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Archive for the ‘Kids’ Category

Flashback Friday! (Ballet for Boys)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:43 PM
Friday, October 19, 2012

Most Fridays, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Ballet for Boys – the BLOG

I have an ex who, as a young boy, was a champion Ti Kwon Do competitor. What gave him his edge? Was it his long legs? His competitive spirit? His can-do attitude?

Or was it… ballet. My ex told me that someone advised him to take ballet in order to up his ‘Ti Kwon Do’ game, and that all it took was one look at all the hot girls in the classes (and lack of straight male competition) to seal the deal. One or two years later, he was tour jeté-ing with the best of them. Core muscles strengthened, balance and total-body synergy tuned, and ability to jump to an astounding height fined-tuned thanks to ballet, my ex went on to kick major Ti Kwon Do Ass on the mats.

Go, ballet boy!

One year ago, as we watched his younger sister dance around in her first ever 3-year old ballet class, I tried to convince my then 5 yr old son that ballet was cool for boys, too. I found a trove of videos on YouTube featuring Baryshnikov. I showed my son scene after scene of Mikhail plié-ing and relevé-ing better than any of the girls, still coming off like a hotter and more manly stud than Clint Eastwood in a western.

My son wasn’t buying it. One glance through the lobby glass at all the tutu-clad petite princesses told him all he needed to know about what gender ballet was intended for.

Later, I made sure to bring him along when his just-turned 4 year old sister was given discount tickets to see a professional ballet company at the Ahmanson Theatre. He saw firsthand the beauty, grace and strength of the male ballet dancers. He thoroughly enjoyed the show, and stopped watching only once or twice, just long enough to kick the person in the seat in front of him. Hmmm, perhaps Ti Kwon Do would also be a good fit?

(And, ahhh, the joys of being yelled at by a stuffy queen who can’t take a few ‘back taps’ during a lively pas-de-deux.)

So I asked him point blank after the show, “Wasn’t that amazing? Don’t you want to take a dance class now?”

His unhesitating answer: “No way! Ballet is for girls!”

Cut to, three months ago when my son asked to come with me to see his sister’s new dance studio. The class she takes could not be more “girlie” – I think it’s called “Princess Ballet” and they take a princess tale each class, read it, then ‘dance it out’ with scarves, stuffed animals, wands and other sparkly accessories.

So imagine my shock when I turned around and my son was asking the receptionist if there were any dance classes for boys! And… my shock turned to nervous excitement when she answered, there was one class with four boys and a couple girls that was ballet/jazz.

He wanted to try it!

We now go every Wednesday. I bring the girls sometimes along to watch him, along with the other boys, dancing their little boy hearts out… awkward, clunky, loping, and sooooo soooooo cute.

Hooray for ballet!

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

This is SO my son in 10 years.

Flashback Friday! (Seasons of Love)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:45 AM
Friday, September 14, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Seasons of LOVE – the BLOG

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes… How do you measure, Measure a year? – RENT (the musical)

You know the other night, I got to thinking… just exactly how many minutes of my life have I thus far spent in my children’s room, trying to get them to go to sleep? (I’m sure I don’t even need to say that this thought struck me as I was passing the ½ hour mark doing just that.)

To answer my question, I left my little one crying (the two bigger ones having mercifully fallen asleep already), and went to my desk. Took out the calculator, a pen, a stickie note (neon pink, if you must know – I KNOW they are overpriced, but who can put a price on things that make you that happy?), and got to work.

I reasoned that with 3 kids, the oldest turning seven this summer, I have probably spent ON AVERAGE about a half hour every night putting them to sleep. Yes, I know we have babysitters some nights, but then again, there are some nights they take hours to put to bed. So it evens out.

Here’s what I came up with:

30 (minutes) x 365 (days) x 7 (years – my oldest son & how long I’ve been doing this) = 76,650 minutes.

For those non-human calculators among you, that equals Fifty three days plus some change.

FIFTY THREE DAYS. OF SITTING IN A DARK ROOM, READING STORIES, PATTING BUTTS, SHUSHING BABIES, QUASHING THE MINI-REBELLIONS…

53 whole days!!!

Lord have mercy. I’m the kind of person who likes to maximize the use of my waking hours. I like to DO things, and to be of use. It could be argued that I’m happiest when I’m busiest (though I’ll hotly deny this if any of you leak this information to my husband – you know he’ll turn around & use it on me when it’s his turn to do dishes/put kids to bed).

Yes, it’s true, my husband does help – very often – to put our kids to bed. On average, I would guess he does it 2-3 times a week. Let’s be generous and say it’s 3 times a week. That still means I’ve spent the equivalent of ONE FULL MONTH putting kids to sleep.

Wait–! I didn’t even factor in the time it takes EACH DAY to get a baby down for his/her nap!

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes…

Cx/o,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I know they look peaceful, but guaranteed it took her like 2 hrs to get that little sucker to sleep!

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Mommy Defeats All Who Oppose Her

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:54 AM
Tuesday, August 28, 2012

In a recent blog I may have alluded to the fact that my newly minted six year old and I do not always see eye to eye. (Something about her threatening to side-kick me… ANYWAY…)

I’ve been trying to figure out how this dynamic started (and yes, by “dynamic” I mean “ceaseless arguments/fighting) and whether it may be possible to change it. To my dismay, a total of every single one of my mom friends with girls around her age report similar issues: talking back, lack of respect, doing whatever she wants no matter what I say, and in fact doing it faster and with more stealth the more I yell STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem.

Now you can see why I’d like to find a solution. My voice is hoarse, throat sore, and vocal chords shot.

Granted, that may be allergies.

But the yelling doesn’t help. Her. Or me. Or my throat.

So….

What to do?

I’ve made the commitment to stop yelling at her (and all the kids), and I’ve broken that commitment. (Note to self: add that to Rosh Hashanah repentance list, stat!) I try talking things out with her, but the conversations tend to go like this:

“Racheli, you simply cannot have another lollipop. You already had ice cream, two pieces of cake, and a lollipop. I already gave you a special treat because you were only supposed to get one piece of cake and no ice cream, and you promised me you would go outside and play after you finished the lollipop. So that’s it.”

“IMA” (insert HUGE teenage-worthy sigh) “Just one more lollipop! I promise I’ll behave if you give it to me, I PROMISE!”

“You’re not allowed to use good behavior as a bargaining chip. I expect good behavior from you without the extra lollipop.”

“I’m taking it.”

“Don’t you dare grab Esther’s lollipop. Do it and you’re going to Time Out.”

“So give me my own!”

“No!”

“But WHY?????!!!”

“Because I’m the grown up. When we disagree, what I say goes. Because that’s the rule. If a kid and her mother disagree, whatever the mother says, goes.”

“UGHHHH I WISH I WERE A GROWN UP!!!”

“I know, honey, but you’ll see -

RACHELI! COME DOWN THIS MINUTE! YOU MAY NOT CLIMB UP THE CABINET AND GRAB A LOLLIPOP!”

“I’M GOING TO SIDE KICK YOU!”

…so you get the idea.

The other night, as I strolled her home from a late Shabbat service, following one of our usual fights, Racheli told me this, her voice rising with emotion as she spoke:

“Ima, I don’t like when you fight with me. Because I tell you something I want and then you tell me I’m not allowed to have it and I say I still want it and then you always defeat me. So it’s not fair.”

Something about the way she told me that “I defeat her” (karate speak?) made me laugh. I leaned down and tickled her and she cracked up and asked for more tickles. All disagreements forgotten.

Another day, another rollercoaster…

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Don't be fooled by the smiles. Racheli's actually pondering whether or not to side-kick me after we're done posing for the photo.

I’ll Cry You a River. Literally.

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:27 AM
Tuesday, August 21, 2012

What is it about turning blorty that has turned me into such a freakin waterfall of emotion?

Don’t show me an Olympian athlete win – or lose — or come in second or third or fourth – because I may just start sobbing with joy, happiness or disappointment.

Are you a fan of So You think You Can Dance? Turn your head from the TV to BatSheva on the couch and catch the latest episode of So You Think You Can Cry?

And the other day at the gym, while I maxed it out on the elliptical while watching a recent Colbert Report on Hulu? I’m not kidding, tears were STREAMING down my face as I cracked up so loudly, and so often, that at least two different workout-ers moved to machines farther away… from the crazy lady. Me. [to catch the video of the bit that sent me over the edge, click here and find it in that article.]

I’ve always been a sensitive soul. Teased for being tall & skinny? Cried. Read stories about death, pain and suffering? Cried. Heard about how your parents abused you? Sorry, I know YOU should be the one crying, but… SNIFF!!!

But lately, it’s getting a little out of control. More than a few times I’ve had to stop and wonder Could I be PREGNANT? Because the emotion is just so disproportionate – and the last time I asked myself that question, I’m not kidding, I was literally ON MY PERIOD.

Whoops… Sorry, guys who may have accidentally started reading this blog thinking they could have a quick laugh at my expense without having to read about menstruation.

Punk’d Ya!

But, back to my out of control emotions… they even leak out when I need them to be locked in a steel prison, i.e., when I’m punishing my kids for misbehaving. The other morning Yehuda and Racheli were so out of control that I wound up giving them both a solid whack on the behind just to stop the madness.

Yehuda sobered up instantly, sitting down and waiting quietly to fall back into my good graces. And Racheli? She was quiet… and then slowly she leaned over into a plastic megaphone that she had (without permission) brought home from camp that was sitting on the table next to her, contraband, until we could returns it. So she leaned into it, and she sang – softly, and off-key:

Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”

To put this in context, the Leonard Cohen song Hallelujah is one of my absolute favorite all-time songs (not his version, but Jeff Buckley’s and some of the other covers), and it’s played almost every day while we’re all at home.

I was SUPPOSED to be mad. They had misbehaved. They had ignored my warnings. They had gone so crazy that I had to make good on my final warning to give them a swat on the tuchus. And now… Racheli was singing Hallelujah into the contraband megaphone.

I burst out laughing.

Darn these out-of-control emotions!

:)

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I don't care if it's the dang Shot Put! TISSUES! I NEED TISSUES, STAT!

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Color Blind

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:46 AM
Tuesday, August 14, 2012

It happened. My kids were introduced for the first time to the “N” word.

To my knowledge only white Jewish kids go to their day camp, and I have no idea how or why the word was uttered, then passed around like forbidden cigarettes, each kid trying the poison out on his or her tongue. But at home, my son asked me if I knew the “bad word – ‘Ni—ck’…”

Nick??

I had a feeling he meant something else.

“No,” I said. “I don’t know the bad word ‘Nick.’”

“Ni-G” he corrected himself. Then waited a beat. Then added, “er”.

My kids looked at me with wide eyes – they had absolutely no clue what the word meant, but they somehow did know that it was a ‘forbidden’  and ‘bad’ word. They quickly admitted that at camp that day, Yehuda had said the word (once) after he learned it, but Racheli had not said it.

What did it mean?  they wanted to know.

Holy unpreparedness, Batman!

I did my best. I told them my heart broke to think of anyone using that word, and that my heart broke to think that they would ever use that word or allow someone else to say that word in front of them. This signaled to the kids that the subject was as serious as it gets, because in our house we only use the concept of something “breaking our heart” if it is the absolute worst of the worst.

Then I explained how not too long ago, white-skinned people went to Africa and “stole babies and took people with black skin and kidnapped them” – in truth, I’m not sure if babies were taken, but I wanted to drive home my point and I knew my kids would immediately connect to the helplessness of a baby – “and brought them to America and made them slaves, treating them terribly – worse than animals – and that those same white people called the black-skinned slaves that ‘N’ word.”

I painted my two older kids a brief but vivid picture of why the N word should never be used and I believe I properly transmitted my horror.

I finished my short tirade with the reminder that they must never say the N word, they must tell anyone who uses it in front of them that it is never appropriate to use it, and that they must always remember that their beloved uncle and cousins have black skin and so this is not just random people we are talking about standing up for, it’s also their family, their flesh and blood.

Then my son held out his arm and said to me:

“I have black skin, right, Ima? You have white skin and I have black skin?”

And then my heart really did almost break – or rather, melt. Because they are so innocent.

I’ve noticed before, in stores, my daughters will often automatically choose the ‘black’ baby doll before they migrate to a lighter-skinned one. Esther once identified herself with a black girl cartoon character on TV (Super Why). And there was that one summer when Racheli got very tan and fell asleep on our couch, during a visit by my sister and her “light skinned black” infant son (my sister’s husband is a very dark-skinned African-Cuban man),  and Yehuda stared at the face-down body of his sleeping sister and asked me “How did the baby grow so big??!”

He thought Racheli was his little cousin. And I could see why, immediately, because Racheli tans like her father.

Their father – my husband – is ‘dark skinned’ in the sense that he gets super tan in the summer. And my kids are well aware that they inherited his beautifully tanning skin, versus their mother’s burn-friendly shade, because I mention it after most beach days.

“You have darker skin than me,” I answered slowly. “And your dad’s parents are from Africa – well, Morocco is in northern Africa…” Good God where was I going with this?

“… but you’re not considered ‘Black.’”

“I’m not?”

“No, people would not say you were black.”

Two sets of giant, curious eyes trained their questioning looks on me.

“So what color am I?”

“You would be considered white.”

What I want to write is this: What a fucked up world we live in.

But as I write that, just now, I immediately think: maybe yes, maybe no… but really what it is, is nuanced. Which is okay. Just not so easy to explain to a 6 & 8 year old…

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Family

Flashback Friday! (Who’s Your Mama?)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:38 AM
Friday, August 10, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Whos Your Mama – the BLOG

The other day, while my 4 year old daughter was in her ballet class, my 2 year old daughter was leaping across the lobby, capturing all the ballet moms’ attention with her moves. Except mine. I was still watching my 4 year old through the glass window, so my 2 year old called out, “Ima! Ima! Ima!”

I felt compelled to explain at that moment to the confused mothers staring at me, that “Ima” was Hebrew for “Mom”.

What I didn’t explain was how an all-American gal like myself, living in America, with three American kids, wound up being called “Ima” by all of them.

I called my mother “Mommy,” and later, when I was too cool for “Mommy,” “Mom.” I only ever called myself “Mommy” or “Mama” to my firstborn, but he’s never called me anything but Ima. My husband is Israeli and he has always called me “Ima” when talking to our children about me. But that can’t be the only reason.

I’ve noticed that all my kids learned to say “Aba” (the word for “Dad”) way before “Ima.” It’s an easy word, it rolls off the baby tongue, like a happy baby’s babbles of “dadada” or “bababa”. I’ve also noticed that “Ima” (pronounced “Eeema”) rolls especially well off a crying baby’s tongue. This cannot be an accident.

For a while, with my son, I tried to correct him. To teach him. “Ima!” He would cry. “Yes,” I would answer… “Mommy’s here, what do you need from Mommy? Hmmm? Tell Mama. What is it?”

“Ima,” he would correct me, “Come here!”

I like to be in control. I live a completely different life than anyone else in the family I grew up in – I eat kosher, I “keep” Shabbat, and I take my Kabbalah studies very seriously. To them, I’m like a ‘born again Jew’ even though I really cringe at being called ‘religious’ because I see everything I do as spiritual – Kabbalah being a practice that, however Jewish it may look – actually applies to anyone and everyone, and is all about consciousness. I’ve never felt comfortable jumping on a bandwagon just because I share a skin color or religion with a group of other people. (Case in point: I was introduced to The Kabbalah Centre by a Catholic lesbian friend and my first thought when she invited me was, ‘if SHE feels at home here, then I’m willing to check it out, too.)

But names are a funny thing. I wrote about changing my name in a prior blog, but in that case, the change was something I asked for, chose to do, and implemented. (“Shana?” a co-worker would ask innocently. “Yes?” I would reply, followed quickly by, “by the way, it’s BatSheva.”) In the case of “Ima,” however, the name was wholly given to me by my kids – with some help, admittedly, from my Israeli husband.

It never occurred to me that my kids wouldn’t call me “Mommy.” And for years, I wasn’t completely comfortable with being called the foreign-sounding “Ima.” I didn’t even try to correct my next child, and now, with my third, I find myself calling myself “Ima” (as in, “Give Ima the stick right now!”) which is something I never used to do.

It seemed so strange, for so long, being called the Hebrew name for Mommy.

These days? Fits like a glove.

c/xo

“Ima” Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

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When it Rains…

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:25 AM
Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The other day, my 6-going-on-16 year old would not stop grabbing beloved items from her little sister and older brother, and running away with them and hiding them.

When I scolded her for it, she shot withering insults at me, like “I feel like I want to side-kick you!” (even when mad, she still is an impressive karate student) and “fine, if you make me go to my room then IIII’m never going to give you any of my drawings or paintings!!” (and while that insult is pretty cute and not particularly worrisome, I like that she is confident enough in her artistic skills that she has decided promising not to give me a picture is just as punishing as a side kick to the thigh.)

So while all THAT was going on all day, her older brother developed a headache, then a stomach ache, and soon was on his way to the fever that was the bane of his every-other-week for years when he was small, but that comes on almost never any more.

Except it came on while all this was going on, of course.

And while I tended to Yehuda and helped him to feel comfortable, to lie down, and to eat a little, Racheli went into full-jealous rage mode, which then brings us back to paragraph one of this blog (go ahead, I’ll wait.)

And while all THAT was going on, little Esther was alternately screaming as Racheli grabbed her beloved playdough or whatever, begging to be held, and/or nagging me to “say sorry to Racheli” – my little Taurus, the peacemaker.

And while all THAT was going on, Yehuda in his dizzy feverish daze got to the toilet in time to pee (horray! Better than the couch he was lying on!) but missed the bowl for most of it and sprayed half the bathroom. (Horra—ugh.)

And after all THAT had happened, and I finally had gotten them to sleep, and was finally getting to my Target groceries that I hadn’t put away yet and the dishes and food that hadn’t been cleared from the table yet…

I knocked over a bottle of water that LOOKED closed… but wasn’t.

After mopping it up, I decided to write this blog instead get back immediately to the dishes.

Something positive had to come from all this rain…

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

And if you were thinking Racheli was dropping empty threats, think again! Proof-positive of her side-kickiness ability:

Goodbye to an Era

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:01 AM
Thursday, May 31, 2012

So I just threw out 2 New Yorkers today.

What’s the big deal? You are obviously thinking. A new New Yorker Magazine comes every week! You’re not one of those crazy pack rats, are you?

No, dear readers. No, I am not.

Nor am I, apparently… an actual New Yorker reader any more.

Because it’s a rare issue that I read more than the letters, a few cartoons, and half of the “About Town” section. More than that? It’s been months. Years? Close to it…

When I was a child, I thought the magazine was ridiculous. Words, words, words… BORING! I’d read each & every cartoon and then toss the thing aside. But once I graduated college and was floating about trying my luck in the City of Angels… I suddenly discovered its value. Words, words, words! Glorious words! Thoughtful words! Pithy words! Funny words! Politically liberal words!

Fiction, interviews, investigative stories, opinion items, profiles, band and movie reviews, and yes… the cartoons. Loved all of it, every week. Gobbled it up. Felt smart, felt fulfilled, felt like I was not alone, felt informed, felt like I was a New Yorker by proxy.

And then.

It happened slowly, over time.

First, I discovered The Week (news crack).

Then, I had three children.

I used to read novels, too, by the way. I would devour them, eat them alive, suck the marrow out of them and they would leave me breathless.

Now?

I did read The Help. And… um… the Harry Potter Books? Which got progressively less awesome. And a few others, here and there…

But mostly, I watched TV and lived life.

Which, dear readers, can be exhausting.

I think I may not renew my New Yorker subscription this fall.

Sniff.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Sheesh, does this mean I need to 'X' out the New Yorker in my artwork? Maybe just show me watching HULU TV on my iPhone with earphones while everyone sleeps around me. Sadly, that is my new reality.

Smell it

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:05 AM
Tuesday, May 29, 2012

EW! You pervert! You know what you were thinking when you read the title of this blog. Well, it’s not about that.

Not… exactly.

Okay, it is SORT OF about smelling your loved one’s nether areas… but I’m talking about those times you don’t WANT to smell something – um – intimate, and yet you unfortunately find yourself doing just that.

I’m talking about laundry, of course.

Ladies, I know you feel me! At least those of you who live with or are married to a man.

Because let’s face it – 99 out of 100 men NEVER LEARNED TO THROW THEIR DIRTY CLOTHES IN THE LAUNDRY BASKET WHEN THEY ARE DONE WEARING THEM.

Oh, sure. They’ll throw SOME of their dirty clothes in there. Just enough, in fact, to lead a woman on and make her thing there is hope that he could learn, he could grow, he could change and evolve and someday learn to put ALL his clothes into the dirty hamper, ALL at one time.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Whew! Thanks, I needed that.

No, no, no, as we all know (we who have lived with a man for more than a couple months at a time), there is no way most men will every learn this. They are too busy falling asleep in front of the TV.

So instead, it is our duty, as loving wives and mothers and protectors of all things domestic, to pick up those clothes strewn on the bed and chair and floor and…

Smell them.

Because who wants to wash clothes that are in perfectly good condition and can be worn again?

Sorry, I may have been channeling someone’s dead Jewish grandmother there.

But Ethyl is right – I don’t want my husband to go without his favorite shorts if they aren’t really dirty. I don’t want to waste the water and the soap and the time it takes to clean something that is already clean.

So I smell.

And boy oh boy, sometimes do I get punished for that action.

I can only say that the universe does have its way of spreading around burdens so that everyone gets his or her fair share.

Because yesterday, when my husband was putting our kids to bed, and our littlest told him she had “poopy in her diaper”? Yeah, he didn’t believe her either.  It was just a ploy to make him stay longer in her bedroom!

Right?

Only one way to find out.

Hee hee hee…

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Awww, isn't little Rosalita soooo cute! Honey, I've got my hands full, would you just mind checking for me- KACKACKACKACKACKACKACKACK!!! Payback's a bitch.

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Wiper, no Wiping! Aw, Man!

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 10:45 AM
Thursday, May 24, 2012

As Monday’s blog may have subtley alluded to, I’ve been a bit tired lately.

TIRED, I TELL YOU!!!

Which is why this week I’ve been a bit off my game, and didn’t deliver the bloggage on time as usual.

Yeah, well, sue me.

Or, conversely, read on, about today’s tantalizing subject!

Baby wipes.

Rock.

For those of you who don’t have kids yet, you are missing out on a lot of things. Sleep may not be one of those things. Cracked nipples may not be another. But one thing you ARE FOR SURE missing out on (until you read this blog), is the wonder and magic that is….. baby wipes!

They clean ANYTHING. Seriously.

Smudges on the wall? Baby wipes.

Stain on your shirt? Baby wipes.

Poop on your butt?

Okay, sorry, but you had to know that was coming. I’m actually a huge proponent of adults using “baby” wipes for their bathroom needs too! (the flushable kind, anyway) – Who said just because we got bigger our poop suddenly is less sticky & disgusting? And let’s face facts: we are not a “bidet society.”

You are welcome.

Oh, and a special shout out to Hugo Schwyzer, who not only had a new baby recently and therefore has a whole new excuse to buy endless boxes of baby wipes, but who also came to my rescue yesterday when I was out and about doing errands with my kids and stuck in his neighborhood with a poopy diaper. Well, not MY poopy diaper, per se, but it basically became “mine” as soon as it landed in my daughter’s diaper and started smelling up the car.

In swoops Captain Hugo, beloved by men, women and children everywhere! He did a drive-by – he actually drove to our location (Beverly Hills mini mall where my older daughter takes karate) and dropped off a small box of wipes.

Now THAT, my friends, is a true hero.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

More precious than gold. Cause let's face it, when your kid's got a poopy diaper, who's going to wipe his ass with a gold bracelet?

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