peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

Parenting children. It makes you do silly things. Especially if you’re kinda silly to begin with.

My seven-year-old son and I were playing in the snow. I pulled some moss off a tree and shoved it up my nose.

“Look, Hon! I’m The Lorax!”

He laughed heartily.

Exactly what I was hoping for.

The other day at work, a co-worker was describing how busy someone was and said, “He’s up to his ass in alligators.”

Yikes. What a great saying. I can relate.

But that wasn’t what I heard him say. Let me just tell you: it pays to listen carefully.

I thought he said, “Alligators are coming out of his ass.”

Double yikes. Now THAT would be a sight. And something I hope to never see or experience.

This reminds me of playing telephone tag as a kid. Where you whispered a word into someone’s ear. And then she whispered it into someone’s ear. And then she whispered it into someone else’s ear. And so on and so on until it turned into something totally different.

Giraffe => moustache => big ass.

It was hard to hear with all the giggling and whatnot.

Go on…play a retro game of telephone, will ya?

We have a pet fish.

He looks dead. But he’s not. He is totally faking.

Because, when you go to scoop him out, he swims away.

The backstroke. Of course.

Commenting on how time flies and how kids are growing like a weed…those are old lady comments, in my book. Purchasing fiber capsules and complaining about my hardened feet and sore muscles? OMG, those are old lady actions too.

Dude! I am turning into an old lady!

• A friend of mine has a daughter who just got accepted to Dartmouth. Not only is that amazing and impressive, but I knew this woman when she was pregnant with this little Dartmouthian. What did I utter? “Wow, she has sure grown up.”*

*old lady comment

• I was on Facebook and ran across a woman who just got married. A beautiful bride. I knew her when she was a six-year-old. What did I comment? “I knew you when you were just a little girl.”*

*old lady comment

• The radio was on and it was Rihanna. Again. The words out of my mouth? “How can kids listen to this?”* Bah, music these days. And I changed it to the jazz station to listen to–get this–Eartha Kitt and Tommy Dorsey.

*old lady comment

• I go to the kitchen cabinet only to discover I’m low on–what else? Fiber capsules.*

*old lady purchase

My thirteen-year-old officially towers over me, standing tall at 6′. Am I shrinking, like old ladies do? I quickly measured myself. Whew, still 5’8″.

Then I jumped in the car (because I still can) and drove fast (because I still can), blasted some Rihanna, and stocked up on fiber capsules.

Yes, Virigina, there is such thing as too much oat bran.

Here’s a little story about how I nearly changed my name from Pesky Pippi to Poopy Pippi. If you can’t handle poop talk, better not read on.

It all started out with an innocent batch of cookies. I made Oatmeal-Coconut Chocolate Chip Cookies. And I swapped out all of the flour with oat bran.

Note: Raw coconut and oat bran both are packed with fiber and increase metabolism. A powerful combination.

It was a gorgeous batch of cookies. Chewy. Tasty. Hot out of the oven.

I ate four. I ate seven. OK, I ate nine.

Then it was time to take my daughter to soccer practice. While she practiced, my seven-year-old son and I played on the play structure at the park. Everything was going just swimmingly. We were climbing, jumping, swinging. Just another day at the park.

Then it hit. The oat bran fiber bomb was about to explode.

You know that feeling when you have to poop and there is no toilet nearby? Yeah that. And you start to sweat. And clench. And take baby steps. Fast baby steps to the car.

You call to your son with panic in your voice, “Honey. We have to go NOW. Mommy has to go poop. And it’s an emergency.”

He says, “I know that feeling.” Yeah, he knows. And you know he knows.

You share a brief moment of understanding. I mean, haven’t we all been there?

By this time, you’re halfway to the car and you think you just can’t make it. Things are percolating.

And you are regretting the multitude of cookies you shoveled into your mouth, one hour before.

But your young son takes your hand and you hold it. And you know you HAVE to hold it in to show that you can do it.

You continue to sweat. You swear you’ll never eat another cookie in your life.

You make it to your car and drive frantically. Squeezing your buns all the way to the nearest grocery store, which is 4 minutes away if you make all the green lights. The grocery store becomes a beacon of light, welcoming you. Because you know from experience that the restrooms are clean and at the front of the store.

And you get there and the women’s restroom door is open because a guy is in there cleaning it. “Sorry, Ma’am, this restroom is closed.”

You give him the most helpless look. You feel like the one in Bridesmaids, the one who takes a dump in the sink.

So you stand there. Squeezing. Praying. One minute later he leaves and says, “It’s all yours.” And you want to high-five him, but you’re worried that too much movement will jiggle something loose.

Whew. You make it. And you breath a sigh of relief.

Your son peeks in, curious and eager, “Is everything OK Mom?”

“Yes, everything is OK,” you smile. A big, toothy smile, “Even Mommies nearly poop their pants.”

And he smiles. And understands.

Who knew that a poop emergency could be a life lesson in empathy?

You may have an honor roll student.

But I have an Armpit Farter.

Yep.

He learned it–where else–in school.

I need a bumper sticker that says: I Heart My Armpit Farter.

Frump frump frumpety frump.

Wondering how you too can achieve the frump look? It’s really easy.

1. A t-shirt that you’ve had for ages. This one I’ve had for 19 years. I got it from the bar Carlos O’Brien’s in Puerta Vallarta on my honeymoon. Sentimental. Super soft from a gazillion washings. And who doesn’t like frogs wearing clothes?
2. Jammy pants. Any type will work. But print ones are best. These have penguins with headphones. How can you resist?
3. Polar fleece. Finish off the look with a polar fleece hoody. You know, the kind your teen says you look like a dork in? Yeah that one.

You’re set! See how easy that was? Now you’re ready to drop off your kids at school and run into all the glam mothers or go grocery shopping. You can thank me later.

This is what bedtime looks like around here.

P-A-R-T-Y!

I live in a smallish town where the neighborhood pharmacist knows me by name.

It’s quite nice to be greeted by name. But a little awkward too. Because it means that the friendly pharmacist knows my prescriptions. My ailments. My illnesses.

And he knows about my rash.

So the other day while I’m out grocery shopping, he calls out rather loudly, “Hi Pippi! How are you? How is your rash?”

Awkward. A little privacy, will ya? Let’s keep the rash on the down low, shall we. As if I want all of aisle 8 to know…

It turned out that I needed to bring my six-year-old son to work because there were no other babysitting options. I work in a smallish office in a fancy schmancy loft space in the hip part of town.

Where people don’t bring their children.

Realizing this, I told my son to please pack a backpack full of toys that he could quietly play with.

So, I’m in a meeting and he’s in the corner unzipping his backpack. What did he pack?

A kazoo.

A Zsu Zsu Pet.

And maracas.