The Kids Will All Write

Ever since I started blogging I’ve been driving my family crazy. I follow my husband around, iPhone in hand, reading him my poetry from the drafts in my email account. Often times this is when he is trying to get ready for work. Or in the shower. Or on the toilet. For some reason, unfathomable to me, he seems a bit annoyed by this.

My 11 year old son, on the other hand, is a much better sounding board. He listens attentively, and finds my poems just as hilarious as I do. Not only that, but he is genuinely concerned about the response my blogs get. And, if I follow your blog on a regular basis, chances are he’s read one or two of yours as well (age appropriate, of course).

But lest you think my son is some kind of goody two shoes who heads the Dean’s List and runs for school council, he is not. Although my son has above average intelligence, his grades often teeter on the wrong side of a B average, all due to a lack of passion and work ethic.

When I suggested my son do a guest blog for me, I thought it would be met with all the enthusiasm of reading a ‘Fun with Mathematics’ text book over the weekend. But I was wrong. Instead my son bombarded me with questions; what should he write? when should he write it? when would I publish it?

I am not much of one for participating in or suggesting challenges, or that a blog with my meager following will be able to sustain this, but if you have or know a kid who writes, and want to publish it, let me know about it, in comments or a link to any blog, and I will reblog it. Artwork is welcome too. This is about getting our kids writing and welcoming a new generation of bloggers.

I am publishing my sons guest blog, ‘Stupidity Is Infectious’, in conjunction with this one. I ask you all, shamelessly, to please come out and support it. You won’t be disappointed. Thanks.

In the meantime, please enjoy my daughter’s artwork (A.B. age 7)

Something I Forgot

Everything is nice and neat
But yet I keep on fretting
This nagging feeling in my mind
There’s something I’m forgetting

The dinner has been prepared
The dishes have been done
My glasses hang around my neck
The clothes have all been hung

I know I locked the door at work
But still my head it takes me
To summon up this vague notion
Of what surely must escape me

That familiar car door slamming
The footsteps coming near
For now it’s nearly 5 o’ clock
My husband must be here

He walks in through the doorway
And the first thing he says is,
“You’ve done a great job on the house but honey…
Where’s the kids?”

But You Doesn’t Hasta Call Me Victoria

I don’t think I really had a name until I was about 20. But I suppose that is the plight of an identical twin . Before that it was ‘hey you’, the cringe worthy ‘twin’ or a horrifying amalgamation of both of our names, ‘Marissa-Victoria Victoria-Marissa’. I  am just happy that we predated the Bennifers and Brangelinas or we would have surely been Vicrissa or, worse yet, Maroria.

Baffled friends regarded us, studying our faces before even saying a word, in a pathetic attempt at that Holy Grail of knowledge that would answer the question, “Which one is which?” My boyfriends scratched their heads in wonder before clumsily sticking their tongues down my sister’s throat.

Then, when I was in my 20s, something terrible happened. I fell in love.

People wondered why I chose Jon as the object of my affections. He was short, with unconventional looks, and, although he was in a semi cool rock band, he was only the drummer. The thing was, Jon was the first boy who was brave enough to call me by my name. Often. And with feeling. Like it was a term of endearment. I guess anyone might find that charming and flirtatious, but oh readers, if he knew what that did for me…

Well, as you can well imagine, that relationship quickly ended in disaster as most young relationships do. However, soon other boys would come along who called me by my name. And as I established my own identity, I found other people, in different situations, calling me by my name more and more often .

But alas, no sooner had my identity had been established, then I found it all too quickly taken away. I soon married and had children and, once again I was no longer Marissa but Mommy, Mrs. Bergen, or Anjelica’s and/or Jesse’s mom. In fact, it seems the only time I am addressed by my name nowadays, is when  I’m at work or when my order is ready at El Pollo Loco.

Even my husband rarely calls me by my name. With him it’s usually ‘Babe’ (equally cringe worthy). I think he’s still a bit afraid he will call me ‘Victoria’.

And if you’re wondering whether he ever ended up with his tongue down my sister’s throat…well…that is the story for another blog.

image credit: babygaga.com

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/17/writing-challenge-names/

Play Dates From Hell Pt. 2

Oh, the play date! It’s always so nice when a mother arrives at my doorstep to drop off her adorable, sweet, freshly scrubbed, shiny, little child. At any given time after that, it is likely, said child will mutate into Linda Blair in The Exorcist complete with demonic possession, projectile vomiting, and joint defying head spins as my husband and I stay cowering in our bedroom, hoping that the children are having fun, and trying to have as little as possible to do with it, if they are not.

Hello! Can Anjelica come out to play?

I was thinking of creating an award for Worst Play Date Ever. One dilemma was whether to grant this award to the child for making the play date so especially horrific, or to the parent who had to endure it. Anyway, without further ado, I’d like to introduce the nominees:

Anthony: I am, what my husband calls, directionally challenged. The words Alternate Route hold no appeal for me. In fact, I’d rather go 10 miles out of my way then risk getting lost. It is especially nerve wracking when a passenger suggests a different path when I am en route. And it is even more nerve wracking when that someone is an 8 year old boy who has spent the better part of the afternoon explaining to me how my suggestions for fun and entertainment were neither fun nor entertaining.

After explaining to this boy that I would not be taking his route and why, he than suggested I drop him off at random corners, presumably in an attempt to have me arrested for child neglect. Oh, Reader, was I tempted!!

I finally blew up at Anthony right before depositing him at his door step. It’s alway nice when you send them home with tears in their eyes.

Hannah: I’m really great with a wrench. I mean, after getting through the hard part, which is actually getting the wrench to fit around the nut, it’s all righty tighty, lefty loosey from there. Of course there comes the part during turning when you realize that the left has become right and the right has become left and the damn thing doesn’t appear to be getting any tighter at all…but I digress!

So there I am, on the sidewalk, mini-skirt strategically arranged, sweating through my mascara, wrench in hand trying to tighten the training wheels on our Play Date’s bike. Her Royal Highness herself walks up, her 7 year old form towering above mine and says, “Uh…can I ride my bike already?”

Abbey: But it’s probably Abbey who absolutely takes the prize. This is a girl who decided her afternoon’s entertainment would be to extract my daughter’s loose tooth from her mouth in every nauseatingly disgusting, unsanitary manner possible. I finally asked the girls if they’d like to take a break from the afternoon’s festivities to go out for frozen yogurt, (you know, one of those places where you pay for yogurt BY THE OUNCE??).

I’m sure you know where this is going. Within seconds Abbey’s cup overfloweth with frozen yogurt and, much to my horror, she continued the atrocity by adding Sno-Caps by the shovelful. She then proceeded to sit down with her mountain of gluttony, take two bites, and ask “Can we go to Carl’s Jr. now?”

photo credit: mommyish.com

Eternal Delay

Rosie dressed her children up that day
Dressed them to a tee
Freshly scrubbed and clean and kempt
And sweet as they could be.

Off they went to the station
Washed in camouflage and green
All the reunited lovers
All the years that it had been.

It would be a special day
He would say, “You got so tall.”
For Emma hadn’t seen her father in 3 years
And Charlotte not at all.

And on and on the three would wait
But his face they did not see
Rosie decided to play a game
She called it ‘Where’s Daddy?’

She felt their soft warm hands in hers
And told her self not to fear
Surely he would be there soon
He had to be somewhere.

But as minutes turned to hours
Her spirits would soon fall
And still she could not believe
He would not appear at all.

The crowd had finally thinned to naught
And the train pulled from the station
And by and by the broken family stood
Still waiting.

       

Crazy Little Sister

This blog was written by Marissa Bergen from, what she believes, is the perspective of her 11 year old son.

Hi I’m Jesse and I’m 11 years old. This is a picture of me when I was a baby. Cute little bugger wasn’t I? I guess it’s okay to say that because apparently everyone said that about me, plus they also commented on what a sweet, nice, well behaved baby I was.

Those were the good old days, just me and the parental units, hanging out, going places, buying toys.

Then one day my parents said they had to talk to me. They said I was going to be a big brother and they were telling me how wonderful it would be and how I would have someone looking up to me and all that. Yeah, whatever. I’m going to my room now and I’m gonna stay there…for the rest of my life.

Anyway, time goes by and soon enough they’re bringing my sister home from the hospital.

This is a picture of us from the early days. You see I’m smiling but if you look closely it is more like one of those crying on the inside, laughing on the outside, call for help kind of smiles.

Anyway, it didn’t take me long to figure out this chick was off her rocking horse.

For the first 3 years of her life all she would eat was macaroni and cheese and, oh yeah, dirt. Like she’s too good to put a carrot in her mouth but dirt is perfectly acceptable cuisine. I once saw her lick rain off a car.

And talk about drama queens. It’ s always whine, whine, whine, cry, cry, cry. I mean, like, you fall, you get hurt, you get up, you get over it, right? No need to make a federal case about it, you know what I mean?

But the worst of it is, she always wants to do everything I do and she likes to play with my toys and a lot of the time she breaks them.

I guess my mom kind of understands. She’s always saying stuff like, “Sorry we ruined your life but your sister loves you very much. She worships the ground you walk on.”

And I have to admit, she’s kind of right. Sometimes it is cool to be an older brother.

Just don’t tell THEM I said that.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/03/writing-challenge-threes/#more-69890

They’ll Probably Kill Me (A Music Vlog Starring Moi)

A music vlog dedicated to all the women who feel like they have to be everything to everyone.

I ain’t gonna do the laundry so there
My husband will probably kill me
He won’t have no clean underwear
I know he’ll probably kill me

What do I care? Not a lot
I’ll just put on something hot
My husband will probably kill me today

I burnt the dinner again today
My kids will probably kill me
It was frozen pizza anyway
I know they’ll probably kill me

If they’re mad or if they’re hurt
I’ll just give them chocolate cake for dessert
I know they’ll probably kill me today

Wrote something dirty on Facebook today
My mom will probably kill me
I’m a big girl but anyway
I know she’ll probably kill me

I don’t know but I have a hunch
If I try to be nice and take her out to lunch
My mom will probably kill me anyway.

The Lego Movie: Not Everything Is Awesome

So there I was, dear readers, shuffling into the movie theater, with the Weekend Warriors, the yokels and rubes, and the many, many, many snot nosed kids. Obviously I was operating under the false pretenses that, being that the movie had already been running a week, and that we were catching the 10AM show, it would be anything less than packed.

Immediately, upon entering the theater, I broke the second cardinal rule of the Anti-Social Club, which is Thou Shalt Not Sit Next to A Stranger. Fortunately, the stranger must have been an honorary member of The Club as well, as both of us spent the entirety of the movie clinging for dear life to our respective arm rests. Oh, for the price of resting our feet on the unoccupied seats of the handicapped section in front of us…TOTALLY WORTH IT!!

Of course about 10 minutes into the movie I had to repress the urge to get up and scream, “Listen people, if your kid can’t keep quiet for 2 hours, they do not belong in a movie theater!”  Let me tell you reader, it was a lucky thing I suppressed this urge as it was clear I was sorely outnumbered, and probably would have been pelted by a barrage of undigested popcorn, soggy breast pads and dirty diapers.

Now I know that children’s movies can sometimes be amusing. However, if you are over the age of 18, and find yourself guffawing loudly at the jokes, especially when you are the only one in the theater doing so, I sincerely hope it is because you bought a pot brownie at the concession stand. If you find deep social meaning in said children’s movie, I sincerely hope it is because your popcorn is laced with LSD. But, although I unfortunately, had no mind altering substances flowing through my body, I did learn a valuable lesson from this movie.

About two Christmases ago, my daughter was given a Lego set. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to assemble it, but whatever joy was to be given to my daughter by said assembly, was soon replaced by the horror of watching her mother turn into The Green Manalishi with the Two Pronged Crown. Curses were not muttered but bellowed, emotions ran high, and pieces were thrown into the dark depths of my living room only to emerge again when I found they were painfully lodged into my foot. Then, once the assembly was done, my daughter would play with the set, only to have it fall apart again, and so the continuation of the vicious cycle.

And so back to the valuable lesson learned…Krazy Glue….why didn’t I think of that?

Is It? Is it really??

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On The Off Chance I Offended You…

I am writing this in reference to the blog I wrote yesterday, ” Singing the Blues at the School Music Recital” and the lukewarm reception it received. (And also to thank the few brave souls that did actually like it.)

Of course no one really knows why a blog is ignored. In fact you could actually be thinking to yourself, “Did Marissa blog yesterday? I didn’t know that!” But I am going to work on the assumption that it was a bit harsh, especially for some of the mommies out there. And though I would have rather received hundreds of scathing comments, promoting my blog to the controversial masterpiece it deserves to be, I will have to settle with what I got. But maybe what I am about to say needs to be said anyway.

After I wrote that blog, I was unsure if I wanted to publish it because I thought it might come across as a bit insulting. So I did what any woman does when she is indecisive. I called my mother.

My mother grew up in a different time, when things were not as politically correct. Children did not get medals for losing, and sometimes they were told that they weren’t the best at everything, maybe if only in the hopes that they would then focus their attention on something more worthy of their time.

I know some of you have children that are younger than mine, some older, and some of you may not yet have kids. But I can guarantee you that if child rearing is, or ever was, or ever will be, a part of your life, you will find yourselves spending a weekend in a dank auditorium or a hot baseball field, where there will be screeching violins, a game prolonged because one player does not have a good understanding of the rules, or a recital practiced for months only to be ruined by a little girl with two left feet. You may react with a suppressed giggle or a discreet eye roll, and indeed this may be better etiquette than writing a blog to live forever on the pages of the internet or until such a time when you hit delete.

The point is, we all love our children, and we all make sacrifices for them. and not every weekend will go the way we want it to go; and sometimes the best thing we can do, is laugh.

It’s an 8 Years Old’s Birthday Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Remember the good old days when, if your kid was invited to a birthday party it meant you had a chance to put your feet up, relax, and take the afternoon off? Well now, in the days of child predators, and when every bump on the head could mean a concussion, and don’t even get me started on food allergies, parents are required to sit with their children for the duration of the party (often a minimum of two hours) cutting a considerable chunk out of their weekends.

My husband and I used to go to parties thinking of any conceivable way to get out of staying, but the best we could do was having the host’s parents reluctantly agree that it was okay to be the ONLY PARENTS to leave our child. Some odd hours later, we would return to the judgmental looks of parents who feel we have done the unthinkable. Needless to say, we have since given up and resigned ourself for a good couple of hours of:

Getting To Know The Other Parents: I, for one, am terrible in social situations. Often I lurk on the fringes of these parties trying not to look like the miserable social leper I truly am. After a bit, I may glom on to one of the parents, more often than not because someone has taken pity on me and decided to introduce me to the poor woman. It is then up to us to try and fill (yikes!) two hours trying to come up with a topic of conversation when it turns out that the only thing we have in common is that we both have young children. Just imagine what happens when I try telling them I used to play in a rock band.

The Deathtrap That Is The Bouncy Castle: I can not tell you the amount of joy that will fill a child’s heart when they realize they will be spending the afternoon trapped inside the rubber walls of this Tower of Terror, bouncing against their out of control cronies. (Sounds a bit more like an insane asylum to me.) Usually, at some point during the course of the festivities, this inflatable holding cell will collapse much to the horror of the many screaming children that are trapped within. We watch in trepidation as a few brave parents escort the terrified children to safety and look on glumly until such a time that is determined whether or not the damn thing may be resurrected lest they be left with hordes of disappointed children.

The  Food: I don’t know about you, but I find it very difficult to enjoy the food at a child’s birthday party. No matter how appetizing the food may be, no matter what it is, no matter in what sort of a sanitary manner it is being served, once it has passed the lips of tens of young children, to me, it immediately becomes re-regurgitated vomit mixed with saliva.  Usually I have to decline the food so many times that I run the risk of offending the hosts and making everybody there think I have some kind of strange eating disorder, which may or may not be true.

Those of you who are looking forward to the inevitable deterioration of my sanity, will be pleased to know that my daughter had been invited to, not one, but two birthday parties this weekend. At best this inspire will me with material for my next Miserable Mom blog. However, if you don’t hear from me within a few days, you can bet I am bouncing around in a very small room with rubber walls.