Your other you

I saw this phrase in an advertisement for some magazine and was really struck by it. I have no idea what the actual article was about - it was on the cover of Mens' Health - but it made me think, "Who is my other me?". I think we all have different versions of ourselves inside of us and they shape the person we show to the outside world. By the choices we make in life we decide which version of ourselves comes to be and I started to think about all the other Marys that exist in me.

I can say with complete honesty that all of my Marys* are married to my hubby because he makes me a better person no matter what situation I'm in. Some of my other Marys though, decided not to have children. Shocking, I know from someone whose full-time job is taking care of her kids. I love my kids to death and could not imagine, in reality, my life without them, but sometimes I think my life could have gone completely in the other direction and I would be a total workaholic. One of my alter egos works in publishing and wears fabulous suits and heels to work everyday. Her nights are filed with parties and work events and she, obviously, lives in New York. Very Lipstick Jungle. Another Mary did go to med school instead of becoming a teacher and balances her practice as an OB/GYN with being a mother with ease and calm (obviously a fantasy). A third, joined the Peace Corps and is living in Africa helping orphaned children.

I probably sound like Sybil with all of these different people I'm telling you exist inside me, but each of them represents something that I love or is meaningful to me. I take what I can from each of them that fits in to my current reality and I feel it makes me a better wife and mother. Anyone who knows me knows I love a little fabulousity and will wear ridiculous shoes and jewelry when given the chance and this makes me feel better on days I can barely get a shower. Nights spent awake with the baby are made bearable when I stay out all night with my husband once in a blue moon. And the publishing? Well, this blog isn't very glamorous, but it counts. Gaining some perspective by wearing or doing something not related to my "job" makes me see there are other identities to inhabit occasionally other than "So-and-so's mother".

Some of the personas influence my hopes and dreams for myself in the future. Yes, I do have those for myself as well as my kids. Just because I'm a mother doesn't mean I'm done becoming the me I'm meant to be. My doctor Mary makes me think about going back to school in the future and Peace Corps Mary makes me wonder if Tony and I won't do some overseas volunteer work when the kids fly the coop.

What all of these women do for me is show me the other possibilities for my life and make me glad I have chosen this one. While they all seem exciting and fulfilling in ways different than the life I am currently living I know this is where I belong and who I'm supposed to be right now. So think about who those other people are who live in your head. Invite some of them out to play once in a while. Maybe you're the only one who knows they exist, but I'm sure bits of them peep through. Be excited about that because it means there are still choices to make and roads to take and different "you"s to be.

* PEN - I love that with the overuse of my name my Google ads include statues of the Virgin Mary.

I said NOW!

I was at the park the other day with the kids when I witnessed what I'd like to say is an unusual event. A mother was telling her son it was time to go and he was having a full-on fit - screaming, crying, throwing himself on the ground. The mother had done all the things we're "supposed" to do, she had given him a ten minute, then five minute warning, she stayed positive and ignored the bad behavior ("Let's go home! You can help me make dinner!") all this with a baby strapped to her chest and another in the double stroller (twins!). It took her twenty minutes to get to the gate of the park and another fifteen to get him in the car. Then, while she strapped the babies in their seats the kid proceeded to climb into the driver's seat and honk the horn at random intervals for ten minutes. This is when I ask myself, dear readers, when did we give up control?

This episode at the park is produced by co-parenting. I don't mean the kind where two divorced parents share custody, I mean the kind where the kid is allowed to call some of the shots. I don't say all of the shots because this woman stuck to her guns, rightly, and got the kid out of the park - eventually. I understand that kids need to feel some kind of control in their lives, but what ever happened to "Because I said so."? This constant bargaining and counting to ten and "this is your warning"s are completely ineffective. When I was a kid, I listened the first time or there was hell to pay. With these kids, they must wonder, "What? Are you going to take away my TV time? You'll just give it back to me later when I beg long and hard enough." Other parents must think me a monster and I feel a little uncomfortable afterwards when I give my kids the beaver face (lips tightened, front teeth slightly exposed) and I whisper-scream, "Are you kidding me? You get over here right NOW!" instead of asking them why they don't want to leave the playbround.

So parents out there, let's make a deal. I won't judge you when you yell at your kids and you won't judge me. Maybe if we weren't afraid of looking like bad parents, we'd make our kids tow the line more often. Otherwise we might have the lunatics running the asylum, I mean, playground.

To be a kid again...

As a parent I spend a lot of time telling my kids what to do, when to do it and how to do it. The other day, as we were running late, I was screaming at my oldest to put on her shoes for the fifth time and I thought to myself, "Why the hell doesn't she listen the first time?" When I really looked at the situation, it dawned on me that it really can suck to be a kid. My daughter was happily watching Sesame Street, but because we have to leave the house at 8:15 she doesn't get to watch the whole thing. I'd be reticent to peel my eyes away from my favorite show too if I never got to watch it. So this Friday, I am putting myself in my kids' shoes.

Top 5 Things that Suck About Being a Kid

5. Gym class - I thank my personal gods every day that I do not have to suffer the indignity of being picked for a team ever again. Whether it be the dreaded dodgeball or soccer, it's the same popularity contest all over the world. It might be fun to travel back in time and see how your position in the pecking order is directly proportional to your likelihood of winding up a bloated, alcoholic, has-been who thinks high school were the best days of your life.

4. Clothes - Imagine having someone else choose your clothes for you. Sure, I give my kids the obligatory, "Pants or skirt?" choice all the parenting magazines tell me makes them feel more in control of their lives, blah, blah, blah, but really, I'm the one buying the clothes so I'm defining the pool from which they pick. I personally suffered from this until I reached middle school as my mother really had terrible taste in clothing coupled with the fact that we were on a tight budget and Old Navy hadn't been invented yet - the pickin's were slim at Sears. Every time I buy something for my girls I think about what it says about them. While I stand firm on my ban on bare mid-drift (it happens, even in kindergarten) and animal print anything (#1 daughter has a friend with a leopard print skirt and jean jacket with matching trim - a teenage pregnancy in the making if you ask me) I don't want to dress her so conservatively she's considered a dork. I'll enjoy this unquestioned authority while I can though since I can hear the arguments already, "But Madison's mom let's her wear it..."

3. Bedtime - If someone came up to me right now and said, "Enough writing, it's time for bed." I'd tell them to go screw. That's what my kids must feel like every night when I tell them it's time for lights out. Imagine not being able to watch another Law & Order re-run just because I feel like it and yes, I know I'm going to be tired tomorrow, but who cares? I'm surprised there's not a riot from the bunk beds every night.

2. Homework - I still, to this day, have nightmares that I'm back in school and have some paper due that I have not written or test I haven't studied for. I think that's supposed to mean something psychologically. Perhaps that I'm a control freak who feels overwhelmed living in a uncontrollable environment such as raising three kids? Nah, couldn't be. While I do entertain the idea of going back to school, I dread the idea of homework and tests. Remember that sinking feeling when you hadn't studied or done the homework? The smell of a #2 pencils still gives me the jitters.

1. Food - I've already confessed that I'm a rabid foodie so imagine what a theater of pain it would be every day having someone else tell me what to eat. "Finish your peas or no cookies." I hate peas, screw you! What about those Sundays we all have, usually hungover, when we just decide to eat crap all day because we feel like it. Life would be very bleak indeed, without those days. Having someone else tell me when I've had enough cake (there's never enough cake) or that I can't eat that whole box of Cap'n Crunch? No, really, I'll decide when I'm done.

Maybe by thinking this way I am actually doing what the magazines say and empathizing, at least a little, with how difficult it must be to have no control over your own life. Everyone reminisces about how great it was to be a kid with the carefree days and ability to determine your own sleep schedule, but I think, on the balance, I prefer being an adult with control of my own choices. Especially since I no longer have to wear an over-sized red sweatshirt with paw prints all over it paired with matching leggings and eat peas before doing a book report and going to bed after The Muppet Show.

Shut up, Bill Rancic

On those rarest of days when the girls are at school, and the baby is asleep I sit my self down with a big cup of coffee and a big basket of laundry and indulge in the stay at home mother's favorite - and rarely enjoyed - treat, daytime television. With the creation of the DVR, I do have the option of watching a show that Tony simply refuses to watch, ex. The Pussycat Dolls, but what I love are shows like The Today Show and The View. While I genuinely like Today (even though Ann Curry is trying to be the new Katie Couric and it's not working) I watch The View primarily to make fun of Elizabeth Hasselbeck as mocking is my favorite pastime. So imagine my delight when I stumbled upon a new program on NBC called iVillage In the Loop hosted by two random broads and...drumroll please...The Apprentice's Bill Rancic! Oh, how the mighty have fallen! I put on my mocking gloves and I settled in for a good round.

I enjoyed a few minutes of forced, witty banter between Bill and his obviously inferior co-hosts ("I'm a celebrity, dammit!") concerning the topics of the day which included a segment on baby feeding as Bill and his wife are expecting a child soon. This is where is got ugly. Rancic tells the story of a woman sitting next to him on a plane with her baby who actually dared to breastfeed or as Bill put it with the maturity of a twelve year-old, "whipped out the tap". Now, I'm not a breastfeeding zealot, but I am currently nourishing a small human and did so two other times. I tried it, it worked for me, so I stuck with it. I was very prepared to go the bottle route if my "taps" didn't work out. So it is from an objective point of view that I tell you, Bill Rancic, to shut your damn pie-hole.

Bill, did you ever stop to think what that mother would have to do in order to feed her child if she didn't nurse him? No, probably not, but let me paint the picture for you in nice, broad strokes so you can see it, dummy. This woman was probably up at the crack of dawn packing her child for a flight, having panic attacks the whole time lest she forget his pacifier or favorite toy, and trying to remember to pack clean underwear for herself. Now, if she is traveling according to "Bill's Rules", she'll make time to sit and pump some breastmilk which she will need to keep refrigerated until her baby needs it. She will have to get this and all of his crap through security where, after catching some foot disease walking barefoot through the metal detectors, they will probably ask her to drink some of her own milk just to prove it isn't some new-fangled accelerant. Once she gets on the plane and her baby starts to fuss, which she will be freaking out about since she's sitting next to such a delicate flower as you, Rancic, she'll have to flag down the over-worked flight attendant and ask for some hot water to heat up her bottle since breastmilk can not be microwaved. I'm sure you're dying to ask the question, "Why can't she give the kid a bottle of formula?" Well, why the hell should she have to? All so you won't catch a two second glance of nipple while she's feeding her kid? Grow up.

OK, so maybe that wasn't such an objective opinion, but I am tired of people still not being over the breastfeeding-in-public thing. When you're pregnant they beat you over the head with the fact that "Breast is Best" - must we make it a rhyme? - and then once you actually have to leave your house with your offspring you feel like a leper if you have to feed your kid anywhere but a bathroom stall. I'm not ripping off my top, trying to shove a political point in people's faces when I do it, but I refuse to hide away or waste bottles of expressed milk to feed my kid in public. That stuff is liquid freedom and I'm either drunk or out of the house when it's being used. And I absolutely refuse to use one of those retarded covers called Hooter Hiders - I want to find the woman who created and named that thing and beat her to death (and if that name's not vomit-inducing enough she also named her company Bebe au Lait). You really need one more thing to juggle as you're trying to undo your bra and hold onto a screaming, wriggling infant. Besides after three kids I'm pretty good at showing minimal skin.

So Bill Rancic, I wish you good luck. No, actually, I wish you a colicky baby who doesn't give you a moment's peace unless she's nursing. If you can rip yourself away from the bottles of self-tanner and hair gel you are obviously abusing perhaps you'll get a chance to see your wife breastfeed and observe that it's not a display of sexuality or a political statement, it's just a mother feeding her baby.

Oh, and I found out today In the Loop was canceled. It's too poetic. Bill was fired.

Who is J. Crew?

When I was in college I used to go to this great housewares store in the Syracuse mall. It had really cute plates and bowls in bright patterns and chunky light green tumblers made of that rustic glass with tiny bubbles in it. Woven cotton placemats and items that couldn't fit on the shelves were displayed in wicker baskets filled with straw all around the store. As a college student I wasn't really in the market for all of these goods, but hubby and I would wander around planning our future home and I'd pick up a votive holder or two for my room back at the sorority house. You might actually know this place, it was called Pottery Barn.

Now that you've picked yourself up off the floor, I will assert that I am telling the truth. I'm sure a few of you, like me, remember PB's humble beginnings, before they started selling all-white dinner plates and over-priced furniture, before they had a catalogue for very member of the family (Pottery Barn Kids, PB Teen) and began selling baby clothes. Thinking about the disparity between the store as it currently exists and the place that used to sell pink and yellow checkerboard plates I began to wonder when did we get so fancy? And PB's not the only store that's gotten too big for it's britches. It seems to be an epidemic.

Clothing stores are also forgetting their humble beginnings and movin' on up. Banana Republic, purveyor of cashmere and silk frequented by metrosexuals everywhere is the biggest poser in my mind. There is no way I'm buying a T-shirt for $22.50 from a store that had a real Jeep driving through the front window of their stores. Get it? It was a "banana republic"! Now I'm supposed pretend I never hacked my way through all those fake banana trees to by natural cotton T-shirts with a tiger on them or a pair of ill-fitting khaki shorts? Get over yourself.

Preppy meccas Gap and J. Crew also suffer from the same amnesia. When I was in eighth grade Gap was the place for sweats. They had walls filled with sweat shirts with ribbed hems just right for making the upper torso look as balloon-like as possible. And sweatpants - do kids these days even know what those are? - high-waisted with elastic cuffs ever so flattering on the pear shaped pre-teen. J. Crew was my source for "college" clothes back in the day when all they had were rugby shirts and rollneck sweaters. I bought a bushel of those sweaters and shapeless pleated, yes, pleated, corduroys apparently in an effort to make myself look as ridiculous as possible. Now when I shop at these stores I am faced with fitted T's and "skinny jeans" (I guess the Gap has something against the pear shape in general) and the madras button down I wore to death in college has now been replaced by a handbag with tortoise hardware made of this material - which I bought in a fit of nostalgia. J. Crew used to sell plaid kilts and now I'm supposed to buy a wedding dress from them? I think not. Well, maybe.

I wonder what tourists from other countries think if they happen upon these stores. I envision a Japanese tourist, looking over linens and asking her husband, "Why do they call this place a 'barn'?" or Germans asking themselves, "Why is this store named after a small country that is politically unstable and whose economy is dominated by foreign companies and depends on one export such as bananas?" (thank you Google dictionary!). J. Crew once had its ties to that preppy college sport, but now looks as athletic as RuPaul in a football helmet. And the Gap? Apparently the name refers to the "generation gap" as the founders had trouble finding blue jeans where their "square" parents shopped back in the 60's. It's safe to say this name no longer has any meaning as I see overly nipped and tucked fifty year-olds shopping for inappropriate jeans there all the time.

Despite all my bitching I do still shop at these stores. In fact, I benefit greatly from the fact that they've changed with the times or I'd still be wearing those pleated corduroys. I just want some honesty. Maybe they can have small sections in the back of their catalogues devoted to the merchandise that got them started years ago. God knows these days I'm in the market for a good pair of sweatpants...

Where my Peeps at?

OK, I know. I missed a Friday Top 5. Apologies to all. Easter came fast and furious and before I knew it I had less than two days in which to purchase and assemble my kids' Easter baskets. Easter is one of those holidays that really doesn't register unless you are a kid or have one. As I was assembling said baskets I had a chance to think about all the things I love and hate about Easter and came up with a special edition Monday Top 5. Again, mostly edible - shut up.

Top 5 Things that Suck About Easter

5. White tights - As a kid I remember the torture of having to keep a pair of white tights clean for this holiday that happens to occur during the muddiest time of year. I now get to experience the other side of this conundrum as a parent, further complicated by the fact that by Easter I am usually down to one pair for each of my girls having exhausted them through the winter and better, more prepared, mothers have bought out every pair at Old Navy that don't have those ridiculous ruffles on the ass. I swear my kids' only memory of Easter will be me screaming on the way to the car, "Oh, COME ON! Stay out of the MUD!"

4. Cadbury creme eggs - I sure you're all familiar with this candy, but if not, a refresher. Cadbury creme eggs are hollow chocolate eggs that are filled with a creamy/gelatinous sugar mixture that is supposed to resemble real raw egg. What I think it resembles I can not say as my father and father in-law read this, but this filling is so nasty I would not eat this if it were the last candy on earth. I went to college with a girl who was so obsessed with this confection she would stockpile them when Easer came around. She would sit in my papa-san chair, nibble off the end and suck out the filling. I feel nauseous just writing this.

3. Ham - Ham is the devil's work. While I'm sure there is a way to prepare it so it doesn't resemble the world's largest pencil eraser in color and texture, I have yet to encounter it. I do enjoy pork, in general, but there is something so wrong about the solidity of ham and the way it flops off the bone in rubbery slices that makes my skin crawl.

2. Jelly beans - Whenever I see jelly beans I think of children from times long ago like Laura Ingalls Wilder from Little House on the Prairie or Francie from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - and know that a child has not enjoyed this candy since. To clarify I'm talking about the huge, mass produced variety like Brach's, not the fancy-schmancy kind like Jelly Bellys which I do enjoy when pressed. Jelly Bellys correct a major problem with other beans - size. Who wants to chew away on a giant hunk of gelatinous sugar? Most of the cheaper varieties (all I got as a kid) are also of indeterminant flavor. Of course, there is always one jelly bean that did have flavor - the horrid black jelly bean - nemesis of children's palates everywhere as their little faces are blown off by the taste of licorice. Jelly beans look cool when scattered in your Easter basket, but how good could they be if you willingly give them to your dad?

1. Peeps - What I hate most about Peeps is the disparity between how much I want to love them and how much I actually hate them. The way they are lined up in perfect formation in their little cellophane coffin, nary a granule of colored sugar out of place, appeals to my fastidious nature. Their soft texture upon handling suggests a pillowy center reminiscent of Mallowmars, but upon consumption more closely resembles foam rubber. Peeps don't play around with the palate either. They are sugar, dammit! Let's not pretend with "flavor" and "taste". My father, a Peep connoisseur, is going to have a bone to pick with me about making this Easter icon my number one. He prefers to eat them after they have been out of their wrapper for a few days. I think I have any argument he might make beat because, seriously, how good is a candy you enjoy more when it's stale?

I hope you all had a great holiday. Now if you'll excuse me I must go pilfer my children's Easter candy. Their baskets are, of course, jelly bean and Peep-free zones.

DOES HE NOT SEE IT????

Imagine this scenario. It's five o'clock, I'm starving while making the kids' dinner and I have two minutes to quickly grab some hummus and carrots from the fridge to snack on before I have to begin shoveling pureed organic squash into the baby's maw and nagging Molly to eat her chicken. Before I went to the store earlier in the day I checked my stock of snacks so I know hummus is available and ready to eat - or so I thought. At left please find, dear readers, a real photograph of the hummus container my husband actually put back into the fridge. I know! If he had been home I would have called him into the kitchen to throw it at him ala the infamous Dry Cleaning Syrup Bottle Fight of '06 (but that's another story).

I simply do not understand. This is not his only offense. Let's look at some of his greatest hits, shall we?

Putting the milk carton back with an ounce of milk left in it so when the girls wake up at six thirty I have to trudge down to the basement to get a new gallon while the baby cries waiting to be fed.
Using the last of the toilet paper and leaving the roll on top of the dispenser instead of putting it back.
Using the last of the toilet paper and not replacing it at all because when he replaced the last roll there was no more under the sink thus requiring a trip to the basement. This is usually followed by me, home alone with the kids on the toilet, cursing him and having to fish an old tissue out of the garbage. Shut, up - you know you've done it too.
Placing a new bottle of shampoo right next to the empty one in the shower (so it can show the new bottle the ropes?).
And beer bottles. Where do I begin? My husband isn't a big drinker, but if I didn't clean up after him you'd think he was ready for Betty Ford.

I could go on, but what I'm wondering is is this an affliction suffered solely by the married male? Or do single men suffer as well? Are their apartments wastelands littered with empty cereal boxes, saline bottles and soda cans? I think if I went away for a week my husband would drown in a pile of his own detritous. He's good about putting things away like his clothes, but what is the mental block with consumables? He tells me he just doesn't see it, but I swear, one week I'm going to bite the bullet and see what happens if I don't replace, refill or throw away any of his crap. Wonder how blind he'd be then. And, yes, I know I'm not perfect either and I have my faults too, but this house is my office. I don't go to his job and leave Diet Coke cans on his desk. I don't leave him stranded on the can with a wet patootie either.

To my village, thank you.

I recently came across this problem on the MCAT, let's see if you can answer it correctly. I have included the answers so you can check your work.

Part 1: A woman (Mom 1) drops her two children off at two different schools, one preschool, one elementary, each in a different town. Both children need to be picked up at 11:30. What does she do?
Solution: Mom 1 arranges with friend (Mom 2) with children in the same schools to split pick-up and meet at her house to exchange children.

Part 2: Mom 1 also has an infant son. He accompanies her on all drop offs and pick ups kindly napping during school hours. On this particular day Infant Son develops a fever and Mom 1 endures an hour of inconsolable crying before deciding she must take Infant Son to the doctor immediately which will result in her missing pick up mentioned above. What does she do?
Solution: Woman calls a third woman (Mom 3) with a child at the elementary school who will pick up the older children when she fetches her own child. Mom 2 will pick up the younger children at preschool, bring them to Mom 3's house where she will drop off Mom 1's younger child and pick up her own older child. Mom 3 will feed and entertain Mom 1's children until she can get to Mom 3's house after Infant Son's doctor appointment to pick them up.

Did you get it right? Well, it took me about half an hour to come up with that solution all while listening to my son scream. Oh, in case you haven't figured it out, the MCAT is not the Medical College Admissions Test, it's my life, the Mom's Crazy All the Time, which incidentally is also a test - of my patience and sanity. This is what went down today when one piece of the carefully choreographed ballet I have put together in order to get my children from point A to point B each morning went awry.

As I stood in the kitchen clutching the phone trying to decide how I was going to be in three places at the same time I thought to myself, "How the hell am I supposed to do this all by myself?" The answer is, I'm not supposed to. The situation modern mothers are put in today is unnatural. We're not supposed to be alone. We're supposed to be living a tent with other women, all of whom have children, weaving each other's clothes, tending each other's goats, and cooking common meals. If one day my child is sick you'll entertain and feed my other kids so I can tend to him in peace and somewhere down the road I'll return the favor. We don't even need to go that far back to remember a time women were not so alone, let's look back to the 40's and 50's. Most women were home. If you needed help you could run next door and say, "Marge, could you keep an ear out for the baby in case he wakes up? I have to run to the school because Timmy forgot his lunch." Someone was actually home and in a similar situation to yours. After eight-thirty my street is a ghost town of empty driveways and darkened windows.

So it wasn't the women who I live closest to who I called upon to help, it was the network of mothers I have been fortunate enough to meet through my daughters' schools and my mother in-law. These women save my ass again and again and for that I am eternally grateful. Mom 3 in particular, I haven't even known a year. When we met I had just given birth to my son and she came right out and said if I ever needed a hand to give her a call. Mom 2 is also an amazing friend and is always willing to be flexible when I screw up carpool again. And my mother in-law. She came running to my house as soon as she could just in case I needed her. As I have said time and again, she is my lifeboat and my anchor. Without her I would be sinking or adrift in an ocean of missed doctor's appointments and Girl Scout meetings.

These women make up my village and I want them to know how thankful I am for their continued help and support and should they ever need me I am just a phone call away.* While we may not be sharing a tent, we have to stick together, ladies. My village would be a lonely place without you.

*(Speaking of phone calls I have to electronically include my sista-soul, Sasha, who is always on the other end of the line during these crises offering advice. Sorry for the earful of baby crying today, Dolls)

Let's keep talking about green, shall we?

No, I'm not continuing yesterday's rant about Saint Patrick's Day, today I'm complaining (surprise, surprise) about this whole "green" movement. While I whole-heartedly support the idea that we need to start living in a more ecologically conscious sort of way and avoid blatant consumerism, I am beginning to resent the fact that I can't get away from it for one damn minute. I get it. I recycle, I bought those new lightbulbs, I starting doing all my laundry in cold water. I don't need to hear about a million times in one day.

My first and foremost gripe when it comes to this movement is the media. It seems I can not enjoy a single issue of my girly-mags (Glamour, Self, etc.) without some portion of them being devoted to the benefits of green beauty products or clothing. While I do my best, if I can't get it at Target, it ain't gettin' got. I lack the time to search out a store that carries conditioner made out of organic kiwis from some endangered forest as I do the thirty-two dollars to buy it with. And the clothes. Please. Old Navy does not yet carry recycled denim or organic cotton shirts so, there again, is another degree of global warming I'm responsible for. Publishers, I am aware of all I can do to save the environment and I am doing what I can. I am not a single, twenty-seven year-old with the corresponding lifestyle. Just show me some pretty things, please. And television. If, on the rare occasion I get to watch The Today Show, I have to see Ann Curry talking to someone else about "greening" your home I'm going to put my fist through the screen.

It also seems my choice of food has become politically incorrect as well. I would love, truly, to shop at Whole Foods for my basic grocery needs. I love the quality and selection of products. What I do not love is the astronomical bill I am left with when all I bought was some lettuce and a bag of edamame or the fact that I can only buy the uber-expensive organic diapers instead of my toxic, money-saving Huggies when I shop there. I am also wracked with guilt over the fact that I don't either grow my own vegetables or shop at a local farmers market. I am apparently condemning my grandchildren to a world without polar ice caps since it takes so much fuel for the growers to ship my pesticide-laced apples to Stop N Shop. No, I don't buy organic. My children will obviously be sprouting an extra appendage any day now, but my mother didn't spend a hundred dollars a week on organic produce alone and I don't have any bizarre growths. Even Bon Appetit, my favorite source of food porn has jumped on the band wagon. Stop with all the "local" this and "artisenal" that. Just show me how to cook a freakin' steak, put a picture of chocolate cake on your cover and shut up.

The lifestyle changes that are held up as examples are also ridiculous for someone in my position - living in the suburbs with three kids. It's too far for us to walk so I have to load all my progeny into my gas-guzzling minivan to get anywhere. While my behemoth is more fuel efficient then an SUV, I should be peddling a bicycle with all three of them strapped to my back - they don't make a hybrid that holds more than three people. I should be composting, which the neighbors who border my postage-stamp-sized yard would love and my dog would treat as his personal smörgåsbord, ramming his body to gain access to the bin. I should be stuffing groceries for five people into thirty canvas bags each week instead of having the grocery delivery service transport them in the plastic bags we eventually use to pick up his crap on the dog's nightly walk.

Maybe this is all fueled by guilt. In fact, a lot of it is, but people, my hands are tied. I swear, once my kids don't require car-seats that take up as much space as people twice their size I'll be down-grading to a station wagon, hopefully a hybrid. I will recycle my dry cleaning hangers instead of shamefully hiding them in the garbage. I will buy earth-friendly cleaners, which I am convinced don't work as well, when my kids stop putting everything in their mouths. Maybe I'll even grow some tomatoes. The point is I have enough guilt about what I feel I'm not doing for my kids to feel guilty about what I'm not doing for Mother Earth. Besides, she's a mother, she understands all I have to do. I'll just ease my mind picturing her saying, "When you can, Dear..."

No, everybody's not Irish

I must apologize in advance for the massive amount of snark you are about to read.

Today, dear readers, is one of my least favorite days of the year - Saint Patrick's Day. You might ask why a one hundred percent Irish woman with the name Mary and red hair hates the most Irish of days. Well, dear readers, how would you feel if there were a day each year the rest of the population went around pretending to be of your ethnicity by parading around its stereotypes? Italians, what if everyone went around wearing big, gold chains, tight pants and coming on to every woman in site? I'm talking about stereotypes of real Italians, not Italian-Americans in which case they would be wearing leather jackets, threatening to beat everyone up and, I guess the gold chains still apply. What if there were a Confucius Day when everyone walked around wearing giant straw hats and bowing? I think my Chinese friends would be pretty pissed off. So put yourself in my shoes when I see everyone on the train to New York wearing green, plastic derbys, drunk off their asses at nine in the morning and slurring bad Irish "brogues" because "everyone's Irish today". No, really, you're not.

Don't get me wrong, I love being Irish. So much so it was a real blow when I took my husband's very Italian last name. It meant all of my dreams of Gaelic first names for my children went right out the window. I wanted daughters with names like Colleen and Maura, sons named Seamus and Eamon*. Putting those first names with my new last name guaranteed a lifetime of playground torture for my offspring or at the very least an identity crisis. Imagine my chagrin when I now meet my children's classmates with first names like Liam and Connor with the least Irish last names you could imagine. I had to fight the good fight though when my husband would not allow me to name my son Brady, my mother's maiden name, and give it to both my daughters as a middle name. To give credit where credit is due Brady is becoming rather ubiquitous and losing its ethnic flair so my husband was ahead of the curve.

There is also something liberating about being an Irish woman. We are known for our strong work ethic, toughness and, yes, raging tempers. Irish women are not to be messed with. Take Maureen O'Hara in The Quiet Man. The whole town is afraid of her and despite her obvious beauty, no man in town will marry her. Not a ringing endorsement, but then American John Wayne blows into town and this one-time boxer is her equal. My husband loves the scene at the end where Wayne, the "quiet man" who has taken all of her crap so far, finally blows a gasket and physically drags Mauren O'Hara back to the house because he's had enough of her foolishness. (Note to my husband: Don't get any ideas, smart guy.) Maybe there is a hint of domestic violence there, but the way she falls completely in love with him afterwards shows that once an Irish woman meets her equal it's a match unlike any other. Sure, she's bound to throw a few plates now and then, but that passion will keep their marriage alive (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) OK, I just threw up in my mouth a little that I just wrote that, but in a lot of cases under that repressed, Catholic guilt-ridden exterior lies a passionate soul.

So with my love of my Irish heritage in my heart, I will grin and bear it on this most annoying day as people ask me, "Where's your green?" and why I hate corned beef and cabbage (an Irish American invention, by the way, they actually don't eat it in Ireland). I will try to ignore the drunk sixteen year olds with shamrocks painted on their faces walking home from the train station and try not to punch someone in the head when they start to sing Danny Boy - since no one, but a real Irish person, knows any of the words other than "Oh, Danny Boy...". I think I might have to partake in an Irish pastime and have a few drinks to get through it - even though it pisses me off, there can be truth in certain stereotypes and the one I will admit to is the Irish know how to have a damn good time. Besides, my kids might be a little embarrassed if Mommy got into a street fight and I'm not sure my husband would post bail.

* Despite their last name, I strongly emphasize the fact that my children are three-quarters Irish.

PPN - As usual, I'm adding a post-publishing note for those of you who don't read the comments and get the benefit of my sister's bon mot - "Irish women - they love hard and they hate hard. Gotta love 'em."

Part of a healthy breakfast...

Writing this Friday's Top 5 , I realized how many of my ideas for these lists revolve around food. I have a whole list of ideas for my Friday posts and I've had to pace out the food ones for fear of sounding obsessed. Well, dear readers, I'm done pretending. I LOVE FOOD. My husband and I read and discuss Bon Appetit, Gourmet and the Williams Sonoma catalogue the way some people do the New York Times. So take this as your warning, my Friday post will, more often than not, be based on some kind of edible and I will not be ashamed.

This Friday's Top 5 - CEREAL! Who doesn't love cereal? My kids, for starters. Don't get me wrong, my kids do enjoy cereal, but these little freaks will only eat it dry. I am not lying when I tell you my oldest eats Frosted Mini Wheats dry for breakfast. Do you want a side of sand with that? My own childhood history with cereal is one of forbidden love. I grew up in a household where Sugar Bear and Captain Crunch were personae non grata. Our choices were limited to a selection of non-sugared, healthy options such as Cheerios, Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies. As a parent, I can appreciate and do replicate this decision. The most popular cereals in my house are Kix and the above mentioned shredded wheat, but what I still to this day do not understand about my parents' cereal decision is that we were allowed to add as much table sugar as we wanted! What's the point in that? So after my sister and I wolfed down our morning bowl of healthy Cheerios we were left with a thick silt composed of sugar and milk to enjoy as dessert. My molars cry out at the memory. It is no surprise then that my sister and I became quite covetous of the junkier cereals and were known to consume entire boxes of Count Chocula during sleepovers at our Aunt Janie's. To prevent my kids from becoming cereal junkies I have amended the cereal rule I borrowed from my parents. Sugar cereal may be eaten, but only as dessert, after dinner. Of course, they still don't add milk. So without further ado, the list of cereals I most desired as a child and enjoy as an adult. Feel free to comment and tell me about some of your own.

Top 5 Cereals of All Time

5. Special K - Didn't think a healthy cereal would make the list, did ya'? Well I am including this one begrudgingly only because I ate it in such mass quantities in the 90's I'd feel like a fraud if I didn't. Special K became a food group to me in college as I lived in my sorority house for three years where meals were prepared by possibly the worst cook to hold a spatula since Chef Boyardee. Special K became my "entree" cereal. It had protein and the quality oshared by 99% of things I ate in college - being low fat. I laughed out loud when they developed that Special K Diet and put it on the box. My Special K diet involved eating ten bowls for dinner (usually followed by half an Entemann's low-fat pound cake) and wondering why I was gaining weight. Regardless of its diet consciousness I give a shout-out to The K for saving me from the horror that was Kathy's raspberry chicken (I swear to God it was day-glow pink).

4. Fruity Pebbles - This cereal has the panache of being tied to a popular cartoon series. While kids today still enjoy the cereal, I'm sure they have no idea who the two squat men wearing dresses are on the box. I love the taste of Fruity Pebbles, just sweet enough without turning the milk into pure corn syrup. I also love that they spell the word "fruit" correctly, unlike Froot Loops - although I'm sure that's for coolness purposes rather than legal honesty about actual fruit content. My only issue with FP, and the reason they are at #4 is the fact that if you don't scarf them down in the first five minutes they melt into a rainbow colored sludge that looks like it has already been partially digested. I think my brother in-law used some when he made a batch of fake vomit in middle school. And don't think I equally love Cocoa Pebbles. They are the bastard step-brother of FP - zero chocolate flavor to make up for that hideous sogginess.

3. Lucky Charms - Boy there's nothing I love more than a politically incorrect cartoon character targeted at my heritage. Lucky the Leprechaun, with his terrible fake brogue is almost enough to put me off this fabulous cereal. What's the draw here? The marshmallows, of course. What kid does not want to eat dehydrated, then re-hydrated marshmallows for breakfast? The cereal pieces themselves are non-descript in flavor, but they act as a nice backdrop to the sweetness of the "charms". Speaking of, I have no idea what half the damn shapes are in this cereal now they've changed so many times. Remember the big advertising campaign during Saturday morning TV when they added purple horseshoes? Madness! I think there's a rainbow and a pot of gold and, perhaps, a rabbit's foot now. Soon it'll just be a big box of marshmallows, forget the cereal! Kind of like when Cap'n Crunch came out with Oops! All Berries - freakin' disgusting.

2. Count Chocula - As I mentioned earlier, CC was one of my dream cereals as a child. Just the right amount of cocoa flavor and enough coating to turn the milk into a light version of chocolate milk. Like Lucky Charms, it also had the weird, dehydrated marshmallows, but in CC you really couldn't tell what they're supposed to be. Bats? Clouds? Moons? They were amorphous, white bits and they were delicious. Now, the original version of my childhood had cereal pieces in the shape of the Count's head (didn't you love that The Count looked like the creepy older cousin of the The Count from Sesame Street?), in the current recipe they're the same shape, but they've added some kind of coating to make the cereal bits almost impenetrable to milk and this makes eating it a bit of a dental hazard. Sometimes food technology can go too far. Regardless, I occasionally like to fulfill a childhood dream and eat a whole box just because I can.

1. Cap'n Crunch - Oh, the Cap'n. I can still recall mornings at Aunt Janie's jumping out of bed and racing to the kitchen to tear open the new box of CC, bought especially for me, and pour myself a trough of corn-syrupy goodness. Using a serving spoon I'd shovel in that first mouthful and begin the assault on my hard pallet. How can a cereal that tastes so good inflict such deep flesh wounds on the oral tissue of children? Who is the masochist who decided that squares with jagged corners were the way to go? After a weekend at my aunt's, pudding was all I could eat for a week. No matter what agonies I suffered afterwards it was all worth it. Cap'n Crunch is made out of that vaguely corn-ish cereal base they used for all the limited edition cereals (Pac Man, Donkey Kong) because it's easy to shape and it's damn tasty. I also enjoy the variations of CC available, most notably, Peanut Butter. As stated above though, the Crunchberry variety is breakfast in hell. And the name. Don't you just love the way you really believe the Cap'n is a salty sea dog all because of that abbreviation? Aye, aye! He is a captain - captain of my cereal-loving heart.

Now that you know all of my favorites, there are two worth mentioning in the hopes I will spare you the experience of having to taste them yourselves. First, the horrifying Golden Grahams. I was all hopped up the Saturday my mother finally let me buy these. The experience of actually eating them left much to be desired. You know how graham crackers disintegrate the minute they touch milk? Try cutting a graham cracker up into a hundred pieces and you can imagine the INSTANT bowl of crap you have on your hands with this cereal. Second, Corn Pops. I actually got the recipe from their corporate headquarters - "Cut Styrofoam peanuts into bite-sized pieces. Dip in corn syrup. The end."

I hope you enjoyed this Friday's installment as much as I did. Why not go revisit a childhood favorite? You're a grown-up now - eat the whole box if you want. I plan on picking up a box of Froot Loops for my girls, or as they call it "bird cereal" and encouraging them to, for the love of the Cap'n, add some milk.

PS - To refer back to this post's title, who the hell could eat all that food? Cereal and toast and fruit and juice? Can we say "childhood obesity"?

The ties that bind

I was lying on the couch reading to my kids the other morning (read: them lying on top of me) when it occurred to me a time will come when I will no longer have unlimited access to such physical affection and our bodies will not mesh in such an easy display of closeness. Right now so much of their care is physical - bathing, dressing, changing diapers - I know every freckle on their skin and hair on their heads as if their bodies were an extension of my own. But this will all change, fade away.

Soon the first thing my kids seek out in the morning will not be physical contact with me. There won't be anymore Sunday mornings when the girls are delighted to find me still in bed so we can have a snuggle, their warm bodies wriggling to start the day, still carrying the warm scent of their sleep. My baby grabbing onto me as I lift him out of his crib, both his hands frantically circling my neck, bicycling his little legs as if he just can't get close enough will soon be just a memory. There will be a time when their first priority after long separations will not be hugging me. Right now there is nothing better than the look of sheer joy when I pick my daughters up from school - running to me faces lit up, arms outspread, squealing, "Mommeeeee!" - or my baby's sheer joy simply when I re-enter the room, his face brightening with a stroke of his cheek. Holding my children tight to me I still remember what it felt like to have each of them inside me - whose feet stuck under which side of my rib cage and who kicked when I ate too many popsicles. Our relationship will begin to lose its primal physicality and this makes me so sad.

This gradual process, this letting go, is a natural part of growing up, but I will miss the way my children resemble baby chimps - going off on their own for bits of time, but always returning to me for a touch, a hug, a kiss. It's hard for me to imagine a time when they won't be fighting over who gets to sit in my lap. A time when I will walk, hands empty, instead of holding theirs. I will try to remember this on days when I feel like someone has been on me all day - holding, carrying, nursing - days when I need some space. Soon there will be too much space between us, the bodies I created will be theirs entirely, surrounded by an invisible barrier that stops me from grabbing them and holding them simply because I need to . But I hope they will know I am here anytime they need me, arms wide open, as if to welcome them back to the body they once called home.

There are only so many hours in the day!

I shouldn't be sitting here. There's too much to do. I, like everyone else in the world, have moments when I feel completely overwhelmed by my life and all I have to do to keep it going. What has begun to enrage me recently is all the things I am made to feel I should be doing simply by picking up a women's magazine. Just look at the covers and their tag lines: "Walk off the weight", "Easy gourmet meals", "15 minute beauty tricks". After a particularly long spell in a doctor's waiting room I decided to see what an average day would be like if I followed all the advice so freely given in these rags and if it is even possible to do so.

Early morning routine:

Work out - since almost every magazine has some article about losing weight I would spend forty-five minutes doing cardio and another thirty lifting weights. Followed by fifteen minutes of stretching.
Meditate - I really should be doing a full yoga routine, but if I don't have time I should at least spend twenty minutes getting zen for my day.
Cook a healthy breakfast for my kids. One that does not involve the microwave or a box adorned with a cartoon character.
Shower - By this I do not mean the meager running of hot water over my body as I scream at my husband, "Can you get them dressed?", that usually constitutes my morning cleansing ritual, but one that includes a full-body exfoliation, shaving my legs and armpits, pumicing my disgusting, claw-like feet, washing and conditioning my hair daily instead of weekly, and washing my face with cleanser instead of bar soap (or baby shampoo if I'm in a jam).
Apply products to my newly cleansed body. Swipe my face with toner, apply eye cream and wrinkle serum. Then apply an overall moisturizer containing SPF, antioxidants and placental tissue of some sort. Apply self-tanning cream to my pasty body. Don't forget to include drying time for the tanner which, when applied in my usual manner, winds up all over my clothes because someone inevitably needs something in the fifteen minutes I'd have to stand there butt-nekked.
Blow out my hair, since my everyday "hair shoved into an elastic" look doesn't cut it.
Apply makeup - Again, my usual look of mascara and Chapstick isn't up to snuff - I should be applying concealer, foundation and contouring eye shadow at least.

While the kids are at school:

Prep veggies, etc. for the nutritious gourmet dinner I will feed my family.
Clean my house with earth-friendly cleaners and vacuum under all the furniture instead of finalizing my plans to become an online gambler in order to keep my cleaning lady.
Separate my laundry and appropriately treating all stains - instead of throwing in loads of "stuff we need immediately" like clean underwear and "things that really shouldn't touch other things" like stuff covered in baby-vomit or, even worse, urine.
Fold said laundry immediately as it comes out of the dryer instead of letting it malinger in piles on the laundry room floor and putting it away in very organized drawers and closets (see below).
Organize my closets and drawers - instead of hoping nothing falls on the kids when they open the door to theirs and wondering where this stack of Bon Appetit's from the 1990's should go.

And let's not forget about my poor, youngest child! I should be doing the following with him instead of plopping him in his Exersaucer while I frantically fold said laundry and thank my personal gods he's such a good baby:
Reading books - which actually becomes a game of tug-of-war trying to wrest them from his grip as he tries to consume them covering each page in saliva.
Tummy time - also known as "make me scream" time as my chubby, chubby kid is ridiculously uncomfortable teetering on his enormous gut, limbs flailing wildly.
Educational walks - We stroll down the street and I describe all the wondrous things around him instead of enjoying the peace and quiet and drinking my third cup of coffee.
Make organic baby food - from scratch people! - instead of feeding him what jarred stuff is on sale this week.
Give him a baby massage - personally, I feel anyone, but me, getting a massage is just too much to bear.

When my children return home from school:

Help with homework without once screaming, "Will you pay attention?"
Do a developmentally appropriate craft while trying to keep the baby entertained.
Take children outside to play so they do not become morbidly obese, wrapping baby in three layers of fleece to do so.
Allow my children to help me cook dinner without anyone cutting or burning themselves.

After bathing my offspring my relaxing evening includes:

Having 5 oz. of red wine instead of 15 oz. of white.
Read to each of my kids from an age appropriate book not based on an episode of The Backyardigans.
Reading a mentally stimulating book or engaging in another cerebral pursuit rather than watching the most recently TiVo'd episode of Project Runway.
Having a light snack, like Jello, that fits into my weight loss plan rather than eating peanut butter directly out of the jar with a spoon.
Taking a relaxing, aromatherapy bath.
Journaling (when did that become a verb?)/ writing in my gratitude journal.
Having meaningful, fulfilling, adventurous, sex with my husband before falling immediately asleep for a full, uninterrupted, eight hours.

Obviously, dear readers, there is no way, without amphetamines, I would be able to do all of these things in one day. Days like this don't allow for three hours, or so, of nursing or the twenty minutes it takes to negotiate a Polly Pocket exchange between two sisters. My day, in reality, revolves around feeding, dressing and keeping my kids alive, having a little fun with them, maintaining minimal standards of cleanliness around the house and hanging out with my husband at night. Everything else can fall by the wayside.

So while I will continue to read these publications I am starting a campaign to bring more realistic material to their pages. Keep an eye on their covers as soon you'll being seeing articles entitled, "Bad hair day? The newest in Mom-appropriate baseball hats!" "Why ketchup is, indeed, a vegetable!" or "Why sitting on your ass is good for you!"

My Sista'

The great thing about this blog is I get to give shout-outs whenever and to whomever I want and a birthday seems like the perfect time to do just that. Today is my younger sister's birthday. For those of you who know my sister, K, you know how lucky I am to call her that. And in honor of her big day I'd like to highlight some of the ways she has made me a better person.

To begin, she has made me a better mother. With her birth, K not only stole the spotlight from me, but she also gave me another area in which to be an overachiever - big sisterhood. Apparently, the day she came home from the hospital I gave her my blanket telling my parents she was the baby now. I then made it my mission to be as overbearing and overprotective as possible to the point that one afternoon when my sister was two and I five I dropped her on her head trying to rescue her from a light bulb my mother had left on the dresser for a moment telling me to "make sure K doesn't touch that". I'm sure I was tons of fun to play with. All of this hyper-responsibility set me up nicely for parenthood though, it wasn't too much of a shock since I had been playing mother for so long (much to my sister's chagrin, I'm sure). I hear voices from my past as when I hear my older daughter tell daughter #2, "Don't touch that! It's sharp!" and I run into the room to see she's holding a crayon.

My sister has also taught me to slow down and enjoy life. A concrete example of this during our childhood was our food consumption. On the occasional Saturday my father would take us to the corner store and let us get a candy bar, I would immediately rip the wrapper off of my Whatchamcallit or Reggie Bar and scarf down the whole thing before we even got out of the store. My sister, on the other hand, would eat hers in annoying little bites and actually have a good portion of hers left when we got home! I would then spend the next half an hour asking her, "Don't you want to take a REALLY big bite?" to which she would calmly reply, "Nope." Of course I also began a non-stop assault of "Can I have a bite?"s to which she would eventually relent and let me have some of hers. Karma really is a bitch as I now spend ridiculous amounts of time explaining to my eldest why she can't have some of her slower-eating sister's ice cream after she has finished hers. And yes, I have walked into the room as my sweet middle child is offering my oldest a bite of whatever it is she is having that her sister inhaled two minutes earlier.

My sibling has also improved my taste in music. While she might not agree with this statement considering the my current song selections include The Backyardigans and a smattering of Rob Thomas when I can wrest away control of the van's radio, I know the difference. This endeavor began way back in the late eighties when she started listening to the atrocious Steve Miller Band and tried to add it to my rotation of New Kids on the Block albums. Not. If I never hear Jungle Love again it'd be just fine. Then came the Grateful Dead which I assert to this day is the soundtrack in hell with it's lack of beat and never ending "jams". But I will admit that my love of The Indigo Girls is entirely her doing and we do a nice rendition of Closer to Fine if I do say so myself. My sister may think the CD's she burns for me are left to die a scratch-covered death in my van, but I do pop them in when I am alone. I felt very hip indeed when I saw the newest iPod commercial featuring Feist and I knew who she was! And, thanks to her, I was way ahead of the Amy Winehouse curve. Just nothing with minor chords, please.

I could go on and on about the ways my sister has changed my life, but just by her existing I am a better person because I have a sister. Having a sister changes you as a woman - for the better. When I found out my second child would be another girl I was elated. My oldest would have a sister! I imagined all the things they would do together - play silly games and share secrets - like my sister and I did. Although I'm annoyed when I have to tell the girls to be quiet and go to sleep for the tenth time in one night, part of me is secretly thrilled that they have such a good time together they just can't fall asleep just like K and I did. I remember actively wanting to spend time with my sister as a kid. I hope my girls have unspoken "sister days" like we did - hanging around together eating Fritos and playing Mike Tyson's Punchout.

My sister is an amazing person and I hope she knows that. I feel so lucky not only to have her as my sister, because I am cooler by association, but because my daughters get to have her as an aunt - everyone needs a cool aunt. Aunt KK who moved to California, plays guitar and finds cool computer games for them to play (TransylmaniaII!). She's a rock star in their eyes and in mine.

K, thanks for being my sister. Happy, happy birthday. Now let's talk about this whole California business. Michael Bolton to that.

SUB!

If you want to borrow a large sum of money from me ask me on a day when I don't have my kids. Days I am out on my own I am filled with such magnanimity the Dali Lama better watch his back. It's as if all the energy and patience I have to summon to deal with my kids needs an outlet. Want to cut me off in traffic? After you, sir. Running for an elevator? I'll hold it for you. And a woman with kids? Forget it. I'll hold the door for her as she struggles with her stroller, pick up ejected toys and entertain her baby with funny faces so she can find her wallet to pay for his pretzel. Solidarity, sister.

Being away from my kids I feel liberated, lighter, as I only have one body to move from point A to point B - I was able to run for a train today - but I also feel unmoored, naked, as if I'm missing an appendage. I don't feel like my complete self without my children and after a few hours alone I miss them fiercely. It's at these times I realize how much being a mother is central to who I am as a person.

I return from these days out with a renewed sense of purpose - to be calmer-, more patient, a better mother, in general. Getting away from the constant barrage of needs and wants helps me to gain some perspective and tackle my work with new energy. I liken it to being on a hockey team. I love the game, but occasionally, I need to catch my breath in order to skate another shift. And that, my fellow mothers, is what we need to remember. Parenting is a team sport and while it may be tempting to play the whole game yourself because you're better than the other players, there no way you're going to win like that. No matter how much he bitches don't you ever feel guilty telling your partner you need a sub*. Kick off your skates, and have a seat on the bench once in a while. My water bottle just happens to be full of wine.

* Substitution rules apply - not only do you expect the kids to be alive when you return, but they will be fed, dressed and not parked in front of the TV for the entirety of your absence. The house will not be a disaster, you will not be responsible for cleaning up anything broken, spilled or scattered during said time period and husband may not act like a martyr for the remainder of the day without earning penalties.

No really, I'm not a couch.

This Friday's Top 5 - Fashion trends of the early 90s! I was recently reminiscing about my high school days with a friend and after our conversation I decided I had to catalogue some of the hideous fashion mistakes made by myself and my peers during the high school and early college years. Now my sister, who went to private school, denies that these trends ever existed seeing as she was ensconced in an enclave of WASPish idylity (you too, Lauren and Lindsay!), but for those of us peons forced to attain our education with the unwashed masses, we know they are real.
Note: I find these items all equally horrific so I did not place them in any specific numerical order.

Top Five Fashion Trends - circa 1990

1. Skids pants - These pants are the granddaddy of the current trend of leggings and Uggs. Want to know how it became OK to go to school dressed like you just rolled out of bed? This is how. Skids were pants made in a variety of horrible plaids, usually cotton or flannel, depending on the season. They were baggy, completely shapeless - seriously, rectangular when you laid them out flat - and, lacking buttons or a zipper, closed with the use of a drawstring . Flattering and handy for "pantsing" someone in between classes. They also had the added bonus of a yellow road sign bearing the "Slippery When Wet" logo sewn on the ass, as if your hind quarters didn't look big enough swathed in yards of ill-fitting plaid fabric.
Side bar: I love that the picture in this link is from Merry Go Round - former mecca of cheap, trendy clothing.

2. Baja shirts - Sometime my sophomore year everyone began dressing like homeless men in LA. Baja shirts were made of worn, woven cotton and, again, were completely shapeless. They came in a variety of washed out colors and the most popular one, which I was not allowed to have, bore a Corona logo on the back. First introduced by the Dead Heads in my high school (that's what we suburbanites called the derelicts who smoked pot back then, kiddies, we were the "Just Say No" generation) they quickly became popular with the rest of us posers as we started wearing yin yang earrings and listening to Edie Brickel and the New Bohemians.

3. Biker shorts* - As opposed to the last two trends which did their best to completely obscure the body, these shorts were basically a second skin. They were universal in their elastic appeal which lead to their ubiquity, even on those who should not have been wearing them - they were quite often paired with a fanny pack in the older set. For some unknown reason I, personally, only ever wore them under my field hockey kilt. I chalk this up to my mother most likely threatening me with bodily harm rather than my own good sense as everyone was wearing them, usually under some flowy top or dress.
*Sadly- I could find no link. Frankly, I think the internet is showing mercy in that department.

2. Z Cavarrici pants - Here is where my sister and I differ so completely in our high school experience. These pants were mainly worn by the Guidos in my school. "Wha?", says my sister, whose lily-white, homogenized school had been cleansed of all ethnicity. Not to sound stereotypical, I did marry an Italian after all, but it was, indeed, the boys whose last names that ended with vowels who most often wore these extremely tapered pants. It's rather a compliment to their style, actually, as these were considered more of a dress pant back in the day. They were usually paired with a button down shirt and occasionally a bolo tie. Gelled hair and a heavy application of Drakkar Noir was also a requirement.

1. Tapestry vests - Good Lord. When did it become OK to wear upholstery fabric? Around 1990. I have to confess I owned several of these atrocities, acquired from such fashion outposts as Express and Dress Barn and I usually paired them with a button down from the Gap (remember when Gap actually sold button downs for twenty bucks?). Another item that was totally figure obscuring, these vests had cross-generational appeal. It should be a giant "dork flag" to a teenager when she and her mother are wearing the same clothes and it's the teenager who looks inappropriate.

So there it is. Thankfully, I couldn't find any photographic evidence of myself actually sporting some of these gems, but I cringe at the mere memory of wearing them. I'm sure I will look back on some of the things I wear now and be equally embarassed - pointy shoes? low-rise pants? - but nothing compares to the fashion choices you made as a teenager. Unless, it's the hair, but that's a story for another day.

Hello, Sybil

The Terrible Two's - the supposedly horrible time in a child's development when they become impossible to manage. Your once angelic child becomes willful, defiant and makes you seriously consider the cost/benefit of selling your offspring into white slavery. Imagine the smug look on my face as I watched my peers struggle with their ill-behaved brats while my daughter continued to be her sweet, placid self. Imagine that look being smacked off my face by the karmic gods as she turned the corner into what I like to call The Theatrical Three's.

Apparently, my more experienced mom friends were already aware that for some kids, most of them girls, coincidentally, it's the year between turning three and turning four that is truly parenting boot camp. So here I am with daughter #2. I now spend my days with a being so mercurial I begin to question my own sanity. Even though I have been through this once before with #1 I am still at my wits end. It's like dealing with a schizophrenic who won't take her meds. Let me give you an example of our daily interactions.

ME: What would you like for lunch?
#2: No lunch. Goldfish.
ME: It's time for lunch and Goldfish aren't lunch food. We can have them for a snack later.
#2: NOOOOO!
ME: If you talk back again you'll sit in your chair. Now what do you want for lunch? A peanut butter sandwich or peanut butter crackers ( Triscuits with PB on them)?
#2: A pumpkin sandwich.

This requires the pumpkin cookie cutter I used to make sandwiches during Halloween which has now been put away with the holiday stuff since I don't run a damn bakery. I grit my teeth preparing for battle and attempt a bait and switch.

ME: It's almost Easter, how about a bunny sandwich?
#2: No. Pumkpin.
ME: We put the pumpkin away, lets' use a new shape.
#2: NOOOO! (Now with tears for added drama)
ME: You have two choices, the bunny or the flower, you pick or I pick.
#2: (sniffling) The bunny.

I carefully cut out the bunny making sure no trace of crust is left lest I enrage the beast again. I place the sandwich in front of her on her favorite Nemo plate. She takes one look at my offering, bursts in to tears, wailing:

#2 :"I wanted peanut butter crackers!"

I swear to you, I am not making this up. What I neglected to mention is that all the while this is going on my older one is impatiently asking for juice and the baby is screaming in the high chair for his lunch swatting his arms and scattering Cheerios everywhere much to the dog's delight. This is why I have aged ten years in the last six months. I spend my whole day trying to be patient and nurturing when really I want to scream, "Are you friggin' kidding me?" Is it any wonder when my husband comments, "I'm not really feeling Mexican" on Friday night I scream back, "Well then what do you want?" Ask my older daughter where Mommy is going to end up and she'll tell you - The Loony Bin. Ask her what that is and she'll explain, "A place where mommies go to rest, read books, watch movies and drink wine." And they definitely do not serve peanut butter sandwiches.

I, Mary, take you, John...

I'm back! Whew! I think I am sufficiently recovered from my brother in-law's wedding to get back to my regular life. Between all the planning, packing and primping - OK, and drinking - it's taken me three days to get back on my feet.

It was an awesome wedding and, as you will recall, my husband and I are wedding enthusiasts. We love weddings because, as my now-sister in-law commented, it reminds us of our own which was equally as amazing and fun with the added benefit of getting hitched to our best pal. This wedding was no different and we spent the majority of the evening making goo-goo eyes at each other and playing grab-ass while we slow danced. Being intimately involved in this wedding, (I was a bridesmaid and my hubby was the best man) I realized with all the rehearsing and planning what truly is the best part of any wedding - the mistakes. And while this wedding went off relatively glitch-free, I was reminded of all the goofy little things that happened the day we got married that made it memorable - and amazingly the world didn't end. In fact, I remember being oddly calm about most of them and actually laughing at some.

The first of these mishaps was a week in the making. My sister, and maid of honor, was twenty-one at the time, and shall we say, a little unorganized. One week before the wedding she still hadn't had her dress altered and fearing I might do her bodily harm, finally took it to the local dry cleaner to have a simple hem and sleeve alteration done. She picked her dress up the day before the wedding and all was well. Until it was time to get dressed. My bridal party, all eight of them, apparently I thought I was Princess Di, was getting dressed in my suite. I was busily applying eyeliner when I hear, "Oh NO." I look over and my sister is trying to put her dress on - unsuccessfully - for the first time since she picked it up. I look away before I can see the extent of the damage and say to the room at large, "I don't care what's wrong, just please fix it." Apparently, one of the arm holes had been reduced to the diameter of a paper towel roll. My fast-thinking bridal party slit the sleeve under the armpit and used safety pins to hold it together giving my sister instructions to keep her arms down during the church. The pictures are hilarious - she looks completely normal on one side and like the Incredible Hulk on the other.

Then the antique Hudson we rented for hubby and myself arrived and instead of one driver we had two. Well actually, it was the guy's wife. This was the first time he had done this kind of gig - he just had this car and we found him online. He said he'd wear a suit, we said we'd pay him two hundred bucks and we signed on the line. He didn't say his daughter was getting married and his wife wanted to tag along to do some field research. Now, this kind of car has no privacy divider so it was going to be awkward enough ignoring this guy as he drove us, never mind trying to ignore his wife who was wearing a canary yellow pants-suit, by the way. But when he pulled up and asked me, "did I mind?", what was I going to say? "Yeah, I do. Ditch Big Bird on the side of the road and step on it"? Besides, she was so nice and seemed so happy for me I didn't mind her nervous chatter taking my mind of my own nerves on the way to the church. And afterwards, my hubby and I actually had fun with them as people honked and waved at us.

The mass. Oh where do I begin? How about with the fact that my dad guilted me into having a full Catholic mass by tossing out phrases that included the words "rolling" "grave" and "your mother"? This is the same man who I would later come to find out was handing out Tic Tacs to my bridesmaids during communion. I guess he never said he wanted the mass. Also, before I even walked down the aisle hubby's middle brother comes sprinting down the side aisle waving frantically for me to STOP! Apparently, we had forgotten all about the runner which my other two brothers in-law were racing to drag down the aisle like psychotic carpet layers.

Other moments that fall under "Greatest Hits" all pretty much involve the very elderly priest who had just taken the red-eye from Israel to marry us. He married my parents and it meant a lot to us so I am going straight to hell for telling this story. First, my best friend was having an aneurysm about reading the prayer I had written for my mother without falling apart. No worries. He completely forgot about it and didn't see her doing the "Jack in the Box" trying to decide whether to go up and read without being announced or just forget it. She chose the later and I don't blame her. During the exchanging of rings he called my husband by the wrong name and I loudly corrected him. Priest: "John, take this ring." Me: "HUBBY, take this ring." Then, we think we are out of the woods and all that's left is for my sister to read "An Irish Blessing" in honor of my mom and he forgets - again! So I shoot my sister the death stare and whisper "I don't care what he does. You get up there and get on that mike!" So just as he is about to do the whole "announcing for the first time" business my sis shouts in to the mike, "AN IRISH BLESSING!" He gets a confused look on his face and then remembers through the fog of sleep deprivation and senility that this was, indeed, the plan and sits down for a little snooze.

There were also funny moments no one, but us, new about. Me trying to put my husband's ring on the wrong hand, him actively trying to pull his hand away from me, me giving him the death stare, him whispering, "Wrong hand!", me feeling like an idiot. Then the both of us whispering during Eucharist, "How long do you think we have to kneel here?" since we were the first ones served and neglected to go over this detail with Priest McGoo. And, yeah, it was a piece of the BIG wafer - I know you're jealous! It still tasted like crap. Is that bad to say about the body of Christ?

There were other little things that happened, but my point is, mistakes happen at every wedding, no matter how carefully planned. The best story I ever heard was of my own parent's wedding where my mother fell flat on her ass while being introduced at the reception. Sure, she cried out of embarrassment, but my dad picked her up as he did each time she fell until the day she died. That was their first act of marriage and I think it's incredible. The majority of my wedding went off without a hitch, but you know what? I think if it hadn't we still would have enjoyed ourselves. We were too busy being ridiculously, over the moon, elated to be married. Society, in general, promotes this ideal of the perfect wedding and we all buy into it giving ourselves ulcers trying to plan the perfect day. But there is no perfect day and it's the imperfections that, in fact, make the day your own. So enjoy the mistakes, they are the stories you will tell your children. Just make sure someone scuffs your shoes.