Tag Archives: Parenting

Trick or Carrot Stick! Our First Diabetic Halloween.

Santa filled his stocking with socks, underwear and Pokemon cards.

The Easter Bunny left Lego around the house instead of chocolate.

Sugar Free Jell-O has become his staple dessert at birthday parties.

But what do you do with your diabetic child on Halloween? A holiday that revolves around candy?

My boy is excited to go Trick or Treating in his new Storm Trooper costume. He’s pumped to run around in the dark with his brother, sister and friends. But he keeps asking me what we’re going to do about the candy and my only answer so far has been “we’ll worry about it on Halloween”.


Clearly I need some help…and fast!

Sam’s one year diabetes anniversary is on November twenty-fourth. This will be our first rodeo having a diabetic child on Halloween. Because he’s on injections of both slow and fast acting insulin twice daily, he needs to eat a regimented amount of carbohydrates at certain times throughout the day. So what does that have to do with Halloween?


Halloween is all about running wildly from door to door while pigging out on candy. It’s about staying up late and bending the rules when it comes to bedtimes and proper nutrition.


Maybe I could go around to all of the houses in my neighbourhood and ask them to offer carb free, diabetic friendly foods like veggies, meat or cheese to the Trick or Treaters instead of candy? And while I’m at it, I’ll ask all of the kids to say “Trick or Carrot Stick” instead of Trick or Treat?

Clearly I’m delirious.

As I sit here and stress about ways to include my son in all of the Halloween fun, my husband comes up with a plan.

“Sam, how about Mom and Dad buy your Halloween candy from you and then you can use the money to get yourself something special? Like a new Lego set?”

“Really? So I can still Trick or Treat?”

“Of course,” my husband replies with a smile.

What just happened here? Did my husband just solve our Halloween dilemma?

“Sam, you’re sure you’re okay with not eating candy with your brother and sister?” I ask to make sure he fully understands.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Oh and maybe I could donate the money to the JDRF instead of getting Lego?”

What? Who is this kid?

“That’s a terrific idea” I say as my heart swells with pride.

As a parent of a diabetic child, all I want for my son is to be included. Whether it be soccer, hockey, class potlucks or Trick or Treating, I simply want him to know that having diabetes won’t stop him from doing anything that he did before his diagnosis. Sure, we might have to get a little creative, but nothing is impossible. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last year it’s that my son is ridiculously resilient.

I’m still relatively new to the complex world of parenting a diabetic child and I would gladly welcome Halloween tips from any Type 1 parents out there! I’d love to know how  you make holidays and other special events inclusive for your kids. Feel free to let your suggestions fly in the comments! I think that my “Trick or Carrot Stick” idea is a pretty clear indication that I need all of the help that I can get!

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

Your friend,











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The Great Diet Dr. Pepper Incident of 2016.

Seven months ago today my youngest son was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Throughout this time he’s been showered with love and support from his family, friends, school and community. Diabetes is a shit deal, but my boy takes it all in a stride and makes me proud every day.

Today started off a little rocky. My boy was on edge, grumpy, not his usual bubbly self. When my daughter asked if she could have a loonie for Freezie Friday at school, my son exploded in a rage filled rant about how it’s “not fair” that he can’t have a freezie and that “diabetes is stupid” and that he “doesn’t want it any more”. Every time he has one of these breakdowns I find the only thing I can do is agree with him, because he’s right.

Once he calmed down, I asked him if he’d like me to bring him something special to have when the kids were having their freezies. Last week I surprised him with some diet iced tea and that blew his little mind. On my way to work, I stopped at the corner store and decided to totally freak his freak by buying him a diet Dr. Pepper. Yes it’s full of aspartame and is obviously not the healthiest choice, but come on! The boy deserved a treat after the crappy morning he had. I happily dropped off the pop at his school and laughed with the secretary about how odd it was that a diet pop was better for my kid than a “100% fruit juice” freezie.

Freezie Friday takes place during second recess, which is at two o’clock in the afternoon. At three o’clock I got a text from my husband asking me to call him. I wasn’t busy at work so I called him right away. The first thing he said was “everything is fine” followed by “but there was an incident at school”. My heart sank thinking that my son had gotten sick due to high or low blood sugar. My husband was quick to say that our son was “just fine” but that he had been very upset.

Here’s what happened…

My son was ecstatic about his diet Dr. Pepper surprise! He took a few sips at the start of recess then set his pop down on the ground next the school wall so that he could go off into the yard and play. A few minutes later he went back to have some more and was horrified when he discovered four boys drinking his coveted diet Dr. Pepper! When my son confronted the boys they dropped the bottle on the ground an ran away. With tears flowing down his cheeks, my son and some of his friends found the teacher on recess duty and told her what happened. Together they found the four boys out in the yard and those jerks were promptly sent to the principle’s office.




First off, what kind of kids see a random drink on the ground and think drinking it ALL is a good idea???

Secondly, my son’s school is tiny and everyone knows about his diabetes. WHY WOULD THOSE JERK KIDS STEAL MY DIABETIC KID’S FREAK’N TREAT???  WHY???

Knowing that this happened to my son filled me with a myriad of emotions. Rage, anger, sadness. I mostly wanted to find the parents of the four boys and ask them why their children were such inconsiderate assholes.

On my way home from work, I stopped by the same corner store that I had been to in the morning and I bought my son his second diet Dr. Pepper of the day. When I got home he was playing in the basement with his brother. I called him upstairs and hugged him a little  tighter than normal. I gave him his replacement diet Dr. Pepper and his eyes lit up as he thanked me. We had a quick chat and he said that some of the boys had apologized and that he had forgiven them.

I’ve had a few hours to cool down (and swear) about The Great Diet Dr. Pepper Incident of 2016. I’m still angry, but if my kid can get over it so quickly then maybe I should follow his lead and let it go.

Thanks for reading my rant and we’ll chat soon,













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Paragraph #25: Suck it, Snow Day.

snow day


I had high hopes for today.

A day off work and eight glorious hours to myself.

I didn’t have any big plans. Just writing, sitting on my couch, watching some Netflix and eating a chocolate bar.

But all of that was thrown out the window when today was declared a Snow Day.


Okay fine, there’s some freezing rain action and the roads are slick but don’t fucking call it a Snow Day when there’s no snow falling from the goddam sky.

And it’s all my fault.

I should have driven my kids to school.

I deeply regret the decision I made when I was semi conscious at six thirty this morning.

At the time, the idea of staying in bed for a glorious extra half hour impaired my judgement.

I should have gotten my fat ass out of bed and taken them to school.

But it’s too late for “should haves.”

Now I have to live with the consequences of my sleep deprived actions.

And by “live” I mean I have to sit here on my couch, drinking coffee and writing while my kids alternate between playing video games and making me loaves of bread out of Playdoh.

Wait a second…

I’m sitting on my couch, writing. That’s half of what I wanted to accomplish today and it’s not even noon!

If I can sneak in some Netflix programming that isn’t animated and scarf down that chocolate bar without getting busted by the kids, then I’ll triumph over this stupid Snow Day!

Did you hear that Snow Day?

I’m half way to owning you!


So, why don’t you take your freezing rain and your ice and your cancelled school buses and SUCK IT!

I’m going to be right here on my couch chillaxing like you never even existed.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you tomorrow,



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Paragraph # 22: Get Your Shit Together, Hockey Mom!

hockey mom


Dear Hockey Mom,

PLEASE get your shit together.

No, it’s not the coach’s job to tell your son that the six-thirty in the morning practices are cancelled because you think it’s too early. You ask him EVERY time to lie to your son in a voice so loud that EVERYONE in the dressing room hears you. It’s obnoxious and you come off as a total asshat.

Why did you even sign your kid up for hockey? You knew what you were getting yourself into. I know this because you talk about your other sons ALL THE TIME to anyone within earshot.

I’ve heard it countless times. They play competitive hockey and they’re super talented and they poop solid gold. Your life is busy. You work full time, you go to school, you have three kids. You love the sound of your own voice more than I love drinking beer. And everything that comes out of your mouth is negative. You should really think about buying the rights to the phrase “it’s not fair”.

I hate when you sit near me at hockey. Listening to the way you talk about your youngest son makes me sick. You constantly put him down. Maybe you think it’s funny but I think it’s disgusting.

You give all the supportive, nurturing, sane hockey moms out there a bad name.

It’s getting increasingly more difficult to keep my lips zipped when you’re running your mouth. I go to hockey to watch my kid and cheer on his team, not to listen to your crap. I feel like you’re taking  some of the fun away from the parents who actually WANT to be in an arena at six-thirty in the morning, watching their kids do what they love.


Yours truly,




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Paragraph #21: Stupid Fucking Diabetes.



Today I had to tell my eight year old son that he couldn’t be the goalie.

It broke his little heart.

He started hockey in September and has been chomping at the bit to have his shot in the net.

This morning, he finally got his chance.

And he fell in love.

He got off the ice full of joy, flushed cheeks, beaming smile.

He asked if he could be the goalie in tomorrow’s game and I had to say no.

Not because he wasn’t good enough, but because of his stupid fucking diabetes.

Are we being overly protective? Probably. Will he get to be the goalie later in life when he’s got a better handle on his disease? I’m hopeful. But when I explained this to him, it fell on deaf ears.

He just wants to be the goalie NOW.

We’re new to the diabetes game. My son was diagnosed on November twenty-fourth. It’s been an intense two months of ups and downs and math.


During any kind of activity, including hockey, we have to monitor my son closely to make sure that his blood sugar levels don’t drop too low. That means, we have to haul him off the ice halfway through every game and practice to test his blood. Obviously, the goalie can’t leave the net unattended for five minutes during a game while he manages his glucose levels.

And that really fucking sucks.

Yes, I try to stay positive. I look at my boy who is feeling so much better since his diagnosis and I’m beyond grateful.

But sometimes I can’t help but be angry.

Today I’m angry.

Today I just want my kid to be happy, to be the goalie, to have no limitations put on him because of his stupid fucking diabetes.

The future will bring more challenges, of this I am sure. This disease has taught me to take life one day at a time and acknowledge the stupid fucking parts of it but also the upside.

There’s always an upside.

The way the sparkle came back to his face after his first dose of insulin, the amazing support we’ve received from family, friends and even strangers, the joy he gets from tucking into a cup of sugar free Jell-O.

Even with that said, sometimes if just really fucking sucks.

Today it sucks.

Today I just want my kid to be the goalie.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you tomorrow,


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Paragraph # 12: SEQUOIA.

farts poop

This short little slice of dialogue jumped into my head when I was thinking about a woman at the store today who told me she never buys Christmas presents. NEVER. Although inspired by the Christmas hating customer, this is a totally fictional piece of writing. Enjoy and thanks for reading!!! XO NFred.

“Not so busy in here today”.

“Nope. January ‘s a slow month in retail”.

“I bet. Everyone’s emotionally bankrupt after Christmas.”

“Or just broke.”

“Not me. I don’t buy Christmas gifts”.


“Nope. Not for years. My partner and I don’t agree with any form of commercialism.”

“I see.”

“It makes life so much more meaningful when you’re not focused on the instant gratification of getting “stuff”. It’s something we’ve instilled in our son since he was an infant. And now he places experiences above “things”, don’t you Sequoia?”


“Sequoia! You silly billy. He’s currently experiencing his bathroom phase. What a trip!”


“That special boy of mine! I’m sorry if his language makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to intervene while he’s on this new path of self discovery.”

“It’s fine.”


“Yes you do and it’s beautiful like your soul.”


“Excellent, Sequoia!”

“Is there anything I can help you find today?”

“Oh no. We’re just taking a walk around the mall, soaking in the beauty of this experience.”

“Okay, well if you need anything, just yell.”

“Sure, sure. Actually, while I have you, do you know if there’s somewhere in this mall where I can buy some locally sourced spelt?”

“Um, there’s a grocery store across the street.”

“Is it locally owned? I only shop local.”

“It’s a Loblaws.”

“Oh darn. I was hoping to bake Sequoia his favourite spelt muffins. I put beet juice and loose leaf earl grey tea in them and that boy of mine just gobbles them up, don’t you Sequoia?”


“You funny little monkey! I can drop off the recipe for you if you’d like?”

“Um, no thanks.”

“Oh please, it’s no bother. Sequoia and I will stop in next week. It would be our absolute pleasure, won’t it Sequoia?”


“Oh, silly Sequoia! What do you say we go recharge ourselves with some of the homemade organic soy milk that Mommy brought from home? Who wants organic soy milk?”


“Well then my sweet boy, say good bye to the nice lady and we’ll go have our treat.”


 “Great connecting with you! Have a most blessed day!”









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Paragraph #6: The Shit Show.


I’ve done some questionable things during my ten years as a parent.

Have I yelled at my kids? Sure.

Lost my patience with them? Of course.

Not changed them immediately after they’ve shit their pants in public? Wait, what?

Let me explain…

I was having a lovely evening with one of my favourite co-workers at the toy shop. At around eight o’clock, a woman and her three children entered the store. Right off the bat I could tell she was an odd duck; from the way she spoke to her children, to the way she treated my co-worker and I like we were second class citizens.

After asking a few questions, she went and looked at the board games while her kids ran-a-muck in the store. After about fifteen minutes, she came to my cash to make a purchase.

And that’s when I smelled “it”.

At first I thought maybe somebody farted, but the odour was too aggressive. I shot my co-worker a “do you smell shit” stare and she non verbally replied with an “oh God yes, I smell shit” eyebrow raise.

And that’s when I saw “it”.

When I glanced towards the general direction of the smell, my eyes locked on the dark brown stain forming on the seat of the woman’s youngest child’s khaki pants.

I looked back at my co-worker, who had also noticed the “stain”. Thankfully, the woman announced  to her children that it was time to go because So and So (I didn’t catch his name) had pooped his pants again. She then looked at me and said “someone won’t stop having accidents” and rolled her eyes. I gave her my best retail smile and said “it happens” and was relieved that they were leaving.

But they didn’t leave.


My co-worker and I watched in horror as they stayed in the store for at least another ten minutes. As a mother and a decent human being, I don’t understand how you could leave your kid in their own shit like that. And to make matters worse the poor kid was visibly uncomfortable. I cringed as he reached around to his bottom and started fiddling with the outside of his poop pants.

Before leaving, Mom simply had to look at our selection of adult colouring books. While she was perusing them, Sir Poopy Pants did the unthinkable and reached out and picked up several of our stuffed animals WITH THE SAME HAND THAT HE HAD BEEN TOUCHING HIS SHIT PANTS!

I didn’t know what to do. Could I tell the woman to get her biohazard of a child out of the store? Could I classify the situation as an emergency and call mall security? Or 911? It was a literal shit show. All I ended up doing was staring at Shit Boy in shocked silence while taking a mental inventory of everything he touched.

When they finally left my co-worker and I were so confused when instead of going directly to the clearly marked bathrooms across the hall, THEY TURNED IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION!



I pondered this for a split second before sprinting to the back room to grab the Lysol wipes. My co-worker and I went to town on EVERY surface that was in close proximity to where Mr. Faecal Fingers was playing. After we were done, I must have washed my hands over a dozen times. And if I’m being completely honest, I seriously thought about giving myself a Lysol bath.


I am far from being a perfect parent, but you better believe that if any of my kids ever shit their pants in public, I will deal with it URGENTLY.

I’d like to dedicate tonight’s paragraph to the three stuffed animals that lost their lives during last night’s “incident”. I hope they have found peace in the trash bag where they were thrown. The horrors of poop hands can’t harm them any more.

Thanks for reading and see you tomorrow!

















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Growing up, I don’t remember my mother ever sitting with me to do homework. She never walked me to school. I can’t recall her ever taking me to the park as a young child either, but I do know that she was always “there”. The evidence of her existence was generously sprinkled throughout my childhood in the most humble of ways. Like how she would cut up fresh fruit every single morning for my brother and I to put on our cereal. Or how she never complained about endlessly chauffeuring me to and from figure skating lessons. And throughout my preteen years, she never missed our Monday night routine of getting comfy in her bed and watching Degrassi High together.

In 2005, I became a mother. My beautiful boy was born six weeks early. The first weeks of his life were spent in the NICU and the Children’s Hospital. As a first time mom, I was exhausted, stressed and ragingly hormonal. When I sobbed like a crazy person because all of my son’s baby clothes were too big, it was my mother who ran out and found special preemie sized sleepers, onesies and hats. Fast forward to today and that little preemie is now a lanky ten year old with a seven year old brother and a three year old sister. My mother loves being a grandmother more than Kim Kardashian loves being herself. She never hesitates to watch the kids if I need to pick up a shift at work and actually pays attention when they talk endlessly about Pokemon. Ironically enough, the thought of my children going to the park unattended makes my mother nauseous and you better believe that she’d rather cut off her own arm than let my boys get off their school bus and walk the treacherous two minutes to our house alone. Although my mom’s grandparenting  style varies greatly from how she parented, it’s obvious that her love for both me and my children has been and always will be “there”

The older I get, the more I realize that I’m turning into my mother. It’s not just the newly sprouted grey hairs on the top of my head that remind me of her, it’s the countless little things that I do as a mom on a daily basis. From cutting up fresh fruits to pack in their lunches, to driving them to all of their activities, to watching AFV  together religiously on Sunday evenings. I do all of these tasks because, like my mother, I want my kids to know that I am “there”.

In the future, as my children face the tumultuous teenage years and the trials and triumphs of becoming adults, I hope they’ll know that they can come to me with anything. From dating to drinking and to one day having children of their own, my goal is to emulate my mom and to always be “there”.

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Sex Ed with NFred.

When I think back about the Sex Education that I received in grade school, I vaguely remember giggling while labeling fallopian tubes and testicles and penises on endless photocopied sheets.

I remember in grade six, a nurse taught us instead of our teacher. One lesson was about Toxic Shock Syndrome and it horrified my eleven year old self to the point that it turned me off tampons for life.

As a nineties kid, if I had any questions about sex, it’s not like I could just hop on my computer and ask Google. Most of what I learned about sex was from deep conversations with my friends behind the portables at recess. This is probably why I thought that oral sex was the act of “talking about doing it” until grade eight.

In grade nine sex ed, I remember having to watch a video of a woman giving birth. Upon it’s completion I vowed to never have children. That same year, our female gym teacher showed us her used IUD, passed out expired condoms and revealed that she used spermicidal jelly as both contraception and hand cream.

There’s been a lot of talk about sex ed this week in the Canadian media as the province of Ontario has just updated their sex ed curriculum for the first time since 1998. Starting in September 2015, this new curriculum will be taught in all Ontario schools.

If you have a lot of time on your hands, feel free to peruse the new curriculum for grades 1-8 here;


Grades 9-12 can be found here;


If you would like a quicker overview of what will be taught grade by grade, The Toronto Star published a helpful article here;


After perusing the curriculum, reading several opinion pieces online, chatting with other parents and having a deep conversation with my best friend who happens to be a grade seven teacher, I have come to the conclusion that I totally support the new sex ed.

And here’s why…

1. Kids are stupid. In 1998 there was no Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. There was barely any internet. If you went to a party and did something stupid, like I did many times, the worst thing you’d have to deal with were some bad hangovers and being the target of relentless teasing by your friends.  There was no permanent photographic evidence that ended up on the world wide web for anyone and everyone to scrutinize. Part of the new sex ed curriculum is teaching kids as early as grade seven the dangers of “sexting”. I think this is an extremely important addition. In a perfect world, twelve year old kids wouldn’t have cell phones or tablets or Facebook pages. But this is not a perfect world. Kids have very easy access to very grown up things. I don’t want to be the kind of parent that insists that just because my child doesn’t have a cell phone that he doesn’t know what it means to “sext” someone. I don’t want to be the kind of parent that thinks that my child would never look up porn on the internet. Kids are as naturally curious as they are stupid. They really don’t understand that whatever they put online stays there forever, whether it be a nudie pic, a rude comment or an offensive joke. As parents, we need to have conversations at home about the impact of their online footprint. Having these conversations in the classroom will help arm our children with even more knowledge, and the more knowledge they have, the more prepared they’ll be to make wise online choices.

2. It’s not 1950. In the new sex ed curriculum, children in grade three will learn about same-sex relationships. What do I think about this? IT’S ABOUT FREAK’N TIME. I’ve read some pretty disgusting online comments by parents who are downright outraged that their precious little angels will be learning about homosexuality. What’s the big deal? Are these parents living in the 1950’s? Here’s the thing, the more we talk openly about the different kids of relationships, the more “normal” it will become to have two moms or two dads or two moms and three dads or one mom with six cats and a llama. Families come in all forms. One is not better than the other. This is something that our children need to be taught. Why? Because this is how homophobia ends.**** NFred drops imaginary microphone.

3. Let’s talk about sex, baby. When my oldest son was about five, he asked me constantly how a baby got inside a mom’s belly. He would ask me at the park, the grocery store, at family gatherings. My standard answer was, “a daddy puts a baby in a mommy’s tummy with love.” I knew he wasn’t buying the explanation of a magical love baby because he continued to ask. One night when he was getting ready for a bath, he asked me again. I took a deep breath and told him the whole penis in vagina truth. When I was done, he silently got in the bath, looked at me and said, “I always thought that a mom ate a baby and that’s how it got in her belly.” As a parent, my first sex chat with my child was pretty awkward. Over the years, it’s gotten much easier. I’ve ditched the magical love baby stories and have answered all of their questions in an honest and age appropriate manor. This is exactly what the new sex ed curriculum aims to do. The more safe spaces we provide for our children to talk about sex, the better equipped they’ll be to make the right choices in the real world. And if we show our kids that sex isn’t a taboo topic, the more likely it will be that they will grown into confident, body positive young adults. And who wouldn’t want that for their kid?


Thanks for reading Sex Ed with NFred. What are your opinions on the new curriculum? I’d love to hear them!


In closing, please enjoy this classic Salt N Pepa Jam. It’s been in my head all week!!!

Until we meet again,













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Got Buns, Hun?

my anaconda


My husband and I were innocently cleaning up after dinner the other night when we heard something vile coming from the kitchen table. We both stopped in our tracks and stared at each other in horror.

Our boys, aged six and nine, where being led in a passionate rendition of the classic Sir Mix-A-Lot jam,” Baby’s Got Back, by our three year old daughter.

My Anaconda don’t
My Anaconda don’t
My Anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns, hun.

My husband and I were frozen by the shame that came with the realization that we were horrible parents. The only thing that made me feel better was knowing that my children had no idea what the song was actually about. I’m pretty sure they think it’s about a giant amazon snake that doesn’t want to hang out with you unless you have snacks, like cinnamon buns or dinner rolls, right? Right. Because giant snakes must have to eat a lot of carbs right? Right. And who doesn’t like bread, right? Right.

Since their sibling sing a long, I’ve wondered what other offensive songs have creeped into their little ears. It seems like every song on the radio lately is about bums or sex or sexy bums. Female and male artists are throwing around the sexual innuendos like dollar bills in a strip club. I wonder what it would sound like if these artists stopped using all of the confusing metaphors and  just straight up sang their horny, sexed up bum songs? I imagine my children’s favourite song would take on an extremely awkward tone;

My giant penis does not
My giant penis does not
My giant penis does not want to have sex with you unless you have a humongous bum because that is my own personal sexual fetish and has nothing to do with you, as a person. Also, I feel the need to call my penis “my anaconda” because I have very low self esteem and am over compensating for the fact that I actually hate myself and cry myself to sleep at night while clutching my childhood teddy bear.

Another popular bum centric song of late is “Wiggle” by Jason Derulo and Snoop Dogg. The chorus of this song is pretty self explanatory;

You know what to do with that big fat butt!
Wiggle! Wiggle! Wiggle!

My children delight in screaming the word BUTT at the top of their lungs to this particular club banger. I especially enjoy when they break out this song in public places like the grocery store or at the bus stop or when we’re visiting relatives. Remember when I said I was a horrible parent? Yeah, I wasn’t joking. Although I understand the chorus of this song, things get a little hazy during this particular verse;

Patty cake patty cake
With no hands
Got me in this club making wedding plans
If I take pictures while you do your dance
I can make you famous on Instagram
Hot damn it, ooh
Your booty like two planets ooh
Go head, and go ham sandwich
I can’t stand it

How does one even play patty cake with no hands? And what does “go ham sandwich” mean? Is he strongly hinting that he’d like someone to fix him a snack?
After some grueling work, I have come up with new literal lyrics for this song;

I want to play a sexy patty cake game using only our private parts.
If you agree to do this, I will ask for your hand in marriage.
Then you shall do a seductive dance for me while I take artistic photographs.
After that, I’ll put the photographs on Instagram and you’ll let me because I’ll promise you fame.
Hot damn it, oh…umm…wait a second.
This is super awkward. I’ve just noticed that your bum is freakishly large. So big that it literally looks like two planets.
I take back my wedding proposal because I was unaware you suffered from elephantitis of the ass.
Don’t be sad. I bet making me a ham sandwich will make you feel better.
You should maybe get that checked by a doctor.

It might not be as catchy as the original, but at least this version has a clear message; if your ass, or any part of your body swells to the size of two planets, seek medical attention immediately.

I’ve already established that I’m a horrible parent. It must run in my family because I clearly remember belting out Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” when I was around the same age as my kids. In fact, I believe my parents even video taped a particularly spirited performance of mine where their terrible parent laughter can be heard in the background. Obviously, I had no idea what I was singing about and was once as naive to sexy song lyrics as my children are today. And I turned out okay, right? Right.

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