Tag Archive | Mother’s Day

Cake Balls Make You Popular

I’m popular right now.   Here’s why:

Mommy! We've never loved you more! We forgive you for yelling all the damn time.

Mommy! We’ve never loved you more! We forgive you for yelling all the damn time.

Those are chocolate-covered strawberries, and they taste like a farmers’ market collided with an artisanal chocolate stand in some remote South American country.  But these are better because they weren’t procured under the corruption of a FARC-like guerilla group that terrorizes the countryside.  And because my “treat policy” at home is ever-shifting, in violation of the number one rule of parenting– BE CONSISTENT!– my kids were shocked I let them pick one and eat it.  They’re not stupid, they popped them in their mouths before I could flip-flop on them and start talking about the evils of sugar in the American childhood diet.

For a brief sixteen minute period, I was not only their favorite parent, but their favorite person in the world.  (Besides their beloved nanny, who Sadie wishes was her mom, but that’s another post I promise I’ll write when I get that dagger out of my aorta.)

Since I like feeling like the most loved person in the room, I decided to take some to work.  Funny, when you tell your co-workers you have specialty cake truffles in your office, suddenly they’re all, “hey, can I get you some paperclips?” Or “Want me to create a fax cover sheet for you?”

We gathered around my desk and popped those truffles in our maws and never looked back.  The soothing effects of delicious, bite-sized confections distracted us from the flurry of emails about the “roach problem” in the office.  “Roaches? Who cares? I have an almond joy truffle in my mouth.”

Not gonna lie, it felt really good.  Like Oprah, I was all, “There’s a cake truffle for you, Marcie from accounting! And you, Jim from procurement! And you, Big Bruce from…(well, none of us know what Bruce does) the cubicle by the bathroom.”

 

Cake balls. Delivered.

Cake balls. Delivered.

 

The packaging was super pretty.  Sadie’s going to take the insert into here classroom for show-and-tell.  Not the actual food, but the pretty pictures, so she may not win friends and influence her fellow kindergarteners with that.  Whatever. It’s not about her, it’s about me.

Back to me.

I’m grateful that Shari’s Berries offered to let me pick out some of their products.  These opinions are all my own, but they did send me these treats gratis– they arrived in boxes with fun cooling packs (ala Blue Apron).

I got my 15 minutes of fame and stardom in my little circle.  I’m must saying that if you want yours, you could get your own goodies and head to work.

 

Each bite was MOIST (my coworker said I had to stop saying that or she would stop letting me feed her cake pops) and delish.

Each bite was MOIST (my coworker said I had to stop saying that or she would stop letting me feed her cake pops) and delish.

 

Do you deserve this? Yes you do.

 

Not quite a little blue box, but not too shabby.

Not quite a little blue box, but not too shabby.

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Can We Get Real About Mother’s Day?

I don’t mean to go all Joan Rivers here, but let’s get one thing straight:

Mother’s Day is confusing, commercial and is a gigantic set up for my mommy’s-not-happy face.  My angst stems from the fact that I can’t tell if I am supposed to be actually mothering or if I should be taking a break and “getting away from it all.”

art-motherhood

This isn’t a complaint about my husband either, because he’s willing to celebrate any way I want to.  The real problem is that I don’t know how want to or if I want to join in on Sunday’s festivities.

When asked about my idea vision for the day, here’s the first off-the-cuff answer I gave:

  • Let’s do the breast cancer 5K in the park as a family (start time: 8AM)
  • Grab some breakfast somewhere (as if that’s easy)
  • Naps for everyone (as if my 3.5-year old would tolerate that for a hot second)
  • Mommy gets some alone time to write (read: watch improbable animal videos on the web)
  • Delicious dinner as a family
  • Mad Men viewing

My second answer:

  • You all leave me alone all damn day

I’m not sure how it’s going to go this Sunday.  Hopefully, there will be a mix of mothering and getting a break from mothering, even if it’s just extra long trips to the loo.

For a further analysis of why I hate Mother’s Day, click yourself over to my post at Mom.Me and check out my new post.

What are you doing this Sunday?

 

Heaven’s Door: My Mother’s Day Retreat (To The Bathroom)

Heaven's Door

Heaven’s Door

This may look like nothing more than a picture of a closed door to you, but to me, and to many mothers out there, this is a view from Paradise.

This closed door, which is actually also locked, is the culmination of my Mother’s Day dream to spend some quality “me-time” alone.  In the powder room.  Doing what? Well, any blasted thing I please. Without an audience.

It happened for me yesterday for the first time since I was on an airplane, where federal rules prohibited my children from following me to the bathroom.

Oh sweet alone time in the bathroom!  You are my dream deferred for 364 days a year.   Oh sweet Privacy! I love you and will see you next year on Mother’s Day.  I will miss your silence and your space and your solace.  I will think of you and yearn for you everyday.  During our painful separation, dear Privacy, just remember we will always have those 37 minutes we shared on Mother’s Day 2012.

*  *  *

PS: For a very special guest post I wrote on a darker time in my life, check this out– see my vulnerable side.

PPS: For one more day, you can check out my guest post for Scary Mommy.

Mother Enough? Hell To The Yes.

I don’t dislike Mother’s Day, but I do hate feeling dependent on others to make me feel special or worthy.

You know what I say about waiting around?

F that.

So I have a tribute to one of my favorite moms. That mom is me. What could possibly be better modeling for my kids than believing I am enough. And you know what? I do believe it.

I nurture enough.
I discipline enough.
I breastfeed enough.
I am human enough.

I play enough.
I work enough.
I dream enough.
I sing enough.
I check my email enough.

I laugh enough.
I am spiritual enough.
I exercise enough.
I cook enough.
I love enough.

Regardless of the media’s distortion of all things mothering, I am enough.

The most empowered action I could ever take is to state simply, “I am enough.”

The best way to dispel the mommy war myth and to avoid conscription to the battlefield is to simply believe way down in my bones that I am enough.

Take me to brunch, buy me that cute woven belt from Sundance, or just let me sleep in. Whatever.

I am the present this Mother’s Day.

So go ahead and ask me if I am Mother enough. My answer: Hell to the yes.

A Mother’s Day Plea

You know what holiday is just too damn commercial?

Mothers Day.

I am serious.  I don’t want flowers; flowers are for random Tuesdays when you just want to say “I love you.”  I don’t want chocolate, because, frankly, I buy it for myself. (And then hide it so I won’t eat it and then forget where it is and buy it again.  And so on.  Some days this is my only exercise. Don’t take that away from me.) I don’t need an expensive spa treatment.  Well, actually maybe I do need that, but it’s not at the top of my list. So save your money.

You know what I want? I want to go to the bathroom by myself. I want time alone in my house during the day when I can do whatever I want: watch the OWN Network, take a shower, watch videos on YouTube, read Fifty Shades of Gray.

Everything I want is free, none of it wilts and makes a mess in a vase I will have to clean up later, and none of costs vital Weight Watchers points.

I don’t even need all day. Just a few quiet hours.  I want to celebrate being a mom by not having to mother anyone for a few hours.  Ironic? Maybe.  I don’t care.

I would be more than happy to reunite with Jeff and the kids after some ME time, but only if they take me to this once-in-a-lifetime-event: Dee Snider, Twisted Sister frontman and author (apparently), appearing at Costco for a book signing.

Come on.  It’s the hardest job in the world. I deserve this.

Mother's Day Treat

Mother’s Day Treat: One More Reason To Loathe Love Costco