Champagne, Sequins and Resolutions

"Cheers to a New Year and another chance for us to get it right." ~ Oprah Winfrey

Ever since I can remember, New Years Eve has always been one of my most favorite nights. One time in the early 80's I spent New Years Eve at my cousin Chanda's house, and we burned up the phone lines to KDWB and begged them to play "Mickey" at the stroke of midnight. When they actually did, we jumped up and down screaming, convinced we had altered the history of pop culture somehow. There we were, surrounded by balloons and our card games, with smug smiles on our faces. Damn, we knew how to party.
Fast forward several years and I still love everything this night brings.
Just going through the racks at the stores, looking at all the sequined shirts, blinged out jewelry and accessories gives me chills. It's one of the few nights of the year that my alter ego "Excess Vaness" can wear the glitz to her hearts content.
I think another reason why I love tonight so much is the fact that tomorrow brings a whole new year, a brand new beginning. We can all start anew. Whether we keep our resolutions or not, just making them can  fill us with hope.
In the past, I've done all the typical resolutions...
Lose weight
Join a gym
Eat more vegetables
Yell at my kids less
And truth be told, those resolutions were usually squashed by the second week of January.
This year, I am going to declare more meaningful resolutions. I'm going to work hard at things that might hopefully have a chance at lasting longer than Ground Hog's Day.
I am going to bake with more butter and less margarine.
I am going to try and not swear on the same days I go to church.
I am going to have dinner with my grandma Tillie at least once a month.
When I'm with my kids, I'm going to be with my kids. I'll let them teach me how to play some of their board games and video games.
I'm going to read more of what the Republicans say. I already know what my side, the lefties, have to say.
I'm going to do at least two crazy activities with my dad.
I'm going to learn to cook some of my mom's recipes.
I'm going to try and curb my tendencies to hold up my daughters' bras and call them little slingshots. At least in front of their friends.
I'm going to make sure my friends know how much they mean to me.
And most importantly, I'm going to enjoy what life has to throw my way. Because that's what it's all about, right? Getting a good story out of it.
So cheers to you, and cheers to us. And as Oprah says, here's to another chance at getting it right.

The Price of Christmas Happiness

"Probably the reason we all go so haywire at Christmas time with the endless unrestrained and often silly buying of gifts is that we don't quite know how to put our love into words."
~Harlan Miller


This is it. We're in the final stretch until the the Big Day. You know what day I'm talking about. The day that makes our kids turn into complete crazy, they've-lost-their-mind, foolish beasts.
When all they can do is the slow walk past the Christmas tree, giving calculating glances toward the loot piling up.
All while twiddling their fingers as they plot on how to successfully get permission to open a gift early.
For our children, it's a simple example of tunnel vision. They're focused on one thing and one thing only...
How do they get to open those darn gifts under the tree.
At some point, maybe during the transition into adulthood, we lost that sole purpose of Christmas. We quit reveling in the miracle of all our traditions, our family get-togethers and of course - the anticipation of presents.
Now its a matter of making sure our wallet stays full and open, as we watch the dollar bills just fly out of there.
"Mom, I have a gift exchange at school..."
"Don't forget my teacher's gift..."
"It's time for secret Santa...."
"Hey, should we all draw names for a neighborhood gift exchange?"
"Remember you signed up for the cookie exchange and need to bring 11 dozen kinds of cookies, preferably in 11 different decorated tins."
Huh?
I think as adults we can all remember that one incredible gift we got one year, and how we never, ever forgot it. The one gift that made every thing right in the world. Like when Ralphie got his Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. I got a gift like that one year; they were called White Leather Nikes with the Red Swoosh. I can still remember how happy I was when I opened that box.
As parents, we all would love to be able to present our children with that one perfect gift. But how do we do that while not making ourselves broke, and instilling a sense of gratitude and wonder in them?
How do we teach them to be gracious when they turn into "I want I want I want" little maniacs every time we pass a Nintendo display at Target?
Is there a special secret to getting them to be just as grateful when they get a $5 book as they would if they were to receive a $300 gaming system?
I suppose it's up to us as the parents. And my wishes for them are pretty simple...
I want them to feel gratitude with simple things.
I want them to know love.
I want them to understand life's greatest gifts cannot be wrapped with a bow.
I want them to feel that even though they get in fist fights and hair pulling wrestling matches with their siblings, no one on this earth will have their back like a sister or a brother.
I want them to look forward more to our family traditions on the holidays - like bowling and Chinese food - than to what's underneath the tree on Christmas morning.
And finally, I want them to keep a light heart and find humor in everything, even during the holidays. Because we all know how stressful this time of year can be, especially when we want everything to be perfect.
And let's face it... if Mary can smooth things over with Joseph and that whole virginal birth thing, I think the rest of us can survive most anything.

Divorce, Dating, and Humble Pie

"Being divorced is like being hit by a Mack truck. If you survive, you start looking very carefully to the right and to the left." Anonymous

The other night I was talking to my two oldest daughters when one of them casually mentioned their dad had a date.
"Oh really?" I asked. "That's nice. Good for him."
They looked at me skeptically, and I knew they were wrestling with some feelings.
"Well..." asked one of them. "What if we meet her and she tries to be our mom or something like that?"
I smiled. "You guys already have a mother. No one's going to waltz in and try to take over my role. All I ask is that if your dad does introduce you to someone that you have an open mind and show her some respect. Because some day I might meet someone and introduce you to him."
They laughed. Then they realized I was serious.
"You mean there are people that want to date you?" one asked incredulously.
I stared at them for a beat. "Shocking, I know."
I don't think there is a more humbling demographic of children than teenage daughters. Just when you start to feel even a sliver of self-confidence, they will give you a quick appraisal and blurt out, "Oh god, Mom... you're not going to wear that to the store, are you?"
Putting my toe back into the dating pool after all these years has been an eye-opener, to put it mildly. I am not kidding when I say I haven't had to worry about dating since before Vanilla Ice had a number one hit.
Things have really, really changed.
Now internet dating is completely acceptable. At least to most people. I still run into friends or relatives that give me a look and say, "Oh, you don't need to do that. You're not desperate. Find someone the old fashioned way."
And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that?
I work 40 hours a week.
I have 4 kids that I co-parent.
I have a 45 minute commute each way.
I think internet dating is fantastic. One of my friends described it as shopping. "Seriously," she told me. "Pour yourself a glass of wine and start putting your favorite items into your checkout cart."
The last time I dated, in the 80s, there was no texting. You had to give someone your home number and hoped to god you answered the phone instead of your dad. Or worse, your younger brother.
Now, you can have full-blown relationships just by texting. And my generation missed the entire sexting thing. It's not just a teenage activity. I've been a little shocked by how bold some of my dates have been. The anonymous nature of hiding behind a phone must give people unbelievable courage. After a couple dates with one guy, he started sending me a deluge of unbelievably vulgar, x-rated texts of what he wanted to do the next time I saw him. I was horrified. And those that know me, know I am rarely shocked by stuff like that. But this guy's texts made me want to go on antibiotics immediately.
After I read his last message, I simply responded: "U must have me mistaken for an eastern European hooker."
I never heard from him again.
This morning in church my daughter leaned over and whispered, "Mom, when you go on dates, do they want to kiss you sometimes?"
I nodded.
Her face screwed up, like she had just swallowed expired milk. "Like on the mouth??!"
I rolled my eyes and pointed to the pastor, and indicated she should just be quiet and pay attention.
After church, she brought it up again. "So what do you do when they try to kiss you?"
I put out my arm, like the guy on the Heisman trophy. "I hold my arm like this, to keep them away. And I always leave room for the Holy Spirit."
"WhatEVER Mom..."
So this next phase of my life should be interesting to say the least. As much as it completely astounds my children, adults in their 40s DO date. And some are even wildly successful.
I just need to make sure I trust my instinct and not cringe when my kids give me their "honest feedback."
Because the next time I hear "Who do you think will ever ask you out?"... some heads are gonna roll.

Mom, Is Santa Real?

"You smell like beef and cheese, you don't smell like Santa." ~ Buddy the Elf

All parents dread the question..."Is Santa real?" How do we answer that? What do we say to keep our children young at heart without sounding jaded or cruel? How do we keep ourselves young at heart?
As parents we have such a short window of time that I like to call the Magic Years at Christmas. Those precious years between children being absolutely terrified of Santa, and when they start suspiciously checking out the name tags and trying to compare Santa's handwriting to your own. Those wonderful years that they just love to believe.
I found this picture of me and Santa in 1971, when I wasn't quite two years old. Obviously the Magic Years hadn't started yet. I have a feeling Santa probably had a wet lap and smelled like toddler pee shortly after this photo was taken.

And to be honest, I have a picture of each of my four children, all shrieking in fear from Santa at various times in their lives.
"Perfect!" I'd tell the nervous photographer, as she hesitantly clicked away on her camera. "Make sure you get her picture with her mouth open, terrified like that..." I'm sure my kids will thank me for those funny pictures years from now.
I can remember when my oldest daughter Frankie was about 3 years old, and she was just slowly transitioning from the scared-of-Santa to the absolutely-love-Santa phase. We were tucking her in bed on Christmas Eve and made the mistake of saying something along the lines of, "... and if you feel a kiss on your forehead when you're sleeping or hear a noise later tonight, don't worry. It's just Santa."
She looked at us, completely petrified.
"I don't want Santa in my room kissing my face or being in my house! I wanna sleep with you guys!!!"
When it came to the rest of our kids, we made sure to make Santa sound a little more wonderful and a little less creepy, cat-burglar like.
I love those years of being awake on Christmas morning and lying in bed, hearing the kids wake up and exclaim, "Oh my gosh, Santa came!" I would just lie there and smile.
One year the kids were still a little afraid of actually seeing Santa, so they did the army crawl down the hallway into our room and then breathlessly piled into bed. "Um, we were too scared to look into the living room in case he was still there, but yeah... can you go check to see if Santa came?"
Christmas is one of the absolute best times in the world to be a parent. It's like the universe's way of equalizing out the fact we have to deal with teenage angst, potty training and temper tantrums. It makes up for the times we have to wash markers off the walls, unclog the toilet because someone shoved toys down there, and catch their barf in your hands. Watching their faces and hearing their voices on Christmas makes all of the other stuff just disappear. At least for that morning.
Last year my youngest child was in the back seat as we were driving, and he was listing off all the toys he was going to ask Santa for that Christmas. I started to get a little nervous (having been out of work for over half the year) and tried to get him to scale down his list.
"Don't worry, Mom," Wyatt assured me. "Santa doesn't have a budget, so you don't even have to worry about it!"
Ahhhh.... I would really love to have Santa's financial peace of mind during Christmas. It would make things so much easier, don't you think?
This year my children's ages run from 7 to 14. The youngest two, 7 and 9, vacillate between questioning me about Santa's existence and assuring me they still believe. I know they're hedging their bets.
I don't blame them.
When they asked me about it the other night, "Mom, is Santa real?" I took a deep breath and told them the truth.
"I'll tell you what, kiddos. As your Mom, I just love believing in Santa. It makes Christmas so much more fun and wonderful, don't you think?"
They nodded furiously in agreement, and I smiled.
Dear Universe...Just give me another year or two of these Magic Years. That's all I ask. And that would be the best Christmas present ever.

Thanksgiving Gratitude

"Thanksgiving, man. Not a good day to be my pants." - Kevin James

With so much negativity in the media, and so many doomsday announcers out there, I'd like to take this opportunity to proclaim what I'm truly thankful for this year.
First and foremost, I'm grateful for my children and everything they bring into my life.
I'm thankful...
~ They still occasionally bring me breakfast in bed, which consists of a bowl of Cap'n Crunch on a pizza tray
~ No teeth have been broken this school year so far
~ Once in awhile, maybe when they're barely recognizing it, they will still hold my hand when we cross a street
~ They will still kiss me when I drop them off at school in the morning
~ My bed is the first place they scamper to when they've had a nightmare
~ Once in awhile, I still get called Mommy
~ They watch TV shows with me at night, and let me play with their hair
~ They're not afraid to yell out "I love you!" in public
~ Even if they fight like cats and dogs, they're also fiercely loyal to each other, and not afraid to beg for clemency when they feel I'm being unfair to one of their siblings
~ They notice when I wear perfume
~ They get excited when I get new shoes
I am also very grateful for my family.
I'm thankful...
~ I have a mother that always seems to know that when my work day is running long, the most wonderful thing she can do is make dinner and feed the kids
~ I have a dad who still fills my gas tank up once in awhile and checks the air in my tires
~ I have a brother who is always there for me, and laughs at the same ridiculous stories over and over again
~ I have cousins who are like sisters to me, and guard my secrets close
~ I have aunts who cheer like a parent and step back when I bare my teeth
And also, so very, very grateful to my friends.
I'm thankful...
~ They are quick to pick my kids up and drop them off at their activities when I'm running late. Because yes, it truly takes a village.
~ They accept my faults and my quirks and my outbursts and my tantrums. And love me anyway.
~ They recognize that true friends can go months without seeing or talking to each other, and we can pick up right where we left off.
~ They don't gloat (in front of me anyway) when the Vikings lose another game.

So you can see, I'm not only thankful for the big things I've been blessed with, but also the little things. I will leave you with one of my favorite quotes:

Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.  ~Robert Brault

The Nervous Trepidation of School Conferences

Walking into my kids' school conferences for me is like walking into a dentist appointment. I truly hope for the best, but mentally brace myself for the worst. It's always a crap shoot; I can never get too cocky. Sometimes I think that one of my kids is doing extremely well and I get blindsided with news.
"Yes, um, your daughter threw corn at the lunch lady."
Really? Fantastic. How do you convey to the teacher that you don't condone vegetable tossing in your own home in just a 20 minute meeting with the teacher? Sometimes I feel like a public defender when I hear news like that.
I sigh deeply, lean forward and look the teacher in the eye. "Your Honor, I would like to go on record and state that while my client fully acknowledges inappropriate behavior in the past, she categorically denies assaulting anyone with canned corn."
Last night I went to conferences for both my 9 year old daughter and my 7 year old son. I put a smile on my face and walked into the classroom and took a seat in one of those tiny, little chairs that are unbelievably uncomfortable. Who likes to sit there for 20 minutes with your butt cheeks hanging over each side of the chair? Only an Olsen twin could comfortably sit on one of those.
And over the years I've gotten very good at deciphering "teacher code" and what they're actually trying to tell me without using certain words.
For instance, last night I was told: "Chloe is very social and precocious."
(i.e., she talks non-stop and sometimes exhibits inappropriate, grown up behavior)
I also heard, "Boy, your son is full of energy. I wish I could bottle it up for myself sometimes (nervous laugh)."
(i.e., he often runs around like a fool with his head cut off and the teacher has a hard time preventing him from colliding into a drinking fountain when he runs down the hall)
When I hear news like this, I realize my kids can be a handful. My mom will remind me of what it was like when my brother was in school.
"I was at the high school so much meeting with the principal that one time the school secretary asked if I was the new substitute teacher. And one time he was serving detention in high school and I got a note from the teacher saying that your brother was corking off and passed gas three times in there, making everyone else laugh."
See, the genetic trait of misbehaving to get a laugh must be in our family's DNA. I wasn't the best behaved child either. I was always a little impatient. One time in 5th grade I called my teacher at home and asked, "Mrs Wolf, can we rearrange our desks tomorrow? I'm sick of sitting where I do."
And for the record, last night's conferences weren't all bad news. Thankfully neither teacher informed me that my child liked to fart, do the fist pump and high-five their classmates. My kids have definitely had their challenges in the behavior department, but luckily no guidance counselor had to sit in on the meeting (which has happened before).
So for now, I will do a silent prayer of gratitude that my children don't need to come up with an Action Plan. I will be thankful that no one has found it acceptable to throw food at the lunch lady.
I will be happy that no one got into a physical hitting/kicking/slapping match with another child at recess.
I will be grateful that no one pulled their pants down in line at lunch, pointed to their butt and yelled to the other students in the cafeteria "Hey everyone, check it out!"
And yes, all of these things have happened before.
I am grateful that for now, nothing has been happening.
Because as parents we all know that can change in the blink of an eye.

"Wait...WHAT'S my costume?!?"

"I'll bet living in a nudist colony takes all the fun out of Halloween." Unknown

Oh, tomorrow is the big day. My kids have been counting down the days for weeks. Time for costumes and trick-or-treating and coming home with a bag full of candy. In their eyes, life doesn't get much better.
They don't know how good they have it.
Halloween was a lot different when I was a kid in the 70s. Very, very rarely did we get store-bought costumes. It was up to our parents to make us something. And it was a genetic roll of the dice if we had a parent who was creative enough to come up with something that didn't make us cringe with embarrassment or roll our eyes with disgust. I'll never forget the angel costume my parents designed for me in third grade, complete with the enormous tinfoil wings my dad crafted for hours. Wait, maybe I was a fairy. Either way my costume was big, over the top, and sparkly. Just the way I like all my accessories. I remember my teachers oohing and aahing over me in the Halloween parade, when I won the best costume award.
It almost made up for the year before when in a moment of last minute panic, my parents decided to design my costume at my grandparents farm. My grandma Tillie decided that my cousin Jena and I were going to go as gypsies. For whatever reason, I was not happy with that choice. No amount of dangly earrings (made out of Mason canning jar lids) or rouge on my cheeks was going to make me feel better. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't have a fancy costume (just green corduroy bell-bottoms), or my hair was laid flat under a bandanna. Who knows. It was 1977; reason and logic were not part of my vocabulary. I found a picture of the three of us - me, Tillie and Jena. Between my grandma's monster mask and death-like grip on my arms (who knew she had the strength of ten Russian soldiers), the only one in that photo truly excited for Halloween was my cousin. Look at her face...true bliss.

My kids have never known what it's like to cross their fingers and hope their parents creatively design a costume. Oh no...the Halloween costume catalogs start arriving at our house in the summer. My kids will circle their choices like we used to do with toys in the Sears Christmas catalog.
"I think I want to be Ninja..."
"I'm going to be a Rock Star Witch...with fake nails and blue hair extensions..."
"Mom, can I order the Renaissance costume? It's only $60."
What? Are you kidding me? Costume prices are insane. But I'll be honest...I started indulging their greedy little consumerism traits for this holiday before they could walk. With four kids, it was always great fun to do a theme.
And we've done some good ones...
Wizards of Oz
Super Heroes
Pirates
It makes me a little ill to think of all the money we've spent on costumes and decorations over the years for Halloween, but when I pull out old photos of them smiling from ear to ear, dressed in matching dalmatian puppy outfits, I don't have a single regret.
It'll be interesting to see what Halloween is like for the next generation. Do you think creativity will even play a part? Will everything come from a store? Or will there still be parents sitting around a table, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and trying to come up with a quick and easy solution?
Hmm...it'll be interesting to see, that's for sure.
And just in case anyone is struggling for ideas... I know where you can fashion out a pair of earrings from of a jar of tomatoes.

"Vacation, all I ever wanted... Vacation, HAD to GET away..."

"Nothing lasts forever...so live it up, drink it down, laugh it off, avoid the bullshit, take chances and never have regrets...because at one point, everything you did was exactly what you wanted."

I couldn't have picked a better quote to describe my thoughts after my girls getaway if I had written it myself (which I didn't). Last week I went on an amazing vacation to California with girls I've known since Farrah Fawcett was one of Charlie's Angels. For the last several years the six of us had all been planning on something fun and fantastic for our 40th birthdays. Apparently we all thought we'd be super rich because we tentatively planned on the Bahamas. Once realization sunk in, we decided to fly off to California to visit Jill instead.
Five of us left our kids, our jobs and our lives at home to hop on a plane and  just hang out with each other. That was it. There were no plans for exotic sight-seeing tours, no agendas for night clubs or bars. All we wanted to do was relax and catch up with each others' lives.
When I think of the six of us, I have to admit - I'm not sure if we had met as adults if we'd all be as close as we are now for meeting when we were still in training bras and saddle shoes.
My first memory of Jill is bonding in a bathroom stall at Malone while in third grade, when I confessed my first boyfriend Jay broke up with me because I got a perm. "He's not worth it," she assured me. Wise advice coming from an 8 year old. Even then she seemed worldly.
My first memory of Kim is when we attended the same church growing up, and finding ways to sneak out of confirmation classes because surely there were more fun things to do than sit in a classroom and memorize the books of the Bible. She was always my partner in crime for the fun stuff. Sweet and innocent on the outside but a little bit of devil on the inside.
My first memory of Marnie (she actually goes by Marlo now and has for her entire adult life; I just can't bring myself to switch) is choreographing complicated dance moves to commercials. To this day I'm surprised a Hollywood producer never spotted us and signed us on the spot for a video. We were that good.
My first memory of Stephanie is taking home ec classes together. We just always liked the same things, and always liked to hang out. Whether it was chasing boys from Hastings or shaving our heads for the latest trend...I knew she'd be game for the fun stuff.
And as far as Beth goes... she was just always in for whatever. "Hey, let's go to Kmart and buy matching black and white outfits and wear them to the first day of 7th grade. We will be so cool." "I'm in!" Plus her parents owned a bar and she had the coolest rec room ever above her garage.
Everything on our vacation was funny. As grown women, our personalities definitely showed through, but somehow that made things even funnier.
On the plane ride there, my ADD and impatience at flying made itself known early. "What time is it?" I kept pestering my friends. When a flight attendant walked by, I pulled on her sleeve and whispered "How many more minutes?" Thankfully Marnie had packed about 6 months worth of People magazine along in her carry-on, and the mindless absorption of celebrity news kept me busy for most of the time.
After awhile I pulled out my phone and asked Stephanie, "I can turn this on now, right? They don't ban your cell phones on planes anymore do they?"
"Don't do it!" she admonished. "I swear, I just saw something on tv the other night. It will screw something up electrically with the plane I think."
Kim stood up and turned around in her seat. "No way, that is absolutely not true. If a cell phone had that sort of power the airlines would confiscate all of our phones and electronics before we even got on board."
Stephanie and I looked sheepishly at each other. I guess that made sense. Why screen for more than 3 ounces of liquid or sharp objects if someone is trying to smuggle on an iPhone that could possibly bring down a Boeing 747?
We arrived safely and started looking for Jill's husband Joe, who was sent to bring us back to their house. He's kind of a big cheese in the Navy, so we were secretly hoping he'd show up in his uniform.
"What if we get down to the baggage area and he's holding up a sign that says 'Welcome Prescott Bitches'"? I asked the other girls. That, fortunately or unfortunately, did not happen.
Once we made it to Jill's house, it was like no time at all had come between our last visits. We hugged, we squealed, we jumped up and down when we saw her.
And I'm happy to say... the rest of our vacation was that light hearted and happy.
The next day we rode bikes along the beach in a single file line, and made little comments about the people we rode by. When a large, 300+ pound shirtless man jogged by us, with his big ol' Santa belly glistening in the sun, I looked over my shoulder and said one word to Jill: "Dibs." When one of us would walk in front of the other, we'd announce in a sing-song voice, "Wish I had a burger to go with that shake." In essence, we all transformed into our cocky, loud-mouthed 17 year old selves.
And every night we sat around a fire and talked for hours. We looked at yearbooks and laughed until we cried. I don't think there was a single topic off limits. We covered it all.
Do you like your job?
How's your marriage going?
Do you shave, wax or go 70s retro?
How are your kids doing?
Why won't my son poop?
Do my nipples look weird?
Why did you sleep with that guy in college anyway?
How old were you when you lost your virginity? (Although, most of us usually knew the answers to that one because hey...we've been friends for a long time)
There's just something so comforting about being with friends that have known you and all your insecurities and hang-ups and have seen you evolve as a person. They're your biggest cheerleaders and supporters and you can't put a price on that.
The end of our trip came much faster than any of us wanted. We all marvelled that there was no drama, no fighting, no tension. Just a lot of love and support for each other. On the flight home I have a sneaking suspicion one of my friends slipped me a sleeping pill (to avoid my incessant questions) because I slept for most of the flight.
Or maybe I was just wiped out from all of our talking.
So like I said before, maybe we wouldn't all be friends now if we had met as adults. We come from different demographics and have different social circles now.
But somehow there is this magnetic pull with these women, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. After we took this picture, someone cracked "This photograph is probably going to end up on a greeting card with some funny saying, in our grandkids' time."
We should be so lucky.

"You wanna see something REALLY scary...?"

"I've seen enough horror movies to know that any weirdo wearing a mask is never friendly." Friday the 13th Part VI

I think I'm going to blame it on my babysitter in the 70's.
When I was about 9 and my brother was 6, my parents went out some rare evening and hired a babysitter. It got to be about bedtime, and I was pestering her with questions on her exotic teenage life.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Do you go on dates?"
"Have you seen any movies?"
"Actually, yes," she answered. "We just saw a movie called 'When a Stranger Calls.'"
My brother and I begged her to tell us what it was about.
"Well," she began, "it was about this babysitter..."
"Yeah??" my brother and I replied, each sprawled out on the floor in front of her, wearing our pajamas, chins in our hands, not even taking our eyes off of her.
"And she was watching these kids and she kept getting prank calls where all she could hear was 'Have you checked on the children?' And she was getting so worried and she finally called the police. After a few more calls the police called her back and said 'The calls are coming from inside the house!' So the babysitter ran out and the police showed up."
My brother and I looked at each other, then back at her. "What about the kids?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah," she replied. "Well, they were brutally murdered."
She stretched her arms over her head.
"Ok, you two. Time for bed."
I think at that point in time my brother and I both had the exact same thought running through our heads: "You gotta be f---in' kidding me."
I'm pretty sure the two of us slept in the same room for the next three years.
Scary movies have had ahold of me ever since. The gory ones, like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, don't scare me nearly as much as the thriller/suspense ones. I remember watching "Omen" as a ten year old and becoming almost paralyzed with the baboon freak-out scene and the chilling words: "...for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666." It was probably one of the only times I raced to open up the bible to confirm.
"Holy shit..." I whispered to myself. This was heavy duty stuff. I think I remember pinning my brother down one time to check the back of his neck when he was acting suspiciously unruly.
Sorry about that, Shawn.
Now my kids love to sit around and watch zombie movies. "Dawn of the Dead" was our most recent showcase during Family Movie Night. (save your Poor Parenting Choices nominations...I've got that award in the bag already)
Zombie movies are okay, but I don't think they're terrifying.
Not like "Blair Witch Project." I saw that movie at a matinee and I still was nervous walking in the theater's parking lot afterwards during the middle of the day. It swore me off camping for years.
I watched "The Ring" and now am never able to come within five feet of a well.
I went to go see "Paranormal Activity" and was so freaked out I had to go to church the next day. While in the theater I became one of those people who talk back to the screen: "Are you outta your mind? Why would you bring a Ouija board into your house? Girl... you are just ASKING for trouble."
And I'm not kidding around with that Ouija board stance. It is strictly forbidden in my home. My mom once casually mentioned that she would pick up one for my kids and I almost had a stroke. "Absolutely not!" I told her. "You do not mess around with that stuff."
And a fair warning to my brother ~ if you think you're being funny and get my kids a Ouija board for Christmas this year, I swear to God I will take a crap and put it in your mailbox.
Remember that scene in "The Shining", when Jack Nicholson's character is chasing his wife and son through that maze of trees while it's snowing? It's that image that makes me run to the mailbox at night during winter at record speed.
Now my girlfriends want to schedule a Scary Movie Sleepover. I like the concept... we all sit around in our pajamas and eat appetizers and tell local scary stories and watch horror movies. But I get nervous when I think of how it's going to end.
Everyone's going to eventually nod off and go to sleep. Everyone but me. I'll be awake, checking out the windows, making sure the doors are locked, and trying to hold my bladder until morning.
So yes, I admit I'm a big talker and say I love to watch scary movies.
In daylight.
Surrounded by other people.
With a dog by my side.
And now that it's October and scary movies are on cable every night, let's see how brave I can finally be. Maybe I'll be able to finally listen to the theme music to "Halloween" without sweat running from my armpits.
That dang babysitter.   

                                         

Corn-fed and Proud of It

So Kirstie Alley manages to lose a staggering 100 pounds and announces she's down to a size 4 and what happens? Tim Gunn has to immediately go on the offensive and declare (and I'm paraphrasing): "There's no way Kirstie Alley is a size 4. That's vanity sizing. Truthfully she's more likely a size 8 or 10."
For crying out loud, can't we just let Kirstie have her moment in the spotlight and bask in the fact she doesn't have to wear elastic waist pants anymore? Why does the media have to immediately pounce on the metrics of all of this?
It's no wonder the majority of women have body issues with their weight. Every time a celebrity has a baby they have to go into hiding for fear some tabloid is going to snap a picture of them at the grocery store wearing a velour track suit and stockpiling cans of Slimfast.
Oh wait...maybe that was me after my pregnancies. Never mind.
But the tabloids are very quick to proudly display "New post-baby body for Mariah!" or "Heidi Klum back on the runway only 6 weeks after giving birth!"
Seriously, the majority of women still haven't shaved their legs six weeks after delivery, much less attempted to put on a bikini.
Then someone like Kirstie Alley bravely announces what she's done and how much better she's eating and how much more she's exercising and some skinny little man who's mainly famous for knocking on other people's fashion choices has to immediately discount what she's said.
With all that said, it's much easier for me to talk the talk than to walk the walk.
I'm going shopping with my friend Nicole this weekend because she wants to find some boots. I'm a size 9 and she's a size 10 so lots of times we will buy a 9 1/2 so we can share. Not this time, however.
"Vanessa," she told me. "I'm really having a hard time finding boots because the bigger size is too baggy on my calves."
Oh Jesus. I never have that problem. My calves look like they belong to a Romanian gymnast. I like to say it's not even a cankles issue... I prefer to describe them as "thalves." Meaning, my thighs streamline right down to my calves.
I don't think it's in my genetic makeup to ever be a size 4. Or a 6 or whatever Mr Gunn denounces it is. Currently my goal is to start training for a 5k so I can slide on a pair of absolutely ghetto-fabulous Apple Bottom jeans I bought off of eBay last year.
About 5 years ago I went to Connecticut to visit my friend Jane. We were visiting shops in some tony little town where Paul Newman and Martha Stewart used to live. After about the third store we walked into, I realized I was bigger than every single woman I had come across. I turned to Jane and said, "Wow. Not one single corn-fed girl in the bunch." She laughed and replied, "That's because the Connecticut housewives diet consists of nothing but Starbucks and cigarettes."
No thanks. Bring on the butter... and ladies ~ let's embrace our curves!

Little Monkeys with Machine Guns

"Children today are tyrants. They contradict their parents, gobble their food and tyrannize their teachers." ~ Socrates

For as eager as I was to have school start again, it sure has been a bumpy road. In my naivete I thought/hoped/assumed they would all settle nicely into their routines, embrace healthy friendships and unequivocally respect authority.
What a humbling experience the first few weeks have been. I'm pretty sure I've learned as much as they have with certain life lessons.
Growing up, I don't think I ever saw my parents cry. Swear, yell, shriek, sure... but never cry. And up until last week - excluding the time we told them about the divorce - I don't think my kids have ever seen me cry. I always feel like I have to hold it together, stay strong, put on a face that shows them I'm in charge and I've got this.
The beginning of last week was tough. I came home from work in a sour mood. I'd already dealt with the principal for one of my children's bad decisions, and I was feeling overwhelmed. My back has been hurting me for months, and my allergies were kicking my ass. I rummaged through the cupboards and couldn't find any Benadryl.
My friend Jill happened to call, right as I was sprawled out on my bed, trying to hold back the tears. As I was explaining to her what had been happening the last week, my son Wyatt flung open my bedroom door...completely oblivious to the fact that his mom was having a "bell jar" moment.
"Mom," he demanded. "Are you or are you NOT going to be making us dinner soon?"
"Jesus," I told Jill on the phone. "I have raised a tribe of ingrates." I showed Wyatt my angry eyes and told him I'd be out soon.
After dinner I was back in my room, wishing I had Benadryl and an IV drip of morphine for my back. My pity party started back up again. I was sitting in front of my closet when Chloe waltzed in. She took one look at my tear streaked face and said, "Oh, allergies?" I nodded and she left. Later I went to Kwik Trip to get a fountain soda (because they make me happy). I brought Sophie along with me. She saw me digging in my purse for quarters and said, "Mom, I can pay for it if you don't have enough money." It was so sweet of her to offer that I burst out laughing. "Honey, I can afford my Big Gulp. But thanks for offering." Just then Chloe called me on my cell phone. "Mom," she said excitedly. "We found your allergy medicine!"
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, Chloe and Wyatt came running out. She was clutching a packet of over the counter allergy pills, and he was running with a glass of water. It sloshed outside the cup and ran down his arms, but he didn't seem to notice.
All four kids decided I needed to rest on the couch. Frankie covered me with a blanket and Chloe administered the pills to me. She leaned down and whispered, "Do you know how I know it wasn't allergies and you were really crying?"
"How Lola?" I asked her.
"Because it was all wet underneath your eyes, that area right above your cheeks."
I nodded. "Yep, you're right. But thanks for finding my pills anyway."
Then miraculously the kids went to bed without fighting.
The very next night I had to address an incident that involved the River Falls police. Apparently my three youngest children decided it was perfectly acceptable to run around on the roof of our elementary school while playing there on a Saturday afternoon. Just as their dad pulled up to take them home, a cop showed up because he had been called from a concerned neighbor who saw my little hoodlums on the roof. Their dad sat all four of them down and flipped out on them, and I was ready to do the same.
"I don't understand how any of you thought this was acceptable," I began. "And do you know what the worst part of it was, the absolute most terrible part...?"
"That the cops were called and we might have a record?" Wyatt ventured.
"No, it's not that the cops were called. Although that isn't one of my most proud moments either. What's the absolute worst part is when your dad told me about the fence that you had to crawl over to actually get onto the roof. Those 12 inch metal rods that stand up and are supposed to deter you? If one of you would have stumbled and slipped, those rods would have IMPALED you and you would have died!"
My voice broke and for the second time in 24 hours I started crying in front of them again. They stared at me, completely silent. Nobody said a word.
A mental health professional recently told a group of us parents: "Elementary aged children are in a precarious group. They're becoming more independent and are recognizing their abilities to do things away from their parents. The problem is, they don't really have a firm grasp on their new found independence and how to handle it responsibly. They're like little monkeys with machine guns."
After I had (hopefully) scared the shit out of my kids with the metal-rod-impaling speech, I went to the store to buy some milk. While I was gone, they had hurriedly crafted a card for me, which they all signed...including their last names. That part made me laugh.
While I was recalling my last few days to my friend Nicole, she wisely said, "You know, Vanessa. It's not such a bad thing for your kids to see you cry. Now they know you're human and you have fears, too."
It warmed my heart when she said that.
I love my friends.
And I love my little monkeys, too.

Where's my Alice the Maid, ala Brady Bunch?

"I hate housework! You make the beds, you do the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again." ~ Joan Rivers

This last holiday weekend, I celebrated like the calendar said I should. I truly, truly labored. And not in the ten-centimeters-you-can-push-oh-jesus-someone-just-hit-me-in-the-head-with-a-hammer-and-get-it-over-with kind of laboring. I did something almost as crazy.
I spent almost all of my free time cleaning my house.
No, I didn't have a fever. No, I didn't lose a bet.
In the spirit of wanting my home life to go smoother, and less stress on my kids, I decided to follow a columnist's advice about organization. I wanted to do my part in making sure things were organized so we weren't doing the typical school morning chaotic dash:
"Mom, did you sign my permission slip?"
"Where's my sports physical form?"
"Who hid my backpack/gym shoes/jacket?"
"Isn't today my field trip? If so, I need a check for $15."
And one of my favorites - as I'm dropping them off at school: "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Today's my special day and I need a snack for 25 kids. No dairy or peanuts because someone has food allergies."
And in full disclosure... I have never been good at housework. I hate cleaning. My room was so messy when I was a kid that my dad used to take the door off the hinges. There I would stand, in the middle of my messy bedroom, with no door to hide my adolescent shame.
My brother would saunter by and snicker.
"Shut up!" I'd tell him. "At least my room doesn't smell like farts."
"You sure about that?" he'd ask, raising an eyebrow.
One time we had a small fire in our garage and the fire department showed up. One of the fire fighters said he had to check out the bedroom above the garage, to make sure there were no more flames or damage. I raced past him up to my bedroom and shoved everything I could into my closet. He walked in and promptly announced he needed to check the closet. After a brief tug on the closet door handle, he flung it open.
A small avalanche of clothes, school supplies and other miscellaneous teenage crap came tumbling out and covered his boots. Once he determined there was no burning fire remaining in the walls, he turned around and to walk out of the bedroom.
Unfortunately one of my bras had become firmly clasped on the buckle of his boot. He tried to shake it off, but ended up having to bend over, remove it manually and hand it to me.
"Here," he said. "I believe this is yours."
Um, thanks.
So this weekend I decided to do some major cleaning. I tackled the laundry room first. With four kids, it's a room that sees constant action and lots of turnover. It's like a truck stop rest area...minus the hookers.
I did over a dozen loads of laundry, threw out Tide bottles, organized and wiped down the shelves, swept the floors and even vacuumed the rugs. I found missing video games, clothes that I assumed were long gone, belts and accessories, and almost four dollars in loose change.
I barely recognized the room.
When Sophie arrived home not much later, I told her to check out the laundry room. I was upstairs and told her, "Go downstairs and look at the laundry room. I totally cleaned it."
I heard her open the door and then she yelled upstairs, "Wow, Mom, have we always had rugs in the laundry room??!"
Ah, yes we have.
After that I turned my attention to my son's room. He wanted to document the occasion with before and after pictures that he took with my camera. He knew it was a monumental event.
I'm always a little apprehensive cleaning his room. Boys rooms are different than girls. There are different smells, lots more dirt and mud, and broken toys everywhere. And did I mention the different smells?
I was on the carpet and tossing garbage in a bag. "Why does this corner smell like urine?" I asked him point blank.
"Mom," he replied in his "duh" voice. "My sisters dared me."
Jesus...do I need to put a bulls-eye target in the toilet bowl? It shouldn't be such a difficult thing to do.
But after a couple hours his room was clean. I periodically walked in and out of it, just relishing the sight of it. I know it won't stay that way forever.
After my industrious laundry and bedroom cleaning, I thought I could enjoy the rest of the weekend at my leisure. Oh no. My parents showed up on Monday and announced they were going to help me clean my garage.
Oh goody.
I'm actually glad they did. I would have become a great grandmother before I would have attempted to clean that garage myself.
So on Labor Day, for approximately 7 hours, I worked on cleaning that garage with them. I had no idea I owned so much crap. By the time they left and I was ready for bed, I collapsed on the couch. I smelled like Windex and arm pits. Not the sexiest combination.
But hey... things were now clean(er).
I do really like the way things look when I don't have to remove a bean bag chair out of the way to appreciate the view. I wish they would stay that way longer.
I need to do better. I will try to do better.
Because I don't want to spend another Labor Day laboring.
When we were done with the garage, covered in sweat and dust, my mom took a look around and said, "Yep, as my dad Clint would say - We cut a big ol' hog in the ass today, didn't we?"
Spoken like a true German farmer.

First Day of School!

Ahhhh.... tomorrow is the day I've waited for, anticipated and looked longingly at the calendar for the last 89 days (but who's counting). It's what makes parents look at each other knowingly when one of their kids screeches because they've been socked by a sibling, and it's all the parents can do to prevent themselves from responding: "Oh, just shut it." They know the countdown to sanity is imminent. Freedom is almost here; it's within our grasp
Yep, that's right. It's almost the first day of school.
The last week has been a whirlwind of activity. Getting four kids ready for school requires tactical planning similar to a military maneuver.
Supplies.
Doctor appointments.
Dentist appointments.
Hair appointments.
Activity sign ups and registrations.
More supplies.
Forms to fill out.
And since 3 of my 4 kids are girls, we can't ever forget the most important aspect of all: back-to-school clothes. And really, the attention my girls pay to their first day of school outfit is my own damn fault. If you ask them what are the two most important days for clothes selection are, they'll be able to answer in their sleep: "First day of school and last day of school. Because they deal with first and last impressions."
Re-reading that sentence makes me realize my shallow and self-absorbed skills as a parent. That's ok, though... I realize my fashion nonsense teachings counter-balance perfectly with their father's teachings of more important life lessons. Like virtues, responsibility and parallel parking.
The last two days have been hectic to say the least. Because I'm horse shit at personal planning, I've been attempting to cram a week's worth of activities into 48 hours.
Yesterday my schedule was this:
Get up at the crack of dawn and grocery shop at 6:30 am. It was the only time in the foreseeable future that I could afford to go, and my kids were getting sick of the bread and water treatment. Ingrates. So there I was at Econo Foods, wearing a dress and heels and stocking up on food.
Go work from about 8-4:30.
Drive furiously home after work, hit the driveway on two wheels and scream out the window "Get in the car!" Took Sophie to middle school orientation and ignored eye contact with all the teachers because I didn't have time to make small talk.
Drove her immediately to a dentist appointment, then to Walgreen's to pick up prescriptions.
Finally get home at 8:30 to a house that looked like it had been taken over by homeless squatters. I changed into my pajamas, threw a box of wine into a grocery bag, turned to my children and announced "I am going to the neighbor's. I will be home in less than an hour. I expect this house to be cleaned or I am going to lose.my.freaking.mind."
I have no idea what the other neighbors thought when they saw a pajama-clad mother clutching a grocery bag and mumbling to herself while walking down the driveway, but my mini-breakdown seemed to do the trick. Housework was done when I got back and I could actually see the bottom of my kitchen sink.
Tonight was equally chaotic. I had to pick up two kids from karate, buy toilet paper, drop off something at a friends, bring Sophie to Shopko and be back home by 7. While I still had the younger two kids in the car, I took Sophie to the store and told her I'd pick her up about 20 minutes later after I was done running errands.
She called me when she was ready and I told her I'd be there in a few minutes. I had just one more errand to run. Just one. Trying to cram it all in the night before school. But after running that errand and getting a call from a friend, I did the unthinkable.
I forgot all about Sophie and left her at the store.
I was almost home when she called me. I looked at the caller ID and thought "Why in the world is Sophie calling me when she's in the car with me?" I looked at the empty passenger seat next to me, mumbled a quick expletive and whipped a U turn on Main Street. I promptly picked her up and tried to pretend I didn't hear her question "Where were you?"
I finally drove them home, counted heads and breathed a sigh of relief. Whew... they were all there. Of course, three of them were distinctly aware I had temporarily "lost one" earlier, so they all looked at me a little warily. I don't blame 'em. Who forgets a kid at Shopko?
Tonight the girls already excitedly have their outfits picked out for tomorrow. I don't think Wyatt really cares. He just casually mentioned he wants to wear a Twins shirt. Apparently boys don't put as much thought into coordinating accessories for the first day of school as girls do. As long as Wyatt has dry socks and clean underwear each day, he's fine. And even the clean underwear is iffy sometimes.
Tomorrow morning I'll take their annual First Day of School photo and probably be just as excited as they are. The beginning of each school year is a blank slate, just like their brand new notebooks and art pads. The possibilities are endless.
I found a picture of me at the beginning of kindergarten. Color coordinated barrettes, a locket necklace and the best part of all - Hee Haw bibs with a matching purse. I remember wearing that outfit and thinking I was the cat's meow. I think the only thing that could have topped a Hee Haw outfit would have been something with the "Gilligan's Island" cast on the front.
Hee Haw?
I say Yee Haw! School is starting!

Thank you, Reality TV, for Making Me Feel Like a Better Parent

This weekend, while we were at a parade, my seven year old came up to me and announced in a hurt voice, "Do you know why I hate my life, Mom?"
Normally, as a parent, the thought of ever hearing this from any of my children would have caused me immense pain.
Not after four kids. He's lucky he even got a reaction out of me.
I turned to him and sighed. "Why do you hate your life?"
"Because," he said. "You didn't buy me that helium balloon I wanted from that lady who was selling them."
I barked out a laugh. "Kiddo, let me tell you...if that's the worse thing that's happened to you this far, consider yourself very lucky."
He just looked at me, trying to figure out if my speech and/or tone of voice meant he was going to walk away with a balloon.
"I mean really," I continued. "At least you're not one of those 19 Duggar kids on TLC. I didn't give birth to a couple softball teams and make you get your teeth brushed and fed meals regularly by an older sibling."
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing.
I was on a roll. "I doubt those Duggar kids even get to go to a parade. In fact, when they show up... they are the parade. And no one's handing them a balloon."
At this point Wyatt realized his ploy didn't work, and he turned around to join his friends.
I settled back into my chair and felt good. Once again Reality TV shows have bolstered my confidence as a parent.
Perhaps as the tv audience we're supposed to feel sympathy for some of these people. And I do. I do feel bad for the lady who has to pee in her backyard because her bathroom is filled to the ceiling with Readers Digest magazines. I gag when I realize there are people who hoard animals and live with their floors covered in chicken shit.
At the same time, it makes that ring around my toilet seem a little more tolerable. And with having a young boy in the house, my bathroom always seems to be on the verge of smelling like a Texaco station restroom anyway.
AIM PLEASE. That's all I ask.
My mother has always kept a beautiful home. Beds are always made, dusting and vacuuming are always done on a regular basis, and I can't ever remember seeing dried toothpaste in the sinks. I think she probably braces herself mentally every time she steps foot in my home.
Dozens and dozens of shoes scattered haphazardly in the entry way.
Dishes piled in the sink.
Laundry breeding on its own.
Dog hair everywhere.
I always tell myself I'm going to get better with keeping my house clean. But whenever I start to get too hard on myself, I watch an episode of "Hoarders" and breathe a sigh of relief. No one in my house is at risk of getting smothered or buried alive under a pile of shopping bags. As a mother, I can check that fear off my list.
Another show I love to watch to make me feel good is "Intervention." Sometimes I have my older girls watch it with me. Admittedly I do this for two reasons.
1. So they know the dangers of getting involved with drugs and alcohol.
2. So they know how good they have it.
"See," I'll tell them as I sip from a glass of wine while watching the show. "You guys don't know how lucky you are. At least your mother isn't passed out in the driveway while you kids have to bike around me. I've never had to go to Walgreen's to buy 10 bottles of mouth wash so I can catch my daily buzz."
I'm not sure if my "lessons" are working yet with them, but it sure is fun.
Now on the flip side of using reality tv shows to my advantage, my children are attempting to use them to their advantage as well.
Both of my older girls have told me they wanted a "Sweet 16" party, just like on MTV.
"Ha!" I laughed. "That's funny. Maybe I can afford a Barbershop Quartet to sing at your party."
"Mom! Not cool. Usually the kids get a car at their party too. And Uncle Shawn does work at a car dealership..."
I just shook my head. "The only vehicle you can probably expect to get is your dad's beat up Saturn, with over 200,000 miles and extensive body damage."
Chloe thought she would avoid her older sisters' plight and announced to me: "Don't worry, Mom. I don't want a Sweet Sixteen. I want a Quinceanera when I turn 15."
"Chloe, you're not even Mexican."
"So what?" she shot back. "I look Mexican."
Well, she does indeed, but I think I can just buy her a poofy skirt, take her out for dinner and call it good.
So to all of the old school scripted television shows that make me feel like a complete parenting failure - Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver, Little House on the Prairie - I say your time is way over.
Bring on the drug addicts, alcoholics, hoarders and dance moms... you ladies make me shine!

Back to $chool

Thank you, Jesus.
The utterly-chaotic, complete-disregard-for-human-decency-and-acceptable-behavior, lord-of-the-flies-lawlessness of summer vacation is drawing to a close.
And I couldn't be happier.
It means many, many wonderful things are on the horizon...
My house will stay clean for an 8 hour stretch.
My food budget will no longer rival the GDP of a small country.
I will not do inane amounts of towel laundry, over and over again every week.
I will not come home to all the windows wide open with the air conditioning going full blast and set at 68.
I will not be breaking up lunch time fights of two kids in the garage who are wearing shorts, wife-beaters and brandishing sticks at each other.
I will not have to hear the hourly, nails-on-a-chalkboard chorus of "I'm bored."
But all of this wonderfulness comes at a price for parents. It's called Back To School Supplies.
Whenever we go to Shopko to get the supplies, I always mistakenly think it's going to not be that expensive. I get lulled into a false sense of security when I see notebooks advertised at .15 each, and loose leaf paper on sale for less than a dollar. I don't know why, but I always think I'm going to walk out of there by only spending about $75. With four kids? I must be sniffing glue or something because that's just not even in the realms of possibility.
We stroll into the store, each kid clutching their supply list. I push the cart, and everyone takes off in different directions, randomly throwing pencil boxes, highlighters and folders into the cart. I get a little panicky when I see the mound of supplies grow. "Wait!" I'll yell as I see a calculator tossed in there. "What kind did you get?"
"I dunno, Mom. The one on the list."
"Well, is it a $15 calculator or is it the one next to it on the shelf for $108?" It's these kind of things that make my heart race.
I'm also going to go on record (and it's my blog so I can) and state that it's pretty sad that parents are expected to now be providing disinfectant wipes, tissues, napkins and other classroom supplies. I am not blaming the teachers or the schools for this. Not at all. I know teachers spend a ton of their own money for things. But I do think its sad that so much money has been stripped from our schools' budgets that teachers are forced to pass along these additional expenses to parents who might already be struggling. Something is wrong with our politicians and government. Let's stop with some of these uber-wealthy tax write-offs and toss a little more toward education, shall we? Ok, my political soap box moment is over.
Back to the costs of going back to school...
And we haven't even done the school clothes shopping yet. The thought of that makes my face get hot and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Maybe those shorts and wife beaters will come in handy after all. They can also use the sticks, hobo style, and carry their books to school with them.
But I shouldn't complain too loudly... I don't want my kids to think they're a financial burden. I mean they totally and completely are, but they shouldn't be made aware of this (at least until they read this blog.) Look at my son's face as he held up the receipt from our school supply shopping. He thinks it's fantastically funny that it's as long as an alligator.
I want my kids to be excited and happy to go back to school.
God knows I am.

Girls Just Wanna Have Phones

What did we ever do before cell phones?
I mean, really...how did we send a quick "OMW" to a friend to let her know we were on our way? How did we ever notify someone we were already in their driveway without texting a quick "Here"?
Do you think we actually got OUT of our cars, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell?
I suppose we did, years and years ago.
I bought my first cell phone in either 1995 or 1996. It was dark gray and the size of a small loaf of bread. I had to pay extra for the flip part on the bottom, and I thought it was worth every cent of the extra $40 for that feature. I can remember being in a restaurant and standing up to "make a call." I thought I was cooler than shit when I flipped it open, and then pulled out the 7 inch antennae. I knew all eyes were on me and everyone was insanely jealous.
Nowadays the phones get smaller and smaller, and the demand for them gets bigger and bigger. My two older girls have their own phones, and my two younger kids beg me routinely for one of their own.
I try to explain to them that when I was young, we didn't have cell phones. We didn't even know what they were. I remember when my parents got my brother and I our own separate phone line for our bedrooms...I thought I had died and gone to heaven. This was back in the day when we only had to dial 5 digits to make a local call, too. When I try explaining this, my kids look at me like I just told them I used to take a horse and buggy to school.
A couple months ago my son Wyatt called me from my parents' house.
"Mom," he said breathlessly. "You are not going to believe this. I am using a phone in grandma and grandpa's basement. And I had to stick my finger in a hole and move it in a circle to dial your number. Did you ever see such a thing?"
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes, honey. It's called a rotary. And your grandpa refuses to get rid of it because he's convinced that nothing can beat its quality and reception."
Wyatt was quiet for a minute. "I have never, ever seen anything like this before."
I shouldn't be surprised. Kids are more familiar with cell phones and their technology than their parents. At least mine are. My daughters can figure out an Android faster than a Republican can find a tax loop hole.
And I have to admit...I love that I have "instant access" to my kids when they're out and about. They know they need to answer my calls or texts or they risk losing their phones. I don't ever put up with "My phone was shut off" or "I didn't bring it with me." I don't care if they have to attach it to the side of their face with duct tape; I want to make sure I can reach them. Screw individual civil liberties...I'd plant a chip in their heads to keep track of them if I could. I'm halfway tempted to bring them to the vet to do it. If I can get my golden retriever implanted with a micro-chip, why can't I do it to my teenagers?
Now on the flip side of having instant access to my kids, they also have instant access to me. And during summer vacation, they call and text me throughout the day. I could literally check the TMobile bill and it would show hundreds and hundreds of calls and texts with their necessary attempts to reach me.
Some of the texts are more along the lines of FYI:
"Taking the dog to the park"
or
"We're out of milk"
Some of the texts are to tattle on their siblings:
"Sophie kicked me"
"The dog crapped on the steps and no one is cleaning it up"
or
"Wyatt just said the c-word."
I wasn't too concerned about this one. I figured the c-word was crap. Not my favorite, but I later found out it was worse. Much worse. I came home and asked him about it. "Wyatt, what c-word did you say earlier?"
He looked at me seriously. "I'm not supposed to repeat it."
"Just tell me," I told him. "I need to know."
He took a deep breath. "Well, it starts with a 'c' and rhymes with sunt."
We both just looked at each other, neither saying another word.
"Where'd you hear that?" I finally asked him.
"I don't remember. But I told Grandpa about it."
"Oh really? And what did Grandpa say when you told him?"
"He told me that it was probably the worst swear word there is, and no matter what...I should never, ever say that word in front of a woman."
Good call, Dad. And here I just thought you were teaching him lawn mower safety.
Now I have to attempt to parent via cell phone technology. It helps me give some direction as I'm leaving the office: "I want the house cleaned before I walk in the front door or you lose your phones and everyone goes to bed by 7:30 tonight."
And voila ~ the house is usually clean when I get home.
It also helps me figure out what sort of moods I'm going to encounter before I get there. One of texts that still make me laugh was one I got last year on my way home from work:
"I need pads and Teen Midol."
Oh greaaaattttt
So I know there are plenty of parents who don't think kids in middle school need cell phones but I choose to focus on the benefits. I can reach my children faster, threaten them and bribe them. They can instruct me to pick up Teen Midol without their brother overhearing. They can take pictures and listen to music.
I found a picture of me when I was just a few weeks old, barely able to hold my head up. Thank goodness the photographer found it necessary to prop up a big (rotary) phone next to me. I might have fallen over. But I think I look pretty excited in the picture. Excited that I've discovered a new way to communicate. See, kids are just ingrained to want to talk on the phone. At least girls are!

God Mom you're so embarrassing...

Setting a good example for your children takes all the fun out of middle age.  ~William Feather, The Business of Life, 1949

I love this quote, even though I refuse to consider myself middle-aged. I'm only 41, and plan on living well past 100. So the middle-age classification can start at about age 50, but not one second sooner.
I know as parents we're supposed to set really good examples for our kids. That even if they look like they're not listening, they're always watching us. Talk about pressure.
I try to do all the obvious "right" things:
Like doing my best to instill the importance of going to college, or at least getting some type of secondary education after high school.
Volunteer and support charities when you can.
Be confident; speak your mind.
Donate blood if you're able to.
Surround yourself by positive people.
I also make sure to avoid doing things that would give a bad impression:
Like, I don't do crack.
Hmmm.... it seems like that list should probably be a lot longer. I know there are a lot of things I shouldn't be doing, that my kids would probably beg me to stop. For instance, when they catch me dancing in the kitchen and singing along to the radio when I'm making dinner, the look on their faces is a mixture of horror and disgust. Similar to if they just witnessed a wild animal getting slaughtered in the woods.
But you know what? Here's my theory on raising kids - as long as I set a (semi) good example for my kids and do what's necessary to ensure they end up as decent, kind and productive tax-paying members of society - I should be allowed to be as goofy and embarrasing as I want. I gave birth to all four of them (three of them without any drugs) so I feel I earned that right.
A few months ago I was bringing my daughter Sophie and a friend to the movie. I asked if she was planning on meeting any boys there. She assured me she wasn't. After I dropped her off, she and her friend stood in line in front of the theater, waiting to go in. I drove away slowly and yelled out the window: "Make good choices! Leave room for Jesus!"
She looked at me, mortified and speechless, and I drove away completely satisfied with the impression I left.
A couple years ago I attended my 20 year high school class reunion. Talk about a fun time. The night before the banquet a bunch of us went out to the local bars and proceeded to drink for most of the evening. At some point in the evening, a woman with a prosthetic leg came into the bar (and no, this isn't the beginning of some joke). She unscrewed it, the bartender rinsed it out, and then proceeded to fill it up with tap beer. It was then that a few of us thought it would be a good idea to drink beer out of this fake leg.
Now, I know I wasn't the only one who did this, but apparently I was the only one caught on film. This is probably reason #217 why I can never run for public office.

Needless to say, when I have to have the "responsible drinking" speech with my children once they get into high school, they'll probably point to this picture of me and give me the "Really?" look.
But as parents, most of us try - most of the time - to be good role models. We really do. We shouldn't be penalized and ridiculed for letting our hair down and having a good time. Our kids need to know we're human and have faults, too. And that we may not always make the best decisions, but we do the best with what we can.
So my lovely children... I will not apologize for singing off-key to Salt-N-Peppa, shaking my hips when I make lasagna, or yelling out the window in front of your friends. Nor will I feel bad for dragging you out of the cafeteria at school during lunch because the vice-principal called to inform me you broke the rules. Again. When you have your kids you can be as embarrasing as you want. It'll be your right. And hopefully I'll be around and just enjoying what I see. I'll probably be a velour-track suit-wearing senior citizen, wearing big cocktail rings, teased hair and red lipstick, but I'll be happy.

Dance on, girls!

The first time I ever remember wanting to take dance lessons was when I was in 3rd grade. I was watching "Happy Days" and the Fonz had a girlfriend who was a ballerina. She was the most glamorous woman I had ever seen.
Until, of course, I saw Fonzie's new girlfriend - Pinky Tuscadero. She was the epitome of cool. But I knew my parents wouldn't let me drive cars in demolition derbys, so I would have to settle for another role model.
The ballerina seemed like a good choice.
My mom promptly enrolled me in ballet lessons. I think I lasted a year before I realized that ballet was not my thing. I could totally appreciate the poofy skirts for the recital, but I had no time for classical music and a discipline that required me to pull my hair flat (gasp!) into a bun for performances.
From then on, I took multiple classes...usually some type of jazz combo. My favorites were the actual dance recitals. We would spend all year preparing for a three minute routine on stage. I loved that the costumes were pretty elaborate. (As seen in this picture, when I wore it for a routine to Star Wars)

And then my parents would buy the portrait packages that the studios would convince us to purchase as well. For some reason my mom bought this exact photo on a large 5 inch button (because who wouldn't proudly sport this image around on a daily basis???). Somehow my friend Mandy got ahold of the button and now refuses to give it back. Once in awhile while we're having a drink in her garage she'll nonchalantly head into the house, and then stroll outside wearing this button. She'll wait until we notice and then of course we'll all laugh. Personally I just think everyone is jealous because they didn't get to wear a custom head-piece with cascading tinsel. My social circle is filled with haters. Haters of the early 80's dance recital costumes.
Now that I have three daughters, I have spent more money than I care to count on dance classes. Sophie was bored within the first two minutes and never enrolled after her first year. Frankie and Chloe have loved taking the classes and I get a thrill that they are taking dance classes like their mama used to.
Of course, they don't offer the Star Wars routine classes that we had to subject our audiences to. Now they offer Hip Hop for 8 year olds, and Junior Dance Line. They're all much more cool sounding. The first dance class I signed Chloe up for was a combo class and she was 5. She hated it. She had to dress up like Snow White at the recital and use a broom as a prop during the song "Whistle While You Work." At one point she threw her broom down in disgust and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.
That's my girl. I didn't really blame her. Who the hell whistles while they do housework?
Fast forward 3 years later and I signed her up for Hip Hop. The first night I watched her in practice I was both amazed and horrified by how she could "shake that." I was proud that this child of mine could move in ways I didn't think possible, but also acutely aware that she could also be a successful stripper as a back up career choice.
The dancing is just so much different now than it used to be. Have you seen some of the videos??
I don't even want to know the extent of Freak Dancing. Anything that could possibly cause you to have to take penicillin afterward is a little too "intense." I'm hoping my girls decide to take up knitting and meditation as they get older and not have the urge to grind up on some guy's leg.
So for now, I will continue to enroll my girls in dance classes. I will hope they learn to perfect "jazz hands!" rather than a move that simulates a butt spanking.
And of course, if they want me to re-enact my famous Star Wars moves from 1981, I'll be happy to oblige.

Sleep Delirium

Remember when your kids were newborns and you were on auto-pilot for the first several months, maybe even years? Sometimes I wonder how any of us even survived that. When I think about how little sleep I actually lived on, and was still able to manage to stumble out of the house each morning in matching shoes is completely baffling to me. How did we do it? How did we get by on so little sleep and not walk around in a near coma every day? I'm surprised I didn't leave one of my kids at Kwik Trip by accident on a regular basis.
And that newborn eat-every-three-hours thing is like a cruel joke. I was horrified with my first baby that it was actually three hours from when she started eating, not when she finished. If she was in a "sleepy eating" mode, it could last way too long. And then just when I would start to drift off into that blissful state of unconsciousness, I would be awakened by a hungry cry. How the Octomom managed to do it with her entire brood and not go completely batshit crazy is beyond me. Oh wait... I've seen some of her recent television interviews. Never mind.
I can remember feeling just absolutely desperate to get sleep. I would lay there and make deals with God. "Please," I'd pray. "Just make her go back to sleep and I swear I'll be a better Christian. I'll go to church more. I'll quit flipping off pro-life billboards. I'll make sandwiches for the homeless. Did I mention I'll go to church? Please just let her go back to sleep."
I think God was busy sleeping because my prayers never seemed to work.
When my last baby, my son Wyatt, was born he weighed 10 pounds and ate like a trucker. He was never satisfied and used my boobs as a pacifier. I didn't care. One time the cable guy came in and asked if I ran a daycare. "No," I told him, flashing him as I switched sides with the baby. "They're all mine."
He shuddered. I didn't blame him.
Once I confided to my cousin Jenni that since Wyatt was born I was only counting my sleep in minutes, not even hours. "It's horrible," I told her. "I think a two hour nap would be a luxury."
I still remember one night when he was in the bassinet next to my bed, and I was up every 30 minutes. I felt like I was losing my mind. After about the 6th time in three hours that my husband handed me the baby, I thought I was going to crack. I'm pretty sure I took a swing at him in frustration (my husband, not the baby. The baby was already attached to my nipple like Velcro.)
Yet somehow I got through it. As our babies make the miraculous transition and eventually start sleeping through the night, us parents emerge like battle-weary soldiers. We're worn down and exhausted, but proud that we made it through hell and back. We should seriously get medals. And I know several parents whose children still don't sleep through the night, and their kids are school age now. How those parents don't resort to nightly Benadryl druggings is a miracle.
As my kids have gotten older, it has become more and more rare that they get up in the middle of the night. It doesn't mean I jump out of bed with enthusiasm and energy every time I hear a weak "I don't feel so good..." followed by a splash of vomit next to my bed. I'm still bone weary and desperate for sleep. It's like the no-sleep soldier that I had become when my kids were babies has disappeared, and been replaced by a mom who would probably cut off her left arm for a full 8 hours rest.
Last night was a perfect example. We are in the middle of an incredible heat wave and it was still in the mid-90s with an 80 degree dew point when I finally fell asleep. Even with the central air on and the ceiling fan running, I had a hard time falling asleep.
Several hours later my 7 year old son showed up at the side of my bed.
"Mom," he whined. "My butt itches."
"What?" I mumbled into the pillow.
"It itches and its driving me crazy!" By now his whine was on full throttle and I slipped into automatic mom mode. I looked at the clock and did a quick calculation. Ok, I told myself. It's 2:57 and if I can get his butt to stop itching and him back to sleep in the next 20 minutes, I can still get another 3 hours of shut eye.
I followed him into the bathroom, barely awake. Turns out he had the unfortunate circumstance of getting several mosquito bites in his butt crack.
"Ok," I told him, as I grabbed the tube of hydrocortisone cream. "Bend over."
He looked at me horrified. "No! What are you going to do?"
I looked in the mirror and stopped. Dear God, I was a sight. Hair messed up, my eyes barely open, and an index finger covered in white cream. No wonder he was slowly backing away, holding his shorts tight against his little body.
After a few minutes he took matters into his own hands and stopped the itching on his own (with probably less invasive measures than I had planned), and crawled into bed with me.
I kissed him good night, then turned to the wall.
"Mom, is that a thong sticking out of your pajama pants?" he asked after a minute.
"Mmmm hmmm..." I mumbled, on the brink of falling into the blessed dark abyss of sleep.
"It's in your butt crack. Ick."
"Oh yeah?" I responded. "At least it doesn't itch!"
And within a few seconds, we both fell fast asleep.

Bad to the Bone

I think it all started when I saw Kristy McNichol in the movie "Little Darlings." She was so daring, so bad, and I wanted to be just like her. Plus I think she got to make out with Matt Dillon, too. She got to be sassy AND kiss a boy who was on all the posters from Tiger Beat, are you kidding me? What a life.
In my head, I think I always envisioned myself as much more of a bad ass than I really had the desire to be. I really like the idea of wanting to come across as don't-mess-with-me, but I don't necessarily want to BE a bad ass. In all honesty, I think I just really liked the fashion possibilities.
In junior high I fell head over heels for Billy Idol. That blond spiky hair, those eyes, that lip sneer... it made my heart skip a beat. My friend Beth and I dressed up in outfits that we thought were very bad, very cool, very Billy Idol-like. I giggle now when I look at my parachute pants and (as my friend Mandy calls it) my "Flock of Seagulls" hair.

Remember when Madonna first came out and wore those lacy white dresses with the blazon Boy Toy buckle? I ran right out to Rag Stock and bought up over a hundred dollars worth of Madonna-like clothing and fabric accessories. I must have forgotten that I didn't really know how to sew. On to the next phase!
I've tried it all. A faux hawk, purple streaks, black hair, red hair, bleach blond hair (thank you Lady Clairol Maxi Blond), spikes, you name it - I tried it. That's the beauty of hair experimentation...it always grows back.
But I knew that to truly be a rebel, a legitimate bad ass, I needed to take it to the next level. I needed to get tattoos and piercings. Both really hurt. And I try to avoid physical discomfort as much as humanly possible. Back in the day, my mom and aunt Betty were nurses at the clinic in town and were able to bring home ear piercing guns (why were nurses doing ear piercings at the doctor's office?? "Here's your tetanus shot, and let's get your ears pierced too while we're at it."). My cousin Jena and I both have distinct memories of our mothers chasing us with those damn ear piercing guns to finish the job. We each had one ear done and then a reckoning of "Screw that. You're not doing that to the other ear."
That was the only thing I ever wanted pierced. Fast forward a few decades later when I was working at State Farm. My manager called me into his office and asked if I'd be interested in transferring to their corporate offices in Illinois. "Here's the deal," he told me. "I need a strong female manager and I think you'd be a great fit. The problem is, living there is like living in a fishbowl. So you couldn't really like go out and get your nose pierced or anything crazy like that."
Now, most of my close friends know that one of my number one pet peeves is being told what and what not to do. It's like it brings out the inner 3 year old in me, every single time. So when that manager told me that, what do you think I did? Yep, decided to run out and get my nose pierced.
I chose a local tattoo/piercing shop in town. For moral support I brought along Jena. She was a public health nurse after all and would be able to keep me calm during a possibly painful procedure. Or so I thought.
Once we got there I found out that apparently I have exceptionally thick cartilage in my nose so a simple piercing device wasn't going to work. Instead, they brought out some medieval looking corkscrew thing that they were going to twist into the side of my nose. I told myself I could handle it. I've given birth, for crying out loud. It's no big deal.
Jena must have thought differently. After only one or two clockwise twists into my schnoz, I heard a noise and realized Jena had fainted and slumped to the floor. Everyone stopped what they were doing and rushed over to make sure she was okay. Everyone except for me. I still had a corkscrew sticking out of my nose. Apparently she can't handle being a bad ass either.
Not too long after college I convinced myself to get a tattoo. I had heard they hurt, but a lot of people said they weren't bad at all. That you can actually get addicted to them. Yeah, to those of you who say they don't hurt I have one thing to say to you:
Liar, Liar, pants on fire.
The only way I can describe it is like a knife... that's on fire... digging into your skin. Over and over again. I've been told that it hurt so much because I had it done on the inside of my ankle, and it's because there's so little fat there to cushion the pain. Whatever... I could have one on my hips where there is PLENTY of cushion and I would still feel that pain and wish for instant death. No thanks.
One of my girlfriends just got a tattoo on the inside of her arm while she was at Country Fest.
"Really?" I asked her. "Did you do anything else crazy, like get your labia pierced while you were?"
"No," she laughed. "Not that."
"That's good," I told her. "Because that could be awkward when you show people. Like, you'd be at the grocery store and see someone and say, 'Hey, wanna see my piercing? Here, hold my celery...'".
Now I will admit that there is a piercing that I think is super cute. I think they call it the Monroe piercing, to resemble Marilyn Monroe's beauty mark. A few of my friends have had it done and it's adorable on them. My concern is that the immediate soreness afterwards might pose a risk in my enjoyment of food. And we can't have that!
So as much as I admire the naughty Little Darlings out there, and as much as I secretly long to pierce my eyebrow and get another tattoo, I'm going to have to settle for less.
Like jeans with bling, and rhinestones on my pedicures. Maybe some fake bullet holes on my car.
Bad ass indeed.