What Happens At Chuck E. Cheese Stays There
©Lisa Barker
The kids did a great job with their presentations for 4-H, so their Tio Fernando and Auntie Jenny took us out to celebrate. In my day, kid celebrations meant pizza and root beer down at the local Shakey’s.
Nowadays they have Chuck E. Cheese. It’s a junior casino. Think about it. The kids are dropping coins in the machines left and right with this intense fixation because they want to win tickets and cash them in for prizes. They’re served drinks and there’s cheap entertainment on the stage.
It’s a giant rat’s dream come true and the kids revel in it like there’s no tomorrow. Outside of the happiest place on earth (also run by a rodent), Chuck E. Cheese rules.
What’s a parent to do? Play Skee-ball. I got twenty dollars worth of coins and I claimed my lane. I can’t tell you how many people let their toddlers steal my balls and thought is was cute. “Hey, lady, I’m playing for real here. Give it back, kid!”
And then these kids keep coming and asking me if they can have my tickets—they’re not even my own kids. A few even informed me that they were taking over after I finished the game I was playing. “No, you’re not. I’m going to be here for awhile.”
“How long?”
“A LONG time. Now beat it, kid.”
And the parents were put out—like everything at Chuck E. Cheese is for the kids only. Give me a break.
I was on a roll. I was hitting the high score! The tickets were spitting out as fast as I could bowl. I just kept nudging the little munchkins away with my foot and bumping the bigger ones off with my hip.
I doled out coins to my own kids never taking my eyes off the game. I even gave someone else’s forlorn looking kiddos a twenty and told them I’d pay them a cut if they cashed it in for tokens and brought it back to me – QUICK! In just a few games, I’d set a new record.
Then, this giant rat tapped me on the shoulder….
“What? It’s not like I wasn’t paying them to work for me! Come on, Chuck, just one more game. I know I can beat my old score this time!”
I don’t know why I suddenly broke and ran. Maybe I was feeling lucky.
I will say that it only took Chuck’s crew three hours to smoke me out of the tunnel maze. How embarrassing. Once I was out, one little tyke came up and kicked me in the shin for good measure.
But, lucky me. What happens at Chuck E. Cheese stays there.
-------------------------------------
LISA BARKER is a syndicated humor columnist and mom of five. Her latest book is “Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane ... Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!” See www.JellyMom.com for more information.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Monday already?
This is the quote I am pondering today:
"Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know." -- William Shakespeare
"Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know." -- William Shakespeare
Friday, July 14, 2006
Guess who I just saw tonight!
My dear husband sent me to see Bill Cosby tonight at the Golden State Theatre in Monterey! I was only feet from him. An excellent show all about marriage and being older in age. His stories reminded me a lot of my mom and dad but when he talked about wives putting stuff away - which to husbands is like hiding things on them - I couldn't stop laughing because that is my husband's latest complaint about me. :)
Mr. Cosby said he'll be back in two years...I hope to see him then!
God's Sense of Humor
When my husband and I awaited the arrival of our children, we never realized that we had within our power the ability to specify certain things for our kids - like common sense. We thought it would be too much to ask God for anything but ten fingers and ten toes.
Oh, sure, they’re high honor roll students, but that doesn’t mean they don’t bewilder us with their lack of common sense.
The phone rings. My twelve-year-old answers it. I look her straight in the eye and ask, “Who’s on the phone?”
“I am!” she says.
My other twelve-year old plans a slumber party and to kick it off she plans to swim with her friends at the local pool. Everyone piles into the van and just before we reach the freeway exit my daughter smacks her head. “Wait, Mom! I forgot my swimsuit!”
Somewhere on the way to the bedroom to change…she actually forgot to change. Who knows what she was doing in that bathroom for twenty minutes?
The nine-year old follows me around the grocery store and inspects everything I put in the cart. He sees me browsing the selection of salmon. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Salmon.”
He sees me put it in the cart. “What’s that?”
“Salmon.”
He sees me pay for it. “Is that fish?”
“Yes, it’s salmon.”
He sees it on the kitchen counter while I prepare it. “What are we having again?”
“Salmon.”
Then, I set it on the table and call the family to eat.
“Is this squid?”
I’m beyond worry at this point. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the brightness gene skipped my kids. At that moment, the three-year old walks into the room smacking his head with a plastic baseball bat.
Whack! “Ow.” Whack! “Ow.” Whack! “Ow.” I have to take the bat away before he gives himself a concussion.
And what have my husband and I learned? When praying for a child, don’t be afraid to specify. Go ahead and ask God to make them smart enough to remember what they are doing while they are doing it.
Ask him to give them the ability to make use of the information we give them when they ask us questions, so they don’t keep asking us the same question ten times in a row. Be bold! God will answer these prayers.
But parents are humble. We ask only for ten fingers and ten toes. We have no idea what these children will be capable of doing with those digits until it’s too late. We just hope for a sweet bundle of joy.
A bundle of joy that will slowly drive us insane because, well, we didn’t ask for anything more!
===============================
©Lisa Barker
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Martin-Ola Press /Parent To Parent and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters. Here's all the info you need to publish Jelly Mom™.
Oh, sure, they’re high honor roll students, but that doesn’t mean they don’t bewilder us with their lack of common sense.
The phone rings. My twelve-year-old answers it. I look her straight in the eye and ask, “Who’s on the phone?”
“I am!” she says.
My other twelve-year old plans a slumber party and to kick it off she plans to swim with her friends at the local pool. Everyone piles into the van and just before we reach the freeway exit my daughter smacks her head. “Wait, Mom! I forgot my swimsuit!”
Somewhere on the way to the bedroom to change…she actually forgot to change. Who knows what she was doing in that bathroom for twenty minutes?
The nine-year old follows me around the grocery store and inspects everything I put in the cart. He sees me browsing the selection of salmon. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Salmon.”
He sees me put it in the cart. “What’s that?”
“Salmon.”
He sees me pay for it. “Is that fish?”
“Yes, it’s salmon.”
He sees it on the kitchen counter while I prepare it. “What are we having again?”
“Salmon.”
Then, I set it on the table and call the family to eat.
“Is this squid?”
I’m beyond worry at this point. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the brightness gene skipped my kids. At that moment, the three-year old walks into the room smacking his head with a plastic baseball bat.
Whack! “Ow.” Whack! “Ow.” Whack! “Ow.” I have to take the bat away before he gives himself a concussion.
And what have my husband and I learned? When praying for a child, don’t be afraid to specify. Go ahead and ask God to make them smart enough to remember what they are doing while they are doing it.
Ask him to give them the ability to make use of the information we give them when they ask us questions, so they don’t keep asking us the same question ten times in a row. Be bold! God will answer these prayers.
But parents are humble. We ask only for ten fingers and ten toes. We have no idea what these children will be capable of doing with those digits until it’s too late. We just hope for a sweet bundle of joy.
A bundle of joy that will slowly drive us insane because, well, we didn’t ask for anything more!
===============================
©Lisa Barker
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Martin-Ola Press /Parent To Parent and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters. Here's all the info you need to publish Jelly Mom™.
Friday, July 7, 2006
It's a bird! It's a plane! It's Super Aiden!
The latest Jelly Mom
A Little Magic To Make Memories
©Lisa Barker
My three-year old son is a jerk. My husband made him that way.
We have a magic wand in our house. It came with a magic kit that my oldest son got for Christmas last year. Both our boys love it and use it with endless imagination.
But the three-year old BELIEVES. He hasn’t yet sorted out the difference between ‘real’ and ‘pretend,’ so when he gave the wand to his father, my husband decided to play along.
“What do you want me to change you into? A dog? A cat? A chicken?”
“A jerk!” Aiden piped up.
“All right…abracadabra, you’re a jerk!”
Maybe he’d meant duck because as soon as my husband tapped his head with the wand, my son ran to the other room quacking. He quickly returned.
“A chicken!” he said.
Dad said the magic words and tapped him on the head again. My son ran from the room clucking, then returned disappointed. Apparently, he sounded like a chicken but he didn’t look like one in the mirror. What a rip off that wand turned out to be.
“No feathers! I not chicken!”
He quickly had a meltdown and really did act like a jerk. We tried to redirect him. “What if Daddy gives you muscles so you’re super strong?” All it would take was a tap of the wand and some fawning over him as he performed some great feat of strength like lifting all the sofa pillows in one big armful.
“Dad will make you big and strong like him. Don’t you want to be like Daddy?”
“No! I Ay-nen!”
This is how my son says his own name. When we chose this name we thought it was a good, solid, strong sounding Irish name. It is. It also means fiery. And we are yet another set of parents that gave no thought to the meaning of the name we picked for our child – who is fast living up to that meaning.
The boy can hop 50 MPH in place in a good mood. Deny his will and he becomes a red-faced, fist shaking, fiery whirling dervish. Should any older sibling try to out-maneuver him as he tries to enter their room, Aiden lets go a maelstrom of curses for the injustice.
He was clearly not pleased with our magic scheme.
“But, Aiden, magic isn’t real. It’s PRETEND. It’s all just play.”
We clucked like chickens to show him how to pretend. Aiden toddled off, satisfied. Moments later we heard him crowing from his bedroom like a rooster. “Cocka doodle do! I Ay-nen. I a jerk!”
Sure this will be a story we’ll share with him when he’s older and can appreciate it. You can bet on it.
-------------------------------------
LISA BARKER is a syndicated humor columnist and mom of five. Her latest book is “Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane ... Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!” See www.JellyMom.com for more information.
©Lisa Barker
My three-year old son is a jerk. My husband made him that way.
We have a magic wand in our house. It came with a magic kit that my oldest son got for Christmas last year. Both our boys love it and use it with endless imagination.
But the three-year old BELIEVES. He hasn’t yet sorted out the difference between ‘real’ and ‘pretend,’ so when he gave the wand to his father, my husband decided to play along.
“What do you want me to change you into? A dog? A cat? A chicken?”
“A jerk!” Aiden piped up.
“All right…abracadabra, you’re a jerk!”
Maybe he’d meant duck because as soon as my husband tapped his head with the wand, my son ran to the other room quacking. He quickly returned.
“A chicken!” he said.
Dad said the magic words and tapped him on the head again. My son ran from the room clucking, then returned disappointed. Apparently, he sounded like a chicken but he didn’t look like one in the mirror. What a rip off that wand turned out to be.
“No feathers! I not chicken!”
He quickly had a meltdown and really did act like a jerk. We tried to redirect him. “What if Daddy gives you muscles so you’re super strong?” All it would take was a tap of the wand and some fawning over him as he performed some great feat of strength like lifting all the sofa pillows in one big armful.
“Dad will make you big and strong like him. Don’t you want to be like Daddy?”
“No! I Ay-nen!”
This is how my son says his own name. When we chose this name we thought it was a good, solid, strong sounding Irish name. It is. It also means fiery. And we are yet another set of parents that gave no thought to the meaning of the name we picked for our child – who is fast living up to that meaning.
The boy can hop 50 MPH in place in a good mood. Deny his will and he becomes a red-faced, fist shaking, fiery whirling dervish. Should any older sibling try to out-maneuver him as he tries to enter their room, Aiden lets go a maelstrom of curses for the injustice.
He was clearly not pleased with our magic scheme.
“But, Aiden, magic isn’t real. It’s PRETEND. It’s all just play.”
We clucked like chickens to show him how to pretend. Aiden toddled off, satisfied. Moments later we heard him crowing from his bedroom like a rooster. “Cocka doodle do! I Ay-nen. I a jerk!”
Sure this will be a story we’ll share with him when he’s older and can appreciate it. You can bet on it.
-------------------------------------
LISA BARKER is a syndicated humor columnist and mom of five. Her latest book is “Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane ... Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!” See www.JellyMom.com for more information.
Monday, July 3, 2006
I get to see Bill Cosby!
My husband is sending me to see one of my favorite comedians on July 14th! How cool is that????
I have a great DH (dear husband).
Thank you, Hunny Bunny!
I have a great DH (dear husband).
Thank you, Hunny Bunny!
Happy 4th of July!
Deep Down, All Men Are Pyromaniacs
©Lisa Barker, 06/29/06
(Please enjoy this reprint from 2005 ~ Happy Holiday!)
My immigrant husband didn’t think when he first moved to the States that one of his most favorite American holidays would be the Fourth of July. But just like any red-blooded American, my husband has succumbed to the inevitable lure of…pyrotechnics.
I think that deep down we are all pyromaniacs, men especially! It started with the discovery of fire and went straight from Campfire 101 to How To Build A Better Rocket.
Do you know why they invented sparklers? So kids would have something to do on the Fourth of July because, just like at Christmas, Dad takes over and has all the fun while the kids look on and beg Mom to please intervene.
“Dad, I just want to try--.”
“No, wait! Just one more!”
“But, Dad, I want to…”
“No, no, no, not that one—it’s mine! It’s too big for you!”
“Mom, Dad isn’t sharing!”
“Shhhh! Here, take this sparkler…”
What is it about fire and explosives that make men turn into giddy boys? You wouldn’t think that “giddy” was a suitable description for the male of our species, but once you see a full-grown wild-eyed man run down the street clutching an armload of explosives, with a lit sparkler clamped in his teeth, “giddy” doesn’t sound so far off the mark.
It’s like Halloween for them, and every trick is a treat.
So finally the kids are old enough to set off a few groundworks. It’s like finally getting your driver’s license. This is when fathers and children really begin to bond, and start experimenting with the groundworks. Suddenly, displays screech down the street and get trapped under the neighbor’s car, spinning groundworks become “shooting stars” that accidentally land on the roof, and there’s no such thing as “too loud.”
I think my own dad has the record for number of “Whistling Petes” he’s set off at one time. I know, because neither of us hears very well since I was eight-years old.
There’s something very satisfying about a screech so loud that it changes and begins to sound like a moaning zombie. And then utter silence. And that’s not because the show is over - there’s just no eardrum left.
Every year we say that we’re ONLY going to spend twenty dollars and we come home with…half the inventory. Then we all gather around the crate of explosives and drool over the contents.
One year we got one the size of a small keg. You’d think that a groundwork like this would be the most spectacular of all. You save it for last, light it with great expectations and then the whole family leans to the left to watch a twenty-foot horizontal fountain—because of the wind.
This year when you celebrate, please remember that less is more, follow all the safety rules and have a great time. Happy Independence Day!
===========================
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Martin-Ola Press /Parent To Parent and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters. Here's all the info you need to publish Jelly Mom™.
©Lisa Barker, 06/29/06
(Please enjoy this reprint from 2005 ~ Happy Holiday!)
My immigrant husband didn’t think when he first moved to the States that one of his most favorite American holidays would be the Fourth of July. But just like any red-blooded American, my husband has succumbed to the inevitable lure of…pyrotechnics.
I think that deep down we are all pyromaniacs, men especially! It started with the discovery of fire and went straight from Campfire 101 to How To Build A Better Rocket.
Do you know why they invented sparklers? So kids would have something to do on the Fourth of July because, just like at Christmas, Dad takes over and has all the fun while the kids look on and beg Mom to please intervene.
“Dad, I just want to try--.”
“No, wait! Just one more!”
“But, Dad, I want to…”
“No, no, no, not that one—it’s mine! It’s too big for you!”
“Mom, Dad isn’t sharing!”
“Shhhh! Here, take this sparkler…”
What is it about fire and explosives that make men turn into giddy boys? You wouldn’t think that “giddy” was a suitable description for the male of our species, but once you see a full-grown wild-eyed man run down the street clutching an armload of explosives, with a lit sparkler clamped in his teeth, “giddy” doesn’t sound so far off the mark.
It’s like Halloween for them, and every trick is a treat.
So finally the kids are old enough to set off a few groundworks. It’s like finally getting your driver’s license. This is when fathers and children really begin to bond, and start experimenting with the groundworks. Suddenly, displays screech down the street and get trapped under the neighbor’s car, spinning groundworks become “shooting stars” that accidentally land on the roof, and there’s no such thing as “too loud.”
I think my own dad has the record for number of “Whistling Petes” he’s set off at one time. I know, because neither of us hears very well since I was eight-years old.
There’s something very satisfying about a screech so loud that it changes and begins to sound like a moaning zombie. And then utter silence. And that’s not because the show is over - there’s just no eardrum left.
Every year we say that we’re ONLY going to spend twenty dollars and we come home with…half the inventory. Then we all gather around the crate of explosives and drool over the contents.
One year we got one the size of a small keg. You’d think that a groundwork like this would be the most spectacular of all. You save it for last, light it with great expectations and then the whole family leans to the left to watch a twenty-foot horizontal fountain—because of the wind.
This year when you celebrate, please remember that less is more, follow all the safety rules and have a great time. Happy Independence Day!
===========================
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Martin-Ola Press /Parent To Parent and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters. Here's all the info you need to publish Jelly Mom™.
Boo not doing well....
She's in good spirits but she is taking in less and less with her feeding tube. Too much reflux. So she is back on the pump and pretty much stuck in her chair all day so she can slowly get her nourishment. We'll see how she does with a few modifications over the next few days, but she may be going back up to Stanford sooner than later.
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