One of the things I always thought I'd do really well at was explain "the birds and the bees" to my kids. How hard could it be? Just be honest, straightforward and answer their questions. I figured anything I explained to my children had to be better than the way I heard about it from my mother when she was half-asleep.
I was 6 years old, and my mother was working second shift as a nurse. She crawled into bed with me when she got home one night, kissed me good night, and started to doze off immediately. Apparently I had a lot on my first-grade mind because I asked her, "Mom, where do babies come from?"
She mumbled something incoherently, so I asked her again.
She stirred and responded, "The man puts his penis inside the woman's vagina." She began to fall asleep again.
I, however, was very confused. The logistics didn't seem right.
"So the woman just LAYS there?" I asked.
"Mmmm hmmmm," Mom mumbled. "If she's really tired she does."
I laugh every time I think about her explanation now. Of COURSE that would be the response of a working mother of small children.
It wasn't too long that my children began to ask the ever-burning question of kids everywhere. And I've heard repeatedly, through books and talk shows, experts and authors, how important it is to have this conversation the right way. Parents are always warned that if they don't provide the correct information to their children, the kids will seek out answers elsewhere. Who needs that kind of pressure?
When my oldest daughter Frankie was in kindergarten, she asked me about it. I thought she was too young so I just turned up the volume on the TV. A couple years later she asked me again, so I went out and bought her the classic "Where Did I Come From?" book, complete with cartoon characters and descriptions of a "special tickle." I instructed her to read it in her room, and to then come out to the living room and we could discuss any questions.
She walked out about 15 minutes later, tossed the book on the couch, gave me a weird look and said, "No questions. Pretty sure I got it figured out."
Whew... that wasn't difficult at all.
A few years later my daughter Sophie asked me while I was driving with her on the way back from Red Wing. I gripped the steering wheel and blurted out everything in a matter of 30 seconds. I don't think I took a breath. I finished my speech with telling her, "And honey if you ever have any questions you can always ask me, and I promise you I'll always tell you the truth. And you know what? You can even ask your dad and he'll answer your questions truthfully, too." I mentally patted myself on the back for that little add-on. Way to promote co-parenting.
Sophie looked confused and asked, "But do you think he knows all the details, like what you just explained to me?" Poor dads... they never get any credit.
"Yes, honey," I told her. "Your dad knows all the details."
I wasn't sure he could draw a uterus-to-scale on a cocktail napkin like I did once for my kids, but he could probably pull something together.
Just last year when my daughter Chloe was 7, she informed me one night "I know what sex is. My sisters told me." I gave the stink eye to her older sisters, which they both claimed complete innocence. I sighed, sat down on the couch next to her, and proceeded to give her the talk. I didn't go into a ton of details, but I wanted to make sure she had her facts straight. When I was finished, I asked if she had any questions.
She wrinkled up her nose and said, "Ga-ross! You mean you let Dad do that to you FOUR SEPARATE TIMES? Yuck."
I nodded sympathetically. "Yep, only four times."
Just recently my son Wyatt announced he knew what sex was. "What do you think it is?" I asked him carefully.
"You know," he said. "Where people get in bed with each other and hump on each others' legs. Like on Jersey Shore."
Great. Remind me to put a block on the MTV channel.
I rolled my eyes and told him he needed to talk to his father. After three daughters I was immensely relieved to share that duty with someone else.
So in hindsight, I may not have handled the "birds and the bees talk" as well as Dr Spock would have recommended, but I sure didn't leave any lingering questions about the logistics.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Mother's Day Misgivings
I have come to the conclusion that there are two great humblers in life: Unemployment and children. Both are subjects that anyone can be an expert in, even if they have no experience in either. Before I was unemployed for seven months last year, I used to haughtily assume the unemployed just weren't looking hard enough for their next job. Before I had kids, I used to assume all you needed was to be firm in your parenting and your kids would fall in line.
I didn't really account for the fact that the unemployment gig was such a crushing blow that, despite a minimum of 10 applications a week, I began to feel physically ill with worry... what if I never worked beyond a job that required me to ask "Would you like fries with that?" ever again?
I also have come to the conclusion that no matter how many times we tell our kids to wear their helmets while riding bike or to turn off inappropriate television, they're going to push the boundaries anyway.
Last week I came home from work, and instantly had to leave again to run to the grocery store. As I was driving down a residential road, I noticed a little boy riding his bike, weaving in and out of traffic. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and that made me of course roll my eyes.
"Nice mothering job," I said to myself. "Whoever is his mother should maybe pay a little more attention to what her kids are doing."
Turns out, it was my son Wyatt on the bike. Lovely.
I pulled the car over and yelled out the window, "Wyatt Robert! What is the matter with you?!"
He looked at me with utter 6 year old disgust. "What's the big deal, Mom?"
"Your head bouncing off the concrete, that's the big deal." I loaded his bike into my car and drove him home.
Shortly before Thanksgiving, my daughter Chloe came home and informed me that she was invited to spend the night at a friend's house that evening. I was supposed to drop her off once her friend was done with her guitar lesson.
Now, I know what I was SUPPOSED to do. I was SUPPOSED to call the friend's mother to confirm everything. I get that. I've read the books. But I didn't. I'm sure I was just relieved that one of the kids would be out of the house for the night. One down, three to go...
Around 7:30 that evening I drove Chloe over to her friend's house. I walked with her to the front door and rang the doorbell, prepared to do a little friendly chit-chat with the girl's mother. The girl and her mother came to the door, and within a few seconds it was apparent that the mother knew nothing of the overnight plans.
She stood in the doorway, wearing a pink track suit and holding a little dog in her arms. She reminded me of a Hollywood reality star.
Once I realized what had happened, I felt like an idiot. "I am so sorry," I told her. "I just assumed this was all right with you. I should have called. I'll just bring Chloe back with me."
The mother sighed and said, "No that's ok. She might as well stay overnight as long as she's here."
I thanked her profusely and turned to leave, but she stopped me.
"Just so you know," she said, leaning forward and still clutching her tiny dog, "the last time my daughter spent the night at your house they apparently watched an R rated movie. Were you aware of that?"
Fan-freakin'-tastic.
And as I always do when I'm under extreme stress or shame, I tried to crack a joke. "Well, at least it wasn't porn."
Paris Hilton was not amused.
Several years ago a friend of one of my older daughters came over. They were around age 8 or 9, and playing outside. When I was getting ready to take her home, one of my daughters tattled that this friend had pooped on our sidewalk.
I was completely confused. "Honey, we have indoor plumbing. You can use our bathroom inside anytime you need to."
The girl was non-apologetic. "Well, your daughters dared me to."
Not exactly a moment that you're bursting with pride as a mother. However, secretly I thought to myself "As least my daughters were doing the daring, and not the public pooping. That has to count for something."
Fast forward several years, to early this week. I was at work, and got a call from one of my older daughters.
"Mom," she began in a shaky voice. "The vice principal is making me call you, because of an incident."
Instantly I was on alert. The child of mine that was calling, had been getting into some trouble lately. Who knew what she got busted doing?
"What happened?" I asked slowly.
She admitted that she may or may not have used a gay slur on a classmate.
I was beyond pissed. I consider myself a bed-wetting liberal and have just assumed my progressive beliefs would mean that my sweet children would never, ever stoop to hateful words. Another humbling moment. In all honesty, I would have RATHER she pooped on some one's sidewalk.
With Mother's Day right around the corner, we can take this opportunity to do inward cringes when we think about some of the not-so-loving things our children have done....
OR
We can relish in the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Last year I got a homemade card from one of the kids, written in crayon: "Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for making me feel like I am the only purson on the planet."
So I may not be June Cleaver, or Carol Brady. I feel like I lean more toward the harried mom in "Malcolm in the Middle." But that's ok, because as imperfect as my children may be to others, they are perfect to ME.
Take THAT, Paris Hilton!
I didn't really account for the fact that the unemployment gig was such a crushing blow that, despite a minimum of 10 applications a week, I began to feel physically ill with worry... what if I never worked beyond a job that required me to ask "Would you like fries with that?" ever again?
I also have come to the conclusion that no matter how many times we tell our kids to wear their helmets while riding bike or to turn off inappropriate television, they're going to push the boundaries anyway.
Last week I came home from work, and instantly had to leave again to run to the grocery store. As I was driving down a residential road, I noticed a little boy riding his bike, weaving in and out of traffic. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and that made me of course roll my eyes.
"Nice mothering job," I said to myself. "Whoever is his mother should maybe pay a little more attention to what her kids are doing."
Turns out, it was my son Wyatt on the bike. Lovely.
I pulled the car over and yelled out the window, "Wyatt Robert! What is the matter with you?!"
He looked at me with utter 6 year old disgust. "What's the big deal, Mom?"
"Your head bouncing off the concrete, that's the big deal." I loaded his bike into my car and drove him home.
Shortly before Thanksgiving, my daughter Chloe came home and informed me that she was invited to spend the night at a friend's house that evening. I was supposed to drop her off once her friend was done with her guitar lesson.
Now, I know what I was SUPPOSED to do. I was SUPPOSED to call the friend's mother to confirm everything. I get that. I've read the books. But I didn't. I'm sure I was just relieved that one of the kids would be out of the house for the night. One down, three to go...
Around 7:30 that evening I drove Chloe over to her friend's house. I walked with her to the front door and rang the doorbell, prepared to do a little friendly chit-chat with the girl's mother. The girl and her mother came to the door, and within a few seconds it was apparent that the mother knew nothing of the overnight plans.
She stood in the doorway, wearing a pink track suit and holding a little dog in her arms. She reminded me of a Hollywood reality star.
Once I realized what had happened, I felt like an idiot. "I am so sorry," I told her. "I just assumed this was all right with you. I should have called. I'll just bring Chloe back with me."
The mother sighed and said, "No that's ok. She might as well stay overnight as long as she's here."
I thanked her profusely and turned to leave, but she stopped me.
"Just so you know," she said, leaning forward and still clutching her tiny dog, "the last time my daughter spent the night at your house they apparently watched an R rated movie. Were you aware of that?"
Fan-freakin'-tastic.
And as I always do when I'm under extreme stress or shame, I tried to crack a joke. "Well, at least it wasn't porn."
Paris Hilton was not amused.
Several years ago a friend of one of my older daughters came over. They were around age 8 or 9, and playing outside. When I was getting ready to take her home, one of my daughters tattled that this friend had pooped on our sidewalk.
I was completely confused. "Honey, we have indoor plumbing. You can use our bathroom inside anytime you need to."
The girl was non-apologetic. "Well, your daughters dared me to."
Not exactly a moment that you're bursting with pride as a mother. However, secretly I thought to myself "As least my daughters were doing the daring, and not the public pooping. That has to count for something."
Fast forward several years, to early this week. I was at work, and got a call from one of my older daughters.
"Mom," she began in a shaky voice. "The vice principal is making me call you, because of an incident."
Instantly I was on alert. The child of mine that was calling, had been getting into some trouble lately. Who knew what she got busted doing?
"What happened?" I asked slowly.
She admitted that she may or may not have used a gay slur on a classmate.
I was beyond pissed. I consider myself a bed-wetting liberal and have just assumed my progressive beliefs would mean that my sweet children would never, ever stoop to hateful words. Another humbling moment. In all honesty, I would have RATHER she pooped on some one's sidewalk.
With Mother's Day right around the corner, we can take this opportunity to do inward cringes when we think about some of the not-so-loving things our children have done....
OR
We can relish in the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Last year I got a homemade card from one of the kids, written in crayon: "Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for making me feel like I am the only purson on the planet."
So I may not be June Cleaver, or Carol Brady. I feel like I lean more toward the harried mom in "Malcolm in the Middle." But that's ok, because as imperfect as my children may be to others, they are perfect to ME.
Take THAT, Paris Hilton!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Boob Fascination
Ever since I can remember, my kids have been fascinated with two things: dirty jokes and breasts. They're like little miniature sailors running around. Both things capture their attention like nothing else. While the older ones have seem to outgrow the titty titillation, the younger two are still mesmerized. You know that song by Jay-Z "Can I Get A..."? Yeah, I used to be just standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, and one of the kids would walk by and nonchalantly raise up both hands, doing a cupping motion, and sing, "Can I get a woop! woop!"
So much for singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider."
And my kids have no hesitancy in sharing their opinions of breasts, either. Especially mine. One morning a couple years ago I woke up (I was just sleeping in my underwear). Apparently the covers were not strategically placed enough around the chest area, because I opened my eyes to see Chloe and Wyatt standing next to the bed, each eating a bowl of cereal. "Gross, Mom," Wyatt said. "Cover up."
Chloe made a circle motion with her index finger and announced, "I can see your little meatballs."
My what? My little MEATBALLS? Granted, after 4 kids I'm well aware I'm not sporting tiny pink erasers, but I take great offense at being compared to something that belongs on a hoagie.
When my oldest daughter Frankie turned 9, she had a slumber party. I was upstairs, decorating her cake, and she and her friends were all downstairs playing the game "Would You Rather..." I could listen to their questions they posed to each other and it was all pretty innocuous. Pretty cute, actually. One of them would ask the other, "Okay, would you rather... eat a spoonful of dirt... OR, kiss Luke so-and-so?" And I would hear a chorus of "Ewwwww!" and I would just have to smile. Well, Chloe was sitting on the steps and was just dying to be included in this game. She kept raising her hand and telling everyone, "Pick me! Pick me!" Frankie's friends were ignoring her, and it was just tearing Chloe up. I decided to go downstairs and get Chloe to come upstairs, so she wouldn't continue to bother the girls. I started coming downstairs toward Chloe. She looked at me and knew she only had a brief moment in time to make an impact on the girls at the party. "C'mon, Chloe..." I told her. "Come upstairs with me." She looked like a trapped animal and instantly blurted out: "Hey guys guess what! One time I saw my grandma's vagina!" The chorus of "ewwws" was instantaneous.
(Now, to be fair to my mother, Chloe never actually saw her grandmother's va jay-jay. She just happened to be in the same room when they were changing one time to go swimming.)
I dragged Chloe upstairs, as she was kicking and screaming. I told her I'd play "Would You Rather..." with her. How hard could it be, I thought, to come up with questions for a 4 year old?
I sat down on the couch, next to our fish tank. "Let's see," I said. "Let me think of a question for you...."
"Oh no," she replied. "I get to ask YOU the question."
"Ok. Go ahead."
She paused, tapping her finger on her chin, as she looked around the room for inspiration.
"Ok, Mom, would you rather... swallow a fish out of the fish tank... OR (dramatic pause) let your husband see your boobs?"
I was speechless. I sat there with my mouth open, not sure if I should be shocked or burst out laughing.
"I know," she said, nodding knowingly. "I'd swallow a fish, too."
So now that the weather is finally getting nicer, and clothes will eventually get skimpier, do I dare risk the comments and criticism from the kids? I'm not up for any more "meatball" critiques...
Nah... I can handle 'em! Kind of.
So much for singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider."
And my kids have no hesitancy in sharing their opinions of breasts, either. Especially mine. One morning a couple years ago I woke up (I was just sleeping in my underwear). Apparently the covers were not strategically placed enough around the chest area, because I opened my eyes to see Chloe and Wyatt standing next to the bed, each eating a bowl of cereal. "Gross, Mom," Wyatt said. "Cover up."
Chloe made a circle motion with her index finger and announced, "I can see your little meatballs."
My what? My little MEATBALLS? Granted, after 4 kids I'm well aware I'm not sporting tiny pink erasers, but I take great offense at being compared to something that belongs on a hoagie.
When my oldest daughter Frankie turned 9, she had a slumber party. I was upstairs, decorating her cake, and she and her friends were all downstairs playing the game "Would You Rather..." I could listen to their questions they posed to each other and it was all pretty innocuous. Pretty cute, actually. One of them would ask the other, "Okay, would you rather... eat a spoonful of dirt... OR, kiss Luke so-and-so?" And I would hear a chorus of "Ewwwww!" and I would just have to smile. Well, Chloe was sitting on the steps and was just dying to be included in this game. She kept raising her hand and telling everyone, "Pick me! Pick me!" Frankie's friends were ignoring her, and it was just tearing Chloe up. I decided to go downstairs and get Chloe to come upstairs, so she wouldn't continue to bother the girls. I started coming downstairs toward Chloe. She looked at me and knew she only had a brief moment in time to make an impact on the girls at the party. "C'mon, Chloe..." I told her. "Come upstairs with me." She looked like a trapped animal and instantly blurted out: "Hey guys guess what! One time I saw my grandma's vagina!" The chorus of "ewwws" was instantaneous.
(Now, to be fair to my mother, Chloe never actually saw her grandmother's va jay-jay. She just happened to be in the same room when they were changing one time to go swimming.)
I dragged Chloe upstairs, as she was kicking and screaming. I told her I'd play "Would You Rather..." with her. How hard could it be, I thought, to come up with questions for a 4 year old?
I sat down on the couch, next to our fish tank. "Let's see," I said. "Let me think of a question for you...."
"Oh no," she replied. "I get to ask YOU the question."
"Ok. Go ahead."
She paused, tapping her finger on her chin, as she looked around the room for inspiration.
"Ok, Mom, would you rather... swallow a fish out of the fish tank... OR (dramatic pause) let your husband see your boobs?"
I was speechless. I sat there with my mouth open, not sure if I should be shocked or burst out laughing.
"I know," she said, nodding knowingly. "I'd swallow a fish, too."
So now that the weather is finally getting nicer, and clothes will eventually get skimpier, do I dare risk the comments and criticism from the kids? I'm not up for any more "meatball" critiques...
Nah... I can handle 'em! Kind of.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Movie Theater Mayhem
Ever since my kids were little, I've been taking them to the movies. It started when I had a 2 year old and a 4 year old. I was thrilled that I could bring them someplace and they would be mesmerized - and quiet - for almost two hours.
Throughout the years, more movies - and children - came along. I have these great intentions that going to the movies with them will be an easy, low-key parenting activity. I have been proven wrong more times than I can count. And it's usually the youngest two, Chloe and Wyatt, who throw a wrench in my plans.
Several years ago when Chloe was about 3, I took the girls to a movie. She sat on my lap for most of the movie. At one point she said "I don't feel so good." A big ol' warning light should have gone off, seeing as she mentioned it earlier, too. But I just snuggled her closer and kept watching the movie. A few minutes later I felt her body do the unmistakable heaving motion of getting ready to puke. I remained absolutely still for a split second, thinking "This cannot be happening."
I was wrong. It was.
She heaved again and I heard the splat of barf hit my feet. As luck would have it, I was wearing flip-flops. I scooped her up and ran up the aisle. When I got to the door of the lobby, I had to kick it open, Rambo-style, so I could get her into the bathroom and clean us both off.
Months later we were all at the movies again. And again she was sitting on my lap. This time she was feeling better, and proceeded to talk non-stop throughout the entire movie. It was a family movie, so the parents around me weren't too disturbed at first. But she just kept talking and talking and talking. Finally I had had enough, so I grabbed her elbow and did the mother hiss into her ear: "Chloe Louise, you hush up this INSTANT." She slowly turned around and said matter of factly: "First of all, your eyes are scaring me. Second of all, your breath smells."
Chloe - two. Mom - zero.
When my son Wyatt was maybe 2 years old, I decided to take all four kids to another movie. And in a moment of complete delusion, I told the two older girls they could bring a friend too. What was I thinking? As soon as I parked the van, everyone took off running to the front door of the theater.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Stay together!" They all stood impatiently by the concession counter. I was at the ticket booth, paying for everyone, when Wyatt grabbed on to the velvet rope in the lobby. You know those thick ropes that are held up by those brass, heavy columns? He leaned on to the rope, which caused the brass column to swing around and connect right smack on his forehead. Instantly blood started gushing out. He started crying immediately, I let out a "Holy shit!" and the other 5 kids scattered like alley cats into the dark theater. Two hours, a trip to the emergency room and six stitches later, he was fine.
One of my most memorable trips to the movies with the kids was a couple Christmases ago. I took three of them to see "Marley and Me." Spoiler alert if you haven't seen it or read the book, but the dog dies at the end. And in hindsight, maybe not the best movie I could have brought them to... especially since our own family dog had died a year before. Toward the end of the movie, during a very touching scene, I noticed Wyatt sniffling and burying his head in my lap. "It's okay, buddy. It's just a movie." Pretty soon the lights came on and I started ushering the kids up the aisle. It wasn't long before I noticed Chloe was crying. A little quietly at first, but by the time we were streaming out of the lobby she was sobbing. A few movie go-ers waiting in line for the next show looked at me with eyebrows raised. "Guess we all know now what happened to the dog," I said, trying to make light of it. By the time we made it to the van, all three children were wailing. It was like those Iranian women on the news when they're publicly mourning a death. When I pulled into the garage, my husband and their older sister came out, because they could hear the crying from inside the house. The kids piled out of the van, snot running down their faces, clutching their left-over movie popcorn. Not one of my most proud mothering moments, but funny as hell.
So now when I get a rare adult only trip to the theater, and I see a mom struggling with trying to get her children to be quiet, or balance one baby on a hip while she's trying to pay for a box of Junior Mints and wrangle a pre-schooler away from the velvet ropes, all I can do is shake my head in sympathy and solidarity.
I feel your pain, Sista.
Throughout the years, more movies - and children - came along. I have these great intentions that going to the movies with them will be an easy, low-key parenting activity. I have been proven wrong more times than I can count. And it's usually the youngest two, Chloe and Wyatt, who throw a wrench in my plans.
Several years ago when Chloe was about 3, I took the girls to a movie. She sat on my lap for most of the movie. At one point she said "I don't feel so good." A big ol' warning light should have gone off, seeing as she mentioned it earlier, too. But I just snuggled her closer and kept watching the movie. A few minutes later I felt her body do the unmistakable heaving motion of getting ready to puke. I remained absolutely still for a split second, thinking "This cannot be happening."
I was wrong. It was.
She heaved again and I heard the splat of barf hit my feet. As luck would have it, I was wearing flip-flops. I scooped her up and ran up the aisle. When I got to the door of the lobby, I had to kick it open, Rambo-style, so I could get her into the bathroom and clean us both off.
Months later we were all at the movies again. And again she was sitting on my lap. This time she was feeling better, and proceeded to talk non-stop throughout the entire movie. It was a family movie, so the parents around me weren't too disturbed at first. But she just kept talking and talking and talking. Finally I had had enough, so I grabbed her elbow and did the mother hiss into her ear: "Chloe Louise, you hush up this INSTANT." She slowly turned around and said matter of factly: "First of all, your eyes are scaring me. Second of all, your breath smells."
Chloe - two. Mom - zero.
When my son Wyatt was maybe 2 years old, I decided to take all four kids to another movie. And in a moment of complete delusion, I told the two older girls they could bring a friend too. What was I thinking? As soon as I parked the van, everyone took off running to the front door of the theater.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Stay together!" They all stood impatiently by the concession counter. I was at the ticket booth, paying for everyone, when Wyatt grabbed on to the velvet rope in the lobby. You know those thick ropes that are held up by those brass, heavy columns? He leaned on to the rope, which caused the brass column to swing around and connect right smack on his forehead. Instantly blood started gushing out. He started crying immediately, I let out a "Holy shit!" and the other 5 kids scattered like alley cats into the dark theater. Two hours, a trip to the emergency room and six stitches later, he was fine.
One of my most memorable trips to the movies with the kids was a couple Christmases ago. I took three of them to see "Marley and Me." Spoiler alert if you haven't seen it or read the book, but the dog dies at the end. And in hindsight, maybe not the best movie I could have brought them to... especially since our own family dog had died a year before. Toward the end of the movie, during a very touching scene, I noticed Wyatt sniffling and burying his head in my lap. "It's okay, buddy. It's just a movie." Pretty soon the lights came on and I started ushering the kids up the aisle. It wasn't long before I noticed Chloe was crying. A little quietly at first, but by the time we were streaming out of the lobby she was sobbing. A few movie go-ers waiting in line for the next show looked at me with eyebrows raised. "Guess we all know now what happened to the dog," I said, trying to make light of it. By the time we made it to the van, all three children were wailing. It was like those Iranian women on the news when they're publicly mourning a death. When I pulled into the garage, my husband and their older sister came out, because they could hear the crying from inside the house. The kids piled out of the van, snot running down their faces, clutching their left-over movie popcorn. Not one of my most proud mothering moments, but funny as hell.
So now when I get a rare adult only trip to the theater, and I see a mom struggling with trying to get her children to be quiet, or balance one baby on a hip while she's trying to pay for a box of Junior Mints and wrangle a pre-schooler away from the velvet ropes, all I can do is shake my head in sympathy and solidarity.
I feel your pain, Sista.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Martha Stewart Can Suck It
Out of all the holidays there are, Easter is the one that makes me feel the most inadequate as a mother. Probably because I'm not exactly sure what's necessary to give my kids the warm fuzzy memories that will stay with them through adulthood. It seems like there's an awful lot of effort involved in this pastel-hell holiday and it makes me crabby.
Are Easter baskets enough?
Do we need to do a full scale egg hunt?
Do the plastic eggs need to be filled with treats and/or money?
And since when did the Easter bunny start providing "gifts" in the baskets? That almost seems like an expectation now.
Just to make myself feel worse, I went on Martha Stewart's website to see what her suggestions were for Easter. There's an entire article on how to make Crepe Paper Carrots. And if you have enough time, she'll instruct you how to hollow out eggshells and make vases for tiny floral arrangements.
Are you kidding me? Who in the hell has time for that?
Today after work I'll go home and dye eggs with the kids. Then I'll see if I have any Easter decorations to put out. Come to think of it, I probably should have thought to dig those out more than 36 hours before the actual holiday. If I'm feeling really domestic, maybe I'll use the Easter Bunny cake pan I bought several years ago, when I must have only had 2 kids and not 4. I think I've only used it once. It sits on a lonely shelf next to a cake pan I have shaped like a penis (purchased for a bachelorette party). Sadly, the penis cake pan has seen WAY more oven time than the bunny cake. Because hey... penis cakes are funny. Although, in full disclosure, Wyatt caught me decorating one once and he said, "Oh look, a guitar cake!" Ummm... not really. But quick, pose with it while I grab my camera because it'll make for a great picture when you're older.
Martha Stewart also suggests ways to make homemade Easter grass. And WHY would you need to do that? Because the bulk bags of it at Target for 25 cents is too expensive? It all comes down to cost and effort. It's exactly why I've only made homemade potato salad once in my life. It took an awful lot of time for something I could have picked up at the grocery store in five minutes flat.
Martha also shows ways how you and your children can make pom-pom bunnies and use them as centerpieces. Probably next to your newly constructed Easter grass.
No thanks.
I think we'll have a laid back Easter this year and leave the Martha madness to the over-achieving parents that I try not to hang out with.
Are Easter baskets enough?
Do we need to do a full scale egg hunt?
Do the plastic eggs need to be filled with treats and/or money?
And since when did the Easter bunny start providing "gifts" in the baskets? That almost seems like an expectation now.
Just to make myself feel worse, I went on Martha Stewart's website to see what her suggestions were for Easter. There's an entire article on how to make Crepe Paper Carrots. And if you have enough time, she'll instruct you how to hollow out eggshells and make vases for tiny floral arrangements.
Are you kidding me? Who in the hell has time for that?
Today after work I'll go home and dye eggs with the kids. Then I'll see if I have any Easter decorations to put out. Come to think of it, I probably should have thought to dig those out more than 36 hours before the actual holiday. If I'm feeling really domestic, maybe I'll use the Easter Bunny cake pan I bought several years ago, when I must have only had 2 kids and not 4. I think I've only used it once. It sits on a lonely shelf next to a cake pan I have shaped like a penis (purchased for a bachelorette party). Sadly, the penis cake pan has seen WAY more oven time than the bunny cake. Because hey... penis cakes are funny. Although, in full disclosure, Wyatt caught me decorating one once and he said, "Oh look, a guitar cake!" Ummm... not really. But quick, pose with it while I grab my camera because it'll make for a great picture when you're older.
Martha Stewart also suggests ways to make homemade Easter grass. And WHY would you need to do that? Because the bulk bags of it at Target for 25 cents is too expensive? It all comes down to cost and effort. It's exactly why I've only made homemade potato salad once in my life. It took an awful lot of time for something I could have picked up at the grocery store in five minutes flat.
Martha also shows ways how you and your children can make pom-pom bunnies and use them as centerpieces. Probably next to your newly constructed Easter grass.
No thanks.
I think we'll have a laid back Easter this year and leave the Martha madness to the over-achieving parents that I try not to hang out with.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Misguided Vanity
Isn't Vanity one of the 7 Deadly Sins? And why is it such a bad thing? More and more I hear my friends make comments like, "Oh I can't help it... I'm so vain." Or "I shouldn't care how I look in that photo but I do..." We act like we're going straight to hell in a hand basket for checking to see if we have lipstick on our teeth before we get out of the car, or when we turn around in front of a mirror to check out how our butt looks in jeans.
There are probably even reasons from an evolution standpoint that people who were more vain lived longer. You know, some cave woman was admiring her dirty face, ratted hair and 4 teeth in the reflection of some watering hole, and WHOA - there's a woolly mammoth behind her. Better run! See, her vanity probably saved her.
I don't think my vanity has ever saved my life. Maybe indirectly it did. Reason #187 why I never tried meth was because hello ~ have you seen the skin of meth addicts? Yuck. I have a pretty addictive personality so it's a good thing I value my teeth and complexion.
I will, however, be the first to admit my vanity is pretty misguided. I have battled my weight since I've been in elementary school. I remember writing in my third grade journal that I was on a diet, and I proudly scribbled that all I had to eat that day was a slice of cheese and an apple. My teacher's comments? "Good job! Great willpower, Vanessa!"
I was 73 pounds.
And so the lifelong diet battle began...
And my weight, especially as an adult, has fluctuated like a see-saw. It can go up, up, up... and once in awhile dip down low(er) but never to a Kate Moss level. Seriously, did I EVER weigh 114 pounds? I suppose I did at some point. I must have slept through it.
Back to my misguided vanity.... I have ALWAYS thought I looked better than I actually did. I will credit my parents and friends for their encouragement and compliments. You know how anorexics will look in a mirror and see someone fat? Yeah, I was the complete opposite of that. During my heaviest phase, when I was WELL over 200 pounds, I could look in the mirror, give a little side turn, stick out a hip and think, "Damn girl... you're lookin' GOOD!" Then I would see some horrific photos of me later the same day (why oh why did I ever think it was a good idea to wear ruffles) and I would resemble Oprah, circa 1994. Ugh, it was like a slap in the face. But now, thanks to digital photos, I simply delete the ones I don't like. I have been known to call up a girlfriend immediately after seeing some photos posted on Facebook and snarl, "Take that photo down IMMEDIATELY. I look FAT! Crop out my belly or something."
My weight problems as an adult were exasperated by 4 pregnancies in less than 7 years. I could never gain that cute little recommended 20-25 pounds. Oh no. Not me. I usually gained that by the end of the first trimester. By the time I was in my third trimester, I was all boobs and butt and hips and belly. I looked like an African fertility statue. We won't even discuss what happened to my nipples.
I also have decided I have inappropriate vanity. Last year one of my girlfriends, one of my most favorite people on this earth, was dating a man that we affectionately referred to as Douche Bag. He thought he was the second coming of Christ. Plus he was a control freak, a stalker, etc. My friend finally saw the light and dumped him. He, of course, wasn't about to go quietly. He sent a deluge of texts and phone calls. He left messages and showed up unannounced. It was getting to the scary point, so my friend was debating on whether to get the police involved. I was at her apartment one night last fall. We were sitting outside her patio, enjoying the weather. All of sudden, out of the shadows of the parking lot, strolled D-Bag. My friend and I stopped talking. I think I stopped breathing for a minute too. This guy had turned into a loose cannon and neither my friend nor I had any idea what he was going to do. He was angry and he was trying not to lose his cool. And then in a moment I will never forget, he reached into his pocket to pull something out. My friend and I both thought it was a gun.
I am proud to admit my first thought was: "Oh my god, what is this a-hole doing? I have 4 babies at home right now. He is going to make them motherless!!"
I am not so proud to admit that my next thought was: "Well, if he fires in my direction I am going to turn away slightly, so the bullet might just graze the top of my shoulder. That way I can still wear caplet sleeves in the summer and no one will see the scar."
It turned out it was a pack of cigarettes he pulled out of his pocket.
And as a final example of misguided vanity, I even rubbed Jergen's self tanning lotion on my legs the night before I did the Polar Plunge and jumped into a frozen lake this winter. Because hey... what if people were looking....
But you know what....life's too short not to care what how we look in Facebook photos... I say embrace your vanity!
There are probably even reasons from an evolution standpoint that people who were more vain lived longer. You know, some cave woman was admiring her dirty face, ratted hair and 4 teeth in the reflection of some watering hole, and WHOA - there's a woolly mammoth behind her. Better run! See, her vanity probably saved her.
I don't think my vanity has ever saved my life. Maybe indirectly it did. Reason #187 why I never tried meth was because hello ~ have you seen the skin of meth addicts? Yuck. I have a pretty addictive personality so it's a good thing I value my teeth and complexion.
I will, however, be the first to admit my vanity is pretty misguided. I have battled my weight since I've been in elementary school. I remember writing in my third grade journal that I was on a diet, and I proudly scribbled that all I had to eat that day was a slice of cheese and an apple. My teacher's comments? "Good job! Great willpower, Vanessa!"
I was 73 pounds.
And so the lifelong diet battle began...
And my weight, especially as an adult, has fluctuated like a see-saw. It can go up, up, up... and once in awhile dip down low(er) but never to a Kate Moss level. Seriously, did I EVER weigh 114 pounds? I suppose I did at some point. I must have slept through it.
Back to my misguided vanity.... I have ALWAYS thought I looked better than I actually did. I will credit my parents and friends for their encouragement and compliments. You know how anorexics will look in a mirror and see someone fat? Yeah, I was the complete opposite of that. During my heaviest phase, when I was WELL over 200 pounds, I could look in the mirror, give a little side turn, stick out a hip and think, "Damn girl... you're lookin' GOOD!" Then I would see some horrific photos of me later the same day (why oh why did I ever think it was a good idea to wear ruffles) and I would resemble Oprah, circa 1994. Ugh, it was like a slap in the face. But now, thanks to digital photos, I simply delete the ones I don't like. I have been known to call up a girlfriend immediately after seeing some photos posted on Facebook and snarl, "Take that photo down IMMEDIATELY. I look FAT! Crop out my belly or something."
My weight problems as an adult were exasperated by 4 pregnancies in less than 7 years. I could never gain that cute little recommended 20-25 pounds. Oh no. Not me. I usually gained that by the end of the first trimester. By the time I was in my third trimester, I was all boobs and butt and hips and belly. I looked like an African fertility statue. We won't even discuss what happened to my nipples.
I also have decided I have inappropriate vanity. Last year one of my girlfriends, one of my most favorite people on this earth, was dating a man that we affectionately referred to as Douche Bag. He thought he was the second coming of Christ. Plus he was a control freak, a stalker, etc. My friend finally saw the light and dumped him. He, of course, wasn't about to go quietly. He sent a deluge of texts and phone calls. He left messages and showed up unannounced. It was getting to the scary point, so my friend was debating on whether to get the police involved. I was at her apartment one night last fall. We were sitting outside her patio, enjoying the weather. All of sudden, out of the shadows of the parking lot, strolled D-Bag. My friend and I stopped talking. I think I stopped breathing for a minute too. This guy had turned into a loose cannon and neither my friend nor I had any idea what he was going to do. He was angry and he was trying not to lose his cool. And then in a moment I will never forget, he reached into his pocket to pull something out. My friend and I both thought it was a gun.
I am proud to admit my first thought was: "Oh my god, what is this a-hole doing? I have 4 babies at home right now. He is going to make them motherless!!"
I am not so proud to admit that my next thought was: "Well, if he fires in my direction I am going to turn away slightly, so the bullet might just graze the top of my shoulder. That way I can still wear caplet sleeves in the summer and no one will see the scar."
It turned out it was a pack of cigarettes he pulled out of his pocket.
And as a final example of misguided vanity, I even rubbed Jergen's self tanning lotion on my legs the night before I did the Polar Plunge and jumped into a frozen lake this winter. Because hey... what if people were looking....
But you know what....life's too short not to care what how we look in Facebook photos... I say embrace your vanity!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
You can't HANDLE the truth!
I used to assume that if I encouraged my children to always tell the truth and explained to them why it's so important to never lie, they would be completely honest with me. All the time. Oh boy, I crack myself up sometimes when I think of the naivete of early motherhood. Children not lying goes right along with the delusions of thinking my children would never bite and never set fire to anything. Both of which have happened. My kids were such horrible biters when they were little that my oldest got kicked out of daycare when she was just 13 months old for "incessant biting." Talk about feeling like a failure as a mother when picking up your child from daycare and finding out you weren't welcome back. Plus I was already pregnant with my second baby... because hey, there wasn't much time during the late 90's/early 2000's when I WASN'T knocked up.
About a year ago one of my children confessed to me that "just a small fire" was luckily put out when one of them decided to see what would happen when they slowly draped a paper towel over a lit candle. I looked at all four of them and demanded "At what point did any of you think this was a good idea?" No one would admit it was them, either. There was so much finger pointing going on it made me dizzy.
Last night I was driving my daughter Chloe to dance practice. She started rambling on in a typical third grade girl style. "...and so you know what Jenna said Mom? She said it's scientifically proven that dogs are NOT color blind. She said that scientists have proven it. In scientific studies. Do you think that's true?"
"I don't know, " I said. "I've never been a dog." (Insert comments about middle school acne, flat hair and braces here).
"Well," Chloe huffed. "I don't even know if I should believe her. She's Little Miss-Larry-Lies-A-Lot."
Ok... coming from the girl who denied just an hour earlier that she was throwing raw eggs at a tree in our yard. Complete with egg shells by her feet.
One time when my daughter Frankie was about six, I noticed that someone had written with a magic marker on the living room wall. Her two younger sisters were too small to reach that height, but I really wanted Frankie to admit she did it. Finally, after confronting her with the evidence, she told how it "possibly" could have happened.
"I think, Mom, what happened was this... I was just walking through the living room, holding the marker and minding my own business, when I started to trip. And as I was flying threw the air, I was trying very hard not to let that marker touch the wall, because I knew you wouldn't want that to happen..."
"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So you were kind of flying through the air, almost in slow motion?"
She nodded. "Kind of, yes."
I looked at her and asked, "Almost like in The Matrix?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind. Continue."
She finished her story explaining how she tried with all her might not to write on that wall, but somehow it accidentally happened. And it's an accident right? Can't really be blamed for that.
And it really doesn't matter what evidence the kids are presented with...they'll deny it to their last breath.
"Who drank all the Diet Coke?"
"Not me, Mom."
"Then why are there 3 empty cans in your closet?"
"Because my sister is FRAMING me. Gosh, you never believe me!"
And my favorite from last year:
"Who unwrapped all the tampons in the bathroom?"
All the girls pointed at their brother. "That was Wyatt."
He nodded sheepishly. "I thought they were like little parachutes."
Okay, fair enough. I can see that. At least SOMEONE told me the truth.
About a year ago one of my children confessed to me that "just a small fire" was luckily put out when one of them decided to see what would happen when they slowly draped a paper towel over a lit candle. I looked at all four of them and demanded "At what point did any of you think this was a good idea?" No one would admit it was them, either. There was so much finger pointing going on it made me dizzy.
Last night I was driving my daughter Chloe to dance practice. She started rambling on in a typical third grade girl style. "...and so you know what Jenna said Mom? She said it's scientifically proven that dogs are NOT color blind. She said that scientists have proven it. In scientific studies. Do you think that's true?"
"I don't know, " I said. "I've never been a dog." (Insert comments about middle school acne, flat hair and braces here).
"Well," Chloe huffed. "I don't even know if I should believe her. She's Little Miss-Larry-Lies-A-Lot."
Ok... coming from the girl who denied just an hour earlier that she was throwing raw eggs at a tree in our yard. Complete with egg shells by her feet.
One time when my daughter Frankie was about six, I noticed that someone had written with a magic marker on the living room wall. Her two younger sisters were too small to reach that height, but I really wanted Frankie to admit she did it. Finally, after confronting her with the evidence, she told how it "possibly" could have happened.
"I think, Mom, what happened was this... I was just walking through the living room, holding the marker and minding my own business, when I started to trip. And as I was flying threw the air, I was trying very hard not to let that marker touch the wall, because I knew you wouldn't want that to happen..."
"Wait," I said, interrupting. "So you were kind of flying through the air, almost in slow motion?"
She nodded. "Kind of, yes."
I looked at her and asked, "Almost like in The Matrix?"
"What's that?"
"Never mind. Continue."
She finished her story explaining how she tried with all her might not to write on that wall, but somehow it accidentally happened. And it's an accident right? Can't really be blamed for that.
And it really doesn't matter what evidence the kids are presented with...they'll deny it to their last breath.
"Who drank all the Diet Coke?"
"Not me, Mom."
"Then why are there 3 empty cans in your closet?"
"Because my sister is FRAMING me. Gosh, you never believe me!"
And my favorite from last year:
"Who unwrapped all the tampons in the bathroom?"
All the girls pointed at their brother. "That was Wyatt."
He nodded sheepishly. "I thought they were like little parachutes."
Okay, fair enough. I can see that. At least SOMEONE told me the truth.
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