The apples don't fall far from the tree...

Dear kiddos,

It may come as a complete surprise to you, but when it comes to your antics and manipulation, I'm on to you.

I know you spend minutes, if not hours, coming up with your excuses and drama and thinly-veiled lies misdirections and omissions in an effort to put your dad and I "off the scent", but we're on to you.

I know you think that MacGyver and I are dumb, if not completely stupid, and just "don't get it", but we've been there and done that.

It's truly amazing how every generation thinks they're smarter and more cunning than their parents and/or grandparents.  That somehow the youngest generation has finally cracked the mysteries of the brain and it's psychology, and that they can pull the proverbial wool over their parents' eyes.

Yeah.  Right.

Now, I'm fully aware of the fact that I was once part of that youngest generation of misbehaving miscreants that thought they were so genius.  That my parents didn't know that I sneaked out of my room through the window and down the pine tree out front whenever I was sent to my room for whatever evil misdeeds I committed (sassing back, hitting my brother, being a general ten-year-old a**hole) and ran over to my BFF's house claiming parental abuse for being locked in my room.  It never actually occurred to me, until I had children of my own, that my mom was perfectly aware of what I did and where I was.  She was just happy to have some freaking peace and quiet in the house.  It never dawned on me that there was a "mommy brigade" that would have called my mom and said "hey, did you know Christine was over here?" and that my mom probably said "who cares--I'm on my last nerve because of her.  Wanna keep her until she's 18?"

But now, I have a whole new appreciation for my mom (and dad) and what they put up with for all those years with my brother and me.  Mostly me.  I was always the one that pushed the envelope.  The one that found everyone's last nerve and set it on fire.  Speaking of fire, I was really pretty good with matches--and the ability to torch many a bridge in my time.

So now, it is any surprise that I have kids that do the same to me?

The Drama Queen puts on award winning performances on an hourly basis around here.  The Wild Man leaves a trail of legos and Star Wars figurines like Hansel and his bread crumbs.  And said bread crumbs inevitably find their way to the wicked witch in the forest, screaming that someone is ruining her house (yes, that would be me).

I need look no further than the nearest, probably dusty, mirror to find out where they get their "quirks".  That talent for drama comes directly from me.  The trail of crap in their wake--I can't count the number of times my mom yelled at me for my junk around the house.  One time, she scooped it all up and threw it on the back porch to be swept away by the wind and the neighborhood dogs.  I'm starting to think she was onto something, there...

And the slamming and locking of doors?  Yep--my genes.  The ability to break the locks on almost any door, unless it's dead-bolted?  Where, dear DQ, do you think you got that from?  I know you think you have a singular, special talent (which is exactly why MacGyver and I have a second inside lock a la "Modern Family" on our bedroom door), but I'm sure your grandparents can tell you a heap of stories involving me, a credit card, and a spam key.  And, that my talent came in handy more than once when we were locked out of our house.

It's both funny as hell, and irritating as crap, to see your own quirks come out in your kids.  The lies ("I didn't do that!" "It's not mine!" "It's not my fault!") and the manipulations ("I feel so sick today, mommy.  I need to stay home in bed and sleep and snuggle with you.") are the same I used on my parents, and they used on there's, all the way back to the Neanderthal munchkins claiming they didn't eat the last piece of mammoth pie before dinner, or that it's not their fault the paint on the cave drawings are smeared--their little brother did it, not them.  Of course, the cave-moms weren't able to scream "I have a fingerprint kit, and I know how to use it!  If I find one scrap of your DNA on this wet paint, I'm raiding your college fund for money to pay for my nervous breakdown!!!!!!"

No.  I've never said that. (Ahem....)

So, this year, I vow to try to stop yelling and getting so frustrated with the DQ and the WMB when they push my buttons with the very buttons I installed in them.  To try to remember that I did the same things when I was little, and that someday they will have kids that drive them to the brink of insanity by doing the exact same things they're torturing me with today.  And, I will no doubt tell them the same thing I heard many, many years ago...

"One day, I hope you have kids just like you!"

And, like I did to my own mom many many times since, they'll grow up, have kids, and say---

"I'm sorry, mom.  I'm so so sorry...."

And, just like my mom, I'll just smile and say "Too late.  Too late..."

"Hipster" Glasses

A few months ago, it came to my attention that I couldn't see the TV very well.  Now, I tried the argument that I couldn't see the ticker tape at the bottom of MSNBC (oh, who am I kidding?  Fine--I'll admit it.  It was Bravo...) because our television was too small.  Then, I argued that if we had a flat-screen HDTV, I would be able to see it just fine.  But that would involve building built-ins (see--I had a plan...) and upgrading our cable package.  I even tried rearranging the living room furniture so the sofa was closer to the TV.

Then, I realized the problem was me.

In my efforts to keep the rest of the family up to date with well-child visits, dentist appointments,  flu shots, swimming lessons, and hearing/vision screenings, I kind of forgot about myself.  Until I tried to get a refill on my contacts and I was told it had been "several years" since I was in, and I needed a new exam before I could get another refill on my prescription lenses.

Several years?  Seriously?  I mean, it couldn't have been that long ago!!  I distinctly remember coming in just a few months ago.  I remember it clearly since my doctor's wife had just had their first child, and the proud daddy had the baby pictures up in the office.

"Yes ma'am.  The 'baby' is 3 1/2 now."

Yikes!!!!

So, I make my appointment and discover, to my delight, that my prescription hasn't changed a bit.  See!  I told you I needed a new TV!  It wasn't me!  It was just the poor quality of our cable connection and the obvious need for an upgrade!

Yep--I needed an upgrade.  But it wasn't for the TV.

What had apparently happened is I had the same prescription for my contacts, but my prescription for my glasses was old.  Like, 5-6 years old.  I must have decided not to change the lenses in my glasses because of  some misguided desire to "save a few bucks" since I only rarely wore my glasses.  At home.  Preferably, in the dark.

(Yes, I have some "small" issues left over from late-childhood/early adolescence that involves glasses with the Pink Panther on the side.  Followed by the glasses that were bright purple.  I thought I was so cool....)

Anywho--I told the lady behind the glasses desk to just put the new lenses in my glasses.  "Sorry, but the lenses for your prescription are too thick for these frames.  You'll have to choose new frames."

What!!!!  Those frames are practically new!  They're hardly worn!!

Fine, I told her, just get me a pair that looks like these and cram the damn lenses in.

             <<<sound of crickets>>>

"Ah, we don't carry frames like this much anymore.  We keep them in the back for the more mature crowd."

"Excuse me?  'More mature' crowd?  You mean, like 40 year olds?"

Nope.  She meant, elderly.

Great.  Just great.  I have the style sense of a 90 year old....

So, next came the grand procession of what I considered "hipster frames".  I was sweating profusely, just imagining the snickers from my buddies at the bus stop.  Every pair I tried caused me to have an overwhelming desire to quote obscure poetry, listen to indie bands, or request a free-trade, organic green coffee with pasture raised soy milk.

Panicked, I started asking everyone in the whole office if I looked like I came off the set of "Portlandia".  These frames were too dark!  Too square!  Too modern!

Holy crap.  I was having a full mid-life crisis in the opticians office.

Finally, I just told the girl behind the counter (because, although a few years older than me, she was cute and stylish and her glasses looked adorable--she was "psychologically" a girl.  And I was psychologically a dinosaur.) to just choose a pair that I looked decent in (and didn't cost as much as my mortgage payment) and just order them.  I bought them sight unseen--figuring I never go out in public in them anyway, so who cared?

She assured me they weren't "hipster" (that hipsters had moved on to the Buddy Holly look, not the rectangular look, years before), and that they really did need to be darker than my hair.  Thus, bright purple was out.  Cringing, I signed the receipt.

I mean, really--what's the worst that could happen?  If they were truly terrible, I could get another pair.  In a decade or so....

So, I'm more than a little stunned when I picked them up and tried them on for the first time.  I could see!!!  I could read!!!  And, I didn't look like a complete idiot!!!  I might even consider wearing them at the bus stop.  Or, heaven forbid, the grocery store!

So, I'm wearing them that night while I'm making dinner and MacGyver comes home.

"Oh geez--you got a pair of those stupid hipster glasses everyone has these days!"

Gee.  Thanks.

At least they didn't have Pink Panthers on the side.

On Mommy-Martyrdom

After a small "break", I'm getting back to writing again.  I realized that I hadn't been taking the best care of myself lately, and wanted some time to schedule some long awaited (and totally procrastinated) doctors' appointments, surgeries, and other things.  Instead, after my first afternoon at the local pool, perhaps I should have reconsidered what "taking care of myself" meant.  While it's lovely to know that I will soon be up to date on my "lady doctor" appointments (I mean, I only procrastinated a little bit...) and I finally got my neck and back problems looked into (they've only hurt for 30 straight years...  I've kind of gotten used to it by now), I think that my time and co-pays should have been put to a different cause.

Like laser hair removal.

And micro-dermibrasion.

And Weight Watchers with a side of Boot Camp.

And a bathing suit made within this decade, with a coverup that doesn't look like a potato sack.

I mean, holy crappola!  Before, in the good old days before kids and mortgages and pretending to be grown up, I'd just pick out a few suits from Hecht Co. or Woodies (gee, am I dating myself?) and grab an adorable beach dress as a cover up and head out to the beach after a quick date with a two-bladed pink razor.

Then, after I had a couple of munchkins, I bought a couple Lands End tankinis with the little skirt (made popular by Kate on "Jon and Kate Plus 8") and threw on a pair of cute Eliza B. flip flops and worried more about how many extra swim diapers I had in my beach bag, and whether my pedicure was up to date.

Now?  Well, after what I saw this summer, I've slid a bit past "shabby chic" to just plain shabby.

Even with a five-blade razor and half a gallon of Nair, I apparently missed huge swaths of leg and other parts.  I looked like I had a bad case of mange. Add that to the bruises on my legs from playing with kiddos for a decade or so, and  marks from kneeling on the tiles for thousands of bubble baths, I have pemanent pressure bruises on my knees.  I can only imagine the snickers about those bruises...

Those cute tankinis from 10 years ago?  Yep, I'm still wearing them.  Ten years and twenty (ahem...) pounds later.  Thankfully, the spandex is slowly dying from age and repeated washing, so I can still claim to "fit" into them.  Oh, and did I mention--last year I made it on the front page of The Capital (above the fold!  yippee!!) in said tankini.  In all my pasty, lumpy glory.  Yep--not even that humiliation was enough for me to go through the drama of a new suit.  Or two.  Oh, and did I mention--my "cover up" doubles as my nightgown.  Yep.  I was going to the pool in my "pa-jay-jays".  Classy...

Argghh! 

But, I've noticed that it's not just me out there in an outdated, sagging swimsuit and a half-cocked sunscreen application, while our kids are outfitted in adorable bathing suits with matching rash-guards and sunglasses, basking in the joy of the pool while lovingly rubbed down in SPF 55 Aveno sunscreen.  It's not just me that buys the new bottles of sunscreen for the kids, but uses the old, slightly coagulating bottle from last year that's completely out of date (wouldn't want to waste that sunscreen when billions of people around the world don't even have access to clean water...)

And, I think it has something to do with martyrdom.  Mommy martyrdom.  Mixed with a bit of guilt for good measure.

And, I'd really like to throw that recipe away.  For good.

So many of us go out of our ways to make sure our kids have the best we can afford for them.  Whether it's bathing suits and sunscreen, or dental cleanings and well-child check ups.  And, I know I'll do it at my own expense, as I suspect many other moms to do.  I'll be dragging myself around with a virulant case of pneumonia and ebola--yet refuse to go to the doctor, or even admit I'm the slightest big sick to begin with.  It's just an allergy.  Or sinuses.  Or stress.

But, one of the kids coughs funny and I'm all over them like white on rice. Feeling for fevers, scheduling same-day appointments with the pediatrician, rubbing their chests and feet with Vicks Vaporub.

Same with clothes.  As soon as a growth spurt is on the horizon (sleepy today?  did you need an extra snack?  Oh, oh--time to go shopping!!), I'm on top of it with new shoes and pajamas, shirts and jeans, socks and underwear.

Me or MacGyver?  Nah, we don't need anything new or that even fits... I prefer to ignore the holes and the straining waistbands.  I've actually gotten pretty used to walking around with holes and boob stains.  And, I'm thinking that's not very good.   Not only does it make the kiddos think they rule the roost, it's teaching them that my "job" is too look like crap but the kids look great.  And, they're going to grow up and do the same thing.  And, I don't want to teach my daughter that it's okay to look schlumpy when she has kids.  I want her to feel wonderful about herself, and proud of herself regardless of a few extra pounds of flabby flesh and stretch marks.  I want her to feel it's not selfish to eat her own meal, and not just the leftovers from everyone else's plates.  To feel entitled to clothes that don't have stains, holes, and that actually fit and look nice.  That she doesn't have to put her own needs (or reasonable wants) aside for the sake of her children.

And, the way she will learn that is to watch me.  And the other moms.  We are all, ultimately, responsible for teaching our children how to behave in this world.  And being a martyr to parenthood is not how I ever want my kids to behave.  And, I doubt there are too many of us out there that would wish that for our kids.

And, on that note, I think I'll go clean out my closets (again) and start vowing to teach self-respect and balance to my kiddos.  Wish me luck!!!

Garanimals for GrownUps

I stand here in my closet, and utter the words "I have nothing to wear!!"

Yes, I know saying that is a total cliche--but, in my line of "work" (opening Capri-Suns and wiping up spills), most of my existing clothes have stains and/or holes in them.  I'm not kidding.  Last week I walked around feeling a cute and feminine in my flirty Talbot's skirt and Ann Taylor Loft t-shirt, only to find out I was walking around the whole school--and most of Annapolis--in a shirt that had a hole in the "tummy" and two huge, crunchy pit stains.  And the skirt?  Apparently I must have sat in an oil stain.  Not canola or olive or peanut.  Oh, no!  Those would be clear.  I sat in dirty car oil.  Probably at the tire place I went to when my dad calmly explained to me that generally people replace their tires when they're cracked and completely bald.

Really--I was having a fashion crisis, and he brings up tires?!  Where's his sense of priorities?!

Now, I'd like to claim that this was a "one time event."  But--ahem--it's not.

Barely a month ago, I was at the local park with my "village" when a lovely and amazing 12 year old girl came up to me and told me I had a hole in my jacket.  My favorite jacket.  My melon colored "mom coat" I wore everywhere because it covered all the lumps and bumps of my life, and was a bright and cheery color.

Anyhow--I took off my coat to look.  The coat I have been wearing around FOR YEARS.

There was a 6 inch rip in the shoulder--as in, the arm was almost completely separate from the coat and hanging on by fuzz and a few random stitches.  And, there were enough dirt stains on said fuzz to let me know that this was definitely not a recent hole.

That's when I noticed the holes (yes, plural) in my shirt.  The shirt I wore around at school, and grocery shopping, and errands.  Holes what were in an "inconvenient place."  And, let's not forget the "boob stain" of unknown origin.

You would think by now I would be used to "wardrobe malfunctions".  I mean, my "underlovlies" literally fell apart at work one day, and I had to run into the only boutique in Annapolis that carries my size and beg for anything that fit.  The sweet sales lady informed me that perhaps I needed to buy a couple of extra items, just in case the rest of my underpinnings looked this bad.  It was totally embarrassing.

Now, once upon a time I was quite the fashionable cutie.  I wore classy, chic clothes and wore makeup.  I had gorgeous, designer shoes that I actually wore on a daily basis.  I even had a "hair style" that went beyond a ponytail to actually using a hair dryer, curling iron, and product.  I worked retail and helped other women choose beautiful clothes.

Now, I can't even dress myself.

Part of the reason is time.  There is just no time anymore to wander around to stores and leisurely try on outfits.  I barely have time to take a shower and make dinner.  I don't have time to wander aimlessly through the mall.

Part of the reason is money.  Once upon a time, MacGyver and I had disposable income.  Then that disappeared when we started to have to buy disposable diapers.  And, with two kiddos that have managed to coordinate their growth spurts so they band together to drain our bank account, there's not much left over to splurge on $19 jeans from Old Navy and $15 t-shirts from the Loft anymore.

The last reason is, well, I have no idea what I look good in anymore.  Clothes for women seem to be either too young or too old for a thirty-something momma with a few extra "post pregnancy" pounds on her.  (Yes, I still thing of them as such--even when my "baby" is in kindergarten...)

So, I have a suggestion for some ambitious entrepreneur out there, just looking for a niche.  Think Birch Box combined with Garanimals for us moms with small children who don't need to wear suits (or, even "nice" clothes) on a regular basis.

I joined Birch Box a few months ago, and for a few bucks a month they send me a box of make-up and beauty product samples to try out.  If I like anything, I can go to their website and order the full sizes.  They send me everything from a cute lip glosses to a really scary set of stick-on cat-eye eyeliner.  They take me out of my comfort zone of chapstick and moisturizer, and let me try on different colors and styles.  What I don't like, I throw away or pass on to someone else.

Now, if someone did that with clothing--that would rock!!  Each month I could get a sample pack (say, a top and a bottom) in my size (which we will not discuss here...) that I could try.  They would go together as an outfit, or supplement the other tops and bottoms sent in previous months.  They would differ in styles (to take me out of my very boring t-shirt and jeans rut) and coordinate with everything else.  Kind of like Garaninmals for grown-ups!

Now, isn't that a great idea!!!  I could take out a top with a star on the label, and pair it with a skirt with a star on it, and I'd be all set to go.  No worrying about whether I looked stupid or frumpy, because everything would be current and fashion forward.

So, if anyone out there is looking for the next "great idea", just tell them I sent you.  And, make sure I get my finders fee in the form of precious little boxes of Grown-Up Garanimals each month.

Or, someone could just plant a money tree in my back yard and then take me shopping...

On Parenting With Labels

Tiger Mom.  Helicopter Mom.  Free-Range Parenting.  Crunchy-granola Mom.  Hipster parents.

The labels are all around us.  In the media.  In our conversations with other moms.  Practically in the air that we breathe.

But, what if you don't fit any of the labels out there? Or, if you fit them all?

I'm definitely not a Tiger Mom.  I don't force my children to speak Mandarin at age 3 (really?  Mandarin?  Who are they going to converse with in Mandarin?  Plus, my Chinese relatives are Cantonese.  And they speak English, anyway.)  I don't oversee three hours of violin practicing a day (are you kidding?  I'm lucky if I can get my little Drama Queen to practice three times a week.  For five minutes each time.  And forget piano.  The screaming and tears over practicing were legendary.  And that was just me...)  Half the time I don't even check over her homework, much less make her redo it because the handwriting isn't up to my standards.  As far as I'm concerned, I've already passed 3rd grade and Kindergarten, and I'm no longer responsible for writing book reports.  I'm happy to review homework for mistakes, but I'm certainly not going to stand over my children, lecturing them on perfection and excellence.  I think of myself more of a Panda Mom--you know, lounging around surrounded by food, chewing slowly, enjoying an occasional nap, moving only slightly faster than a sloth when needed.

And, I'm definitely not a Hipster Mom.  I have no idea what's "cool" on the "Indie Scene".  I have no desire to wear "ironic" t-shirts of bands that I never saw the first time around.  I don't care if my coffee is free-trade or organic--I only require that it has caffeine.  I don't even require that it's hot anymore.  Just that it's caffeinated.  About the only think "hipster" about me is my slouch.  But that's due to lifting heavy munchkins, unbagging groceries, having absolutely no core strength, and basically giving up regarding decent posture.  It's not hip.  It's due to a bad hip.

I'm a little bit crunchy-granola.  At times.  I clean with vinegar, water, baking soda, and essential oils.  I'm beginning to make my own dish detergent and washing machine detergent because I want to avoid chemicals that give me hives.  I do not use non-stick pans. In a fit of Dr. Oz induced hysteria, I threw out all of our plastic storage containers and water bottles out of fear of BPA.  I've been known to buy organic.  But, that's pretty much where I end.  If you look in my pantry, you'll find waaaaay too many processed foods encased in plastic.  If you look in the bathrooms, you'll find shampoo, conditioner, and lotion with fragrances produced by phlalates.  And if the soap scum on my shower proves too much for my baking soda paste, I have been known to sneak a bottle of orange scented Scrubbing Bubbles.  Plus, I really look bad in boho fashion...

I'd like to imagine myself more Free-Range than Helicopter.  It doesn't bother me when the kids are running around outside without shoes on.  MacGyver is cringing with visions of the kiddos stepping on glass and/or dog poop, but I maintain that part of childhood is running around with grass-stained feet, dog poo be damned.  I support the excessive playing with dirt and mud.  I allow my children to run wild and free in the woods behind our house and at the park in our neighborhood.  I do nag about wearing helmets when riding their bikes and scooters, but the kiddos will get around me from time to time (especially in the summer when helmets make them hot), and I have to try to balance safety (and, frankly, the law) with the knowledge that most of us grew up without ever owning a helmet and most of us are okay.  Sort of.

But, heaven forbid I hear and unsubstantiated report of a child abduction.  Attempted or not.  It doesn't even matter if it's in my area.  I hear a story about a baby being kidnapped from it's crib, and I'm bolting the windows and doors, and putting on the burglar alarm while we're home, watching TV in "safety".  I'll get one step from encasing my children in bubble-wrap and installing a micro-chip with GPS and Lo-Jack in their necks, like a pet.  Yeah, I'm all Free-Range until I read my newsfeeds...

And then, there's the weekly disagreement about tree climbing in our family.  I firmly believe that tree-climbing is an inherent right for children.  That it encourages coordination, allows children to test their limits, and gives them a great sense of accomplishment.  MacGyver thinks it's covers them in pine sap that's hard to remove in the tub, and that they'll fall and break their necks.  The Wild Man like to climb trees.  A lot.  He has a favorite white pine that he likes to climb to the very tip top of, and perch like a drunken Christmas tree angel.  The top branches tilt wildly to the side, and sway dangerously.  I'll just yell to him to "get down right this instant!!!  I've told you a thousand times not to climb that high!!!  I swear, if you fall and break your neck, you'll have to call 911 on your own and explain this yourself!!!!!!!".  MacGyver, on the other hand, would never let the Wild Man get near the tree to begin with.  Too dangerous.

So, should we "supervise" (aka, helicopter) the children 24/7 in an attempt to control everything we can about their environment and try to keep them from injuring themselves by simply being children and doing stupid, childish things?  Or do we go with the flow and let them explore the world on their own while we get some things done around the house, or--heaven forbid!!!--have a conversation with another grown-up at the park?  I know MacGyver has a really good point when he tells me "how would you feel if the WMB fell off the top of the tree and hurt himself?" Yes, I'd feel like crap.  I'd probably tell myself I was a terrible mother.  I'd curse myself for turning my back and chatting with friends while my son decided to pretend he was a spider monkey.

But then, is it worth it to restrict so many things we did as children, and that generations of children did before us, because we're scared our kids will get hurt?  We can't protect them forever.  And we can't protect them from everything.  And, really, wanting them to be "safe" is more for our own fears than for them.  While I will never be truly Free-Range, I hope that I never cross the line into hovering in my helicopter, trying to control supervise every potential danger in the world.  Or, just in my backyard.  I want my children to fly into the world.  And, even momma birds know, that children need to crash out of the tree a few times before they learn how to fly.

A Room of One's Own

One of the days I dread as a parent came the other day.  No, not that one...  The one where my little Drama Queen found my stash of "mommy humor" books and decided to peruse them.

Now, I know it was totally my fault for leaving them in MY BOOKCASE, with MY BOOKS, with strict instructions that the books in the study were Mommy and Daddy's books so leave them alone.  In fact, last time I checked, the kiddos were told not to even play in that room.  But, I digress...

Anyway, she found my funnies.  And decided to start reading one of my personal favorites--"I Was a Really Good Mom, Before I Had Kids."  Complete with a cute little quiz at the beginning of each chapter.  And she saw, among other embarrassing things, that I had checked off the little box indicating that "yes, I sometimes dream of having my own apartment."

Well, she melted down.  Complete, weeping, hysteria.

"Mommy, why, why, why do you want to have your own apartment!!!  Don't you love us!!!???"

Yes, my dear lovebug.  I love you.  I adore you.  I worship the ground your sweet little niblet-like toes walk on.

But, yes.  I would love my own apartment.  Heck, I'd be thrilled to have my own room.  Or even a stinking corner.

I think Virginia Woolf had it right when she wrote her essay about how women need a room of one's own.  Now, granted, she was talking about women writers, and women fiction writers in specific (I'm basing this on my semi-cognizant memories of college when I was actually in class...paying attention).  But, her words strike a cord in almost every heart of every woman (especially mom) out there.  Nor am I saying Woolf was filled with great ideas--she did after all fill her pockets with stones and, well, go swimming.  But, she did have something there with the whole room thing.

Men dream of their "man caves" (or, as one of MacGyver's friends put it more bluntly--a PMS bunker) and talk about filling it with big screen TVs, stereo systems, surround sound, leather furniture, and a wet bar.

Women dream of a room where no one can disturb them under any circumstances under penalty of death (or at least extended time-outs), and they can't hear the ruckus of family life for just an hour or so.  You know, a soundproofed room, inside and out, where we can relax in total silence.

Basically, we want a "panic room".  A really nicely decorated panic room.

My room would not have a handle on the outside, so when I was locked inside, no little hands could wiggle the knob or pick the lock (yes, the little DQ can pick a lock.  It's actually kind of frightening.  I don't know if she has a future as a locksmith or a cat burglar, but her little talent has come in handy--and not so handy--more than once).  It would be hermetically sealed so no notes about what one child has done or said to another could be slipped under the door.  No husbands could ask where the toilet paper, ketchup, or remote control was while I was relaxing.  No phone calls about playdates or Club Penguin would disturb my rest.

And there would be no leather furniture there.  Just a big, comfy, overstuffed chair with pillows and a soft throw.  And an ottoman, to rest my tired piggies.  And books.  Lots of books!  Without pictures, and that didn't involve stories about fairies or steam shovels.

I'd like to say how I'd have a little tea pot and yummy snacks in my panic room, but let's be realistic.  I'm not usually a tea and cookie gal.  I'm a candy-colored vodka martini or fancy top-shelf margarita girl.  With chips and guac.

Ahhhhh,  I can almost feel the chenille of the pretty throw, and the sigh of the overstuffed chair.  If I try really hard, I can smell the fruity essence of a drink with an umbrella in it.  I imagine reaching for my trashy novel, and....

Oops--there's the bus.  Bunnies of all sizes are bopping down the steps, and running and shrieking into the houses, looking for hugs and snacks and attention.

Oh well.  Some day.  Some day I'll have my panic room room of my own...

Date Night

Ahhhh---remember the days when you and your hubby (or SO) would spontaneously decide to go out for drinks and dinner, and maybe catch a movie?  At, oh, say--9:00 at night?

Cold drinks in a smoky bar with jazz or blues in the background?

Fusion food or sushi in a cool restaurant with rooftop seating?

A movie that had subtitles, or at the very least, was in a quaint artsy cinema that only showed late night movies?

Yeah, me neither...

These days, date nights are few and far between.  And, when we do get out (every few months or so), it's usually for discount happy hour drinks and appetizers (hey, they're cheaper than dinner and you get variety!) and a matinee movie.

Why?

Well, partly because MacGyver and I are total cheapskates and hate to "waste" money on dinners and movies when I can just as easily make dinner and watch On-Demand.   Or DVR'ed movies.  Or Net-Flix.  If we could even stay still (hey--I've got laundry folding to do!) or even agree on the show (aliens?  UFOs?  Big Foot?  Really????)

And, because our "babysitters" are my parents, and I hate asking them for help constantly.  Not that it really is "constantly", but it feels that way.

Then, there's the whole "I guess I need to shave my legs and find clean clothes that fit" conundrum.  I hate spending money on my own clothes since I'm convinced that my current body is just temporary.  I still consider it "baby weight", even though my "baby" is five years old, and this special extra padding is only three years old.  Yep, do the math.  This small problem is actually not the Wild Man's fault.  Anywho, unless Ann Taylor Loft has some lovely, dirt cheap, yet cute, clothes whose sizes are mysteriously missing the first "one" digit, I'm not buying a darn thing.  And really, at this point in my life I'm still usually covered in kiddie-boogers, boob stains, and applesauce.  So, what's the point of spending more than $20 on jeans or $5 on t-shirts when they'll just be destroyed in a month or so.  Now, MacGyver doesn't have this problem.  Lucky bastard still weighs and looks the same as he did in college, when we met.  He still rocks his H&M jeans and Hugo Boss polos.  Last time I checked, he did not have a boob stain on his shirt, or applesauce on his chinos.  I guess I could blame it on the fact that he gets to go to work each day (before the kiddos are up, and looking to wipe their hands or faces on someone or something) and therefore has fewer hours of munchkin time to get dirty.  But really, I suspect he's just far more hygienic than me.

And finally--it would require both of us to stay up past 9:00 pm.  Oh, for crying out loud--who are we kidding??!!  We're lucky if one, or both, of us aren't snoring in front of the TV by 8:30.  And, no--I'm not exaggerating one bit.  The idea of watching a movie at an actual movie theater where the show doesn't end until 10:30 and there's no chores to do during the "boring" parts makes me almost break out in hives.  Plus, what if we don't like the movie?  It's a lot easier to blow off a video you spend $1.99 on at Red Box than a new release you spent $25 or $30 on (before popcorn, Junior Mints, and soda) to sit in a theater with hundreds of people crunching away on their snacks, checking their texts and Face Book, and whispering back and forth.  And that's before you realize you have your head on a chair that's had thousands of people resting on it, so I start to itch just imagining lice....

No, I'm not neurotic....

But, books and tv shows and therapists and other parents tell us how important "Date Night" is to a relationship.  That we need our time together, away from children and responsibilities.  That we need to be a couple.  And not a couple of looney-toons because the only time we've spent alone in the last week was when we were asleep.  Or, in the car commuting to work.

So, this coming weekend, MacGyver and I are going out.  To a movie.  And dinner.  Not in that order, since I'm still too cheap to pay full price for a dinner and drinks (and this date is my treat).  So it will be the two of us with the AARP crowd getting our early-bird specials and then buying movie tickets with my discount movie passes.  We will certainly be home before 10:00, and I'll probably still be giddy from my 1 1/2 happy hour drinks that I had 3 hours before (what can I say--I'm a cheap date.)  But, we'll be able to see a movie that is not made by Disney or Pixar, and we'll eat a dinner that didn't involve mac-n-cheese or tuna casserole.  And, it may be fun enough that we make it a resolution to date each other at least once a month.  I hope.