This morning, I could see myself in the all-star cast of “Grand Hotel” being Greta Garbo cast as a Russian ballerina melodramatically delivering the line "I vant to be alone".
I was feeling melodramatic. For the past two years we have shared one shower amongst six people. Big house, two bathrooms, one stinking shower. You could just count on the fact that the very moment that the plastic shower rings hit the side of the retro pink and gold shower wall, that someone was either going to knock on the door or barge in to brush teeth, pee (or worse), curl their hair, straighten their hair, brush their hair, look for something, or all of the above at the same time. Just for clarity’s sake, it’s only the two littlest members of the family would actually come in and go potty while someone else was in the shower. In fact, I’ve actually reached out of the shower for a towel and found my four year old sitting on the pot reading a Toys R Us catalog. Thank goodness I saw him first and grabbed the towel or he would have been in therapy for life.
Anyway, one of the most blissful things about our new home, is that once again, we have a Master Bath. Jason has his sink, I have my sink. Jason has his shower, I have my whirlpool tub. AND I have just decided to establish a rule that I have NEVER been able to establish before because of the shower situation and because our home computer and only working DVD player were in our bedroom.
My room is OFF LIMITS.
Children are NOT allowed in my room unless they either ask my permission, or I’m in there and they knock. Yes, knocking on a door is a new concept in our home. It suddenly dawned on me that of all of the people in our house, Jason and I have been the only ones that are not allowed to have privacy or a space that is just ours. I cannot count the times over the past years that I have walked into my room to go to bed or to read, and found Becky or Amy at the computer doing homework, while IM’ing and talking on the phone. Or, I come home from work and go into my room to change to find Sarah and Dylan on my bed watching a movie. Or even better, come into my room and the girls and their FRIENDS are sitting all over my bed in doing something with the computer that sits in a messy bedroom with my underwear in a pair of pantyhose on the floor two feet away from them. That’s my favorite.
So where was I…oh yeah, I want to be alone! And I can! And I will! It occurred to me just this morning when my bathroom filled up with people again. Amy brought her curling iron into my bathroom so that I could do her hair for 80’s day (it’s scary how easily creating that mall-bang/cobra hairdo comes back to you), Sarah was looking for a hair tie to bring to Jason so that he could do her hair, Becky needed to borrow deodorant and Dylan was just along for lack of anything more interesting to do. I am so used to the chaos in the morning that I didn’t even notice at first. It’s been so long since I’ve had a bathroom moment alone where I didn’t have someone trying to talk to me through the door or wiggling fingers underneath it. Anyway, my thoughts have turned to alone time. Like, real, honest to goodness, no one knock, no one call, no one ask me for ANYTHING, time in the tub alone with a book.
Once upon a time, I took a lot of long, hot, relaxing baths. I could spend an hour in there, adding hot water as needed, simmering until tender. There may have been candles, there may have been a glass of wine. Perhaps a magazine. Perhaps a spouse. Now there are mostly children. When the days began where I couldn’t take a bath without some little person helpfully throwing toys into my bathwater because it looked bereft of entertainment…I stopped taking them.
I'm rarely alone in the bathroom any more. Pairs of feet follow me in whenever I go, little people chattering about this, that, or whatever, asking me questions, handing me toilet paper while I try to shoo them out the door.
An evening alone in the bathroom feels like a fantasy that may never come true…kind of like our front deck getting built before summer. In fact, one day last weekend I had the kids off-island all day running errands and Jason was at home alone doing projects. I ran all over creation with my self-created mob, and starting feeling very envious of Jason. I mean, I get plenty of time to myself if I need it because I work all day. But time to myself in my own home is as rare as authentic hoodia. Now, I don’t have to say again how I wouldn’t trade these years with my children for all the tea in China --- but for heaven’s sake.
Just for an evening --- I vant to be alone.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
M.O.D. - Multiple Offspring Disorder - May 3, 2006
I think in our journey as parents, we often reflect on the kind of parents we wanted to be, or the kind of parents we were when first given the job and compare those first tentative and nervous months to where we are now.
Kelly Ripa once said, “Children are like pancakes. You sort of ruin the first one, then get better at it the second time around.” (My oldest daughter will jokingly sign cards ‘from your first pancake’). Now, I take my job as mom very seriously. As many parents do, I spend a lot of time examining my reactions and motives and coming up with fair and equitable measures of discipline, etc. I recognize that I blow it just about everyday, and I’m not ever going to be the perfect parent I dreamed of being, but I do try.
However, as of last weekend, all of my previous efforts at good, solid parenting, have now been completely discredited. The table manners, the ‘proper words’ the responsibilities, the work ethic and respect that I have instilled….if I had a bank of good parenting credits, I would be completely overdrawn by my horrible lapse in judgment last weekend.
I taught my four year old son how to make armpit farts.
What was I thinking?!! Don’t we spend a tremendous amount of energy teaching our sons NOT do rude things? No, not me! So, last Saturday we had a big housewarming/birthday party at our new home and there were no less then 55 people there, and at least 12 of them were boys under 10 years old. I’m not exaggerating when I say that Dylan greeted every single one of those boys with “look what I can do”, and spent most of the night with his little hand stretching out the collar of his shirt, tucked under his armpit leading a virtual symphony of armpit farters. I lost track of how many mothers I apologized to.
Yesterday, I had a PTO meeting and picked up my amazing friend Jennie so we could ride together. Jennie is the PTO President, a Pediatrician, a mother of five, and your basic über mom. As soon as Jennie and her son got into our car – you guessed it. “Hey, Kennedy! Listen!” rude noise, obnoxious giggle from both boys. Then the dreaded slow motion moment….”My mom taught me how!” I felt the blood drain out of my face and slowly turned to look at Jennie. She was looking straight ahead, totally non-plussed and said casually, “Geez, Lisa. Is he your fourth child or something?”
Yeah. Yeah, he is. Hooray for other mothers with sons and severe cases of M.O.D. Now, if I can just get Dylan to get over the fascination with his new armpit talent…maybe I’ll enter him in a belching contest…
Kelly Ripa once said, “Children are like pancakes. You sort of ruin the first one, then get better at it the second time around.” (My oldest daughter will jokingly sign cards ‘from your first pancake’). Now, I take my job as mom very seriously. As many parents do, I spend a lot of time examining my reactions and motives and coming up with fair and equitable measures of discipline, etc. I recognize that I blow it just about everyday, and I’m not ever going to be the perfect parent I dreamed of being, but I do try.
However, as of last weekend, all of my previous efforts at good, solid parenting, have now been completely discredited. The table manners, the ‘proper words’ the responsibilities, the work ethic and respect that I have instilled….if I had a bank of good parenting credits, I would be completely overdrawn by my horrible lapse in judgment last weekend.
I taught my four year old son how to make armpit farts.
What was I thinking?!! Don’t we spend a tremendous amount of energy teaching our sons NOT do rude things? No, not me! So, last Saturday we had a big housewarming/birthday party at our new home and there were no less then 55 people there, and at least 12 of them were boys under 10 years old. I’m not exaggerating when I say that Dylan greeted every single one of those boys with “look what I can do”, and spent most of the night with his little hand stretching out the collar of his shirt, tucked under his armpit leading a virtual symphony of armpit farters. I lost track of how many mothers I apologized to.
Yesterday, I had a PTO meeting and picked up my amazing friend Jennie so we could ride together. Jennie is the PTO President, a Pediatrician, a mother of five, and your basic über mom. As soon as Jennie and her son got into our car – you guessed it. “Hey, Kennedy! Listen!” rude noise, obnoxious giggle from both boys. Then the dreaded slow motion moment….”My mom taught me how!” I felt the blood drain out of my face and slowly turned to look at Jennie. She was looking straight ahead, totally non-plussed and said casually, “Geez, Lisa. Is he your fourth child or something?”
Yeah. Yeah, he is. Hooray for other mothers with sons and severe cases of M.O.D. Now, if I can just get Dylan to get over the fascination with his new armpit talent…maybe I’ll enter him in a belching contest…
Doing Yoga in a Turtle Shell - April 28, 2006
Last week I went on a field trip with my kindergartner to the Children’s Museum. She and I rode the bus side by side and played ‘I Spy’ as we bounced along. The Children’s Museum changes themes a few times a year, and all of the exhibits are things the kids can play with. This season, the theme is “Gimme Shelter”. I was so happy to be there with all of the other moms that I used to hang out with before I went back to work. To wear the mommy uniform of khaki cargo pants and a long sleeved Gap t-shirt and Sketchers. To sit on a tatami mat in a miniature Japanese house in the museum while my daughter brought me pretend tea while wearing one of the children’s kimonos that was hanging there.
Sarah and I (and three of her little pocket sized friends) ran all over the museum going from shelter to shelter…a birds nest, a prairie dog habitat, an igloo, and Sarah’s favorite, the tree house. She would stand in the tree house and lower plastic bananas to me in a basket while I stood at the bottom. “Come up, Mommy!” She said. I took one look at the tree house, and pictured trying to squeeze myself from the ladder into the miniature door and wisely opted to stay on the ground.
The perky sing-songy docent had told the children all about the habitats in ‘circle time’, and said that when she flipped the lights on and off, it was time to clean up and come back to the circle. On the far side of the museum there were turtle shells that the kids could strap onto their backs and run around in, and there were also two turtle shells bolted to the floor, a big one and a small one, that kids could crawl into and stick their arms and heads through. Sarah ran to the small one and crawled into it, and said “You be the Mommy turtle!” So I crawled into the other turtle shell and stuck my head through the top, and my arms through the holes and drew my knees up under me like Sarah. It kind of felt like being in stocks waiting for rotten vegetable to be thrown at me, but it was fun making turtle faces at Sarah. Just as we were getting really going on the turtle fun, the light flickered on and off, signaling the return to circle time.
Sarah popped right out her shell and went running back to the common area, but when I went to pull my head in….stuck. My knees were folded under my chest, my head was down on the floor, and my arms were sticking out past the elbows in some sort of twisted, terrapin-esque yoga position. I could not pull my elbows into the shell, and with my knees bunched under my chest, they weren’t going anywhere without causing some serious internal injuries.
After a brief moment of panic, and biting back the urge to scream obscenities in front of all the six year olds, I took a cleansing yoga breath (seeing that I was already in a warped version of the Child’s Pose crossed with Downward Dog) and managed to ease myself out, one oversized limb at a time.
I dusted myself off, peeled the gum wrapper off of my shoulder, and rejoined the group in circle time just in time to get in a single file line back to the bus. “Where did you go, Mommy?” Sarah said, as she took my hand. “Wanna play I Spy?” I replied, and walked hand in hand with her out the door.
Sarah and I (and three of her little pocket sized friends) ran all over the museum going from shelter to shelter…a birds nest, a prairie dog habitat, an igloo, and Sarah’s favorite, the tree house. She would stand in the tree house and lower plastic bananas to me in a basket while I stood at the bottom. “Come up, Mommy!” She said. I took one look at the tree house, and pictured trying to squeeze myself from the ladder into the miniature door and wisely opted to stay on the ground.
The perky sing-songy docent had told the children all about the habitats in ‘circle time’, and said that when she flipped the lights on and off, it was time to clean up and come back to the circle. On the far side of the museum there were turtle shells that the kids could strap onto their backs and run around in, and there were also two turtle shells bolted to the floor, a big one and a small one, that kids could crawl into and stick their arms and heads through. Sarah ran to the small one and crawled into it, and said “You be the Mommy turtle!” So I crawled into the other turtle shell and stuck my head through the top, and my arms through the holes and drew my knees up under me like Sarah. It kind of felt like being in stocks waiting for rotten vegetable to be thrown at me, but it was fun making turtle faces at Sarah. Just as we were getting really going on the turtle fun, the light flickered on and off, signaling the return to circle time.
Sarah popped right out her shell and went running back to the common area, but when I went to pull my head in….stuck. My knees were folded under my chest, my head was down on the floor, and my arms were sticking out past the elbows in some sort of twisted, terrapin-esque yoga position. I could not pull my elbows into the shell, and with my knees bunched under my chest, they weren’t going anywhere without causing some serious internal injuries.
After a brief moment of panic, and biting back the urge to scream obscenities in front of all the six year olds, I took a cleansing yoga breath (seeing that I was already in a warped version of the Child’s Pose crossed with Downward Dog) and managed to ease myself out, one oversized limb at a time.
I dusted myself off, peeled the gum wrapper off of my shoulder, and rejoined the group in circle time just in time to get in a single file line back to the bus. “Where did you go, Mommy?” Sarah said, as she took my hand. “Wanna play I Spy?” I replied, and walked hand in hand with her out the door.
I am Swiss Cheese - April 18, 2006
So, I met my new oncologist today and I’m feeling a bit like Swiss cheese after my appointment. He is a small man, who wears silver jewelry and a leather necklace (I liked him right away) and joked around about putting vodka in the syringe that held the anesthesia.
It must be a powerful thing to tell a strange woman you’ve never met to strip and she just does it. Anyway, after apologizing sheepishly for affronting the staff with my thong, I got the full skin exam and ended up with three moles (one in my hair by my ear) frozen off, two removed with a scalpel and two more biopsied. What FUN!! Personal humiliation AND needles. Woo hoo!! My surgery date for the melanoma is next Thursday and I’ve been prescribed a lovely sedative to take the night before and the morning of. I really like this guy.
So I’m looking like I got in a fight with a dull Gillette with little round band-aids all over my body, but I feel like I’m being handled very well. Oh, and speaking of being handled, he also groped my lymph nodes. Very exciting for mid-morning.
(It doesn’t look like he’s willing to do a saddlebag-ectomy while he’s removing the cancer, though. Darn.)
So there’s the update! The house is almost finished…just a few more days! I’ve put out an all call to the Broad Cast Network (the network cast of island broads) to come have a paint party tonight so I’m hoping for good progress and good times tonight. But not as good as last night, though, I hope. My friend Robin stopped by last night looking all gorgeous in her work clothes and we drank wine until midnight contemplating the meaning of life and size 15 jr.’s pants --- uggh. I think I’ll be sticking to the diet coke tonight, thank you very much.
It must be a powerful thing to tell a strange woman you’ve never met to strip and she just does it. Anyway, after apologizing sheepishly for affronting the staff with my thong, I got the full skin exam and ended up with three moles (one in my hair by my ear) frozen off, two removed with a scalpel and two more biopsied. What FUN!! Personal humiliation AND needles. Woo hoo!! My surgery date for the melanoma is next Thursday and I’ve been prescribed a lovely sedative to take the night before and the morning of. I really like this guy.
So I’m looking like I got in a fight with a dull Gillette with little round band-aids all over my body, but I feel like I’m being handled very well. Oh, and speaking of being handled, he also groped my lymph nodes. Very exciting for mid-morning.
(It doesn’t look like he’s willing to do a saddlebag-ectomy while he’s removing the cancer, though. Darn.)
So there’s the update! The house is almost finished…just a few more days! I’ve put out an all call to the Broad Cast Network (the network cast of island broads) to come have a paint party tonight so I’m hoping for good progress and good times tonight. But not as good as last night, though, I hope. My friend Robin stopped by last night looking all gorgeous in her work clothes and we drank wine until midnight contemplating the meaning of life and size 15 jr.’s pants --- uggh. I think I’ll be sticking to the diet coke tonight, thank you very much.
Melanie Melanoma - April 6, 2006
Jason and I went into to Seattle to the Cancer Care Alliance Center and met with the top physician at the melanoma clinic, and we got excellent news. The melanoma has not penetrated the basement layer of skin and NO lymph nodes or blood vessels have been affected with the cancer. The doctor said he rarely sees this, and told me to go have a Nordstrom moment as a good-girl prize for coming in so early. (Hey, doctor’s orders, Jason!) He has contacted his most respected and trusted colleague that is closer to home to schedule and perform the surgery, and that will be that for now…no radiation and no lymph node removals.
The unfortunate part of all of this is that my skin has been likened to a garden. You can weed it until it’s perfect, but that does not stop new weeds from popping up later so there will be a lifetime of effort to keep on top of this. When I’m asked by health care professionals, “Did you ever burn as a kid?” I say, “I spent every possible waking moment in the Southern California sun from birth until adulthood and beyond”. I get the sympathetic look. When they say, “Did you ever blister?” and I say “Many, many, times. I chose my first grown up job because it was close enough to go home at lunch and lay out (you know, priorities.), went to the beach several times per week, and didn’t wear sunscreen above an SPF of 8 until I was 28.” I get the horrified, scared look mingled with pity. Yeah, I know.
The thing is, the sun is not the enemy. Sun burns are the enemy. There is all this conflicting information about the sun and the damage it can cause – no, wait! 20 minutes per day is better for you than taking a vitamin D pill! No, wait! Sunscreen doesn’t prevent cancer after all!
Recently, studies at UCLA found that vitamin D can have a hand in cancer prevention. The study reveals that women who get lots of vitamin D are 50 per cent less likely to develop breast cancer. 50 percent, that’s a whole boob! Other experts of the field read between the lines and hope it could also prevent other cancers. The study found the reduction in the risk of breast cancer among women with high levels of vitamin D. The body makes the vitamin from sunlight, but experts suggest women add supplements to their diet. Besides the sun the dietary sources of Vitamin D are salmon, tuna and other oily fish….mmmmmmm, oily fish.
So I dip my kids in sunscreen. I always have, even before I realized how easy it is to get skin cancer with my skin type (which I have generously passed down to three of my four children), because sunburns hurt. Last summer, I spent the days at the lake wearing a hat and a long flowy white skirt because I was afraid of the sun, and this summer I’m not doing that. I’m going to wear my doctor’s recommended SPF 30 or higher and limit my exposure but not eliminate it! And I intend to get my kids so accustomed to slathering sunscreen on before they even put on a bathing suit that it feels like not wearing a seatbelt if they forget.
However, I refuse to live the rest of my life hiding under a shade tree. I water ski, I play volleyball, I boat and I swim. You just can’t do these things indoors in the summer in the Northwest, and I’m just so grateful that my doctor didn’t suggest that, because I would have done it and been miserable.
Life is for living, and I intend to do that under my doctor’s care and advice and not waste a moment of it being scared and paranoid.
Sun Kisses to all,
Melanie Melanoma
The unfortunate part of all of this is that my skin has been likened to a garden. You can weed it until it’s perfect, but that does not stop new weeds from popping up later so there will be a lifetime of effort to keep on top of this. When I’m asked by health care professionals, “Did you ever burn as a kid?” I say, “I spent every possible waking moment in the Southern California sun from birth until adulthood and beyond”. I get the sympathetic look. When they say, “Did you ever blister?” and I say “Many, many, times. I chose my first grown up job because it was close enough to go home at lunch and lay out (you know, priorities.), went to the beach several times per week, and didn’t wear sunscreen above an SPF of 8 until I was 28.” I get the horrified, scared look mingled with pity. Yeah, I know.
The thing is, the sun is not the enemy. Sun burns are the enemy. There is all this conflicting information about the sun and the damage it can cause – no, wait! 20 minutes per day is better for you than taking a vitamin D pill! No, wait! Sunscreen doesn’t prevent cancer after all!
Recently, studies at UCLA found that vitamin D can have a hand in cancer prevention. The study reveals that women who get lots of vitamin D are 50 per cent less likely to develop breast cancer. 50 percent, that’s a whole boob! Other experts of the field read between the lines and hope it could also prevent other cancers. The study found the reduction in the risk of breast cancer among women with high levels of vitamin D. The body makes the vitamin from sunlight, but experts suggest women add supplements to their diet. Besides the sun the dietary sources of Vitamin D are salmon, tuna and other oily fish….mmmmmmm, oily fish.
So I dip my kids in sunscreen. I always have, even before I realized how easy it is to get skin cancer with my skin type (which I have generously passed down to three of my four children), because sunburns hurt. Last summer, I spent the days at the lake wearing a hat and a long flowy white skirt because I was afraid of the sun, and this summer I’m not doing that. I’m going to wear my doctor’s recommended SPF 30 or higher and limit my exposure but not eliminate it! And I intend to get my kids so accustomed to slathering sunscreen on before they even put on a bathing suit that it feels like not wearing a seatbelt if they forget.
However, I refuse to live the rest of my life hiding under a shade tree. I water ski, I play volleyball, I boat and I swim. You just can’t do these things indoors in the summer in the Northwest, and I’m just so grateful that my doctor didn’t suggest that, because I would have done it and been miserable.
Life is for living, and I intend to do that under my doctor’s care and advice and not waste a moment of it being scared and paranoid.
Sun Kisses to all,
Melanie Melanoma
Saddlebags and Spankings - March 28, 2007
Okay, so it wasn’t actually a dysplastic nevus or early melanoma that they found – it was full blown cancer. I have a malignant melanoma on my upper right outer thigh that will be removed in a big ol’ hunk on Tuesday, and further analyzed to determine if there has been any metastasis. You know, I was thinking. This particular blemish on my life is on one of my ‘problem areas’. The abductor. Okay, the saddlebag. So, if they're going to be hacking away at one my saddlebags, I’m thinking that asthetically speaking, shouldn’t they do both? I do.
So last night after work, I took all the kids to the middle school to watch Becky & Amy’s choir concert, which was great, by the way. Their choir teacher is a saint, and she has the most amazing talent for squeezing angelic tones from a riser full of smelly, zitty, long-haired, facially pierced Jr. Highers. What a gift. Anyway, Jason didn’t go because, well, we have to move in four days.
My son was a psycho all during the concert. He was indeed sitting with his ‘bottom in his chair’ just I had directed, but was throwing his head around, rolling his eyes and being the kind of freak that only a four year old can really master. After the concert I was talking to the director and some of the girls’ friends, and looked up to see Dylan running across the risers. So I made the most brilliant move. Ever. I excused myself from the conversation, ignoring the looks of concern for the choral equipment, and marched up to the risers and demanded in a low but scary voice, that Dylan come down immediately. Then…wait for it…I told Dylan he was going to get a spanking. Do you love it? Yes, in front of parents, teachers, and students, I threatened to beat my child. And worse, I don’t spank my kids!!! It’s not that I have a problem with a well placed, rare spanking on occasion, but I just haven’t found it necessary. So, crap. I’ve committed to a spanking. So on the way to the car, Dylan is telling me, and the rest of the parking lot full of choir polo shirt clad adolescents and their parents, that he doesn’t WANT a spanking. Really, Dylan? Huh. I thought you kids loved that stuff.
So anyway, I got all four kids piled into the car, praised my girls for their outstanding duet, listened with glee about the boy that Becky likes actually asking her out yesterday. (This was clarified as meaning they are a ‘couple’, not that they can actually go anywhere together.) She’s giddy because he’s, like, the guy that ALL the girls want to go out with….ehmegosh. All the while Dylan in the backseat is muttering “I don’t wanna spanking” while Sarah is telling him in her authoritative six year old manner, “then you should have listened to Mommy.” Sigh. So Dylan fell asleep on the way to the ferry dock. So, would you spank a sleeping child? Hell no.
When I got the kids home, Jason ran out to help me unload sleepy kids and tuck them in and I confessed my deed. He said, “Well, you probably don’t want to spank him when he wakes up in the morning, because that will ruin your morning.” (I like how he thinks) “Maybe you should tell him that you haven’t forgotten the spanking, but he needs to come up with his own punishment if he doesn’t want one.” YEAH! Did I tell you that my husband was a genius? So as of this morning, Dylan has grounded himself from TV and toys and sugar. I guess he really didn’t want a spanking, because he handed down a self sentence that was way harsher than I would have picked. Whew. Abuse avoided.
Anyway, AFTER the choir concert, and AFTER we got home, (at 9:00pm) Jason and I went to look at a vacation rental that we are going to rent for two weeks while our house is being finished, went to the property to check out the progress on said house (into which Jason had begun moving kitchen stuff), then made an appearance at the island restaurant that was throwing a going away party for it’s manager. We got home after 11:30 last night, and started it all again today.
Well, so I have cancer. It’s not the first time, and I’m certain it won’t be the last, but I’m really thinking the timing sucks. I’m going to plug along doing what we’re doing and get ourselves into our new home, and not dwell on it. Have the surgery, do what the doctor recommends for treatment and let go of some of the other things that I can let go of. I mean besides work, kids, PTO, Jazzercise…… you know, all the other stuff. And on the bright side, my surgery is scheduled for the same day as our PTO's Pizza, Pop, and Promenade which is our annual pizza and square dance at the Elementary School....so, darn. I'll have to miss that. It all comes down to this, for some reason mothers, along with numerous trials, have been given an almost limitless capacity to shoulder our burdens. And oddly, I was less stressed out about having a piece of my hide taken out, than I was thinking about me having to take a piece out my son's.
So last night after work, I took all the kids to the middle school to watch Becky & Amy’s choir concert, which was great, by the way. Their choir teacher is a saint, and she has the most amazing talent for squeezing angelic tones from a riser full of smelly, zitty, long-haired, facially pierced Jr. Highers. What a gift. Anyway, Jason didn’t go because, well, we have to move in four days.
My son was a psycho all during the concert. He was indeed sitting with his ‘bottom in his chair’ just I had directed, but was throwing his head around, rolling his eyes and being the kind of freak that only a four year old can really master. After the concert I was talking to the director and some of the girls’ friends, and looked up to see Dylan running across the risers. So I made the most brilliant move. Ever. I excused myself from the conversation, ignoring the looks of concern for the choral equipment, and marched up to the risers and demanded in a low but scary voice, that Dylan come down immediately. Then…wait for it…I told Dylan he was going to get a spanking. Do you love it? Yes, in front of parents, teachers, and students, I threatened to beat my child. And worse, I don’t spank my kids!!! It’s not that I have a problem with a well placed, rare spanking on occasion, but I just haven’t found it necessary. So, crap. I’ve committed to a spanking. So on the way to the car, Dylan is telling me, and the rest of the parking lot full of choir polo shirt clad adolescents and their parents, that he doesn’t WANT a spanking. Really, Dylan? Huh. I thought you kids loved that stuff.
So anyway, I got all four kids piled into the car, praised my girls for their outstanding duet, listened with glee about the boy that Becky likes actually asking her out yesterday. (This was clarified as meaning they are a ‘couple’, not that they can actually go anywhere together.) She’s giddy because he’s, like, the guy that ALL the girls want to go out with….ehmegosh. All the while Dylan in the backseat is muttering “I don’t wanna spanking” while Sarah is telling him in her authoritative six year old manner, “then you should have listened to Mommy.” Sigh. So Dylan fell asleep on the way to the ferry dock. So, would you spank a sleeping child? Hell no.
When I got the kids home, Jason ran out to help me unload sleepy kids and tuck them in and I confessed my deed. He said, “Well, you probably don’t want to spank him when he wakes up in the morning, because that will ruin your morning.” (I like how he thinks) “Maybe you should tell him that you haven’t forgotten the spanking, but he needs to come up with his own punishment if he doesn’t want one.” YEAH! Did I tell you that my husband was a genius? So as of this morning, Dylan has grounded himself from TV and toys and sugar. I guess he really didn’t want a spanking, because he handed down a self sentence that was way harsher than I would have picked. Whew. Abuse avoided.
Anyway, AFTER the choir concert, and AFTER we got home, (at 9:00pm) Jason and I went to look at a vacation rental that we are going to rent for two weeks while our house is being finished, went to the property to check out the progress on said house (into which Jason had begun moving kitchen stuff), then made an appearance at the island restaurant that was throwing a going away party for it’s manager. We got home after 11:30 last night, and started it all again today.
Well, so I have cancer. It’s not the first time, and I’m certain it won’t be the last, but I’m really thinking the timing sucks. I’m going to plug along doing what we’re doing and get ourselves into our new home, and not dwell on it. Have the surgery, do what the doctor recommends for treatment and let go of some of the other things that I can let go of. I mean besides work, kids, PTO, Jazzercise…… you know, all the other stuff. And on the bright side, my surgery is scheduled for the same day as our PTO's Pizza, Pop, and Promenade which is our annual pizza and square dance at the Elementary School....so, darn. I'll have to miss that. It all comes down to this, for some reason mothers, along with numerous trials, have been given an almost limitless capacity to shoulder our burdens. And oddly, I was less stressed out about having a piece of my hide taken out, than I was thinking about me having to take a piece out my son's.
Falling Down - March 15, 2007
I fell down today. Again. I really don’t think that adults are supposed to do that. We’re supposed to have gotten over that whole awkward thing, and have recognized where our bodies are in the space of the universe and NOT fall down and go boom.
So I was walking off the ferry this morning with my son, and two ladies who were also commuting into town to their respective jobs. One of whom is a faithful jazzerciser, and the other a friend with whom I work and often carpool. It was a windy morning, for sure...grey and stormy (no rain, thank God) blowing that great smell of fish and garbage from the nearby fish packing plant and making me super glad that I made Jason late this morning by doing my hair instead of letting it air-dry. Anyway, we were walking across the street to the parking lot and I had my hands full, doing my usual pack-mule/sherpa routine, carrying a grocery sack containing all of my fruit, nuts and yogurt (good-girl snacks…yay, me!), a purse, Dylan’s backpack and a tall travel mug of coffee. The wind was blowing things out of my sack and whipping my pointlessly styled hair into my face as I said good-bye to one of the women and confirmed that I was indeed teaching jazzercise on the island tonight.
That was where it went bad.
I turned to say something to my friend and car-pool buddy, Buffy, and my heeled boot caught on the gravel and I went down. Hard. I did a Steve Martin sprawl across the gravel scraping both of my palms, tearing my grey dress pants, bruising my elbow, knee and hip in the process. Dylan started to cry, “Mommeeeee” and some guy in a truck stopped in the middle of the street to ask if I was okay. That’s always nice. Please, let there be as many people as possible see me and my stuff spread all over the filthy gravel parking lot.
I got up and shook myself off, gave a weak smile and a “See you tonight!” to the jazzerciser, then turned and asked Buffy to drive my Expedition so I could nurse my wounds. The concerned gentleman in the truck drove away and I gathered my stuff and limped into the car.
Sigh. If only this was my most humiliating recent fall, but it wasn’t. In January when I went to San Jose on business, my plane got in rather late. By the time I checked in to my hotel and met up with co-workers it was getting on toward 10:00pm, and they wanted to go to a club --- I just wanted a taco. Or something. Airline Snack Mix can only take you so far. So we were walking rather briskly down a busy city street towards some type of Caribbean place that actually turned out to be a bar. We had not even gotten inside when, as in this morning’s adventure, my heeled boot (different boots, of course…the brown Italian leather ones this time.) caught on the uneven, earthquake textured sidewalk, my ankle buckled, and I hit the pavement. In front of a bar. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I fell down in front of a bar and landed half in and half out of the gutter and partially in the street. Try telling anyone watching me (and there were several) that I had just gotten off a plane, consumed no alcohol that night, but fell into the gutter outside a bar. Yeah, that’s nice.
Ironically, Buffy was with me for both of these performances, and I’m pretty sure she’s starting to wonder about me. I imagine it’s hard to respect someone who can’t handle her own shoes. Sometimes I feel as though if there were a trailer to the movie of my life, it would include scene after scene of me falling down a ravine with my pants down, sprawling in front of a bar, tumbling across a gravel parking lot, sliding across an icy sidewalk in a skirt… just one great moment after another. Hmmmm…I wonder where the next tumble will land me. And I know there will be a next tumble, because no way am I giving up heels --- what, and give up all that glamour and sophistication? Forget it.
So I was walking off the ferry this morning with my son, and two ladies who were also commuting into town to their respective jobs. One of whom is a faithful jazzerciser, and the other a friend with whom I work and often carpool. It was a windy morning, for sure...grey and stormy (no rain, thank God) blowing that great smell of fish and garbage from the nearby fish packing plant and making me super glad that I made Jason late this morning by doing my hair instead of letting it air-dry. Anyway, we were walking across the street to the parking lot and I had my hands full, doing my usual pack-mule/sherpa routine, carrying a grocery sack containing all of my fruit, nuts and yogurt (good-girl snacks…yay, me!), a purse, Dylan’s backpack and a tall travel mug of coffee. The wind was blowing things out of my sack and whipping my pointlessly styled hair into my face as I said good-bye to one of the women and confirmed that I was indeed teaching jazzercise on the island tonight.
That was where it went bad.
I turned to say something to my friend and car-pool buddy, Buffy, and my heeled boot caught on the gravel and I went down. Hard. I did a Steve Martin sprawl across the gravel scraping both of my palms, tearing my grey dress pants, bruising my elbow, knee and hip in the process. Dylan started to cry, “Mommeeeee” and some guy in a truck stopped in the middle of the street to ask if I was okay. That’s always nice. Please, let there be as many people as possible see me and my stuff spread all over the filthy gravel parking lot.
I got up and shook myself off, gave a weak smile and a “See you tonight!” to the jazzerciser, then turned and asked Buffy to drive my Expedition so I could nurse my wounds. The concerned gentleman in the truck drove away and I gathered my stuff and limped into the car.
Sigh. If only this was my most humiliating recent fall, but it wasn’t. In January when I went to San Jose on business, my plane got in rather late. By the time I checked in to my hotel and met up with co-workers it was getting on toward 10:00pm, and they wanted to go to a club --- I just wanted a taco. Or something. Airline Snack Mix can only take you so far. So we were walking rather briskly down a busy city street towards some type of Caribbean place that actually turned out to be a bar. We had not even gotten inside when, as in this morning’s adventure, my heeled boot (different boots, of course…the brown Italian leather ones this time.) caught on the uneven, earthquake textured sidewalk, my ankle buckled, and I hit the pavement. In front of a bar. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I fell down in front of a bar and landed half in and half out of the gutter and partially in the street. Try telling anyone watching me (and there were several) that I had just gotten off a plane, consumed no alcohol that night, but fell into the gutter outside a bar. Yeah, that’s nice.
Ironically, Buffy was with me for both of these performances, and I’m pretty sure she’s starting to wonder about me. I imagine it’s hard to respect someone who can’t handle her own shoes. Sometimes I feel as though if there were a trailer to the movie of my life, it would include scene after scene of me falling down a ravine with my pants down, sprawling in front of a bar, tumbling across a gravel parking lot, sliding across an icy sidewalk in a skirt… just one great moment after another. Hmmmm…I wonder where the next tumble will land me. And I know there will be a next tumble, because no way am I giving up heels --- what, and give up all that glamour and sophistication? Forget it.
Breaking Up With Starbucks - March 14, 2006
"Don't you have a life? I mean aside from Starbucks that is ... Say, why don't you stop coming here for ... I don't know ... a day, and you'd have enough to take your kids to Disneyland or something."
Barista No. 123 puts his palm against his chest, pained by the weight of his enormous wit. "I'll see ya tomorrow!" He poses his right hand into a makeshift gun and winks, exactly what you'd expect from a cheesy car salesman.
I was stunned by the sarcasm and overcome by strangers staring; nobody appreciates character flaws pointed out in a packed lobby. My reply was a weak, "Ha Ha, you're a real funny guy." I grabbed my drink, not waiting around for him to conjure something predictable like, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you."
Who did this guy think he was? Criticizing me while wearing shorts with tube socks pulled up to his knees? It was clear the relationship had vastly careened off course from affable consumer wanting to trade cash money for traditional goods and services—such as serving my latte—and the pleasant parting "have a nice day."
I will admit I was uncomfortable with his style well before the incident occurred. It just didn't sit right with me that a fifty-five year old male should be working as a cashier slash barista at Starbucks. Especially odd in San Jose in the mid 90’s when jobs were a dime a dozen. I made concessions out of pity and a secret fear: what dismal economic plan lay ahead for the middle class in this country? It didn't help that I'd just used my credit card to purchase my drink.
I know I have an excessive personality. No question. So when someone makes a comment about something in my life that seems to be excessive, I usually just stop it. (Usually). So I broke up with Starbucks. And Barista No. 123.
It was rough, but such was the domino effect of Starbucks' quest for world dominance combined with our new world economy where fat men once accustomed to cushy middle management jobs at Lockheed Martin now preyed upon unsuspecting housewives with closet addictions to Starbucks they couldn't afford. Who the heck did they think they were? Right then and there I vowed I would never again return to Starbucks.
As with any other major life-changing decision, I needed time to assess the pros and cons. Was I ready to cut off a long-term committed relationship spanning over a decade based on the comment of one loser? I didn't want to be hasty; why should I suffer any more than I already had?
That's when I realized I had been suffering ... in silence. Sly personal attacks at my expense, a regressed memory flashed back of a drive-thru exchange where a barista I thought was my friend asked if I wanted my raspberry scone and latte. I was like, "Why yes, thanks for remembering," feeling really special until she responded, "How could I forget, breakfast of champions." I was so far into the depths of my addiction I laughed along with her at my own expense, then tipped her a dollar. Yes, I pay people to mock me. (By the way, Kristi, I owe you a dollar for last night).
I will admit my life would be much simpler during the interim relationship analysis phase if I had been able to use the Starbucks fraternal twin located across the street, but I've worked enough customer service to know the disgruntled customer angle doesn't work if they see my car obsessively pulling through their twenty-four hour drive-thru next door. I did enjoy walking purposefully across the street to Tully's, and while waiting there for my latte I looked across to Starbucks and began daydreaming of possible scenarios playing out there.
Starbucks Manager: "Did I just see our loyal customer Lisa walk across the street to Tully's, our major competitor? How can this be? Did we do something to upset her?"
Barista No. 11,626: "I did overhear Barista No. 123 say something really stupid implying that she was lame and addicted to Starbucks. I've worked in drug treatment and, as addicts go, she's OK. And besides, according to the Starbucks Secret Retina Scan Tracking System, her average check is twelve dollars and thirty-six cents and she tips a dollar 92 percent of the time and her subconscious is registering a desire to quit her carb diet again and go back to her daily raspberry scone. Besides, Barista No. 123 is an idiot who wouldn't know how to make a decent latte if Howard Schultz, 'Praise Bean' himself, descended upon us."
Starbucks Manager: "I'm going over to Tully's immediately to let Lisa know we appreciate her addiction. But not before I terminate Barista No. 123 because you're right, he's an insensitive boob who doesn't appreciate our customers and there is nothing worse than paying almost four dollars for a burnt latte after standing in our ridiculously long lines!"
Walking back to my car alone, I felt sad. Clearly I was on the rebound and it showed. Despite all my efforts not to compare, and despite all their efforts to shamelessly copy Starbucks, Tully's just wasn't the same. It was that difference that kept me looking over my shoulder, desperately searching for someone to care. I was feeling vulnerable; I wanted a reason to go back to what felt right and put this little bump in the road behind me.
It's been four years since I walked out on Starbucks. I've calculated the loss of my business to that store at more than twelve thousand dollars. I am now drinking freshly ground gourmet stuff at work in a different part of the country, and not so gourmet previously ground stuff from the island store in the morning. However, today, a co-worker brought me coffee. Starbucks coffee. A triple venti Carmel Macchiato, for heaven’s sake! What? Does he hate me? Now I am second guessing my righteous break-up with the coffee dynasty – was I a fool? Was it all in my head? Had the relationship ever been special? Did Starbucks ever care for me at all? Could I do better?
The addiction to Starbucks wouldn't be so bad if I’d had something to show for it, like a Nobel Prize in Science. I could explain the necessity of my "dirty little habit" because of all the late nights spent in my laboratory concocting a cure for AIDS. My gluttony would be justified because I was such an important person. People always make allowances for crazy geniuses. I fantasize about making small talk nonchalantly at a time when I know everyone's listening, "Yeah, I've been working really hard on the Starbuckus Latteus avec Talleccus Strawiccus. While working in my garage turned state-of-the art lab, I single-handedly discovered the cure for AIDS ... they let me name the bacteria that will save millions of lives! Anyway, these lattes have really pulled me through it all and I thought the least I could do was name the bacteria after Starbucks ... Hey, would you be a lamb and put a sleeve on that venti latte? My palms are a little tender from another all-nighter at the 'scope."
In the end, today’s Starbuck’s relapse will just have to go down as a one-time indiscretion. A lapse in judgment. It’s really over, and I was just weak. Forgive me.
Barista No. 123 puts his palm against his chest, pained by the weight of his enormous wit. "I'll see ya tomorrow!" He poses his right hand into a makeshift gun and winks, exactly what you'd expect from a cheesy car salesman.
I was stunned by the sarcasm and overcome by strangers staring; nobody appreciates character flaws pointed out in a packed lobby. My reply was a weak, "Ha Ha, you're a real funny guy." I grabbed my drink, not waiting around for him to conjure something predictable like, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you."
Who did this guy think he was? Criticizing me while wearing shorts with tube socks pulled up to his knees? It was clear the relationship had vastly careened off course from affable consumer wanting to trade cash money for traditional goods and services—such as serving my latte—and the pleasant parting "have a nice day."
I will admit I was uncomfortable with his style well before the incident occurred. It just didn't sit right with me that a fifty-five year old male should be working as a cashier slash barista at Starbucks. Especially odd in San Jose in the mid 90’s when jobs were a dime a dozen. I made concessions out of pity and a secret fear: what dismal economic plan lay ahead for the middle class in this country? It didn't help that I'd just used my credit card to purchase my drink.
I know I have an excessive personality. No question. So when someone makes a comment about something in my life that seems to be excessive, I usually just stop it. (Usually). So I broke up with Starbucks. And Barista No. 123.
It was rough, but such was the domino effect of Starbucks' quest for world dominance combined with our new world economy where fat men once accustomed to cushy middle management jobs at Lockheed Martin now preyed upon unsuspecting housewives with closet addictions to Starbucks they couldn't afford. Who the heck did they think they were? Right then and there I vowed I would never again return to Starbucks.
As with any other major life-changing decision, I needed time to assess the pros and cons. Was I ready to cut off a long-term committed relationship spanning over a decade based on the comment of one loser? I didn't want to be hasty; why should I suffer any more than I already had?
That's when I realized I had been suffering ... in silence. Sly personal attacks at my expense, a regressed memory flashed back of a drive-thru exchange where a barista I thought was my friend asked if I wanted my raspberry scone and latte. I was like, "Why yes, thanks for remembering," feeling really special until she responded, "How could I forget, breakfast of champions." I was so far into the depths of my addiction I laughed along with her at my own expense, then tipped her a dollar. Yes, I pay people to mock me. (By the way, Kristi, I owe you a dollar for last night).
I will admit my life would be much simpler during the interim relationship analysis phase if I had been able to use the Starbucks fraternal twin located across the street, but I've worked enough customer service to know the disgruntled customer angle doesn't work if they see my car obsessively pulling through their twenty-four hour drive-thru next door. I did enjoy walking purposefully across the street to Tully's, and while waiting there for my latte I looked across to Starbucks and began daydreaming of possible scenarios playing out there.
Starbucks Manager: "Did I just see our loyal customer Lisa walk across the street to Tully's, our major competitor? How can this be? Did we do something to upset her?"
Barista No. 11,626: "I did overhear Barista No. 123 say something really stupid implying that she was lame and addicted to Starbucks. I've worked in drug treatment and, as addicts go, she's OK. And besides, according to the Starbucks Secret Retina Scan Tracking System, her average check is twelve dollars and thirty-six cents and she tips a dollar 92 percent of the time and her subconscious is registering a desire to quit her carb diet again and go back to her daily raspberry scone. Besides, Barista No. 123 is an idiot who wouldn't know how to make a decent latte if Howard Schultz, 'Praise Bean' himself, descended upon us."
Starbucks Manager: "I'm going over to Tully's immediately to let Lisa know we appreciate her addiction. But not before I terminate Barista No. 123 because you're right, he's an insensitive boob who doesn't appreciate our customers and there is nothing worse than paying almost four dollars for a burnt latte after standing in our ridiculously long lines!"
Walking back to my car alone, I felt sad. Clearly I was on the rebound and it showed. Despite all my efforts not to compare, and despite all their efforts to shamelessly copy Starbucks, Tully's just wasn't the same. It was that difference that kept me looking over my shoulder, desperately searching for someone to care. I was feeling vulnerable; I wanted a reason to go back to what felt right and put this little bump in the road behind me.
It's been four years since I walked out on Starbucks. I've calculated the loss of my business to that store at more than twelve thousand dollars. I am now drinking freshly ground gourmet stuff at work in a different part of the country, and not so gourmet previously ground stuff from the island store in the morning. However, today, a co-worker brought me coffee. Starbucks coffee. A triple venti Carmel Macchiato, for heaven’s sake! What? Does he hate me? Now I am second guessing my righteous break-up with the coffee dynasty – was I a fool? Was it all in my head? Had the relationship ever been special? Did Starbucks ever care for me at all? Could I do better?
The addiction to Starbucks wouldn't be so bad if I’d had something to show for it, like a Nobel Prize in Science. I could explain the necessity of my "dirty little habit" because of all the late nights spent in my laboratory concocting a cure for AIDS. My gluttony would be justified because I was such an important person. People always make allowances for crazy geniuses. I fantasize about making small talk nonchalantly at a time when I know everyone's listening, "Yeah, I've been working really hard on the Starbuckus Latteus avec Talleccus Strawiccus. While working in my garage turned state-of-the art lab, I single-handedly discovered the cure for AIDS ... they let me name the bacteria that will save millions of lives! Anyway, these lattes have really pulled me through it all and I thought the least I could do was name the bacteria after Starbucks ... Hey, would you be a lamb and put a sleeve on that venti latte? My palms are a little tender from another all-nighter at the 'scope."
In the end, today’s Starbuck’s relapse will just have to go down as a one-time indiscretion. A lapse in judgment. It’s really over, and I was just weak. Forgive me.
The Meanest Mom - March 3, 2006
Are you the ‘cool mom’? If you are, I want to hear from you, because I’m curious to know what exactly makes a cool mom, because I have no earthly idea. I’ve seen moms who THINK they are being cool, when what they are actually doing is just NOT being an adult, and their kids mock them for trying to wear clothes that are too young for them. And those kids usually get away with things that are just plain damaging to them.
Let’s talk about Silvia Johnson. The Colorado woman's desire to be a "cool mom" just landed her in cuffs, facing an assortment of felony and misdemeanor charges. According to the Arvada Police Department affidavit, the 40-year-old Johnson entertained local high school boys at weekly sex, booze, and drug parties held in her home. Johnson, who is unemployed, told cops that she was "never popular with classmates in high school," and the house parties--which ran for a year--left her "feeling like one of the group." Does that not just hurt your spine just to think about? I think many of us are a product of our raising, with high school insults staying with us long after they should, but SERIOUSLY!
My goal has never been to be the ‘cool mom’. I didn’t have one (sorry mom), but I did have the best mom ever. A loving, stable, woman of faith, who never lied to us and never let us down. I think the relationship is the most important and the efforts start from the very beginning. I think the first principal is to always treat your kids with respect. I’ve tried never to treat my kids with the ‘seen and not heard’ philosophy, but as distinct individuals with needs and desires to be respected and to be reckoned with.
I am still in the throes of the disciplining stages. I know some of my kid’s friends think that I’m too strict, but I know my kids think I’m fair. If there is anything that they understand, it’s that their opinions matter.
I horse around with my little ones and pick them up and throw them around. I chase them. I wrestle with my son, and he says, “Mommy I don’t use my full strength with you.” Yeah, whatever, macho boy. I listen to my teenagers’ music, and take their friends shopping. I listen when they have drama with friends and with their crushes. I take their crushes seriously. And I almost never turn someone down when they want to have a friend over, because I’d rather them be at our house where I can spy and eavesdrop. Just kidding. But I’m careful, there is a thin line between friendship and authority that I don’t want to cross. They are going to require this figure (such as it is) to be an authority figure, even when they are parents themselves.
I also don’t pretend to be infallible. I’d much rather be honest when they say, “How was your day, mom?” and tell them if I had a rough day, and then tell them how I managed to turn it around.
When it comes to their friends, I have fun with them. But I don’t impose myself on them and let them have privacy with friends and their space. However, usually I find that they hang out longer than I expect them to and tell me things that I NEVER would have told to my mom. Sometimes, in fact, it leaves me in the horrible position of wanting to call the other parents and give them a heads up. Instead I’ve said things like, “You have GOT to tell your mom what is going on with you. I would die if Becky was hurting like you are and I didn’t know it.” Now I’m not delusional, and I don’t think my kids tell me everything, and despite all of our best efforts, they may choose to make really horrible decisions in their lives.
But last week, the girls told me that two of their favorite bands are playing locally soon and asked if they could go. I don’t think they actually thought they had a prayer. I said, “Go get me the CD, so I can look at the lyrics.” I didn’t get the eyeroll. I got tandem squeals as they raced off to their rooms to get the CD jackets for me to look at. I can’t tell you how that made me chuckle. My ‘too cool for U” teenagers went rocketing out of the room like they were five years old and I told them we were going to Chuck E. Cheese. I was already prepared to say no if they gave me the ‘attitude’ for asking to see the band details, and they surprised me. I read some of the lyrics when they came back, breathless with hopeful puppy dog eyes, and I ended up buying seven tickets that night for the two of them, three of their friends, and bless God, one of their mothers. I cannot believe I am taking 5 Jr. High girls to see the Fall Out Boys and the American Rejects – but I can tell you, I’d much rather be the one going and driving, than the one sitting at home wondering what they’re doing while they are there.
Does that make me a cool mom? I hope not. Because I’d much rather be the meanest mom in the whole world.
The Meanest Mom
We had the meanest mother in the whole world! While other kids ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, and toast. When others had a Pepsi and a Twinkie for lunch, we had to eat sandwiches. And you can guess our mother fixed us a dinner that was different from what other kids had, too.Mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were convicts in a prison. She had to know who our friends were, and what we were doing with them. She insisted that if we said we would be gone for an hour, we would be gone for an hour or less.We were ashamed to admit it, but she had the nerve to break the Child Labor Laws by making us work. We had to wash the dishes, make the beds, learn to cook, vacuum the floor, do laundry, and all sorts of cruel jobs. I think she would lie awake at night thinking of more things for us to do.She always insisted on us telling the truth the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. By the time we were teenagers, she could read our minds. Then, life was really tough! Mother wouldn't let our friends just honk the horn when they drove up. They had to come up to the door so she could meet them.
Because of our mother we missed out on lots of things other kids experienced. None of us have ever been caught shoplifting, vandalizing other's property or ever arrested for any crime. It was all her fault. We never got drunk, took up smoking, stayed out all night, or a million other things other kids did. Sundays were reserved for church, and we never missed once. We knew better than to ask to spend the night with a friend on Saturdays.Now that we have left home, we are all God-fearing, educated, honest adults. We are doing our best to be mean parents just like Mom was. I think that is what's wrong with the world today. It just doesn't have enough mean mom's anymore.
Let’s talk about Silvia Johnson. The Colorado woman's desire to be a "cool mom" just landed her in cuffs, facing an assortment of felony and misdemeanor charges. According to the Arvada Police Department affidavit, the 40-year-old Johnson entertained local high school boys at weekly sex, booze, and drug parties held in her home. Johnson, who is unemployed, told cops that she was "never popular with classmates in high school," and the house parties--which ran for a year--left her "feeling like one of the group." Does that not just hurt your spine just to think about? I think many of us are a product of our raising, with high school insults staying with us long after they should, but SERIOUSLY!
My goal has never been to be the ‘cool mom’. I didn’t have one (sorry mom), but I did have the best mom ever. A loving, stable, woman of faith, who never lied to us and never let us down. I think the relationship is the most important and the efforts start from the very beginning. I think the first principal is to always treat your kids with respect. I’ve tried never to treat my kids with the ‘seen and not heard’ philosophy, but as distinct individuals with needs and desires to be respected and to be reckoned with.
I am still in the throes of the disciplining stages. I know some of my kid’s friends think that I’m too strict, but I know my kids think I’m fair. If there is anything that they understand, it’s that their opinions matter.
I horse around with my little ones and pick them up and throw them around. I chase them. I wrestle with my son, and he says, “Mommy I don’t use my full strength with you.” Yeah, whatever, macho boy. I listen to my teenagers’ music, and take their friends shopping. I listen when they have drama with friends and with their crushes. I take their crushes seriously. And I almost never turn someone down when they want to have a friend over, because I’d rather them be at our house where I can spy and eavesdrop. Just kidding. But I’m careful, there is a thin line between friendship and authority that I don’t want to cross. They are going to require this figure (such as it is) to be an authority figure, even when they are parents themselves.
I also don’t pretend to be infallible. I’d much rather be honest when they say, “How was your day, mom?” and tell them if I had a rough day, and then tell them how I managed to turn it around.
When it comes to their friends, I have fun with them. But I don’t impose myself on them and let them have privacy with friends and their space. However, usually I find that they hang out longer than I expect them to and tell me things that I NEVER would have told to my mom. Sometimes, in fact, it leaves me in the horrible position of wanting to call the other parents and give them a heads up. Instead I’ve said things like, “You have GOT to tell your mom what is going on with you. I would die if Becky was hurting like you are and I didn’t know it.” Now I’m not delusional, and I don’t think my kids tell me everything, and despite all of our best efforts, they may choose to make really horrible decisions in their lives.
But last week, the girls told me that two of their favorite bands are playing locally soon and asked if they could go. I don’t think they actually thought they had a prayer. I said, “Go get me the CD, so I can look at the lyrics.” I didn’t get the eyeroll. I got tandem squeals as they raced off to their rooms to get the CD jackets for me to look at. I can’t tell you how that made me chuckle. My ‘too cool for U” teenagers went rocketing out of the room like they were five years old and I told them we were going to Chuck E. Cheese. I was already prepared to say no if they gave me the ‘attitude’ for asking to see the band details, and they surprised me. I read some of the lyrics when they came back, breathless with hopeful puppy dog eyes, and I ended up buying seven tickets that night for the two of them, three of their friends, and bless God, one of their mothers. I cannot believe I am taking 5 Jr. High girls to see the Fall Out Boys and the American Rejects – but I can tell you, I’d much rather be the one going and driving, than the one sitting at home wondering what they’re doing while they are there.
Does that make me a cool mom? I hope not. Because I’d much rather be the meanest mom in the whole world.
The Meanest Mom
We had the meanest mother in the whole world! While other kids ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, and toast. When others had a Pepsi and a Twinkie for lunch, we had to eat sandwiches. And you can guess our mother fixed us a dinner that was different from what other kids had, too.Mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were convicts in a prison. She had to know who our friends were, and what we were doing with them. She insisted that if we said we would be gone for an hour, we would be gone for an hour or less.We were ashamed to admit it, but she had the nerve to break the Child Labor Laws by making us work. We had to wash the dishes, make the beds, learn to cook, vacuum the floor, do laundry, and all sorts of cruel jobs. I think she would lie awake at night thinking of more things for us to do.She always insisted on us telling the truth the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. By the time we were teenagers, she could read our minds. Then, life was really tough! Mother wouldn't let our friends just honk the horn when they drove up. They had to come up to the door so she could meet them.
Because of our mother we missed out on lots of things other kids experienced. None of us have ever been caught shoplifting, vandalizing other's property or ever arrested for any crime. It was all her fault. We never got drunk, took up smoking, stayed out all night, or a million other things other kids did. Sundays were reserved for church, and we never missed once. We knew better than to ask to spend the night with a friend on Saturdays.Now that we have left home, we are all God-fearing, educated, honest adults. We are doing our best to be mean parents just like Mom was. I think that is what's wrong with the world today. It just doesn't have enough mean mom's anymore.
I Am a Crepe Myrtle - March 1, 2006
I am a Crape Myrtle. Crape myrtles are warm-season flowering shrubs for landscapes. Their flowers are beautiful during the summer and fall. During the fall months, their leaves are colorful, still holding out hope, but during the dormant season, the larger varieties develop attractive bark and call it the best they can do.
They grow best in a location of full sunlight, moist fertile loam soil with good drainage and a location with good air circulation. They can tolerate considerable heat, humidity, drought or excessive moisture, but not shade or poor aeration. That is totally me in a well tended pot full of cow poop.
This morning when I was driving down to the Ferry, I realized that it was 7:01am and the sun was coming up, like I could SEE it, over the mountain, shining on the water, and it was going to be sunny, bright, if chilly, morning. This has been the longest, darkest, wettest winter we have had in the five years since moving to the Pacific Northwest and the sun this morning felt like seeing land after being lost at sea for five months. My spirit sang, my eyes welled up with tears, I was singing the hamster song to my kids ‘just because’!
Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a real thing. It is not just for weenies who take prescription meds because they feel tired a few days in a row. SAD is a mood disorder associated with depression episodes and related to seasonal variations of light. (SAD was first noted before 1845, but was not officially named until the early 1980’s, if you wanna know!). As sunlight has affected the seasonal activities of animals (i.e., reproductive cycles and hibernation), SAD is an effect of this seasonal light variation in humans. As seasons change, there is a shift in our “biological internal clocks” or circadian rhythm, due partly to these changes in sunlight patterns. This can cause our biological clocks to be out of “step” with our daily schedules. The most difficult months for SAD sufferers are January and February, and women are at higher risk.
Symptoms Include:
Regularly occurring symptoms of depression (excessive eating and sleeping, weight gain) during the fall or winter months. For me this included wine therapy…not so good.
Remission from depression occurs in the spring and summer months.
Symptoms have occurred in the past two years, with no non-seasonal depression episodes, other than just your normal predictable girlie mood swings.
Seasonal feelings or symptoms of depression substantially outnumber non-seasonal depression episodes.
Craving for sugary and/or starchy foods…okay, that’s a volatile one. I mean I’m not a big chocolate fan, but there are nights when I’d kill for french fries smothered in cheese and green onions that I can dip in Ranch dressing…and that’s pretty much an all year ‘round thing for me.
I was warned by my mother-in-law, Alice when I moved here that it might happen. She, too, was a Southern California girl turned Islander and really struggled hard with the winters. When I have visited during the winter, it has been so incredibly majestic. So green and alive. I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. How can you be surrounded by nature and water and life and feel sad? Then after the third winter, I understood. It’s not feeling sad. Feeling “sad” is when you lose a pet, or watch Steele Magnolias. But feeling SAD, is not being able to react reasonably to simple problems. It’s being short and cranky without realizing it. It’s having such fear and anxiety when you wake up every morning that you don’t want to fall asleep at night. It’s obsessing and dwelling on things that should normally roll off. It’s losing joy. It’s destructive.
Now I’m a pretty tough broad. I was brought up in the school of “snap out of it, and get a grip!” and am happy to say that that philosophy works almost all of the time. But not with this. I was forced to admit after struggling through three Winters and passing my feelings off on circumstances, that I could no longer cope to my standards during the Winter months without help. I would not be content to merely ‘get through the days’, when that is so not my style! I got help. I saw my nurse practitioner who specializes in Women’s health, and she started me on a serotonin uptake inhibitor that was right for me. Low side effects and a low dose, the whole bit. That was over a year ago, and it’s only during the daylight savings months that I take it. It doesn’t make me a weenie, it makes me responsible.
If you think you might be experiencing SAD, and you think you can just snap out of it, I urge you do some research. There are plenty of she-rah’s out there who are just as strong as you are, but need some help staying that way on occasion.
For More Information:Contact your local Mental Health Association, community mental health center, or:
National Mental Health Association2001 N. Beauregard Street, 12th FloorAlexandria, VA 22311Phone 703/684-7722Fax 703/684-5968Mental Health Resource Center 800/969-NMHATTY Line 800/433-5959
Society for Light Treatment and Biological RhythmP.O. Box 591687174 Cook StreetSan Francisco, CA 94159-1687www.websciences.org/sltbr
They grow best in a location of full sunlight, moist fertile loam soil with good drainage and a location with good air circulation. They can tolerate considerable heat, humidity, drought or excessive moisture, but not shade or poor aeration. That is totally me in a well tended pot full of cow poop.
This morning when I was driving down to the Ferry, I realized that it was 7:01am and the sun was coming up, like I could SEE it, over the mountain, shining on the water, and it was going to be sunny, bright, if chilly, morning. This has been the longest, darkest, wettest winter we have had in the five years since moving to the Pacific Northwest and the sun this morning felt like seeing land after being lost at sea for five months. My spirit sang, my eyes welled up with tears, I was singing the hamster song to my kids ‘just because’!
Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a real thing. It is not just for weenies who take prescription meds because they feel tired a few days in a row. SAD is a mood disorder associated with depression episodes and related to seasonal variations of light. (SAD was first noted before 1845, but was not officially named until the early 1980’s, if you wanna know!). As sunlight has affected the seasonal activities of animals (i.e., reproductive cycles and hibernation), SAD is an effect of this seasonal light variation in humans. As seasons change, there is a shift in our “biological internal clocks” or circadian rhythm, due partly to these changes in sunlight patterns. This can cause our biological clocks to be out of “step” with our daily schedules. The most difficult months for SAD sufferers are January and February, and women are at higher risk.
Symptoms Include:
Regularly occurring symptoms of depression (excessive eating and sleeping, weight gain) during the fall or winter months. For me this included wine therapy…not so good.
Remission from depression occurs in the spring and summer months.
Symptoms have occurred in the past two years, with no non-seasonal depression episodes, other than just your normal predictable girlie mood swings.
Seasonal feelings or symptoms of depression substantially outnumber non-seasonal depression episodes.
Craving for sugary and/or starchy foods…okay, that’s a volatile one. I mean I’m not a big chocolate fan, but there are nights when I’d kill for french fries smothered in cheese and green onions that I can dip in Ranch dressing…and that’s pretty much an all year ‘round thing for me.
I was warned by my mother-in-law, Alice when I moved here that it might happen. She, too, was a Southern California girl turned Islander and really struggled hard with the winters. When I have visited during the winter, it has been so incredibly majestic. So green and alive. I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. How can you be surrounded by nature and water and life and feel sad? Then after the third winter, I understood. It’s not feeling sad. Feeling “sad” is when you lose a pet, or watch Steele Magnolias. But feeling SAD, is not being able to react reasonably to simple problems. It’s being short and cranky without realizing it. It’s having such fear and anxiety when you wake up every morning that you don’t want to fall asleep at night. It’s obsessing and dwelling on things that should normally roll off. It’s losing joy. It’s destructive.
Now I’m a pretty tough broad. I was brought up in the school of “snap out of it, and get a grip!” and am happy to say that that philosophy works almost all of the time. But not with this. I was forced to admit after struggling through three Winters and passing my feelings off on circumstances, that I could no longer cope to my standards during the Winter months without help. I would not be content to merely ‘get through the days’, when that is so not my style! I got help. I saw my nurse practitioner who specializes in Women’s health, and she started me on a serotonin uptake inhibitor that was right for me. Low side effects and a low dose, the whole bit. That was over a year ago, and it’s only during the daylight savings months that I take it. It doesn’t make me a weenie, it makes me responsible.
If you think you might be experiencing SAD, and you think you can just snap out of it, I urge you do some research. There are plenty of she-rah’s out there who are just as strong as you are, but need some help staying that way on occasion.
For More Information:Contact your local Mental Health Association, community mental health center, or:
National Mental Health Association2001 N. Beauregard Street, 12th FloorAlexandria, VA 22311Phone 703/684-7722Fax 703/684-5968Mental Health Resource Center 800/969-NMHATTY Line 800/433-5959
Society for Light Treatment and Biological RhythmP.O. Box 591687174 Cook StreetSan Francisco, CA 94159-1687www.websciences.org/sltbr
Flying Undergarments and Other Perils of Packing - February 20, 2006
I hate moving. Let me say it again, I hate moving. Especially short hauls where you think you don’t really need to pack, so you throw loose items into a car, truck, or van and transport it, then actually end up moving junk mail and full trash cans.
So we basically have had to move three times to get to where we want to be now, and it just sucks sideways. We sold our house in suburbia because we wanted to buy land and build our dream home – you know, the Sadist’s American Dream for people who wish to cause themselves harm and become a case study for anti-anxiety meds. Our house sold more quickly than we thought it would, and we had not identified the ‘perfect’ lot yet, so we chose to rent a house in the same “Wisteria Lane” development so that the kids didn’t need to move schools or make new friends until it was a permanent move. That move, literally across the street, was the most disorganized, drawn-out, painful move I have ever endured, and it all took place under the watchful (but not helpful) eyes of our neighbors. We had some help from friends, one of whom left my dresser drawers on the lawn before going back to the other house, and to my utter humiliation, I ended up chasing my underwear down the sidewalk, and fishing my pantyhose out of the neighbor’s gutter when the wind kicked up. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the cast of Desperate Housewives live in that neighborhood, and that they’re still talking about it.
When school got out, we still hadn’t found THE lot, but we had begun spending some time on one of the islands, and really determined that that’s what we wanted for our family: diversity, peace and quiet, spectacular views and wildlife….oh, and close enough to the city that my kids wouldn’t grow up making eyes at each other. So, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, the first comment I got from a long time islander (other than my girlfriend Julie who was really excited), was “Could you just RENT for a year instead of building another ***damn monstrosity and leaving us with it? Oh, and don’t bitch when you get salt water on your SUV!” (For the record, I still had a minivan back then). So we cheerfully took that under advisement, and rented on the island to make sure the life and ferry hassles were going to work for us.
Yeah, try moving to an island sometime.
So now we’ve been renting a home on 3 ½ acres with a fenced garden, a fruit tree orchard, an 9 hole golf course, its own smokehouse, a 600sq. ft. shop, and dual ocean views for almost two years. It took one year to find the perfect spot for us to buy and build on. Hello, we are renting a house on the best spot on the whole island, it’s been really hard to get motivated to leave because we know we can never top this with something we can actually afford! It has taken almost exactly a year and a frillion dollars for all of the building permits, septic permits, curtain drains, drain fields, house pad, trees excavated…and I still haven’t even started packing.
I rented a huge dumpster with the stern plan of throwing away, or giving away, at least half of all of our stuff. Seriously. Because we’ve been renting for about two years now, and a vast majority of our crap has not even been unpacked and remains in boxes out in ‘the shop’ (which is actually a big pole building on the property that hosts a condominium resort for mice.) Do we really need to move this stuff if we haven’t even wondered where it was for the past two years?
So, now we are down to the last three weeks before we can start painting the interior of the new house, and start moving – I keep thinking of easy ways to do this, and there just isn’t one. However, I did completely (and literally) tear my closet apart looking for something to wear to the bachelorette party last Friday that didn’t make me look like one of those woman you see at a NASCAR convention. You know, the divas in the tight pants and side rolls coming out of a halter top that has gotten too tight. The mess I created forced me to at least deal with some of that, and on Sunday I managed to stuff two glad bags full of cast off clothing.
So now, just five bedrooms and six people’s crap to organize and go through and we’re in. Like Flynn. *Sigh*. I guess I’ll just start burning stuff – the ashes would be lighter to move.
So we basically have had to move three times to get to where we want to be now, and it just sucks sideways. We sold our house in suburbia because we wanted to buy land and build our dream home – you know, the Sadist’s American Dream for people who wish to cause themselves harm and become a case study for anti-anxiety meds. Our house sold more quickly than we thought it would, and we had not identified the ‘perfect’ lot yet, so we chose to rent a house in the same “Wisteria Lane” development so that the kids didn’t need to move schools or make new friends until it was a permanent move. That move, literally across the street, was the most disorganized, drawn-out, painful move I have ever endured, and it all took place under the watchful (but not helpful) eyes of our neighbors. We had some help from friends, one of whom left my dresser drawers on the lawn before going back to the other house, and to my utter humiliation, I ended up chasing my underwear down the sidewalk, and fishing my pantyhose out of the neighbor’s gutter when the wind kicked up. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the cast of Desperate Housewives live in that neighborhood, and that they’re still talking about it.
When school got out, we still hadn’t found THE lot, but we had begun spending some time on one of the islands, and really determined that that’s what we wanted for our family: diversity, peace and quiet, spectacular views and wildlife….oh, and close enough to the city that my kids wouldn’t grow up making eyes at each other. So, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, the first comment I got from a long time islander (other than my girlfriend Julie who was really excited), was “Could you just RENT for a year instead of building another ***damn monstrosity and leaving us with it? Oh, and don’t bitch when you get salt water on your SUV!” (For the record, I still had a minivan back then). So we cheerfully took that under advisement, and rented on the island to make sure the life and ferry hassles were going to work for us.
Yeah, try moving to an island sometime.
So now we’ve been renting a home on 3 ½ acres with a fenced garden, a fruit tree orchard, an 9 hole golf course, its own smokehouse, a 600sq. ft. shop, and dual ocean views for almost two years. It took one year to find the perfect spot for us to buy and build on. Hello, we are renting a house on the best spot on the whole island, it’s been really hard to get motivated to leave because we know we can never top this with something we can actually afford! It has taken almost exactly a year and a frillion dollars for all of the building permits, septic permits, curtain drains, drain fields, house pad, trees excavated…and I still haven’t even started packing.
I rented a huge dumpster with the stern plan of throwing away, or giving away, at least half of all of our stuff. Seriously. Because we’ve been renting for about two years now, and a vast majority of our crap has not even been unpacked and remains in boxes out in ‘the shop’ (which is actually a big pole building on the property that hosts a condominium resort for mice.) Do we really need to move this stuff if we haven’t even wondered where it was for the past two years?
So, now we are down to the last three weeks before we can start painting the interior of the new house, and start moving – I keep thinking of easy ways to do this, and there just isn’t one. However, I did completely (and literally) tear my closet apart looking for something to wear to the bachelorette party last Friday that didn’t make me look like one of those woman you see at a NASCAR convention. You know, the divas in the tight pants and side rolls coming out of a halter top that has gotten too tight. The mess I created forced me to at least deal with some of that, and on Sunday I managed to stuff two glad bags full of cast off clothing.
So now, just five bedrooms and six people’s crap to organize and go through and we’re in. Like Flynn. *Sigh*. I guess I’ll just start burning stuff – the ashes would be lighter to move.
T & A (December 5, 2005)
My 8th grade daughter loves her butt. She embraces her butt. She acknowledges with pride and a smile that she has the biggest butt of almost all of her friends. What I would have given for that kind of confidence in Jr. High! Becky has the exact same body type as I did at her age. Were things so different in the 80's that bubble-butts were a thing to be shamefully covered with Wham! sweatshirts tied around the waist? The pop icon when I was in 8th grade was Madonna for crying out loud, and she was still chubby and calling rolling around on the floor "dancing" back then. Could it be J. Lo and Beyonce are to thank for this shift in preferred body-type? I just don't know, but here is the irony. My 7th grade daughter is just as tall and built as my 8th grader and she HATES her flat butt. She says she would give anything for a bigger butt.
So obsessed are they with their butts, that Jason was standing around in the living room waiting for Sarah to finish brushing her teeth, and for me to finish getting dressed this morning, and was subject to a "butt show" while Becky and Amy turned around, pointing at each other's jeans going, "I mean, LOOK at her butt!" Jason, torn between being supportive and feeling slightly perverted, was politely nodding and affirming that they both had great butts. I could hear the conversation digressing as Amy said, "You know, we were just talking about butt-loads yesterday on the bus. I mean, how big is a butt-load?" Jason replied, "A crap-load is bigger than a butt-load". Becky chimed in, "Valerie thinks a sh**-load is bigger than a crap-load". (She didn't say the word, by the way, she wants to live to her 14th birthday next week). I was only getting parts of this conversation, feeling really sorry for my poor husband. I decided to grab my sweater and walk into the living room and said, "Stop tormenting your father." turning to Jason I said, "Honey, do my boobs look okay in this sweater, or should I put on a different bra?" Silence. Jason turned around towards the door, walking slowly and motioning to my son. Dylan grabbed his hand and walked through the door saying, "Daddy, they really should say 'bottom'."
So obsessed are they with their butts, that Jason was standing around in the living room waiting for Sarah to finish brushing her teeth, and for me to finish getting dressed this morning, and was subject to a "butt show" while Becky and Amy turned around, pointing at each other's jeans going, "I mean, LOOK at her butt!" Jason, torn between being supportive and feeling slightly perverted, was politely nodding and affirming that they both had great butts. I could hear the conversation digressing as Amy said, "You know, we were just talking about butt-loads yesterday on the bus. I mean, how big is a butt-load?" Jason replied, "A crap-load is bigger than a butt-load". Becky chimed in, "Valerie thinks a sh**-load is bigger than a crap-load". (She didn't say the word, by the way, she wants to live to her 14th birthday next week). I was only getting parts of this conversation, feeling really sorry for my poor husband. I decided to grab my sweater and walk into the living room and said, "Stop tormenting your father." turning to Jason I said, "Honey, do my boobs look okay in this sweater, or should I put on a different bra?" Silence. Jason turned around towards the door, walking slowly and motioning to my son. Dylan grabbed his hand and walked through the door saying, "Daddy, they really should say 'bottom'."
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