Hollow Tree Ventures parenting humor
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The many faces of mom

Sweet little cuddly newborns are great, but let's be honest. Deep down, while they smile gassily and blow spit bubbles and scream their heads off for no reason at 2 a.m., a large part of you is enjoying the process of watching their babyhood blossom like a flower before your very eyes. The other part of you is just chanting, "Say Mama, say Mama, c'mon baby, say Mama..."

As they get closer to uttering that first word, their tiny mouths stretch and pucker in search of the right shapes to form syllables. You watch intently, desperate not to miss this cherished milestone when it happens. One day, after all your waiting, the baby finally coos that first word, the word you've been longing to hear:
Okay, one  of you was waiting to hear that, but if you're the mama, it probably wasn't you.

Eventually, almost as an afterthought, "mama" gets thrown in the mix. I celebrated when Maddie first said it - but only briefly, as I soon learned some shocking news.

I'm not the only Mama.

I know, I know - initially babies are just spouting babble-nonsense to practice sounds, and they're not really talking about their parents when they say Mama and Dada anyway. But my kid is almost two. By now, I'm pretty sure she knows who I am.

Yet as recently as an hour ago, she continues to point at many non-me faces, enthusiastically proclaiming, "Ma! MAMA!" In addition to random elderly neighbors, dowdy middle-aged women on light bulb packaging in the discount bin at Lowes, and any brunette on television, there are daily reminders all over my house that I'm not the only Mama in her world. Every single time she sees these things, the moniker Mama is generously bestowed upon:

The zelf on the shelf in Dr. Seuss's There's a Wocket In My Pocket.
I don't know if it's because she (it?) is reclining lazily, because she's surrounded by food, or because of her enormous protruding belly, but whatever Maddie sees in this character that makes her think of me, one thing is certain -
I hate you, Dr. Seuss.

This little whisker-faced girl in Zoe's Cat's Cradle how-to book.

President Benjamin Harrison.

This eye-boggling optical illusion version of Mona Lisa.
(Note: she also calls it Dad. So... that's great.)

This fully pulled-together bit of loveliness.


The Amazing Freakin' Spiderman.

This artist's rendering of Jesus.
I'm guessing it's because of the beard (see also: Benjamin Harrison).

These feet on the Land of Nod catalog cover, which she scribbled on.

This balloon wearing a headband.
Gerry drew a face on it because he knew Madeline would call it Mama, based on the fact that she calls EVERYTHING Mama. He assumed this would be hilarious.
If you'd like to send him flowers, I can give you the address of the hospital where he's recovering.

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10 Dumbest Things I've Bought

You already know that I (by all appearances) enjoy doing stupid stuff. I'll share a little secret with you, though: sometimes I don't really enjoy it all that much. I just make it look effortless - or so I've been told.

Here's another secret: I hate wasting money. Not that I have any money to waste, which is probably why I hate it so much.

What that means, essentially, is that the stupidest  stupid thing I can do is buy stupid stuff that wastes money. Clearly my logic is flawed somewhere, because everyone knows the stupidest stupid thing you can do is start a blog where you share all kinds of embarrassingly idiotic stuff you've done and said, but whatever. The point is, I don't think I've yet made a list of all the stupid things I've purchased in my life. Obviously a list of all the dumb stuff I've bought wouldn't fit into a single Internet, so after some good old-fashioned pondering, I narrowed it down to 10 things.

  1. Jeans that are too small, but were too good to pass up because there was a really mind-blowingly spectacular sale and I figured even though they didn't have my size, I could use the tiny ones as incentive to lose a few pounds. It's like I've never even met me - the $10 Size 8 Designer Jeans incentive program has never, ever, not even once inspired me to skip inhaling a single Klondike bar. And yet I keep falling for it.

  2. Bibs, because:
    • you get 10,000 at your first baby shower
    • you get 10,000 more at subsequent baby showers, even though you still have all the old ones, which you never threw out because it doesn't matter if they're stained
    • you rarely use any of them, because babies are born with completely screwed up aim that prevents their poop from even touching their diaper half the time, and ensures that at least 90% of what they eat will fall on the 2% of their outfit that isn't protected by a bib anyway

  3. Diet Coke Plus, which was (Is? Do they still make that stuff?) soda with vitamins and minerals, and tasted exactly like drinking a Diet Coke while chewing on a Centrum Complete.

  4. Copies of movies you'll only watch once. I learned this lesson as a teen with birthday money burning a hole in my pocket; I saw a VHS tape (look it up, young'uns) of a movie I liked and wanted my friend to see. Too impatient to rent, I bought it - but it was so terrible we couldn't sit through the whole thing. It was then I learned the hard way that you can't return stuff after it's been opened. You can probably still find the tape where I left it - in a potted plant outside the Greenwood Park Mall.

  5. Home hair removal systems that aren't razors (Epilady, I'm looking at you).

  6. Maternity panty hose. Pregnant women are already uncomfortable enough, the least they should get is a reprieve from hosiery.

  7. Crib bedding, since you're not allowed to use it and my third baby has never slept in her crib anyway (don't tell my pediatrician). Yet has every single one of my children had their own coordinated, forbidden-by-medical-experts bumper and quilt set? Of course.

  8. Cigarettes, which were an impulse buy one day at the store with my roommate in college, who was a smoker but tried to anti-peer-pressure me by repeatedly urging me not to be a dumbass. Who decides on a whim to start smoking, against the advice of trusted smokers? Me, I guess. I quit for good about three years ago, but there are still moments when I would punch a kitten for half a puff.

  9. Those gadgets that are supposed to paint around window and door trim without having to use painter's tape. Pro tip: Just tape off the damn trim. It's a pain, yes, but it's faster than trying to scrape dried paint off your window frame.

  10. Diet pills - totally stupid. Just incredibly idiotic. Unless you know of some that work, in which case I'm totally ready to try them again.
I could go on - and on - but I feel like I should go take my own name off my bank account now, lest I be tempted to buy something stupid again.

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Thanks to Stasha at The Good Life for today's Monday Listicle prompt, 10 Dumbest Purchases.

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Weaning for weenies

I've been a mom for nearly eleven years now, and I keep thinking I've almost learned what my role entails.

As I see it, my job is to gently guide my children through life. I'm tasked with showing them the proper way to do things and how to treat others. I'm supposed to teach them Life Skills, to hold their hands and usher them through each stage of development into the next.

Unfortunately, these mothering tasks appear to exist solely to keep me occupied while the kids finish doing whatever the hell they felt like doing in the first place, until they decide to stumble headlong into the next stage, phase, or learning opportunity on their own terms, pretty much completely independent of my input.

I didn't always know this.

I used to think I was contributing in some way - that I had,  for example, convinced my children to eat vegetables by teaching them the importance of nutrition, when in fact they were just starving after expending all their energy on grinding my old lipsticks into the carpet.

I came to realize that a lot of the parenting I'd thought I'd done was accidental at best.

That's why it surprised me so much to discover there was a bit of parenting I still thought I'd done on purpose. I breastfed my two older children, and when each one was about a year old I decided it was time to wean. I followed the steps all the doctors and lacticians and What To Expect  books suggested, and it worked like a charm. Foolishly, I was under the impression that my actions had led to the desired results.

Turns out, the kids must've just coincidentally decided to stop nursing at the same time I decided to wean.

I say that because, with the current baby, I was every bit as ready to wean at one year as I was with the first two. Yet here I am, nearing her second birthday, and she shows no signs of stopping. She loooooooves it. She asks hopefully, "Bees?" and then, if it is time to nurse, she gets ridiculously happy.

That's not to say I don't still enjoy it, too. The snuggling is nice. Being needed is nice. But on the other hand, being needed also sucks. Literally.

Thankfully, we're officially down to nursing before nap and before bedtime. Though she still tries to crawl under my shirt several times per day, we've progressed to the point where, with the help of a low-voltage cattle prod and several lengths of duct tape, I can convince her to wait until later. Usually.

I'm not complaining, I know I'm lucky to get this experience and I should enjoy it while it lasts, yadda yadda yadda. I just wasn't expecting this part to be so hard. I wake up every morning determined to reclaim my entire anatomy, but then she's SO DAMN CUTE that it's next to impossible to deny her. And let's not pretend convenience doesn't have something to do with it, too; what seems like a great plan at 7 a.m. is easily chucked out the window at 11 p.m. when your choices become:
A) Stick to the plan. Try to divert her attention. Offer alternatives. Hang out with a cranky, crying, confused baby until the wee hours of the morning, when you're already so exhausted you would happily do the Nestea Plunge™ into a swimming pool of razor blades and lemon juice if you knew you'd get to take a nap when you landed.
B) Just nurse the dang baby and wean her tomorrow. 
Each day I have every intention of being a weaner, but her sweet requests for my "bees" reduce me to a wiener.

So help a mama out - what worked for you? Did anyone else out there have a kid who resisted giving up their human pacifier? Do I just go with the (milk) flow until Time magazine calls, or put my cold, heartless foot down?
Is it too late to say I'm asking for a friend?
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5 Lessons Learned on a Sled

Sledding is a really fun family activity! Unless you enjoy having all your teeth, and being able to operate your limbs the following day.

Okay, nobody lost any teeth, but we did take the kids sledding, and I did learn a thing or two, which I might as well share with you as long as I'm lying here on the couch with heating pads on the aching parts of my body and ice packs on the bruised parts.

Oh, and let's not forget Lesson Number 6: It seems like I already learned all these things last year, but by next year I'll probably forget and agree to go sledding again. Like an idiot.

As I remember it, the winters of my childhood were spent gleefully careening down various slopes, happily climbing hills repeatedly in the footholds carved by 1000 boot steps, and trotting after my plastic sled when the icy wind whipped it out of my hands and sent it skittering across a plain of crusted-over, knee-deep snow - all with a smile frozen over my chattering teeth and frostbitten face.

Today's kids? Not so much. Exhibit A: You can see my husband and baby coming down the hill in the background of that list graphic. One of the best parts of the whole outing, I think, was the fact that she refused to smile the whole time - but after each exciting trip down the hill, when her sled gently eased to a full stop, she'd deliver a blank-faced deadpan, "Fun."

That was the single greatest endorsement the afternoon received. Aside from the hot chocolate.

Don't get me wrong, we all had a good time, and the kids were pretty good sports about the salt-infused slushy snow, and the eardrum-piercing music being blasted by the DJ (yes, even snowy hills have DJs these days). But still, there was more than a little whining.
They claimed the "sleds" - actually giant, plush innertubes - were too bulky and heavy to tote around. They were not impressed with stories about the old sled I had at their age, which was a rectangle of plastic 3 millimeters thick that rolled back up into a tube the minute you got off it.
Their little legs got tired, walking up the gentle incline from the baby hill. They were not comforted when I pointed out that, if the ground were flat, it would be pretty difficult to get any sledding momentum going.
The hills all looked too scary and high, but after they slid down them they said their sleds didn't go fast enough or far enough. They were not amused by my offer to alter the properties of gravity and inertia on their behalf to allow for their exact desired speed from a less dizzying 2 inches off the ground.
So, yeah, a tiny bit of whining. Although, come to think of it, I probably would've whined too if my idyllic childhood memories were overlaid with a 4,000-decibel Nickelback soundtrack.

Now I just whine because, apparently, I'm too old for sledding.

Oh, and also because of the Nickelback.

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Big News and Funny Junk

Hey kids, let's wrap it up!

Today's Weekly Wrap-Up is brought to you by SQUEE and jumping up and down and clapping, because I (Are you ready for this?) am going to be (I think maybe you should sit down...) in a real (non-imaginary), honest to goodness (Ready for it?) BOOK! Made out of paper! With words in it! Some of which I personally wrote!

Yup, I'm a contributing author in an anthology of humor essays about motherhood. It's comin' atcha this spring, so you have until then to save up your cash and I have until then to invent another gift-giving holiday to provide you with an excuse to buy it. I mean, aside from the pure combined Awesome Mama Hilariousness of all the amazing ladies who wrote it. Obviously. **cough, cough - buy it - cough** I'll tell you more about the whole thing later, by which of course I mean you'll get so sick of hearing me mention it that you'll probably throw your computer out the window.

As if that weren't exciting enough, I also placed in the Circle of Moms 2013 Top 25 Funniest Moms contest this week!

Sure, I placed 73rd, but do you think I'm putting that part  on my resume? No sir. Besides, 73rd ain't too shabby considering I never mentioned the contest until now - a HUGE thanks to all of you who found me there and voted! Please do yourself a favor and check out the list; I have a ton of amazing blogger friends on there (she said, trying to sound important), but I don't want to mention them here for fear I'll skip someone accidentally (yes, there are that many great ones), and I have a hard enough time making friends without the risk of pissing any them off.

What else happened this week, you ask?
I helped some people who were lost.

I let my kids plan my death.

I got as romantic as I'm ever going to get with pants.

A new episode of As The Dollhouse Turns was released, in which Buzz tries to make up for forgetting Valentine's Day.

I was interviewed by the hilarious Wub Boo Mummy! Sample question: "If you found a tortoise lying on it’s back and waving it’s legs in the air, what would you put in the bowl you made out of it’s shell?" How could you not want to read that???

Scary Mommy, the most gracious glutton for punishment on the interweb, loved my 5 Signs you have a Baby enough to add it to my Scary Mommy Contributor collection where it's been shared upwards of eleventyjillion times. Woot!

Now, for a special treat, I'm going to start sharing some of the other awesome ladies who are contributing authors to the most incredibly hilarious book ever to grace your eyeballs, which yes, I'm also going to be published in, in case you already forgot, thankyouverymuch for asking.

Baby Sideburns is soooo funny, it's hard to decide exactly what to share here. You should really read every word she ever wrote, but feel free to start with her letter to grandparents, outlining what NOT to buy for her kids. It was published just before Christmas, but I would argue that the list applies equally to birthdays, Easter, Bar Mitzvahs, and random Tuesdays when Grandma gets a little cart-happy in the toy department at Target.

Insane In The Mom Brain is - just like she promises - insane in her mom brain. But in the good, seriously hilarious kind of way. If you don't already know her (Whaaaaaat?), get an introduction via her Welcome To Mantopia, in which she interprets a list she found on Pinterest of ways to keep your man happy in order to, as she says, makes it "easier for normal, non-man-hypnotized brains to understand." Yes, and thank you.

People I Want To Punch In The Throat is a multiple author now (is there a word for that?), as her other book is so wildly popular and funny that it inspired me to make a video of myself drunk. She's already super-famous, so I think there's just one small thing missing to make her life complete, as she explains in her love letter to Tina Fey.

Not only are these peeps amazing writers, and contributing authors to a book I might have mentioned briefly already, but they also secured the TOP THREE SPOTS on the whole ding-dang Circle of Moms Funniest Mom thing! Totally legit. So you know my essay is going to be trying to rub up against their essays in the book and make little baby short stories with them. Or something.

Enjoy that mental image, and the rest of your weekend!

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As The Dollhouse Turns - What's wrong?

Episode 17: What's wrong?

Buzz has spent all day hanging out with his buddies.

"Dude, are you sure it's cool with your wife that we've been drinking all day in your man cave?"

"Hell," the dude says, "I do what I want around here. Who do you think wears the pants in this family?"

"I smell smoke," a woman yells down the stairs. "Harold, you aren't smoking cigars in the house, are you?"

"No, honey!" Harold frantically extinguishes his cigar, fans the smoke out of the air, and tries to change the subject. "So, how'd you guys do yesterday?"

"Whaddaya mean?" asks Buzz, taking a long swig of beer.

"Valentine's Day, idiot. What did you get for Sunny?"

"Ummmmm, you're in trouble," taunts Frank. "You forgot Valentine's Day!"

"It doesn't matter," says Buzz, "Sunny doesn't care about that stuff. She never said anything about wanting a gift."

The other guys exchange a look. "You really are an idiot," says Harold.

On the drive home, Buzz laughs to himself.

"I got out of Valentine's Day, and  got to hang out with my pals. And they think I'm  the idiot? Those idiots don't know the first thing about women." As Buzz pulls into the driveway, he can almost taste the dinner he's sure Sunny is cooking up.

"Honey, I'm home" he calls. He can hear dishes clanking in the kitchen and goes to see what there is to eat.

"Hey, honey, you must not've heard me come in - I'm home!" Buzz announces. There's no reply. "Hey, why don't I smell food?"

"You wouldn't know it, since you weren't here, but it's been a rough day. I haven't started dinner yet."

She seems sort of distant. Irritated, even. "Is something wrong?" Buzz asks.

"Of course not," Sunny says without turning around. He can tell she's in a mood.

"You sound cranky. Ohhhh, is it your Lady Time?" Buzz asks, breaking one of the cardinal rules of relationships. Sunny stops washing the dishes, but still doesn't turn around. Buzz waits, but when Sunny doesn't answer he timidly asks, "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"Mmmhmm," she replies so cheerfully that Buzz knows something is very, very wrong. He backs out of the room and gets back in the car.

"Okay, no problem," he thinks. "I'm sure a thoughtful gesture will cheer her right up." He's back home within minutes.

"Sunny, I brought you something!" She comes out to see what he's talking about.

Sunny smiles when she sees the bag, and Buzz explains, "I picked up some food, since dinner seems to give you such trouble. AND I even thought to get you just a baked potato; I figured you'd want to eat light, since your pants look like they're getting a little tight."

Sunny stops smiling.

"What's wrong?"

"Okay, that didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I need damage control. Maybe those guys were right - I'll bet a Valentine's gift will smooth things over."

"Here you go, honey! It was 80% off at WalMart, and I only ate four of them on the way home. Well, I'm estimating it was four total - I took bites out of eight or nine of them. What, is something wrong?"

The neighbors peer out their windows as Buzz's tires squeal in the driveway.

"Okay, okay, I still have my ace in the hole, my sure-fire, never-fails, I-really-messed-up gift," Buzz thinks, speeding to the store.

"Honey, I'm back!" he calls when he gets home.

Sunny tilts her head and looks at Buzz. "You brought me wine?"

Buzz thinks fast. "Not just wine, honey! I... um... I was going to run you a bath, too!"

"You know, this would be a lot easier if you'd just remember Valentine's Day next year."

"What? You think I forgot?" Buzz forces a laugh. "I just wanted to surprise you! I knew you'd be expecting something yesterday, so instead I was going to take the family to Waffle House for breakfast tomorrow! Surprise!" Sunny crosses her arms and scowls. "Haha, just kidding. I... made us a reservation at... umm... a restaurant. For this weekend. I'll even call the babysitter!"

Sunny sighs and rolls her eyes, but takes the bottle of wine out of Buzz's hand. "I'll be taking that bath now. Tell the girls I said goodnight when you put them to bed."

As she turns to walk away, Buzz resolves to never forget Valentine's Day again. Or maybe just to stop asking her what's wrong.

More real-life dollhouse drama next time - until then, please feel free to catch up on previous episodes of As The Dollhouse Turns! Then click the Top Mommy Blogs banner below, while I go buy Gerry some discounted chocolates.
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7 Non-Valentines

Gerry and I have an agreement. We love each other. Every day. Period.

We don't acknowledge Valentines' Day, because it's a silly made-up greeting card holiday, and also because we're trying to eat less chocolate. Plus, we're broke. Oh yeah, not to mention the loving each other every day regardless of whether or not it's February 14th thing that I mentioned earlier.

Which is good news, because it frees up my blogging calendar to allow for snark instead of goopy sappiness today, which I'll save to share with Gerry later so we can both roll our eyes at how terrible I am at goopy sappiness.

It also freed up my Valentine-making skillz (as the kids say) (or maybe they don't - whatever) so that I could create these: the non-Valentines I'd like  to send, if I celebrated Valentines' Day. Which I don't. And I suppose you're about to see why. It might have something to do with the story of my life being written entirely in the sarcasm font.

That's it, that's as romantic as I get. I know, Gerry's a lucky guy.

So, who would your  snarky Valentine go to? You know, if you were into that sort of thing.

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Guys, I got an opportunity to check out a new app from WhatDelay Industries, called Loveagram.

I figured I'd screw it up (this is technology we're talking about, after all), but within two minutes, I had FINALLY captured a recording of Madeline saying her own nickname! Oh, ohmygoodness, so adorable.

Then Gerry wanted to see if he could make one giant heart appear.

Confused? Just watch the video - it's only 30 seconds long, and it makes me laugh every single time I watch it.

Wanna know how I made the video - and how you can make some too, maybe as a last-minute Valentine surprise for that special someone you forgot to do something super-thoughtful for on Valentine's Eve?

Check out my Loveagram review. It's full of awesome.

By the way, have I told you lately that I HEAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRT you?

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estate planning for dummies

We're not big plan-aheaders.

Well, I shouldn't say that. We plan for small things, like dinner. And by "plan," I mean that about 10 minutes before dinnertime, my husband wanders into the kitchen and yells two or three likely meal options in my general direction, I yell back that I don't care what we eat, and then we get take-out.

That counts as planning, right?

One day, our teenager was teasing us about our apparent lack of foresight, and to drive his point home he said something to the effect of, "You guys probably filled out your will in a Mad Libs."

Which is completely untrue, and ridiculous!

But also a really great idea.

Actually, we're not even pulled together enough to have a Last Will and Testament in Mad Libs form - I think we've been putting it off until we actually had some stuff worth passing on to the next generation. But I hate to think of our five children in some stuffy lawyer's office someday, fighting over who gets to keep my Guns N Roses cassette tapes and who gets Gerry's boxes of old magazines.

So Kennedy's comment, along with my younger kids' passion for Mad Libbing, has inspired me to do something about it. I created a Mad Libs Last Will and Testament, and had the kids supply me with the missing words. That way, instead of fighting, if they don't like what they end up with, it's their own damn fault.

Is this non-legal document some kind of revenge for how they like to add you into their Mad Libs and surround the word "Mom" with as many offensive words as possible to ensure maximum inappropriateness? you might ask.

Hollow Tree Ventures
"Every time Mom stepped in a puddle, her butt would get totally furry." --winning at Mad Libs 

No, of course not. This is about being a well-prepared, responsible adult. The revenge is just a bonus.

Granted, they didn't know what the Mad Libs form was for when I was asking for nouns and verbs, but nevertheless, they had the opportunity to keep it clean. Do you think they did?

You're welcome, Bieb! Don't spend all those boogers in one place.

So there you have it - if you've been neglecting getting your affairs in order like I was, do it the smart way. The easy way. The fast way.

Make your heirs do it themselves.

After all, it's only fair.

Please click below as I rest a little easier knowing that my nose hair will find a good home when I'm gone, and that my Guns N Roses tapes will go exactly where they belong - in the casket, with me.
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