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.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
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?
Monday, September 26, 2011
A drop in the Bucket List
When Eat, Pray, Love came out, I, like millions of others, read the book cover to cover and dreamed of taking off for distant lands. Eating my way through pasta and pizza. Enjoying silence (in very scant supply around this house!). Remembering who I was before I was a wife and mother.
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Organizing My Clutter Closet
I, like millions of other Gen-X'ers, watched the show Friends through out the nineties. Unlike most, however, I didn't start watching it when I heard all the rave reviews or saw dozens of girls on my college campus suddenly show up with the "Rachel" haircut (and yes, I had the haircut too. But, in my defense, I will go down in history swearing up and down that I had it first. It was given to me at a hair show, and the hair stylist claimed it was the newest thing in Paris. I know now that he was full of crap on so many different levels, but I digress...)
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well...
Instead of a usual post, today I'm honoring the first day of school. Only the Drama Queen is going back today, since the Wild Man is in Kindy and they start a few days later.
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Grand Canyon of Doubt
Today I was at Justice doing some back-to-school shopping with my little Drama Queen. DQ was happily scanning the sales rack and running around with her catalog (complete with circles around the "cool stuff") to match up outfits while I tried to ignore the groans my wallet was making. Yes, I was proud of myself because I brought her on a day when I could use my "J Bucks", my 40% FB coupon, and it was tax-free week. But, I was also reminiscing about shopping with my mom when I was a kid.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
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