Thank a Teacher
May 6, 2013 | Filed Under: Candy's Column, Sponsored Post
Re-posting this from September 28, 2010 in honor of Teacher Appreciation Week…
I walked to the front of the classroom and handed my homework, an essay about the horrors of babysitting, to Mr. Shirley. The writing assignment had been due the previous week, but I’d forgotten all about it in the midst of going to Pittsburgh for state orchestra. I had won fourth chair in the viola section, an honor of which I was quite proud, and assumed that being an orchestra geek and generally well-behaved student would earn me a free pass on missing the assignment deadline. I was wrong.
“Too late,” Mr. Shirley hissed, not even looking at me, busying himself with the important task of randomly shuffling papers on his desk.
“But I had state orchestra!” I cried indignantly, shoving the assignment under his nose. He shoved it back.
“That does not exempt you from deadlines in this classroom!”
“But you let Jill hand hers in late –”
“Jill asked for permission beforehand.”
The increasingly angry paper shoving continued.
“I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Mr. Shirley finally met my eyes, his face redder than a maraschino cherry. My assignment now a crumpled ball in his hands.
How NOT to Handle a Family Photo Shoot (A Guide for Fellow Moms Based on My Own Tragic, Tragic Mistakes)
Apr 25, 2013 | Filed Under: Candy's Column
Yes, even the camera was weeping.
You know how it’s commonplace to compare disasters to the Hindenburg? Well, I wanted to personally alert you to the newest, hottest metaphor in town — because after my family’s first-ever professional family photo shoot last weekend, people surely are going to start gasping, “Oh my gosh, it’s almost as disastrous as the CANDY KIRBY FAMILY PHOTO SHOOT OF 2013!”
I thought I had it all figured out. I had the family dressed in complementary, but not too matchy-matchy, clothes. I cannot overstate how important this was to me: “By God, NO MATCHING POLO SHIRTS!” I implored Mr. Candy, who was raised in a Pro-Matching-Polo-Shirts household. And bless my husband’s heart, he turned his back on everything he had been taught to believe about family portraits and dutifully bought a lovely green shirt to complete the blue-yellow-green motif the photographer had suggested. My hair was even cooperating for a change, falling to my shoulders in casual waves rather than its usual dirty-looking frizz. This was likely due to the fact that I had actually washed it for once. Our 22-month-old son, Drew, took a two-and-a-half hour nap before the photo session. Hallelujah! I cheered, patting myself on the back as we left the house ON TIME, my bag full of snacks, extra diapers and even a change of clothes in case of emergency. (Meaning: If Drew purposely spit Cheerios all over himself and his sister, as he has been known to do. All part of his charm.)
You would think that after being a mom for almost four years that I would know that the best-laid plans of moms and dads often — nay, ALWAYS — go awry when there are kids involved. But no…! I was so eager for a good family portrait that I deluded myself into believing this time would be different. I was having a good hair day, after all! What could possibly go wrong?
Such was my first mistake. Because the question should have been: What couldn’t go wrong?
And Then There Were Seven
Jan 25, 2013 | Filed Under: Candy's Column, Our Crazy Cats
There comes a moment in most every mom’s life when she thinks, You know what we could use around here? MORE PUKE AND POOP! This moment is usually preceded by Benadryl and wine.
I’m pretty sure that’s how we’ve ended up with TWO more cats. That, plus the fact that I’m a sucker who couldn’t say no when approached by two different rescuers about adopting the fluffballs.
Dora Got Run Over by Mr. Candy
Jan 22, 2013 | Filed Under: Candy's Column, Household Obituaries, Original Songs
R.I.P. Dora Watch*
Sung, of course, to the tune of “Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer”:
Dora got run over by Mr. Candy.
Dropped under his car by Miss Skye.
We can say the watch just “got lost,”
But as for Miss Skye, she don’t believe.
Skye’d been drinkin’ too much OJ,
We’d begged her to leave the watch on.
But anything we say, she doesn’t listen,
So Dora stumbled out the car door onto the ground.
When Candy found Dora the next mornin’,
At the scene of the hit-and-run,
There were big cracks on the face,
And incriminatin’ tire marks — Dora was done.
Dora got run over by Mr. Candy.
Dropped under his car by Miss Skye.
(Way under his car)
We can say the watch just “got lost,”
(Say it just got lost)
But as for Miss Skye, she don’t believe.
(Lord, she really don’t believe)
*Picture does not do it justice.
Also: We should have a moment of silence for Boots, as well.
Screw You, 2012 (Meaning: Happy New Year!)
Jan 8, 2013 | Filed Under: Candy's Column
My reaction to 2012 is, I imagine, the same as Paris Hilton’s upon seeing her old pal Kim’s pregnancy news splashed across every media outlet: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST MAKE IT GO AWAY!”
You see, my year ended with less of a bang, more of a wince. December slapped me upside the head over and over and over again. It was the Moe to my Curly. The swinging door to the face of my clueless-but-adorable Three’s Company character. The… well, it just sucked.
I watched helplessly as my 18-month-old son battled a potentially fatal respiratory virus in the hospital (longest 30 hours of my life). I came home, only to unexpectedly have to put our beloved cat of eleven years to sleep that same night. I rescued a sweet one-year-old cat from a shelter soon thereafter, only to have HER die a few days later from a virus she had apparently contracted on the streets.
I mean, really?
We received that news on New Year’s Eve. I was determined to shake it off and enjoy a rare date night with Mr. Candy while my mother-in-law watched the kids. But even that night was a comedy of inconveniences, with me discovering that my three-year-old had left one of my pumps at my parents’ house (after wearing it, along with one of her dad’s sneakers, for the better part of our visit with them), and stepping into the shower at my mother-in-law’s house…to be greeted by ice-cold water after my husband had used up all of the water above 33 degrees with his shower.
My reaction to that cold water hitting my body was, I imagine, the same as Paris Hilton attempting to read a three-syllable word: A series of surprised, incoherent grunts.
The silver lining of seeing your child in the hospital, processing the gut-wrenching news of a school shooting and having two pets pass away in the span of a few weeks: You realize that having to wear casual boots with your cocktail dress is hardly the end of the world. Nor is 12/12/12, as it turns out.
Taking time off from the site helped me recharge the batteries. I enjoyed time with the family, took stock of the many, many things for which I have to be thankful, and sat back and smiled as I said: Screw you, 2012. Screw you.
See? I already have a healthier attitude.
Belated Happy New Year, everyone! With special thanks to Kim and Kanye for their pregnancy news. That is truly a special gift you are giving to us humorists… er, I mean, to yourselves. *Ahem*
Things I Hated About Myself as a Teenager That I Love About Myself as a Mom
Dec 12, 2012 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Teens
Ah, the teenage years — full of raging hormones, bad attitudes, insecurities and zits big enough to be claimed as a tax deduction. Now that I’m a mom, I can’t help but cringe at the thought of my kids becoming teenagers someday. In part because I don’t know if we have the space to house the monster-sized zits and attitude, but mostly because of the heartbreaking insecurities. Although Mr. Candy and I will do what we can to instill in our children a sense of confidence and self-worth beyond outer beauty, any old reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians will surely nip all of that in the bud.
So, for my kids, I created this chart of things I hated about myself as a crazy, insecure teenager but now embrace as a crazy, more secure mom, in hopes that they’ll one day be able to have a similar appreciation for their “imperfections.” And laugh at my permed ’90s hair and un-waxed eyebrows.
Handling a Pet’s Death, Preschooler-Style
Dec 11, 2012 | Filed Under: Candy's Column, Our Crazy Cats
I dreaded telling Miss Skye that Marcy had passed away. The concept of death is hard for me to wrap my head around, let alone a child who had spent most every day of her three years of life with the cat — with whom she was obsessed — only to wake up and find out she is gone forever. Skye staked her claim on Marcy early on, declaring that she was her “baby” and treating her as such. Despite my initial anxiety about how the kids would treat our cats, Skye never so much as yanked a whisker or pulled a fluffy tail.
To my even greater surprise, Marcy seemed to enjoy Skye’s attention and incessant fussing. Or perhaps she was just so desperate for love at that point — pets really do become second-class citizens once you have kids — that she was willing to take it in any form. Even if that meant having to wear dish towels as a scarf.
In any case, Skye and Marcy were best buds. So when I broached the subject while serving dinner to our other cat, Lucy, on Sunday, I could literally hear my heart pounding in my chest. I had no plan, no script, no crazy suggestions from the perpetually entertaining Yahoo! Answers on how to discuss death with a young child. (Sidebar: I just looked some up because I can’t help myself. One helpful suggestion? “LET THE CHILD BURY THE CAT.” Um, no. Our kids’ shovels are strictly for making sand castles and hitting siblings on the head, thankyouverymuch.) All I was armed with were shaky hands, a cloudy head and a bowl full of Meow Mix.
Our conversation went something like this:
Saying Good-Bye to My *Real* Firstborn
Dec 10, 2012 | Filed Under: Candy's Column
We had just returned from a harrowing 30 hours at the hospital with Drew — an ordeal I will share with you when I have the strength later this week, but I will spoil the ending: he’s on the mend now, thank goodness — when I looked around the living room, struck with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Where’s Marcy?” I asked Mr. Candy. It wasn’t like her to not run down the stairs the second we walked through the door — especially considering I, her favorite person in the world (if I do say so myself), had been gone for a couple of days. I was on high alert because Marcy had been having coughing fits for a while now and, although I’d tried to convince myself she just had allergies, I knew in the back of my mind that it could be a symptom of something worse. Way worse.
When I found her lying at the top of the stairs, a strange place for her to take up residence, she was breathing heavily. Her frame, once full and fluffy, appeared alarmingly gaunt. We attempted to lure her with her favorite dinner; she sniffed it and attempted to take a bite, then turned away.
“Should I take her to the vet?” Mr. Candy asked. I nodded, choking back tears. This was my real firstborn, the kitty who hopped into my lap and wrapped her paws around my arm when I met her eleven years ago — choosing me and thus throwing my original plan of getting a male kitten straight out the window. The kitty who kept me company when I first moved to Los Angeles, comforting me when my dad had his stroke and being one of the only constants in my life as I got married, moved several times and had two kids. The kitty who adored being walked on a leash — purring as soon as I would get it out — and cuddled beside my baby bump when I was pregnant. This was the kitty who allowed Skye and Drew to do pretty much anything to her without protest, including putting blankets on her like a baby, smothering her with vice-like hugs and (accidentally) falling on her. The thought of something being wrong with this cat, this one-in-a-million pet, was more than I could bear.
Later that night, I got the call from Mr. Candy: Marcy had heart failure. Already exhausted from our stay at the hospital, I could feel the floor fall out from under me. As I attempted to mute my sobs, Mr. Candy explained that we had two options: drain the massive amount of fluid from her lungs to give her more time or put her to sleep now.
“How much time would she have if we drained the fluid?” I asked.
“About a day,” Mr. Candy said, trying not to cry himself.
Dying from heart failure is a miserable way to go, causing the pet to painfully gasp for every last breath, so we made the heart-wrenching decision to put her to sleep. Mr. Candy said his good-byes, then came home to stay with the kids while I went to the vet to have my last final moments with my sweet Marcy. Even frightened out of her mind and mildly sedated, she purred when they laid her in my arms. After we had our alone time, the vet came in to end Marcy’s suffering. I was the one who was there when she came into our life and I wanted to be there for her when she left — so I held her as they euthanized her. Marcy laid down on the blanket on my lap, just as she had done countless times before, and within seconds, life escaped her body. It was peaceful…and yet so very haunting.
But this is how I choose to remember our girl: sweet; fluffy and clean (thanks to her OCD cleaning habit); full of life; and unbelievably tolerant of a three-year-old’s hug-slash-stranglehold and her mother’s strange penchant for kitty hats. Our crazy family won’t be the same without you, Marcy.
