Mom, who's your favorite?

“A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely. . . . That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are--rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best food forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

Ok, this quote from one of my favorite books may be a little drawn out and verbose, but it does a semi-decent job of trying to explain how mothers feel differently about their kids.
I can remember when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I was absolutely convinced there was no way I could love her as much as I loved my dalmatian, Smokie. That dog was one of my most favorite things on this planet, how could I possibly feel that strongly for anything else?
Within two minutes of my daughter being born, I was like "Dog? What dog? I have a dog?"
Fast forward just thirteen months later and I was pregnant again. I confessed to my friends, "What if I can't love this next baby as much as I love my first one?"
They would just smile and assure me, "Every mother worries about that. Love multiplies, it doesn't divide."
However, one friend wisely told me something I never forgot: "Of course you'll love your children equally. But there will be different times throughout their lives when they're your favorite."
For a couple years we coasted along nicely, a family of four. Then, I was pregnant AGAIN. By now, my abdominal muscles were screaming "Uncle" and my stretch marks were asking themselves, "Should we even bother fading? This crazy bitch just keeps going."
Before our third daughter was born, I worried yet again that I would be able to love a new addition. I was so used to my first two daughters...how would I feel toward a newbie? Would I think of her as an intruder on our little cozy nest of a family?
And as soon as she was born, and I realized that (finally!) one of my kids had my brown eyes, I was head over heels in love.
Just over a year later...are you sensing the pattern?...I was staring at a pregnancy test stick and thinking, "Holy crap." By now, any muscle in my torso threw in the white towel and said, "We give up. Good luck in ever trying to fit in anything smaller than a size 10, and laughing without peeing."
I didn't know if I was going to have a boy or a girl, and I didn't find out until that incredibly painful and vagina-punishing 10 pound bowling ball made its entrance into our lives. Imagine our surprise at finally having a boy. And of course, I secretly worried that I would not be able to love a little boy as much as I knew how to love a little girl.
Silly, silly, silly.
I do love them all, not one more than the other.
But yes, I do have my favorites at times.
And honestly, with a houseful of four kids - all within 7 years of each other, it's not difficult to declare a favorite. Sometimes multiple times during the same day. Sometimes it boils down to whoever butters a piece of toast for me and brings it over, sits next to me quietly and doesn't tattle for a five minute stretch. Sometimes that's all it takes to be my current favorite.
If you ask my daughters who their mother's favorite is, they will answer without hesitation: "Wyatt. Because he's the boy."
That is not entirely true. But he is my baby. And just like the quote from the Poisonwood Bible, there is something about your last child that makes you want to hold on to them and their "littleness" as long as you can. That's why you rock them a little longer at night, and let them crawl into bed with you during the middle of the night - even years after you made their older siblings stop.
For so many years my identity was tied into being a mother of young children. They're still young, but they're not babies any more. Now my identity is shifting into the murky waters of being a mom to teenagers. And trust me on this one, my kids have absolutely zero problem of letting me know when I am far from being their favorite.
So for now, I will continue in my smug confidence that I love all my children equally, without fail.
I will not apologize for declaring them favorites at different times. I will do my best to cherish and remember when they're sweet to me, when they're sweet to each other, when they just want to cuddle with me and whisper secrets in my ear.
I will call them my favorite during that moment and feel no remorse.
Us mothers know how short-lived and fleeting those moments are.
Because seriously? Sometimes they can really be a monstrous pain in the ass.

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.