Jonah has been home sick from school with a low-grade fever and a cold since Tuesday. Since the only things kids willingly share are germs, it didn’t take long for Asher to start running at the nose as well. So although the boys are sick, they’re not sick enough to be miserable and huddled in bed sleeping the day away. Yet they’re too cranky to be easily entertained at home, but since they’re social outcasts in their snotty state, we’re confined to the house. As a result, my nerves are totally shredded.

2 bored, sick kids + quarantine = tearful mommy who drinks in the afternoon.

Asher was up at 4 this morning and this threw off his entire schedule for the day. He couldn’t make it to his usual nap time at noon and passed out at 9 instead. Unfortunately, he slept for a brief half hour and refused to nap again the rest of the day, even though he was exhausted and beside himself with crankiness. In desperation, I turned on his beloved “Go Diego Go” to soothe him and suddenly all the power went out in my house. Asher proceeded to howl with disappointment while I got on my cell phone to the Department of Water & Power to report the outage.

I live in the canyon, so my cell reception is spotty and changes with head position. So as I’m trying to navigate a voice-operated menu, the cacophony of noise in the background with both boys crying and talking keeps screwing things up and the system keeps reverting me to the hearing-impaired option and deafening me with a shrill buzzing tone. After hanging up several times and fleeing from room to room to get a moment’s quiet, I finally get a live person on the phone and discover that a giant tree has toppled over the power lines in my neighborhood and it will be 4 hours before the power comes back on.

My house is all electric, so that means no stove or hot water, or opening the fridge. And worst of all, no dvd, TV or computer games for two very bored, sick kids. As I was processing this unwelcome news and groaning inwardly, “God, could my day get worse?” I hear Asher’s muffled cries from his room and Jonah screaming, “Mom, Asher’s locked himself in!” Crap. It just got worse.

I frantically tried to open the door, but Asher had somehow locked it from the inside. He’s a short 17-month-old who can barely reach the doorknob, how the hell did he manage it? I raced to my office to grab a paper clip and I straightened it and jammed it into the hole in the doorknob in a desperate attempt to pop the lock. No luck - the clip just wasn’t strong enough. Asher’s screams became frantic on the other side of the door as he pounded and howled. Jonah and I tried to yell reassuringly through the door to him, but he was crying to hard to listen. I forced myself to remain calm as I tried to think about how to get the door open quickly.

I tried unscrewing the doorknob or taking the door off the hinges, but the screws were so tight, I couldn’t turn them. I rummaged through a junk drawer until I finally found a very skinny screwdriver. I raced back and pushed it through the hole in the doorknob and turned hard. To my immense relief, the lock finally popped opened and Asher jumped into my arms.

I was shaking with relief and adrenaline and vowed to disable all the bedroom and bathroom door locks ASAP. I was thisclose to going outside and smashing his bedroom window open to retrieve him. Once the emotional dust settled, I remembered that since the power was out, my cordless phone wasn’t working and I had been waiting for a phone call from Jonah’s pediatrician about his persistent fever. I checked my voice mail with my coverage-challenged cell phone and retrieved a message left on my landline by my pediatrician mere minutes ago.

I immediately call the office back and of course, I just missed him because he was now in with a patient. So I leave my cell phone number this time and then call a local Italian restaurant for take out since I can’t cook anything for dinner. Of course, they’re backed up with orders and it’ll be over an hour before the food arrives. I’m starving and so are the kids, but I’m too exhausted to sift through the takeout menus for another option. I could pack the kids into the car and find a drive-thru, but then I’d have to grope around in the pitch black garage, hoping to find the lever that will disable the automatic garage door so I can manually open it.

As soon as I hung up, of course the power returned. But I was too relieved at this point to be annoyed. As soon as Asher saw the lights back on he made a beeline for the couch and threw the TiVo remote at me commanding, “More Diego!”My spirit was too broken to care and I complied like a meek domestic hausfrau. My cell phone rang and it was my pediatrician’s office asking me to hold for the doctor. Of course, my cell phone drops the long-awaited phone call right as he gets on the line. I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was after office hours already so I called back on my landline and left a message with the answering service. At this point, I was fighting back tears of frustration.

As we all sat in front of the TV and waited for the doctor to call me back, I felt like a total ding dong for being so unhinged by a series of small catastrophes. I have to admit that some days this motherhood thing really sucks ass. I love being around my kids and feel privileged to have the luxury of being home with them. Yet children never fail to remind you that you are no longer in control of your life. You may be the grownup, and technically, you may be in charge. But you’re not in control. They are. They control your heart, your soul, your actions, your mind and your every waking moment. Your life revolves around them and some days you are more acutely aware of it than others. Especially on sick days. And today was a sick…sick…day.

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Okay, what’s wrong with this picture above? Just about everything!!!

The Nosefrida is an infant nasal aspirator from Sweden. One end is gently inserted into the child’s snotty nose while the other end goes into the parent’s mouth so that you can suck all that sticky mucus out. There’s a disposable filter at the parent’s end that blocks the mucus out so you don’t have to worry about catching the cold or actually sucking snot into your own mouth.

Despite the gross-out factor, I have a feeling this product would be very effective. Why wouldn’t it be? Anybody who has sucked up those last few, viscose drops of milkshake at the bottom of your glass through a straw can attest to the Hoover action of the human mouth. That’s precisely why I find this product so disturbing.

Does it make that same horrible slurping and sucking noise when you reach the bottom of your Big Gulp? Should I be concerned that I’m siphoning my baby’s brains out through his nose?

If anybody out there has actually used this product, I’d love to hear your feedback. Those bulb aspirators actually work really well, the only problem is the crazy Ju-Jitsu I have to use in order to hold my toddler still long enough to use it. I can’t imagine having to suck through a straw in addition to grappling and wrestling.

I’ll be the first to admit that the Asian palate is not like the others. If you’ve ever wondered what kinds of regional preferences that chains like Dominos and Pizza Hut accommodate in South Korea and Japan, here’s a link from Slice about Top Ten Crazy Asian Pizzas.

Yet even my salivary glands dry up at the mere thought of this Whole Shrimp Cheese Bite Pizza offered at Pizza Hut in South Korea and Japan. I wonder how this would taste cold the next morning?

But the craziest thing about all these uber-cheesy pizzas on this list is that the majority of Asians are lactose-intolerant. I can’t imagine the digestive torture that would ensue after downing one of these pizzas.

I’m sure this is a question that’s kept you up at night. I know the thought certainly crossed my mind while being swarmed after my son’s birthday party as I dispensed those hateful, yet compulsory goody bags.

Thanks to howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com, you can take a short quiz and put that burning question to rest.

According to their website:

“This short survey will tell you approximately how many five year old children you could fight at once. Results are based on physical prowess, training, swarm-combatting experience, and the flexibility of your moral compass. Here are the ground rules:

• You are in an enclosed area roughly the size of a basketball court
• There are no weapons or foreign objects
• Everyone is wearing a cup (so no kicks to the groin)
• The children are merciless and will show no fear
• If a child is knocked unconscious, he is “out.” The same goes for you.”

I took the quiz and here’s my result below.

20

I was surprised at my high score. Maybe it was my martial arts experience? Or maybe it was that fact that I had no compunction about picking up a child and using him or her as a weapon to throw at other children. Whatever the case, there’s something comforting in knowing that I could take on a classroom of kindergarteners in the unlikely event they should turn feral and go Lord of the Flies on my ass.

How do you score?

This April, when the first South Korean astronaut goes into space, he’ll have his beloved kimchi in his lunchbox. As a Korean girl, I totally understand the obsession with kimchi. But this excerpt from the article in the International Herald Tribune has me concerned about whether this is such a hot idea after all.

After millions of dollars and years of research, South Korean scientists successfully engineered kimchi and nine other Korean recipes fit for space travel. When the Russian space authorities this month approved them for Ko’s trip, the South Korean food companies that participated in the research took out full-page newspaper ads.

The other space food Koreans created include the national instant noodle called ramyeon, hot pepper paste, fermented soybean soup and sticky rice.

But kimchi - a must-have side dish at every Korean meal - was the toughest to turn into space food.

“The key was how to make a bacteria-free kimchi while retaining its unique taste, color and texture,” said Lee Ju Woon at the Korean Atomic Energy Research Institute, who began working on the newfangled kimchi in 2003 with samples provided by his mother.

Ordinary kimchi is teeming with microbes, like lactic acid bacteria, which help fermentation. On Earth they are harmless, but scientists fear they could turn dangerous in space if cosmic rays cause them to mutate. Another problem is that kimchi has a short shelf life, especially when temperatures fluctuate rapidly, as they do in space.

“Imagine if a bag of kimchi starts fermenting and bubbling out of control and bursts all over the sensitive equipment of the spaceship,” Lee said.

Is it me, or does this sound like the premise for a horror movie? Or worse, a doomsday scenario where the fourth horseman of the apocalypse is…space kimchi.

These little signs from My Tiny Hands are just a way of saying, “Keep your f*@king hands off my baby!” Too bad it doesn’t dispense Purell as well.

I think these signs are a good idea in theory, but in reality the greatest offenders are usually the elderly and the under 5-year-old set - two groups who don’t read very well and have notoriously poor hygiene. Those little old ladies have conveniently dim eyesight when they’re cutting in front of you in line at the deli. Yet they never miss the fine print on a coupon at the grocery store and can spy a baby within a 5-mile radius. Although you may attempt to pick up the pace to avoid them, they suddenly become quite spry when chasing after your stroller.

And other children are drawn to babies like moths to a flame. They’ll come running with sticky hands outstreched that are just petrie dishes with opposable thumbs.

Perhaps a more effective sign would be one that uses images instead of pictures, like those hilarious cautious signs in parking garages warning pedestrians with a graphic image of a barrier gate arm coming down on a stick figure. Instead there should be an X-ed out sign with a hand coming towards a baby and some ominous electrical currents emanating, threatening to zap any trespasser. Now that’s a sign I’d buy.

Even better, every stroller should come equipped with a detachable cattle prod or have an electrified canopy to keep those pesky, germy looky-loos at a discreet distance.

I had a mini-weekend get away with my hubby to San Diego for a business trip and since we had a formal event to attend, I decided to get a blowout at the Hyatt hotel spa. The stylist shampooed my hair and exclaimed, “Oh my God, are you virgin?!” It took me a moment of befuddled confusion before I realized she was referring to my hair. I replied, “Uh, yeah. I don’t color it or anything.”

“In the 3 1/2 years I’ve worked here, you are the first virgin head of hair to sit in my chair” she said in amazement. And then she called out to the other stylists, “Hey, I have a virgin here!” Within moments, I had a crowd of stylists huddled around my chair, touching and oohing and aaahing over my hair. It was a nice ego boost because although I kvetch about my genetic shortcomings: my oily skin, bowlegged calves, nearsightedness, crooked teeth and broad shoulders, I was blessed with the Park family hair. I didn’t get the stereotypical stick straight Asian hair. Mine is wavy with ridiculously thick strands the diameter of a fishing line. It’s got tons of body and shine and grows and grows like a weed and is about as hard to control. The only downside to this much abundance is finding hair bands strong enough to contain my hair without exploding or chopsticks or hair sticks to insert that don’t snap in half.

They couldn’t stop stroking it and exclaiming over how glossy and healthy it looked - no split ends, no dry spots, etc. Until that moment, I didn’t realize how rare it is to find a woman who doesn’t do anything at all to her hair. I literally just wash it, condition it and use a leave-in conditioner and let it air dry because I don’t have the time to blow it out since it takes a good hour with all of my hair. Yet, I wasn’t always so low maintenance and I wasn’t always a virgin. I’ve had highlights, color, straight perms - you name it.

But after I had my children, I simply didn’t have the time to fuss with my hair anymore. And contrary to popular belief, short hair is more work than long hair since there’s styling involved and no option for a bun or ponytail on bad hair days. So I let my short shag grow and grow and grow. I resigned myself to my curly hair type and stopped trying to change what I had and somewhere along the way, I achieved hair nirvana. Now that it’s healthy, it’s easy and effortless to manage and the frizz has disappeared. For the first time in my life, I’m happy with how my hair looks.

My hair stylist, Marina, had really beautiful, long curly hair and she was in her late 50’s. So I asked her what she used on her hair and she hesitated before she said. “You’re not going to believe me, you’re going to laugh.” I was curious, so I kept pressing her until she admitted, “Fab laundry detergent.”

I didn’t laugh. I was flabbergasted and could only stammer, “Why?!” She went on to explain that in her home country of Mexico, this is what they use in all the high end salons on their celebrity clients because it is such a powerful clarifying treatment. She said that it gets out everything in your hair, leaving it feeling like wire, but then you do a deep conditioning treatment afterwards and creates a clean slate for the conditioner so the hair is unbelievably shiny afterwards. I had to admit, she did have shiny, glossy hair with well-defined ringlet curls, so there’s no denying the results.

But I am skeptical about the safety of using laundry detergent on your scalp. But she swears she’s never seen an adverse reaction. She takes the powder detergent and mixes it in her hand and then coats the hair. There will be very little foam or bubbles, she warned. And rinse thoroughly. Then apply your favorite conditioner. She does this no more than twice a week. It doesn’t have to be Fab detergent, any will do, the cheaper the better. So now I’m very curious to give this a go. If any hair of head can survive ill treatment, it’s mine. So maybe I’ll be the human guinea pig on this one and report back later.

Green Toys, Inc., turns those plastic milk jugs in your recycling bin into classic toys for children. The impact of those milk jugs really add up. According to their website, every pound of milk jugs recycled means an energy savings equivalent to 3,000 AAA batteries, three weeks worth of the electricity needed to power a TV or enough to run your laptop for the entire month ahead. Currently, there’s a tea set, cookware, a beach bucket, and even a gardening kit for kids.

But all classic toys, not only ones specifically made from recycled materials, are a greener way to play. And toys that don’t rely on ridiculous amounts of batteries to power annoying lights, noises and music encourage interactive imaginative play in children instead of doing “too much” for them.

Battery-terrorist toys also challenge an already frazzled parent’s sanity with the constant repetition of noises and seizure-inducing flashing lights. So I’m thrilled that I can feel somewhat sanctimonious about banning battery-powered toys from my house. You’re saving money on batteries, saving the environment and your precarious grip on sanity all in one fell swoop. It’s the Toy Trifecta!

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The urge to vandalise property is an innate, inborn instinct with young children. Watching my toddler running around the house with a Crayola crayon - tagging walls, furniture and kitchen cabinets with his personal graffiti makes me wonder why this is such a universal drive. Is it some primitive need to mark his territory? An artistic outlet? Maybe it’s both, but whatever the reasoning, the average parent has to make like MacGyver and concoct elaborate cleaning solutions of baking soda, WD-40 and toothpaste to remove the stains.

These Graffiti Transfer Decals from SUCK UK allow your budding street artist to channel these impulses with less destructive consequences. Simply cut these graffiti tags out, dip them into cold water and slap it onto your clean canvas of a train.

Or better yet, you can tag Percy or Thomas and toughen up those poncey little trains and give them some much needed street cred on the mean streets of Sodor.

The Tooth Fairy has been racking up frequent flyer miles in visits to our house over the past year. It seems that all of Jonah’s front teeth have simultaneously agreed on a mass exodus strategy. Not only does he resemble a Jack-0-Lantern whenever he smiles, I’m back to cutting his food back into bite size pieces as if he were a toddler again.

Not to mention the highly inconvenient ritual of hiding a tooth under a pillow. I’m sure this ritual was designed just to torture parents right before bedtime. Baby teeth are teeny tiny and impossible to find when you’re groping your hand gingerly under your sleeping child’s head in the dark. Retrieving them is like playing that horrible Operation game when you were a kid. Your hand is shaking unsteadily, nerves on edge and you break into a sweat as you burrow your hands under the pillow.

I’ve found my hand trapped under my son’s heavy cranium on more than one occasion, terrified of moving and waking him up. Even when I do manage to execute this delicate operation of retrieving the plaque-ridden little tooth and replacing it with money, my son is such a thrasher at night that the errant bill always manages to flutter behind the bed or get lost in the sheets.

These little pillows tooth fairy pillow are a stroke of genius. They’re made from recycled irregular Gama-Go t-shirts, so they’re super-soft and cozy. Even better, they come equipped with a little pocket in the back to store a tooth and the money the tooth fairy leaves behind.  This way, you can avert the morning drama, when your child tearfully rips apart the bedspread in search of payment due.

LINK: GamaGo