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...

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?

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

Dear kiddos,

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

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

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

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

Yeah.  Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  I've never said that. (Ahem....)

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

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

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

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

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

"Hipster" Glasses

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

Then, I realized the problem was me.

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

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

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

Yikes!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

             <<<sound of crickets>>>

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

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

Nope.  She meant, elderly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gee.  Thanks.

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

On Mommy-Martyrdom

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

Like laser hair removal.

And micro-dermibrasion.

And Weight Watchers with a side of Boot Camp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Argghh! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garanimals for GrownUps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I can't even dress myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Parenting With Labels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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