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Bad Parenting Moments: August 2012

Monday, August 27, 2012

Character Assassination Carousel: Today's Special - Filleted Rainbow Fish

Every parent has "that book". A delightful, well loved, often well awarded piece of literature that makes you want to claw your eyes out with your pre-schooler's cafeteria issued spork. We internally cringe and convulse at every bedtime reading, unable to resist the freshly pajamafied chorus of, "Please read us our favorite book!", so, we read on praying for temporary blindness or our neighbor's feral cat to strike. Yes, we all have our cringe worthy stories, but, none of us are clever enough to take that hatred to the next level. None of us, that is, except Ninja Mom. With her black belt in snark and dreaminess, she has created a safe space for children's literature "roasting". Enter her Character Assassination Carousel. I (with inflated paper anxiety sack) follow in a long line of impressive authors that brought sharp witted mayhem to Story Land. Most recently, the fabulous Middletini gave us even more reason to delight in our hatred of Ruby and her latchkey kid brother Max and now, it's my turn! If you enjoy this post (no pressure, but, seriously, please love it.), all of Madame Ninja's guest Character Assassination posts are available for your viewing pleasure here:


I have had my hand permanently raised, ticket in hand, waiting for permission to ride. I am ready, my pretty pony is foaming at the mouth and this carousel is rocking steady. This week, I'm out for blood. The seas will run red with chum. Grab your snack, Goldfish or anything cheese dust based, and join me as I roast, on a spit, with some garlic butter and fresh squeezed lemon, Marcus Pfister's, The Rainbow Fish.

The Rainbow Fish was a gift from a family member who will, undoubtedly, never speak to us again. A sweet, little story about a lovely fish that overcomes vanity and selfishness and learns that sharing and friendship are life's most treasured and important gifts. That's what the (lying) book jacket and (erroneous) reviewers and their (happy pill induced) words TELL us, but, let's examine this more closely, shall we (adjusts wire rimmed librarian glasses, lights bubble pipe and tightens velour robe tie)? There is only one way to fillet this fish and that is through psychoanalysis. I'll bring the psycho. You judge the analysis.

A long way out in the deep blue sea there lived a fish. Not just an ordinary fish, but the most beautiful fish in the entire ocean. His scales were every shade of blue and green and purple, with sparkling silver scales among them. The other fish were amazed at his beauty. They called him Rainbow Fish. "Come on, Rainbow Fish," they would call. "Come and play with us!" But the Rainbow Fish would just glide past, proud and silent, letting his scales shimmer.

So far, so good, right? WRONG. We are introduced to the Rainbow Fish as a desirable playmate only because of his beauty. In fact, no one even bothers to learn his name. What's that fish's name? Oh, I don't know...who cares. Let's just call him Rainbow Fish. He's silent and we're led to believe that's bad. Is it? Can you blame him? Who wouldn't want to play with a group of people who only want your company because you're beautiful and, who haven't even bothered to learn your name? You sound like a total snob, whatever your name is. I like this right off the bat because it encourages our children to try to make friends with only the prettiest or sparkliest kids on the playground. Definitely try to track down the kids with the shiniest clothes, but, never ask them any personal questions in order to get to know them better. Stick with, "Hey You! Yeah, YOU, Glitterpants! You seem really fancy. Let's play."

One day, a little blue fish followed after him. “Rainbow Fish,” he called, “wait for me! Please give me one of you shiny scales. They are so wonderful, and you have so many.” “You want me to give you one of special scales? Who do you think you are?” cried the Rainbow Fish. “Get away from me!” Shocked, the little blue fish swam away. He was so upset; he told all his friends what had happened. From then on, no one would have anything to do with the Rainbow Fish. They turned away when he swam by.

Frankly, this sounds like a mugging. I find it interesting that the little blue fish is upset. If someone came up to me and asked for my pants, I'd tell them to get lost too. Bully Blue then goes back to tell all of his juvenile delinquent friends that The Rainbow Fish didn't go for being held up in broad daylight. So, they stop calling the Rainbow Fish by the wrong name and leave him alone. Great, right? Wrong again.

Now he was the loneliest fish in the entire ocean. One day he poured out his troubles to the starfish. "I really am beautiful. Why doesn’t anybody like me?" "I can’t answer that for you," said the starfish. "But if you go beyond the coral reef to a deep cave you will find the wise octopus. Maybe she can help you." The Rainbow Fish found the cave. It was very dark inside and he couldn’t see anything. Then suddenly two eyes caught him in their glare and the octopus emerged from the darkness. "I have been waiting for you," said the octopus with a deep voice. "The waves have told me your story. This is my advice. Give a glittering scale to each of the other fish. You will no longer be the most beautiful fish in the sea, but you will discover how to be happy."

As the victim of a near swim-by descaling, Rainbow Fish now has post traumatic stress disorder and is finding ways to blame himself for everyone's criminal treatment of him. Ok, I can admit by this paragraph, he DOES sound a bit vain. I weigh his vanity over the behavior of his would be sea-muggers and determine he may be an anti-hero, but, I'm still rooting for him over everyone else. He seeks the counsel of a random starfish and then an "expert"; someone who admits to talking to waves. Clearly, we can not trust the poor Rainbow Fish's judgment at this point. He is so lonely and eager to please that he will listen to anyone in his attempt to appease the huddled masses, even crazy ol' Mr. Octopus who refuses to come out of his dark cave - Mr. Talks to Waves with a side of Agoraphobia. Yeah, this guy is legit. Since the octopus is OBVIOUSLY not crazy, I'm sure his advice to give away everything that makes you unique and special will prove to work out swimmingly.

The "Doctor" is (permanently) In(side).

“I can’t…” the Rainbow Fish started to say, but the octopus had already disappeared into a dark cloud of ink. Give away my scales? My beautiful shining scales? Never. How could I ever be happy without them? Suddenly he felt the light touch of a fin. The little blue fish was back! “Rainbow Fish, please, don’t be angry. I just want one little scale.” The Rainbow Fish wavered. Only one very very small shimmery scale, he thought. Well maybe I wouldn’t miss just one.

A-HA! It was a set-up! OH, the little, blue fish just HAPPENS to be there right outside the cave of the "renowned sea therapist". Oh really, that is just so convenient (world's largest eyeroll)! Oh, and the little thief is back to ask for "just one little scale". And, what's this? The ploy seems to be working? The Rainbow Fish (name still not determined) is giving in. This is it - the gateway scale!

Carefully the Rainbow Fish pulled out the smallest scale and gave it to the little fish. "Thank you! Thank you very much!" The little blue fish bubbled playfully, as he tucked the shiny scale in among his blue ones. A rather peculiar feeling came over the Rainbow Fish. For a long time he watched the little blue fish swim back and forth with his new scale glittering in the water. The little blue fish whizzed through the ocean with his scale flashing, so it didn’t take long before the Rainbow Fish was surrounded by the other fish. Everyone wanted a glittering scale. The Rainbow Fish shared his scales left and right. And the more he gave away, the more delighted he became. When the water around him filled with glimmering scales, he at last felt at home among the other fish.

I think the peculiar feeling that must have come over Rainbow Fish was pain since he was ripping out his own scales to make everyone else happy. I think this is called martyrdom, but, sure...let's play along and call it sharing. And, of course, does the little blue fish stick around to play with Rainbow Fish after he gets the scale? No, he just swims around, showing off his new stolen bobble so that everyone takes notice that Rainbow Brite has cracked and, is finally giving away scales. Sure enough, poor Rainbow Fish is soon completely surrounded by scale thirsty blow(hard)fish who want a piece of the shiny action. Let's take a moment and acknowledge this fabulous child rearing lesson - If you are different, special or unique in ANY way, especially if it's a trait that others admire, you should focus on the people who are jealous of your unique qualities and do whatever is in your power to give away all of your uniqueness until you are just like everyone else. That way, EVERYONE can be happy. Everyone, except you. Don't worry, there's a pill for that. 

Just your average group thievery!

Finally the Rainbow Fish had only one shining scale left. His most prized possessions had been given away, yet he was very happy. "Come on Rainbow Fish," they called. "Come and play with us!" "Here I come," said the Rainbow Fish and happy as a splash, he swam off to join his friends.

Now that the Rainbow Fish had finally given in to their inappropriate demands, he had "friends". The End

Now, wasn't that delightful? Sweet dreams, Muffins!

I hope you've enjoyed your ride. Exit to the right and be sure to check back in with The Character Assassination Carousel next time when the always funny Angela of Tall Curly Biscuit climbs aboard.

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Thursday, August 23, 2012

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Our eldest is 6. She is opinionated. She is loud. She says inappropriate things at random to complete strangers. You never know when these gems will slip out. Parenting her currently is akin to following around the town drunk. I try to be ever vigilant; my verbal broom and dust pan sweeping up her spoken bombshells. I love her. It's exhausting.  How much will a perfectly adorable 6 year old fetch me on eBay?

We are a progressive family. Live and let live. Love and let love. Your business is your business. My business is my business and yours since I over share here on this blog. Enjoy my massive failures protecting the innocence of my family! In some respects, her verbal assaults make sense. No topic is really off the table in our home. So, she sees it as a running commentary on the documentary that is her life. I see it as When Animals Attack. At first, that lion is just sitting there and them, BAM, cut to the film crew having a bittersweet memorial for Best Boy Steve. Although Miss A tirelessly campaigns for the job, we have decided not to allow her to be the spokesperson for our family. Her platform of, "WHY DO OLD PEOPLE LOOK SO OLD!" and, "DOESN'T THAT PERSON SMOKING KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE?" didn't win her the popular vote. Surprising, I know.

Her current brain to mouth to society for immediate judgment and excruciating embarrassment are as follows:

"WE ARE POOR!" - This was shouted into the face of a first-time visitor at our home. As if our guest needed the verbal confirmation. If our 2004 Dodge Caravan doesn't scream luxury, then pardon me while I start our backyard trashcan fire with these $100 bills. We have food and a house and a swing-set. We have a coffee pot and toys and they have shoes. MOST without holes in the toes. Sure, we struggle to make ends meet, but, we are fine. Our bills are paid. Our mortgage is current. Our pantry is full. We have everything we need. Everything except eldest's discretion. As I quickly run through my list of reasons why we are rich in spirit, daughter rolls eyes while unwilling participant in awkward conversation tries to back away slowly while I hold on to the collar of her shirt. "NO! HEAR THIS! HEAR HOW WE ARE THANKFUL FOR EVERYTHING WE HAVE. Pay no attention to eye rolling 6 year old. She is thankful too. I promise. No need to complete that call to 911. (releases collar) COME BACK SOON!"

"DO YOU HAVE A BABY IN YOUR BELLY?" - GASP. Yes, she said this. To a woman who was clearly not pregnant. With no stomach to speak of. I knew why she was asking. She was asking if she was pregnant so that she could do a flip using her body as a backboard. It was out of respect and safety for the unborn fetus not in this woman's body. Of course, as I covered daughter's mouth with Press'n Seal and frantically laugh-explained this and, as I type this now, I realize how ridiculous this sounds. Almost as ridiculous as asking anyone if they are pregnant. I don't care if a woman is wearing a shirt that says Special Delivery Forthcoming!, you shut your mouth and assume she is anticipating a UPS package. You never, EVER, evernever ask a woman if she is pregnant under any circumstance. Not even when they are asking for a ride to the hospital. Never. If you see a baby's head, you say, "Uh, I think you have a little something there on your vagina." Never.

"WHY DO YOU DRINK WINE EVERY DAY?" - She said this in the wine aisle. At the grocery store. In the middle of the day. As loudly as humanly possible. This is why. This is most definitely why I drink wine every day. My verbal response was not needed. I do appreciate the woman who stopped to help me climb out of the cardboard wine stand and didn't make mention of the reusable grocery sack I was using to hide my face. You're a gem, lady.

And last, but, certainly not least. Actually, last and definitely most:

"BOYS AND BOYS CAN'T GET MARRIED!" - While this nugget of inclusion and tolerance may be technically, and sadly, true in some states, it is not true in our state. More importantly, it is not true in our home and hearts. We do not believe this. We do not promote this. We do not endorse this message. I heard this, in slow motion, as I struggled to change our youngest, the still ever quiet and current favorite. As I came flying in from the playroom with a baby dangling under one arm, a dirty diaper in the other and one finger outstretched to try to press the rewind button on her small mouth, I saw the hurt mixed with loving patience in our dear friends' eyes. Friends that we love. Friends that are considered family. Friends that I hope to one day have the same rights most of us take for granted. As they stood in our kitchen, silent and unsure where the boundary of friend ends and non-parental teacher begins, my full force, five-alarm fire body came bursting through the curtain separating the kitchen and living area (See above paragraph about our financial situation. As you can see, RICH). "Who taught you this? Where did you hear this?  This is NOT so. I love Daddy. Daddy loves me. P loves D and D loves P. It's the same thing. We are no different. Do you understand? Please say you understand." I hope in her heart she does understand. I hope in her heart she heard me. I hope that I have enough patience and time and that she respects us enough to allow us to continue to teach her that all love is the same love. The Muppets said it best: Peoples is Peoples. I can only hope that this declaration from our daughter will be my wake-up call. The shrill alarm that reminds me that loving your neighbor and full, unconditional acceptance are not automatic. That love is a gift we must choose every day and that we must choose, every day, to teach it to our children. It was also a reminder that hubs and I are not doing our job well enough. With all of our love, acceptance, inclusion and well formed ideals, we must be vigilant. Vigilant in patience, love and understanding. We have 12 more years to get it right. 12 more years of waves of embarrassment, on both sides. 12 more years of big words, small words, right words and wrong words. Words of hope and love.

Out of the mouths of babes. Our eldest is 6. She is opinionated. She is loud. She has the potential to, one day, eloquently spread a message of love.  We are grateful for her reminders of the work we have to do.

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Friday, August 17, 2012

"People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one." -Leo J. Burke

Photo Credit - The New Yorker

There comes a point in parenting when you look around and think, "What the HELL have I done?" Generally, this is around 3:30 a.m. when the world is asleep. The entire world except the small world you have created in your home. And, at this point, you think about choices you've made and consider when you last cleaned the fridge or really looked in a mirror. All the while, a bundle of your genes taunts you from your hip. And, you just know. You can tell. This is it. You are never going to sleep again. Ever. Because, that's the deal. You didn't really know this at the time you decided to become a parent. You thought it was a joke. It was just something people said like, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!" or "A stitch in time saves nine." and, you thought, "What do these even mean? Relevance?"  I'll tell you what it means. It means you are never sleeping again. Professional, long-time parents always laugh about it. Tears of a clown? Good samaritanship? An attempt at a moral boost for the next generation of parents? Why make it worse than it is?  Here's a thought - Why make it better because seriously and please, hear me - You are never going to sleep again.

It starts out normal enough. You're at the hospital, you're in love and you don't even care that you're not sleeping, but, sleep always wins or at least tries to. Just when your goo-goo for you eyes start to close, the baby will inevitably cry because it is hungry or wet or cold or wants to know the meaning of life or has a stray diaper fiber stuck to its inner thigh or is curious about how snakes molt. Who knows? I don't, but, I know one thing. You are never going to sleep again.

Then, they are 2 and you are still not sleeping because, by this point, they have you pegged. They know that if a monster suddenly shows up, and they always do, you will be there with some canned air freshener, I mean, "monster spray". You are not union so the hours are undesirable. Monsters show up on weekends, holidays and always between 11:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. NO, you do not get sick time. Yes, you have to kill them all. Closet. Bed. Windows. Every damn monster in the house. Yes, that's right...you are never going to sleep again.

Then, that baby is 6 and you are still not sleeping because, by this point, you've probably been a genius and had one or a few more. "You weren't sleeping anyway!", the laughing people say. You  are so tired that you forget your childrens' names and your address and why you are holding a package of stamps in one hand and an empty ice cube tray in the other. And, you think, I've hit rock bottom. We can only go up from here. So, you start doing research on the NASA mattress partially because the people in the commercial look so fantastically well rested and partially because you always wanted to jump on a bed and use the other half of the mattress as a giant coaster for your nightly bottle of wine. Yes!, you think. This is it! Only up from here. You are wrong. Please remember, you are never going to sleep again.

Then, there is the inevitable curfews they are sure to break and the worry and the still checking to see if they are breathing, even when they are 14 and the friends and phone calls and music and your general inability to sleep because the damn flyer is due for the school committee you signed up for.  It's always someone's snack day and cupcakes don't make themselves and you're out of milk...again and you are now buying face lotion made out of Preparation H and stardust found in one of the moon's darkest craters to cover the dark craters that used to be eyes. You look at old pictures, before kids, and the only thing everyone says is: "Look at how young you look!" which you know is code for , "You were a hot number back when you were sleeping!"

Years pass and still, you do not sleep because of costumes, hemlines and broken hearts that need mending and financial aid packets and college trips and shopping for their first apartment and, like that, they are gone to start their own noisy, sleepless lives filled with children and the sounds of home. You have all the quiet in the world, but they are gone and the quiet is deafening. It is too quiet to sleep. And, you remember...that was the bittersweet deal. You are never going to sleep again. The laughing people were right. It was worth it.

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Saturday, August 11, 2012

Summer's Last Stand

Who doesn't love summer with its endlessness and perpetual abyss of all of your offspring under one roof? I enjoy my weekly shower and cold cup of coffee because life is revitalizing when freezing cold  and roughly scheduled. I also enjoy our 2 1/2 month inch toward poverty as the locusts children eat us out of house and home. Of course you can have all 15 of the Hot Pockets. I was saving them for the apocalypse, but, frankly that seems closer now than ever so, enjoy!

After several months home, the gifts of summer's delight keep on giving, and giving, and giving and...come play with us Danny (elevator doors open in Overlook Hotel).

We're going back to school shopping...forever and ever and ever and ever...

As we drag our weary, bedraggled bodies toward the home stretch, I can think of only two things: How many more days until school starts? and, How did I manage to only get a tan on my feet?

This week has brought more of the same. The zest of the initial June kiddie pool filling has been replaced with August 13ths, "Can't you just go play NEAR the hose. I might turn it on later. I don't know, maybe if you're really thirsty." and our bounding out of the gates trips to the park have turned into, "Hey kids, look out the window! There's the park!" as we speed home from the grocery store. I've caved and they can smell my desperation. Desperation for Moms - the new scent by mothers, for mothers. A scent for the simple, complicated woman who just can't wait for effing school to start. *whisper* DESSSSPERATION.

As swift as sand through the hourglass, so are the the days of our lives...except for the days of summer.

Now what, you ask? Exactly. I am out of ideas. I am out of pipe cleaners, glue and stickers. And, to quote the great philosopher, Prince, "Party over, oops out of time." But, summer still had one sucker punch for me: Several days of torrential downpour. Game on, summer. One more chance to give it my "A game" or, to establish an A game since I've been riding the bench between C - and D, but, with the curve I'm hoping to pull it up to a solid B -.  Here's hoping the kids accept my extra credit sprinkling of dirt on their note to the fairies that I passed off as fairy dust! Fingers crossed!

Now, I give you our rainy day summer projects you will NEVER see on Pinterest:

Weather Hats - They are fashionable and informative. If they are wet, it's raining. If your forehead starts to smoke, the sun is shining. If the forecast calls for thunder and lightning, it's time to ask yourself, Are you a bettin' man? Well, are you?

You are seriously impressed right now. Who wouldn't be? Now taking orders for my shop featured on Regretsy.

Telephone - Ring, Ring? Hello? Hello? HELLOOOOO? Just like when the phone rings during the day in my house, I'm going to ignore these calls too. The kids love that they can scream at each other from different rooms and I love that they are screaming things like, "HI! I CAN'T WAIT TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL SO WE CAN GET AWAY FROM She'sLostIt McOutOfHerMind!" instead of screaming directly into each other's faces about who gets to eat the fruit snack they just found under the radiator vent.

"What is the legal age you can emancipate yourself from your parents?"

They sure don't make them like this anymore. Or, ever.

Sticks - This game is really neat. You go out in the rain and collect as many sticks as possible. Then, you put the sticks in a giant pile. Then, you pick up large debris, add it to the stick pile and, this is where it gets REALLY interesting, then rake smaller debris into the BIG pile until the yard is 100% absent of debris. After this, you apply for a burn permit through your local fire department and burn any debris that is not usable as mulch. Kids LOVE this game. You can thank me later.

If this doesn't make you want to immediately run out and play "sticks", well, then I guess FUN means something different to you.

I have to say, I think it's clear I nailed it. Speaking of nails....well, we can get to that game next summer. I don't want to give all of  my secrets away in one post.

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Thursday, August 9, 2012

"My Kids Are My Best Friends!"

I have heard tales of parent - child relationships so strong that they refer to each other as best friends. I can only surmise that this works the same way 18th century courting worked. After being told you were betrothed and had no choice but to be together for life, you figured you'd make the best of it, find out each other's similarities and give it a good old fashioned try. You would drink a lot and fan yourself. In fits of anger, they would throw things at you....mostly breakable things you love. You'd make tea sandwiches. They would eat them, except for the crust.  Back then, divorce was unheard of. And since parenthood is also a life sentence, I think it's a good idea to take a deep breath and settle in. Fortunately, unlike marriage, you do all the diapering in the beginning and get to the dating and drinking together in the later years. This seems like a fair deal. The sweet after the constantly urinated on in public sour.

In some ways, my kids are my best friends. Mostly because baby and toddler hood are a battlefield that we have all fought on together. This makes us soldiers in the same platoon. We're bros. No one knows you like your platoon during war-time. We haven't shared cigarettes or pin-up pictures, but, I have carried them over my shoulder while running from an angry bee and when we have explosions of the diaper variety, I am the medic.  SO yeah, we're tight.

Best friends have secret languages. I speak all four of my children's garbled languages fluently. I know that EOGHRTOUERFSOHGT SOTHEOUHTTT!!!! means, "Hey Mom. I want a sandwich." and I know that ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR means, "Head's up. I'm tired. You'd better postpone that grocery store trip until after nap time." Our secret handshakes change daily, but, we have those too. Their current favorite is pull mom's pants down and laugh which I know means, "The four of us will be ganging up on you for the rest of your life. Get used to it!" I then respond with my secret handshake of tripping over my pants and clenching my teeth in half pain/half anger which means, "I know. I'm ready for you. Next time I'm wearing pants 3 sizes too small! SUCKERS!"

Best friends are often well matched. They may love to read, write or go to theatre. My children and I are well matched as well. We are generally cranky, covered in mud and none of us know how to spell. Similarities. Check.

Best friends fight and then make up. Does this even require an example? No, it doesn't.

Best friends borrow each other's clothes.  They wear my underwear on their heads. Close enough.

Best friends tell each other secrets. I know ALL of their secrets. I plan on never telling them...until the truly perfect moment of horrifying embarrassment. That's what best friends do.

Best friends know that no matter what, they have each other's backs. Mean chick at Day Camp who refused to do Twin Day with my daughter, Aggressive Troll on the slide that pushed my toddler into a cardboard box and ANYone who breaks their hearts, this (best) Bud's for you. And, by Bud, I mean my evil, death stare while menacingly peeling an orange.

Ok, I admit it  - we are besties. Now to find a BFF necklace that splits into 5 pieces.

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Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Operation: Funny? Status: Found!

Who am I, you ask, to be lucky enough to be a guest judge for this week's Finding the Funny with Anna of My Life and Kids and Kelley of Kelley's Breakroom fame? Good question. I'm assuming you'll want my funny credentials. For the purposes of this mission, you can call me Agent 007-11. Maybe this is because I'm an expert, undercover funny finder or maybe it's because I read all of your posts with a Big Gulp Cherry Slurpee in one hand and a pretzel, cheese dog in another.  In addition to writing my own humor blog, I have enough funny ha ha and funny strange to fill several books. An example? Oh, alright. I have walked around a big box store (name omitted to protect the innocent) after having been "sick with child" and have shopped extensively with no knowledge that the baby in my carrier had long-ago pulled my dress down and exposed one half of my bra. I cross my heart (bra), this is true. And, if I'm able to laugh at this then I. Know. Funny.

Funny is important. Funny is necessary. Funny is half break from the doldrums and half free therapy. And, writing the funny?  Well, it's difficult. Humor can be subjective. What tickles one funny bone may feel like a swift kick in someone else's humerus (or HUMORes). However, there are humor writers that are able to take a unique sense of humor and turn their words into magic. Writers that are so unabashedly honest that they make us want to be honest as well. They provide the, "I've DONE that", "I get it!" and "I'm so glad I'm not the only one!" connection. They bring the funny and the truth. And, the truth, when dipped in the right words and served with sprinkles of storytelling is always refreshing. Always funny. These writers transcend their own brand of funny and bring THE funny. Gifted writers who invite you to not only to laugh with them, but, AT them. Tidbits of normal, tidbits of "this should only be told to a psychiatrist", tidbits of shame and tidbits of unadulterated life sculpted into knee-slapping hilarity. As much as we need the five senses that get ALL the credit, we need to engage our senses of humor.

This week I had the distinct pleasure of reading all 52 of the Finding The Funny #28 posts. I laughed. I cried. I laughed some more. I cry-laughed. I purchased waterproof mascara and then kept reading and laughing. In retrospect, I should have broken up the reading more. CAUTION: Reading Finding the Funny in one sitting with a weak, baby wrecked bladder may cause children to say things like, "Mommy, why are you changing your pants again?" and "Do you need to borrow my Buzz Lightyear pull-up?" I know what you're thinking. Lady, stop the narrative and (Tom Cruise as Jerry Maguire) SHOW ME THE FUNNY!

So, with no further ado, I bring you:

 Bad Parenting Moments' TOP FIVE Finding the Funny # 28 posts

# 5 -  The Somewhat Sane Mom - Shell bikinis, Princes and forced laryngitis? This mama don't play that. Some Unintended Consequences of Disney Movies

#4 -  Ninja Mom - Mom leaves, but, she always comes back. A realistic look at leaving your young in their father's *capable* hands in The Lasagna: It'll still be frozen when I get back from #BlogHer12.

#3 - The Fordeville Diaries - Because, as she so eloquently says, "one can not rely on Bob Costas alone". True. Story. Deep Thoughts: Olympics Edition

#2 - Wub Boo Mummy - Taking the Ermahgerd movement to the next level with moccasins, jumpsuits and ferile cats. Yeah, she went there. Ermahgerd, jurst ermahgerd

#1 - Hollow Tree Ventures - Social awkwardness and pained smiling SO endearing that you'll consider serving as her public defender when and if that whole valet "thing" ever goes to trial. How To Mask Your Social Awkwardness

Honorable Mentions

Point Counter-Point Point Point - A tongue in cheek review of Facebook jazzhanded self promotion with a side of snark and graphs in Facebook Promoting: OK or Self Whoreing?

Abby Has Issues - Writer's Block. Self-Doubt. Cats. Liquor. What more do you want? Philosophizing

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