There are certain things in my life that didn’t quite make the cut into my “Things I Love” article. However, I really, really like the following things and they make my life SO much better than it otherwise would be.
Big Girl Panties – Seriously, my friends are just not being honest when they try to convince me that having a piece of dental floss stuck in their crack all day is more comfortable than NORMAL panties. If you are that against panty lines, just go commando. It’s not like your thong is doing anything anyway, wedged as it is between your labia majora and labia minora.
My Minivan – You have NOT lived until you’ve pulled up to the car pool drop off spot and pushed a button that ejects your children and then closes the door again without the threat of someone’s hand being lobbed off. I do not need that drama at 7:45 am. Furthermore, when picking up said children I do not have to Houdini myself into the backseat to open the door ... no one wants to see my rear end stuck in the windshield while trying to open the back door for my kids.
A perfectly toasted egg bagel with real vegetable cream cheese made at the REAL Jewish deli that is on my way to work.
Dancing with the Stars – I know ... I can’t explain it.
My flat iron – I cannot believe I spent all that money in the 80’s perming my naturally straight hair ... NOW I spend my time straightening my now wavy hair due to the gray under the hair color. That timing really could have been better.
Under-wire bras – we’ve already established my need for this product.
Technology – my digital camera, the internet, email, my cell phone, cable, Gameboys and Game Cubes (what did our parents do when we got on their nerves?) DVD’s and the DVD player in my MINIVAN.
Tim McGraw – yum
Bare Minerals Makeup
Glide Dental Floss – I cannot imagine how grumpy I would be if I had to go around my who life with crap stuck between my teeth.
The remote control
My maid – not because she cleans my house but because she makes life bearable for my husband who is the Felix to my Oscar.
My Schwan’s Man - Dusty, you keep my family fed and I’m CONFIDENT I do my part in keeping yours fed.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
There are certain things in my life that didn’t quite make the cut into my “Things I Love” article. However, I really, really like the following things and they make my life SO much better than it otherwise would be.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
In my previous article, Things I Hate, I noted stupid people. Particularly, stupid people who somehow interact with me ... either by talking, driving, or invading my TV. You would think that if I were serious about avoiding stupid people I would avoid, at all costs, places where they congregate. Nope, not me though. I insist on shopping at the largest discount chain in the world. I think I shop there to punish myself for past sins ... but that’s another article.
A couple of months ago, on my lunch hour, I went to the above mentioned retail chain to buy my daughter’s birthday presents. Her birthday was that week and I was pretty sure that everything on her seven year old list was contained on some aisle inside the store. As a working mom, I’m all about one stop shopping. Let me set the scene … I was having a GREAT day. I was in a good mood, it was the first day this fall that the weather had a cool breeze, BOTH kids were happy when they hopped out of the van that morning, I made it to work on time and I was having a “I think I look good day.” Now, this last part is particularly important. I turned forty this year and much to my surprise I’m a little sensitive about it. However, I think I look OK. I don’t fancy myself a MILF, but I know a lot of forty year old women who couldn’t pull off my minivan as well as I do. Anyway, I got a good parking space, picked up a cart and headed for the toy aisle. Sure enough ... jackpot ... the now recalled-date rape drug-contaminated Aqua Dots Play Set, check ... Electronic Keyboard, check ... the MUCH desired and heavily advertised Blendy Pens, check ... The Disney Princess CD Player, check. God, my life is FABULOUS! I headed over to the CD section to pick up High School Musical Two, The Cheetah Girls, and Hannah Montana/Meet Miley Cyrus for the above mentioned CD player. I had all three CDs in my hand and was about to drop them into the cart when ... STUPID PERSON ENGAGES ME. This chick, who I assumed worked at the retailer’s hair salon because of the smock she was wearing, stopped at my cart and asked ... I swear ... if the Disney Princess CD Player was a CROCK POT. Yes, a crock pot ... you know one of those things that is used to cook an otherwise desirable piece of meat into oblivion and then is passed off as stew?
a) I would purchase a crock pot and
b) if I did, I would by a pink one.
I could not make this up. Oh but wait, wait ... it got worse. After I explained to her that nooooo, it was NOT a pink crock pot sporting Belle, Jasmine, Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty ... the chick looked at me ... Me, who was wearing three inch heels, a skirt above my knee caps, make-up, and freshly colored hair in a pony tail, and then said ...
“Whoooooo Weeeeeee ... Your, little grandbaby is sure gonna love that!”
Ummmkay, perfect day ruined. Beauty products, aisle twelve.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Okay, I admit it. I secretly think I’m smarter than most of the population. Please don’t hold that against me, I truly am pretty humble with the rest of my self image. I know that while I feel twenty, I look forty (yes, it’s a FOUR before the zero ... I’m still getting used to it and hope the more I write it the more comfortable I’ll get with it). I realize my rear end has a texture issue. I’ve accepted that my boobs will slip into my armpits if I lay on my back while not wearing a bra. I know that if not for the modern wonders of Crest White Strips and Garnier Nutrisse Dark Natural Blond #70, I would have, in the words of my daughter, “golden teeth and silver hair.” I, feeling that gold and silver should be reserved for jewelry, am religious about using these two products.
Because being smart is on my “Top Ten Things Needed to Succeed in Life List,” I have high expectations for my children’s careers. I think my kids are pretty bright. My daughter in a creative and inquisitive way and my son in a quick-witted and biting tongue way. For the last two years, my daughter has said she wants to be a veterinarian. I think this is hysterical because the child spent the first five years of her life TERRIFIED of any animal on the planet. We had a very unfortunate incident with a live bunny and some Easter pictures the year she was two-and-a-half. Neither the bunny nor my daughter made it out unscathed. But, she’s moved on and I think it’s great she wants to be a vet. We’ll see if I still feel this way if she’s accepted into vet school and the tuition bills start to come. My son on the other hand … well, let’s just say he will probably take a less conventional route. And I’m really fine with that … within reason. I work hard to develop in him a work ethic without boring his free spirit to death. We talk a lot and it’s rare he mentions what he wants to be when he grows up … he’s usually too busy having fun to be concerned with a downer like a career, so I don’t push it. However, he recently brought it up all on his own. Here’s how it went:
Him: “Who is Paparazzi?”
Me: “Who????? Pavarotti? Luciano Pavarotti? Well, he just died recently and he was a world famous tenor. Do you know what a tenor is? We could pull it up on the computer and listen to some of his singing.”
Him: “Mom … Mom, Mom.” (Eye roll.) “I don’t care about some old opera guy. Paaaaa paaaaa raaaaa ziiiiii.”
(He says it real slow so an idiot like me can understand.)
Me: “Do you mean THE paparazzi? Like the guys that chase around all the stars to get photographs to sell to magazines?”
Him: “Yeah, I think so … there are more than one? Do they hide in bushes?”
(At this point I decide after the eye roll that he’s probably not up for the clarification that if speaking of just one it would be “paparazzo” and so by definition “paparazzi” would be more than one.)
Me: “Yes, there are more than one and as far as I know none actually have the sir name “Paparazzi.” Yes, they hide in all sorts of places so they can get pictures of famous people.”
(I’m about to continue this explanation with how I feel like they are parasites and how I secretly delight when one of them gets whacked over the head with an umbrella or their foot run over by a Mercedes, when he cuts across me and says …)
Him: “COOL! That’s what I want to be when I grow up!”
Me: “Well, that would be just super.”
Monday, November 12, 2007
I need to make a list entitled “Things I Believe in My Heart to Be True.” Number one on this list would be: God has a sense of humor. And not some average, ordinary sense of humor, but a sitting up in Heaven, belly laughing his head off sense of humor. This must be true. There can be no other explanation for the fact that I was born and still live in Texas (the granddaddy of all red states), and I am and forever will be a Democrat. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of good things about Texas. I hate to be cold and there is very little of that here. As I write this in November, it is eighty-one degrees outside. I also think had I not been born and raised in Texas, I could have never have known how much I despise certain things that there are quite a lot of here. There is a Kenny Chesney song that says, “I am what I am and I’m not what I’m not.” I love that … because what you’re not is sometimes way more important than what you are. And I am not a Republican.
Number two on my “Things I Believe in My Heart to Be True” list would be: God puts things where he knows we’ll eventually find them. My granddaddy used to say our family were “Yellow Dog Democrats.” So guess what was waiting for me the day last January I finally broke down and took my family to the SPCA to “just look and see if they have a dog we like?” Yep, you got it. A seventy pound yellow lab. Ten months later my family is still wondering how it was that we went to the SPCA to get them a dog and I was the only one that ended up with one. Don’t get me wrong, they love the dog too. But one yellow dog can spot another yellow dog and this dog and I have a connection. Which loops back to what I was saying about God having a sense of humor. My friends are having a hard time adjusting to my becoming a dog person. They view this as some sort of miracle. Which of course, it is. I mean do you know the odds of walking into the SPCA on a Sunday afternoon and finding a two year old, full blooded yellow lab that is housebroken and well socialized? About the same as me becoming a dog person or finding a real Democrat in Texas.
What I really am is an undercover operative. I live in affluent suburbia where the median annual household income is greater than $100,000 AND most mothers do not work outside the home. Add to that the fact that the population is 98 percent white and the average age is less than forty and that equates to a whole lot of young, successful white people. In short, not a lot of diversity and a lot of men who have achieved a lot of financial success early. Oh, and they are 99.9 percent Republican. Don’t get the wrong idea … I fit this demographic too, but with two exceptions: 1) I CHOOSE to work outside the home and 2) as we’ve already established, I am a Democrat. On the surface, I look like all the rest. I have a lovely home, a fabulous church in which my family is active, we drive nice cars, I shave my armpits, don’t own any Birkenstocks, have never hugged a tree while eating granola, and believe that for me, a personally conservative life is what brings me peace and happiness. All in all a great parlor trick I’m sure God appreciates. Because of this it’s not surprising that most people who are unfortunate enough to begin a political conversation in my presence, are stunned into at least a two minute silence. During this silence, my husband, if he is present, will take the opportunity to distance himself from me as much as the physical space will allow. He’s a Dem too (although he will not confirm this), but I forgive him this as God has not given him the same political anointing as me. Following the silence, the conversation usually goes something like this:
(One of my pet peeves is feigned deafness in the face of perceived unpleasantness.)
Me (taking a deep breath): “I’m a liberal, a Democrat, and I didn’t vote for the current President either time I was given the opportunity.”
(Slightly less silence)
Republican (now thinking they are on some modern version of candid camera): “Very funny!”
Me (as monotone as I can muster): “I don’t joke about politics.”
At this point, the Republican who has begun to look at me as if I’m a creature they’ve read about but never expected to see in real life will either engage or run. If they engage me, I’m OK with whatever they throw out as it’s usually something lame about Hillary or Bill. Nothing serious. No social debate, no foreign policy debate, no health care, social security, or Iraq … Nada … all in all, not very much fun.
I do occasionally get to have a little fun though.
During the 2004 Presidential election, I worked in a very conservative office. Now, its not like there are any offices around here that aren’t, but this office was run by an ex-Marine with a picture of him and the current President on the wall and his partner who is a non-political good ole boy. Now, I liked them and they liked me and we bantered back and forth about Kerry versus Bush. I had to be careful only to the extent that the Marine thought it was disrespectful for me to refer to the President as “Big Ears.” Which I admit, it was. So, I tried to watch that. Anyway, one day while signing up for the MomsforKerry email list, it occurred to me that I could sign the Marine and the Cowboy up too. Which, of course, I did. Now, I’m not advocating that anyone else do anything like that, but the day they received their first emails from John Kerry, was a great day indeed. As a matter of fact, it was the most fun I had the entire election cycle considering the unfortunate outcome.
I can only imagine what’s going to happen when Hillary starts emailing them in a few months and their Christmas gifts ordered from yellowdogdemocrat.com arrive.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
My Yellow Dog
My first cup of coffee in the morning
John Stewart and Stephen Coulbert
The Science Channel, The Discovery Channel, The History Channel, Public Television
Bill and Hillary, Barack, John and Elizabeth
The first glimpse of my children's bed heads every morning
Anna Quinlan, Anita Shreve, J.K. Rowling, Harold Kushner, Greg Boyd, Gertrude Stein
Truth, honesty, hard work, good things happening to good people
Friday, November 9, 2007
I admit it. I’m a worrier. Why do I worry? I’ve thought a lot about why I worry … or I should say, I’ve worried a lot about why I worry. Because for me, the boundaries that should exist between worry and thought are not well defined. But, before we delve into why, I want to make sure you have a clear understanding of the depth of my problem. See, if you knew me more than just through the blog, you might not suspect that I’m neurotic. I appear to function pretty well. That is the say, I’m able to keep myself and my family fed, clean, and where they are supposed to be most of the time. I pay my bills on time, show up for work each day, and have never forgotten to pick my kids up when they need to be. On the surface, my life is controlled and predictable. However, worry is not at all about what goes on on the outside of someone … it is all about what is inside one’s head. Here is just a taste of the craziness that lives in mine.
1. I believe I will be a widow. Not an elderly, walker-pushing, nursing home living widow whose husband dies a few years before me leaving our small doily covered room all to myself with blessed relief from his incessant snoring. I don’t worry about that. I’m convinced that while I’m young, my husband will be killed in an accident. Most likely an automobile accident, although I’m open to the possibility of it occurring on his four-wheeler. I also have not ruled out a heart attack or household accident. I have a friend whose husband was once trapped under a fully loaded trash bin in their driveway. Although her husband lived, I don’t expect my husband to be as fortunate in a similar circumstance.
2. I believe I’m a bad mother and my children’s lives will be ruined because of it. Now, understand that my children seem to be doing well. They get good grades, are socialized enough that they have friends, enjoy playing soccer, and while they are not entirely issue-free, they have no major noticeable malfunctions. However, this doesn’t mean that I’m not damaging them by my mere presence. I love my children with a ferocity I cannot describe. The way their hair smells is oxygen to my brain, the sound of their voices is food for my soul, the warmth of their little bodies is better than any electric blanket ever made, and their sense of humor is the closest thing to joy a worrier like me has ever been able to find.
I tell them I love them, I do my best to show them I love them, and the truth that I do indeed love them could not be more precise. However, they will forget my love one day and only remember me as “Target Mom.” You know “Target Mom” … you’ve seen her at Target yourself. She’s easy to spot by the wailing coming from her shopping cart as she loses control and yells at her poor innocent children, who I’m sure up to this point have been perfect little shopping companions, sitting quietly in the cart and not asking for a single thing.
These are the two biggies that consume most of my worry time. However, when I get bored with these, I pick up the following and see if I can’t develop them a little better.
3. My house will be destroyed by a tornado. (My husband, of course, does not survive as he is trapped in the car on the way home when the F-5 hits instead of tucked into the bathroom under the stairs with me, the kids, and the seventy-pound yellow lab.)
4. I will have breast cancer. I will survive, but not before my children are traumatized by the experience (this will be my fault for not beginning mammograms earlier).
5. I will be struck by lightening. Again, I survive, but my children witness the event. However, good will come of this because they will forever more obey me when I say “GET OUT OF THE WATER! I THINK I HEARD THUNDER!”
6. The one and only time my children are not properly buckled into their seats, I will have a catastrophic car crash. The mere fact that one of my children’s seat belts is not buckled will inexplicably pull my minivan into on coming traffic where an eighteen-wheeler awaits. I must survive, otherwise I will be unable to punish myself for the rest of my life.
7. My children will drown while I’m not looking. Granted they can both swim, we don’t have a pool in our backyard, and they are not allowed to enter the water without a responsible adult watching their every move. The fact that they may drown has nothing to do with their ability to swim and everything to do with my not paying attention for a split second.
8. My mother will outlive me, and will, therefore, gain complete and unrestricted access to my children and rob me of living any part of my life without her.
9. My husband will outlive me, which will mean all the time I spent worrying about becoming a widow was ridiculous.
10. I will outlive my children. If you’re a mother … enough said.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
If you are a parent, you know that your kids teach you every bit as much as you teach them. During my ten and a half years of motherhood, I’ve learned a lot from my children and am a better person, not to mention mother, for it. My son has taught me to lighten up and that it’s OK to have fun. He has also taught me that I am a good mother. He doesn’t say this directly, but he lets me know in sly little ways by making comments like, “Mom, you’re nothing like (insert any perceived bad mother’s name here).” My daughter has taught me that I need to be more organized and that I need not accept my disheveled closet or trashed minivan as a fact of life equivalent to the sun rising in the east. I haven’t acted on this yet, but I’m considering it. When my children bring these little lessons to me, I enjoy them immensely but am not really surprised by them. After all, I know myself well enough to know that I’m consistently too serious and too hard on myself (particularly in the area of motherhood). I also know that I am a disorganized mess in many areas, not all, but certainly my closet and my car are out of control.
However, what does surprise me is when my children teach me a lesson regarding something that I’ve been trying to teach them. Our family lives in a place I like to call “not the real world.” We live in affluent suburbia. The kind of place where your annual household income can be in the top 10 percent of the nation, but not in the top 10 percent of your community. Because of this, no matter how much my family ever has materially, there will always be, not someone, but a whole group of someones that have more. Further, that whole group of someones will be your neighbors, fellow church members, and your children’s friends and classmates. Please don’t misunderstand where I’m going with this. I love my community and the opportunities that it presents my children ... it is safe, has excellent public schools, a strong community spirit, and superb public places for my family to enjoy. It’s just that all the material blessings that surround us can leave our family feeling deprived. Which is insane. Completely, totally and certifiably insane. In order to battle this insanity, I’ve been really working over the last year with my children giving and teaching them to recognize and appreciate the blessings in their lives.
When my husband and I joined our church eight years ago, we started down the path of giving. It wasn’t much at first and many months I’m not sure how we kept our commitment. However, it has been a true journey of faith and while we’re not where I wish were, we’ve been able through God’s grace to increase and keep our commitment each year. When we started on the path of giving, tithing 10 percent of our income was our goal. However, as we learned more about giving, the tithe became less and less the goal. What we’ve been working on in the last year is how to stabilize our lifestyle so that as our resources increase, we expand our giving not our lifestyle.
In light of this, it’s not unusual to hear me discussing this idea with my children especially when they complain that they need something they don’t have. Last Saturday morning my daughter was in the back seat of my minivan complaining that her life was unfair because her brother “always” got to choose the song on the radio. At this, I broke off into what turned out to be a lecture rather than the teaching moment I was hoping for:
“Sweetheart, we just spent more money at breakfast than some people in the world make in a month. Our car not only has a radio, but a CD player, cassette player, air conditioner, heater, automatic doors, leather seats, DVD player, and seat heaters. You are driving around in a CAR that is nicer than a lot of people’s homes.” I was about to add that we were truly blessed to have this car and the home we lived in so there was no way possible that her life could be defined as unfair, when my son joins the conversation.
Him: “Well Mom, our seats don’t have heaters ... just yours.”
At this moment the switch flips in my head and I go from “patient teaching mommy” to “irritated, I won’t raise ungrateful brats mommy.”
Me: “That is SO beside the point. I know you both understand what I am talking about and if I hear any more complaining about what song is on the radio, we’ll just turn it off.”
For the rest of the day, I thought about ways I could have handled that conversation differently. I also felt very discouraged about the fact that my children just weren’t getting it.
Fast forward five days, and not only do I feel differently about my children getting it, but I realize that I’m the one that might need to some work in this area. My children’s school is currently running a three week program entitled “Pennies for Patients. ” The kids are supposed to bring loose change each day to be donated to a charity that helps sick children. So for the last week and half I’ve rounded up all the loose change in my house to give to my children to take to school. This morning my daughter reminds me just as we’re walking out the door. I hand her my wallet and tell her that once we’re in the car she can take all the change out and put it in her bag.
Her (opening my wallet): “Mom, there are five one dollar bills in here, can I have those too?”
Me: “Sure, that’s fine just take what’s in there.”
This is a small thing ... grand total maybe $5.75. However, what ensued next was amazing. My daughter is the saver in the family. She will save her allowance money, pennies she finds in parking lots, change she bums off her grandparents, and money sent to her in birthday, Easter, and Halloween cards. Because of this, she has somewhere between $50 and a $100 in her purse at all times. If she takes money out to spend, she won’t spend any more until she has replenished her stash. This morning, her purse happened to already be in the car and this is what happened:
Her: “Mom, can you hand me my purse?”
Me: “Sure. Are you going to give some of your pennies?”
Her: “Yes! The sick kids need help.”
To my utter amazement, I watch in the rear view mirror as my daughter empties the total contents of her purse, probably $75, into her donation bag. Without regard to the amount, she was apparently following my example of giving everything I had in my wallet. And while I was speechless, my mind was telling me I needed to not let her do that. Why? Why after all I’ve been trying to teach my kids would I feel like I needed to squelch her giving? I asked if she was sure that she wanted to give all her money and she said she was sure. As I contemplated my next move, my son joins in:
Him (reading my mind): “You know you’re not going to get that back and now you won’t have any money just like me.”
Her: “I know that ... but the sick kids need my money more than I do.”
Me (preaching to myself rather than them for once): “You know what the Bible says about giving ... ”
Him (cutting me off): “Yes, we know. Givers are blessed and all that will come back to her somehow at some point.”
Her: “I’m going to be REALLY blessed. I mean, I already am … Just look how much I can give!”
Me: “You truly have the heart of a giver. I’m very proud to be your mommy. I love you.”
Her: “I love you too.”
As my kids exited the car this morning, I thanked God for all they were teaching me and I prayed that I would be a good steward not just of my material blessings, but of my biggest blessings of all, my children.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Because I feel guilty about everything, I apologize a lot…even if it has nothing to do with me. I’m sure you know people like this, because I do. While I recognize I have this problem, it irritates the hell out of me when someone else keeps apologizing to me for stuff that they had nothing to do with. I know that’s a little hypocritical, but even the best of us suffer from what I like to call “if you can spot it, you’ve got it.”
However, there is some really legitimate stuff I feel badly about that I want to apologize for. If you know me and you’re reading this, you’ll know which of these applies to you.
I’m sorry I deliberately cried for dad when you didn’t give me my way. I know that must have sucked as a single mom.
I’m sorry after you drove two hours to get me for our weekend visit, I wouldn’t go with you. I was mad at you for not being there when I didn’t get my way.
I’m sorry I insinuated the dog poop in the front yard looked like chocolate ice cream. I never dreamed you would take a bite.
I’m sorry I chased you with scissors and then insisted, until now, that I didn’t.
I’m sorry I dropped you on the kitchen floor when you were nine months old. You turned out ok, but that bump on your head looked like it hurt like hell.
I’m sorry I kissed your old boyfriend. I would not have appreciated it if you had kissed mine. Oh wait, you did...never mind.
I’m sorry I told you that ridiculous replica of Princess Di’s wedding gown looked great on you. I’m especially sorry that you wore it to the prom.
I’m sorry I broke up with you in tenth grade to date your best friend. He was a lot nicer to me than you were, but it was still not good form.
I’m sorry I broke your heart when I left for college. You really didn’t want to marry me anyway, I would have divorced you eventually for being a Republican and making me live in a trailer.
I’m sorry I didn’t come to your wedding or send a gift. I was mad that I wasn’t one of your TWELVE bridesmaids while you were one of my four, but still that wasn’t nice.
I’m sorry I haven’t made more time for you this summer.
I’m sorry that when you said I was a bad mommy and you didn’t like me, I said I didn’t like you either. That could not be further from the truth.
I’m sorry I moved you to a new school where you have to make all new friends. I still think in the long run this will be the best thing for you, but I’m sad you’re sad.
I’m sorry when you said you were going to run away, I asked if I could drive you anywhere. I would be heartbroken if you didn’t live in my house.
I’m sorry that when yellow dog puked scrambled eggs all over the rug last night I made this your responsibility to clean up. I’m also sorry I was then too irritated about this to thank you the way you wanted to be thanked for making all that puke disappear.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Slamming my finger in anything
Vicoden and Valium require a doctor’s prescription
Stubbing my toe
Closed casket funerals (If you die and I care enough about you to actually put on panty hose and attend your funeral, I want to see you dead. This helps me know you’re really dead and to get closure and not expect to see you again. It also helps me to focus on the wonderful things the minister says about you instead of wondering what your mother-in-law has dressed you in and if your body is destined to spend eternity wearing a less than flattering shade of lipstick.)
The slapping noise my breasts make against my rib cage if I run up the stairs without a bra
Sports bras worn as “bra tops” There is NO SUCH THING AS A BRA TOP. There are bras, tops, and tops that contain built in bras. It’s a bra and you’re wearing it without a top. You wouldn’t wear just your thong around the gym, please don’t wear just your bra. I understand we all have nipples, I don’t need visual confirmation of yours.)
My mother insisting on asking what I’m bringing to Christmas dinner - in J-U-L-Y. (If you ask me in July, the answer is NOTHING.)
My mother insisting on Christmas shopping for my children - in J-U-L-Y. (Who knows what they will be into in six months or what size they will be then? If you force me to give an answer in July, its your own fault they don’t like your gift.)
People who feel sorry for my children because I work. (Don’t worry about my kids, worry about your own that don’t get much of a chance to be away from you and your judgment.)
Stupid people who drive, talk to me, shop where I shop, are elected to any position of power, or are on TV.
Cell phone stalkers (I have caller id and know how to check my missed calls and access my voicemail. I am not deaf and if I didn’t answer, it’s NOT because I didn’t hear the phone.)
Thongs located anywhere but on my feet
Men who insist on taking up a pedicure chair that would otherwise be available to me (You make more money than I do, you’ve never had a period, a baby or a pap spear and you can have an orgasm as easy as you can snap your fingers... get out of my chair.)
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Christmas when my son was two and a half, there were lots of things on his Christmas list. A few of the items were actually things he himself added (anything remotely related to Thomas the Tank Engine, Scooby Do slippers, a fire truck, a construction truck Lego set). Being his mother, I was naturally clairvoyant regarding a few items he was going to love but he, at two and a half, didn’t have the life experience to know he really wanted. And two things that he really wanted were a baby doll and a kitchen.
Now I KNOW what you’re thinking, “here we go, politically correct liberal feels a need to bring out the feminine side in her son. She wants to make damned sure he doesn’t grow up not knowing its OK to cry. She really wanted a girl so she’s going to make him a substitute. She’s mad at men so she’s going to ‘fix’ the one she gave birth to.” Well, NOPE... none of the above. No big agenda here. Here’s the deal... I was trying to get pregnant with who turned out to be his sister, and wanted my son to have a baby doll so we could practice what it was like having a baby around the house... you know.... “we rock the baby, we’re GENTLE with the baby, babies wear diapers and sleep in cribs and ride in strollers.” I wanted him to have a kitchen for an equally practical purpose.... so that he would have somewhere to play in the REAL kitchen without emptying my cabinets and trying to “help” me cook each evening.
So anyway... the J-U-L-Y before the above mentioned Christmas, my mother calls and this is what follows:
Her: “What does he want for Christmas?”
Me: (obviously, forgetting who I was speaking with): “A kitchen.”
(I admire the consistency with which she feigns deafness every time I say something she doesn’t want to hear, which is just about every time she calls.)
Me: “A kitchen.”
(What happens next is about twenty minutes of her trying to talk me out of buying him a kitchen. It was established immediately that SHE would not be buying him a kitchen and then the conversation quickly shifted to her trying to convince me this was an unnecessary gift for me or anyone else to buy for my son. Right away I picked up on the fact that she thought this was a gift only appropriate for girls. However, she wasn’t saying that. She became supremely frustrated and finally....)
Her: “WHAT IF HE GROWS UP TO BE a... a... a... a... CHEF?????????”
(ahhh, now we’re getting somewhere)
Me: “Do you mean gay?”
Her(Exasperated and Breathless): “What?????????”
(She really needs to see an Otolaryngologist about this intermittent deafness.)
Her: “I didn’t say THAT.”
Me: “Is that what you meant?”
Me: “Good. I’m okay if he grows up to be a chef.”
(I add silently): “Or Gay.”
Okay, fast forward five months and it’s now my son’s third Christmas. I’m not pregnant yet, but I’m due to ovulate on New Year’s Eve and plan to party like its 1999... Which it is. I’ll regret this in September of 2000, when I’m in labor and I would have had a better chance of my mom buying my son a kitchen than finding an available anesthesiologist in my hospital where quite the little baby boom was going on. But, when my daughter is old enough, it will be a funny story to tell her that she was conceived on the eve of the new Millennium.
Anyway, over the fall my mother had come to understand, if not accept, that my son WOULD be receiving a kitchen from Santa. Santa is not a homophobe and has nothing against chefs, so when my son requested a kitchen from Santa at the mall a few weeks earlier (prompted by his loving mommy) it was not a problem. What my mother WAS unprepared for was the baby doll he was getting from me and my husband on Christmas Eve.
Understand, I was at the time only the mommy of a boy. I had not ever once purchased a baby doll. I was a little surprised to see that 99.9 percent of them were pink or at least dressed in pink. I didn’t have anything against the pink baby dolls per se, but when I saw this cute little one in a blue and green striped outfit it seemed right for a boy, so I purchased it. It was in a box and I wrapped it up, put it under the tree and didn’t give the little ticking time bomb another thought, until…
It’s Christmas Eve and my son unwraps the doll. He likes it... not the reaction we received to the new Thomas the Tank Engine toys, but he likes it. He holds it, plays with it a bit and then decides as any two and half year old would, to undress it. The little blue and green striped outfit is snug and my son is having a hard time getting it off. Enter stage right, my mother. She swoops in to help my son undress the doll. Suddenly, without warning, the following ensues on my living room floor back lit by the idyllic Christmas Tree, in the slow motion version only granted to those, like me, who can occasionally see what is about to happen, but not in enough time to adequately intervene.
(As the outfit pulls across the doll’s head...)
My Mother (Sputtering): “uh... uh... uh... this uh... doll... has a... a... a...”
My Son (clearly, without reservation and proud to help my mom find her words): “A PENIS!!!”
Now, to this day I’m not sure if my mother was more upset by the fact that the doll did indeed have a penis or that my son said “THE WORD.” There are many things that are NEVER spoken of in my mother’s presence and penises and anything related to them are at the top of the list. Suddenly, that damned kitchen she had given me SO much grief about was looking pretty freaking good.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
1) Pokemon Trainer is not a real profession.
2) There is no profession I will approve of that includes a pole.
3) Tithing is a gift you give yourself.
4) Sometimes the only way out of something is through it.
5) Life isn’t fair, but you’ve gotten a better start than 99 percent of the world’s population.
6) Money will not make you happy, but it can make your life a whole lot easier (so work hard).
7) If you’re not getting what you want, trying giving someone else what they want.
8) Sarcasm is encouraged.
9) Gratitude is required.
10) Your life will not turn out how you planned.
11) Number ten is a good thing.
12) Be thankful for your tragedies, they teach you more than anything else ever could (Thank you Cameron for teaching me this).
13) God has a sense of humor and expects you to have one too.
14) While honesty is the best policy, knowing when to shut up is just as critical.
15) Be kind to wait staff, they have hard jobs and they have control over the food you are going to put in your mouth.
16) Faith is a choice—choose wisely.
17) Alcohol, a piece of plywood, a flight of stairs and a fire extinguisher should never be used at the same time.
18) Tattoos are permanent, piercing are not.
19) What happens in Mexico does not always stay in Mexico.
20) Vote ... Vote ... Vote ... Vote!
Friday, October 26, 2007
From August until the first week in November, and then again from February through April is soccer season at my house. Between the two kids, we have three practices and two games a week. On Thursday nights, both my kids practice at separate locations with their start and stop times offset by a mere fifteen minutes. This is affectionately known as “double soccer” night. However, on Monday’s it is just my son who practices, so for an hour my daughter and I have some girl time. This usually consists of a trip through the dry cleaner’s drive-thru and a stop at Kohl’s department store where my daughter will model every piece of jewelry they have in stock. While in Kohl’s we always make a trip to the bathroom. It’s a nice bathroom with about ten stalls and it even has soap in the dispensers and paper towels available. In short, it’s the kind of public restroom I’m “ok” with.
However, this past Monday night we varied from our usual girl routine to buy groceries. My husband and I (and therefore the kids) had spent the weekend volunteering at our church’s annual pumpkin patch. It was loads of fun, but it didn’t leave any time for the weekly trip to Kroger. By the time we arrived at Kroger, I only had forty-five minutes until my son’s practice was over, so we blew through Kroger like we were on our way to a fire. I’m just pulling my stylish and much coveted minivan out onto the road when my daughter says, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I look at the clock—7:22. I have eight minutes and a five minute drive. I know from experience not to question or try to talk her out of this. If she says it, she means it and I ignore it at my own peril. So I say, “OK, I’m going to pull into 7-11 and we have EXACTLY two minutes to get in and out so we are not late. Can you go quickly?” The fact that I’m willing to utilize the bathroom in 7-11 should communicate to you that I really was under some time pressure. She says, “yes” and I pull in. We get out and both enter the bathroom that does not have stalls OR soap OR paper towels. We’re talking a square room with a toilet in the corner, a sink on the wall and a drain in the floor. Now, I’m socially aware and understand that probably two-thirds of the world’s populations don’t even have this to work with. It’s just that everything is so relative and this bathroom creeps me out. She goes quickly as promised and the minute she flushes, I realize I’m going to have to go ahead and go too. As much as I would like to wait until we get home, I can’t. So I proceed to also go very quickly and am just zipping my pants when it happens...
Her (watching me): “Will I have hair on my privates when I’m a teenager?”
Me (because I’m in a hurry, choosing to ignore the fact that she’s not using the proper name that I’ve taught her for her “privates”): “Yes.”
Her (wrinkling up her nose as if she’s just seen something that is the equivalent of squashed bug): “I guess that’s why most bathrooms have stalls.”
Me: “I guess so.”
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My daughter LOVES soccer. I mean, it is her passion. I’m often jealous... how nice must it be to know your passion at seven instead of just beginning to uncover it at forty? Being one the year her brother began his soccer career, she waited for three and a half years on the sidelines. That equates to five seasons, fifty games and approximately seventy-five practices that she (and I) had to endure before being given her chance to play. (Not that she didn’t try the occasional toddler foray onto the field in the middle of a goal kick, mind you.) The night her coach called to introduce himself and inform us of the first practice, I hung up the phone and said, “Baby, your first soccer practice is tomorrow.” She looked up from Blue’s Clues, pumped her fist in the air and said, “Finally!”
I have to say, from the second she hit the soccer field she has not disappointed. Her very first game when most of the other girls were trying to decide if they were going to cry because they thought the coach was “yelling” at them or join the herd chasing the ball, I actually lost track of how many goals my daughter scored. At one point her coach turned around and said, “Could you have mentioned she could play?” We, of course, didn’t know she could.
I don’t know where the soccer gene came from, but somehow she got it and she knows it. Therefore, we have to walk the tightrope that is stretched between too much and not enough praise. My husband and I are usually content to let her coach and other parents discuss her natural ability. We try to work on teaching her that she does NOT have to play every quarter and it’s more important for her to learn to be a gracious winner than a gloating ball hog. I refuse to be one of those braggart parents that derive their sense of self worth from the accomplishments of their children. I mean really, I’ve never aspired to be a soccer player so how much sense would it make for me to become the equivalent of a stage mom on the sidelines? The answer: About as much sense as it makes for Stepford to actually have an ADULT cheer squad. Oh wait... A COED ADULT cheer squad. Yes, you heard me — grown men and women who cheer, in UNIFORMS, in competition, on the weekends, for FUN. I’m serious... PROFESSIONALS with bumper sticker megaphones containing their names on their SUV’s —bankers, lawyers, doctors... cheering, chanting, flipping, donkey kicks, hurkeys (who named that anyway?)! Yes, hand clapping... ready, ooooookaaay!
In Texas, football is king and, therefore, cheerleading is queen. Now, while I take issue on their not being a self-imposed age, not to mention gender, limit on cheerleading, I have no problem with children cheerleading. My daughter doesn’t cheerlead because we’ve decided our family functions best when each child is in no more than one extra-curricular activity at any one time. And since football season directly overlaps with fall soccer season, my daughter has chosen soccer. Now, I’m happy about this choice for lots of reasons: soccer is very inexpensive compared to cheerleading, the gear required is a lot less complicated and there is no requirement for me to fix her hair prior to games. Had she chosen cheerleading, I would have sucked it up... but, I’m not disappointed. Plus there is the added bonus that she is really good at soccer and would probably be just an average cheerleader. I don’t know this for sure, but I have my suspicions. (I’ve seen her donkey kick.)
Now, I try to keep my biases to myself as much as I can when dealing with my children. They are not me and are entitled to their own interests and opinions (please God, don’t make me sorry about this by allowing them to grow up to be Republicans.) There are moments, however, when you just know you’ve rubbed off on them... either through nature or nurture. Last Saturday’s game was one of these times. There is a teammate of my daughter’s who also cheerleads. It’s actually really cute when she does cheers for her own soccer team from the sidelines. However, last week my daughter’s team was in the middle of tight game and my daughter and the cheerleader were on the field at the same time. Well, the cheerleader decided to go ahead and cheer while ON the field — in the middle of the game. Apparently this was the equivalent of sacrilege to my daughter, who turns around and yells at the top of her lungs while doing her best zig-zagging finger snap, snap, snap, “HEY!!!!! HEY, HEY, HEY... IF YOU WANT TO BE CHEERED FOR YOU CAN STAY ON THE FIELD!!! IF YOU WANT TO CHEER, GET TO THE SIDE LINES ‘CAUSE THE FIELD IS FOR PLAYERS!!!”
Perhaps we also need to address the subtle art of tact in addition to not being a ball hog.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Since reentering the workforce four years ago, I’ve really struggled in the area of stress reduction. For me stress is related to my perfectionist side. Looking back, the whole reason I gave up my career at Hewlett Packard after my son was born was because of my unresolved issues with perfectionism. After spending three months on maternity leave, an offensive thought dawned on me as I dressed in my work clothes for the first time since becoming a mother. Like a brick falling on my head from the sky, I realized I might have to make some (gasp!) compromises in the way that I would like my child taken care of and how my job duties would be performed. I realize how ridiculous it was for this to occur to me so late into the process, but there it was. And it was unacceptable—I must choose one and do it as perfectly as possible and make no compromises.
Since you can’t (and wouldn’t) put the baby genie back in the bottle, my choice was made before I even left the house that morning. After two days at day care and an impassioned plea to my sister-in-law, my son spent the next ten months with his aunt each day while I figured out how to transition our finances into a one income household and myself into a stay-at-home mom. What happened in the intervening five years is an entire series of articles.
Fast forward from 1998 to 2003—my son is in kindergarten and my daughter is in two to three day church care, and I finally reenter the work force. And the stress demons are back. Making great strides with my perfectionism in the last five years (two children will do that to you), I attacked the stress demons head on. I read books on stress reduction, I tried nightly bubble baths with candles, I tried herbal supplements... you know the drill. Finally what helped the most, was getting up an hour earlier each day to read and pray. Some people would call it meditation, but my mind jumps from one thing to the next so quickly that there is no way you could call what I do meditation. I really rediscovered my faith during these early morning sessions. Today, four years later, I never miss a weekday morning doing something that helps rejuvenate my spirit. I cannot tell you how much this has helped me in parenting, in my marriage and at work.
However, one of the biggest mysteries in my life is why my faith, love, patience, and all the other fruits of the spirit for that matter (including self-control) evaporate at the same time each morning. I mean, the exact moment my minivan hits the carpool line, I loose any semblance of the usually balanced person I am. I want all you mothers to know that if you see yourself in the paragraphs below, I love and support you and pray for you and cheer for you the MINUTE you’re out of the carpool line... but if you do any of these things... please for the love of Pete and everything that is right in the world, STOP.
There is NO circumstance that justifies honking and/or passing in the carpool line... carpool is NOT a normal roadway, in case you do not know this. It is driven by 99.9 percent women in SUV’s or Minivan’s with young children in their cars. This in and of itself, is very frightening. Add to this that said women are under some time pressure, haven’t had their second cup of coffee, and someone in their car has surely left something at home and what you’ve got is a very v-o-l-a-t-i-l-e situation. Forget going postal.... I’m ready to go carpool... I swear, if the same chick who passed me this morning had also been the one who honked at me, it would have, let’s just say, “been addressed.”
The school sends out the “Carpool Flow” map for a reason. If you’re not good with maps, ask your husband or a friend who is. It’s really very simple—follow the arrows. DO NOT go against the flow. This is not the time to push the envelope and be a trailblazing maverick. If the map says enter from the south and turn right - DO NOT enter from the north and try to turn left. By doing this, you’re making me into someone my children should not be around.
And while we’re on the subject... Hummers and carpool lines are really not compatible. Seriously, is it necessary to take your kids to school in a tank??? Environmental concerns aside, I have yet to see a child exit a Hummer in carpool without careening out if it and spilling him or herself and the entire contents of their backpacks out onto the sidewalk. If there is a school project involved, we need the freaking National Guard to clean up the mess and get traffic moving again. I can tell you from experience that this does nothing to help facilitate a smooth carpool flow or that vein in my neck that pops out on occasion.
And another thing, carpool is NOT a valet service. A valet service is where you leisurely drive your car up to the attendant and he opens the door for you and gently helps you out. Carpool is nothing like this, so stop acting like it is. I don’t see you tipping the poor teacher that has been stuck with the horrendous job of carpool duty. The goal of carpool is to unload as many children as quickly as safety will allow. This means if you stop anywhere close to the front of the line, your little prince or princess needs to get out of the car and WALK the rest of the way into the school.
I assure you Ms. Passer and Ms. Honker, these tips will help eliminate your obvious early morning stress. And mine.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Yesterday was another day for ridiculous questions... one from each of my children. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE the fact that my children feel like they can talk to me. Having my children feel this way is very near the top of my “Things I want to do differently from my Mother” list. However, as with most things in life, anything worthwhile is often a challenge. So, yesterday I was challenged, once in the morning while waiting in the carpool line, and once last night at bath time.
Act I – Carpool
My Daughter: “Mom, is celebrating Halloween worshiping the devil?”
Me (adjusting the rear view mirror so I can make eye contact while trying to not drive up onto the curb because I’m suddenly really irritated): “WHO told you THAT?”
(I need to know this information way more than I need to answer the question. This mother is someone I want to avoid at all costs. I never EVER want to find my two-martini self at a dinner party with her. It will not go well.)
Her: “Kevin”Me (dreading the answer to this): “Is he in your class?”
Her (to my dismay): “Yes.”
(CRAP! Now I have to see this mother at class parties and open houses. Just super. Ok, now to answer the question without disclosing the age inappropriate information, that I do not believe in a personified devil, so I don’t see how it could be possible that celebrating Halloween could be worshiping something that does not exist.)
Me: “Well, what do you think?”Her: “Well, I don’t know.”
(To my son’s credit, he is doing his best eye roll in the seat beside her—thank you God that he already gets this.)
Me: “Well, do you have fun on Halloween spending time with your family and your friends?”
Me: “Do we do anything bad on Halloween? Do we hurt people’s feelings or say bad things or do any of the things you know God doesn’t want us to do?”
Me: “Do you think God likes for us to have fun and enjoy ourselves?”
Me: “Well, then I don’t see anyway possible that celebrating Halloween could be worshiping the devil.”
Her: “Good. I like Halloween.”
Me: “Me too. Let’s REALLY decorate our yard a lot this year so ALL your friends from school can see it!”
Act II - Bath time
So last night we had TWO 6 pm soccer games at fields on the opposite ends of town. Not a doubt in my mind that Kevin’s mom somehow has control of my children’s soccer schedule. I mean, for the love of Pete, how is a working mom with a forty-five minute commute supposed to get two kids anywhere by 5:45 pm? Much less, dressed in soccer uniforms complete with the ridiculously difficult shin guards and cleats. Oh, and don’t forget they each also need their soccer balls and water bottles. The only thing that could have made it any better would have been if it had been my night for snacks.
Anyway, we all survive this drama... each of them get where they need to be on time, thank you very much to my son’s friend’s mother who got my son to his game, my boss for saying “ok” to me leaving at 4:15, and my husband who also left work early. We get home, get some food and get the kids in the bath. My daughter—downstairs in my bathroom so she can use the jetted tub and bath pillow I’ve yet to use—my son upstairs in the bathroom that connects his and his sister’s bedrooms. Then this:
Me (walking into where my son is taking his bath to make sure he is washing his hair and not just playing with the twelve action figures that are lined up for battle all around the tub): “You need to stop playing and wash your hair. If you need help getting all the shampoo out, just let me know.”
Him: “Mom, is it true that if you only have one ball in your ball sack that you can’t get married?”
(Father in Heaven, please let me get through this with a straight face.)
Me: “WHO told you THAT?” Him: “Michael”
Me: “Why????” Him: “Because he thinks it’s true.”
(Ok, at this point I’m going to let this line of questioning go. I really do not want or need to know if Michael or someone in his family has experience with a uniball. It does not help my straight face that my mind keeps picturing Michael’s dad, who looks a little like Lyle Lovett, naked with only one ball.)
Me: “No, it’s not true.” Him: “How do you know?”
Me: “I’m married and I don’t have any balls OR a ball sack.”
(Ok, I know this was a stupid thing to say, but honestly, what you have done in my shoes?)
Him: “That’s different. You’re a girl.” Me: “Ok, that’s fair. I do not BELIEVE there is any reason that a boy only having one ball couldn’t get married.”
Him: “Can you confirm that with Dad?”
I cruise downstairs and pose this question to my husband, who is blissfully car shopping on the internet. He won’t read my blog but can spend hours looking at the same three cars. Well, he couldn’t confirm or deny for laughing his butt off, so I took that as confirmation, climbed back up the stairs and found my son getting dressed for bed.
I say, “Dad agrees with me. Besides, you have two balls, aren’t getting married anytime soon and don’t need to worry about this anymore tonight. I love you. Good night.”