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.