5 Things I Never Thought Id Do Then I Had Kids by Jessica Plaskett l Parenting Advice l Parenting Tips l Funny Parenting Moments l Things Only Parents Will Understand l Memorable Parenting Moments

The Dino-Nugget Buyer

Like most pre-kid delusions, many of us imagined offering our broods organic baby food fresh from the juicer each morn, then progressing to a diet of whole grains, veggies and an overall preservative-free fantasy. However somewhere between toddlerhood and pre-school, your kid just might develop a distaste for practically all nutritious food with the exception of grilled cheese, sauce-free pizza and oddly enough, edamame. At first you resist this senseless food strike-what kind of kid doesn’t like strawberries?-but after months of experiments, artful persuasions and bribes, dinnertime becomes a battlefield of the wills no parent is armed for. “So guys, what was the best part of your- swallow that carrot right now - chew!”

For those of us who hate cooking, it’s bad enough schlepping over a stove each night, even for grateful patrons. This mediocre lasagna didn’t bake itself people: buckle up. But after years of close-mouthed resistance, many of us weaken and find ourselves in the fluorescently-lit shame of our frozen foods section, starring at a bag of dino nuggets and wondering if we can really feed our children glamourized entrails. If you’re desperate enough, the answer to this nutritional quandary is yes. Yes you can. And before you know it your cart is brimming with Red No. 40 and hydrogenated corn oil, steamrolling past the organic produce section in avoidance of self-judgement. All of which you’ll serve that night with a multivitamin, and a smile on your face. Dinnertime guys!

The Social Media Abuser

Just one more arena I’m found eating my words. Before shedding my inner-luddite and joining Facebook, I would sit in sheer amazement at my mom friends’ clear loss of senses. Posting photos of your kids’ milestones, accomplishments and especially cute moments is acceptable of course. If ‘lil Aiden got a Cub Scouts award, then darnit, the world should know about it. What I could not comprehend, however, were parents who posted their child’s every waking moment on the World Wide Web. Ten consecutive pictures of your one-year old sleeping is not a FB update, it’s an abuse of technology, and while we’re at it, so is the daily photo spread of your perfectly homemade school lunches. I always want to Instagram my sad lineup of Luncheables in response, with the post “Done! Time for pinot!” I know I’d get more likes. But alas, I’ve found myself guilty of this annoying habit, to a degree. It’s just so tempting, when gazing at your child’s perfect chubby cheeks-this is definitely post material.

I’ve slowly become the parent I swore I’d never be, trolling after my kids through the park with my thumb hovering over ‘record,’ like the paparazzi following Kim K. “One more time down the slide, looking at mommy this time!” Most people understand your judgment is clouded by fecal fumes and first-time parent delusion. But parents-to-be, know this: No one. Not your bestie, not your closest co-worker, and most certainly anyone on your Twitter feed gives flying money about your kid’s letter recognition skills. Trust.

The Team Mom

When my children were babies, I prayed many blessings over their lives. A close relationship with God, health, and of course that they would be saved from the brain cell sucking vortex that is organized sports. Growing up in a die-hard football town, I’ve seen what idolizing pig leather can do for the ego, and the IQ. So when my Kindergartener came home with a flag football slip from school, I did what any other protective mother would do-shove it in the dumpster. Demanding vaccines was one thing, but no way was the public school system gonna brainwash my baby into a jock at age five.

But as fate would have it, another parental plan was crushed and we eventually found ourselves on the sidelines of the Blue Knights field every Saturday at 9 a.m. with all the other Kool-Aid drinkers hoping they’ve spawned the next Manning. What happened within a few weeks, however, I can’t explain. It was all over at Kenai’s first attempt at a touchdown. There I was, running down the yard lines, yelling and cheering like Mike Ditka himself. I was addicted. Sure, he’d fallen flat on his face and ran the wrong direction, but clearly, my kid had Super Bowl victory in his genes. I have a feeling I’ll be working concession stands and screaming things like “we bleed Blue!” in the future, but I figure two outta three answered prayers isn’t bad.

The Award Monger

Before parenthood, I was thoroughly disgusted with the reward-based society we’ve seemed to become. My dismay began when a nearby school district created a “best effort” honor role for kids falling short of first or second honors and worsened when every kid in my son’s T ball league got a trophy. While I still hold true to the belief that kids should earn rewards and not head-patted for mediocrity, I’m ashamed to say I’ve violated this principal for my kids...more than once. I’ve insisted all kids be able to audition for the school play (hand-picking kids? Is this the Gestapo?) and I wrote a two-page letter to the principal, asking that my Kindergartner would receive a good character trophy, despite the fact he received too many “tallies” for unsigned homework. I sure did present a five-point argument demonstrating how my parental irresponsibility had caused this trophy injustice, not my innocent five-year-old. I bargained as if pleading for the release of a POW, and it worked.

The Frump

Many moms agree vain endeavors are the first and most painful luxuries to die since bearing children. We never thought it would come to this - living in sweats, rockin’ a sweet braid because we couldn’t find time to shower, and leaving the house with zero makeup. I was in Target the other day, killing time with two babies and justifying a Starbucks purchase when I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors. Somewhere between changing diapers and wrestling two babies into car seats, I failed to ensure I was presentable for the public eye. The result was me starring at what I wish was a stranger amidst merciless incandescent lighting: mascara-smudged under eyes, a baby carrot stained scarf and hair like a Katrina victim. I looked like John the Baptist wandering the desert, except he had a good excuse - he was carrying the Gospel. I just looked like a crack head with a flair for fashion. As much as we try to fight this frumpy phenomena, there are moments now when you hardly recognize yourself. I’ve recently gone shopping with hardened poop under my nail, and the closet thing I’ve come to a day spa is scoring the “good park bench” that faces the sun.