Ever since my kids were little, I've been taking them to the movies. It started when I had a 2 year old and a 4 year old. I was thrilled that I could bring them someplace and they would be mesmerized - and quiet - for almost two hours.
Throughout the years, more movies - and children - came along. I have these great intentions that going to the movies with them will be an easy, low-key parenting activity. I have been proven wrong more times than I can count. And it's usually the youngest two, Chloe and Wyatt, who throw a wrench in my plans.
Several years ago when Chloe was about 3, I took the girls to a movie. She sat on my lap for most of the movie. At one point she said "I don't feel so good." A big ol' warning light should have gone off, seeing as she mentioned it earlier, too. But I just snuggled her closer and kept watching the movie. A few minutes later I felt her body do the unmistakable heaving motion of getting ready to puke. I remained absolutely still for a split second, thinking "This cannot be happening."
I was wrong. It was.
She heaved again and I heard the splat of barf hit my feet. As luck would have it, I was wearing flip-flops. I scooped her up and ran up the aisle. When I got to the door of the lobby, I had to kick it open, Rambo-style, so I could get her into the bathroom and clean us both off.
Months later we were all at the movies again. And again she was sitting on my lap. This time she was feeling better, and proceeded to talk non-stop throughout the entire movie. It was a family movie, so the parents around me weren't too disturbed at first. But she just kept talking and talking and talking. Finally I had had enough, so I grabbed her elbow and did the mother hiss into her ear: "Chloe Louise, you hush up this INSTANT." She slowly turned around and said matter of factly: "First of all, your eyes are scaring me. Second of all, your breath smells."
Chloe - two. Mom - zero.
When my son Wyatt was maybe 2 years old, I decided to take all four kids to another movie. And in a moment of complete delusion, I told the two older girls they could bring a friend too. What was I thinking? As soon as I parked the van, everyone took off running to the front door of the theater.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Stay together!" They all stood impatiently by the concession counter. I was at the ticket booth, paying for everyone, when Wyatt grabbed on to the velvet rope in the lobby. You know those thick ropes that are held up by those brass, heavy columns? He leaned on to the rope, which caused the brass column to swing around and connect right smack on his forehead. Instantly blood started gushing out. He started crying immediately, I let out a "Holy shit!" and the other 5 kids scattered like alley cats into the dark theater. Two hours, a trip to the emergency room and six stitches later, he was fine.
One of my most memorable trips to the movies with the kids was a couple Christmases ago. I took three of them to see "Marley and Me." Spoiler alert if you haven't seen it or read the book, but the dog dies at the end. And in hindsight, maybe not the best movie I could have brought them to... especially since our own family dog had died a year before. Toward the end of the movie, during a very touching scene, I noticed Wyatt sniffling and burying his head in my lap. "It's okay, buddy. It's just a movie." Pretty soon the lights came on and I started ushering the kids up the aisle. It wasn't long before I noticed Chloe was crying. A little quietly at first, but by the time we were streaming out of the lobby she was sobbing. A few movie go-ers waiting in line for the next show looked at me with eyebrows raised. "Guess we all know now what happened to the dog," I said, trying to make light of it. By the time we made it to the van, all three children were wailing. It was like those Iranian women on the news when they're publicly mourning a death. When I pulled into the garage, my husband and their older sister came out, because they could hear the crying from inside the house. The kids piled out of the van, snot running down their faces, clutching their left-over movie popcorn. Not one of my most proud mothering moments, but funny as hell.
So now when I get a rare adult only trip to the theater, and I see a mom struggling with trying to get her children to be quiet, or balance one baby on a hip while she's trying to pay for a box of Junior Mints and wrangle a pre-schooler away from the velvet ropes, all I can do is shake my head in sympathy and solidarity.
I feel your pain, Sista.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Martha Stewart Can Suck It
Out of all the holidays there are, Easter is the one that makes me feel the most inadequate as a mother. Probably because I'm not exactly sure what's necessary to give my kids the warm fuzzy memories that will stay with them through adulthood. It seems like there's an awful lot of effort involved in this pastel-hell holiday and it makes me crabby.
Are Easter baskets enough?
Do we need to do a full scale egg hunt?
Do the plastic eggs need to be filled with treats and/or money?
And since when did the Easter bunny start providing "gifts" in the baskets? That almost seems like an expectation now.
Just to make myself feel worse, I went on Martha Stewart's website to see what her suggestions were for Easter. There's an entire article on how to make Crepe Paper Carrots. And if you have enough time, she'll instruct you how to hollow out eggshells and make vases for tiny floral arrangements.
Are you kidding me? Who in the hell has time for that?
Today after work I'll go home and dye eggs with the kids. Then I'll see if I have any Easter decorations to put out. Come to think of it, I probably should have thought to dig those out more than 36 hours before the actual holiday. If I'm feeling really domestic, maybe I'll use the Easter Bunny cake pan I bought several years ago, when I must have only had 2 kids and not 4. I think I've only used it once. It sits on a lonely shelf next to a cake pan I have shaped like a penis (purchased for a bachelorette party). Sadly, the penis cake pan has seen WAY more oven time than the bunny cake. Because hey... penis cakes are funny. Although, in full disclosure, Wyatt caught me decorating one once and he said, "Oh look, a guitar cake!" Ummm... not really. But quick, pose with it while I grab my camera because it'll make for a great picture when you're older.
Martha Stewart also suggests ways to make homemade Easter grass. And WHY would you need to do that? Because the bulk bags of it at Target for 25 cents is too expensive? It all comes down to cost and effort. It's exactly why I've only made homemade potato salad once in my life. It took an awful lot of time for something I could have picked up at the grocery store in five minutes flat.
Martha also shows ways how you and your children can make pom-pom bunnies and use them as centerpieces. Probably next to your newly constructed Easter grass.
No thanks.
I think we'll have a laid back Easter this year and leave the Martha madness to the over-achieving parents that I try not to hang out with.
Are Easter baskets enough?
Do we need to do a full scale egg hunt?
Do the plastic eggs need to be filled with treats and/or money?
And since when did the Easter bunny start providing "gifts" in the baskets? That almost seems like an expectation now.
Just to make myself feel worse, I went on Martha Stewart's website to see what her suggestions were for Easter. There's an entire article on how to make Crepe Paper Carrots. And if you have enough time, she'll instruct you how to hollow out eggshells and make vases for tiny floral arrangements.
Are you kidding me? Who in the hell has time for that?
Today after work I'll go home and dye eggs with the kids. Then I'll see if I have any Easter decorations to put out. Come to think of it, I probably should have thought to dig those out more than 36 hours before the actual holiday. If I'm feeling really domestic, maybe I'll use the Easter Bunny cake pan I bought several years ago, when I must have only had 2 kids and not 4. I think I've only used it once. It sits on a lonely shelf next to a cake pan I have shaped like a penis (purchased for a bachelorette party). Sadly, the penis cake pan has seen WAY more oven time than the bunny cake. Because hey... penis cakes are funny. Although, in full disclosure, Wyatt caught me decorating one once and he said, "Oh look, a guitar cake!" Ummm... not really. But quick, pose with it while I grab my camera because it'll make for a great picture when you're older.
Martha Stewart also suggests ways to make homemade Easter grass. And WHY would you need to do that? Because the bulk bags of it at Target for 25 cents is too expensive? It all comes down to cost and effort. It's exactly why I've only made homemade potato salad once in my life. It took an awful lot of time for something I could have picked up at the grocery store in five minutes flat.
Martha also shows ways how you and your children can make pom-pom bunnies and use them as centerpieces. Probably next to your newly constructed Easter grass.
No thanks.
I think we'll have a laid back Easter this year and leave the Martha madness to the over-achieving parents that I try not to hang out with.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Misguided Vanity
Isn't Vanity one of the 7 Deadly Sins? And why is it such a bad thing? More and more I hear my friends make comments like, "Oh I can't help it... I'm so vain." Or "I shouldn't care how I look in that photo but I do..." We act like we're going straight to hell in a hand basket for checking to see if we have lipstick on our teeth before we get out of the car, or when we turn around in front of a mirror to check out how our butt looks in jeans.
There are probably even reasons from an evolution standpoint that people who were more vain lived longer. You know, some cave woman was admiring her dirty face, ratted hair and 4 teeth in the reflection of some watering hole, and WHOA - there's a woolly mammoth behind her. Better run! See, her vanity probably saved her.
I don't think my vanity has ever saved my life. Maybe indirectly it did. Reason #187 why I never tried meth was because hello ~ have you seen the skin of meth addicts? Yuck. I have a pretty addictive personality so it's a good thing I value my teeth and complexion.
I will, however, be the first to admit my vanity is pretty misguided. I have battled my weight since I've been in elementary school. I remember writing in my third grade journal that I was on a diet, and I proudly scribbled that all I had to eat that day was a slice of cheese and an apple. My teacher's comments? "Good job! Great willpower, Vanessa!"
I was 73 pounds.
And so the lifelong diet battle began...
And my weight, especially as an adult, has fluctuated like a see-saw. It can go up, up, up... and once in awhile dip down low(er) but never to a Kate Moss level. Seriously, did I EVER weigh 114 pounds? I suppose I did at some point. I must have slept through it.
Back to my misguided vanity.... I have ALWAYS thought I looked better than I actually did. I will credit my parents and friends for their encouragement and compliments. You know how anorexics will look in a mirror and see someone fat? Yeah, I was the complete opposite of that. During my heaviest phase, when I was WELL over 200 pounds, I could look in the mirror, give a little side turn, stick out a hip and think, "Damn girl... you're lookin' GOOD!" Then I would see some horrific photos of me later the same day (why oh why did I ever think it was a good idea to wear ruffles) and I would resemble Oprah, circa 1994. Ugh, it was like a slap in the face. But now, thanks to digital photos, I simply delete the ones I don't like. I have been known to call up a girlfriend immediately after seeing some photos posted on Facebook and snarl, "Take that photo down IMMEDIATELY. I look FAT! Crop out my belly or something."
My weight problems as an adult were exasperated by 4 pregnancies in less than 7 years. I could never gain that cute little recommended 20-25 pounds. Oh no. Not me. I usually gained that by the end of the first trimester. By the time I was in my third trimester, I was all boobs and butt and hips and belly. I looked like an African fertility statue. We won't even discuss what happened to my nipples.
I also have decided I have inappropriate vanity. Last year one of my girlfriends, one of my most favorite people on this earth, was dating a man that we affectionately referred to as Douche Bag. He thought he was the second coming of Christ. Plus he was a control freak, a stalker, etc. My friend finally saw the light and dumped him. He, of course, wasn't about to go quietly. He sent a deluge of texts and phone calls. He left messages and showed up unannounced. It was getting to the scary point, so my friend was debating on whether to get the police involved. I was at her apartment one night last fall. We were sitting outside her patio, enjoying the weather. All of sudden, out of the shadows of the parking lot, strolled D-Bag. My friend and I stopped talking. I think I stopped breathing for a minute too. This guy had turned into a loose cannon and neither my friend nor I had any idea what he was going to do. He was angry and he was trying not to lose his cool. And then in a moment I will never forget, he reached into his pocket to pull something out. My friend and I both thought it was a gun.
I am proud to admit my first thought was: "Oh my god, what is this a-hole doing? I have 4 babies at home right now. He is going to make them motherless!!"
I am not so proud to admit that my next thought was: "Well, if he fires in my direction I am going to turn away slightly, so the bullet might just graze the top of my shoulder. That way I can still wear caplet sleeves in the summer and no one will see the scar."
It turned out it was a pack of cigarettes he pulled out of his pocket.
And as a final example of misguided vanity, I even rubbed Jergen's self tanning lotion on my legs the night before I did the Polar Plunge and jumped into a frozen lake this winter. Because hey... what if people were looking....
But you know what....life's too short not to care what how we look in Facebook photos... I say embrace your vanity!
There are probably even reasons from an evolution standpoint that people who were more vain lived longer. You know, some cave woman was admiring her dirty face, ratted hair and 4 teeth in the reflection of some watering hole, and WHOA - there's a woolly mammoth behind her. Better run! See, her vanity probably saved her.
I don't think my vanity has ever saved my life. Maybe indirectly it did. Reason #187 why I never tried meth was because hello ~ have you seen the skin of meth addicts? Yuck. I have a pretty addictive personality so it's a good thing I value my teeth and complexion.
I will, however, be the first to admit my vanity is pretty misguided. I have battled my weight since I've been in elementary school. I remember writing in my third grade journal that I was on a diet, and I proudly scribbled that all I had to eat that day was a slice of cheese and an apple. My teacher's comments? "Good job! Great willpower, Vanessa!"
I was 73 pounds.
And so the lifelong diet battle began...
And my weight, especially as an adult, has fluctuated like a see-saw. It can go up, up, up... and once in awhile dip down low(er) but never to a Kate Moss level. Seriously, did I EVER weigh 114 pounds? I suppose I did at some point. I must have slept through it.
Back to my misguided vanity.... I have ALWAYS thought I looked better than I actually did. I will credit my parents and friends for their encouragement and compliments. You know how anorexics will look in a mirror and see someone fat? Yeah, I was the complete opposite of that. During my heaviest phase, when I was WELL over 200 pounds, I could look in the mirror, give a little side turn, stick out a hip and think, "Damn girl... you're lookin' GOOD!" Then I would see some horrific photos of me later the same day (why oh why did I ever think it was a good idea to wear ruffles) and I would resemble Oprah, circa 1994. Ugh, it was like a slap in the face. But now, thanks to digital photos, I simply delete the ones I don't like. I have been known to call up a girlfriend immediately after seeing some photos posted on Facebook and snarl, "Take that photo down IMMEDIATELY. I look FAT! Crop out my belly or something."
My weight problems as an adult were exasperated by 4 pregnancies in less than 7 years. I could never gain that cute little recommended 20-25 pounds. Oh no. Not me. I usually gained that by the end of the first trimester. By the time I was in my third trimester, I was all boobs and butt and hips and belly. I looked like an African fertility statue. We won't even discuss what happened to my nipples.
I also have decided I have inappropriate vanity. Last year one of my girlfriends, one of my most favorite people on this earth, was dating a man that we affectionately referred to as Douche Bag. He thought he was the second coming of Christ. Plus he was a control freak, a stalker, etc. My friend finally saw the light and dumped him. He, of course, wasn't about to go quietly. He sent a deluge of texts and phone calls. He left messages and showed up unannounced. It was getting to the scary point, so my friend was debating on whether to get the police involved. I was at her apartment one night last fall. We were sitting outside her patio, enjoying the weather. All of sudden, out of the shadows of the parking lot, strolled D-Bag. My friend and I stopped talking. I think I stopped breathing for a minute too. This guy had turned into a loose cannon and neither my friend nor I had any idea what he was going to do. He was angry and he was trying not to lose his cool. And then in a moment I will never forget, he reached into his pocket to pull something out. My friend and I both thought it was a gun.
I am proud to admit my first thought was: "Oh my god, what is this a-hole doing? I have 4 babies at home right now. He is going to make them motherless!!"
I am not so proud to admit that my next thought was: "Well, if he fires in my direction I am going to turn away slightly, so the bullet might just graze the top of my shoulder. That way I can still wear caplet sleeves in the summer and no one will see the scar."
It turned out it was a pack of cigarettes he pulled out of his pocket.
And as a final example of misguided vanity, I even rubbed Jergen's self tanning lotion on my legs the night before I did the Polar Plunge and jumped into a frozen lake this winter. Because hey... what if people were looking....
But you know what....life's too short not to care what how we look in Facebook photos... I say embrace your vanity!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
You can't HANDLE the truth!
I used to assume that if I encouraged my children to always tell the truth and explained to them why it's so important to never lie, they would be completely honest with me. All the time. Oh boy, I crack myself up sometimes when I think of the naivete of early motherhood. Children not lying goes right along with the delusions of thinking my children would never bite and never set fire to anything. Both of which have happened. My kids were such horrible biters when they were little that my oldest got kicked out of daycare when she was just 13 months old for "incessant biting." Talk about feeling like a failure as a mother when picking up your child from daycare and finding out you weren't welcome back. Plus I was already pregnant with my second baby... because hey, there wasn't much time during the late 90's/early 2000's when I WASN'T knocked up.
About a year ago one of my children confessed to me that "just a small fire" was luckily put out when one of them decided to see what would happen when they slowly draped a paper towel over a lit candle. I looked at all four of them and demanded "At what point did any of you think this was a good idea?" No one would admit it was them, either. There was so much finger pointing going on it made me dizzy.
Last night I was driving my daughter Chloe to dance practice. She started rambling on in a typical third grade girl style. "...and so you know what Jenna said Mom? She said it's scientifically proven that dogs are NOT color blind. She said that scientists have proven it. In scientific studies. Do you think that's true?"
"I don't know, " I said. "I've never been a dog." (Insert comments about middle school acne, flat hair and braces here).
"Well," Chloe huffed. "I don't even know if I should believe her. She's Little Miss-Larry-Lies-A-Lot."
Ok... coming from the girl who denied just an hour earlier that she was throwing raw eggs at a tree in our yard. Complete with egg shells by her feet.
One time when my daughter Frankie was about six, I noticed that someone had written with a magic marker on the living room wall. Her two younger sisters were too small to reach that height, but I really wanted Frankie to admit she did it. Finally, after confronting her with the evidence, she told how it "possibly" could have happened.
"I think, Mom, what happened was this... I was just walking through the living room, holding the marker and minding my own business, when I started to trip. And as I was flying threw the air, I was trying very hard not to let that marker touch the wall, because I knew you wouldn't want that to happen..."
"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So you were kind of flying through the air, almost in slow motion?"
She nodded. "Kind of, yes."
I looked at her and asked, "Almost like in The Matrix?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind. Continue."
She finished her story explaining how she tried with all her might not to write on that wall, but somehow it accidentally happened. And it's an accident right? Can't really be blamed for that.
And it really doesn't matter what evidence the kids are presented with...they'll deny it to their last breath.
"Who drank all the Diet Coke?"
"Not me, Mom."
"Then why are there 3 empty cans in your closet?"
"Because my sister is FRAMING me. Gosh, you never believe me!"
And my favorite from last year:
"Who unwrapped all the tampons in the bathroom?"
All the girls pointed at their brother. "That was Wyatt."
He nodded sheepishly. "I thought they were like little parachutes."
Okay, fair enough. I can see that. At least SOMEONE told me the truth.
About a year ago one of my children confessed to me that "just a small fire" was luckily put out when one of them decided to see what would happen when they slowly draped a paper towel over a lit candle. I looked at all four of them and demanded "At what point did any of you think this was a good idea?" No one would admit it was them, either. There was so much finger pointing going on it made me dizzy.
Last night I was driving my daughter Chloe to dance practice. She started rambling on in a typical third grade girl style. "...and so you know what Jenna said Mom? She said it's scientifically proven that dogs are NOT color blind. She said that scientists have proven it. In scientific studies. Do you think that's true?"
"I don't know, " I said. "I've never been a dog." (Insert comments about middle school acne, flat hair and braces here).
"Well," Chloe huffed. "I don't even know if I should believe her. She's Little Miss-Larry-Lies-A-Lot."
Ok... coming from the girl who denied just an hour earlier that she was throwing raw eggs at a tree in our yard. Complete with egg shells by her feet.
One time when my daughter Frankie was about six, I noticed that someone had written with a magic marker on the living room wall. Her two younger sisters were too small to reach that height, but I really wanted Frankie to admit she did it. Finally, after confronting her with the evidence, she told how it "possibly" could have happened.
"I think, Mom, what happened was this... I was just walking through the living room, holding the marker and minding my own business, when I started to trip. And as I was flying threw the air, I was trying very hard not to let that marker touch the wall, because I knew you wouldn't want that to happen..."
"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So you were kind of flying through the air, almost in slow motion?"
She nodded. "Kind of, yes."
I looked at her and asked, "Almost like in The Matrix?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind. Continue."
She finished her story explaining how she tried with all her might not to write on that wall, but somehow it accidentally happened. And it's an accident right? Can't really be blamed for that.
And it really doesn't matter what evidence the kids are presented with...they'll deny it to their last breath.
"Who drank all the Diet Coke?"
"Not me, Mom."
"Then why are there 3 empty cans in your closet?"
"Because my sister is FRAMING me. Gosh, you never believe me!"
And my favorite from last year:
"Who unwrapped all the tampons in the bathroom?"
All the girls pointed at their brother. "That was Wyatt."
He nodded sheepishly. "I thought they were like little parachutes."
Okay, fair enough. I can see that. At least SOMEONE told me the truth.
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