I just came back from a long weekend at Disney World with several other families. I like to be around other families with kids. They help me realize that all 'tweens are hormonally pumped and prone to going from excited to miserable to bored to happy to morose to loving within about 2.67 seconds.
It dawned on us that we could make up a pretty good drinking game with our kids - you know, every time someone whines about bedtime you drink a shot, and every time someone tells you you're mean you take another. But we realized we'd all be falling down drunk all of the time, which isn't conducive to decent parenting.
So here's a parental drinking game with a twist - every time your kid does one of the following, you reward yourself. It's a win win situation. The kids are still rotten, but you're too pampered to care:
* Whenever your kid says "I want" or "Can I have" or "You have to buy me," eat an M&M. (Make sure you've bought the extra-large bag. You should go through it in about three days.)
* If you ask your child to do something and she replies along the lines of "just a minute" or "I'll do it later," give yourself a five-minute internet break. (These can be saved up and used together.)
* If your preteen daughter says she hates her hair, put $5 in a jar. You should have your next family vacation paid for in a month.
* Every time you find a piece of outgrown clothing that still has tags on it, donate it to charity and buy yourself something brand new. You deserve it - and you know you'll actually wear it.
* Each time an expensive item gets misplaced (Ipod, Nintendo DS, etc.), book yourself a manicure.
* Give yourself a cookie every time your child says "I need help with my homework!" If it's said in a whining tone, make sure the cookie is chocolate.
* Whenever your child complains about the dinner you prepared, plan on going out to dinner the very next night. Leave the kids at home with a mean babysitter and a box of Kraft mac and cheese.
* Count the stuffed animals. Put aside a dollar for each one you find. You and your spouse should be able to afford a luxury vacation (sans kids) by Wednesday.
* If your child proclaims that you are the meanest mom ever, book a full body massage. You've earned it.
* If you manage to go a week without yelling, run to the nearest emergency room. Something is obviously wrong with your children and they should be checked out immediately.
* If your spouse suggests that the kids would be much better behaved if he were in charge, roll your eyes. Then book yourself a weekend away at an expensive resort, so he gets a taste of time alone with the little darlings and you get a taste of time alone.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Oh say can I see?
There's a name for women like me. No, not that name. Not that one either.
I'm an emerging presbyope. (And here you thought I was a Methodist.)
Presbyopia, for those of you who aren't of a certain age, is a condition that occurs when the lens of your eye isn't as flexible as it used to be. You can't focus on things like you used to, and ironically it's the close stuff and the little print that drives you nuts.
Back when my mom was an emerging presbyope, she simply opted for bifocals. No biggie. My mom had been wearing glasses for years. What's an extra line in the lens? But I'm different. I wore glasses between the ages and 8 and 16, and I don't care to explore that world again. The world isn't kind to an 8-year-old in dork frames.
My vanity forced me to save my babysitting dollars when I was 16 years old to buy my first pair of contact lenses, and there's been no looking back, at least no looking back through rose colored glasses or wire rimmed frames. I don't do glasses. I look like a dork in glasses, even the dork frames that are supposed to be cool. I absolutely cannot abide the idea of glasses.
My optometrist is a patient guy, and he's all about exploring the options. He sent me home with bifocal contacts that drove me absolutely bat poop crazy. He suggested monovision, where one eye is corrected for distance and the other for close work, letting the brain figure out which eye to use when. Amazingly, this worked for about a year. But time marches on, over my face and eyeballs, and the words on the page aren't as clear as they used to be.
The optometrist suggests going back to glasses. My eyes aren't that bad anyhow - I can read just fine without contacts. He says I can wear glasses to drive and in my daily errands, and just take them off to read. He even suggests (gasp) going with bifocals, because "it's time."
I decided to take another route. I bought a $2.99 pair of readers to help me with the little type. Amazingly, they work wonderfully. But nobody told me how reading glasses come with little invisible legs, because they're never where I want them to be.
I suppose I'm going to have to cave and get glasses. I can't walk around squinting or deal with headaches much longer. Thankfully, today's frame options have come a long way since I was an eyeglass wearer, back in the early '80s when frames were huge and often included a little sticker in the corner. (Yes, a sticker. Mine was a flower.)
My friends and I like to sit around talking about how different our middle-aged selves are from our parents. We're so much more active than we remember our parents being. In our minds, at least, we're much cooler as well. But our bodies haven't gotten the memo. Sometimes in order to see clearly, you have to adjust your expectations.
Besides, all this squinting can cause wrinkles. Maybe glasses aren't such a bad idea after all.
I'm an emerging presbyope. (And here you thought I was a Methodist.)
Presbyopia, for those of you who aren't of a certain age, is a condition that occurs when the lens of your eye isn't as flexible as it used to be. You can't focus on things like you used to, and ironically it's the close stuff and the little print that drives you nuts.
Back when my mom was an emerging presbyope, she simply opted for bifocals. No biggie. My mom had been wearing glasses for years. What's an extra line in the lens? But I'm different. I wore glasses between the ages and 8 and 16, and I don't care to explore that world again. The world isn't kind to an 8-year-old in dork frames.
My vanity forced me to save my babysitting dollars when I was 16 years old to buy my first pair of contact lenses, and there's been no looking back, at least no looking back through rose colored glasses or wire rimmed frames. I don't do glasses. I look like a dork in glasses, even the dork frames that are supposed to be cool. I absolutely cannot abide the idea of glasses.
My optometrist is a patient guy, and he's all about exploring the options. He sent me home with bifocal contacts that drove me absolutely bat poop crazy. He suggested monovision, where one eye is corrected for distance and the other for close work, letting the brain figure out which eye to use when. Amazingly, this worked for about a year. But time marches on, over my face and eyeballs, and the words on the page aren't as clear as they used to be.
The optometrist suggests going back to glasses. My eyes aren't that bad anyhow - I can read just fine without contacts. He says I can wear glasses to drive and in my daily errands, and just take them off to read. He even suggests (gasp) going with bifocals, because "it's time."
I decided to take another route. I bought a $2.99 pair of readers to help me with the little type. Amazingly, they work wonderfully. But nobody told me how reading glasses come with little invisible legs, because they're never where I want them to be.
I suppose I'm going to have to cave and get glasses. I can't walk around squinting or deal with headaches much longer. Thankfully, today's frame options have come a long way since I was an eyeglass wearer, back in the early '80s when frames were huge and often included a little sticker in the corner. (Yes, a sticker. Mine was a flower.)
My friends and I like to sit around talking about how different our middle-aged selves are from our parents. We're so much more active than we remember our parents being. In our minds, at least, we're much cooler as well. But our bodies haven't gotten the memo. Sometimes in order to see clearly, you have to adjust your expectations.
Besides, all this squinting can cause wrinkles. Maybe glasses aren't such a bad idea after all.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
What the cell?
I caught a segment of CNN this morning promising to tell me how to save money on my phone bill. As someone who likes to spend, um, save money, I listened intently. The tip: Get rid of your land line and use your cell phone only at home.
I must be AT&T's dream come true, because I am going to cling to my land line until the lines shrivel up and turn to dust under the ground. Why do I want to keep a land line? Let me count the ways:
1. Cell phones sound horrible. A typical conversation includes breaks and statics. This is a minor annoyance when you're calling home to ask if you need to pick up toothpaste while you're at Target. But I'm a writer. I'm trying to get a complete quote out of someone who's voice keeps going in and out, depending on whether he's driving under a tree.
2. Speaking of, the whole talking while driving thing drives me nuts. (No pun intended.) My husband has graciously pointed out that I'm not the greatest driver anyhow, so he suggests I stay off the cell phone while driving. Point taken. But, what happens when I'm driving and the phone rings? I look and see my kid's school on the caller ID, so I assume she's been hurt and is en route to the emergency room. I almost crash my car trying to grab the phone, only to hear a recorded message reminding me of tomorrow's PTO meeting.
3. Cell phones have cut into our right to be left alone some time. Back in the Stone Ages, people had a healthy respect for a home phone number. You rarely received a call from work after hours, unless it was an emergency. Nowadays, my husband gets phone calls at 3 a.m. from people who are having a work crisis. I say that 20 years ago, that crisis wouldn't have been a crisis because nobody had cell phones and nobody would dream of calling someone at home at 3 a.m. They just waited five hours and THE WORLD DID NOT END.
4. Sometimes I need to be unreachable. I know, I know, I have the right to not answer the cell phone when I'm out and about. But a ringing phone causes a Pavlovian response, where I panic unless I find out who's calling me and why. For instance, suppose I'm killing time at Target, which qualifies as therapy for most mothers. The phoen rings, and it's someone from "home," so I assume someone had an accident and is en route to the hospital. I answer the phone, only to find out that my daughter needs me to come home right away because she needs a ride to Shelby's house and Dad's busy mowing the yard. Even if I tell her she's going to have to wait, the conversation has added just enough guilt to my Target trip to limit its therapeutic potential.
I understand that the younger generation doesn't have such hangups, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that someday I'll be calling my adult children on their cell phones. I'll have to endure staticky conversations if I want to talk to them. I get it. But I'm not giving in, not yet. Even if I didn't have the reasons I listed above, I have one reason I will cling to for years: My 11-year-old informed me that boys don't want to call her on the landline, because they feel funny about the risk of talking to one of her parents who might answer the phone first.
Yeah, I'll be paying for that land line for a while.
I must be AT&T's dream come true, because I am going to cling to my land line until the lines shrivel up and turn to dust under the ground. Why do I want to keep a land line? Let me count the ways:
1. Cell phones sound horrible. A typical conversation includes breaks and statics. This is a minor annoyance when you're calling home to ask if you need to pick up toothpaste while you're at Target. But I'm a writer. I'm trying to get a complete quote out of someone who's voice keeps going in and out, depending on whether he's driving under a tree.
2. Speaking of, the whole talking while driving thing drives me nuts. (No pun intended.) My husband has graciously pointed out that I'm not the greatest driver anyhow, so he suggests I stay off the cell phone while driving. Point taken. But, what happens when I'm driving and the phone rings? I look and see my kid's school on the caller ID, so I assume she's been hurt and is en route to the emergency room. I almost crash my car trying to grab the phone, only to hear a recorded message reminding me of tomorrow's PTO meeting.
3. Cell phones have cut into our right to be left alone some time. Back in the Stone Ages, people had a healthy respect for a home phone number. You rarely received a call from work after hours, unless it was an emergency. Nowadays, my husband gets phone calls at 3 a.m. from people who are having a work crisis. I say that 20 years ago, that crisis wouldn't have been a crisis because nobody had cell phones and nobody would dream of calling someone at home at 3 a.m. They just waited five hours and THE WORLD DID NOT END.
4. Sometimes I need to be unreachable. I know, I know, I have the right to not answer the cell phone when I'm out and about. But a ringing phone causes a Pavlovian response, where I panic unless I find out who's calling me and why. For instance, suppose I'm killing time at Target, which qualifies as therapy for most mothers. The phoen rings, and it's someone from "home," so I assume someone had an accident and is en route to the hospital. I answer the phone, only to find out that my daughter needs me to come home right away because she needs a ride to Shelby's house and Dad's busy mowing the yard. Even if I tell her she's going to have to wait, the conversation has added just enough guilt to my Target trip to limit its therapeutic potential.
I understand that the younger generation doesn't have such hangups, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that someday I'll be calling my adult children on their cell phones. I'll have to endure staticky conversations if I want to talk to them. I get it. But I'm not giving in, not yet. Even if I didn't have the reasons I listed above, I have one reason I will cling to for years: My 11-year-old informed me that boys don't want to call her on the landline, because they feel funny about the risk of talking to one of her parents who might answer the phone first.
Yeah, I'll be paying for that land line for a while.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Mom tunes
It's the holiday season (the holiday season), and I've decided to listen mostly to instrumental versions of Christmas carols this year. My motivations are twofold - I want to avoid carols by boy bands, Madonna, Mariah Carey or other "stars" who seem more concerned about how their voices sound than the words they are singing. (If you dare, check out Jessica Simpson singing 'O Holy Night' on Youtube. Then you'll understand.)
But I also like the instrumental versions because they allow me to fuss with the lyrics a bit, making carols more meaningful to my life. Because, you know, it's not all about the season, it's all about me.
For instance, I give you:
"The Cell Phone Song," to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas"
(11-year-old) You have to buy me a cell phone
You have to buy me a cell phone
You must buy me a new cell phone
And buy one this year!
(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We've told you that, dear.
(Child) My world will end,
I won't have a friend.
(Parents) Your world will not end,
If you can't hit send.
(Child)You have to buy me a cell phone!
(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone!
(Together) This year it's about the cell phone,
(Dad) Someone get me a beer!
Now, lest you think I'm only focusing on the hassles of raising an 11-year-old old, I've come up with one for parents of 9-year-olds, specifically those whose 9-year-olds are involved in sports:
The Soccer Dad's Song (to the tune of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen")
God rest ye, merry soccer dad,
let nothing you dismay,
The ref will call it as he sees
No matter what you say,
So sit right down and close your mouth and let the children play,
You're the dad, she's your child, it's just a game, only a game.
You're the parent, she's your child, it's just a game.
But I also like the instrumental versions because they allow me to fuss with the lyrics a bit, making carols more meaningful to my life. Because, you know, it's not all about the season, it's all about me.
For instance, I give you:
"The Cell Phone Song," to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas"
(11-year-old) You have to buy me a cell phone
You have to buy me a cell phone
You must buy me a new cell phone
And buy one this year!
(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We've told you that, dear.
(Child) My world will end,
I won't have a friend.
(Parents) Your world will not end,
If you can't hit send.
(Child)You have to buy me a cell phone!
(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone!
(Together) This year it's about the cell phone,
(Dad) Someone get me a beer!
Now, lest you think I'm only focusing on the hassles of raising an 11-year-old old, I've come up with one for parents of 9-year-olds, specifically those whose 9-year-olds are involved in sports:
The Soccer Dad's Song (to the tune of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen")
God rest ye, merry soccer dad,
let nothing you dismay,
The ref will call it as he sees
No matter what you say,
So sit right down and close your mouth and let the children play,
You're the dad, she's your child, it's just a game, only a game.
You're the parent, she's your child, it's just a game.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Christmas hits
Back in the day, before computerized order systems and overnight shipping, items ordered by phone needed six to eight weeks to arrive at your doorstep. Normally, this just meant you had a longer waiting time. But in the case of Christmas album compilations, advertising started in September in order to ensure a timely delivery in December.
As kids, we loved hearing strains of Christmas music during commercial time. Sing it, Tony Bennett. But our mother had a different reaction. "I don't want to hear about Christmas yet!" she'd declare. "I'm nowhere near ready for Christmas."
Way to be a fun sucker, Ma.
But time has a way of getting its revenge, and in the last few years I've discovered that Christmas songs evoke a feeling of pure panic, rather than peace and goodwill toward men. The Christmas list that used to include the parents, one stinky brother and two grandmothers has expanded to include a husband, two kids whose home is already crammed with toys and assorted paraphernalia, the brother's wife, his kids (ditto on the home crammed with kids), various in-laws and nieces and nephews and their toy-populated homes, and neighbors who might just drop over with token gifts as they did last year. Christmas shopping used to mean hunting for something your loved one really wanted; today it's all about finding that one thing your loved one doesn't have.
So forgive me for a bit of "bah humbug." I've earned it.
Still, each year Christmas manages to grab me somewhere in the weeks leading up to it. One year, I found Christmas as I listened to my friend's 4-year-old lisp her one line during the Christmas pageant. Another year I found it while watching my sleepy 1-year-old clap her hands in glee over a ball pit. (This year the same child wants a Coach purse and Ugg boots. How quickly things change.) Another year I found it while standing over a church stove, making hot chocolate by the pot to serve visitors to our outdoor Christmas walk to Bethlehem.
This year, I found it early. My family and I spent Thanksgiving in my hometown, and my old church was doing an Advent program. Honestly, Mrs. Bah Humbug was going to win this battle. I really didn't feel like sitting in church, reminding my kids to keep their mouths shut during the important parts. Heck, I wasn't sure I wanted to sit in church at all on a Saturday night.
As usual, I underestimated the impact of the event. Maybe it was the Christmas carols we sang, old favorites that brought back memories of caroling to the elderly neighbors when I was a kid. (I vividly remember visiting a nursing home, where one resident with short-term memory problems asked us to sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" three times. We did.) Maybe it was the folks who played a parental role in my childhood and welcomed me home this weekend with, literally, open arms. Maybe it was the church sanctuary, which brought back memories of Christmas Eves past, when my brother and I would fidget in the pew, fantasizing about what was going to be under the tree the next morning and wondering how to make the next 12 hours go by quickly.
Whatever it was, it brought back that feeling of exciting anticipation, that air of giddiness that we're all going to be celebrating in a few weeks. Once again, the spirit of Christmas managed to push its way past the endless lists of chores and trips to the mall, reminding me to hang onto the magic that only happens once a year.
Once again, I found my Christmas.
As kids, we loved hearing strains of Christmas music during commercial time. Sing it, Tony Bennett. But our mother had a different reaction. "I don't want to hear about Christmas yet!" she'd declare. "I'm nowhere near ready for Christmas."
Way to be a fun sucker, Ma.
But time has a way of getting its revenge, and in the last few years I've discovered that Christmas songs evoke a feeling of pure panic, rather than peace and goodwill toward men. The Christmas list that used to include the parents, one stinky brother and two grandmothers has expanded to include a husband, two kids whose home is already crammed with toys and assorted paraphernalia, the brother's wife, his kids (ditto on the home crammed with kids), various in-laws and nieces and nephews and their toy-populated homes, and neighbors who might just drop over with token gifts as they did last year. Christmas shopping used to mean hunting for something your loved one really wanted; today it's all about finding that one thing your loved one doesn't have.
So forgive me for a bit of "bah humbug." I've earned it.
Still, each year Christmas manages to grab me somewhere in the weeks leading up to it. One year, I found Christmas as I listened to my friend's 4-year-old lisp her one line during the Christmas pageant. Another year I found it while watching my sleepy 1-year-old clap her hands in glee over a ball pit. (This year the same child wants a Coach purse and Ugg boots. How quickly things change.) Another year I found it while standing over a church stove, making hot chocolate by the pot to serve visitors to our outdoor Christmas walk to Bethlehem.
This year, I found it early. My family and I spent Thanksgiving in my hometown, and my old church was doing an Advent program. Honestly, Mrs. Bah Humbug was going to win this battle. I really didn't feel like sitting in church, reminding my kids to keep their mouths shut during the important parts. Heck, I wasn't sure I wanted to sit in church at all on a Saturday night.
As usual, I underestimated the impact of the event. Maybe it was the Christmas carols we sang, old favorites that brought back memories of caroling to the elderly neighbors when I was a kid. (I vividly remember visiting a nursing home, where one resident with short-term memory problems asked us to sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" three times. We did.) Maybe it was the folks who played a parental role in my childhood and welcomed me home this weekend with, literally, open arms. Maybe it was the church sanctuary, which brought back memories of Christmas Eves past, when my brother and I would fidget in the pew, fantasizing about what was going to be under the tree the next morning and wondering how to make the next 12 hours go by quickly.
Whatever it was, it brought back that feeling of exciting anticipation, that air of giddiness that we're all going to be celebrating in a few weeks. Once again, the spirit of Christmas managed to push its way past the endless lists of chores and trips to the mall, reminding me to hang onto the magic that only happens once a year.
Once again, I found my Christmas.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
An orchestra mom
I was never in the marching band. Frankly, I never felt the desire to wear the uniform and the funky hat that seemed to weigh more than some of the wind section members. Plus, I didn't play a marching band instrument. But when I arrived in college, I discovered that marching band was its own special little fraternity, a family unit at a time when your only family units seemed to be within a Greek system my parents couldn't afford. In retrospect, marching band didn't seem like such a bad thing.
OK, obviously I survived college without being in the marching band. But like many parents, I recycled a few dreams when my kids were born. Maybe one of them would be in marching band. Think of the trouble it would save me. If they were in marching band, I wouldn't have to worry about them becoming, say, cheerleaders, or athlete groupies who hung out at games hoping the star quarterback would look their way. Sure, the hats were a consideration - both my kids have my hair, and hats are not our friend. Still, I hoped at least one of them would pick up a flute, or a saxophone or other band-appropriate instrument.
As the oldest child neared middle school, I tested the waters. Middle school afforded the opportunity to learn an instrument. "Honey," I said, "Why don't you take up a marching band instrument? I think marching band would be fun."
The oldest child hesitated and then said, with childlike honesty, "No offense Mom, but marching band is for dorks."
(Hear that shattering noise? That's the sound of yet another parental dream breaking into itty bitty pieces.)
Get this, though. Older child decided to pursue an instrument, even though she still eschewed marching band. She went to the "try out" day and was placed with (marching band appropriate drum roll, please) the violin.
Now, I'm not up on what's a dork and what isn't - it's hard to see the dork picture when you're in the dork frame - but how does the violin escape the 10-year-old "dork" pronouncement while, say, the saxophone continues to be dorky? Don't get me wrong. I love the sound of a violin when it's in the right hands, preferably someone with a pitch perfect ear and a well-resined bow. But how can a violin be fine while a drum set is dorky?
Maybe she's seen the marching band hats.
Anyhow, we're about five months into the violin experiment now. Those who have never had a beginning violinist at home, consider yourselves lucky. A beginner on the violin makes noises that would have small forest animals running for cover. A woman giving birth to a 13-pounder with a big head can't come up with sounds like this, sounds that make cold shivers go down your spine. Thank goodness she started in the summer and we could all go outside while she practiced.
Yet, somewhere between months 2 and 3, we began to notice something. The cold shivers didn't happen when she practiced. Sure, our ears were probably becoming desensitized, maybe in the way you get used to your own body odor and don't smell it while everyone around you is gagging. But you couldn't argue that my little fiddler was getting better and less likely to be sent to the roof for practice.
For the past few weeks, I've listened to more renditions of Offenbach's "Can-Can" than I care to admit, to the point where I've made up my own lyrics that involve getting a cookie for the dog. (Don't ask.) Oldest child is now trying to play Christmas carols by ear, and she's amazingly adept at it.
Tonight is her first concert. (As an aside, she informed me last night that she will need dress shoes for the concert, because her orchestra teacher nixed her Bjorndahl slides as "not dressy enough." We have a two-hour window to find appropriate shoes for a kid who thinks appropriate is a synonym for dumb.) Tonight we officially add "orchestra parent" to our ever growing list of labels. I wonder if orchestra parents are like soccer parents and like to dissect every performance, whispering remarks about how Casey on the viola didn't quite hit the high C or Ellie in the second chair position really deserves first chair. As much as I'm trying to be funny, I imagine that truly competitive parents are always going to play the comparison game, whether their kid is kicking a ball or taking a bow.
As for me, I'm dusting off an old dream and starting a new one. I wonder what it takes to convince the high school's marching band that they really need a string section?
OK, obviously I survived college without being in the marching band. But like many parents, I recycled a few dreams when my kids were born. Maybe one of them would be in marching band. Think of the trouble it would save me. If they were in marching band, I wouldn't have to worry about them becoming, say, cheerleaders, or athlete groupies who hung out at games hoping the star quarterback would look their way. Sure, the hats were a consideration - both my kids have my hair, and hats are not our friend. Still, I hoped at least one of them would pick up a flute, or a saxophone or other band-appropriate instrument.
As the oldest child neared middle school, I tested the waters. Middle school afforded the opportunity to learn an instrument. "Honey," I said, "Why don't you take up a marching band instrument? I think marching band would be fun."
The oldest child hesitated and then said, with childlike honesty, "No offense Mom, but marching band is for dorks."
(Hear that shattering noise? That's the sound of yet another parental dream breaking into itty bitty pieces.)
Get this, though. Older child decided to pursue an instrument, even though she still eschewed marching band. She went to the "try out" day and was placed with (marching band appropriate drum roll, please) the violin.
Now, I'm not up on what's a dork and what isn't - it's hard to see the dork picture when you're in the dork frame - but how does the violin escape the 10-year-old "dork" pronouncement while, say, the saxophone continues to be dorky? Don't get me wrong. I love the sound of a violin when it's in the right hands, preferably someone with a pitch perfect ear and a well-resined bow. But how can a violin be fine while a drum set is dorky?
Maybe she's seen the marching band hats.
Anyhow, we're about five months into the violin experiment now. Those who have never had a beginning violinist at home, consider yourselves lucky. A beginner on the violin makes noises that would have small forest animals running for cover. A woman giving birth to a 13-pounder with a big head can't come up with sounds like this, sounds that make cold shivers go down your spine. Thank goodness she started in the summer and we could all go outside while she practiced.
Yet, somewhere between months 2 and 3, we began to notice something. The cold shivers didn't happen when she practiced. Sure, our ears were probably becoming desensitized, maybe in the way you get used to your own body odor and don't smell it while everyone around you is gagging. But you couldn't argue that my little fiddler was getting better and less likely to be sent to the roof for practice.
For the past few weeks, I've listened to more renditions of Offenbach's "Can-Can" than I care to admit, to the point where I've made up my own lyrics that involve getting a cookie for the dog. (Don't ask.) Oldest child is now trying to play Christmas carols by ear, and she's amazingly adept at it.
Tonight is her first concert. (As an aside, she informed me last night that she will need dress shoes for the concert, because her orchestra teacher nixed her Bjorndahl slides as "not dressy enough." We have a two-hour window to find appropriate shoes for a kid who thinks appropriate is a synonym for dumb.) Tonight we officially add "orchestra parent" to our ever growing list of labels. I wonder if orchestra parents are like soccer parents and like to dissect every performance, whispering remarks about how Casey on the viola didn't quite hit the high C or Ellie in the second chair position really deserves first chair. As much as I'm trying to be funny, I imagine that truly competitive parents are always going to play the comparison game, whether their kid is kicking a ball or taking a bow.
As for me, I'm dusting off an old dream and starting a new one. I wonder what it takes to convince the high school's marching band that they really need a string section?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
An uncool parent
When I was in junior high, I knew a girl named Debbie. While the rest of us wore old jeans and rock group T-shirts, Debbie wore dresses and anklets. Debbie's house was on the path home from school, and we were often witnesses to her mother as she flung open her door, threw out her arms and proclaimed, "Debbie, darling!"
Poor Debbie.
I always said I'd strive to be the cool parent. How hard could it be? I remember being a kid. I remember my parents pulling the stodgy card and saying "no" when other parents were saying "yes." Well, things were going to change when I was the parent. I'd be the cool parent, the one my kids could call with any request, and I'd make my decisions fairly and logically.
Witness a recent conversation with my firstborn, who called me from her friend's house:
11-year-old: Mom, is it OK if Brittany's mom drops us off at Starbucks for, like, an hour?
Me: Drops who off?
11-year-old: Me, Brittany and Courtney.
Me: What about Brittany's mom?
11-year-old: She'll leave and come get us in, like, an hour.
Me: Eh, you know I'm not crazy about that.
11-year-old: Please Mom. Pleeeease. Please be the cool parent. Pleeeease.
Me: Honey, I'm not ready to send you to Starbucks without an adult. What do you think you're going to do at Starbucks?
11-year-old: I don't know. We'll probably walk around and go over to Petland, too. (Because I'm sure the Petland employees are just dying for three unattended tweens to coo over the puppies and kittens.)
Me: What does Courtney's mother say?
11-year-old: She says it's fine with her if it's fine with you. Please be a good parent. (Now the stakes are higher: I'd be a good parent AND a cool one.) Please.
Courtney's mother was, fortunately, not fine with it. No adult, no Starbucks excursion. This meant I had to have an awkward conversation with Brittany's mom, who seemed to have no problem dropping the kids off at Starbucks. I stressed that this is our hang-up, and our daughter is the one who isn't ready for solo trips yet.
The story has a happy ending, at least for the 11-year-old. Courtney's mother decided she needed to do some shopping over by Starbucks, so she took the girls and supervised them from a respectable distance. Crisis over, for now.
But it will come up again. And the 11-year-old will point out that at least one of them will have a cell phone and can call if there's an emergency. I'm not sure she understands that this isn't a case of worrying about bad guys snatching them out of Starbucks. It's not even a case of having pity on the merchants, although this is certainly a factor in our saying no.
What it comes down to is that this is our time to set boundaries. We might not always be right, and we'll probably err on the side of being overprotective. But we want the 11-year-old to be pretty sure that there are things she can and cannot do right now, and we want her to know that there are limits to every good thing, even the emerging freedom that she can taste but not quite indulge in.
She's growing up. But we're growing, too, growing into parenting and trying to figure out how to keep her safe without becoming Debbie's mom. I've given up on being the cool parent - my wardrobe precluded that, anyhow. I'd rather keep her safe, and smart, and happy. I'd rather be uncool.
And I hope when she's old enough to go to Starbuck's alone, I'll recognize it and let her go. Even when it hurts to let go.
Poor Debbie.
I always said I'd strive to be the cool parent. How hard could it be? I remember being a kid. I remember my parents pulling the stodgy card and saying "no" when other parents were saying "yes." Well, things were going to change when I was the parent. I'd be the cool parent, the one my kids could call with any request, and I'd make my decisions fairly and logically.
Witness a recent conversation with my firstborn, who called me from her friend's house:
11-year-old: Mom, is it OK if Brittany's mom drops us off at Starbucks for, like, an hour?
Me: Drops who off?
11-year-old: Me, Brittany and Courtney.
Me: What about Brittany's mom?
11-year-old: She'll leave and come get us in, like, an hour.
Me: Eh, you know I'm not crazy about that.
11-year-old: Please Mom. Pleeeease. Please be the cool parent. Pleeeease.
Me: Honey, I'm not ready to send you to Starbucks without an adult. What do you think you're going to do at Starbucks?
11-year-old: I don't know. We'll probably walk around and go over to Petland, too. (Because I'm sure the Petland employees are just dying for three unattended tweens to coo over the puppies and kittens.)
Me: What does Courtney's mother say?
11-year-old: She says it's fine with her if it's fine with you. Please be a good parent. (Now the stakes are higher: I'd be a good parent AND a cool one.) Please.
Courtney's mother was, fortunately, not fine with it. No adult, no Starbucks excursion. This meant I had to have an awkward conversation with Brittany's mom, who seemed to have no problem dropping the kids off at Starbucks. I stressed that this is our hang-up, and our daughter is the one who isn't ready for solo trips yet.
The story has a happy ending, at least for the 11-year-old. Courtney's mother decided she needed to do some shopping over by Starbucks, so she took the girls and supervised them from a respectable distance. Crisis over, for now.
But it will come up again. And the 11-year-old will point out that at least one of them will have a cell phone and can call if there's an emergency. I'm not sure she understands that this isn't a case of worrying about bad guys snatching them out of Starbucks. It's not even a case of having pity on the merchants, although this is certainly a factor in our saying no.
What it comes down to is that this is our time to set boundaries. We might not always be right, and we'll probably err on the side of being overprotective. But we want the 11-year-old to be pretty sure that there are things she can and cannot do right now, and we want her to know that there are limits to every good thing, even the emerging freedom that she can taste but not quite indulge in.
She's growing up. But we're growing, too, growing into parenting and trying to figure out how to keep her safe without becoming Debbie's mom. I've given up on being the cool parent - my wardrobe precluded that, anyhow. I'd rather keep her safe, and smart, and happy. I'd rather be uncool.
And I hope when she's old enough to go to Starbuck's alone, I'll recognize it and let her go. Even when it hurts to let go.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Separate but equal?
When your kids are little, you take great pains to create a fair world. When the second child is born, the first child receives little gifts to reinforce that both are precious and welcome. As they get older, you continue the evening up. When one child gets a new pair of shoes, you go ahead and fit the other child. When only one cookie is left, you cut it precisely so that each child receives 50 percent. (A 50.1 percent cookie and a 49.9 percent cookie will be noticed and subject to a recut.) If an activity cannot accommodate both of them, you take turns and promise to even the score next time.
But one day you realize that life has other plans. One kid kicks a soccer ball like a pro, the other runs like Twinkletoes. One child sits down at the piano and masters each piece, the other struggles to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
Even worse, the world isn't evening the score. One child is a social butterfly, with invitations for playdates and sleepovers clogging the phone lines. The other child gets an occasional invitation to a birthday party. One child draws attention wherever she goes. The other is more likely to be overlooked by her teachers, her classmates, the general public. As much as you try to cover up for the inequities, they notice. They're perceptive little souls.
As a parent, you tell your kids that you love them equally. But as the kids grow, you realize that just as the world can't treat them the same way, neither can you. They go through phases where one of them is more challenging, and they take turns wearing that particular label. And you find that even though you love them equally, you love them differently. You even admit that yeah, sometimes one of them is easier to love.
So you strive to find the common ground with the one who is testing your mother love, because that's what mothers do. You never give up on the love, even when you're hearing that you're the worst mother ever. You strive to keep things equal with them while teaching them that no, life isn't ever going to be as easy as splitting a cookie two ways. You tell them that you love them both, but you show them that there are different ways to love, and you care enough to find the way that works for you.
But one day you realize that life has other plans. One kid kicks a soccer ball like a pro, the other runs like Twinkletoes. One child sits down at the piano and masters each piece, the other struggles to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
Even worse, the world isn't evening the score. One child is a social butterfly, with invitations for playdates and sleepovers clogging the phone lines. The other child gets an occasional invitation to a birthday party. One child draws attention wherever she goes. The other is more likely to be overlooked by her teachers, her classmates, the general public. As much as you try to cover up for the inequities, they notice. They're perceptive little souls.
As a parent, you tell your kids that you love them equally. But as the kids grow, you realize that just as the world can't treat them the same way, neither can you. They go through phases where one of them is more challenging, and they take turns wearing that particular label. And you find that even though you love them equally, you love them differently. You even admit that yeah, sometimes one of them is easier to love.
So you strive to find the common ground with the one who is testing your mother love, because that's what mothers do. You never give up on the love, even when you're hearing that you're the worst mother ever. You strive to keep things equal with them while teaching them that no, life isn't ever going to be as easy as splitting a cookie two ways. You tell them that you love them both, but you show them that there are different ways to love, and you care enough to find the way that works for you.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Trick or treating gets political
I took the 9-year-olds trick or treating this year. We were on the next street when one of my neighbors said, "Girls, I'm going to teach you some politics. I'm going to give you candy. Now, I'm going to take some of the candy out of your bags so I can give it to people who aren't trick or treating."
I was standing on the sidewalk, so I yelled up to him: "We've been teaching them that since they were babies: You share with others and give to those who are less fortunate."
We both laughed, and neither of us tried to hit the other with a political sign. That's probably a good thing.
Maybe he sees "sharing the wealth" as giving his hard-earned money to some deadbeat, some lowlife scum who's too lazy to get a job. I tend to think of the people who hit tough times, the ones with medical issues or even those not blessed to be born in a family where education is encouraged and supported. The reality is perhaps between those extremes, although most of us tend to think it's closer to our extreme than to the other side's.
Who's ready for Wednesday?
I was standing on the sidewalk, so I yelled up to him: "We've been teaching them that since they were babies: You share with others and give to those who are less fortunate."
We both laughed, and neither of us tried to hit the other with a political sign. That's probably a good thing.
Maybe he sees "sharing the wealth" as giving his hard-earned money to some deadbeat, some lowlife scum who's too lazy to get a job. I tend to think of the people who hit tough times, the ones with medical issues or even those not blessed to be born in a family where education is encouraged and supported. The reality is perhaps between those extremes, although most of us tend to think it's closer to our extreme than to the other side's.
Who's ready for Wednesday?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Dusting off the blog
Why not? I sit around talking to myself all day. I might as well put things in writing.
The 11-year-old is mad at me. Why? Because I let the 9-year-old shave her legs this week. Now, before you start fanning your hankies and asking why a 9-year-old needs to shave her legs, let me introduce you to her parents: one mother who descended from hairy Eastern European stock, and a father with Brillo pad arms and legs. The kid didn't stand a chance.
Anyhow, the older one started lobbying for leg shaving in the fifth grade. I resisted, thinking she was much too young to take such a step. Plus, I remembered those horrible cuts from my own early shaving career, the ones that bled for hours and left stains around the tub. But enough people reminded me that it's not easy being a hairy girl, and this wasn't the proverbial hill to die on, so I gave in that spring. She actually took to the razor naturally and was quite pleased with her silky skin. Granted, there was that one morning when the bus was 15 minutes from arriving and she was still leisurely shaving her legs in the tub, but that was the exception.
Still, the younger one is a full year and grade younger than the older one when I let her start shaving. Granted, she's the hairiest one of our bunch, but even I admit I would have never considered letting the older one shave this early.
There's a lesson here, and I fear it will be repeated many times during the next six to eight years: The older child does things first. The younger does things earlier. No, it's not fair. Guess what? Life isn't fair. That's another line that will be repeated for years.
Guess what else? After the older one threw her fit over the unfairness of it all, she went to her own tub to shave her own legs. But somehow, her common sense button turned off and she wound up sitting on the razor, causing it to slide a couple of nice cuts into her precious baby skin. She bled for hours and left stains around the tub - stains that I need to clean. In the end, life isn't going to be fair, and in the end, Mom's the one cleaning around the tub.
The 11-year-old is mad at me. Why? Because I let the 9-year-old shave her legs this week. Now, before you start fanning your hankies and asking why a 9-year-old needs to shave her legs, let me introduce you to her parents: one mother who descended from hairy Eastern European stock, and a father with Brillo pad arms and legs. The kid didn't stand a chance.
Anyhow, the older one started lobbying for leg shaving in the fifth grade. I resisted, thinking she was much too young to take such a step. Plus, I remembered those horrible cuts from my own early shaving career, the ones that bled for hours and left stains around the tub. But enough people reminded me that it's not easy being a hairy girl, and this wasn't the proverbial hill to die on, so I gave in that spring. She actually took to the razor naturally and was quite pleased with her silky skin. Granted, there was that one morning when the bus was 15 minutes from arriving and she was still leisurely shaving her legs in the tub, but that was the exception.
Still, the younger one is a full year and grade younger than the older one when I let her start shaving. Granted, she's the hairiest one of our bunch, but even I admit I would have never considered letting the older one shave this early.
There's a lesson here, and I fear it will be repeated many times during the next six to eight years: The older child does things first. The younger does things earlier. No, it's not fair. Guess what? Life isn't fair. That's another line that will be repeated for years.
Guess what else? After the older one threw her fit over the unfairness of it all, she went to her own tub to shave her own legs. But somehow, her common sense button turned off and she wound up sitting on the razor, causing it to slide a couple of nice cuts into her precious baby skin. She bled for hours and left stains around the tub - stains that I need to clean. In the end, life isn't going to be fair, and in the end, Mom's the one cleaning around the tub.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
What about us?
There's a missing piece in the discussion about the Virginia Tech massacre. The psychiatrists are showing up on the talk shows, discussing what may have gone wrong in this young man's brain to make him react so violently, so differently than how we rational folks act. The blame game is in full force - gun laws are the culprit, removing God is the culprit; what were the parents doing, why didn't the administration try harder to intervene with this kid? If there were a simple answer, we'd have it and not have to worry about next time.
But what about us? What are we doing to bring down the chances that this is going to happen again?
As I understand it, mass murderers share certain traits. Oftentimes, they are marginalized by society. They're not the athletes or the beautiful people that command power simply because they were blessed with good genes. They're not the comedians or the jovial folks who draw people to them because of their warmth and openness. They're the strange ones, the kids who don't seem to fit in with any group, the ones who don't have a lot of friends and are often the target of foolish pranks and hurtful comments.
I remember those kids. Heck, at one time, I was one of those kids. At another time, I was one of the hecklers. There was this one kid in school who was a constant target. He was a goofy looking kid, with the proverbial Coke bottle glasses and inability to walk and chew gum. He neglected his personal hygiene and had a propensity to get into your space. People were ruthless. I admit, I joined in. Twenty years later, I read that he's in jail for soliticing sex with underage girls. The cycle of hurt continues.
Yes, there are plenty of people out there who were bully targets, and they grew up to live good and productive lives that didn't include grabbing a gun and shooting their classmates. I'm happy for them. And I'm not about to suggest that being nice to the weird kids is going to solve our problems and lead us to a worldwide singing of Kum Bah Ya. But we can't ignore the fact that a lot of us still haven't figured out how to treat each other with common decency, and we haven't passed it onto our kids. We continue to worship money, charisma and good looks, and we ignore those who make us feel uncomfortable.
I had my first reporting internship when I was a college junior. One night, I was sent to cover a speech by a guy named Bob Keeshan, better known as our Captain Kangaroo. This was in the '80s, when the catch phrase of the day was "Just say no." But Mr. Keeshan told folks that saying no wasn't enough. He said (and I paraphrase) we need to be teaching our children about the richness of life and the importance of treating each other as we would ourselves. If we do that, then saying no would come naturally.
A simple answer? Probably. But you know, Bob Keeshan was talking to a mental health group in Roanoke, Va., which is about 40 miles from Virginia Tech. Maybe that's why his words keep coming back to me now. Maybe that's why my 9-year-old and I had a long talk the other night about the weird kids and how, even if you don't become their best friends, you don't need to join in when the other kids make fun of them. "But I'm afraid to tell them to stop, Mom." Yeah, I know, honey. I know. How do I equp her with the strength to defend the powerless? I'm still working on that one. In the meantime, I'm stepping back and taking a long, hard look at how I treat the strange folks in society. Because my kids are watching me. And their future is worth it.
But what about us? What are we doing to bring down the chances that this is going to happen again?
As I understand it, mass murderers share certain traits. Oftentimes, they are marginalized by society. They're not the athletes or the beautiful people that command power simply because they were blessed with good genes. They're not the comedians or the jovial folks who draw people to them because of their warmth and openness. They're the strange ones, the kids who don't seem to fit in with any group, the ones who don't have a lot of friends and are often the target of foolish pranks and hurtful comments.
I remember those kids. Heck, at one time, I was one of those kids. At another time, I was one of the hecklers. There was this one kid in school who was a constant target. He was a goofy looking kid, with the proverbial Coke bottle glasses and inability to walk and chew gum. He neglected his personal hygiene and had a propensity to get into your space. People were ruthless. I admit, I joined in. Twenty years later, I read that he's in jail for soliticing sex with underage girls. The cycle of hurt continues.
Yes, there are plenty of people out there who were bully targets, and they grew up to live good and productive lives that didn't include grabbing a gun and shooting their classmates. I'm happy for them. And I'm not about to suggest that being nice to the weird kids is going to solve our problems and lead us to a worldwide singing of Kum Bah Ya. But we can't ignore the fact that a lot of us still haven't figured out how to treat each other with common decency, and we haven't passed it onto our kids. We continue to worship money, charisma and good looks, and we ignore those who make us feel uncomfortable.
I had my first reporting internship when I was a college junior. One night, I was sent to cover a speech by a guy named Bob Keeshan, better known as our Captain Kangaroo. This was in the '80s, when the catch phrase of the day was "Just say no." But Mr. Keeshan told folks that saying no wasn't enough. He said (and I paraphrase) we need to be teaching our children about the richness of life and the importance of treating each other as we would ourselves. If we do that, then saying no would come naturally.
A simple answer? Probably. But you know, Bob Keeshan was talking to a mental health group in Roanoke, Va., which is about 40 miles from Virginia Tech. Maybe that's why his words keep coming back to me now. Maybe that's why my 9-year-old and I had a long talk the other night about the weird kids and how, even if you don't become their best friends, you don't need to join in when the other kids make fun of them. "But I'm afraid to tell them to stop, Mom." Yeah, I know, honey. I know. How do I equp her with the strength to defend the powerless? I'm still working on that one. In the meantime, I'm stepping back and taking a long, hard look at how I treat the strange folks in society. Because my kids are watching me. And their future is worth it.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Have you ever found a perfect pair of jeans? They don't gap at the waist or drag at the ankles. They hug your butt without being tight enough to bring back memories of your Calvin Kleins from the '80s. They're even reasonably priced. There's only one problem. They're a size bigger than your regular size, and you swore you'd never wear that size.
What do you do? Do you really want to admit that you wear this size? Yet, the jeans fit just right. So you buy the jeans, cut out the size tag and wear them happily. Denial is a powerful thing.
I turned 40 this year. I feel great. I'm at a great place in my life. My body could look better, but it could look a lot worse. I don't look 25, but I don't look 50 either. Occasionally my joints will hurt, but I can still exercise, play volleyball and beat my children in a race. I just don't like to acknowledge that I'm 40.
I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for feeling this way. Most women in my generation tend to equate 40 with their 40-year-old mothers, who wore polyester pants and Grandma hairstyles. We do the math and realize that yes, 40 is about halfway between our expected life span, and the dreaded term "middle age" applies to us. How did this happen? When did I get to be 40?
So I've decided to tear off the 40 tag, so to speak. I'm now 37. If someone asks me my age, I'll be honest and tell them I'm 40. But in my mind, I'm 37. In a strange way, it works.
Denial is a powerful thing.
What do you do? Do you really want to admit that you wear this size? Yet, the jeans fit just right. So you buy the jeans, cut out the size tag and wear them happily. Denial is a powerful thing.
I turned 40 this year. I feel great. I'm at a great place in my life. My body could look better, but it could look a lot worse. I don't look 25, but I don't look 50 either. Occasionally my joints will hurt, but I can still exercise, play volleyball and beat my children in a race. I just don't like to acknowledge that I'm 40.
I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for feeling this way. Most women in my generation tend to equate 40 with their 40-year-old mothers, who wore polyester pants and Grandma hairstyles. We do the math and realize that yes, 40 is about halfway between our expected life span, and the dreaded term "middle age" applies to us. How did this happen? When did I get to be 40?
So I've decided to tear off the 40 tag, so to speak. I'm now 37. If someone asks me my age, I'll be honest and tell them I'm 40. But in my mind, I'm 37. In a strange way, it works.
Denial is a powerful thing.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
What was that?
Back when I was an innocent youth, I worked with a guy who was hard of hearing. If you asked him a question, he'd often respond with a harsh "Huh?" and an angry look that had you quickly retreating. I couldn't understand why he was mad at me for asking a question.
Life has a way of coming back to bite us in the proverbial butt. As I reach my 40s, I discover that I'm not hearing things like I used to. I had my hearing tested and discovered that I'm still at the low end of normal, and I tend to hear lower sounds better than higher. As the mother of two elementary school daughters, this can be a blessing or a curse.
"Mom, xlkejflk jflkwej lkejsl!" This comes from another room while the speaker's head and voice are directed to the TV set.
"What was that?"
"Wlkjrlk klsjdflk werk!"
"Come over here and talk to me. Oh, and while you're here, empty the dishwasher."
Too bad it didn't start when the kids were babies. I could have had an excuse for missing those middle-of-the-night cries.
Anyhow, I've tried to be accommodating. TV is the worst. Why is it that dramas like to insert so much background music? I watch "House" with one hand cupped around my ear, like a little old lady. It drives my husband nuts. See, I told you it's a blessing and a curse.
I blame my car radio. All those times I cranked Aerosmith's "Tell Me What it Takes to Let You Go" have slowly killed off all those little hairs in my ear that are so conducive to moving sound to my brain. I also blame my genes. Dinner at my parents' house is a lot of fun, as we all punctuate our sentences with, "Huh?" "What'd you say?" "Say it again."
On a serious note, I hope I never lose the ability to hear my kids play the piano or tell their latest story. But at least I'm able to filter out some of the whines and demands that come from the other end of the house. Maybe it's a byproduct of motherhood.
Huh?
Life has a way of coming back to bite us in the proverbial butt. As I reach my 40s, I discover that I'm not hearing things like I used to. I had my hearing tested and discovered that I'm still at the low end of normal, and I tend to hear lower sounds better than higher. As the mother of two elementary school daughters, this can be a blessing or a curse.
"Mom, xlkejflk jflkwej lkejsl!" This comes from another room while the speaker's head and voice are directed to the TV set.
"What was that?"
"Wlkjrlk klsjdflk werk!"
"Come over here and talk to me. Oh, and while you're here, empty the dishwasher."
Too bad it didn't start when the kids were babies. I could have had an excuse for missing those middle-of-the-night cries.
Anyhow, I've tried to be accommodating. TV is the worst. Why is it that dramas like to insert so much background music? I watch "House" with one hand cupped around my ear, like a little old lady. It drives my husband nuts. See, I told you it's a blessing and a curse.
I blame my car radio. All those times I cranked Aerosmith's "Tell Me What it Takes to Let You Go" have slowly killed off all those little hairs in my ear that are so conducive to moving sound to my brain. I also blame my genes. Dinner at my parents' house is a lot of fun, as we all punctuate our sentences with, "Huh?" "What'd you say?" "Say it again."
On a serious note, I hope I never lose the ability to hear my kids play the piano or tell their latest story. But at least I'm able to filter out some of the whines and demands that come from the other end of the house. Maybe it's a byproduct of motherhood.
Huh?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Back to work?
School's back in session. Don't get me started on the whole August start date issue. Yes, I know kids are no longer needed in the fields for harvest season. And I know many schools have air conditioning. But I hate giving up those lazy summer evenings, when the kids can play until dark and the parents can hang out in our lawn chairs, gabbing and swatting mosquitoes. Now we're all hustling to finish homework and showers each evening. Summer is over.
This school year marks nine years that I have been a stay-at-home mom. While I've been lucky enough to supplement our income with freelance writing work, I'm not raking in the big bucks by any stretch of the imagination. No, I'm making just about what I'd make if I were working a part-time job at Kohl's or another retail outlet. So the question isn't whether I need to go back part-time or full-time; it's whether our family can handle the transition from Mom being at home to Mom doing the full-time working act again.
We've been incredibly lucky. The husband doesn't have to worry about sharing morning kid duties or juggling dinner menus. If a kid turns up sick, there's no argument over whose job is more important that day. The kids get to see me at school on my volunteer days. I'm there when they get home to go over homework and tell them to quit eating so many cookies.
But even I have to admit that I don't do a whole lot of anything at home. I'm not Mrs. Fix-It or even Mrs. Paint the Walls. (Our house's outdated wallpaper seems to be superglued to the walls, making me even more reluctant to fire up the steamer and Dif.) A healthy paycheck would be a nice addition to our bank account. But what about the things we have to give up? What about the afternoon piano lessons? What about (gasp) soccer practice? What about lazy summer days at the pool and late mornings for my sleep-loving 9-year-old? The husband's job doesn't have set hours, and he's never sure whether he's going to be home on time. How do I find something flexible?
I'm optimistically believing that the answer will be clear in due time. In the meantime, I'm printing out the substitute teacher packet for our school system and contemplating a retail stint during the holiday season. My hat's off to working families. I don't know how you do it, but I think I'll be finding out soon.
This school year marks nine years that I have been a stay-at-home mom. While I've been lucky enough to supplement our income with freelance writing work, I'm not raking in the big bucks by any stretch of the imagination. No, I'm making just about what I'd make if I were working a part-time job at Kohl's or another retail outlet. So the question isn't whether I need to go back part-time or full-time; it's whether our family can handle the transition from Mom being at home to Mom doing the full-time working act again.
We've been incredibly lucky. The husband doesn't have to worry about sharing morning kid duties or juggling dinner menus. If a kid turns up sick, there's no argument over whose job is more important that day. The kids get to see me at school on my volunteer days. I'm there when they get home to go over homework and tell them to quit eating so many cookies.
But even I have to admit that I don't do a whole lot of anything at home. I'm not Mrs. Fix-It or even Mrs. Paint the Walls. (Our house's outdated wallpaper seems to be superglued to the walls, making me even more reluctant to fire up the steamer and Dif.) A healthy paycheck would be a nice addition to our bank account. But what about the things we have to give up? What about the afternoon piano lessons? What about (gasp) soccer practice? What about lazy summer days at the pool and late mornings for my sleep-loving 9-year-old? The husband's job doesn't have set hours, and he's never sure whether he's going to be home on time. How do I find something flexible?
I'm optimistically believing that the answer will be clear in due time. In the meantime, I'm printing out the substitute teacher packet for our school system and contemplating a retail stint during the holiday season. My hat's off to working families. I don't know how you do it, but I think I'll be finding out soon.
Monday, July 10, 2006
"Ashley, you're probably going to lose your first game, and it's all because your mother doesn't know where to turn!"
Poor Ashley. Poor Ashley's mother. A man I presumed to be her father was on his cell phone, demanding to know where Ashley was. Behind him, our local 3v3 soccer tournament was beginning, with handpicked teams ready to square off and show their soccer prowess.
What makes a parent one of those parents? How do you slide from the parent whose role is primarily driving to practice and making sure the kids have their water bottles to one whose life is dictated by their child's win/loss record?
There's a siren's song that calls to parents when their children show potential. While the sane part of you is saying, "Let's be realistic," there's another voice saying, "She might be the next Mia Hamm!" You get a charge out of watching your child play well and hearing other parents say, "Whose daughter is that? Wow, she's really good." You share your child's joy when she wins, and you wipe her tears when she doesn't.
But how do you keep from making her dreams your dreams? Or, how do you ensure that you're not forcing your dreams to become her dreams?
I wish I had the answer. Certainly, for every Ashley's father there's another parent who keeps his cool and tells his daughter that she'll get there when she gets there, and there will be other tournaments in the future. For every parent who continually lectures his daughter on improving her game, there's one who says, "OK" when his daughter says "I don't think I want to play this fall."
As for my 7-year-old, her team looked fantastic in its first three games. They made it to the championship, where they lost in sudden death overtime. One of our players accidentally kicked the opponent's ball while standing within the goal circle, giving the opponent an automatic goal. There were lots of tears afterwards.
Except for my kid. She said, "It's OK. I had a lot of fun. Remember, it's only a game."
That's my girl.
Poor Ashley. Poor Ashley's mother. A man I presumed to be her father was on his cell phone, demanding to know where Ashley was. Behind him, our local 3v3 soccer tournament was beginning, with handpicked teams ready to square off and show their soccer prowess.
What makes a parent one of those parents? How do you slide from the parent whose role is primarily driving to practice and making sure the kids have their water bottles to one whose life is dictated by their child's win/loss record?
There's a siren's song that calls to parents when their children show potential. While the sane part of you is saying, "Let's be realistic," there's another voice saying, "She might be the next Mia Hamm!" You get a charge out of watching your child play well and hearing other parents say, "Whose daughter is that? Wow, she's really good." You share your child's joy when she wins, and you wipe her tears when she doesn't.
But how do you keep from making her dreams your dreams? Or, how do you ensure that you're not forcing your dreams to become her dreams?
I wish I had the answer. Certainly, for every Ashley's father there's another parent who keeps his cool and tells his daughter that she'll get there when she gets there, and there will be other tournaments in the future. For every parent who continually lectures his daughter on improving her game, there's one who says, "OK" when his daughter says "I don't think I want to play this fall."
As for my 7-year-old, her team looked fantastic in its first three games. They made it to the championship, where they lost in sudden death overtime. One of our players accidentally kicked the opponent's ball while standing within the goal circle, giving the opponent an automatic goal. There were lots of tears afterwards.
Except for my kid. She said, "It's OK. I had a lot of fun. Remember, it's only a game."
That's my girl.
Friday, June 23, 2006
I'm going to perform an experiment on my dog.
Before you start calling the animal rights people, hear me out. When I was a kid, we had a beagle mix named Patches. Patches was a grumpy old dog, but that's beside the point. Twice a day, Patches would get a half of a Gainesburger in her bowl. Gainesburgers were these frighteningly red, crumbly food stuff that was packaged in a hamburger shape. You'd open the wrapping, crumble half a Gainesburger into the bowl and Patches went to town.
My grandmother's dogs preferred Chuckwagon. Chuckwagon's marketing point was that it made its own gravy. Each day, at 7:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., Grandma put a scoop of Chuckwagon into each dog's bowl, added warm water and stirred the concoction until it formed its own gravy. Scampy and Brandy went to town on their Chuckwagon.
Patches, Scampy and Brandy all lived long, healthy lives, expiring at about age 15 or so. Same with the other neighborhood dogs who received similarly packaged grocery store foods. Interesting.
When we bought our first puppy 10 years ago, our vet wrinkled her nose at grocery store dog food. Sure, she said, give your dog the equivalent of Twinkies and Ring Dings. She recommended premium dog foods. They might cost a little more, but your dog will appreciate its healthy coat and digestive system. Nothing but the best for our dog. Kadi lived on premium dog food. When she developed seizures at age 6, we kept her on the premium dog food. When her legs started to bother her a few years later, we switched to a food that promised to enhance her joint health. As the epilepsy medications made her fuzzy, I tried a food that promised to help her mental state. When she died at 9, she was well fed and loved and prematurely gone.
Our neighbors have similar stories. The lab on the left had to be euthanized at age 8 when his hips gave out. The dog behind us lost his life to cancer at age 9. The one next door died at age 10 due to heart failure. All nice dogs. All premium dog food dogs. Not a speck of Gainesburger in sight.
So now we have this new dog, Ginger. Great dog. Healthy dog. No seizures yet. Strong hips and knees so far. Yesterday I bought her a bag of grocery store dog food. Granted, it's the top of the line grocery store dog food. I can't bring myself to do the generic stuff yet, and I can't find any Gainesburger. But I'm going to see how Ginger does on grocery store dog food. At least I'm going to try this 20-pound bag. Then I'll probably feel guilty for feeding my dog Twinkie dog food, and I'll go back to the premium stuff.
I'd make a lousy researcher.
Before you start calling the animal rights people, hear me out. When I was a kid, we had a beagle mix named Patches. Patches was a grumpy old dog, but that's beside the point. Twice a day, Patches would get a half of a Gainesburger in her bowl. Gainesburgers were these frighteningly red, crumbly food stuff that was packaged in a hamburger shape. You'd open the wrapping, crumble half a Gainesburger into the bowl and Patches went to town.
My grandmother's dogs preferred Chuckwagon. Chuckwagon's marketing point was that it made its own gravy. Each day, at 7:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., Grandma put a scoop of Chuckwagon into each dog's bowl, added warm water and stirred the concoction until it formed its own gravy. Scampy and Brandy went to town on their Chuckwagon.
Patches, Scampy and Brandy all lived long, healthy lives, expiring at about age 15 or so. Same with the other neighborhood dogs who received similarly packaged grocery store foods. Interesting.
When we bought our first puppy 10 years ago, our vet wrinkled her nose at grocery store dog food. Sure, she said, give your dog the equivalent of Twinkies and Ring Dings. She recommended premium dog foods. They might cost a little more, but your dog will appreciate its healthy coat and digestive system. Nothing but the best for our dog. Kadi lived on premium dog food. When she developed seizures at age 6, we kept her on the premium dog food. When her legs started to bother her a few years later, we switched to a food that promised to enhance her joint health. As the epilepsy medications made her fuzzy, I tried a food that promised to help her mental state. When she died at 9, she was well fed and loved and prematurely gone.
Our neighbors have similar stories. The lab on the left had to be euthanized at age 8 when his hips gave out. The dog behind us lost his life to cancer at age 9. The one next door died at age 10 due to heart failure. All nice dogs. All premium dog food dogs. Not a speck of Gainesburger in sight.
So now we have this new dog, Ginger. Great dog. Healthy dog. No seizures yet. Strong hips and knees so far. Yesterday I bought her a bag of grocery store dog food. Granted, it's the top of the line grocery store dog food. I can't bring myself to do the generic stuff yet, and I can't find any Gainesburger. But I'm going to see how Ginger does on grocery store dog food. At least I'm going to try this 20-pound bag. Then I'll probably feel guilty for feeding my dog Twinkie dog food, and I'll go back to the premium stuff.
I'd make a lousy researcher.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Ten years ago, my husband and I stood in front of our family and friends and pledged our solemn vows. I suppose I should be saying something like, "I can remember it as if it were yesterday," but honestly, it seems like a lifetime ago. I look at our wedding pictures and think, "Who are those young people, and did they have any idea what they were promising on that day?"
The wedding may seem like a lifetime ago, but it seems like just yesterday I was waking him up at 2 a.m. with an infant, begging him to take her for a couple of hours so I could get some precious sleep. Take her he did, even though he had to work in the morning. Later, when I thanked him, he said not to worry. "She's my baby, too," he said.
It seems like just yesterday we were moving into this neighborhood, complete with its cul de sacs and safe streets. We bought bikes for us and a bike trailer for the girls. The weather was kind. Life was good. So good, that we looked at each other and said, "No matter what else happens, we're going to remember this time and say it was good."
It seems like only yesterday he was taking time off work so we could go as a family to my mom's bedside when she was diagnosed with cancer. Only yesterday he told me not to worry about the girls while I went home again to be with my mom and my dad as they recovered from heart attacks. Only yesterday we took a trip to Chicago, away from the girls for the first time in almost nine years, enjoying a weekend without bed time routines and menu negotiations. Only yesterday we fought so hard, only to reaffirm that we both want and need to honor those vows we took when there were stars in our eyes and naive love in our hearts.
Did we know 10 years ago how much that love would have to grow and mature to meet our changing lives? Did we realize that the words "for better or for worse" didn't pertain to lottery winnings and catastrophic events, but rather to balmy summer nights and little irritations that we'd have to let go of in the name of a promise we made 10 years ago? Did we have any idea how much more we'd love each other 10 years out, and how that love is what we hold onto no matter what else goes wrong in our lives? Did we realize that we were signing up for hard times as well as good times, and that "as long as we both shall live" was more than a trite, familiar phrase?
Happy anniversary, honey. There's no one else I'd rather call my husband, no one else I'd rather take this journey with. You're the first one I want to share my good news with, and the one I need when the news is bad. I love you more than I did 10 years ago, and I'm in it for the long haul. Let's work through the bad times and hang onto the good ones, "as long as we both shall live" and maybe an eternity more.
The wedding may seem like a lifetime ago, but it seems like just yesterday I was waking him up at 2 a.m. with an infant, begging him to take her for a couple of hours so I could get some precious sleep. Take her he did, even though he had to work in the morning. Later, when I thanked him, he said not to worry. "She's my baby, too," he said.
It seems like just yesterday we were moving into this neighborhood, complete with its cul de sacs and safe streets. We bought bikes for us and a bike trailer for the girls. The weather was kind. Life was good. So good, that we looked at each other and said, "No matter what else happens, we're going to remember this time and say it was good."
It seems like only yesterday he was taking time off work so we could go as a family to my mom's bedside when she was diagnosed with cancer. Only yesterday he told me not to worry about the girls while I went home again to be with my mom and my dad as they recovered from heart attacks. Only yesterday we took a trip to Chicago, away from the girls for the first time in almost nine years, enjoying a weekend without bed time routines and menu negotiations. Only yesterday we fought so hard, only to reaffirm that we both want and need to honor those vows we took when there were stars in our eyes and naive love in our hearts.
Did we know 10 years ago how much that love would have to grow and mature to meet our changing lives? Did we realize that the words "for better or for worse" didn't pertain to lottery winnings and catastrophic events, but rather to balmy summer nights and little irritations that we'd have to let go of in the name of a promise we made 10 years ago? Did we have any idea how much more we'd love each other 10 years out, and how that love is what we hold onto no matter what else goes wrong in our lives? Did we realize that we were signing up for hard times as well as good times, and that "as long as we both shall live" was more than a trite, familiar phrase?
Happy anniversary, honey. There's no one else I'd rather call my husband, no one else I'd rather take this journey with. You're the first one I want to share my good news with, and the one I need when the news is bad. I love you more than I did 10 years ago, and I'm in it for the long haul. Let's work through the bad times and hang onto the good ones, "as long as we both shall live" and maybe an eternity more.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Today I'm going to join 80 percent of my fellow Americans (and a few nice Canadians) and weigh in on American Idol's finale. Thanks to the miracle of DVR - the best $10 a month we spend - I watched the finale this morning and was able to fast forward through the boring parts.
Here's the deal. For the last four or five weeks, I've been wondering what's going on behind the scenes to propel Katharine to the forefront. I mean, she's like the little girl with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead -- when she's good she's very good, but when she's bad she's horrid.
They gave us the answer last night. Thanks to the miracle of DVR, I can confirm it and share it with you. After Kat's second or third song, they scanned the audience and had the words "Katharine's Family and Friends." And who did they show? Tori Spelling WhateverHerNewLastNameIs. That's it! If anyone in Hollywood knows how to pull the strings and pass by people who have gobs and gobs more talent, it's Tori Spelling. Forget the Scientology rumor. Katharine has a Spelling connection, and that's why Simon apologized and Chris was sacrificed and Elliot was edged out. BLAME TORI!
That said, I can only guess that TPTB want this to be a truly forgettable season, and therefore have assigned truly awful songs as the initial releases. What sort of drivel was that?
And finally, I'm going to say something I thought I'd never say. Was that Kellie Pickler in the audience sporting a smart new hairdo? Goodness gracious folks, she looked downright respectable.
My vote goes to Taylor, who makes me smile. I get the feeling he'd be perfectly happy to spend his career singing in bars. I respect people who can do what they love and make a living out of it, and I hope he enjoys a long, fun life of music.
Here's the deal. For the last four or five weeks, I've been wondering what's going on behind the scenes to propel Katharine to the forefront. I mean, she's like the little girl with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead -- when she's good she's very good, but when she's bad she's horrid.
They gave us the answer last night. Thanks to the miracle of DVR, I can confirm it and share it with you. After Kat's second or third song, they scanned the audience and had the words "Katharine's Family and Friends." And who did they show? Tori Spelling WhateverHerNewLastNameIs. That's it! If anyone in Hollywood knows how to pull the strings and pass by people who have gobs and gobs more talent, it's Tori Spelling. Forget the Scientology rumor. Katharine has a Spelling connection, and that's why Simon apologized and Chris was sacrificed and Elliot was edged out. BLAME TORI!
That said, I can only guess that TPTB want this to be a truly forgettable season, and therefore have assigned truly awful songs as the initial releases. What sort of drivel was that?
And finally, I'm going to say something I thought I'd never say. Was that Kellie Pickler in the audience sporting a smart new hairdo? Goodness gracious folks, she looked downright respectable.
My vote goes to Taylor, who makes me smile. I get the feeling he'd be perfectly happy to spend his career singing in bars. I respect people who can do what they love and make a living out of it, and I hope he enjoys a long, fun life of music.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
My husband thinks we shouldn't have ice cream in the house. He's come to this conclusion after talking to his brother-in-law, who is very biased against anything he considers to be junk food.
Here are brother-in-law's arguments:
Ice cream has little redeeming value nutritionally. Sure, you can make the dairy argument, but the kids would be better off drinking milk or eating cheese.
If ice cream is in the house, the kids will eat it. Consequently, mothers will eat it, too. Everyone knows that too much ice cream is not good for mothers, as it tends to force its way directly into the fat cells of our rear ends.
If you really want ice cream, you can always go out and enjoy a scoop at your nearest ice cream parlor. This way, the kids will know that ice cream is not one of the four food groups (good heavens, I just dated myself) and will consider it a treat, something you do sporadically.
I have to say, his argument makes sense. Then I considered other items in our house that fit the above description - items that, when taken in excess, can cause health woes and even (gasp) extra fat around the midsection. I considered those items that are readily available at the corner restaurant or grocery store for an occasional treat. I considered how much better we might all be if those items were limited to special occasions and not an everyday indulgence. After all, wouldn't we be better off if we stuck to healthier alternatives?
So I'm throwing away the beer.
OK, I'm not throwing away the beer. But I'm not throwing away the ice cream until brother-in-law throws away his beer.
Anyone want some ice cream?
Here are brother-in-law's arguments:
Ice cream has little redeeming value nutritionally. Sure, you can make the dairy argument, but the kids would be better off drinking milk or eating cheese.
If ice cream is in the house, the kids will eat it. Consequently, mothers will eat it, too. Everyone knows that too much ice cream is not good for mothers, as it tends to force its way directly into the fat cells of our rear ends.
If you really want ice cream, you can always go out and enjoy a scoop at your nearest ice cream parlor. This way, the kids will know that ice cream is not one of the four food groups (good heavens, I just dated myself) and will consider it a treat, something you do sporadically.
I have to say, his argument makes sense. Then I considered other items in our house that fit the above description - items that, when taken in excess, can cause health woes and even (gasp) extra fat around the midsection. I considered those items that are readily available at the corner restaurant or grocery store for an occasional treat. I considered how much better we might all be if those items were limited to special occasions and not an everyday indulgence. After all, wouldn't we be better off if we stuck to healthier alternatives?
So I'm throwing away the beer.
OK, I'm not throwing away the beer. But I'm not throwing away the ice cream until brother-in-law throws away his beer.
Anyone want some ice cream?
Monday, May 01, 2006
Yesterday, we sat in the rain watching 7- and 8-year-olds play soccer. They were having fun, even if moms and dads were huddled under umbrellas dreaming of hot tubs.
But then there was the little girl on the opposing team who never smiled. She was good -- better than almost every other child out there. She ran like a gazelle and figured out the fancy footwork. It wasn't good enough, though. For some reason, Sunday wasn't her game day. It happens to everyone, and you have to shrug it off, right?
Not according to this child's dad. He was on the sidelines, shouting instructions, criticizing her technique, telling her how she needed to try harder and work harder to score those goals. All this for an 8-year-old. He must have given up, as he went to his car during the fourth quarter and waited while his daughter trudged off the field, getting out only to shout at the child some more.
What's going to happen to this sweet kid? Does the dad really think she'll put up with 10 more years of shouting so she can live her dad's dream? What ever happened to letting kids play?
But then there was the little girl on the opposing team who never smiled. She was good -- better than almost every other child out there. She ran like a gazelle and figured out the fancy footwork. It wasn't good enough, though. For some reason, Sunday wasn't her game day. It happens to everyone, and you have to shrug it off, right?
Not according to this child's dad. He was on the sidelines, shouting instructions, criticizing her technique, telling her how she needed to try harder and work harder to score those goals. All this for an 8-year-old. He must have given up, as he went to his car during the fourth quarter and waited while his daughter trudged off the field, getting out only to shout at the child some more.
What's going to happen to this sweet kid? Does the dad really think she'll put up with 10 more years of shouting so she can live her dad's dream? What ever happened to letting kids play?
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