dirt don't hurt

I, The Mom of this, The Kitchen Sink, in order to form a more perfect home, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the family, and secure clean dishes for eating for myself and my family, do ordain and establish this Constitution for The Kitchen Sink. Article 1 : The Branches of PowerAll Power herein granted shall be vested in a sole ruler, which shall consist of The Mom, because she is the one who inevitably gets stuck doing the dishes. Article 2: The StateThe State of The Kitchen shall be under the control of The Mom at all times, and should never be blamed on The Mom. The Mom, being responsible for serving multiple meals and bowl-worthy snacks all day, is responsible for, but seldom the cause of, a kitchen counter stacked high with cups and plates. Those nagging about the state of the kitchen will be punished by hand-washing week-old milk-filled sippy cups. Amendment 1: Freedom of reachThe remaining members of the household are free to place their dirty dishes into the sink,

Consider this a public service announcement. Especially to those who might visit my home and share fresh cut vegetables and dip with my children. Sure, my kids are cute. They wear cute little clothes and they say cute little things. They even have great big puppy dog brown eyes. But they are also hopeless double dippers. Whether it is french fries in ketchup or carrots in garlic-herb, I guarantee that the food will take more than one swim in its condiment. And trust me, I have done my very best in trying to control the chronic double dipping. I have scolded and explained that when they put their half eaten veggie back in the dip, it’s almost as if they spit their germs back in there for all to enjoy. But they still double dip. Just like every other kid out there. It’s indeed a mystery how all children will eat just about anything with the addition of some sort of dip. Broccoli? Yuck. But give them a big scoop of ranch and those miniature “trees” disappear like magic. What abo

Take yourself back a few dozen years. Go back before the parenting manuals and magazines. Go back before political correctness. Even go back before the invention of the refrigerator. And while you’re back that far, imagine that you’ve done something really bad, like cut off half of your sister’s hair or tied your baby brother to the tree out back. What did your mother do? What did she say? Did she threaten you with…dare I say… a STICKER??? Chances are she didn’t mention a sticker, and chances are there was mention of a paddle, a switch, or the infamous “daddy’s belt.” Whatever the threat was, your eyes got wide, your mouth closed, and your hands probably went straight to protecting your backside. I personally received one “licken” as a child that still stings my mind like it stung back then. Of course I deserved it. When she found me jumping off the couch over her coffee table, my Grandmother scolded me and warned me (OK, threatened me) not to do it again. But working in what

I consider this both entertaining and disturbing. But mostly it's just plain hilarious, which is why I had to share it with all of you. My daughter Ellen, age six, came home from kindergarten yesterday with a Valentine's Day project they did in school. Each child got to choose someone in their class to be his or her valentine. They then had their photo taken with their valentine and as a writing exercise, had to write four reasons why they chose that person to be their valentine. The chosen "valentine" got to bring home the paper that was done about them. My daughter and her girlfriend picked each other. They wrote nerdy things like "is nice to me," "likes to read," and other such appropriate stuff. Quite typical. And my daughter was really anxious to bring home that paper and show me. But stuffed in the back of her folder was another one which she was reluctant to bring out. "THROW IT AWAY!!!!!!!" she screamed. After begging to see it, I

By Karrie McAllister I’ve always thought that it takes “guts” to have a baby. Not only do you put your body through the wringer with the expanding belly and delivery, but once the baby is born your life changes dramatically. Sleepless nights, constant feedings, childhood illnesses, and watching multiple episodes of Dora the Explorer to name just a few. I won’t lie, it’s tough. Any mother can attest to that. And any mother would agree that it takes a certain amount of strength and fearlessness to raise a family—you might even say it takes a good, strong backbone. Or a really curvy one. In a recent article published by LiveScience.com, they have reported that over time, women’s spines have evolved to keep from breaking. All in the name of beautiful little babies. For me, at least, it’s long been a mystery how pregnant women don’t topple over and face-plant when their bellies get to be a certain size. In the world of physics it just doesn’t make sense that nearing our ninth month ou

By Karrie McAllister I am really hoping that my children will really stink at soccer. I hope they excel in other sports, but I’d be happy if they never had to don shin guards and cleats. Why? I’ll tell you that it’s for purely selfish reasons. Some of the same reasons I flat out refuse to drive a mini-van even though I sometimes drool at how convenient and downright handy it would be. You see, I’ve spent the last few years of my life working very hard to not be a soccer mom. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a soccer mom, they just get a bad rap for being overly involved with their children, yelling at referees, having the local gymnastic schedules memorized, and being generally annoying. So as far as stereotyping mothers, there seems to be only two types: a slacker mom or a soccer mom, and neither one is very appealing. But I’m here to stop all of that. I’m here to broaden the scope of stereotyping moms beyond laziness and the soccer field. I’m here to introduce a whole

By Karrie McAllister I have a little coffee problem. Well, many of them, actually, starting with the fact that I drink too much of it. It's not even for the caffeine, since during my recent pregnancy I was very, very good at choosing decaf. It's just a plain old addiction. I crave it. All day long. A javamaniac, a coffee-holic. But this is not the problem I’m speaking of today. Today’s problem is that I'm also a busy mom. During any given day, I have only short periods of time when I can enjoy this hot beverage before: a) I need to drive someone somewhere or pick them up b) The buzzer on the dryer goes off c) The dogs bark at a petrified delivery man d) I smell a stinky diaper d) My son pulls on my sweater until I play him a song on the banjo (this actually happened a few weeks ago...) or, most likely, e) All of the above. At the same time. And so it is with great sadness that I realize that in the past six years, I've probably only finished four cups of coffee

By Karrie McAllister It never fails. They call it an “infant carrier” but they should really call it an “ooh and ahh magnet.” As a new mother myself, I know that when I strap my little pistachio (she’s too tiny to be called a peanut) into her car seat carrier and lug that beast of a convenience item around, it’s guaranteed that someone will stop me and ask to peek in and take a look at her sweet baby face. And being the good proud mommy that I am, I am more than happy to oblige and show off that little pistachio. “Oh, she’s beautiful” they remark, which I am fully aware of because she’s my kid and I’m supposed to praise her up and down, but it’s always nice to hear it from someone else. “She’s got such perfect skin” I sometimes hear, as well as “is that red hair?” and “what cute and tiny features!” and the age old question, “who does she look like?” All of these comments are wonderful. I smile and gratefully accept all the nice things they have to say and for a second, I’m actually