conversations with an ill-tempered child

BY BILL NEWMAN

Me: Put on your shoes, please.
Him: I don't like the way they feel.

Me: Can you pick out a bedtime story?
Him: Why do I always have to pick it out?

Me (sing-songy): It's homework time!
Him: It's not fair. I'm the only kid in the whole, entire world who has to do homework.

Me: Here you go! I made you some hot chocolate while you were out playing in the snow.
Him (eye roll): It's too hot. And too chocolatey.

Me: Are you ready for me to rinse out your shampoo?
Him: Don't get it in my eyes. You always get it in my eyes and it makes them hurt and I don't like shampoo. Even the shampoo that they say doesn't hurt hurts. And make sure the water's not too warm. Because if it's too warm, it makes the shampoo feel like it's hurting me even when it isn't.

Me: How was your day?
Him: Fine, I guess. That is, if you like DAYS.

Me: Here's your grilled cheese.
Him: Did anything on this plate have to die for my lunch? I don't see anything dead.

Me: Check it out! Daddy got a mohawk! A BLUE MOHAWK!!
Him: Meh.

Me: Can you believe it? They say the world is going to be sucked into a black hole next December and that all of humanity is going to evaporate.
Him: They also say that that shampoo won't hurt. But it does. Because you rinse it all wrong.

Me: Whoa! I just ripped off my penis and now I'm holding my ripped-off penis in my hands.
Him: When can I get a DS? Everyone else has a DS.

Me: Look what your grandparents bought you! A real, live unicorn with a 14K gold horn and a saddle made of caramel.
Him: Does it poop real poop or sapphires?
Me: Um......sapphires?
Him: BO-ring.

Bill Newman is pretty convinced the world IS going to end. Because last week, he got to watch an entire half of a basketball game without someone cramming a Transformer up his ass. He can be reached at an email he no longer gives out.

new year's resolutions for mothers

BY ELIZABETH BASTOS

Stop swearing.
Ditto.
Eat more vegetables.
Exercise.
Like quiche Lorraine. That has vegetables, right? No? It has ham? Dang.
Learn French.
Forget French. Like you'll ever go to Paris. Yeah, right. Still...Paris.
Dare to dream.
Oh, for fuck's sake, Little Joey! Tie your own goddamn shoes! Mommy's busy.
Teach little Joey to tie his own goddamn shoes.
Also, teach little Joey to save now for his college education, because -- on what you make -- there is no chance. No chance, buddy.
But, if the kid can't tie his shoes, you probably don't have a lot of higher education to worry about.
That was terribly mean. What kind of mother are you?
Answer the question through journaling: What Kind of Mother Are You?
Blog.
Worry less.
Worry a lot less, goddamnit. There is nothing wrong with Velcro sneakers. Who cares what his **nty second grade teacher says.
Blog more.

Elizabeth is a stay-at-home mother of two. Before having kids, she worked in corporate and foundation relations, and before that at the Museum of Science, Boston. She moonlights writing in the very early mornings before everyone gets up and wants things. In the little free time she has, Elizabeth makes complicated French patries to tempt her kids into doing what she asks. Her work has appeared in terrain.org, The Delmarva Review, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Tar River Poetry, and the Baltimore City Paper. Visit her blog: Goody Bastos. Elizabeth can be reached at: elizabeth.bastos@gmail.com.

a letter to my 4-year-old son's imaginary friend

BY WHITNEY COLLINS

Dear Talking Hot Dog,
Listen up, you freak. Stay away from my kid. You got that? Stay the hell away. I don't care that you live in a hole in the ground near our swingset and prefer turkey over ham. I don't care that you like riding next to my son on his way to and from school. And I don't care how much you like it when he buckles your tiny seatbelt and gives you a loving pat on your antlers. You are a CYCLOPS for cryin' out loud! You're a weiner with a voice! You sound not unlike something a mustachioed 1980's high school custodian would have tried to "introduce" me to after cheerleading practice. I don't like you, Talking Hot Dog. Not one bit. So, before my son gets home, you better pack your acorn suitcase and get gone. Oh. I forgot. You're ALWAYS NAKED! You wouldn't HAVE any clothes to pack in a suitcase. YOU SICK, SAD, SORRY BASTARD. Get the hell out of my lawn before I call the goddamn cops! SCRAM!

Best,
Whitney Collins

how teenagers get the last word when they don't have a super big gulp to throw

BY ERIN (AKA I'M GONNA KILL HIM)

Whatever, at least I don't have Taylor Momsen in my Top Artists list on Spotify.

You are so going to regret this when you see my Klout score, because if there is one thing I'm influential in it's knowing when it's time to quit you.

It seems like a good time to point out that I've been retweeted by Khloe Kardashian who added that she was ROFL so think about that when a 9-foot-tall black dude in a Lakers tracksuit shows up at your door.

Yeah, well you just cost yourself a Google+ invite. And if some whore gives you one, the only circle you'll be added to is the "Lamer than a Macchiato Without Caramel" one.

I maybe would care more if I weren't talking to someone with an active Hotmail account. And not just for American Eagle emails.

I have a screen shot of the email you sent to Jamster requesting a Jersey Shore nickname. So fist pump that, Tan Jovi.

Only one of us can say we have never sent a text to cast a vote on American Idol. And that same one of us knows it was for Clay Aiken.

Like you need to bother blocking me on BBM. Because, duh, I have an iPhone.

I'll be removing every location tag attached to your name from my Facebook so that when people ask me who I went to Panera with I can say Robert Pattinson and not you.

This mildly famous blogger responded to one of my comments by saying that you are codependent jerk who takes me for granted and probably still goes to Blockbuster. And she's right. You have $19 in late fees from a Zach Galifianakis movie that I'm not paying.

Erin writes the website I'm Gonna Kill Him, a humor place about marriage and husbands and life after family. Her mother says she has a sharp tongue; Erin says it's better than a sharp knife. She is a mother of three and just moved to the very bizarre state of Maine. Between her husband, her children, and the weirdness of Mainers, she has a lot of fodder. She can be reached at: imgonnakillhim@gmail.com.

louis xiv reincarnated as a 3-year-old

BY TARJA PARSSINEN

The dude who rocked silk stockings on the cover of Fleur-De-Lis Quarterly 310 years ago has been reincarnated as a three-year-old boy.

The Sun King is back -- BOOYAH! -- and putting the smack-down on feudalism by pitting parental nobility against each other.

His mom: a rising star in the domestic ballet, earned lead role in "A Midsummer Night's Milk-And-Three-Books-Song-Potty-Song-Milk-And-Three-Books."

His father: preferred castle-builder, a powerful force at the grill, forgiven for lack of mutton.

Both have been demoted to vassals numerous times, earning back the status of courtier through baked goods and stickers. (Their motto: "Better vassals than chattel.")

While small and adorable, the pint-sized monarch ensures that he alone commands attention, often screaming, "L'ETAT C'EST MOI!"

And it's true. He is the State. Da State of Demands.

He demands only the best attire. Sorely disappointed to find the castle lacking in powdered wigs, breeches, and cravats, he's had to make do with interesting undergarments that he promptly urinates through because he wants to or because the Royal Bedpan-Bringer is late or because it's fun to watch the Royal-Bedpan-Bringer get angry.

He demands to be called "Le Roi Soleil" and makes Nobility #1 cry -- Wah, wah, wah! (Yes! pronounce it like that!) and makes Nobility #2 play the song "Bad Bad Leroy Soleil (The Meanest Man In The Whole Damn Bay)."

He then demands to be called "Louis Quatorze" or just "Quatorze" because it sounds more gangsta.

He demands the divine right of kings, claiming he is subject to no earthly authority. He plunders, refuses, stomps, screams, throws -- then raises his eyebrows, silently declaring: "Will of God, bitch. Will of God."

The King is a great patron of the arts, his enthusiasm for classic literature like "Curious George by Moliere" and "Babar In the Words of Racine" is legendary, as is his love of music -- "Here Comes the Sun (King)" and art --surely de Kooning's abstract work is a meditation on the beauty of a centralized state government.

Although a serious chap about legal matters (see les Grandes Ordonnances: "To Nap Is Sinful," "Cut Me My Mango," "I'll Poop In the Bedpan When I Damn Well Want To"), the King also has a delightful sense of humor.

His greatest enjoyment comes from a series of parlor games, like "I'm the Good Guy and You're Cardinal Richelieu," "Who Wore It Best: The Dauphin or That Other Kid," and "Get the Protestant, He Took My Truck!"

Since Louis XIV had one of the longest reigns of any European monarch, one can only assume he's here to stay in the Fisherprice Versailles Playroom for the foreseeable future.

Which is okay by the serfs who work for him.

"He's learning to use the bedpan more and more each day," the mother says smiling. "And I know once I find him that ostrich feather hat he's been demanding, I'll be in his good graces for at least an hour."

The father agrees, "And I'm not just saying this because he threw a dirt clod at me that he swears contains gold."

On such good terms are the King and his subjects at this very minute that they quickly sign the Peace of Suburban Westphalia.

Which is revoked 7 minutes later when the King discovers that Honey Fitzgerald III, a small stuffed bear residing in his kingdom, is in fact, a Huguenot.

Tarja Parssinen is a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom to a toddler who gives new meaning to the word "spirited." Once, long ago, she was a member of her college's sketch comedy group, which she continues to blame for public displays of ego. She blogs at The Flying Chalupa and is expecting her second bundle of terror in the fall. 

halloween

BY RICHARD TURCK

Halloween is one of the most exciting holidays of the year. It's the only day that you are given a license to go out and cause mischief without being punished. As an adult, I feel we have a duty to make this event as fun as possible for the children of the neighborhood. Not only should we be obligated to give candy to the trick-or-treaters, but we should also be obligated to go out of our way to make sure they have an excellent time.

When we talk about Halloween, we have to talk about pranks. After all, that's one of the major components of any memorable 31st of October. Kids go around toilet papering houses, throwing eggs at cars, and playing a million other tricks on unsuspecting victims. They love pranks. Furthermore, the last thing they want is to go through Halloween without getting pranked in return. They went out of their way to egg my car, so now I have an obligation to return the favor in any manner I see fit.

So, it's a dark Halloween night and the children are out trick-or-treating in force. In order to really give them what they want, I first have to decide what that is exactly -- beyond the basic prankings. This isn't too difficult. Kids really like candy. And being frightened, especially on a night such as this. With this in mind, all I need to do is wait for them to come knock on my door, give them some candy corn, and then take out a machete and act like I'm going to kill them. This works because children find murder scary. As they turn and run away, I always feel profound joy knowing I just gave them exactly what they wanted: a little candy mixed in with a little fright.

Usually, as a little added bonus, I'll shout things at the kids as they're running like, "AFTER I KILL YOU I'M COMING FOR YOUR PARENTS!" Then I'll shoot a rifle in the air or something. This way I can ensure that the fright won't wear off too early and they can really enjoy the rest of their night.

As it turns out, rifle shots are a really good way to scare not only the trick-or-treaters, but also everyone else in the neighborhood. I usually do such a good job, in fact, that I won't get anymore knocks on my door for the rest of the night. That's why I have to go out and search for more children to scare. And I know you're probably thinking, "Aren't you going pretty far out of your way?" Yes, I am, but it's for the children.

So, I'm out driving around looking for kids to startle. One of the first things I'll do is pull my van up next to a dark alley and tell any trick-or-treater I see that I have candy. What's great about this is, it may not scare the children all that much, but if they have a parent with them, the parent seems to get really freaked out. I just laugh to myself thinking how parents are even easier to scare than children in a lot of ways. Here I am, sitting in my van offering candy to only the children, and it's the parents that are all spooked. Go figure.

After everyone scurries away, I sit there and wonder what's so scary about a guy parked in a van on Halloween asking children if they want candy. But that's usually when I remember that I have a dark alley right behind me. No wonder they were so frightened.

Anyway, after the night is through, I can go home and feel great knowing that I gave everyone just what they were looking for. I gave the children candy and the prospect of being murdered, and I gave the parents the chilling sight of an alley. I just hope I can be as effective next year, when I try fake kidnapping a child only to return him or her in the morning. Boy, will everyone be relieved when they realize it was only a harmless Halloween prank and not a real kidnapping! They'll probably try giving me some kind of award, which will be embarrassing because I won't have anyone to thank but myself.

Richard Turck is a 29-year-old human being who enjoys certain things more than others. His humor writings have been found lurking in various places across the web. If you happen to spot one, proceed with extreme caution as they are considered armed and dangerous. Richard can be reached at: turck212@yahoo.com.

welcome aboard honda odyssey airlines

BY JASON ROCK

Welcome aboard Honda Odyssey Flight 7875, bound for the Greater Orlando area. Our travel time is approximately 16 excruciating hours. At your convenience, please review the safety instructions located in the seat back in front of -- oh. That's right. Three out of four of you can't read. Never mind the safety instructions, then. Just keep your hands to yourself and your underpants on. On your bottom, that is, and not your head.

In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, please put on your Halloween masks and entertain yourself while Mommy and Daddy drive to the nearest Applebee's and begin drinking. Kindly note that this is a non-whining flight, or else Daddy may have to take up smoking again. Also take note, there are no lavatories on board, though we will allow you to pee in a cup if A) there is a ridiculously long traffic jam or B) we just stopped and we're not stopping again for at least 4 hours. There is no pooping on this flight. You must hold it until we get to our hotel, which is now 15 hours and 58 minutes away.

In the event of an emergency that does not involve bodily fluids, Daddy will yell "Brace! Brace!" This does not mean you should smack your sister on the head with an Etch-A-Sketch. But it probably means we need to stop for Starbucks.

No, we are not there yet.

No, we are still not there.

Remember: this van is equipped with two emergency exits. But they will not open unless the car is in "park." So, don't think of throwing yourself from the vehicle, unless you're a parent. In which case, have at it and why haven't you done so sooner?

During the flight, luggage may shift. Especially when someone vomits and Mommy has to climb back three rows of seats to find the suitcase on the bottom that has a clean shirt in it. While Mommy is bent over doing this, do not laugh at her ass crack. Yes, I said "ass crack," dammit.

Holy sweet baby of all things holy how are we not even out of our neighborhood?

Once we reach a comfortable cruising altitude, you absolutely are NOT free to move around the cabin. However, Honda Odyssey Airlines does pride itself on providing its passengers with thousands of dollars of complimentary electronic devices. Please put on your headphones now and begin listening to your music and your movies and your video games.

Here are some free pretzels, too.

Now. Please, leave Mommy and Daddy alone. Because if you don't, we are totally cancelling our character breakfast at Cinderella's Royal Table.

Enjoy your flight.

Jason Rock sometimes writes, but mostly uses his spare moments for sleeping or watching Beyond Scared Straight. He can't believe he owns a minivan.

huffing gas to the j. geils band

BY JOEY HARRELSON

Only a few things mattered when I was 7 years old. Avoiding soap and covering my hands in Elmer's glue were fairly high on my list of things to do. Performing well in the trailer park athletic events, such as kickball and whiffle ball, was also a priority. But more importantly, I wanted to befriend Gary.

Gary was nine years older than me and lived next door, which was a sandbox away. On the evenings that I'd hear his jambox blaring, I'd rush outside and do my best to get noticed. Occasionally, Gary would look over, twitch his head upward in acknowledgment, and immediately return to his activity. I'd twitch my head in the same fashion, but he'd already quit looking.

Gary was rock 'n' roll. I was more of the "One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eater" material, but my juvenile blood was tainted with rebellion. And it would show in my stirring attempts to deserve Gary's attention. I would climb all the way to the top of the three-foot high doghouse and recklessly jump off. I would kick the side of our trailer. I would play air-guitar to the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold" because that's the only song I ever heard Gary listen to. I honestly believe that he had a 60-minute tape consisting of about 18 consecutive cuts of "Centerfold." Sometimes I would yell curse words. They weren't necessarily directed at anything or anybody, or always put into a proper context, but I didn't care -- I was wild. "Did you hear that, Gary? A wild sonuvabitch!"

Gary wore sleeveless shirts and huffed gasoline. I wore three-quarter length sleeved shirts and chugged Kool-Aid like it was water. He had dropped out of school. I disliked school. He had a knife attached to his belt. I had a "Dukes of Hazzard" belt buckle that weighed three ounces less than my head. He had a bad haircut. I had a bad haircut. The similarities were endless.

And then one Saturday afternoon, the confrontation finally happened. My dad was preoccupied with cutting the grass, and I was hanging out doing nothing in particular. I heard an unfamiliar voice pump its way between the lawnmower and the music. But this wasn't a diesel voice. This was unleaded all the way.

"Hey Joey," the gaseous orifice spoke.

I could not believe my ears. Gary knew my name. I got as close to his backyard as I'd ever been, though I kept my sandbox headquarters within diving distance. It was familiar and I was intimidated. And besides that, I wasn't supposed to associate with Gary. He was a bad kid. But I was convinced that he was no worse than me. I'd received my fair share of spankings.

"Hey Gary, watcha' doin'?" I asked with genuine interest.

"Ah, nothin' man. Come on over and hang out. We'll jam," Gary answered.

This was it! All of the jumping, kicking, air-instrumental mayhem, and cursing had earned me a pass into Gary's huff-haven. But I was afraid that he was going to ask me to partake in some gasoline. I'd heard it was bad for the brain. But even more pressing, I didn't know how to huff.

Luckily, Gary was stingy with the petro-inhalant. As I sat there uncomfortably while he fixed, I couldn't help but think of how his sister, Lorie, would steal my mom's cigarettes when nobody was home. And I thought about how Gary and Lorie looked nothing alike; and about how if Gary made a "vroom, vroom" noise he could easily be mistaken for an idiot; and also how "Centerfold" wasn't playing. Music that I'd never heard before provided the noise, but it still possessed that Geilsesque attitude.

My brain was in examinational overdrive, while the other half of the dyad's brain was in the process of being flooded. I struggled to think of something to talk about, but I wasn't a connoisseur of fine fuels. So, I asked what was in that refrigerator in their backyard.

Gary answered, "Nothin'."

I'd sat there for about 45 minutes when Gary stood up and said, "Well, see ya' man." And he walked inside.

So, I crossed back into lameland, where the gas was for vehicles and where people conversed, feeling a little more defiant, a little more crazy, and a little more rock 'n' roll. I knew it was going to take many more encounters to catapult me into Garydom, but I was young, I was eager, and I was prepared for the trip. All I needed was some fuel.

"My blood runs cold, my memory has just been sold..."

parenting without casualties

BY BEVERLY PETRAVICIUS

Children are a giant black hole of need. If you try to meet all their demands, your will to live will be sucked into their gravitational pull and never seen again. So, as a parent, it's important to keep your goals simple. All you have to do is get the child to adulthood. This means: (1) Keeping them alive when they're infants; (2) Keeping them from killing themselves when they're toddlers; and (3) Not killing them yourself once they reach adolescence.

Keeping your baby alive is miserable, thankless work that should prepare you for the miserable, thankless years ahead. This first stage of parenting is particularly difficult because infants are lazy. They are unwilling to perform even the simplest tasks, so the full burden of their survival is on you. At this point the new parent must develop a steely resolve. If the tiny helpless infant is too much for you, just wait until you meet the jerk that throws his food and refuses to aim his pee into the toilet.

The next stage of parenting, the toddler years, is marked by the child's increasing physical competency. Yet the toddler is strikingly stupid, and apparently determined to kill himself. No matter how many child safety devices you attach to various surfaces around your home, your toddler will find something to fall over or poke in his eye. While you must keep the toddler from killing himself, you should allow him to hurt himself all he wants. It's the only way he'll wise up and stop doing stupid things. Your duty, then, is to keep the child alive while letting him discover that the world is quite willing to let him kill himself.

Successful parenting during the early years results in a live adolescent. Ironically, you will then find yourself wanting to kill them. A desire to avoid felony charges may prevent you from actually harming the adolescent child, but you shouldn't depend on it. A 2-year-old with a death wish seems like a model of rational thought compared to a teenager. Vast amounts of anecdotal evidence indicate that it is impossible to make the adolescent child likable, so you must make him useful. One way to do this is to assign him household chores. You are less likely to lock your adolescent child out of the house, for example, if it means you have to do the dishes yourself.

Another way to keep from killing your adolescent child is to remember that he could do something that reflects well on you -- like win a contest or hit a home run. Living vicariously through your child is one of the great rewards of parenthood. Your child may resent your using his childhood to improve your status and self-esteem, but that's just selfish. One day you will die, and then your child can pursue his own needs. In the meantime, suggest that he write angry poems or otherwise vent his pent-up rage in a way that amuses you.

Requiring nothing more of the parent than to keep the child alive may seem to set the bar too low. But children are, by nature, parasites. They will use you for whatever resources you are willing to provide and then farm you out to some state-run nursing home. Trying to support their emotional, social, and intellectual development, therefore, is just asking for trouble. By focusing your efforts purely on his survival, you will raise a self-sufficient adult who is fully capable of finding a good therapist.

Beverly Petravicius is a freelance writer and mother of three living in Chicago. She can be reached at: bgpnstj@yahoo.com.

texting for married people

BY ERIN (AKA I'M GONNA KILL HIM)

The local paper ran a piece that got me thinking. This is rare since their reporting is usually limited to fascinating announcements like the fudge shop is now offering a staggering 17 flavors or that five out of five polled residents would engage in sexual relations on the Fenway field if given the opportunity. This particular day, however, they printed a list of text acronyms that would appeal to the middle-aged cell phone user, such nuggets as ROFLCGU which means Rolling On The Floor Laughing, Can’t Get Up.

Reading the list got me thinking about my dreadful telephone relationship with my husband, G. I've written before about the many ways G and I are ill-suited to remote communication. Neither of us particularly enjoys speaking on the phone in ideal conditions, but introduce -- on my end -- three children trying to kill themselves in the bathroom the instant I bring the receiver to my ear and -- on his end -- a bunch of people in suits clamoring to get sign-off on budgets, and you've got a couple praying that a cell phone-induced brain tumor makes one of us drop dead immediately. As a result, we've taken to texting each other. Because nothing says romance like the red blink of a blackberry containing misspelled questions and commands.

Here is a list of handy text shorthand for your marriage.

HIM: HAK? (How are kids?)
YOU: CFV (Crying, fighting, vomiting)

HIM: SFC? (Stop for condoms?)
YOU: NSFIC (Nah, stop for ice cream)

HIM: RL (Running late)
YOU: REL (Running even later)

HIM: BGOT (Big game on tonight)
YOU: TWSBWC (That’s why sports bars were created)

HIM: AYSM? (Are you spending money?)
YOU: LTAWIS (Let's talk about what I'm saving)

HIM: WAYW? (What are you wearing?)
YOU: SWTFE? (Sweats, what the fuck else?)

HIM: WLT (Working late tonight)
YOU: SYBPOYJIYDLN (Sending your boss photos of your junk if you don't leave now)

YOU: ATNA? (At Target, need anything?)
HIM: NAEHTC (No, and empty half the cart)

HIM: AKA? (Are kids asleep?)
YOU: NTHSLAW2B (No, they have the stamina of Lance Armstrong with 2 balls)

HIM: WRU? (Where are you?)
YOU: SEWIGSPL (Stress-eating and weeping in the grocery store parking lot)

HIM: WFD? (What's for dinner?)
YOU: Pretend your phone died

Erin writes the website I'm Gonna Kill Him, a humor place about marriage and husbands and life after family. Her mother says she has a sharp tongue; Erin says it's better than a sharp knife. She is a mother of three and just moved to the very bizarre state of Maine. Between her husband, her children, and the weirdness of Mainers, she has a lot of fodder. She can be reached at: imgonnakillhim@gmail.com.

the grandparental hand-off: proceed with caution

BY ML PHILPOTT

When dropping a child off with grandparents for a weekend, communication is key. Go over any instructions clearly. Should the generational gap expose some differences in childcare tactics, don't worry. Remain upbeat. Remember: If this goes well, you've got the weekend off.

Let's take an actual conversation as an educational sample. Here, I attempt to explain to my mother that my child has recently overcome a case of lice.

Mom: "What is that?"

Me: "That's your grandson."

Mom: "You shaved my grandbaby's head."

Me: "And now he's lice-free."

Mom: "Lice?"

Me: "Lice."

Mom: "LICE??"

Me: "You're hearing me say lice, right?"

Mom: "Who gave him lice?"

Me: "The second grade. But it was a month ago. It's over."

Mom: "You need to teach him how to use soap."

(Pause: This is where you may feel naturally inclined to defend your parenting practices. That's not the point. Stay cool. Think about how you should and should NOT respond to the following statements.)

Mom: "He looks like the Marines."

Do not salute and say: Semper Fi.

Do say: "Yes, ma'am."

Mom: "Better put some lice-killer on him."

Do not say: No shit.

Do say: "Why, we think alike! I already did."

Mom: "You should just put it on him every day, to be on the safe side."

Do not say: Daily application of insecticide to a child's scalp is THE SAFE SIDE?

Do say: "He'll be just fine now."

Mom: "Should we spritz him with the dog's flea spray?"

Do not grab your child and hide him behind your back.

Do say: "Well, since he doesn't have fleas, let's not."

Mom: "I might splash a little of that Clinique toner on his head."

Do not stop to wonder: Clinique still sells that?

Do say: "You know, his skin tone is pretty good already."

Mom: "Oh, I have some Raid Ant and Wasp Formula!"

Do not say: Oh, hell no.

Do say: "Oh, I don't think so."

Mom: "Windex?"

Do not arch an eyebrow and ask: Does he appear to be in need of a streak-free shine?

Do say, politely: "No, thank you."

Mom: "Well. I just don't want to have to set all my pillows on fire."

Do not say: I'm a little afraid that if I walk out of this room right now, you're going to set your grandson's head ablaze.

Do say: "Oh, there's no need to go to any trouble."

While continuing to exercise conversational restraint, you may begin to casually confiscate any substances from the home that may be harmful to your child.

In conclusion: Do not panic. Do make sure your child has cab fare and your cellphone number before you go.

Have a great weekend.

ML Philpott is a freelance writer and amateur parent. She writes sometimes for serious clients and sometimes for an audience of over 11 readers at Shooting the Breeze, a shared blog where she plays well with others and does not hit or bite.

teach your kids to stay safe from cannibals

BY SHELLEY ONTIS

Vampires today sparkle like glitter and plastic googly eyes left out in the sun. A werewolf is more likely to bare his chest as he gives you the shirt off his back than he is to claw someone else's chest open. And lumbering zombies can't catch you unless you fall down, stay there for a few minutes, and decide to run in reverse just for kicks. But angry cannibals are everywhere, and no one is talking about them.

Here are the warning signs written especially for today's easily distracted kids. You can just print the tips and hand them over -- no need to interrupt them while they're playing six consecutive hours of World of Warcraft or trading "lulz" on Facebook with people they ignore in the hallway at school.

The Cannibal Hair Stylist: Some angry cannibal lairs are disguised as beauty and tanning salons where girls like to flock. Before you let the stylist tie the hair-bib around your neck, have a look around. Combs, clippers, scissors, and cans of hairspray are OK. Salad tongs, pepper mills, and melon ballers are signs that your haircut is going to be a bit too short. Also, check the controls on the tanning beds. If there are buttons labeled "Popcorn" and "Defrost," and the tanning lotion smells like honey-mustard sauce, don't get in.

The Cannibal Librarian: Special reading rooms for younger kids that have lettuce leaves as floor mats and big hoagie buns as reading chairs are bad, bad news. Scream "Twilight is the bestest book ever wroted!" as this acts like a Taser shot to the librarian brain and will allow you to escape.

The Cannibal Teacher: If your teacher stops in mid-sentence, pulls out a mini-grater, and starts seasoning you up with the piece of chalk she was using (which is probably a cleverly disguised stick of parmesan cheese), then your teacher is really a cannibal. Flip open your history book to the portrait of William Howard Taft. She'll be mesmerized long enough for you to make your getaway because, let's face it, Taft looked delicious.

The Cannibal Principal or Dean of Students: The fact that the person in question is a school principal automatically tips the odds towards cannibalism and the likelihood that he picks his teeth with the bleached bones of formerly yummy people. To determine if your principal is a cannibal, stand in front of him and say "I know you are but what am I?" in a high-pitched voice for 30 minutes or until veins pop out on his neck. If he only expels you without wondering aloud if you look like you'd go better with carrots or something leafy and green, then you can breathe a sigh of relief.

Shelley writes for a living when she's not either driving her teenager around or weeping into the cell phone bill. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in over 25 publications, with humor published in places like Defenestration, AntipodeanSF and Planet Relish. Her blog is Having Written. She can be reached at shelleyo@gtec.com.

mother of the year (un)acceptance speech

BY REBECCA M. ROSS

Thank you, thank you. I am so honored to have even been considered for the Mother Of The Year Award, and I really feel like it would be wrong of me to accept this beautiful trophy cup, covered in a collage of, what is this? Toilet paper and macaroni? And rainbow sparkles? Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, yes, tissue paper. And look at that, it's one of those self-destructing projects. It's already starting to go to pieces in my hands. How wonderful! Well, at least I don’t have to worry about the dog eating the dried pasta and sparkles since they don't allow dogs in this beautiful school auditorium.

I know that the decision to whom to give this award was very difficult, and having four children, I certainly had the advantage of more votes coming my way. It also helped that the voting public is aware that I bake extraordinary brownies (no, not the special kind; we gave those up a few years ago after accidentally getting totally baked before that PTA meeting to welcome the new principal after the district spelling bee. Can you spell disaster, boys and girls?). I also understand that most mothers weren't even entered this year due to that not-so-little incident a few months back when the majority of the school's mothers rallied in support of legalizing post-natal abortion through age 18. So, perhaps this decision wasn't really that difficult, given that I am friends with the PTA president who, in her transgendered goddessness, has brought new meaning to the phrase "Woman Of The Year." I know what you're thinking but I don’t think that because I used to sleep with Maddie back when she was Matt (oh, those college nights!) is really an issue. I mean, really, there are so few people I haven't slept with. But I digress.

I can't say that I particularly deserve this honor. This past year I've been through a lot and grace was something that didn't come naturally to my handling of most situations. Hell, I don't even think I know what grace is. Like, there was the day that I was strung out on Advil and coffee, knowing full well that the migraine I had was just a prelude to my much-dreaded period (which is, ironically, more like the beginning of a sentence than the end to one) and finally, when it arrived (from where, Paris?) I went into the drawer where I keep a nice supply of OB, only to find that my toddlers had unwrapped each tampon and pulled the strings out, so that they were now just dangling puffs of cotton on light blue strings. Being somewhat creative, I tossed them into the dryer for twenty minutes so they’d become fluffy and then we hung them from the Christmas tree to look like snow balls. Did I yell at the kids before channeling my inner Martha Stewart? Hell, yeah. They're still trembling with fear.

There was also that time when Tyler or Taylor (what is his name again?) was sick. Okay, he was more than just sick. He was puking all over everything. The carpets, the beds, the clean laundry that was folded on the couch. Maybe there are moms out there with compassion who'll scoop their little ones into their arms for a post-barf cuddle. But, like, eww! That was just not happening. First of all, the kid was rank. Just cleaning him up was an exercise in gag-reflexology. And there was the inevitable house clean-up to follow. Who can think of being all lovey-dovey when someone has just tossed their cookies (and cheerios and chocolate milk and grilled cheese and pickles) all over your house?

And what kind of mother isn't allowed to sign her kids up for soccer? Because of me, my kids have been blacklisted from soccer through 2015. Remember that game last fall when it was 35 degrees out but none of us complained about the cold? I was the one in charge of the snacks. The kids had their juice boxes and carrot sticks. And we adults who never get anything? Who made sure there was Jameson on hand? That was me. And everyone was happy until the Team Mom reprimanded me for setting a bad example in front of the kids. I think she was just mad because she was in AA and couldn't partake. So while this makes me a pretty good mom (to know!) I don't think it really qualifies me to be Mother of the Year. Add that to the fact that I don't even like kids and that my biggest biological regret is the uterus, I'd say that I'm a pretty poor excuse for Mother of the Year. But I do thank you for considering me and voting for me --

What?

Are you serious?

Every mother is getting one of these?

Bastards.

Rebecca M. Ross is a fiction writer, playwright, and English teacher with four rambunctious kids who drive her crazy (but usually in a good way.) Her work has been published on Unpious, Scribblers on the Roof, and the New Vilna Review. UNORTHODOX!, Ms. Ross’s newest play, recently had its first public reading. On occasion, she blogs at www.rebeccamross.blogspot.com.

family physician notes

BY DAVID CRAWFORD

Case #1: Twin 8-year-old patients presented in overall good spirits but with numerous layers of dirt encrusting their bodies. Alarming smells detected, faces covered with crumbs and melted substance. Preliminary identification of mystery substance is unauthorized chocolate of some form -- possibly Fudgsicle, possibly chocolate cake. Detailed lab report to follow.

Completed brief examination and took complete history. Apparently patients were quietly drawing pictures and being very good when they fell in a mud bog and happened upon a chocolate cake.

Prescribed immediate bath, teeth brushing, and bed rest. Medicinal smack to cute bare behinds administered as giggling patients scuttled to tub. Story reading on big Mom-and-Dad bed also prescribed. Complete recovery. Case closed.

Case #2: Patient presented gushing red fluid from major artery. Other symptoms included odd noises and smells emanating from patient's hindquarters. Patient is 12-year-old, 4-door sedan with transmission thrombosis and other irregularities. Barely ambulatory, patient hemorrhaged fluid all way to ER clinic where emergency surgery commenced.

Discharge of patient expected today with a full recovery anticipated. Note: this patient is not covered by universal health care. A plea of poverty will be issued to attending emergency physicians, hoping for leniency. None anticipated. Case (hopefully) closed.

Case #3: Patient presented with wet eyes and oozing, shallow knee trauma (lab identifies as "scrape") approximately one inch in diameter. Patient describes injury as "my whole leg!" Granulated road material present in wound, gently cleaned with water from squirt gun, soapy cloth, (formerly) clean towel. Cause of injury described as "riding bike with no hands." Patient counseled with questioning eyebrow, lesson learned with no post-traumatic lecturing required.

Amputation of limb considered, discussed. Patient insisted on Spiderman bandage in lieu of amputation. Pain medication declined by brave patient. Bravery level 6/10 noted for record.

Bandaging of patient proceeded without incident, smile returning to face immediately upon application of sterile tissue to wet cheeks, kiss upon general region of wound. Physical therapy consisting of "Mario Cart racing using Wii instrumentation" prescribed for one half hour, no cheating or beating up sister. Case closed.

Case #4: Patient presented experiencing considerable trauma in the head, neck, and abdomen region. Symptoms included missing eye, partial disembowelment, fang marks, extreme wetness (lab identifies as "dog slobber").  Patient described as "Tiger" and "Favorite Stuffy" by traumatized relative of patient. Source of trauma described as "canine discovering cheese substance from dinner table smeared over stuffy, with subsequent frenzied attack upon said stuffy by said canine." Law enforcement note: charges of "Bad Dog!" pending.

Despite best efforts of ER team, patient succumbed to injuries. Distraught relative, who brought patient to ER in first place, dismisses death with a shrug and "Oh well" response and continues playing with 67 remaining stuffies in bedroom.

Patient returned to assailant via "corpse tossing" technique and "pulling dog around slippery floor by her teeth" procedure.  Case closed.

Case #5: Patient presented showing localized swelling in several areas of body. Preliminary diagnosis: "skeeter" bites.

Immediate immobilization upon couch prescribed, with attending physician administering small doses of medicine (Witch Hazel -- actually, water poured into empty Witch Hazel bottle since supply was exhausted) to itchy wounds via medicinal cotton ball. Immediate cessation of itchiness results. Patient confirms belief that attending physician is the "Best Doctor in the Whole Wide World." Case closed via loud, smacky kisses.

Physician smiles.  Just another day at the office.

David is a syndicated columnist in Canada and has won the America's Funniest Humor Writing Contest three times. He can be reached at: funnycolumn@gmail.com.

my daughter's first birthday

BY RICHARD TURCK

If you're a parent, then you know there's nothing quite as memorable as your child's first birthday. The way their eyes light up when they see the cake, how they giggle when you use the party blowers, and the way your house burns down from poor candle placement. It truly is unforgettable.

All of this reminds me of the first birthday party I threw for my daughter. It was a warm, sunny day and I was out shopping for the perfect gift at Ace Hardware. If I know babies like I think I do, then they love home improvement. Rummaging through the aisles, I couldn't decide what my daughter would enjoy more: electrical tape, PVC piping, or door hinges. I tried asking the opinion of one of the staff members, but by the confused look on his face, I could tell he thought they were all great.

Once I got home, I found my wife putting up streamers of all colors and could smell cake baking in the oven. She cast a bit of an odd look on her face when she saw the Ace bag in my hand, but I just gave her a wink and slipped away into the bedroom to wrap the gifts. While in the bedroom, I discovered we didn't have any wrapping paper, so I figured one of my old tube socks from the hamper would do just fine.

As my wife pulled the cake out of the oven, I suddenly realized I had forgotten the birthday candles while I was out shopping. Nervously darting my eyes around the room, I tried to come up with a backup plan before I had to reveal my forgetfulness. Then, just as my wife was about to ask me to light the cake, I remembered I had a secret stash of firecrackers in the garage. It was either that or the road flares I kept in my truck. And even though I'm a big fan of safety, road flares just don't scream "Party!" quite like their more festive counterpart.

While my better half, or perhaps better whole, was in the other room getting our daughter, I spelled the word "ONE" with my replacement "candles" and stood back in satisfaction. Once we were all in the kitchen, gathered around the table, I shut off the lights and lit the cake. I could tell my wife knew something was up with the candles by the way she began to say, "Why do they sound like....?" But before she could finish the sentence, there was a tremendous "POP, POP, POP, SNAP, POP, POP, OH MY GOD, POP, POP, WHAT DID YOU, POP, SNAP, POP, POP!!!!" as frosting went flinging in every direction.

When the smoke cleared, it appeared that 75% of the frosting had landed on my wife's face. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, "Wow, what are the odds that most of it would land right there!?" But she wasn't in the mood to discuss probabilities. I had screwed up big time and needed to redeem myself, pronto. Luckily, I knew just the thing. As I confidently looked at my wife's agitated face, I revealed the old tube sock and placed it on the table with a smile. "What's this?" she snapped. That's when I pulled out electrical tape, door hinges, and a package of wood screws from inside the sock. My wife was so pleased with my thoughtful gift choices that she was forced to storm out of the room to conceal her excitement.

For some reason, I was no longer allowed to buy gifts, light candles, or be present at subsequent birthday parties. Of course, that's not going to stop me from giving my daughter the keys to a brand new, hot air balloon for her sixteenth birthday. After all, what's a party without balloons?

Richard Turck is a 28-year-old human being who enjoys certain things more than others. His humor writings have been found lurking in various places across the web. If you happen to spot one, proceed with extreme caution as they are considered armed and dangerous.

lullaby of the sloth mother

BY ROZ WARREN AND JANET GOLDEN

I hauled Lulu's dollhouse to the car and told her I'd donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn't have "The Little White Donkey" perfect by the next day. I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic. -- Amy Chua, Battle Cry of the Tiger Mother

A lot of people wonder how we Sloth Mothers do such a terrific job of keeping the kids out of our hair so we can kick back, smoke weed, watch soap operas, and drink yummy mixed drinks -- all without being pestered to do boring stuff like cook healthful meals or drive pesky rug rats to the pediatrician for time-consuming annual check-ups. Well, just ask me. I'm a Sloth Mother and I've trained my offspring well. They would never dream of expecting me to:

-- drive them to sports practice
-- watch them star in a school play
-- hire an SAT tutor, or
-- turn the volume down a little on my 56-inch flat-screen TV

How do we Sloth Mothers do it? We make sure our offspring understand from a very early age that effort is a complete waste of time. After all, we're all going to die. This means achievement is meaningless, and the sooner the little ones get this through their lthick skulls, the happier we're all going to be.

There was the time little Jon came home with a project his teacher had given him so he could earn "extra credit." "Extra credit is garbage!" I told him. "Who the hell needs extra credit? Throw that right in the trash and come over here and watch Oprah with me.

Sloth mothering isn't  just a matter of urinating on them if they try to climb down and explore. You've also got to reward them when they meet your expectations. For instance, there was the day when Freddie came home from school with a D - in algebra! "We're going right to McDonald's to celebrate with fries and shakes for dinner," I promised. "The minute I finish this nap."

Barry proved to be a lot more resistant. He saw those Tiger kids practicing the violin for hours and hours. "Why are they doing that, Mom?" he asked. "Because they don't realize how futile it is," I responded, sensing a teachable moment. Then I told him not to bother me about it again. But a week later, he was back. "Practicing the violin looks hard," he said. "But mastering a song looks so rewarding!" I gently explained that those Tiger kids came from lousy backgrounds and didn't even use drugs. Then I gave him his very own bottle of Vicodin and kept him home from school for a week. Problem solved.

Sloth Motherhood isn't always easy. Never mind what those troublesome Social Services people say -- sometimes you just have to ignore the little tykes altogether in order to create some space for yourself. But you know what? Other moms envy Sloth Moms and our kids. And why shouldn't they? Their children couldn’t mix a decent Manhattan if their lives depended on it.

Janet Golden and Roz Warren are a Philadelphia-based writing team whose work has appeared in venues from The Funny Times to Womens Voices for Change. Janet is a history professor. Roz has a website: www.rosalindwarren.com.