It has come to my attention that I totally suck at getting other people's children to listen to me.
I kind of have my own kids under control when it comes to listening. They seem to know instinctively when mama is about to lose her schmidt, and they do what they're told exactly 3 seconds before my eyes want to pop out of their sockets and my brain explodes with little cartoon steam coming out of my ears.
But, other kids--not so much.
I mean, I'm not a huge "yeller". I talk about my yelling all the time, but my family's version of yelling is what I've discovered is other families' version of talking ever-so-slightly louder than usual. With the Drama Queen, if I raise my voice one watt higher than usual to call her down for dinner, she'll burst into hot, hysterical tears and claim I "hate" her and she "can't do anything right" (gee, wonder where she gets that from...) The Wild Man generally doesn't give a flying rat's patootie when I holler--but DQ has "trained" me to not scream with the white hot rage of ten thousand suns or I'll be dealing with neurotic meltdowns worthy of a Dr. Phil special.
So, basically, I'm a non-yelling yeller. I discipline with humor, and occasionally sarcasm. Okay--a lot of sarcasm...
This is normally not a problem. The kiddos' friends know how I roll, and that I'm the "fun" and "adventurous" mom, not the disciplinarian. I allow plenty of chaos in the house, so long as no plaster is falling from the ceiling and no one is actively swinging on the chandelier. I actually like the sound of 15 children running up and down my stairs and swinging the front door shut on their way to climb the trees in the back yard. I encourage the sounds of loud laughter and semi-constant chattering of little voices through out the house.
It's chaos. But, it's Organized Chaos.
Then, I started to seriously volunteer at church and school. Controlling other people's children (beyond my own "village") is hard. Really, really hard.
I admit, I was totally naive. I have run Girl Scout meetings (with a whopping 10 girls who I've known forever, and I count their parents as some of my dearest friends) with no problem. I've worked one-on-one in Kindergarten classes and pre-school co-ops and reading groups.
Then, I took seven 3rd graders to the Aquarium. At first I joked that I'd make the front page of the paper to losing a child to the shark tank. Ahhhh--yep, it almost happened.
That's when I should have known that I'm not exactly cut out to be in charge. Of anyone. Not even myself.
I try. I really do. But, you know something is wrong when you're trying desperately to have a half-dozen 6 year old's read out-loud to you, and they're doing so while tumbling down chorus risers like a pile of puppies. And, my "mean mommy" voice just cracked them up. Let's face it--they smelled blood. My blood. They knew I was a goner...
I have friends that have just nailed that whole "teacher" voice. They speak with authority. Kids pay attention to them. Probably out of vague fear, but at least they pay attention. Me? They are fully aware that I'm the mom who will let them climb the biggest trees and bake the biggest cookies and go on the coolest trips to potato chip factories and tree house museums, but that I'm completely incapable of keeping them from table surfing in the cafeteria or feeding themselves to the sharks (if they're not actually related to me).
Can I claim this as my "get out of jail free card" for field trips? Apparently, no. I'm signed up for an overnight 4th grade field trip next month. A dozen or so girls. One cabin. Lots of woods and water. And me in charge.
This is going to be interesting...
Monday, May 13, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
A normal morning in our house...
This morning started out like all others. I woke up a little before 7am to the sounds
of bickering and the Wild Man imitating an ambulance and “wee woo”- ing
throughout the house. There were shouts
of “Mom! I’m hungry!” and “Mom! I don’t feel good, can I stay home from
school?”
Yep, normal day so far.
My little Drama Queen comes stumbling into the bedroom, and
I notice she’s a bit glassy eyed. Oh,
oh. Time for the thermometer. Which, is apparently out of batteries. And, it’s one of those fancy watch
batteries. Damn! I have a collection of every battery size,
but watch size. Crap! Now, where did I put the old mercury one…
Found it! “What’s
that thing, mom? A pen?” No, it’s a thermometer. “Where’s the battery?” It works with mercury, not batteries. “What’s mercury?” Deadly, liquidy, metally, silvery stuff that
goes up and down in this tube to tell me if you have a fever. “I’m not putting that in my mouth!” Fine, it’s a rectal thermometer anyway, so
bend over…
After peeling the DQ out from under her bed, I finally find
the 30 year old forehead thermometer. I
put it on her, and it glows green off the charts. Crap!!!
One kid down for the count, and now I have to call out for my volunteer
training. And it was canoeing day,
too! Darn.
Now comes the fight over medicine. Advil or Tylenol. Grape or cherry. Liquid or chewy or tablet. “I’m allergic to grape, mommy! You’re trying to kill me with grapes!!!!!” Well, at least we now know that those drama
club classes are working—she could win an academy award for this performance.
I shove a brown ibuprofen at her, to the cries of “but this
is that store brand stuff!!!! I want the
sugary Advil, not the gross one!!!
Ahhhhhhh!!!!”
Downstairs we go, where I cram coffee grounds into my
ancient Mr. Coffee, and go outside to pick up my Washington Post—potentially the
only thing I will read today that is in any way “grown up”. With the DQ at home, I know I have a day of
reading American Girl books and watching the Disney Channel ahead of me.
Two steps out, I see it.
A dead, freaking opossum.
In my driveway.
Covered in blood.
Staring at me.
I’m pretty sure all the neighbors heard me scream “You’ve
got to be effing kidding me!!!! What did
I do to deserve this piece of hot hell!?”
Out run two rumpled, pajama-ed kiddos. “Mom, mom, mom!!!! What is it?”
“Is is dead?” “ Is it hurt?”
“ CAN WE KEEP IT!!??”
I explain it’s a dead possum, probably hit by a car, that
crawled its bloody body up our sidewalk and driveway to die. I also explain that I’m pretty sure this is
an act of karma, since I once hit a possum when I was 16, and it crawled into
my friend Leah’s yard to die. This was obviously payback time…
Or, we really pissed someone off around
here. Horse head in bed—possum in the
driveway. Same difference.
Now the kids’ shreeking goes up a notch. “If it’s dead, can we keep it! Please!!!!! We can put it in the freezer!!”
Oh, hell no—it’s not going in the freezer. We already have a dead beta fish and a dead
hermit crab, sans shell, in our freezer, since no one wants to go out back and
dig a mass grave and bury our long lost pets.
We also have a cremated cat on our fireplace mantel, so I have about as
much death surrounding me as I can handle at the moment.
“But mom!!! We have
room in the big freezer downstairs!!!!”
Yeah, right. I’m
putting Paddy O’Opossum in the freezer with my frozen pizzas and wild salmon
filets. Not in this lifetime.
So, we get the bright idea to call MacGyver at work to tell
him how our morning is going so far, and get his opinion on whether or not we
should freeze dry our new friend in the deep freezer.
“Daddy, daddy!! We
have a dead possum in our driveway! It’s
all bloody and gross and staring at us.
Can we keep it?”
This is where I find out that “Daddy” already knows about ol’
Paddy. Why? Because he saw the damn thing in the driveway
at o’dark thirty when he left for work.
You know, when he BACKED AROUND IT TO LEAVE!
“I thought it was playing possum.”
At this point, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I decide to laugh, since this morning totally
represents the crazy life we have. Dead
animals, high fevers, cheap generic medicine, and my kiddos constant desire to
bring wildlife into the house. Turtles. Bugs. Worms. A four foot long black snake. (“But
mom—we even named him Snakey. He can
live in my room and sleep with me!”)
So, today I had to come to terms with the fact that the only
use my hiking boots were going to have today was to carry me out back to the
woods with a stiff carcass on a snow shovel, and then out front to bleach the
living crap out of the CSI worthy blood stains on the concrete. And, that the Wild Man was going to have one
heck of a story to tell at the bus stop.
“Hey everyone!!! Don’t
step in the wet stuff—it’s bleach and possum guts!”
Yep. I’m sure our
neighbors just love us.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Where's Jake Ryan?
For our last date night (in December...) MacGyver and I went to see the movie "This is 40". I had seen the previews (both rated and unrated), and was dying to see it! As I have a far stupider sense of humor, I basically laughed through the whole damn thing--including two episodes of laughing so hard I was crying, and one episode where I may (or may not) have slightly peed myself laughing (I blame the Wild Man for this problem). MacGyver--not so much. Yes, he admitted, some of the scenes were pretty funny. And, others were very familiar (did we not have almost the same disagreement about music the other day? Where the kids and I were rockin' out to Lady Gaga and MacGyver made his semi-annual statement that no good music has been made since 1978...) But, he thought most of the movie was almost painful to watch with all the effort put into trying to be funny.
Oh, well. Apparently I have married a man with more "sophisticated" humor and taste in music than I.
Anywho--"This is 40" got me a bit nostalgic for the 1980's and early 1990's for some reason. I think it's because Judd Apatow and Leslie Mann nailed some of the sturm und drang of becoming a middle-aged Generation X'er. And, well, MacGyver's assertion that there's no good music these days... A few days later as I was downloading Ryan Adams' "Lucky Now" (totally awesome song!), I found myself making my way to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes".
I mean, please!! What Gen X'er doesn't remember that song! What girl growing up in the '80s didn't dream of John Cusack holding up a boom box in their front lawn, blasting "In Your Eyes" for all the neighbors to hear? We grew up not thinking of Romeo and Juliet whispering sweet nothings to each other from a balcony in Italy--we grew up expecting Lloyd Dobler serenading Diane Court with lyrics about her eyes being "the doorway to a thousand churches".
And, we grew up hoping to find Jake Ryan on our door step with a cake for our 16th birthday.
What Gen X "girl" didn't feel like Sam Baker at some point--watching with their own personal Long Duk Dong find a girlfriend before we could find our own Jake Ryan? What Gen X "boy" didn't feel like Lloyd, pining after a girl he thought was out of his league?
And, who among our generation, didn't TOTALLY related to at least one character in The Breakfast Club?
I remembered how much I loved (and still love) these movies, and how John Hughes (and Cameron Crowe) seemed to really speak to my generation. I was amazing to us that a "grown up" would "get us" so well. Our insecurities. Our feelings of isolation. Our longings. Our fashion trends....
Now, as I sit with my little Drama Queen and Wild Man on the sofa, and watch yet another rerun of Jessie or Good Luck Charlie, I wonder what director or screenwriter will capture their generation. Who will be the DQ's Jake Ryan? Who will be the WMB's Claire Standish? Who will be their "Brat Pack"? What song, in 20 or 30 years, will make then stop in their tracks, close their eyes, and remember their teen years the way that "In Your Eyes" (and "Don't You (Forget About Me)") does for me and so many of my female friends. What dress, or lack thereof, will bring back the same feelings that I have of the prom in Pretty in Pink?
And, what director, when my kiddos are parents themselves, will make them laugh until they pee themselves?
Oh, well. Apparently I have married a man with more "sophisticated" humor and taste in music than I.
Anywho--"This is 40" got me a bit nostalgic for the 1980's and early 1990's for some reason. I think it's because Judd Apatow and Leslie Mann nailed some of the sturm und drang of becoming a middle-aged Generation X'er. And, well, MacGyver's assertion that there's no good music these days... A few days later as I was downloading Ryan Adams' "Lucky Now" (totally awesome song!), I found myself making my way to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes".
I mean, please!! What Gen X'er doesn't remember that song! What girl growing up in the '80s didn't dream of John Cusack holding up a boom box in their front lawn, blasting "In Your Eyes" for all the neighbors to hear? We grew up not thinking of Romeo and Juliet whispering sweet nothings to each other from a balcony in Italy--we grew up expecting Lloyd Dobler serenading Diane Court with lyrics about her eyes being "the doorway to a thousand churches".
And, we grew up hoping to find Jake Ryan on our door step with a cake for our 16th birthday.
What Gen X "girl" didn't feel like Sam Baker at some point--watching with their own personal Long Duk Dong find a girlfriend before we could find our own Jake Ryan? What Gen X "boy" didn't feel like Lloyd, pining after a girl he thought was out of his league?
And, who among our generation, didn't TOTALLY related to at least one character in The Breakfast Club?
I remembered how much I loved (and still love) these movies, and how John Hughes (and Cameron Crowe) seemed to really speak to my generation. I was amazing to us that a "grown up" would "get us" so well. Our insecurities. Our feelings of isolation. Our longings. Our fashion trends....
Now, as I sit with my little Drama Queen and Wild Man on the sofa, and watch yet another rerun of Jessie or Good Luck Charlie, I wonder what director or screenwriter will capture their generation. Who will be the DQ's Jake Ryan? Who will be the WMB's Claire Standish? Who will be their "Brat Pack"? What song, in 20 or 30 years, will make then stop in their tracks, close their eyes, and remember their teen years the way that "In Your Eyes" (and "Don't You (Forget About Me)") does for me and so many of my female friends. What dress, or lack thereof, will bring back the same feelings that I have of the prom in Pretty in Pink?
And, what director, when my kiddos are parents themselves, will make them laugh until they pee themselves?
Monday, January 14, 2013
Furniture and Curtains and Paint--Oh My!
Ahhh--the holidays are over and the decorations are put away. The days are getting longer, and there's a fire crackling in the hearth. It's time for relaxing and...
Watching HGTV and the Food Network!!!
This is what happens every year around this time. The trifecta of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is over. I've put away the slowly decaying decorations, scoured the sales and clearance racks for discounted (and hopefully not too damaged) wrapping paper and decorations for next year. The lights are taken down, and the pretty kitchen towels with jolly ol' St. Nick on them are put away. And, things start to look a little, well, boring.
And, since it's cold and dreary outside, I start to watch tv. Just in time for the "domestic goddess" networks to start their new programming.
And then---I get ideas.
It usually starts with The Pioneer Woman. We go from eating chicken nuggets, baked potatoes, and bagged salad from Sams Club, to crispy polenta steaks with organic zucchini and chanterelle mushrooms with a side of smashed red potatoes with blue cheese. Hamburgers suddenly have homemade flavored mustards, and french fries are make with a new mandolin and grey sea salt. He starts to see asparagus on the table. In January!!
Before the poor man had a chance to contemplate a heart attack over the newest grocery bill (not to mention the bill from Williams Sonoma), I hit him with the paint samples.
"I love these greens! This lighter color is for the these three walls, and this darker celadon is for the accent wall. It will really complement our new comforter!"
"Um. What new comforter?"
And on it goes. Accents for the bathroom he painted over the summer but I never got around to buying baskets for. White paint for the trim. Pictures and directions for creating a frame for our bathroom mirror out of leftover moulding County Curtains and J.C. Penney catalogs opened to window treatments. Poor man is scared to death to go on a business trip, since the last one he went on, he came home to a rearranged living room and a new area rug. Every time he comes home from work, there's a new addition to his Honey Do list, courtesy of the newest HGTV program from OnDemand.
Dear, sweet MacGyver--he never knew what hit him. One moment he's glorying in the relaxation of Sunday afternoon football. The next thing he knows, I've turned him into Martha Stewarts b*tch!
Poor man gets to look forward to spending the next few months' worth of weekends repainting bedrooms and putting together furniture. And cursing home decorating shows and foodie magazines. The kiddos, of course, are all into it.
"I love the Pioneer Woman, mommy. Can you make strawberry jam and home school us on a ranch like she does?"
"Mommy, can we watch The Amandas again? I want a blue and white closet just like hers!"
Yeah, so poor daddy can go hide in it so we don't force him to repaint the living room that new dove gray I saw in the Pottery Barn catalog...
Watching HGTV and the Food Network!!!
This is what happens every year around this time. The trifecta of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's is over. I've put away the slowly decaying decorations, scoured the sales and clearance racks for discounted (and hopefully not too damaged) wrapping paper and decorations for next year. The lights are taken down, and the pretty kitchen towels with jolly ol' St. Nick on them are put away. And, things start to look a little, well, boring.
And, since it's cold and dreary outside, I start to watch tv. Just in time for the "domestic goddess" networks to start their new programming.
And then---I get ideas.
It usually starts with The Pioneer Woman. We go from eating chicken nuggets, baked potatoes, and bagged salad from Sams Club, to crispy polenta steaks with organic zucchini and chanterelle mushrooms with a side of smashed red potatoes with blue cheese. Hamburgers suddenly have homemade flavored mustards, and french fries are make with a new mandolin and grey sea salt. He starts to see asparagus on the table. In January!!
Before the poor man had a chance to contemplate a heart attack over the newest grocery bill (not to mention the bill from Williams Sonoma), I hit him with the paint samples.
"I love these greens! This lighter color is for the these three walls, and this darker celadon is for the accent wall. It will really complement our new comforter!"
"Um. What new comforter?"
And on it goes. Accents for the bathroom he painted over the summer but I never got around to buying baskets for. White paint for the trim. Pictures and directions for creating a frame for our bathroom mirror out of leftover moulding County Curtains and J.C. Penney catalogs opened to window treatments. Poor man is scared to death to go on a business trip, since the last one he went on, he came home to a rearranged living room and a new area rug. Every time he comes home from work, there's a new addition to his Honey Do list, courtesy of the newest HGTV program from OnDemand.
Dear, sweet MacGyver--he never knew what hit him. One moment he's glorying in the relaxation of Sunday afternoon football. The next thing he knows, I've turned him into Martha Stewarts b*tch!
Poor man gets to look forward to spending the next few months' worth of weekends repainting bedrooms and putting together furniture. And cursing home decorating shows and foodie magazines. The kiddos, of course, are all into it.
"I love the Pioneer Woman, mommy. Can you make strawberry jam and home school us on a ranch like she does?"
"Mommy, can we watch The Amandas again? I want a blue and white closet just like hers!"
Yeah, so poor daddy can go hide in it so we don't force him to repaint the living room that new dove gray I saw in the Pottery Barn catalog...
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Being in the picture
Not long ago, I read a blog about a mom who realized that of all the pictures taken in the last year or so, she wasn't in any of them. She was the picture taker. The family historian. The scrapbook paster and memory maker.
She was also afraid of seeing what she had become over time, immortalized in pictures.
It was easier to take the pictures and admire her family and friends, then to be in the pictures herself and face the ravages of time and weight and failure to put on lipstick.
This is me.
I am also the picture taker and the family historian. I got a rockin' camera for Christmas a few years ago, and learned how to take some fairly decent pictures with it. Nothing amazing or professional, but some really nice photos. Photos of the kiddos and their friends sledding. Of the kiddos and MacGyver when we've been on vacation. Of the rest of the family at the beach. Or the backyard. Or the park. Or the pool.
And not one of those pictures, in almost 18 months, has included me.
I also avoid cameras pointed at me when others are playing historian. "No, no--get the kids, not me. I don't have lipstick on." Or, "My hair is a mess."
The other day, I was approached in Home Depot to be asked if I could participate in a video they were shooting about plants. They needed a "customer" to ask some written questions to the nursery department for training purposes. I actually jumped up in shock (I was checking out the 80% sale on Christmas decorations for next year), and cried out "No! I look horrible! Find someone else that doesn't look like they dressed in the dark--during a tornado!"
And, I'm totally embarrassed to say, I actually RAN AWAY as fast as my rapidly diminishing dignity would allow, and hid in the paint department.
On the bright side, I did find the perfect paint colors for our master bedroom. But, I digress...
It's incredibly hard for me to admit why I do this. Avoid cameras of all sorts. Heck, the pictures of me for this blog are almost 2 years old.
I'm even afraid to be caught by a traffic camera. I did get my very first speeding ticket ever in D.C. last spring, when I was caught doing 40 in a 25 (all these years, I really did think it was 40 mph at RFK stadium--guess I was wrong...) and they sent me the photographic proof. And, all I could think was "does this van make me look fat?"
But, I do avoid cameras. I was once a very, very small-time model. I was happy and comfortable in front of the camera, for seemingly hours on end. I was thin, and pretty, and young. I had beautiful clothes that make me look like Ally McBeal. I also worked retail, and was basically paid to look good.
And, I had the lovely disposable income to do so.
But now--15 years and 30 pounds later, I'm not that same girl. While I still have nice hair (with almost no grays, even at 40!) and no noticeable crows-feet or smile lines to speak of yet, I don't have that certain je ne sais quoi that I used to have. What I now have, after years of different medical problems and way too many doses of prednesone, is a moon face and a more"Rubenesque" body that I would wish on anyone. I still, after all these years, don't recognize myself in the mirror some days. I fully expect to see my size 4, 25 year old self beaming back at me.
And, every year, I make a resolution to lose weight, get back into shape, and dress better. Unfortunately, medication needs, surgeries, and lack of a money tree in the back yard has kept me from those goals for a few years now. But, this year, I'm making a different resolution.
I will be back in pictures.
I don't want my kids to be looking through pictures long after I'm gone, wondering "where's mom?" Heaven forbid I'm hit by an asteroid or a speeding bus while they're still young, and they look for pictures of themselves with me--and find nothing. They'll slowly forget, over time, what I looked like. And, I don't want that to happen. Because if I'm not in those pictures, they will forget.
Great. Now I'm crying... Awesome.
It hurts to realize I've deprived them, and myself, of being in the family photos. There's nothing there to prove I was with them at the "once in a lifetime" trip to see the wild buffalo roundup in South Dakota this past fall. Of hiking in the Bad Lands. Of playing at the beach in the freezing cold water. I did everything I could to hide from the photographers at my cousin's wedding this summer. To put as many people as possible in front of me, so just my head stuck out, to the side. Behind the flowers.
Forget our Christmas card--it was just the kiddos this year. For the first time, ever.
So, I will resolve to be in pictures this year, regardless of what I feel like I look like. I need to show both kids, especially my little Drama Queen, that it's not healthy to hide in a corner in shame every time someone breaks out a Nikon at a wedding. Or that it is only the mamma's job to take pictures. Or, that getting a little bit older, or a little bit wider, is something to be ashamed about. How are they going to learn about good body image and healthy self-esteem if their mom is a hot mess?
So, I hope to find myself smiling at the camera for the next 12 months and onward. Moon face, crows-feet, and boob stains be damned!
I mean, really...isn't that what photo-editing is for?
She was also afraid of seeing what she had become over time, immortalized in pictures.
It was easier to take the pictures and admire her family and friends, then to be in the pictures herself and face the ravages of time and weight and failure to put on lipstick.
This is me.
I am also the picture taker and the family historian. I got a rockin' camera for Christmas a few years ago, and learned how to take some fairly decent pictures with it. Nothing amazing or professional, but some really nice photos. Photos of the kiddos and their friends sledding. Of the kiddos and MacGyver when we've been on vacation. Of the rest of the family at the beach. Or the backyard. Or the park. Or the pool.
And not one of those pictures, in almost 18 months, has included me.
I also avoid cameras pointed at me when others are playing historian. "No, no--get the kids, not me. I don't have lipstick on." Or, "My hair is a mess."
The other day, I was approached in Home Depot to be asked if I could participate in a video they were shooting about plants. They needed a "customer" to ask some written questions to the nursery department for training purposes. I actually jumped up in shock (I was checking out the 80% sale on Christmas decorations for next year), and cried out "No! I look horrible! Find someone else that doesn't look like they dressed in the dark--during a tornado!"
And, I'm totally embarrassed to say, I actually RAN AWAY as fast as my rapidly diminishing dignity would allow, and hid in the paint department.
On the bright side, I did find the perfect paint colors for our master bedroom. But, I digress...
It's incredibly hard for me to admit why I do this. Avoid cameras of all sorts. Heck, the pictures of me for this blog are almost 2 years old.
I'm even afraid to be caught by a traffic camera. I did get my very first speeding ticket ever in D.C. last spring, when I was caught doing 40 in a 25 (all these years, I really did think it was 40 mph at RFK stadium--guess I was wrong...) and they sent me the photographic proof. And, all I could think was "does this van make me look fat?"
But, I do avoid cameras. I was once a very, very small-time model. I was happy and comfortable in front of the camera, for seemingly hours on end. I was thin, and pretty, and young. I had beautiful clothes that make me look like Ally McBeal. I also worked retail, and was basically paid to look good.
And, I had the lovely disposable income to do so.
But now--15 years and 30 pounds later, I'm not that same girl. While I still have nice hair (with almost no grays, even at 40!) and no noticeable crows-feet or smile lines to speak of yet, I don't have that certain je ne sais quoi that I used to have. What I now have, after years of different medical problems and way too many doses of prednesone, is a moon face and a more"Rubenesque" body that I would wish on anyone. I still, after all these years, don't recognize myself in the mirror some days. I fully expect to see my size 4, 25 year old self beaming back at me.
And, every year, I make a resolution to lose weight, get back into shape, and dress better. Unfortunately, medication needs, surgeries, and lack of a money tree in the back yard has kept me from those goals for a few years now. But, this year, I'm making a different resolution.
I will be back in pictures.
I don't want my kids to be looking through pictures long after I'm gone, wondering "where's mom?" Heaven forbid I'm hit by an asteroid or a speeding bus while they're still young, and they look for pictures of themselves with me--and find nothing. They'll slowly forget, over time, what I looked like. And, I don't want that to happen. Because if I'm not in those pictures, they will forget.
Great. Now I'm crying... Awesome.
It hurts to realize I've deprived them, and myself, of being in the family photos. There's nothing there to prove I was with them at the "once in a lifetime" trip to see the wild buffalo roundup in South Dakota this past fall. Of hiking in the Bad Lands. Of playing at the beach in the freezing cold water. I did everything I could to hide from the photographers at my cousin's wedding this summer. To put as many people as possible in front of me, so just my head stuck out, to the side. Behind the flowers.
Forget our Christmas card--it was just the kiddos this year. For the first time, ever.
So, I will resolve to be in pictures this year, regardless of what I feel like I look like. I need to show both kids, especially my little Drama Queen, that it's not healthy to hide in a corner in shame every time someone breaks out a Nikon at a wedding. Or that it is only the mamma's job to take pictures. Or, that getting a little bit older, or a little bit wider, is something to be ashamed about. How are they going to learn about good body image and healthy self-esteem if their mom is a hot mess?
So, I hope to find myself smiling at the camera for the next 12 months and onward. Moon face, crows-feet, and boob stains be damned!
I mean, really...isn't that what photo-editing is for?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
The apples don't fall far from the tree...
Dear kiddos,
It may come as a complete surprise to you, but when it comes to your antics and manipulation, I'm on to you.
I know you spend minutes, if not hours, coming up with your excuses and drama and thinly-veiledlies misdirections and omissions in an effort to put your dad and I "off the scent", but we're on to you.
I know you think that MacGyver and I are dumb, if not completely stupid, and just "don't get it", but we've been there and done that.
It's truly amazing how every generation thinks they're smarter and more cunning than their parents and/or grandparents. That somehow the youngest generation has finally cracked the mysteries of the brain and it's psychology, and that they can pull the proverbial wool over their parents' eyes.
Yeah. Right.
Now, I'm fully aware of the fact that I was once part of that youngest generation of misbehaving miscreants that thought they were so genius. That my parents didn't know that I sneaked out of my room through the window and down the pine tree out front whenever I was sent to my room for whatever evil misdeeds I committed (sassing back, hitting my brother, being a general ten-year-old a**hole) and ran over to my BFF's house claiming parental abuse for being locked in my room. It never actually occurred to me, until I had children of my own, that my mom was perfectly aware of what I did and where I was. She was just happy to have some freaking peace and quiet in the house. It never dawned on me that there was a "mommy brigade" that would have called my mom and said "hey, did you know Christine was over here?" and that my mom probably said "who cares--I'm on my last nerve because of her. Wanna keep her until she's 18?"
But now, I have a whole new appreciation for my mom (and dad) and what they put up with for all those years with my brother and me. Mostly me. I was always the one that pushed the envelope. The one that found everyone's last nerve and set it on fire. Speaking of fire, I was really pretty good with matches--and the ability to torch many a bridge in my time.
So now, it is any surprise that I have kids that do the same to me?
The Drama Queen puts on award winning performances on an hourly basis around here. The Wild Man leaves a trail of legos and Star Wars figurines like Hansel and his bread crumbs. And said bread crumbs inevitably find their way to the wicked witch in the forest, screaming that someone is ruining her house (yes, that would be me).
I need look no further than the nearest, probably dusty, mirror to find out where they get their "quirks". That talent for drama comes directly from me. The trail of crap in their wake--I can't count the number of times my mom yelled at me for my junk around the house. One time, she scooped it all up and threw it on the back porch to be swept away by the wind and the neighborhood dogs. I'm starting to think she was onto something, there...
And the slamming and locking of doors? Yep--my genes. The ability to break the locks on almost any door, unless it's dead-bolted? Where, dear DQ, do you think you got that from? I know you think you have a singular, special talent (which is exactly why MacGyver and I have a second inside lock a la "Modern Family" on our bedroom door), but I'm sure your grandparents can tell you a heap of stories involving me, a credit card, and a spam key. And, that my talent came in handy more than once when we were locked out of our house.
It's both funny as hell, and irritating as crap, to see your own quirks come out in your kids. The lies ("I didn't do that!" "It's not mine!" "It's not my fault!") and the manipulations ("I feel so sick today, mommy. I need to stay home in bed and sleep and snuggle with you.") are the same I used on my parents, and they used on there's, all the way back to the Neanderthal munchkins claiming they didn't eat the last piece of mammoth pie before dinner, or that it's not their fault the paint on the cave drawings are smeared--their little brother did it, not them. Of course, the cave-moms weren't able to scream "I have a fingerprint kit, and I know how to use it! If I find one scrap of your DNA on this wet paint, I'm raiding your college fund for money to pay for my nervous breakdown!!!!!!"
No. I've never said that. (Ahem....)
So, this year, I vow to try to stop yelling and getting so frustrated with the DQ and the WMB when they push my buttons with the very buttons I installed in them. To try to remember that I did the same things when I was little, and that someday they will have kids that drive them to the brink of insanity by doing the exact same things they're torturing me with today. And, I will no doubt tell them the same thing I heard many, many years ago...
"One day, I hope you have kids just like you!"
And, like I did to my own mom many many times since, they'll grow up, have kids, and say---
"I'm sorry, mom. I'm so so sorry...."
And, just like my mom, I'll just smile and say "Too late. Too late..."
It may come as a complete surprise to you, but when it comes to your antics and manipulation, I'm on to you.
I know you spend minutes, if not hours, coming up with your excuses and drama and thinly-veiled
I know you think that MacGyver and I are dumb, if not completely stupid, and just "don't get it", but we've been there and done that.
It's truly amazing how every generation thinks they're smarter and more cunning than their parents and/or grandparents. That somehow the youngest generation has finally cracked the mysteries of the brain and it's psychology, and that they can pull the proverbial wool over their parents' eyes.
Yeah. Right.
Now, I'm fully aware of the fact that I was once part of that youngest generation of misbehaving miscreants that thought they were so genius. That my parents didn't know that I sneaked out of my room through the window and down the pine tree out front whenever I was sent to my room for whatever evil misdeeds I committed (sassing back, hitting my brother, being a general ten-year-old a**hole) and ran over to my BFF's house claiming parental abuse for being locked in my room. It never actually occurred to me, until I had children of my own, that my mom was perfectly aware of what I did and where I was. She was just happy to have some freaking peace and quiet in the house. It never dawned on me that there was a "mommy brigade" that would have called my mom and said "hey, did you know Christine was over here?" and that my mom probably said "who cares--I'm on my last nerve because of her. Wanna keep her until she's 18?"
But now, I have a whole new appreciation for my mom (and dad) and what they put up with for all those years with my brother and me. Mostly me. I was always the one that pushed the envelope. The one that found everyone's last nerve and set it on fire. Speaking of fire, I was really pretty good with matches--and the ability to torch many a bridge in my time.
So now, it is any surprise that I have kids that do the same to me?
The Drama Queen puts on award winning performances on an hourly basis around here. The Wild Man leaves a trail of legos and Star Wars figurines like Hansel and his bread crumbs. And said bread crumbs inevitably find their way to the wicked witch in the forest, screaming that someone is ruining her house (yes, that would be me).
I need look no further than the nearest, probably dusty, mirror to find out where they get their "quirks". That talent for drama comes directly from me. The trail of crap in their wake--I can't count the number of times my mom yelled at me for my junk around the house. One time, she scooped it all up and threw it on the back porch to be swept away by the wind and the neighborhood dogs. I'm starting to think she was onto something, there...
And the slamming and locking of doors? Yep--my genes. The ability to break the locks on almost any door, unless it's dead-bolted? Where, dear DQ, do you think you got that from? I know you think you have a singular, special talent (which is exactly why MacGyver and I have a second inside lock a la "Modern Family" on our bedroom door), but I'm sure your grandparents can tell you a heap of stories involving me, a credit card, and a spam key. And, that my talent came in handy more than once when we were locked out of our house.
It's both funny as hell, and irritating as crap, to see your own quirks come out in your kids. The lies ("I didn't do that!" "It's not mine!" "It's not my fault!") and the manipulations ("I feel so sick today, mommy. I need to stay home in bed and sleep and snuggle with you.") are the same I used on my parents, and they used on there's, all the way back to the Neanderthal munchkins claiming they didn't eat the last piece of mammoth pie before dinner, or that it's not their fault the paint on the cave drawings are smeared--their little brother did it, not them. Of course, the cave-moms weren't able to scream "I have a fingerprint kit, and I know how to use it! If I find one scrap of your DNA on this wet paint, I'm raiding your college fund for money to pay for my nervous breakdown!!!!!!"
No. I've never said that. (Ahem....)
So, this year, I vow to try to stop yelling and getting so frustrated with the DQ and the WMB when they push my buttons with the very buttons I installed in them. To try to remember that I did the same things when I was little, and that someday they will have kids that drive them to the brink of insanity by doing the exact same things they're torturing me with today. And, I will no doubt tell them the same thing I heard many, many years ago...
"One day, I hope you have kids just like you!"
And, like I did to my own mom many many times since, they'll grow up, have kids, and say---
"I'm sorry, mom. I'm so so sorry...."
And, just like my mom, I'll just smile and say "Too late. Too late..."
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
"Hipster" Glasses
A few months ago, it came to my attention that I couldn't see the TV very well. Now, I tried the argument that I couldn't see the ticker tape at the bottom of MSNBC (oh, who am I kidding? Fine--I'll admit it. It was Bravo...) because our television was too small. Then, I argued that if we had a flat-screen HDTV, I would be able to see it just fine. But that would involve building built-ins (see--I had a plan...) and upgrading our cable package. I even tried rearranging the living room furniture so the sofa was closer to the TV.
Then, I realized the problem was me.
In my efforts to keep the rest of the family up to date with well-child visits, dentist appointments, flu shots, swimming lessons, and hearing/vision screenings, I kind of forgot about myself. Until I tried to get a refill on my contacts and I was told it had been "several years" since I was in, and I needed a new exam before I could get another refill on my prescription lenses.
Several years? Seriously? I mean, it couldn't have been that long ago!! I distinctly remember coming in just a few months ago. I remember it clearly since my doctor's wife had just had their first child, and the proud daddy had the baby pictures up in the office.
"Yes ma'am. The 'baby' is 3 1/2 now."
Yikes!!!!
So, I make my appointment and discover, to my delight, that my prescription hasn't changed a bit. See! I told you I needed a new TV! It wasn't me! It was just the poor quality of our cable connection and the obvious need for an upgrade!
Yep--I needed an upgrade. But it wasn't for the TV.
What had apparently happened is I had the same prescription for my contacts, but my prescription for my glasses was old. Like, 5-6 years old. I must have decided not to change the lenses in my glasses because of some misguided desire to "save a few bucks" since I only rarely wore my glasses. At home. Preferably, in the dark.
(Yes, I have some "small" issues left over from late-childhood/early adolescence that involves glasses with the Pink Panther on the side. Followed by the glasses that were bright purple. I thought I was so cool....)
Anywho--I told the lady behind the glasses desk to just put the new lenses in my glasses. "Sorry, but the lenses for your prescription are too thick for these frames. You'll have to choose new frames."
What!!!! Those frames are practically new! They're hardly worn!!
Fine, I told her, just get me a pair that looks like these and cram the damn lenses in.
<<<sound of crickets>>>
"Ah, we don't carry frames like this much anymore. We keep them in the back for the more mature crowd."
"Excuse me? 'More mature' crowd? You mean, like 40 year olds?"
Nope. She meant, elderly.
Great. Just great. I have the style sense of a 90 year old....
So, next came the grand procession of what I considered "hipster frames". I was sweating profusely, just imagining the snickers from my buddies at the bus stop. Every pair I tried caused me to have an overwhelming desire to quote obscure poetry, listen to indie bands, or request a free-trade, organic green coffee with pasture raised soy milk.
Panicked, I started asking everyone in the whole office if I looked like I came off the set of "Portlandia". These frames were too dark! Too square! Too modern!
Holy crap. I was having a full mid-life crisis in the opticians office.
Finally, I just told the girl behind the counter (because, although a few years older than me, she was cute and stylish and her glasses looked adorable--she was "psychologically" a girl. And I was psychologically a dinosaur.) to just choose a pair that I looked decent in (and didn't cost as much as my mortgage payment) and just order them. I bought them sight unseen--figuring I never go out in public in them anyway, so who cared?
She assured me they weren't "hipster" (that hipsters had moved on to the Buddy Holly look, not the rectangular look, years before), and that they really did need to be darker than my hair. Thus, bright purple was out. Cringing, I signed the receipt.
I mean, really--what's the worst that could happen? If they were truly terrible, I could get another pair. In a decade or so....
So, I'm more than a little stunned when I picked them up and tried them on for the first time. I could see!!! I could read!!! And, I didn't look like a complete idiot!!! I might even consider wearing them at the bus stop. Or, heaven forbid, the grocery store!
So, I'm wearing them that night while I'm making dinner and MacGyver comes home.
"Oh geez--you got a pair of those stupid hipster glasses everyone has these days!"
Gee. Thanks.
At least they didn't have Pink Panthers on the side.
Then, I realized the problem was me.
In my efforts to keep the rest of the family up to date with well-child visits, dentist appointments, flu shots, swimming lessons, and hearing/vision screenings, I kind of forgot about myself. Until I tried to get a refill on my contacts and I was told it had been "several years" since I was in, and I needed a new exam before I could get another refill on my prescription lenses.
Several years? Seriously? I mean, it couldn't have been that long ago!! I distinctly remember coming in just a few months ago. I remember it clearly since my doctor's wife had just had their first child, and the proud daddy had the baby pictures up in the office.
"Yes ma'am. The 'baby' is 3 1/2 now."
Yikes!!!!
So, I make my appointment and discover, to my delight, that my prescription hasn't changed a bit. See! I told you I needed a new TV! It wasn't me! It was just the poor quality of our cable connection and the obvious need for an upgrade!
Yep--I needed an upgrade. But it wasn't for the TV.
What had apparently happened is I had the same prescription for my contacts, but my prescription for my glasses was old. Like, 5-6 years old. I must have decided not to change the lenses in my glasses because of some misguided desire to "save a few bucks" since I only rarely wore my glasses. At home. Preferably, in the dark.
(Yes, I have some "small" issues left over from late-childhood/early adolescence that involves glasses with the Pink Panther on the side. Followed by the glasses that were bright purple. I thought I was so cool....)
Anywho--I told the lady behind the glasses desk to just put the new lenses in my glasses. "Sorry, but the lenses for your prescription are too thick for these frames. You'll have to choose new frames."
What!!!! Those frames are practically new! They're hardly worn!!
Fine, I told her, just get me a pair that looks like these and cram the damn lenses in.
<<<sound of crickets>>>
"Ah, we don't carry frames like this much anymore. We keep them in the back for the more mature crowd."
"Excuse me? 'More mature' crowd? You mean, like 40 year olds?"
Nope. She meant, elderly.
Great. Just great. I have the style sense of a 90 year old....
So, next came the grand procession of what I considered "hipster frames". I was sweating profusely, just imagining the snickers from my buddies at the bus stop. Every pair I tried caused me to have an overwhelming desire to quote obscure poetry, listen to indie bands, or request a free-trade, organic green coffee with pasture raised soy milk.
Panicked, I started asking everyone in the whole office if I looked like I came off the set of "Portlandia". These frames were too dark! Too square! Too modern!
Holy crap. I was having a full mid-life crisis in the opticians office.
Finally, I just told the girl behind the counter (because, although a few years older than me, she was cute and stylish and her glasses looked adorable--she was "psychologically" a girl. And I was psychologically a dinosaur.) to just choose a pair that I looked decent in (and didn't cost as much as my mortgage payment) and just order them. I bought them sight unseen--figuring I never go out in public in them anyway, so who cared?
She assured me they weren't "hipster" (that hipsters had moved on to the Buddy Holly look, not the rectangular look, years before), and that they really did need to be darker than my hair. Thus, bright purple was out. Cringing, I signed the receipt.
I mean, really--what's the worst that could happen? If they were truly terrible, I could get another pair. In a decade or so....
So, I'm more than a little stunned when I picked them up and tried them on for the first time. I could see!!! I could read!!! And, I didn't look like a complete idiot!!! I might even consider wearing them at the bus stop. Or, heaven forbid, the grocery store!
So, I'm wearing them that night while I'm making dinner and MacGyver comes home.
"Oh geez--you got a pair of those stupid hipster glasses everyone has these days!"
Gee. Thanks.
At least they didn't have Pink Panthers on the side.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)