Once upon a time, I would gaze longingly at the beautiful family portraits on the Christmas/holiday cards we'd receive and dream of a day when I would have a family of my own. We'd happily pose for as long as it took to get the "perfect" picture, and we'd relish the excitement of wearing matching, or at least coordinating, outfits. Sometimes I'd imagine a classic picture of mom and dad holding their munchkins' hands while strolling down the beach at sunset. Other times I imagined us decked out in red and green, posing with Santa who had a gorgeous rosy cheeked toddler on each lap, smiling serenely for the camera. Or, maybe a quirky photo of us decorating the tree with flocked pine cones and sparkly bows...
Yeah. Right.
Any picture involving a beach would involve sand being flung at a sibling, who was howling with indignity because I wouldn't let them feed the entire bag of Doritos to he seagulls. There would be no matching outfits, just faded bathing suits with chocolate stains from the icecream truck and a little pouches of sand where the sun don't shine. We'd all be sunburned, and our hair would make us look like gorgons. Not to mention there's no way in hell you'd get me to pose on the beach in my bathing suit, or any other suit, until I've spent at least 3 solid years with a personal trainer and a photographer highly trained in Photoshop.
As for a picture with the fat man in red? My kids have been scared to death of him since they were born. I mean, really--you're forcing your small child to sit in the fuzzy lap of a complete stranger who offers them candy and asks them about their deepest desires. Frankly, it sounds more like an afternoon special on stranger danger... Last year was the first time I got my kids to even mutter a word to Santa, and then they forgot what they wanted to ask him for anyway. As for the matching outfits? Nope. It was freezing cold out at the National Christmas Tree, and my bunnies were dressed in dirty Lands End parkas (from laying on the ground by the Yule Log to get warm) and their hair had a serious case of static cling. Santa was probably thinking he needed to deliver some Tide and a comb to our house, more than candy or toys...
Ahhhhh--and that leaves the Christmas tree. Good luck getting clean clothes on the kids and forcing them to smile at the camera when there are packages to be shaken, Christmas ornaments to rearrange and/or break, and electric cords to trip over. And that's not even taking into account that the Wild Man just wants to hide under the darn thing. He spends most of December with his feet sticking out of the bottom of the tree, staring up into the lights from the inside of the branches. He looks like a deranged Wicked Witch of the East before her ruby slippers disappear under Dorothy's house....
And the matching clothes in any of these pictures?
Nope. Not a matching set. Ever. Wild Man prefers cammo at the moment, and the DQ only wears things that sparkle at 100 yards and has the word "Justice" printed somewhere. I'm just happy if any shirt I'm wearing doesn't have a boob stain on it, which leaves only MacGyver looking "normal".
So, after all these years, I've given up on ever having a "traditional" family picture on the front of our Christmas cards. Even if I could afford matching Hanna Andersen outfits for all of us, we'd look uncomfortable and our smiles would look forced. When I see these types of pictures now, I wonder how many glasses of wine the mom had before the photoshoot, and if dad threw a fit when he saw the red and green plaid sweater he was being forced to wear (and the bill for it too!). I can almost hear the screams of indignation that the little boys made when they were told to take off their favorite Transformers sweatshirt and put on the itchy turtleneck and the sweater with snowflakes and reindeer on it. And the dramatic sighs of the tweenie girl being bribed into wearing a "baby" dress with no freaking rhinestones or sequins on it for a card that "all her friends are going to see and think I look dumb". Really? Is this what Christmas pictures are all about?
So, our cards are usually a spontaneous shot taken between poses. Someone's head may be thrown back in laughter because someone made a fart joke to get a smile for the camera. I'm usually holding WMB in a partial strangle-hold to get him to stay still for the shot, and trying to keep my eyes open for the flash. And DQ will have smuggled in something sparkly for some glamour.
But, at least it's real. Maybe those pictures other families frolicking in the surf in matching chinos and white shirts are real for them--but, I doubt it. Maybe other families happily don matching outfits while decorating their Frasier fir, but not us. As I look back on our Christmas cards of years past, I smile and remember all the bunny ears and jokes and rude noises that produced those smiles. I recall how much my kids loved their favorite outfits that made them feel beautiful, even if they color clashed. And I know that our friends and family know that those cards represent who we really are--a wee bit off, and having a whole lot of fun!
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
On Gratitude and Appreciation...
Lately, I've been going through a tough time with the kiddos when it comes to "things". By "things", I mean toys. And books. And craft supplies. And snacks/food. And overall crap.
Why? Because they don't appreciate a damn thing.
And, that leaves me really torn. I am totally aware of the fact that munchkins, in general, are self-absorbed little souls. They can only really see the world from their own perspectives at this point in their lives. They are only beginning to understand, or acknowledge, empathy. They don't understand (thank goodness!) lack or deprevation. The worst agony or deprevation they have had to experience at this point in their lives is hearing that they can't have cookies before dinner or eat Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast ("but mommy, they have peanut butter for protein and the chocolate has milk in it! They're really healthy!") The fact that most of the world doesn't have enough to eat, or fancy toys to play with, or even flushable toilets is completely foreign to them.
And, to an extent, I'm glad that they don't know these things. They're still small. They're still innocent. I want them to still believe in the basic goodness of the world and of humanity. They don't need to know about war and famine and genocide when they're still small enough to think there's monsters under their bed and that unicorns really exist.
But, because they don't know about these things, they can behave (more often than I'd probably like to admit...) like little entitled, spoiled, unappreciative cranky-pants.
It's so hard to listen to DQ complain about how she doesn't have some fancy new techno-gadget like "everyone else does", or see WMB break yet another construction toy and cry for a replacement when I know that so many children in the world would be happy with a box to play with. It's hard to listen to the kiddos complain about their nutritious, homemade dinners (ah, yes--that's my story and I'm sticking with it...) when I know that billions of people don't even have a dinner to eat. And, when I see their playroom and their bedrooms completely trashed, I want to go ballistic because they have no concept of how lucky they are to have crayons and paper and Legos and dolls when most the world's children have nothing to play with but homemade toys made from sticks and straw. And, when they scream at me that I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world because I sent them to the rooms for some misdeed or another, it's hard not to tell them how lucky they are that they aren't abused and beaten for such petty things like so many children are.
So, I'm torn. I want them to know how lucky they are to have a roof over their heads and hot meals to eat. I want them to thank me and MacGyver for all the time and money we spend on carting them to activities and vacations and other fun things. I would prefer they have the respect for their possessions to put them away, in their proper places of course, when they're done playing with or wearing them. And, lord knows I'd like the incessent whining and complaining to stop.
But then, when I see DQ crying over an American Girl movie because she didn't know that little children had to work in factories (and, still do. Yes, we did have that conversation.) or weeping before bed when she tells me about how they are reading a book about the Great Depression in school, I want to shield them from all that is bad or sad in the world. I turn off the news when they walk into the room so they don't know about starving people and wars and dictators and missing or murdered children.
So, I ask y'all--what do you do? Do you let your children know about the realities of the world? If so, how to you make it appropriate for children? Should I shield them for a little while longer? Or, is this just completely normal for kids to be ungrateful little gremlins?
I suppose all of us (or, at least, most of us) were the same way as kids. That our parents, and our parent's parents, ad nauseum, complained about the same things. For all I know, cave moms and dads grunted about how their bundles of joy had no appreciation for the work it took to kill and cook the mammoth for dinner, and that they weren't grateful for the lovely leather and fur coat that mommy made from the bear they ate last month, because they wanted a racoon coat not a bear coat, because Susie next door had a racoon coat with a tail on it, and their bear coat was just boring and stupid and that their cave mommy was the meanest mommy in the whole wide world....
Anywho, if anyone has a great idea about how to encourage gratitude (an idea that works, that is. Lots of "experts" have ideas, but the don't work so well...), I'd love to hear it. And, if you're going through the same thing with your kids, I'd love to hear about that too so I'd feel like I was at least in the same boat as some others.
Why? Because they don't appreciate a damn thing.
And, that leaves me really torn. I am totally aware of the fact that munchkins, in general, are self-absorbed little souls. They can only really see the world from their own perspectives at this point in their lives. They are only beginning to understand, or acknowledge, empathy. They don't understand (thank goodness!) lack or deprevation. The worst agony or deprevation they have had to experience at this point in their lives is hearing that they can't have cookies before dinner or eat Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast ("but mommy, they have peanut butter for protein and the chocolate has milk in it! They're really healthy!") The fact that most of the world doesn't have enough to eat, or fancy toys to play with, or even flushable toilets is completely foreign to them.
And, to an extent, I'm glad that they don't know these things. They're still small. They're still innocent. I want them to still believe in the basic goodness of the world and of humanity. They don't need to know about war and famine and genocide when they're still small enough to think there's monsters under their bed and that unicorns really exist.
But, because they don't know about these things, they can behave (more often than I'd probably like to admit...) like little entitled, spoiled, unappreciative cranky-pants.
It's so hard to listen to DQ complain about how she doesn't have some fancy new techno-gadget like "everyone else does", or see WMB break yet another construction toy and cry for a replacement when I know that so many children in the world would be happy with a box to play with. It's hard to listen to the kiddos complain about their nutritious, homemade dinners (ah, yes--that's my story and I'm sticking with it...) when I know that billions of people don't even have a dinner to eat. And, when I see their playroom and their bedrooms completely trashed, I want to go ballistic because they have no concept of how lucky they are to have crayons and paper and Legos and dolls when most the world's children have nothing to play with but homemade toys made from sticks and straw. And, when they scream at me that I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world because I sent them to the rooms for some misdeed or another, it's hard not to tell them how lucky they are that they aren't abused and beaten for such petty things like so many children are.
So, I'm torn. I want them to know how lucky they are to have a roof over their heads and hot meals to eat. I want them to thank me and MacGyver for all the time and money we spend on carting them to activities and vacations and other fun things. I would prefer they have the respect for their possessions to put them away, in their proper places of course, when they're done playing with or wearing them. And, lord knows I'd like the incessent whining and complaining to stop.
But then, when I see DQ crying over an American Girl movie because she didn't know that little children had to work in factories (and, still do. Yes, we did have that conversation.) or weeping before bed when she tells me about how they are reading a book about the Great Depression in school, I want to shield them from all that is bad or sad in the world. I turn off the news when they walk into the room so they don't know about starving people and wars and dictators and missing or murdered children.
So, I ask y'all--what do you do? Do you let your children know about the realities of the world? If so, how to you make it appropriate for children? Should I shield them for a little while longer? Or, is this just completely normal for kids to be ungrateful little gremlins?
I suppose all of us (or, at least, most of us) were the same way as kids. That our parents, and our parent's parents, ad nauseum, complained about the same things. For all I know, cave moms and dads grunted about how their bundles of joy had no appreciation for the work it took to kill and cook the mammoth for dinner, and that they weren't grateful for the lovely leather and fur coat that mommy made from the bear they ate last month, because they wanted a racoon coat not a bear coat, because Susie next door had a racoon coat with a tail on it, and their bear coat was just boring and stupid and that their cave mommy was the meanest mommy in the whole wide world....
Anywho, if anyone has a great idea about how to encourage gratitude (an idea that works, that is. Lots of "experts" have ideas, but the don't work so well...), I'd love to hear it. And, if you're going through the same thing with your kids, I'd love to hear about that too so I'd feel like I was at least in the same boat as some others.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
When the Cat's Away...
This week, MacGyver is out of town for his job. He left us, feeling a bit guilty, and set off with his co-worker/best friend/kiddos' godfather (also known as "the Don") for a few exciting days in Mobile, Alabama.
The moment the door shut, I thought "the cat's away, so the mice shall play!"
Now, don't get me wrong--I love my husband. Adore my sweetie. I swear he's the one that wakes up early and puts the sun up in the sky for us. But, here and there, it's really awesome to have him go away for a few days...
I don't think I'm alone, either, in believing this. A totally non-random poll of friends and acquaintances has shown that the moms (not the dads!) believe that a few non-hubby days with the kids is simply fabu. We stay up later. Eat enormous amounts of crap and fast food (yeah!! no cooking!!!!). We refuse to clean or vacuum. The laundry fairy only visits when we're down to our last pairs of undies. Dishes in the sink? Yep. Why? Because. We. Don't. Care.
Now, this does not include those of us with hubbies (wives, or co-parents, or significant others, etc.) who are in the military and are gone for long lengths of time. Nor, does it include those whose better halves travel all the time. That's no fun, and frankly, sucks.
But, for those of us who get to see all our sweetie darlings every. stinkin'. day. It's nice for a break. It really does make the heart grow fonder. And, it relieves the craving for Squisito's pizza (since we basically live on that and Lucky Charms for days at a time). By the time MacGyver's back home, I'm itching to make something homemade for dinner, and living in sloth and gluttony isn't as exciting as it was a few days before.
And, you know what? I think that, deep down, the husbands like getting away too. Yes, my sweetums complains that the hotel rooms aren't homey, he doesn't like eating out every meal of the day, and it's really boring to watch TV by yourself at night. But, then, he doesn't have someone complaining about his choice of TV show (really? another conspiracy theory/aliens/UFO show?) and wanting to watch the Real Housewives marathon instead. And, theoretically, no one is asking for a refill on their juice or if they can eat the rest of his meat, and can you please cut it up for me, no, not that way, like little triangles, and can I have the rest of your potatoes too, and can you take us out for ice cream, why not?, that's not fair, he hit me, she looked at me, etc. etc. ad nauseum....
He makes it sound like travel is horrible. All the lines. All the airports. All the questionable food.
And, yet, inevitably, he calls to tell me goodnight and I hear laughter and music in the background. Sometimes he and the Don are at a nightclub/restaurant drinking bottles of wine with a bunch of co-workers in South Beach. Or, I hear the surf and seagulls from Hernando Beach where they're talking to surfers and guys fishing on the pier while their table is called at that restaurant that looks out over the ocean. Once, they were getting dinner in Little Havana and I got to hear the descriptions of all the street vendors and their meals. It sounded awesome! I could almost taste the pulled pork and fried plantains...
So, my point is, I think some travel and time apart is really good when you've been together as long as MacGyver and I have been. The kids are excited that daddy's gone so they can pile into bed with me and snuggle all night. And, they get to be excited when he comes home, usually with trinkets and souvenirs for them. And we both get the excitement of a little change in scenery and routine, and that can make everyone feel a whole lot better.
I hope he remembers this when I try to get away next month for a "girls' weekend"...
The moment the door shut, I thought "the cat's away, so the mice shall play!"
Now, don't get me wrong--I love my husband. Adore my sweetie. I swear he's the one that wakes up early and puts the sun up in the sky for us. But, here and there, it's really awesome to have him go away for a few days...
I don't think I'm alone, either, in believing this. A totally non-random poll of friends and acquaintances has shown that the moms (not the dads!) believe that a few non-hubby days with the kids is simply fabu. We stay up later. Eat enormous amounts of crap and fast food (yeah!! no cooking!!!!). We refuse to clean or vacuum. The laundry fairy only visits when we're down to our last pairs of undies. Dishes in the sink? Yep. Why? Because. We. Don't. Care.
Now, this does not include those of us with hubbies (wives, or co-parents, or significant others, etc.) who are in the military and are gone for long lengths of time. Nor, does it include those whose better halves travel all the time. That's no fun, and frankly, sucks.
But, for those of us who get to see all our sweetie darlings every. stinkin'. day. It's nice for a break. It really does make the heart grow fonder. And, it relieves the craving for Squisito's pizza (since we basically live on that and Lucky Charms for days at a time). By the time MacGyver's back home, I'm itching to make something homemade for dinner, and living in sloth and gluttony isn't as exciting as it was a few days before.
And, you know what? I think that, deep down, the husbands like getting away too. Yes, my sweetums complains that the hotel rooms aren't homey, he doesn't like eating out every meal of the day, and it's really boring to watch TV by yourself at night. But, then, he doesn't have someone complaining about his choice of TV show (really? another conspiracy theory/aliens/UFO show?) and wanting to watch the Real Housewives marathon instead. And, theoretically, no one is asking for a refill on their juice or if they can eat the rest of his meat, and can you please cut it up for me, no, not that way, like little triangles, and can I have the rest of your potatoes too, and can you take us out for ice cream, why not?, that's not fair, he hit me, she looked at me, etc. etc. ad nauseum....
He makes it sound like travel is horrible. All the lines. All the airports. All the questionable food.
And, yet, inevitably, he calls to tell me goodnight and I hear laughter and music in the background. Sometimes he and the Don are at a nightclub/restaurant drinking bottles of wine with a bunch of co-workers in South Beach. Or, I hear the surf and seagulls from Hernando Beach where they're talking to surfers and guys fishing on the pier while their table is called at that restaurant that looks out over the ocean. Once, they were getting dinner in Little Havana and I got to hear the descriptions of all the street vendors and their meals. It sounded awesome! I could almost taste the pulled pork and fried plantains...
So, my point is, I think some travel and time apart is really good when you've been together as long as MacGyver and I have been. The kids are excited that daddy's gone so they can pile into bed with me and snuggle all night. And, they get to be excited when he comes home, usually with trinkets and souvenirs for them. And we both get the excitement of a little change in scenery and routine, and that can make everyone feel a whole lot better.
I hope he remembers this when I try to get away next month for a "girls' weekend"...
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wardrobe Malfunctions
Okay, I know a lot of y'all out there have this same problem. But, for some reason, this year it's really getting to me. What is it?
new season + major growth spurts + one mom "slightly" behind in her back to school shopping = CHAOS
This weekend, fall came. Like, overnight. It was a sweaty, humid 78 degrees on Friday, and then on Saturday we woke up to 40 degree temperatures. And no sweaters, sweatshirts, or jackets that fit. And I can't find their hats. Forget the mittens and gloves--there's only unmatching ones of each floating around in oblivion...
Oh, and the kiddos feet grew. Again.
I swear, this is a never ending problem around here and in almost every other household in the world. I'm sure somewhere there is a mother who lovingly collects larger sizes of every piece of clothing, underwear, outerwear, and shoes for her sweetie darlings. I'm sure she has these bits and bobs organized by size and season for each gender child. No doubt she has her munchkins' holiday clothes all washed and ironed, and has well fitting snow boots and snow pants lined up for the first snow.
Me? I found out the kids' rain boots didn't fit two weeks ago when the biblical rains around here started. Poor WMB hobbled around in 2-sizes-too-small "fireman" boots for almost a week before I found replacements (and not even on sale, dammit. Or, with a coupon.) Forget DQ's boots, since they were a size 2 and she wears a 5. Plus, DQ sniffed at the idea of rain boots and just wore her already-too-small sparkly silver ballet flats (how can an 8 year old have size 6-7 women's feet? She is already pirating my heels!) every single day to jump in puddles.
Now, back when they were babies and toddlers, this was never a problem. We had tons of hand-me-downs from every Lucy and Ethel in my life. Any holes in the wardrobe were easily filled at the local consignment shop, and those clothes were adorable and hardly worn since kids only wore an outfit or shoes a few times before outgrowing them. Now, the growth spurts are less predictable and the kids' wear their clothes and shoes out before outgrowing them. Plus, anyone who has shopped at consignment shops lately knows that they have tons of little kids clothes, but after size 8 or so, there's almost nothing.
Also, in the past, I bought tons of clothes at the end of the season clearance sales that were the size I guessed my munchkins would be the following year. Yep, can't do that anymore either. I wasted a small fortune buying "50% off the lowest marked price--up to 70% off!" clothes to find out my kids outgrew them before they were ever worn. After taking one too many bags of brand new, with the tags still on, clothes to the consignment shop, I gave up on that practice.
So now, I wait til they grow and go shopping. Which puts me in a bad situation. Like this weekend. I needed sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sweaters (non "hoochie mamma" or "bad a$$ graffiti artist" please) for DQ and WMB. Couldn't. Find. Them. Anywhere.
Apparently, all the far more organized moms got to the stores before me. There were empty racks where tunic sweaters used to be. The only long-sleeved t-shirts for boys DQ's age were not the sweet ones with firetrucks and bulldozers, but had questionable spray-painted slogans on them. And no--I will not buy any sweatpants or yoga pants for an 8 year old girl that has any kind of writing, sparkly or not, on the bum bum. Not. Gonna. Happen.
After a long afternoon of combing the mall and surrounding area for fall and winter clothes, my kids now have enough to put off doing laundry every day. Not that I don't do that anyway, but at least they have 3 or 4 long sleeve shirts and pants to last them a few days. And school boots that fit (thank you Stride Rite for having a clearance sale that actually had my kids' sizes in stock!!!). I still haven't gotten around to the winter stuff yet--and, no doubt, I'll only get around to it when it snows and I'm digging around under the basement stairs for the box of snow pants that are three sizes too small and the boots that would be small on a toddler. My munchkins will be the ones out on the neighborhood hill, sledding in three pairs of sweatpants and mismatched mittens because mommy couldn't get her act together enough to find snow pants and boots at Target before they were all sold out. But, at least they'll be having fun--and I know that they are totally unprepared for the weather because we were all too busy playing at the park and going fishing at the dock and investigating all the different types and colors of mushrooms that have sprouted up in the woods during these torrential rains.
And, that has to account for something. Doesn't it?
new season + major growth spurts + one mom "slightly" behind in her back to school shopping = CHAOS
This weekend, fall came. Like, overnight. It was a sweaty, humid 78 degrees on Friday, and then on Saturday we woke up to 40 degree temperatures. And no sweaters, sweatshirts, or jackets that fit. And I can't find their hats. Forget the mittens and gloves--there's only unmatching ones of each floating around in oblivion...
Oh, and the kiddos feet grew. Again.
I swear, this is a never ending problem around here and in almost every other household in the world. I'm sure somewhere there is a mother who lovingly collects larger sizes of every piece of clothing, underwear, outerwear, and shoes for her sweetie darlings. I'm sure she has these bits and bobs organized by size and season for each gender child. No doubt she has her munchkins' holiday clothes all washed and ironed, and has well fitting snow boots and snow pants lined up for the first snow.
Me? I found out the kids' rain boots didn't fit two weeks ago when the biblical rains around here started. Poor WMB hobbled around in 2-sizes-too-small "fireman" boots for almost a week before I found replacements (and not even on sale, dammit. Or, with a coupon.) Forget DQ's boots, since they were a size 2 and she wears a 5. Plus, DQ sniffed at the idea of rain boots and just wore her already-too-small sparkly silver ballet flats (how can an 8 year old have size 6-7 women's feet? She is already pirating my heels!) every single day to jump in puddles.
Now, back when they were babies and toddlers, this was never a problem. We had tons of hand-me-downs from every Lucy and Ethel in my life. Any holes in the wardrobe were easily filled at the local consignment shop, and those clothes were adorable and hardly worn since kids only wore an outfit or shoes a few times before outgrowing them. Now, the growth spurts are less predictable and the kids' wear their clothes and shoes out before outgrowing them. Plus, anyone who has shopped at consignment shops lately knows that they have tons of little kids clothes, but after size 8 or so, there's almost nothing.
Also, in the past, I bought tons of clothes at the end of the season clearance sales that were the size I guessed my munchkins would be the following year. Yep, can't do that anymore either. I wasted a small fortune buying "50% off the lowest marked price--up to 70% off!" clothes to find out my kids outgrew them before they were ever worn. After taking one too many bags of brand new, with the tags still on, clothes to the consignment shop, I gave up on that practice.
So now, I wait til they grow and go shopping. Which puts me in a bad situation. Like this weekend. I needed sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sweaters (non "hoochie mamma" or "bad a$$ graffiti artist" please) for DQ and WMB. Couldn't. Find. Them. Anywhere.
Apparently, all the far more organized moms got to the stores before me. There were empty racks where tunic sweaters used to be. The only long-sleeved t-shirts for boys DQ's age were not the sweet ones with firetrucks and bulldozers, but had questionable spray-painted slogans on them. And no--I will not buy any sweatpants or yoga pants for an 8 year old girl that has any kind of writing, sparkly or not, on the bum bum. Not. Gonna. Happen.
After a long afternoon of combing the mall and surrounding area for fall and winter clothes, my kids now have enough to put off doing laundry every day. Not that I don't do that anyway, but at least they have 3 or 4 long sleeve shirts and pants to last them a few days. And school boots that fit (thank you Stride Rite for having a clearance sale that actually had my kids' sizes in stock!!!). I still haven't gotten around to the winter stuff yet--and, no doubt, I'll only get around to it when it snows and I'm digging around under the basement stairs for the box of snow pants that are three sizes too small and the boots that would be small on a toddler. My munchkins will be the ones out on the neighborhood hill, sledding in three pairs of sweatpants and mismatched mittens because mommy couldn't get her act together enough to find snow pants and boots at Target before they were all sold out. But, at least they'll be having fun--and I know that they are totally unprepared for the weather because we were all too busy playing at the park and going fishing at the dock and investigating all the different types and colors of mushrooms that have sprouted up in the woods during these torrential rains.
And, that has to account for something. Doesn't it?
Monday, September 26, 2011
A drop in the Bucket List
When Eat, Pray, Love came out, I, like millions of others, read the book cover to cover and dreamed of taking off for distant lands. Eating my way through pasta and pizza. Enjoying silence (in very scant supply around this house!). Remembering who I was before I was a wife and mother.
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Organizing My Clutter Closet
I, like millions of other Gen-X'ers, watched the show Friends through out the nineties. Unlike most, however, I didn't start watching it when I heard all the rave reviews or saw dozens of girls on my college campus suddenly show up with the "Rachel" haircut (and yes, I had the haircut too. But, in my defense, I will go down in history swearing up and down that I had it first. It was given to me at a hair show, and the hair stylist claimed it was the newest thing in Paris. I know now that he was full of crap on so many different levels, but I digress...)
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well...
Instead of a usual post, today I'm honoring the first day of school. Only the Drama Queen is going back today, since the Wild Man is in Kindy and they start a few days later.
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Grand Canyon of Doubt
Today I was at Justice doing some back-to-school shopping with my little Drama Queen. DQ was happily scanning the sales rack and running around with her catalog (complete with circles around the "cool stuff") to match up outfits while I tried to ignore the groans my wallet was making. Yes, I was proud of myself because I brought her on a day when I could use my "J Bucks", my 40% FB coupon, and it was tax-free week. But, I was also reminiscing about shopping with my mom when I was a kid.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
Monday, August 15, 2011
On Being a Luddite
It finally hit me last night as I was watching the Extreme Couponing marathon on TV with DQ and WMB (and, with MacGyver in his lazy-boy throne wondering if we were all crazy...) that my 8 year old daughter knows more about how to manage the TV/Cable/DVR remote than I do. I'm pretty sure my 5 year old wild man does too.
We missed a crucial moment in seeing how old a certain raggedy looking couponer was, and a large bet involving cookies and/or candy was at hand. I was betting she was in her mid-40's. DQ insisted she was 24 and just "looked rough". But, hey--it was on regular cable and not DVRed, so we can't hit rewind. Right?
Ah, no. DQ immediately took control, hit a few buttons (did you know you can fast forward or reverse in 5 minute increments? Okay, show-offs... Well, I had no clue.) and started wigging out about the sign that said the lady was 24. I tried valiantly to claim it was a massive typo, but I lost that argument, and AirHead taffy was distributed to the winning party. Then, just to make me feel more ancient and techno-stupid, DQ hit the "live" button (never knew what that was for!) and magically the program resumed at the current scene.
It was like freaking magic. Black magic.
It was at this point that I had to admit I've become a total Luddite. Not the crazy-assed British arsonists who were burning down factories and causing some very annoying destruction in industrial age England. But, the more colloquial Luddite who has been consciously and stubbornly adhering to the "old ways".
Let's put this in list form:
(1) I do not own a smart phone. Or an iPhone. I own a POS flip phone that is so old that batteries aren't made for it anymore. And, when I asked the vendor about any additional batteries or accessories (preferably reconditioned, since I'm cheap as can be), he paused. A little too long. I heard crickets.... Then, I'm sure I heard a muffled snicker. Apparently, I need a new phone. One that was made in the 21st century. My phone ranked up there with avocado green appliances and rotary dial phones as far as Verizon was concerned.
(2) My family does not have an HD TV. We're up in the air about whether or not we want to. Or, more to the point, MacGyver and I aren't too sure. It seems like an awful lot of money to spend on an appliance that will be mostly used to watch Arthur and Max and Ruby. I find the news upsetting enough--I'm not sure I need to see any more graphic depictions of death, destruction, or famine in high def. And, most importantly, I really, really don't want to watch my personal favorite TV shows in such a way that I can see the size of the actor's pores. Or liver spots. I have an unnatural adoration for NCIS, and it has very little to do with the story lines. It's Jethro Gibbs I watch for. I admit it--I'm a Gibbs girl. And I really would rather watch him in soft focus so I can pretend he's not as old or older than my parents. In my old, 14 year-old 32" Emerson, I can squint a bit and still pretend it's the same Mark Harmon from Summer School. And I like that.
(3) My family was so far "behind the times" that my brother, on numerous occasions, has simply bought me tech-toys that he felt we "needed". Like a DVD player. And a digital camera. And a DVD player for the van. And a ionizer. Okay, the ionizer I think was a hint that my old house smelled like cat poo, and it was a blatant hint to air the house out and clean the litter box more than once a day. But still. The poor man feels so bad for us that he feels the need to by my a DVD player because he heard me freaking out that I can't buy VCR tapes much anymore. He introduced me to the joys of not having to hit "rewind" before returning a tape to Blockbuster. Which, incidentally, doesn't really exist anymore. And, certainly doesn't rent VCR tapes. Then, I'm sure I heard him mutter something about "getting with the times." And, just to let you know, this was at a point in time when everyone else in the world was upgrading to Blue-Ray, and I was refusing to let go of my VCR...
(4) I didn't own a CD player until a few years ago. Seriously. When I graduated high school in 1990, Cd's were becoming the new "big thing" and I stupidly thought they were a fad. For fifteen straight years. I clung to my cassette tapes like a life-raft in the ocean of life. Heck, my car in college was so old that it still had a functioning 8-track player. I was the only person in my sorority (and, quite possibly my entire university) that listened to 8-tracks. I think my Rod Stewart one was my favorite, until my dad used it (along with a roll of electrical tape and a handful of toothpicks) to hold my new car battery in place. After my brother saw me crying about losing my precious 8-track, he set me up with an awesome, ghetto Alpine stereo system with remote controls for the back seat and a 6-CD changer. Of which I had no Cds to put in it. But my 1978 Buick Regal was rockin' with a great pair of sub-woofers and tweeters and all that shawatata-bing-bang! All the better to play Peter Cetara and A-ha. Hey--don't laugh. It was the early nineties, and I was awesome.
(5) I am writing this on a notebook that is as old as the DQ. When it, a Sony Vaio, first came out, I thought our family totally rocked! I mean, we had a Vaio well before Oprah gave one away to all the teachers at her "Greatest Things" episode. I finally felt ahead of the pack, since I had this awesome, tiny notebook. I mean, no laptops for me! And CPUs were so last year... Yeah, did I mention my awesome computer was hooked up to dial up. Yes, dial up. We didn't get "high speed internet" until I convinced MacGyver that it was actually cheaper to get the Comcast Triple Play then pay Erols (remember Erols? Am I dating myself?) separately for internet dial up and then AT&T for phone and long distance. And Comcast for cable. And, back then, Comcast Triple Play was still dial-up, just faster dial-up. Our neighbors were getting high-speed DSL, and I was just getting used to the incredibly faster dial-up of a national company. I thought it was totally normal to get kicked off the internet every 20 minutes, and that it took minutes to load a simple page. When we finally splurged on high-speed, everyone else was moving on to Verizon fiber-optic something-or-other. I expect will catch up to that in another 10 years or so...
Needless to say, I'm a bit behind the times technology speaking. For a girl that worked for the Department of Defense's MIS division (yes, that's the Management Information Systems--as in, computers and software) for their DoDDs schools through college, I've sunk a long way down in the techno-gadget world. I used to order high end computers and printers (back when color printers were brand new and cost $10K), and would help organize and teach software classes in WordPerfect and Word for Windows and Excel. Now, WordPerfect doesn't even exist anymore. The world has marched on, and programs like PowerPoint and Photoshop are old-school. And I have absolutely no idea how to work them. At all. Oh, and have I ever mentioned that MacGyver is a computer programmer. This "stuff" is second nature to him, and therefore totally uninteresting. He gets toplay work with techno-gadgets all day, so he has absolutely no desire to deal with them at home. Why do I need a better computer? To play on Face Book and order things from Amazon.com? Digital cameras, to him, are convenient--but their picture quality isn't as good as a 35mm, so why bother? HDTV? For watching Clifford? Am I kidding?
While I wouldn't have traded anything in the world for all these years I've spent at home, and I have no regrets in that department, I do wish I had kept a bit more up-to-date with the world and technology surrounding me. I managed to create this lovely, happy bubble of domesticity. My house is clean and uncluttered (usually), and smells of wonderful home-cooked meals that didn't come out of boxes or bags whose direction include "just add water". When it comes to ovens and dishwashers and refrigerators, I'm all for technology. Heck, my new washer and dryer rock my world! Our water bill has plummeted and I can actually dry a huge load of towels in 20 minutes. Tops. But, unless it's a domestic machine, it's certainly not "new fangled" around here.
And, I still don't know where I stand on it. A part of me wants all the pretty toys. I want the same phones as everyone else (even though I never remember to turn mine on. And, when I do, it's usually out of batteries.) I love watching a movie in HDTV at someone else's house and marvel at the crispness and clarity of the picture. I fawn over the newest digital cameras when I see them whipped out at a school concert or sports practice.
But, there's that other part of me that resents the modernization of society. I long for simplicity, not technology. It's seems like such as dichotomy to desire gizmos and equally desire a class in canning my own jams, jellies, and pickles. I read Radical Homemakers and wanted to drop it all to run away and buy a farm and tend to chickens and cows and pigs (yes, when MacGyver heard that, he laughed his sweet little ass off. Me? On a farm? Shoveling moo poo? Yeah, that was going to happen in this lifetime...) Then, I see all the other mommies in the waiting room at the dentist this morning, playing Angry Birds or whatever on their smart phones and texting away with the cyber-buddies while I read the latest Ladies Home Journal and copied down some recipes. And realized that I left my POS phone at home. Because the battery was dead. Again. And, I admit I was jealous. Just a bit.
But, I'm now at the stage when both my bunnies will be in school, full-time, starting next week. I will have the time to take those computer classes and maybe even get a very-part-time job to help pay for an HDTV for when the 32" Emerson finally blows up. Maybe, what's really happening, is that I'm finally coming out of my cocoon. For almost 9 years I have been surrounded by wee-ones. Taking care of the basic needs of my munchkins left very little time to stay current with the world around me. In just a few days, watching the news will be a daily occurrence, not a few minutes watching the headlines of the Today show while jumping out of the shower and before tending to the kiddos. I'll suddenly have the time to read more than the front page and the comics (and, I'll admit it, the horoscopes) in the Washington Post. And, that makes me a bit nervous. I'll be re-entering a world that went on without me for almost a decade. And while the skills I had in my previous employed positions are now basically obsolete, I have to remind myself that I'm not. I can slowly dip my toes into the technology pool, and then (if I like it) I can dive in.
I already have put that first toe in. Yesterday, I ordered my new phone. An Android. I have no idea how to work it, so I may be calling some of you friends in to help me. And please don't laugh when I tell you I don't know what an App is. Or that I have never, ever sent a text. This was my first step, and I'm kind of excited! Who knows, maybe I'll actually get a real iPod (not just the Shuffle that I never use because I can't see what's playing and it doesn't plug into the iPod stations at the gym or on those fancy-schmancy radios).
But, I draw the line at a Kindle. I'm still to old fashioned there. I like my books to smell like paper and I love the sound of flipping pages too much to go there yet...
We missed a crucial moment in seeing how old a certain raggedy looking couponer was, and a large bet involving cookies and/or candy was at hand. I was betting she was in her mid-40's. DQ insisted she was 24 and just "looked rough". But, hey--it was on regular cable and not DVRed, so we can't hit rewind. Right?
Ah, no. DQ immediately took control, hit a few buttons (did you know you can fast forward or reverse in 5 minute increments? Okay, show-offs... Well, I had no clue.) and started wigging out about the sign that said the lady was 24. I tried valiantly to claim it was a massive typo, but I lost that argument, and AirHead taffy was distributed to the winning party. Then, just to make me feel more ancient and techno-stupid, DQ hit the "live" button (never knew what that was for!) and magically the program resumed at the current scene.
It was like freaking magic. Black magic.
It was at this point that I had to admit I've become a total Luddite. Not the crazy-assed British arsonists who were burning down factories and causing some very annoying destruction in industrial age England. But, the more colloquial Luddite who has been consciously and stubbornly adhering to the "old ways".
Let's put this in list form:
(1) I do not own a smart phone. Or an iPhone. I own a POS flip phone that is so old that batteries aren't made for it anymore. And, when I asked the vendor about any additional batteries or accessories (preferably reconditioned, since I'm cheap as can be), he paused. A little too long. I heard crickets.... Then, I'm sure I heard a muffled snicker. Apparently, I need a new phone. One that was made in the 21st century. My phone ranked up there with avocado green appliances and rotary dial phones as far as Verizon was concerned.
(2) My family does not have an HD TV. We're up in the air about whether or not we want to. Or, more to the point, MacGyver and I aren't too sure. It seems like an awful lot of money to spend on an appliance that will be mostly used to watch Arthur and Max and Ruby. I find the news upsetting enough--I'm not sure I need to see any more graphic depictions of death, destruction, or famine in high def. And, most importantly, I really, really don't want to watch my personal favorite TV shows in such a way that I can see the size of the actor's pores. Or liver spots. I have an unnatural adoration for NCIS, and it has very little to do with the story lines. It's Jethro Gibbs I watch for. I admit it--I'm a Gibbs girl. And I really would rather watch him in soft focus so I can pretend he's not as old or older than my parents. In my old, 14 year-old 32" Emerson, I can squint a bit and still pretend it's the same Mark Harmon from Summer School. And I like that.
(3) My family was so far "behind the times" that my brother, on numerous occasions, has simply bought me tech-toys that he felt we "needed". Like a DVD player. And a digital camera. And a DVD player for the van. And a ionizer. Okay, the ionizer I think was a hint that my old house smelled like cat poo, and it was a blatant hint to air the house out and clean the litter box more than once a day. But still. The poor man feels so bad for us that he feels the need to by my a DVD player because he heard me freaking out that I can't buy VCR tapes much anymore. He introduced me to the joys of not having to hit "rewind" before returning a tape to Blockbuster. Which, incidentally, doesn't really exist anymore. And, certainly doesn't rent VCR tapes. Then, I'm sure I heard him mutter something about "getting with the times." And, just to let you know, this was at a point in time when everyone else in the world was upgrading to Blue-Ray, and I was refusing to let go of my VCR...
(4) I didn't own a CD player until a few years ago. Seriously. When I graduated high school in 1990, Cd's were becoming the new "big thing" and I stupidly thought they were a fad. For fifteen straight years. I clung to my cassette tapes like a life-raft in the ocean of life. Heck, my car in college was so old that it still had a functioning 8-track player. I was the only person in my sorority (and, quite possibly my entire university) that listened to 8-tracks. I think my Rod Stewart one was my favorite, until my dad used it (along with a roll of electrical tape and a handful of toothpicks) to hold my new car battery in place. After my brother saw me crying about losing my precious 8-track, he set me up with an awesome, ghetto Alpine stereo system with remote controls for the back seat and a 6-CD changer. Of which I had no Cds to put in it. But my 1978 Buick Regal was rockin' with a great pair of sub-woofers and tweeters and all that shawatata-bing-bang! All the better to play Peter Cetara and A-ha. Hey--don't laugh. It was the early nineties, and I was awesome.
(5) I am writing this on a notebook that is as old as the DQ. When it, a Sony Vaio, first came out, I thought our family totally rocked! I mean, we had a Vaio well before Oprah gave one away to all the teachers at her "Greatest Things" episode. I finally felt ahead of the pack, since I had this awesome, tiny notebook. I mean, no laptops for me! And CPUs were so last year... Yeah, did I mention my awesome computer was hooked up to dial up. Yes, dial up. We didn't get "high speed internet" until I convinced MacGyver that it was actually cheaper to get the Comcast Triple Play then pay Erols (remember Erols? Am I dating myself?) separately for internet dial up and then AT&T for phone and long distance. And Comcast for cable. And, back then, Comcast Triple Play was still dial-up, just faster dial-up. Our neighbors were getting high-speed DSL, and I was just getting used to the incredibly faster dial-up of a national company. I thought it was totally normal to get kicked off the internet every 20 minutes, and that it took minutes to load a simple page. When we finally splurged on high-speed, everyone else was moving on to Verizon fiber-optic something-or-other. I expect will catch up to that in another 10 years or so...
Needless to say, I'm a bit behind the times technology speaking. For a girl that worked for the Department of Defense's MIS division (yes, that's the Management Information Systems--as in, computers and software) for their DoDDs schools through college, I've sunk a long way down in the techno-gadget world. I used to order high end computers and printers (back when color printers were brand new and cost $10K), and would help organize and teach software classes in WordPerfect and Word for Windows and Excel. Now, WordPerfect doesn't even exist anymore. The world has marched on, and programs like PowerPoint and Photoshop are old-school. And I have absolutely no idea how to work them. At all. Oh, and have I ever mentioned that MacGyver is a computer programmer. This "stuff" is second nature to him, and therefore totally uninteresting. He gets to
While I wouldn't have traded anything in the world for all these years I've spent at home, and I have no regrets in that department, I do wish I had kept a bit more up-to-date with the world and technology surrounding me. I managed to create this lovely, happy bubble of domesticity. My house is clean and uncluttered (usually), and smells of wonderful home-cooked meals that didn't come out of boxes or bags whose direction include "just add water". When it comes to ovens and dishwashers and refrigerators, I'm all for technology. Heck, my new washer and dryer rock my world! Our water bill has plummeted and I can actually dry a huge load of towels in 20 minutes. Tops. But, unless it's a domestic machine, it's certainly not "new fangled" around here.
And, I still don't know where I stand on it. A part of me wants all the pretty toys. I want the same phones as everyone else (even though I never remember to turn mine on. And, when I do, it's usually out of batteries.) I love watching a movie in HDTV at someone else's house and marvel at the crispness and clarity of the picture. I fawn over the newest digital cameras when I see them whipped out at a school concert or sports practice.
But, there's that other part of me that resents the modernization of society. I long for simplicity, not technology. It's seems like such as dichotomy to desire gizmos and equally desire a class in canning my own jams, jellies, and pickles. I read Radical Homemakers and wanted to drop it all to run away and buy a farm and tend to chickens and cows and pigs (yes, when MacGyver heard that, he laughed his sweet little ass off. Me? On a farm? Shoveling moo poo? Yeah, that was going to happen in this lifetime...) Then, I see all the other mommies in the waiting room at the dentist this morning, playing Angry Birds or whatever on their smart phones and texting away with the cyber-buddies while I read the latest Ladies Home Journal and copied down some recipes. And realized that I left my POS phone at home. Because the battery was dead. Again. And, I admit I was jealous. Just a bit.
But, I'm now at the stage when both my bunnies will be in school, full-time, starting next week. I will have the time to take those computer classes and maybe even get a very-part-time job to help pay for an HDTV for when the 32" Emerson finally blows up. Maybe, what's really happening, is that I'm finally coming out of my cocoon. For almost 9 years I have been surrounded by wee-ones. Taking care of the basic needs of my munchkins left very little time to stay current with the world around me. In just a few days, watching the news will be a daily occurrence, not a few minutes watching the headlines of the Today show while jumping out of the shower and before tending to the kiddos. I'll suddenly have the time to read more than the front page and the comics (and, I'll admit it, the horoscopes) in the Washington Post. And, that makes me a bit nervous. I'll be re-entering a world that went on without me for almost a decade. And while the skills I had in my previous employed positions are now basically obsolete, I have to remind myself that I'm not. I can slowly dip my toes into the technology pool, and then (if I like it) I can dive in.
I already have put that first toe in. Yesterday, I ordered my new phone. An Android. I have no idea how to work it, so I may be calling some of you friends in to help me. And please don't laugh when I tell you I don't know what an App is. Or that I have never, ever sent a text. This was my first step, and I'm kind of excited! Who knows, maybe I'll actually get a real iPod (not just the Shuffle that I never use because I can't see what's playing and it doesn't plug into the iPod stations at the gym or on those fancy-schmancy radios).
But, I draw the line at a Kindle. I'm still to old fashioned there. I like my books to smell like paper and I love the sound of flipping pages too much to go there yet...
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Summer "Hunger Games"...
I don't know what it is about summer. Or, just being home in general. But, when the kiddos are home, it seems like all they do is eat. And eat. And eat.
I know this is a totally common complaint, and while all us moms (and dads) complain about the amount of food (and, subsequently, toilet paper) that gets consumed in the house every day, no one that I know of has come up with a really good reason why. Is it that they're fattening themselves up, like bears before hibernation, for the 9 long months of school with no snacks for hours at a time? Is it simply that they know that there's food in the pantry (or van), and the idea that it's there is simply more than they can resist? Is it that they're moving and running and swinging and swimming more when they're home and they need the extra nutrition?
Or, are they just trying to drive me crazy? Or, into bankruptcy?
I've said before that DQ and WMB are like hobbits without the hairy feet. They eat breakfast, second breakfast, snack, brunch, elevenses, noonsies, lunch, snack, etc... Our food bill is second only to our mortgage, and I'm an avid couponer (labeled an "organized couponer" by this past Sunday's Parade magazine in the Washington Post! Oooo, I feel so special!) with a mini-stockpile of nummies that never seems to last long enough. While others may fear the attitudes and impulse control issues of their childrens' imminent teenage years--I fear the food bill. If I can barely keep up with them now, I figure I'm totally screwed in about 6-7 years.
I love the fact that my kids have tons of reasonably healthy (if you can consider Pirate's Booty and organic juiceboxes healthy) snacks at the ready, but just keeping up with them is exhausting. Who hasn't gone grocery shopping one day, and come home proud as a proverbial peacock about all the delicious munchies they picked up, only to find the cupboard bare the next day. Or, worse yet, later that same evening.
"Couponing" (can you believe that's even a verb these days?) has always been part of my life. I was raised by a mother that knew how to "work a deal" and was amazing at scouting bargains. I never knew that buying food or household items without a coupon was even possible, and eating meat that didn't have an orange markdown sticker on it was almost unheard-of. Once when I was little, my mom was making dinner and I noticed the meat package wasn't "marked down". I loudly asked "hey mom--are we having company for dinner?" "yes dear. why?" "because we aren't having discount meat!"
Yes, as you can probably guess, the "company" was in the next room and heard it all. Thank Maude they just laughed... Heaven knows, they probably understood completely.
Of course, when your little, you don't realize how hard your parents work to put food on the table. And, as a teenager, I just found it completely humiliating that my mom used coupons and scoured the markdowns and dented can shelves. Now--I understand.
So, I went back to my mom and re-learned how to use coupons and match them to sales. I learned about the RiteAid Single Check Rebates and haven't paid full price for OTC meds again (hint, around October, RiteAid has a huge OTC SCR event where you can get enough cold and flu medication to last all winter). I taped and watched (and rewatched) every episode of "Extreme Couponing" and joined a bazillion couponing and frugal living sites. And, I've got the whole stacking thing down pat (use a store coupon with a manufacturer's coupon when the things you want are on sale, and you get a triple bargain!).
But, I still barely keep up with the hobbits. And, don't even get me into talking about MacGyver. Entire boxes of crackers mysteriously disappear when he's around.... (And, how is it that the guys can eat junk to their hearts' content, and we gain weight just watching them snack? Huh? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)
So, I'll just have to continue with the constant grocery shopping, cooking, and serving for my pint-sized vacuum cleaners (they "hoover" everything in their way). And hope that I can find either a really well paying job or a money tree in the backyard by the time they hit their teenage years. Because by then I'll need an addition to the house to hoard their snacks, as well as a well-stocked checkbook to pay for their granola bars and grapes.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy their not-so-tiny gastronomic desires and the funny way they cram as much as they can in their cheeks like a pack of chipmunks, so they can run off and play with their friends with their snacks at hand (or, in mouth). I'll try not to get exasperated when I'm cleaning DQ's room and find her "stash" of snacks ("in case I get hungry at night, mommy!") and juice boxes. And, I'll keep clipping my coupons for Charmin and White Cloud, since we all know what happens when you eat that much. What goes in, must come out. And that's a whole other post...
Because, one day in the hopefully not-so-near future, I'll only be shopping for two. Suddenly, a windfall of disposable income from the lack of feeding Frodo and Merrie every 30 seconds will appear, and I suppose MacGyver and I will use it to start checking off things from our bucket lists (it should only take a few weeks of not feeding Hobbit appetites to save enough for a eco-vacation to Costa Rica at this point...) And, I'll look back at these years filled with the sounds of munching, slurping, and burping with great nostalgia. Maybe.
Or, maybe I'll just re-read Lord of the Rings...
I know this is a totally common complaint, and while all us moms (and dads) complain about the amount of food (and, subsequently, toilet paper) that gets consumed in the house every day, no one that I know of has come up with a really good reason why. Is it that they're fattening themselves up, like bears before hibernation, for the 9 long months of school with no snacks for hours at a time? Is it simply that they know that there's food in the pantry (or van), and the idea that it's there is simply more than they can resist? Is it that they're moving and running and swinging and swimming more when they're home and they need the extra nutrition?
Or, are they just trying to drive me crazy? Or, into bankruptcy?
I've said before that DQ and WMB are like hobbits without the hairy feet. They eat breakfast, second breakfast, snack, brunch, elevenses, noonsies, lunch, snack, etc... Our food bill is second only to our mortgage, and I'm an avid couponer (labeled an "organized couponer" by this past Sunday's Parade magazine in the Washington Post! Oooo, I feel so special!) with a mini-stockpile of nummies that never seems to last long enough. While others may fear the attitudes and impulse control issues of their childrens' imminent teenage years--I fear the food bill. If I can barely keep up with them now, I figure I'm totally screwed in about 6-7 years.
I love the fact that my kids have tons of reasonably healthy (if you can consider Pirate's Booty and organic juiceboxes healthy) snacks at the ready, but just keeping up with them is exhausting. Who hasn't gone grocery shopping one day, and come home proud as a proverbial peacock about all the delicious munchies they picked up, only to find the cupboard bare the next day. Or, worse yet, later that same evening.
"Couponing" (can you believe that's even a verb these days?) has always been part of my life. I was raised by a mother that knew how to "work a deal" and was amazing at scouting bargains. I never knew that buying food or household items without a coupon was even possible, and eating meat that didn't have an orange markdown sticker on it was almost unheard-of. Once when I was little, my mom was making dinner and I noticed the meat package wasn't "marked down". I loudly asked "hey mom--are we having company for dinner?" "yes dear. why?" "because we aren't having discount meat!"
Yes, as you can probably guess, the "company" was in the next room and heard it all. Thank Maude they just laughed... Heaven knows, they probably understood completely.
Of course, when your little, you don't realize how hard your parents work to put food on the table. And, as a teenager, I just found it completely humiliating that my mom used coupons and scoured the markdowns and dented can shelves. Now--I understand.
So, I went back to my mom and re-learned how to use coupons and match them to sales. I learned about the RiteAid Single Check Rebates and haven't paid full price for OTC meds again (hint, around October, RiteAid has a huge OTC SCR event where you can get enough cold and flu medication to last all winter). I taped and watched (and rewatched) every episode of "Extreme Couponing" and joined a bazillion couponing and frugal living sites. And, I've got the whole stacking thing down pat (use a store coupon with a manufacturer's coupon when the things you want are on sale, and you get a triple bargain!).
But, I still barely keep up with the hobbits. And, don't even get me into talking about MacGyver. Entire boxes of crackers mysteriously disappear when he's around.... (And, how is it that the guys can eat junk to their hearts' content, and we gain weight just watching them snack? Huh? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)
So, I'll just have to continue with the constant grocery shopping, cooking, and serving for my pint-sized vacuum cleaners (they "hoover" everything in their way). And hope that I can find either a really well paying job or a money tree in the backyard by the time they hit their teenage years. Because by then I'll need an addition to the house to hoard their snacks, as well as a well-stocked checkbook to pay for their granola bars and grapes.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy their not-so-tiny gastronomic desires and the funny way they cram as much as they can in their cheeks like a pack of chipmunks, so they can run off and play with their friends with their snacks at hand (or, in mouth). I'll try not to get exasperated when I'm cleaning DQ's room and find her "stash" of snacks ("in case I get hungry at night, mommy!") and juice boxes. And, I'll keep clipping my coupons for Charmin and White Cloud, since we all know what happens when you eat that much. What goes in, must come out. And that's a whole other post...
Because, one day in the hopefully not-so-near future, I'll only be shopping for two. Suddenly, a windfall of disposable income from the lack of feeding Frodo and Merrie every 30 seconds will appear, and I suppose MacGyver and I will use it to start checking off things from our bucket lists (it should only take a few weeks of not feeding Hobbit appetites to save enough for a eco-vacation to Costa Rica at this point...) And, I'll look back at these years filled with the sounds of munching, slurping, and burping with great nostalgia. Maybe.
Or, maybe I'll just re-read Lord of the Rings...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Unholy Piles of Crap
I found myself shouting this at my kiddos the other day--
"Two words for you, just two words!!! SNOW SHOVEL!!!!!"
No, I wasn't talking about winter time, or snow, or sleet, or days off school to go sledding down the hill at the park. I was talking about the playroom.
Or, more accurately, our basement that is covered in unholy piles of crap.
There are pieces of at least five different board games colonizing a village made of blocks and Lego pieces. Apparently it's still under construction, since a dozen Tonka and CAT construction machines of various sizes and shapes are surrounding it like the Romans on Masada. The gingerbread men from Candy Land are keeping house in the village, along with the cardboard children from Chutes and Ladders.
There are craft supplies everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. All the markers (name brand, washable, in every color available) are out of their containers and spread, tops off, in every conceivable nook and cranny. Forget finding the crayons. They've been stripped of their paper wrappings, leaving bits of confetti looking trash across the carpet. Glue sticks are dried up. Glitter is covering the floor like psychedelic fairy dust, and every single piece of paper (construction, poster board, drawing paper...) is out of their perfectly labeled drawers and spread out like a multi-colored red carpet for visiting dignitaries.
And. The. Toys.
They're everywhere.
Toys I swear I've never seen before. Toys from yard sales. Toys from birthdays and Christmases. Toys from Happy Meals and Wendy's. Piles and piles of toy infested crap.
Hence, the snow shovel threat.
It seems like at the end of the summer and the after Christmas are the two times of the year when all the mothers walk into their kids' rooms (and, playrooms) and take a look around. And sigh. Or cry. And then startscreaming talking about throwing everything away. Every darn Polly Pocket, Littlest Pet Shop, Lego, and Matchbox car. Every crayon and marker. Every block, book, and toy. We imagine using a shovel (in my case, a snow shovel. They're bigger, lighter, and can carry more crap per load) to fill dumpsters with plastic and paper.
We imagine a sparkling clean room with no stains on the carpet or crayon drawings on the wall. We fantasize about solid wood wall cabinets with matching, monogrammed baskets with labels like "dolls", "trains", "wooden blocks made out of renewable resources and painted with non-toxic paint". Our kids' size tables aren't made of plastic and weren't handed down through three different families to ours and covered with 15 years of glitter glue and Sharpie drawings. We pretend they're solid maple with matching chairs, where our children are sitting (clean, hair brushed, teeth brushed, in perfectly pressed and matching clothes and hair bows) and coloring in loving drawings of our family to be hung on our perfectly clean, fingerprint free, filled with organic fruits and veggies, refrigerator (in stainless steel, of course!).
Ah, yes. I'm back to my Pottery Barn Porn dreams....
Oh, what?! That's right, I was talking about purging the playrooms. Oops! There goes my mommy ADD again...
So now I have plans. At precisely 8:26 on the first day of school, I will place my precious children in the loving care of the public school system (though, I admit I've hit that "time of the summer" when I start contemplating boarding school. And military school. And convent school), and I will make myself a strong coffee and take it downstairs to the basement. Along with a full box of extra-strength trash bags, the vacuum, and a really bad attitude.
And. I. Will. Clean.
There will be no wall units with pretty baskets. The old table (made by hand by MacGyver and his dad, and that I absolutely adore) with the unmatched chairs (solid wood, unfinished, garage sale, $5) will remain in their place of honor in the middle of the room. The craft supplies will make their way back into their labeled drawers, and the tops will be found for every PipSqueak and Crayola Washable. Glue sticks will be replaced. Glitter tubes refilled. Broken toys and games thrown away, waiting to be replaced by birthday and Christmas gifts.
For one glorious morning and early afternoon, the room will be clean. Purged of junk. Sparkling (well, as sparkling a partially finished basement with a 20 year old carpet and florescent lights can be) and smelling of vinegar and essential oils.
I might even take a picture to remember the moment...
And then, the kids will come home. They will grab their snacks, give me a kiss, and run down to their lair. DQ will squeal with delight at all the new glue and glitter. WMB will shriek at the sight of all his cars and trucks and fire engines lined up in a row. Yippie!!
Hopefully it will take more than 5 minutes before they start complaining that I threw all their crap away, and try to break into the garbage cans.
And chaos will once again prevail.
Oh well. I can look forward to doing it all again after winter break--right?
"Two words for you, just two words!!! SNOW SHOVEL!!!!!"
No, I wasn't talking about winter time, or snow, or sleet, or days off school to go sledding down the hill at the park. I was talking about the playroom.
Or, more accurately, our basement that is covered in unholy piles of crap.
There are pieces of at least five different board games colonizing a village made of blocks and Lego pieces. Apparently it's still under construction, since a dozen Tonka and CAT construction machines of various sizes and shapes are surrounding it like the Romans on Masada. The gingerbread men from Candy Land are keeping house in the village, along with the cardboard children from Chutes and Ladders.
There are craft supplies everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. All the markers (name brand, washable, in every color available) are out of their containers and spread, tops off, in every conceivable nook and cranny. Forget finding the crayons. They've been stripped of their paper wrappings, leaving bits of confetti looking trash across the carpet. Glue sticks are dried up. Glitter is covering the floor like psychedelic fairy dust, and every single piece of paper (construction, poster board, drawing paper...) is out of their perfectly labeled drawers and spread out like a multi-colored red carpet for visiting dignitaries.
And. The. Toys.
They're everywhere.
Toys I swear I've never seen before. Toys from yard sales. Toys from birthdays and Christmases. Toys from Happy Meals and Wendy's. Piles and piles of toy infested crap.
Hence, the snow shovel threat.
It seems like at the end of the summer and the after Christmas are the two times of the year when all the mothers walk into their kids' rooms (and, playrooms) and take a look around. And sigh. Or cry. And then start
We imagine a sparkling clean room with no stains on the carpet or crayon drawings on the wall. We fantasize about solid wood wall cabinets with matching, monogrammed baskets with labels like "dolls", "trains", "wooden blocks made out of renewable resources and painted with non-toxic paint". Our kids' size tables aren't made of plastic and weren't handed down through three different families to ours and covered with 15 years of glitter glue and Sharpie drawings. We pretend they're solid maple with matching chairs, where our children are sitting (clean, hair brushed, teeth brushed, in perfectly pressed and matching clothes and hair bows) and coloring in loving drawings of our family to be hung on our perfectly clean, fingerprint free, filled with organic fruits and veggies, refrigerator (in stainless steel, of course!).
Ah, yes. I'm back to my Pottery Barn Porn dreams....
Oh, what?! That's right, I was talking about purging the playrooms. Oops! There goes my mommy ADD again...
So now I have plans. At precisely 8:26 on the first day of school, I will place my precious children in the loving care of the public school system (though, I admit I've hit that "time of the summer" when I start contemplating boarding school. And military school. And convent school), and I will make myself a strong coffee and take it downstairs to the basement. Along with a full box of extra-strength trash bags, the vacuum, and a really bad attitude.
And. I. Will. Clean.
There will be no wall units with pretty baskets. The old table (made by hand by MacGyver and his dad, and that I absolutely adore) with the unmatched chairs (solid wood, unfinished, garage sale, $5) will remain in their place of honor in the middle of the room. The craft supplies will make their way back into their labeled drawers, and the tops will be found for every PipSqueak and Crayola Washable. Glue sticks will be replaced. Glitter tubes refilled. Broken toys and games thrown away, waiting to be replaced by birthday and Christmas gifts.
For one glorious morning and early afternoon, the room will be clean. Purged of junk. Sparkling (well, as sparkling a partially finished basement with a 20 year old carpet and florescent lights can be) and smelling of vinegar and essential oils.
I might even take a picture to remember the moment...
And then, the kids will come home. They will grab their snacks, give me a kiss, and run down to their lair. DQ will squeal with delight at all the new glue and glitter. WMB will shriek at the sight of all his cars and trucks and fire engines lined up in a row. Yippie!!
Hopefully it will take more than 5 minutes before they start complaining that I threw all their crap away, and try to break into the garbage cans.
And chaos will once again prevail.
Oh well. I can look forward to doing it all again after winter break--right?
Friday, July 15, 2011
The "Clean Underwear" theory of housekeeping
I think almost all of us, growing up, heard one version or another of the warning "don't forget to wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident" from our parents. Or grandparents. I have no idea why they were so concerned with the state of my Holly Hobbie panties, but apparently they lived in deathly fear that I would be in (or cause) a car accident, and the paramedics would cut off my undies and find a skid mark and somehow think that I was so unhygienic that I wasn't worth saving. Or something.
Or, now that I'm a parent myself, they were more likely afraid they'd see dirty underpants and assume that I had terrible parents who didn't bother to bathe me everyday and make sure my clothes were clean. I know that's what I'd be worried about with DQ and WMB. Especially WMB, since he's still in that "learning to wipe properly" stage that apparently affects little boys, and some not so little boys, well into adolescence (or, possibly, adulthood).
Of course, when a form of that argument was used against me the last time, I was in my twenties and my mother saw my "underlovlies" (Her word, not mine. But I must admit, they were lovely.) and exclaimed "what if you were in an accident and the doctors saw what type of underwear you're wearing!"
Now, it's not like I was wearing leopard-print crotchless panties or anything, but they were nice undies that came with an equally nice tariff as they were French.
Anyway, she apparently thought that if I wasn't wearing some form of clean granny panties, the doctors were going to make fun of me. Or, think my mom was a bad parent for letting her MARRIED twenty-something daughter wear a lovely strip of lace that would show no VPL (visible panty lines).
My retort was that I hoped they gave the merest fraction of a second's appreciation before they cut the things off. And, that most likely, I would have already wet myself from the accident already so clean unmentionables was already a moot point.
Mom was not amused.
Anyway, I know you're thinking "how the heck does clean underwear have anything to do with clean houses?" And here's the kicker--along with the "clean underwear" theory, my mom was also reminding us to make sure the house (and our rooms) were clean, especially if we were going on vacation. In case a burglar broke in and thought we were slobs.
Yes, I was raised to take the aesthetic appreciations of petty felons into consideration at all times when cleaning.
And, years later, as much as I realize that my mom's theory is completely and utterly ridiculous (I totally and absolutely love her to death, but it is a crazy thought!), I still make sure the house is pretty straightened up when I leave. Especially on vacation.
I claim it's because I don't want to come home to a cluttered, dirty house after the stress of getting home and unpacking after a vacation. I say it's because my in-laws are coming over to pick up the mail/paper and feed our fish/hermit crabs/whatever.
But, I would be totally horrified if someone broke in and thought they ought to call Hoarders instead of wiping us out of our old, partially decrepit, ancient electronics and our jar of quarters for MacGyver to use at work for parking.
Or, worse yet, someone would come over and think we'd been robbed since the house was a mess. And, I'd have to admit that's just the way we lived. (Actually, this is a true story. Happened to a family I knew. Now, that would be embarrassing!)
So, mom--you can be proud of me. I almost always have clean underpants on, and my house is ready for a burglar to admire it and possibly leave me a kind note about the quality of my housekeeping and the lovely vanilla/sandalwood scent of my home-made cleansers. You taught me well.
Or, now that I'm a parent myself, they were more likely afraid they'd see dirty underpants and assume that I had terrible parents who didn't bother to bathe me everyday and make sure my clothes were clean. I know that's what I'd be worried about with DQ and WMB. Especially WMB, since he's still in that "learning to wipe properly" stage that apparently affects little boys, and some not so little boys, well into adolescence (or, possibly, adulthood).
Of course, when a form of that argument was used against me the last time, I was in my twenties and my mother saw my "underlovlies" (Her word, not mine. But I must admit, they were lovely.) and exclaimed "what if you were in an accident and the doctors saw what type of underwear you're wearing!"
Now, it's not like I was wearing leopard-print crotchless panties or anything, but they were nice undies that came with an equally nice tariff as they were French.
Anyway, she apparently thought that if I wasn't wearing some form of clean granny panties, the doctors were going to make fun of me. Or, think my mom was a bad parent for letting her MARRIED twenty-something daughter wear a lovely strip of lace that would show no VPL (visible panty lines).
My retort was that I hoped they gave the merest fraction of a second's appreciation before they cut the things off. And, that most likely, I would have already wet myself from the accident already so clean unmentionables was already a moot point.
Mom was not amused.
Anyway, I know you're thinking "how the heck does clean underwear have anything to do with clean houses?" And here's the kicker--along with the "clean underwear" theory, my mom was also reminding us to make sure the house (and our rooms) were clean, especially if we were going on vacation. In case a burglar broke in and thought we were slobs.
Yes, I was raised to take the aesthetic appreciations of petty felons into consideration at all times when cleaning.
And, years later, as much as I realize that my mom's theory is completely and utterly ridiculous (I totally and absolutely love her to death, but it is a crazy thought!), I still make sure the house is pretty straightened up when I leave. Especially on vacation.
I claim it's because I don't want to come home to a cluttered, dirty house after the stress of getting home and unpacking after a vacation. I say it's because my in-laws are coming over to pick up the mail/paper and feed our fish/hermit crabs/whatever.
But, I would be totally horrified if someone broke in and thought they ought to call Hoarders instead of wiping us out of our old, partially decrepit, ancient electronics and our jar of quarters for MacGyver to use at work for parking.
Or, worse yet, someone would come over and think we'd been robbed since the house was a mess. And, I'd have to admit that's just the way we lived. (Actually, this is a true story. Happened to a family I knew. Now, that would be embarrassing!)
So, mom--you can be proud of me. I almost always have clean underpants on, and my house is ready for a burglar to admire it and possibly leave me a kind note about the quality of my housekeeping and the lovely vanilla/sandalwood scent of my home-made cleansers. You taught me well.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Systems? I have systems?
Okay, I have gotten some requests from friends about what to blog about, and the overwhelming requested topics are: cleaning, organizing, cleaning, cooking, and cleaning. Notice a trend?
So, I guess I'm going to start off with cleaning.
Apparently, a lot of you think I have this amazingly clean house. And, I admit, it's pretty clean. I don't aim for perfection, just basic non-disgustingness and a bare minimum of hygiene. I'd rather not walk across my kitchen floor and have my sock get left behind in a sticky puddle of who-knows-what--but, I'm usually not freaking out over kid clutter (unless it's LEGOS and I've stepped on one). I think of my home as an impressionist painting--a Monet, say--where it all looks pretty from far away. But up close, not so much. There's dust in my corners. There's sticky goo on top of my refrigerator and cabinets (I suspect it's from those non-stick sprays). There are fingerprints and actually LICK prints on my windows (really--what makes my kids want to lick the freaking windows? Yuck! Nothing like a dried, crunchy, peanut buttery tongue print on the front door to make you want to vomit up your breakfast on the way to the bus stop.)
So, anyway, there has been a request for my "system" (I like that word! Better than routines or "to do's", which I have way too many of anyhow). I didn't think I even had a system, until a neighbor mentioned it, but I guess I do. It's very, very loosely based on The FLY Lady system in that I really hate to do anything for very long, so about 15-20 minutes at a time is all I can stand. The FLY Lady also has really cute phrases, like "swish and swipe" that I think are great, and I use those too.
So, my mornings go something like this: wake up when the kids bound into my bed and start screaming for breakfast. Scrape the sheets off of whatever bed I'm washing that day (Monday, master bedroom; Tuesday, DQ's bed; Wednesday, WMB's bed) or towels I'm washing (Monday or Tuesday, and Friday). Stumble down stairs and throw that load in the washing machine and then make first pot of coffee while simultaneously taking down the requests for breakfast from the residentinmates munchkins. "Pancakes! With bacon! And sausage, but not the icky kind, the yummy kind! (???) And eggs!" Yeah, I'll get right on it.... Ahh, coffee.....
So, feed the munchkins breakfast and listen to their complaints ("I wanted chocolate chips and Nutella on my pancakes!" "sorry kiddo, that's called dessert, not breakfast", "I don't want this anymore, can I have a smoothie?" "Ah, no. Eat what I made or starve until snacktime.") while I try to finish at least one cup of coffee while it's still hot. Or, luke warm. Oh heck, add some ice cubes and pretend it's an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts...
Get everyone dressed and teeth brushed (a quick "swish and swipe" after the spitting is done) and drag the laundry basket of recent filth down to the laundry room. Track down shoes, backpacks, and make lunches for school. Get everyone out the door. Change laundry around from washer to dryer, and start next load. Get WMB in van and drive to preschool. Run errands or crawl back home for more coffee.
Back at home, I clean up breakfast, sweep kitchen floor, and remember I haven't taken a shower yet. Smell pits and decide I can get away with an extra swipe of Secret and pretend I was planning on going to the gym to workout anyway, so there's no point in showering now. Switch laundry again, and make whatever bed I was washing. Collapse on bed and dream about a nap. Decide to play on Facebook instead, and promptly lose an hour and a half to mindless surfing...
Oh crap! Now realize I have to pick up WMB from school and make lunch. Remember that I was supposed to get gas, pick up prescriptions, go to the bank, and return the library books this morning. Panic. Pick up WMB, run errands, and make it home for lunch.
My afternoon is a quick vacuuming of either the living room or a bedroom, wiping down the kitchen, and a quick spiff up before MacGyver comes home and trips on a toy firetruck or errant LEGO, and remembering to unlock the front door to let DQ in when the bus drops her off (thank Maude the bus stop is my driveway!).
But, whatever household chores I do, I limit it to only a few minutes. As I've said before, I get a bit sidetracked and forget things. Like my child coming home from school. At the same time. Every day. For the last 8 months. Sorry DQ!
Only doing a few things a day, not cleaning the whole house at one time, makes things so much easier. I don't try to scrub the bathrooms on the same day I'm vacuuming. And I only vacuum a couple rooms a day. I despise washing windows, so I only do a few at a time. I'm not thrilled with kiddo crap all over the house, so I limit them to toys in their rooms or the basement so I'm not using a snow shovel to clean the living room every day. I hate searching for shoes, so there's baskets at the front and back doors for shoes. I love the smell of a "clean house", so I use vinegar and water with a bit of essential oil (currently, lavender bought with a 40% off coupon at Michael's. But I also like eucalyptus and mint.) and spray it liberally around. Especially right before MacGyver comes home.
Hint: wiping down the kitchen counters and maybe the downstairs bathroom with cleaner right before your sweetie comes home makes it smell like you've been cleaning and scrubbing all day. When, really, I've only put in a couple 15 minute spurts of energy and managed to keep up with FB and watch the Real Housewives of Wherever.
But the big thing is, I don't try to do it all at once. Doing a little at a time is fine by me. I'm not aiming for perfection. I'm aiming to control what I can with as little effort as possible. Cleaning a little each day means things rarely get completely out of control. Running a load or two of laundry a day means I don't have to waste my weekend folding clothes and ironing. And I really, really hate ironing. Even more than emptying the dishwasher. Which, by the way, FLY Lady says to run at night so you can have the joy of waking up to a fresh load of dishes each morning. While I do run the washer at night, right after baths, I DO NOT find an ounce of joy in a fresh load of anything. It actually kind of pisses me off that I have to start my day off with emptying the dishwasher so I can find my favorite coffee mug, but a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Especially when MacGyver's not home so I can whine to him to empty it.
So, I say, make a list of chores and break them up into little 15-20 minute jobs and spread them out over the whole week. Doing a quick FLY Lady swish and swipe (The "swipe" is where you spray vinegar and water or Windex on the mirrors and counters of the bathroom and wipe it all down really quickly each morning. You really don't need a special cleaner for everything. Vinegar and water--or, if you're more "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", then use Windex--works great. The "swish" is running the toilet scrubber around the toilet bowl to get all the ickys down the drain. Putting a sliver of leftover soap in the bottom of the scubber holder is great for daily cleaning of the toilets. Irish Spring is especially fresh smelling in the bowl!) won't take more than a minute or two, and keeps you from having to scrub the bathroom so much. Throwning all the dishes in the dishwasher right after a meal keeps the kitchen looking nice, and keeps me from freaking out at the end of the day when I find dishes in the sink with petrified egg yolk from breakfast (then I have to scrub, not just rinse the plates.) I also like to ProMist the floor after I put the kids to sleep. I make the solution with my ubiquitous vinegar and water. And a wet kitchen floor forces me to stay in my living room (it's kind of like painting myself into a corner) and relax. It also makes a really convenient excuse for why I can't come upstairs (again) to get DQ/WMB another drink of water (or snack or whatever); and they can't come downstairs to bug us ("Sorry bunnies! The floor's wet!")
So, really, that's all I do to keep the house clean. Do a few things each day, and use shortcuts whenever I can. That's my "system". Now pardon me--I need to put the lunch dishes away and catch up on RHONJ...
So, I guess I'm going to start off with cleaning.
Apparently, a lot of you think I have this amazingly clean house. And, I admit, it's pretty clean. I don't aim for perfection, just basic non-disgustingness and a bare minimum of hygiene. I'd rather not walk across my kitchen floor and have my sock get left behind in a sticky puddle of who-knows-what--but, I'm usually not freaking out over kid clutter (unless it's LEGOS and I've stepped on one). I think of my home as an impressionist painting--a Monet, say--where it all looks pretty from far away. But up close, not so much. There's dust in my corners. There's sticky goo on top of my refrigerator and cabinets (I suspect it's from those non-stick sprays). There are fingerprints and actually LICK prints on my windows (really--what makes my kids want to lick the freaking windows? Yuck! Nothing like a dried, crunchy, peanut buttery tongue print on the front door to make you want to vomit up your breakfast on the way to the bus stop.)
So, anyway, there has been a request for my "system" (I like that word! Better than routines or "to do's", which I have way too many of anyhow). I didn't think I even had a system, until a neighbor mentioned it, but I guess I do. It's very, very loosely based on The FLY Lady system in that I really hate to do anything for very long, so about 15-20 minutes at a time is all I can stand. The FLY Lady also has really cute phrases, like "swish and swipe" that I think are great, and I use those too.
So, my mornings go something like this: wake up when the kids bound into my bed and start screaming for breakfast. Scrape the sheets off of whatever bed I'm washing that day (Monday, master bedroom; Tuesday, DQ's bed; Wednesday, WMB's bed) or towels I'm washing (Monday or Tuesday, and Friday). Stumble down stairs and throw that load in the washing machine and then make first pot of coffee while simultaneously taking down the requests for breakfast from the resident
So, feed the munchkins breakfast and listen to their complaints ("I wanted chocolate chips and Nutella on my pancakes!" "sorry kiddo, that's called dessert, not breakfast", "I don't want this anymore, can I have a smoothie?" "Ah, no. Eat what I made or starve until snacktime.") while I try to finish at least one cup of coffee while it's still hot. Or, luke warm. Oh heck, add some ice cubes and pretend it's an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts...
Get everyone dressed and teeth brushed (a quick "swish and swipe" after the spitting is done) and drag the laundry basket of recent filth down to the laundry room. Track down shoes, backpacks, and make lunches for school. Get everyone out the door. Change laundry around from washer to dryer, and start next load. Get WMB in van and drive to preschool. Run errands or crawl back home for more coffee.
Back at home, I clean up breakfast, sweep kitchen floor, and remember I haven't taken a shower yet. Smell pits and decide I can get away with an extra swipe of Secret and pretend I was planning on going to the gym to workout anyway, so there's no point in showering now. Switch laundry again, and make whatever bed I was washing. Collapse on bed and dream about a nap. Decide to play on Facebook instead, and promptly lose an hour and a half to mindless surfing...
Oh crap! Now realize I have to pick up WMB from school and make lunch. Remember that I was supposed to get gas, pick up prescriptions, go to the bank, and return the library books this morning. Panic. Pick up WMB, run errands, and make it home for lunch.
My afternoon is a quick vacuuming of either the living room or a bedroom, wiping down the kitchen, and a quick spiff up before MacGyver comes home and trips on a toy firetruck or errant LEGO, and remembering to unlock the front door to let DQ in when the bus drops her off (thank Maude the bus stop is my driveway!).
But, whatever household chores I do, I limit it to only a few minutes. As I've said before, I get a bit sidetracked and forget things. Like my child coming home from school. At the same time. Every day. For the last 8 months. Sorry DQ!
Only doing a few things a day, not cleaning the whole house at one time, makes things so much easier. I don't try to scrub the bathrooms on the same day I'm vacuuming. And I only vacuum a couple rooms a day. I despise washing windows, so I only do a few at a time. I'm not thrilled with kiddo crap all over the house, so I limit them to toys in their rooms or the basement so I'm not using a snow shovel to clean the living room every day. I hate searching for shoes, so there's baskets at the front and back doors for shoes. I love the smell of a "clean house", so I use vinegar and water with a bit of essential oil (currently, lavender bought with a 40% off coupon at Michael's. But I also like eucalyptus and mint.) and spray it liberally around. Especially right before MacGyver comes home.
Hint: wiping down the kitchen counters and maybe the downstairs bathroom with cleaner right before your sweetie comes home makes it smell like you've been cleaning and scrubbing all day. When, really, I've only put in a couple 15 minute spurts of energy and managed to keep up with FB and watch the Real Housewives of Wherever.
But the big thing is, I don't try to do it all at once. Doing a little at a time is fine by me. I'm not aiming for perfection. I'm aiming to control what I can with as little effort as possible. Cleaning a little each day means things rarely get completely out of control. Running a load or two of laundry a day means I don't have to waste my weekend folding clothes and ironing. And I really, really hate ironing. Even more than emptying the dishwasher. Which, by the way, FLY Lady says to run at night so you can have the joy of waking up to a fresh load of dishes each morning. While I do run the washer at night, right after baths, I DO NOT find an ounce of joy in a fresh load of anything. It actually kind of pisses me off that I have to start my day off with emptying the dishwasher so I can find my favorite coffee mug, but a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Especially when MacGyver's not home so I can whine to him to empty it.
So, I say, make a list of chores and break them up into little 15-20 minute jobs and spread them out over the whole week. Doing a quick FLY Lady swish and swipe (The "swipe" is where you spray vinegar and water or Windex on the mirrors and counters of the bathroom and wipe it all down really quickly each morning. You really don't need a special cleaner for everything. Vinegar and water--or, if you're more "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", then use Windex--works great. The "swish" is running the toilet scrubber around the toilet bowl to get all the ickys down the drain. Putting a sliver of leftover soap in the bottom of the scubber holder is great for daily cleaning of the toilets. Irish Spring is especially fresh smelling in the bowl!) won't take more than a minute or two, and keeps you from having to scrub the bathroom so much. Throwning all the dishes in the dishwasher right after a meal keeps the kitchen looking nice, and keeps me from freaking out at the end of the day when I find dishes in the sink with petrified egg yolk from breakfast (then I have to scrub, not just rinse the plates.) I also like to ProMist the floor after I put the kids to sleep. I make the solution with my ubiquitous vinegar and water. And a wet kitchen floor forces me to stay in my living room (it's kind of like painting myself into a corner) and relax. It also makes a really convenient excuse for why I can't come upstairs (again) to get DQ/WMB another drink of water (or snack or whatever); and they can't come downstairs to bug us ("Sorry bunnies! The floor's wet!")
So, really, that's all I do to keep the house clean. Do a few things each day, and use shortcuts whenever I can. That's my "system". Now pardon me--I need to put the lunch dishes away and catch up on RHONJ...
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A New Sort of Tweener
If there is one thing in my house that defines "organized chaos", it would be my closet.
Now, I like my closet. It's a nice sized walk-in with a few shelves that have a tendency to fall down when I try to take (aka, yank) something off the top shelf. It has enough room to actually see all our clothes at once. Unlike my old house, which had a nice long closet that ran the length of the wall. To actually see what was in it, you had to grab a flashlight and go on an exploring expedition that looked like it came out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. In fact, every time I see that movie, MacGyver and I laugh about how it totally looks like us trying to get dressed in the morning. I swear, one day I totally expected to go searching for a pair of shoes and find Narnia...
Anywho, back to my closet.
I was looking for something to wear this morning, and realized that while my side of the closet was beautifully organized, I really didn't have much to wear. (Notice I said "side". Yes, in a closet with four walls, my clothes only fill up one side. One part of one side. I married a man that has at least 5x more clothes than me. How can that be possible?! Ah yes. He's half Italian.)
Here are my clothes, separated by type, sleeve length, and color. I start with my sleeveless tanks and camis (organized from light to dark), followed by short sleeve, long sleeve, sweaters, skirts, shorts, capris, pants, and finally, dresses. All from light to dark. All on matching wooden hangers (I have an aversion to metal hangers worse than anything you'll see from Mommy Dearest...) and facing the same way.
And, I have almost nothing to wear because nothing matches.
There are preppy Lily Pulizer tunics and capris hanging next to sexy Cache skirts and tank tops. Boring and slightly frumpy Ann Taylor capris next to brightly colored Juicy Couture tees. I have lost my "style". Or, worse yet, hung onto styles that looked great a decade ago (younger, no kids, 20 pounds lighter) and no longer fit my butt or my life (or, this century). "Hello, this is 1998 calling. I want my clothes back..."
I used to be a professional stylist of sorts. I worked in retail, and was even a Buyer's Assistant. I used to be on the cutting edge of fashion, and dressed my "clients" up for interviews and engagement parties and exotic vacations. And now, I can't even dress myself.
I think it's because I'm kind of a "tweener". I'm not young enough to pull off the low slung jeans and baby tees of my twenties, and I'm not old enough (I hope!) to consider Chico's "hip". Everything out there seems either too trashy or too frumpy. Or, just plain not flattering. So I keep everything, regardless of whether it fits, and hope that I'll find that one pair of "something-or-other" that will pull my whole closet together.
Until then, I'll have to continue to organize my chaotic, yet colorful, closet of unusable treasures. Or, at least find some matching storage boxes that I can label and stack in perfectly matched rows to contain my "pretties". But, then I'd be stuck in the same place I am now--with nothing to wear but my boring Old Navy capris, Ann Taylor shorts, and v-neck t-shirts, with the occasional yoga pants thrown in. The uniform of a 30-something "tweener".
Now, I like my closet. It's a nice sized walk-in with a few shelves that have a tendency to fall down when I try to take (aka, yank) something off the top shelf. It has enough room to actually see all our clothes at once. Unlike my old house, which had a nice long closet that ran the length of the wall. To actually see what was in it, you had to grab a flashlight and go on an exploring expedition that looked like it came out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. In fact, every time I see that movie, MacGyver and I laugh about how it totally looks like us trying to get dressed in the morning. I swear, one day I totally expected to go searching for a pair of shoes and find Narnia...
Anywho, back to my closet.
I was looking for something to wear this morning, and realized that while my side of the closet was beautifully organized, I really didn't have much to wear. (Notice I said "side". Yes, in a closet with four walls, my clothes only fill up one side. One part of one side. I married a man that has at least 5x more clothes than me. How can that be possible?! Ah yes. He's half Italian.)
Here are my clothes, separated by type, sleeve length, and color. I start with my sleeveless tanks and camis (organized from light to dark), followed by short sleeve, long sleeve, sweaters, skirts, shorts, capris, pants, and finally, dresses. All from light to dark. All on matching wooden hangers (I have an aversion to metal hangers worse than anything you'll see from Mommy Dearest...) and facing the same way.
And, I have almost nothing to wear because nothing matches.
There are preppy Lily Pulizer tunics and capris hanging next to sexy Cache skirts and tank tops. Boring and slightly frumpy Ann Taylor capris next to brightly colored Juicy Couture tees. I have lost my "style". Or, worse yet, hung onto styles that looked great a decade ago (younger, no kids, 20 pounds lighter) and no longer fit my butt or my life (or, this century). "Hello, this is 1998 calling. I want my clothes back..."
I used to be a professional stylist of sorts. I worked in retail, and was even a Buyer's Assistant. I used to be on the cutting edge of fashion, and dressed my "clients" up for interviews and engagement parties and exotic vacations. And now, I can't even dress myself.
I think it's because I'm kind of a "tweener". I'm not young enough to pull off the low slung jeans and baby tees of my twenties, and I'm not old enough (I hope!) to consider Chico's "hip". Everything out there seems either too trashy or too frumpy. Or, just plain not flattering. So I keep everything, regardless of whether it fits, and hope that I'll find that one pair of "something-or-other" that will pull my whole closet together.
Until then, I'll have to continue to organize my chaotic, yet colorful, closet of unusable treasures. Or, at least find some matching storage boxes that I can label and stack in perfectly matched rows to contain my "pretties". But, then I'd be stuck in the same place I am now--with nothing to wear but my boring Old Navy capris, Ann Taylor shorts, and v-neck t-shirts, with the occasional yoga pants thrown in. The uniform of a 30-something "tweener".
Monday, June 27, 2011
Motherhood Induced ADD
To do lists. Gotta love 'em!
I have to admit, I've always loved lists. School supply lists at the beginning of each school year (ahhh, the smell of new crayons and freshly sharpened pencils!). Recommended book lists that give me hope that I'll read something lifechanging. Or at least without cartoon pictures. Shopping lists with the potential to create amazing meals worthy of Nigella Lawson. Bucket lists of all the amazing and adventurous things I want to do before I die.
But, I still adore the mundane "to do list". A list of all the little and big things I think I'll actually have time to do. Vacuum. Dust. Create the month's menu. Re landscape the front yard. Read War and Peace.
Lists are what save me from forgetting all the things I need/should do. If it's not on "the list" (or "the calendar"), it doesn't exist. If I didn't have a weekly list of chores, I'd completely forget to wash sheets, go grocery shopping, or scrub toilets. Heck, I'd probably forget to make dinner if I didn't have a menu list staring at me from the refrigerator. I blame it on Motherhood Induced ADD (pronounced "Me Add"). That sounds better than a bad case of CRS (Can't Remember Sh!t)
I used to have a fantastic memory. Not quite photographic, but really awesome. I could read a text book and remember it all so I didn't have to really study for tests. I could drive to a place I hadn't been in since I was a little kid, and remember every turn and land marker. I could remember entire conversations from years and years ago.
Now I can't remember what I had for dinner last night.
And, without a list (or three) guiding me through the day, I'd have a bad tendency to go off on tangents. I can't concentrate for more than a few minutes. I've been meaning to write this entry for days, but I get. a. little. sidetracked...
I sit down to fold laundry, and see toys on the ground. So I stop the laundry and pick up the toys. But, then I find the missing Lego from WMB's police cruiser, so I go upstairs to find and fix it. But on the way up the stairs, I hear a ping from the computer so I check email. And, while I'm here, I'll check Face Book. Where someone mentions the pool, so I run upstairs to get bathing suits and call to the kids to get ready while I get snacks. Then I see there's no good snacks, so I start a grocery list. Which reminds me to update my coupon binder...
This is why I need lists. A list of daily chores (thank you Fly Lady for showing me how to do this). A list of things to bring to the pool. To put in the van. A fancy schmancy grocery list, separated by store and aisle, to remind me to pick up milk. A monthly menu so I don't panic every afternoon about what to make for dinner.
I have lists of blog ideas, long term to do lists, Christmas gift lists for next year, summer vacation ideas for the kids. I have notebooks and composition books, and cute little magnetic flip charts of lists. I have a list of things I need to put on a list. Because without my lists, I'm lost.
Others see my lists, and probably think I'm so organized. So on top of things! Nope. Not even close. I have lists so I don't lose what little mind I have left. Without these lists reminding me that I have a family to feed, clothe, and clean up after, I'd be flittering off to whatever I see glittering prettily in the distance.
I also need lists to remind me to take care of myself. To take a break. To get a haircut. To remember to give myself a manicure/pedicure--or, at least cut my nails. To eat more fruits and veggies. To schedule a girls night out. To schedule a date night. To go for a walk. By myself.
Because, sometimes us moms forget things. And it's not just trying to remember to sign up for summer camp or pick up milk and bread on the way home. We forget the funny things our kids say. We forget to call to make the dental appointments. We forget to take a break and regain our sanity. My lists keep me on track in a crazy but fun world, where I'd forget that DQ has a doctor's appointment when I'd rather go to Brownie Beach and collect sharks teeth (hey, I need to remember to put that on my summer "to do" list...) I'd love to chat more, but I have to make the kiddos lunch and then pack for the pool. I hope I have my list of pool things around here...
I have to admit, I've always loved lists. School supply lists at the beginning of each school year (ahhh, the smell of new crayons and freshly sharpened pencils!). Recommended book lists that give me hope that I'll read something lifechanging. Or at least without cartoon pictures. Shopping lists with the potential to create amazing meals worthy of Nigella Lawson. Bucket lists of all the amazing and adventurous things I want to do before I die.
But, I still adore the mundane "to do list". A list of all the little and big things I think I'll actually have time to do. Vacuum. Dust. Create the month's menu. Re landscape the front yard. Read War and Peace.
Lists are what save me from forgetting all the things I need/should do. If it's not on "the list" (or "the calendar"), it doesn't exist. If I didn't have a weekly list of chores, I'd completely forget to wash sheets, go grocery shopping, or scrub toilets. Heck, I'd probably forget to make dinner if I didn't have a menu list staring at me from the refrigerator. I blame it on Motherhood Induced ADD (pronounced "Me Add"). That sounds better than a bad case of CRS (Can't Remember Sh!t)
I used to have a fantastic memory. Not quite photographic, but really awesome. I could read a text book and remember it all so I didn't have to really study for tests. I could drive to a place I hadn't been in since I was a little kid, and remember every turn and land marker. I could remember entire conversations from years and years ago.
Now I can't remember what I had for dinner last night.
And, without a list (or three) guiding me through the day, I'd have a bad tendency to go off on tangents. I can't concentrate for more than a few minutes. I've been meaning to write this entry for days, but I get. a. little. sidetracked...
I sit down to fold laundry, and see toys on the ground. So I stop the laundry and pick up the toys. But, then I find the missing Lego from WMB's police cruiser, so I go upstairs to find and fix it. But on the way up the stairs, I hear a ping from the computer so I check email. And, while I'm here, I'll check Face Book. Where someone mentions the pool, so I run upstairs to get bathing suits and call to the kids to get ready while I get snacks. Then I see there's no good snacks, so I start a grocery list. Which reminds me to update my coupon binder...
This is why I need lists. A list of daily chores (thank you Fly Lady for showing me how to do this). A list of things to bring to the pool. To put in the van. A fancy schmancy grocery list, separated by store and aisle, to remind me to pick up milk. A monthly menu so I don't panic every afternoon about what to make for dinner.
I have lists of blog ideas, long term to do lists, Christmas gift lists for next year, summer vacation ideas for the kids. I have notebooks and composition books, and cute little magnetic flip charts of lists. I have a list of things I need to put on a list. Because without my lists, I'm lost.
Others see my lists, and probably think I'm so organized. So on top of things! Nope. Not even close. I have lists so I don't lose what little mind I have left. Without these lists reminding me that I have a family to feed, clothe, and clean up after, I'd be flittering off to whatever I see glittering prettily in the distance.
I also need lists to remind me to take care of myself. To take a break. To get a haircut. To remember to give myself a manicure/pedicure--or, at least cut my nails. To eat more fruits and veggies. To schedule a girls night out. To schedule a date night. To go for a walk. By myself.
Because, sometimes us moms forget things. And it's not just trying to remember to sign up for summer camp or pick up milk and bread on the way home. We forget the funny things our kids say. We forget to call to make the dental appointments. We forget to take a break and regain our sanity. My lists keep me on track in a crazy but fun world, where I'd forget that DQ has a doctor's appointment when I'd rather go to Brownie Beach and collect sharks teeth (hey, I need to remember to put that on my summer "to do" list...) I'd love to chat more, but I have to make the kiddos lunch and then pack for the pool. I hope I have my list of pool things around here...
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Snack-mobile
As I casually mentioned in an off-hand sorta way, I have a van. A minivan. And, may I say in all honesty--I love it! I can cram 8 people into it and still have room for 3 weeks of groceries in the trunk. It has all these neat hooks and hangers and secret compartments for hiding all the crap that accumulates when you have munchkins (like my now famous first aid kit). And, it has more than enough room for my snacks.
Snacks, you say?
Yes, snacks. And drinks.
I have enough juice boxes, water bottles, granola bars, fruit snacks, Cheez-Its, mini-cereal boxes, little individual milk cartons (I mean, what if someone wanted milk on their mini-cereal?), and fruit leathers in my van to last a family of four at least 6 months. Why? Because my kids NEVER STOP EATING.
For some reason, I have given birth to two munchkins with hollow bones. They can each eat more than an adult three times their size. And a simple three hots and three snackaroos a day is completely unacceptable to their delicate palates. They're like freaking hobbits. They need breakfast, snack, brunch, snack, noonsies, snack, lunch, lunch, lunch, snack, supper, dinner, another dinner, and at least three more snacks before bed.
Which brings us to the snack-mobile. For some reason, my kids (and all of their BFFs) get ravenously hungry the minute I pull out of the driveway. I mean, weeping, screaming lunatic hungry. The DQ can put on an Academy awarding winning act about how she hasn't had anything to eat all day and she will whither away and die of starvation in the five minutes it takes to get to Chik Filet. Doesn't matter if we're only going three miles down the road--they need a snack. And, obviously, the snack will make you thirsty. So you need a drink. And the drink makes you have to pee, so I have to pull to the side of the road and get out the port-a-potty. It's like the story "When You Give a Mouse a Cookie".
Oh, and yes, I carry a potty in the van. My kids think it's the best thing ever and totally show off to their friends about how they don't have to pee on a tree when they go to the park. They can pee in the van! Oh, joy. And, did I mention I have a little boy? Who doesn't have the best aim? Now you know why I have Nature's Miracle in the van, too...
The snack stash also comes in handy when I'm stuck in traffic and starving. Or in the carpool line at preschool, feeling a bit peckish. Or, at happy hour at the park and all us grown-ups have remembered to bring our booze, but forgot to bring water bottles (yes, this happened last Friday...)
So, that's why I have a big basket of non-perishable treats in my van. Not because I'm a rugged survivalist who wants to be prepared for the melting polar caps. Or a paranoid cult member who believes the four horseman of the apocalypse are going to thunder through my backyard heralding the start of Armageddon. It's because I have two small kiddos who can't go 30 seconds without chewing and swallowing something. And, I can't stand the sound of whining. And it's hard to whine with a granola bar in your mouth.
Snacks, you say?
Yes, snacks. And drinks.
I have enough juice boxes, water bottles, granola bars, fruit snacks, Cheez-Its, mini-cereal boxes, little individual milk cartons (I mean, what if someone wanted milk on their mini-cereal?), and fruit leathers in my van to last a family of four at least 6 months. Why? Because my kids NEVER STOP EATING.
For some reason, I have given birth to two munchkins with hollow bones. They can each eat more than an adult three times their size. And a simple three hots and three snackaroos a day is completely unacceptable to their delicate palates. They're like freaking hobbits. They need breakfast, snack, brunch, snack, noonsies, snack, lunch, lunch, lunch, snack, supper, dinner, another dinner, and at least three more snacks before bed.
Which brings us to the snack-mobile. For some reason, my kids (and all of their BFFs) get ravenously hungry the minute I pull out of the driveway. I mean, weeping, screaming lunatic hungry. The DQ can put on an Academy awarding winning act about how she hasn't had anything to eat all day and she will whither away and die of starvation in the five minutes it takes to get to Chik Filet. Doesn't matter if we're only going three miles down the road--they need a snack. And, obviously, the snack will make you thirsty. So you need a drink. And the drink makes you have to pee, so I have to pull to the side of the road and get out the port-a-potty. It's like the story "When You Give a Mouse a Cookie".
Oh, and yes, I carry a potty in the van. My kids think it's the best thing ever and totally show off to their friends about how they don't have to pee on a tree when they go to the park. They can pee in the van! Oh, joy. And, did I mention I have a little boy? Who doesn't have the best aim? Now you know why I have Nature's Miracle in the van, too...
The snack stash also comes in handy when I'm stuck in traffic and starving. Or in the carpool line at preschool, feeling a bit peckish. Or, at happy hour at the park and all us grown-ups have remembered to bring our booze, but forgot to bring water bottles (yes, this happened last Friday...)
So, that's why I have a big basket of non-perishable treats in my van. Not because I'm a rugged survivalist who wants to be prepared for the melting polar caps. Or a paranoid cult member who believes the four horseman of the apocalypse are going to thunder through my backyard heralding the start of Armageddon. It's because I have two small kiddos who can't go 30 seconds without chewing and swallowing something. And, I can't stand the sound of whining. And it's hard to whine with a granola bar in your mouth.
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Bandaid Queen
Okay, I'm going to start off this blog by telling the story of why I have a first aid kit in my van. And my purse. And my park bag. Hell, I'd probably stuff one down my bra when I take the kids for a walk, if I could jam it in amongst the boobies.
And, this is not just some lame first aid kit with a couple of bandaids and a wet-wipe. We're taking cold packs, emergency blanket, multiple packages of bandages of various size and colors (because, really--doesn't a Scooby Doo bandaid make everything better?), Ace bandages, athletic tape... I'm talking a first aid kit that would make MacGyver swoon!
Every time I whip out one of my kits when I hear the wails and screams of a child (usually mine) who has gotten the worst scraped knee (or paper cut) in all of history, I get other moms practically cooing over it. They can't believe that I have such a wide assortment of goodies at my immediate disposal. They're amazed when I offer the bleeding munchkin a choice of Strawberry Shortcake, Transformers, Star Wars, Scooby Doo, Barbie, or Pooh bandages. And, we're not talking about the three or four types I have that are brightly colored (and have antibiotic ointment in the pad!).
Wanna know why? Because if there is any child in a fifty mile radius who will crack his head open on a slide, and then proceed to bleed out all over the park bench where dozens of parents watch me freak out and start screaming for help--it will be my child.
Wait--that was my child!
It all started on a lovely trip to a zoo (which will remain unnamed) with my SIL and my nephew. It was a glorious day, and my children--then 7 year old Drama Queen (DQ) and 3 year old Wild Man of Borneo (WMB)--were out of their minds to get to see their cousin and hang out with the animals. I mean, there were giraffes you could feed by hand! Fake lilly pads (on actual water!) that you could leap on (and fall off of) like a drunken frog after a late-night bender! And--taa daa!!!--the most awesome, huge, amazing fake tree with a slide. The kiddos could climb up a spiral staircase in the "trunk" of the tree and then slide down one of two big slides down to the benches where all the wonderful and loving parental units were waiting (aka: trying not to fall dead asleep from exaustion) to clap for them and encourage their precious off-spring to go down again and again and again so we could get our only break of the day.
Oh, and in case you're wondering--there was a big sign up that said "Children Only--No Adults" on the staircase or the slide. I, being the non-helicoper, ever-so-slightly free-range parent that I am, obeyed. Other grown-ups? Not so much. Really--does your 5 year old need his mommy or daddy to slide down a freaking slide with you? Between his/her legs? While saying "weeeeeee! Isn't this fun??!!!" I think not. But, I digress....
Well, after watching a dozen or so kiddos go down the slide, I see DQ posing at the top of the slide to get my attention. Then, I hear the sounds of thumps and a blood curdling scream. Yes, my WMB was pushed (WMB claims, shoved) by a being that appears not to have been "child-sized" and then fell down, backwards, down the METAL SPIRAL STAIRCASE. (I was told by other moms in the area that a dad wanted to go down the slide with his child b/c he was worried his little one would be scared, so he tried to get around WMB, who was next, to get to his child who was on the second slide next to DQ. Yeah--thanks dude.) Judging by the blood and bumps, WMB must have hit every damn step with his face.
My SIL was thankfully at the bottom of the staircase (I was manning the bottom of the slide, so it's not like I was slacking off or anything) and pulled my blood covered bunny to safety. I looked around for a security guard, a first aid station,... Heck, I would have welcomed a food cart worker at that point! But, no. We had to walk around the zoo, with a toddler dripping blood in his wake, begging for help. Parents were offering tissues and wet-ones (of which, I had some too), but no one was carting around a fully stocked kit of first aid loveliness. Apparently, no workers at the zoo were either. Because--get this--THERE WAS NO FIRST AID STATION. In a zoo. That caters to kids. Not a single place to even buy a bandaid or ice pack. Heck, it took me at least 10 minutes of screaming and running around to find anyone who even worked at the zoo. Or, would admit to it... Who knows. Maybe they saw a screaming lunatic of a woman with a drippy bloody toddler and decided to run for the hills.
Anyway, when we finally found someone, all she did was offer to call 911 and have WMB sent to the ER. Did I mention this was at the height of the Swine Flu epidemic? No, I didn't? So sorry to have left that out... I asked for a bandaid. No can do. I asked for an ice pack. So sorry. I asked for a darn ziplock baggie with ice from the cafeteria. Fine, that they can do. Then, they put the whole bunch of us on a golf cart and rushed us out to our cars. No doubt to get us the heck out of there, before any other visitors could see us. Then the worker took my information to fill out a "report" (no, they never did give me a copy. Or even call to see how WMB was...) and told us to leave.
And that, my dears, is why I carry a super duper first aid kit with me at all times. So I can keep myself, and others, from the embarassment of being "that mom" who looks like an extra from an ER episode.
Oh, and just to let ya'll know--WMB was fine (no concussion, no stitches) and he and his sister love to talk about "the slide incident" and how cool it was to "race" in a golf cart. Kids. It's all about the golf cart to them...
And, this is not just some lame first aid kit with a couple of bandaids and a wet-wipe. We're taking cold packs, emergency blanket, multiple packages of bandages of various size and colors (because, really--doesn't a Scooby Doo bandaid make everything better?), Ace bandages, athletic tape... I'm talking a first aid kit that would make MacGyver swoon!
Every time I whip out one of my kits when I hear the wails and screams of a child (usually mine) who has gotten the worst scraped knee (or paper cut) in all of history, I get other moms practically cooing over it. They can't believe that I have such a wide assortment of goodies at my immediate disposal. They're amazed when I offer the bleeding munchkin a choice of Strawberry Shortcake, Transformers, Star Wars, Scooby Doo, Barbie, or Pooh bandages. And, we're not talking about the three or four types I have that are brightly colored (and have antibiotic ointment in the pad!).
Wanna know why? Because if there is any child in a fifty mile radius who will crack his head open on a slide, and then proceed to bleed out all over the park bench where dozens of parents watch me freak out and start screaming for help--it will be my child.
Wait--that was my child!
It all started on a lovely trip to a zoo (which will remain unnamed) with my SIL and my nephew. It was a glorious day, and my children--then 7 year old Drama Queen (DQ) and 3 year old Wild Man of Borneo (WMB)--were out of their minds to get to see their cousin and hang out with the animals. I mean, there were giraffes you could feed by hand! Fake lilly pads (on actual water!) that you could leap on (and fall off of) like a drunken frog after a late-night bender! And--taa daa!!!--the most awesome, huge, amazing fake tree with a slide. The kiddos could climb up a spiral staircase in the "trunk" of the tree and then slide down one of two big slides down to the benches where all the wonderful and loving parental units were waiting (aka: trying not to fall dead asleep from exaustion) to clap for them and encourage their precious off-spring to go down again and again and again so we could get our only break of the day.
Oh, and in case you're wondering--there was a big sign up that said "Children Only--No Adults" on the staircase or the slide. I, being the non-helicoper, ever-so-slightly free-range parent that I am, obeyed. Other grown-ups? Not so much. Really--does your 5 year old need his mommy or daddy to slide down a freaking slide with you? Between his/her legs? While saying "weeeeeee! Isn't this fun??!!!" I think not. But, I digress....
Well, after watching a dozen or so kiddos go down the slide, I see DQ posing at the top of the slide to get my attention. Then, I hear the sounds of thumps and a blood curdling scream. Yes, my WMB was pushed (WMB claims, shoved) by a being that appears not to have been "child-sized" and then fell down, backwards, down the METAL SPIRAL STAIRCASE. (I was told by other moms in the area that a dad wanted to go down the slide with his child b/c he was worried his little one would be scared, so he tried to get around WMB, who was next, to get to his child who was on the second slide next to DQ. Yeah--thanks dude.) Judging by the blood and bumps, WMB must have hit every damn step with his face.
My SIL was thankfully at the bottom of the staircase (I was manning the bottom of the slide, so it's not like I was slacking off or anything) and pulled my blood covered bunny to safety. I looked around for a security guard, a first aid station,... Heck, I would have welcomed a food cart worker at that point! But, no. We had to walk around the zoo, with a toddler dripping blood in his wake, begging for help. Parents were offering tissues and wet-ones (of which, I had some too), but no one was carting around a fully stocked kit of first aid loveliness. Apparently, no workers at the zoo were either. Because--get this--THERE WAS NO FIRST AID STATION. In a zoo. That caters to kids. Not a single place to even buy a bandaid or ice pack. Heck, it took me at least 10 minutes of screaming and running around to find anyone who even worked at the zoo. Or, would admit to it... Who knows. Maybe they saw a screaming lunatic of a woman with a drippy bloody toddler and decided to run for the hills.
Anyway, when we finally found someone, all she did was offer to call 911 and have WMB sent to the ER. Did I mention this was at the height of the Swine Flu epidemic? No, I didn't? So sorry to have left that out... I asked for a bandaid. No can do. I asked for an ice pack. So sorry. I asked for a darn ziplock baggie with ice from the cafeteria. Fine, that they can do. Then, they put the whole bunch of us on a golf cart and rushed us out to our cars. No doubt to get us the heck out of there, before any other visitors could see us. Then the worker took my information to fill out a "report" (no, they never did give me a copy. Or even call to see how WMB was...) and told us to leave.
And that, my dears, is why I carry a super duper first aid kit with me at all times. So I can keep myself, and others, from the embarassment of being "that mom" who looks like an extra from an ER episode.
Oh, and just to let ya'll know--WMB was fine (no concussion, no stitches) and he and his sister love to talk about "the slide incident" and how cool it was to "race" in a golf cart. Kids. It's all about the golf cart to them...
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