Is This Tutor Messin’ with Me? Oh yes. Yes, he IS, that little…

Am I paranoid?  Or is this guy totally messin' with me?  #funny #tutor #homework #humor

So then…my son Tucker slips through the dining room door into the kitchen and whispers, “Mom, I think the tutor’s asleep.”

I look up from the crockpot and whisper, “What?”

We both tiptoe to the dining room door, ease it open a crack, and peer through to see the Biology tutor sitting at the table before an open book, chin on his chest, head down, eyes closed.

Tucker and I look at each other and suppress a giggle. We ease the door shut, then scurry to the opposite end of the kitchen to confer.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I dunno. He was kinda quiet so I looked over and he was sound asleep!”

“Did he just doze off in the middle of a sentence?”

“No, no, he was explaining something, then I started filling in the worksheet, and the next thing I knew – ‘’ (he mimes shutting his eyes and snoring, getting progressively louder and more dramatic with his snores)

“Stop that!” I say, laughing softly. “You’re gonna wake him up!”

“Well, shouldn’t he be awake if he’s going to help teach me Biology?”

Hmm, good point.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll go wake him up. You stay in here and pretend to get a snack or something. I don’t want to embarrass the guy!”

Tucker happily invades the pantry for a snack.

I ease open the door and clear my throat.


I don’t want to startle him. He’s a very nice man. He teaches science at a school in another district during the day – plus he and his wife have 3 kids, including a new baby — AND he tutors after school – so he’s probably exhausted.

And let’s face it, Biology is not exactly riveting.

If I were a Biology tutor, I’d fall asleep as soon as you opened the Biology book, much less if I had to discuss it!

In fact, I’d fall asleep as soon as you said the word, “Biolo— ” Zzzzzzzzz.
See? It just happened.

Now if I were a tutor on the “best TV series to binge-watch” – or the “relative composition of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Flavors by deliciousness of ingredients” – or the “statistical likelihood of Ryan Gosling’s car breaking down outside my house, in a rainstorm, and needing immediate medical attention and a warm bath” – I’d be WIDE AWAKE for the entire session!

So I certainly don’t blame the guy for falling asleep, but I should wake him.

So I cough.


I tiptoe out of the room, then walk back in, very loudly clicking my shoes on the floor. The tutor does not move.

Good God, I hope he’s not dead.

That’d be incredibly awkward.

I have delicious French Dip beef simmering in the crockpot, more homework to supervise, then a slew of shows on the DVR. Tonight’s schedule is not ideal for an untimely death in my dining room.

Next Thursday, sure. But tonight, no. Definitely not.

I approach the slumbering tutor so I can call his name, but then I realize I don’t KNOW his name!

That may sound odd since he’s been tutoring Tucker for about 6 sessions or so.

But he has a very thick accent and when he introduced himself, I thought he said his name was Farooq Malik.

But then the next time he came, I could swear he introduced himself to my friend as Marooq Falik. Or maybe it was Malik Farooq?

I’m terrible with names anyway, especially if the names could be interchangeable. If you tell me your name is Henry James, I’ll likely call you James half the time and Henry the other half!

Two of my friends both have a “v” in their names so I’m constantly calling them by each other’s names – and I’ve known them for years!

I once knew a Carla that I routinely called Sharon because oh-my-God-you-guys, she just seemed like a Sharon, you know?

So whenever I try to address the tutor, I hesitate, stumble, or mumble. I think he’s on to me.

Recently, I asked him something, and said, “Right, Malik?” and he corrected me by saying “Farooq.” And I could swear he’s corrected me the opposite way too. And he’ll smile mischievously, like he knows that I can’t keep his name straight.

So now I don’t know if I just have a bad memory –

or if he’s just Farooq-ing with me.

My son comes back in the room with chips and sits down.

I cough and say, “Mister…Malik? Farooq? Hello?”

He opens his eyes, shifts in his seat, glances at the book, then looks at Tucker and calmly says,

“And that’s the difference between prokaryote and eukaryote organisms.”

Wow. Didn’t even skip a beat.

Nicely played, Farooq.

Or Malik.

Or whatever the Farooq your name is!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are you terrible at remembering names too? Any funny tutoring stories? IS he just messing with me? And should I serve strong black coffee whenever he tutors?)

When the Toddler Rats Out the Nanny — It IS Pretty Funny!

Uh-Oh! When the Toddler Rats Out the Nanny, It IS Pretty Funny!  #kids #nanny #humor

So then…David parks the minivan in the carnival parking lot, removes the key from the ignition, and pops the trunk.

I unbuckle our son Tucker, age 2 and a half, then join David at the back so we can grab the stroller and bag.

Tucker climbs into the driver’s seat and pretends to “drive.”

He waves to us and says, “Look everybody! I’m Remy!” (Remy’s our nanny.)

And with that, he puts one hand on the steering wheel, beeps the horn loudly, and shouts in a Hispanic accent, “Hey, HEY, STUPIDO!” Then he collapses into giggles.

David and I look at each other…


then burst into laughter.

We are equal parts delighted that our toddler’s already doing comedic impressions at such a young age –

And equal parts horrified that our nanny’s roadside manner is not as courteous as we had thought.

When hiring our bilingual nanny, (whom we adore because she’s awesome) — we had hoped she might teach our son some Spanish words…but, uh…this isn’t exactly what we had in mind…

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have your kids done funny “impressions” of someone? Or learned any words you wished they hadn’t?)

Like to read another short funny nanny story? This one’s a doozy!

He Disagrees, But I Insist — So Of COURSE Disaster Ensues!

He Disagrees But I Insist, So Hilarious Disaster Follows 430x

READ the story below — or click Green Arrow below to HEAR the story!

So then…he snorts. “The ‘Park After Dark?’ That doesn’t make any sense,” says my husband David, skeptically.

“No, no,” I say. “This will be great! Instead of dragging the kids through the 90 degree heat of the day, we can visit the wild animal park at night, when it’s so much cooler!”

“Amma-mals?” asks toddler Chloe.

“Yes, honey, we’re going to see the animals,” I say.

David scoffs, “Are you sure we’ll ‘see’ them?”

“Yes, yes!” I say, laughing. “I just talked to the park on the phone. The guy said there’s lighting all over the place – and it’s so cool to visit at night!

David raises his eyebrow dubiously – but finally relents.

So we pack up Chloe, age 2; Tucker, age 5; the stroller and supplies, and drive the minivan 2 hours over to the wild animal park, just as darkness descends.

The kids are so excited.

The tickets are $50 each. David is so not excited. “Fifty bucks? Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s the special Park After Dark price.” I say. “It’s even more during the day!”

More?” he says. “Geez, what kind of animals do they have here? Unicorns and dragons?” he says.

“Dragons?” asks Tucker, wide-eyed.

“No, no,” I say quickly, shooting David a look. “No dragons, but lots of cool wild animals – rhinos, hippos, zebras, lions — you’ll love it!”

We board the caravan bus and there’s only one other family on board. And I could swear that husband exchanged an exasperated look with my husband. Like “you got roped into this too, huh?” There may have even been a shared rolling of the eyes.

As Mom the Cheerleader, I enthusiastically say, “Let’s grab seats by the windows, so we can see all the wild creatures!”

So we look out the windows — but the jungle foliage is thick; the lighting’s poor; and we can’t really see anything.

We look left, right, front, back — I’m desperate to see something to point out to the kids – an animal, a movement, a shape, a shadow…something.

David stares at me with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

Chloe stands up on the seat next to me and presses her face against the window. “Where da amma-mals at?”

David swallows a guffaw. “Yeah, Darcy, ‘where dose amma-mals at?’”

I stare at him with the icy glare of a thousand glaciers.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say to the driver. “We’ve been riding around for half an hour and can’t really see anything. Where are the animals?”

“They’re sleeping,” he says.

“SLEEPING?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says impatiently. “It’s DARK out.”

Oh my good God.

David practically chokes, he’s laughing so hard. He tries to suppress it so the kids don’t see, but he can’t help himself.

I shake the park map out in front of me. “Don’t worry, kids, we’ll find something fun to do!”

(But I notice that many of the attractions say “closed at night.”)

Finally! “Oh! Look, kids – there’s a Bird Sanctuary! It says you can feed the birds and they’ll land right on your hand!” I say brightly. “Let’s go there!”

So as soon as the “Sleeping” Animal Tour docks back at base camp, we head off to find the birds.

And thanks to the pitch black night, dim lighting, and poor path signage, we get lost.

The jungle air is thick with resentment.

We finally arrive at the Bird Sanctuary, which is packed with people. We buy little tiny paper cups filled with bird seed and stand there, holding our little cups up to the birds in the trees above us.

But they don’t land on us. They don’t really land on much of anyone. Every so often a bird lazily floats down.

Chloe’s running in circles, holding her cup as high as she can. “Come here, birdies! Come here, birdies!”

Tucker’s inspecting the bird feed in his cup and looks as if he might try it out himself.

I don’t get it. These birds are not flitting and flying like energetic little whirlwinds. These birds seem very lethargic — and disinterested in feeding.

“What’s wrong with these birds?” I ask one of the staff workers. “They’re not eating any of the food our kids are offering.”

“Oh, they’re full,” she says.

“FULL?!” I ask.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “People have been feeding them all day long. By the time night comes, they’re stuffed.”

I squeeze my eyes closed tightly. Oh please, don’t let David have heard that part. Oh please. Where is he? Is he…is he…yep, he’s right behind me, biting his lip, grinning like a madman.

Oh for God’s sake. I whip out the map again, desperate for something to salvage this trip.

“Hey, look kids! There’s a Tribal Dance performance in the African outpost! Doesn’t that sound FUN?!” I say, infusing my voice with the enthusiasm of a thousand cheerleaders on crack cocaine.

We bundle Chloe in the stroller and grab Tucker’s hand and make haste to the outpost.

It’s much farther than we thought, and the directional signs lead us astray twice.

So I’m trying to push this frikkity-frik stroller over the ruts in this “authentic” dirt path, sweating – and swearing (under my breath) – through the massive jungle vegetation.

We’re walking forever. David’s ready to abandon ship.

I swear I think if a golf cart magically appeared, he’d immediately hop aboard and ride away, with a tender wave goodbye: “Farewell dear family, I loved you well and will think of you kindly when I’m back in air-conditioning chugging a cold beer.”

He’s just about to insist we turn back when we see another family coming toward us on the path.

“Do you know where the Tribal Dancers are?” I ask desperately.

“Yeah, they’re right through there,” they say, pointing behind them.

“Come on, kids! We’re almost there! Oh, oh, I think I hear them!” I say, picking up my pace.

All we see is jungle, but we hear the faint thrum of the drums and low rhythmic chanting, so we run toward the sound.

Just as we turn the bend, huffing and puffing, we spill into a big clearing with lots of people – and the announcer says, “So that concludes our last show of the night, folks! Hope you enjoyed it!”

Cue applause.

Cue laser daggers shooting out of David’s eyes into my cerebral cortex.

I want to slump into a sweaty ball of surrender. Just give myself up to the jungle gods right here and now. Let the baboons feast on my flesh; let the hyenas laugh at my folly.

I am done.

But I have two disgruntled kids and one fuming husband to transport back to the park exit and put an end to this disastrous night.

David doesn’t say a word on the trek back through the jungle, but I can hear his thoughts in his head as though they are screeching from a megaphone: ItoldyousoItoldyousoItoldyouso.

The longer we walk, the madder I get at the park guy on the phone who told me that this was such a great idea.

When we finally reach the exit, I say to David, “This is ridiculous! I’m gonna march right in that ticket office and demand our $200 back! We couldn’t see the animals – the birds were full – the dancers were too far away – there’s nothing to do at this stupid park at night!”

David shoots me a cynical look and crosses his arms. “Really? You think they’re gonna give you your money back?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Just you watch.”

I stomp into the ticket office, full of fire and brimstone. I rant and rave and rail.

Moments later, I emerge with an envelope.

“So,” he says, grinning. “What’d they give you?”

I hang my head and say, “Four free tickets for another night at Park After Dark.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Yes, yes, this whole disastrous tale is true! Now it’s your turn – share your funny experiences with zoos, theme parks, and other family excursions. Any brilliant ideas YOU’VE had that your spouse was oh-so-right and you were oh-so-wrong? Do tell!)

Please Moms…Stop Working the Pole!

Please Mamas - Stop Working the Pole! (aka the Mother-Son Dance!) Can you BELIEVE these mamas? #funny #schooldance #Humor

So then…I smile when I open the colorful invitation to the Hawaiian Luau-themed Mother-Son Dance at the elementary school –

but I do a double-take when I see the large words at the bottom that say:

Please Moms – No Bikini Tops!

What the what?

I email Tina, one of the school moms organizing the dance:

Me: I love the invitation, Tina. But why does it say “Please Mom – No Bikini Tops?” I don’t even wear a bikini top in the privacy of my own home – why in the world would I wear one in public – – at a mother-son grade-school dance?

Tina: LOL! Believe it or not, some of the moms NEED that guideline. You missed last year’s Disco-themed dance when moms showed up dressed like hoochie mamas and danced like they were on the pole!

Me: Oh.My.God. They were dancing with their sons like that?

Tina: No, they were dancing with each other like that. They barely interacted with their kids at the dance. You know the moms I mean.

Yep, I DO know the moms she means.

On the night of the Hawaiian Luau-themed dance, I see lots of tight, low-cut tops and super-short skirts on those moms, but so far it looks like everyone followed Tina’s invitation request to avoid bikini tops.

But then, just as my son and I exit the dance floor to grab some cookies and punch, I see a mom shimmy through the crowd –

She’s wearing a bikini top OVER a black TURTLENECK sweater.

I shit you not.

I about spit out my punch I’m laughing so hard.

On the one hand, I’m glad Tina’s invitation reminded moms to try to keep it classy — and NOT tart up this grade school function.

On the other hand, I gotta give props to that chick for “stickin’ it to the Man” by refusing to adhere to the dress code – but ensuring she won’t get any flack for revealing too much skin.

That’s pretty damn funny.

Of course, a bikini-clad mom might be “smokin’ hot”…

But in a crowded, poorly-ventilated gym full of sweaty 5th grade boys and moms dancing full force — I can only imagine that a bikini-and-TURTLENECK-clad mom would merely be “hot as hell.”

But rock on, li’l mama, rock on.

— Darcy Perdu


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(Do you have any of “those” moms at your school? Would you ever wear a bikini top to a 5th grade dance? Any funny stories about school moms, dances, or bikinis? Do tell!)

Suspicious Laptop Behavior — and My Preteen

Suspicious Laptop Behavior 433

So then…a friend mentions she’d missed this true story the first time around since it was posted when the blog first started — and that she was dying laughing, so I figure I’ll share it with you in case YOU missed it too!

So then…the server sets down the second round of drinks. As we toast Girls’ Night Out as carefree ladies for a whole evening, unencumbered by husbands and kids, it’s only natural that the conversation turns to…

our children’s poo patterns.

“My God, it takes my daughter forever to poo. She takes a book in there and it seems like hours before she comes out again!” exclaims Patty.

“She’s 8 and she’s bringing a book to the bathroom? She’s like an old man!” says Brenda. “My son doesn’t bring anything in the bathroom, but I can hear him talking in there – no phone – nobody else in there — just him talking.” We laugh and encourage her to set up a recording device.

Julie confides, “Well, my son is 5 but he still does the same thing he’s done since he was 2. If he has to poo, he strips completely naked and sits on the pot, singing at the top of his lungs! He says it’s the only way he can go number two!”

We all laugh. “Well, let’s hope he out-grows that before adulthood. That could be awkward around the office,” I say.

“What about your kids, Claire?” asks Julie.

“Well, I don’t mean to brag—“

(Don’t you, Claire? Don’t you, really?)

“—but Allie and Max are pretty regular. They’re 12 and 8 and they just go in every morning and evacuate their bowels,” says Claire.

“EVERY morning?!” we exclaim.

“Well, yes, doctors say it should happen daily — and morning evacuation is the best. I feed the kids plenty of fiber, salads, and—“

“Oh, shut up, Claire. We hate you,” says Julie good-naturedly.

“Yeah, Claire, we hate you and your perfect bowel-evacuating children,” says Brenda with a mock scowl.

Claire laughs, and tries to look humble, but secretly she’s beaming inside.

Patty mutters into her sangria, “Good Lord, my daughter doesn’t poo every day. I’m not even sure if she poos every week.

Patty waves her wine glass in my direction. “OK, Darcy, fess up. What’s the evacuation situation at your house?”

“Well, Chloe’s 9 and she’s pretty regular, I guess. But Tucker’s 12 and always takes a long time to poo. But lately, he’s been taking his computer in there and it seems to take even longer.

Everyone’s eyes widen.

“Oh my God – well, he IS 12. That’s around the age, right?” asks Patty.

“Oh no, do you think he’s…you know?” asks Brenda, somewhat mortified.

“He must be! That’s what the computer’s for – he’s looking at porn!” says Julie.

Claire is speechless.

“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to know,” I said. “Every time I asked him what’s taking so long or what are you doing on the computer, he was really evasive. So I thought, oh my God, what if he’s in there…looking at sexy pictures and…doing what teenage boys — you know.”

I lower my voice and they lean in a little closer.

“So yesterday after he was in the bathroom forever, he went downstairs. I snuck up there, grabbed his computer and checked the browser history. And there it was – Club Penguin!”

Everyone laughs and looks reassured. All our kids have been to the Club Penguin website to play the computer games there. It’s harmless — but addictive, since the kids want to check on their penguins all the time, so we discourage playing it on school nights.

“Here I thought my little angel was using the computer to find inappropriate websites for arousal and self-pleasuring – and the whole time he’s just been playing Club Penguin! I was so relieved!” I say.

“Unless…” whispers Julie.

“Unless what?”

“Well, unless he’s aroused by…you know…penguins,” says Julie.

I gulp.

Julie laughs.

“Oh, I’m just kidding,” she says. “I’m sure he doesn’t have a penguin fetish.”

She grins. “Or does he?”

— Darcy Perdu

(Share a funny story about your kid’s odd behavior – or something about penguins – or PORN – or PENGUIN porn!)

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P Suspicious Laptop Behavior

How to Punk Your Kid in a VERY Funny Way

How to Punk Your Kid in a VERY Funny Way #humor #trick #kids #parenting #funny

So then…I tap my car blinker, round a corner, and catch Chloe’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

“What’s wrong, honey? You look worried,” I say to my 6-year-old daughter.

My son Tucker, age 9, turns around from the front seat to look at his little sister in the back.

“Well,” she says, “I’m can’t think of anything to confess for my Reconciliation.”

“Ohhh,” says Tucker. “I remember doing that when I was in second grade. You have to confess some sins to the priest before you can have your First Holy Communion.”

“Yeah,” says Chloe. “And it’s this weekend and everyone in my Communion class has to have a sin to tell Father Tom.”

“Well, honey, you shouldn’t stress about it,” I reassure her.

“But I don’t know what to say. What should I confess?” she asks.

“How about ‘Triple Homicide?’” I say.

Tucker bursts out laughing.

“What, what?” says Chloe.

“Triple Homicide!” says Tucker. “Yes, definitely say that, Chloe!”

“What does it mean?” she asks. “What’s tripplehommassigh?”

(Geez, what’s wrong with this kid? Doesn’t she watch Law & Order?)

“Oh, it just means you disobey your parents sometimes,” I say.

Tucker snickers. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says.

(Clearly he agrees with me it would be hysterical to have this darling little 6-year-old girl sweetly confess to murder to our elderly parish priest.)

But Chloe’s suspicious of our merriment. “Wait, what does it REALLY mean?”

“OK, OK. It means you killed 3 people,” I say.

“WHAT! Mom! I’m not gonna say that to Father Tom!” she exclaims.

“Yes, you should. Just sit down and whisper menacingly, ‘I’m confessing to Triple Homicide. And if you tell anyone, I’ll make it QUADRUPLE.’”

Tucker laughs so hard.

Chloe is horrified. (especially once we tell her what “quadruple” means)

But we tell her how funny this is – and how priceless the priest’s expression would be – and she actually considers it.

But of course on the big day, she chickens out and confesses to something totally lame like fighting with her brother or talking back to her parents.

Tucker and I are sorely disappointed.

But our spirits are lifted on the day of Chloe’s First Holy Communion when she provides us with a big belly laugh.

The Church is filled with the adorable 2nd graders – girls in gorgeous white dresses and veils; boys in mini suits and slicked back hair. The families are all beaming on this momentous occasion.

Chloe and a classmate are chosen to carry the bread and wine up the aisle to the altar to give to the priest.

As Chloe proudly walks up that aisle, past all the parishioners, she stumbles and DROPS the bread basket! The basket tumbles forward – and the consecrated holy hosts are about to go skittering across the floor in all directions!

There’s a collective “gasp!” from the congregation witnessing the travesty.

Thank God, (yes, I mean that LITERALLY), the basket rights itself before landing on the floor – with the Communion hosts safely intact inside! They do NOT touch the floor and do NOT need to be destroyed.

She quickly grabs up the basket and scrambles up the aisle to the altar, practically shoving it in the hands of the priest.

Tucker and I look at each other and lose it.  We’re biting our lips with laughter.

“One job. She had ONE job…”

(Of course Tucker is no stranger to creating an embarrassing ruckus in Church himself, as THIS story will quickly prove!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any embarrassing Church stories to share? When you were 6, what “sins” would you have been guilty of? Ever convince your kid to say something funny unbeknownst to them?)


Today I’m delighted to tell you about Iva, the amazingly articulate and fabulously funny writer behind the Yes I’m Crazy, That’s Why I’m Awesome blog. Some posts are short and funny like the person in the backseat throwing a tantrum for KFC (who turns out to be her 60+-year-old Mom!) — and some posts are insightful, well-researched essays that make you ponder that topic in a new light.

Why I'm Cray Awesomely Oz Iva Photo with Caption

In Iva’s own words: “Yes I’m Crazy, That’s Why I’m Awesome was started to release all the activity in my brain.  I love writing and always have, so I figured a healthy outlet that is my very own, with reasonable restrictions (it is the web you know) was a good idea.  I describe myself as an essayist with a descriptive-style of writing. Twice a week I post short and sweet moderately well-articulated articles about society and life.  As much as I focus on various life experiences, I love researching various topics. I love learning about different things and constantly strive to do so via my blog.  I have an entire series devoted to just that appropriately titled ‘GTFO’ -check out some of my post links below: 

GTFO: Mind Over Matter
The Irrationality of Irrational Anger
Liebster Award: Who Me? Couldn’t Be!

My readers have mentioned time and again that reading my blog, you can always learn something or at least leave pondering.  As one reader puts it: “I love your post content, I always feel I actually have some personal sort of growth from reading your blog!! :)” So come check me out sometime, I’d love to hear from ya! — Iva”

Thank you, Iva, for advertising on So Then Stories!  And thank you, readers, for checking out Iva’s blog!  — Darcy Perdu

7 Funny Reasons the Teacher Sends My Son to the “Thinking Chair”

7 Funny Reasons The Teacher Sends My Son to the Thinking Chair #school #teacher #discipline #funny #backtoschool #humor #kindergarten #preschool

So then…I rustle through some files looking for a document, when I stumble upon a note that I wrote to my son’s pre-school teacher back when Tucker was an “energetic” 4-year-old.

Only it’s not a note. It’s a poem.

And it’s written from my son’s point of view.

And as much as he and I both loved that pre-school teacher, Tucker had some very specific thoughts about THE THINKING CHAIR.

Maybe you can relate…?

A poem for Ms. Hopkins, written by Darcy on behalf of her son Tucker, a spirited and energetic young pre-schooler

When I wash my hands – AND my friends
By squirting soap outside the sink,
You cock your head, you purse your lips,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I can’t sit still or listen well,
Or grab cookies quick as a wink,
You roll your eyes, you sigh real loud,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I refuse to share my toys,
And start to act like a fink,
You snap your head, point a finger,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I talk loud at circle time,
And paint the table top bright pink,
You close your eyes, you say a prayer,
And send me to the Chair to think.

Well, Ms. Hopkins, I thought and thought
While I was sitting there,
And most of what I thought about
Was… “I do not like this Chair!”

So I will try so very hard
To do what’s right and good and fair
And hope that in Kindergarten,
There IS no Chair in there!

Thank you for your love, lessons, and discipline, Ms. Hopkins!
Love, Tucker

(Ms. Hopkins laughed out loud when she read the poem, knowing full well that Tucker’s cute little butt cheeks probably left a permanent indentation on that Chair from his frequent visitations there!)

— Darcy Perdu

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If you’re wondering if I ever needed to write the school again when my son grew older, you’ll love hearing about the big, juicy lie he told his teacher!

(Do YOU have a spirited and energetic child? Have you or the teachers ever had a Thinking Chair – or a similar technique for youngsters to “ponder their actions?” Any favorite teachers?)

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7 Funny Reasons - Small

Now THAT’S a Breach in Security!

Now THAT'S a Breach in Security
So then…I scoop more corn on their plates and triumphantly finish my lecture about online safety with this reassuring conclusion, “So remember, NEVER EVER share ANY personal information online, no matter HOW innocent or insignificant it might be — because cyber criminals have A LOT of time on their hands to troll the internet, piecing together all the details about you and where you live. And you don’t want the criminals to (ominous voice) KNOW.WHERE.YOU.LIVE, right?”

Chloe, age 8, stares at me, solemn and bug-eyed, no doubt in fear of the afore-mentioned crafty criminals.

Tucker, age 11, nods his head emphatically and says, “Of course, Mom, they tell us about that at school too. You should never talk about going on vacation on Facebook or anything ‘cuz then the robbers will know when to come to your house and steal your stuff.”

Now Chloe stares at him, solemn and bug-eyed.

“That’s right, Tucker, you can never be too careful.” I say. “That’s why we don’t even print your names on your backpacks or shirts because then someone could call out your name and pretend they know you.”

“Right,” he says. “And NEVER get in a van with a man who says he needs help finding a puppy!”

Yep, that’s right, he even knows about pedophiles.

And ever since Tucker received an email address, I’ve been drilling it into his head never to share ANY identifying information online.

Cut to – a week later…

I open an email from Tucker that he’s forwarded to me and some of his pals that invites us to play a fun game someone sent him called “Favorites of Your Favorite Friends!”

It starts out innocently enough asking your favorite TV show, band, sports team, breakfast food…
Then asks things like your favorite burger place, elementary school, grade, town, state…

It practically asks what time your parents are out running an errand and you’re all by yourself in your big empty house!!

And of course Tucker has enthusiastically answered all these questions and forwarded them to all his email contacts – so they can answer the questions and forward the game to all their email contacts!

“Tucker! Come in here, please!”

He lopes in and I show him the screen.

“Tucker! Didn’t we just have a discussion about how you never give out any identifying information about yourself online?”

He says, “Oh, yeah. But this is just about your favorite things so you can see if your friends have the same favorites you do.”

“Tucker, you listed the town and state where you live, what school you attend, what grade you’re in, the nearest burger place, hair color, eye color! This is IDENTIFYING information!”

“Oh, yeaaaaah,” he says, realizing his error. “But I didn’t think this was from a bad guy; it just looks like a game.

Exactly, Tucker! What did you expect? That you’d get an email from someone saying:
‘Dear Kid,
Hi my name is Paul.
I am a pedophile.
Please send me your identifying information.
Sincerely, Paul (you know — Paul the Pedophile)’”

Tucker laughs.

I continue, “Good Lord, son, of course the criminals are going to figure out clever ways to get info about you! They’ll disguise it as a game — or make it look official — or whatever they think will get you to spill the beans! So when you get a survey like this, you don’t answer it and you don’t forward it! Are we clear?”

“Yes, yes, we’re clear!” he says. He walks out, chuckling and murmuring “Paul the Pedophile.”

Honestly, this kid! It’s a wonder he doesn’t come home with magic beans or a deed to swampland.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do YOUR kids SEEM like they listen to your lectures, then do the exact opposite? Any funny examples when your kids seemed to miss the point — or interpret you too literally? Any accidental breaches in online security at YOUR house? Do tell in the Comments section!)
Now THAT'S a Breach in Security P

SERIOUSLY? Lady, You’re Killin’ Me Here!

YIKES!  Playdate Disaster - My Fault or Hers?  "Seriously, Lady, You're Killin Me Here!"  #funny #playdate #mom #kids #humor #sothenstories.

So then…I toss a couple toys behind the couch and shove the countertop contents into the junk drawer, just as the doorbell rings.

“They’re here! They’re here!” I shout, racing for the door.

But I’m the only one dashing, since my 1st grader Tucker is engrossed in his Legos-Hot Wheels concoction and not nearly as excited about this playdate as I am.

I’m eager to make new friends at his new school, for him AND for me, so I took the plunge and invited Carla and her son Steven over this weekend for lunch and playtime.

I open the door and they spill into the house, Steven running over to Tucker and his toys – Carla trailing me to the kitchen.

We chat amiably while I putter around, taking out dishes, turning on the oven. I love hosting people at my house, but I’m always anxious about what to serve – I’m worried they may not like it or I didn’t cook it long enough.

But I know today will be a homerun because I served this same lunch to my family last week and they loved it!

I place ham and cheese on French bread wedges, then slide them into the oven to get all warm and toasty.

I turn around with a flourish and a smile – only to see Carla’s face fall.

Uh-oh. What’s up?

I’m talking FANCY DELUXE ham (no Oscar Mayer, people!)

and FANCY DELUXE cheese (no Velveeta slices, y’all!)

and FANCY DELUXE French bread (no Wonder bread sandwich slices, friends!)

We’re talking PRIMO sandwich fixin’s! And I’m TOASTING them in the OVEN!

I even have regular mustard for the kids and FANCY DELUXE Grey Poupon for the moms.


Carla says, “Uh…we’re Jewish so we don’t eat ham.”

Ack. Blunder #1.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blurt.

She blanches.

“Well, no, I mean…I’m not sorry you’re Jewish! I’m sorry I’m serving ham!” I say.

I quickly grab the remaining French bread. “How about just cheese then?” I ask brightly. “Kinda like a grilled cheese sandwich on French bread?”

Carla grimaces. “Well, it’s just that Steven is lactose-intolerant…”

Ack. Blunder #2.

Omigod. Now I’m panicking because my fridge and cupboards are not well-stocked, so I don’t have a lot of choices.


I fling open the pantry door and pull out every kid’s favorite: Peanut butter!

Carla’s expression says it all…

I sigh, resigned. “He’s allergic to peanuts, isn’t he?” I ask.


Ack. Blunder #3.

“Oh, OK, heh, heh,” I say, laughing weakly. “I guess that leaves us with the French bread. So how does he feel about toast?

(If she says he has a gluten-free diet, I will commit hari-kari with this spatula right now.)

She smiles. “Toast is fine.”

I quickly scour the kitchen for side dishes and come up with grapes, baby carrots, and Oreos (which are a HUGE hit, by the way.)

And so, as I serve our first 1st-grade playdate toast, I cycle through these emotions:

1) I am the worst hostess in the world.

2) If her kid has this many dietary restrictions, couldn’t she maybe give me a heads up when accepting a lunch invitation? Come on, Carla, help a sister out! If my kid had these restrictions, I’m so obsessive, I’d probably travel with a constant supply of doctor-approved, rabbi-approved foods in individual hermetically-sealed packages, ready to whip out at a moment’s notice! Or at least I’d mention it when accepting an invitation to a meal!

3) What kind of rookie am I that I don’t have a few alternatives available like turkey or pasta, for Pete’s sake? And would it kill me to ASK guests if they have any dietary needs when I invite them to a meal? Get with the program, Darcy!

But as I watch Tucker and Steven laugh and talk and run and play – I realize what’s really important:

the “Day I Served My Guests Toast” is also the “Day Tucker Made a New Friend at His New School.” And that’s all that matters.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any culinary catastrophes on your playdates? Or food-related faux pas with guests at your parties, BBQs, or dinners? One time I put BBQ sauce on chicken breasts and BAKED them – and they all came out a weird shade of PINK so all my guests skipped that dish on the buffet table! Share any funny moments from your parties or playdates!)

Bring Cash, Tell No One, Be Cool

MUST-HAVE BIRTHDAY GIFTS -- Bring cash, Tell no one, Be cool.  # funny #birthday #gifts #shoes #humor #kids

So then…he whispers into the phone, “I’ll bring the package to you, but you must bring cash.”

“OK, OK,” I say. “But dude, why are you whispering?

Pause. “I don’t want my boss to hear me.”

“Oh, right, right,” I agree. Definitely don’t tell your boss.”

At this, my 10-year-old daughter Chloe lifts her head and looks at me quizzically. I wave her off and go back to my clandestine meeting arrangements.

“So I’ll meet you tomorrow at 2:00,” he whispers.

“OK, great,” I say. “My address is-”

“MOM!!” Chloe shouts.

“Hang on,” I say into the phone, and put him on hold. I turn to Chloe and ask, “What, what?”

She jumps up and comes over. “Mom, you can’t give that guy your HOME address! That’s not safe! You said never give out our home address! You don’t even know this guy! He could be a murderer!

Hmm. She’s right, of course. I have told her and her brother Tucker never to give out our home address to strangers.

So I say, “Yes, you’re right. But he’s driving all the way down here so I need to meet him somewhere. How about Barnes & Noble — will that make you feel better?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says reluctantly.

So I hop on the phone and “arrange the meet.”

Chloe grills me about this top secret meeting. So I confide in her:

“Look, I’ve searched high and low for a pair of purple and black checkered Vans sneakers your brother desperately wants for his birthday. But they discontinued that style and I can’t get them in the stores or online. But I found a Vans outlet that has ONE PAIR left in his size, but they aren’t allowed to ship from there – you have to GO to the outlet – and it’s 2 hours away!”

“Can’t he just pick a different style?” she asks.

“Have you met your brother?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, right,” she replies.

“And with work being so busy this week, I just don’t have time to make a 4-hour roundtrip to drive to the outlet to get the shoes. But this super nice guy named Dylan who works there offered to buy the shoes himself, then drive them here, and then go hang out in LA for the night to go see some friends. He said if I reimbursed him for the shoes and gas money, he’d make the trip so I could have the shoes in time for Tucker’s birthday! Isn’t that great?”

“But what if he’s a murderer!?

(Honestly, what is with this kid? Is she watching Law & Order behind my back?)

“Chloe, what are the chances that the guy who just happens to answer the phone at the Vans outlet is a murderer waiting for someone to call with a desperate need for a birthday gift for a style of shoe that they have only one pair left in that size?”

“How do you know they only have one pair left? How do you know they can’t ship from there?” she asks.

“Well…Dylan told me.”

She shoots me a look like: “Exactly.”

Omigod, I’m raising a master criminal. I hadn’t even thought of that.

I reassure her that I’ll be safe at the “public meet.”

But the next day, when I slink over to Barnes and Noble at the appointed time by myself, Chloe’s trepidation has clearly influenced me. I hover nervously near the cash registers, on the look-out for Dylan (if that’s his real name).

I walk over to the little Starbucks café in the corner of the store and pull up a chair. My cell phone rings.

“Are you alone?” asks Dylan.

Omigod, that’s an ominous question!

I stammer, “Um, no, NO, I’m NOT alone. My uhh husband is here with me.”

“Oh,” he says. “I thought it was you sitting alone at a Starbucks table ‘cause you said you’d be in a blue sweater, but I guess that’s someone else. Where are you?”

Ohhhhh. He meant “are you SITTING alone” so I can identify you – NOT “ARE YOU ALONE” so that I can kidnap you, skin you, and make a human suit from your flesh.

“Oh, um, yeah, that IS me, sitting at Starbucks,” I babble. “My um husband is uhh elsewhere. In the store! Definitely in the store. Um looking at books. Sports books.”

Omigod, I’m giving too much detail. He’s gonna know I’m lying!

“I’m coming down the escalator,” he says. “My friend is up here looking at stuff. I’ll be right down.”

I look up to see Dylan (still not sure if it’s the real name) on the escalator – black jacket, late 20s, tall, longish brown hair. (Giving you the description in case I disappear so you can alert the authorities.)

As he approaches holding the shoe box, I wonder about his friend who was staying upstairs to “look at stuff.” Who is this friend? He didn’t say anything about bringing a friend. And why isn’t the friend coming down to meet me? Is he deliberately ensuring I can’t identity his face when the two of them secretly follow me from Barnes and Noble back to my house to kill and cook me?

Or…did Dylan just make up a pretend friend in the store, just like I pretended my husband was here too? Is it possible that Dylan is afraid of ME? Were his friends saying, “What? You’re gonna drive 2 hours to meet some crazy lady who’s promised you cash? What if she’s a psycho? What if we never see you again? What would we tell the police? All we know is Barnes & Noble, blue sweater, and Darcy (if that’s her real name).”

He sits down and slides the shoe box across the table. I slide the envelope of cash toward him.

We both inspect the contents of our respective packages. I’m suddenly feeling all Sopranos-y.

I’m wondering what passersby must think of this little transaction. (Totally looks like a drug buy. Suburban mama gettin’ her fix from her long-haired dealer.)

I want to stand up and loudly explain to everyone about the purple sneakers birthday gift.

But I decide it’s way cooler to look all mysterious.

I thank Dylan profusely for making the trip down with the beloved shoes. I tell him the cash covers the merchandise, gas money, and some extra for him to enjoy his night out in LA (presumably with the “friend”) – (who we’re still not sure is real or imaginary.)

I’m truly grateful he’s made the trip – I would’ve happily paid overnight shipping fees to get the shoes on time for the birthday – so gas money and a little bonus are a fair deal.

In fact, I’m so overcome with gratitude — and he seems like such a nice guy, I actually HUG him when we part.

I can just imagine the other Starbucks patrons thinking, “Ah, how sweet — that suburban junkie mama really loves her dealer.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Anything odd you’ve done to ensure you got the birthday/Christmas gift you simply HAD to have for someone? Ever meet a stranger to exchange cash for goods or services? (Check the statute of limitations before you answer that.) Share any funny tales about shoes, gifts, or feeling like a super secret agent in the Comments!)

How Would YOU React to this Mom’s Behavior at a Birthday Party?

Y'all Don't Come Back Now

So then…she stomps into the backyard with her son Jeremy and demands, “Is this a drop-off party?” I glance at my 6-year-old birthday boy Tucker cavorting with his friends on the sport court, more pals painting art projects, and yet more kids running around the backyard.


She heaves a frustrated sigh, obviously displeased that she cannot just dump her child and split. I smile cheerfully and introduce myself, since it’s the first time I’m meeting Jeremy’s mom, Tammi. She says, “I thought this was a drop-off party.”

OK, Tammi, let it go.

“Oh, you’ll have fun. You probably know some of the other parents from first grade. Besides, it helps to have adults around with so much going on.”

She gives me a look. A hard look. A look that says, “Hey, your party invitation is an implicit contract for you to babysit my kid for 3 hours while I get a mani-pedi.”

She declines my offer of lemonade and clomps off, whipping out her cell phone.

When the other parents help with the art project, she’s on her cell. When the other parents help clean up, she’s on her cell. I’m pretty sure if a pack of wild Komodo dragons ran rampant through the yard, she’d be on her cell — standing on a lawn chair.

I call everyone in for dinner, a sumptuous homemade Mexican feast of enchiladas, tacos, and quesadillas.

Tammi walks in and says, “I didn’t know you were having dinner. We already have dinner plans tonight.” She frowns. “You really should have put something on your invitation about this.”

I smile cheerfully (through clenched teeth). “But I did! You know, the part that said: ‘Come enjoy our delicious Mexican fiesta. After running and playing, you’ll need a siesta!’”

She gives me a look. A pitying look. A look that says, “Poetry does not belong on a party invitation.”

“We have to leave now. We have plans.”

I smile cheerfully (hallelujah) and say, “OK, be sure to get Jeremy a party favor before you go.”

She does not move. “Jeremy wants to have cake before he goes.”

“Oh. We’re planning to do that at the end of the party.”

My husband David says, “Oh, we can do the cake now if you have to leave.”

I shoot him a look. A hard look. A look that says, “Don’t you dare accommodate this woman!”

But he is already looking for a large knife.

I turn to Tammi and say soothingly, “If we do the cake now, people will think it’s time to leave. I’m sure you understand.”

She folds her arms. “Jeremy really wants cake.”

Now I am looking for a large knife.

David says, “We could just cut off a little piece for him now and bring out the cake to sing Happy Birthday later.” (Since when is he the gracious host?)

“But it’s an ice cream cake and it isn’t thawed. It’s still frozen solid.” I’m determined to stand my ground, but David is oblivious to my frustration. In fact, he accepts this task as though it were a “Survivor TV show” challenge of strength and ingenuity!

After several attempts with a butcher knife, an ice pick, and finally an electric carving knife, he manages to hack away a chunk of ice cream cake for little Jeremy who ultimately declares, “I don’t like chocolate chip.”

— Darcy Perdu

(Before you ask, yep, this is all true. And yep, we learned our lesson.  Instead of inviting Tucker’s whole class to future birthday parties, we became a bit more discerning about inviting the kids he plays with most — and kids whose parents I don’t want to strangle.)

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Click these posts for MORE Moms who drive me CRAZY! —

I Don’t Mean to Be All Judgy on This Chick, But REALLY!

Seriously, Lady — Yer Killin’ Me Here!

(So how about you – any party guests or parents who exhibited comically ungracious behavior at one of your parties? Do tell!)

I Shall Staple it to his Forehead

How to Get Kids to Remember Their Homework #funny #homework #school #student #homeschool #kids #parenting #classparty #humor

So then…I check the emails from the other school parents to see who’s sending in money for the upcoming 7th grade class party we Room Parents are organizing, and I find this note:

Bridget’s email:
Darcy, can you please ask your daughter Chloe to do me a favor? I gave my son Ryan money in an envelope for the class party to give to Chloe yesterday, but he didn’t see her. So can Chloe please ASK him for the envelope today? He might forget. Thanks! – Bridget

I respond with this email:
It’s so funny because right before I read your note, I had just sent an email to my son’s band teacher to tell him that Tucker has a check in his pocket for the band trip – and that Tucker will likely forget that he has that check in his pocket, so could the band teacher please help remind him!

I think it’s hilarious that you and I have to help our sons along like this. And I wonder when Tucker is 35, will I STILL be sending notes for him? i.e. to his boss: “Please remind Tucker he finished that report and it’s in the top drawer of his desk.” Or to his wife: “Please remind Tucker he bought you an anniversary gift and he hid it in the pantry.”

Oh, who am I kidding? I will probably be WRITING his report and BUYING the anniversary gift!!
— Darcy

Bridget’s response:
That’s what we get for having boys!! But I think society understands. When my husband takes our preschooler son to school, all my post-it reminders are STILL attached to the stuff he gives to the teachers!
– Bridget


Yikes! So now I wonder if somewhere out there, her husband is accidentally turning in school forms with post-it notes still attached that say things like:

“Drop off this $20 in the front office for the class party; but don’t trust it to the girl with the pierced nose.”

“Give this to the mean teacher in room 103; don’t ask if she’s pregnant. She’s not.”

Honestly, how can we get our kids to remember their homework and papers?  Sometimes I think I shall staple them to his forehead!

— Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Mary Chowdhury

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(Are any of YOUR kids a little (cough-cough) “organization-challenged?”  I know we should let them “sink or swim” on their own at a certain age, but do you ever write notes/texts to remind your kids to do things – or to their teachers/coaches?  Or are your kids SUPER ORGANIZED? If so, send me the secret!)

BUSTED! Telling His Teacher a Big Fat Juicy LIE!

Telling the Teacher a Big Fat Juicy Lie! #funny #teacher #student #lying

So then…I open an email from Tucker’s 6th grade teacher that says:

“Tucker did not have his homework today; he told me this was because there was a termite infestation at home. I told him he needed to ask you to write a note explaining the situation, but he said that his family did not believe in writing notes.

However, since our homework policy is not to accept late work, I would appreciate a note or an e-mail when unusual situations occur so that Tucker can receive full credit.
Sincerely, Mrs. Gilbert”

What the what?

I love how the teacher writes her email in such a way that she leaves open the slim possibility that indeed, we did have a termite infestation that interfered with homework completion – rather than declare, “Your son flat out lied to me today.”

(Not only did he lie, but he did so, very poorly. Termites? Really, dude? That’s the best you could come up with? And you said your family “didn’t believe” in writing notes? What religious cult forbids the WRITING OF NOTES?)

Of course, I immediately want to write back:

“Dear Mrs. Gilbert:
I was mortified to read your email. We have had no such infestation – and we have no problem writing notes.

In fact, I’m writing this note to you right now. However, I’ll email it to you instead of giving it to Tucker to deliver — since he might claim it was eaten by termites (or boll weevils or alien mutant wombats) before it gets to you.

We are extremely disappointed that Tucker would attempt to excuse his missing homework in this way. We do not have termites. We are a clean and observant family. If there were termites, we would know about it and deal with it expeditiously.

And even if we had termites, that would not preclude Tucker from completing his homework. Termites are tiny. At most, they might buzz through a couple pencils.

It’s not like we were infested by ferocious cougars, lunging alligators, or blood-sucking vampires. I could see how those would be disruptive to concentrating on one’s homework. But termites? Please. We’re made of sturdier stock than that.

As soon as Tucker comes home from school, we’ll impose consequences — and he’ll also write you an apology.

Meanwhile, please keep us posted on any other “allegations” he might make at school. (I should tell you pre-emptively that you should not believe him if he claims his parents drink too much wine, gamble online, or use the F-word carelessly.)
Thank you, Darcy Perdu”

But instead I write:
“Dear Mrs. Gilbert:
I am so sorry that Tucker tried to use an excuse for his missing homework.  We don’t have termites and we have no problem writing notes.  He’ll give you the homework and a written apology tomorrow.  Thank you, Darcy”

However, I WISH I had sent the first note — because then maybe the big vocabulary words like “expeditiously” and “pre-emptively” would make the teacher think that I’m a well-bred, well-educated, well-intentioned mother — and that it’s only my son who is a deceitful heathen.

Maybe I should have mentioned a possible maternity ward mix-up between my real son and a tale-telling gypsy baby. (No offense, gypsy babies.)

— Darcy Perdu

  to your Humor Board!
Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Mary Chowdhury

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(What’s a tall tale that YOUR kid has told? Any funny fibs or outrageous lies? Or a teacher’s note that was a bit embarrassing?)

Awkward Moment in Psychiatrist’s Waiting Room

So I have a funny dilemma in the psychiatrist's waiting room...what would YOU have done?  #funny #doctor #patient #kids #parenting #humor

So then…we head off to see the psychiatrist because…


because we live in CALIFORNIA

and as soon as you move to this state, you’re automatically issued a shrink, personal trainer, eyebrow waxer, and dog whisperer.

Doesn’t even matter if you have a dog – or eyebrows – these folks just show up as soon as you cross the state line.

So we’re off to see the psychiatrist because “we got issues, ya’ll!” – (and there ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ that!)

Our appointment is at 6:00 pm, so the waiting room is deserted.

And in fact, as soon as the receptionist signs us in — she tells us the doctor will be with us in a moment, then picks up her purse and departs for the evening.

So our daughter Chloe, age 10, plops on a chair and starts doing her homework. David and I talk to our son Tucker, age 13, about this new psychiatrist we’re seeing about his ADHD.

The doctor comes out of the hallway door, greets us, then asks us to follow him. We all get up, except Chloe – who plans to stay to finish her homework, which is fine.

But just as we close the door to walk down the hall to the doctor’s office — a man walks into the waiting room and sits down.


I sorta thought we were the last patients of the day – so I assumed it would be OK for Chloe to stay in the waiting room.

So I say to the doctor in the hallway, “Um, someone just came in, so—?”

He says nonchalantly, “Oh, Ted? I’ve been seeing him for years. It’s fine.”  And he continues walking back to his office.

I’m instantly reassured since he uses that same warm tone of voice that you and I would use to describe a beloved friend – like, “Oh, Marge? We’ve been neighbors for years! Best.blueberry.muffins.ever! She’s great!”

But then it hits me.

Wait a minute, I think. You’re not a dentist. Or a barber. You’re a PSYCHIATRIST! If YOU’VE been seeing someone for YEARS, that could mean they have issues with a CAPITAL “I”!

But he’s so casually dismissive when he says that sentence about his psychiatric patient! He’s so cheerful and reassuring

It’s like:

“Oh, Ted? The sweetest arsonist you’ll ever meet. Best.bonfires.ever.


“Oh, Ted? The most skilled kleptomaniac around. You won’t even notice anything’s missing!”


“Oh, Ted? You know – for a meth addict? – very charming. You’ll love him!”

Of course I don’t mean to make light of psychiatric matters – (because, believe me, we got some of our OWN issues up in here!) – but it also doesn’t mean I’m enthusiastic about leaving my daughter with this guy for an hour!

On the other hand, I don’t want to instantly grab my daughter and flee in panic, making the poor guy think I assume he’s a maniac.

And yes, I realize most mental issues aren’t contagious!

Because believe me, when we go to the pediatrician, I have no problem steering clear of that kid who’s hacking and coughing and blowing snot bubbles halfway across the waiting room!

And we don’t sit next to the little girl vigorously scratching her lice cap (next to the mom who’s desperately pretending she has NO idea whose kid that is).

And what the hell are those spots all over that kid? Is it measles? Typhoid fever? Leprosy? The PLAGUE? Look away, look away!!

(Am I a bit neurotic? Um, YEAH – I TOLD you we had some issues up in here!)

So it’s not like I think Chloe’s going to catch some mental disorder while she’s in the waiting room with this patient of unknown diagnosis.

It’s not like: “Yeah, she was fine ‘til that day in the waiting room – but now she only eats blue-colored food and talks to an imaginary giraffe named Sparkles.”

But I don’t like to leave my 10-year-old daughter alone with ANY strangers anyway.  Even if the doctor has given his blessing. Even if I might hurt the feelings of the stranger.

So as soon as we dispense with introductions in the doc’s office, I let David handle the rest of the session with Tucker — and I go join Chloe and our mystery patient in the waiting room.

Ted is perfectly pleasant, of course –

(and if he’s Obsessive-Compulsive, maybe he can triple check Chloe’s math homework…?)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you ever worry your kid will get more sick at the pediatrician’s office? Meanwhile, I hope I don’t offend anyone with this story – believe me, we respect the mental health field and our fellow patients – we just find it helps us to maintain a sense of humor about it all! Feel free to share any funny doctor/nurse/patient stories in the Comments!)

Priceless Mom Moment — In Church

So then…Dani Ryan from Cloudy with a Chance of Wine invites me to write a guest post for her series called Priceless Mom Moments – which must mean she thinks my “Mom-ing” Skills are Priceless! (She knows me well!)

Then I learn that the series features those EMBARRASSING Mom moments that make you want to slide into an invisible puddle of vapor! (Oh, she knows me VERY well!)

You can learn more about the hilarious, engaging Dani from posts such as:
Why Body Piercing Should Be Left to Professionals

Why My Family Stopped Going to Barbecues

Living in the Shadow of My Mother-In-Law

Meanwhile, I send her this post about a Priceless Mom Moment that was witnessed by the entire congregation…!

                Mortified — in Public — in CHURCH
Communion Tucker 5.18.13 Stefano Marchio Crop
So then…the little 2nd-graders march respectfully up the aisle and step up to surround the altar. They turn to face the congregation and we all smile at the girls in their sweet little white dresses and the boys in their handsome miniature suits.

It’s a gaggle of 20 kids in their Sunday best, hair slicked back, bows and veils, new bracelets, tiny ties, and shiny shoes. Today is the culmination of a year of religious study so they can now receive their First Holy Communion.

David and I beam at our son Tucker as he stands quietly, but fidgety, amongst his fellow Communicants. I’m dying to take a photo of Tucker, age 6 — but it’s frowned upon to do so in Church, during the Mass itself – so….

To read the rest of the embarrassing story, pop over to Dani’s site! Click  Mortified — In Public — In CHURCH!

Thanks, Darcy Perdu