So I’m walking to the bus stop yesterday to pick up my first grader (in the balmy 50 degree New Hampshire freak weather–BOOM!), and I glance over at four year old who’s skipping along and ask, “Hey, how do you like your new shoes?”

“They’re TELLIBLE! They make me really slow!”

I THOUGHT THEY WERE PRETTY SNAZZY MYSELF.

“Oh, pumpkin, no.” I think to myself. “It’s not the shoes. It’s the DNA. There’s a reason why mama was never picked first seventh in gym class.” (Thank God for my sparkling personality. Which has gotten me nowhere far in life. Well, I did score that extra slice of cheese for 3 year old at the deli. A win for the chatty!)

I think it, but I don’t say it. Who am I to be a four year old dream crusher? Perception is reality, people.

“I don’t think you’re slow. Show me whacha got…go, run, go!”

Sure enough, he blasted off, stopped, turned around and beamed, “Oh… actually they make me really fast!” before leaping over a man hole cover at the bus stop for good measure.

“Awesome! You are SO fast!”

Being a parent is a buzz kill sometimes, don’t you think? By that I mean,  so many times during the day I find myself saying, “NO!”. No, you can’t climb the shelves of the pantry, three year old. No, you can’t eat fruit roll ups for lunch, four year old. No, you can’t play your new DS until you do your math homework, six year old.

You can’t talk with your mouth full. You can’t “fly” off your brother’s loft bed. You can’t use my floor lamp as a fireman pole. You can’t wear your Mario shirt to church. You can’t sit in the clothes dryer! (Definitely NO!) You can’t play ball in the house… right Carol Brady?

No. Nahnonono. NO!

Sigh.

UM, YEAH, I HAVE NO IDEA WHO "GIMP DADDY" IS....BUT THANKS ,PHOTOBUCKET AND GIMP DADDY, BECAUSE THIS BUZZ KILL PIC SAYS IT ALL!

Buzz.kill. Buzzzzzy buzzz buzzz. Buzz.

I decided I’m going to try to say yes as much as I can, when I can. Saying no as a parent is obviously necessary sometimes.  We can’t have the inmates running the asylum. And in a household of climbing, adventure seeking boys, no is literally a safety precaution. But would Cheez-It’s for breakfast once in a while kill them? Would tossing a football in the hallway really rock my world? If a lamp breaks, is it priceless anyway?

There is a gigundo grey area between prison warden and total anarchy, right? And our kids….are not us. They might look like us, they might even act like us (frightening?), but they’re not us. They are their own little selves. Fast or slow, good at math or stuck after school for extra help, fantastic singers or glass breakers, star scorers or bench warmers, they are their own unique selves. If I’m a slow runner, that doesn’t make my kid one.

Our kids are a clean slate. A beginning to a wonderful story that is still unfolding. It’s theirs to write with our help and guidance.

I saw this quote on (cough) Pinterest–it’s attributed to Albert Einstein. I have my doubts about if he really said it, but it doesn’t matter, as the quote is meaningful nonetheless:

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

Sometimes I think it’s best to keep our thoughts to ourselves, let our kids go, and watch them fly.

If we tell them they can’t enough, they just might believe us.

If we tell them they can enough, they just might believe us.

And I just checked the box. Cheez-It’s are made with 100% real cheese (only the best for mah babies!), making them a really not good breakfast indeed!

A few months ago, a friend sent me an invitation to something called, “Pinterest”. Have you heard of it? I didn’t know what it was at first so I did what I always do when I don’t know what something is….nothing. (I put the I in initiative.) Then I got another invitation so I took the next step, set up an account under my alias, Muffintopmommy, and promptly forgot all about it. Til one day a few weeks ago when a funtastic muffintopper pointed me to a recipe blog called skinnytaste (nom, nom, low fat goodness!) whose glorious recipe pictures led me back to……Pinterest.

People? 2012 is the year I met my personal crack cocaine.

It was a circuitous route, but like all addicts, I perservered. And once I got there? It was the point of no return—I was ALL in. So now what? Naturally, Iwanna do like most good junkies do…. give others a taste and suck you all down my wayward path. That’s right. After being asked several times last week by friends what Pinterest is, I feel it is now my obligation to spread the good word. (I’m not going door to door. That’s just silly. It’s January in New Hampshire and this territory is owned by Girl Scouts right now. Have you ever tried to cross a sash clad, ponytailed, four foot tall ninja carrying an order form for the holy grail of minty cookies? Don’t. Just don’t. Just smile and give them all your money.)

Wanna come along? Consider this Pinterest 101. Right here. Right now. Time to woman up. This isn’ t for sissies. And it can be confusing. After one friend emailed me asking me to explain it and why it was so addictive, I sent her an email that I thought made sense, to which she responded:

“Ok, I think I kind of get it.  I can pin things to my board and they will stay there if I want to go back to them?  Do you share stuff with others?  I take it back…I don’t think I get it at all.”

She seemed down, so I emailed her back, “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” Thank you, Pinterest, for reminding me of that phenomenal quote from The Help! I love you Aibileen, I love you!

People who are smart, kind, and important still often can’t grasp the concept of Pinterest because you see, it’s one of those things that’s harder to explain than it is to actually do. I know that sounds weird, but my best recommendation is to jump in with both feet and try it. You do need an invitation from someone who’s already on Pinterest. I know, it’s super exclusive. That’s why I am surprised I got an invite. (But really…if you need an invite, email me and I’ll send you one.)

So here’s my best stab at ‘splaining it. Pinterest is a virtual pinboard. Did you ever cut out pictures from a magazine of things you liked… a fun outfit? A wedding dress? A cool looking kitchen? A yummy recipe? And pin them to an actual corkboard? (Yeah, me neither, but I kinda wish I did.) I hear people who aren’t like me (read:organized) do, or they carefully file these clippings away for future reference/inspiration.

Well now, even disorganized dopes with no initiative can display everything we love! The really crack coke part of it is, you can follow what others display too, and “repin” what they have displayed on your corkboards. And you can have dozens and dozens of corkboards showcasing anything and everything your muffin top desires! For example, I have categories like, “The Yummies” for recipes, “The funny” for hilarious sayings, “Shoes and clothes and shoes, oh my!” for houses (Der, clothes and shoes! Just making sure you’re paying attention–this is so not important!) ,  and “Let’s Get Physical” for exercise tips. I even have a board called, “People I Want To Have A Beer With” and “People I’m Allowed To Cheat On The Hubs With”! Calm down! Stop calling me Newt. It’s just for funnies and let’s face it, Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights isn’t into me hasn’t returned any of my  calls, text messages, or emails.

And who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane? Someone’s pin totally brought me back and led me to the greatness of this 70′s commercial:

Time for Timer!

Makes me teary. And inspiration? Is at your fingertips, my friends!

Can you even guess where I found this fat-tastic weight loss inspiration? Who needs to pay for Weight Watchers! Pfft!

 So pin those yummy recipes, Julia! Showcase the most fashionable outfits you’ll never fit into or be able to buy, Gisele! Pine away for that perfect porch to have a cocktail on, Martha! Be inspired to conquer your muffin top, um, Muffintopmommy!

See, Pinterest is almost like the life we wish we had or everything we aspire to be: in shape, well dressed, well spoken, well intentioned, grammatically correct, repurposing, funny, inspirational, selves……..who drive fantastic cars, cook like famous chefs, sip gorgeous cocktails on sweeping verandas whilst taking time to smell the perfectly pruned hydrangeas.

Mama can dream. Mama.can.dream. Don’t we all deserve a break, if only virtual, from cars covered in winter’s salt, shirts we bought because they were on clearance at Target, and humdrum dinners we could assemble in our sleep?

But hey, just don’t blame me if you’re soon writing status updates on your Facebook page like I did last week:

Dear Pinterest, thanks for making me hungry, hate my clothes, and want a new baby. I would complain, but your inspirational messages prevent me from not appreciating the wonderful kids I have, the (mediocre) food I cook, and (nerd herd) clothes I wear! Well played, Pinterest, well played.

Don’t hate the playah, just hate the game.

**You can even pin blogs! But apparently putting a pinterest button on my blog so you can follow me or pin my blog….is above my pay grade. I tried. And failed. On Pinterest, I’m much more talented…..so if you’re looking for me? Try there. And if anyone finds a blog post giving the 411 on that, pin it baby, pin it!

Whew!

I’m happy to report I survived Black Friday.

Granted, I was in my snowman pajamas snuggled under the covers sawing wood til the late hour of half past 8, but I am just so grateful my 2 year old didn’t pepper spray me and no one stepped on my face for some Wheaties here at Casa de Muffin Top. I know others did not fare so well.

I was worried. You just never know where danger lurks.

I love me some bargains but oooh, the thought of getting out of my toasty roasty bed after hosting T-giving (that’s right…..and opening that can of cranberry sauce was the last straw…it totally did me in…)was too much for any 50% off wafflemaker. Unless Coach Taylor was up for grabs, I was just not ready to do battle with the people of Walmart. I’m klutzy on a good day–half asleep with gravy coursing through my veins–you know I wouldda gotten taken out by one of those scooter people cuz I’d be too slow to pole vault away into a display of Faded Glory madness.

So here I sit. Not one Christmas present purchased. Not.a.one.

And the overacievers on Facebook are stressing me out. (You know who you are, you crazy little elves, you. Bastards!)

You know the ones–they’re putting status updates like this up:

Tree trimmed? Check! Lights up? Check! Christmas quilts on all the beds? Check! Holiday afghans knitted for the senior center? Check! Christmas presents for friends, family, bus driver, teachers, mailman, street sweeper, babysitter, dog walker, newspaper mystery delivery person, check out girl at supermarket, brother’s girlfriend’s stepfather’s sister purchased, wrapped, and under tree? Check, check, and cha-eck! Gifts from toy drive for needy children wrapped and dropped to shelter?  Check. *

Ugh oh. I knew I should have started my shopping in 2010!

I’m a terrible person! The worst! A total procrastinator. I have nothing for my kids! For the needy kids! For the hubs! The teacher! The seniors! The distant almostsortakinda relative! The butcher! The baker! The candlestick maker!

 Think, think, think. I can do this. I’m not stressed. I’m not.

See now that I’m off my pneumonia meds, I can hit the sauce.

Can you have a beer while you shop at Walmart?

NOOOOOOOOOO. (You really should be able to. It might take the sting out of some of the scenery. No really. Seriously.)

UMMMM. I DON'T SEE ANY POURING GOING ON, WALMART LADIES. SO NO DICE!

But I can in my family room. While I’m on my computer. Shopping til I drop in my snowman jammies! I can google for coupon codes with my best pepper spray game face on. GRRRRRRRRRRR. I can throw my muffin top around the family room and pretend to knock down little old ladies for wii games while I’m on toyrus.com! JOY TO THE WORLD! WINNING! It’s the reason for the season, yo!

CRUSHING CYBERSPACE FROM THE COUCH. HUZZAH! PARTY SNACKS AND BEERS INCLUDED. AND MAYBE SOME RHONJ RERUNS. ANYONE KNOW WHERE I CAN GET ME SOME CHINCHILLA??

I can have hot chocolate with fluffed marshmallow vodka while I swoop in and crush some ebay auctions.

Hellz yeah.

Don’t –don’t even try to grab up the last blender at amazon.com or I will cut you. I will. I will find your cyber arse and cut you with my sword mean unChristmasy, un Jimmy Stewart words.

It’s holiday time. It’s on. Good tidings to all and to all a good figh–I mean, night. Night!

*If this was your status update though, let’s be friends! Really! You can help people like me!

DOROTHY, WE ARE A LONG WAY FROM HOME!

I interrupt this program ‘cuz I gotta tell you, this has been A WEEK. Because I truly dig my faithful MTM readers, I shall spare you the deets. (Do ya really wanna know anyway?) 4 out of 5 random muffintoppers polled agree: somethin’ in the air stanks this week! (And the 5th one was stumblin’ drunk and just didn’t care!) In conclusion, I’ve done the muffin top wrong this week in response. If next week is like this week, my muffin top will have a muffin top. But the good news? I have a pulse, tomorrow is Friday, my pants still fit barely and I dug up one of my fave old posts. If it made grumpity to the umpity laugh today (that would be moi) I thought it might bring you some funnies. Later ‘toppers!

Who knew?

Muffintopmommy is a sexpot.

Stop squinting.

For the love of God, what don’t you get?

 S-E-X-P-O-T.

El potto de sexo.

Oh don’t you let the short hair, Lands’ End cardigans, and Tretorns fool you. I think it’s fairly obvious if you read between the lines on this blog, my intentions are clear . If you saw me at Tarjay with the 7 pack of Hanes Her Way grannie panties in my cart with the generic Tostitos, well, that’s my cover. See, I’m bringing sexy back.

All along, I’ve been trolling for a three way. If you don’t believe me, just read the following email I received at my email addy, janet@muffintopmommy.com. (My comments are in CAPS.)

Hello,

My name is Mike Pervity Perv (Name changed in case his poor mom ever sees this blog!), I represent the adult dating sites SexDatePersonals.com and http://www.thehornymatches.com. WHOA DUDE, YOU REALLY ARE ALL ABOUT CUTTING TO THE CHASE JUST LIKE YOUR DATING SITE. TIME’S A WASTING! MATCH.COM AND EHARMONY? WHO HAS TIME TO FIND OUT IF SOMEONE LIKES PINA COLADAS AND GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN? BTW MIKE? I DO HAVE HALF A BRAIN. I’M A LEO. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS PINK. AND I LOVE THE SMELL OF FRESH CUT GRASS. I DON’T LIKE ROSES ON VALENTINE’S DAY. IT’S CALLED SMALL TALK. TRY IT.

We took a look at your site (http://muffintopmommy.com/) recently (YOU DID? EEEH…I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO WASH MY BLOG IN BLEACH NOW…), and we are interested in a link exchange. (Editor’s note: Ok, first of all, Editor is me! Ahem, anyway, a link exchange is when you list other blogs you like to read on your blog…it’s called a blogroll. If you look on the right hand side of muffintopmommy under blogroll, you will see some funny ass blogs I love love to read. You should check them out…now! Ok, not now now, after you finish this post now!)

MIKIE THREE WAY (MAY I CALL YOU MIKIE THREE WAY? IT KINDA HAS A RING TO IT. KINDA MAKES YOU SOUND GANGSTA COOL WITH A SIDE OF DIRTY BIRD)….I NEED TO KNOW WHICH POST CONVINCED YOU MTM HAS ANYTHING IN COMMON WITH, “THE HORNY MATCHES”? THINK, THINK, THINK…OH! WAS IT THE ONE WHERE I BEG READERS TO TALK ME DOWN FROM THE LEDGE AFTER SWIMSUIT SHOPPING? OH! I KNOW….IT MUST BE THE ONE WHERE I COMPARE MY ARSE TO A GRIZZLY BEAR. WAIT. IT MUSTA BEEN THE HAWT PICTURE I POSTED OF MYSELF IN THAT SMOKING BUTTON DOWN  HOLDING THE BEER THE SIZE OF MY GIGUNDO HEAD ON VACA? MIKE, SERIOUSLY, I NEED TO KNOW FOR MARKET RESEARCH BECAUSE RIGHT NOW MY HUSBAND JUST PEED HIMSELF LAUGHING. HE WON’T BE LAUGHING WHEN HE’S CRYING FOR A TWO WAY NEVER MIND A THREE WAY. OH YES WAY!

Our offer is actually quite interesting , a 3 way (ENOUGH WITH THE THREE WAYS! LET’S REVIEW: SMALL TALK. DO I NEED TO SPELL IT OUT? SHOULD I GET DR. RUTH ON THE HORN?) link as opposed to a reciprocal link. You link to http://www.thehornymatches.com and we link to you on SexDatePersonals.com. We offer the best type of link exchange. Also, SexDatePersonals.com has a very nice directory (A VERY NICE DIRECTORY? LEMME GUESS WHO’S ON THAT HIT LIST…. DAVID DUCHOVNY, TIGER WOODS, JESSE JAMES AND THAT RANDOM DUDE WHO WAS MARRIED TO HALLE BERRY ….YEAH…..NO. I’M ON TEAM ELIN.)  that we have been building so you are sure to find a category there for your site (DON’T BET THE PENTHOUSE IN VEGAS ON THAT, BOYFRIEND). If not, please just make your suggestion to us. (I SUGGEST YOU CALL YOUR MAMA RIGHT AFTER YOU SCRUB WITH CLOROX. ACK!)

Here is our link info: BLABBITY BLAH PERVITY PERV LINK BLAH BLAH.

Have a great week (YOU OFFER ME A THREE WAY AND THEN THE BEST CLOSE YOU CAN MUSTER IS THE UBER GENERIC…HAVE A GREAT WEEK??? FOR REAL? SEE. I COULD DEAL WITH YOU BEING A PERV. I MEAN, WHATEVER FLOATS YOUR…UM, NEVER MIND. I’M JUST SAYING. FREE COUNTRY AND ALL THAT JAZZ. BUT YOU’RE NOT EVEN ORIGINAL. YOU’RE GIVING ME NOTHING TO WORK WITH HERE! I MEAN, AFTER YOU HAVE YOUR HOT THREESOMES DO YOU REALLY CHIRP, ”THAT WAS FUN GUYS! HAVE A GREAT WEEK! MEEP!”

DUDE, YOU’VE GOT NO GAME. NONE. AND THIS IS COMING FROM A MARRIED HAUSFRAU WITH A MUFFIN TOP.  I do hope that we can do business with you in the very near future. (ARE YOU PROPOSITIONING ME? DO BUSINESS WITH ME? I THINK I’LL SIGN OFF NOW BEFORE THE NH STATE POLICE SHOW UP AT MY DOOR AND THROW ME IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING. OR THROW YOU IN THE CLINK FOR SOLICITING AND ME IN THE CLINK FOR BEING A….SOLICITEE….WHATEVER. EITHER WAY, STEP OFF MY BLOG, PERV. NOBODY BREAKS UP MY CURRENT THREESOME…THAT’S RIGHT….I HAVE THREESOMES ALL THE TIME…ALL THE TIME!!! ME, THE HUBS, AND THAT CLICKER HE CRADLES EVERY NIGHT. SO SUCK IT! TAKE YOUR THREE WAY STFU SAMMIE AND SCRAM BEFORE I BEAT YOU WITH MY 3 IRON (THAT’S 3 IRON NOT 3 WOOD…. DAMN,  YOU REALLY ARE A DEPRAVED DOCTOR OF DEBAUCHERY!!)

Regards. (UM, NOT TO BE NITPICKY, BUT THAT SHOULD BE A COMMA, NOT A PERIOD AFTER ‘REGARDS’. BUT I IMAGINE YOU MIGHT HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS, SO, UM…HAVE A GREAT WEEK AND ENJOY YOUR STFU SAMMIE!)

Mike PERVITY PERV PERV

SEO Analyst (AND CHIEF PERV )
http://www.thehornymatches.com
sexdatepersonals.com

Confession: I can be very impatient.

They say patience is a virtue, but it’s not a virtue that shares my DNA. Perhaps it went missing with my waistline. And my dowry. And my ability to do long division. I really don’t know.

See, my impatience manifests itself into little voices rattling in my head, as I bite my tongue till it bleeds. (I don’t need medicine! I’m NOT the one with the problem…read on! Read on!)

 If anyone could hear these voices, they might be scared. Sometimes they seep out under my breath and my husband is privy to them—he says I’m “sick”, that I need to calm down. I guess he’s the yin to my yang, or is it the yang to my yin? Either way, he might just save me from myself some day.

Is it wrong that I daydream about slamming people in the grocery store with my honking race car shopping cart (which are ridiculously hard to steer…I would soooo get away with it)? I admit it, I have produce rage.

If I’m standing behind you and you are hemming and hawing for what seems like an eternity over which ears of corn to choose—peeling the corn back, scrutinizing the ears like you’re a mad scientist in a lab—I might just fantasize about picking one up and beating you upside the head with it.

Come on! You’re buying an ear of corn—not choosing a husband, not picking a house (God help those people’s realtors if this is the saga involved in choosing a vegetable. There is not a high enough commission percentage in the world.) I wouldn’t mind, but corn costs like $1.99 for 739 ears. I want to shove $2 at the corn huskers and just shout, “It’s on me—live with reckless abandon and just randomly pick some and GOOOOOO! Be free from the ties that bind….try it, you’ll like it!”

These have to be the same people in the deli line who order five slices of ham. Five slices? What is that about? You can’t round up to the nearest quarter pound even? What are you doing with five slices of ham? Have you calculated that five slices is the right amount for one sandwich? Are you putting said ham in some kind of recipe? If you ordered a third of a pound and you got seven slices, would that rock your world? You don’t know a dog or a teenager you can throw an extra slice of ham at?

I’m certain the people who putt down the center of the grocery aisles going one mile an hour and refuse to move to the side so you can pass, are the exact same culprits going 45 mph in the fast lane on the highway. I’m not a speed racer by any means (Safety first! Meep!), but people like this just cause needless traffic jams. Worse, I’m positive their snail pace causes accidents, and theorize their lane hogging is actually a symptom of being so self centered they don’t care about the other shoppers and drivers. Now that’s just rude and ignorant—which on the scale of not so great qualities, are far worse transgressions than being impatient. Right? Right?

The only caveat with the supermarket lane hog is if the person is elderly. I can’t get annoyed if an older person is in the way at the grocery store, and no one should ever give someone’s granny a hard time—that’s just wrong. (And if I see you doing it, you’re on notice—you will get a size 8 shoe up your butt or I’ll squish you with my muffin top.)

Besides, we’ll all be old someday. Today, we get carded. (When the cashier forgets her glasses.) Tomorrow, we’re short bussing it to the market clutching the sale flyer— and don’t you forget it.

Old people are also the only ones who get a pass for WRITING A CHECK.

Who even writes a check anymore besides 85 year old ladies? The 85 year olds get a pass because God love ‘em for being out shopping and kvetching about banana prices. But frumpy 40 year olds, they should know better than to hold up the line writing a check since the FREAKING debit card came into favor 15 years ago when they were 25, which leads me to deduce they are just annoying and in desperate need of a corn cob slap as a general public service. You’re welcome.

Really, how you conduct yourself in the grocery store speaks volumes about you as a person. Take heed of my rules and we’ll be fine. Otherwise, you just might get hit with an errant banana if the hubs doesn’t keep me in check. (Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not perfect either. Let’s discuss this over some corn….I’ll buy, you fly!)

It’s the early 80s… a little girl with a blonde bob and a ‘tude grips a Shirley temple, standing impatiently next to her parents in a dark bar. The mom is nursing a pink glass of wine and the father, a draft beer (he clearly won the drink lottery in that crew). It’s a busy Friday night, but the girl doesn’t even hear glasses clinking and people laughing. Expressionless, she watches smoke dance in the dim light as the trio wait for a table in the restaurant, too furious to believe her parents put her in this dreadful situation. As she taps a blindingly white Nike Cortez adorned foot, the tension is palpable. Despite wearing her brandy new rainbow legwarmers to complete her look, she can think of only one thing at this moment, and it isn’t grade school fashion.

“How could they do this to me?!”

(Why no, I’m not talking about why an 8 year old was in a windowless bar inhaling stale Parliament smoke. Good guess though.)

No, she can’t believe her parents would force her to go out on the most important television night of the year, and frankly, she’s totally torqued about it. (She knows they would so not be here if it were Superbowl Sunday or the season finale of Alice. The injustice—well, it’s simply appalling.)

 As the minutes crawl on, the writing is on the wall.

All she can think is, “Oh shit, we’re never gonna be home on time for The Wizard of Oz!” (Oh yeah, she thought “shit” not “shoot”. Hey, that’s the price you pay for taking your kid inside the bar. They’re lucky I didn’t say it at mass on Sunday.)

Finally, they’re seated. The waitress, the dinner rolls, the salad, the dinners and OHGODTHANKGOD—her parents aren’t dessert people— finally the check—none of it comes fast enough.

“We’re never going to be home in time for the Wizard of Oz! Can we go? Can we go? Can we go nowwwwwwwww? Please? Please!”

LOOK DOROTHY, I TRIED CLICKING MY LEGWARMERS TO BUST OUTTA THAT JOINT, BUT I GOT NUTHIN'!

There’s desperation in the girl’s voice now. (The parents exchange a knowing look as they finish their cocktails. Perhaps they wish they had just ordered out Chinese, or brought a muzzle. Or maybe, thought to use birth control in their 40s. One can only imagine…)

The car ride is an excruciating seven miles. The girl squeaks from the back seat, “Drive faster dad, drive faster!”

“We’ll be home on time, don’t worry!” her mother offers, trying to placate her. (Read: shut up whinybag, shut up.)

Lies!!! Bloody lies I say!

The girl? Was me. The traumatic memory, all mine. Forever, burned in my brain.

That was the year I missed the first TWENTY minutes of THE Wizard of Oz.

I recalled this night of family fun (Slash borderline child abuse?) yesterday as my four year old and I were watching Bee Movie on DVR at 2 pm. That’s right, 2 pm on a random Monday. With breaks for potty and snacks.

I tried to explain to my son that when mummy was little, certain movies were so special we could only watch them once a year—when they were actually on tv.

His face was painted with pure bewilderment as he struggled to grasp the concept.

And why wouldn’t he be confused? He’s never known a world without dvds, dvr, and on demand cable with its dozens and dozens of high quality kiddie shows. He’s watched movies in the car. In the car! I know, that’s not even a big deal anymore, but can you imagine if someone dropped that bomb on our Strawberry Shortcake world, that some day we could watch Wizard of Oz IN THE CAR? Hot damn, that would have solved my problem that fateful night.

My friend reminded me not only did we only get to watch special shows and movies once a year, but we only got to watch cartoons once a week on Saturday morning. And if for some reason we missed them first thing Saturday morning and turned on the tv too late, we unfortunate children from the Boston area would find men in too tight dress slacks playing candlepin bowling. The horror we children of the 70s and 80s endured.

Yet somehow, we remain unscathed.

And in the process, as we’ve laughed and cackled about kids today and how spoiled they are, and wondered aloud what the future holds for them, the truth is now impossible to ignore.

I? We?

Have turned into our parents.

(You know, minus ripping the butts and taking our kids into bar rooms. I think there are rules about that stuff now.)