Now that my mom and I live in different time zones, I constantly have to worry about her spoiling my favorite shows.
These are some texts from last night. I think she’s beginning to understand the sentiment #SorryImNotSorry…. she’s so hip.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
“Dara, I took a picture of your plate so you can blog about it.” – Mom
She has finally become the stage mother I’ve always wanted.
I’m at an age where many of my friends, acquaintances, and people I don’t really know (but I feel like I know because I spend so much tracking their baby bump progress on Facebook) are settling down. It always starts with your high school friends and acquaintances. You can tell which girls will get married or pregnant first based on how over plucked their eyebrows are. Don’t ask me why it’s true, but “if their brow bones aren’t hairy, they’re the first ones to marry” is a great rule of thumb.
Next comes your college friends. At around 25, the wedding invitations start trickling in. Then from their it’s just the slow death march of all your friends moving back to the suburbs to start mommy blogs while you’re in the middle of the city screaming “but I’m an independent woman!!!” to no one.
But that’s the way it must be for some of us. I’m just mature enough to know that I’m way too immature to be in charge of another human for a very long time. I could be trusted to watch a child. I’m a great baby sitter. I do this thing when I tuck the kids in: “snug as a bug in a rug.” They die over it. But when you’re baby sitting, you’re with these kids, what? 5, 6 hours? The likelihood of you accidentally killing them in that amount of time is low. If I’m entrusted with a baby 24 hours a day 7 days a week…. let’s just say I can’t believe more people don’t forget that they left their kid sleeping in a hot car.
And THAT, my friends is only one reason why giving me a baby a mistake, but there are many more, like:
- Everyone would get tired of my 24 year old self whining, “this is kids raising kids!”
I like to think that the red head I’m most like is Lucille Ball, but I know it’s really Garfield.
- I am lazy. Last night I slept in my bra because it would have been too much to wrestle that thing out of my sweatshirt.
- My desired sleep schedule is closest to a baby bear suffering from mono in winter. If I don’t get my 12 hours a night, I am just incorrigible.
Garbage Pail Kids Movie
- I don’t like anything gross, and babies are just a sticky ball of uncontrollable bodily functions. Up until very recently, if my dogs pooped in the house, I would just pretend not to see it until someone else in my house did. And that only stopped because my dogs stopped pooping in the house.
Case in point.
- 9 months of no drinking is not an option yet. If you are not ready to give up pumpkin beer for a whole season, I think that’s the clearest indicator that you are not ready for children.
- At this point, if I had a child and gave up on my career for them, they would have no chance of being allowed to pursue any other interest besides drug addled child star with a fame-obsessed mom-ager with hair extensions way too long for her age.
- I don’t like having to smell things as a detection method. Like when someone sticks something in your face and says “hey, smell this, does this smell weird?” Parents always seem to be smelling things to figure out if it’s something that came out of a baby, and I’m not up for that kind of case work. This is not Law and Order: SV-P.U.
That’s my time! Thanks, you guys! Don’t forget to tip your waitress!
Mom and Dad on their honeymoon in Bermuda. Dad giving us some white shorts, 80′s realness.
This past Friday was my parents’ 26th wedding, and I had the pleasure of spending it with them, driving them around, like I do for Valentine’s Day (though this occasion was decidedly less depressing than going out with my parents for the holiday because the waitress didn’t ask if “a forth will be joining us”).
My parents’ meet-cute and subsequent courting period was straight out of a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie, or at least as far as I can tell from the bullet points edition I heard:
- They went to high school in Massachusetts together, but never met.
- After living all over the country, 10 years later they ended up in NH both working at the same company. My mother was an editor and my dad was a…. computer…. a computer something, he did stuff with computers.
- Their first meeting was at an all-lady lingerie party that my dad and his friend crashed (low stakes naughtiness)!
- They started emailing back and forth for a month or so before they went on a date, and my mother still has the emails.
- After they started dating, my father stopped by my mom’s cubicle and saw that she had the SAME BLACK AND WHITE “3 STOOGES” PICTURE THAT HE HAD IN HIS OFFICE.
It was love, my friends.
Mom giving us some big hat, 80′s realness. Look at that waist!
Though this is just an excuse to display my baking prowess, I made a S’more cake for my parents (with these recipes here and here, if you care).
So, here’s to the next 26 years, parentals. Thank you for heeding the warning that if either of you cheat, the offending party will not be invited to my future wedding. And to stay together for the kids even if the kids are 35. I know you’d be together anyway, but the threat still stands.
I woke up to this message from my mother on the bathroom mirror…
Happy Birthday and Late Father’s Day to my dad, Rick.
Thanks to him, I doubt I will ever be a stripper, and if I was it would at least be for some kind of respectable reason– like to get myself through law school or something.
My dad also contributed to my borderline delusional sense of self esteem, which is probably directly related to the song he made up for me, wherein the first verse begs the question “who’s the prettiest girl in the world?” Well, it’s “Dara. Dara Laine Sussman.” The second verse gets into some heavier themes like, “who has the prettiest big, blue eyes?” This is the song’s opinion, not mine, but apparently it is also “Dara. Dara Laine Sussman.” I’ve heard this song regularly since infancy, if that answers any questions about my personality.
My dad can’t get all the credit for that… I got this Facebook message from my mom recently:
My dad should teach a masterclass in how to raise daughters because he’s the best. He’s been killing the game since 1988, and makes Carl Winslow look like the inspiration for the song ‘Cats in the Cradle.’
He’s a chill dude, a great drinking buddy, and I’m so appreciative of all my orthodontic work he paid for.