Archive for the ‘Conversations With Jake’Category

Conversations With Jake: The “Nay Kit” Flash (Or, Why You Should REALLY Make Sure Your Kid is Asleep Before Listening to Podcasts in Your Car)

Earlier this year, I wrote about a photographer named James Beltz (who I now refer to as “Professor Jimmy” around the house, because, as it turns out, he really DID feel uncomfortable with my calling him “The Jimmy Lama”).

To know him (through his podcasts) is to love him. He’s southern and charming and hilariously funny in his A.D.D./silly ranting kind of way and frankly, the LOML is starting to get jealous of my constant bringing up of his name. But the fact of the matter is that Jimmy is the only photography instructor that I know that totally gets “it.” He doesn’t take himself too seriously, gets his audience/students to relax, and teaches in a way that is both fun and challenging. And I honestly have NO IDEA where I’d be without his classes or podcasts.

ANYWAY, most of you know that I do quite a bit of my podcast listening while driving. And sometimes even while the kids are in the car. (Usually while they are sleeping, or else I get pelted with Cheerios or Cheetos until I tune the dial to Radio Disney. ACK.)

A few weeks ago, I had picked up Jake from day camp and didn’t even get out of the parking lot when noticed that his eyes were getting heavy and he had leaned the seat back a little bit in order to settle in for a nap on the way home. So I decided that as soon as he was “out,” I would plug in my iTouch and listen to one of Professor Jimmy’s podcasts.

And wouldn’t you know, it would be one where Jimmy uses the phrase “Nekkid” flash about 678 times. (“Nekkid” is southern for “Naked.” And a “Nekkid Flash” is what you would call one of those big long flashes you see on professional cameras WITHOUT what you would call “a white thingy” on the end. A “white thingy” is a flash diffuser, which helps soften and spread light evenly.).

And I remember thinking, Holy CRAP it’s a good thing that Jake is asleep or he’d be asking me what the word “nekkid” meant. BECAUSE YOU KNOW HOW INQUISITIVE THIS KID CAN BE.

Fast forward a few days.

I had hopped on to the computer before going to work to check out some recipes I was thinking about trying for dinner. And without remembering to bookmark the page that I’d found, I shut the browser down and turned the computer off.

When I returned home later that evening, I fired up the browser and decided to go to my internet history in order to find the site I’d been on earlier that morning. And this is what I found:



Yes, you read that right.

There were searches for “NEY KIT FLASH,” “NAY KIT FLASH,” and “Professor Jimmy,” among other things.

Now, if you are slow to get this, bear with me. BECAUSE THIS IS A DAMN FUNNY STORY. (The LOML had me add, “Damn funny to photographers, maybe . . .”)

After discovering the search queries I laughed. HARD. For, like, TWENTY MINUTES.

Then I picked up the phone and called the LOML.



“Uh, can I ask you a question?”

“Oh . . . ‘kay. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Just wondering if you happened to be on the computer at lunch, looking for something to buy me for my birthday.”


And then I was all, REALLY? Have you NOT ever heard of the INTERNET HISTORY BUTTON?

“You’re joking, right? I KNOW EVERYTHING.”

“[Loud silence, and then a long sigh.] Fine. YES, I was looking up stuff I wanted to buy you for your birthday. But I couldn’t find what I was looking for.”

“And what exactly, dear, were you looking for?”

“Well, this morning on the way to drop Jake off at summer camp, I asked him what he thought we should buy you for your birthday next month, and he said, ‘The man on mama’s radio says that you can do just about anything with a nay kit flash, so maybe we should get her one of those.’”

Conversations With Jake: Gag Me With a Thermometer

Conversations With Jake Logo, (c) 2008 Mama Needs a Cosmo All Rights Reserved DO NOT COPYI told this story to a few of my co-workers today, and they were all, “Oh my GOD Kathleen!! You need to put that on your blog! Have you put it on your blog? Have you?!” And I was like, “Hell NO!” because I’m totally convinced that Child Protective Services reads my blog and is just itching for a reason to take my boys away.

Then I realized that what I did (in this particular instance) wasn’t all that bad. I mean, it’s not like I left Jake and Benny in a car for six hours while I gambled at a casino or something. This type of “parental absence of mind” is much more acceptable. Or at least “confessionable.”

So, here’s the story:

A couple of weeks ago (the evening of Easter Sunday), Jake came to me and quite dramatically stated,

“Ohhh MOMMMMM, I don’t feel so good. My tummy hurts and I think I have a feverrrr.”

Seriously. This kid has more drama packed into his being than Charlton Heston.

And I was all, “Uh, of COURSE you don’t ‘feel so good.’ You spent all day eating candy.”

But the 5% left of “caring mom” in me chose to feel his forehead, and it WAS kinda warm, so I went to the bathroom and retrieved our newly purchased thermometer. Complete with sample cover for trial use.

I opened the box, and then decided to use the trial thermometer cover. It was one of those “peel here, insert thermometer, then peel off other side” kind of covers, so I didn’t really have to touch it, which made me feel like I was being all super-sanitary and worthy of a gold star.

“Here,” I said, “keep it under your tongue for ten seconds.”

Now, before I go further, I have to explain that Jake has always had a really (REALLY) bad gag reflex. This kid has issues with just getting his teeth brushed in the morning, so I was quite worried that this temperature taking thing would turn into an adventure.

And, true to form, Jake coughed and gagged and spit it out onto the bathroom counter.

“Jake!! What is your problem?! It’s just a thermometer!”

“But MOMMM!”

“Seriously, Jacob . . . I’ve got no other way to do this so put it back under your tongue for ten seconds. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“No mom! It tastes weird.”


“It’s kinda slippery and it tastes awwfull. YOU DO IT!”

I stopped short of asking him, “What’s your damage, HEATHER?” because I’m also thoroughly convinced that my six-year-old has a teenage girl trapped inside his body and is driving force behind his Charlton Heston dramatics.

Anyway, I decided that YES, I WOULD TAKE MY OWN TEMPERATURE AND SHOW THIS KID THAT HE’S BEING A TOTAL NUTJOB, and then reached for the thermometer without looking at it because for some reason I wanted to stare him down to make a point. And in doing so, I inadvertently picked it up by the “wrong” end (the temperature-taking end) and felt it.

And . . . it WAS kinda slippery.

And for one brief second I had a minor out of body experience, having realized what I just did to my own son.

I cringed, slowly turned around, reached for the bathroom wastebasket, and retrieved the thermometer cover wrapper.

And there it was. All spelled out for moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas and babysitters WHO CAN READ GOOD:

“Pre-lubricated for rectal comfort.”

[Insert gag noise here.]

Conversations With Jake: Penis Pockets

Yep. You read that right.

Today we’re going to address the big bad world of penis pockets.

Here’s a little background before I get to this awesome nugget of a story: Last summer, the LOML and I decided it was time for Jake to learn how to help with laundry. He helps me sort the clothes, put them in the washer, transfer them to the dryer, and then fold when it’s all done. So, he’s become familiar with the family’s wardrobe. Underwear in particular.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when the LOML and I had an awesome date night. His mom took the boys overnight so we could enjoy ourselves into the wee hours of the morning — dinner, cocktails, movie, more cocktails and fun at home, and an eventual pass out for both of us at about 2:00am.

And, somewhere between “movie” and “more cocktails and fun at home,” I managed to lose my underwear.

I mean, I didn’t wake up without any on, per se. I woke up wearing A PAIR OF THE LOML’S UNDERWEAR.

I have no idea how that happened. Or why. (Well, I have a good idea of how and why, but the fact that we were both sauced has impaired my ability to remember the details.) But I figure it had something to do with our having some play time in the middle of the night, and when we were done I discovered that my underwear drawer was empty. So the LOML “lent” me a pair of his.

We woke up late the next morning, which left me no time to do any laundry. And I don’t like to fly commando.

So I took a shower, borrowed another pair of the LOML’s underwear, and headed out into the sunlight (nursing one hell of a hangover) to pick up the boys from grandma’s house. After which I would have to do some shopping with them.

And, of course, no shopping trip with the boys is complete without having to take a quick trip to the ladies’ room.

Now, you would have thought that after the last time I had to run to the bathroom with Jake and Benny in tow I would have learned my lesson and found a better way to at least get Jake turn around in the stall while I was doing my business. (I still keep Jake in the stall with me because I’m just too protective yet to let him wait for me outside the ladies’ room alone.) But, busy moms like me lack a good short-term memory. Couple that with the fact that I wasn’t feeling good (hangover) and was wearing a pair of the LOML’s underwear and you’ve got one perfect storm for a blog post in the making.

So we get into the stall (at Costco) and I try to get Jake to keep Benny busy by counting pretzels in Ziploc bag.

No dice.

Because within seconds, he saw them.

JAKE:  “Mama!”

ME:  “Shh shh shh. Keep counting pretzels.”

JAKE:  “But mama!”

ME:  “I said shh!

JAKE:  “Your underwear has a PENIS POCKET just like mine and daddy’s do!!!”

[Laughter from other stalls and sink area ensues and I can feel all of what was left of the color in my face draining.]

ME:  [Whispering loudly]  “Jacob! Shhh!

JAKE:  “Mama, I didn’t know you needed the penis pocket. Why do you need the penis pocket? YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A PENIS. Girls have a VAGINA.”

I had visions of all the women in the bathroom gathering around our stall to hear what I was going to say next. I can’t imagine what they were thinking . . . but the first thing that came to mind was them thinking I was a tranny.

And then I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I got beat down by a 6-year-old. And everyone knew it. So, I gathered what was left of my pride and said:

“Jacob, that’s not a ‘penis pocket,’ that’s where mama puts her money.”

The laughter that broke out confirmed my fear that everyone REALLY HAD been gathered around the stall to hear what I’d say next. So, to save face, I owned up to my son and told him the truth:

“No, sweetie. I’m just kidding. Mama was out of underwear this morning so she borrowed some of daddy’s.”

And I’m not kidding you. Within two seconds of me getting those words out, he came back with:

“Well, try not to get as much poop in those underwear as daddy does. I hate doing daddy’s laundry.”


01 2010

Conversations With Jake: Underwear (Or, why you shouldn’t try to lie your way out of an embarrassing situation even while hiding in a bathroom stall.)

Conversations-3a-2aOkay. This could very well top what I thought to be my most embarassing moment ever with Jake (see “Black Eyed Boy and His Entourage“). I’ll let you make the call.

I keep forgetting that my first born is now a mature 6 years old. He’s usually not a deep thinker, but can pull some crazy shit out of his ass from time to time, and when that happens I just need to get out of his way and let it fly.

Here is an example of a time when I tried to throw a block instead of just letting Jake say his peace. And man, did it get FUGLY. Laugh on, my dear readers. Laugh on.

My only preface to this story is that it was laundry day, and I was wearing my “laundry day panties.” Enough said.


It was Sunday morning, and I decided to throw caution to the wind and take both Jake AND Benny to Costco.


And, as luck would have it, nature called right after we hit the checkstand. Perhaps my body’s visceral reaction to the checkout total.

Anyway, with Benny in the basket along with $287.16 worth of cargo and Jake bringing up the rear, I hit the ladies’ restroom.

While I was sitting in the stall trying to keep Benny from throwing everything that was in the cart onto the bathroom floor, Jake decided to throw me into a newer, fresher hell.

JAKE: “Mama,” he said loudly, so his voice would be heard over Benny’s screaming, “How come there’s holes in your underwear?”

This was met, of course, with several chuckles from the other ladies in the bathroom.

I felt my face get red with embarrassment, then I quickly realized that we were in the comfort of a bathroom stall, and could not be seen by anyone else. So, I attempted to save face.

ME: “Honey! Those aren’t ‘holes.’ These are called ‘lace underwear.’ They’re MEANT to have holes in them.”

AHA! Even though I WAS wearing white grannies with a few holes in the butt, no one else could see them! Right? So, no one had to know that they were really “hole-y” underwear! Right? I mean, kids could look at lace underwear and perceive them as “hole-y” underwear. Right?


Just when I thought Jake’s silence meant that his line of questioning was over, he got all philosophical on my ass. And called me out.

JAKE: “So, the white underwears that Daddy wears that has holes in them is called ‘lace’ too?”


09 2009

Conversations With Jake: Rock ‘n’ Roll Dance Party

A few times per week at my house, I turn off the television (sorry Sprout!) and put on some music or throw in a concert DVD for a special play time I like to call “Rock ‘n’ Roll Dance Party.” It gives me an excuse to act like an idiot in front of my kids without them thinking, well, that I’m an idiot. We turn the music up “to eleven,” jump around, dance, and do what is recognized in some cultures as singing. The dogs in the neighborhood beg to differ.

I started this ritual about a year ago to get the boys out of the winter rut of vegging out in front of the TV after dinner. Then I realized that I needed to do it because Jake was beginning to think that the only music worth listening to came from the Disney channel. Seriously.

These days, though, his music choices have been making his Mama proud. Just this past Saturday, he was asked, “Who’s your favorite singer?”

His reply? “Freddie Mercury is the best singer EVER!”

Kinda makes you want to shed a tear, huh?

Anyway, Sunday morning I realized that I didn’t have any music lined up for the festivities. Then, like a gift from God, the clouds parted, the angels sang, and my inner tweener began doing cartwheels when I found out that Rick Springfield was going to be on HDNet.

Oh. My. GAWD. We were SOOOO going to party like rock stars.

And of course, an afternoon of anything is always made more interesting with Jake around. Here are just a few things that came out of his mouth:

Jake: “Mama. The name of this song is ‘Baby Don’t Talk to Strangers.’”

Me: “Uh-huh.”

Jake: “Is this going to be some sort of safety video?”

Jake: “Mama! Rick Springfield just said the ‘B’ word!”

Me: “Well, Rick Springfield is a grown-up. And a rock star. Grown-up rock stars sometimes use grown-up swear words.”

Jake: “You use grown-up swear words and you’re not a rock star.”

Me: “Okay, boys. Mama’s gotta stop. I’ve got some house work to do.”

Jake: “Yeah. Boys can be rock stars and mommies play on the computer and fold laundry all day.”


03 2009