Netflix and chill...

It's not like I'm completely clueless when it comes to figuring out the lingo and accepted behavior of teens and young adults.
I know when to use "on fleek" compared to its first cousin "on point." (Hint... it has to do with eye brows).
I could, if forced, correctly use the phrase "turnt up" properly.
I know I'm supposed to only "like" my kids' statuses and photos on social media. God forbid if I make an actual comment, it mysteriously disappears within a couple minutes.
And if I answer a text like a 13 year old (Chloe: "Mom can we go to Target this weekend?" Me: "YASSS!") she'll most likely roll her eyes but at least she'll have to acknowledge I used the word in the correct context.
But I will admit it took me a bit to catch on to the true meaning of the phrase "Netflix and chill."
I truly thought it meant just that... come over to binge watch some series like "American Horror Story" or "Orange is the New Black", order a pizza and relax on the couch.
I had no idea that everyone under the age of 30 was using it as a code for having sex.
How did I miss that?
And seriously, why you gotta ruin a good thing? A true Netflix and chill date is my idea of a near-perfect evening. Your date comes over with some beer, and you decide on which episode of "House of Cards" to start. Plus, you're most likely wearing yoga pants and you're already in a semi-horizontal position, so if you DO decide to get frisky after a bit, you're already halfway there. It's like the lazy girl's dream date. But there's no ultimate expectation. Maybe you end up doing the horizontal tango, maybe you don't. It's a mystery. But hey, at least you get to watch some good TV.
Another thing that changed in the dating landscape over the last several years is the term "send me a picture." When I first started dating after my divorce, and some guy would ask me to send him a picture, I honestly thought he meant a head and shoulder shot. Like, similar to our senior pictures from the 80s, when we used to give a wallet sized picture to our crush. Now, it usually means "send me a nude."
Whatever. I can usually creatively get through that conversation without sending a close up of my va jay jay. The worst is when the guy does one of the most annoying things out there when you're starting to date: sends an unsolicited dick pic.
Honestly, why???
What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to react? It's one thing if you asked him to send it...it's quite another if it's from a guy you just shared an appetizer with at TGI Fridays.
I heard someone say once that women usually react to an unsolicited dick pic similar to when some one's cat shows up with a dead mouse at the front door: we murmur "thank you, that's nice", and the second they turn their head, we throw it away.
So maybe that will be the biggest challenge when it comes to my dating life - figuring out what exactly means what. I will need to be clear about what I'm asking. God forbid I text a potential date "Send me a pic" and then, without warning, I get a picture of his "baby arm".
Thank god I have teenagers that usually keep me clued in. And there's always Google and Urban Dictionary. When in doubt, search it out.
Speaking of my kids, I think a good old fashioned horrifying conversation is overdue.
I think I'll tell 'em I can't wait until next weekend so I can Netflix and chill with someone.

Viva la Pubes!

"How do I confront aging? With a wonder and a terror. Yeah, I'll say that. Wonder and terror." ~ Keanu Reeves


It used to be in our 20s and 30s my friends and I would ask each other questions like, "Where'd you get those shoes? That shirt? That purse?"
Now in our 40s, our questions are more singular.
"Your skin looks great. What do you use?"
"Do you get fillers?"
"Jesus, did you get a laser treatment? Your face looks AMAZING."
Who gives a crap if our purse is Coach anymore. Our seasonal clutch can look like it's the finest of leathers, but our faces better not.
It's a funny thing, this aging business. I honestly haven't thought about it much until recently. I've been blessed with good genes and have been using moisturizer for as long as I can remember, but genetics and Olay Regenerist can only carry you so far. The rest is a result of our environment and getting older.
The other day I was at a pool party with my friends and we were talking about sleeping positions. I mentioned I was a side sleeper, but it had a cosmetic drawback.
"Like what?" my friend asked.
I held up three fingers in my cleavage, bending them and pointing toward her. "You know, like you get that pterodactyl claw mark on your chest when you wake up." My friend nodded gravely. She got it. That was never a concern for us a few years ago. And a wrinkled décolletage is about as sexy as Donald Trump in a string bikini.
You know what else wasn't a concern a few years ago? Our eyesight. Now my friends and I will discuss it like we just discovered a new sex position. "Have you gotten cheaters yet? You haven't?? Seriously, you need to. You will love them." They'll nod knowingly and I'll think to myself "No way in HELL am I getting cheaters."
But alas, my arm is no longer long enough to hold something out so I can read the small print. And that's why I found myself shopping one day and looking at a pair of animal print cheaters with rhinestones on the frames. I hurriedly paid for them and shoved them in my purse, vowing to tell no one.
Of course my kids noticed when I put them on to read. "Are you using cheaters now?"
"Yes," I told them. "And it's like a damn miracle. I should have been using these two years ago."
Unfortunately my joy at my new vision was short-lived, however. I came home from work last week and was informed by my oldest daughter that our one-year old dog destroyed a few things when he was left alone. "The dog ate your cheaters."
Great.
You know what else I notice is different when you get older? Pubic hair.
Thank god I didn't fall into the "permanently remove all traces of pubic hair" craze of the mid 2000s. Don't get me wrong... I do get a regular wax. Grown women feel about a bikini wax the same way 6 year olds feel about putting out a plate of cookies for Santa...we're not 100% sure about that upcoming evening's activities, but we really hope something good is going to happen. I just wouldn't do anything drastic like getting EVERYTHING permanently removed.
I remember about 12 years ago one of my co-workers leaned over my cube wall and said, "Hey, they're running a special at one of those laser places. You can get a two-for-one special. So like, you can get your leg hair removed and then they can do your pubic hair too. For free."
I looked at her quizzically. "I don't think that's such a good idea," I told her.
"Why not?" she asked, surprised.
"Because. Just because 'bare-as-a-Barbie-doll' is all the rage now doesn't mean it will be 10 or 20 years from now. We're all going to look like a plucked deli chicken down there when we're in the nursing home. And no one wants to see a 95 year-old's meat curtains."
She remained unconvinced. "Well, I'm getting it done. I'm never going to have to shave or wax my bikini hair again."
Well, good for her. But as you know... the trend for a visible bush is now back in vogue. I believe men (and women who love women) are no longer always interested in seeing something that resembles a toddler. They want a woman who looks like a woman. And for those of us who resisted the urge to permanently remove the bush, now we have options. We can continue to wax or shave and we can even get creative. I've heard there are women who dye it and have crazy shapes waxed into it. So if you want to color it hot pink and wax your lover's initials into it, you go girl.
But even with a trendy patch of pubic hair and blinged out cheaters, there are other signs of aging that can creep up on us. Previously I'd been obsessing over the wrinkles around my eyes. And no amount of eye cream can erase them. So unless I can find a giant clothes pin that I can attach to the back of my head and pull my facial skin super taut, I'm going to have to make peace with those wrinkles. But lately I'm learning to embrace them. They're most pronounced when I smile and laugh. And you know what? I kinda love my laugh lines. They're proof I'm having a good life. I'm finding joy and humor, and that's the best way to spend my days...even if I can't read the ingredients label on my vitamins and I don't look like a billiard ball below the waist.
Viva la laugh lines and pubes!

I Hope You Felt it Enough

They say a mother is hardest on her first born daughter.
Even more so than if a son had been born first. I have no idea why this is. I mean, I have an inkling. We see ourselves in our daughters, and all of our fears and insecurities and dreams and desires are thrust into this wide-eyed 7 pound newborn who enters our lives and turns our world upside down. We are anxious, awed, in love and amazed. We doubt everything we do and those daughters certainly get the brunt of it. By the time the second baby comes along, we are far more relaxed and not nearly as high strung. We suck carpet lint off a pacifier and plop it back into our baby's mouth, while using a fingernail to pick out a rogue booger out of their nose.
I've been planning on writing this blog for my first born daughter Frankie Christine, for close to a year now. She turns 18 in a few weeks and graduates shortly thereafter. This letter to her will be way better than anything I can scribble in a Hallmark card on graduation day, right? It will let her know all my feelings in a creative setting, and I figured this would be as easy as pie.
I was wrong.
Every time I think of this blog entry I tear up. My eyes are filled right now as I type this. And granted, I am a grade-A sap. In fact, my cousin Chanda and I took a quiz in Seventeen Magazine when we were young, titled: "How Emotional Are You?" We both got "Weeping Willows." So, it should be no shocker that I am overwhelmed by all sorts of feelings at this chapter in my daughter's life. But let me write this and finish it, before all my makeup runs off and I am left with a bare face.
And we all know how uncomfortable I am without full hair and makeup.
My sweet baby Frankie,
In a few short weeks you are going to be going through one of the most exhilarating and exciting times of your life. I cannot believe you will be graduating high school and getting ready for college. I don't want to waste one more minute of saying "I am really going to miss you" because it just makes me sad, and I don't want you to feel bad either. That is not my intention.
What is my number one concern is making sure you have felt the intense love and pride I have had for you since the day you were born.
You came into this world a little early and under some scary circumstances, but once you looked at me my heart melted. You were truly the most beautiful thing I had every seen. And once you started smiling, I couldn't help but smile back at you. It was contagious.
Then you grew up, and had to share my attention with two more sisters and a brother. I loved you just as fiercely as before, and I hoped you felt that. I know that you knew it, but I want to make sure you felt it as well.
You grew older and more independent, and your personality started taking on the cool and funny shape that I absolutely adore. I was so proud of the tasks that you tackled and how good you did in school. And that pride thing is continuous and evolving... I'm proud of so many things that you've done. Especially the tasks you tried and decided, "Nope, not for me." At least you tried.
I'm proud that you started being a nanny at 15 and started working at 16 to help pay for your own things. I'm proud that you filled out all of those college admission forms on your own and applied for dozens of scholarships without any prodding from me.
I hope you felt how proud of you I've been all these years.
And you put up with a mother who can be a little over the top, too. I get that. I'm a bit over-protective. While my instinct is to wring someone's neck, I am in awe of your ability to handle situations with far more grace than I. When your prom date last year ended up making out with another girl during the dance, I couldn't even breathe in a regular pattern. If I had known while watching you at the Grand March that a few hours later that kid was going to do that, I would have scrambled down those bleacher steps and punched him right in the wiener. Yeah, I'm referring to you T-Man.
I hope you felt how protective I've been, and how it's always come from a place of love.
When you notice things are needed in the house, and pick up dish soap or toilet paper or laundry detergent, don't think I don't notice. I know I say thank you, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you doing that. Not every teenager picks up on things like you do.
I'm sure you know how much I appreciate those things you do, but I hope you felt it.
Because see, there's a difference in knowing and feeling it. Words are just that - words. Anyone can say complimentary words or profess thanks, but my greatest hope is for you to feel it. Deeply.
The intense love, the fierce pride, the deepest appreciation
I hope you felt it enough. That is my wish for you.
You broke me in as a mother and I am deeply honored to have come this far with you on your life's journey.
I can't wait to see what the future holds in store for you.
Thank you for the joy you have given me.
Love,
Mom

Go Ahead and Get Your Hair Wet

A couple weeks ago my 10 year old son and I decided to spend a few hours at an indoor pool. Within seconds, he had already jumped into the water. After he came up for air he asked me, "Well, aren't you coming in, too?"
For a minute I hesitated, like most women do at the thought of standing there in a swimsuit.
"Why not," I shrugged, stepping out of my swimsuit cover up. I figured my son wouldn't give two sh*ts what his mother looked like in a suit, much less notice any imperfections.
He gave a slight smirk and said, "You have wrinkles on your legs."
"Ha!" I laughed. "You mean you could see the wrinkles more than the cellulite and stretch marks?" I figured he needed to know most grown women don't look like an airbrushed Kardashian in a swimsuit. It was about time he faced the cold, hard truth.
But something pretty cool happened once I realized I didn't care what I looked like either that afternoon. Once I got over my wrinkly legs and realized that I was going to get my hair wet.... I had a really, really good time.
For the next hour and a half, my son and I played hard and furious in that pool. We staged various races - sometimes I let him win, sometimes he let me win. We came up with our own games, like Search & Rescue, and Mama Dolphin (where he had to hold onto my neck and stay on my back while I swam underwater).
The last time we came up for air, Wyatt announced "I could feel your butt muscles jiggle when you were kicking your legs underwater."
I rolled my eyes. "Trust me, kid. That's not the only thing that jiggles on me. A muscled hard body, your mom does NOT have."
"Yeah," he agreed. "More squishy."
We both pondered the idea for oh, a nano-second, then proceeded to play some more. By the time we pulled ourselves out of the pool, we were wiped out. We decided to go down to the old fashioned candy store so he could pick out some treats. It's not too often that I'll walk into a store with no make up on, wet hair plastered to my head and smelling like chlorine. But I didn't really care that day. We had had too much fun, and I wasn't going to ruin it by saying "Let's go home first so I can dry my hair and put my makeup on."
So we walked into the store and WHAM, we were instantly hit with a blast of air conditioning. Within a couple seconds, my son looked at me with raised eyebrows and slowly pointed at my chest with his index finger. Confused, I looked down until I realized what he was trying to bring to my attention.
"What, my nipples?" I asked. "Sorry, your mother IS a mammal after all. There's not much I can do about 'em."
Horrified, he started walking away from me.
"Wait," I said, laughing, while I walked behind him. "Am I embarrassing you?"
He wouldn't make eye contact with me, so I decided to end the torture. "Fine," I whispered to him. "Me and my nipples will go sit down and wait for you until you're done looking around."
So Nipple-gate aside, it was truly a wonderful afternoon. And it got me thinking that night... look how much fun we can have in life when we don't care what we look like, and we get our hair wet and let our wrinkly, jiggly legs show. I don't think our kids will remember what their moms looked like in a swimsuit, but they'll remember if we swam with them.
They may see images of Kim Kardashian on Instagram looking flawless in the water, but hopefully they'll smile more thinking of their made-up game of Search & Rescue, regardless how squishy we are.

Estrogen Overload

They say a mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.

Sometimes I think no truer words have been spoken. Just when you think all is well... the kids are happy, well adjusted, no one has had their feelings hurt over a friend's passive aggressive Facebook post... just when I think it's fine to exhale and just enjoy the fact the everyone is in a good place... just when I think it's safe to go back into the water...

WHAM.

Some one's pissed.
Some one's crying.
Some one's yelling.
And always, inevitably, somewhere a door is being slammed.
I don't know why they get upset half the time. And I'll be honest... 99% of the time it's one of my three teenage daughters. My son's bad moods are as quick and fleeting as one of my New Year's resolutions. Over before you know it. But my girls' moods, not so much.
Sometimes I can tell that it's not worth it to get involved. Like when they come home from school, raging on about the indignities of some social injustice at the lunch table. I try to gauge within the first minute if this is something they just want to vent about, or if they actually want to hear my opinion. Oh, who am I kidding. They NEVER want to hear my opinion. My advice is considered out-of-touch and woefully inadequate, at best.
When they tell me how their best friend told them what someone else said about them, I hold up my hand and stop them.
"Whoa. Why is YOUR best friend telling you bad things about you that someone else said? You need to ask your bestie why do others feel so comfortable talking about YOU around HER? Hmmmm?"
My daughter will look at me like I suggested she gargle with toilet water. "Because Mom, she is my BEST. FRIEND. and I have a right to know who is talking smack about me."
At this point my right eye begins to twitch and any semblance of open and engaging dialogue between us has vanished. Because these are the dramas that don't cause me too much concern. I've been dealing with various levels of girl drama since the late 90s. It started out as toy sharing issues at day care and progressed to broken hearts and betrayal in high school.
Some girl drama I know exactly what to do. And that is nothing. It gets resolved on its own and requires no interference from my behalf. In case there was a doubt, that is my favorite kind.
However, the older they get, the more ambiguous of my level of involvement. And sure, I feel good and accomplished and all mom-of-the-year-like when I can help them navigate the tricky waters of middle school or give them advice that they actually (GASP) take and appreciate when it comes to a boy. Again - in case there's any doubt - that doesn't happen all that often.
But by far the most helpless feeling is when there is nothing I can do to help.
I feel powerless.
I feel desperate.
It reminds me when my daughter Sophie was about 18 months old and developed a fever. It lasted several days, and no matter how much Tylenol or Motrin I gave her, nothing would seem to break the fever longer than an hour. I don't know what it is about a child having a fever, but I felt very much like I was in a surreal episode of "Little House on the Prairie". I wanted to throw her in a tub of ice and beg Pa Ingalls to fetch Doc Baker. However, it was the year 2000 so I did the next best thing. I drove her to the hospital, carried her in my arms and literally KICKED open the door to the ER and told the nurses, "Someone has to help my baby!" Turns out it was just a virus and she eventually turned the corner, but I remember sitting in the exam room, thinking I could smell my own fear. In hindsight, I probably just needed a shower.
Fast forward several years, and I still feel that fear sometimes. I feel it when one of my kids is vulnerable and hurt and scared and angry. I'm afraid I won't know what to say to make them feel better. I'm even more afraid that there's nothing I can do to make things better.
Because isn't that what mothers are supposed to do? Whether it's a metaphorical band aid or the real deal... moms are supposed to know what to do. And let me let you in on a secret... half the time I'm wingin' it. I have the whole dinner, doctor, school responsibility thing down... but when it comes to making sure I'm raising them to be confident, secure and well adjusted??? Shit, that involves nothing but a lot of gut instincts and a weekly prayer.
I have stood outside a bedroom door at night and listened to a daughter wail. Cry so hard I'm convinced she's being murdered. I've rested my forehead against the door, and listened to make sure the rhythmic sobs eventually subside. And when they haven't... I've gone into her room, crawled into bed with her, and just curled up behind her. I don't have a plan. I don't know what to say, and I certainly don't know what to do.
But I just have to be there. That I do know.
Because the truth is - sometimes just being there and saying nothing, is way better than my initial desire. And that is to pull into the school parking lot, grab the hair of some snotty little teen, shove her up against a locker and hiss in her ear with a vicious voice, "Listen here you little bitch. If you don't leave my daughter alone, I will CHOKE YOU." And her eyes will grow wide with fear and she'll nod meekly and never bother any of my children again.
But alas, that plan would probably result in a restraining order and other criminal charges. So for now, I stand outside the bedroom door and hope I'll figure out this parenting thing of teen daughters.
Because once they're all happy, then this momma is very, very happy.
And that's when I can truly exhale.

Quit being so MEAN!

"Re-examine all that you have been told..dismiss that which insults your soul." ~ Walt Whitman



Not too long ago, a friend of mine mentioned she knew someone I had met a couple years ago. After they got together, my friend came back and told me, "Yes, she definitely remembers you. She said you were really nice."
Of course I smiled when I heard that, because what person doesn't like to be told they're nice? It means that all of those years when our parents told us to show some manners - be respectful to people - be NICE to others - was finally paying off.
But what if our desire to make our children nice individuals does them more harm than good? What if it allows others to walk all over them? There has to be a balance between raising polite children and doormats.
Not too long ago, one of my daughters was shopping for supplements. She was standing in the aisle and checking some products out, alongside a man who was around 48. At least according to her estimate (for all we know he could have been 25 or 62; teenagers really have no clue about ages.) He picked up a bottle of diet pills, then tossed them to my daughter and said, "Here. You need these more than I do."
When my daughter recalled this exchange, I felt like time stood still. Because most adults who have been shamed about their weight at some point in their life have a fairly universal reaction, so I had a pretty good idea of how she felt when that happened.
I bet her cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment.
I'm sure she could hear her heart beat in her ears.
I wouldn't be surprised if she briefly stopped breathing in that moment.
She most likely stood there, unable to reply, because all her life she's been coached and encouraged to BE NICE.
It's not until we get older that we build up a witty repertoire of comebacks and sarcastic retorts. It's not until we have some experiences that we can whip out a snarky reply to make the other person pause. But to be honest, in moments like that, I can't even be sure that I would have had recovered enough to reply like the situation demanded. And that would have been to tilt my head slightly to the side, give a small smile and say, "Thanks. And just so you know, the penile extenders and erectile dysfunction medicine is in aisle 3. You DEFINITELY need that more than me."
Because seriously, what good did that man possibly think he was doing by saying that to my beautiful daughter? Did he think she's never worried about her weight? Did he think that some metaphorical light bulb was going to go off in her head, and she would drop to the floor in gratitude and weep, "THANK YOU so much for making me aware! I honestly had no idea!"?? Did he not realize that practically every girl on this planet has agonized about her weight at some point? I can remember the doctor in my kindergarten physical patting my five-year old belly and telling me to be careful about the ice-cream.
I was 54 pounds. (Thanks Doc, for starting me on that super fun journey.)
But I digress...
So Mr Clueless with the Diet Pills, I am not sure what you hoped to gain by your comment. The liberal in me believes you said it because you are a broken man. That because of how you were damaged in your childhood, you are now damaged as an adult, and unable to show compassion to others. That's the liberal in me.
The mother in me (or mama bear as my kids prefer to describe me) has another visceral thought. You are a freakin' DICKHEAD. Quit being so god-damn MEAN. You solved NOTHING with your careless remark.
So maybe as parents we should re-think the traits we want our children to exhibit. There is nothing wrong with being nice. I will always encourage my children to be nice... when the situation merits it. Now, however, I will make sure they know they are encouraged to stand up for themselves in the right scenario.
A friend of mine has hired that same daughter to babysit on numerous occasions. One time he was recalling a text message exchange he was having with her, where they were both (kiddingly) giving each other grief back and forth.
"Jesus," he told me. "I told her she was definitely her mother's daughter. She's a smart ass just like you."
I couldn't help but beam. Because THAT type of behavior makes me proud. Don't get me wrong - I'll always be proud of the regular things like good grades, hard work, and yes... even being nice.
But a witty, verbal zinger makes this mama bear sigh with gratitude.

 

I'm Not Sure My Family is Normal

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them." ~ Desmond Tutu


Isn't that a lovely quote? I mean really, it summarizes such a loving sentiment. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and happy inside. Kind of makes you forget your family may or may not be filled with drama queens, fist fighters, law breakers, alcoholics or all-around shit heads.
But let's always remember the cardinal rule of families:
Everyone has a weird relative. And if you don't... then YOU'RE the weird relative.
Now that 2013 is coming to a close, it gives me time to reflect on what an interesting year it's been, and how fantastic it's been being surrounded by my family. Because if you're lucky enough to have a great group of friends, they're your family too.
Whenever it comes to my four kids and we're all in a room together, the pendulum can swing when it comes to how the mood is going to progress. We can be having a sweet moment at the dinner table and everyone is being actually kind and respectful to each other. And not even ten minutes later I'm trying to break up a melee between two daughters, each accusing the other of breaking all grounds of decency by wearing the other's underwear.
"Those are mine, you disgusting pig!"
"No they're not!"
"Yes, they are - you freak."
Then the challenge is made. A quick, calculated look from one to another. "Well, it's not like your name is on them."
Seriously? That's your litmus test? Because it's pretty safe to assume that unless any of us are named Victoria in this family, those undies are up for grabs.
Well, unless you're my 9 year old son. Pretty sure we'll always be able to determine which pair belong to him.
And even when my kids are threatening bodily harm over an xBox controller or giving each other the stink eye over who drank the last of the milk, I know deep down they love each other. And me. They just have weird ways of showing it.
A few weeks ago I shoveled the driveway, then walked back into the house and announced everyone had to put on their coats and shoes and come outside. I had something to show them.
Their speculation at what the surprise could be was intense.
"Did you get a new car?"
"Is there a package?"
"Are you pregnant?"
I rolled my eyes. "Good grief. Why would I drag you outside to tell you I was pregnant? You'd find me on the couch with a bottle of tequila, crying my eyes out."
Finally the five of us stood outside. They looked around, not sure what they were supposed to be seeing. After a minute, my eldest daughter said, "You shoveled the driveway."
"Ahhh, winner winner chicken dinner," I told them. "And let me be clear...that is the LAST time I am shoveling the driveway. I could slip and fall."
I noticed one of them rolling their eyes and looking at their sister with the "oh it's the ol' broken hip excuse." I narrowed my eyes and made my nostrils wide, hoping to emphasize my SERIOUSNESS IN THIS MATTER.
"I'm not kidding," I said. "From now on, whenever there's at least an inch of snow on the ground, I expect at least one of you to be out here shoveling. I don't care which one and I don't care if you come up with some type of schedule. All I know is that I will not be shoveling again. Any questions?"
They looked at me like I had just suggested a turd wrapped up in a crescent roll for dinner.
As we all made our way back into the house, my 11 year old daughter said to me, "I thought you were going to tell us that Channing Tatum was in our driveway, wrapped in a bow."
Ah, that's my girl. Always praying for beefcake.
I know most parents would hope that their children would willingly and lovingly offer to do chores around the house. In my fantasies I come home from work, and all four kids jump up and take my coat, my purse, and shove a cocktail in my hand. They fuss over me and have me rest my feet on the couch, while they set the table and get dinner ready. In my fantasy no one tells me my feet stink and they need money immediately.
But one thing I have noticed over the holidays is how sweet and gracious and loving my kids have been to other relatives. Especially when it comes to gift-receiving situations. It warmed my heart to see them with smiles on their faces and thank-yous come out of their lips on Christmas Eve. It made me think of all those years of pinching their elbows and hissing in their ears "I swear to god, if you don't say thank you in there and act like it's the best gift EVER I will take away every toy that's ever belonged to you and sell them on eBay" may have actually WORKED. I would look deep in their eyes to make sure we understood each other, and at some point one of my kids would say, "Yeah, I got it. Gosh, how much coffee have you had today? Brush your teeth. Gross."
In a few more hours it will be New Years Eve, and I'm going to be lucky enough to hang out with some wonderful friends. And yes, they are like family. Sometimes we argue and ignore each other and call each other on stupid antics. But most of the time, we are there for each other. We cheer each other on and embrace our collective weirdness.
So yes, over the years and amongst the legends ~ I may indeed be surrounded by drama queens, fist fighters, law breakers, alcoholics or all-around shit heads. Or I may not. That's what makes the stories good. My island of misfit toys is exactly what I need to feel loved and normal.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.