Okay, I'm just going to admit, right up front, that I love "reality" television! There's nothing more I like, on a quiet day when everyone else is at work or school, then to turn on my own personal crack, and watch a marathon of the Real Housewives of Wherever while folding laundry (or, more accurately, dining with my friends Ben and Jerry).
But, the other month, I started watching a new show where thin, beautiful, well dressed moms go about town and do their errands and business with their wee tots in tow. While the show seemed pretty silly to begin with, I started to get sucked in after a few weeks. I imagined myself as an amazingly dressed, size 0 mommy with perfect highlights and tons of time to run around and get a spray tan and mani-pedi between adorable playdates with my angelic bunnies. It was a fun, harmless fantasy--you know, that I had time to work out, have a shower, shop at expensive boutiques, have my handsome husband bleach and veneer my teeth instead of using Crest Whitestrips when they're on sale....
Then, came the "girl's weekend" episode. And, I swear, I haven't stopped snickering yet.
Somehow, the reality shows that I watch love to have the "girls" go away for a wild weekend somewhere wonderful. These ladies spend their time in limos, private airplanes (or if, heaven forbid, they fly commercial, it's always in first class!), high end hotel suites or gigantic houses on the ocean, and they drink lots of cocktails while wearing very skimpy bikinis with adorable matching cover-ups. The amount of money and time these beauties spent waxing, buffing, and polishing just to go away for a weekend was enviable--since the last time I got anything close to a wax job was ripping a glitter sticker off my face after walking around half the day not knowing it was there.
I feel safe saying that I don't know a single mom that "vacations" like this.
This is how my last girls only weekend went.
First, there was no Gulf Stream. There was no limo. Usually, we're rockin' one of our minivans, but this time we got to go in one of the dad's car--a white Hummer. It was our sparkling Kardashian moment! It was our only Kardashian moment...
When we got to our destination (off-season at a beach with lots of outlet stores near by, which, personally ranked very high on our list of what we were looking for), we got unpacked. There was not a single bikini--or, even a tankini--in sight. It would take at least two hands to count the number of c-sections present, and a couple of extra feet full of toes to count the total number of children these lovely bodies had delivered. There was no way in hell we were wearing bathing suits--and, even if we had, they would have been very modest and tasteful with matching skirt bottoms. Purchased on sale, with a coupon, and with free shipping, and worn with the intent of covering as much front-butt as possible as well as eliminating as many square inches of bare skin that we'd have to shave in order to be seen in public. Most of us haven't had time to paint our own toenails in months, if not years, so there were no spray tans or perfect mani-pedis in sight.
Instead of rushing out in tiny slipdresses to have cocktails at a local hotspot, we pulled on our jammies and starting pouring wine. Our jammies were not the silky, flirty little numbers from tv--I personally was wearing my favorite pink fleece pj's with the polar bears and snowflakes, and, best of all, a hole in the butt that I never got around to fixing.
I stared at the tv, watching the pretty moms pick bunk-mates and hop into their beds in full make-up and jewelry and start giggling and gossiping about the other moms. After their requisite pillow fight.
Are you kidding me??!!
First of all, there was no full make-up in bed on our weekend, since none of us put much--if any--on during the day to begin with. Jewelry? Ah, maybe a wedding band... And as for the giggling and gossiping into the wee hours? We were all too exhausted from life at that point, and my only concern was not farting or snoring so loud that I woke up my bunk mate with nightmares about being chased with a chainsaw. And, it's really hard to giggle and gossip with a mouth guard for my teeth grinding. Forget the pillow fights--we're the ones cleaning up afterwards, and it's really hard for me to have a pillow fight while wearing my orthopedic boot for my foot problems.
Yep. We're definitely in the running for the Real Housewives.
While the tv moms went yachting in their itsy-bitsy bikinis and drank champagne--we did our shopping at the outlets, and got incredible deals with our coupons and no sales tax. While the tv moms went to swanky bistros for meals, we dined on Cracker Barrel and drank Starbucks. While the tv moms gossiped about each other and were catty--we were just so grateful to have a couple days together and not have to cut anyone else's meat. Now, I'm not saying I wouldn't love a mani-pedi, waxing, buff, and polish--or all the awesome clothes!--but, I think our girls' weekend was pretty awesome. And, that's all that matters around here.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Summer Bucket List Fail!
It has come to my attention, with all the television commercials and sales fliers, that it is back to school time. BTS. "The most wonderful time of the year." And, all that jazz.
Normally, by this point in August I would be totally ready to send my kiddos back to school. In fact, by mid-July, I'm usually googling "boarding schools" and "military schools". And, depending on the amount of whining and/or drama from DQ, quite possibly "convent school". With the search including "overseas".
But, this summer, things were completely different. I don't know if it had to do with the fact that this is one of the last summers where I can convince myself that my little Drama Queen is still a little girl (even though she's 5'3" tall...) or that the WMB can still fit comfortably in my lap, but I really wish this summer would never end.
We've ridden bikes, and eaten snow cones, and climbed trees, and made forts. Both kids learned how to roller blade, and the WMB is becoming quite the little river otter thanks to swim lessons from one of my close friends.
We've gone to museums, and caught fireflies (and learned how to "talk" to them!), and made s'mores. The kiddos are old enough to ride their bikes, on their own, to their friends' houses, and will spend hours with their buddies playing in the woods or at the park.
And, this summer, I realized their time (especially DQ's) playing in childhood is fading away. One day, they won't want to go to the park and play or climb trees. One day, they won't want to go on a bike ride with MacGyver and me to the snow cone stand. One day, they'll tell me "I forgot how to play." Way too soon, play time will be gone and the tween-teen eye rolling and deep sighs will start, and my children will disappear from childhood and enter the growing-away portion of their lives.
So, this summer I made a bucket list. It was a very pretty, colorful bucket list, downloaded from the website of a much more creative and computer literate mother. In the 20 spaces allotted on the bright graphic sand bucket, I began to write down all the fun things we'd do together this summer. Things like "camp in the back yard" and "go to Brownie's Beach to hunt for fossils." I wrote "visit the National Building Museum to make a Lego masterpiece" and "go zip-lining at Tuckahoe State Park."
You see--I grand plans! I was going to make this summer count! We were going to have fun, dammit!
And, now, three months later, I have exactly two things marked off that list.
TWO
There were no trips to Dinosaur Park or Longwood Gardens (are you kidding! Have you seen the prices??!!)
Never made it to the Enchanted Woods at Winterthur or the butterfly exhibit at Brookside Gardens. Forget completing the ParkQuest. We never even started it, even though I camped out at our computer, counting down the minutes until the website opened and the limited number of passports disappeared in 15 minutes...
However, if I looked a bit "outside the box", I should have written down some other adventures on our summer bucket list. The types of things that may have been less "educational", but were apparently a hoot to the kids.
Like "break dishwasher, preferably with a load of three-day-old crusty dishes that smell like decaying zombie brains". Or, "blow up oven while cleaning it, sending a giant spark and a plume of smoke up the backside while simultaneously shorting out several connections that melt metal-to-metal." (Yep, that one was especially fun. And, educational. Did you know I've been living with a short in my oven that could have burned my house down for the last 5 1/2 years? Nor did I!) At least that experience meant Squisito's pizza and Chik Filet, which was icing on their cupcake of smoke and watching Mommy panic and wonder if we should call 911.
I think the kids' favorite adventure was when I was vacuuming the bathrooms of all their bits of paper and trash, and the entire bottom of the vacuum fell off. They were thrilled beyond belief that this meant I couldn't vacuum their rooms or the play room for the foreseeable future! Hooray!!! This started the next adventure of "how much fairy dust, aka glitter, can we spread around the house before Mommy loses her damn mind!!!"
There is still glitter and sequins under the couch. In the pantry. In the closets. On poor, long-suffering MacGyver's boxers. Once, DQ sneezed and glitter came out. I kid you not. It was glitter-palooza around here.
When, oh when, will I ever learn that childhood is not something that can be scheduled? Or put on a list. Even if that list is cute and colorful.
If I was to write another summer bucket list (which I won't), it should have had things like "stay in pajamas all day" and "build enormous fort with all the blankets and sheets in the house." We've certainly done those things. In fact, the fort is still up in the dining room, and the munchkins have been playing a complicated game of "bears" in it for over a week. Don't know the rules of the game, or even why they called it "bears", but if it gives me time to catch up on the Real Housewives and Interior Therapy, I don't much care. Viva la fort!
All this comes around to the fact that my family is really, really not ready for school. School means the fort will be taken down to make room for homework. Long mornings and afternoons playing with their friends in the woods or biking around the community will be replaced with rushing around to get ready for the bus and no one around to play with on the weekends because of soccer games and gymnastics practice. Adventures will be relegated to the weekends, if they happen much at all. I mean, have you seen how crowded the Science Center or Mt. Vernon is on the weekends? No thank you.
So, to the other parents who are counting down the hours and minutes until their sweet bunnies get on the bus, I'm sorry but I can't join your enthusiasm this year. This is DQ's last year of elementary school, and middle school looms on the horizon. The WMB has just gotten back into firetrucks and ambulances, and I don't want that to go away and be replaced with Pokemon or Ninjago. I want them to be up a tree, not at a desk, for just a little bit longer. I want them to be "little" for as long as possible... So summer, please last a little longer. We're still having too much fun!
Normally, by this point in August I would be totally ready to send my kiddos back to school. In fact, by mid-July, I'm usually googling "boarding schools" and "military schools". And, depending on the amount of whining and/or drama from DQ, quite possibly "convent school". With the search including "overseas".
But, this summer, things were completely different. I don't know if it had to do with the fact that this is one of the last summers where I can convince myself that my little Drama Queen is still a little girl (even though she's 5'3" tall...) or that the WMB can still fit comfortably in my lap, but I really wish this summer would never end.
We've ridden bikes, and eaten snow cones, and climbed trees, and made forts. Both kids learned how to roller blade, and the WMB is becoming quite the little river otter thanks to swim lessons from one of my close friends.
We've gone to museums, and caught fireflies (and learned how to "talk" to them!), and made s'mores. The kiddos are old enough to ride their bikes, on their own, to their friends' houses, and will spend hours with their buddies playing in the woods or at the park.
And, this summer, I realized their time (especially DQ's) playing in childhood is fading away. One day, they won't want to go to the park and play or climb trees. One day, they won't want to go on a bike ride with MacGyver and me to the snow cone stand. One day, they'll tell me "I forgot how to play." Way too soon, play time will be gone and the tween-teen eye rolling and deep sighs will start, and my children will disappear from childhood and enter the growing-away portion of their lives.
So, this summer I made a bucket list. It was a very pretty, colorful bucket list, downloaded from the website of a much more creative and computer literate mother. In the 20 spaces allotted on the bright graphic sand bucket, I began to write down all the fun things we'd do together this summer. Things like "camp in the back yard" and "go to Brownie's Beach to hunt for fossils." I wrote "visit the National Building Museum to make a Lego masterpiece" and "go zip-lining at Tuckahoe State Park."
You see--I grand plans! I was going to make this summer count! We were going to have fun, dammit!
And, now, three months later, I have exactly two things marked off that list.
TWO
There were no trips to Dinosaur Park or Longwood Gardens (are you kidding! Have you seen the prices??!!)
Never made it to the Enchanted Woods at Winterthur or the butterfly exhibit at Brookside Gardens. Forget completing the ParkQuest. We never even started it, even though I camped out at our computer, counting down the minutes until the website opened and the limited number of passports disappeared in 15 minutes...
However, if I looked a bit "outside the box", I should have written down some other adventures on our summer bucket list. The types of things that may have been less "educational", but were apparently a hoot to the kids.
Like "break dishwasher, preferably with a load of three-day-old crusty dishes that smell like decaying zombie brains". Or, "blow up oven while cleaning it, sending a giant spark and a plume of smoke up the backside while simultaneously shorting out several connections that melt metal-to-metal." (Yep, that one was especially fun. And, educational. Did you know I've been living with a short in my oven that could have burned my house down for the last 5 1/2 years? Nor did I!) At least that experience meant Squisito's pizza and Chik Filet, which was icing on their cupcake of smoke and watching Mommy panic and wonder if we should call 911.
I think the kids' favorite adventure was when I was vacuuming the bathrooms of all their bits of paper and trash, and the entire bottom of the vacuum fell off. They were thrilled beyond belief that this meant I couldn't vacuum their rooms or the play room for the foreseeable future! Hooray!!! This started the next adventure of "how much fairy dust, aka glitter, can we spread around the house before Mommy loses her damn mind!!!"
There is still glitter and sequins under the couch. In the pantry. In the closets. On poor, long-suffering MacGyver's boxers. Once, DQ sneezed and glitter came out. I kid you not. It was glitter-palooza around here.
When, oh when, will I ever learn that childhood is not something that can be scheduled? Or put on a list. Even if that list is cute and colorful.
If I was to write another summer bucket list (which I won't), it should have had things like "stay in pajamas all day" and "build enormous fort with all the blankets and sheets in the house." We've certainly done those things. In fact, the fort is still up in the dining room, and the munchkins have been playing a complicated game of "bears" in it for over a week. Don't know the rules of the game, or even why they called it "bears", but if it gives me time to catch up on the Real Housewives and Interior Therapy, I don't much care. Viva la fort!
All this comes around to the fact that my family is really, really not ready for school. School means the fort will be taken down to make room for homework. Long mornings and afternoons playing with their friends in the woods or biking around the community will be replaced with rushing around to get ready for the bus and no one around to play with on the weekends because of soccer games and gymnastics practice. Adventures will be relegated to the weekends, if they happen much at all. I mean, have you seen how crowded the Science Center or Mt. Vernon is on the weekends? No thank you.
So, to the other parents who are counting down the hours and minutes until their sweet bunnies get on the bus, I'm sorry but I can't join your enthusiasm this year. This is DQ's last year of elementary school, and middle school looms on the horizon. The WMB has just gotten back into firetrucks and ambulances, and I don't want that to go away and be replaced with Pokemon or Ninjago. I want them to be up a tree, not at a desk, for just a little bit longer. I want them to be "little" for as long as possible... So summer, please last a little longer. We're still having too much fun!
Monday, August 5, 2013
"Simplicity Parenting"?
In an attempt to improve my mind and get out of my chick-lit and mommy-lit rut, I ran across a book called "Simplicity Parenting".
Now, I'm not normally into parenting self-help books (or, using the word "parent" as a verb) unless said book is filled with sarcastic humor and includes several inventive cocktail recipes with instructions on how to train your children to make the cocktails for you. Preferably shaken and not stirred, and with a whimsical garnish of fruit and little umbrellas.
But, this book seemed right up my alley. You see, I've been looking around lately at the parents around me, and I'm noticing that we're starting to fall more and more into two groups: (1) the parents that are clamoring to sign their children up for every extra-curricular activity and competitive sport (preferably, an expensive travel team) that may give their precious off-spring a better than average chance in hell of getting a college scholarship to Harvard (or will, at least, impress the other mommies and daddies with their own dedication to enriching their sweetum's life experiences at the age of 8, savings account be damned!) or (2) moms and dads like me that are so darn sick of the very idea of living out of our minivans while shuttling our wee-ones to pee-wee t-ball practice at Orioles camp and ballet lessons for 4 year olds at Julliard that we just want to collapse on our hand-me-down sofas with a cold one and watch bad reality TV for 3 days straight while our kiddos decorate our driveway with chalk and sprayed Capri-Sun done Jackson Pollack style, with a few dropped Cheez-its for texture.
Basically, I needed confirmation that my way laidback childrearing style was not going to permenently destroy my children's chances of getting into Anne Arundel Community College (since, at this point, that's all they'll be able to afford on the money we've set aside for them in their college savings accounts). Or, cause them to fail at life and boomerang back home to life in our basement when they're 40 years old, collecting Star Trek memorabilia as their retirement savings plan and playing on-line games involving avatars for 36 hours straight while yelling upstairs for more pizza and Mountain Dew.
But, this book seemed to confirm what my husband and I decided to do when raising our kids--let them play outside for hours a day, let boredom be the push they need for creativity, eat dinner together every single night, and mostly, to let children be children. No push for highly competititve organized sports before adolescence, limited access to screens (TV, computer, and hand held video games), and an overall drum circle and Kumbaya feeling to the home. I'm not saying I'm about to go all commune on everyone, and start nicknaming my kids after rainbows and unicorns, but it did convince me that I'm not the only parent in the world who's wondering what the heck happened to the childhoods most of us remember, where we'd disappear for hours while riding our bikes with friends, or creating a whole world of wonder in the backyard or woods.
The only problem with what the book required for "simplicity" was the severe culling of toys and belongings. And, I do mean, SEVERE. Keeping only a few books and maybe a dozen toys (which did not involve batteries and only the minimal amount of plastic) to encourage creativity and imagination.
Now, the super organized and super clean part of me got all revved up with this! I could finally throw all the crap away that my kids hoard in their rooms and in their playroom. All the broken crayons, fast-food toys, blinking bleeping noise-makers from hell that well meaning (or revenge seeking) gift givers have joyfully handed over to us in colorful birthday or holiday wrapping. And, all the toys that people give us when they decide to clean their own playrooms and garages and "just thought your kids would love this!"
I was imagining lovely cubbies filled with color coordinated and labelled baskets of Legos and matchbox cars and toy horses. Maybe a pretty chalkboard painted wall with an attached table for childlike crafting with new boxes of washable markers and colored pencils. A nice rug from Pottery Barn Kids, with some soft seating and a pretty non-chipped bookcase with only a few wholesome books waiting to be read out loud by their sweet tempered, relaxed hippie momma after a snack of quinoa salad and vegan pita chips with organic humus...
Then, I woke up.
To even begin this dream of simplicity, I would have to rent a dumpster. And, possibly request the services of those nice guys from 1-800-GOTJUNK. Forget my earlier thoughts of a couple of leaf bags and a snow shovel--these bunnies of mine have managed tohoard collect a pile of My Little Ponies, Zoobles, Littlest Pet Shop, monster trucks, and every form and type of construction and/or emergency vehicle known on the planet. I swear I didn't buy these things, so they're obviously breeding in the dark when no one's looking.
And, to make things worse, the viral meme is true--Mexican drug lords could learn a thing or two from me from my ability to smuggle a bag of crumpled art projects, pilfered pinecones, painted rocks, and broken toys out to the trash without being detected.
What makes things worse is--my munchkins are on "high alert" since they've been watching me peruse Pinterest for ideas on "organizing craft supplies" and "modern and miminal kids' rooms". They're requesting me to homeschool them more to keep a sniper's eye on me when I'm cleaning the house then because they wish to experience a Classical Education at home. And, while they both love the fact I read to them at lease 30-60 minutes every night, they want to be read Horrible Harry and Animal Ark with a side of Nancy Drew and American Girl mysteries. Any attempt at The Secret Garden, Caddie Woodlawn, or Treasure Island has been met with dramatic sighs and groans that can be heard down the block.
In the end, I think what the book was encouraging us parents to do was find that all elusive "balance". The balance between work and family; TV watching and tree climbing; the modern American lifestyle and an old-fashioned idyllic childhood.
It's going to be a challenge, but I do intend to simply our household this fall. To clear out our kiddy-clutter and reclaim more of the house for the adults (who actually pay the darn mortgage, yet control the least amount of square footage in the house!). To get a little "old fashioned" on their little kid butts and show them that less can really be more. More time to play. More time to snuggle. More time to be kids in this world that wants them to grow up too fast.
Wish me luck--I think it'll be a bumpy ride...
Now, I'm not normally into parenting self-help books (or, using the word "parent" as a verb) unless said book is filled with sarcastic humor and includes several inventive cocktail recipes with instructions on how to train your children to make the cocktails for you. Preferably shaken and not stirred, and with a whimsical garnish of fruit and little umbrellas.
But, this book seemed right up my alley. You see, I've been looking around lately at the parents around me, and I'm noticing that we're starting to fall more and more into two groups: (1) the parents that are clamoring to sign their children up for every extra-curricular activity and competitive sport (preferably, an expensive travel team) that may give their precious off-spring a better than average chance in hell of getting a college scholarship to Harvard (or will, at least, impress the other mommies and daddies with their own dedication to enriching their sweetum's life experiences at the age of 8, savings account be damned!) or (2) moms and dads like me that are so darn sick of the very idea of living out of our minivans while shuttling our wee-ones to pee-wee t-ball practice at Orioles camp and ballet lessons for 4 year olds at Julliard that we just want to collapse on our hand-me-down sofas with a cold one and watch bad reality TV for 3 days straight while our kiddos decorate our driveway with chalk and sprayed Capri-Sun done Jackson Pollack style, with a few dropped Cheez-its for texture.
Basically, I needed confirmation that my way laidback childrearing style was not going to permenently destroy my children's chances of getting into Anne Arundel Community College (since, at this point, that's all they'll be able to afford on the money we've set aside for them in their college savings accounts). Or, cause them to fail at life and boomerang back home to life in our basement when they're 40 years old, collecting Star Trek memorabilia as their retirement savings plan and playing on-line games involving avatars for 36 hours straight while yelling upstairs for more pizza and Mountain Dew.
But, this book seemed to confirm what my husband and I decided to do when raising our kids--let them play outside for hours a day, let boredom be the push they need for creativity, eat dinner together every single night, and mostly, to let children be children. No push for highly competititve organized sports before adolescence, limited access to screens (TV, computer, and hand held video games), and an overall drum circle and Kumbaya feeling to the home. I'm not saying I'm about to go all commune on everyone, and start nicknaming my kids after rainbows and unicorns, but it did convince me that I'm not the only parent in the world who's wondering what the heck happened to the childhoods most of us remember, where we'd disappear for hours while riding our bikes with friends, or creating a whole world of wonder in the backyard or woods.
The only problem with what the book required for "simplicity" was the severe culling of toys and belongings. And, I do mean, SEVERE. Keeping only a few books and maybe a dozen toys (which did not involve batteries and only the minimal amount of plastic) to encourage creativity and imagination.
Now, the super organized and super clean part of me got all revved up with this! I could finally throw all the crap away that my kids hoard in their rooms and in their playroom. All the broken crayons, fast-food toys, blinking bleeping noise-makers from hell that well meaning (or revenge seeking) gift givers have joyfully handed over to us in colorful birthday or holiday wrapping. And, all the toys that people give us when they decide to clean their own playrooms and garages and "just thought your kids would love this!"
I was imagining lovely cubbies filled with color coordinated and labelled baskets of Legos and matchbox cars and toy horses. Maybe a pretty chalkboard painted wall with an attached table for childlike crafting with new boxes of washable markers and colored pencils. A nice rug from Pottery Barn Kids, with some soft seating and a pretty non-chipped bookcase with only a few wholesome books waiting to be read out loud by their sweet tempered, relaxed hippie momma after a snack of quinoa salad and vegan pita chips with organic humus...
Then, I woke up.
To even begin this dream of simplicity, I would have to rent a dumpster. And, possibly request the services of those nice guys from 1-800-GOTJUNK. Forget my earlier thoughts of a couple of leaf bags and a snow shovel--these bunnies of mine have managed to
And, to make things worse, the viral meme is true--Mexican drug lords could learn a thing or two from me from my ability to smuggle a bag of crumpled art projects, pilfered pinecones, painted rocks, and broken toys out to the trash without being detected.
What makes things worse is--my munchkins are on "high alert" since they've been watching me peruse Pinterest for ideas on "organizing craft supplies" and "modern and miminal kids' rooms". They're requesting me to homeschool them more to keep a sniper's eye on me when I'm cleaning the house then because they wish to experience a Classical Education at home. And, while they both love the fact I read to them at lease 30-60 minutes every night, they want to be read Horrible Harry and Animal Ark with a side of Nancy Drew and American Girl mysteries. Any attempt at The Secret Garden, Caddie Woodlawn, or Treasure Island has been met with dramatic sighs and groans that can be heard down the block.
In the end, I think what the book was encouraging us parents to do was find that all elusive "balance". The balance between work and family; TV watching and tree climbing; the modern American lifestyle and an old-fashioned idyllic childhood.
It's going to be a challenge, but I do intend to simply our household this fall. To clear out our kiddy-clutter and reclaim more of the house for the adults (who actually pay the darn mortgage, yet control the least amount of square footage in the house!). To get a little "old fashioned" on their little kid butts and show them that less can really be more. More time to play. More time to snuggle. More time to be kids in this world that wants them to grow up too fast.
Wish me luck--I think it'll be a bumpy ride...
Monday, May 13, 2013
Unorganized Chaos--or "Who put me in charge?"
It has come to my attention that I totally suck at getting other people's children to listen to me.
I kind of have my own kids under control when it comes to listening. They seem to know instinctively when mama is about to lose her schmidt, and they do what they're told exactly 3 seconds before my eyes want to pop out of their sockets and my brain explodes with little cartoon steam coming out of my ears.
But, other kids--not so much.
I mean, I'm not a huge "yeller". I talk about my yelling all the time, but my family's version of yelling is what I've discovered is other families' version of talking ever-so-slightly louder than usual. With the Drama Queen, if I raise my voice one watt higher than usual to call her down for dinner, she'll burst into hot, hysterical tears and claim I "hate" her and she "can't do anything right" (gee, wonder where she gets that from...) The Wild Man generally doesn't give a flying rat's patootie when I holler--but DQ has "trained" me to not scream with the white hot rage of ten thousand suns or I'll be dealing with neurotic meltdowns worthy of a Dr. Phil special.
So, basically, I'm a non-yelling yeller. I discipline with humor, and occasionally sarcasm. Okay--a lot of sarcasm...
This is normally not a problem. The kiddos' friends know how I roll, and that I'm the "fun" and "adventurous" mom, not the disciplinarian. I allow plenty of chaos in the house, so long as no plaster is falling from the ceiling and no one is actively swinging on the chandelier. I actually like the sound of 15 children running up and down my stairs and swinging the front door shut on their way to climb the trees in the back yard. I encourage the sounds of loud laughter and semi-constant chattering of little voices through out the house.
It's chaos. But, it's Organized Chaos.
Then, I started to seriously volunteer at church and school. Controlling other people's children (beyond my own "village") is hard. Really, really hard.
I admit, I was totally naive. I have run Girl Scout meetings (with a whopping 10 girls who I've known forever, and I count their parents as some of my dearest friends) with no problem. I've worked one-on-one in Kindergarten classes and pre-school co-ops and reading groups.
Then, I took seven 3rd graders to the Aquarium. At first I joked that I'd make the front page of the paper to losing a child to the shark tank. Ahhhh--yep, it almost happened.
That's when I should have known that I'm not exactly cut out to be in charge. Of anyone. Not even myself.
I try. I really do. But, you know something is wrong when you're trying desperately to have a half-dozen 6 year old's read out-loud to you, and they're doing so while tumbling down chorus risers like a pile of puppies. And, my "mean mommy" voice just cracked them up. Let's face it--they smelled blood. My blood. They knew I was a goner...
I have friends that have just nailed that whole "teacher" voice. They speak with authority. Kids pay attention to them. Probably out of vague fear, but at least they pay attention. Me? They are fully aware that I'm the mom who will let them climb the biggest trees and bake the biggest cookies and go on the coolest trips to potato chip factories and tree house museums, but that I'm completely incapable of keeping them from table surfing in the cafeteria or feeding themselves to the sharks (if they're not actually related to me).
Can I claim this as my "get out of jail free card" for field trips? Apparently, no. I'm signed up for an overnight 4th grade field trip next month. A dozen or so girls. One cabin. Lots of woods and water. And me in charge.
This is going to be interesting...
I kind of have my own kids under control when it comes to listening. They seem to know instinctively when mama is about to lose her schmidt, and they do what they're told exactly 3 seconds before my eyes want to pop out of their sockets and my brain explodes with little cartoon steam coming out of my ears.
But, other kids--not so much.
I mean, I'm not a huge "yeller". I talk about my yelling all the time, but my family's version of yelling is what I've discovered is other families' version of talking ever-so-slightly louder than usual. With the Drama Queen, if I raise my voice one watt higher than usual to call her down for dinner, she'll burst into hot, hysterical tears and claim I "hate" her and she "can't do anything right" (gee, wonder where she gets that from...) The Wild Man generally doesn't give a flying rat's patootie when I holler--but DQ has "trained" me to not scream with the white hot rage of ten thousand suns or I'll be dealing with neurotic meltdowns worthy of a Dr. Phil special.
So, basically, I'm a non-yelling yeller. I discipline with humor, and occasionally sarcasm. Okay--a lot of sarcasm...
This is normally not a problem. The kiddos' friends know how I roll, and that I'm the "fun" and "adventurous" mom, not the disciplinarian. I allow plenty of chaos in the house, so long as no plaster is falling from the ceiling and no one is actively swinging on the chandelier. I actually like the sound of 15 children running up and down my stairs and swinging the front door shut on their way to climb the trees in the back yard. I encourage the sounds of loud laughter and semi-constant chattering of little voices through out the house.
It's chaos. But, it's Organized Chaos.
Then, I started to seriously volunteer at church and school. Controlling other people's children (beyond my own "village") is hard. Really, really hard.
I admit, I was totally naive. I have run Girl Scout meetings (with a whopping 10 girls who I've known forever, and I count their parents as some of my dearest friends) with no problem. I've worked one-on-one in Kindergarten classes and pre-school co-ops and reading groups.
Then, I took seven 3rd graders to the Aquarium. At first I joked that I'd make the front page of the paper to losing a child to the shark tank. Ahhhh--yep, it almost happened.
That's when I should have known that I'm not exactly cut out to be in charge. Of anyone. Not even myself.
I try. I really do. But, you know something is wrong when you're trying desperately to have a half-dozen 6 year old's read out-loud to you, and they're doing so while tumbling down chorus risers like a pile of puppies. And, my "mean mommy" voice just cracked them up. Let's face it--they smelled blood. My blood. They knew I was a goner...
I have friends that have just nailed that whole "teacher" voice. They speak with authority. Kids pay attention to them. Probably out of vague fear, but at least they pay attention. Me? They are fully aware that I'm the mom who will let them climb the biggest trees and bake the biggest cookies and go on the coolest trips to potato chip factories and tree house museums, but that I'm completely incapable of keeping them from table surfing in the cafeteria or feeding themselves to the sharks (if they're not actually related to me).
Can I claim this as my "get out of jail free card" for field trips? Apparently, no. I'm signed up for an overnight 4th grade field trip next month. A dozen or so girls. One cabin. Lots of woods and water. And me in charge.
This is going to be interesting...
Friday, March 15, 2013
A normal morning in our house...
This morning started out like all others. I woke up a little before 7am to the sounds
of bickering and the Wild Man imitating an ambulance and “wee woo”- ing
throughout the house. There were shouts
of “Mom! I’m hungry!” and “Mom! I don’t feel good, can I stay home from
school?”
Yep, normal day so far.
My little Drama Queen comes stumbling into the bedroom, and
I notice she’s a bit glassy eyed. Oh,
oh. Time for the thermometer. Which, is apparently out of batteries. And, it’s one of those fancy watch
batteries. Damn! I have a collection of every battery size,
but watch size. Crap! Now, where did I put the old mercury one…
Found it! “What’s
that thing, mom? A pen?” No, it’s a thermometer. “Where’s the battery?” It works with mercury, not batteries. “What’s mercury?” Deadly, liquidy, metally, silvery stuff that
goes up and down in this tube to tell me if you have a fever. “I’m not putting that in my mouth!” Fine, it’s a rectal thermometer anyway, so
bend over…
After peeling the DQ out from under her bed, I finally find
the 30 year old forehead thermometer. I
put it on her, and it glows green off the charts. Crap!!!
One kid down for the count, and now I have to call out for my volunteer
training. And it was canoeing day,
too! Darn.
Now comes the fight over medicine. Advil or Tylenol. Grape or cherry. Liquid or chewy or tablet. “I’m allergic to grape, mommy! You’re trying to kill me with grapes!!!!!” Well, at least we now know that those drama
club classes are working—she could win an academy award for this performance.
I shove a brown ibuprofen at her, to the cries of “but this
is that store brand stuff!!!! I want the
sugary Advil, not the gross one!!!
Ahhhhhhh!!!!”
Downstairs we go, where I cram coffee grounds into my
ancient Mr. Coffee, and go outside to pick up my Washington Post—potentially the
only thing I will read today that is in any way “grown up”. With the DQ at home, I know I have a day of
reading American Girl books and watching the Disney Channel ahead of me.
Two steps out, I see it.
A dead, freaking opossum.
In my driveway.
Covered in blood.
Staring at me.
I’m pretty sure all the neighbors heard me scream “You’ve
got to be effing kidding me!!!! What did
I do to deserve this piece of hot hell!?”
Out run two rumpled, pajama-ed kiddos. “Mom, mom, mom!!!! What is it?”
“Is is dead?” “ Is it hurt?”
“ CAN WE KEEP IT!!??”
I explain it’s a dead possum, probably hit by a car, that
crawled its bloody body up our sidewalk and driveway to die. I also explain that I’m pretty sure this is
an act of karma, since I once hit a possum when I was 16, and it crawled into
my friend Leah’s yard to die. This was obviously payback time…
Or, we really pissed someone off around
here. Horse head in bed—possum in the
driveway. Same difference.
Now the kids’ shreeking goes up a notch. “If it’s dead, can we keep it! Please!!!!! We can put it in the freezer!!”
Oh, hell no—it’s not going in the freezer. We already have a dead beta fish and a dead
hermit crab, sans shell, in our freezer, since no one wants to go out back and
dig a mass grave and bury our long lost pets.
We also have a cremated cat on our fireplace mantel, so I have about as
much death surrounding me as I can handle at the moment.
“But mom!!! We have
room in the big freezer downstairs!!!!”
Yeah, right. I’m
putting Paddy O’Opossum in the freezer with my frozen pizzas and wild salmon
filets. Not in this lifetime.
So, we get the bright idea to call MacGyver at work to tell
him how our morning is going so far, and get his opinion on whether or not we
should freeze dry our new friend in the deep freezer.
“Daddy, daddy!! We
have a dead possum in our driveway! It’s
all bloody and gross and staring at us.
Can we keep it?”
This is where I find out that “Daddy” already knows about ol’
Paddy. Why? Because he saw the damn thing in the driveway
at o’dark thirty when he left for work.
You know, when he BACKED AROUND IT TO LEAVE!
“I thought it was playing possum.”
At this point, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I decide to laugh, since this morning totally
represents the crazy life we have. Dead
animals, high fevers, cheap generic medicine, and my kiddos constant desire to
bring wildlife into the house. Turtles. Bugs. Worms. A four foot long black snake. (“But
mom—we even named him Snakey. He can
live in my room and sleep with me!”)
So, today I had to come to terms with the fact that the only
use my hiking boots were going to have today was to carry me out back to the
woods with a stiff carcass on a snow shovel, and then out front to bleach the
living crap out of the CSI worthy blood stains on the concrete. And, that the Wild Man was going to have one
heck of a story to tell at the bus stop.
“Hey everyone!!! Don’t
step in the wet stuff—it’s bleach and possum guts!”
Yep. I’m sure our
neighbors just love us.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Where's Jake Ryan?
For our last date night (in December...) MacGyver and I went to see the movie "This is 40". I had seen the previews (both rated and unrated), and was dying to see it! As I have a far stupider sense of humor, I basically laughed through the whole damn thing--including two episodes of laughing so hard I was crying, and one episode where I may (or may not) have slightly peed myself laughing (I blame the Wild Man for this problem). MacGyver--not so much. Yes, he admitted, some of the scenes were pretty funny. And, others were very familiar (did we not have almost the same disagreement about music the other day? Where the kids and I were rockin' out to Lady Gaga and MacGyver made his semi-annual statement that no good music has been made since 1978...) But, he thought most of the movie was almost painful to watch with all the effort put into trying to be funny.
Oh, well. Apparently I have married a man with more "sophisticated" humor and taste in music than I.
Anywho--"This is 40" got me a bit nostalgic for the 1980's and early 1990's for some reason. I think it's because Judd Apatow and Leslie Mann nailed some of the sturm und drang of becoming a middle-aged Generation X'er. And, well, MacGyver's assertion that there's no good music these days... A few days later as I was downloading Ryan Adams' "Lucky Now" (totally awesome song!), I found myself making my way to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes".
I mean, please!! What Gen X'er doesn't remember that song! What girl growing up in the '80s didn't dream of John Cusack holding up a boom box in their front lawn, blasting "In Your Eyes" for all the neighbors to hear? We grew up not thinking of Romeo and Juliet whispering sweet nothings to each other from a balcony in Italy--we grew up expecting Lloyd Dobler serenading Diane Court with lyrics about her eyes being "the doorway to a thousand churches".
And, we grew up hoping to find Jake Ryan on our door step with a cake for our 16th birthday.
What Gen X "girl" didn't feel like Sam Baker at some point--watching with their own personal Long Duk Dong find a girlfriend before we could find our own Jake Ryan? What Gen X "boy" didn't feel like Lloyd, pining after a girl he thought was out of his league?
And, who among our generation, didn't TOTALLY related to at least one character in The Breakfast Club?
I remembered how much I loved (and still love) these movies, and how John Hughes (and Cameron Crowe) seemed to really speak to my generation. I was amazing to us that a "grown up" would "get us" so well. Our insecurities. Our feelings of isolation. Our longings. Our fashion trends....
Now, as I sit with my little Drama Queen and Wild Man on the sofa, and watch yet another rerun of Jessie or Good Luck Charlie, I wonder what director or screenwriter will capture their generation. Who will be the DQ's Jake Ryan? Who will be the WMB's Claire Standish? Who will be their "Brat Pack"? What song, in 20 or 30 years, will make then stop in their tracks, close their eyes, and remember their teen years the way that "In Your Eyes" (and "Don't You (Forget About Me)") does for me and so many of my female friends. What dress, or lack thereof, will bring back the same feelings that I have of the prom in Pretty in Pink?
And, what director, when my kiddos are parents themselves, will make them laugh until they pee themselves?
Oh, well. Apparently I have married a man with more "sophisticated" humor and taste in music than I.
Anywho--"This is 40" got me a bit nostalgic for the 1980's and early 1990's for some reason. I think it's because Judd Apatow and Leslie Mann nailed some of the sturm und drang of becoming a middle-aged Generation X'er. And, well, MacGyver's assertion that there's no good music these days... A few days later as I was downloading Ryan Adams' "Lucky Now" (totally awesome song!), I found myself making my way to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes".
I mean, please!! What Gen X'er doesn't remember that song! What girl growing up in the '80s didn't dream of John Cusack holding up a boom box in their front lawn, blasting "In Your Eyes" for all the neighbors to hear? We grew up not thinking of Romeo and Juliet whispering sweet nothings to each other from a balcony in Italy--we grew up expecting Lloyd Dobler serenading Diane Court with lyrics about her eyes being "the doorway to a thousand churches".
And, we grew up hoping to find Jake Ryan on our door step with a cake for our 16th birthday.
What Gen X "girl" didn't feel like Sam Baker at some point--watching with their own personal Long Duk Dong find a girlfriend before we could find our own Jake Ryan? What Gen X "boy" didn't feel like Lloyd, pining after a girl he thought was out of his league?
And, who among our generation, didn't TOTALLY related to at least one character in The Breakfast Club?
I remembered how much I loved (and still love) these movies, and how John Hughes (and Cameron Crowe) seemed to really speak to my generation. I was amazing to us that a "grown up" would "get us" so well. Our insecurities. Our feelings of isolation. Our longings. Our fashion trends....
Now, as I sit with my little Drama Queen and Wild Man on the sofa, and watch yet another rerun of Jessie or Good Luck Charlie, I wonder what director or screenwriter will capture their generation. Who will be the DQ's Jake Ryan? Who will be the WMB's Claire Standish? Who will be their "Brat Pack"? What song, in 20 or 30 years, will make then stop in their tracks, close their eyes, and remember their teen years the way that "In Your Eyes" (and "Don't You (Forget About Me)") does for me and so many of my female friends. What dress, or lack thereof, will bring back the same feelings that I have of the prom in Pretty in Pink?
And, what director, when my kiddos are parents themselves, will make them laugh until they pee themselves?
Monday, January 14, 2013
Furniture and Curtains and Paint--Oh My!
Ahhh--the holidays are over and the decorations are put away. The days are getting longer, and there's a fire crackling in the hearth. It's time for relaxing and...
Watching HGTV and the Food Network!!!
This is what happens every year around this time. The trifecta of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is over. I've put away the slowly decaying decorations, scoured the sales and clearance racks for discounted (and hopefully not too damaged) wrapping paper and decorations for next year. The lights are taken down, and the pretty kitchen towels with jolly ol' St. Nick on them are put away. And, things start to look a little, well, boring.
And, since it's cold and dreary outside, I start to watch tv. Just in time for the "domestic goddess" networks to start their new programming.
And then---I get ideas.
It usually starts with The Pioneer Woman. We go from eating chicken nuggets, baked potatoes, and bagged salad from Sams Club, to crispy polenta steaks with organic zucchini and chanterelle mushrooms with a side of smashed red potatoes with blue cheese. Hamburgers suddenly have homemade flavored mustards, and french fries are make with a new mandolin and grey sea salt. He starts to see asparagus on the table. In January!!
Before the poor man had a chance to contemplate a heart attack over the newest grocery bill (not to mention the bill from Williams Sonoma), I hit him with the paint samples.
"I love these greens! This lighter color is for the these three walls, and this darker celadon is for the accent wall. It will really complement our new comforter!"
"Um. What new comforter?"
And on it goes. Accents for the bathroom he painted over the summer but I never got around to buying baskets for. White paint for the trim. Pictures and directions for creating a frame for our bathroom mirror out of leftover moulding County Curtains and J.C. Penney catalogs opened to window treatments. Poor man is scared to death to go on a business trip, since the last one he went on, he came home to a rearranged living room and a new area rug. Every time he comes home from work, there's a new addition to his Honey Do list, courtesy of the newest HGTV program from OnDemand.
Dear, sweet MacGyver--he never knew what hit him. One moment he's glorying in the relaxation of Sunday afternoon football. The next thing he knows, I've turned him into Martha Stewarts b*tch!
Poor man gets to look forward to spending the next few months' worth of weekends repainting bedrooms and putting together furniture. And cursing home decorating shows and foodie magazines. The kiddos, of course, are all into it.
"I love the Pioneer Woman, mommy. Can you make strawberry jam and home school us on a ranch like she does?"
"Mommy, can we watch The Amandas again? I want a blue and white closet just like hers!"
Yeah, so poor daddy can go hide in it so we don't force him to repaint the living room that new dove gray I saw in the Pottery Barn catalog...
Watching HGTV and the Food Network!!!
This is what happens every year around this time. The trifecta of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is over. I've put away the slowly decaying decorations, scoured the sales and clearance racks for discounted (and hopefully not too damaged) wrapping paper and decorations for next year. The lights are taken down, and the pretty kitchen towels with jolly ol' St. Nick on them are put away. And, things start to look a little, well, boring.
And, since it's cold and dreary outside, I start to watch tv. Just in time for the "domestic goddess" networks to start their new programming.
And then---I get ideas.
It usually starts with The Pioneer Woman. We go from eating chicken nuggets, baked potatoes, and bagged salad from Sams Club, to crispy polenta steaks with organic zucchini and chanterelle mushrooms with a side of smashed red potatoes with blue cheese. Hamburgers suddenly have homemade flavored mustards, and french fries are make with a new mandolin and grey sea salt. He starts to see asparagus on the table. In January!!
Before the poor man had a chance to contemplate a heart attack over the newest grocery bill (not to mention the bill from Williams Sonoma), I hit him with the paint samples.
"I love these greens! This lighter color is for the these three walls, and this darker celadon is for the accent wall. It will really complement our new comforter!"
"Um. What new comforter?"
And on it goes. Accents for the bathroom he painted over the summer but I never got around to buying baskets for. White paint for the trim. Pictures and directions for creating a frame for our bathroom mirror out of leftover moulding County Curtains and J.C. Penney catalogs opened to window treatments. Poor man is scared to death to go on a business trip, since the last one he went on, he came home to a rearranged living room and a new area rug. Every time he comes home from work, there's a new addition to his Honey Do list, courtesy of the newest HGTV program from OnDemand.
Dear, sweet MacGyver--he never knew what hit him. One moment he's glorying in the relaxation of Sunday afternoon football. The next thing he knows, I've turned him into Martha Stewarts b*tch!
Poor man gets to look forward to spending the next few months' worth of weekends repainting bedrooms and putting together furniture. And cursing home decorating shows and foodie magazines. The kiddos, of course, are all into it.
"I love the Pioneer Woman, mommy. Can you make strawberry jam and home school us on a ranch like she does?"
"Mommy, can we watch The Amandas again? I want a blue and white closet just like hers!"
Yeah, so poor daddy can go hide in it so we don't force him to repaint the living room that new dove gray I saw in the Pottery Barn catalog...
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