By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

Princesses have infiltrated my world. It began with a nostalgia for Aladdin on a rainy afternoon and morphed into 13 books, every G-rated movie with a princess-looking character on the cover, 23 dolls, 2 crowns, and 1 trip to Disney on Ice. We are living in castles and bursting into song at the dinner table.

I’m not terribly concerned since my daughter’s favorite princesses are ones in big ball gowns who shoots people.

Or maybe I should be more concerned?

So while the parenting gurus line up to learn how I’ve done such a great job teaching my children the fundamentals of life, I’ll share a little of what I’ve learned from Disney.

10 Things I’ve learned from Disney Princesses:

1. Spells are broken by kissing, dying, crying and killing someone. But never by doing your homework or listening to your parents.

2. Being able to carry a tune will pretty much guarantee people will like you. Or at least mice and birds will.

3. There are a LOT of unwed princes out there.

4. If one of your parents is dead, you are probably a princess.

5. Anyone with a cackle instead of a laugh, apples or money should not be trusted. And if they are called “trusted advisor”? RUN.

6. Parents lose their children much too often.

7. Talking animals are not as rare as biology class leads you to believe.

8. Do not grow your hair past your waist unless you’re comfortable with people climbing it.

9. Keep track of your shoes.

10. If it’s too good to be true, it probably is. Except for love-at-first-sight, fairy godmothers, ball gowns and magical tears.

Now, let’s all live happily ever after.

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

When I said to my son: Where do you want to have your birthday party?

He yelled: ROMP N’ ROLL!

I even double-checked and offered other options because this is the second year in a row that we’ve had a birthday party at Romp n’ Roll, but he was adamant.

And I was pretty excited since it meant no set up or cleaning up. Plus, I didn’t have to create activities that keep my husband and I up until 2 a.m. cutting out tiny animals and writing directions over and over and over again. (Hello, first birthday party.)

He asked for a Mario Brothers theme so I ordered decorations online and showed up at Romp n’ Roll 15 minutes early, and they put them up. (Note: I could’ve chosen one of Romp n’ Roll’s themes had my son not been obsessed with Mario Kart but then who’d be Princess Peach today. And I kinda dig being a princess.)

Two counselors run the birthday party so the parents get to have a snowball fight and freeze dance their hearts out with the kids. (Two of the many activities from which we could chose.)

Um, yes, I did get into the moonbounce. What? My husband forgot to get me one for my birthday.

My only suggestion would be to streamline the process. It took about four phone calls to get everything worked out, which is two too many for me. I needed to practice my snowball throwing skills (I hate losing!).

The party was fantastic, my son had a blast and even the day after the hurricane, so many friends showed up to celebrate my sweet boy.

I would recommend Romp n’ Roll birthday parties to all my beloved I-don’t-want-to-clean-my-house-or-be-crafty parents. And feel free to invite us!

Romp n’ Roll is an advertiser of Richmondmom.com, however Alex wrote this article for us all on her own!

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

Nature and I have never been friends. The one time I went camping with Scott, I woke him up every 30 minutes for NOISES. I refer to hiking as forced marches and insects make me leap into the air like I’ve caught fire. Also, falling leaves do that to me.

I’m particular hateful of Virginia summers. Any temperature over 80 degrees is WRONG and not being able to wear jeans for 3-4 months makes me cry.

But if I hated nature and particularly Southern nature before, after this past week, I’m mortified by it.

My daughter says three times a day: I didn’t like shaking. Let’s not go upstairs this way mama. Um, me neither my dear. And since I spent most of it holding you, checking my washing machine and texting my husband to make sure I hadn’t had a psychotic breakdown, I’m not exactly PREPARED for how to stay safe for the next FOUR that came our way.

Lest I think that nature is done with me, a merely four days later, Hurricane Irene descended upon Richmond. Now I’ve been through hurricane before. I grew up in the normal temperatur-ed Northeast and know exactly what to do. (And it is not: Buy eggs and milk.)

Nor does it include talking walks during a hurricane and stopping underneath a giant limb-shaking tree.

However, I was ill-prepared for losing electricity for 96 hours. In fact by day 2, we bought a generator and ran extension cords into our vomit-inducing garbage disposal.

Oh and while we had no power, we needed to OPEN THE WINDOWS, and of course, one window didn’t have a screen because Richmond get about 10 minutes of window time before the air-conditioner or heat needs to be on. Plus, these old houses are built to look good but not exactly WORK.

At bedtime, we managed to squeak one window in my kids’ bedroom open, but the screen was in the backyard. My husband ran down to grab it and as he’s placing it into the window, he yells and dropped the screen two flights.

Me: Whoa! What is it?

Scott: Ants.

Like a living breathing tattoo sleeve that used to be his forearm.

Next, I look down at the bed and see the sheet covered in ants.

Many, many, many ants running around screaming: Where the heck are we? We were living in our fancy screened in city and now we’re on a bunch of Marios and Luigis. Where’s Jim? Where’s Alice?THE HORROR.

The screen contained the Washington D.C. of ant colonies until Earthquake Scott came along and moved it to another continent. (Well, for the ants to actually call it their DCquake, it would’ve had to occur 100 miles from the screen in a state that the media thinks only exists for confederate reenactments and gaffes by our elected officials.)

We kill ant after ant as bedtime drags on and on. As darkness descends, we can only hope that we had gotten them all.

The next morning my kids woke up with bites on their arms, legs and necks.

I hate nature, and I’ll be moving to a concrete bunker on the Southside as soon as the locust plague passes.

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

I reached a point in parenting, not too long ago, where I raised my eyes to the heavens, shook my fist and yelled: WHY CAN’T I HAVE NICE THINGS.

Things my children broke (in no particular order):

15 necklaces of mine including one with handmade beads by my friend A. Conveniently ”beads” also mean “hockey pucks.” (Wait, does anyone in Richmond even know what those are anymore?)

Every other container that I bought to become AMAZINGLY ORGANIZED. As it turns out, my kids version of organized is somewhere between stepping on boxes and sitting in boxes and watching boxes being thrown out.

My heart.  I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been on purpose. YET.

My husband’s glasses. Because “Hide the Glasses” is way more fun than hundreds of dollars worth of toys. Too bad I can’t trade toys for eyewear. Or really for ANYTHING.

Multiple cats.

Why yes, I do have a cat collection and that does make me awesome. Well, until it mostly contsained incapacitated cats.

My rearview mirror. Because you can’t see the car floor with it on the windshield!

3000 matchbox cars. If it’s any indication of their future driving skills, I’ll be keeping my kids on an enclosed track until they’re 30. With their hatred of rearview mirrors, this is probably the right call anyway. Plus, look at all the cool things those enclosed track cars get to do in the commercials!

My shoes. MY SHOES. {insert crying and the tearing of hair}

Their own artwork. Like it’s some sort of Freudian rebellion against my “THOSE ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BLUE BLOBS I’VE EVER SEEN!”

We take pictures to remember them by.

But, of course, PEOPLE are more important than THINGS.  In other words, they have never broken my iPhone so I continue to love them.

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

I had to stop myself at nine and give myself an ultimatum for number ten. Otherwise, it was just depressing.

1. Teaching my children about time. Because now “I’ll be done in a second” means I get exactly ONE SECOND to do it. PS. It took me five seconds to write that sentence.

2. Teaching my children to say excuse me. Because now when they say “excuse me” I have to stop doing what I’m doing. I should’ve defined “excuse me” as “something you say and then wait 500 seconds for the person to answer.”

3. Teaching my children how to turn on the television. Because the epic battle between the the remote control and the TV’s on button when it’s time to stop watching is costing us a lot of batteries.

4. Teaching my children to be nice. Because a stranger’s ability to ignore “hellos” and frantic waving is almost as impressive as my ability to murder them WITH MY EYES.

5. Teaching my children how to dress themselves

N's outfit. To go fishing in.

6. Teaching my children that car windows go up and down. Because it’s 100 degrees in the shade or raining when they want to show me what they learned.

7. Teaching my children how delicious cookie dough is. Because now, when I put cookies in the oven, everyone cries.

8. Teaching my children a strong and fearless appreciation for the outdoors. Because I don’t want to meet Mr. Worm. In my shoe. The following day.

9. Teaching my children how to use my iPhone. I can’t even finish this thought because my son just called Romp n’ Roll to confirm his birthday party plans.

10. But the one mistake I won’t make is teaching my children how to write:

Exactly.

Wish me luck!

(Photo sources: My iPhone and HuffPo)

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

I walk into my coffee shop.

Barista: Your usual?

(I use up all my creativity writing, OKAY?)

Me: Not today.

(Oh, my usual is a cappuccino and a croissant. But only at this particular coffee shop. I’m too intimidated by all the -iatos and -attes at Starbucks to order anything other than coffee or tea, and I’m pretty sure all the other coffee shops are out of business.)

Barista: Really?

Me: Yup.  Just a coffee.  YOUR LARGEST.  It was that kinda night.

The two women behind the counter, who are at least 5 years younger than me, knowingly nod as they think of hangovers and bad boyfriends and great concerts and secret dance clubs and spectacular first dates where you accidentally talked until sunrise.

And I smile and hope that I don’t smell like my daughter’s vomit.

It’s hard to be cool and a mom.

My point exactly.

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

My mom, daughter and I walked into a local restaurant to have a quick lunch before picking up my son from preschool. My daughter and I frequented the place about twice a month for the most of fall and winter.

As we entered, the waitress gave us a funny look. I followed her line of sight and realized that my daughter had vomited.

I ran over to N. She had gotten an apple caught in her throat, and when she coughed it back up, she puked with it.

The restaurant staff just stood there.

Finally, I turned to the woman closest to me and said: Could I have some paper towels?

I was given two.

I asked for more.

I was given more and then told to clean off my mom’s jacket, too.

After that, we were basically ignored or given minimal service when we asked to place our order.

I was flustered and upset. At my daughter nearly choking. At a restaurant staff that never asked whether she was okay. At being treated like a pariah.

I tweeted about it and everyone told me to call the manager. I wanted to take their advice especially after finding the restaurant’s facebook page touting: “We’re very family-friendly!”

But I didn’t. Because even if I called, I still wouldn’t go back. What if they recognized me? I’m just paranoid enough to worry about my food being spit in or the staff being rude again. And to be honest, I’m not sure that the manager wasn’t there watching the entire scenario unfold in the first place.

I have attempted to put myself in the restaurant’s staffs shoes. Perhaps, the staff thought I brought a toddler with a stomach virus to the restaurant? But why wouldn’t they have asked if she was okay? Maybe they were having a collective bad day? Or I just over-read the situation? I was upset that my daughter had choked.

It’s not a huge loss for me. The restaurant was convenient, and I liked going there for mother-daughter dates, but the service was never overly friendly in the first place. As a parent, kind people make me want to come back to a restaurant more than anything else. With kids, I eat FAST so even subpar food can be overcome by nice people.

I do tell the story whenever the restaurant is mentioned so maybe it’s a loss for them. I’m not sure if my decision to not call but still tell the story is fair since I never gave them a chance to explain. But I’m wimpy that way. And it seems like common decency to ask if a child is okay.

Why should I be held to the standard of saying: Please excuse my daughter for almost choking to death. You probably shouldn’t feed us. Have a family-friendly day!

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

The Characters:

Me = Me.
E = My four-year-old son.
N = My two-year-old daughter who was either missing or napping.
Scott = My husband, their dad and the smartest man I know to not know stuff.

The Scene:
Family room in Richmond, Virginia with a kitchen twenty feet away. Two members of a seemingly normal family are resting on the couch. The third is playing with matchbox cars.

E: I’m thirsty. Dada, get me water!

Scott: You can get yourself water.

E: But I’m LAZY.

{unhelpful giggling from the peanut gallery, also known as me}

Scott: Well, I’m lazier.

E: I’m a million times lazy!

Scott: I’m a million PLUS ONE times lazy.

E: Well, I’m a billion times lazy.

Scott: Well, I’m a trillion times lazy.

Me: E, quick! Come over to Mama and I’ll teach you how to win.

Scott: NOOOOOOOO! DON’T GO OVER THERE!

{E runs like the wind to me.}

Me: E, say “I’m infinity times lazy!”

Scott: Well, I’m a gazillion times lazy.

Me: Um, that’s not a number.

Scott: It’s not?

{pause to relish in his seriousness}

Me: You’re a doctor, right?

Scott: I’m googling it.

Me: Now, GOOGLE — that’s a number.

Scott: Shush-up.

E: Um, can I have some water?

Close curtain as audience applauds mostly for themselves since they are the better, smarter parents. Our work here is done. {bowing}

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

I never feel more dumb than when my children reach the age of two. (I clearly don’t have teenagers yet.)  Because Why is the sky blue?, Why is water wet?, and Why did that bird poop on our car? were not on my SATs or MCATs nor did my diaper bag include an answer bookley.  And I’m pretty annoyed about it.

Last month, my youngest hit this milestone. The WHY MAMA milestone.

So here are ten questions that I have faced and failed. Even Google can’t answer all of them (which should make me feel better but doesn’t).

(The questions tend to actually be in the order of I SAY SOMETHING and my daughter responds WHY MAMA? But for simplicity sake, I put the WHY in the beginning.)

1. Why can’t I sleep with my Hello Kitty electric toothbrush?

2. Why can’t I pee on the back deck?

3. Why are you putting on makeup?

4. Why is {insert anything happening in a movie} happening, Mama?

5. Why is it raining?

6. Why are Dada’s shoes too big for me?

7. Why are our private parts private?

8. Why can’t I lick the cat?

9. Why do I have to wear underwear to school?

10. Why can’t a decorate our front door with stickers?

She asked after the fact. Clearly.

I finally succumbed to the dreaded: BECAUSE I SAID SO.

Please don’t tell my mother.

By Alex Iwashyna, blogger at Late Enough

Last week, my mom and I attended the 66th Annual Junior League Book and Author Dinner. That’s right MY MOM AND I. I can’t remember the last time my mom and I did anything without our regular entourage of kids, spouses, sisters. Three years ago?

The best part, besides the amazing authors like Karen Russell whose book, Swamplandia!, I’m currently devouring not only for the riveting story line but for her ability to turn a phrase that makes any writer sigh with delight, was that my mom invited me because I’m a writer. Best reason ever. Aren’t moms amazing?

Otherwise, the term “Junior League” would be enough to scare me off. I had no idea what these women did, but I pictured overly-social ladies in Lily Pulitzer carrying Coach bags — pretty much not in my league at all. But when I researched through my assumptions (although assuming is so much FUN!), the Junior League has given 30,000 volunteer hours to our community in all sorts of ways. And I’m totally a sucker for how much they focus on promoting family literacy because I think that reading and access to books are amazing gifts.

Plus, they put on Touch-a-Truck every fall which we adore.

Touching a truck in 2009

The Junior League seems to be everywhere. To quote one community leader “Every time I work with the Junior League, I feel like the Marines have landed.” I admire people willing to put their money and their feet where their community needs it. Even if those feet are in Diane von Furstenberg Gladiator Sandals. Admittedly, those shoes ARE fantastic.

If you would like to join the Junior League, applications for member ends May 9th, 2011.

If you missed the membership deadline, you can still donate to The Junior League of Richmond with a click.

Oh and you can definitely attend next year’s Book and Author Dinner with my mom and I. I’m pretty sure that she’s stuck with me every year. As long as she keeps calling me a writer.