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...
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Being in the picture
Not long ago, I read a blog about a mom who realized that of all the pictures taken in the last year or so, she wasn't in any of them. She was the picture taker. The family historian. The scrapbook paster and memory maker.
She was also afraid of seeing what she had become over time, immortalized in pictures.
It was easier to take the pictures and admire her family and friends, then to be in the pictures herself and face the ravages of time and weight and failure to put on lipstick.
This is me.
I am also the picture taker and the family historian. I got a rockin' camera for Christmas a few years ago, and learned how to take some fairly decent pictures with it. Nothing amazing or professional, but some really nice photos. Photos of the kiddos and their friends sledding. Of the kiddos and MacGyver when we've been on vacation. Of the rest of the family at the beach. Or the backyard. Or the park. Or the pool.
And not one of those pictures, in almost 18 months, has included me.
I also avoid cameras pointed at me when others are playing historian. "No, no--get the kids, not me. I don't have lipstick on." Or, "My hair is a mess."
The other day, I was approached in Home Depot to be asked if I could participate in a video they were shooting about plants. They needed a "customer" to ask some written questions to the nursery department for training purposes. I actually jumped up in shock (I was checking out the 80% sale on Christmas decorations for next year), and cried out "No! I look horrible! Find someone else that doesn't look like they dressed in the dark--during a tornado!"
And, I'm totally embarrassed to say, I actually RAN AWAY as fast as my rapidly diminishing dignity would allow, and hid in the paint department.
On the bright side, I did find the perfect paint colors for our master bedroom. But, I digress...
It's incredibly hard for me to admit why I do this. Avoid cameras of all sorts. Heck, the pictures of me for this blog are almost 2 years old.
I'm even afraid to be caught by a traffic camera. I did get my very first speeding ticket ever in D.C. last spring, when I was caught doing 40 in a 25 (all these years, I really did think it was 40 mph at RFK stadium--guess I was wrong...) and they sent me the photographic proof. And, all I could think was "does this van make me look fat?"
But, I do avoid cameras. I was once a very, very small-time model. I was happy and comfortable in front of the camera, for seemingly hours on end. I was thin, and pretty, and young. I had beautiful clothes that make me look like Ally McBeal. I also worked retail, and was basically paid to look good.
And, I had the lovely disposable income to do so.
But now--15 years and 30 pounds later, I'm not that same girl. While I still have nice hair (with almost no grays, even at 40!) and no noticeable crows-feet or smile lines to speak of yet, I don't have that certain je ne sais quoi that I used to have. What I now have, after years of different medical problems and way too many doses of prednesone, is a moon face and a more"Rubenesque" body that I would wish on anyone. I still, after all these years, don't recognize myself in the mirror some days. I fully expect to see my size 4, 25 year old self beaming back at me.
And, every year, I make a resolution to lose weight, get back into shape, and dress better. Unfortunately, medication needs, surgeries, and lack of a money tree in the back yard has kept me from those goals for a few years now. But, this year, I'm making a different resolution.
I will be back in pictures.
I don't want my kids to be looking through pictures long after I'm gone, wondering "where's mom?" Heaven forbid I'm hit by an asteroid or a speeding bus while they're still young, and they look for pictures of themselves with me--and find nothing. They'll slowly forget, over time, what I looked like. And, I don't want that to happen. Because if I'm not in those pictures, they will forget.
Great. Now I'm crying... Awesome.
It hurts to realize I've deprived them, and myself, of being in the family photos. There's nothing there to prove I was with them at the "once in a lifetime" trip to see the wild buffalo roundup in South Dakota this past fall. Of hiking in the Bad Lands. Of playing at the beach in the freezing cold water. I did everything I could to hide from the photographers at my cousin's wedding this summer. To put as many people as possible in front of me, so just my head stuck out, to the side. Behind the flowers.
Forget our Christmas card--it was just the kiddos this year. For the first time, ever.
So, I will resolve to be in pictures this year, regardless of what I feel like I look like. I need to show both kids, especially my little Drama Queen, that it's not healthy to hide in a corner in shame every time someone breaks out a Nikon at a wedding. Or that it is only the mamma's job to take pictures. Or, that getting a little bit older, or a little bit wider, is something to be ashamed about. How are they going to learn about good body image and healthy self-esteem if their mom is a hot mess?
So, I hope to find myself smiling at the camera for the next 12 months and onward. Moon face, crows-feet, and boob stains be damned!
I mean, really...isn't that what photo-editing is for?
She was also afraid of seeing what she had become over time, immortalized in pictures.
It was easier to take the pictures and admire her family and friends, then to be in the pictures herself and face the ravages of time and weight and failure to put on lipstick.
This is me.
I am also the picture taker and the family historian. I got a rockin' camera for Christmas a few years ago, and learned how to take some fairly decent pictures with it. Nothing amazing or professional, but some really nice photos. Photos of the kiddos and their friends sledding. Of the kiddos and MacGyver when we've been on vacation. Of the rest of the family at the beach. Or the backyard. Or the park. Or the pool.
And not one of those pictures, in almost 18 months, has included me.
I also avoid cameras pointed at me when others are playing historian. "No, no--get the kids, not me. I don't have lipstick on." Or, "My hair is a mess."
The other day, I was approached in Home Depot to be asked if I could participate in a video they were shooting about plants. They needed a "customer" to ask some written questions to the nursery department for training purposes. I actually jumped up in shock (I was checking out the 80% sale on Christmas decorations for next year), and cried out "No! I look horrible! Find someone else that doesn't look like they dressed in the dark--during a tornado!"
And, I'm totally embarrassed to say, I actually RAN AWAY as fast as my rapidly diminishing dignity would allow, and hid in the paint department.
On the bright side, I did find the perfect paint colors for our master bedroom. But, I digress...
It's incredibly hard for me to admit why I do this. Avoid cameras of all sorts. Heck, the pictures of me for this blog are almost 2 years old.
I'm even afraid to be caught by a traffic camera. I did get my very first speeding ticket ever in D.C. last spring, when I was caught doing 40 in a 25 (all these years, I really did think it was 40 mph at RFK stadium--guess I was wrong...) and they sent me the photographic proof. And, all I could think was "does this van make me look fat?"
But, I do avoid cameras. I was once a very, very small-time model. I was happy and comfortable in front of the camera, for seemingly hours on end. I was thin, and pretty, and young. I had beautiful clothes that make me look like Ally McBeal. I also worked retail, and was basically paid to look good.
And, I had the lovely disposable income to do so.
But now--15 years and 30 pounds later, I'm not that same girl. While I still have nice hair (with almost no grays, even at 40!) and no noticeable crows-feet or smile lines to speak of yet, I don't have that certain je ne sais quoi that I used to have. What I now have, after years of different medical problems and way too many doses of prednesone, is a moon face and a more"Rubenesque" body that I would wish on anyone. I still, after all these years, don't recognize myself in the mirror some days. I fully expect to see my size 4, 25 year old self beaming back at me.
And, every year, I make a resolution to lose weight, get back into shape, and dress better. Unfortunately, medication needs, surgeries, and lack of a money tree in the back yard has kept me from those goals for a few years now. But, this year, I'm making a different resolution.
I will be back in pictures.
I don't want my kids to be looking through pictures long after I'm gone, wondering "where's mom?" Heaven forbid I'm hit by an asteroid or a speeding bus while they're still young, and they look for pictures of themselves with me--and find nothing. They'll slowly forget, over time, what I looked like. And, I don't want that to happen. Because if I'm not in those pictures, they will forget.
Great. Now I'm crying... Awesome.
It hurts to realize I've deprived them, and myself, of being in the family photos. There's nothing there to prove I was with them at the "once in a lifetime" trip to see the wild buffalo roundup in South Dakota this past fall. Of hiking in the Bad Lands. Of playing at the beach in the freezing cold water. I did everything I could to hide from the photographers at my cousin's wedding this summer. To put as many people as possible in front of me, so just my head stuck out, to the side. Behind the flowers.
Forget our Christmas card--it was just the kiddos this year. For the first time, ever.
So, I will resolve to be in pictures this year, regardless of what I feel like I look like. I need to show both kids, especially my little Drama Queen, that it's not healthy to hide in a corner in shame every time someone breaks out a Nikon at a wedding. Or that it is only the mamma's job to take pictures. Or, that getting a little bit older, or a little bit wider, is something to be ashamed about. How are they going to learn about good body image and healthy self-esteem if their mom is a hot mess?
So, I hope to find myself smiling at the camera for the next 12 months and onward. Moon face, crows-feet, and boob stains be damned!
I mean, really...isn't that what photo-editing is for?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
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-veiledlies 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..."
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
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..."
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
"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.
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
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!!!
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!!!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
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...
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...
Thursday, February 2, 2012
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 tocontrol 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.
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
Thursday, January 26, 2012
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 mypanic room room of my own...
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
Monday, January 16, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas Card Mayhem!
Once upon a time, I would gaze longingly at the beautiful family portraits on the Christmas/holiday cards we'd receive and dream of a day when I would have a family of my own. We'd happily pose for as long as it took to get the "perfect" picture, and we'd relish the excitement of wearing matching, or at least coordinating, outfits. Sometimes I'd imagine a classic picture of mom and dad holding their munchkins' hands while strolling down the beach at sunset. Other times I imagined us decked out in red and green, posing with Santa who had a gorgeous rosy cheeked toddler on each lap, smiling serenely for the camera. Or, maybe a quirky photo of us decorating the tree with flocked pine cones and sparkly bows...
Yeah. Right.
Any picture involving a beach would involve sand being flung at a sibling, who was howling with indignity because I wouldn't let them feed the entire bag of Doritos to he seagulls. There would be no matching outfits, just faded bathing suits with chocolate stains from the icecream truck and a little pouches of sand where the sun don't shine. We'd all be sunburned, and our hair would make us look like gorgons. Not to mention there's no way in hell you'd get me to pose on the beach in my bathing suit, or any other suit, until I've spent at least 3 solid years with a personal trainer and a photographer highly trained in Photoshop.
As for a picture with the fat man in red? My kids have been scared to death of him since they were born. I mean, really--you're forcing your small child to sit in the fuzzy lap of a complete stranger who offers them candy and asks them about their deepest desires. Frankly, it sounds more like an afternoon special on stranger danger... Last year was the first time I got my kids to even mutter a word to Santa, and then they forgot what they wanted to ask him for anyway. As for the matching outfits? Nope. It was freezing cold out at the National Christmas Tree, and my bunnies were dressed in dirty Lands End parkas (from laying on the ground by the Yule Log to get warm) and their hair had a serious case of static cling. Santa was probably thinking he needed to deliver some Tide and a comb to our house, more than candy or toys...
Ahhhhh--and that leaves the Christmas tree. Good luck getting clean clothes on the kids and forcing them to smile at the camera when there are packages to be shaken, Christmas ornaments to rearrange and/or break, and electric cords to trip over. And that's not even taking into account that the Wild Man just wants to hide under the darn thing. He spends most of December with his feet sticking out of the bottom of the tree, staring up into the lights from the inside of the branches. He looks like a deranged Wicked Witch of the East before her ruby slippers disappear under Dorothy's house....
And the matching clothes in any of these pictures?
Nope. Not a matching set. Ever. Wild Man prefers cammo at the moment, and the DQ only wears things that sparkle at 100 yards and has the word "Justice" printed somewhere. I'm just happy if any shirt I'm wearing doesn't have a boob stain on it, which leaves only MacGyver looking "normal".
So, after all these years, I've given up on ever having a "traditional" family picture on the front of our Christmas cards. Even if I could afford matching Hanna Andersen outfits for all of us, we'd look uncomfortable and our smiles would look forced. When I see these types of pictures now, I wonder how many glasses of wine the mom had before the photoshoot, and if dad threw a fit when he saw the red and green plaid sweater he was being forced to wear (and the bill for it too!). I can almost hear the screams of indignation that the little boys made when they were told to take off their favorite Transformers sweatshirt and put on the itchy turtleneck and the sweater with snowflakes and reindeer on it. And the dramatic sighs of the tweenie girl being bribed into wearing a "baby" dress with no freaking rhinestones or sequins on it for a card that "all her friends are going to see and think I look dumb". Really? Is this what Christmas pictures are all about?
So, our cards are usually a spontaneous shot taken between poses. Someone's head may be thrown back in laughter because someone made a fart joke to get a smile for the camera. I'm usually holding WMB in a partial strangle-hold to get him to stay still for the shot, and trying to keep my eyes open for the flash. And DQ will have smuggled in something sparkly for some glamour.
But, at least it's real. Maybe those pictures other families frolicking in the surf in matching chinos and white shirts are real for them--but, I doubt it. Maybe other families happily don matching outfits while decorating their Frasier fir, but not us. As I look back on our Christmas cards of years past, I smile and remember all the bunny ears and jokes and rude noises that produced those smiles. I recall how much my kids loved their favorite outfits that made them feel beautiful, even if they color clashed. And I know that our friends and family know that those cards represent who we really are--a wee bit off, and having a whole lot of fun!
Yeah. Right.
Any picture involving a beach would involve sand being flung at a sibling, who was howling with indignity because I wouldn't let them feed the entire bag of Doritos to he seagulls. There would be no matching outfits, just faded bathing suits with chocolate stains from the icecream truck and a little pouches of sand where the sun don't shine. We'd all be sunburned, and our hair would make us look like gorgons. Not to mention there's no way in hell you'd get me to pose on the beach in my bathing suit, or any other suit, until I've spent at least 3 solid years with a personal trainer and a photographer highly trained in Photoshop.
As for a picture with the fat man in red? My kids have been scared to death of him since they were born. I mean, really--you're forcing your small child to sit in the fuzzy lap of a complete stranger who offers them candy and asks them about their deepest desires. Frankly, it sounds more like an afternoon special on stranger danger... Last year was the first time I got my kids to even mutter a word to Santa, and then they forgot what they wanted to ask him for anyway. As for the matching outfits? Nope. It was freezing cold out at the National Christmas Tree, and my bunnies were dressed in dirty Lands End parkas (from laying on the ground by the Yule Log to get warm) and their hair had a serious case of static cling. Santa was probably thinking he needed to deliver some Tide and a comb to our house, more than candy or toys...
Ahhhhh--and that leaves the Christmas tree. Good luck getting clean clothes on the kids and forcing them to smile at the camera when there are packages to be shaken, Christmas ornaments to rearrange and/or break, and electric cords to trip over. And that's not even taking into account that the Wild Man just wants to hide under the darn thing. He spends most of December with his feet sticking out of the bottom of the tree, staring up into the lights from the inside of the branches. He looks like a deranged Wicked Witch of the East before her ruby slippers disappear under Dorothy's house....
And the matching clothes in any of these pictures?
Nope. Not a matching set. Ever. Wild Man prefers cammo at the moment, and the DQ only wears things that sparkle at 100 yards and has the word "Justice" printed somewhere. I'm just happy if any shirt I'm wearing doesn't have a boob stain on it, which leaves only MacGyver looking "normal".
So, after all these years, I've given up on ever having a "traditional" family picture on the front of our Christmas cards. Even if I could afford matching Hanna Andersen outfits for all of us, we'd look uncomfortable and our smiles would look forced. When I see these types of pictures now, I wonder how many glasses of wine the mom had before the photoshoot, and if dad threw a fit when he saw the red and green plaid sweater he was being forced to wear (and the bill for it too!). I can almost hear the screams of indignation that the little boys made when they were told to take off their favorite Transformers sweatshirt and put on the itchy turtleneck and the sweater with snowflakes and reindeer on it. And the dramatic sighs of the tweenie girl being bribed into wearing a "baby" dress with no freaking rhinestones or sequins on it for a card that "all her friends are going to see and think I look dumb". Really? Is this what Christmas pictures are all about?
So, our cards are usually a spontaneous shot taken between poses. Someone's head may be thrown back in laughter because someone made a fart joke to get a smile for the camera. I'm usually holding WMB in a partial strangle-hold to get him to stay still for the shot, and trying to keep my eyes open for the flash. And DQ will have smuggled in something sparkly for some glamour.
But, at least it's real. Maybe those pictures other families frolicking in the surf in matching chinos and white shirts are real for them--but, I doubt it. Maybe other families happily don matching outfits while decorating their Frasier fir, but not us. As I look back on our Christmas cards of years past, I smile and remember all the bunny ears and jokes and rude noises that produced those smiles. I recall how much my kids loved their favorite outfits that made them feel beautiful, even if they color clashed. And I know that our friends and family know that those cards represent who we really are--a wee bit off, and having a whole lot of fun!
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
On Gratitude and Appreciation...
Lately, I've been going through a tough time with the kiddos when it comes to "things". By "things", I mean toys. And books. And craft supplies. And snacks/food. And overall crap.
Why? Because they don't appreciate a damn thing.
And, that leaves me really torn. I am totally aware of the fact that munchkins, in general, are self-absorbed little souls. They can only really see the world from their own perspectives at this point in their lives. They are only beginning to understand, or acknowledge, empathy. They don't understand (thank goodness!) lack or deprevation. The worst agony or deprevation they have had to experience at this point in their lives is hearing that they can't have cookies before dinner or eat Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast ("but mommy, they have peanut butter for protein and the chocolate has milk in it! They're really healthy!") The fact that most of the world doesn't have enough to eat, or fancy toys to play with, or even flushable toilets is completely foreign to them.
And, to an extent, I'm glad that they don't know these things. They're still small. They're still innocent. I want them to still believe in the basic goodness of the world and of humanity. They don't need to know about war and famine and genocide when they're still small enough to think there's monsters under their bed and that unicorns really exist.
But, because they don't know about these things, they can behave (more often than I'd probably like to admit...) like little entitled, spoiled, unappreciative cranky-pants.
It's so hard to listen to DQ complain about how she doesn't have some fancy new techno-gadget like "everyone else does", or see WMB break yet another construction toy and cry for a replacement when I know that so many children in the world would be happy with a box to play with. It's hard to listen to the kiddos complain about their nutritious, homemade dinners (ah, yes--that's my story and I'm sticking with it...) when I know that billions of people don't even have a dinner to eat. And, when I see their playroom and their bedrooms completely trashed, I want to go ballistic because they have no concept of how lucky they are to have crayons and paper and Legos and dolls when most the world's children have nothing to play with but homemade toys made from sticks and straw. And, when they scream at me that I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world because I sent them to the rooms for some misdeed or another, it's hard not to tell them how lucky they are that they aren't abused and beaten for such petty things like so many children are.
So, I'm torn. I want them to know how lucky they are to have a roof over their heads and hot meals to eat. I want them to thank me and MacGyver for all the time and money we spend on carting them to activities and vacations and other fun things. I would prefer they have the respect for their possessions to put them away, in their proper places of course, when they're done playing with or wearing them. And, lord knows I'd like the incessent whining and complaining to stop.
But then, when I see DQ crying over an American Girl movie because she didn't know that little children had to work in factories (and, still do. Yes, we did have that conversation.) or weeping before bed when she tells me about how they are reading a book about the Great Depression in school, I want to shield them from all that is bad or sad in the world. I turn off the news when they walk into the room so they don't know about starving people and wars and dictators and missing or murdered children.
So, I ask y'all--what do you do? Do you let your children know about the realities of the world? If so, how to you make it appropriate for children? Should I shield them for a little while longer? Or, is this just completely normal for kids to be ungrateful little gremlins?
I suppose all of us (or, at least, most of us) were the same way as kids. That our parents, and our parent's parents, ad nauseum, complained about the same things. For all I know, cave moms and dads grunted about how their bundles of joy had no appreciation for the work it took to kill and cook the mammoth for dinner, and that they weren't grateful for the lovely leather and fur coat that mommy made from the bear they ate last month, because they wanted a racoon coat not a bear coat, because Susie next door had a racoon coat with a tail on it, and their bear coat was just boring and stupid and that their cave mommy was the meanest mommy in the whole wide world....
Anywho, if anyone has a great idea about how to encourage gratitude (an idea that works, that is. Lots of "experts" have ideas, but the don't work so well...), I'd love to hear it. And, if you're going through the same thing with your kids, I'd love to hear about that too so I'd feel like I was at least in the same boat as some others.
Why? Because they don't appreciate a damn thing.
And, that leaves me really torn. I am totally aware of the fact that munchkins, in general, are self-absorbed little souls. They can only really see the world from their own perspectives at this point in their lives. They are only beginning to understand, or acknowledge, empathy. They don't understand (thank goodness!) lack or deprevation. The worst agony or deprevation they have had to experience at this point in their lives is hearing that they can't have cookies before dinner or eat Reeces Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast ("but mommy, they have peanut butter for protein and the chocolate has milk in it! They're really healthy!") The fact that most of the world doesn't have enough to eat, or fancy toys to play with, or even flushable toilets is completely foreign to them.
And, to an extent, I'm glad that they don't know these things. They're still small. They're still innocent. I want them to still believe in the basic goodness of the world and of humanity. They don't need to know about war and famine and genocide when they're still small enough to think there's monsters under their bed and that unicorns really exist.
But, because they don't know about these things, they can behave (more often than I'd probably like to admit...) like little entitled, spoiled, unappreciative cranky-pants.
It's so hard to listen to DQ complain about how she doesn't have some fancy new techno-gadget like "everyone else does", or see WMB break yet another construction toy and cry for a replacement when I know that so many children in the world would be happy with a box to play with. It's hard to listen to the kiddos complain about their nutritious, homemade dinners (ah, yes--that's my story and I'm sticking with it...) when I know that billions of people don't even have a dinner to eat. And, when I see their playroom and their bedrooms completely trashed, I want to go ballistic because they have no concept of how lucky they are to have crayons and paper and Legos and dolls when most the world's children have nothing to play with but homemade toys made from sticks and straw. And, when they scream at me that I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world because I sent them to the rooms for some misdeed or another, it's hard not to tell them how lucky they are that they aren't abused and beaten for such petty things like so many children are.
So, I'm torn. I want them to know how lucky they are to have a roof over their heads and hot meals to eat. I want them to thank me and MacGyver for all the time and money we spend on carting them to activities and vacations and other fun things. I would prefer they have the respect for their possessions to put them away, in their proper places of course, when they're done playing with or wearing them. And, lord knows I'd like the incessent whining and complaining to stop.
But then, when I see DQ crying over an American Girl movie because she didn't know that little children had to work in factories (and, still do. Yes, we did have that conversation.) or weeping before bed when she tells me about how they are reading a book about the Great Depression in school, I want to shield them from all that is bad or sad in the world. I turn off the news when they walk into the room so they don't know about starving people and wars and dictators and missing or murdered children.
So, I ask y'all--what do you do? Do you let your children know about the realities of the world? If so, how to you make it appropriate for children? Should I shield them for a little while longer? Or, is this just completely normal for kids to be ungrateful little gremlins?
I suppose all of us (or, at least, most of us) were the same way as kids. That our parents, and our parent's parents, ad nauseum, complained about the same things. For all I know, cave moms and dads grunted about how their bundles of joy had no appreciation for the work it took to kill and cook the mammoth for dinner, and that they weren't grateful for the lovely leather and fur coat that mommy made from the bear they ate last month, because they wanted a racoon coat not a bear coat, because Susie next door had a racoon coat with a tail on it, and their bear coat was just boring and stupid and that their cave mommy was the meanest mommy in the whole wide world....
Anywho, if anyone has a great idea about how to encourage gratitude (an idea that works, that is. Lots of "experts" have ideas, but the don't work so well...), I'd love to hear it. And, if you're going through the same thing with your kids, I'd love to hear about that too so I'd feel like I was at least in the same boat as some others.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
When the Cat's Away...
This week, MacGyver is out of town for his job. He left us, feeling a bit guilty, and set off with his co-worker/best friend/kiddos' godfather (also known as "the Don") for a few exciting days in Mobile, Alabama.
The moment the door shut, I thought "the cat's away, so the mice shall play!"
Now, don't get me wrong--I love my husband. Adore my sweetie. I swear he's the one that wakes up early and puts the sun up in the sky for us. But, here and there, it's really awesome to have him go away for a few days...
I don't think I'm alone, either, in believing this. A totally non-random poll of friends and acquaintances has shown that the moms (not the dads!) believe that a few non-hubby days with the kids is simply fabu. We stay up later. Eat enormous amounts of crap and fast food (yeah!! no cooking!!!!). We refuse to clean or vacuum. The laundry fairy only visits when we're down to our last pairs of undies. Dishes in the sink? Yep. Why? Because. We. Don't. Care.
Now, this does not include those of us with hubbies (wives, or co-parents, or significant others, etc.) who are in the military and are gone for long lengths of time. Nor, does it include those whose better halves travel all the time. That's no fun, and frankly, sucks.
But, for those of us who get to see all our sweetie darlings every. stinkin'. day. It's nice for a break. It really does make the heart grow fonder. And, it relieves the craving for Squisito's pizza (since we basically live on that and Lucky Charms for days at a time). By the time MacGyver's back home, I'm itching to make something homemade for dinner, and living in sloth and gluttony isn't as exciting as it was a few days before.
And, you know what? I think that, deep down, the husbands like getting away too. Yes, my sweetums complains that the hotel rooms aren't homey, he doesn't like eating out every meal of the day, and it's really boring to watch TV by yourself at night. But, then, he doesn't have someone complaining about his choice of TV show (really? another conspiracy theory/aliens/UFO show?) and wanting to watch the Real Housewives marathon instead. And, theoretically, no one is asking for a refill on their juice or if they can eat the rest of his meat, and can you please cut it up for me, no, not that way, like little triangles, and can I have the rest of your potatoes too, and can you take us out for ice cream, why not?, that's not fair, he hit me, she looked at me, etc. etc. ad nauseum....
He makes it sound like travel is horrible. All the lines. All the airports. All the questionable food.
And, yet, inevitably, he calls to tell me goodnight and I hear laughter and music in the background. Sometimes he and the Don are at a nightclub/restaurant drinking bottles of wine with a bunch of co-workers in South Beach. Or, I hear the surf and seagulls from Hernando Beach where they're talking to surfers and guys fishing on the pier while their table is called at that restaurant that looks out over the ocean. Once, they were getting dinner in Little Havana and I got to hear the descriptions of all the street vendors and their meals. It sounded awesome! I could almost taste the pulled pork and fried plantains...
So, my point is, I think some travel and time apart is really good when you've been together as long as MacGyver and I have been. The kids are excited that daddy's gone so they can pile into bed with me and snuggle all night. And, they get to be excited when he comes home, usually with trinkets and souvenirs for them. And we both get the excitement of a little change in scenery and routine, and that can make everyone feel a whole lot better.
I hope he remembers this when I try to get away next month for a "girls' weekend"...
The moment the door shut, I thought "the cat's away, so the mice shall play!"
Now, don't get me wrong--I love my husband. Adore my sweetie. I swear he's the one that wakes up early and puts the sun up in the sky for us. But, here and there, it's really awesome to have him go away for a few days...
I don't think I'm alone, either, in believing this. A totally non-random poll of friends and acquaintances has shown that the moms (not the dads!) believe that a few non-hubby days with the kids is simply fabu. We stay up later. Eat enormous amounts of crap and fast food (yeah!! no cooking!!!!). We refuse to clean or vacuum. The laundry fairy only visits when we're down to our last pairs of undies. Dishes in the sink? Yep. Why? Because. We. Don't. Care.
Now, this does not include those of us with hubbies (wives, or co-parents, or significant others, etc.) who are in the military and are gone for long lengths of time. Nor, does it include those whose better halves travel all the time. That's no fun, and frankly, sucks.
But, for those of us who get to see all our sweetie darlings every. stinkin'. day. It's nice for a break. It really does make the heart grow fonder. And, it relieves the craving for Squisito's pizza (since we basically live on that and Lucky Charms for days at a time). By the time MacGyver's back home, I'm itching to make something homemade for dinner, and living in sloth and gluttony isn't as exciting as it was a few days before.
And, you know what? I think that, deep down, the husbands like getting away too. Yes, my sweetums complains that the hotel rooms aren't homey, he doesn't like eating out every meal of the day, and it's really boring to watch TV by yourself at night. But, then, he doesn't have someone complaining about his choice of TV show (really? another conspiracy theory/aliens/UFO show?) and wanting to watch the Real Housewives marathon instead. And, theoretically, no one is asking for a refill on their juice or if they can eat the rest of his meat, and can you please cut it up for me, no, not that way, like little triangles, and can I have the rest of your potatoes too, and can you take us out for ice cream, why not?, that's not fair, he hit me, she looked at me, etc. etc. ad nauseum....
He makes it sound like travel is horrible. All the lines. All the airports. All the questionable food.
And, yet, inevitably, he calls to tell me goodnight and I hear laughter and music in the background. Sometimes he and the Don are at a nightclub/restaurant drinking bottles of wine with a bunch of co-workers in South Beach. Or, I hear the surf and seagulls from Hernando Beach where they're talking to surfers and guys fishing on the pier while their table is called at that restaurant that looks out over the ocean. Once, they were getting dinner in Little Havana and I got to hear the descriptions of all the street vendors and their meals. It sounded awesome! I could almost taste the pulled pork and fried plantains...
So, my point is, I think some travel and time apart is really good when you've been together as long as MacGyver and I have been. The kids are excited that daddy's gone so they can pile into bed with me and snuggle all night. And, they get to be excited when he comes home, usually with trinkets and souvenirs for them. And we both get the excitement of a little change in scenery and routine, and that can make everyone feel a whole lot better.
I hope he remembers this when I try to get away next month for a "girls' weekend"...
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wardrobe Malfunctions
Okay, I know a lot of y'all out there have this same problem. But, for some reason, this year it's really getting to me. What is it?
new season + major growth spurts + one mom "slightly" behind in her back to school shopping = CHAOS
This weekend, fall came. Like, overnight. It was a sweaty, humid 78 degrees on Friday, and then on Saturday we woke up to 40 degree temperatures. And no sweaters, sweatshirts, or jackets that fit. And I can't find their hats. Forget the mittens and gloves--there's only unmatching ones of each floating around in oblivion...
Oh, and the kiddos feet grew. Again.
I swear, this is a never ending problem around here and in almost every other household in the world. I'm sure somewhere there is a mother who lovingly collects larger sizes of every piece of clothing, underwear, outerwear, and shoes for her sweetie darlings. I'm sure she has these bits and bobs organized by size and season for each gender child. No doubt she has her munchkins' holiday clothes all washed and ironed, and has well fitting snow boots and snow pants lined up for the first snow.
Me? I found out the kids' rain boots didn't fit two weeks ago when the biblical rains around here started. Poor WMB hobbled around in 2-sizes-too-small "fireman" boots for almost a week before I found replacements (and not even on sale, dammit. Or, with a coupon.) Forget DQ's boots, since they were a size 2 and she wears a 5. Plus, DQ sniffed at the idea of rain boots and just wore her already-too-small sparkly silver ballet flats (how can an 8 year old have size 6-7 women's feet? She is already pirating my heels!) every single day to jump in puddles.
Now, back when they were babies and toddlers, this was never a problem. We had tons of hand-me-downs from every Lucy and Ethel in my life. Any holes in the wardrobe were easily filled at the local consignment shop, and those clothes were adorable and hardly worn since kids only wore an outfit or shoes a few times before outgrowing them. Now, the growth spurts are less predictable and the kids' wear their clothes and shoes out before outgrowing them. Plus, anyone who has shopped at consignment shops lately knows that they have tons of little kids clothes, but after size 8 or so, there's almost nothing.
Also, in the past, I bought tons of clothes at the end of the season clearance sales that were the size I guessed my munchkins would be the following year. Yep, can't do that anymore either. I wasted a small fortune buying "50% off the lowest marked price--up to 70% off!" clothes to find out my kids outgrew them before they were ever worn. After taking one too many bags of brand new, with the tags still on, clothes to the consignment shop, I gave up on that practice.
So now, I wait til they grow and go shopping. Which puts me in a bad situation. Like this weekend. I needed sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sweaters (non "hoochie mamma" or "bad a$$ graffiti artist" please) for DQ and WMB. Couldn't. Find. Them. Anywhere.
Apparently, all the far more organized moms got to the stores before me. There were empty racks where tunic sweaters used to be. The only long-sleeved t-shirts for boys DQ's age were not the sweet ones with firetrucks and bulldozers, but had questionable spray-painted slogans on them. And no--I will not buy any sweatpants or yoga pants for an 8 year old girl that has any kind of writing, sparkly or not, on the bum bum. Not. Gonna. Happen.
After a long afternoon of combing the mall and surrounding area for fall and winter clothes, my kids now have enough to put off doing laundry every day. Not that I don't do that anyway, but at least they have 3 or 4 long sleeve shirts and pants to last them a few days. And school boots that fit (thank you Stride Rite for having a clearance sale that actually had my kids' sizes in stock!!!). I still haven't gotten around to the winter stuff yet--and, no doubt, I'll only get around to it when it snows and I'm digging around under the basement stairs for the box of snow pants that are three sizes too small and the boots that would be small on a toddler. My munchkins will be the ones out on the neighborhood hill, sledding in three pairs of sweatpants and mismatched mittens because mommy couldn't get her act together enough to find snow pants and boots at Target before they were all sold out. But, at least they'll be having fun--and I know that they are totally unprepared for the weather because we were all too busy playing at the park and going fishing at the dock and investigating all the different types and colors of mushrooms that have sprouted up in the woods during these torrential rains.
And, that has to account for something. Doesn't it?
new season + major growth spurts + one mom "slightly" behind in her back to school shopping = CHAOS
This weekend, fall came. Like, overnight. It was a sweaty, humid 78 degrees on Friday, and then on Saturday we woke up to 40 degree temperatures. And no sweaters, sweatshirts, or jackets that fit. And I can't find their hats. Forget the mittens and gloves--there's only unmatching ones of each floating around in oblivion...
Oh, and the kiddos feet grew. Again.
I swear, this is a never ending problem around here and in almost every other household in the world. I'm sure somewhere there is a mother who lovingly collects larger sizes of every piece of clothing, underwear, outerwear, and shoes for her sweetie darlings. I'm sure she has these bits and bobs organized by size and season for each gender child. No doubt she has her munchkins' holiday clothes all washed and ironed, and has well fitting snow boots and snow pants lined up for the first snow.
Me? I found out the kids' rain boots didn't fit two weeks ago when the biblical rains around here started. Poor WMB hobbled around in 2-sizes-too-small "fireman" boots for almost a week before I found replacements (and not even on sale, dammit. Or, with a coupon.) Forget DQ's boots, since they were a size 2 and she wears a 5. Plus, DQ sniffed at the idea of rain boots and just wore her already-too-small sparkly silver ballet flats (how can an 8 year old have size 6-7 women's feet? She is already pirating my heels!) every single day to jump in puddles.
Now, back when they were babies and toddlers, this was never a problem. We had tons of hand-me-downs from every Lucy and Ethel in my life. Any holes in the wardrobe were easily filled at the local consignment shop, and those clothes were adorable and hardly worn since kids only wore an outfit or shoes a few times before outgrowing them. Now, the growth spurts are less predictable and the kids' wear their clothes and shoes out before outgrowing them. Plus, anyone who has shopped at consignment shops lately knows that they have tons of little kids clothes, but after size 8 or so, there's almost nothing.
Also, in the past, I bought tons of clothes at the end of the season clearance sales that were the size I guessed my munchkins would be the following year. Yep, can't do that anymore either. I wasted a small fortune buying "50% off the lowest marked price--up to 70% off!" clothes to find out my kids outgrew them before they were ever worn. After taking one too many bags of brand new, with the tags still on, clothes to the consignment shop, I gave up on that practice.
So now, I wait til they grow and go shopping. Which puts me in a bad situation. Like this weekend. I needed sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sweaters (non "hoochie mamma" or "bad a$$ graffiti artist" please) for DQ and WMB. Couldn't. Find. Them. Anywhere.
Apparently, all the far more organized moms got to the stores before me. There were empty racks where tunic sweaters used to be. The only long-sleeved t-shirts for boys DQ's age were not the sweet ones with firetrucks and bulldozers, but had questionable spray-painted slogans on them. And no--I will not buy any sweatpants or yoga pants for an 8 year old girl that has any kind of writing, sparkly or not, on the bum bum. Not. Gonna. Happen.
After a long afternoon of combing the mall and surrounding area for fall and winter clothes, my kids now have enough to put off doing laundry every day. Not that I don't do that anyway, but at least they have 3 or 4 long sleeve shirts and pants to last them a few days. And school boots that fit (thank you Stride Rite for having a clearance sale that actually had my kids' sizes in stock!!!). I still haven't gotten around to the winter stuff yet--and, no doubt, I'll only get around to it when it snows and I'm digging around under the basement stairs for the box of snow pants that are three sizes too small and the boots that would be small on a toddler. My munchkins will be the ones out on the neighborhood hill, sledding in three pairs of sweatpants and mismatched mittens because mommy couldn't get her act together enough to find snow pants and boots at Target before they were all sold out. But, at least they'll be having fun--and I know that they are totally unprepared for the weather because we were all too busy playing at the park and going fishing at the dock and investigating all the different types and colors of mushrooms that have sprouted up in the woods during these torrential rains.
And, that has to account for something. Doesn't it?
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