A good-enough Christmas

"One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly." ~ Andy Rooney

Whew, I made it.
Christmas morning is over and behind me.
I now have another 364 days to keep the pressure-cooker of holidays at bay. I mean seriously, talk about parental pressure. Christmas morning isn't just any holiday in your kids' memory bank - it's the holiday. The Big One. It's a handful of memories that our children will recall for the rest of their lives. They'll either reminisce fondly and tell stories to their grandchildren, or they'll roll their eyes and share their disappointment from years past.
"And that was the year your great-grandma Vanessa added too much Baileys to her coffee on Christmas morning and slept the entire day. We opened our presents in miserable silence. We ate burnt toast for breakfast and your great-uncle Wyatt accidentally shocked himself into unconsciousness while sticking a butter knife into an electrical outlet. Let that be a lesson to you."
All of us as parents want to give our children the best holiday memories. None of us want to contribute any disappointment on this day. Any other day of the year I would shrug my shoulders and tell my kids, "You're disappointed? Welcome to a little thing we call reality."
But not this day.
This day we want our kids to think they're the luckiest kids on earth.
I'm happy to say I'm a semi-reformed MMC. A Manic Mother at Christmas.
Years ago when my kids were babies I drove myself (and I'm sure my former husband) absolutely crazy trying to make sure everything was positively perfect.
I spent weeks planning the theme of our annual Christmas card. If one of the kids scratched their face the day before the portrait session, I would freak the f*** out. I would snap if their smiles weren't perfect, I would hiss if they started to argue. I would narrow my eyes and warn them Santa wasn't going to come if they didn't smile for the camera Right.This.Instant.
Yeah...I'm sure those were joyous memories for the kids.
Then I made sure their custom stockings were positioned just right off the fire place, and the wrapping paper was color coded per child. We spent many Christmas Eves wrapping gifts at the last minute, swearing up and down we would never again wait until the last minute.
To say I drove myself and my family crazy with a desire for a Perfect Christmas would be an understatement.
To say I've learned some valuable lessons about Christmas the last few years is very accurate.
I was getting ready to write another tongue-in-cheek blog about the difficulties of parenthood about a week and a half ago. Then the Connecticut school shootings occurred and I didn't want to blog. It didn't feel right. It felt disrespectful. How could I write about the stress or humor of parenting when there was 26 families who would give their own lives for just one more Christmas morning with the family member they lost?
Shortly after it happened my dad and I had a discussion about gun control.
"Something has to happen," I told him. "We can't have another shooting like this. Why do we have to have so many guns in this country?"  Guns make me uncomfortable. I admittedly don't have enough facts about gun control to get into a debate with people. I just know I don't want them around.
"Actually," my dad said, "I'd like you to come to the gun range with me so you become comfortable using a gun."
I looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Why would I need to know how to use a handgun?"
"Because," he said. "If you're ever in the situation that you need to use one, you'll need to know right then and there how everything works."
I begrudgingly agreed. I use the same argument when I tell my children I want them all to learn how to drive a manual transmission. You just never know when they might need to use that skill.
"Also," Dad ventured, raising an eyebrow. "I would feel even better if you got a conceal and carry permit."
Ok. It was official. He had lost his marbles.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "That is never going to happen. If you think I would walk around with a handgun in my purse, you're crazy. I don't even trust myself with a tweezers."
So on this issue we will agree to disagree.
It seems surreal that we're even having this discussion at Christmas.
It makes all the other stresses we have seem petty and insignificant.
Things that would have happened ten years ago that would have sent me into a stressed out tizzy, just make me laugh and shake my head now.
Take the start of our Christmas morning just a few hours ago. My kids, arriving at the pinnacle of their long awaited morning, were as tense and wired as a Republican in an adult book store.
Their lack of sleep combined with their expectations was not a good combination.
As soon as they awoke and gathered around the tree, their bickering started.
"You shut up."
"No YOU shut up."
"Quit POKING ME!"
"That's it!" my dad declared. "Why don't you all go back to bed for an hour until you can behave."
My kids promptly quieted down but furrowed their brows in anger.
There was still too much stress.
My mom and I made the mistake of laughing at a random picture we took of my oldest daughter just moments before, where it just a faceless blur of skin. My daughter thought we were laughing AT her and pretty soon fresh tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Oh brother.
Time to do some damage control.
Nothing like giving the green light to start opening presents to assuage the hurt feelings.
As my kids took turns opening their gifts, I felt myself exhale. They were having fun. These were good memories. No one was crying. The yelling had stopped.
I had one holy shit moment when I noticed my son was opening up a gift that didn't belong to him.
"Wait!" I exclaimed, grabbing the package before the contents were revealed. "That one isn't for you. It's for your sister Chloe. It's from Santa."
I handed her the half-opened present and watched her open a tablet. She shrieked with appreciation and I smiled.
Her brother however, was decidedly NOT smiling.
A few minutes later he pulled me into the kitchen. "Mom, I need to talk to you."
"What's up?" I asked him.
"Well," he answered, searching for the right words. "I'm pretty sure that tablet actually belonged to me. Because my sisters all have electronics and I only have a Nintendo 3DS that I got last year. So I really think Santa meant to give me that tablet since I actually did ask for an iPad."
I bent down so I was eye level with him.
"You know, buddy. Parents usually know what Santa is going to bring the kids - they have a good idea. I'm sure Santa brought you something just as nice as that tablet he brought your sister. Let's go back in there and finishing unwrapping presents."
We walked back into the living room and all was right with the world.
It's amazing how learning to live with life's curve balls can change how you deal with things.
Last night I couldn't find where the kids Christmas stockings were. I had looked all over and still had no idea. Rather than freak out and tear the house apart like I would have years ago, I improvised.
I told the kids to bring up one sock.
I found a way to make a custom Christmas stocking that would still allow for Santa to deposit some goodies.  Like a female MacGyver, I crafted some just-in-time stockings with mixing bowls, socks and hair clips.
And you know what? The kids didn't mind at all. They just laughed.
So maybe our desire for a "perfect Christmas" isn't even worth striving for after all. It's the imperfections and the last minute accommodations that we remember fondly.
So here's to the parents who made this a good-enough Christmas.
Well done, my friends. We made it.
Now....where's that Baileys?

Dear Santa...A Mother's List

"How do you know Santa has to be a man? No woman is going to wear the same outfit year after year." ~ Unknown

Dear Santa,

I'm not asking for a lot this year. Really, I'm not. I promise it's nothing fancy or expensive - there's no Xbox 360, iPad or Samsung Galaxy III on my list. There are no Louis Vuitton purses, Christian Louboutin shoes or MAC Cosmetics. Don't get me wrong - any of those items would make me smile. Who wouldn't love the famous red soled stilettos or the miracle concealer that makes the black circles under my eyes disappear?
I'm asking for some other things that don't cost a single penny. They don't cost a thing, but they would mean the world to me.
So Santa...here is my list:
I want the blades for my razor to stay put in the bathroom. I'm sick of them disappearing. I have a sneaking suspicion my daughters are involved in their disappearance, but I would love to never again have to shave my armpits with a blade as dull as a nail file.
I would like to be able to prepare an entire day's worth of meals without any one complaining. What I wouldn't give to go 24 hours without hearing a fake gagging sound, a choking groan or an indignant, "God, Mom...is that a vegetable? It smells bad."
I would like to be able to sleep in some Saturday, without waking to a child 3 inches from my face, informing me: "Mom, your breath REALLY stinks in the morning."
I would like to be able to offer advice to my children about friendship without them guffawing and rolling their eyes. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two on that topic.
I would like to be able to experiment with my hairstyle without my daughters chasing me down with a straightener and a bottle of ether. C'mon girls, your momma is from the 80s. You know how difficult this straight hair concept is for me.
I would love to be able to occasionally muzzle my children's observations. I'm well aware how old I look when I wake up, before I put on make-up. And you don't need to comment on the Kardashian size of my rear-end.
Remember children...silence is golden.
Now Santa, I know you can hear my thoughts because I've caught glimpses that you've been paying attention.
This afternoon when we were at the YMCA and I was walking along the indoor track, I looked down a level and saw all three of my girls playing basketball together. There was no fighting, no screams of "IDIOT!" and no one aiming for another's face. And best of all, none of them were hooked up to a laptop or iPod. If I hadn't been huffing and puffing due to my body's shock at exercise, I would have slowly exhaled a breath of relief and gratitude.
Also, Santa...I know you're paying attention because yesterday morning when I woke up, I walked into the living room and found my 8 year old son sitting at a card table, desperate for a card partner. He looked at me hopefully and said, "Mom, do you know how to play ANYthing?"
"I do," I told him. "I can play blackjack. Deal me in."
His excitement at having someone to play cards with melted my heart. Now I'm no dummy. He would have been just as excited if he had been able to teach our golden retriever how to play 31, but Santa...I'll take it.
Last night my 10 year old daughter asked what I wanted for Christmas.
"A coupon book," I told her with no hesitation. "With coupons on how you're going to be nice to me. Where you'll comb my hair or massage my neck. Where no one will shove me, scratch me or poke my boobs and announce they're squishy."
Now I know some one's paying attention, Santa...because I received an early Christmas present from Chloe. A coupon book of hair combings, neck massages and arm tickles.
And it made me smile.

The Bitchiness of Politics

"The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it." ~  P. J. O'Rourke

Trust me, I love politics and current events. I really, really do. I could happily sit and watch the news at 5, 6, 9 and 10 pm. Plus tune into the national programs as well. I would do this all the time but then I'd have these kids poking me - "When are we gonna have dinner? I need help with my homework..." Blah, blah blah...
Love of politics + Love of current events + addictive personality = neglectful mother at dinner time.
In all honesty I am getting pretty sick of this election cycle. I can't wait for the commercials to end, the negative campaigns to cease, and the finger pointing to stop.
At this point, I don't even believe the fact checkers.
Unless they have a politician hooked up to a lie detector machine on the Maury show, I am hesitant to believe a single word that comes out of their mouths.
In complete disclosure (in case you couldn't tell from previous blog posts) I am a full blown Democrat. Oh, who am I kidding...I'm a bed-wetting liberal and proud of it. But not all of my family and friends are.
And this is the season where it starts to get ugly.
A couple years ago I had to start hiding rabid Packer fans on my Facebook page. Hey, it's hard enough to be a loyal Vikings fan when we lose all the time. It's even harder when you have friends and family gleefully telling you to Suck It! on your news feed every Sunday afternoon.
Lately I've had to start hiding delusional Republicans, too. Now save your breath - I know there are plenty of people who would call me a delusional Democrat, too. Go ahead. It's not like I haven't heard it before.
I have a wide circle of friends who are both red and blue. We have interesting conversations, to say the least. I even have family members who roll their eyes when I start on my rants. In fact, I'm not even sure about my dad anymore. He has become increasingly conservative as he's gotten older. It worries me. Apparently being a former hippie does not preclude someone from crossing party lines and drinking the kool-aid. Don't get me wrong...he hasn't completely lost his marbles. It's not like he's supporting Michele Bachmann. But I do look at him with a wary eye now. I trust him with my life and I trust him with my kids' lives.
Just not sure I trust him with a ballot.
But that's the beauty of this country, right? We all have the opportunity to believe what we want, to support what we want, and to love who we want.
Unless, of course, you're gay. Then you have an uphill battle ahead of you.
A few years ago my friend Jill and I were discussing gay marriage. We couldn't figure out why so many people were against it. "Seriously," Jill said. "Why does it matter if they get married? They have a right to be just as miserable as the rest of us."
That comment still makes me laugh.
Last winter I was dating a very nice guy. I'll call him AJ. We got along and agreed on everything. Well, almost everything.
After a night at the movies we stopped at a local bar. We sat on our bar stools and ordered a cocktail.
"Listen, Vanessa," AJ said, leaning closer. "I gotta tell you something. I've been meaning to say it for awhile, and I just need to get it off my chest and come clean."
I felt my stomach drop. An older gentleman on the other side of AJ leaned in closer, too. He wanted to hear what was said.
"Just say it," I told AJ accusingly. "I know what you're gonna say."
AJ twisted the gloves in his hand and let out a deep sigh.
He looked me right in the eyes. "I'm a Republican."
"Oh god!" I wailed. "I knew it!" I put my head down on my arms and took a deep breath. "I can't believe this."
The older gentleman scoffed and moved further down the bar. Obviously this conversation was not what he expected.
Now things with AJ never really worked out, but it wasn't due to his political preferences. But it did get me thinking...
How much would a person's political preferences matter to me when dating?
Honestly I don't know how Mary Matalin and James Carville are still happily married. Don't they just want to wring each other's necks when discussing party differences?
Do you suppose they watch the debates with a note card and keep score?
Do they gleefully show each other dismal poll numbers?
Do they write "Suck it" on each other's Facebook page when the points swing?
Somehow I doubt it.
So for now I will continue to hold out hope that I will find someone who's just as delusional as I am. Who wants the wars to end, the gays to be able to marry and the women to be allowed to make decisions for their own ovaries.
Oh, and someone who doesn't show up drunk and on a bicycle for our date.
Is that so much to ask?

Lulled into Lunacy

"As long as people are going to call you lunatic anyway, why not get the benefit of it? It liberates you from convention." ~ Gregory Maguire

I swear, if I am ever lucky enough to publish my memoir I am going to title it "Lulled into Lunacy."
Because honestly, that's what happens when you parent small children. You start off doing crazy things just to survive and get enough sleep and make it until bedtime. You start rationalizing behavior that would usually be deemed mentally unstable at best.
You eat 4 day old stale Pop Tarts that you find wedged between couch cushions because honestly, it's one less meal you have to make.
You iron your clothes while you are wearing them because hey, who has time to set up an ironing board?
You pick up your son's underwear off the bedroom floor and smell them, hoping they're still clean enough so you can put off laundry just one more day. (If your head snaps back involuntarily, then you are out of luck).
And the longer you do these things it starts to become acceptable.
And your friends are doing the same thing so now your society that surrounds you has decreed that it's ok to do things that you never in a million years would imagine yourself doing. I used to think that once my kids got older I wouldn't be so stressed out and tired. I would be more calm and relaxed and I would wisely impart wisdom on my kids so they would grow up knowing their mother had her act together.
Oh, no. Not even close.
My youngest is 8 and I still finding myself losing my shit more than I would like. And it's really stupid stuff too that makes me look like I'm about two minutes away from a straight jacket.
Some of it I'd like to blame on genetics. Or at least Growing Up in the 70's.
I can remember riding in the back of the family car, when I was about 9 and my brother was 5 or 6. I'm pretty sure we were in a Maverick. I'm also fairly certain we were wearing seat belts, but in my mind I imagine us running rampant in the back seat...like restless natives. After one of our countless complaints to my dad while he was driving:
"He's poking me!"
"She just reached over and scratched me!"
...my dad laid down the law and turned around. "This is your side, Vanessa, and this is your side, Shawn. See this section in the middle, about 6 inches wide? That's No-Man's Land. Neither one of you can go there or cross that area."
We were silent for about 30 seconds, until we started screeching, "Oh my gosh he's in No-Man's-Land DAD!!!"
I'm surprised we weren't just tossed out on the side of the road and forced to walk home.
Fast forward until it is me in the drivers seat and my kids are repeating the same complaints. I tried to hand down the "No Man's Land" law but my kids weren't having any of that.
I don't have the patience my parents did. I try to tune out the kids until my eyelid starts to twitch. Then I lose my shit.
While my left hand is firmly gripping the steering wheel, my right hand begins to swing wildly behind my seat, looking to make contact with anything. My kids are so skilled at dodging and ducking out of the way they could be in a Bruce Lee movie. It's actually pretty impressive.
And how does the saying go? The road to hell is paved with the best intentions? Yeah, or something like that. That's how I feel it is with parenthood.
We really all have the best intentions, right? None of us want to knowingly screw our kids up. Although I whole-heartedly admit that there have been times that as I'm yelling at one of the kids, there is a voice in my brain that's telling me, "Hey...reign it in Crazy Pants."
I love that line in the movie Mermaids, when Cher tells her daughter, "It's not like you kids came with an instruction manual."
I've told that to my kids, too. I really thought, in my delusional younger age before having teenagers, that once I hit my 40s I would be the most organized and patient mother that western Wisconsin had ever seen. I would be so accomplished that mothers in my neighborhood would look at me with envy and whisper, "How does she do it?"
But alas, it hasn't happened yet.
My inner lunatic keeps making herself known.
Instead of joining the PTA when my kids started school, I started selling sex toys at home parties because the money was good and the parties were more fun than organizing a bake sale. I quit when my oldest was in third grade because I didn't want to be known as the Dildo Mom on the playground. When the UPS guy would come and deliver the products, I would have to assemble the packages and match them up with the customers' invoices. I would empty out the products in the middle of the living room floor and tell my kids, "Ok, hand Mommy one of the green things and two bottles with the pink swirl on the label."
And my kids were such good little helpers, too.
So maybe it's genetics or maybe it's lack of sleep or maybe it's just who we are as people that form us into our parenting roles. I'm not sure. Maybe it's a combination of all of it.
Maybe we shouldn't recognize it as being lulled into lunacy, so much as we should acknowledge that we have evolved into it. Willingly and freely.
Chalk it up to one more thing I'm going to blame my kids. Right after stretch marks and an over-worked uterus that deserves its own pension.

Dating advice for my daughters...

"Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla." ~ Jim Bishop

About a month ago I was sound asleep in my bed when the bedroom door flew open. I struggled to open my eyes against the light from the hallway. I could make out the outline of one of my teen daughters.
I sat up. "What's going on?"
Middle of the night interruptions usually can be lumped into a few categories for parents with children: Someone has either puked, wet the bed or had a bad dream.
In this case, it was new territory: my daughter was going through the double whammy of not only one of her first broken hearts, but also the betrayal of a former friend.
My daughter knelt down by the side of my bed and between sobs, told me what happened. I felt so bad for her. I struggled with not only the correct words I should be saying, but also with what I should not be saying as well.
I had a feeling that if I told her, "Boys are like buses, a new one comes along every 15 minutes..." it would not go over well.
After a few minutes she moved closer to my bed and laid her head down next to me. In between her spilling out her story between tears, she took deep breaths and closed her eyes.
I, on the other hand, was as tense as a hunter in the woods on opening day.
Because right in front of me I had something as rare as a wild animal rarely seen by regular people: a heartbroken teenage daughter coming to her mother for advice.
I rubbed her back slowly, careful not to spook her lest she growl, bare her teeth and slink back into the woods.
At that moment my son sat up next to me in bed, "Could you two please be quiet? I'm trying to sleep and all this crying and talking is hurting my ears."
I turned to him in amazement. I didn't even know he had crawled into bed with me. "How long have you been here?" He muttered something in reply and fell right back asleep.
My daughter stood up. "I'm going back to bed, too. Thanks Mom. I love you."
And with that, the wild animal went back to her den, licking her wounds.
I lay there wondering if I said what I should... Did I give her the right advice? Did I say the right things, or most importantly - did I bite my tongue and hold back things I really wanted to say but didn't?
This dating navigation is tricky. But here's the beauty of dating in your 40s compared to your teen years or 20s - your self confidence is way higher and the jokers you run into on some dates don't last nearly as long.
So to my beautiful, kind and loving daughters, let me offer you some advice based on dates I have had this last year. May it save you some heartache, angst and stress:

~ Avoid men who classify either all their ex-girlfriends or ex-wives as psycho. Those women can't possibly all be nuts. The common denominator is usually him. And usually by the third date this will be revealed.

~ Dating a guy with tattoos is fine. However, if you notice "Lock" and "Load" tattooed across his fingers so they're displayed when he's making a fist, it usually indicates he loves his guns. Especially when he brags about his conceal and carry permit. Bad boys can be intoxicating, but they tend to make more bad choices than you realize.

~ Remember, the opposite of love is not hate. It's apathy. So if the guy is constantly bitching about how much he can't stand his ex, it usually means he's not completely over her yet.

~ Never underestimate the importance of your beau knowing the value of hard work. If they are continually bemoaning working for "the man" or in-between jobs, then you are going to be paying for a lot of the dates yourself.

~ If your date says he's an entrepreneur, that means he is usually between jobs quite a bit.

~ If your date says he's a personal trainer, it usually means he offers unsolicited advice to others at his gym. He most likely annoys a lot of people.

~ Recognize the importance of your date asking questions about you and wanting to know about you. It shouldn't be all about him. He should be just as interested in learning about what makes you tick as you are about him.

~ Remember that texting should not replace actual conversations. I know that's a hard concept to fathom in your generation, but I recently wasted ten minutes trying to figure out that one text I received 'WYD'? actually meant "What're you doing?" At least I hope it meant that and not WHAT you doin'? Dear god, that's a whole separate grammar issue then...

~ And finally, based on a date I had last night: If your date shows up drunk, and on a bicycle, cut your losses and head home early.

Mom, just write a check...

"The easiest way for your children to learn about money is for you not to have any." - Katharine Whitehorn

I like to compare back to school shopping to getting a pap smear.

It's once a year.

You tend to get all worked up and begin to dread it.

Once it's done, you want to breathe a sigh of relief and high five someone.

And it's not like either back to school shopping or getting the speculum special is unbearable. It's just that there are so many other things you'd prefer to spend your time and money on.

The thing is, I remember how exciting it was to go back to school shopping. It was the highlight of every August. I don't remember my mom ever making me feel guilty for getting clothes for the new school year. Although in retrospect, we bought our jeans at Fleet Farm and the majority of our shirts at Target. I can remember a few things I wanted as I got older that I absolutely had to get:

Lee pinstripe baggies...

Shirts with the collars that stood up...

Kangaroo shoes with the pouch on the side...

Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers to put in my back jean pocket. But of course I had to leave room for the pick in my back pocket so I could faithfully comb out my perm between classes.

Now my kids would light their hair on fire in protest if I told them we were going to Fleet Farm to get jeans. They would shove pencils in their eyeballs if they had to pick out their shoes next to the saddle soap.
Actually, my 8 year old son probably wouldn't mind. If he could find an Angry Birds t-shirt he'd be fine.
This year, I think we all did a pretty good job of combining teen fashion with economic sense. All I have to say is thank god for Gordman's and Plato's Closet. We did head to the mall for a couple things, and I started to get sweaty and anxious in the store Hot Topic. Not because of the blaring music and heavily pierced, tattooed and punk looking sales people, but because the t-shirt my 13 year old wanted was $20.
"Seriously?" I asked her. "It's a t-shirt. And they want $20?"
"Mom," she pleaded. "It's for Pierce the Veil...my favorite band." 
I racked my brain, trying to remember if I could find a reference for the name of that band. I had a feeling it had to refer to piercing certain female body parts, but I wasn't sure.
After that we strolled into Spencer's. Within a few minutes I wanted to leave. Nothing like standing next to your two teen daughters in front of a poster advocating legalized drug use, next to an inflatable penis for bachlelorette parties. Before we left, my 13 year old asked for a multi colored rubber bracelet.
"Look Mom, it's not even $5."
"Yeah," I told her. "But why is it all rainbow striped? I think that has something to do with blow jobs."
My daughter rolled her eyes and the 20 something sales clerk behind the counter laughed.
"Like maybe 10 years ago," he said. "But not in any recent times."
I narrowed my eyes at him and whispered angrily in my thoughts, Shut it.
We got home and I began to write out what I'd spent over the last few days and what was coming up:
Martial arts tuition
Dance class tuition
School pictures
Ick. It made me sweaty just thinking about it.
A few days ago my 10 year old daughter called me during the day. She was so excited she could barely talk. "Mom, I just got a letter from some organization inviting me to come study in France next summer!"
I didn't want to burst her exuberant bubble, but I wanted her to realize it wasn't going to happen.
"Honey, they send those letters out to a lot of students and those trips cost a lot of money."
"Well, they must want ME because they sent a letter right to the house!"
I sighed. "If I'm not mistaken, they also sent a letter to your grandpa and asked him to come study in Japan, so I'm pretty sure their database isn't exact. And like I said, it costs a lot of money."
Chloe pressed on. "Grandma said it's only a few thousand and I read all the student reviews and everyone said it's worth the costs."
Of course they did.
I tried telling Chloe that this was going to be an expensive year for the family:
8th grade trip to DC
Confirmation trip to Boston
Class ring
Drivers Ed
The list goes on and on.
And whenever I try to explain to the kids just how spendy everything is and how much it adds up, it never fails - I always hear "Well, can't you just write a check? Let's go to the bank and get more money!"
Ahhh...if only it were that simple. That's about as likely as me going an entire day without an eye roll from one of my kids.
Please...ain't gonna happen.

Out of the mouths of babes

"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic."  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I really shouldn't be surprised any more by the stuff that comes out of my kids' mouths. I mean truly, I shouldn't. I wanted these independent little spirits with feisty personalities and oh lord, did I get 'em.
There are times, though, that I wish they wouldn't say what they did. Especially when we're in public and I have to witness someone else's expression. The other person's expression is usually a cross between humor, mortification, and how-exactly-are-you-being-raised-at-home look.
Sometimes my kids will blurt out things in public and they make me laugh.
Other times they say things and I'm slightly horrified, because I'm in a situation where I'm not fast enough to clamp my hand over their little motor mouths.
A few years ago I took my kids with me to get my nails done. My daughters were excitedly sitting down and getting polish put on their own nails. I was a few tables down and would occasionally glance toward them to make sure they weren't being fidgety and a nuisance.
I figured they'd be so enthralled by the manicure process that they would be rendered speechless.
Boy, was I wrong.
After a few minutes I heard one of the women ask my daughter what her name was. My daughter, who was about 6 at the time, said, "Chloe."
The nail tech, who was Vietnamese, smiled and repeated her name.
Apparently she didn't pronounce it to my daughter's liking, because the next thing I knew, I heard this indignant 6 year old's voice boom across the salon:
"It's not CROEY, it's Ca-LO-EE. With an L. That's how you're supposed to pronounce it. You should learn how to say it right."
I wanted to lay my head down at the table and close my eyes, but all of the nail tech workers just laughed.
Not too much longer my son, who was around 4 at the time, was wandering around and waiting until we were all done. He sauntered up next to a man who was working there, and looked at him, apparently sizing up his nationality.
"What are you, like from China or something like that?" Wyatt asked him.
The man tried not to laugh and patted Wyatt's head. "We're from a country called Vietnam, son."
Wyatt shrugged. "Whatever. Never heard of it."
Fast forward a couple years. My kids are still attempting to learn the careful balance of tact in conversations.
But then, aren't we all?
Last weekend I took them school clothes shopping and Wyatt pushed the cart around the store like he was in a demolition derby. Racks of clothes were collided into, other shopper's heels were pushed into... It was all I could do to hold on to the cart with one hand, and throw a pack of socks into the cart with the other.
Finally I leaned down and faced him. "Wyatt, stop. You have to be considerate of other people. Be kind, think of their feelings." I didn't think it sunk in.
I was wrong.
A couple hours later we were at a Chinese buffet for dinner. As we were standing in line, ready to fill our plates, I overheard my son tell the waitress "Hey, sorry you guys lost the Olympics."
I hurriedly put another egg roll on my plate and sat down.
Maybe no one would know he was mine.
But hey, at least he was trying to be considerate of others. At least he didn't flash the peace sign in front of his chest and say, "And not to mention we kicked your ass in the medal count, too!"
I really, really want my kids to learn compassion and tact and grow into empathetic, responsible adults. Sometimes when they say things I get worried. Plenty of thoughts run through my head: Why do they say that stuff? How is their brain working? Are they not afraid of any consequences whatsoever?
About a week ago I got to spend a wonderful night with a bunch of girls I went to college with more than 20 years ago. These are women that I might go a year or two, maybe more, without connecting. But when we are lucky enough to spend uninterrupted time together, it's like a comedy show on steroids.
Now keep in mind, these are grown professional women. There are seven bachelors degrees between us, maybe a graduate degree or two, and at least 16 children. We work in all facets of the corporate world.
But get us all together, pour us each a cocktail or two, and it's no holds barred.
"Hey, remember when we were driving home from that party and you collided with a bicyclist? He actually rolled over the hood of your car and you got out and yelled at him, and told him he should stay out of the road? He actually felt bad about it, too!"
"Hey, remember when our parakeets died while your boyfriend was supposed to watch them over Christmas break, and the guys in the fraternity house spent the next two weeks playing practical jokes with them? They'd lay a dead bird in someone's bed, or put one of the birds in someone's cereal box..."
"Hey, remember when..."
We laughed all night long.
Over and over we kept shaking our heads, wiping away the tears from laughing and saying, "I can't believe we did that. I can't believe we actually said that."
There was a point when I first knew them, that I was shocked by what they would say and what they would do. I remember thinking at times back in college, "Boy these girls aren't afraid of anything. They'll say whatever they want." Don't get me wrong; I was no angel. It was like I met these women and found kindred soul mates.
But you know what? I looked around and these women all turned out pretty damn good. I'm sure they all had mothers who at one time or another would just shudder at the words and actions that came from their children.
History is full of parents who throughout the centuries shake their heads and cringe.
I look at my kids now and all of their distinctive little personalities. I smile when I think of their senses of humor, their willingness to make themselves look goofy in public, their refusal to be muzzled...
Yep, my kids are going to be just fine.
I wouldn't want them any other way.

Vegas baby!

"I'd rather be in Las Vegas 104 degrees than New York 90 degrees, you know why? Legalized prostitution. In any weather that takes the edge off." ~ Ray Romano

I knew our weekend trip to Las Vegas was going to be interesting when it started with me having to explain to my mother - in the airport, waiting for our flight - what a rim job was. And I'm not talking basket ball shots. After I told her, she had a puzzled look on her face. "Well," she asked. "Who does it to who? The guy to the girl or the girl to the guy?"

"Either one," I told her.

She shook her head and laughed."Oh for crying out loud..."

Later on we boarded our flight, and took our seats next to the requisite whiny toddler and drunk girl. Drunk Girl kept it under control for most of the flight, until we were about a half hour from landing. At that point she thought it was a good idea to attempt to communicate with the toddler in the row in front of her. She made faces, waved her arms around, and generally thought she was being helpful (even though she was too drunk to handle a tooth brush at this point.)
The flight attendant knelt down next to her. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to stop and be quiet. Your actions are being considered hostile."
"Hostile?!" Drunk Girl replied incredulously. "I am not being hostile. The baby was speaking to me!"
At this point I have a book in front of my face, as I'm trying desperately not to make loud noises from laughing.
Drunk Girl's boyfriend also tried to quiet his girlfriend down, to no avail. She did not take kindly to being shushed.
Once we landed, Drunk Girl swayed in the aisle, waiting to walk off the plane.
She turned to her boyfriend who was standing behind her. "Youuuu can just shut the f**k up, you know that? Youuuu are a f**king dumbass!" Good thing the aisle was so tight, otherwise she would have fallen over after she got done slurring her proclamation.
We finally got our rental car and made it to the Hard Rock Hotel. This was obviously not my dad's first choice in a  hotel spot; I had basically begged for us to stay there. I wanted to see what it was all about.
I found out soon enough, as we were waiting for our turn to check in.
The registration desk was unfortunately right next to one of the hotel's night clubs. At 1 in the morning, several drunk people were starting to leave. One woman, who had long curly hair like Dianna Ross, had a long phallic shaped object between her legs that she was chasing people with in the lobby. My mom and I couldn't stop laughing, but we also didn't make any eye contact with her either. 
The next day we woke up and started our sight-seeing. We drove up and down the Strip, and took passing photos of interesting shops with names like "Precious Slut Tattoos."
I even let my dad talk me into doing the Insanity Ride at the top of The Stratosphere. They have bungee jumping, thrill rides, etc. I figured I could check off one of my new year's resolutions of doing a couple scary things with my dad. The Insanity Ride looks like the Tilt A Whirl...it has four arms that hold two passengers each. It slowly moves off the ledge of the building until you are almost 900 feet off the ground. Then it spins around faster and faster until you think you're going to puke. Or wish for death. I have absolutely no idea how I got talked into that ride; I wasn't under any type of pharmaceutical influence whatsoever. I'm blaming it on the heat. It was already 108 degrees out by that point and I think the weather made me somewhat delirious in my decision making. Regardless, we even purchased a photo that shows us both doing the death dangle in the sky.
We headed back to the hotel and my mom and I decided to check out the infamous pool at the Hard Rock.
It did not disappoint. Wall to wall bodies, lots of couples doing the bump and grind, and a few rookies passed out cold on the pseudo beach.
I spotted several women clutching a plastic tumbler with the name "Rehab" on the side, filled with booze. I figured it would be a fun souvenir so I asked the bartender how much one cost.
"Twenty six dollars."
"Oh," I said, trying to hide my hickville, Wisconsin shock. "Then you just refill it for free the rest of the day?"
He laughed. "Ah, that's just for one drink."
Of course. At a pool where the rental fees for a cabana go for $4,000 a day, a $26 drink is a bargain. Plus it came with a straw.
Later on that night we visited the wax museum because Dad saw a show on TV that said it was haunted, since it used to be The Sands hotel and there was lots of mafia activity and violence on that spot. 
We drove over to the wax museum and took a ton of pictures. We didn't notice any paranormal activities, but I did get a picture of my dad with the wax statute of Jenna Jamison, and a picture of my mom doing the peach sign with Snoop Dogg....so I considered it a huge success.
The next day we found ourselves on Fremont Street. My dad leaned in toward me. "I found our second scary thing for us to do." He had a smile on his face that made me nervous. He pointed upwards. "Zip-lining."
I shook my head vehemently. "No way, that's too freaking scary."
Just then an 8 year old boy zipped by above us and waved.
"Well, ok..." I said sheepishly. Once we verified that landing would not injure my hip, we stood in line to purchase our tickets and cross the "second scary thing with my dad" off my list.
Now I'm done with that resolution for 2012. He can take his crazy ass suggestions for sky diving, bungee jumping and anything else adrenaline-producing and go tell it to my brother. I am DONE.
Our trip to Vegas was ten times more fun than I ever imagined it would be. My parents are amazing travel partners; they're up for just about anything.
One thing I did notice about Vegas attire was how amazingly little everyone was wearing. At first I thought the dresses the girls wore were just long tank tops. I didn't realize they were the entire outfit. I'm trying not to be prudish about clothing. Especially since moving in with my parents this last year and having one main bathroom; everyone has barged in on someone else at some point the last several months.
About a week ago, my son swung open my bedroom door, right after I had gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed. He screamed, I yelled, and he slammed the door shut. A few minutes later I walked into the kitchen.
"You scarred me," he said accusingly.
"Oh shut it," I told him. "Try knocking on some one's door next time."
My mom was in the kitchen too and laughed. "Oh Wyatt," she said. "You know what Grandma Tillie says - it's all just meat and potatoes."
"Oh yeah," Wyatt answered. "Well I didn't see any of Mom's meat but I DEFINITELY saw her two potatoes!"
I sighed. Out of the mouths of babes...
And in Vegas, based on what I saw at the pools, the sidewalks and the casinos....I saw it all. Their short skirts didn't leave a thing to the imagination.
At one point I found myself trying to see if could see even an outline of a thong under one girl's short skirt. 
Nope, nothing.
Honey, I thought to myself, you are one sneeze away from getting an Indecent Exposure ticket.
We can see your meat AND your potatoes.

Steel Magnolias and Hitchhikers

"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." ~ Truvy, Steel Magnolias

A few months ago while I was still at home and recovering from my accident, the enormity of what had happened became a bit overwhelming. I looked around and took careful inventory of the reality of my life at that point.
I was using a walker.
I needed a raised toilet seat to ensure I could take a leak without injuring my leg.
It was St Patricks Day, 84 degrees out, and I was stuck at home.
I shuffled to my bedroom and had a mini, sadness-filled breakdown.
Or, as I like to call it, a Pity Party for One.
Luckily my friend Jill (who lives in California) happily took my phone call and patiently listened to my whoa-is-me speech. As usual, she murmured agreement in the appropriate places and offered fantastic advice. She's always had this uncanny ability to make me feel that whatever I'm thinking or doing is completely normal and acceptable.
"Oh really? You murdered a door-to-door salesman and disposed of his body? Well, who reads hard covered encyclopedias nowadays anyway? You did the world a favor."
During this particular phone call, however, she just listened carefully and acknowledged my frustration. She told me I had a perfectly good right to feel sorry for myself, and assured me things would get better.
The next morning I checked my email and there was a message from Southwest Airlines. "Jill has sent you a gift card for $500."
Within that email there was a personalized, simple message from Jill: "Come see me. Let me take care of you."
And of course, I cried the rest of the morning after reading that.
So a few days ago, I packed my bags and got ready to fly out and see her. It almost didn't even happen.
First of all, I told my dad the wrong terminal. Then, after he dropped me off at the right one, I walked in to see the longest security line I've ever seen in my life. It wrapped through lines, over a sky way and down an escalator.
I had less than an hour before my plane took off. This was going to be a nail-biter the entire way; I could tell.
Finally, I was next in line to be x-rayed. I glanced up at the clock: 6:33 am. My flight was supposed to take off at 6:40.
After I hurriedly shoved my boarding pass at the ticket agent a few minutes later, she looked at me and said in a slow, southern drawl: "Honey, you better RUN."
Yeah, with a recovering hip injury.
I did a pathetic shuffling, trotting move that I think may have resembled a run. I finally boarded the plane with seconds to spare. Yikes.
Several hours later, which included a plane change, a shuttle ride and an uncomfortable moment when a homeless person next to me picked things out of his beard while I was waiting at the shuttle drop off place - Jill arrived to pick me up. Talk about a sight for sore eyes.
We spent the next several days just talking, anywhere and everywhere. We chatted around a bonfire, over the kitchen counter and while walking near the ocean. We talked over lunch (and laughed like a couple 16 year olds when we saw the restaurant's sign advertising their "Blackened Snapper") and while we had our nails done.
We talked even more after I had a visit with a psychic.
The psychic told me I had had an unlucky past year, but that was going to change. She announced I had already met my next soul mate and I would be getting married again.
Jill and I furtively tried to figure out who my next "soul mate" was.
Could it be the date I went on where he casually mentioned to me that he owed so much in back child support that he was forbidden to get a passport? Could it be the date where I offered to treat for a cocktail and a shared appetizer, and he proceeded to order walleye, steak and several shots?
Dear god, I hope not.
We spent hours discussing how our kids were doing, and the ever tricky navigation of a mother-daughter relationship with our teen girls.
Yesterday we took a road trip to Big Sur. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
At our first stop, we parked the car and got out to take pictures.
"Now be careful," she said nervously, as she watched me back up toward the edge of the hill. "I'm scared you're going to fall back over the cliff."
"You're right," I agreed. "That would be freaking tragic."
We carefully made our way down the side of a hill, and realized we both needed to go to the bathroom.
Now.
Here's the thing about Wisconsin girls: we can pop a squat just about anywhere. And we do. We're fast, efficient and discreet.
At least, we think we're discreet. As we made our way up the steep incline, we noticed a group of Japanese tourists taking pictures.
"Jesus," Jill said. "I hope we don't end up on some video that goes viral."
After a day of sightseeing and lunch, we headed toward her house again. We noticed a hitchhiker on the side of the road.
Jill turned to me. "Hey, should we give him a ride? I've never done that before."
I stared at her incredulously. "Are you kidding? No we should not. I've never taken a homeless person home and spooned with him before either, but that doesn't mean I think I should."
I think we do a good job of balancing each other out.
Later on we decided to watch "Steel Magnolias." We made our dinner, poured ourselves another cocktail and settled on to the couch for one of our favorite movies.
Yeah, liquor combined with a movie about a daughter dying did not make the best combination.
At one point I had tears streaming down my face. I couldn't even look at Jill because I knew she was reacting the same way. When the movie was finally over I turned to her, eyes practically swollen shut and snot running down my nose. "Don't you EVER make me watch that movie again. I mean it."
She agreed and promptly put in Comedy Centrals "Roast of Charlie Sheen."
Ahhh...much better. Nothing like plain old raunchy humor about hookers and cocaine to take the edge off.
So today I get ready to board my plane. I am sad that the vacation was over so quickly, but more than that - so very grateful I had the chance to come.
And in the end, Jill did exactly what she promised:
She took care of me.

Our Filter-less Family

"Seriously, Vanessa...I think you're missing a filter when you speak." ~ spoken too many times by too many people to accurately quote

I don't know if it's because I'm usually in a hurry but I tend to do everything fast:
I drink fast.
I eat fast.
I talk fast.
I especially talk fast. And when I am lucky enough to carry on a conversation with another fast talker, it's like the heavens align perfectly. We can get so much in during our conversation. When most people would be carrying on a normally paced conversation and doing pleasant introductions, me and the similar fast talker are already swapping phone numbers and adding each other as Facebook friends. Ta-da! So efficient we are.
However, one of the negatives of being a fast talker is that sometimes I speak before I think. I just blurt it out. It's like I don't always have time in my head to think about possible ramifications of my words.
There are people in my family who don't say anything without careful deliberation. They choose their words and reactions to words with thought and concern.
Not me.
I'm definitely a blurter.
And sometimes I even try not to be. I try to chose my words carefully, but it doesn't always work. I feel like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he finally gets the opportunity to tell Santa what he wants. He panics and yells out: "No! No! I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"
He looks just as shocked as anyone when he utters those words.
Then Santa kicks him in the face and shoves him down the slide.
Now that I'm a parent, I have discovered that filterless parents have filterless babies. And those filterless babies grow up to be filterless children.
When my daughters were born, I literally said a prayer: "Dear God, please let my girls grow up to be strong and independent and spirited and don't let them take shit from anyone."
Deep sigh...
I think we can safely say God was definitely listening to that prayer.
While all three girls have different personalities, not one of them is afraid to speak what's on her mind. I don't think it even crosses their mind to think about what it might sound like when they repeat something.
A couple days ago my kids had come home from a long day at the city pool. We were all in the kitchen and they were sharing who they saw at the pool and who they played with during the day.
"Do you know what one boy said to me at the pool today?" Chloe, my 10 year old, said.
"No, what?" I asked her.
"He said 'I'll give you a nickel if you tickle my pickle.'"
Instantly my mom and I burst out laughing.
My dad, however, was not amused. He had that look on his face that I recognized from childhood. His eyebrows cinched together and his nostrils flared a bit.
I tried to motion to Chloe to quit talking about it, by motioning a zipper across the mouth. She either didn't see it or chose to ignore it. It's safe to say that not only do we not have a filter for our mouths, we lack a zipper as well. She went on and on, and it didn't help that I continued to laugh.
"I don't think it's appropriate," my dad said.
He was right...it wasn't appropriate. I asked Chloe, "So what did you say to the boy who said that to you?" In my head I imagined a guy in a leather jacket, standing outside the chain link fence by the pool...wearing sun glasses and smoking a cigarette.
She shrugged. "He was about 10, so I told him he was disgusting and then I swam away."
I nodded. "Wise move."
Inside I tucked away that pickle saying, and wondered if there was any way I could use it on a future date.
And it's not just my girls who say whatever pops in their brains. My son does it, too.
A couple weeks ago we all went out to eat at a local restaurant. As we were leaving and walking out through the parking lot, I automatically reached for my son's hand. He looked up at me, "When we get home and go to bed, do you want to lay in bed and talk about stuff with me?"
I smiled. I knew what he was up to. Ever since I got an iPhone, he became obsessed with playing games on my phone. In his little 8 year old brain, he was thinking that if he got me to lay down with him, I would be so tired that I wouldn't care if he played games on my phone.
"Well," I asked him. "What kind of stuff did you want to talk about?"
"I don't know," he said. "But just not, like, sexual stuff. I don't really want to talk about that with you."
I rolled my eyes, stopped walking and looked at him. "Well that makes two of us. Why in the world do you think I'd want to talk about sexual stuff with you anyway?"
He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking.
Seriously, I would have died before I suggested talking about sexual stuff to my parents when I was eight.
It didn't seem to bother him in the least.
But then, an incident last weekend happened that made me realize how hereditary this lack of filter issue really is.
My friend Nicole and I joined my mother and Grandma Tillie for lunch at Red Lobster. Nicole loves my family, and especially loves hanging out with Tillie, because as Nicole says, "You just never know what's going to come out of her mouth."
True. Once in awhile Grandma Tillie will reward us with a verbal gem that keep us smiling for years. And last weekend was no disappointment.
Before we had a chance to order, Grandma Tillie turned toward Nicole and said, "Do you want to see my pacemaker scar?" Nicole murmured in agreement and turned toward her. "Wow," she said. "But it's healing really nice."
Grandma shook her head. "That's nothing, wait until you get ahold of this..."
And then I knew what she was going to do. It's like it all happened in slow motion.
My mom did, too. She hid her face behind a menu and said, "Mom, not here. We're at a restaurant..."
I just tried not to smile because I knew what was going to happen.
Grandma lifted up her shirt and showed us the purple bruising on her bare boob. "Check that out," she said.
Nicole nodded approvingly and gave me a look, suppressing a smile.
I knew that look and exactly what she was thinking:
Jackpot.
But hey, I gotta hand it to Grandma Tillie. She's still got a decent rack.
And when I turn 89, I'll probably be whipping out my bare boob at a Red Lobster too.
My kids will be hiding behind menus, and I'll laugh and catcall over to the waiter, "Hey, if you give me a nickel..."

Rules Schmules

"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." ~ Katharine Hepburn

Not that I necessarily fancy myself some Rebel-Without-A-Cause, James Dean type...but I do think I have a tendency to buck authority now and then, and not always do what I'm supposed to. My kids are not the only ones in this family to blurt out "You're not the boss of me!" when frustrated with authority.
For the most part, I think I follow society's expectations of what a mother is supposed to be like.
I take care of my children ~ they're enrolled in activities, they're grounded when needed, and they don't show up with drugs in a Ziploc baggie to share at show and tell. Although in full disclosure, Chloe DID one time in bring two box cutters to school to show her class. The principal called me and explained that the school had a zero tolerance for bringing weapons to school and normally Chloe's actions would dictate an immediate three day suspension. However, since she was only in first grade, the school wasn't going to enforce it.
"Well, I can assure you Chloe had no intention of bringing in a weapon to cut someone," I tried to explain. "I think she just liked the designs on the outside of them."
Needless to say, we had to check Chloe's backpack a little more closely on show and tell days after that.
So when it comes to making sure my kids are being taken care of, I would say yes - I do follow the rules.
But when it comes to me, I guess I just don't like being told what to do and what to believe.
I like hip hop and really inappropriate dirty rap lyrics. I like doing shots at the bar. I like swearing. A lot.
I'm not proud of all of this, but in the words of Popeye: "I am what I am."
Not all my rule-breaking should be considered bad. When it came to getting a divorce, I knew that I didn't want a typical post-divorce antagonistic relationship with my ex-husband. He's my children's father and I will have a relationship with him until we are dead. I've seen too many couples go through a lot of unnecessary drama after a divorce and we didn't want our kids to feel that sort of conflict.
So sometimes we all have dinner together, or go bowling together, or attend their conferences and activities together. I'll post pictures of us on Facebook and once in awhile I'll get a message from someone: "Are you guys back together? You seem awfully friendly." No, we're not back together. I've even met his girlfriend and she seems lovely. Who says ex-spouses always have to spiteful with each other? As one of my girlfriends said wisely last year: "There are no rules in divorce, Vanessa. Do what works best for your family."
I'm not a rule breaker in all aspects of my life, however. When it comes to personal safety, I tend to be a stickler. I wear my seat belt all the time...it's automatic. I watch my kids like a hawk when we're at a beach, even though they're all incredible swimmers. I'm a sunscreen Nazi with them during the summer. I don't even like going in go-karts too much because I'm always afraid I'm going to crash.
A few nights ago I was on a date in Minneapolis. We met up in a parking lot in Uptown, and we were going to decide what to do and where to go.
My date showed up on a motorcycle. "Do you have your sunglasses with you?" he asked. "Let's go for a ride."
"But I don't have a helmet," I told Motorcycle Guy. "Do you have one for me?"
Motorcycle Guy shook his head. "Vanessa, no one on a Harley wears a helmet."
"That's not true!" I told MG. "My dad rides a Harley and HE wears one."
MG took a deep breath. "How about we just ride around the area? I won't go crazy fast, I promise."
I stood there, debating. I had my purse on one shoulder and my arms crossed in front of me.
"I'm not even sure how to get on one," I told him.
MG showed me where to get on, and where to put my legs.
"But what about the hot thing?" I asked him. "I think the last time I was on a motorcycle I burned my leg on some hot pipe."
He pointed it out. "Try not to touch this right here. If you keep your feet where I showed you, you should be fine."
I took a deep breath and said, "Ok, I'll go on a ride without a helmet. Just don't go too fast."
"Vanessa, the speed limit is like 25 miles an hour."
I tossed fear and caution to the wind and swung my leg around the bike. Instantly I felt a piercing pain on the inside of my lower leg.
"Mother trucker!" I yelled out. Or at least something close to that word. "I touched the hot thing!"
MG pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep breath. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I guess," I replied. "Don't you have a bitch bar for the passenger seat? So I don't fall off?"
"Not with me," he said. "You'll be fine. Just hold on to me. The back seat slopes back a bit, so you might feel like you're slipping a bit, but you won't be."
That made me a more than a little nervous. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but I would like to point out my rear end is a bit bigger than average. You don't think the sheer velocity of us going down the road will cause me to fall off the back?"
MG assured me we'd be fine, so off we went.
Our first ride was six city blocks to a gas station, so my date could buy some gum.
I was terrified the entire time.
Once we stopped, I asked him how I did. "Well," he said carefully. "Be careful how you hold on. I don't want my guts filleted with your finger nails. Let's head over to Lake Calhoun. I'll stay off Hennepin so you're not so nervous."
For the next several blocks I was convinced death was imminent. Every oncoming car was a soon-to-be collision, every other motorcycle was a head-on threat.
Once we reached the beach, I was finally able to fully exhale.
"I think the last three blocks went pretty well, don't you?" I asked him. "I only screamed twice and I leaned the correct way on that turn."
MG nodded. "You did better, that's for sure."
"I have to confess something though," I told him. "My ankle also touched that hot thing, but I don't think it's as burned as my calf."
MG took another deep breath.
"Don't worry about it," I assured him. "My last date ended with me in Regions for 4 days, with surgery on a dislocated and fractured hip. As long as I stay out of the burn unit tonight, I will consider this date a success."
And we did have a very nice evening. At one point I asked him, "Are we always supposed to get on a motorcycle from the left side? Is it like getting on a saddle with a horse?"
He nodded.
"Have you ever been on a horse?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "No. Because that's like taking something as powerful as THIS," he said, pointing to his motorcycle, "and giving it a brain."
That made me laugh.
So even though I wasn't able to initially follow my personal safety rules with wearing a helmet, no one ended up in the back of an ambulance. We had a nice time, and my leg burn should heal within a week.
As much as I'd like to think of myself as a bad-ass soccer mom, I'm still wary of things. I don't think I'll be getting my own motorcycle anytime soon. But if I did, it would probably look like this:

Although, to be honest, once my dad reads this blog and finds out I was on a motorcycle without a helmet, I'll probably be the only 42 year old grounded in Pierce County.

Let the Wild Rumpus begin...

"Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation.  If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you."  ~Erma Bombeck

Three days left.
That's it. Just three more days of school and then summer vacation is upon us.
Ish.
It's every school kid's dream and most working parents' nightmare. Although, this year I'm not worrying so much about what happens during the summer hours as I used to. Due to me moving back home with my parents this year, my kids will be spending the majority of their summer vacation with Grandma and Grandpa.
There will be no Jersey Shore marathons (my parents don't have cable).
There will be no walking to Kwik Trip and blowing their allowance on Pixie Stix and Monster energy drinks (my parents live in the country).
There will be no five hour long Facebook log-in sessions (my parents are helping me impose computer time limits).
There will be no sleeping until noon and leaving bowls of cereal all over the house (my parents are helping me enforce my Chore and Responsibility Chart & Reward System that I started this week).
Luckily, there will also not be any $300 utility bills due to the central air being on non-stop. (my parents don't have central air... as they like to say, the butter needs to be melting on the kitchen counter top before the window units get turned on).
Interestingly enough, my kids are starting to get excited about some of Grandma and Grandpa's "projects" that they're going to work on. Like working in the garden and helping Grandpa up in the shop. And I know my parents...it's not like it's going to be all work and no play. My kids will be taken to plenty of pools and beaches. I think they'd be horrified if I told them how my cousin Jena and I used to have to cool off in the summer when we were kids:
In a cow tank. Yep, that big steel watering hole filled with cow's slobber...where we'd happily sit and play with our Barbies. Seriously, I don't like to remember that too much because it makes me dry heave.
With the summer beginning, it also fills me with a little trepidation as far as the summer wardrobe goes. Now that I'm single again, I need to focus on scaling down my tree trunk thighs and ghetto booty. My trainer, The Tin Man, should probably get a medal in putting up with my whining and complaining when it comes to working out.
One night this last week I met him at Como Park, so we could work out next to the lake. There is a walking path that goes around the lake, and some times people will come up to us and ask him: "Are you a trainer? Can I get your card?"
I guess this time of year makes everyone want to get into shape.
So a few nights ago at the lake, the Tin Man was trying to get me to stretch my obliques from a sitting position. Right away I started complaining: "But my surgeon said I'm not supposed to rotate to the right if my left hip is facing forward and not moving..."
He tried to explain how I wasn't going to be rotating, just carefully turning my upper body. Apparently my ADD was in high gear, because I still wasn't getting it. I could tell he was getting exasperated.
"Like this," he told me, getting behind me. He placed his arm around my neck, so it would stay still and face forward.
"Oh, I get it." I said. "I still don't like it. It hurts my stomach muscles and I'm really tired and kind of hungry..." My mouth went into automatic pilot whine mode.
The Tin Man leaned closer and started talking into my ear.
"Listen to me," he said in a low, even voice. "Right now, all people see when they walk by is a black man with his arm around the neck of a white woman. And that woman is starting to make noise. I swear to god, the cops will be here in two minutes if you don't STOP. RIGHT. NOW."
I tried not to laugh. As much as I wanted the exercise to stop, I didn't want my friend to end up in the pokey.
So now that I think of it... maybe this summer vacation won't be all that bad. My kids will get to experience a summer like what it was "in the old days". I can take them to some of the beaches I used to go when I was a kid, and they'll get to hang out with Grandma and Grandpa... in a house with melted butter on the counter tops and a list of chores that need to be done.
Yep, this summer might not be bad at all.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike...

"Life is like a ten speed bicycle. Most of us have gears we never use." ~ Charles M. Schulz


After my accident three months ago, my activity level has been about as painstakingly slow as growing out my bangs. I honestly thought that once I could be weight baring on my left leg again, I would be back to normal. I had this image in my head of tossing my walker off to the side and slipping on a pair of 4 inch wedge sandals.
Yeah, not exactly.
My shoe selection has mainly been relegated to flats, which are not my first choice. There's only so much flair and fashion you can add to a non-existent heel. I look at websites like Zappos and ShoeDazzle and longingly gaze at platform heels, cork wedges and leather flowered sandals like a crack head looks at a pipe.
I have a board on Pinterest that I've named "Foot Porn." I don't think I'll be able to wear most of those shoes for a very long time, but it still gives me a rush to look at them.
And in addition to my recent orthotic choice in foot wear, I feel like I spend so much mental energy every time I start walking, or get up from a seated position. 
It's like a mental flow chart in my head whenever I'm going to step out of the shower:
Is the floor wet outside the shower?
If no, continue to carefully step out.
If yes, assess possible scope of damage, grab the towel bar and  curse silently.
One of the activities I really wanted to start again was riding my bike. I felt that was a good cardio option without putting too much pressure on my leg. So tonight my dad got all our bikes ready. He checked the tire pressure and found every one's helmets.
"This will be so great!" I told the kids excitedly. "I used to ride all the time when I was a kid." They rolled their eyes and asked how long we were going. 
What's the saying? "...it's just like riding a bike..."
Well, there's nothing like dislocating and fracturing your hip to make you question absolutely everything that deals with maintaining your balance and an upright position. I wobbled down the driveway, like a 5 year old without her training wheels for the first time. I don't think I completely exhaled for the first half mile.
Once I realized I wasn't going to face plant into a ditch, I started to enjoy the ride.
My daughters, however, weren't relishing in the miracle of their mother on two wheels.
"This hurts my crotch!"
"My crotch hurts, too. How many more miles?"
"Now my butt hurts."
Good grief. I looked at my 7 year old son, waiting to hear his complaint. He shrugged. "My balls don't hurt at all."
Well, that's good. We continued on our way home. After a few miles, my thighs began to hurt. I kept telling myself it was a good hurt and it meant the muscles were working again.
As we finished our ride, my son announced, "I'm really proud of you, Mom. I'm proud you didn't fall and break your other hip."
He looked at me and smiled, then high-fived me.
Oh, thanks...you sweet talker you.
After I did the shaky dismount in our driveway, I felt a stirring of hope. A hope that things may someday be more normal in terms of my activity levels. A hope that I can eventually hop on a bike and go for a ride without wincing every time I go up a hill. A hope that my kids will want to bike with me too, and not complain the entire time.
And dare I say...a hope that some day I will be able to slide into a pair of heels that sparkle and shine.
A girl can dream.

Where's the Convent? And the bubble wrap?

"Oh, high is the price of parenthood, and daughters may cost you double. You dare not forget, as you thought you could, that youth is a plague and a trouble." ~ Phyllis McGinley

I know worrying comes with parenthood.
I get it. I do.
I've been worried since I've been pregnant, actually. My mom said she was the same way, so in my extended family we call it "nurturing the worry gene."
When I first thought I was pregnant for the first time, I was hung over. I mean, big time. Fantastic, right? Mother of the Year, here I come. I stared at the pregnancy stick, with one hand covering my eye...trying to focus and confirm if I was seeing one or two lines. I thought it was just one, so I tossed it into the trash.
Two hours later I dug it out and very faintly saw a second line.
Wait. What?
I drove to a drug store and purchased not one, not two, not even three but FOUR more pregnancy tests. Excess Vaness strikes again. I drove back home and tried to will myself to pee on a stick.
Not easy to do when you're dehydrated and craving food from Perkins.
Eventually it was confirmed that I was indeed going to be a mama.
And life has never been the same since.
I started worrying about a possible miscarriage. Then, when I was beyond the first trimester and still pregnant, I started worrying that I hadn't felt the baby move. I had an ultrasound and was overjoyed to see that I had a healthy and very active baby growing inside of me. I told the ultrasound tech that I absolutely did NOT want to know the baby's sex. After she printed out photos and gave them to me, I scrutinized them carefully. Based on the images, I couldn't tell if the baby had indoor or outdoor plumbing.
I asked the tech, "So...were you able to tell the sex of the baby and you're just not telling me?"
She laughed. "No, I couldn't tell."
I went home and promptly began to worry. When she said she couldn't tell, did that mean she really didn't look close enough or did she mean she couldn't tell because my baby didn't have any visible sex organs and therefor might possibly be a hermaphrodite?
The mere thought of that kept me awake many, many sleepless nights.
Several months later I gave birth to a baby girl; there was no mistaking it.
Followed by another baby girl less than two years later.
And yet another little girl just three years after that.
Obviously my crazy hadn't hit full throttle, because two years after our last little girl came a little boy.
NOW we were done.
But with each baby came another set of worries...
What if I don't love this new baby as much as the others?
What if they succumbed to SIDS?
What sort of developmental delays could it mean if my baby isn't crawling yet?
What if they have allergies to all sorts of things?
Blah, blah, blah...the worrying never seemed to end.
Then they got older and the worries changed.
What if they don't make friends in school?
What if they end up with a bad crowd and end up in juvie?
What if one of them ends up pregnant and I'm a grandma in my mid 40s?
I used to think that once they could walk, talk, feed themselves and wipe their own butts, I would be able to breathe a sigh of relief. I remember back in the 70s when I was a kid, my cousins and I would disappear for HOURS. We'd play on rusty farm machinery, chase bulls in their pens, try to climb on top of cows and go for a ride, ride our Big Wheels (or in my brother's case, his Green Machine)... we'd come home late in the day, covered in dirt and sometimes fresh scabs. Honestly, I'm not even sure our mothers noticed we were gone half the time. They certainly didn't sit around and worry like I do now.
My son is not quite 8, and is still in the Big Wheels/Green Machine stage. My concerns with him usually center around possible broken bones and busted teeth. My girls, however, are getting older and I have less control over their environments when they're not with me.
Sure, I don't need to wonder if they can wipe their own butts anymore, but I do sometimes worry about other external forces that I have no control over.
What if they drink too much at a party some night, develop alcohol poisoning and choke on their own vomit?
What if some boy gives them the "just the tip" speech in the backseat of a car? And she believes him??
This list could go on and on. Some times I manage to keep the worry monster in check. I tell myself that I can't live with all the angst that parenting gives us. I can sometimes keep the thoughts away.
Then, we have to deal with an event that happened at the end of last week.
One of my daughters' classmates was killed in a car accident, right after school let out. She was riding with a couple friends and the unthinkable happened. I, along with every other parent in our school system, keep thinking the same thing: What if that had been my child?
We can't keep our children wrapped in bubble wrap until they retire.
We can't prevent them from what life throws at them.
We can try to give them good advice so they make (somewhat) intelligent decisions.
We can make sure they know how much we love them.
We can let them take off on their Big Wheels and not worry about skinned knees so much, because in the grand scheme of things...that's going to be one of the least of our worries.