Planet Mom Blog

Walter, the Farting Dog and Other Strange Topics of Discussion

Child: “Almost everybody in my class says the word F-A-R-T, Mom, which isn’t nice except when you’re talking about Walter, the Farting Dog—you know, that funny book we read in kindergarten?”

Me: “Yes, I remember. Walter, the Farting Dog.” (Rolling my eyes theatrically)

Child: “Everybody in my class does the F-A-R-T-I-N-G thing, too, Mom and it’s stinky and loud and everybody laughs and laughs.”

Me: (Silence—it’s a no-brainer)

Child: “Mine are really quiet at school, though. And I don’t know why. I guess it’s because I never open my umbrella in the house.”

Me: (With a look of complete and utter confusion) “What on earth does opening your umbrella have to do with stinkering at school?!”

Child: “It brings good luck if I don’t open my umbrella in the house. So I’m lucky that way, I guess.”

Me: “Maybe the kids in your class don’t get the umbrella-in-the-house-good-luck-charm thingy, huh?”

Child: “Apparently not.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Animal Crackers in My Soup…

Me: “How ‘bout some animal crackers with your breakfast, Hon. Doesn’t that sound perfectly scrumptious?”

Seek: “Okay. I guess so.”

Me: “You know, I looooove animal crackers, but not in my soup. That’s just plain weird. They’d get mushy. And I don’t like mushy, unless we’re talking oatmeal. Oatmeal is supposed to be mushy. Not animal crackers.”

Seek: “I don’t like oatmeal, Mom.”

Me: “Oh yeah. I forgot, my dear child. You’re fond of next-to-nothing when it comes to food. Heaven forbid you slurp something oatmealish. Good Lord, what would happen if you actually liked it?!” (Insert dramatic gasp and clutching of breast) “People would talk.”

Seek: (Rolls eyes and reminds me to get the animal crackers already).

Me: (Happily munching on goats, buffalo and great hordes of elephants together…) “My favorite part is biting off their silly little heads, you know.”

Seek: “I like that, too.”

Me: “It makes me feel all-powerful, like a mean and horrible beast-of-a-thing, obsessed with just one mission in life: devouring herds upon herds of terrified creatures. Mercilessly ripping off one head at a time and then gobbling the remains in a ravenous fit of rage. Leaving not one crumbish morsel upon the earth. Like that Cyclops guy. Pretty sick, huh?”

Seek: (Silence).

Me: “I guess that IS pretty sick. Oh well, does it bug you that I like animal crackers in the first place?”

Seek: “Nope. Big people can eat kids’ food, too.”

Me: “Well that’s a relief.”

At that, I plunked a hapless goat in my mouth, smacking my lips with pleasure. (But not before I mumbled the poor fool’s last words—to the utter delight of all, “Goodbye, cruel world!”)

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dining with Heathens…Continued…

(Please recall, if you will, that my motley crew and I happened to be dining in a rather swank establishment, where I was appalled YET AGAIN by the uncouth nature of mealtime discussions).

“Mommy, Taylor needs you in the bathroom.”

“Whatdaya mean she needs me?”

“You know, Mom. She neeeeeeeeds you. Plus she said the toilet might overflow.”

Of course my mind played worst case scenario (as it does so capably), racing forward to the hideous spectacle we’d become should such a foul catastrophe actually occur. I pictured the crowd, agape and aghast, their satiny napkins clutched in horror, silverware and China clinking and clanking as patrons pushed and shoved to escape the river of repulsiveness snaking its way across the floor where we dined.

Fortunately, it wasn’t our day to be a spectacle. I mumbled a small prayer of thanks into the folds of my napkin upon my return from the restroom. Yet another crisis averted. But the boorish banter at the dinner table continued.

“Daddy, Mommy took us to see the coolest thing this morning before we got on the bus! It was a DEAD BIRD! A DEAD BABY BIRD! I wanted to touch it, but Mommy wouldn’t let me so I just poked it with a piece of grass. I even blew it a kiss! I could see its little beak and grayish feathers and everything! It was SO cool! Jack tried to eat it, you know. Mommy said he rolled around in it later. That’s so gross. Why do dogs do that anyway?”

Of course, this handily surpassed another mealtime discussion we had had about dog poo in recent months. “Daddy, Jack made a little sculpture with his poopie today! I call it the Leaning Tower of Poop! I told my art teacher what he did and she laughed and laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was SO funny, Daddy! Mommy should take you to see it before it falls over. It’s like a real tower you know.”

Prior to that, the worm discourse had comfortably held the top spot. “Daddy, I’m saving every little wormy I find outside,” Thing One proudly announced, delving into a bowl of spaghetti with her fork. (How fitting!)

“They’re part of my collection, Dad. Just like my rocks. So I put the wormies in a big bucket in the garage. It’s their worm bed.”

“Yeah, and one of those guys pooped on my hand!” Thing Two squealed with utter delight. “It was DIARRHEA, Mommy! Ewwwww!”

Like I said, I am literally appalled by what is deemed newsworthy at our dinner table. Indeed, kids acknowledge fully the power of shock value—now and forever.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Dining with Heathens…

As a general rule, I am appalled by the uncouth nature of the discussions that waft over our dinner table each evening, filling our house with the familiar stench of gaucheness. Thursday was no exception. Mind you, my husband and I were dining at a rather swank establishment, living in abject fear that one or both of our heathens would say or do something that would mortify us beyond comprehension. Not that we’d be surprised.

“Mommy, these carrots taste like the inside of a shoe.” Oy! Thank God the waitress had already flitted back to her lair by the time that snippet of speech tumbled forth for the whole freaking world to hear. The woman was out of earshot—ostensibly, anyway. I surmised that Grandma and Grandpa, who were also attending said grand and glorious soiree, would then call into question what we had been teaching our dear charges for the past seven years, specifically with regard to table manners (or the lack thereof). But apparently, they remembered well what it was like to be embarrassed by a brood of tactless children—one of whom happened to be me.

“Honey, is that a nice thing to say?! How on earth would you know what the inside of a shoe tastes like anyway?” I scolded, swallowing a melon-sized chortle and glancing around to see if anyone had heard the carrot comment or, worse yet, had detected my sinfully delicious amusement with the whole affair.

“I licked Daddy’s shoe once and that’s exactly what these carrots taste like,” she stated in a definitive manner.

Needless to say, at this point in the discussion I fell silent, both stunned and disturbed by the information I had been given and indescribably mortified by its implications. I mean, what do you say to a child who has admitted to having tasted a shoe?! Much less, the INSIDE of a shoe?! I’ve got nothing for that. Zilch. No pat little responses exist in my repertoire of snappy parental comebacks for such an inane remark.

So we moved on—to the next set of things for which I was unprepared.

To be continued…

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Slumber Parties Suck, Basically

I should have listened to the little voice inside my head. The one that warned of impending doom as it relates directly to slumber parties and other foolishness to which parents subject themselves voluntarily. But proving yet again that my idiocy knows no bounds, I barreled ahead, boldly making plans for four giddified first graders to join Seek and Destroy in celebrating their seventh birthday. “With any luck,” I thought, “I’ll want the little heathens to see their eighth birthday.”

Clearly, I had been stricken stupid in the process. At the very least, I had experienced a weak moment (read: I caved) as evidenced by my willingness to proclaim to my beloved charges, “Alright already. You can have a sleepover. On your birthday.” And with those seemingly innocuous words, I had sealed my fate.

What a creampuff.

I then spent roughly two light-years devising what I believed would be the treasure-hunt-to-end-all-treasure-hunts, complete with catchy little rhymes, a bevy of thought-provoking clues and a clever ploy for getting even the ditziest of participants to work as a team instead of the warring factions they would likely become. Silly me. The pitiful thing was over in less than 12 minutes with little or no fanfare—aside from the rapture the girls exuded while tearing from one post to the next, all the while waving their arms wildly overhead and screaming like a bunch of banshees. Blissfully, I might add. The treasure itself was apparently less than impressive, producing a collectively unenthused look of, “Eh, is that it?”

Next time, everyone will get a pony.

As the evening progressed I distinctly recall wanting to leave. The planet. Of course, I couldn’t hide out in the attic. The husband had already claimed that coveted space. After he had sopped up dog urine (in which at least one partygoer had stepped!), prepared the made-to-order mini pizzas in rapid-fire succession, popped a vat of popcorn and delivered the 37th piece of cake, he was spent. It’s no wonder the notion of retreating to something closet-ish carried such high appeal.

Alas, nothing went as planned. Not one damned thing. One child didn’t like chocolate cake, another ate exactly NOTHING from the time she made landfall and still another had sneezes that could have been measured by the bucketful. Seriously. By the frigging bucketful.

No one wanted to sit through Cinderella and the vast majority of kidlets were spooked by Gulliver’s Travels—as evidenced by the cluster of pajama clad waifs, cowering behind the couch like a bunch of little girls. Okay, that’s what they were—a bunch of little girls—little girls who might tell Mommy and Daddy about the scaaaaary movie those bad, bad people made them watch at the party, and then our children would be banned from playing with all the cool kids because, of course, if Mom and Dad are that horrible, “Good Lord, how atrocious must the kids be?! We can’t allow our angels to associate with such animals!” And the final blow…no one would let them play any reindeer games.

Needless to say, it’s a good thing everybody agreed to watch another flick we had on hand. The gods were smiling, if only fleetingly.

But when it came time for the slumber component of the slumber party, no one was particularly interested. Except those over the age of seven (that made two of us). So into the wee hours of the morning we journeyed, far beyond the Land of Sleep Deprivation, our voices adrift over a tangle of sleeping bags, pillows and smallish bodies that refused to be still. “Mrs. Wentzel, I can’t sleep. I’m not even tired yet.” “So-and-so’s sleeping bag is in my space, can you make her move it already?” “I’m thirsty…I’m hungry…I have to PEE…AGAIN….”

Eventually, the whining intensified until I nearly imploded. In retrospect, that might have been an improvement considering my sorry state at the time. “Mrs. Wentzel, I can’t sleep with all that coughing and COUGHING and with Mr. Wentzel’s SNORING and what’s that thumping sound I hear?” Translation: One of my brood barked like a dog ALL NIGHT—which would have proved exceedingly difficult for anyone to tune out, least of all a seven-year-old jacked on the truckload of sugar we had bestowed upon her. My husband did, in fact, snore TO EXCESS while camped on the couch and the mysterious thumping sound—well, the stinking dog apparently felt compelled to scratch himself, beating his wretched little leg on the floor to the point of distraction. Mostly mine. Like I said, I wanted to leave—or sleep in the lawn. With the creepy crawly things. With the stench of dog poo. With the possibility of being stumbled upon by a myopic skunk.

Instead, I carried the barker to her bedroom, ordered the husband to snore elsewhere and remedied the dog’s issue with itchiness—at least temporarily. A mere five hours later, the fun began once again. In earnest. ARRRRRRRGGGG!

I suppose creampuffs like me deserve as much.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

You Think It’s Easy Being the Tooth Fairy?

Think again. I just made the poor woman’s job infinitely more difficult by insisting that she not only keep up with her own nightly duties (i.e. zooming hither and yon by the light of the moon), but that she also carve out some time to judge a boatload of submissions for the Tooth Fairy, Schmooth Fairy contest I held here recently. What can I say—I’m a lazy, snaggletoothed schmuck. I dumped a sinful burden on the Easter Bunny over the weekend, too. But that’s another story.

At any rate, the vast and wonderful array of entries have, in fact, been properly assessed and although the task of selecting just three winners was an exceedingly grueling process, that winged creature of celebrated lore succeeded in the end.

The lucky trio (whose submissions are highlighted below) will each receive a copy of You Think It’s Easy Being the Tooth Fairy?—a humorous picture book written by my friend (and outstandingly clever author), Sheri Bell-Rehwoldt (Chronicle Books). Thank you, Sheri, for making this possible (and for dreaming up that “…spunky spitfire of a redheaded tooth fairy…” in the first place!!)

AND THE WINNERS ARE… (drumroll, please…)

Queen Linda (aka Linda Marie Ford of It’s Good to be the Queen)

HER MAGNIFICENT ENTRY:

Yesterday Prince Christopher informed me, “You lied to me, Mommy.”

“Really? About what, my sweetness and light?”

“You said I would lose a tooth when I’m six, and I haven’t and you are a liar.”

“Are ya still six, sweetie? Huh? Are ya? I believe you will be seven in October so that gives you about seven months to lose a tooth the old fashioned way. Or you can keep calling me a liar and you can lose one now. What’s it gonna be?”

“Oh yeah, I’m still six. I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“That’s okay, babe.”

“Hey Mommy, you have never lied to me, have you?”

“Not that you know of, darling.”

Helen Traphagan

HER FABULOUS ENTRY:

My five-year-old son was getting jealous because his older brother had lost several teeth and he hadn’t lost any. So, being the type of child he is—always thinking outside the box—he got his brother’s Tooth Fairy box and sat down with a piece of paper to cut out a small PAPER tooth. He thought he was really going to pull one over on that silly Tooth Fairy. He put the box under his pillow, and I wish I had a camera for the look on his face the next morning when he woke up and found in place of the paper tooth a PAPER QUARTER, lovingly put there by the Tooth Fairy.

Tina Hayes

HER STUPENDOUS ENTRY:

Unfortunately, I cannot claim this factual tale as one from my three sons, but it is from one of my three nephews. Todd, the middle child, of course was sleeping soundly. My sister-in-law was stealthy attempting to do what she had done numerous times before—make the exchange of marrow for moolah. As she gently lay the coins on the dresser, Todd awakens. His eyes are blurry; a distant look comes across his face. My sister-in-law pauses. What now? Will the Tooth Fairy identity be forever revealed? Will civilization end as we know it? Todd nods off. She escapes and awaits the revelation in the morning. Morning approaches, Todd runs from his room, she awaits the dreaded words, but instead hears, “Mommy, I saw the Tooth Fairy last night and she looks just like YOU!!”

What can you say but, “Really?!?”

***************************************************

Needless to say, a slew of other really talented folks from near and far (Rhode Island to Texas!) also sent me their glowing prose in hopes that they would earn one of those coveted toothy prizes. And I thank you, dear contestants, for participating and for making the contest even more spirited and colorful than I had imagined. I know the Tooth Fairy herself was duly impressed with your offerings. Especially memorable to me was the touching Alaska vacation story as well as the chronicle relating a first tooth loss, during surgery of all things! And I really got a charge out of the amusing tale of the little girl who tried to cash in by claiming to have lost a tooth, but in actuality it was her sister’s! And there was the hysterically funny account involving a Grandma and her false teeth. “If the Tooth Fairy left you $5, I’ll bet Grandma is rolling in the dough this morning with all those teeth!”

That being said, I think all concerned will appreciate knowing that I was awakened this morning at 4:53 am, not to the irksome blasts of my alarm clock or to the incessant yappings of my dog that had to pee, but to my child, who felt compelled to share with me the news of yet another wiggly tooth. Oddly enough, I was not permitted to actually WITNESS said wiggliness there in the dark, nor could I test the validity of the claim myself with a finger. I just had to be content in the knowledge and happy to have been included among those who received the bulletin.

I think it’s safe to say I was privy to the early edition of said newsflash.

Good Lord.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel