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.

Quit trying to grow up so fast!

When my kids were babies, I remember doing a mental timeline and thinking how much easier life would be once they were able to:
A. sleep through the night
B. feed themselves
C. keep themselves occupied for more than a 90 second stretch of time.
and so on...
I was very careful to cherish those newborn and baby moments too, because I know how fleeting that is. I have spent countless hours rocking them to sleep because that is something that always brought me incredible joy. I knew it wouldn't last long.
And it sure hasn't.
Before I knew it they were walking and talking and popping their own Cheerios in their mouth. They made their own friends and kept their own little secrets. Sure, I was able to sometimes even get a full 8 hours of sleep a night, but I didn't have 4 little instant snuggle partners on the couch each night either.
Last Monday when we were all celebrating the 4th of July up at the lake, I was amazed that my kids were able to keep themselves incredibly busy all day long. They got their own plates of food, they found their own activities to do and they played themselves into exhaustion. Aside from my sunscreen patrol and occasional breaking up an argument between the kids over a water toy, I was left to enjoy the day with family and friends. When the fireworks were about to start, I felt a tinge of sadness. Every year for the past 14 years, I'd had at least one child on my lap while we watch the sky light up. It's okay, I told myself. Your kids are having a blast, it's not just about what YOU want.
Then, out of the near darkness, Wyatt was walking next to me and slipped a sticky hand in mine. He looked up at me and asked, "Ready to watch the fireworks together Mama?"
Sweet little boy... of course I am.
So I'm becoming acutely aware of the trade offs in having your kids independent enough to do things on their own. It means you might not always have someone there to rock to sleep or share a yogurt. They all grow up, though. It's part of life. What I've been struggling with lately is watching my kids, especially my daughters, try to grow up as fast as possible.
A few days ago I was on the computer and noticed that my 9 year old daughter Chloe was a "fan" of the dating site Zoosk on Facebook. I clicked on the link for the site and I was directed to the homepage of the site and a message: Welcome Back Lola.
That's my nickname for her.
I felt a headache instantly coming on. "Chloe Louise! Come over here."
She hesitantly walked over to me. Apparently something in my voice convinced her I wasn't happy.
"Did you sign up for a dating website?" I asked her.
She slowly nodded, watching my face.
I turned back to the computer and informed her, "I am deactivating your account, and then we're going to have a conversation about online safety AGAIN."
"It doesn't even matter," she huffed. "No one even contacted me. Not one person!"
I looked at her profile and tried to keep a straight face. "Well, it says here you're 6 feet, 6 inches tall. And a fan of Justin Bieber." I think there was something else on there about liking unicorns too. No wonder she wasn't getting any responses. I was having a difficult time trying to appear STERN and ANGRY, while keeping from laughing. She spun around and left, embarrassed and angry at me.
It reminded me of a few years ago, when my oldest daughter had set up multiple email accounts before I knew about it. She was around 9 years old, and discovered she could give herself any moniker she chose. I was going through each one and found one we needed to "discuss."
"Um, Frankie....?"
"Yeah Mom?"
"We're getting rid of this one. You are far too young to have a yahoo account for 'Super Hottie.'"
She rolled her eyes. "Fine."
"Besides," I told her, feeling the need to point out her grammatical error. "You misspelled it. You put in an extra letter 'p', so it actually says Supper Hottie. Like the dinner. You little tator tot hotdish, you..."
She glared and left.
I wish I could just slow down time and make my kids realize they don't have to grow up so fast. They have their entire lives ahead of them. I want them to enjoy being kids, and not worry about getting attention from boys. It's hard to do, though, with their constant exposure to songs on the radio and reality tv. I can make sure they're involved in sports and horses, but its not going to stop them from wanting to appear older and more sophisticated.
I found a picture of them from about a year and a half ago. I love it for many reasons. One, because they weren't fighting and were actually showing each other affection without a bribe. I also love it because I will always remember them at this age, when they're still kids.
Later on tonight I will bring them to the carnival for River Falls Days. And hopefully someone will still want to hold my hand. Maybe even my little Supper Hottie or almost 7 foot tall unicorn-loving Justin Bieber fan...

4th of July

I can declare it "officially" official. The Fourth of July has now become my favorite holiday. There are no financial pressures and its all about family, friends, food and fireworks. Some of my most favorite things in life. Oh yeah, and marching bands and parades, too. There... I've just exposed my complete geekiness to the world. But I look forward all year to sitting on the curb for the River Falls Days parade and watching all the school bands march by. Some of my friends and family make fun of me for admitting this, but I get a huge thrill out of seeing the Shriners zip by in their little mini-cars in a zig zag formation. Such precision and unbelievable timing...I can't help that I get chills watching it. Quit making fun of me.
Back to the 4th... what's not to love? Especially if you're lucky like me: I have an aunt and uncle who live on White Bear Lake. Every 4th of July they open up their beach to friends and family for an annual bash. All you need to bring is a dish to pass. Ever since I was a kid, we've been going there every year. There's something very cool and "full circle" about carrying on traditions with your own children and having them experience the same memories you did as a child. My children will never share the same memory with me of having their first job being milking cows and having to spray manure off the cows' udders as I did, but they'll share a different one... running through the sand barefoot on the 4th, writing their names with sparklers at nighttime, and devouring root beer floats.
There's something about being on the water that makes you lose all track of time. We never check the time; there's no need to. Yesterday I was fortunate enough to be invited on a friend's boat. I brought along my daughter Sophie. There were five adults and eight children. What an amazing time.
Our friend Keith pulled the kids in a tube on the St Croix river over and over again. You know how as a parent sometimes you see your kids doing something and you just want to bottle that moment in time and have it last forever? That's how I felt at one point yesterday afternoon. I was watching Sophie on the tube getting pulled behind the boat. The water was unbelievably blue, and the sunlight was shimmering off the waves. I watched her hold on to that tube for dear life, squealing and laughing with every bounce. Her legs were flailing behind her and I was convinced each wave would knock her off. But she held on, smiling the whole time. Those are the moments I hold on to... it makes it that much easier to weather the moments of pre-teen girl angst, slamming doors, eye rolling and arguments.
So tomorrow we'll load up the car with the kids and the food and some lawn chairs. Every year the entourage I bring to WBL gets a little bigger. Some of my friends are now bringing their children and I love that I can share my favorite holiday with everyone I care about. A couple years ago, right before the fireworks started, we were playing volleyball on the beach with the kids. They were shrieking and laughing and thrilled that they were able to stay up way past their normal bedtime. I was having another one of those "parenting bottle moments" where I just wanted to savor everything - their dirty feet, sunburned faces and sticky fingers from the countless s'mores they'd eaten. It's moments like that that'll make me smile when I'm old and gray. Which, those of you who know me, know that I refuse to go gray... so I'll have these memories for a long, long time!
I found a picture in my parents album from when I was around 2 1/2 years old. It made me laugh because there I was, tentatively standing next to a sparkler with an eye swollen shut from a recent bee sting. Even back then nothing was going to stop me from the thrill of fireworks. I hope everyone enjoys this holiday, and make memories to last forever!