This past Wednesday was Saint Nick’s Day. The night before, my husband and I rushed our girls off to bed as early as we could so that we could devote proper time to stocking-stuffing. After we filled their stockings with treats and goodies, I decided to write the girls a note on behalf of ol’ Saint Nick himself to acknowledge the girls’ (ah-hem) good behavior and further encourage the continuation of such. I fumbled through the kitchen for a few minutes, looking for a decent piece of paper on which to write the note. I finally gave up and headed for our office to grab a piece of computer paper.
Our office is located at the very front of our house, to the left of our foyer. Our front door has a long skinny window that runs the length of the door. As I was walking down the hall towards the front of the house to retrieve the piece of paper, I saw the very certain silhouette of a man in a hooded sweatshirt on our front porch doing something clearly suspicious. The second I saw him, he ducked out of sight. Being the chicken poop that I am, I followed suit and immediately ducked into our office, to the left of that door. I didn’t even want to look out again in fear of what I might find.
In a whispered scream, I called for my husband and told him someone was on our porch. It was after 9pm, so it was obviously dark out, and no one was ringing our doorbell. This person was clearly up to no good. My husband was skeptical of what I had seen and asked if I was sure it wasn’t just our Christmas lights, which are a set of big colored stars that twinkle and flash randomly. I thought for a second that maybe he was right, that maybe I had imagined what I had seen. Maybe it was just a shadow of our lighted snowman combined with the house lights and my wild imagination. But I still refused to come out of the office until my husband checked it out.
My husband was wearing his usual nighttime attire, which consists merely of his boxer briefs. He proceeded to open our front door to check out the scene without putting on clothes, which meant either a) he really did not believe me that someone was out there so he wasn’t concerned about being seen nearly neckid or b) he was too scared of what he would find to remember he was nearly neckid.
He looked around from the safety of our first step, came back in, and then looked out our window again. He then spotted the hooded stranger scurrying throughout our yard, obviously trying to go unseen. And then my husband recognized this person was actually one of our very best friends. I then looked out the window and we both spotted something red in the middle of our yard that our friend was messing with.
My husband opened up our front door and said, Dude, what are you doing??
Our friend flashed a guilty and surrendering smile and then turned to his handiwork, which was an inflatable Santa Claus that he was trying to stake down and blow up.
Apparently, he and his wife had devised this plan to set up, inflate, and leave this 8-foot airblown Santa Claus in our front yard without us knowing, as both a prank and a Saint Nick’s Day surprise. When I had seen our friend on our porch, he had apparently been trying to find an outlet for Santa. If our friend had not been discovered, we would have woken up to find this “present” in our yard, not knowing who had done it. I would have never in a million years guessed it was this friend. He and his wife have a newborn baby, so I wouldn’t have imagined that they had the time or energy to even think up such a prank. I personally thought the whole idea was absolutely hysterical and wished that I hadn’t found it out. I also thought it was incredibly sweet and thoughtful and reminded me of how incredibly lucky we are to have such fun and wonderful friends.
His wife, who had been driving the getaway car, soon pulled up to discover that her husband had failed in this Santa-dumping attempt. Apparently, they had tried the same stunt on his parents last year and got caught in the act as well. His wife came into our house, pumpkin seat and infant in tow, clearly disappointed with her husband’s failure at being a delinquent.
If it had been any other night, he would have been successful. I am usually in bed by 9pm, watching my TiVoed shows for the day. I rarely go into our office anymore, especially that late, but this night I needed paper to write the Saint Nick note. Little did I know that I would catch ol’ Saint Nick himself. The four of us had a great laugh about it all, but my husband and I are already planning retaliation.
So I wrote the Saint Nick note that I had intended but added a PS for the girls to go look outside at our front yard to see what else Saint Nick had left. The girls were wowed by the surprise in the morning. My four-year-old thought it was Santa’s “stamp” that he had been to our house. She then surmised that she and her sister must’ve been the only good kids in the neighborhood because no one else on our street was left an 8-foot Santa blow-up doll in their front yard. Yep, my girls are that special.
Later that morning my girls went to my parents’ house for the day. My mother has stockings at their house for them, so she also stuffed them with goodies for Saint Nick’s Day.
My four-year-old pulled a doll from her stocking and with a confused look on her face said, I have this one. If Santa knows and sees EVERYTHING, why didn’t he know that I already had this one??
This kid is too smart for her own good. I have a feeling she is going to discover the secret of Santa prematurely and miss out on all the fun -- much like how my husband and I did with our new Giant Airblown Santa. And like him, when it comes to Santa, we're also just full of a lot of hot air.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Thankful
It’s been an entire week but I’m still recovering from Thanksgiving -- the hustle-and-bustle of going to three different family celebrations; the resulting three Thanksgiving meals; and the long (although very much appreciated) nearly five-day weekend. My work let us out at noon on Wednesday and we of course got Thursday and Friday off as paid holidays. I enjoyed every second of getting to spend time with my family, but boy do those long weekends make for a tough Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today was kind of rough too. How long do I get to ride this out?
Our holiday was very enjoyable, although very, very different for me than it had been in years past. This was the first Thanksgiving since I have had children (nearly five years) that I didn’t have at least one of the girls literally pulling and tugging on me the entire time. Up until this year there had always been bottles to give, diapers to change, tears to wipe, or needy babies or shy toddlers to coddle. No, that doesn’t sound like fun. In fact, at the time all of that exhausted me, but it also gave me something to do at these gatherings. Like my daughter, I can be shy around those I do not know very well. Ever since I had children, however, I never had to be concerned with that anymore. My kids kept me too busy and distracted to be worried or concerned with what to say to whom.
Not this year. In years past, as I stated, the girls clung to me at extended family gatherings. This year, my outgoing two-year-old just isn’t a needy infant anymore and my four-year-old has broken out of her shell. At my husband’s brothers’ Thanksgiving gathering, my girls have six or seven young cousins who attend, all between the ages of three and six, most of whom are girls. They all just had a wonderful time running around, playing together, being cute. Neither of my girls found their way into my lap all night.
I found myself sitting in a chair, trying to figure out what the heck to do with myself. It was almost as if my girls had already flown the coop and I was an empty-nester. Silly, I know. My girls are only two and four; they aren’t going off to college. It’s just at that Thanksgiving celebration, in that moment in the chair, I came to the sudden realization of how much my girls have changed in just this past year. It is a huge adjustment when you have spent your existence catering to the needs of your little ones and you start to see the very first signs of that need beginning to wither away. Don’t get me wrong, a big part of me is happy to have a small bit of freedom back, but another part of me can’t help but feel sad. Poor Laur. Queue the violins.
That said, I am so proud of how much my girls have grown in the past year and the strides they have made. Recognizing their growth and watching them start to come into their own motivates me to do the same. To find myself again. The individual. The woman. The wife. Who is also a mom. So of the many, many things for which I am thankful this year, I am thankful for that.
Our holiday was very enjoyable, although very, very different for me than it had been in years past. This was the first Thanksgiving since I have had children (nearly five years) that I didn’t have at least one of the girls literally pulling and tugging on me the entire time. Up until this year there had always been bottles to give, diapers to change, tears to wipe, or needy babies or shy toddlers to coddle. No, that doesn’t sound like fun. In fact, at the time all of that exhausted me, but it also gave me something to do at these gatherings. Like my daughter, I can be shy around those I do not know very well. Ever since I had children, however, I never had to be concerned with that anymore. My kids kept me too busy and distracted to be worried or concerned with what to say to whom.
Not this year. In years past, as I stated, the girls clung to me at extended family gatherings. This year, my outgoing two-year-old just isn’t a needy infant anymore and my four-year-old has broken out of her shell. At my husband’s brothers’ Thanksgiving gathering, my girls have six or seven young cousins who attend, all between the ages of three and six, most of whom are girls. They all just had a wonderful time running around, playing together, being cute. Neither of my girls found their way into my lap all night.
I found myself sitting in a chair, trying to figure out what the heck to do with myself. It was almost as if my girls had already flown the coop and I was an empty-nester. Silly, I know. My girls are only two and four; they aren’t going off to college. It’s just at that Thanksgiving celebration, in that moment in the chair, I came to the sudden realization of how much my girls have changed in just this past year. It is a huge adjustment when you have spent your existence catering to the needs of your little ones and you start to see the very first signs of that need beginning to wither away. Don’t get me wrong, a big part of me is happy to have a small bit of freedom back, but another part of me can’t help but feel sad. Poor Laur. Queue the violins.
That said, I am so proud of how much my girls have grown in the past year and the strides they have made. Recognizing their growth and watching them start to come into their own motivates me to do the same. To find myself again. The individual. The woman. The wife. Who is also a mom. So of the many, many things for which I am thankful this year, I am thankful for that.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Lost
Last week was Crazy Hair Week at my daughter’s dance school. I rushed home from work so that I could do her hair up as wildly as possible. When I arrived at my parents’ house, she was holding her head and said her brain hurt, which is four-year-old-speak for a headache. She said she was hungry, so I gave her a snack, the “brain-hurt” passed, and I proceeded to do her hair in an enchanting samurai style.
About halfway through her class, her teacher started to take measurements of the dancers for the end-of-year dance recital. I noticed my daughter was starting to hold her head again and would occasionally get a scared look on her face. I could tell the “brain-hurt” had returned and she was trying her very best to play it off as if it didn’t; she was too embarrassed to speak up. She then got a terrified look on her face, and the teacher noticed as well. I went into the room and as soon as she saw me, she started to cry, saying her brain hurt. Her teacher quickly finished up her measurements, commented that it was so unlike her, that something must really be wrong because she never complained.
I swept her out of the class, quickly changed her shoes, and rushed to get her and her little sister ready to leave, all the while her screams were growing louder and more frantic. In the midst of all of this chaos, I realized that I couldn’t find my keys. I knew I had put them in my coat pocket, but they weren’t there. I searched my purse, my pant pockets, her dance bag, her coat pockets, and the surrounding area. My daughter was becoming inconsolable, crying that she wanted to go home, to please make her feel better. I have never lost my keys before and of all times for this to happen, it had to be in the midst of my daughter being sick and in pain - a time when we really needed to go home right away.
My dad was with us, so I asked him to bring the girls outside while I searched the lobby for my keys. It was a nice night out, so I thought the fresh air might help my daughter’s headache. I retraced my steps throughout the entire dance school, but there was no sign of them. The dance class was now being let out, and all of the mothers started helping me comb the school for the missing keys. I went back outside to check on my daughter, who by this time had become so upset that she threw up all over my dad! I went back inside and bought a cold bottle of Coke for her, thinking 1) that if hunger was the culprit, the rush of sugar might do her good; 2) that I could use the cold Coke on her forehead to help the pain; and 3) that the fact that she was allowed to drink Coke was an incredible treat for her since she normally is not allowed it, so I it might distract her from her pain and the fact that we couldn’t leave yet. It actually worked! Within a few minutes, her screams stopped and she was back to happy daughter. The Power of Coke!
By this time, the entire school had learned what was going on and became involved, tearing the rooms apart in search of the keys, but they were nowhere to be found. The only thing I could imagine had happened was perhaps the keys had dropped out of the pocket in my coat, which had been slung over a chair in the lobby, and had fallen into another dancer’s bag that was lying underneath the chair. The lobby is full of dancers’ clothes, coats, dance bags, and that was entirely possible.
Regardless, the keys were not to be found, so I called my husband to bring the spare set. He was a good 20 minutes away. When he got there, he insisted on doing what we all had already done, go through the school, ask around, check the parking lot, check our bags, all to no avail. At this point, I would have been horrified if we had found them on me or in our things after all of the trouble everyone had gone through to help us!
We eventually all arrived home, safe and sound. I threw my coat over our kitchen chair and suddenly noticed a hint of a red pen hanging out of the small chest pocket of my coat - a red pen that looked exactly like the one that is attached to all of our key chains. This small pocket is one I hadn’t even remembered I had – it’s more of a faux pocket, just for show. I pulled the pen out of the pocket, which of course was attached to a set of keys to my car.
I dangled them in disbelief in front of my husband and said, This is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?
My husband shook his head no, in a paternal I-so-cannot-believe-you-did-this look.
So I repeated, Seriously, tell me this is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?
Without words, he walked over to our hutch and picked up the extra set of keys that I had just used to drive home and dangled them in front of me.
With an embarrassed chuckle I said, If you breathe a word of this to anyone at that school, I will kill you!!!
He said that when he arrived at the school, he wanted to immediately re-search my clothes, purse, and pockets, but he knew that it would anger me for him to second-guess something I said I had already done. His plan was to wait until I went to bed, and then he was going to re-search all of my belongings. Well, apparently he was right to have thought that way!
In my defense, it was incredibly chaotic with my daughter screaming and crying in pain, and I truly never, ever use that pocket. I stand by my contention that the keys fell out of my usual pocket and someone stuck them in the normally unused pocket for me! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, dangit!
Regardless, I wish that were the end of my tale in regard to lost items that were never really lost this week. Just days later, I realized that a daily prescription that I always keep in the outside pocket of my purse was missing – a routine prescription that costs me a whopping $53 a pop. I searched for two days for this missing prescription – I searched places where I thought it might had fallen out of my purse - my car, the drawer in my desk at work where I keep my purse, my parking spot and driveway, all again to no avail. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I removed my wallet from the main part of my purse, and lo and behold – there was my prescription – right there in my purse.
That makes two items in less than a week that I had “lost” that were really always pretty much where they were supposed to be to begin with. I wish I could say my mind was.
About halfway through her class, her teacher started to take measurements of the dancers for the end-of-year dance recital. I noticed my daughter was starting to hold her head again and would occasionally get a scared look on her face. I could tell the “brain-hurt” had returned and she was trying her very best to play it off as if it didn’t; she was too embarrassed to speak up. She then got a terrified look on her face, and the teacher noticed as well. I went into the room and as soon as she saw me, she started to cry, saying her brain hurt. Her teacher quickly finished up her measurements, commented that it was so unlike her, that something must really be wrong because she never complained.
I swept her out of the class, quickly changed her shoes, and rushed to get her and her little sister ready to leave, all the while her screams were growing louder and more frantic. In the midst of all of this chaos, I realized that I couldn’t find my keys. I knew I had put them in my coat pocket, but they weren’t there. I searched my purse, my pant pockets, her dance bag, her coat pockets, and the surrounding area. My daughter was becoming inconsolable, crying that she wanted to go home, to please make her feel better. I have never lost my keys before and of all times for this to happen, it had to be in the midst of my daughter being sick and in pain - a time when we really needed to go home right away.
My dad was with us, so I asked him to bring the girls outside while I searched the lobby for my keys. It was a nice night out, so I thought the fresh air might help my daughter’s headache. I retraced my steps throughout the entire dance school, but there was no sign of them. The dance class was now being let out, and all of the mothers started helping me comb the school for the missing keys. I went back outside to check on my daughter, who by this time had become so upset that she threw up all over my dad! I went back inside and bought a cold bottle of Coke for her, thinking 1) that if hunger was the culprit, the rush of sugar might do her good; 2) that I could use the cold Coke on her forehead to help the pain; and 3) that the fact that she was allowed to drink Coke was an incredible treat for her since she normally is not allowed it, so I it might distract her from her pain and the fact that we couldn’t leave yet. It actually worked! Within a few minutes, her screams stopped and she was back to happy daughter. The Power of Coke!
By this time, the entire school had learned what was going on and became involved, tearing the rooms apart in search of the keys, but they were nowhere to be found. The only thing I could imagine had happened was perhaps the keys had dropped out of the pocket in my coat, which had been slung over a chair in the lobby, and had fallen into another dancer’s bag that was lying underneath the chair. The lobby is full of dancers’ clothes, coats, dance bags, and that was entirely possible.
Regardless, the keys were not to be found, so I called my husband to bring the spare set. He was a good 20 minutes away. When he got there, he insisted on doing what we all had already done, go through the school, ask around, check the parking lot, check our bags, all to no avail. At this point, I would have been horrified if we had found them on me or in our things after all of the trouble everyone had gone through to help us!
We eventually all arrived home, safe and sound. I threw my coat over our kitchen chair and suddenly noticed a hint of a red pen hanging out of the small chest pocket of my coat - a red pen that looked exactly like the one that is attached to all of our key chains. This small pocket is one I hadn’t even remembered I had – it’s more of a faux pocket, just for show. I pulled the pen out of the pocket, which of course was attached to a set of keys to my car.
I dangled them in disbelief in front of my husband and said, This is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?
My husband shook his head no, in a paternal I-so-cannot-believe-you-did-this look.
So I repeated, Seriously, tell me this is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?
Without words, he walked over to our hutch and picked up the extra set of keys that I had just used to drive home and dangled them in front of me.
With an embarrassed chuckle I said, If you breathe a word of this to anyone at that school, I will kill you!!!
He said that when he arrived at the school, he wanted to immediately re-search my clothes, purse, and pockets, but he knew that it would anger me for him to second-guess something I said I had already done. His plan was to wait until I went to bed, and then he was going to re-search all of my belongings. Well, apparently he was right to have thought that way!
In my defense, it was incredibly chaotic with my daughter screaming and crying in pain, and I truly never, ever use that pocket. I stand by my contention that the keys fell out of my usual pocket and someone stuck them in the normally unused pocket for me! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, dangit!
Regardless, I wish that were the end of my tale in regard to lost items that were never really lost this week. Just days later, I realized that a daily prescription that I always keep in the outside pocket of my purse was missing – a routine prescription that costs me a whopping $53 a pop. I searched for two days for this missing prescription – I searched places where I thought it might had fallen out of my purse - my car, the drawer in my desk at work where I keep my purse, my parking spot and driveway, all again to no avail. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I removed my wallet from the main part of my purse, and lo and behold – there was my prescription – right there in my purse.
That makes two items in less than a week that I had “lost” that were really always pretty much where they were supposed to be to begin with. I wish I could say my mind was.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Birthday Funk
Last Thursday I celebrated my 35th birthday. Since that day has passed, a few friends have reminded me that I am now officially closer to age 40 than 30. Does that depress me? Not really. It's hard to be upset about a number when I have all that I have in my life: a nearly perfect husband (I kid you not), adorable and healthy children, a new house, a good career, alive and well parents. What’s there to complain about? And it is just 35. C’mon.
Sure, I don’t have the rockin’ tight body I once had as an avid kickboxer, thanks to two c-sections and a hectic work and kids’ activities schedule that makes the prospect of going to the gym inconceivable to me. And yes, grey hairs have suddenly taken hold of my once thick, jet-black head of hair, forcing me to pay an unreasonable amount of money to my stylist to avoid the Italian skunk look. And sure, my once taut face is starting to show a few fine lines and evidence of one too many days in the sun when the thought of aging (or cancer) never entered my precarious teenage mind.
No, none of that consumes me because I am exactly where I wanted to be at this point in my life - and then some. I can always join another gym, pay a hairstylist, and buy extra moisturizer and sunscreen if those things bother me. I’m truly blessed for the life I have. I know that.
So, why is there still this small nagging part of me that is annoyed by Father Time this year? And at the still tender age of 35?? Is it because my husband and I decided this year that we wouldn’t have any more children and I’m sad about that? Is it because my husband had to work a crazy on-call schedule the week of my birthday, causing it to go uncelebrated, and I felt neglected? Is it because I'm starting to notice that my husband (who is younger than I am) is growing more attractive, distinguished with age, and I feel like I'm just getting older (and thus feeding into society's unfair view of aging men versus women). Am I dancing around it all and I really am narcissistic and worried about the grey hairs and the lines around my eyes, things I have never had to deal with before? I think a little bit of all of that has put me into a bit of a birthday funk. But it doesn’t consume me. Really.
Sure, I don’t have the rockin’ tight body I once had as an avid kickboxer, thanks to two c-sections and a hectic work and kids’ activities schedule that makes the prospect of going to the gym inconceivable to me. And yes, grey hairs have suddenly taken hold of my once thick, jet-black head of hair, forcing me to pay an unreasonable amount of money to my stylist to avoid the Italian skunk look. And sure, my once taut face is starting to show a few fine lines and evidence of one too many days in the sun when the thought of aging (or cancer) never entered my precarious teenage mind.
No, none of that consumes me because I am exactly where I wanted to be at this point in my life - and then some. I can always join another gym, pay a hairstylist, and buy extra moisturizer and sunscreen if those things bother me. I’m truly blessed for the life I have. I know that.
So, why is there still this small nagging part of me that is annoyed by Father Time this year? And at the still tender age of 35?? Is it because my husband and I decided this year that we wouldn’t have any more children and I’m sad about that? Is it because my husband had to work a crazy on-call schedule the week of my birthday, causing it to go uncelebrated, and I felt neglected? Is it because I'm starting to notice that my husband (who is younger than I am) is growing more attractive, distinguished with age, and I feel like I'm just getting older (and thus feeding into society's unfair view of aging men versus women). Am I dancing around it all and I really am narcissistic and worried about the grey hairs and the lines around my eyes, things I have never had to deal with before? I think a little bit of all of that has put me into a bit of a birthday funk. But it doesn’t consume me. Really.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Mama Bear's Claws
Last week my four-year-old went to the Halloween party at her dance school. She was so excited. She got to wear her Pocahontas costume, put on glittery gold eye makeup, and give and receive treats to her fellow dancers in the school.
We got there a little early, so we hung out in the lobby with the rest of the kids that go to the school, who range in age from three to over 18. As soon as we arrived, I noticed that a girl, who was at least 12 years old, was glaring at my daughter. She was staring at her, sizing her up and down, with a nasty scowl on her face. I had never met or even seen this girl before, but I didn't like how she was looking at my daughter. After a few minutes of her rude looks, she stomped over to us, hand on hip, and said in a very nasty voice to my four-year-old, Are you supposed to be Pocahontas? Like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen.
My daughter looked terrified, so I piped in with a slightly defensive, Yessss.
Then she all-knowingly and nastily responded, Well, Pocahontas doesn't wear shoes!! She then pointed down at the cute moccasin boots that came with my daughter's costume.
The happiness and excitement that had been so expressive on my daughter's face ten seconds earlier immediately drained from her entirely. She looked like she was going to burst into tears any second. It took every bit of maturity in me to retain my composure and remind myself that this snotty little girl was just that and I was the adult here, but the truth is I wanted to rip her hair out. I mean, c'mon. My daughter is only four, and here this 12-year-old insisted on knocking her down, breaking her heart, just because she could.
In that instant, I suddenly became terrified of the years to come. This girl's behavior gave me just a small, small glimpse of what my girls, and therefore I, am in for over the next 14 years and beyond. Girls can be so cruel and mean, and their words to their peers have such incredible power over each others' emotional well-being. Often moreso than their own family unfortunately. I can barely stand to think about the heartache and drama that my girls will undoubtedly have to face at some point.
What's equally terrifying to me, however, is how I'll handle these difficult situations when my girls have been hurt by a peer. If I'll be able to keep my Italian, tempered mouth shut. I know that being protective of your child is entirely natural and necessary, I just worry I err on the side of being overprotective sometimes. I think this stems from my childhood (doesn't everything?), particularly the relationship that I had with my little brother when I was a child, and to some extent still today. Our father is 100% Italian, but my brother inherited more of the Italian skin and coloring than I did. In the summer, his skin gets incredibly dark. This became a source for teasing by other kids, and he was often called the "N" word by the nastier group. I cannot tell you how many full-fledged fights I got into with other kids over my brother as a result. He was and is so easy-going and mild-tempered. Someone would call him that name or similar ones, and he'd let it roll off his back. I am not so easy, especially when it came to my little brother. If I heard anyone pick on him in any way, it tore through me like a raging fire. I would drag kids off their bikes if they dared to shout out a slur of any kind to my brother. Boys, girls, older, younger, it didn't matter. I eventually outgrew the physical scuffles, but a negative word about me and mine never went unchallenged verbally by yours truly. No way.
So when I saw this girl, who at 12-years-old should know better, being carelessly cruel to my little girl, I felt that protective surge all over again. Except this time, as the adult and mother, I of course held back. But it's so not in me to hold back. The fighter, the protector, the Mother Bear in me instinctively wanted to go on the verbal attack with this girl for threatening one of the cubs. It's how I felt, but of course I know better.
The best I can do as a mother is step in appropriately when it's called for and give my girls the skills and confidence to stand up for themselves and each other; but perhaps just as importantly, I remain committed to raising girls that are not these emotional bullies who are out to cut down everyone in their path.
We got there a little early, so we hung out in the lobby with the rest of the kids that go to the school, who range in age from three to over 18. As soon as we arrived, I noticed that a girl, who was at least 12 years old, was glaring at my daughter. She was staring at her, sizing her up and down, with a nasty scowl on her face. I had never met or even seen this girl before, but I didn't like how she was looking at my daughter. After a few minutes of her rude looks, she stomped over to us, hand on hip, and said in a very nasty voice to my four-year-old, Are you supposed to be Pocahontas? Like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen.
My daughter looked terrified, so I piped in with a slightly defensive, Yessss.
Then she all-knowingly and nastily responded, Well, Pocahontas doesn't wear shoes!! She then pointed down at the cute moccasin boots that came with my daughter's costume.
The happiness and excitement that had been so expressive on my daughter's face ten seconds earlier immediately drained from her entirely. She looked like she was going to burst into tears any second. It took every bit of maturity in me to retain my composure and remind myself that this snotty little girl was just that and I was the adult here, but the truth is I wanted to rip her hair out. I mean, c'mon. My daughter is only four, and here this 12-year-old insisted on knocking her down, breaking her heart, just because she could.
In that instant, I suddenly became terrified of the years to come. This girl's behavior gave me just a small, small glimpse of what my girls, and therefore I, am in for over the next 14 years and beyond. Girls can be so cruel and mean, and their words to their peers have such incredible power over each others' emotional well-being. Often moreso than their own family unfortunately. I can barely stand to think about the heartache and drama that my girls will undoubtedly have to face at some point.
What's equally terrifying to me, however, is how I'll handle these difficult situations when my girls have been hurt by a peer. If I'll be able to keep my Italian, tempered mouth shut. I know that being protective of your child is entirely natural and necessary, I just worry I err on the side of being overprotective sometimes. I think this stems from my childhood (doesn't everything?), particularly the relationship that I had with my little brother when I was a child, and to some extent still today. Our father is 100% Italian, but my brother inherited more of the Italian skin and coloring than I did. In the summer, his skin gets incredibly dark. This became a source for teasing by other kids, and he was often called the "N" word by the nastier group. I cannot tell you how many full-fledged fights I got into with other kids over my brother as a result. He was and is so easy-going and mild-tempered. Someone would call him that name or similar ones, and he'd let it roll off his back. I am not so easy, especially when it came to my little brother. If I heard anyone pick on him in any way, it tore through me like a raging fire. I would drag kids off their bikes if they dared to shout out a slur of any kind to my brother. Boys, girls, older, younger, it didn't matter. I eventually outgrew the physical scuffles, but a negative word about me and mine never went unchallenged verbally by yours truly. No way.
So when I saw this girl, who at 12-years-old should know better, being carelessly cruel to my little girl, I felt that protective surge all over again. Except this time, as the adult and mother, I of course held back. But it's so not in me to hold back. The fighter, the protector, the Mother Bear in me instinctively wanted to go on the verbal attack with this girl for threatening one of the cubs. It's how I felt, but of course I know better.
The best I can do as a mother is step in appropriately when it's called for and give my girls the skills and confidence to stand up for themselves and each other; but perhaps just as importantly, I remain committed to raising girls that are not these emotional bullies who are out to cut down everyone in their path.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Cute or Disturbing?
I normally do not post pictures of either of my children, but because she is in costume, full makeup, and a wig, and thus unrecognizable, and because I want to demonstrate that the disturbing characteristics of a clown can permeate even into the sweetest of beings, behold my daughter, dressed as Jo Jo the Clown:
Cute? Or Disturbing?
Now as the temporary clown's mother, I have to (and will say honestly) that I thought she was adorable (and this is the first time I have ever been able to honestly say anything remotely positive about a clown). During Halloween, I was completely ok with my own daughter embodying the character that absolutely terrified me as a child. But this morning when I downloaded the pictures, I felt very unsettled in looking at the photos. Instead of being a big step in my coulrophobia recovery, I think allowing my precious two-year-old daughter to dress as a clown caused a major setback. No Ringling Bros tickets this year.
The past two years we had been spoiled with unseasonably warm weather on Halloween. We were able to enjoy our annual Halloween-ie Roast outside, while the kids ran amuck. This year, it drizzled all day long, which forced us to bring our normally outdoor party indoors. My husband, the trooper that he is, had to dodge raindrops as he grilled and we partied. Gotta love him.
It ended up working out for the best because it inspired me to transform our basement into a haunted house of sorts for the kids. I hung flashing scary eyeballs and pumpkins on the walls. I cut up Halloween tablecloths into long, large strips and hung them from the ceiling for the kids to pass through. We have a large playhouse in the basement and I covered that with Halloween decor as a haunted house within a haunted house. And of course we played the requisite scary music. All in all, easily 20 children and their parents came by and a fun time was had by all.
Every year, my good friends hand out candy while my husband and I take the girls trick-or-treating, which for us normally only lasts a half-hour or so. My toddler was done with trick-or-treating within a block, so I had to carry her the next couple of blocks. All 32 pounds of her. Those high-heeled, knee-high boots turned out not to be the greatest idea. My four-year-old, on the other hand, sprinted from house to house to get her loot. At one point she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, let out a blood-curdling scream, and ran for Daddy's arms. I thought that maybe she had seen a scary Halloween costume. Perhaps the Grim Reaper? Dracula? A clown? Britney Spears (the Federline years)? Nope. It was merely a dog. A dog dressed up as a princess. I would think the princess garb might have won her over to the canine-loving side, but no such luck.
We spent the next hour or so handing out Halloween candy, and this was my husband's favorite part of the night because he got to perform as Shrek for his girls. And boy does he love to perform.
As each group approached our house, he would exclaim, What are you doing in my swamp??!
If a group of Disney characters or the like were in the mix, he'd state, Attention all Fairy Tale Creatures...
For a good bit, he was eating a meaty bowl of chili while he passed out candy. He often pretended to pour some of the "stew" into the kids' trick-or-treat bags.
He saved his Shrek belches for only those neighbors closest to his heart.
I did recognize that several groups came by our house more than once. Was it because we give out mac-daddy treats? Or was it because of the fascinating entertainment?
After all was said and done, we went through four Sam's Club sized bags of candy. Four. I would bet no less than 200 kids came to our house, the great majority of which were under the age of eight. We live in a new development, and probably 100 homes went up just since last Halloween. It is frightening to think that if the majority of these families remain in our neighborhood over the next five to ten years, all of those kids will be teenagers in our neighborhood at the same time. That is my idea of hell, especially since two in that mix will be ours to worry about. That is one concept that scares me even more than clowns. Because, of course, I was never, ever an unruly, obnoxious teenager. Never ever.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Party Girls
Yesterday, my husband, our girls, and I attended three (count ‘em, one-two-three) back-to-back kiddie birthday parties, all a good 30-minutes apart from one another. The latter two were costume parties. Because I knew that three birthday parties, which would certainly include three birthday cakes, three ice cream servings, three sets of rowdy birthday games, would absolutely destroy my girls’ true Halloween costumes, I had them dress up in cheerleader outfits I already had on-hand, which fit very well into the theme of the first party we were to attend.
Party One was at a large gymnastics center, 30-minutes north of us. The girls had a blast. The center assigns the party group an instructor and runs them through all kinds of activities, while the parents kick back and relax. My kind of party. I wasn’t sure my two-year-old would be able to participate, but let me tell you (unbiasedly of course) that my she kicked some serious gymnastics butt. She did everything that the bigger kids did and more. This was the first party where my husband and I were able to set them completely free on their own without having to hover over them. And it felt good. Prior to this, they were either too young or just too clingy and wouldn’t let go. This time, though, they went off on their own, so my husband and I were able to sit back and watch them enjoy the party. I tell you, I know they’re only two and four, but we felt like we had crossed through some kind of parental threshold.
The second party was at my cousin’s house in Kentucky, very south of us. We arrived an hour late and had still another party to attend following this, so it had to be cut short, which was a bummer because my cousins always have the best food at their parties. We stuffed our faces while our girls enjoyed a good 30-minute-haunted hayride around their neighborhood while munching on caramel apples and singing scary songs. And again, they did it without us! Milestones!
Then we were off to Party Three, 30-minutes east. This party was being hosted by my good friend, who was also celebrating her own (ah-hem) 35th birthday that day, although the party was for her 4-year-old. Happy Birthday, T! At this party, there were pony-rides and a real petting zoo provided by Mr. Cowpie's Party Animals. As expected, my toddler fell asleep on the way there, so she was a bit cranky when we woke her up when we arrived. My four-year-old was not digging Mr. Cowpie’s furry friends, however. She is not a big animal fan. For whatever reason, she is deathly afraid of dogs and that has carried over to all animals. As soon as she spotted them, she leapt into her dad’s arms and stayed there. My toddler was at least interested in checking all of the animals out, although she wouldn’t touch any. I think this was mostly because she was feeding off of her big sister’s fear. As expected, my four-year-old refused to ride the pony, but my toddler did. However, I feared she wasn’t big or strong enough to hold onto the saddle by herself, so I walked along side of the pony as she rode. Not a smart move, apparently, because I got my leg entangled in a thorn bush as we walked through the side yard. The sacrifices a mother will make! The party eventually moved indoors, where my four-year-old spotted a Radio Flyer spring horse. This was her kind of horse! No teeth, no weird sounds, no "animal" smells. She hopped on proudly and proclaimed, I’m a cowgirl!! Um, yeah honey. You're sooo rural.
After a short trip to a nearby cousin's house, and ultimately about 30,000 grams of sugar later, we were finally heading home. Both girls started to nod off to sleep before I even had time to buckle them in. As soon as I was sure they were out, I snatched the candy that my party girls had collected throughout the day from favor bags and piñatas and stuffed them into my work bag. I now house an impressive collection of Smarties, Candy Corn, Sweet Tarts, and various chocolates in the candy jar on my desk. That collection will be tremendously expanded after I take the bulk of their Halloween stash tomorrow night. Hey, I’m just looking out for their dental welfare.
Party One was at a large gymnastics center, 30-minutes north of us. The girls had a blast. The center assigns the party group an instructor and runs them through all kinds of activities, while the parents kick back and relax. My kind of party. I wasn’t sure my two-year-old would be able to participate, but let me tell you (unbiasedly of course) that my she kicked some serious gymnastics butt. She did everything that the bigger kids did and more. This was the first party where my husband and I were able to set them completely free on their own without having to hover over them. And it felt good. Prior to this, they were either too young or just too clingy and wouldn’t let go. This time, though, they went off on their own, so my husband and I were able to sit back and watch them enjoy the party. I tell you, I know they’re only two and four, but we felt like we had crossed through some kind of parental threshold.
The second party was at my cousin’s house in Kentucky, very south of us. We arrived an hour late and had still another party to attend following this, so it had to be cut short, which was a bummer because my cousins always have the best food at their parties. We stuffed our faces while our girls enjoyed a good 30-minute-haunted hayride around their neighborhood while munching on caramel apples and singing scary songs. And again, they did it without us! Milestones!
Then we were off to Party Three, 30-minutes east. This party was being hosted by my good friend, who was also celebrating her own (ah-hem) 35th birthday that day, although the party was for her 4-year-old. Happy Birthday, T! At this party, there were pony-rides and a real petting zoo provided by Mr. Cowpie's Party Animals. As expected, my toddler fell asleep on the way there, so she was a bit cranky when we woke her up when we arrived. My four-year-old was not digging Mr. Cowpie’s furry friends, however. She is not a big animal fan. For whatever reason, she is deathly afraid of dogs and that has carried over to all animals. As soon as she spotted them, she leapt into her dad’s arms and stayed there. My toddler was at least interested in checking all of the animals out, although she wouldn’t touch any. I think this was mostly because she was feeding off of her big sister’s fear. As expected, my four-year-old refused to ride the pony, but my toddler did. However, I feared she wasn’t big or strong enough to hold onto the saddle by herself, so I walked along side of the pony as she rode. Not a smart move, apparently, because I got my leg entangled in a thorn bush as we walked through the side yard. The sacrifices a mother will make! The party eventually moved indoors, where my four-year-old spotted a Radio Flyer spring horse. This was her kind of horse! No teeth, no weird sounds, no "animal" smells. She hopped on proudly and proclaimed, I’m a cowgirl!! Um, yeah honey. You're sooo rural.
After a short trip to a nearby cousin's house, and ultimately about 30,000 grams of sugar later, we were finally heading home. Both girls started to nod off to sleep before I even had time to buckle them in. As soon as I was sure they were out, I snatched the candy that my party girls had collected throughout the day from favor bags and piñatas and stuffed them into my work bag. I now house an impressive collection of Smarties, Candy Corn, Sweet Tarts, and various chocolates in the candy jar on my desk. That collection will be tremendously expanded after I take the bulk of their Halloween stash tomorrow night. Hey, I’m just looking out for their dental welfare.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Hiding Under the Covers
I have not always been a big fan of Halloween. The tombstones, the haunted houses, the scary movies, the gore and ghouls – it all sent me hiding under the covers when I was a kid (ok, sometimes it still does). Even the supposed “friendlier” costumes frightened me when I was little. Anything in disguise, but particularly clowns, sent me running. I suffered from what I have since learned is coulrophobia (irrational fear of clowns), and I still do not like those white-faced buffoons. In fact, I’m wearing this shirt right now.
Since I’ve had my children, however, Halloween has actually become one of my favorite holidays. I’ve learned to ignore the scarier parts and enjoy the fun of the friendlier side of the holiday: the costumery and the opportunity to be absolutely anyone you want, no matter how outrageous. Speaking of, have you seen the costumes marketed towards women and even teenage girls these days? I’m no prude, but I swear Halloween has become an excuse for girls to dress trashy. Ok, maybe I’m just jealous that I could no longer get away with wearing those costumes.
Anyway, every year my husband and I host what has come to be known as the Annual Halloween-ie Roast in our neighborhood. We grill out a few hours before the trick-or-treating begins and throughout the night, and afterwards we roast s’mores. We invite all of our neighbors, friends, and family, and everyone is encouraged to arrive in costume, adults included. It’s an absolute blast and our girls love seeing everyone all dressed up. Because, let’s face it, once the trick-or-treating begins, all they notice is the candy.
This year, at our daughters’ suggestion, my husband and I are partnering-up us Shrek and Fiona. My husband could not be happier about that selection, I think because it gives him an excuse to be gross. He has been practicing since September. Every night at the dinner table he will belch and say in his best Shrek voice, Better out than in I always say, eh Fiona?
My four-year-old originally wanted to be Jasmine this year, but she changed her mind when she remembered that Jasmine wears pants, albeit very flowy, pretty pants! No sir! She wanted a dress. She tried on the Pocahontas costume at the Disney Store and insisted that was the one. I protested mildly because I had noticed a pattern: in 2004 I was Snow White, in 2005 she was Snow White; in 2005 I was Pocahontas, now in 2006 she wanted to be Pocahontas. I was worried she was just copying Mama. Sure, imitation is the biggest compliment, but I wanted her to separate her choices from mine. Anyway, I should not have been so quick to believe she was just following in my footsteps because days later, I discovered the true reasoning behind her decision. I overheard her telling a playmate that she was going to be Pocahontas for Halloween. She proudly explained, You should feel the material of my dress. It is sooo soft. “Material”??? What four-year-old do you know says “material”??
My toddler’s costume choice was the most troubling however. She has decided to be JoJo from JoJo's Circus. That’s right. A clown. She clearly did not inherit my coulrophobia, for which I am glad, but c’mon. Does she want to torture me? As a loving mother, I of course pushed my my personal preferences aside and agreed. But what will I do if my very own daughter in her clown garb sends me back to hiding under the covers?
Since I’ve had my children, however, Halloween has actually become one of my favorite holidays. I’ve learned to ignore the scarier parts and enjoy the fun of the friendlier side of the holiday: the costumery and the opportunity to be absolutely anyone you want, no matter how outrageous. Speaking of, have you seen the costumes marketed towards women and even teenage girls these days? I’m no prude, but I swear Halloween has become an excuse for girls to dress trashy. Ok, maybe I’m just jealous that I could no longer get away with wearing those costumes.
Anyway, every year my husband and I host what has come to be known as the Annual Halloween-ie Roast in our neighborhood. We grill out a few hours before the trick-or-treating begins and throughout the night, and afterwards we roast s’mores. We invite all of our neighbors, friends, and family, and everyone is encouraged to arrive in costume, adults included. It’s an absolute blast and our girls love seeing everyone all dressed up. Because, let’s face it, once the trick-or-treating begins, all they notice is the candy.
This year, at our daughters’ suggestion, my husband and I are partnering-up us Shrek and Fiona. My husband could not be happier about that selection, I think because it gives him an excuse to be gross. He has been practicing since September. Every night at the dinner table he will belch and say in his best Shrek voice, Better out than in I always say, eh Fiona?
My four-year-old originally wanted to be Jasmine this year, but she changed her mind when she remembered that Jasmine wears pants, albeit very flowy, pretty pants! No sir! She wanted a dress. She tried on the Pocahontas costume at the Disney Store and insisted that was the one. I protested mildly because I had noticed a pattern: in 2004 I was Snow White, in 2005 she was Snow White; in 2005 I was Pocahontas, now in 2006 she wanted to be Pocahontas. I was worried she was just copying Mama. Sure, imitation is the biggest compliment, but I wanted her to separate her choices from mine. Anyway, I should not have been so quick to believe she was just following in my footsteps because days later, I discovered the true reasoning behind her decision. I overheard her telling a playmate that she was going to be Pocahontas for Halloween. She proudly explained, You should feel the material of my dress. It is sooo soft. “Material”??? What four-year-old do you know says “material”??
My toddler’s costume choice was the most troubling however. She has decided to be JoJo from JoJo's Circus. That’s right. A clown. She clearly did not inherit my coulrophobia, for which I am glad, but c’mon. Does she want to torture me? As a loving mother, I of course pushed my my personal preferences aside and agreed. But what will I do if my very own daughter in her clown garb sends me back to hiding under the covers?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Sleepless in Cincinnati
Both of my daughters have been sick all week with a slight fever and a terrible cough. Their tolerance of the illnesses have confirmed what I’ve already known about my daughters: that they could not be more different.
They both began to get sick on Saturday night with just a minor cough. By Sunday night, they had a fever and sounded like little Kathleen Turners. I knew all of us were in for a long, sleepless week.
Their coughs have been particularly rough at night. On Monday night, I put them in bed with me and tried to keep them elevated, but they hacked away for hours. In the middle of the night, my four-year-old began having a particularly terrible coughing spell, which ultimately caused her to gag and throw up. She was wearing a two-piece pajama set (pants and top), and the top got covered in nastiness when she got sick. She started crying hysterically. My husband came in and started to take her pajama top off and told her that he would get her a new shirt. What were the very first words out of my daughter’s mouth? Make sure it matches! You would think she would be so out of it, being sick, awakened at 2am, covered in vomit, that her mind would be concerned with other things. But not my daughter. Coordinated clothing was still important.
After getting the bedding exchanged and my daughter cleaned up and in agreeable nighttime attire, both girls fell back to sleep in bed with me. I couldn’t get to sleep, so I started watching TV. Then suddenly I felt warmth. A wet warmth. Yep -my toddler peed the bed and now I was laying in it. She has been potty-trained for a good three months now, two of which she has been accident-free at night as well. She hasn’t worn a pull-up at night for a good month. I’m guessing she was so exhausted from being sick that the urge didn’t wake her. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep that night, and my washing machine was working on overtime.
Coincidentally, my close friend who was pregnant called me in the middle of that very night to tell me that her water had just broken! Hmm, maybe my toddler has some psychokinetic connection with her baby since they both ruptured at nearly the same time!
I worked from home for a day and a half to be with my girls while they were sick and spare my parents from all of the unwanted erupting fluids. On my way to drop them off at my parents’ house yesterday, however, my two-year-old started into a coughing fit and up came the grape juice all over my car. Do you know how long it takes to get the smell of toddler puke out of a car?? It still smells like the Grape Ape exploded in my van. I guess it’s better than milk. The funny thing is my toddler barely seemed to notice. Not a cry, not a peep. She didn’t complain once that she had to sit in it for a 20-minute drive. In fact, I caught her licking her fingers. Gross, I know.
That’s my girls. One, a high-maintenance girly-girl. The other, the tough as nails boy I will never have. And in my eyes they couldn’t be more perfect.
They both began to get sick on Saturday night with just a minor cough. By Sunday night, they had a fever and sounded like little Kathleen Turners. I knew all of us were in for a long, sleepless week.
Their coughs have been particularly rough at night. On Monday night, I put them in bed with me and tried to keep them elevated, but they hacked away for hours. In the middle of the night, my four-year-old began having a particularly terrible coughing spell, which ultimately caused her to gag and throw up. She was wearing a two-piece pajama set (pants and top), and the top got covered in nastiness when she got sick. She started crying hysterically. My husband came in and started to take her pajama top off and told her that he would get her a new shirt. What were the very first words out of my daughter’s mouth? Make sure it matches! You would think she would be so out of it, being sick, awakened at 2am, covered in vomit, that her mind would be concerned with other things. But not my daughter. Coordinated clothing was still important.
After getting the bedding exchanged and my daughter cleaned up and in agreeable nighttime attire, both girls fell back to sleep in bed with me. I couldn’t get to sleep, so I started watching TV. Then suddenly I felt warmth. A wet warmth. Yep -my toddler peed the bed and now I was laying in it. She has been potty-trained for a good three months now, two of which she has been accident-free at night as well. She hasn’t worn a pull-up at night for a good month. I’m guessing she was so exhausted from being sick that the urge didn’t wake her. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep that night, and my washing machine was working on overtime.
Coincidentally, my close friend who was pregnant called me in the middle of that very night to tell me that her water had just broken! Hmm, maybe my toddler has some psychokinetic connection with her baby since they both ruptured at nearly the same time!
I worked from home for a day and a half to be with my girls while they were sick and spare my parents from all of the unwanted erupting fluids. On my way to drop them off at my parents’ house yesterday, however, my two-year-old started into a coughing fit and up came the grape juice all over my car. Do you know how long it takes to get the smell of toddler puke out of a car?? It still smells like the Grape Ape exploded in my van. I guess it’s better than milk. The funny thing is my toddler barely seemed to notice. Not a cry, not a peep. She didn’t complain once that she had to sit in it for a 20-minute drive. In fact, I caught her licking her fingers. Gross, I know.
That’s my girls. One, a high-maintenance girly-girl. The other, the tough as nails boy I will never have. And in my eyes they couldn’t be more perfect.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Who Dey?! Me, Dat's Who!
I have to confess, I wish the Bengals had another bye today. Ever since NFL season began, I have basically become a single parent on Sunday afternoons. My husband will disagree with this, but I have tried to learn to like football. I really have. I just don’t. In fact, I kinda hate it. And that should be ok. I don’t have to like everything my husband does. But he takes it as a personal assault that the woman he loves hates something he adores; I just can’t help it.
In years past, meaning years when the Bengals sucked, missing the game had not been a major issue. Sure, he’d prefer to watch it and would watch it every chance he got, but it wasn’t the end of the world if he missed a game. But now that the Bengals are doing so well, Sundays between 12:30-5pm has become dedicated Bengals time. End of story.
The first couple of weekends of football season, the girls and I tried to be supportive and hang out during the game, eat some dip, pretend we were interested in the game. Hey, I even wore an orange shirt. But c’mon, I just don’t get the draw, and my girls are two and four. My four-year-old is a girly-girl and is probably a lost cause in trying to convert her to the game. He might have a shot in creating a football buddy in our younger one, but not yet. For now, it’s clear we are uninterested, thus invisible to my husband when the Orange and Black appear on the television screen unless, God forbid, we dare to step in front of the TV during a critical play!
A few weekends ago, friends of ours came over during the game. The wife loves football. The husband, like myself, does not. After enduring a painful two hours of the game, the husband (my friend, that is) and I decided to cut our losses and take my girls to the park. It was a beautiful day outside, so it just seemed like a waste for the non-fans to stay inside. His wife stayed and watched the rest of the game with my husband. When my neighbor saw our male friend and I loading my children into the car while our counterparts stayed inside, she joked, “That’s how rumors get started!” But it’s so not like that obviously.
Don’t get my wrong, my husband is a very involved, dedicated family-man, but these Sundays are starting to bother me. The following Sunday, another gorgeous day, I decided to take the girls to the zoo by myself (first time ever – and a brave move on my part!) while my husband watched the game. When I left for the zoo, I told him, in a rather beatchy way, “Don’t get used to this because it can’t happen every week.” This was the first time I raised a fuss about the game, but I felt I had to. Our time together, with the kids, is very limited. We both work, so we don’t get home with the kids until nearly 7pm every night. After dinner and baths, it’s basically time to go to bed and start all over again. The weekends are our only good bulk of quality time together, and I hate there is this division for the better part of one of these precious “quality time” days. I mean, I doubt he’d be happy if I were to tell him that every Saturday from 12:30-5pm I was going to watch a Project Runway Marathon and not to bother me.
I know, I should be more understanding. My husband makes so many sacrifices for me and the kids, and on any other day or time, he’s there with us - with bells on - dancing. I should not complain about the time he spends on this one outside passion. Most husbands are doing this very same, arguably harmless thing every Sunday afternoon. It’s just that it’s every Sunday. For over four hours. I miss him. A lot. I never thought I’d be jealous of a bunch of oversized men in tights, but I am. Jerks.
My friends say I should look forward to a few years from now, when while he’s watching football every Sunday, I can go shopping all day with the girls. Just hand me the wallet and enjoy the game, honey. Yeah, I bet it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be missing games to be with us, check card securely in hand.
In years past, meaning years when the Bengals sucked, missing the game had not been a major issue. Sure, he’d prefer to watch it and would watch it every chance he got, but it wasn’t the end of the world if he missed a game. But now that the Bengals are doing so well, Sundays between 12:30-5pm has become dedicated Bengals time. End of story.
The first couple of weekends of football season, the girls and I tried to be supportive and hang out during the game, eat some dip, pretend we were interested in the game. Hey, I even wore an orange shirt. But c’mon, I just don’t get the draw, and my girls are two and four. My four-year-old is a girly-girl and is probably a lost cause in trying to convert her to the game. He might have a shot in creating a football buddy in our younger one, but not yet. For now, it’s clear we are uninterested, thus invisible to my husband when the Orange and Black appear on the television screen unless, God forbid, we dare to step in front of the TV during a critical play!
A few weekends ago, friends of ours came over during the game. The wife loves football. The husband, like myself, does not. After enduring a painful two hours of the game, the husband (my friend, that is) and I decided to cut our losses and take my girls to the park. It was a beautiful day outside, so it just seemed like a waste for the non-fans to stay inside. His wife stayed and watched the rest of the game with my husband. When my neighbor saw our male friend and I loading my children into the car while our counterparts stayed inside, she joked, “That’s how rumors get started!” But it’s so not like that obviously.
Don’t get my wrong, my husband is a very involved, dedicated family-man, but these Sundays are starting to bother me. The following Sunday, another gorgeous day, I decided to take the girls to the zoo by myself (first time ever – and a brave move on my part!) while my husband watched the game. When I left for the zoo, I told him, in a rather beatchy way, “Don’t get used to this because it can’t happen every week.” This was the first time I raised a fuss about the game, but I felt I had to. Our time together, with the kids, is very limited. We both work, so we don’t get home with the kids until nearly 7pm every night. After dinner and baths, it’s basically time to go to bed and start all over again. The weekends are our only good bulk of quality time together, and I hate there is this division for the better part of one of these precious “quality time” days. I mean, I doubt he’d be happy if I were to tell him that every Saturday from 12:30-5pm I was going to watch a Project Runway Marathon and not to bother me.
I know, I should be more understanding. My husband makes so many sacrifices for me and the kids, and on any other day or time, he’s there with us - with bells on - dancing. I should not complain about the time he spends on this one outside passion. Most husbands are doing this very same, arguably harmless thing every Sunday afternoon. It’s just that it’s every Sunday. For over four hours. I miss him. A lot. I never thought I’d be jealous of a bunch of oversized men in tights, but I am. Jerks.
My friends say I should look forward to a few years from now, when while he’s watching football every Sunday, I can go shopping all day with the girls. Just hand me the wallet and enjoy the game, honey. Yeah, I bet it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be missing games to be with us, check card securely in hand.
Friday, October 06, 2006
My Aching Uterus
Close friends of ours are expecting their first child any day now. Since my husband and I are 99% sure we are done having babies, we gave them all our nursery furniture - the crib, the changing table/dresser, the glider and ottoman, the bassinet, etc. They invited us over last week to see their finished nursery. When we walked in, I literally almost lost my breath. I hadn't seen all of our nursery stuff together in quite some time, and it gave me goosebumps. I was immediately overwhelmed with vivid images of both of my girls in their earliest days, on that very changing table, in that crib. It made me so sad. And I was so not expecting that reaction.
But that's all it took and my99% certainty against having any more babies was tossed on its head and lingered somewhere around 66%. I looked at my husband and said, "Well, maybe one more..." But we both knew it wasn't that simple.
I was lucky enough to work from home for the first three years of my oldest daughter's life. Not nearly long enough, but I'm still incredible grateful. Many mothers have to go right back to work after having a baby. But I was able to continue my career and be home. Don't get me wrong, it had its challenges, but I wouldn't trade that time for anything.
My youngest, however, was only 10 months old when my department was eliminated and I had to seek on-site employment. In a flash I was back in dress shoes and dropping my daughters off with my parents every morning. It's been that way now for going on two years, and it's been tough. While I'm incredibly grateful for my parents' help, a big part of me deeply envies my parents for being able to be with my children all day long. I envy the every-dayness, the routine of dropping my daughter off at preschool, picking her up, my two-year-old's snuggly afternoon nap.
And of course I miss the big things too. When my youngest was just over one year old, I had to go on a business trip to Tampa for four days. While I was away, she learned to walk. No one told me - it was going to be a surprise. When my husband picked me up from the airport, he brought the girls, and as I came off the escalator into baggage claim, I saw them and my one-year-old walked right to me. Sure, it was a sweet gesture, but I felt like I had been punched in the gut. Like, "Look, Mommy, what you missed." It absolutely killed me.
And there have been plenty of gut-punches since. Every morning when I see them off, I feel that jab. And so goes the struggle of working parents. So while the sight of rattles and mobiles and blankies does from time to time make my uterus ache, deep down I know I will always feel a bit of that. I think every mother does. If not for wondering what (or who) else could have been, but also in missing what once was.
But that's all it took and my99% certainty against having any more babies was tossed on its head and lingered somewhere around 66%. I looked at my husband and said, "Well, maybe one more..." But we both knew it wasn't that simple.
I was lucky enough to work from home for the first three years of my oldest daughter's life. Not nearly long enough, but I'm still incredible grateful. Many mothers have to go right back to work after having a baby. But I was able to continue my career and be home. Don't get me wrong, it had its challenges, but I wouldn't trade that time for anything.
My youngest, however, was only 10 months old when my department was eliminated and I had to seek on-site employment. In a flash I was back in dress shoes and dropping my daughters off with my parents every morning. It's been that way now for going on two years, and it's been tough. While I'm incredibly grateful for my parents' help, a big part of me deeply envies my parents for being able to be with my children all day long. I envy the every-dayness, the routine of dropping my daughter off at preschool, picking her up, my two-year-old's snuggly afternoon nap.
And of course I miss the big things too. When my youngest was just over one year old, I had to go on a business trip to Tampa for four days. While I was away, she learned to walk. No one told me - it was going to be a surprise. When my husband picked me up from the airport, he brought the girls, and as I came off the escalator into baggage claim, I saw them and my one-year-old walked right to me. Sure, it was a sweet gesture, but I felt like I had been punched in the gut. Like, "Look, Mommy, what you missed." It absolutely killed me.
And there have been plenty of gut-punches since. Every morning when I see them off, I feel that jab. And so goes the struggle of working parents. So while the sight of rattles and mobiles and blankies does from time to time make my uterus ache, deep down I know I will always feel a bit of that. I think every mother does. If not for wondering what (or who) else could have been, but also in missing what once was.
Friday, September 29, 2006
And the Grammy Goes To...
A few nights ago, my husband, our two girls, and I were in a particularly good mood and we began singing together merrily on our drive home from dinner. Struck by our obvious family talent, my 4-year-old suggested we start a band. She excitedly pronounced that she and I could be the singers and dancers, her daddy could be the drummer, and her 2-year-old sister could play the whistle. That's right, the whistle. Didn't you know that the whistle is all the rage in music these days? I hear the scholarships chiming in from Juilliard already.
In anticipation of an upcoming gig, my 4-year-old belted out an original song right there on the spot, as she often does. Typical of her, it was sweet, in tune, and it rhymed on point. It was about butterflies and flowers and love and all things pretty, and it lasted a good two or three minutes. I swear I almost saw hearts floating from her lips as she sang. We were all very impressed.
Throughout her sister's performance, my 2-year-old, fearing she was being upstaged, kept interrupting, saying "My turn!!" She didn't want to be no whistle-er! She wanted to sing, gosh-darnit. So after my 4-year-old's song ended and our applause faded, we turned to our littler one. The car was hushed, silent in anticipation of this song that she was so eager and apparently prepared to perform. She turned to us and belted out a long, drawn-out, rather husky:
BUUUUUUTTT!!!
That's right "Butt." As in buttocks, behind, rear, bum, derriere, arse. And that was it.
That in a nutshell is the difference between my two girls. Each is absolutely just as precious as the other of course. But I do think my toddler needs to stick to the whistle.
In anticipation of an upcoming gig, my 4-year-old belted out an original song right there on the spot, as she often does. Typical of her, it was sweet, in tune, and it rhymed on point. It was about butterflies and flowers and love and all things pretty, and it lasted a good two or three minutes. I swear I almost saw hearts floating from her lips as she sang. We were all very impressed.
Throughout her sister's performance, my 2-year-old, fearing she was being upstaged, kept interrupting, saying "My turn!!" She didn't want to be no whistle-er! She wanted to sing, gosh-darnit. So after my 4-year-old's song ended and our applause faded, we turned to our littler one. The car was hushed, silent in anticipation of this song that she was so eager and apparently prepared to perform. She turned to us and belted out a long, drawn-out, rather husky:
BUUUUUUTTT!!!
That's right "Butt." As in buttocks, behind, rear, bum, derriere, arse. And that was it.
That in a nutshell is the difference between my two girls. Each is absolutely just as precious as the other of course. But I do think my toddler needs to stick to the whistle.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Lucia and Anastasia
Yes, it's been nearly two months since I last posted. What can I say? One day ran into the next and the craziness of life just took hold. I almost decided to just chuck the blog since so much time has passed, but the reasons for beginning it still held true. So I'm back.
What originally caused the stutter in my blogging was a trip to Chicago. I was there during the latest terrorist threat - ya know, the one that required all liquids to be banned from carry-ons? I was to fly out of O'Hare the very next day. Nightmare with a capital N, so my friends and I decided instead to rent a car and drive home. It was a smart move.
The threat sucked any light-heartedness that had begun on that trip. My friend and I, while waiting in the airport for our flight out (which was delayed three hours), and after consuming a cocktail, in our bored state fashioned an alternative background for the two of us. Didn't you ever do this as a kid? Let your imagination run wild, recreate your life/history, and form alternative identities? I used to go to a lake every summer with a childhood friend, and the two of us always pretended we were rich sisters. And our names were always androgynous for whatever reason. I was Alex, Joey sometimes. She was Toni or Randi. It was fun.
Yes, I'm 34 now and should be past such fantasies, maybe, but my friend and I decided in that airport that we would be international women of mystery. I was an Italian romance novelist named Lucia, and she was a Russian princess, Anastasia. We rather enjoyed ourselves, basking in immature pretend, taking on our personas and new accents, exaggerated with a slight buzz. But it was something we joked about just between the two of us, so why not? I'm a responsible wife, parent and professional 24/7, so it felt good to be silly and juvenile for absolutely no reason other than self-entertainment.
The joviality of our creations in the airport stood in stark contrast the very next day when the terrorist threat was unveiled. Lucia and Anastasia seemed ridiculous, and the reality of this world took over again. But in retrospect, I think Lucia and Anastasia are exactly what is needed sometimes as a reminder that life is too short - that it's important to laugh and have fun and to not take ourselves too seriously. Because the world in its current state is a little too scary sometimes.
What originally caused the stutter in my blogging was a trip to Chicago. I was there during the latest terrorist threat - ya know, the one that required all liquids to be banned from carry-ons? I was to fly out of O'Hare the very next day. Nightmare with a capital N, so my friends and I decided instead to rent a car and drive home. It was a smart move.
The threat sucked any light-heartedness that had begun on that trip. My friend and I, while waiting in the airport for our flight out (which was delayed three hours), and after consuming a cocktail, in our bored state fashioned an alternative background for the two of us. Didn't you ever do this as a kid? Let your imagination run wild, recreate your life/history, and form alternative identities? I used to go to a lake every summer with a childhood friend, and the two of us always pretended we were rich sisters. And our names were always androgynous for whatever reason. I was Alex, Joey sometimes. She was Toni or Randi. It was fun.
Yes, I'm 34 now and should be past such fantasies, maybe, but my friend and I decided in that airport that we would be international women of mystery. I was an Italian romance novelist named Lucia, and she was a Russian princess, Anastasia. We rather enjoyed ourselves, basking in immature pretend, taking on our personas and new accents, exaggerated with a slight buzz. But it was something we joked about just between the two of us, so why not? I'm a responsible wife, parent and professional 24/7, so it felt good to be silly and juvenile for absolutely no reason other than self-entertainment.
The joviality of our creations in the airport stood in stark contrast the very next day when the terrorist threat was unveiled. Lucia and Anastasia seemed ridiculous, and the reality of this world took over again. But in retrospect, I think Lucia and Anastasia are exactly what is needed sometimes as a reminder that life is too short - that it's important to laugh and have fun and to not take ourselves too seriously. Because the world in its current state is a little too scary sometimes.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Never Too Late
If you could be anything, I mean anything, irrespective of your true talents and reality, and irrespective of the money involved, what would you do? What is your true passion?
Mine is dance. If I had to it all over again, I would've been a dancer. I never took formal dance as a child, and I had never even gone to shows or performances as a child, really, but I wish I had. My parents just weren't very cultural and really didn't proactively get us involved in anything. I grew up with a bunch of boys, so I did what they did: played in the mud, went dirt-bike riding, built treehouses. Dancing in a frilly tu-tu just wasn't something I even knew could be an option for me. If I had, who knows what could've been.
But growing up, I found other ways to express myself through this outlet. I grew up in the 80s: the breakdancing era. After watching the movie "Breakin'," I ran out and got a Breakin' Board. My brother and our friends used to have break-dancing contests. We'd perform the back spin, the head spin, the "tick", the "centipede," and freestyle. I have pictures of me dancing on that board, with my faux-leather pants, leather tie, and big hair. I couldn't have been happier. Sure, something more refined would've been nice, but I took what I could get.
My oldest daughter also loves dance. She's normally very shy, but if you put music on, that kid will put on one heck of a show for everyone and anyone. At age two, she would sit still for hours to watch dance performances, and then she'd re-enact them. So at age three, I signed her up for tap and ballet at a local studio, and she had her first recital this past spring. I could not have been more proud. When that child dances, she dances with our heart: it's a passion. You can see it from the expressive and dramatic look on her face to the tips of her toes. Of course I am thrilled that we share this interest, but I try to keep it in check. It's easy for parents to confuse what they want with what the child wants. I don't want to live out my missed opportunity through my daughter.
With that in mind, I decided it's never too late to start something you're passionate about, so my husband and I signed up for salsa classes beginning at the end of this month. I can't wait. I'm looking forward to not only dancing, but also getting to spend some quality time with my husband. He is actually a very good dancer, and he is pretty excited about it. That is, until he found out classes are at 5pm on Sundays, which will surely cut into Football season. The sacrifices that man makes for me never ceases to amaze me.
Mine is dance. If I had to it all over again, I would've been a dancer. I never took formal dance as a child, and I had never even gone to shows or performances as a child, really, but I wish I had. My parents just weren't very cultural and really didn't proactively get us involved in anything. I grew up with a bunch of boys, so I did what they did: played in the mud, went dirt-bike riding, built treehouses. Dancing in a frilly tu-tu just wasn't something I even knew could be an option for me. If I had, who knows what could've been.
But growing up, I found other ways to express myself through this outlet. I grew up in the 80s: the breakdancing era. After watching the movie "Breakin'," I ran out and got a Breakin' Board. My brother and our friends used to have break-dancing contests. We'd perform the back spin, the head spin, the "tick", the "centipede," and freestyle. I have pictures of me dancing on that board, with my faux-leather pants, leather tie, and big hair. I couldn't have been happier. Sure, something more refined would've been nice, but I took what I could get.
My oldest daughter also loves dance. She's normally very shy, but if you put music on, that kid will put on one heck of a show for everyone and anyone. At age two, she would sit still for hours to watch dance performances, and then she'd re-enact them. So at age three, I signed her up for tap and ballet at a local studio, and she had her first recital this past spring. I could not have been more proud. When that child dances, she dances with our heart: it's a passion. You can see it from the expressive and dramatic look on her face to the tips of her toes. Of course I am thrilled that we share this interest, but I try to keep it in check. It's easy for parents to confuse what they want with what the child wants. I don't want to live out my missed opportunity through my daughter.
With that in mind, I decided it's never too late to start something you're passionate about, so my husband and I signed up for salsa classes beginning at the end of this month. I can't wait. I'm looking forward to not only dancing, but also getting to spend some quality time with my husband. He is actually a very good dancer, and he is pretty excited about it. That is, until he found out classes are at 5pm on Sundays, which will surely cut into Football season. The sacrifices that man makes for me never ceases to amaze me.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bad Pupil
Yesterday evening I had my annual appointment with my eye doctor. All I wanted was to get my darn contact lenses refilled. But in order to do that, I had to endure a slew of tests that I dread more than a trip to the dentist office. Don't get me wrong, my eye doctor is a nice guy, good at what he does. It's just the nature of the visit that I detest.
Let's take a look, shall we, at the plethora of tests you, too, can enjoy when visiting the eye doctor:
The Eye Chart Test
I know it sounds silly, but I start to break out in a sweat when they tell me it's time to stand behind that piece of tape on the floor. I feel like I'm back in college, getting ready to take a final exam. I feel such pressure to pass this test, even though my eyes are physically incapable of such. Read the smallest line you can, the technician says, but being the overachiever I am, I go for the smallest, and I fail miserably. Each time, I ask if I can give it another try, knowing this defeats the purpose of the exam since they want an accurate read of my current eyesight. Without my contacts, I cannot even see the big E on the eye chart. I know it's supposed to be there, but I just see a faint black smudge. Ever wonder why they always use the big E? We all know it's E, it was an E last year, it was an E 10 years ago, shouldn't they switch it up a little?
The Dang-Near-Shoot-Your-Eye-Out Test
You know it, you hate it, too. The glaucoma test - the one where the technician shoots a puff of air in your eye to test the pressure. There is something very sacrificial about this one. The technician asks you to basically set yourself up in the perfect position to be a target. Her target. Place your chin on the rest, press your head forward, and sit still so I can shoot a blast of air right into your eyeball. You know it's coming, any second now- Whap! I swear, every time it nearly knocks me off my chair. You just can't prepare yourself for that. At least I can't.
The Red-Light, Red-Light, Stop-It-Already Test
We know we don't have eyeballs in the back of our heads, but you should have one on the side, right?! This is the peripheral vision test. Lean forward and press your head against this button. Now look straight ahead. Is the light to your left or right? I know where it is, buddy, and it annoys me like an unrelenting fly. Instead of telling you where it is, why don't you just give me a fly-swatter please?
The Pop-Up-Test
This one, I assume, is to test your depth perception. There are various groupings of circles and you have to identify which circle is raised. It looks just like an electronic version of Whack-a-Mole. I just want to ask, Where's my mallet?! Yeah, it's probably not a good idea to give me weaponry of any kind in the mood that I'm in, lady.
The I-See-a-Color-That-You-Don't-See-and-the-Color-of-It-is-49 Test
The purpose of this test is to out those who are colorblind. If you fail, you get a permission slip to wear mismatched clothes for the rest of your life. That is unless you have a significant other who is not disabled in this way, and in that case you must defer all clothing decisions to them. It's the law. In this test, there are several clusters of colored dots, in the center of which is a number that is made up of different colored dots. Identify that number! I wrote the numbers down afterwards and I'm going to use them to play the lotto.
The My-Pupil-Ate-My-Iris Test
Luckily, this one doesn't have to be done every year. And it's a good thing or I would probably still be wearing my lavender, stop-sign shaped frames from back in 1988 to avoid a revisit. It's the pupil-dilation test. The technician puts in these eyedrops, apparently defects from Michael Jackson's Thriller video, so that your pupils nearly overtake the color/iris of your eye. The drops sting a little, but that is the least of my problems with this. Everything up close becomes a total blur, to the point that I become nauseous. After getting these drops, I tried to check my cell phone for missed calls while in the exam room waiting for the doctor. I felt like I was on some acid trip (well, what I imagine an acid trip must feel like) - the numbers on the phone were doing the Electric Slide. I thought it was a little curious that the technician literally ran out of the exam room after assaulting me with these drops. That little chicken...
The How-Close-Can-I-Possibly-Get-to-Your-Face Test
Now things start to get more technical, and personal, so they bring in the big guns. The optome-natrix, I mean optometrist. The MD. They are MDs, right? This is one of the parts I hate the most. The invasion-of-my-personal-space phase of the visit. I mean, I know every doctor has to touch you physically, and that's fine, but with eye doctors, they are so up in your face, close and personal more than any other. Within seconds of Hello, the lights are turned off, the flashlight stick comes out, and his face literally gets so close to mine that I could count his nostril hairs. I mean, can't you take me out to dinner or something first? And of course it is when we are nostril-to-nostril that the doctor decides to have a conversation with me. Doesn't he know that I cannot respond because I am holding my breath to avoid any unwanted odor?
The Gimme-An-Answer-Now, I-Said-Now Test
For this one, the doctor swings what I swear is my dad's old set of binoculars in front of my face and starts swapping out lenses for me to look through. And then starts the marathon. Deep breath, and here we go! Which one is better? This one....or is it this one? This one or this one? Or how about this one or this one? Now that one or this one? Gimme some time, dude! Pant, pant. I haven't been to the gym much since I had the kids. I swear, at times I thought I heard the Final Jeopardy music playing in the background, egging me on to give a quicker answer. The best part about this test is when he swings that lens machine back out of my way, I know I'm almost done. The final stretch. I start to hear Chariot of Fire and I envision myself running out, slow-mo.
The Wasn't-That-All-Worth-It-Now Test
By this time, the doctor has written out the presciption refilll. I go back to see the technician to get fitted for the lenses. I put them on and then go full circle to where I started - to that piece of tape on the floor to take the E-Chart test again. But this time, yes, this time it's supposed to be a happy, feel-good test - the Look-What-the-Doctor-Did-for-Me Test! This time, I feel even more pressure to pass, so as not to let down the good doctor. Just one day, however, I wanna say, I can't see crap now! What the heck did you do to me today???
I've been wearing contact lenses for 24 years now. Twenty-four years of these visits. I think it might be time to consider Lasik.
Let's take a look, shall we, at the plethora of tests you, too, can enjoy when visiting the eye doctor:
The Eye Chart Test
I know it sounds silly, but I start to break out in a sweat when they tell me it's time to stand behind that piece of tape on the floor. I feel like I'm back in college, getting ready to take a final exam. I feel such pressure to pass this test, even though my eyes are physically incapable of such. Read the smallest line you can, the technician says, but being the overachiever I am, I go for the smallest, and I fail miserably. Each time, I ask if I can give it another try, knowing this defeats the purpose of the exam since they want an accurate read of my current eyesight. Without my contacts, I cannot even see the big E on the eye chart. I know it's supposed to be there, but I just see a faint black smudge. Ever wonder why they always use the big E? We all know it's E, it was an E last year, it was an E 10 years ago, shouldn't they switch it up a little?
The Dang-Near-Shoot-Your-Eye-Out Test
You know it, you hate it, too. The glaucoma test - the one where the technician shoots a puff of air in your eye to test the pressure. There is something very sacrificial about this one. The technician asks you to basically set yourself up in the perfect position to be a target. Her target. Place your chin on the rest, press your head forward, and sit still so I can shoot a blast of air right into your eyeball. You know it's coming, any second now- Whap! I swear, every time it nearly knocks me off my chair. You just can't prepare yourself for that. At least I can't.
The Red-Light, Red-Light, Stop-It-Already Test
We know we don't have eyeballs in the back of our heads, but you should have one on the side, right?! This is the peripheral vision test. Lean forward and press your head against this button. Now look straight ahead. Is the light to your left or right? I know where it is, buddy, and it annoys me like an unrelenting fly. Instead of telling you where it is, why don't you just give me a fly-swatter please?
The Pop-Up-Test
This one, I assume, is to test your depth perception. There are various groupings of circles and you have to identify which circle is raised. It looks just like an electronic version of Whack-a-Mole. I just want to ask, Where's my mallet?! Yeah, it's probably not a good idea to give me weaponry of any kind in the mood that I'm in, lady.
The I-See-a-Color-That-You-Don't-See-and-the-Color-of-It-is-49 Test
The purpose of this test is to out those who are colorblind. If you fail, you get a permission slip to wear mismatched clothes for the rest of your life. That is unless you have a significant other who is not disabled in this way, and in that case you must defer all clothing decisions to them. It's the law. In this test, there are several clusters of colored dots, in the center of which is a number that is made up of different colored dots. Identify that number! I wrote the numbers down afterwards and I'm going to use them to play the lotto.
The My-Pupil-Ate-My-Iris Test
Luckily, this one doesn't have to be done every year. And it's a good thing or I would probably still be wearing my lavender, stop-sign shaped frames from back in 1988 to avoid a revisit. It's the pupil-dilation test. The technician puts in these eyedrops, apparently defects from Michael Jackson's Thriller video, so that your pupils nearly overtake the color/iris of your eye. The drops sting a little, but that is the least of my problems with this. Everything up close becomes a total blur, to the point that I become nauseous. After getting these drops, I tried to check my cell phone for missed calls while in the exam room waiting for the doctor. I felt like I was on some acid trip (well, what I imagine an acid trip must feel like) - the numbers on the phone were doing the Electric Slide. I thought it was a little curious that the technician literally ran out of the exam room after assaulting me with these drops. That little chicken...
The How-Close-Can-I-Possibly-Get-to-Your-Face Test
Now things start to get more technical, and personal, so they bring in the big guns. The optome-natrix, I mean optometrist. The MD. They are MDs, right? This is one of the parts I hate the most. The invasion-of-my-personal-space phase of the visit. I mean, I know every doctor has to touch you physically, and that's fine, but with eye doctors, they are so up in your face, close and personal more than any other. Within seconds of Hello, the lights are turned off, the flashlight stick comes out, and his face literally gets so close to mine that I could count his nostril hairs. I mean, can't you take me out to dinner or something first? And of course it is when we are nostril-to-nostril that the doctor decides to have a conversation with me. Doesn't he know that I cannot respond because I am holding my breath to avoid any unwanted odor?
The Gimme-An-Answer-Now, I-Said-Now Test
For this one, the doctor swings what I swear is my dad's old set of binoculars in front of my face and starts swapping out lenses for me to look through. And then starts the marathon. Deep breath, and here we go! Which one is better? This one....or is it this one? This one or this one? Or how about this one or this one? Now that one or this one? Gimme some time, dude! Pant, pant. I haven't been to the gym much since I had the kids. I swear, at times I thought I heard the Final Jeopardy music playing in the background, egging me on to give a quicker answer. The best part about this test is when he swings that lens machine back out of my way, I know I'm almost done. The final stretch. I start to hear Chariot of Fire and I envision myself running out, slow-mo.
The Wasn't-That-All-Worth-It-Now Test
By this time, the doctor has written out the presciption refilll. I go back to see the technician to get fitted for the lenses. I put them on and then go full circle to where I started - to that piece of tape on the floor to take the E-Chart test again. But this time, yes, this time it's supposed to be a happy, feel-good test - the Look-What-the-Doctor-Did-for-Me Test! This time, I feel even more pressure to pass, so as not to let down the good doctor. Just one day, however, I wanna say, I can't see crap now! What the heck did you do to me today???
I've been wearing contact lenses for 24 years now. Twenty-four years of these visits. I think it might be time to consider Lasik.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Oh No, She Didn't! She Did.
Today we are celebrating one-week of being completely diaper-free in our house for the first time in four and a half years. Woo-hoo. It will be nice to have that $30/month back.
I hate to make comparisons, but my two-year-old is having a much easier time mastering this new skill than her sister did at her age, but I credit her sister's influence for the shorter learning curve.
My two-year-old had been nearly accident-free this entire first week, until last night. My husband suggested we go out to a nice dinner. I was enjoying my first few bites of a nice filet mignon, when my two-year-old looked right at me from across the table and said, I peed.
Not wanting to believe her, I said, You mean you have to pee?
She then screamed, I PEED!!!
My husband, who was sitting next to her in the booth, looked over, saw the puddle that was growing closer to him, and said, Crap. Luckily, it wasn't that, just pee, but pee was bad enough.
Embarrassed, my husband asked the waitress for a towel while I carried my soaking-wet daughter out to the car to try to find something with which to clean her. I knew I didn't have a change of clothes in the car, which goes to show the difference in parenting between child one and child two. With our first, we wouldn't have even dared to go out until she was at least a month or two accident-free. And even then, I would've brought at least four different changes of clothes in the suitcase I called the Diaper Bag. After the first child, you no longer have the time or energy for such preparations.
So our steaks were boxed up and we hung our heads as we did the walk of shame out of the restaurant.
I guess it will be some time until we try that again.
I hate to make comparisons, but my two-year-old is having a much easier time mastering this new skill than her sister did at her age, but I credit her sister's influence for the shorter learning curve.
My two-year-old had been nearly accident-free this entire first week, until last night. My husband suggested we go out to a nice dinner. I was enjoying my first few bites of a nice filet mignon, when my two-year-old looked right at me from across the table and said, I peed.
Not wanting to believe her, I said, You mean you have to pee?
She then screamed, I PEED!!!
My husband, who was sitting next to her in the booth, looked over, saw the puddle that was growing closer to him, and said, Crap. Luckily, it wasn't that, just pee, but pee was bad enough.
Embarrassed, my husband asked the waitress for a towel while I carried my soaking-wet daughter out to the car to try to find something with which to clean her. I knew I didn't have a change of clothes in the car, which goes to show the difference in parenting between child one and child two. With our first, we wouldn't have even dared to go out until she was at least a month or two accident-free. And even then, I would've brought at least four different changes of clothes in the suitcase I called the Diaper Bag. After the first child, you no longer have the time or energy for such preparations.
So our steaks were boxed up and we hung our heads as we did the walk of shame out of the restaurant.
I guess it will be some time until we try that again.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Sun Day
A week or so ago, my daughter saw a commercial on TV for a local, well-known waterpark, which boasts the world's largest re-circulating swimming pool. Since then, she has begged and pleaded to go. My husband was not too keen on the idea, largely because he's not a big fan of the sun.
He's of German-Irish descent, and his skin is typical of such. He's very fair, so he burns extremely easily. One afternoon shortly after we had met, he participated in a local basketball tournament. It was a very cloudy day in March, so he elected to not wear any sunscreen despite the fact that he was wearing a muscle-shirt. He visited my apartment immediately after the tourney, and when I opened my door to let him in, I barely recognized him. He looked like one giant red welt. For the rest of that evening and the next day, he laid atop a stack of pillows so that only his stomach (which had not been exposed to the sun) would touch any surface. He was in that much pain. Within an hour, large blisters appeared all over his arms, shoulders and neck.
My roommate and I, clearly not schooled in basic dermatology (or perhaps even common sense in this instance), decided he needed to exfoliate his skin. So we rubbed his burnt skin down with a rough sponge, popping all of the blisters. I know now that was the worst thing we could've done. Why he didn't run from our apartment screaming and never turn back I will never know.
Since then, he and the sun have not been buddies, which makes he and I very incompatible when it comes to leisure activities and vacationing. I have had a love affair with the sun for as long as I can remember. I'm Italian, andI tan easily. I'm smart enough now to know that even those with dark-complexions should wear sun-screen, but as a teen, I was reckless enough to not only go without it, but even tan with Crisco Oil. Yes, the stuff in the baking aisle in the grocery store. Stupid.
Besides the sun issue, my husband's vacationing and idea of "leisure fun" differs greatly from mine. My idea of a great weekend or vacation is to relax (often by the pool or beach), go swimming or do anything water-related, take in beautiful scenery, and go out at night while the sun is tucked away. My husband, like my two-year-old, cannot sit still. The idea of lounging by the pool (in the baking sun) is torturous and boring to him. He'd rather be out bungee-jumping or golfing, or snow skiing -- that is, if he could convince me that going someplace cold could ever be considered a vacation. To me, being cold is painful. I'd much prefer sweltering heat over frigid temperatures. My husband feels the opposite. On more than one occasion, we have snuck behind each others' back to mess with the thermostat at home. I'm always turning the heat up, he's turning it down; I'm turning the a/c off (I HATE A/C), he's turning it back on.
But being the adoring husband and father that he is, he reluctantly agreed to go to the waterpark this past Sunday. If it were up to me, we would've opened and closed the place, and it would've been an hour too short in my opinion. My husband was done with the idea an hour before we even got there.
What I realized Sunday, however, was that our children have enabled us to find some common ground in this area of incompatibility. When we were out in the blazing sun on Sunday, splashing each other and playing Simon Says in the pool, my husband barely noticed that his forehead (the one place we forgot to apply SPF 500000) had fried to a scarlet hue. And it made me think that maybe with this gang, even a trip on the snowy slopes might not be too bad.
He's of German-Irish descent, and his skin is typical of such. He's very fair, so he burns extremely easily. One afternoon shortly after we had met, he participated in a local basketball tournament. It was a very cloudy day in March, so he elected to not wear any sunscreen despite the fact that he was wearing a muscle-shirt. He visited my apartment immediately after the tourney, and when I opened my door to let him in, I barely recognized him. He looked like one giant red welt. For the rest of that evening and the next day, he laid atop a stack of pillows so that only his stomach (which had not been exposed to the sun) would touch any surface. He was in that much pain. Within an hour, large blisters appeared all over his arms, shoulders and neck.
My roommate and I, clearly not schooled in basic dermatology (or perhaps even common sense in this instance), decided he needed to exfoliate his skin. So we rubbed his burnt skin down with a rough sponge, popping all of the blisters. I know now that was the worst thing we could've done. Why he didn't run from our apartment screaming and never turn back I will never know.
Since then, he and the sun have not been buddies, which makes he and I very incompatible when it comes to leisure activities and vacationing. I have had a love affair with the sun for as long as I can remember. I'm Italian, andI tan easily. I'm smart enough now to know that even those with dark-complexions should wear sun-screen, but as a teen, I was reckless enough to not only go without it, but even tan with Crisco Oil. Yes, the stuff in the baking aisle in the grocery store. Stupid.
Besides the sun issue, my husband's vacationing and idea of "leisure fun" differs greatly from mine. My idea of a great weekend or vacation is to relax (often by the pool or beach), go swimming or do anything water-related, take in beautiful scenery, and go out at night while the sun is tucked away. My husband, like my two-year-old, cannot sit still. The idea of lounging by the pool (in the baking sun) is torturous and boring to him. He'd rather be out bungee-jumping or golfing, or snow skiing -- that is, if he could convince me that going someplace cold could ever be considered a vacation. To me, being cold is painful. I'd much prefer sweltering heat over frigid temperatures. My husband feels the opposite. On more than one occasion, we have snuck behind each others' back to mess with the thermostat at home. I'm always turning the heat up, he's turning it down; I'm turning the a/c off (I HATE A/C), he's turning it back on.
But being the adoring husband and father that he is, he reluctantly agreed to go to the waterpark this past Sunday. If it were up to me, we would've opened and closed the place, and it would've been an hour too short in my opinion. My husband was done with the idea an hour before we even got there.
What I realized Sunday, however, was that our children have enabled us to find some common ground in this area of incompatibility. When we were out in the blazing sun on Sunday, splashing each other and playing Simon Says in the pool, my husband barely noticed that his forehead (the one place we forgot to apply SPF 500000) had fried to a scarlet hue. And it made me think that maybe with this gang, even a trip on the snowy slopes might not be too bad.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Christmas in July
It's only July, but my girls already have Christmas on the brain.
Yesterday, out of the blue, my daughter asked me,
Mommy, who leaves Santa presents in his stocking?
After a short pause, I returned with:
Probably the reindeer.
She responded,
They can't, Mommy, they stay on the rooftop.
So I tried again,
Then the elves probably do it.
To which she retorted,
They're too short to reach the stocking, Mommy!
Grasping for straws, I reasoned,
It must be Mrs. Claus.
She paused and concluded,
He must get a lot of coal in his stocking, Mommy, because it's a wife's job to always remind him that he's been bad, right?
Hmm, I guess I've been doing my "job" a little too well around our house.
I knew I should've just said that the Easter Bunny fills Santa's stocking.
Yesterday, out of the blue, my daughter asked me,
Mommy, who leaves Santa presents in his stocking?
After a short pause, I returned with:
Probably the reindeer.
She responded,
They can't, Mommy, they stay on the rooftop.
So I tried again,
Then the elves probably do it.
To which she retorted,
They're too short to reach the stocking, Mommy!
Grasping for straws, I reasoned,
It must be Mrs. Claus.
She paused and concluded,
He must get a lot of coal in his stocking, Mommy, because it's a wife's job to always remind him that he's been bad, right?
Hmm, I guess I've been doing my "job" a little too well around our house.
I knew I should've just said that the Easter Bunny fills Santa's stocking.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Unexpected Selection
I promise, I'm not going to make this blog about piercings, but today I went shopping for new navel jewelry since I only had the starter from the original piercing. I was stunned at some of the selections I found, which included:
The Little Mermaid
Nemo
Fred Flintstone
Mickey Mouse
Tweety Bird
Bart Simpson
As I stated in my previous post, I'm aware that the demographic for those getting navel piercings is getting younger and younger, but it certainly hasn't gone pre-teen, has it??
I'm going to assume that those buying the cartoon jewelry are adults who are just big fans of the characters, and not kids.
I bought a beautiful, dangling flower piece (which my older daughter helped pick out, so she's coming around), and a fun Coca-Cola bar, the latter for reasons I will save for another post.
The Little Mermaid
Nemo
Fred Flintstone
Mickey Mouse
Tweety Bird
Bart Simpson
As I stated in my previous post, I'm aware that the demographic for those getting navel piercings is getting younger and younger, but it certainly hasn't gone pre-teen, has it??
I'm going to assume that those buying the cartoon jewelry are adults who are just big fans of the characters, and not kids.
I bought a beautiful, dangling flower piece (which my older daughter helped pick out, so she's coming around), and a fun Coca-Cola bar, the latter for reasons I will save for another post.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
A Little Something for Myself
When I was 23, largely on impulse, I got a piercing - a navel piercing. I know today that doesn't sound particularly interesting as it's become pretty mainstream. In fact, navel piercings are nearly standard for most of my daughter's "bathing" Barbies. But 10 years ago, a navel piercing, at least around here, really was kind of cutting edge. At the time I didn't know anyone personally who had one. I loved everything about it: the rush of getting it done, how it looked, the way I would fiddle with it when I was nervous or bored. It was a constant reminder of a core part of my personality that I often tried to suppress: my impulsiveness, spontaneity, intensity.
Six years later, I was married and became pregnant with my first child. On my very first appointment with the OB, the doctor looked at my navel ring and said, "That's gonna have to come out." I played the trusting and obedient patient and immediately took the ring out; whatever was best for my unborn child, that's what I was going to do of course. I look back now and wonder what possible physical, medical reason there could be that would mandate a navel ring to come out. I'm no MD, but surely this tiny flap of navel skin has absolutely nothing to do with my uterus, but I figured he knew better than I did. Besides, I reasoned, if I didn't take it out and let the hole close up immediately, as my stomach grew, so might the piercing hole. I figured if I took it out right away, it would close up just as discreetly as an earring piercing would. Again, I'm no MD.
I had child one, then child two, and I never put the navel ring back in. So it closed up, but because of the ever-changing shape of my belly during pregnancies, my piercing mark became a much more noticeable scar than I had hoped.
Ever since I had my second child and was fairly certain that she would be my last, I've been contemplating getting my navel repierced. Yes, I know that I'm now in my mid-30s, a mother of two in suburbia; I'm no kid, I get it. I realize many in my demographic have outgrown navel piercings, especially since it has become so mainstream that I've seen 14-year-olds with them. But as was the case with the first piercing, my reason behind doing it was not to follow some trend. I liked everything about the piercing, and I'd rather have the piercing than the scar that the first left behind.
So I did it. About a month ago, I was meeting some girlfriends for an innocent evening out, and on a whim I asked my friend if we could make a stop at the tattoo parlor on our way out. I didn't even tell my husband I was getting it repierced. It was a rush getting it done, and I love it. However, my oldest daughter (4) does not. The first time she saw it, she gasped, covered her eyes, and gasped again on a second look. Then came the tears, and she begged and pleaded for me to take it out. You have to remember, any kind of piercing is foreign to her. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had to take my earrings out when she was just two because her new sister has a penchant for pulling on earlobes. The piercings my daughter has seen on her Barbies are not a true representation of what a piercing, even an ear piercing, really looks like either. It startled her to see a steel rod poking through a piece of her mother's skin. At least I thought that was the primary cause for her protests and alarm.
My daughter's tears and pleading turned into a full-fledged fit, so her father tried to intervene and console her. We explained that it didn't hurt Mommy and that it was just like her Barbies' earrings and belly buttons. We kept asking her to explain why she was so upset. Finally, when she could regain her voice in between her cries, she said, "I'm sad because now I don't match Mommy."
It was one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. Everyone has always told her that she looks just like me, and she does. And she prides herself on telling people that "we match." The piercing, in her eyes, distorted our likenesses, I guess, separated us in a way. And she didn't like it.
The mother in me immediately wanted to take it out to appease my daughter if it upset her this much, but the drowning individual in me beckoned me to keep it in. I listened to the latter for once. I realized that the older I get, the more of who I am as an individual is getting lost in the "mother, the "wife," the "professional." Sure, I am all of those things and I cherish them all, but in becoming those, I don't want to lose what makes up"me" at the core; in fact, I think it would be a detriment to my family if I did. I am still vivacious, spirited, and spontaneous (although more cautiously so, if that's possible), and if this navel ring reminds me of that in some small way, if it keeps me in touch with that part of me that age and responsibility doesn't often afford anymore, well then I think it needs to stay put.
I understand my daughter's desire to be a reflection of her mother, and believe me, that is the single biggest compliment I can ever receive in my entire life. And I know that her interest in being like mom will probably disappear all too quickly. But I also want to instill a value of individuality and sense of self in my girls, and I can't instill that in them if I stifle it in myself.
I'm just wondering how my daughter will react when she sees the tattoo I am planning.
Six years later, I was married and became pregnant with my first child. On my very first appointment with the OB, the doctor looked at my navel ring and said, "That's gonna have to come out." I played the trusting and obedient patient and immediately took the ring out; whatever was best for my unborn child, that's what I was going to do of course. I look back now and wonder what possible physical, medical reason there could be that would mandate a navel ring to come out. I'm no MD, but surely this tiny flap of navel skin has absolutely nothing to do with my uterus, but I figured he knew better than I did. Besides, I reasoned, if I didn't take it out and let the hole close up immediately, as my stomach grew, so might the piercing hole. I figured if I took it out right away, it would close up just as discreetly as an earring piercing would. Again, I'm no MD.
I had child one, then child two, and I never put the navel ring back in. So it closed up, but because of the ever-changing shape of my belly during pregnancies, my piercing mark became a much more noticeable scar than I had hoped.
Ever since I had my second child and was fairly certain that she would be my last, I've been contemplating getting my navel repierced. Yes, I know that I'm now in my mid-30s, a mother of two in suburbia; I'm no kid, I get it. I realize many in my demographic have outgrown navel piercings, especially since it has become so mainstream that I've seen 14-year-olds with them. But as was the case with the first piercing, my reason behind doing it was not to follow some trend. I liked everything about the piercing, and I'd rather have the piercing than the scar that the first left behind.
So I did it. About a month ago, I was meeting some girlfriends for an innocent evening out, and on a whim I asked my friend if we could make a stop at the tattoo parlor on our way out. I didn't even tell my husband I was getting it repierced. It was a rush getting it done, and I love it. However, my oldest daughter (4) does not. The first time she saw it, she gasped, covered her eyes, and gasped again on a second look. Then came the tears, and she begged and pleaded for me to take it out. You have to remember, any kind of piercing is foreign to her. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had to take my earrings out when she was just two because her new sister has a penchant for pulling on earlobes. The piercings my daughter has seen on her Barbies are not a true representation of what a piercing, even an ear piercing, really looks like either. It startled her to see a steel rod poking through a piece of her mother's skin. At least I thought that was the primary cause for her protests and alarm.
My daughter's tears and pleading turned into a full-fledged fit, so her father tried to intervene and console her. We explained that it didn't hurt Mommy and that it was just like her Barbies' earrings and belly buttons. We kept asking her to explain why she was so upset. Finally, when she could regain her voice in between her cries, she said, "I'm sad because now I don't match Mommy."
It was one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. Everyone has always told her that she looks just like me, and she does. And she prides herself on telling people that "we match." The piercing, in her eyes, distorted our likenesses, I guess, separated us in a way. And she didn't like it.
The mother in me immediately wanted to take it out to appease my daughter if it upset her this much, but the drowning individual in me beckoned me to keep it in. I listened to the latter for once. I realized that the older I get, the more of who I am as an individual is getting lost in the "mother, the "wife," the "professional." Sure, I am all of those things and I cherish them all, but in becoming those, I don't want to lose what makes up"me" at the core; in fact, I think it would be a detriment to my family if I did. I am still vivacious, spirited, and spontaneous (although more cautiously so, if that's possible), and if this navel ring reminds me of that in some small way, if it keeps me in touch with that part of me that age and responsibility doesn't often afford anymore, well then I think it needs to stay put.
I understand my daughter's desire to be a reflection of her mother, and believe me, that is the single biggest compliment I can ever receive in my entire life. And I know that her interest in being like mom will probably disappear all too quickly. But I also want to instill a value of individuality and sense of self in my girls, and I can't instill that in them if I stifle it in myself.
I'm just wondering how my daughter will react when she sees the tattoo I am planning.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Hazard to Guess Where I've Been?
Last night my family and I returned from vacation, if you want to call it that. It was a family reunion (my mother's side) in Hazard, Kentucky. Yes, Hazard, as in the Dukes of. The activities of the reunion went on for a week, but we arrived on Thursday for the long weekend. That's about as long as I thought I could take it. Don't get me wrong, I was excited to see my relatives who are spread out across the country, and even one in Japan. All of the "How've ya been"s and "The last time I saw you, you were this tall"s and the scenery are all-good, it was just I thought I would go stir-crazy after a few days because of the lack of variety in the locale. No computer, no electronic guide on the TV programming (you have to look it up in a book?), and the cell phone doesn't even work in those mountains. I know, vacation, especially a rural one such as this, should be a nice time to relax and get away from it all, but I really like "it all."
What was most difficult for me to adjust to on the trip was the food; and this struggle of mine is what held me back as a kid from doing all kinds of things I wish I had done. I am rather picky with food (although I've gotten much better), but I also have this strange need to rotate my food selection. If, for example, I have chicken for lunch, I cannot have chicken for dinner; I cannot even have chicken for lunch or even dinner the following day. Well, not really "cannot," but "very strongly prefer not to," to the point of bypassing a meal if need be. This is normally fairly easy to accommodate at home. However, where we were staying, the only option really was eating at the resort, unless you want to venture out a good 40-minute drive, one-way, and after 7pm or 8pm, forget it. There are no street lights along the mountain roads leading to the resort, and no guard rails to stop cars from literally falling off the edge of the cliff if you get off track. But it wasn't just that the food selection at the resort was limited; the food was just awful. I mean, awful. I was expecting comforting, southern, home-style cuisine at this resort nestled in the mountains. And it attempted to be that. But it was just nasty or tasteless, often served cold.
On night two, I talked my husband into making the 40-minute drive to a Pizza Hut I eyed on our trip in to the resort. Being the doting husband that he is, he relented, and nearly two hours later, he returned during a thunderstorm with four surprisingly still hot pizzas from the Hut. I'm not sure I ever appreciated my husband quite as much as when I sunk my teeth into that pie. It was the best dern pizza I have ever had, I'm sure mostly because my taste buds had been dead for nearly 48 hours. I wouldn't get very far on Survivor. I guess I'm spoiled. Ok, I know it.
Besides the food, the trip was good, despite the fact that my two-year-old, who cannot sit still for anything, screamed nearly nonstop during the long drive to and from; despite the fact that my husband and I got into a squabble because he swore I lost the second room key (turns out there never was a second); despite the fact that it rained nearly two days and we were confined to our small room with two children who fought over one Barbie doll (even though they literally brought over 25 that were constantly strewn across the little bit of room that we did have); despite all that, it was a trip of growth and depth for my family. I came away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of who my mother is, where we came from and what we have.
We visited the warm house in the mountains where the one-room farmhouse in which my mother grew up was located, with no electricity, no running water, housing nine children, where they ate what they killed and/or grew. We visited the church from which my mother graduated high school 50 years ago (it was built in the mid 1800s). We visited the locale where my maternal grandmother (my mother's mother) was murdered over 50 years ago (while in the presence of my mother, 19 at the time) and learned more telling details behind the crime.
We learned while on this trip that my 78-year-old uncle is literally the last in this bloodline to carry the name since there are no more males of this namesake, which makes me grateful that I gave this last name, my mother's maiden name, to my youngest daughter as her middle name.
We spent priceless time with my great-aunt who is 92 years old. She was celebrating 20 years of marriage to her second husband, whom she met at a dance studio after her first husband passed away. She is a vivacious and eccentric lady, as is her husband. She and her 90-year-old husband drove up to Hazard themselves, from St. Augustine, FL! Her daughter told us a story of the two of them driving from FL to Denver in a beat-up car last winter to visit them. They stopped at a restaurant, and because the restaurant didn't offer a senior discount, they packed up, and drove in a blizzard to another restaurant (even though they are very well-off). Her husband played the clarinet in the band on the final night of the reunion, while my aunt watched proudly. Every morning they walked, and briskly, five miles. They were constantly hand-in-hand, sharing embraces. A true inspiration in so many ways.
These are the things that by the end of the trip made me realize that I didn't really need that cell phone, my laptop, my TiVO, or even my rotating meal plan. I had brought with me everything I needed and valued and was so very blessed to have: my family. In fact, I had never really left home at all.
What was most difficult for me to adjust to on the trip was the food; and this struggle of mine is what held me back as a kid from doing all kinds of things I wish I had done. I am rather picky with food (although I've gotten much better), but I also have this strange need to rotate my food selection. If, for example, I have chicken for lunch, I cannot have chicken for dinner; I cannot even have chicken for lunch or even dinner the following day. Well, not really "cannot," but "very strongly prefer not to," to the point of bypassing a meal if need be. This is normally fairly easy to accommodate at home. However, where we were staying, the only option really was eating at the resort, unless you want to venture out a good 40-minute drive, one-way, and after 7pm or 8pm, forget it. There are no street lights along the mountain roads leading to the resort, and no guard rails to stop cars from literally falling off the edge of the cliff if you get off track. But it wasn't just that the food selection at the resort was limited; the food was just awful. I mean, awful. I was expecting comforting, southern, home-style cuisine at this resort nestled in the mountains. And it attempted to be that. But it was just nasty or tasteless, often served cold.
On night two, I talked my husband into making the 40-minute drive to a Pizza Hut I eyed on our trip in to the resort. Being the doting husband that he is, he relented, and nearly two hours later, he returned during a thunderstorm with four surprisingly still hot pizzas from the Hut. I'm not sure I ever appreciated my husband quite as much as when I sunk my teeth into that pie. It was the best dern pizza I have ever had, I'm sure mostly because my taste buds had been dead for nearly 48 hours. I wouldn't get very far on Survivor. I guess I'm spoiled. Ok, I know it.
Besides the food, the trip was good, despite the fact that my two-year-old, who cannot sit still for anything, screamed nearly nonstop during the long drive to and from; despite the fact that my husband and I got into a squabble because he swore I lost the second room key (turns out there never was a second); despite the fact that it rained nearly two days and we were confined to our small room with two children who fought over one Barbie doll (even though they literally brought over 25 that were constantly strewn across the little bit of room that we did have); despite all that, it was a trip of growth and depth for my family. I came away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of who my mother is, where we came from and what we have.
We visited the warm house in the mountains where the one-room farmhouse in which my mother grew up was located, with no electricity, no running water, housing nine children, where they ate what they killed and/or grew. We visited the church from which my mother graduated high school 50 years ago (it was built in the mid 1800s). We visited the locale where my maternal grandmother (my mother's mother) was murdered over 50 years ago (while in the presence of my mother, 19 at the time) and learned more telling details behind the crime.
We learned while on this trip that my 78-year-old uncle is literally the last in this bloodline to carry the name since there are no more males of this namesake, which makes me grateful that I gave this last name, my mother's maiden name, to my youngest daughter as her middle name.
We spent priceless time with my great-aunt who is 92 years old. She was celebrating 20 years of marriage to her second husband, whom she met at a dance studio after her first husband passed away. She is a vivacious and eccentric lady, as is her husband. She and her 90-year-old husband drove up to Hazard themselves, from St. Augustine, FL! Her daughter told us a story of the two of them driving from FL to Denver in a beat-up car last winter to visit them. They stopped at a restaurant, and because the restaurant didn't offer a senior discount, they packed up, and drove in a blizzard to another restaurant (even though they are very well-off). Her husband played the clarinet in the band on the final night of the reunion, while my aunt watched proudly. Every morning they walked, and briskly, five miles. They were constantly hand-in-hand, sharing embraces. A true inspiration in so many ways.
These are the things that by the end of the trip made me realize that I didn't really need that cell phone, my laptop, my TiVO, or even my rotating meal plan. I had brought with me everything I needed and valued and was so very blessed to have: my family. In fact, I had never really left home at all.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Bad Buggy
Last night my husband hosted a Texas Hold-em card night, so I was left to the wrangle the kids, with the help of my friend. Early evening, we decided to take the girls outside on the patio swing and read some books. As we stepped down the deck steps, a swarm of wasps flew out from underneath and stung my younger daughter, G, in the leg. She of course yelped immediately, and the tears and the screams started flowing.
We brought her inside and put some ice, kisses, and eventually a Strawberry Shortcake bandaid on it to make it all better. G is a tough little kid, so the cries really didn't last long, considering. She just intermittently would look down at her boo-boo, put on her pouty, bulldog face and say, "Pep-pa kill that buggy!" Pep-pa is my girls' name for their grandpa/my dad, whose name is Pep.
Yes, that's right, Pep. Of course that's not his real name, but he's been called Pep nearly his entire life. I was well into elementary school when I first learned that wasn't his real name. He had always told me that he earned that nickname because of a combined love of Pepsi and his his incredible spunk and energy (i.e. "Pep"). Not until my 20s did I learn the real story of "Pep" from a cousin who was in town. According to this trusted source, around the age of six, my father was hanging out with said cousin, and they were going to eat some pizza. Apparently, my father didn't know what pepperoni was. No one could understand how this 100% Italian child could possibly not know what pepperoni was, so everyone started calling him Pepperoni, Pep for short.
But once again, I digress..
My daughter's "wasp incident" brought back a most hysterical memory involving my husband.
In the middle of the night one summer evening, my husband suddenly jumped out of bed, screaming, and ran out of the room. He dove onto the couch, clutching his buns, apparently writhing in pain. I followed him out, not knowing what had happened, but assuming that he was just having a bad dream. He started screaming frantically that a snake had bitten him on the butt. Trying to hold back my laughter, I kept saying that he was just having a bad dream. He then showed me the big welt on his bum. He was insistent that a snake had bitten him, not rationalizing that this was next to impossible, living in suburbia with a bedroom on the second floor. Determined to both prove me wrong and rid our home of this creature, he grabbed a flashlight and crept back into the bedroom in search of the snake like the Crocodile Hunter. Why he needed a flashlight I have yet to understand - we did have working electricity! He tiptoed into the bedroom and threw down the blankets. And there, in the place on the bed where he had been sleeping, was a flattened, squashed....wasp.
Being the manly man that he is, I'm sure he thought a pain such as the one he endured just had to be something as treacherous as a snake. It was a shot to his ego (and a bigger shot to his rear) that it was just, as G would say, a little buggy.
We brought her inside and put some ice, kisses, and eventually a Strawberry Shortcake bandaid on it to make it all better. G is a tough little kid, so the cries really didn't last long, considering. She just intermittently would look down at her boo-boo, put on her pouty, bulldog face and say, "Pep-pa kill that buggy!" Pep-pa is my girls' name for their grandpa/my dad, whose name is Pep.
Yes, that's right, Pep. Of course that's not his real name, but he's been called Pep nearly his entire life. I was well into elementary school when I first learned that wasn't his real name. He had always told me that he earned that nickname because of a combined love of Pepsi and his his incredible spunk and energy (i.e. "Pep"). Not until my 20s did I learn the real story of "Pep" from a cousin who was in town. According to this trusted source, around the age of six, my father was hanging out with said cousin, and they were going to eat some pizza. Apparently, my father didn't know what pepperoni was. No one could understand how this 100% Italian child could possibly not know what pepperoni was, so everyone started calling him Pepperoni, Pep for short.
But once again, I digress..
My daughter's "wasp incident" brought back a most hysterical memory involving my husband.
In the middle of the night one summer evening, my husband suddenly jumped out of bed, screaming, and ran out of the room. He dove onto the couch, clutching his buns, apparently writhing in pain. I followed him out, not knowing what had happened, but assuming that he was just having a bad dream. He started screaming frantically that a snake had bitten him on the butt. Trying to hold back my laughter, I kept saying that he was just having a bad dream. He then showed me the big welt on his bum. He was insistent that a snake had bitten him, not rationalizing that this was next to impossible, living in suburbia with a bedroom on the second floor. Determined to both prove me wrong and rid our home of this creature, he grabbed a flashlight and crept back into the bedroom in search of the snake like the Crocodile Hunter. Why he needed a flashlight I have yet to understand - we did have working electricity! He tiptoed into the bedroom and threw down the blankets. And there, in the place on the bed where he had been sleeping, was a flattened, squashed....wasp.
Being the manly man that he is, I'm sure he thought a pain such as the one he endured just had to be something as treacherous as a snake. It was a shot to his ego (and a bigger shot to his rear) that it was just, as G would say, a little buggy.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Finding Security in the Strangest of Places
So today I got my hair cut. No big deal. At least not for me. For my daughter, M, who is four, this can be a traumatizing experience.
M has been obsessed with hair since the day she was born. I think it is because she didn't have any, and I have to admit that I was in denial that she didn't have any either. I used to put those baby headbands on her head all of time when when she was a baby. As soon as she grew maybe three hairs, I tied a bow around them like Pebbles Flintstone, and I totally thought it looked full. I look back at photos of what I did to that child and wonder "What was I thinking?" I am in complete bewilderment that I honestly didn't realize my baby was bald! And that's ok!
But I digress. Since the moment that she could make a fist, M has always had a lock of hair enclosed in it. For literally the first two years of her life, I sat in the back seat of the car with her so that she could have a hold of my hair while my husband drove. Whenever she was upset or scared, she'd cry "Hair!" and she'd need a lock to grasp to calm her down. To fall asleep, she still prefers to stroke my hair.
I made the mistake of taking her to the salon with me to get my hair cut and colored about a year ago. I should've known better, because she won't even let my husband/her daddy touch my hair. At the salon, she was totally traumatized. You would've thought that the kid was seeing her mother undergo medieval torture. She screamed and yelled and threw an absolute fit, telling that (and I quote) "Bad Lady" to get off her mommy's hair! I had to call my husband to come pick her up, in fact carry her out, screaming and kicking.
Last month when I came back from getting my hair cut, M cried hysterically for a solid hour, grieving for that one-inch that I had been left on that salon floor. She wanted it back!
Today, I not only had to sneak out to get the job done, but I also had to avoid the topic altogether to prevent another breakdown. And she hasn't noticed a difference in my length. Yet. Shhh.
But I'm starting to worry that I'm indulging too much in her obsession with hair. I mean, what if I decide to get a cute pixie cut or something? M would just absolutely freak.
I'm also starting to wonder if such obsessive behavior is genetic. Sure it is. And it comes from me, right?! And our younger daughter, G, has a similar issue.
G (age two) has been obsessed with ears since the day she was born. She grasps someone's ear whenever she's excited; she grasps someone's ear for consolation whenever she is sad; she grasps someone's ear (more forcefully) whenever she's angry; and she absolutely has to grasp someone's ear (or her own) whenever she's sleepy. I had to take out my earrings for good shortly after she was born due to her obsession. Otherwise I'd have ripped lobes.
Is this akin to other children who have a blankey or a favorite, raggedy stuffed animal that they drag around everywhere? My kids just use my hair and ears in lieu of these items? Is it completely normal and even good that my kids just seek comfort in the hair and ears of their mother instead of some inanimate object? Or is it deeper than that?
M has been obsessed with hair since the day she was born. I think it is because she didn't have any, and I have to admit that I was in denial that she didn't have any either. I used to put those baby headbands on her head all of time when when she was a baby. As soon as she grew maybe three hairs, I tied a bow around them like Pebbles Flintstone, and I totally thought it looked full. I look back at photos of what I did to that child and wonder "What was I thinking?" I am in complete bewilderment that I honestly didn't realize my baby was bald! And that's ok!
But I digress. Since the moment that she could make a fist, M has always had a lock of hair enclosed in it. For literally the first two years of her life, I sat in the back seat of the car with her so that she could have a hold of my hair while my husband drove. Whenever she was upset or scared, she'd cry "Hair!" and she'd need a lock to grasp to calm her down. To fall asleep, she still prefers to stroke my hair.
I made the mistake of taking her to the salon with me to get my hair cut and colored about a year ago. I should've known better, because she won't even let my husband/her daddy touch my hair. At the salon, she was totally traumatized. You would've thought that the kid was seeing her mother undergo medieval torture. She screamed and yelled and threw an absolute fit, telling that (and I quote) "Bad Lady" to get off her mommy's hair! I had to call my husband to come pick her up, in fact carry her out, screaming and kicking.
Last month when I came back from getting my hair cut, M cried hysterically for a solid hour, grieving for that one-inch that I had been left on that salon floor. She wanted it back!
Today, I not only had to sneak out to get the job done, but I also had to avoid the topic altogether to prevent another breakdown. And she hasn't noticed a difference in my length. Yet. Shhh.
But I'm starting to worry that I'm indulging too much in her obsession with hair. I mean, what if I decide to get a cute pixie cut or something? M would just absolutely freak.
I'm also starting to wonder if such obsessive behavior is genetic. Sure it is. And it comes from me, right?! And our younger daughter, G, has a similar issue.
G (age two) has been obsessed with ears since the day she was born. She grasps someone's ear whenever she's excited; she grasps someone's ear for consolation whenever she is sad; she grasps someone's ear (more forcefully) whenever she's angry; and she absolutely has to grasp someone's ear (or her own) whenever she's sleepy. I had to take out my earrings for good shortly after she was born due to her obsession. Otherwise I'd have ripped lobes.
Is this akin to other children who have a blankey or a favorite, raggedy stuffed animal that they drag around everywhere? My kids just use my hair and ears in lieu of these items? Is it completely normal and even good that my kids just seek comfort in the hair and ears of their mother instead of some inanimate object? Or is it deeper than that?
Welcome to My World
I've been wanting to do this for awhile. Start a blog. I've been procrastinating about it for so long, well, because I've been overanalyzing it. Wondering who might read it, wondering who (if anyone) I should tell about it, wondering what I should write about, wondering what I should not write about. Ok, more than wondering - overanalyzing, obsessing. It's what I do. But like everything else I overanalyze about, doing so never yields an answer, so I'm just doing it. So there.
A little bit about me and my life: I'm a thirty-something, happily married mother of two. I'm 50% Italian, and also a Scorpio, so be forewarned: I'm fiesty! By profession, I'm an editor. My husband, J, is a computer geek by profession. He was quite a rugged man when I met him, but as he ages, the geekness is starting to take over.
We have two gorgeous, but dramatically different daughters, M (age four) and G (age two).
M is a girly-girl, through and through. Loves clothes and shoes, "shoe" was actually one of her first words. She's quite a serious and calm child. She loves to dance and act. She is eerily the spitting image of myself at that age, in both appearance and temperament.
G is a fire-ery redhead; in appearance the polar opposite of myself. She can't sit still for anything, and she's tough. A brute, almost. But by far the most compassionate child I have ever known. She genuinely consoles anyone who is sad, and even cried while watching a Lifetime movie with me once simply because a baby was crying in the background.
I still have not gotten used to the idea that I am a mom (even though a minivan sits in our garage) and I still can't grasp the fact that these two wonderful little people were borne of my womb. It's astonishing.
I look forward to sharing glimpses of my life with whomever out there might be reading.
A little bit about me and my life: I'm a thirty-something, happily married mother of two. I'm 50% Italian, and also a Scorpio, so be forewarned: I'm fiesty! By profession, I'm an editor. My husband, J, is a computer geek by profession. He was quite a rugged man when I met him, but as he ages, the geekness is starting to take over.
We have two gorgeous, but dramatically different daughters, M (age four) and G (age two).
M is a girly-girl, through and through. Loves clothes and shoes, "shoe" was actually one of her first words. She's quite a serious and calm child. She loves to dance and act. She is eerily the spitting image of myself at that age, in both appearance and temperament.
G is a fire-ery redhead; in appearance the polar opposite of myself. She can't sit still for anything, and she's tough. A brute, almost. But by far the most compassionate child I have ever known. She genuinely consoles anyone who is sad, and even cried while watching a Lifetime movie with me once simply because a baby was crying in the background.
I still have not gotten used to the idea that I am a mom (even though a minivan sits in our garage) and I still can't grasp the fact that these two wonderful little people were borne of my womb. It's astonishing.
I look forward to sharing glimpses of my life with whomever out there might be reading.
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