Go Ahead and Get Your Hair Wet

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

Estrogen Overload

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

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

WHAM.

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

Quit being so MEAN!

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



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

 

I'm Not Sure My Family is Normal

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


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

Put Down your iPhone and Show Me How You Twerk

"Mom, are you watching?"



How many times have I heard that? Dozens,  hundreds, thousands? I don't know for sure, but it's been a lot. Too many to count. I do know it used to be a constant hum in my ear, the background noise of every mom taking her kids to the park. The white noise of daily activities when your kids are little, when they constantly want your attention and your praise and want you to see how they jump off the swing.
And bike up the ramp.
And do a new dance.
And I wasn't always watching.
I would pretend to. I would do the absent-minded nod and murmur the standard, "Yep, good job."
"Mom, are you watching?"
"Yes, I told you I was."
But I wasn't always. Years ago when the kids were really little and I would wrangle them up and take them somewhere to run wild, I would sit somewhere where I could view them the majority of the time. Back then there were no smart phones to distract you, but you can better believe I would pick up a copy of anything accessible to read, even if it was a copy of The Shopper, just so I could mentally escape.
Now there are these constant guilt-inducing articles about the iPhone Mom. How mothers aren't paying attention to their kids because they're so engrossed in checking email, and updating Facebook and ignoring poor little Junior who has somehow managed to flip upside down in the swing, and is now licking gravel with his open mouth while he waits for his mom to finish her tweet.
And for this fault I will readily admit guilt. I have been that Mom.
My kids would probably say I still am - at least partially.
But I am trying to be much better. It's not easy.
One thing that helps is the ever revolving relationship with my kids. Now that they're getting older, I seem to be a lot less stressed. I no longer have to devote 4 hours each night to meal prep, bath times and teeth brushing. Sometimes I don't make a meal at all. Sometimes I tell the kids to dig out some leftovers and brush their own teeth afterward. And that, my friends, can be true bliss.
In addition to removing their own tartar and plaque, they can now keep themselves busy for hours on end. They don't need me to start a game timer on again, or scoop up the Legos and help them decipher a diagram. That's bittersweet though too, isn't it? Not being as needed as you were before. Sure, it frees up your time, but you are missing some of that precious interaction with them.
So why the hell do I whip out my phone when my kids are actually asking me to spend time with them? It's like an iCrack addiction.
The last few months I have been waning myself off my drug. And while it's not as easy as I had hoped, some of the one-on-one time I'm spending with the kids now is priceless.
Take, for instance, our discussion of Miley Cyrus and her pornographic use of a foam finger.
"She can't even twerk, Mom," Chloe, my 11 year old, informed me. "She's not even doing it right."
Now I'm not completely out of touch. I had recently YouTubed a tutorial on that very dance. "Well, she didn't seem to be able to do The Bounce," I told my daughter. "There wasn't a lot of front and back hip motion, but she seemed to be able to do the Side to Side part ok."
Chloe rolled her eyes. "No she didn't. She couldn't even keep the side to side part shaking. She barely has a butt at all anyway."
And then, for a reason I can only chalk up to temporary insanity brought on by childhood exposure to lead paint in my crib, I accepted my daughter's challenge to do the side to side booty shake. Luckily I was wearing yoga pants, so I merely bent forward at the waist, extended my arms out, and shook my ass like it was nobody's business. I was completely ready to see my daughter collapsed on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. See, I have no problem embarrassing myself in front of my kids for their amusement. It's a win win if we all laugh.
But what I wasn't expecting was my daughter racing up the stairs and barging in her sister's room. "Ohmigod Sophie, you are not going to believe it. But Mom can twerk and she's actually kinda good."
As much as I wanted to be the Jennifer Lopez of mothers, I had to come clean.
"I'd like to attribute it to my years of childhood dance classes, girls, but it simply comes down to Newton's Law in physics - An object in motion tends to stay in motion."
They stared at me blankly. I'm surprised they didn't ask if I was talking about a Fig Newton.
I tried to explain it in simpler terms. "The sheer size of my butt is what kept it moving back and forth. Not any technical skills on my part."
I think they grudgingly accepted that their mom was no Dancing Queen, but we still laugh about it and I am so glad I didn't have my nose buried in Facebook while the Shake Challenge went unanswered.
Another reason I knew I had to scale back in the use of my phone was due to a nightmare my 9 year old son recently had. Around midnight he scurried into my room and under my blankets.
"I had a nightmare," he whispered in the darkness.
"About what?"
"I can't say. It's too horrible." He buried his head next to me.
A nightmare too horrible to tell a parent usually only means one thing.
I turned to him. "Did you dream I died?"
He nodded, and with a little prodding began to spill the beans. To summarize a 9 year old's middle-of-the-night rambling, the dream started with me in a hot tub with Mitt Romney and President Obama. And somehow I ended up shot with a machine gun, but in Wyatt's dream he was rushing to my side and apparently while I was bleeding out I looked at him and whispered, "Quick. Take a picture of me on my phone before I die."
Now I know that was a horrible dream for my son. But I laughed so hard when he told me I almost cried.
Because seriously, what does that say?
I'll tell you what it says. It says I need to Put My Damn Phone Away. And it took a dream of a swimsuit wearing Romney (ewww) to remind me that I was on the right path by using my phone less and less.
In a couple years my oldest will be off at college. I don't want her to think of her mom scrolling through Facebook and "liking" a stupid photo of a bear in a tree.
I want my kids to remember me that I was present. And enjoying their childhood right along with them. And laughing at shared memories of their mom attempting to dance, and other ridiculous things they talk me into.
I want them to know the answer already when they asked the question:

"Mom, are you watching?"

Yes. I am.

From Carnies to Cowboys...

If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you'll be going "You know, we're alright. We are dang near royalty." ~ Jeff Foxworthy

This quote could also apply to most, if not all, county fairs within the United States. Just this morning I was reading an article how a bull - dear god a real live snorting, nostril-flaring nightmare on hooves - got loose in a crowd at a nearby county fair and ended up trampling some innocent people. Luckily a few skilled rodeo riders on horseback successfully lassoed the beast and brought him back to his pen. It makes a gal feel her heart beat a little faster to think of a hero in Wranglers saving the day.
Even this gal, and I hate most things country.
But there's something about a cowboy that makes most women look twice. Maybe it's their mostly quiet nature, or their sexy Stetson. Who knows. Now in all honesty, if a cowboy was standing next to, say, a firefighter, I would have no qualms in shoving the cowboy into a hay bale in order to stand next to the uniform-wearing, hose-bearing eye candy who runs into burning buildings for a living.
Although a man who chases down a bull comes in a very close second.
I didn't always think cowboys were cute. Even when I was younger and went to the county fair at the end of every summer. Back then I was attracted to a whole different type of bad boy. A bad boy who wore t-shirts with the sleeves cut off, had a tooth pick in his mouth, who sported a mullet and a porn stache above his lip. A bad boy whose dental hygiene was questionable at best.
You know who I'm talking about.
That's right.
The 1980s era carnival worker. Also affectionately known as The Carnie.
School used to start in August for us, and the Pierce County Fair was always our last hurrah, our farewell to summer and a chance to maybe even wear some brand new, never worn school clothes. Never mind it was usually hotter than hell and the fairgrounds were filthy at night, I would strut those new white shoes like I was on a catwalk.
I can remember when I was 13 or 14 and I would think those carnies were so cute. I would spend all my babysitting money on the stupid balloon games so I could win another dozen 5 inch square mirrors with Journey and Black Sabbath on them. When I was tired of the mirrors, I would dig into my Lee jeans for more crumpled bills, and try my luck at more games. If I was lucky, I would win several feather roach clips, which I proudly wore in my hair, tucked behind my ears. Nothing screams small town hick like wearing drug paraphernalia as fashion, right?
It didn't matter. If I could catch the (sometimes crossed) eye of a carnie and make him smile at me, then I considered myself the big winner.
One summer when I was about 14, I was waiting outside one of the county fair buildings for my aunt. I was sitting in the grass and people watching. And then, right in front of me, sauntered My Crush. The ultimate Prescott Bad Boy. To this day, I can't think of his name, but I used to spend hours at the arcade staring at him while he fervently played Pac Man and Centipede. I would casually stroll by in my parachute pants and Billy Idol concert t-shirt and hope he caught a whiff of my Love's Baby Soft perfume. Ah, to no avail.
But there he was, in his skinny, pale, high school drop-out flesh, walking toward me.
And sweet Jesus, he actually smiled at me.
It was just then my aunt joined me. She took one look at the googly-eye fest going on between me and Ralph Macchio and told me two words. "Ish. Don't."
I don't know if it was my aunt's wise words of wisdom or just a phase I outgrew, but I stopped chasing down the carnies and the law breakers shortly after that.
Now many years later, it is me that is bringing my 14 year old daughter to the county fair. She has the good sense to avoid the carnies, but there are other boys there that I'm sure are catching her attention.
In fact I saw one this morning when we were decorating her horse stall. He looked like Justin Bieber wearing a cowboy hat. He walked by slowly and looked at my daughter sideways, like he didn't want to be caught. But I saw it. I narrowed my eyes and tried to mentally warn him to Stay Away. I want her to focus her next several days on western riding, some barrell racing and hopefully winning some of her classes.
I certainly don't need a Pre-pubescent John Wayne distracting her.
Back off, Mr. Check Out My Shiny Belt Buckle...
I have purses older than you. And I'm not afraid to swing 'em.

Damn Right it Takes a Village

“We need to understand that there is no formula for how women should lead their lives. That is why we must respect the choices that each woman makes for herself and her family.” ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton, It Takes a Village

There's a funny article that's been going around lately, popping up in emails and social media sites. It discusses a new method of parenting called the CTFD Method. In case you didn't know, it stands for Calm the F*** Down. I love it. It basically says you need to quit getting so uptight that you're not doing it right...just calm down and continue with your best intentions.
It's funny and calming, all at the same time. It makes you laugh and feel better about yourself and the choices you make.
Kind of like sipping a mojito while watching an episode of Dance Moms.
We all tackle this parenting gig differently. We all have expectations and ideas of what parenthood will be like.
Typically those ideas and expectations are dashed within the first week of birth, when you're removing a diaper off your newborn and realizing you should be wearing a bio hazard suit.
But all of us, or at least the vast majority of us, want the same things for our babies:
To be healthy...
To be happy...
To learn responsibility as they get older...
We just may go about it in a different way. Some of us are more organic, some of us are more into sports and athletics, some of us are more into the academic successes of our children.
And some of us are just desperately trying to give our children a little bit of all that, while keeping them confident and out of juvie.
We all go about guiding our children in different paths. As a divorced mom, I don't want my kids thinking they can get away with stuff just because they don't have a dad there every day barking in a stern dad voice. Trust me, my kids will say I bark plenty.
My friends will laugh and tell me, "You can be hard on those kids. I mean, good for you, but holy cow..."
One time I was on the phone with a friend, who is black. While I was telling my kids what to do before they could sit down and watch tv, my friend laughed on the other end and said, "Damn, Vanessa. You parent like a black mom."
Instantly I imagined myself as Tyler Perry's character Madea, standing in my kitchen. Minus the white hair and shapeless housedress. That coud be me, I thought.
About a month ago I had some girlfriends over and we were having wine out on my patio. I had told one of my daughters that she needed to mow the lawn.
"The front AND the back?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, rolling my eyes.
"Why?" she whined.
"Because you didn't call me from the Mall of America last night when you said you would."
She turned around in a huff and began to mow the lawn.
During the next hour I watched her carefully while I sipped my wine. When she ran out of gas I instructed her how she should fill up the mower. When she missed a patch by some trees, I marched out into the lawn, carefully balancing my wine so it wouldn't spill, and pointed out that she wasn't finished. By this time my daughter had already showered, thinking she was finished. Nope, not quite.
My friends shook their heads and laughed. "Boy, you don't let up, do you."
But what are we teaching our kids if we let them get away with half-ass work?
Not that I'm always consistent. There are times I let them watch R rated movies, and play too many video games, and ride bikes around town and swim without life jackets.
The do-it-my-way and the what-the-hell-go-ahead attitudes have to balance each other out.
When we calm down, parenting becomes a lot easier.
You know what else gets easier? When we realize we can't do it all ourselves and accept help from the Village.
You know what Village I'm talking about - the other adults out there who help steer your kids in the right direction. Grandparents, teachers, family friends. Sometimes even complete strangers.
A few weeks ago I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. It was a woman who said she was with my 9 year old son, after he wiped out on the road on his bicycle. Apparently he was riding pretty fast and tried to take a corner without slowing down much. He wiped out and skinned his knees. This woman saw him and pulled over, making sure he was ok. Then she called me to let me know, and put my son on the line so I could talk to him.
It's instances like this that make me so grateful my kids are growing up in this town. They are surrounded by a great Village who look out for them and hold them accountable.
That's why I have no problem when my kids get reprimanded by my friends. Some people don't like it when other adults discipline their children. Not me. Have at it. Let my kids have the same fear growing up as I did:
Oh crap, how much did they see? And most importantly, are they going to tell my parents???
So you see, if we can embrace the Village and Calm the F*** Down, we'll all be better off. We'll be more relaxed as parents and our kids will know they can't get away with things.
Especially when they're mowing the back lawn.