Category Archives: Mildly Misbehaving

Mom Fail: The time I lied to my kid’s teacher’s face.

Need a self-esteem boost? Allow me to help. I have lots of mom fails. But this time? I lied to my kid’s teacher. And you won’t believe why. (I still can’t.)

Looking for some mom humor? How about a self-esteem boost? Always here to help you feel better about your parenting skillz with a dose of funny and a dollop of fail. This time? YOU GUYS. I lied to my kid's teacher. And you won't believe why. (I still can't.)

Every other week or so, I go to Owen’s school to volunteer. Covering lunch duty is one way I help, and my first time ended in certainly one of my most shameful mom fails ever.

But let me start at the beginning.

Mrs. H. arrives at the lunchroom with the class of first graders, and I don’t take even a moment to ask for instructions. I quickly shoo her away to go enjoy her lunch in well-deserved peace.

And guess what I find out?

I AM AWESOME AT LUNCH DUTY. That’s what.

The entire 25 minutes is basically one part “shh,” one part “face forward please,” and approximately seventy-three parts “yes I will open your ketchup/mayo/gogurt/yogurt/pudding.”

The truly impressive part (besides how Heinz seals up ketchup packets like Fort Knox) is how well this school has trained the kids and their “lunchtime voices.” Every few minutes, quiet instrumental music plays. And when the music plays, the talking STOPS.

It’s magic, I tell you.

But when the music is NOT playing, the kids talk in crazy screeching excitable quiet voices. At one point, I’m wrestling a pudding cup when the rumble of a million little voices becomes a theatrical  chorus, hushed but rising in unison: “Baaaaa sowenyaaaa…!”

Um, cue Twilight Zone. I look up from the damn pudding, in utter confusion. What is happening!?

Oh wait. I notice a familiar instrumental score amid the Impromptu Cafeteria Vocal Choir. It’s the Lion King song.

Of course it is.

I regain my composure just as Owen’s teacher returns to pick up the class. Since I’ve been utterly winging it skillfully improvising for the past 25 minutes, I decide to quickly clarify a couple class policies.

It goes like this (me, with big, reassuring smile): “Hi! The kids did great. Quick question – what’s the bathroom policy during lunch?”

Mrs. H’s face says, “The policy is no.” Her words say (with a knowing grin), “How many asked to go?”

Me: “Um. 6.” (quickly waving it off, no big deal) “But only one at a time, of course.”

BUT THAT IS A LIE. THERE WERE 8.

Maybe 9.

And I have NO IDEA if they went together or one at a time and honestly I don’t even know if they all came back because KETCHUP PACKETS, PEOPLE.

(They did.)

(BUT I LIED.)

(Hi, Mrs. H!)

So, not only am I decidedly NOT awesome at lunch duty, I am also not super awesome at. um. TELLING THE TRUTH.

Whoopie Pies + Acid Spills (Alt. Title: Cooking is dangerous.)

This is a tale of whoopie pies, flaming appendages, acid spills, and calm assertive energy. What's not to love? (Basically, if you could use a laugh, you need to read this right now.)I’m perusing Pinterest one evening when I find a pin for Jalapeño Cornbread Whoopie Pies with Goat Cheese and Bacon Filling. I thank Jesus that these exist somewhere on the planet.  I dream of eating making dozens of them one day. If only an occasion worthy of such culinary brilliance would arise.

Then, a friend asks if I will bring an appetizer to her party.

My heart flutters. You know why.

It’s Whoopie Pie Time.

I channel my inner Iron Chef and gather the ingredients to begin my from-scratch-cornbread batter.

I whisk together the dry ingredients. It’s a strong start.

In a separate bowl, I measure the butter, milk, and buttermilk. (Seriously? Yes, please.)

The recipe says to combine these liquid ingredients using a stand mixer with paddle attachment. I do not own this thing. I am also not completely sure what it is.

I decide this detail is irrelevant (as is my custom when finding things in a recipe I don’t recognize). I plug in my trusty eight-dollar hand mixer and proceed to spray the butter-milk-buttermilk concoction all over myself and my kitchen.

Not to be deterred, I call my friend the baking expert and tell her I need A Stand Mixer With Paddle Attachment, stat. She graciously loans hers to me. The batter and my sanity are saved.

But whoa there, internet friends. These whoopie pies aren’t just cornbread whoopie pies. Oh no. They are JALAPEÑO cornbread whoopie pies.

So I seed. And I dice. And I throw those bits of fury into the batter with a convincing, “BAM!”

Before I start on the filling, I wash my jalapeño hands in warm water, careful to not touch my eyes at any point, as my friend-the-better-cook had adamantly stressed.

I heed my friend’s warning, but my freshly washed fingertips? They are en fuego. Mucho en fuego. Mucho muy en fuego. No amount of hand-washing seems to help, and I wonder if my fingers will still be burning when Jesus comes back.

But, I push through the pain to complete my whoopie pie journey. Like a boss.

(I don’t want to toot my own horn, you guys, but…)

savory whoopie pies

These are perhaps the most impressive food things I have ever created.

The jalapeño fires in my fingers are also quite impressive. But it’s late now, so I go upstairs to get ready for bed.

Crap. I have to remove my contact lenses. I know I still have jalapeño on my skin, as my fingertips are currently radiating the heat of a thousand suns. But I also know I can get my contacts out quickly.

You know what else you can do quickly?

Pour flesh-eating acid into your eyeballs.

Which is exactly what this feels like.

“MY EYES!” I scream-whisper. (Scream-WHISPER, either because the pitch is so high my voice cannot produce it, or because I am DYING.) “MY. EYESSSSSSSSSSS.”

Matt, ever helpful, chuckles from the bed. HE CHUCKLES. Maybe it’s a chortle. Not sure. Details are fuzzy at this point.

I wipe the flood of tears from my face and feel my way to the bed. I miraculously do not take my husband’s life. Mainly because I cannot see to find a weapon him.

Morning breaks, and Husband-of-the-Year is less than thrilled when I announce that HE needs to put my contacts back in my eyes for me. (Because, FLAMING APPENDAGES.)

“You need me to do what? No.” He says. (He doesn’t wear contacts, and still doesn’t understand how I stick my fingers in my eyes twice a day.)

“You have to. You’re going to open a fresh set of lenses, and you’re going to put them in my eyes.” I’m channeling Cesar Milan with my calm assertive tone now. AND IT WORKS.

I gingerly use my wrists to hold my left eyelid open as Matt sticks his contact-lens-laden fingertip into my eye.

He panics: “IT WON’T COME OFF MY FINGER. THE LENS WON’T COME OFF. WHAT DO I DO.”

“Pull you finger out of my eye and we’ll try again.”

He blames: “YOUR EYE ISN’T OPEN WIDE ENOUGH.”

I respond (lovingly, of course): “Maybe your FINGER IS TOO FAT.”

“The size of my finger has nothing to do with this being ridiculous.”

“JUST PUT THE LENS IN MY EYE.”

Somehow, he manages to put both contact lenses in my eyes without blinding me. All in all, I’m not blind, he’s not dead, and we’re still married. Lots of wins there.

The fail? Forty-eight more HOURS of flaming fingers. The AGONY.

Good thing those whoopie pies tasted like heaven.