This weekend I came up with a new product that I think is going to be huge a hit. They're called Mom Freezes, Mom Freezes are adult flavored slushees (icies, whatever you want to call them). and they come in two varieties - Caffeine Junkie (coffee with half and half and Splenda), and White Wino (white wine). And, no, these drinks are not variations on daiquiris or frozen margheritas.
The difference between Mom Freezes and other beverages is they are made from the beverage specified, only they've been put in the freezer for short periods of time until ice crystals just begin to form. Our coffee variety was invented when I was interrupted while drinking my iced coffee and stuck it in the freezer to nurse the baby lest it melt and I had to kiss my two dollar coffee buh-bye. Upon my return to the freezer I was greeted with a lovely beverage with a slushy consistency. This drink is superior to the Starbucks Frappuccino because when the frozen coffee crystals melt you aren't left with watered down coffee and itt doesn't have all the calories and sugar with the caffeine kick of regular coffee. That, and we don't require you to use a foreign language to order it. Caffeine Junkie comes in three sizes, They Were Up at Six AM, Stomach Flu and Colicky Baby (small, medium and large respectively).
Our white wine variety was created when Hubby returned from the grocery store with warm white wine. Having only one glass left in the bottle I was currently drinking (emergency!), I stashed the new bottle in the freezer to expedite the chilling process. Forty minutes, and a one-glass buzz later, I realized the bottle was still in the deep freeze and rescued it before it exploded. When the new bottle was opened a mostly wine, but part slushee poured into my glass. It was wonderful. Since I like to drink my wine just this side of freezing it remained at a nice temperature for quite a while. This variety comes in three sizes as well, Weeknight, Saturday Night and The Kids are at Grandma's.
I'm thinking of opening a small kiosk-type establishment. Of course, drive through is available for Caffeine Junkie and since, for safety purposes we can't serve mothers actually driving, delivery of White Wino is available twenty-four seven. Maybe it'll be like In and Out Burger in California - a very limited selection that people rave about. Or Ben and Jerry's! Minus the tie-dye, of course. Our T-shirts will be bedazzled.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Step right up, folks...
There was a carnival in town this week and Hubby and I got a sitter and took the girls over last night (the baby can not keep his eyes open a minute past 7:00 hence his absence from nighttime family outings). Being there, the smell of cotton candy in the air, reminded me of my own childhood experiences at the Westchester County Fair. Sing along everyone. "Shows and attractions! Non-stop-action! Shows, animals, fireworks too! It's about the most fun thing you can do!" No? Well, I guess just my sister and I were fortunate enough to be taken to Yonkers Raceway on a summer Saturday returning home with our Michael Jackson painter's caps and aviator sunglasses as souvenirs. So in the carny spirit this Friday...
The Top 5 Random Things I love About Carnivals
5. Of course the rides rock at a carnival, but what I find so fascinating is nowhere else on earth, other than a New York City subway car circa 1979, can you find that levels of airbrushed art. I love how the walls and cars of these attractions are always spray painted with vaguely inappropriate things - women with their boobs practically flying out of their tops so great is the centrifugal force of the Alpine Sled or really creepy looking devil faces on the haunted house - even though this is supposed to be a family environment. And who exactly does this for a living? Reformed graffiti artists?
4. The games are, as I experienced last night, a parent's worst nightmare and a total money-suck. Two bucks for my kid to throw one dart? Granted, she did pop the balloon on the first try, but then I was stuck with, yet another, crappy stuffed animal to shove under her bed. Annoying as an adult but awesome as a kid. Don't you remember being super-psyched when your dad won you the extra large panda bear playing the ring toss? Sure you had no idea it cost him forty-five bucks to do so and then he had to do it again to get one for your sister, because you were too busy trying to walk normally dragging this behemoth back to the car. Inevitably your beloved bear would spring a leak while you and your sister were beating the bejeezus out of each other with your prizes leaving a trail of minuscule Styrofoam balls for your mother to clean up for the rest of the summer. I am scared to think about where these cheap toys come from and what might actually be inside them if we can't keep lead paint out of Toys R Us for crying out loud.
3. Speaking of games, what game is more fun than the water gun/balloon pop race? I remember having palpitations waiting for the starting bell to go off, then correcting and over-correcting trying to get that damn stream of water into the (creepy) clown's mouth once the too loud bell did ring. As a parent, I wondered last night how dirty that water must be and I threw up in my mouth a little.
2. The best souvenirs ever from a fair, other then the aforementioned Chinese-import, death-bears, are glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Of course, they were the height of eighties cool being neon colored, but they also allowed you to goof off and get even more riled up in the dark of your room once you were in bed if you were lucky enough to share with a sibling (I was). My mother in-law recently gave the girls a few and it was a long, long night.
1. OK, you knew it was coming. My number one is, of course, food related. The number one, best thing about a fair is fried dough. Funnel cakes, zeppoles, whatever your preference, fry it up, pour some powdered sugar on it and I sound like Homer Simpson. Must I? Oh,OK..."Mmmmm. Donuts." I remember going to a fair gigantically pregnant with one of my kids and eating so many zeppole I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface when I was done. I restrained myself last night though. There were children present.
So if you see a sign for a local fair or carnival, why not take a trip down memory lane and swing by? Even if you don't have kids. Enjoy it now because soon it'll be you screaming, "These bottle are rigged!", then muttering, "Yeah...I'll take another three balls. How many do I need to knock down for the panda?"
Happy Friday!
The Top 5 Random Things I love About Carnivals
5. Of course the rides rock at a carnival, but what I find so fascinating is nowhere else on earth, other than a New York City subway car circa 1979, can you find that levels of airbrushed art. I love how the walls and cars of these attractions are always spray painted with vaguely inappropriate things - women with their boobs practically flying out of their tops so great is the centrifugal force of the Alpine Sled or really creepy looking devil faces on the haunted house - even though this is supposed to be a family environment. And who exactly does this for a living? Reformed graffiti artists?
4. The games are, as I experienced last night, a parent's worst nightmare and a total money-suck. Two bucks for my kid to throw one dart? Granted, she did pop the balloon on the first try, but then I was stuck with, yet another, crappy stuffed animal to shove under her bed. Annoying as an adult but awesome as a kid. Don't you remember being super-psyched when your dad won you the extra large panda bear playing the ring toss? Sure you had no idea it cost him forty-five bucks to do so and then he had to do it again to get one for your sister, because you were too busy trying to walk normally dragging this behemoth back to the car. Inevitably your beloved bear would spring a leak while you and your sister were beating the bejeezus out of each other with your prizes leaving a trail of minuscule Styrofoam balls for your mother to clean up for the rest of the summer. I am scared to think about where these cheap toys come from and what might actually be inside them if we can't keep lead paint out of Toys R Us for crying out loud.
3. Speaking of games, what game is more fun than the water gun/balloon pop race? I remember having palpitations waiting for the starting bell to go off, then correcting and over-correcting trying to get that damn stream of water into the (creepy) clown's mouth once the too loud bell did ring. As a parent, I wondered last night how dirty that water must be and I threw up in my mouth a little.
2. The best souvenirs ever from a fair, other then the aforementioned Chinese-import, death-bears, are glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Of course, they were the height of eighties cool being neon colored, but they also allowed you to goof off and get even more riled up in the dark of your room once you were in bed if you were lucky enough to share with a sibling (I was). My mother in-law recently gave the girls a few and it was a long, long night.
1. OK, you knew it was coming. My number one is, of course, food related. The number one, best thing about a fair is fried dough. Funnel cakes, zeppoles, whatever your preference, fry it up, pour some powdered sugar on it and I sound like Homer Simpson. Must I? Oh,OK..."Mmmmm. Donuts." I remember going to a fair gigantically pregnant with one of my kids and eating so many zeppole I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface when I was done. I restrained myself last night though. There were children present.
So if you see a sign for a local fair or carnival, why not take a trip down memory lane and swing by? Even if you don't have kids. Enjoy it now because soon it'll be you screaming, "These bottle are rigged!", then muttering, "Yeah...I'll take another three balls. How many do I need to knock down for the panda?"
Happy Friday!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
You can take the girl out of the Bronx...
Today was a picture-perfect summer day here in northern NJ. It was eighty degrees and sunny with low humidity and a lovely breeze and we decided to enjoy the morning at the park. I packed a lunch and picnic blanket and settled in on the grass with the baby watching the girls play on the jungle gym. Thunk! What the hell was that?? A tennis ball landed a few yards away on the grass. "That's weird", I thought. There are no tennis courts here.
I look around and five or six thirteen years olds (I am surmising their age from their disheveled appearance and now-required long hair - is this 1970?) having batting practice with a metal bat and tennis balls over at the adjacent ball field which, before now, I had not noticed is curiously close to the playground. This gaggle of testosterone is not actually playing on the actual diamond itself, for some reason they are standing in the outfield bringing themselves that much closer to the playground. Goofy Kid #1 comes running over and grabs his ball shouting a derogatory remark at his pal. "OK", I think, "Random fly ball." and get back to my kickin' rendition of The Wheels on the Bus. Thunk! Are you kidding? This time I am not the only one notice and while I am not on my home turf (this playground is in the next town) and am, subsequently not hanging with my dad-pal, I notice the other moms looking concerned too.
Five minute later...Thunk! Goofy Kid #2 comes to get the ball this time and since no one else seems to be moving to speak I say, "Hey, hon" (having been a teacher I reserve the right to speak to any child using a term of endearment) "Would you guys mind batting the other way if it doesn't make any difference to you? That way you won't hit any balls into the playground and maybe hit someone." He grunts in the affirmative and I return to my jam session.
The girls need to use the bathroom so we run off to the library and when I return to the blanket approximately fifteen minutes later...Thunk! Now I've had it. I scoop up the baby, walk over to the fence and speak to the group of them at large. "Guys. I know we just talked about this. Would you please bat the other way before you hit someone and I have to get angry? OK?"
OK, that's not completely honest. In my fantasy that's what would have happened. Here's what happened in reality. I will spell phonetically for full effect since I, apparently, become my Bronx-born mother when angry. I scoop up the baby, angrily stomp over to the fence and scream while gesticulating wildly with my free arm, " Aw right! Are you kiddin' me? I KNOW I just tawked to you, (pointing at Goofy Kid #2) and I did it nicely. Now I'm gonna' scream at the bunch o' ya'! Turn and bat the other way befaw you hit one of my kids because if ya do then I'm really gonna' get pissed."
Yes, I am embarassed that I yelled "pissed" in front of small children (in my defense they were pretty far away), but you know what? I'm also sort of glad I did it. These kids are too damn used to the sing-songy voices of their teachers and parents cajoling them into doing what they should be doing in the first place. You know, like listening to adults when they tell them to do something, like not hitting tennis balls at preschoolers. If they pulled that crap on a playground in the Boogie Down (the Bronx for the uninitiated) - please. Picture the ensuing neck-snapping and finger-waving. They'd be slashed to death by the movement of a thousand acrylic tipped index fingers, the final words they hear being, "Oh no you DI-INT!"
And to my fellow mothers GET SOME BALLS! These are your toddlers who are about to get taken down in a flash of neon yellow felt. Yeah, I yelled at someone else's kid and the world did not explode. It's time we act as a community and present a united front about what is and is not acceptable behavior. If your kid is the one acting up, say, hitting my kid in the head, and you don't do anything about it, I will. We may be all from different ethnicities, religions and backgrounds, but basic deceny and self-restraint are vaues we can all agree on. So go ahead and give me the stink eye. I don't care.
So, in the end, I drove the group of budding Babe Ruths off the field and peace was restored. I'm not sure what these particular mothers thought of me, but one grandma gave me all the ammunition I needed to continue my assault on the badly behaved. After my rant I returned to my blanket and as I took a deep breath to lower my blood pressure I looked in her direction and she gave me an ever so subtle thumbs up. Thanks, Granny.
I look around and five or six thirteen years olds (I am surmising their age from their disheveled appearance and now-required long hair - is this 1970?) having batting practice with a metal bat and tennis balls over at the adjacent ball field which, before now, I had not noticed is curiously close to the playground. This gaggle of testosterone is not actually playing on the actual diamond itself, for some reason they are standing in the outfield bringing themselves that much closer to the playground. Goofy Kid #1 comes running over and grabs his ball shouting a derogatory remark at his pal. "OK", I think, "Random fly ball." and get back to my kickin' rendition of The Wheels on the Bus. Thunk! Are you kidding? This time I am not the only one notice and while I am not on my home turf (this playground is in the next town) and am, subsequently not hanging with my dad-pal, I notice the other moms looking concerned too.
Five minute later...Thunk! Goofy Kid #2 comes to get the ball this time and since no one else seems to be moving to speak I say, "Hey, hon" (having been a teacher I reserve the right to speak to any child using a term of endearment) "Would you guys mind batting the other way if it doesn't make any difference to you? That way you won't hit any balls into the playground and maybe hit someone." He grunts in the affirmative and I return to my jam session.
The girls need to use the bathroom so we run off to the library and when I return to the blanket approximately fifteen minutes later...Thunk! Now I've had it. I scoop up the baby, walk over to the fence and speak to the group of them at large. "Guys. I know we just talked about this. Would you please bat the other way before you hit someone and I have to get angry? OK?"
OK, that's not completely honest. In my fantasy that's what would have happened. Here's what happened in reality. I will spell phonetically for full effect since I, apparently, become my Bronx-born mother when angry. I scoop up the baby, angrily stomp over to the fence and scream while gesticulating wildly with my free arm, " Aw right! Are you kiddin' me? I KNOW I just tawked to you, (pointing at Goofy Kid #2) and I did it nicely. Now I'm gonna' scream at the bunch o' ya'! Turn and bat the other way befaw you hit one of my kids because if ya do then I'm really gonna' get pissed."
Yes, I am embarassed that I yelled "pissed" in front of small children (in my defense they were pretty far away), but you know what? I'm also sort of glad I did it. These kids are too damn used to the sing-songy voices of their teachers and parents cajoling them into doing what they should be doing in the first place. You know, like listening to adults when they tell them to do something, like not hitting tennis balls at preschoolers. If they pulled that crap on a playground in the Boogie Down (the Bronx for the uninitiated) - please. Picture the ensuing neck-snapping and finger-waving. They'd be slashed to death by the movement of a thousand acrylic tipped index fingers, the final words they hear being, "Oh no you DI-INT!"
And to my fellow mothers GET SOME BALLS! These are your toddlers who are about to get taken down in a flash of neon yellow felt. Yeah, I yelled at someone else's kid and the world did not explode. It's time we act as a community and present a united front about what is and is not acceptable behavior. If your kid is the one acting up, say, hitting my kid in the head, and you don't do anything about it, I will. We may be all from different ethnicities, religions and backgrounds, but basic deceny and self-restraint are vaues we can all agree on. So go ahead and give me the stink eye. I don't care.
So, in the end, I drove the group of budding Babe Ruths off the field and peace was restored. I'm not sure what these particular mothers thought of me, but one grandma gave me all the ammunition I needed to continue my assault on the badly behaved. After my rant I returned to my blanket and as I took a deep breath to lower my blood pressure I looked in her direction and she gave me an ever so subtle thumbs up. Thanks, Granny.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
School's out for summa'!
This e-mail is to inform you, dear readers, that there will be a slight alteration in the frequency of posts here at Mean Mommy. School is out for the summer and that means all three of my offspring are all mine from the moment they wake with the birds (I am not kidding) to the moment I threaten their lives should they open the bedroom door after it's final closing. Robbed of my daily two hour respite, I am relegated to writing while the older two are shut in their room having their "quiet time" (read: time to repeatedly come out of the room until Mommy, driven to the brink of insanity, relents and allows you to come out rather than have you wake the baby who is actually sleeping with the repeated slamming of the bedroom door) and after dinner which is time usually reserved for bad reality TV (The Bachelorette 4!). So rather turn this into one of those insipid stream-of-consciousness Mommy blogs I will have to ratchet back. Never fear, I will, of course, be keeping up with The Friday Top 5.
So Happy Summer to you all! Let's hope I can survive until September....
So Happy Summer to you all! Let's hope I can survive until September....
Sunday, June 22, 2008
My biggest fear
"At least eight pedestrians were struck and injured by a vehicle that drove onto the sidewalk at West 35th Street and Seventh Avenue, in the garment district of Midtown Manhattan, at around 5 p.m. Friday, officials said."
And Hubby was 100 feet away from it when it happened. I know. I'm still reeling. I am so sad for the people who were injured (none of them fatally, thank God), but I am so grateful that whatever you want to call it - God, fate, luck - kept Hubby out of harm's way. Losing Hubby is one of my two biggest fears in life (the other losing one of the kids, or course), but if I really want to get morbid about it, losing him in some freak, "wrong place, wrong time" kind of scenario is the worst embodiment of that fear. Of course we all think of 9/11, but remember that Long Island Railroad shooting? Just by choosing the wrong train car to sit in a lot of people wound up dead. That scares the shit out of me.
I was particularly shaken Friday because just a few days earlier Hubby had asked me, "Don't you feel especially happy lately?" He went on to describe how he felt the two of us were in good groove and really into each other as of late, the kids are all doing really well, works going good. Basically, things are pretty damn great these days in the Barchetto household. Feeling this way frightens me because I always wonder if it can last. Charlotte says in Sex and the City, "Nobody gets everything they want." and, occasionally, I think of all I have and am afraid. I think be being constantly aware and grateful I can keep my family safe from harm like some kind of voodoo. If I don't take anything for granted fate will be kind and let me be.
Perhaps you think I'm some morbid freak, but I don't have much faith in things always working out just because you think they should. I'm always afraid of being blind-sided. You can't be if you expect the worst. I never thought my mother would die and look what happened. I told God I really couldn't handle anymore tragedy and could he spare me a miscarriage? - I got the big finger on that one.
I know I sound like a big baby. I got dealt a shitty hand a few times and I'm letting it affect me way too much. Well, maybe. This fear doesn't stop me from enjoying my happiness, perhaps I appreciate it more knowing how fragile it is.
So I will continue to send my silent prayers of gratitude into the great unknown and not be afraid to enjoy my blessings as I count them.
And Hubby was 100 feet away from it when it happened. I know. I'm still reeling. I am so sad for the people who were injured (none of them fatally, thank God), but I am so grateful that whatever you want to call it - God, fate, luck - kept Hubby out of harm's way. Losing Hubby is one of my two biggest fears in life (the other losing one of the kids, or course), but if I really want to get morbid about it, losing him in some freak, "wrong place, wrong time" kind of scenario is the worst embodiment of that fear. Of course we all think of 9/11, but remember that Long Island Railroad shooting? Just by choosing the wrong train car to sit in a lot of people wound up dead. That scares the shit out of me.
I was particularly shaken Friday because just a few days earlier Hubby had asked me, "Don't you feel especially happy lately?" He went on to describe how he felt the two of us were in good groove and really into each other as of late, the kids are all doing really well, works going good. Basically, things are pretty damn great these days in the Barchetto household. Feeling this way frightens me because I always wonder if it can last. Charlotte says in Sex and the City, "Nobody gets everything they want." and, occasionally, I think of all I have and am afraid. I think be being constantly aware and grateful I can keep my family safe from harm like some kind of voodoo. If I don't take anything for granted fate will be kind and let me be.
Perhaps you think I'm some morbid freak, but I don't have much faith in things always working out just because you think they should. I'm always afraid of being blind-sided. You can't be if you expect the worst. I never thought my mother would die and look what happened. I told God I really couldn't handle anymore tragedy and could he spare me a miscarriage? - I got the big finger on that one.
I know I sound like a big baby. I got dealt a shitty hand a few times and I'm letting it affect me way too much. Well, maybe. This fear doesn't stop me from enjoying my happiness, perhaps I appreciate it more knowing how fragile it is.
So I will continue to send my silent prayers of gratitude into the great unknown and not be afraid to enjoy my blessings as I count them.
Friday, June 20, 2008
It's Child Protective Services, Charlie Brown!
Inspiration for this Friday's list came yesterday as I was cleaning out the TV cabinet. We have an extraordinary number of Charlie Brown videos and while we all know and love Chuck and the gang, I have, over the last five years, with repeated viewings, come to realize that the parents of these children would have been arrested for abandonment in the real world. There are some serious unsupervised activities in these specials, which regardless of time period, just do not make sense. So this Friday...
Top 5 Counts of Child Endangerment to be Brought Against the Parents of the Peanuts Gang
5. In Merry Christmas Charlie Brown Chuck goes to buy a tree for the Christmas play. Who lets their kid go buy a Christmas tree by themselves, for Pete's sake? Thank God he wound up with that sad, pathetic, little tree to carry all alone otherwise his inattentive folks would have found him dead from exposure pinned beneath the weight of a Douglas Fir two days later. (Side note: Also, disturbing? Linus' ability to quote scripture.)
4. Lucy and Linus' parents get a turn with the DA after It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. What did they say when Linus told them of his Halloween night plans? "Sure, go ahead and spend the entire night alone, outdoors, on Halloween in a pumpkin patch with only your sad little wooby to protect you from the elements, Son!" Or maybe he didn't even ask them and it was his sister who finally realized at four in the morning that Linus had not come home. I know back then kids could actually trick or treat alone and eat candy straight out of their bags without fear of choking on a razor blade, but come on.
3. Nothing says it's A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving like leaving your kids home alone with the dog. Ignoring the fact that Charlie and Sally's parents skip town and head to Grandma's early on the most family-centered of holidays, let's focus on the fact that all of Chuck's friends are given the OK to go over to a friend's house, where the parents are MIA, for dinner on a national holiday. I do love the fact that Charles Schultz tried to make this kids-only meal seem less dangerous by not having the kids use the stove. Because Linus loosing his eyebrows in a pilot light incident would have killed the holiday spirit.
2. Peppermint Patty's parents were not so savvy about the stove-usage in It's the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown. In fact, Marcy and Peppermint Patty (the first animated lesbian couple) use a hot waffle iron, griddle and, finally, a pot of boiling water in their attempt to make Easter eggs. Of course, it concludes without incident because This is the Burn Unit Charlie Brown! would not have been a hit on CBS.
1. Get ready to slap the irons on Mr. and Mrs. Brown once the judge hears what you did in Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown! You allowed your school-aged child to fly, unattended, to France as part of an exchange program with all the details of his accommodations and host family in an untranslated letter written in French. Would it really have killed you to buy and French/English dictionary to figure out where your kid would be staying? It might have tipped you off that perhaps this program was not legit if you saw your kid would be staying at Château du Mal Voisin, aka, the "Castle of the Bad Neighbor".
I think I have made my case. I do not think twenty five to life would be too much to ask for, but perhaps we can show some leniency since they sent the dog along on most of these trips. I move that temporary custody be given to Snoopy and Woodstock.
Happy Friday!
Top 5 Counts of Child Endangerment to be Brought Against the Parents of the Peanuts Gang
5. In Merry Christmas Charlie Brown Chuck goes to buy a tree for the Christmas play. Who lets their kid go buy a Christmas tree by themselves, for Pete's sake? Thank God he wound up with that sad, pathetic, little tree to carry all alone otherwise his inattentive folks would have found him dead from exposure pinned beneath the weight of a Douglas Fir two days later. (Side note: Also, disturbing? Linus' ability to quote scripture.)
4. Lucy and Linus' parents get a turn with the DA after It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. What did they say when Linus told them of his Halloween night plans? "Sure, go ahead and spend the entire night alone, outdoors, on Halloween in a pumpkin patch with only your sad little wooby to protect you from the elements, Son!" Or maybe he didn't even ask them and it was his sister who finally realized at four in the morning that Linus had not come home. I know back then kids could actually trick or treat alone and eat candy straight out of their bags without fear of choking on a razor blade, but come on.
3. Nothing says it's A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving like leaving your kids home alone with the dog. Ignoring the fact that Charlie and Sally's parents skip town and head to Grandma's early on the most family-centered of holidays, let's focus on the fact that all of Chuck's friends are given the OK to go over to a friend's house, where the parents are MIA, for dinner on a national holiday. I do love the fact that Charles Schultz tried to make this kids-only meal seem less dangerous by not having the kids use the stove. Because Linus loosing his eyebrows in a pilot light incident would have killed the holiday spirit.
2. Peppermint Patty's parents were not so savvy about the stove-usage in It's the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown. In fact, Marcy and Peppermint Patty (the first animated lesbian couple) use a hot waffle iron, griddle and, finally, a pot of boiling water in their attempt to make Easter eggs. Of course, it concludes without incident because This is the Burn Unit Charlie Brown! would not have been a hit on CBS.
1. Get ready to slap the irons on Mr. and Mrs. Brown once the judge hears what you did in Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown! You allowed your school-aged child to fly, unattended, to France as part of an exchange program with all the details of his accommodations and host family in an untranslated letter written in French. Would it really have killed you to buy and French/English dictionary to figure out where your kid would be staying? It might have tipped you off that perhaps this program was not legit if you saw your kid would be staying at Château du Mal Voisin, aka, the "Castle of the Bad Neighbor".
I think I have made my case. I do not think twenty five to life would be too much to ask for, but perhaps we can show some leniency since they sent the dog along on most of these trips. I move that temporary custody be given to Snoopy and Woodstock.
Happy Friday!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Happy Birthday to ya...
Today marks the beginning of what is known as Birthday Season in our house. My children's birthdays are in June, July and August and my summer revolves around planning parties and outings to celebrate the nascence of each my offspring. While it does involve a lot of work, and subsequent bitching to Hubby, I have to admit I love, love, love it. I am actively excited on the eve of their birthdays because birthdays in my house are a big deal.
In my house you are Queen or King for a Day when it's your turn and Mommy pulls out all the stops. The week before, the birthday child selects a menu for the day because on your day you can eat whatever you want. Today is my middle one's fourth birthday and for breakfast she has selected chocolate frosted donuts and Panda waffles (Eggos from the movie Kung Fu Panda which she has not seen, but she loves pandas), peanut butter sandwiches, carrots and Oreos for lunch and McDonald's for dinner. While these are pretty normal requests I am prepared to deliver the goods even if the requests are strange. My oldest has already requested corn on the cob and donuts in the morning on her special day. I also spend the night before decorating the house. Each child wakes up to the living draped with streamers and balloons accompanied by a Happy Birthday banner, under which sits their birthday presents which they may open immediately. Then he or she can decide what we're doing for the day. The park? You got it. The zoo? Let's go! They have their "friends" party on another day, not only to stretch out the fun, but because their actual birthday is about family.
For me, birthdays are better than Christmas because they are private holidays without all the craziness and obligations attached. It is a day I say yes to any reasonable request. It's a day I allow myself to put aside all of the extraneous bullshit that comes with this job - the cooking, the laundry, and the housework - and just be with them. I never realized, until I had kids, how a mother is affected by her child's birthday. I take time to recall the long nights of labor when each of these little wonders came out of me and into my life. I even have a little ritual, which I hope will not fall by the wayside in their awkward teenage years, where at the time of their birth I make sure I am alone with them, or as alone as you can be with three kids, and at that moment I hug them and tell them, "I am so lucky I got you."
Maybe these birthday rituals sound like overkill, but trust me, it's not about presents and things. It's about time and making my kids feel special. The kids' parties are usually modest, backyard affairs (yes, I will confess I had a ridiculous number of balloons for my oldests' fourth, but they were seriously cheap) and I am fighting the good fight not booking some ridiculously expensive venue or sending each child home with forty-five dollars in favors. By the way, when did these ridiculous "goody bags" become par for the course? You came to a party, had cake, had fun. Now you want a present? Go home! When I was a kid all it took was some cake and a few balloons and I was over the moon. Although I will admit birthdays not being a big deal at all in my house growing up probably turned me into the birthday fanatic that I am.
So let The Season begin. Happy, Happy Birthday to my girl. I know we're going to have a great day.* Donuts and McNuggets for everyone! I remember every detail of your birth like it was yesterday. But I am still trying to forget the fact I was forced to deliver all nine pounds of you with no epidural.
*Despite the birthday-o-rama in my house my children HATE it when anyone sings Happy Birthday to them and will clamp their hands over their ears. Perhaps a reaction to their over-zealous mother? Nah.
In my house you are Queen or King for a Day when it's your turn and Mommy pulls out all the stops. The week before, the birthday child selects a menu for the day because on your day you can eat whatever you want. Today is my middle one's fourth birthday and for breakfast she has selected chocolate frosted donuts and Panda waffles (Eggos from the movie Kung Fu Panda which she has not seen, but she loves pandas), peanut butter sandwiches, carrots and Oreos for lunch and McDonald's for dinner. While these are pretty normal requests I am prepared to deliver the goods even if the requests are strange. My oldest has already requested corn on the cob and donuts in the morning on her special day. I also spend the night before decorating the house. Each child wakes up to the living draped with streamers and balloons accompanied by a Happy Birthday banner, under which sits their birthday presents which they may open immediately. Then he or she can decide what we're doing for the day. The park? You got it. The zoo? Let's go! They have their "friends" party on another day, not only to stretch out the fun, but because their actual birthday is about family.
For me, birthdays are better than Christmas because they are private holidays without all the craziness and obligations attached. It is a day I say yes to any reasonable request. It's a day I allow myself to put aside all of the extraneous bullshit that comes with this job - the cooking, the laundry, and the housework - and just be with them. I never realized, until I had kids, how a mother is affected by her child's birthday. I take time to recall the long nights of labor when each of these little wonders came out of me and into my life. I even have a little ritual, which I hope will not fall by the wayside in their awkward teenage years, where at the time of their birth I make sure I am alone with them, or as alone as you can be with three kids, and at that moment I hug them and tell them, "I am so lucky I got you."
Maybe these birthday rituals sound like overkill, but trust me, it's not about presents and things. It's about time and making my kids feel special. The kids' parties are usually modest, backyard affairs (yes, I will confess I had a ridiculous number of balloons for my oldests' fourth, but they were seriously cheap) and I am fighting the good fight not booking some ridiculously expensive venue or sending each child home with forty-five dollars in favors. By the way, when did these ridiculous "goody bags" become par for the course? You came to a party, had cake, had fun. Now you want a present? Go home! When I was a kid all it took was some cake and a few balloons and I was over the moon. Although I will admit birthdays not being a big deal at all in my house growing up probably turned me into the birthday fanatic that I am.
So let The Season begin. Happy, Happy Birthday to my girl. I know we're going to have a great day.* Donuts and McNuggets for everyone! I remember every detail of your birth like it was yesterday. But I am still trying to forget the fact I was forced to deliver all nine pounds of you with no epidural.
*Despite the birthday-o-rama in my house my children HATE it when anyone sings Happy Birthday to them and will clamp their hands over their ears. Perhaps a reaction to their over-zealous mother? Nah.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
All I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a poom-poom...
I have to share, yet another, piece of marriage-altering technology. Pictured left is the Sonic Boom alarm clock. To describe its affect on my marriage, let us travel back in time.
I have known since we met in college that Hubby loves his sleep and is a deep sleeper. He rarely rose before noon any day of the week. He has never been one to jump out of bed, his feet hitting the floor as he turns off the alarm clock. That would be me. He also does not enjoy conversation immediately upon waking. Hilarious now that we have two small beings in our bed, up with the sun, asking, "Why do birds chirp, Daddy?" He attributes this early rising to a genetic defect inherited from their mother. Fortunately, for the early years of our marriage, I was the one getting up first since my job as an elementary school teacher required getting in at 7:00. Before leaving I would gently shake Hubby telling him it was time to rise and spend a few minutes rubbing his back and easing him into his day (I know!). When I left he was usually still in bed and would eventually make his way to the shower at the last possible minute in order to make it to work on time.
Fast forward to 2004 and I have just had daughter #2. Hubby has started a new job which requires him to leave for the city at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a few days a week. I am ridiculously sleep deprived and have not yet gotten into the groove of having more than one child so, needless to say, the back-rubbing wake-up portion of our marriage was over for the foreseeable future. We have one baby monitor going for #2 and we are sleeping with our bedroom door open so we can hear #1 if she wakes. So Hubby's alarm goes off and, finally, after a full minute of blaring ringing, he hits snooze. Nine minutes later, the same thing. At this point I am awake, as is our oldest who is asking for her morning cup of milk. It is 5:00. After bursting into tears out of sheer exhaustion I tell Hubby he can either sleep in the basement or get a new job.
This scenario repeats itself a few more times followed by knock-down, drag-out fights until I decide it is better to be woken up myself by setting my own alarm and then waking Hubby (read punching him in the arm and saying "Get up and if you wake the baby I'll kill you" since he has the grace of an elephant as he tromps around the house getting ready. Why must he put on his shoes and then go brush his teeth? I digress...). This plan worked well until our son was born and, once again, I was the walking dead existing on a few hours of shut-eye. We needed to find a way for Hubby to wake himself up without waking the whole house (yes, we started closing our door, but with the volume and length of alarm required for Rip VanWinkle to wake no thickness of soundproof material would prevent our kids form hearing it).
And then we found it. The Sonic Boom. Now the name does suggest it's loud - and it is. If you use the sound it's like being next to a nuclear power plant during a melt down. However, the genius part is the second mode. You place the round pad under your pillow and when it goes off it vibrates violently under your head waking you up silently! Glory, glory hallelujah! This device has ended all of our morning problems. It not only wakes Hubby out of his stupor, but I can fall back to sleep quickly after it goes off and the kids are not disturbed at all. We love it so much we have affectionately dubbed it The Rumpshaker. I laugh when I think of the cleaning lady changing the sheets and thinking it's a sex toy. I actually tried to explain it to her once in broken English, but I think I did more harm than good and now she thinks we're into S&M.
So let me highly recommend this product for those of you having alarm issues or living in a small house as we do. It will single-handedly end your mornings of exhaustion-fueled screaming matches. Well, at least until he forgets to put it in silent mode.
Monday, June 16, 2008
I confess...
I confess I am the worst documentarian of my childrens' experiences and milestones. While I do take pictures of special occasions like birthday parties and Christmas morning, I usually only take a couple of shots and call it a day. I'm so bad even tried to shoo away the nurse who wanted to take a picture of me holding my oldest moments after she was born. Does this make me a bad mother?
For example, today was my oldest's "Moving Up Day" from kindergarten. The kids stand on the risers, sing a few songs and get a little certificate saying they finished kindergarten (the fact that everything these days requires a ceremony, certificate, or trophy is a topic for another day). You would think with the amount of photographic and video equipment in that auditorium that these kids were graduating from Harvard with the secret of cold fusion instead of from kindergarten with the ability to count to fifty. I had to tap the woman in front of me and ask her to sit down so intent was she on capturing every second of this momentous occasion.
Three things factor into my lax attitude about chronicling my kids lives. First, will they really care if there's one picture or fifty? I remember looking through boxes of pictures my parents took and, really, one would have been enough. Where are all these snaps now? Gathering dust in my dad's basement. Second, do we really need to make everything in kids' lives such a big freaking deal? Save the media onslaught for the big events like graduation (I mean high school) otherwise when your kid successfully takes a dump he's going to wonder where the paparazzi are. Third, I am too busy living my life to worry about recording it. It want my kids to have memories of being with their mother rather than the memory of some woman with their mother's voice and body trilling, "Look over here!", her face obscured by a camera.
So, no I won't be that mom at the school play jockeying for the best position to shoot video or telling my kids, as they roll their eyes, "Just one more picture", on their way to prom. I'm too busy experiencing these life events. But, I will, of course, give you my e-mail so you can forward me any pics you took.*
*My eternal gratitude to those cameraphiles whose skills I have benefited from through the years. Without you I'd have about five pictures of each of my kids.
For example, today was my oldest's "Moving Up Day" from kindergarten. The kids stand on the risers, sing a few songs and get a little certificate saying they finished kindergarten (the fact that everything these days requires a ceremony, certificate, or trophy is a topic for another day). You would think with the amount of photographic and video equipment in that auditorium that these kids were graduating from Harvard with the secret of cold fusion instead of from kindergarten with the ability to count to fifty. I had to tap the woman in front of me and ask her to sit down so intent was she on capturing every second of this momentous occasion.
Three things factor into my lax attitude about chronicling my kids lives. First, will they really care if there's one picture or fifty? I remember looking through boxes of pictures my parents took and, really, one would have been enough. Where are all these snaps now? Gathering dust in my dad's basement. Second, do we really need to make everything in kids' lives such a big freaking deal? Save the media onslaught for the big events like graduation (I mean high school) otherwise when your kid successfully takes a dump he's going to wonder where the paparazzi are. Third, I am too busy living my life to worry about recording it. It want my kids to have memories of being with their mother rather than the memory of some woman with their mother's voice and body trilling, "Look over here!", her face obscured by a camera.
So, no I won't be that mom at the school play jockeying for the best position to shoot video or telling my kids, as they roll their eyes, "Just one more picture", on their way to prom. I'm too busy experiencing these life events. But, I will, of course, give you my e-mail so you can forward me any pics you took.*
*My eternal gratitude to those cameraphiles whose skills I have benefited from through the years. Without you I'd have about five pictures of each of my kids.
Happy Father's Day
Yes, I know I'm late with this one, but with Friday's sojourn into NYC it could not be helped. Speaking of our little trip, this post should be a Father's Day tribute to Hubby, but instead I must begin by relaying the events of our excursion that almost brought about his untimely demise.
As you will recall, Hubby's office was having their annual Family Day where all the children of employees are invited in for lunch, face painting and, this year, a performance by cast members of The Lion King. The party started at two o'clock which meant I, as the Sleep Police, had to hope the baby would either sleep in Hubby's office, or do alright without his pm snooze. Add to that stress the idea of getting into the city, parking the car, and making it up to the fourteenth floor of Hubby's building with all three kids, their crap and the stroller, and you can see why I was already on edge. The plan was for me to call Hubby on his Blackberry when I pulled up in front of the building on Seventh Avenue, and he'd come down and get the kids while I parked the car and returned with all of our gear.
After spending the morning running around getting various bags packed with enough snacks, small toys and food for the baby to get us to Canada and back, we managed to get in the van on time. I texted Hubby a few times to let him know of our progress and he replied at 1:00 - "Going to lunch. Call me when you get in." Thirty minutes and few texts later, Hubby is no longer responding. OK, I thought. He doesn't get audio alert of e-mails, no big deal. I did tell him, after all, if he didn't pick up his phone the minute I called him upon our arrival, I was turning around and driving straight back to New Jersey. So imagine my level of aggravation when I turn onto his street, call him, and get no answer. I try his desk phone, no answer. I whisper to myself, "I am going to fucking kill him." Three more calls to each number later and still no answer. Two expletive-laced texts later and still no response. At this point, between using my Blackberry while driving and my husband-induced rage, I am going to crash the car, so I call my father in-law and ask him to keep trying Hubby while I find a parking garage and plot his death.
For those of you not familiar with New York City parking garages, their entrances are usually steeply angled tunnels you drive into and then make your way out of hoping another car doesn't hit you when it screeches in off the street. Garages in Hubby's part of town are especially busy so it was very comforting trying to get the baby out of his seat and safely into the stroller, with the girls squealing, "Are we here? Are we heeeeere?" with excitement to see the father I am planning on disemboweling, trying not to forget the three bags I have packed to keep the baby fed, happy and clean, while the surly, Hispanic parking attendant mutters things to his fellow compatriot about how I am holding up the line of cars behind me.
I finally make it out of the garage with all of my offspring and required supplies and try Hubby again. No answer. Bastard! I double check the exact street address of the building only having been there twice and head toward the cross streets my beloved has given me catching dirty stares from workers on their lunch breaks as I take up the entire width of the sidewalk with my brood. Yeah, fuck you lady. My Peg Perego can take you down and your eight dollar burrito so save the stink eye for someone who cares.
I arrive at said location and discover Hubby has given me the wrong cross streets. So not only do I have to back track, screeching at the girls to, "Hold onto the stroller!", but I also have to call information, steering the death-stroller with one hand, to get in touch with the main switchboard at the office because Hubby is still not answering either phone. At this point I think flaying him alive is a stellar idea. I get the address and head into the building.
I check in with security who, after taking one look at me, warily let me past, not wanting to upset the sweaty, frizzy-haired maniac screeching at her kids. After inquiring after my destination I am told, "Go up those two flights of stairs, turn the corner, go down one flight and take the elevator to fourteen." This building has two entrances and the other one, on Eight Avenue, is the handicapped accessible (read:mother of more than one child accessible) which Hubby neglected to tell me. I have about fifty pounds of gear strapped to the stroller, as well as my twenty-five pound son in said vehicle, and now I have to schlep it all up and down flights of stairs? MOTHER FUCKER! Of course, the underpaid security guards could give less of a crap and I am sent on my way.
This is when my angel, Liya, shows up. Liya works with Hubby and has spent many an afternoon with my eldest when Tony has brought her into work. She sees me in my state of insanity and helps me drag all of my shit to the elevator, she brings me to the party area and then goes to look for Hubby, who is still incommunicado. This poor woman is schlepping all over the building all the while waiting to eat her lunch which she has been carrying in its takeout bag since we met at the entrance. She returns to tell me he is nowhere to be found and after listening to my oaths of revenge runs off, I'm sure to call the cops.
So I spend the next half an hour navigating the overcrowded party room with my sherpa-mobile trying not to run over the other lucky, stroller-free mothers who have been able to park their wheels since their husbands have freed their babies and are proudly parading their offspring around in their arms, while the girls request chicken fingers and juice from the treat-laden tables. I spot some seats and try to push the millstone of a stroller to them while balancing plates of fried chicken lips and dripping wet juice boxes in one hand, as the baby flail his whole body with glee at the smell of food. We get settled in, and as the kids chomp away on strips of hydrogenated goodness I call Hubby again. No answer. It is now two forty-five. Dear readers, I am shaking with rage at this point as I am hungry, dehydrated, exhausted and alone. I keep up the usual cheerful banter I engage in with my kids, trying not to show my sadness over the fact that they will soon be fatherless. Here are the final two texts I sent.
"Where r u? I can't believe you did this to me. I am going to fucking strangle you."
"You are such an asshole."
Then I see him.
Through the glass doors of the conference room he is already mouthing, "I am so sorry." with his hands splayed before him in a gesture of surrender. I take one look at him and tell him, "Start talking before I kill you." It seems his Blackberry is on the fritz, displaying a full battery and then it starts to die, not alerting him to new messages in an effort to save power. He was not at his desk as he was dragged to a client lunch by his new boss who I, fortunately, did not run into because he thought my texts were "funny".
So after many apologies and the promise of fetching Greek food for dinner four towns over anytime I want it in the next six months, Hubby was forgiven. But I think I will be having a craving for souvlaki anytime it rains or snows in the near future.
While I originally had planned a Father's Day tribute to Hubby here on Mean Mommy, I felt this story had to be shared. In addition, Hubby is very shy when it comes to sharing details (he can freakin' eat it on this story though, it's part of his penance) so I will end by saying despite days like the one we had on Friday, Hubby is the best partner I could ever ask for to raise kids with. He is funny and silly, strong and firm, at all the right times. He is so easily affectionate with our kids it makes my heart ache. And while I crack wise about doing all the work around here I know he works his ass off for our family and I know that is a huge burden and responsibility. One I'm not sure I could handle with such quiet strength.
So Happy Father's Day to all the fathers our there. We mothers do a lot of bitching, but all the ones I know do a damn fine job. As usual, you rock my world, H, but for Christ's sake, pick up your damn phone.
As you will recall, Hubby's office was having their annual Family Day where all the children of employees are invited in for lunch, face painting and, this year, a performance by cast members of The Lion King. The party started at two o'clock which meant I, as the Sleep Police, had to hope the baby would either sleep in Hubby's office, or do alright without his pm snooze. Add to that stress the idea of getting into the city, parking the car, and making it up to the fourteenth floor of Hubby's building with all three kids, their crap and the stroller, and you can see why I was already on edge. The plan was for me to call Hubby on his Blackberry when I pulled up in front of the building on Seventh Avenue, and he'd come down and get the kids while I parked the car and returned with all of our gear.
After spending the morning running around getting various bags packed with enough snacks, small toys and food for the baby to get us to Canada and back, we managed to get in the van on time. I texted Hubby a few times to let him know of our progress and he replied at 1:00 - "Going to lunch. Call me when you get in." Thirty minutes and few texts later, Hubby is no longer responding. OK, I thought. He doesn't get audio alert of e-mails, no big deal. I did tell him, after all, if he didn't pick up his phone the minute I called him upon our arrival, I was turning around and driving straight back to New Jersey. So imagine my level of aggravation when I turn onto his street, call him, and get no answer. I try his desk phone, no answer. I whisper to myself, "I am going to fucking kill him." Three more calls to each number later and still no answer. Two expletive-laced texts later and still no response. At this point, between using my Blackberry while driving and my husband-induced rage, I am going to crash the car, so I call my father in-law and ask him to keep trying Hubby while I find a parking garage and plot his death.
For those of you not familiar with New York City parking garages, their entrances are usually steeply angled tunnels you drive into and then make your way out of hoping another car doesn't hit you when it screeches in off the street. Garages in Hubby's part of town are especially busy so it was very comforting trying to get the baby out of his seat and safely into the stroller, with the girls squealing, "Are we here? Are we heeeeere?" with excitement to see the father I am planning on disemboweling, trying not to forget the three bags I have packed to keep the baby fed, happy and clean, while the surly, Hispanic parking attendant mutters things to his fellow compatriot about how I am holding up the line of cars behind me.
I finally make it out of the garage with all of my offspring and required supplies and try Hubby again. No answer. Bastard! I double check the exact street address of the building only having been there twice and head toward the cross streets my beloved has given me catching dirty stares from workers on their lunch breaks as I take up the entire width of the sidewalk with my brood. Yeah, fuck you lady. My Peg Perego can take you down and your eight dollar burrito so save the stink eye for someone who cares.
I arrive at said location and discover Hubby has given me the wrong cross streets. So not only do I have to back track, screeching at the girls to, "Hold onto the stroller!", but I also have to call information, steering the death-stroller with one hand, to get in touch with the main switchboard at the office because Hubby is still not answering either phone. At this point I think flaying him alive is a stellar idea. I get the address and head into the building.
I check in with security who, after taking one look at me, warily let me past, not wanting to upset the sweaty, frizzy-haired maniac screeching at her kids. After inquiring after my destination I am told, "Go up those two flights of stairs, turn the corner, go down one flight and take the elevator to fourteen." This building has two entrances and the other one, on Eight Avenue, is the handicapped accessible (read:mother of more than one child accessible) which Hubby neglected to tell me. I have about fifty pounds of gear strapped to the stroller, as well as my twenty-five pound son in said vehicle, and now I have to schlep it all up and down flights of stairs? MOTHER FUCKER! Of course, the underpaid security guards could give less of a crap and I am sent on my way.
This is when my angel, Liya, shows up. Liya works with Hubby and has spent many an afternoon with my eldest when Tony has brought her into work. She sees me in my state of insanity and helps me drag all of my shit to the elevator, she brings me to the party area and then goes to look for Hubby, who is still incommunicado. This poor woman is schlepping all over the building all the while waiting to eat her lunch which she has been carrying in its takeout bag since we met at the entrance. She returns to tell me he is nowhere to be found and after listening to my oaths of revenge runs off, I'm sure to call the cops.
So I spend the next half an hour navigating the overcrowded party room with my sherpa-mobile trying not to run over the other lucky, stroller-free mothers who have been able to park their wheels since their husbands have freed their babies and are proudly parading their offspring around in their arms, while the girls request chicken fingers and juice from the treat-laden tables. I spot some seats and try to push the millstone of a stroller to them while balancing plates of fried chicken lips and dripping wet juice boxes in one hand, as the baby flail his whole body with glee at the smell of food. We get settled in, and as the kids chomp away on strips of hydrogenated goodness I call Hubby again. No answer. It is now two forty-five. Dear readers, I am shaking with rage at this point as I am hungry, dehydrated, exhausted and alone. I keep up the usual cheerful banter I engage in with my kids, trying not to show my sadness over the fact that they will soon be fatherless. Here are the final two texts I sent.
"Where r u? I can't believe you did this to me. I am going to fucking strangle you."
"You are such an asshole."
Then I see him.
Through the glass doors of the conference room he is already mouthing, "I am so sorry." with his hands splayed before him in a gesture of surrender. I take one look at him and tell him, "Start talking before I kill you." It seems his Blackberry is on the fritz, displaying a full battery and then it starts to die, not alerting him to new messages in an effort to save power. He was not at his desk as he was dragged to a client lunch by his new boss who I, fortunately, did not run into because he thought my texts were "funny".
So after many apologies and the promise of fetching Greek food for dinner four towns over anytime I want it in the next six months, Hubby was forgiven. But I think I will be having a craving for souvlaki anytime it rains or snows in the near future.
While I originally had planned a Father's Day tribute to Hubby here on Mean Mommy, I felt this story had to be shared. In addition, Hubby is very shy when it comes to sharing details (he can freakin' eat it on this story though, it's part of his penance) so I will end by saying despite days like the one we had on Friday, Hubby is the best partner I could ever ask for to raise kids with. He is funny and silly, strong and firm, at all the right times. He is so easily affectionate with our kids it makes my heart ache. And while I crack wise about doing all the work around here I know he works his ass off for our family and I know that is a huge burden and responsibility. One I'm not sure I could handle with such quiet strength.
So Happy Father's Day to all the fathers our there. We mothers do a lot of bitching, but all the ones I know do a damn fine job. As usual, you rock my world, H, but for Christ's sake, pick up your damn phone.
Friday, June 13, 2008
I lied
I am finding the time to write this because I can not believe how many people managed to piss me off as I was frantically trying to get in and out of Dunkin' Donuts before school this morning.
The Top 5 People Who Pissed Me Off at DD between 7:55 and 8:10 This Morning
5. Close parking guy. Seriously, it's just you and your clip-on cell phone so why must you take the space right in front? You could really use the cardio evidenced by your low-slung-under-the-gut pants. My husband claims I am way too altruistic in my parking since when I am alone, which is practically never, I take the space furthest away thinking some poor mother is going to pull in any second with all three of her kids desperately in need of caffeine and not want to walk the extra distance carrying her twenty-five pound baby who is furiously trying to swat her much needed iced coffee out of her hands while she juggles her car keys and purse.
4. Don't know what you want guy. Why do they have a menu board if you insist on having the lovely Pakistani man read you all the selections? And I'm not talking about some old guy either. Your eyes work. Use 'em. The rest of us know our order and want to get the hell out of there.
3. Change payers. Aaaaaaah! Find a Coinstar machine or get the hell out of my way. $2.35 in nickels? Gah!
2. Too much cream guy. MOBIN WHERE ARE YOU? Of course this morning there was some new guy who does not know how to use the cream dispenser machine they have. So my iced coffee was basically a quart of half and half with a splash of coffee. While I do love the high fat dairy, even I had to ask for a correction here and got the stink eye for it. Kiss my ass. No tip for you!
1. Won't hold the door open guy. My brood and I are hard to miss as I shriek, "Go, go, go!" trying to get them out the door as they stop to admire the display of Yankee Dunkin Donuts cards all the while the baby is doing his darndest to send my coffee flying and we have to make it to school. So I have a deep, boiling-hot hatred for the guy who lets the door slam closed right behind him as he exits while I am standing right behind him. If he has no kids I demand his testicles be removed immediately to prevent him saddling some poor woman with his progeny who he will obviously be less-than-no help with, and if he has reproduced, I demand his wife be given a free vacation in the Bahamas for all the extra work she must do. Assface.
Yes, I am in one stellar mood this Friday, readers. Other drivers heading into NYC beware. I will be on the road flames flying.
Happy (sort of) Friday.
How nice am I?
Hubby's office is having their annual Family Day today and I am dragging all three kids into New York so they can spend the afternoon running around the conference room eating hot dogs and having their faces painted. So instead of my usual morning session writing during the baby's nap I will be frantically running from room to room trying to pack enough snacks and small car toys to last the inevitable four hours I spend in the van with the kids stuck in NYC traffic on a summer Friday. I'll be needing the extra large iced hazelnut today, Mobin. Fill 'er up!
I will, of course, make it up to you on Monday with a Top 5. Perhaps the Top 5 Things I Hate About Being Stuck in the Car with My Kids After Having Been Dumb Enough to Put a Ban on Using the Van's DVD System for Any Trip Under Three Hours?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The dog days...
Aaaand we're back! Much thanks to Hubby on the tech support front as he, once again, saved our computer from certain death at my incapable hands.
I definitely could have used the distraction of writing as I suffered through this first heat wave of the summer. Generally, I am a fan of this hottest of seasons with its laid back attitude and license to eat as many hot dogs as I want. But it was too much to go from pleasant spring temperatures to living in Satan's armpit, wrestling my children to the ground to coat them in sunscreen only to have one of them wipe some in their eye and begin screeching in agony, shoving them into the oven otherwise known as the van in order to drag all three of them to Dunkin' Donuts for my third iced coffee of the day in order to fortify myself enough for yet another grocery run to pick up something for dinner that requires zero heat to be edible (it's got a vegetable right in the name - corn chips). After just one day I was reminded of all the things I hate about the dog days.
First and foremost the thing I hate about summer is sweating. For those of you not intimately acquainted with me, I sweat like a convict working on an Arizona chain gang the minute the mercury climbs above seventy-five degrees. Seriously, I can only wear black, white or yellow t-shirts as those are the only colors that hide, not only pit-sweat, but back and cleavage sweat as well. Ignoring the other-body-area sweat, doesn't everyone get wet pits in the summer? So who the hell is buying all those heather gray t-shirts from the Gap? I actually test summer tops before buying by dampening my finger with saliva and dabbing it on the hem. Major color change? No thank you, then. And, yes I have tried Certain Dri and all that other crap with no results. I am told my excessive perspiration is a sign of a healthy metabolism. My husband jokes when he comes downstairs and I'm on the treadmill dripping away, "Welcome to Gold's. Would you like a towel?" But, really? I can do without looking like I always have the flop sweats.
The second thing I hate about summer is the sun. I am Irish, my people were not made for sunny climes. I am supposed to be on some foggy moor digging up potatoes (actually I'm supposed to be watching my tenant farmers do that from the tower of my castle, but I digress...), not being fried to death in the August sun. If I do not coat myself in at least SPF30 I burn to the point of blistering. Poor Hubby spent many a summer vacation "getting my back" until the invention of spray-on sunscreen (genius!) and now he gets to live the entire experience over again with our kids since the spray on stuff doesn't work as well and I insist we use old-fashioned lotion lest they burn. He does not know the absolute agony of a second degree sunburn on young skin. I know they weren't as a savvy about sun protection back then, but what the hell were my parents thinking? I feel like a broken record every summer, "Come out of the water so I can put on more sunblock!" As both my girls and they will tell you, The sun is bad for your skin and makes you old and wrinkly." Indeed, George Hamilton.
The third thing I hate about summer is the twelve straight weeks of bad hair days. Granted, most days my hair does not see the light of day not restrained in an elastic or covered by some kind of cap, but it would be nice on those days I do actually get to blow out my hair that it didn't look like a hood made of steel wool the second I'm done despite the use of hundreds of dollars worth anti-frizz products. June through August my only hair options are bun or ponytail. And forget about the bangs that I am so happy I got September through May. They spend the summer curled up against my forehead like pubes.
Looking over my reasons for hating summer I realize most of them are vanity-related. I think the fact of the matter is I always wanted to be one of those golden-skinned, beach-haired goddesses pictured in swimsuit catalogues looking gorgeous with their bronze glow highlighted nicely by the white sand dusting their skin. In reality, I am a pale, sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who has half the shore's sand stuck to my thighs thanks to the four layers of sunscreen I've already applied by noon. Again, my people are not meant for the beach, hence our love of wool sweaters.
So while I will take the bad listed above with the good - aforementioned hot dogs, ice cream, frozen drinks included - don't think it makes it any easier. Come see me at Christmas time, Giselle, and we'll see how your Brazilian ass feels minus a tan and string bikini. Because, with my coloring, I can seriously rock some green and red plaid. Can you?
I definitely could have used the distraction of writing as I suffered through this first heat wave of the summer. Generally, I am a fan of this hottest of seasons with its laid back attitude and license to eat as many hot dogs as I want. But it was too much to go from pleasant spring temperatures to living in Satan's armpit, wrestling my children to the ground to coat them in sunscreen only to have one of them wipe some in their eye and begin screeching in agony, shoving them into the oven otherwise known as the van in order to drag all three of them to Dunkin' Donuts for my third iced coffee of the day in order to fortify myself enough for yet another grocery run to pick up something for dinner that requires zero heat to be edible (it's got a vegetable right in the name - corn chips). After just one day I was reminded of all the things I hate about the dog days.
First and foremost the thing I hate about summer is sweating. For those of you not intimately acquainted with me, I sweat like a convict working on an Arizona chain gang the minute the mercury climbs above seventy-five degrees. Seriously, I can only wear black, white or yellow t-shirts as those are the only colors that hide, not only pit-sweat, but back and cleavage sweat as well. Ignoring the other-body-area sweat, doesn't everyone get wet pits in the summer? So who the hell is buying all those heather gray t-shirts from the Gap? I actually test summer tops before buying by dampening my finger with saliva and dabbing it on the hem. Major color change? No thank you, then. And, yes I have tried Certain Dri and all that other crap with no results. I am told my excessive perspiration is a sign of a healthy metabolism. My husband jokes when he comes downstairs and I'm on the treadmill dripping away, "Welcome to Gold's. Would you like a towel?" But, really? I can do without looking like I always have the flop sweats.
The second thing I hate about summer is the sun. I am Irish, my people were not made for sunny climes. I am supposed to be on some foggy moor digging up potatoes (actually I'm supposed to be watching my tenant farmers do that from the tower of my castle, but I digress...), not being fried to death in the August sun. If I do not coat myself in at least SPF30 I burn to the point of blistering. Poor Hubby spent many a summer vacation "getting my back" until the invention of spray-on sunscreen (genius!) and now he gets to live the entire experience over again with our kids since the spray on stuff doesn't work as well and I insist we use old-fashioned lotion lest they burn. He does not know the absolute agony of a second degree sunburn on young skin. I know they weren't as a savvy about sun protection back then, but what the hell were my parents thinking? I feel like a broken record every summer, "Come out of the water so I can put on more sunblock!" As both my girls and they will tell you, The sun is bad for your skin and makes you old and wrinkly." Indeed, George Hamilton.
The third thing I hate about summer is the twelve straight weeks of bad hair days. Granted, most days my hair does not see the light of day not restrained in an elastic or covered by some kind of cap, but it would be nice on those days I do actually get to blow out my hair that it didn't look like a hood made of steel wool the second I'm done despite the use of hundreds of dollars worth anti-frizz products. June through August my only hair options are bun or ponytail. And forget about the bangs that I am so happy I got September through May. They spend the summer curled up against my forehead like pubes.
Looking over my reasons for hating summer I realize most of them are vanity-related. I think the fact of the matter is I always wanted to be one of those golden-skinned, beach-haired goddesses pictured in swimsuit catalogues looking gorgeous with their bronze glow highlighted nicely by the white sand dusting their skin. In reality, I am a pale, sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who has half the shore's sand stuck to my thighs thanks to the four layers of sunscreen I've already applied by noon. Again, my people are not meant for the beach, hence our love of wool sweaters.
So while I will take the bad listed above with the good - aforementioned hot dogs, ice cream, frozen drinks included - don't think it makes it any easier. Come see me at Christmas time, Giselle, and we'll see how your Brazilian ass feels minus a tan and string bikini. Because, with my coloring, I can seriously rock some green and red plaid. Can you?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
We are experiencing technical difficulties....
Am posting from my Blackberry as something is wrong with computer (NOT MY FAULT, H!)
Since thumbs would fall off while writing a regular length post I will return tomorrow.
Stay cool everyone.
Since thumbs would fall off while writing a regular length post I will return tomorrow.
Stay cool everyone.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Woohoo! We didn't use a condom! (Yes, Dad you can read this one)
I am still digging out from my weekend away with my girl, B, but I had just had to jump on and post about this. While trawling the web for birthday party invites for the girls (all the kids have summer birthdays which means three parties in three months - shoot me now) I came across an announcement (image, left). You can't read the print on this, but it says:
"Our family is growing and so is my belly"
ICK! I am so not down with the "pregnancy announcement" cards I see everywhere. First, why not just send "We had unprotected sex and look what happened!" cards. Second, have we become so spoiled by modern medicine and its seeming ability to cure any ill that we think every pregnancy ends with a healthy baby? Trust me, I've experienced this kind of loss personally, and thank GOD I hadn't told a lot of people. It was uncomfortable enough telling those I had that I had lost the baby without having to contact everyone I'd included in my mass mailing. But I guess when we find out we're pregnant practically the second after it happens we feel we can shout it from the rooftops. What ever happened to a little discretion? Maybe I'm the weirdo, but I think announcing a pregnancy is a delicate thing you do in person.
For the record I also opt out of birth announcements so maybe I'm not the best judge of announcement appropriateness. My theory on birth announcements - I can better spend the money on diapers and if I'm close enough to you you'll find out my kid was born. Because, admit it, what do you do when you get an announcement? You say, "Awww! Cute baby." and immediately throw it in the garbage. Or is that just me? File this under the topic "NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR KID BUT YOU".
And BOO! to naked, exposed pregnant bellies. Too sensy and I don't want to see your popped out belly button either. Gah!
Friday, June 6, 2008
Stop the insanity!
Do you remember that phrase? I don't mean from George's dad on Seinfeld, but from that crazy-ass, platinum buzz-cut sporting Susan Powter (at left) circa 1992. She was the voice of a movement, the movement to delude yourself you are eating healthfully by consuming mass quantities of reduced fat and no fat foods in lieu of sensible portions of normal chow. She was my savior. You know I loves me some food so when I found an eating philosophy that allowed me to stuff my pie-hole with (sadly, not pie) anything low in fat I was in hog heaven, literally. Why then, I wondered, did my shorts feel tight if my fat consumption for the day was under ten percent? Well, when just your afternoon snack consists of a whole box of Snackwells Devil's Food cookies - at 50 calories a piece, 12 in a box - you do the math. It adds up to some serious poundage.
This trend definitely played upon the insecurities of a twenty year-old and I became obsessed with eating this way. We all know now the emperor has no clothes and it's the number of calories you eat and burn that determine weight gain or loss, although those poor Atkins schmucks haven't realized it yet, but I'd like to take a trip down memory lane and think about the ridiculous foods that used to make up my "diet" at the time. So this Friday...
My Top 5 Favorite Low-fat/Non-fat foods from the Early 90's
5. Pasta - The early nineties were the hey-day for pasta lovers. It's low-fat as long as you prepare it with a low-fat non-oil based sauce. My poor, poor Hubby. We were still just dating at the time so it's a miracle he stuck with me. He was learning to cook and was really excited about it. So I imagine I must have been as fun as wet blanket as I stood behind him monitoring the amount of oil he put in his dishes. He was so kind not to scream at me, "It wouldn't matter how much oil I put in if you didn't eat a whole damn pound of pasta!"
4. Frozen Yogurt - I was so obsessed with the frozen yogurt machine in my dorm cafeteria, it was like Christmas morning when I would discover the flavor of the day was peanut butter. I remember one day in particular, the menu board listed the flavor of the day as such and I ran to the station, cereal bowl in hand (screw those little dessert bowls, it's low-fat!) only to to be handed a bowl of strawberry. After consoling me about the error, the lovely, townie, food service worker explained as soon as the strawberry was done they would be changing it to peanut butter. Sigh. Fifteen minutes later, as I'm sitting stewing over a salad with no-fat dressing, she comes running into the dining room calling out, "Where's Mary?" holding giant bowl of peanut butter yogurt. I still tear up at the memory. Sweet lady.
Frozen yogurt has seen some hard times lately. TCBY, what happened to you? You were the place to be in 1992. Any August night would find your storefront lined with women waiting to get thirty-two ounces of non-fat goodness topped with fat-free hot fudge, and granola (which we later found to be a wolf in sheep's clothing and riddled with lipids!). If they would have filled a bucket for me I would have brought one. Now it's practically impossible to find one of these shops. Of course there's always Tasti-D-Lite, but the fact that they can't even call it yogurt or any kind of food product scares the bejeezus out of me. Pinkberry is also trying to bring fro-yo back and it seems to be working. I am wary.
3. Any Entenmann's reduced fat or low-fat item - Oh, Entenmann's. While I will always love you for your chocolate frosted donuts, I thought we had to go our separate ways in 1992 until you came out with a whole line of chemically altered versions of your classics. I don't know how you did it, and I don't want to, but you made a pound cake that actually tasted like pound cake and had no fat - or so we were told. I'd sit myself down and eat a whole one for lunch. Healthy! Marble loaf, raspberry danish (why was everything low-fat raspberry flavored, anyway?) it was heaven. I'm sure my inside are coated with some chemically engineered substance used to replace the fat in these delicacies.
2. Special K - When I actually needed some protein - who needs protein when you have sugar! - this cereal was the answer. Non-fat and seven grams of protein, this cereal was considered an entree in my house. Manys a dinner I'd sit down with a box of K, a gallon of skim milk and go to town. I cringe at the memory, but at least I got a lot of calcium.
1. Muffins - while I vacillated between this choice and the aforementioned Snackwells as my number one, I chose muffins because they were simply so ridiculous. Bakeries and delis all over the metropolitan area jumped on the low-fat bandwagon by churning out their own versions of muffins that met this nutritional standard. Well, at least they said so. Remember that episode of Seinfeld where they all gained weight from the "non-fat" yogurt? Well I'm sure delis everywhere were putting the same old corn muffins they'd been selling for years in the same case just adding a "NON-FAT!!" sign to them and seeing a skyrocket in sales. The fact that Seinfeld also had an episode centering around an idea for a muffin-top only bakery is reflects the ubiquity of this obsession as well.
Some places did actually make their own low-fat muffins and were honestly changing their recipes. You can tell because they tasted like shit. I would soldier on though, feeling virtuous as I ate my tasteless hunk of sweetened dough studded with dessicated cranberries or blueberries while Hubby enjoyed a Taylor ham, egg and cheese, all the while not knowing I was probably consuming twice as many calories as he was with one tenth of the enjoyment. Add the fact that said muffins, low-fat or not, were as big as my head and you can see why I was looking for elastic waist pants.
Hubby still cringes at the memory of running out for Sunday morning breakfast and my saying,"I'll just have a muffin", because then he'd have to leave with a list of the hierarchy of flavors. Banana being first, followed by corn, blah, blah, blah. He is much happier now that I can say, "Just get me one of whatever you're having."
So there it is. I am so thankful I no longer believe the hype when it comes to diets out there. Moderate portions of real food are better than mass quantities of crap any day. And while I'm not cooking with lard or doing a lot of deep frying, I am so glad things like fries are back on the menu. Because oven baked fries? A cruel, cruel joke.
Happy Friday!
*As an added bonus this Friday, please check out my all-time favorite Dunkin' Donuts commercial by clicking HERE. It makes me pee my pants every time because I think of my middle brother in-law who helped us move everything we owned, including a sleeper sofa, UP four flights of stairs.
** Just found out today is National Donut Day! Woohoooooo! Like I need an excuse to eat a donut.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Nice tats.
I think in fifty years a nursing home will be an interesting place to be. Not because all of us, once we are in that age bracket, will be so fascinating with our long, boring stories of rotary phones and the bursting of the dot com bubble, but because of all the tattoos.
According to my research, forty percent of people between the ages of twenty-six and forty have at least one tattoo. I have to confess, I am one of them.
I love my tattoo and I love the fact that I waited until I had a kid to get it. It was our fifth wedding anniversary and Hubby and I wanted to do something big, but being in the midst of an unemployment spell, we had very little money so jewelry or a trip were completely out of the question. So we decided to spend a grand total of fifty bucks and each get a tattoo of the other’s first initial on our ankles.
We showed up at this tattoo parlor in New Jersey recommended by Hubby’s brother - where the owner was the former leader of some eighties hair band I can’t recall - on a Thursday afternoon (one of the benefits of unemployment, you can avoid the drunken Saturday rush at the tat’ place) clutching the printout of our enlarged initials in exactly the size and font we wanted (literally Times New Roman – losers!). The staff was wonderful and, ignoring what obvious dorks we were, did a great job. I still lord it over Hubby that after going first and tellling him, "It's not too bad, it kind of burns a little." he emerged after his was done to tell me, "Are you out of your mind? That hurt like a mother!" I guess childbirth changes your perspective of pain. Now when I look at my tattoo - I honestly forget I have it most days - I'm reminded of that tough time we went through and how we came through it relatively unscathed. I love that it's sort of enigmatic and I have to explain it to people. Which when I do elicits the "Oh, you'll wind up divorced" look we all give people who have their beloved's name inked on their bodies ala Billy Bob and Angelina, but I know we're different and just ignore them.
Bad relationship tats highlight the idiocy of some tattoos and my reference to elder care facilities of the future. Getting a tattoo these days is as run of the mill as getting your ears pierced - something young people beg their parents for and are told to wait until they are old enough. Once some of these kids come of age, the images they choose to permanently etch onto their bodies reflect the immaturity of the person making this choice. Under no circumstances should a cartoon character be permanently inked on your body. Do you really love Tweety Bird that much? If so, you're not old enough to get a tattoo. Greek letters? Just wear your damn pin every where if you're so into it, because, trust me, ten years from now if you still speak to more than two of your "brothers" or "sisters" it'll be a miracle. I have true admiration for the people who are really into tattoos for the love of the art form (I have a bit of a girl-crush on Kat VonDee from LA Ink) and the crazy-artistic stuff they choose.
Tattoo placement is also a crucial choice. Hubby and I chose the location we did for two reasons. One, you can hide an ankle tattoo very easily and, two, ankles tend to age pretty well as opposed to, say, your biceps. Sure, you have mad-pumped arms now, stud, but fifty years from now that tribal band is going to look pretty gross on the flacid chicken wing of an old man. And ladies? That lower stomach tat you got so your jeans still hide it and your mom won't see? It's going to be unrecognizable after a couple of babies. What is that? Russia? Ooops, it used to be a butterfly.
Back to the nursing home, picture all of these idiots in their old age. How's a tramp stamp* going to look over the top of an adult diaper? (Pictured above - don't even get me started on that hair. Coming soon: "Why highlights should never be done at home".) And no, it's not that all tattoos look funny on old people. I get a little teary-eyed seeing an old guy with an Army/Navy/Marine/Air Force tattoo because I see him as a young man. That's right, Gramps, you were a bad ass and I respect you for that. No one is going to respect some geezer with the Road Runner on his chest.
So people, have a little foresight. Your children are going to want to kill themselves when they see Mommy tattooed cherries over her girly bits as they give you a sponge bath years from now. If you are going to get inked make sure it's appropriate, will stand the test of time and hopefully has meaning other than, "Wasn't that night crazy?". Some things, like that second shot of Jaiger, seem like a good idea on a Saturday night, but in the cold light of Sunday morning are definitely a mistake.
*B - yours does not qualify.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Are we spoiled brats?
The other morning I had one of those moments when I get out of my own head for a minute and really see my life with some clarity. Nothing earth-shattering happened, but I was driving home after dropping my middle one at preschool and the baby was laughing at his own hand in the back seat, looking adorable in his little polo shirt and khakis. I myself was looking way better than usual for a workday wearing a skirt and cute sandals instead of my usual mom uniform and while my hair wasn’t done (or really all that clean) I had managed to pull it back and blow out my bangs instead of jamming a baseball hat on my head. The sun was shining and Feist’s, 1234, came on the radio and DAMN! if I wasn’t in a good mood.
These are the moments I think to myself, “My GOD! Just shut the hell up already. Look at your life! You’re married to a guy you love and have three great kids. You’re house isn’t a cardboard box and you can fed everyone. Everyone’s healthy and reasonably happy. What the hell are you always whining about?”
Then I started to think, how happy, exactly, do we think we’re entitled to be? That moment of joy I was feeling was fantastic and really colored the rest of my day, but I know I can’t always feel like that. I wonder if that’s what some people expect out of life and if the society we live in doesn't foster that delusion. The covers of women’s magazines encouraging us to “Live Your Happiest Life!” , TV shows feature young, beautiful people doing exciting things and commercials use the promise of happiness to hawk cola and get us to eat at bad Italian chain restaurants. Life seems vibrant, fun, just plain happy, when looking at it through the media’s eyes so our own lives seem drab and dull in comparison. We think we aren’t happy if we’re not bursting with joy every minute.
From a purely biological standpoint, our sole purpose on the planet is not to be happy. It’s to survive long enough to reproduce (guess I can retire now having done it three times – shuffleboard and wine at two o’clock every day for me!). We are so spoiled now with our abundant food and service-driven lives we forget two hundred and fifty years ago people spent their entire day working to literally put food on the table. These people were happy if they had enough to eat and no one had scarlet fever. There isn’t too much time for navel gazing when you have to harvest and entire field of corn before the frost gets it.
Of course tomorrow when the baby takes too short a nap or my girls are fighting over one of the four hundred Polly Pockets they have I’m sure I’ll have a moment saying to myself, “This freaking sucks.” But I will try to imagine Caroline Ingalls* looking at me standing in my kitchen with running water, fridge stocked with over-priced produce from every corner of the globe, clothes tumbling happily away in the dryer telling me,”Yeah, you have it rough. Seriously? Go fuck yourself.”
*If you haven’t seen Little House on the Prairie you must have been living under a rock in the eighties. Love you, Ma! (Hate you, Nelly.)
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I LOVE THIS!!!!!
All Suffering SOON TO END!
This is the cover of a pamphlet a Jehovah's Witness* shoved under my door yesterday. Really? ALL suffering soon to end? And how exactly are you portraying this visually? Apparently it’s by picturing a buppie couple who have had their teeth bleached wearing their weekend-casual clothes from Gap and Banana Republic (I don’t know where those hideous sky blue socks are from though) surrounded by a huge number of pumpkins and apples. Ignoring the moose who would probably charge and trample them to death, all that’s really pictured here is another family on an apple and pumpkin picking trip who got rooked into picking ninety-five pounds of useless produce wondering how many delicious things they could make (The answer? Four pies, two of each, and then everyone’s sick of pie. You never get around to making applesauce because it’s too damn hard so wind up throwing away a hundred dollars worth of rotting gourds and apples.) There also appears to be horseback riding in paradise, so I guess all the suffering only ends for humans and animals are still required to haul our fat asses around.
If I were to design this cover, it would feature my husband and I sitting on the beach with our children. The kids are playing independently with a group of friends without fighting, the baby is napping in a Pack N Play (breaking my sleep rules, but in paradise it doesn’t matter) and we are stretched out on lounge chairs. Beside me is table piled high with books which I will actually be able to read because of my well-behaved paradise children. There is also an ice bucket with a bottle of Cakebread Chardonnay for me and some random beer for Hubby. A separate table groans under the weight of platters of artisanal cheese, buffalo wings and hot dogs. As well as cherry pie (the only kind allowed in paradise), boxes of donuts and jars of peanut butter. In my nirvana, one eats what one wants without gaining weight, ala, Defending Your Life.
So JW’s, if you need my PR services I am available to help you lure in the mid-thirties, suburban mom set. Because, seriously, I don’t think you’re going to hook ‘em with images of any October Sunday they already live. Personally, I don’t think of finding a new savior when I look at this picture, instead I imagine myself shoving all those apples in the van screaming, “We just came for the hayride!”
* I really do applaud the JW’s for their earnest attempts to save my blackened, agnostic soul and persistence in the face of constant rejection and occasional mockery. You really need to be committed to something if you’re wiling to spend your day having doors slammed in your face.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Three - it's the magic number
I have a new nephew! Hubby's brother and his wife welcomed their second child into their family yesterday. And while I am over the moon for them, their son's arrival, as well as the delivery of a close friend's first child, made me start thinking, again, about my own reproductive future.
Let me put it out there, I'm done. I know I'm done having babies, but it feels so strange when I actually stop and think about it. You spend the first part of your adult life trying to prevent pregnancy, then a good few years wanting to get or being pregnant, that to have it completely removed from the equation is akin to never having to brush your teeth again.
Now some of you, upon reading this will think, "Well if she's thinking about this so damn much, she must want another." And in the abstract I do. I am one of those freaks who LOVES being pregnant. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm good at it. After having a tough time with #1, I got pregnant very easily three subsequent times, and while I did lose one, all three of my successful pregnancies were easy. I had textbook nausea and fatigue, but I never retained water, had weird pigmentation or terrible back pain. I actively miss being eight months pregnant feeling my baby move inside me. It always felt to me as if we were having our own secret conversation. Their kicking a way of saying, "Hey! Listen to me!" before they were even born. Sort of a practice run for trying to maintain a conversation while a child is trying to get your attention. I feel full, complete and at peace when I'm pregnant, like my body is doing what it is designed to do. I'm also lucky in that I have easy deliveries after which I recover quickly and my children all latched on quickly and successfully breastfed for a year each. So, really, I'm batting a thousand in the childbirth department.
So as not to make it totally about me, newborns are pretty amazing as well. Their liquid, knowing eyes and scrunched, old man faces speak of the secret of life and new beginnings. My girlfriend and I have discussed that the day you give birth you feel like a doorway between life and death and there is a miracle-like quality to the fact that, through you, comes a whole other person ready to begin their life. I will miss those magic first days in the hospital growing to love the new stranger I had known for so long.
Packing away the baby clothes to give to my brother in-law I had more than a few teary moments. Smelling the combination of Dreft and Balmex, folding tiny outfits I can remember putting on my oldest just yesterday I realized soon all I will have are memories of the sweet, toothless smiles and the feel of an infant nuzzling at my breast. And I wonder, am I ready to close that chapter of my life?
What really makes me know I am done though is that while these tender moments do occur, when I receive the good news that someone has delivered a new baby, my second thought after remembering how special that time is is, "Thank GOD I'm done with that." No more engorged breasts, episiotomy stitches (oh, grow up), sleeplessness nights and days spent trying to care for older children in a zombie-like state. I love the place I'm in now with everyone sleeping through the night and on a predictable schedule. Being the control freak I am it's all I can do to maintain my sanity when I never know what the next few hours will bring. Will he sleep? Will he eat?
I, of course, had those same difficulties to remember when I decided to have my third, and decided a few months of struggle was worth having a new member of our family, but when I think about having a fourth there is of obstacles that I previously did not have to contend with. My other children are getting older and the demands of the outside world are increasing as they reach school age. I already want to tear my hair out every Thursday when my oldest's "Letter of the Week" collage is due, I can't imagine when I have to help her do a report on Colonial America, my middle one figure out a fractions worksheet and quiz the little one on his sight words. I also know my luck is going to run out soon with #1, who is my homebody, as she starts to become more independent and expresses a desire to join a team or take a class or some sort. And while I am vehemently opposed to the rampant over-scheduling that goes on these days, even with one activity per child I'd be at my breaking point. So how could I possibly throw one more into the mix, parent them the way I want to, and not lose my self or my mind?
Perhaps I will change my mind three years from now when my son is ready for preschool and my arms ache to hole another little one. And to plan for such an occurrence Hubby and I have decided against anything, ahem, permanent, if you get my drift. But for now, and I think moving forward, it is our little unit of five. And I think it's just right.
Let me put it out there, I'm done. I know I'm done having babies, but it feels so strange when I actually stop and think about it. You spend the first part of your adult life trying to prevent pregnancy, then a good few years wanting to get or being pregnant, that to have it completely removed from the equation is akin to never having to brush your teeth again.
Now some of you, upon reading this will think, "Well if she's thinking about this so damn much, she must want another." And in the abstract I do. I am one of those freaks who LOVES being pregnant. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm good at it. After having a tough time with #1, I got pregnant very easily three subsequent times, and while I did lose one, all three of my successful pregnancies were easy. I had textbook nausea and fatigue, but I never retained water, had weird pigmentation or terrible back pain. I actively miss being eight months pregnant feeling my baby move inside me. It always felt to me as if we were having our own secret conversation. Their kicking a way of saying, "Hey! Listen to me!" before they were even born. Sort of a practice run for trying to maintain a conversation while a child is trying to get your attention. I feel full, complete and at peace when I'm pregnant, like my body is doing what it is designed to do. I'm also lucky in that I have easy deliveries after which I recover quickly and my children all latched on quickly and successfully breastfed for a year each. So, really, I'm batting a thousand in the childbirth department.
So as not to make it totally about me, newborns are pretty amazing as well. Their liquid, knowing eyes and scrunched, old man faces speak of the secret of life and new beginnings. My girlfriend and I have discussed that the day you give birth you feel like a doorway between life and death and there is a miracle-like quality to the fact that, through you, comes a whole other person ready to begin their life. I will miss those magic first days in the hospital growing to love the new stranger I had known for so long.
Packing away the baby clothes to give to my brother in-law I had more than a few teary moments. Smelling the combination of Dreft and Balmex, folding tiny outfits I can remember putting on my oldest just yesterday I realized soon all I will have are memories of the sweet, toothless smiles and the feel of an infant nuzzling at my breast. And I wonder, am I ready to close that chapter of my life?
What really makes me know I am done though is that while these tender moments do occur, when I receive the good news that someone has delivered a new baby, my second thought after remembering how special that time is is, "Thank GOD I'm done with that." No more engorged breasts, episiotomy stitches (oh, grow up), sleeplessness nights and days spent trying to care for older children in a zombie-like state. I love the place I'm in now with everyone sleeping through the night and on a predictable schedule. Being the control freak I am it's all I can do to maintain my sanity when I never know what the next few hours will bring. Will he sleep? Will he eat?
I, of course, had those same difficulties to remember when I decided to have my third, and decided a few months of struggle was worth having a new member of our family, but when I think about having a fourth there is of obstacles that I previously did not have to contend with. My other children are getting older and the demands of the outside world are increasing as they reach school age. I already want to tear my hair out every Thursday when my oldest's "Letter of the Week" collage is due, I can't imagine when I have to help her do a report on Colonial America, my middle one figure out a fractions worksheet and quiz the little one on his sight words. I also know my luck is going to run out soon with #1, who is my homebody, as she starts to become more independent and expresses a desire to join a team or take a class or some sort. And while I am vehemently opposed to the rampant over-scheduling that goes on these days, even with one activity per child I'd be at my breaking point. So how could I possibly throw one more into the mix, parent them the way I want to, and not lose my self or my mind?
Perhaps I will change my mind three years from now when my son is ready for preschool and my arms ache to hole another little one. And to plan for such an occurrence Hubby and I have decided against anything, ahem, permanent, if you get my drift. But for now, and I think moving forward, it is our little unit of five. And I think it's just right.
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