I ripped me a new one pushing it out! Do you have any fiber supplements I can borrow?

Heh heh heh!

Hopefully that little Q&A session will kill his curiosity and I can finally stop talking about poop. For now at least. In 40 years, I’m sure I’ll be babbling incessantly about how it’s 10:37 AM and I haven’t pooped yet. And then I’ll tell you to shut the hell up because Matlock is on.