Silly Mom Thoughts

Have you ever tried calling a bank/credit card company/anywhere that has an automated voice system? Have you tried doing this with a kid in the room? It’s hilariously frustrating. For example…

Today, I called up our credit card company because we didn’t realize we received our rebate check and accidentally shredded it. (Woops!) Here’s how the conversation went:

Automated chick voice: Please say or enter your account number

Me: Five, eight-

Bug (looking @ a Target ad): Mom! I want to ask Santa for that car!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, could you please re-

Me: Bug, shhhh!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, please say or enter your account number.

Bug leaves, I finally get a chance to enter my number.

Automated voice: Thank you. Now, please say or enter the number of the extension you want to dial. For bill payment press or say one-

Me (exasperated): Representative!

Automated voice: Okay, representative. Now, for security purposes, please enter the first four letters of your elementary school using your number pad.

I’m on my cell phone and look down at my number pad. It looks  like this:

I stare blankly for a minute, trying to remember which letters are associated with which numbers on a normal phone pad. I punch a number.

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that, try again.

Me (in vain): I can’t! Get with the times! I’m on a cell phone!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I still didn’t understand. Lets try something else. Please enter the last four digits of your social security number.

Me (punching in numbers): Finally!

I am connected, at last, to a real person. I explain my plight of accidentally shredding our rebate check.

Representative: I’m sorry ma’am, the main cardholder on the account is the only person who we can talk to about this problem.

Ugh.

Everyone has heard about how crazy emotional and hormonal pregnant women are… We fume at anything that attempts to drain our patience: Red lights, other children, people who don’t know how to get their damn shopping cart out of the middle of the grocery food aisle. We cry through sappy commercials or, God forbid, if hubby neglects to get the exact kind of candy bar we’re craving (no, honey, Snickers is nothing like a Milky Way *sniffle*).  Don’t even get me started on how testy we can be if we’re ravenously hungry…

So tell me, in the midst of our hormonal upheaval, why in the world would anyone want to make us even more emotional or pissed off? Honestly, people, you need to think twice before  you open your mouth to speak to a pregnant woman. We’re pregnant and punch-y and if you catch us at just the wrong moment, you could be the recipient of a well directed punch to the nose. At the very least, you’ll get a pretty mean stare down. After all, we’re trying to perfect our Mom Glare for when we need to use it on our own offspring.

Don’t mess with us.

To help you out, here are some things you should never ever say to a pregnant woman. Please. I’m only going to ask nicely once. After that, I may have to smack you.

“Haven’t you heard of birth control?” or “Don’t you guys know where babies come from by now?”

Uuuuugh. Are you trying to demean us? Make us feel like the most ignorant people on Earth? This comment, though usually meant as a joke, is not funny. Have you considered the fact that maybe our baby was a bit of a Woopsie? Maybe we’re still coming to terms with the fact that we’re going to be having another child a little sooner than we planned. This comment is soooo awful!

“I never dealt with morning sickness.”

Okay, so if this is said right, it isn’t a big deal. For instance, “I never had morning sickness, and I feel so awful for you that you’re going through this,” is acceptable. But simply mentioning it is not something we want to hear when we’re green faced and near puking with even the slightest scent.

“Holy crap, you’re huge!” or “Dang, are you sure you’re not having twins?”

Folks, this is not a compliment, even if we are, in fact, having twins. While you may mean “Your belly is getting bigger,” to us, it sounds like our entire body, that we’re already insanely self-conscious of, is getting big. Please, also refrain from any comment about “Wow, you’re bigger than the last time I saw you,” because duh, that’s the general idea of pregnancy, and this comment also makes us feel like a beached whale.

Note: Even after she has her baby, do not tell her “Wow, you were so huge.” Just don’t do it. I don’t care if it has been five years, don’t.

“Your face looks… fuller.” or “You definitely have that ‘pregnant look’ to your face.”

Don’t. Just don’t. No face comments. Some of us, no matter how little weight we gain, will have faces that get heavier throughout the pregnancy. We already notice it. Don’t point it out.

 ”You can’t eat/drink that, you’re pregnant.”

Do not tell us what we can or cannot eat. Unless we’re about to down an entire bottle of Valium and wash it down with some Jack Daniels, you are not allowed to comment on our food choices. Despite everyone thinking otherwise, pregnant women can have caffeine. We can have steak that is not cooked to super well done. We can even *gasp* have a little red wine on occasion, especially in the third trimester. So lay off, buster. Believe us, we have our babies’ best interests at heart, but sometimes getting through the day is damn near impossible without a cup of coffee or two.

“You’re simply glowing.”

What does that even mean? The only other time I have heard the term “glowing” was to refer to the fact that boys sweat and girls “glow.” So, does this mean that you’re telling me I look sticky and hot? I mean, I did just climb up three flights of stairs while lugging 25 lbs of babyweight on my abdomen, so that’s pretty likely, but I don’t need you to tell me I’m glowing.

“Oh, you’ll have a boy and a girl, now you’ll have the perfect family!” or “I’m so sorry you’re going to have two of the same sex.”

So maybe there’s a tiny inkling of disappointment that we didn’t get the gender we were hoping for, but making it sound like something to be sad about is quite insulting. So, if we didn’t have a boy and a girl, does that mean our family is imperfect? Because we think our family is quite nice the way it is, thankyouverymuch.

“Dang, you still haven’t had that baby?”

Trust me, no one is more ready to meet their baby than the pregnant woman herself. Whining to us because you want to see that precious little child and get a chance to hold them is like preaching to the choir. It’s not like we’re not already insanely uncomfortable trying to sleep with the enormous mass bulging from our abdomen, begging God to put us into labor already so we can just get it over with. Don’t ask us, we’ll let you know when the time comes. (And if you keep pestering us, we may decide to wait a little extra time before telling you, simply to get back at you for asking so much. So there.)

Fear not, my friend, there are some wonderful things you can say to a pregnant woman instead!

“You are all belly, girl!”

Ahhh, see this is nice to hear. “All belly” means “All baby” which means our own body doesn’t look puffy and leaden with fat. You may tell us we’re all belly as much as you’d like.

“You gained 20 lbs this month? Wow, it must be all baby because you sure don’t look like it.”

Again, this comment makes us feel good.

“You should have another serving. Hey, you only get to be pregnant a few times!” 

Why thank you, I think I will have another slice of pie since you put it that way.

I hope this lesson in things to never say to a pregnant woman will come in handy for you or someone you love. Goodness knows, you do not want to cross a pregnant woman. We are a unique breed of hormones and emotions, ready to attack or cry at any moment.

Let me take you back to a particularly hilarious April Fools Day in 1996. My family and my best friend’s family were staying at a cabin on the beach for several days, having a wonderful time, joking around, having way more freedom than we normally had. On April Fools, my friend Kristen, her brother Alex, and I decided to try to play pranks on our parents throughout the entire day.

We tied a rubber band to the spray nozzle on the faucet so that it sprayed at the next person to turn it on.

They didn’t fall for it.

I remember we talked of messing with a batch of brownies, but I don’t think we went through with it.

We made different outrageous comments, trying to pull them off as truths so we could yell, “April Fools!”

But our zeal was deflated when they would say, “April Fools!” before we could.

We waited for our parents to retaliate. They promised that it would be good. The entire day passed and they made no attempt at a joke, a prank, or anything remotely April Fools-y.

It was a weeknight and the sun had set. Alex, Kristen and I asked if we could take a walk along the beach. They said, “Sure, go ahead.” (I waited for the “April Fools!” at this point, but nope, they were really cool with the idea.)

We walked, we laughed and joked around, a little too loud for the hour. Several houses down from our cabin, a man stepped out onto his porch and yelled, “Hey, you kids! You have no respect for others, yelling at this hour! Did it ever cross your mind that some people might have to work in the morning?”

No, actually it didn’t. Woops!

We brushed it off with a laugh, but I felt awful. I honestly didn’t think about how our voices would carry so close to the water and the fact that not everyone else was on Spring Break.

When we arrived back at the cabin, we told our parents what happened. They listened patiently and didn’t yell at us for being inconsiderate.

Surely, that was the April Fools, right? I mean, we should have gotten into a little trouble for being so loud? ran through my head.

The suspense of waiting for their April Fools prank was driving me insane.

About thirty minutes later, the phone rang. My dad was in the kitchen, grabbing something out of the fridge, and my mom was next to the phone.

“Hello?”

She listened.

“Yes, we have three teenagers right here that were just walking on the beach.”

Silence. Kristen, Alex, and I stared at eachother in horror.

“Um, Alex is 16 and Kristen and Lindsay are 13. I don’t think they meant any harm, officer-”

Officer? Oh crap we’re in trouble.

I think at this point I may have pooped my pants. Just a little. (K, not really.)

“No, no need to press charges, we’ll make sure they’re disciplined for their actions. Sorry for the disruption.”

She hung up the phone and stared intently at us.

“That was the police,” she said, but I don’t think she got much further than that before she, my dad, and Kristen and Alex’s mom burst into laughter.

My dad came back in from the kitchen, old school flip cell-phone in his hands and near-tears laughter in his eyes. He had been hiding behind the refigerator door the entire time after dialing the cabin’s phone number.

“April Fools!” they yelled.

I think we laughed, but we were so stunned, I believe it took a second for it to sink in that we weren’t in trouble with the police. If I remember correctly it was Alex who said, “Wow, you guys got us good.”

Damn, they totally did.

March has not been a very good month for me, and it all came to a head just a few minutes ago when my kids woke up from their naps.

Bug climbed down from his new bunk bed, opened the door, and heard Bean making noises in the room across from him where she had been napping. He opened the door and then came running to find me.

“Mommy, Yee yee stinks,” he informed me.

“She does? Did she poop?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Do you want to change her?”

“No! I not a baby diaper!”

(Which I took to mean, “No! That’s your job, nutso!”)

I walked down the hall and sure enough, the scent of poo came wafting into my nostrils. Not just any poo, either, the really messy kind.

I enter the room and there’s Bean, a serious look on her face, and no diaper on her butt. She is pointing at the diaper on the floor of the playpen.

“Mmboodisp!” she vehemently exclaims.

I interpret this as “You took too long to get here, so I took matters into my own hands, lady!”

Caked all over Bean’s butt, hands, face, clothes, blankets… everything is poop. Nasty, nasty poop.

I wiped her down, plopped her in the tub, and chucked everything she and I were wearing into the wash. Ew. Ew. Ew!

Still, I had to chuckle. March has not been friendly to me. (For instance, my Pregnancy Nightmares, Springing Forward, having to overhaul an entire short story, being sicker than sick for a large chunk of the month, and falling on my ass yesterday)  So, I figure this was the perfect send off to a slightly frustrating month.

On that note… April is going to rock!

There are so many random things I wonder about on a day-to-day basis. For instance: Why do so many maternity shirts have that blasted tie in the back? This is one very serious thing I wonder about, especially when I’m forced to wear said shirts. Honestly, do pregnant women not sit down? Do we not drive cars? Why must we wear these shirts that tie in the back, leaving this horribly uncomfortable knot that digs squarely into the spine?

As if we’re not already uncomfortable enough, lugging around water weight, baby weight, and a baby or two…

And along the lines of being pregnant, I have often found myself wondering about male OB doctors. Specifically those that are married.

You know how, when you have a job, you find yourself relieved when you go home and don’t have to think about work anymore?

Does that happen to male OBs? I mean, their job is, essentially, vaginas. Pregnant ones, postpartum ones, ones that are trying to prevent pregnancy, others that are too old to get pregnant… but all day long, he’s looking at cooch. So, what I wonder (though maybe I’m a little off my rocker for even remotely wondering this), is does he feel like it’s work still when he goes home to his wife?

“Honey, I’ve been waiting for you to get home all day,” she says, dressed in sexy lingerie. “I have a little surprise for you in the bedroom.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” he coldly dismisses her. “I’ve been looking at va-jay-jays all day long, I’m good.”

Seriously, think about it!

Though, the part of me that knows some of the mental workings of the male species, also knows that they would probably not turn down sex with their wife, ever.

Then, there are other, less intense thoughts that go through my mind.

Like, why does the Dollar Store put out ads? I mean, really. Everybody knows where the Dollar Store is in their town and knows exactly what they’ll find there. Better yet, they know exactly how much they’re going to pay for anything they get at the Dollar Store. Uhm, a dollar. So, why do they need to put out ads in the mail? Hm.

There’s also the concept of Disney’s “Fast Play” on their DVDs. According to the DVD announcer, “Fast Play” will play a selection of bonus features (yeah, bonus features my ass, they’re all previews), and then roll right into the movie automatically. I’m sorry, but to me, “Fast Play” means that the movie is going to start now, not after ten minutes of previews. They should change the name to “Eventual Play” or “A freebie ten minutes added to your movie without having to mess with the menu screen where your kid is going to whine that he wants every movie played in the trailers.”

Once upon a time, my mind was consumed with work, finishing college, and taking exams. Now, these are the things that consume my mind. What in the world have I become?

Oh, right. A mom.

It wasn’t until I had children that I found myself despising Daylight Savings Time. In Lindsay-ville BC (before children), Spring Forward simply meant I slept in until 9:30 instead of 8:30. Fall Back meant an extra hour at the bars on Saturday night, and more time to sleep in on Sunday morning. Sure, it threw me off for about a day as my body adjusted to that extra hour, or lack thereof, but it wasn’t a big deal.

Now, it is a major deal.

You see, when we Spring Forward, it means my kids get up at 7:30am, but it still feels like 6:30am. They stay awake all day long and refuse to fall asleep until an hour after their normal bedtime. This goes on for days. To make matters worse, it gets lighter earlier. Do you know what that means? Suddenly, my little human alarm clocks decide that the sun is awake, so they should be too. It doesn’t matter that it’s only 5:30am, noooo. Time has no relevance to children, I have quickly come realize.

Fall Back is almost as annoying. During Fall Back, they wake up an hour before they normally would, and the whole saga continues in reverse. It’s quite exhausting.

The problem with Daylight Savings Time and my kids, is that it seems it takes them nearly until the next round of clock moving until they get onto a normal sleeping schedule. Then, whoop! we’re Springing Forward again, and it starts all over…

Who knew an hour could mess us up so badly?

The only thing that I enjoy about Daylight Savings Time is thinking about how many people will utter these words tomorrow:

“Oh crap, we’re an hour late!”

Evil, I know. But hey, I have to find humor in it somehow.

My three-year-old is a sponge, soaking up anything and everything that piques his interest. Sometimes I am caught of guard by his sponginess. He will repeat something that I said, or an action that he saw, when I thought he wasn’t even paying attention. The other day, for instance, he said out of nowhere, “It’s the night before Kissmas and all tru da house, not a criture was stuw-ing, not eben a mouse!” Needless to say, I was impressed.

Sometimes, though, he soaks up things I’d rather he didn’t. Like the other morning, when I was having my 5:25am tantrum I muttered the  “S” word under my breath when I was lifting up a child safety gate. The next morning, Bug walked up to the gate, grumbled, “Sit!” and stomped off.

Bug has a little friend who loves to add words to “head.” His favorite is “poophead.” Yesterday, this friend was over and soon after he left, Bug looked at me smiling and said, “Poophead!” I realized that he was testing this new cool word out and didn’t quite understand the meaning behind it, so I told him sternly to never say that word again, or he would be in trouble. I explained that it wasn’t a nice word to call someone at all.

Later that evening, the kids were in the tub and Bug looked at Bean and yelled, “Poophead!” Honestly, I think he thought it was a funny word, something that was more silly than insulting. But, I don’t want him going around saying that, so I plucked him out of the bath, wrapped him in a towel, and sent him off to time out.

He was crushed! Bath time is the happy hour of toddlers, something they look forward to after a long day of tantrums and being waited on hand and foot. When Mama takes away bath time, she means business.

After his time out sentence was served, he came back in to the bathroom and apologized to Bean and me. I put him in PJs and we watched Bean splash around in the bath for a while and he laughed at his silly little sister. That’s when he said it.

“You’re a-” he paused, thinking, and I prayed that he was not going to say the word he just got in trouble for saying, “Silly head!”

I was so proud. He sat and thought about the words before he said them. My punishment worked. I hugged him, kissed him, praised him for thinking before he spoke. I told him “silly head” is just fine, especially since our family is full of silly heads. The rest of the night, he giggled and called his sister a “Silly head” every time she was acting like a nut.

The only problem?

With Bug’s unique speech, “Silly head” actually sounds like, “Sh!t head.”

Oh well, it’s the true meaning that counts, right?

First of all, how come I can’t have a cool nickname like “Octomom?” It sounds like some sort of cool super hero, half-mom, half-octopus. “Stand back, children, Octomom will squirt ink all over these bad guys!” That oughta show ‘em. Truthfully, she would probably get great use out of eight appendages, if she had them.

I propose that my new nickname should be Quattro Mom. Fantastic Four-Under-Four. Super Slacker Mom. Hmm, that has a ring to it.

Anyway, on with Octomom. She is all the media rave lately and everyone seems to have an opinion about her. Most of it, I must say, I agree with.

Too Many Eggs

First, of course, is the initial controversy that gave Nadya Suleman the cool Octomom nickname in the first place: the egg drop. Can someone tell me why, even in an ethical setting, it is necessary or even advisable to implant more than two or three eggs in a woman’s uterus? Maybe I’m simply not schooled in the ways of in vitro fertilization, but it seems to me that any more than that is irresponsible and unneccessary. I realize that when that many eggs is implanted, the mother understands that selective termination may be necessary and that Octomom chose not to selectively terminate any of her children. Was that rational? No. But, I can’t say I would want to, either. How can you say, “Yeah, okay, get rid of a few of them” without always wondering “What if?” I think the whole situation should be avoided by not implanting that many eggs in the first place.

The government in my uterus?

  + = ?

There have been discussions about whether the government should step in and take control of these excessive multiple birth situations. Personally, I don’t want the government to have any say in anything that goes on with any woman’s body, especially where reproduction is concerned. I do, however, think that we could stand for some regulation on the doctors doing the in vitro fertilization, a lean on them to be more ethical in their practices. I think it’s safe to say, because I am definitely not the first to say it, that the Octomom shouldn’t have been implanted with one egg, let alone six.

No one’s lips are naturally that huge.

Then, of course, is the whole Octomom plastic surgery controversy. Oh heck-to-the-yes did she have plastic surgery done, have you seen pictures? Personally, I could care less if you have plastic surgery done. Your body, your choice. But, to spend tens of thousands of dollars on an unnecessary surgery, when you have six kids at home and are struggling financially? Not okay. I think that it may be a stretch on the media’s part, however, to assume that Nadya Suleman is attempting to be and look like Angelina Jolie. There are few things I’m on Octomom’s side about, but this is one of them.

Lies, lies, lies

The Octomom simply must have a few nuts loose if she thinks she can lie in this day and age and get away with it. Did she learn nothing from Bill Clinton’s, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” statement that came back and bit him in the ass? Nowadays you can find out anything about anyone. What kind of groceries they buy at the grocery store, how much they spend on their mortgage. Heck, with the help of Facebook and MySpace, you can even learn that “I have a splitting headache” on Friday or “Cup ‘O Noodles is the greatest meal ever” on Tuesday. (Yeah, so those were a couple of my own Facebook updates recently.)

The point is, you can’t lie. Especially about something so find-out-able as being on government assistance. Octomom obviously has a thing or two to learn about being in the public eye.

Should the babies go home with her?

(Note: This is not a pic of an Octobaby.)

Wednesday, it was leaked out that the hospital where the Octobabies are still staying may not release the babies to her care. According to Yahoo! News, Octomom called Dr. Phil McGraw upset and revealed to him that unless she can prove she will provide a “better living arrangement, that they are not likely to release the children to her.”

Okay, first of all, I want Dr. Phil’s number! She gets a cool nickname and Dr. Phil on speed dial? No fair.

Second, I’m all for the hospital making this call. Of course, it’s in the best interest of the Octobabies, considering Octomom’s house is close to foreclosure, there are eight of them, all preemies, and she has six other children at home. In the Yahoo! article, it mentions that evaluating parents of preemies is a common practice and if they see an issue, they contact CPS. Good! I’m glad! And not simply in this case, but in every case. If you aren’t able to provide a safe, stable living environment for your children, you shouldn’t be bringing them home. You have nine months of pregnancy, sometimes a little less, to figure out what you’re going to do to get your butt prepared for your child. I am certain that CPS is called only in the most extreme of cases, and it is to put the child’s best interest at heart. Way to go, Octohospital. You rock.

Octomom, porn star?

It was released yesterday by Fox News that Vivid Entertainment approached Nadya Suleman to do a porno. They wanted her to get jiggy with eight guys in eight different scenes for a whopping $1 million. Um, eww. Fortunately, Octomom declined, citing her baby fat as an excuse.

Seriously, you do not want to see any woman naked post-pregnancy with one child, let alone eight. It is not a pretty sight. Loose skin and stretch marks abound. Think: elephant butt. I wonder if Octomom is going to have plastic surgery on her tummy too? Nah, she couldn’t be that dense. Could she?

To give or not to give, that is the question.

There once was a time when people poured out their hearts and wallets to families welcoming large number multiples. They were showered with diapers, bottles, hired help, clothing, money, anything and everything that the family would need. I think that ship has sailed for our society, especially after this Octomom controversy. Though people’s hearts go out to the Octobabies, they are suspicious of the mother and completely distrust her ability to make decisions. This, in turn is causing many people to opt not to donate cash to Nadya Suleman’s fund. I think if and when this happens in the future, people will be much more suspicious and less likely to help out. Now, instead of it being an “Oh, poor you” mindset toward the families, it’s more of a, “Wow, you’re really irresponsible” frame of mind.

In all, I wish the best for the Octobabies, in their health and well-being. I hope that they can grow up to be upstanding citizens. I hope that they are well taken-care-of and never in need of love and attention. They deserve that so much.

…is the time I was rudely awakened from a delicious dream. There I was standing in line at McDonald’s , eating Cup ‘O Noodles, trying to decide if I wanted a McDouble Cheeseburger, fries, or Chicken McNuggets. I was about to order all of the above, when my bedroom door swung open, sending me abruptly from dreamland to Mommyland.

Bug was awake.

At 5:25 am?!

We have been working with him on night training and apparently his little body woke him up to go pee. I helped him to the potty and then sent him back to his room.

“I want moke,”  he whined

“You can have milk later, buddy, it’s waaay too early right now,” I whispered, trying not to wake Bean up, who was sleeping just feet away.

I left the room and peeked into the bathroom. Turk was up getting ready for work.

“I hate tax season!” I hissed at him through the crack in the door. “You getting ready this early wakes the kids up!”

(In his defense, that wasn’t the case today, but it is usually the case.)

I plopped down onto the bed and closed my eyes. Bean started whimpering. Then crying. Bug came back into our room.

There is something you should know about me. Unless you are sick, teething, an infant, or have a damn good reason, you do not mess with my sleep. I need my sleep. Especially when I have twins cooking in my uterus.

Bean quieted down and I assumed she put herself back to sleep. Turk got Bug some milk and cereal and set him up in the next room to watch cartoons.

It was 5:41am. There are no cartoons on TV and I was so not dealing with Bug’s whiny tantrums all day because he didn’t get enough sleep. I went into the next room and turned off the TV. Bug flipped out and I lost my temper a bit, not my finest Mommy Moment. I told him to calm down (not in a calm voice myself, like that’s ever going to work), he freaked out more and woke up Bean who started screaming.

I stomped into the kitchen, warmed up some milk to put in a sippy cup for Bean, while Bug whined and freaked out next to me. Turk slipped out the front door with an “I love you. Hope you have a good day.” I will bet he ran down the steps as fast as his legs would take him. I would have.

Soon, I calmed down. Bug and Bean calmed down. I put him back in his room and plopped back into my bed.

My clock read 6:11 am and after all the adrenaline and getting upset, I was wide awake. Man!

Despite the rocky start to the morning, I was able to doze until 7:45, an unheard of feat. At one point, Bug crawled back into bed with me, but was good and quiet and snuggled. What could have been a bad morning, actually turned out okay.

Except that I haven’t been able to shake this insane craving for McDonald’s food…

Living in my own little world between Toddler-dom and Preschool-ville, I tend to forget that these precious little tantrum-throwing, independence-asserting, non-listening cherubs will eventually turn into tantrum-throwing, independence-asserting, non-listening teenagers. I realized today that I need to cherish these times, especially since now I am at least stronger and bigger than them. At least now, I can doll out punishments like, “You lost your toy firetruck for the rest of the day” or “No fruit snacks until you eat some dinner” resulting in almost immediate compliance to my demands.

Eventually, I will have teenagers who won’t care so much about having things taken away, including a treat after dinner. Eventually, I’m going to have to get a lot more creative with punishments.

A friend of mine has a thirteen year old son. Though I don’t know him personally, I will bet that he never ever refuses to listen to his mother and constantly follows the rules (right, Cyndee?). Today, however, this tween man/boy slipped up. Though his mother is quite vigilant about seat belts in the car at all times, today, the thought initially slipped her mind as they pulled out of the school parking lot. Realizing she had neglected to ask him to put on his seat belt, she glanced back to tell him to do so. It was at that precise moment, she saw the police lights in her rear view mirror.

Busted… and slapped with a $135 ticket for not having her son in a seat belt.

She offered to put him up for sale to cover the cost of the ticket, but I think we can figure out some better punishments for his seat belt neglect. Here are a few of my suggestions:

1. Booster seat. Strap him in like a preschooler for a week and I’ll bet he won’t forget that seat belt ever again. Better yet, make sure it’s nice and pink, with pretty flowers or hearts on it.
2. Give him a big huge smoochy kiss every single time his friends are around (especially girls).
3. Make him work off the ticket by serving Mom breakfast in bed every single Sunday, and cleaning up afterward too.
4. Have him wash the car every weekend, but on Friday be sure to do some donuts in a nearby mud hole to get it really caked with dirt.
5. Give him a car writing pen (like they use for decorating newlywed’s cars) and have him write “I will remember my seatbelt” over and over until the whole car is covered in his writing. Then, make him wash it off and wax it.
6. Before driving anywhere with him in the car, go through the traditional preflight spiel, explaining how the seat belts work and pointing to the nearest exits.

These are just a few suggestions for dealing with a seat belt rule breaker. Sorry for your ticket, Cyndee, but I hope this gave you a laugh!