Tag Archives: Parenting



Do you know what I’ve discovered?   I could really do without Mother’s Day.  In fact, I pretty much hate the celebration.  It is not my fault—it’s God’s.  He could have arranged for me to be born as Michelle Obama and have her delightful mother and her life, or God could have delayed my birth and let me be one of Michelle and Barack’s kids.  I’d be so cute, rich, and smart right now—and man, my upper arms would be on the road to becoming spectacular like Michelle’s instead of flapping in the breeze like the morning wash hung out to dry. But noooooo!  God had to let me be born to a crazy woman who thought if she, ever so sweetly, ignored me (except when she was trying to kill me), that maybe somehow my sister and I would disappear before anybody noticed we belonged to her.

Mothers Day Favorite Peter Broelman Australia

Cartoon used by permission: Peter Broelman, Australia

I suspect my mother was paranoid-schizophrenic long before I was born, but she kept it well hidden until the hormones of menopausal, illegitimate pregnancies produced offspring who demanded to have a mother.  Children are self-centered like that.  They don’t give a shit what is going on in your life.  If you’re their mother, then you better damn well show up and do your job and being crazy is no excuse:

“Feed me, change me, hold me, love me, discipline me—goddamnit—or I’m going down to the nearest ne’er-do-well office and fill out an application to become the local (fill in the blank____________) thief, drug-addict, ‘ho, gangsta, self-centered brat—you name it.  Forewarned is forearmed, Mommie Dearest.”

There is an old adage that women end up emulating their mothers which scared the bejesus out of my sister, Pee-wee, and me.   We were always looking over our shoulders to see if the crazies were going to catch up with us.  We’re both in our sixties now and we’ve managed not to go insane (knock on wood), but we did so by tip-toeing past the graveyard of Mother’s Days lost and putting each other through a sanity check once or twice a year.

Turning into my mother Dan Piraro www bizzaro com

Cartoon used by permission: Dan Piraro,

My sister and I would take each other’s mental temperature with questions about scenarios that once plagued our mother’s daily existence:

Are you talking to the wall, yet?”  (No, only to myself, but I try not to answer me or to talk to myself more than once a day!)

“Are you sewing extraneous pockets inside your sweaters and coats and stuffing them with stolen Saltine crackers, sugar packets, salt and pepper shakers, and anything not nailed down at the lunch counter of the Woolworths Five and Dime to prepare for Armageddon?” (No, but I must confess that I take home the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner from fancy hotels.  Does that count?)

“Do you make up conspiracy theories about the Russians trying to take control of your mind through radio waves?”  (No, although I must admit that I am starting to believe a conspiracy theory that since Trump got elected, I’ve been kidnapped by aliens, and I’m living in an alternate universe with alternate truths and an alternate reality.)

“Do you fantasize about killing your children in order to protect them from the “Russians” and white people”?  (No, but I did have copious dreams for years about me killing our mother after that time I invited her to the Girls’ Ensemble concert I was conducting at a church.)

The Girls’ Ensemble concert in 1976 was my last ditch effort to reestablish a relationship with my mother after having cut her out of my life for years.   Mommie Dearest hadn’t been in the concert for more than fifteen minutes before she got “agitated from being surrounded by too many white people” she said, and decided to accompany the Negro spiritual I was conducting [“God’s Gonna Rain Down Fire”] with her personal pyrotechnics.  She couldn’t understand why I didn’t understand that she was aiding God and me with the lighted matches she was throwing with trance-like abandonment into the audience’s hair.  I can still hear the curses of those poor white folks as they scattered like roaches swatting their heads while Security tried to subdue my crazy-ass mother.  I kept conducting the choir as if nothing crazy was happening—as if I didn’t know that woman.  I was too horrified to turn around and face the audience.  All I could do was sob like a hot mess while never missing a beat with my baton, hope the audience thought the crazy woman was related to the only other black person in the choir, and beg God to open up the ground and yank my mother down into the deepest hole in Hell.


Crazy Mother FB MEME

Every year, my sister and I have passed our own litmus tests, and we didn’t become paranoid-schizophrenic like our mother—thank God.   But one doesn’t rub elbows with that type of mother and come out unscathed.  Children of alcoholics, drug addicts, and mentally ill people either become like their parents or become the polar opposite. With all due respect, my sister Pee-wee is a control-freak and never had children. I overcompensated for my mother’s mental and physical abandonment by trying to be the perfect mom who was always up in my children’s grill, which almost drove my kids and me insane.  All children make mistakes and have to find their own way in life, no matter how inept or how great the mother.  Every stumble, every rebellion, and every mistake my children made I took as a personal rejection of my “shoddy” parenting, and I would just try harder.   My kids weren’t allowed to fuck up in life and that is a pressure no child can withstand, even if their hearts are in the right place to do the right thing. They love me dearly, and I them, but I’ve always felt that I could have done better by them by providing more clear-thinking advice about the pitfalls of life.  I have nightmares about the things I never had a chance to teach them before they flew the coop.  My secret horror is that they will be confronted with something in life and not have the life skills with which to overcome, and that lack, in turn, will fling them into the insanity of their grandmother.  When asked what keeps me awake at night about motherhood—this is it.

Good Mother FB


I am discovering that I am cautiously falling in love with the memory of my crazy-ass mother and coming to the adult realization that she did the best she could, given her circumstances.   Mama has been dead for thirty-seven years now (died in her sleep on an Easter morning after singing in the church choir), and I’m just beginning to see her through the prism of a life destroyed by intrinsic racism, sexual abuse, and poverty.  As I interview people from my past to chronicle my mother’s all-consuming insanity for my memoirs, I am beginning to see a woman who was not too different from me in her aspirations, dreams, and talents.  The difference in my sanity and my mother’s insanity is that I found the true love of a man (she was summarily abandoned by my father and left to perish in poverty with two babies); the winds of history blew open the doors at just the right time for my intelligent mind to be educated and my talent to be cultivated beyond the aspirations of scrubbing White folks’ toilets (Mama was never allowed to go past high school and spent much of her life as a maid rather than an opera singer which was her dream).   I have traveled the world and lived extremely well (wasting more money on Broadway shows, travel, and gourmet meals than my mother made in her entire life as a servant).

Am I sane today in spite of my mother because I escaped ignorance and want?   Can I “get over” in life because I don’t have to live under an apartheid system as my mother did in the US?  Were my babies safe from my potential descent into madness because I had hope for tomorrow and didn’t have to worry about my children’s next meal?  Only God knows.  But one thing is for sure—I no longer judge my mother for the pain I endured as a child.  Besides, it has made me who I am and given me a riotous sense of humor.  I am truly coming to love and understand the woman who gave me life.   From the conversations I’ve had recently with my grown children, it seems as if they are affording me the same grace.


Mom Dysfunction


“Mothers are all slightly insane.”—J. D. Salinger

“Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met.”― Marguerite Duras

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it’s a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.”― Erma Bombeck

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did—that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.”― Debra Ginsberg

Mothers Day IV Nate Beeler The Columbus Dispatch

Cartoon used by permission: Nate Beeler, The Columbus Dispatch




“Eleanor Tomczyk’s latest book shares deep insights and absurdly hilarious moments Tomczyk has collected from her life. She presents her unique humor and perspective through a fantastic conceit: podcasts to her unborn self.

“Tomczyk’s voice and cutting commentary travel back through the decades and into the womb. She’s here to tell her baby self all the things she should know about the world and all the lessons she will learn.

“Eleanor L. Tomczyk advises her fetus self on everything from the dangers of douching to the use of words as deadly weapons. Special podcast guest stars range from Tomczyk’s Aunt Lily—“Church Lady Extraordinaire”—to her own eyes and other body parts. When her children follow the “Little Barbarian Manifesto,” and her own organs start reminding her about the passing of time, all the reader can do is laugh out loud.”




Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on May 9, 2017 in Uncategorized


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Honey Boo-Boo Child—My Worst Nightmare

Do you know what I’ve discovered as a Dalai Mama who has seen just about everything in life and few things in this world have the ability to leave me speechless?   There is such a thing in our entertainment bandwidth called “Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo,” and it damn sure has left me speechless!  Apparently, everybody knew about this show except me, which I found quite by accident when the downstairs TV broke last week during a thunderstorm when my husband was out of town, and I needed something to calm my nerves.  Oh God—MY EYES/MY EARS—I may never be the same again and my nerves are truly shot!

Honey Boo-Boo Child (Alana Thompson) and Momma (June)|Image from

The star, Honey Boo Boo (Alana Thompson), is an extremely precocious six-year-old who talks like a sassy black drag queen (THINK: pint-sized RuPaul) and is part of a redneck reality show along with her family (mother June, dad Sugar Bear, sisters Pumpkin [12], Chubbs [15], and Chickadee [17]) on TLC that is a spin-off from Toddlers and Tiaras (a truly gross nightmare that I can’t bear to watch no matter how desperate I am for entertainment).   Honey Boo-Boo’s family is a train wreck from country Hell, and they punctuate their family comedy with unintelligible sentences laced with a chorus of farts, belches, and Honey Boo Boo aphorisms (“When my belly hurts, it’s usually gas, or too many chicken nuggets.”) as the rest of us look on with a mixture of horror and fascination as if viewing a multi-car train collision.  No matter how hard you try, you can’t tear yourself away from staring at the carnage that is washed down with a chaser of Honey Boo Boo’s “go-go juice” (a mixture of Mountain Dew and Red Bull).  In fact, I watched so many episodes of the Honey Boo-Boo marathon that night that I came away with something of a dazed affection for Honey Boo Boo (I found her to be genuinely funny, guileless, and kind of adorable), but, then again, I might have Stockholm Syndrome.  Although I liked the Boo-Boo Child, I had judgmental feelings of snarky disdain for her mother who has had four children by four different men (she never married them) and suffered palatable horror that a mother would expose her children to international ridicule (reporters from as far as the UK have been seen snooping around and snapping pictures of the family when they were unaware).

Honey Boo Boo’s Mom (June Shannon)|image from

I couldn’t get the Honey Boo Boo voices out of my head, so I became addicted—looking for my fix of Honey Boo-Boo episodes to satiate my mocking appetite as I kept trying to remind myself that “God doesn’t like ugly (meaning me!).”   As I feverishly hunted for more and more Honey Boo-Boo shows, the family’s barely intelligible quotes kept seducing me as I tried to ignore the Honey Boo Boo family voices assailing my mind like flies attacking fresh roadkill:

Sugar Bear is my baby’s daddy. That’s Alana’s dad. And we’ve been shack ‘em up mates for like, eight years now (Mama June).”

“Please, women of voluptuous size, put some clothes on. All the vajingle jangle  (vagina?) is not beautimous. As you can tell, I got some of my vajingle jangle cleaned up . . . I don’t straddle things very well (straddling her husband, Sugar Bear?).”

“My mother had told me in the past that if you fart 12-15 times a day, you can lose a little weight, so I think I’ll lose a lot of weight because I’m going to fart a lot (older child starting a diet—Chubbs).”

“My gay uncle is poodle. That’s why we call him a poodle because he has a little fruit in his tank. He’s got grapes in his tank (Honey Boo Boo talking about her father’s brother and her pageant coach).”

“A dolla make me holla, honey boo boo child (Honey Boo Boo upon winning toddler pageant money)!”

And then in the middle of the night, I knew what it was that the Dalai Mama had to say about all this reality show craziness, but it needed to be said to all of the shows whose parents had pimped their children out to be gawked at by the masses (Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, the “ever-so-pious” [barf] Duggars and their 19 [20?] kids, the Kate Plus Eight gang, the Octomom clan, and Dance Moms, to name a few):  “Your kids are going to open up a can of whup-ass when they are around 16 or so (propably sooner for Honey Boo Boo) and cause a world of hurt on your misguided behinds, because there will be no place to run and nowhere to hide from the overexposure and mocking ridicule you have subjected them to.”

Since every kid in every region, in every land, and every race hits an age where they think their parents are the stupidest creatures on Earth, reality show parents are really going to be in for a rude awakening when the kids end up hating them for putting their shit all out in the street.  Honey Boo Boo may be precocious and having a good time now, but wait until she figures out a few things in life and then hates Mama June and Sugar Bear for ever allowing her to be born.


1.  When your kid decides you are the stupidest person on the face of the Earth and everything you did pertaining to raising them was butt-shit crazy even though it seemed like a good idea at the time given the circumstances!

2.  As Alan Bennett says, “Children always assume the sexual lives of their parents come to a grinding halt at their conception.”  So Mama June, you not being able to “straddle Sugar Bear” because you’re too fat is filed in Honey Boo-Boo’s future teenage disdainful brain in the folder “TMI, TMI, EEUUEW!”  And you Mr. and Mrs. Duggar from “Meet The Duggars”: The fact that you have 19 kids and counting is not God’s will, it’s a freak show because you must be the horniest man on the face of the Earth, Mr. Duggar; and Mrs. Duggar, you haven’t figured out that your muffin (or “moonpie” as Mama June calls it) is a VAGINA, not a clown car!   

image from

3.  Mama June, the kids stop appreciating your fart jokes around about the time you can no longer control the frequency of your farts or the noxious smell of them, so the fact that your show’s entry song is punctuated with a fart sound tract will come back to bite you in the butt (pun intended) sooner than later.

Image from

4.  At some point, Mama June, just stop breathing because your very voice will begin to grate on Honey Boo Boo’s nerves.  I promise that it will get better when she is in her late 20’s/early 30’s.  Once she finds out how hard life truly is, you’ll rise like Phoenix up from the ashes (uh, maybe not if you keep farting on camera and trying to hog Honey Boo Boo’s spotlight), but until then try not to lose your mind and keep your redneck opinions on the down-low.

Stewie’s T-Shirt (“Family Guy”)|Image from

As the Dalai Mama (a mother who has seen it all and been through it all), I am discovering that no parent has it all together and since I know that parenting is one of the hardest things a human can ever attempt, I am also cognizant of the fact that I can’t really judge any parent for very long because but by the grace of God go I.  (Even if you think you did a bang-up job, you really won’t know the verdict until your children go the distance in their lives and reach the end without turning into your worst nightmare.)  Because of this reality, I have a few issues with God which I plan to have a little chat with him about as soon as I see him face-to-face.   Why is it that any ol’ person is allowed to have kids at any ol’ time just because they got horny on any ol’ given day?   Why don’t their twigs and berries and their “vajingle jangles” just “dry up” and “snap shut when they are unsuitable to be parents?”  And why, when these “reality” parents end up on TV, why aren’t they more like Claire and Cliff Huxtable—the perfect “unreality” TV parents (educated, rich, well-behaved, and immensely talented)?  A little unreality God, is that too much to ask in this life?

The Huxtables—America’s Favorite TV Family|image from

“To an adolescent, there is nothing in the world more embarrassing than a parent.”—Dave Barry

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.”

Philip Larkin

 “Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.”—Oscar Wilde

“God’s punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own. And so, they moved to the east of Eden, which was still the good part of town, and they had your typical suburban family: a couple of dim-witted boys.”Bill Cosby

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on September 29, 2012 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , ,

A Mother’s Revenge

Do you know what I’ve discovered?   The commercials about Vegas are a lie:  What happens in Vegas DOES NOT STAY in Vegas!  Did you hear about Prince Harry getting caught with his twig and berries flapping in the breeze in Vegas and, consequently, pictures of his cute little vanilla behind, while playing strip poker, were seen around the world via the Internet?  (Did I hear one of you say, “Where the fuck was Buckingham Palace security”?)

Do you know what else I’ve discovered?  Hell hath no fury like a Queen’s rebuke of her grandson’s foolish and dangerous behavior.  Guess who is being shipped off to Afghanistan for four months to fly Black Hawk helicopters in combat where no “Hos” (whores to the uninitiated) and paparazzi can follow him?  Oh yeah, Queen Elizabeth, you rock, Sister-Queen!

Cartoon by Andy Davey from The Sun||image posted on

My children are older than Prince Harry now and at the ages when I’m beginning to look like a miniature little chubby saint to them as they look back at all they put me through.  I survived them—but barely.  The child that turned me gray overnight from all her “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas crazies” is now a very strict, church-going, uber-Christian, WWJD bracelet-dispensing mama who has summarily announced that she is going to rear my grandson in such a way that he will skip right over the rebellion phase of his life and march straight into sainthood.  To which her father and I always respond with gales of thigh-slapping FOTF laughter and commentary:  “Let us know how that works out for you, Babe.”  To illustrate the case in point, the other day this particular daughter called in total frustration over a stalemate that she and my grandson had gotten into.

“Mom, you’ve got to help me,” my daughter said.  “Your grandson is driving me crazy.  He knows his birthday is just around the corner and he is refusing to turn four years old!   What child refuses to go from age three to four?  I couldn’t wait to grow up.  I’ve planned a huge birthday party in the park for him tomorrow, and that little booger announced that, not only didn’t he plan to attend, but he didn’t plan on ever leaving three years old, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Well now there must be a reason,” I said.  “Did my angel say why he didn’t want to turn four years old?”

“Yeah—he says he wants to stay a baby, and if he goes into four-year-old land, he’ll no longer be a baby.  Right now, he’s sitting in a corner on the floor with his arms crossed, pouting and whimpering, and giving me classic baby evil-eye, death-ray stares—as if I were the dreaded peas and carrots that he hates so much.”

Example of “baby evil-eye” |Google Image/

Later that afternoon, my conversation with my older daughter swirled in my head as I settled down for a much-needed nap.  As I thought about my kid’s complaint against her kid, a delicious sense of irony and revenge began to swell in my heart as I gave a shout-out to God:  “Thank you Jesus for giving my child a child whose temperament is just like hers.  Please, please, please, God, if you have any love for me, please give my daughter a generous taste of the crap she put me through!”  And then I dozed off fantasizing about a three-year-old terrorist sent into the field as an agent to wreak “payback” for his beloved MeMa as the words of Hamlet danced in my head:  “To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.”

Actual picture of Agent Boo-Boo at Command Central||E Tomczyk © 2012

A picture comes into focus on a computer and shows the darling face of a bi-racial three-year-old boy drinking juice from a Sippy-cup with two pairs of “big-boy underwear” on his head which is part of his signature field outfit.  In my dream the little boy in the picture speaks like an adult and his name is “Agent Boo-Boo.”

AGENT BOO-BOO:  Hey MeMa—reporting in for our Skype update.  How yu doin’?

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Hey Baby—I’m doin’ just fine now that you’re on the line.  I notice that you’re still wearing your underwear as a double-layered helmet in protest of not wanting to be potty trained.  I thought you had acquiesced to stop wearing diapers in exchange for the roller blade bribe by your mother.

AGENT BOO-BOO:  I did.  I’m rockin’ this potty training stuff now.  I just like to mess with Mommy’s mind every once and awhile and make her think I may revert back to the big-boy panty protest days of yesteryear. Those were good times!  Just for grins and giggles the other day, I peed and pooped all over myself, just to see what would happen—I had poop in my hair, poop on my shoes, poop on my fingers, poop down my legs—I had poop everywhere!   Mommy went INSANE!  And just as other people were coming into earshot, I really almost made her lose her shit when I screamed really loudly:  “ARE YOU GOING TO BEAT ME—NO, NO, DON’T BEAT ME!”  You should have been there, MeMa—it was sweet!

THE GRANDMOTHER:  (laughing hysterically) Oh, no you de-ent, Boo-Boo?  Child, you are too much!  You know your Mama doesn’t beat you.  But that sure was a good payback on MeMa’s behalf, Baby; because it reminds me of the time your Mama fell out in a full-blown tantrum in a restaurant when she was three.  As I removed her from the table so that she wouldn’t disturb the other diners (thinking we’d go outside and I’d have a stern talk with her), she screamed at the top of her lungs while being carried like a sack of potatoes as she made her bones turn to wet noodles and tried to slither to the floor:  “DON’T SPANK ME, DON’T SPANK ME, PLEASE, I’LL BE GOOD. . .SOMEONE HELP THE CHILD—SHE’S GOING TO KILL ME!”  When your Mama settled down and we returned to our table, all the diners waved and blew kisses to your mother as if she had escaped the guillotine while giving me the ol’ evil eye.   Well, I want you to know, your MeMa doesn’t put up with any shit.  I gave the other diners the evil-eye right back and summarily announced to the entire room:  “I did not spank this child, but if one of you says one thing to me, I swear to God, I’ll wipe the floor with you, because your judgmental asses have no idea what this pint-sized terrorist puts me through on any given day!”

AGENT BOO-BOO:   I’ve got one better for you.  If you liked the poop story, you’ll love what I did in FAO Schwartz the other day.  You know that giant toy elephant by the escalator?  I suctioned-cupped myself to one of his legs and demanded Mommy buy it for me.  I refused to leave the store without him.  Two security guys had to untangle my fingers from the elephant and Mommy had to carry me kicking and screaming out of the store.  Everybody in the place was in a state of shock except for the other babies who started crying and screaming in solidarity because Mommy refused to give in to my demands.

FAO Schwarz|image from

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Oh Lord, have mercy, baby boy.  I shouldn’t be laughing at this story.  And I’m glad she didn’t buy you the elephant for a whole host of reasons.  Your poor mother . . . but wait a minute; I refuse to feel sorry for her.  For every FAO Schwarz story you have, I can tell you at least five more that your mother did to me from here to the Middle East and back, and what she didn’t do, her sister (your Aunt) did.  My worst times with your Aunt was over her picky eating habits as a toddler.  Which reminds me, are you still on strike against vegetables, ’cause I know you inherited that from your Aunt?

AGENT BOO-BOO:  You know it, MeMa.   No vegetable of any color will ever cross these lips—as God is my witness.  Mommy and I had a four-hour showdown the other night over peas and carrots.  Finally, she was so exasperated with me that she laid down an ultimatum:  “If you eat your vegetables, Boo-Boo, you can watch your favorite movie tonight, but if you don’t eat your vegetables, you’re going to bed immediately.”

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Yikes!  What did you do?

AGENT BOO-BOO:  While Mommy was washing dishes, I slipped away from the dinner table ever so stealthily when she wasn’t looking; put on my Madagascar PJ’s, and put myself to bed.  It was my way of saying, “IN YOUR FACE, WOMAN—DEATH TO PEAS AND CARROTS!”  By the time Mommy came looking for me, I was asleep and not one pea or carrot entered my tummy.  My enemy was defeated—yet again.

THE GRANDMOTHER:  But Honey, you missed your favorite movie.  Would it have killed you to eat a couple of peas and carrots?

AGENT BOO-BOO:  Never, I tell you—never!  When one is dealing in warfare, one has to use desperate means, even if it requires great sacrifice.

THE GRANDMOTHERYep, you are your mother’s child, all right.  Anyway, your mother called and asked me to coerce you into turning four years old.  Your Mommy is trying really, really hard to be a good mother.  So why don’t you cut her a little slack on this issue, march bravely into year four, and when you come down on the train at Christmas time, Grandpa will take you to see the Shrek Ice Show.  We hear you’re really into Shrek these days, and three year olds can’t go down the Shrek ice slide—only four year olds can.

AGENT BOO-BOO:  Really?  Hum . . . Okay, MeMa.  It’s a deal.   But there may be a slight problem coming to visit you by train this time.  The last time we were on the Acela, while Mommy was using the potty, I found a funny looking red button next to the toilet and I pulled it.  Just like magic, a bunch of men in uniforms came and banged on the bathroom door asking Mommy if she was okay.  Mommy was really embarrassed and yelled through the door that she had a “rambunctious toddler who had gotten a little out of hand.”

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Oh Darling, you weren’t supposed to pull that button.  It is an emergency button to summon the conductors if you’re in trouble.  Don’t touch that again, Sweetie.

AGENT BOO-BOO:  Too late, MeMa.  Apparently, there are two red buttons in the Acela bathrooms, and on the way back from visiting you and Grandpa, I found the other red button before Mommy saw it.   This time lots and lots of men in uniform came to watch me poop and they gave Mommy the evil eye and shook their fingers at her.

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Oh, Lord Jesus!  Well, we’ll blame it on your allergy medicine and book you under an assumed name for your Christmas travel when you come to see Grandpa and me.  Amtrak only checks the IDs of adults—not the toddlers.  Although, I’m beginning to think that trains and planes should require baby picture IDs, because with what you’ve just told me and remembering your mother’s antics when we traveled with her, an evil genius with a couple thousand toddlers could probably take over the world.

Announcement of forthcoming toddler travel tantrum|image from

AGENT BOO-BOO:  Okay MeMa.  Chat with you later. MUAH!

THE GRANDMOTHER:  Love you too, my sweet boy!  Oh, and don’t tell your mother I used swear words while talking to you—she’ll read me the riot act!

These Boo-Boo stories are all true but are a compilation of my grandson’s antics and a couple stories borrowed from my younger daughter’s (Baby-girl) experience as a nanny. Today’s toddlers rule the day and are wreaking revenge for their grandmothers throughout the Earth. Every Baby-boomer mother went through the same terror with their toddler mothers and fathers and prayed that one day—someday—we would live to see our children tormented by the same toddler terrorist plots they put us through.  Viva la toddlerhood!

Happy 4th Birthday “Agent Boo-Boo”—our darling boy who, in real life, is an angel! ||Photo by J Tomczyk ©2012


 “I love it when mothers get so mad they can’t remember your name. ‘Come here, Roy, er, Rupert, er, Rutabaga… what is your name, boy? And don’t lie to me, because you live here, and I’ll find out who you are.’”― Bill Cosby, Fatherhood

 “In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising in the bookstores, child raising is still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck – and, of course, courage.”― Bill Cosby, Fatherhood

Agent Boo-Boo in B-day party hat|K Tomczyk photo © 2012

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Posted by on September 8, 2012 in Uncategorized


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