First of all, let me say that this story involves throw-up. If you are averse to hearing such a story, please skip to the next post. I don’t want to make you sick! If you’re a parent, chances are you’re over it, so read on…

When it comes to parenting, Hubby and I have lots in common. All the important things. However, one of the places we differ is in the treatment of sick children. Specifically, children who are vomiting, or who are about to vomit. For instance…

Not long ago, one of our young children was about to be sick. She’s not old enough to go into the bathroom and take care of it herself, but there was no doubt about what was going to happen.

Sensing the imminent upchuck, Hubby jumped backwards, with a graceful agility I did not know he possessed. He nailed the move, and landed safely outside the splatter zone.

In the same second, I — almost without thinking — lunged toward my daughter. I got my hands cupped under her pale face just in time, and caught the mess! Yes, in my bare hands. I’m a mom. I’ve been a mom long enough to know it’s much easier to wash my hands, arms, and/or shirt, than to scrub the sofa, floor, and/or carpet!

Once things were cleaned up and under control, I pointed out the difference in our reactions to my husband. I asked him why he jumped out of the way, leaving me to jump in. He said, “I don’t know. It’s just a reflex, I guess. And you’re a vomit magnet.”

“Vomit magnet.” Next time I’m revising my Mom resume, I’ll have to add that to my list of talents and responsibilities. Head Cook, Nurse, Chauffeur, Tutor, Vomit Magnet. Yeah, that’s impressive.

Here is a funny story I had to share. My kindergartener recently had trouble getting his fingers all the way into his gloves before going out to the bus stop. He insisted there was something in there! I said, “Just try again,” because sometimes that works… He tried jamming his fingers into the gloves, but they wouldn’t go all the way in.

So, being a good mother, I turned the problem glove inside-out to check for debris. I was expecting a scrap of Kleenex or a piece of grass. I got the first couple of fingers checked out. Nothing was there. Turning these gloves out is no easy task, because the fingers are pretty small.

I continued with the index finger, and started pushing the tip of the glove inward. As I worked the glove and opened up the finger, I saw long, brown fibers being pushed out. I thought it might be a piece of mulch. Then, a roundish wad of something emerged. And finally, the whole leggy, smushed, balled-up spider fell out of the glove and onto the floor.

Fortunately, it was dead. Our vigorous attempts at putting on the glove had done the trick.

It’s a good thing my 6-year old is not afraid of bugs, or this might have been a traumatic experience.

The moral of the story: Always shake your gloves out before putting them on!

I have three kids of my own, and although I love them all dearly, they do have their moments. My first baby had trouble sleeping. He had allergies and acid reflux, which we didn’t get diagnosed until he was 15 months old, because the pediatrician kept telling us he’d grow out of it. “Stop breastfeeding him and he’ll sleep through the night.” “Take away the pacifier, because he can’t find it, and then he can’t get back to sleep.” “Just let him cry.”

That first baby is almost nine, and I still shake with fury when I remember what that stupid doctor put us through. Thankfully, I finally (I know, I should have done it sooner, but I trusted the doctor…) took him to a specialist and got things taken care of. It was nice to finally get some sleep! But I digress…

The point of this post was not to recount my old grudges.

Actually, some of our friends are just now having babies. We’re having a mini baby boom in our little circle. And even though I really want everyone to be healthy and happy, and I hope their babies are sweet little bundles of joy, there’s a snarky little part of me that hopes those kids throw some big tantrums and wake their parents up at all hours of the night. Just to be fair.

So there you have it: GeekMom’s dark side. Be afraid.

Here is something my kindergartener said to me recently. It made me laugh, so I wanted to share it.

GeekBoy: “Mommy, do you know how I could tell the baby was awake?”

GeekMom: “How did you know, Punkin?”

GeekBoy: “I heard her through the baby ther-monitor.”

What is SPAM good for? Well, it may be an acquired taste, but before “spam” became an online nuisance, it was a food. Remember? And while some snooty foodies will heap ridicule upon those of us lowbrow commoners who consider SPAM a legitimate ingredient, I have to say to anyone who is judging SPAM by its reputation alone, “Try it. You might like it.” Seriously!

For example, here is a photo of some delicious fried rice I made the other day. Maybe I’ll call it SPAM Rice Royale, or something else that sounds tempting and exotic. See the lovely, tender onions and green peppers? The authentic leftover steamed Japanese white rice? Notice the beautifully browned SPAM cubes? That’s the secret! The SPAM must be diced and browned, so that at least two sides of the cubes are carmelized and a bit crisp. That’s what makes this such a tasty treat!

Additionally, I sprinkle the rice with a little bit of seasoned salt, garlic powder, fresh ground pepper, and a splash of Kikkoman shoyu (soy sauce). And if it were up to me, I’d also add some carrots and frozen peas, but Hubby doesn’t eat those. And since I’m so nice, I usually leave them out.

And there you have it. GeekMom’s SPAM Rice Royale. For the record, Hubby is a picky eater, and he had seconds for dinner, and took the rest to work for lunch the next day. Try it. You might like it!

It’s just the way I was brought up. When we were kids, Mom made us sit down after Christmas or birthdays and write thank you notes. By hand. We hated it, and it took forever! It’s not that we wanted to be perceived as ungrateful or rude (Mom explained that’s what people would think), but writing notes was so boring compared to playing with our new stuff.

Now that it’s so quick and easy to send a digitized message, whether by e-mail, IM, text, fax, e-card, or whatever, I find it even more important to do thank-yous the old-fashioned way. I love getting personal notes — thank you or otherwise — in my real mailbox. Every time I walk out to get the mail, I have a little flutter of hope that there might actually be something “real” among the junk. Most of the time it’s just bills, credit card offers, and advertisements. Even though this is normal, it’s still a bit disappointing. When something personal is hidden between the boring business envelopes, I get so excited! Aren’t you the same way?

Which is why I always try to send handwritten thank you notes, and I’m trying to get my kids in the habit of doing the same. It’s a battle, because they say it takes forever, and it’s boring… But I explain that people love getting a nice note in the mail, and it shows an appreciation for thoughtfulness on both sides of the stamp.

The most frequently asked question in our home is, “What’s that smell?”

The other day, there was such a smell coming from the laundry room that I actually closed the door between the laundry room and the kitchen, and opened the other side of the laundry room to the garage to air it out a bit. You know it’s bad when the garage smells better than the laundry room!

Having avoided doing laundry for a few days, I decided to brave the stink, for the sake of clean underwear. I started to run a load of clothes, and as the water filled the basin, the smell was putrid. Worse than dirty diapers. More like rotting roadkill.

Not wanting to make a grisly discovery myself, I asked my husband to take a look inside the machine. I was sure there would be something dead at the bottom of the barrel. Dutifully, he removed the wet stuff from the full washer one article at a time. When he got down to the bottom, he found the offending article. “Honey, what’s this?” I peeked around the corner and saw him holding up dripping wet a Blue’s Clues beach towel with big, brown splotches.

My mind was jogged back to a major chocolate milk spill earlier in the week. “I think it’s chocolate milk,” I said. (See, it’s not as bad as you thought it would be.) But it sure did stink! I had grabbed the big towel to help mop things up. When I finished, I tossed the towel into the washer and forgot about it. Oooh-whee!

In case you’re wondering how to remove the smell of spoiled chocolate milk from a towel, I used Tide and chlorine bleach. That almost worked. A subsequent wash with Tide and Borax did the trick.

You may have heard of a new trend in career designations recently. The “Slash Career” is gaining acceptance among mainstream workers. The Slash (/) is no longer reserved for the starving creative types, as in Actor/Busboy, Artist/Barista, Singer/Waitress, etc.

Nowadays, the Slash is popping up between more white collar and upper-middle class professional titles, such as Lawyer/Event Planner, and Executive/Life Coach. People who successfully manage dual careers seem to thrive on the variety in their lives. You know, like pretzels dipped in chocolate. I like pretzels, and I love chocolate. But when you put them in the same bite, they’re both even better!

Even though today’s hip, modern Slash Careers are getting more press, we all know that mothers are the original Slashers. I’m a mom, and I never know what to put down for “Occupation,” when I fill out a form. At first, when I was a new mom, I continued to use my former occupation. My “real” job.

It’s been a while since then, and I’ve gotten over it. The older I get, the less I care about what other people think of me. I’m completely consumed, fulfilled, and exhausted by my current profession as a mom working from home. So what do I write on the form? It’s hard to sum up what I do in just one word. But when I start listing the things I do for a living, it seems kind of arrogant to try to write them all down. I mean, who do I think I am? Wonder Woman? I just do what every other mom does… A little bit of everything!

So I usually just choose the occupational titles that mean the most to me personally: Wife and Mother. The other stuff is important, too, and the variety of activities is stimulating and delicious. But in the big picture, all the housework, blogging, entrepreneurial endeavors, and even charitable activities, pale in comparison to the significance of the work I do with my family. Yep, Wife/Mother. That’s me.

I know it’s not even Halloween yet, but with the kids’ school “fall” parties (they don’t call it “Halloween” anymore, apparently) finished up and Christmas merchandise already showing up at Target, I can’t help but think ahead a bit.

I’ve been putting together a page on Thanksgiving recipes over at Squidoo. It’s been a lot of fun researching the various ways of preparing turkey, carving turkey, mashing potatoes, etc. It has me reminiscing about my first Thanksgiving with my husband, and that always makes me laugh. So in the interest of sharing a smile today, here is my personal, embarrassing turkey misadventure story. Enjoy!

We’d been married about six months by our first Thanksgiving together as a married couple. We lived in an apartment with a small electric oven. I was so excited! You know… “Look at me! I’m such the little wife cooking for my new hubby…”

I roasted a turkey, fixed up the trimmings, complete with cranberries from a can and Stove Top stuffing. When it was finished, he carved up the bird, my manly husband, and discovered something strange inside the breast. What the heck?! Did we get a defective turkey?!

We examined the pale, wrinkled, alien membrane, and figured out that I had forgotten to remove the bag of neck and giblets before I cooked the turkey. Yes, the bag of turkey guts was still inside, like an unexpected prize inside a cereal box. But instead of a super secret spy decoder ring, it was a baked bag of neck, gizzard, liver, and heart. Now, I’m sure that lots of people love to eat those parts, but we are not those people. I was quite embarrassed, especially when he told his mother about it. Fortunately, I have an excellent sense of humor. We still laugh about it!

And in case you’re wondering, the rest of the turkey was fine. We still ate it, we’re still married, and we’re still laughing about it, twelve years later!

I’m one of those people who enjoy having birthdays. Yes, I’m getting older, and yes, I have more gray hair than I did a year ago, but I still think birthdays are fun. My family got me a pink iPod shuffle, which I LOVE! And my kids are working on another “present” for Mommy, which is not arguing for the whole day, and doing what I ask without having to be asked multiple times. We’ll see how they do! My dad used to ask us for the same thing on Father’s Day or on his birthday, and we thought it would be so much easier if we could just get him a “real” gift. I guess you have to become a parent to understand what a “real” gift is, on so many levels!

Gratitude journal: It’s my birthday, and I get to eat cake!