Give Mom the Gift of Time. Hard Time.

When I think of what I’d like for Mother’s Day, I often come to “My God, a stint in rehab sounds fantastic.” But Betty Ford and Sunset Malibu are really the only ones I’m interested in — Private beach access! Encouragement to walk around the lake every morning! Spa treatments, people! Rehab sounds AWESOME. But I’d have to pawn my child to come close to affording these facilities, and since that would make me NOT a mother, we find ourselves in an unfortunate Catch 22. Also I’m not addicted to anything that’s detrimental to my health. Unless you count Grey’s Anatomy. Sooo, I think the next best option is clear:

For Mother’s Day, I’d like to go to a white-collar, minimum-security prison.

Well of course I specify “white collar.” When you are prescribing a present for yourself, you need to be precise. Otherwise I’m going to end up kickin’ it for a week with a guy called “Issues” in cell block D. And that, my friends, is not a vacation.

In Austria, you can meditate on your private patio. Sign me up!

In a comfy minimum-security facility, you get to go to sleep at regular times and stay all night in your own bed. They cook for you, three times per day! I can read books all morning, or have long discussions about embezzlement. Plus I’d get an hour a day to work out. An HOUR. I will be so buff. At a place in Kentucky I can attend wellness workshops that focus on stress reduction. At other places I can check out an instrument and join an inmate band. Or become a dental assistant! Leatherworking classes sound fun. And think how useful I’ll be after my vacation if I take the vocational programs in baking and landscaping.

Prison sounds great. No more wondering what to wear in the morning. I could get one of those cute soap-on-a-ropes. I wouldn’t be responsible for anyone. Heck, I wouldn’t even be responsible for myself! What mom wouldn’t be thrilled with such a gift?

You might ask, “But Summer, how do I get my mother such a luxurious vacation? After all, one can’t just call a jail and make reservations.” To that I say, why not?! We should be able to call up the justice system and declare ourselves a threat to society. “Hello, correctional facility? If I don’t go to jail to get away from these kids RIGHT NOW, I’m going to commit a crime. Like mail fraud.” If that won’t work, and I’m told it won’t, then you’re going to need to frame mom. But you know what, it’s Mother’s Day–This is your job. I’m not going to plan it all out for you.

The Twins are Here

The twins are here. After trying for months, wondering when our time would come, we finally have them. They’re adorable. Here’s the one I love the most:

Identical iPhone Twins: The Mr. was busy with the other one.

However, it’s a whole new ballgame trying to parent Sally with the new babies in the house. For days she was excited about their impending arrival. She alternates between wanting desperately to play with them (which, of course, they are too new and fragile for) and being jealous of them (“I want my own!”). We tell her she can use the older and sturdier iPad, which she adored just 24 hours ago, but it’s not the same as holding that brand new baby with it’s factory-fresh smell.

Just as important, however, is Mr. Embee’s relationship with the twins. He immediately jumped in to get them all synced with the rest of our household. He loves them. Maybe more than he loves me. And that causes a little bit of jealousy on my part. I’m sure it’s just post-purchase hormones, because they’re really sweet little computers, but sometimes I envision doing this:

Murdered iPhone. Photo: DoNotLick/Flickr

The Super Bowl Will Make Your Child a Terrorist. Or a Nudist. One of those.

Case in Point: Left alone to stir brownie batter.

The Super Bowl is Sunday. And this presents a rare opportunity for children to cause trouble. All the parents will be busy for the same four-hour period. I mean, I don’t even know who is playing, but I’m definitely watching, and eating lots of salsa. And guacamole. Yum. And you will, too. A lot of people will go to parties, some will watch at home, but however you cut it, just about every adult in America will be consumed by TV and Doritos. Not a single person will care what the kids are doing. It’s like the moment in the movie when the guards change shifts and the security cameras go down for routine maintenance at the same time.

And this, my friends, is the perfect opportunity for a baby prison break.

If you have teenagers, God help you because they already know what’s up. But if you have younger kids, the first hour might be okay. The kids will spend that time going through the five stages of grief/abandonment. You’ll know they’ve hit “bargaining” when you start hearing “Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD. DAD. DAD. MOM. Mom. MOM. MOMMOMMOMMOMMOM.” If you do not respond–and of course you won’t because we need a tiny wiener platter refilled and that one team is about to score–the kids will quickly move to “acceptance” and then the real mess begins.

Babies will schmeer walls with, well, NOT guacamole. Toddlers will feed the dog all the tiny wieners, then run when he barfs them all up on your carpet. Preschoolers will call whoever is on your speed dial. Older kids will alter the chore chart and give themselves massive allowance raises. Actually I don’t know what the older kids will do, I’m just pretty sure that’s what Sally will do in a few years. In any event, they’ll go power crazy. They’re alone! They rule the world, FINALLY. So they’re going to decorate your boring bathroom with purple crayon. They’re going to experiment and see if dolls other than Baby Alive can pee if they drench them with orange juice. They’re going to lock younger siblings in confined spaces. They’re going to take their clothes off. And dance in front of the TV. During the halftime commercials.

So beware, parents. I’m not saying you need to pay attention to your kids this Sunday, just accept the situation and be thankful they can’t all coordinate on Twitter to lead a revolution: Lock the front door; have a first aid kit ready; and be prepared to clean up the trail of sugar they made to lead the ants to the pantry. Happy Super Bowl!

Not Now Honey, Barbie Needs Her Margarita

I wanted to do a post about Barbie, because at Christmas Sally got her first set of double-Ds, and I felt weird about it and wanted to talk it through. So I thought, and thought, and the more I thought, the more confused I got about the whole thing. Is she good or evil? Is she teaching my kid to want a hot bod? (Sally WAS very excited that Barbie had “all the parts.”) And if so, is that all bad? I mean, I want a hot bod! Maybe Sally will be motivated to get a hot bod when she’s 33 instead of just talk about them.

And for goodness sake, we own astronaut Barbie. She’s a highly educated and professional woman. Who wears heels in space, but that’s her prerogative. Anyway, I’ve decided Barbie is okay. At her core, she’s got a pencil-sized waist a toy that doesn’t beep, sing the ABCs or scream “LET’S PLAY A GAME!” after you leave her alone for 30 seconds. She’s a simple doll. Sally has to use her imagination to come up with scenarios for her. And Sally’s scenarios are pretty awesome.

The real problem with Barbie . . . is the margaritas.

Our Barbie and Ken live in a Mattel beach vacation house. This house is puh-ritty cool. There’s a chandelier. There’s a big screen TV. There’s an adorable pink and purple kitchen where Ken makes pancakes every morning, and a shower he can barely squeeze his impossibly hard body into. Delicious. …The pancakes! Stop it. (wink)

But when Barbie gets thirsty, what has Mattel given her? A blender and two margarita glasses. WHAT?! So, okay, first of all, SO wrong. My 4-year-old is playing house and we’re gonna get everyone liquored up? After I’ve spent time hunting down wholesome handmade Barbie outfits so that she doesn’t look like a cheaper version of a Jersey Shore girl?

Ah, the pre-baby days.

Second, the margaritas (don’t worry, I told Sally they were smoothies) really, really mess up Barbie’s judgement. She met Ken randomly one night and just because the guy was in a tux, she was all leaning into him and blurting out “Lez get married and have babies!”

Ken’s nothing if not smooth, so he was like “Sure sweet thang, whatever you want.” Little did he know Sally had the authority to marry them ON THE SPOT. Short ceremony, too, consisting of: “You may kiss the bride!” [kiss] “Oh no, my baby is coming out!”

You tell me with a straight face that KEN is the dad.

And then Barbie immediately gave birth to Strawberry Shortcake. Who, A) should have those cankles looked at, and B) has red hair and doesn’t look a thing like Ken. I don’t want to break up a home or anything, but I’m just saying, Ken’s best friend is a redhead, and with all the tequila banana smoothie flowing in that house, I’m suspicious.

Then it’s time for Ken to go to work and Strawberry to go to school because Barbie can’t deal. Ken asks if SHE is going to work, too, and she always says, “No, I’m just going to stay home.” And eat the bowl of Doritos provided by Mattel. AND DRINK SMOOTHIES. Ken has to do drop-off and pick-up for a kid who’s probably not even his; go to work; replace light bulbs; and fix the stairs in a beach house they totally cannot afford on one salary–and the man still makes pancakes every morning. I’m not going to get into what all this will eventually do to Barbie’s slowing mommy metabolism. Anyhow, Barbie is content to dry her hair; go potty; move the furniture around; and make sure Ken is staying in his own bed at night.

And drink smoothies.

Is Barbie twisting my child’s brain? I think she was just born that way. Is she ruining Sally’s life? I don’t know, Sally seems to have figured out how to get a man to do everything so she can kick back, which is more than most of us ever accomplish. Plus, I’m pretty sure this blog will ruin her life way before Barbie’s size zero body does.