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.