Category Archives: Owen

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?


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.”


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.)


(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.

Throwback Thursday: Kitchen Stitchin’

For some reason, this is one of the most popular posts on my blog. Also, coincidentally, the first TV episode of Little House on the Prairie aired forty years ago today. (That will feel relevant later, I promise.) Without further ado…

(Originally published January 16, 2014.)

kitchenstitchinI didn’t see him fall. But I heard it. Then, silence. Then, the cries. You know, the “Oh crap. He’s really hurt” cries.

I ran to where he lay next to his bike on the garage floor.

“What is it, buddy!?”

He could only wail as he lifted his head. The blood poured from where his hand held his face.


My brain started barking orders:


Molly joined in the crying at this point, upset by Owen’s pain, and probably sensing my thinly veiled panic.

Our good friend and neighbor, Jon, is a PA in the ER, and was thankfully at home. He met us at the fence to take a look. As I began to move the towel away, I told myself I had probably overreacted and it was just going to be a scrape.

Nope. Definitely deep. Definitely worse than I remembered. And I’m feeling a little woozy at the sight of it. Wait, who’s the one who needs medical attention? Not me. Right. Okay. Back to Owen.

Jon checked to see if the wound had gone all the way through his cheek (it hadn’t). Then he checked to see if he had the supplies at home to stitch up the wound himself (he did).

Watch out, it’s about to get Little House on the Prairie up in here.

We made our way to Jon and Amy’s kitchen, where Half-Pint Owen laid on the island countertop and proceeded to get six stitches in his face by the light of an oil lamp headlamp.

kitchen stitchin

Owen was so brave the entire time. I was so brave for about ten minutes. Then I had to step outside and get some air.

I did so great, really! I was being so soothing, holding his hands, giving him my bravest, most encouraging facial expressions… and then I started sweating and feeling a little lightheaded. Then my brain channeled Ma Ingalls: “Seriously, woman? Get a hold of yourself.”

Right. Dang it. Back to Owen. He was a trooper. Getting the numbing medicine was the worst part (just like Doc Baker Jon had warned him) but he hung in there and then the actual stitches were a piece of cake. Well, it sounded like they were. I’m not totally sure. I was sitting outside listening through the patio door, churning butter drinking a glass of water and trying to maintain consciousness.

I’m happy to report that everyone survived. Molly isn’t overly traumatized (we hope). I didn’t pass out (by a slim margin). And Owen has some pretty sweet stitches. I think Pa would be right proud.

Throwback Thursday: Scissornado

My kids just about sent me to crazyland tonight. So, for Throwback Thursday, I decided to remember it could be worse. In fact, it HAS been worse. Like the day they chopped each other’s hair off.

Ah, yes. Gather ’round and let’s re-live it together.

(Originally published December 10, 2013.)


It’s 3:00 pm. Rest time is over, and I look up as my children casually bound down the stairs to join me in the living room. I notice Molly is still wearing the purple headband she had on earlier, but now her hair appears to also be in a ponytail – which I find curious, as she isn’t able to do this without my help.

“Molly, where’s your hair?” I laugh.

Cue “deer-in-headlights” looks on both children’s faces. Not a good sign.

Sitting bolt upright on the couch (not laughing now): “Molly. Where. Is. Your. Hair.”

Bulldozed by reality, I enter an out-of-body state. Body paralyzed, my mind helpfully narrates, “This is the moment. This is the moment when your children cut each other’s hair. This is happening.”

Then, “Holy $#!%, I need to get this on video.”

Behind the camera, I barely control a unique combination of belly laughter and gut-wrenching sobs as I continue to drill my children in disbelief.

It becomes painfully evident that while my son has only a chunk cut from the front of his hair…



… my daughter’s hair has been obliterated:



(by these little WMD’s.) (Which have been banned indefinitely.)


We have a stern little (big) chat about the danger of their actions (hello, miraculously uninjured ears, fingertips, EYEBALLS) and then proceed to the children’s salon to shape up Molly’s new pixie cut.

I require each child to pony up money toward the cost of the fix. $5 from Owen for cutting his sister’s hair; $5 from Molly for letting him. (It had taken them approximately 4 years to save the money – and it had taken Molly 4 years to grow her hair to her shoulders. Sounds about fair to me.)

Owen doesn’t get a professional fix. (Daddy’s clippers have been dying to get a hold of his luscious locks for quite awhile already. Pictures will follow as soon as I get Daddy to bite the bullet and shave the boy’s head.)

It’s been a week, we’re all still alive, and I’m starting to recognize my daughter again… Allow me  to introduce the sweetest little pixie I ever did see: