Maybe it's because I've been working more lately. Maybe it's because the days are getting shorter. Or maybe it's because my youngest angel has started to bite people like he's Hannibal Lector. Whatever the trigger, I'm starting to wonder how much longer I can juggle it all well. Or at least moderately average.
You know that point in your life where you look around and you think, I'm not sure how much longer I can keep the balls in the air. Work has increased and I find myself working late (as in coming home at bedtime) about once a week, not to mention carrying the stress of work with me like a heavy weight. The Moose's schedule has increased to include two sports, scouts and religious education, plus there's homework. Peter's work schedule has him trading places with me when I get home. And the Rock has decided to start acting out at school.
It came to a head when I got a call that the Rock had decided to use his teeth instead of his words to express his frustration over a train with a "friend" - a very yummy friend it would seem. Pete picked him up later that day and the teacher asked if anything was going on at home because the Rock has been consistently bringing home multiple colors of "lights" a week (green=good, yellow=not-so-good, red=what-the-hell). No, nothing is going on at home. It's good to know that we are starting to resemble a crumbling family. But really, maybe something is. I think we all have been feeling like we are running on an out-of-control treadmill lately and I'm not sure why. Sure the kids are busy and we are busy but this seems like...more.
And this leads me to my natural conclusion that I must be doing something wrong as a parent. The age old debate of being a working mom or a stay-at-home has reared its ugly head again, even after 8 years of this delicate balancing act. As wise old Jackie O said, "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do matters very much." Or as I say, "Don't fuck it up." I have a death fear that maybe I am. I cook, bake and clean instead of playing tractors or Pokemon. I schedule outings instead of sitting still. The Rock is turning three and as I am planning on testing 3 possible cake recipes this weekend for his upcoming birthday party, I think, maybe I should just sit down and stop.
I love these moments of self-doubt. Maybe the Rock is acting up because we've been running around like chickens lately. But maybe he's acting up because he's almost three and his name is Rocco. I will never know. But I think for today it's time to wrap up my workday, head home and catch the kids before they go to sleep. And this weekend, I'm turning off my work email on my phone. I'm going to need all my attention for my family, especially if I'm going to dodge the biter while I shout spelling words to my third grader.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Survivor-Mommy Style or Someone Please Vote Me Off This Freaking Island Already
Tonight's blog has been inspired from all the moms I know out there, but particularly my new hero mom that just survived a family vacation that ended with her toddler puking in the airport right before the flight was delayed. As soon as her plane landed home, she zipped off to urgent care, the pharmacy, and finally ended her day with doing laundry. I'm no Marine, but I think that deserves a Hurrah!
I find the more I talk to my mom friends or think of my own schedule, the verb that constantly is mentioned is "survive." I posted to my friend above that she "survived" her day. One of my mom friends and I talked about how sometimes surviving the day is success - that treading water and not drowning is sometimes the best you can do. And when I look at our weekly schedule, all I can say is that we are surviving it. The days where I commute 45 minutes to work, work a crazy day, commute home to pick up one boy, dress him quickly for football practice, scoop up the cat for his laser therapy appointment (yes, my cat is getting laser therapy. I know I know, blah blah about taking extra measures about an animal. Here's the thing, I love my cat and by some miracle it actually works), then take the boy to football practice, drive home with said lasered cat, make an allergy-free dinner for the second boy, realize that I haven't paid the daycare yet and it's Tuesday night, pick up the first boy from practice and get him fed and in the shower, put the little boy to bed, give the little boy a drink of water, put the first boy to bed, take the little boy to the potty, write out checks, and finally tell the little boy to "please for the love of God be quiet and go to sleep!", are actually the days that are considered slow days. And I have help. My single-parent friends, well, heaven help you because I'm losing it with a husband. You are amazing.
Sure, we set these schedules ourselves, according to the internet parenting experts. "It's up to us to say 'no'." And to them I say, screw you. My kids like sports and gym classes. They like scouts and music. They do not like religious education classes, but I signed a contract as a Catholic that said they had to attend until they are 27 and it's out of my control now. The reality is yes, we are overscheduled and we are doing our best by just surviving. Wouldn't it be nice if it were a little like Survivor? But instead of an island, it's actually your own house, with your children and their busy lives. Notice how the survivors get more and more gaunt and sickly looking as the show moves on. And once they are voted off the island, they come back all full and refreshed, showered and combed? In this Survivor game, you have to keep up with an endless series of tasks, like making dinner when you don't have any useful ingredients in the pantry while grabbing the bread knife from your toddler's hands (this actually happened in our house last night), searching for your son's hand cover for his brace/cast in a pile of laundry (this is a timed event), sewing a scout patch on a shirt (ha - good luck - I'd rather make a fire with two sticks), and putting together an "all about me" poster that doesn't look like you helped that much. When people are voted off the island, if you are left, your tasks just got harder because you just lost some help. No wonder you look gaunt and tired! I just ate dinner at 9 p.m. tonight - it was frosted mini-wheats and doritos. What the hell folks?! Please vote me off the island - I need that night to relax, take a hot shower, eat my favorite foods, and then I get to come back the next day in clean clothes and be a part of the jury. I can do that. We all just need a little break from our lives every once and a while. My husband and I are just trying to find a weekend to celebrate our anniversary and we are waiting for the 3rd grade basketball game schedule to be announced before we make a decision. Someone just needs to vote us off before we lose it!
If someone else were writing this, they'd end it with something sappy like, but when you win this Survivor game, you don't get a million dollars, but you get unconditional love, yada yada. But friends, wouldn't it be nice to know that surviving this time in our lives ended in a million dollars? Don't get me wrong - I'll take the hugs and kisses too but my kids would also appreciate that I could send them off to college for doing such a great job making it through their youth. And instead of sending my cat to laser therapy, I'd be going to the spa. Who wants to join me?
I find the more I talk to my mom friends or think of my own schedule, the verb that constantly is mentioned is "survive." I posted to my friend above that she "survived" her day. One of my mom friends and I talked about how sometimes surviving the day is success - that treading water and not drowning is sometimes the best you can do. And when I look at our weekly schedule, all I can say is that we are surviving it. The days where I commute 45 minutes to work, work a crazy day, commute home to pick up one boy, dress him quickly for football practice, scoop up the cat for his laser therapy appointment (yes, my cat is getting laser therapy. I know I know, blah blah about taking extra measures about an animal. Here's the thing, I love my cat and by some miracle it actually works), then take the boy to football practice, drive home with said lasered cat, make an allergy-free dinner for the second boy, realize that I haven't paid the daycare yet and it's Tuesday night, pick up the first boy from practice and get him fed and in the shower, put the little boy to bed, give the little boy a drink of water, put the first boy to bed, take the little boy to the potty, write out checks, and finally tell the little boy to "please for the love of God be quiet and go to sleep!", are actually the days that are considered slow days. And I have help. My single-parent friends, well, heaven help you because I'm losing it with a husband. You are amazing.
Sure, we set these schedules ourselves, according to the internet parenting experts. "It's up to us to say 'no'." And to them I say, screw you. My kids like sports and gym classes. They like scouts and music. They do not like religious education classes, but I signed a contract as a Catholic that said they had to attend until they are 27 and it's out of my control now. The reality is yes, we are overscheduled and we are doing our best by just surviving. Wouldn't it be nice if it were a little like Survivor? But instead of an island, it's actually your own house, with your children and their busy lives. Notice how the survivors get more and more gaunt and sickly looking as the show moves on. And once they are voted off the island, they come back all full and refreshed, showered and combed? In this Survivor game, you have to keep up with an endless series of tasks, like making dinner when you don't have any useful ingredients in the pantry while grabbing the bread knife from your toddler's hands (this actually happened in our house last night), searching for your son's hand cover for his brace/cast in a pile of laundry (this is a timed event), sewing a scout patch on a shirt (ha - good luck - I'd rather make a fire with two sticks), and putting together an "all about me" poster that doesn't look like you helped that much. When people are voted off the island, if you are left, your tasks just got harder because you just lost some help. No wonder you look gaunt and tired! I just ate dinner at 9 p.m. tonight - it was frosted mini-wheats and doritos. What the hell folks?! Please vote me off the island - I need that night to relax, take a hot shower, eat my favorite foods, and then I get to come back the next day in clean clothes and be a part of the jury. I can do that. We all just need a little break from our lives every once and a while. My husband and I are just trying to find a weekend to celebrate our anniversary and we are waiting for the 3rd grade basketball game schedule to be announced before we make a decision. Someone just needs to vote us off before we lose it!
If someone else were writing this, they'd end it with something sappy like, but when you win this Survivor game, you don't get a million dollars, but you get unconditional love, yada yada. But friends, wouldn't it be nice to know that surviving this time in our lives ended in a million dollars? Don't get me wrong - I'll take the hugs and kisses too but my kids would also appreciate that I could send them off to college for doing such a great job making it through their youth. And instead of sending my cat to laser therapy, I'd be going to the spa. Who wants to join me?
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Lessons from my Children or Why Did I Bother Going to College
Lessons I've learned from my children over the last eight years
1. Soup always tastes better in a coffee cup.
2. You only need to sucker one parent for a new kitten if the other is out shopping all day.
3. Sugar cereal is always better even if Rice Krispies make noise. Noise is not cooler than sugar.
4. One more good night kiss buys you 5 more minutes.
5. Sesame Street is still funny.
6. 35 is too old for pig tails.
7. Done with a smile, even pure naughtiness can be tolerated.
8. The best part about banks is the sucker.
9. Smelly stickers never get old.
10. Grilled cheese sandwiches and smiley face fries should be on the adult menu.
11. PJs should be worn all day once a week.
12. Stop eating when you are full.
13. Eat the best part first.
14. There is always room for ice cream because it melts in your stomach.
15. Play hard.
16. Sometimes it's best not to listen.
17. Cry if someone will listen. Suck it up if no one is there.
18. Run so fast you fall down in the grass.
19. Open the door like you mean it. Make an entrance.
20. Say I love you whenever in doubt.
21. Shove the cookie in your mouth as you run away with it. Don't wait to eat it.
22. Cat videos on YouTube are always funny.
23. Body parts that squirt are nature's toys.
1. Soup always tastes better in a coffee cup.
2. You only need to sucker one parent for a new kitten if the other is out shopping all day.
3. Sugar cereal is always better even if Rice Krispies make noise. Noise is not cooler than sugar.
4. One more good night kiss buys you 5 more minutes.
5. Sesame Street is still funny.
6. 35 is too old for pig tails.
7. Done with a smile, even pure naughtiness can be tolerated.
8. The best part about banks is the sucker.
9. Smelly stickers never get old.
10. Grilled cheese sandwiches and smiley face fries should be on the adult menu.
11. PJs should be worn all day once a week.
12. Stop eating when you are full.
13. Eat the best part first.
14. There is always room for ice cream because it melts in your stomach.
15. Play hard.
16. Sometimes it's best not to listen.
17. Cry if someone will listen. Suck it up if no one is there.
18. Run so fast you fall down in the grass.
19. Open the door like you mean it. Make an entrance.
20. Say I love you whenever in doubt.
21. Shove the cookie in your mouth as you run away with it. Don't wait to eat it.
22. Cat videos on YouTube are always funny.
23. Body parts that squirt are nature's toys.
Friday, August 24, 2012
MOlympics, brought to you by Bounty
Oh there is nothing better than throwing all medical advice pertaining to screen time to the wind and sitting down to watch HOURS of Olympics with your children. Because I am a competitive person who is past her prime, I dream of my children one day becoming Olympians and being featured on a Proctor Gamble commercial with a "thank you Mom" at the end - cue misty eyes. Not only am I grooming my children for scholarship sports, but now I am also focusing on Olympic sports. Who says they can't play college football AND be a great archer?
During the Olympics moms get a big shout out from various sponsors, which we totally eat up. I love commercials about the mom washing the uniforms in Tide for 15 years and finally, wrinkled and gray, she gets to watch her daughter compete on the vault at the Olympics - all thanks to a clean uniform. It was then I realized that we are only getting some of the credit. All moms I know are actually Olympians too. We compete in a variety of sports, but I'll just name a few examples below.
Qualifying: Every athlete has to qualify for their event and moms are no different. It's called Labor and Childbirth. Nine months of carefully watched diets and weigh-ins followed by hours and hours of pain and often times stitches finally result in a baby. Good news - all of us qualified! The other news? The nurses were right. You don't get a medal for delivering naturally. No one gets a medal for qualifying - the act of labor simply means you get to compete against your peers and be judged on your performance (sound like the Olympics yet?)
Now for the actual sports...
Beach Volleyball: Ever pick up your kid from daycare or the park and take them home, only to find a sandbox in their shoes? Of course you have. Have you also not realized about the said-sandbox until you take off the shoes and the sand dumps all over the floor? Welcome to Beach Volleyball. The rest of your daily fielding of children will be spent playing in the sand. I should note that most moms I know don't play volleyball in their underwear...I mean appropriate sports-necessary bikinis.
Diving: Toddlers and preschoolers are wonderful, smart little creatures. They instantly know what is breakable AND valuable in your house and whenever you aren't looking, decide to inspect it for Antiques Roadshow themselves. Now, as a mom, if you are fortunate enough to catch your dear child BEFORE they drop the said-item, you know the running, spring-board-like jump and dive you make towards them as the precious antique/iphone slips from their hands. Did you insure the phone this time? There's no time to remember! Dive dive dive! Points are given for form and if you catch the item before it hits the floor.
Weightlifting: Isn't it funny that as children get larger, so do their necessary accessories that must follow them to every excursion? Diaper bags get heavier, potty training requires an extra 3 sets of clothes at all times, sippy cups turn into metal water bottles. And even though children get heavier, they still want to be carried through the mall (you didn't bring the stroller because it was supposed to be a quick trip.) Extra points are given for also including a shopping bag or two.
Wrestling: What do you mean you can't wear shorts in January? Your shoes are too tight (no they aren't...) Any of these complaints leads us into our next sport, wrestling. This wrestling is not determined by weight class but instead by the number of items you must dress your child in to be presentable. A special division is for children who can undress themselves while you dress them, making the task twice as long and frustrating...I mean fun.
Relay Races - of any kind: Hopefully you have a partner in crime - someone to help you with the task of raising kids. When you hear the words, "my tummy doesn't feel good" you know you have approximately 3 seconds to 1) jump out of the way while still comforting your child, 2) look for the nearest toilet and 3) grab a towel. The relay comes into play when you are holding the child, covered in puke and waiting for your partner to come running with a towel or something so you can move from the spot without making more of a mess. Personally, I have never won this race, despite having a helpful partner. But I still compete. I don't have a choice.
Hurdles: My house is never picked up. That's not true. It never STAYS picked up. At any given moment, there are blankets, football pads, toy guitars and Skylanders characters laying on the floor. And it is only when the track is full of hurdles, can you really compete. It's that moment when you hear your dear sweet boy laughing to himself in the kitchen. And then you hear him exclaim "Chemicals!" like he's found gold. You project yourself off the sofa and if successful, skillfully jump over all of the crap laying on the floor to dash into the kitchen in time to take the Soft Scrub with Bleach from his curious little hands. As in the Olympics, wiping out on the obstacles is fairly common. But unlike in the Olympics, if you don't get up quickly, you will still have your child covered in highly toxic bleach product. Moms don't get to sit down and give up. (Side note: the "chemicals" were safely stowed away in a childlocked cabinent. Just saying...)
Last but not least, Sprints: The moment you look around the store and realize that your smart little tot has taken off from you is the starting gun. You are going to make the scariest wide-eyed freaked out sprint aisle to aisle until you find him. Us other moms will look at you in sympathy and keep our eyes open for your sweetie, all the while keeping out of your path because you will run us over. This is a primal effort and I'm pretty sure if Nike was watching, you'd get a free pair of shoes and a contract.
Until we are given our own highly advertised venue with perks, we moms will have to compete in the privacy of our own homes and social circles. We don't get to mingle with young, perfectly trained specimens of the human race at the Olympic Village. But we can give each other a high five at library storytime the next time one of us sprints out of the room to run after an escapee from the craft table. We are all athletes. We've got the scars and training to prove it.
During the Olympics moms get a big shout out from various sponsors, which we totally eat up. I love commercials about the mom washing the uniforms in Tide for 15 years and finally, wrinkled and gray, she gets to watch her daughter compete on the vault at the Olympics - all thanks to a clean uniform. It was then I realized that we are only getting some of the credit. All moms I know are actually Olympians too. We compete in a variety of sports, but I'll just name a few examples below.
Qualifying: Every athlete has to qualify for their event and moms are no different. It's called Labor and Childbirth. Nine months of carefully watched diets and weigh-ins followed by hours and hours of pain and often times stitches finally result in a baby. Good news - all of us qualified! The other news? The nurses were right. You don't get a medal for delivering naturally. No one gets a medal for qualifying - the act of labor simply means you get to compete against your peers and be judged on your performance (sound like the Olympics yet?)
Now for the actual sports...
Beach Volleyball: Ever pick up your kid from daycare or the park and take them home, only to find a sandbox in their shoes? Of course you have. Have you also not realized about the said-sandbox until you take off the shoes and the sand dumps all over the floor? Welcome to Beach Volleyball. The rest of your daily fielding of children will be spent playing in the sand. I should note that most moms I know don't play volleyball in their underwear...I mean appropriate sports-necessary bikinis.
Diving: Toddlers and preschoolers are wonderful, smart little creatures. They instantly know what is breakable AND valuable in your house and whenever you aren't looking, decide to inspect it for Antiques Roadshow themselves. Now, as a mom, if you are fortunate enough to catch your dear child BEFORE they drop the said-item, you know the running, spring-board-like jump and dive you make towards them as the precious antique/iphone slips from their hands. Did you insure the phone this time? There's no time to remember! Dive dive dive! Points are given for form and if you catch the item before it hits the floor.
Weightlifting: Isn't it funny that as children get larger, so do their necessary accessories that must follow them to every excursion? Diaper bags get heavier, potty training requires an extra 3 sets of clothes at all times, sippy cups turn into metal water bottles. And even though children get heavier, they still want to be carried through the mall (you didn't bring the stroller because it was supposed to be a quick trip.) Extra points are given for also including a shopping bag or two.
Wrestling: What do you mean you can't wear shorts in January? Your shoes are too tight (no they aren't...) Any of these complaints leads us into our next sport, wrestling. This wrestling is not determined by weight class but instead by the number of items you must dress your child in to be presentable. A special division is for children who can undress themselves while you dress them, making the task twice as long and frustrating...I mean fun.
Relay Races - of any kind: Hopefully you have a partner in crime - someone to help you with the task of raising kids. When you hear the words, "my tummy doesn't feel good" you know you have approximately 3 seconds to 1) jump out of the way while still comforting your child, 2) look for the nearest toilet and 3) grab a towel. The relay comes into play when you are holding the child, covered in puke and waiting for your partner to come running with a towel or something so you can move from the spot without making more of a mess. Personally, I have never won this race, despite having a helpful partner. But I still compete. I don't have a choice.
Hurdles: My house is never picked up. That's not true. It never STAYS picked up. At any given moment, there are blankets, football pads, toy guitars and Skylanders characters laying on the floor. And it is only when the track is full of hurdles, can you really compete. It's that moment when you hear your dear sweet boy laughing to himself in the kitchen. And then you hear him exclaim "Chemicals!" like he's found gold. You project yourself off the sofa and if successful, skillfully jump over all of the crap laying on the floor to dash into the kitchen in time to take the Soft Scrub with Bleach from his curious little hands. As in the Olympics, wiping out on the obstacles is fairly common. But unlike in the Olympics, if you don't get up quickly, you will still have your child covered in highly toxic bleach product. Moms don't get to sit down and give up. (Side note: the "chemicals" were safely stowed away in a childlocked cabinent. Just saying...)
Last but not least, Sprints: The moment you look around the store and realize that your smart little tot has taken off from you is the starting gun. You are going to make the scariest wide-eyed freaked out sprint aisle to aisle until you find him. Us other moms will look at you in sympathy and keep our eyes open for your sweetie, all the while keeping out of your path because you will run us over. This is a primal effort and I'm pretty sure if Nike was watching, you'd get a free pair of shoes and a contract.
Until we are given our own highly advertised venue with perks, we moms will have to compete in the privacy of our own homes and social circles. We don't get to mingle with young, perfectly trained specimens of the human race at the Olympic Village. But we can give each other a high five at library storytime the next time one of us sprints out of the room to run after an escapee from the craft table. We are all athletes. We've got the scars and training to prove it.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Shave the Cat
I've been asked how I can find humor during moments of vomit, screaming, hitting, questioning, crying and the complicated rules of Pokemon. And my only answer to that is I have shaved my cat. And as I type that, I realize that "shave my cat" could have two meanings. You people are disgusting. I'm talking about my Maine Coon cat Petey. Ironically, this is a serious blog about being lighthearted.
Nine years ago almost to the week, Pete and I were pregnant. It was a surprise to both of us and being stubborn and not open to change, I was not the happiest initially. I was training for a marathon and about to start a graduate degree while working. It took a few weeks and some shopping for cute maternity clothes and I finally decided that I was pretty excited for this baby. And it was then that we lost it.
Miscarriage happens all the time but that doesn't make things any better for those of us who have gone through it. I was very healthy, fit and young. And for some reason my body betrayed me. Learning we were having a miscarriage is still to this day my saddest memory. It was one of those defining moments that completely changes who you are as a person. Finding your husband crying in the garage for what we lost so he could be strong for me is crippling. And you don't want to admit having such sorrow for someone you never met. But perfect dreams are perfect and losing them is losing what could have been perfect, unblemished by sleepless nights and temper tantrums. That week I developed a bottomless pit of sadness that is still there. Because of baby #1, I have more compassion and empathy. I "get" despair. And I know it gets better.
The day after we learned we were losing our baby, Petey the Cat was scheduled for grooming. Well, because I am a "strong" person who felt she shouldn't be affected by a miscarriage, I kept that appointment. Because life goes on damn it and cats need to be brushed. And I'm so glad I kept that appointment as it shapes my attitude every day.
We dropped Petey off at Groomingdales (yes, that was the real name) and drove aimlessly around town waiting to pick him up. After an hour or so, we picked Petey up, already in his cage. I saw his little poofy face and thought he looked great. Then I got a better glimpse. My Maine Coon cat, a 18-pound furry bowling ball, was shaved bald, except for his head, feet and the top of his tail.
I sputtered, "You shaved my cat!"
Groomingdales person, "I know! Isn't it great?!"
I was speechless. Actually, I wanted to say, "What the fuck!? You shaved my fucking cat!? Who the fuck does that? He looks like a fucking moron!?" But speechless was probably a better option right then. I PAID $45 for this hack job and took my ridiculous looking cat home.
I sat on my couch and waves of sadness washed over me again as the shock of my stupid looking cat wore off. I started to cry...again. But then I looked at my cat. And he still looked ridiculous. But this time it was kind of funny. And I actually started to laugh. What is so important here is that I didn't think I'd laugh again. I realized then that the dark pit would always be there, but life would still have funny moments - I would just have to look harder for them sometimes.
So when I hear about really crappy things happening to people and I'm searching for a piece of advice for them, I always fall back to "Shave the cat." I know it doesn't make a ton of sense. Unless you have a cat. And in that case, I've got the name of a cat groomer for you. They are excellent. And there is nothing better than a huge cat with a lion cut.
Nine years ago almost to the week, Pete and I were pregnant. It was a surprise to both of us and being stubborn and not open to change, I was not the happiest initially. I was training for a marathon and about to start a graduate degree while working. It took a few weeks and some shopping for cute maternity clothes and I finally decided that I was pretty excited for this baby. And it was then that we lost it.
Miscarriage happens all the time but that doesn't make things any better for those of us who have gone through it. I was very healthy, fit and young. And for some reason my body betrayed me. Learning we were having a miscarriage is still to this day my saddest memory. It was one of those defining moments that completely changes who you are as a person. Finding your husband crying in the garage for what we lost so he could be strong for me is crippling. And you don't want to admit having such sorrow for someone you never met. But perfect dreams are perfect and losing them is losing what could have been perfect, unblemished by sleepless nights and temper tantrums. That week I developed a bottomless pit of sadness that is still there. Because of baby #1, I have more compassion and empathy. I "get" despair. And I know it gets better.
The day after we learned we were losing our baby, Petey the Cat was scheduled for grooming. Well, because I am a "strong" person who felt she shouldn't be affected by a miscarriage, I kept that appointment. Because life goes on damn it and cats need to be brushed. And I'm so glad I kept that appointment as it shapes my attitude every day.
We dropped Petey off at Groomingdales (yes, that was the real name) and drove aimlessly around town waiting to pick him up. After an hour or so, we picked Petey up, already in his cage. I saw his little poofy face and thought he looked great. Then I got a better glimpse. My Maine Coon cat, a 18-pound furry bowling ball, was shaved bald, except for his head, feet and the top of his tail.
I sputtered, "You shaved my cat!"
Groomingdales person, "I know! Isn't it great?!"
I was speechless. Actually, I wanted to say, "What the fuck!? You shaved my fucking cat!? Who the fuck does that? He looks like a fucking moron!?" But speechless was probably a better option right then. I PAID $45 for this hack job and took my ridiculous looking cat home.
I sat on my couch and waves of sadness washed over me again as the shock of my stupid looking cat wore off. I started to cry...again. But then I looked at my cat. And he still looked ridiculous. But this time it was kind of funny. And I actually started to laugh. What is so important here is that I didn't think I'd laugh again. I realized then that the dark pit would always be there, but life would still have funny moments - I would just have to look harder for them sometimes.
So when I hear about really crappy things happening to people and I'm searching for a piece of advice for them, I always fall back to "Shave the cat." I know it doesn't make a ton of sense. Unless you have a cat. And in that case, I've got the name of a cat groomer for you. They are excellent. And there is nothing better than a huge cat with a lion cut.
Monday, July 23, 2012
The Scream
When Munch painted The Scream, he said the inspiration came from how he could hear nature screaming through the sky. And to that I say, "No Sir, you are a liar." Clearly Munch was a parent who couldn't get his child to sleep at night. I'm pretty sure I have looked like The Scream on a few occasions, thanks to my sweet littlest son.
Eight years ago when I had the Moose, my pediatrician recommended finding my "mad voice" so my son would know when I was serious when he was in trouble. I tried over the years to find this voice, practicing with different lower tones and volumes. Each time it was pathetic and Peter would grin, shake his head and say "No wonder he doesn't take you seriously." Fortunately the Moose didn't require much discipline. Unfortunately, it didn't give me much practice for his slightly more challenging little brother.
Since having the Rock, I have managed to find my Scream on two occasions. Once he swept his bowl of soup off the table, like in a bad dramatic movie, sending soup flying across the room. A voice came out of me that I can only describe as a rabid bear. I think I actually saw the bear come out of my mouth - at that moment I was having an out-of-body experience. Let's just say that Rocco understood that yes, sending your soup bowl sailing against the wall, is "not a good choice."
Now we have bedtime issues. When I say "we", I mean me. The Rock goes to sleep great for his dad. But when Mom puts him to bed, he is willing to scream my name for an hour straight until he 1) pukes or 2) I give up. One night while Pete was out, after hearing my name screamed for 40 minutes in a way that would suggest my little angel was in impending danger, I bounded upstairs only to hear, "Hi Mom. Where is my giraffee?" Again I retreated downstairs, only to have the screams start up again. Upstairs again to "I need a dwink." The next time he needed a pickle. Another 20 minutes of hearing my name screamed at the top of his lungs and I had had enough. I stomped up the stairs and enter the room with The Scream that said under no uncertain terms was it bedtime and that this crap was stopping NOW. And then the real crying began. Which made me feel like shit. Scooping up the Rock, I kissed him, apologized for yelling and told him that he still needed to go to bed. And then it was quiet.
I retreated downstairs and felt like the World's Worst Mom. I had found my "mad voice" and it didn't feel too awesome to use. Therapeutic, but the hangover sucked. The next morning, the Rock, with his mature ability to make me feel bad intentionally, told me "don't scweam at me." I told him we'd make a deal that I wouldn't scream at him if he wouldn't scream at me. Making a deal with a toddler is like trusting a thief with your housekeys - fruitless. I drove to work thinking about how I had totally failed as a parent. I have so many patient friends that never raise their voices at their kids.
And then I had an epiphany. Yes, I have amazing friends that make my parenting skills look like a bad episode of COPS. But there are also a lot of super sucky parents out there that scream at their children as the only form of communication they use, that beat their children and withhold love. And compared to the lowest standard I can think of, I felt okay. Because that night my patience had broke and yes, I yelled at Rock, but I also kept my head and my control. We've never hit our children for any reason and one really bad night at home didn't push me over the edge. And I thought maybe I should just give myself a little credit for the fact that I have a child that knowingly pushes my buttons and that ALL I did was yell.
All of us have crappy parenting moments, especially when we compare ourselves to the perfect parents out there. Maybe sometimes we should compare ourselves to a slightly lower standard, just so we can have enough of a confidence boost to make it through another day. Or night as it is my case.
So I'm not perfect, but after eight years, I did finally find that voice that a DOCTOR told me to channel. And on that note, I'm ending with a quote from one of the best books written lately, "baby, just go the fuck to sleep."
Eight years ago when I had the Moose, my pediatrician recommended finding my "mad voice" so my son would know when I was serious when he was in trouble. I tried over the years to find this voice, practicing with different lower tones and volumes. Each time it was pathetic and Peter would grin, shake his head and say "No wonder he doesn't take you seriously." Fortunately the Moose didn't require much discipline. Unfortunately, it didn't give me much practice for his slightly more challenging little brother.
Since having the Rock, I have managed to find my Scream on two occasions. Once he swept his bowl of soup off the table, like in a bad dramatic movie, sending soup flying across the room. A voice came out of me that I can only describe as a rabid bear. I think I actually saw the bear come out of my mouth - at that moment I was having an out-of-body experience. Let's just say that Rocco understood that yes, sending your soup bowl sailing against the wall, is "not a good choice."
Now we have bedtime issues. When I say "we", I mean me. The Rock goes to sleep great for his dad. But when Mom puts him to bed, he is willing to scream my name for an hour straight until he 1) pukes or 2) I give up. One night while Pete was out, after hearing my name screamed for 40 minutes in a way that would suggest my little angel was in impending danger, I bounded upstairs only to hear, "Hi Mom. Where is my giraffee?" Again I retreated downstairs, only to have the screams start up again. Upstairs again to "I need a dwink." The next time he needed a pickle. Another 20 minutes of hearing my name screamed at the top of his lungs and I had had enough. I stomped up the stairs and enter the room with The Scream that said under no uncertain terms was it bedtime and that this crap was stopping NOW. And then the real crying began. Which made me feel like shit. Scooping up the Rock, I kissed him, apologized for yelling and told him that he still needed to go to bed. And then it was quiet.
I retreated downstairs and felt like the World's Worst Mom. I had found my "mad voice" and it didn't feel too awesome to use. Therapeutic, but the hangover sucked. The next morning, the Rock, with his mature ability to make me feel bad intentionally, told me "don't scweam at me." I told him we'd make a deal that I wouldn't scream at him if he wouldn't scream at me. Making a deal with a toddler is like trusting a thief with your housekeys - fruitless. I drove to work thinking about how I had totally failed as a parent. I have so many patient friends that never raise their voices at their kids.
And then I had an epiphany. Yes, I have amazing friends that make my parenting skills look like a bad episode of COPS. But there are also a lot of super sucky parents out there that scream at their children as the only form of communication they use, that beat their children and withhold love. And compared to the lowest standard I can think of, I felt okay. Because that night my patience had broke and yes, I yelled at Rock, but I also kept my head and my control. We've never hit our children for any reason and one really bad night at home didn't push me over the edge. And I thought maybe I should just give myself a little credit for the fact that I have a child that knowingly pushes my buttons and that ALL I did was yell.
All of us have crappy parenting moments, especially when we compare ourselves to the perfect parents out there. Maybe sometimes we should compare ourselves to a slightly lower standard, just so we can have enough of a confidence boost to make it through another day. Or night as it is my case.
So I'm not perfect, but after eight years, I did finally find that voice that a DOCTOR told me to channel. And on that note, I'm ending with a quote from one of the best books written lately, "baby, just go the fuck to sleep."
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Fifty Shades of Reality
*This post is about Fifty Shades of Grey. If you are my mother and reading this blog, please do not read Fifty Shades of Grey. And if you do, do not tell me that you read it. That's all I ask.*
So I've been pretty busy lately reading the trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey. And I can't say I'm all too impressed. Why did I read all three books then? Because I'm an optimist. So if you have a new business idea of selling used chewing gum to denture users and you are looking for an angel investor, chances are I'll believe it will be a sensational idea and will float you a loan.
To be honest, I too was swept up in the fantasy of the story. Once I got over the initial shock of word porn, I found myself fantasizing about living at the Grey house. Why? Not for the mind-blowing sex. Actually, that part got a little boring. No, I was way more excited about the personal chef, chauffeur and house keeper. Heaven help me, if I could come home and have someone preparing my meals for me and cleaning my house to the point of even santizing the playroom I would be in ecstasy. Goodness knows those stuffed animals could use a good scrubbing. (And you thought I was talking about the "Red Room of Pain" didn't you? Tsk tsk...)
So here is my tribute to Fifty Shades...of Reality. Welcome to my world.
"My Fifty Shades walks in as I am cooking our dinner. 'Mmm' he says, 'what are you cooking Hot Stuff?' As my insides melt as I am slaving over a hot stove, I give him my most sultry look through my eyelashes 'Chicken nuggets. Damn, I have something in my eye.'
He walks over to the table. 'Do you need me to get the table ready? Do you know what I could do with this table?' He gives me a dark look as his eyes turn that shade of grey. 'Yes,' I reply, breathing hard because I am holding our toddler while pouring the milk for dinner, my inner goddess doing an elaborate ribbon twirling routine. 'You can wipe it with a Lysol wipe before dinner. I think we forgot after breakfast this morning.'
We eat our dinner as quickly as we can, because in our house, if you don't eat fast, you don't eat. My Fifty Shades looks at me as our fingers touch while we exchange dirty dishes. 'Do you want to take a bath or a shower?' I look at him quizzically, my subconscious looking up from her Complete Works of Shakespeare in Mandarin. 'I think we only have time for a shower. What exactly are you thinking?' My Fifty looks at me with a knowing expression. 'You are right. But we'll have to be fast or we'll run out of hot water.'
The kids playing downstairs, I jump into the shower. As I turn around, Fifty climbs into the shower. 'Now we won't run out of hot water. I'll wash your back.' Oh my. My inner goddess finishes her floor routine and moves on to an awkward salsa dance. As he lathers up his hands, he murmurs into my ear, 'Did you pick me up more shaving cream?' Oh my. The door slams open as our darling eight-year old stomps into the bathroom, 'Do you know what my brother did? He broke all my legos! He is never going into my room ever again!' Tears streaming down his face, he runs out of the bathroom. I rinse quickly and move on to damage control with the babies.
We finally put the children to bed, 90 minutes after we first start the process. I don my most alluring over-sized t-shirt and climb into bed, adjusting my pillow pet that I received for my birthday last year. Fifty is already in bed and I can hear him breathing. Deeply. I snuggle into him, feeling a rumbling deep inside. Damn, I shouldn't have had those last 3 bites of cake. Fifty turns over to face me, looking me in the eyes. Oh, my insides turn to jelly. I really shouldn't have had that cake. What was I thinking? As I turn out the light, our youngest stirs and starts shouting that he needs to go to the potty. Oh my."
So I've been pretty busy lately reading the trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey. And I can't say I'm all too impressed. Why did I read all three books then? Because I'm an optimist. So if you have a new business idea of selling used chewing gum to denture users and you are looking for an angel investor, chances are I'll believe it will be a sensational idea and will float you a loan.
To be honest, I too was swept up in the fantasy of the story. Once I got over the initial shock of word porn, I found myself fantasizing about living at the Grey house. Why? Not for the mind-blowing sex. Actually, that part got a little boring. No, I was way more excited about the personal chef, chauffeur and house keeper. Heaven help me, if I could come home and have someone preparing my meals for me and cleaning my house to the point of even santizing the playroom I would be in ecstasy. Goodness knows those stuffed animals could use a good scrubbing. (And you thought I was talking about the "Red Room of Pain" didn't you? Tsk tsk...)
So here is my tribute to Fifty Shades...of Reality. Welcome to my world.
"My Fifty Shades walks in as I am cooking our dinner. 'Mmm' he says, 'what are you cooking Hot Stuff?' As my insides melt as I am slaving over a hot stove, I give him my most sultry look through my eyelashes 'Chicken nuggets. Damn, I have something in my eye.'
He walks over to the table. 'Do you need me to get the table ready? Do you know what I could do with this table?' He gives me a dark look as his eyes turn that shade of grey. 'Yes,' I reply, breathing hard because I am holding our toddler while pouring the milk for dinner, my inner goddess doing an elaborate ribbon twirling routine. 'You can wipe it with a Lysol wipe before dinner. I think we forgot after breakfast this morning.'
We eat our dinner as quickly as we can, because in our house, if you don't eat fast, you don't eat. My Fifty Shades looks at me as our fingers touch while we exchange dirty dishes. 'Do you want to take a bath or a shower?' I look at him quizzically, my subconscious looking up from her Complete Works of Shakespeare in Mandarin. 'I think we only have time for a shower. What exactly are you thinking?' My Fifty looks at me with a knowing expression. 'You are right. But we'll have to be fast or we'll run out of hot water.'
The kids playing downstairs, I jump into the shower. As I turn around, Fifty climbs into the shower. 'Now we won't run out of hot water. I'll wash your back.' Oh my. My inner goddess finishes her floor routine and moves on to an awkward salsa dance. As he lathers up his hands, he murmurs into my ear, 'Did you pick me up more shaving cream?' Oh my. The door slams open as our darling eight-year old stomps into the bathroom, 'Do you know what my brother did? He broke all my legos! He is never going into my room ever again!' Tears streaming down his face, he runs out of the bathroom. I rinse quickly and move on to damage control with the babies.
We finally put the children to bed, 90 minutes after we first start the process. I don my most alluring over-sized t-shirt and climb into bed, adjusting my pillow pet that I received for my birthday last year. Fifty is already in bed and I can hear him breathing. Deeply. I snuggle into him, feeling a rumbling deep inside. Damn, I shouldn't have had those last 3 bites of cake. Fifty turns over to face me, looking me in the eyes. Oh, my insides turn to jelly. I really shouldn't have had that cake. What was I thinking? As I turn out the light, our youngest stirs and starts shouting that he needs to go to the potty. Oh my."
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Sugar, Adhesive and Lies - Potty Training 2.0
So we finally started potty training Rocco last weekend. He's 2 1/2 and seems ready for it so we jumped in. When we potty trained Max, I remember it being a very smooth process. The biggest hang-up was buying him prizes for pooping on the potty. Back then, I would have called it "pooing" but since having lived in a testerone-filled house for the last 8 years, I have adjusted to calling it what it is. Yuck.
To prepare, we bought lots of underwear, set aside 2 days of our lives to focus on this big event, and stocked the house with stickers and Skittles. What we didn't prepare for was Rocco being himself.
We started on Sunday and I haven't sounded so excited about underwear since I worked at Victoria's Secret ("We have the teal hipster in your size! What about the matching thong and bra?!") Rocco settled on some new Thomas the Train undies and away we went, with promises of sugar and stickers for successful potty-attempts. The reward for going potty in this house is 3 Skittles and a sticker.
The first moment I realized that Rocco was gaining the upper hand was when I found him stealing the candy. He was at the kitchen table while I was occupied doing something very wholesome and parentlike, I'm sure, like refilling my coffee cup and popping some Advil. He SAID he just wanted to SEE the Skittles. He must have meant see them in his mouth because when I looked over, he looked like a chipmunk with a mouth full of rainbow-colored sugar nuts. He was giggling as Skittles started to fall out of his mouth, which he caught quickly and shoved back into his mouth, before he ran off. The Skittles were put up and I learned my lesson to NOT TRUST ROCCO AROUND CANDY.
My next downfall was the stickers. I keep the stickers within reach because Rocco has never really cared about stickers before. That is until they were being used to count good behavior. We have a sheet of paper on the door for a potty chart. When Max trained, he dutifully placed a sticker on the chart for each time he went potty. This chart became a source of pride and joy for Max - and one we have saved for his senior graduation party. For Rocco, this chart has become a way of showing that he really is the boss in the house. I found him rapidly adding unearned stickers to his chart - when he saw me, he looked up, started laughing and took off with the sheet of stickers. I explained that stickers were only for when he went potty. This explanation was met with a smirk and an unspoken understanding that Rocco would add stickers whenever he damn well pleased.
The final straw was when Rocco learned why little boys have openings in the front of their underwear. Funny what you can poke through there. "Look Mom!" I heard and when I turned to look, I was visually accosted by Rocco's little buddy. "Oh Rock, you need to put your penis away. He stays in your underwear." But it was a lost cause because Rocky had learned that I had a new button to push. I looked to Peter for manly advice - he is a man after all and has learned to overcome the urge to walk around with his penis hanging out. I figured he was an expert with this. This is what I got:
Peter: "Rocco, put your penis away."
Rocco: "Hey Dad! Look at me!"
Peter: "Just ignore him. He'll stop."
Rocco: "Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look at me!"
Peter: "Rocco, if you don't put that away, the cats will bite it."
At this point I was completely appalled. I turned on Peter and scolded him for 1) being gross and 2) totally making up a story to fix this behavior. Now, the cats do bite Rocco because he pulls their tails and tries to sit on them. But they bite him on the arm - not anywhere more sensitive! Let's reason with Rocco instead because I'm not going to make up some blatent lie just to have him put his little guy away (internally I was panicking I'd get a call from his child care teachers about my new little flasher). At this point Petey-the-Cat (a huge maine coon cat) came walking through the kitchen. Rocco gasped, shouted "NO PETEY!" and grabbed his crotch and ran off.
Once I picked myself off the floor from laughing, I realized one thing. While I never want to make up completely unbelievable lies for my children, at least WE learned one thing - Rocco is listening afterall.
To prepare, we bought lots of underwear, set aside 2 days of our lives to focus on this big event, and stocked the house with stickers and Skittles. What we didn't prepare for was Rocco being himself.
We started on Sunday and I haven't sounded so excited about underwear since I worked at Victoria's Secret ("We have the teal hipster in your size! What about the matching thong and bra?!") Rocco settled on some new Thomas the Train undies and away we went, with promises of sugar and stickers for successful potty-attempts. The reward for going potty in this house is 3 Skittles and a sticker.
The first moment I realized that Rocco was gaining the upper hand was when I found him stealing the candy. He was at the kitchen table while I was occupied doing something very wholesome and parentlike, I'm sure, like refilling my coffee cup and popping some Advil. He SAID he just wanted to SEE the Skittles. He must have meant see them in his mouth because when I looked over, he looked like a chipmunk with a mouth full of rainbow-colored sugar nuts. He was giggling as Skittles started to fall out of his mouth, which he caught quickly and shoved back into his mouth, before he ran off. The Skittles were put up and I learned my lesson to NOT TRUST ROCCO AROUND CANDY.
My next downfall was the stickers. I keep the stickers within reach because Rocco has never really cared about stickers before. That is until they were being used to count good behavior. We have a sheet of paper on the door for a potty chart. When Max trained, he dutifully placed a sticker on the chart for each time he went potty. This chart became a source of pride and joy for Max - and one we have saved for his senior graduation party. For Rocco, this chart has become a way of showing that he really is the boss in the house. I found him rapidly adding unearned stickers to his chart - when he saw me, he looked up, started laughing and took off with the sheet of stickers. I explained that stickers were only for when he went potty. This explanation was met with a smirk and an unspoken understanding that Rocco would add stickers whenever he damn well pleased.
The final straw was when Rocco learned why little boys have openings in the front of their underwear. Funny what you can poke through there. "Look Mom!" I heard and when I turned to look, I was visually accosted by Rocco's little buddy. "Oh Rock, you need to put your penis away. He stays in your underwear." But it was a lost cause because Rocky had learned that I had a new button to push. I looked to Peter for manly advice - he is a man after all and has learned to overcome the urge to walk around with his penis hanging out. I figured he was an expert with this. This is what I got:
Peter: "Rocco, put your penis away."
Rocco: "Hey Dad! Look at me!"
Peter: "Just ignore him. He'll stop."
Rocco: "Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look at me!"
Peter: "Rocco, if you don't put that away, the cats will bite it."
At this point I was completely appalled. I turned on Peter and scolded him for 1) being gross and 2) totally making up a story to fix this behavior. Now, the cats do bite Rocco because he pulls their tails and tries to sit on them. But they bite him on the arm - not anywhere more sensitive! Let's reason with Rocco instead because I'm not going to make up some blatent lie just to have him put his little guy away (internally I was panicking I'd get a call from his child care teachers about my new little flasher). At this point Petey-the-Cat (a huge maine coon cat) came walking through the kitchen. Rocco gasped, shouted "NO PETEY!" and grabbed his crotch and ran off.
Once I picked myself off the floor from laughing, I realized one thing. While I never want to make up completely unbelievable lies for my children, at least WE learned one thing - Rocco is listening afterall.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
A Memo to Management
To: Senior Management
From: Jenny, Personal Assistant to Senior Management, aka Mommy
Re: Proposal in regards to recent complaints
Thank you for your recent honest assessment of my job performance. I acknowledge the fact that I have been absent one night a week for a total of two hours and I am sorry that my absence has bothered you. I would like to point out that while you have been unhappy that I have gone to a yoga class these past few Wednesdays, my performance in other aspects has been satisfactory and as such, I would like to propose that I continue taking these classes. I would like to support my position with the following facts:
1. For the last 8 years, I have been on call 24/7. While I embrace the fact that this is a job requirement as Mom, I would like to be able to do something for myself during regular working hours. Most employees would receive a break during the day. Usually I take my personal time between the hours of 4 - 6 a.m.; occasionally I would like to step away for a short amount of time between 6 a.m. - 4 a.m., just once a week.
2. Since having children, I recognize that sleep is a privilege, not a right. Please see point #1 regarding my work schedule. I am on-call all hours of the day and at any moment am prepared to jump out of bed to attend a thirsty-request or clean up your puke (which you forget to mention until I stick my hand in it in the dark.)
3. I know that I am away from the house on a regular basis for "work." My job provides your house, food and transportation, among other amenities. I do consider this part of my responsibilities as Mom and do not count this as "personal time."
4. In my spare time while you are sleeping or playing without me, I plan your birthday parties, sleep overs, schedule your camps, make your meals and buy you new shoes. I do not foresee my one-hour of yoga a week impacting my job duties as Mom.
5. I thoroughly enjoy watching your soccer, football, basketball, scouts, music classes and gym classes. I had hoped that one yoga a class for me would be acceptable in our family schedule.
6. This particular yoga class, while it does take me away from you, reduces my stress-levels to something that resembles human again, which I think we can all agree, is a good thing. As you can see in points 1-5, I have dedicated my life to taking care of you and occasionally need to do something for me, however selfish it may appear. This yoga class also addresses another important issue, my body. We do not usually bring this up, as it is a sensitive subject, but creating you has fucked up my body on record levels. I would do it again in less than a heartbeat, but reality must be faced. I have several pounds to drop and a stomach area that requires serious toning. I can live with the 7 inch c-section scar, simply because I can't do anything about it. But I would like to address the other sub-par areas on my physical being.
I hope you will consider my proposal for just a touch of life balance. I hope we can meet over a quick dinner of chicken nuggets to discuss it in further detail. Thank you for your time and consideration.
From: Jenny, Personal Assistant to Senior Management, aka Mommy
Re: Proposal in regards to recent complaints
Thank you for your recent honest assessment of my job performance. I acknowledge the fact that I have been absent one night a week for a total of two hours and I am sorry that my absence has bothered you. I would like to point out that while you have been unhappy that I have gone to a yoga class these past few Wednesdays, my performance in other aspects has been satisfactory and as such, I would like to propose that I continue taking these classes. I would like to support my position with the following facts:
1. For the last 8 years, I have been on call 24/7. While I embrace the fact that this is a job requirement as Mom, I would like to be able to do something for myself during regular working hours. Most employees would receive a break during the day. Usually I take my personal time between the hours of 4 - 6 a.m.; occasionally I would like to step away for a short amount of time between 6 a.m. - 4 a.m., just once a week.
2. Since having children, I recognize that sleep is a privilege, not a right. Please see point #1 regarding my work schedule. I am on-call all hours of the day and at any moment am prepared to jump out of bed to attend a thirsty-request or clean up your puke (which you forget to mention until I stick my hand in it in the dark.)
3. I know that I am away from the house on a regular basis for "work." My job provides your house, food and transportation, among other amenities. I do consider this part of my responsibilities as Mom and do not count this as "personal time."
4. In my spare time while you are sleeping or playing without me, I plan your birthday parties, sleep overs, schedule your camps, make your meals and buy you new shoes. I do not foresee my one-hour of yoga a week impacting my job duties as Mom.
5. I thoroughly enjoy watching your soccer, football, basketball, scouts, music classes and gym classes. I had hoped that one yoga a class for me would be acceptable in our family schedule.
6. This particular yoga class, while it does take me away from you, reduces my stress-levels to something that resembles human again, which I think we can all agree, is a good thing. As you can see in points 1-5, I have dedicated my life to taking care of you and occasionally need to do something for me, however selfish it may appear. This yoga class also addresses another important issue, my body. We do not usually bring this up, as it is a sensitive subject, but creating you has fucked up my body on record levels. I would do it again in less than a heartbeat, but reality must be faced. I have several pounds to drop and a stomach area that requires serious toning. I can live with the 7 inch c-section scar, simply because I can't do anything about it. But I would like to address the other sub-par areas on my physical being.
I hope you will consider my proposal for just a touch of life balance. I hope we can meet over a quick dinner of chicken nuggets to discuss it in further detail. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
An Ode to May Day (or May-Not Day)
Know this post is coming from a place of love for all moms out there...and an intense sense of envy.
I hate May Day. This is a completely worthless holiday designed to divide SUPER-parents from those of us who struggle to just get through the day with no one losing a shoe. For those of you that say that Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday from the card companies, I counter that May Day is a made-up holiday from Dixie Cups and Jiffy Pop, with Parents Magazine as a sponsor. (Because if anything is going to make you feel inadequate, it is a good parenting magazine.) Maybe you say I just like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day because it means I get presents. And maybe you would be right.
In Iowa at least, it is tradition to make special little cups (May Baskets) with goodies, like popcorn, candy and flowers. You place these May Baskets on your neighbor's porch, ring the bell and run. It's a sweet little tradition that I hate now as a mom. I loved getting May Baskets as a kid. But once I became a parent, it was clear that I was not going to be the parent who is "on top of it." I blew my first May Day when Max was in daycare. He received about 10 May Baskets from the other kids. At least there were 16 kids in his class so I wasn't the only underachiever. Every year May Day rolls around and I forget all about it again. And now that I have TWO kids, the pressure has doubled - and I have doubly failed. Today Rocco even got a May Basket (special allowing for his food allergies even!) with homemade paper flowers. And I hang my head in shame.
The thing is, I'm insanely envious of all of those parents out there that are going above and beyond. Most days my "above and beyond" is serving dinner on real plates and including one serving of a fruit OR vegetable. And I desperately want to be the parent that remembers the little holidays, like May Day or Boxing Day. Instead, just for one little day, I am filled with a crazy amount of jealousy of the moms (and dads) that make May Baskets for the entire class. I especially like it when my friends point out how this date was in their calendars so they could allot the three days necessary to make all 16 individualized May Baskets and determine an appropriate delivery method (Friend, you know who you are).
So another year goes by and no May Baskets from our house. And I have now decided to boycott May Day so at least it seems that I am making the CHOICE of not making May Baskets instead of completely forgetting about them. And if that brings me a little peace, then so be it. But please ring my doorbell and leave a little something for my babies. I promise not to sneak and eat their goodies...because a boycott is a boycott. And I can pop my own popcorn.
I hate May Day. This is a completely worthless holiday designed to divide SUPER-parents from those of us who struggle to just get through the day with no one losing a shoe. For those of you that say that Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday from the card companies, I counter that May Day is a made-up holiday from Dixie Cups and Jiffy Pop, with Parents Magazine as a sponsor. (Because if anything is going to make you feel inadequate, it is a good parenting magazine.) Maybe you say I just like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day because it means I get presents. And maybe you would be right.
In Iowa at least, it is tradition to make special little cups (May Baskets) with goodies, like popcorn, candy and flowers. You place these May Baskets on your neighbor's porch, ring the bell and run. It's a sweet little tradition that I hate now as a mom. I loved getting May Baskets as a kid. But once I became a parent, it was clear that I was not going to be the parent who is "on top of it." I blew my first May Day when Max was in daycare. He received about 10 May Baskets from the other kids. At least there were 16 kids in his class so I wasn't the only underachiever. Every year May Day rolls around and I forget all about it again. And now that I have TWO kids, the pressure has doubled - and I have doubly failed. Today Rocco even got a May Basket (special allowing for his food allergies even!) with homemade paper flowers. And I hang my head in shame.
The thing is, I'm insanely envious of all of those parents out there that are going above and beyond. Most days my "above and beyond" is serving dinner on real plates and including one serving of a fruit OR vegetable. And I desperately want to be the parent that remembers the little holidays, like May Day or Boxing Day. Instead, just for one little day, I am filled with a crazy amount of jealousy of the moms (and dads) that make May Baskets for the entire class. I especially like it when my friends point out how this date was in their calendars so they could allot the three days necessary to make all 16 individualized May Baskets and determine an appropriate delivery method (Friend, you know who you are).
So another year goes by and no May Baskets from our house. And I have now decided to boycott May Day so at least it seems that I am making the CHOICE of not making May Baskets instead of completely forgetting about them. And if that brings me a little peace, then so be it. But please ring my doorbell and leave a little something for my babies. I promise not to sneak and eat their goodies...because a boycott is a boycott. And I can pop my own popcorn.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
I Like It Hot and Tan
This is dedicated to my friend that understands my deep love for all things that allow me to stay awake.
One thing you may or may not know about me is that I have a burning desire to be perfect. Perfect at everything. Healthy? No. But it is who I am. And it has led to what might possibly be a slight obsession with coffee. It is my drug of choice.
This little habit started at a young age. I remember sitting at the breakfast table, probably at the age of 4, with a little cup of coffee (with cream of course - black is for adults!), a bowl of Rice Chex and toast with butter. (Side note parents - your children will remember EVERYTHING YOU DO.) Is this the reason I am 5'2 as an adult? I don't know, you can be the judge. I'm sure my parents thought it was cute to have their little daughter drinking coffee with them in the morning. Nowadays it would be considered a health hazard, but then again, we didn't use car seats either so coffee was probably the least of my worries.
Coffee is actually my comfort food as well. At my parents' house, I don't reach for cookies or mac and cheese. I reach for a cup of coffee - regardless of the time of day. Just the other week my mom chided me when I told her I'd already had 4 cups of coffee that day; she said that was hardly any - I caved to the pressure and poured another cup. Mother knows best, right? I drink a cup before I go out for a long run. I rehydrate with coffee after a workout (water is for sissies). And it goes without saying that you should not speak to me before I've had a cup. Or three.
As a mom, I find that drinking coffee makes me the best mom I can be. See, I made the ultimate sacrifice early on and went cold turkey on all things caffeinated the minute I found out I was pregnant - because that's what good moms do (see paragraph 1). As soon as my year of breast feeding was up, I was back on the juice. In fact, I would drink that first cup of coffee while I cried about my babies growing up. Please note that the absence of coffee AND hormones are a lethal combination.
There have been lots of people who ask me why I would go back to drinking the nectar of the gods after I had given it up for 2 years (TWICE!). And I say, why the heck wouldn't I stop stop drinking coffee?! (Triple negative if you are counting.) Do I like being a zombie? Do I ever get 8 hours of sleep? Did I LIKE not drinking coffee? No - I like being the best pregnant/breastfeeding mom around by making the sacrifice of giving up my only vice during one of the hardest times of my life in terms of sleep, stress and insanity - because I am a show off. And now that the life of my child(ren) does not depend on my diet, I fully intend on living my life aware of my surroundings again. Truly, it is the only way I can keep up with 2 boys on totally different schedules and interests and a full time job, among other personal commitments like runs and volunteering.
Max has never wanted to try coffee. Rocco on the other hand says he "yikes" coffee. Of course Rocco likes all things he's not supposed to do so I don't completely believe him yet. And a 2 year old named Rocco on coffee is just as bad as it sounds. Guess who gave him his first sip? Here's a hint - she's mentioned above and is my enabler as well. Leave it to Grandma to teach the kids to drink coffee and swear (reference to a few blogs ago - catch up if you are behind). Thanks Mom!
Now since I've been off coffee and been on it, people ask don't I feel healthier not on coffee? No. I feel like crap because I'm exhausted and worthless. My kids are lucky they aren't named Folgers and Maxwell House. Well, I guess Max is close. But that wasn't intentional. Right?
One thing you may or may not know about me is that I have a burning desire to be perfect. Perfect at everything. Healthy? No. But it is who I am. And it has led to what might possibly be a slight obsession with coffee. It is my drug of choice.
This little habit started at a young age. I remember sitting at the breakfast table, probably at the age of 4, with a little cup of coffee (with cream of course - black is for adults!), a bowl of Rice Chex and toast with butter. (Side note parents - your children will remember EVERYTHING YOU DO.) Is this the reason I am 5'2 as an adult? I don't know, you can be the judge. I'm sure my parents thought it was cute to have their little daughter drinking coffee with them in the morning. Nowadays it would be considered a health hazard, but then again, we didn't use car seats either so coffee was probably the least of my worries.
Coffee is actually my comfort food as well. At my parents' house, I don't reach for cookies or mac and cheese. I reach for a cup of coffee - regardless of the time of day. Just the other week my mom chided me when I told her I'd already had 4 cups of coffee that day; she said that was hardly any - I caved to the pressure and poured another cup. Mother knows best, right? I drink a cup before I go out for a long run. I rehydrate with coffee after a workout (water is for sissies). And it goes without saying that you should not speak to me before I've had a cup. Or three.
As a mom, I find that drinking coffee makes me the best mom I can be. See, I made the ultimate sacrifice early on and went cold turkey on all things caffeinated the minute I found out I was pregnant - because that's what good moms do (see paragraph 1). As soon as my year of breast feeding was up, I was back on the juice. In fact, I would drink that first cup of coffee while I cried about my babies growing up. Please note that the absence of coffee AND hormones are a lethal combination.
There have been lots of people who ask me why I would go back to drinking the nectar of the gods after I had given it up for 2 years (TWICE!). And I say, why the heck wouldn't I stop stop drinking coffee?! (Triple negative if you are counting.) Do I like being a zombie? Do I ever get 8 hours of sleep? Did I LIKE not drinking coffee? No - I like being the best pregnant/breastfeeding mom around by making the sacrifice of giving up my only vice during one of the hardest times of my life in terms of sleep, stress and insanity - because I am a show off. And now that the life of my child(ren) does not depend on my diet, I fully intend on living my life aware of my surroundings again. Truly, it is the only way I can keep up with 2 boys on totally different schedules and interests and a full time job, among other personal commitments like runs and volunteering.
Max has never wanted to try coffee. Rocco on the other hand says he "yikes" coffee. Of course Rocco likes all things he's not supposed to do so I don't completely believe him yet. And a 2 year old named Rocco on coffee is just as bad as it sounds. Guess who gave him his first sip? Here's a hint - she's mentioned above and is my enabler as well. Leave it to Grandma to teach the kids to drink coffee and swear (reference to a few blogs ago - catch up if you are behind). Thanks Mom!
Now since I've been off coffee and been on it, people ask don't I feel healthier not on coffee? No. I feel like crap because I'm exhausted and worthless. My kids are lucky they aren't named Folgers and Maxwell House. Well, I guess Max is close. But that wasn't intentional. Right?
Saturday, April 21, 2012
What the ?
Many have asked, "Why haven't you blogged lately? I'm looking forward to your next post!" Okay, well maybe not many, maybe more like 3 people. But either way, I have a really good excuse - 2 in fact.
1. I have been CRAZY BUSY at work and home.
2. I gave up swearing for Lent.
And it's the latter that is really the cause for delay because half of my vocabulary was removed for 40 days. Now, some people say that stupid people use swear words because they aren't smart enough to have a larger vocabulary. And to them I say, screw you. I have a great vocabulary. But I also enjoy swearing. In fact, I have found it to be very useful. Let me explain.
1. Swearing makes you NOT sound stupid. During Lent I tried many alternatives such as "good heavens", "good gracious", and "my word." And I sounded stupid. Finally I reverted back to my standard "what the hell?!" I justified this by remembering that hell is actually a location, not necessarily a swear word. I also say it quickly like "whatthehell" and that isn't even a word in the first place. Either way during my little verbal fast, I learned that I sound a little less dumb if I just say what I mean. What the hell does Good Gracious mean anyway? Seriously.
2. Swearing helps me know when my children are lying. It is no secret that I might swear in front of my children. Not YOUR children if they are visiting, just mine. I feel that if they are going to say a swear word, they better use it correctly and who better to learn that from than your mother. A while ago Max came home upset because at school he got in trouble. The teacher thought he said "shit." He told me he said "the chair shifted" and everyone thought he said "shit." Well, obviously my son is telling the truth and I can tell because I know he would never say "the chair shitted" - it doesn't make any sense at all. And trust me, the Moose knows how to drop a well placed cuss word if necessary.
3. Swearing makes me a better mother. Two months ago Rocco learned how to lock the back door in the car with his foot. He also learned that it is really funny to lock it when I'm trying to get him out of the car. One afternoon I spent 5 minutes unlocking the door, only to see Rocco through the car window, looking me straight in the eye, tapping the lock button with his foot. In fact, he kept his foot positioned in place so that as soon as he heard the door unlock, he could tap the lock as quickly as possible so that I still couldn't open his door. He is talented and gifted and has the reflexes of a sprinter so despite my keeping one hand on the door handle and one hand on the unlock button, he beat me everytime. And I turned my head and loudly whispered "Motherfucker!" A few attempts later I actually beat him at his game. And we both went into the house. Now, without the "motherfucker" I'm sure I would have totally lost it on him and screamed my fool-head off. But the release of the F-bomb brought me just a little peace and calm. And thus, it made me a better mother.
So now that I have all of my swear words at my full disposal again, I'm sure I'll be back to blogging. Unless things become a clusterfuck again. Ahh, it felt really good to say that.
1. I have been CRAZY BUSY at work and home.
2. I gave up swearing for Lent.
And it's the latter that is really the cause for delay because half of my vocabulary was removed for 40 days. Now, some people say that stupid people use swear words because they aren't smart enough to have a larger vocabulary. And to them I say, screw you. I have a great vocabulary. But I also enjoy swearing. In fact, I have found it to be very useful. Let me explain.
1. Swearing makes you NOT sound stupid. During Lent I tried many alternatives such as "good heavens", "good gracious", and "my word." And I sounded stupid. Finally I reverted back to my standard "what the hell?!" I justified this by remembering that hell is actually a location, not necessarily a swear word. I also say it quickly like "whatthehell" and that isn't even a word in the first place. Either way during my little verbal fast, I learned that I sound a little less dumb if I just say what I mean. What the hell does Good Gracious mean anyway? Seriously.
2. Swearing helps me know when my children are lying. It is no secret that I might swear in front of my children. Not YOUR children if they are visiting, just mine. I feel that if they are going to say a swear word, they better use it correctly and who better to learn that from than your mother. A while ago Max came home upset because at school he got in trouble. The teacher thought he said "shit." He told me he said "the chair shifted" and everyone thought he said "shit." Well, obviously my son is telling the truth and I can tell because I know he would never say "the chair shitted" - it doesn't make any sense at all. And trust me, the Moose knows how to drop a well placed cuss word if necessary.
3. Swearing makes me a better mother. Two months ago Rocco learned how to lock the back door in the car with his foot. He also learned that it is really funny to lock it when I'm trying to get him out of the car. One afternoon I spent 5 minutes unlocking the door, only to see Rocco through the car window, looking me straight in the eye, tapping the lock button with his foot. In fact, he kept his foot positioned in place so that as soon as he heard the door unlock, he could tap the lock as quickly as possible so that I still couldn't open his door. He is talented and gifted and has the reflexes of a sprinter so despite my keeping one hand on the door handle and one hand on the unlock button, he beat me everytime. And I turned my head and loudly whispered "Motherfucker!" A few attempts later I actually beat him at his game. And we both went into the house. Now, without the "motherfucker" I'm sure I would have totally lost it on him and screamed my fool-head off. But the release of the F-bomb brought me just a little peace and calm. And thus, it made me a better mother.
So now that I have all of my swear words at my full disposal again, I'm sure I'll be back to blogging. Unless things become a clusterfuck again. Ahh, it felt really good to say that.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
How Does Heidi Klum Do It or Mom Jeans and Barf in your Hair
I find that it is difficult to blend the practical fashions of being a mom with the fashion my husband would like for me. My husband is awesome and would never say anything disparaging about my looks or body, but occasionally he has mentioned that I could dress a little sexier and I know without him saying so that he prefers long hair. But last night it occurred to me how much these two roles I play conflict - that of being a wife and being a mom - well, at least in terms of fashion.
Mom Jeans: I am proud to say that I do not own a pair of mom jeans, nor do I ever plan on purchasing a pair (can you even still buy them?) But I do see the allure of a high waist pair of jeans. It makes me crazy to sit down at library storytime, knowing that there is a good probability that someone behind me can check out what color my Victoria Secret hipsters are. Mom jeans would prevent this. But then again, if I was wearing mom jeans, no one would probably care what color my panties are. Ew.
Low cut shirts: Listen, I don't know what it is about children and men but neither population can seem to keep their hands off a mom's chest. At least my husband saves that for private situations (really hoping my parents aren't reading this one...) but my boys have no such worries. Both of my boys, when they were little, would reach down my shirt in church or at a restaurant. Whoa kiddos! The day you stopped nursing was the day that area became off limits. I guess they didn't read the memo - of course at that age, they weren't reading yet so maybe this was my fault. Anyway, a button down shirt or sweatshirt or t-shirt all seem to alleviate this problem, but don't fall into the fashionable category. Practical, yes, sexy, no.
Nighties: I worked at Victoria's Secret during college and collected a lot of knowledge and bought a lot of items while I was there. I have a whole drawer full of super cute pajamas that are wonderful if I'm going to stay warm under the covers all night long. But I have learned a rule since I've had kids: the less material in my pajamas, the more I will be up with the kids during the night. Seriously, this hardly ever fails. I will throw on a full pair of pants and long sleeve shirt to go to bed. Pete will look at me like I'm crazy, but really, I just want a full night of sleep. And you know what? I'll get it. The one night I put on satin, I will be up 6 times, freezing as I rock whoever is awake.
Long hair: Do all men love long hair? I kind of think so. After I had the Moose, I cut ALL of my hair off and went with the spiked look. I was postpartum and about all I could manage was incredibly short hair. Actually, it was kind of cute. But one day I decided to grow my hair long again. And right now, it is really long. And it takes forever to dry in the morning - you know, that time of day when you have tons of time to get ready for work and get the kids out of bed and to their respective schools. And your kids will accidently pull it, usually every time you are watching a movie with them and finally sitting down to relax for the day. Or, as I found out last night, they will puke on it when their children's grape motrin makes them gag. I think the last time my hair was puked on at 2 a.m. was when I did it and the circumstances were WAY more fun. If I had had short hair, I would have just gotten puke on my shoulder, which oddly feels way more tolerable.
You always see those celebrity moms walking around in heels with their kids (there's no way I could sprint in a pair of heels), wearing super low cut jeans, with their hair blowing in the wind. Heidi Klum has 3 or 4 kids and just gave up modeling for Victoria's Secret. Is she wearing sexy jammas to bed or does she have a pair of flannel pjs too? For now, I'll continue to wear normal jeans and long hair. And sometimes I wear something less than a full sweatsuit to bed or unbutton an extra button on my flannel shirt. I guess trying to maintain some semblence of youth is worth a little groping by a 2-year old in McDonald's and the occasional barf in your hair. And I bet Heidi Klum wears sweats and pulls her hair up when she's with her kids all weekend too.
Mom Jeans: I am proud to say that I do not own a pair of mom jeans, nor do I ever plan on purchasing a pair (can you even still buy them?) But I do see the allure of a high waist pair of jeans. It makes me crazy to sit down at library storytime, knowing that there is a good probability that someone behind me can check out what color my Victoria Secret hipsters are. Mom jeans would prevent this. But then again, if I was wearing mom jeans, no one would probably care what color my panties are. Ew.
Low cut shirts: Listen, I don't know what it is about children and men but neither population can seem to keep their hands off a mom's chest. At least my husband saves that for private situations (really hoping my parents aren't reading this one...) but my boys have no such worries. Both of my boys, when they were little, would reach down my shirt in church or at a restaurant. Whoa kiddos! The day you stopped nursing was the day that area became off limits. I guess they didn't read the memo - of course at that age, they weren't reading yet so maybe this was my fault. Anyway, a button down shirt or sweatshirt or t-shirt all seem to alleviate this problem, but don't fall into the fashionable category. Practical, yes, sexy, no.
Nighties: I worked at Victoria's Secret during college and collected a lot of knowledge and bought a lot of items while I was there. I have a whole drawer full of super cute pajamas that are wonderful if I'm going to stay warm under the covers all night long. But I have learned a rule since I've had kids: the less material in my pajamas, the more I will be up with the kids during the night. Seriously, this hardly ever fails. I will throw on a full pair of pants and long sleeve shirt to go to bed. Pete will look at me like I'm crazy, but really, I just want a full night of sleep. And you know what? I'll get it. The one night I put on satin, I will be up 6 times, freezing as I rock whoever is awake.
Long hair: Do all men love long hair? I kind of think so. After I had the Moose, I cut ALL of my hair off and went with the spiked look. I was postpartum and about all I could manage was incredibly short hair. Actually, it was kind of cute. But one day I decided to grow my hair long again. And right now, it is really long. And it takes forever to dry in the morning - you know, that time of day when you have tons of time to get ready for work and get the kids out of bed and to their respective schools. And your kids will accidently pull it, usually every time you are watching a movie with them and finally sitting down to relax for the day. Or, as I found out last night, they will puke on it when their children's grape motrin makes them gag. I think the last time my hair was puked on at 2 a.m. was when I did it and the circumstances were WAY more fun. If I had had short hair, I would have just gotten puke on my shoulder, which oddly feels way more tolerable.
You always see those celebrity moms walking around in heels with their kids (there's no way I could sprint in a pair of heels), wearing super low cut jeans, with their hair blowing in the wind. Heidi Klum has 3 or 4 kids and just gave up modeling for Victoria's Secret. Is she wearing sexy jammas to bed or does she have a pair of flannel pjs too? For now, I'll continue to wear normal jeans and long hair. And sometimes I wear something less than a full sweatsuit to bed or unbutton an extra button on my flannel shirt. I guess trying to maintain some semblence of youth is worth a little groping by a 2-year old in McDonald's and the occasional barf in your hair. And I bet Heidi Klum wears sweats and pulls her hair up when she's with her kids all weekend too.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Osteoporosis and Children or Why I Need To Start Body Building
Wow, it's been a while! Where have I been you ask? Well, I went to Florida to run a marathon with my best friend...no, really, I did. But lately I've been curled up in the fetal position in the corner of my kitchen, drinking Kool Aid, wishing it were wine and waiting for the insanity in my living room to stop.
Basically, I've been busy being a mom.
Why is it that there are days that being a mom is the most wonderful thing in the world? I have days where I get the kids involved in art projects, I make a creative lunch that everyone eats, we snuggle, read, watch a movie and everyone is happy. And I think, "Yes, this is what being a mom is all about. My boys love me and I love them. It's too bad I'm not a stay-at-home mom." THEN I have days (that have been a bit frequent lately) where I realize that the boys are trying to kill me, at least mentally and emotionally. And I really am huddled in the kitchen, hiding, counting down to bedtime. That's when I realized that being a mom is a bit like having osteoporosis. There are times that kids will just suck you dry and leave you a brittle, fragile (at least mentally) person.
One of the great things about being a parent is that you get to relive all of that kid-stuff, like Halloween (G-rated), Disney movies and trips to the zoo. You get to see things through their eyes again (cue cliche). It's also times like these when you notice other details, like how the tigers that pace in front of their cages at the zoo actually have a crazed look about them, and you realize that you too sometimes have that same mad-look when stuck inside your house all day with your kids because it's too cold to go outside.
But wait my friends, there is hope! Much like osteoporosis, there are things we can do to stop our children from breaking us down, sucking out our energy and leaving us in a pile of dust on the floor.
Here is my list of prevention against osteoporosis and kiddoporosis (sorry - it's the only name I could come up with - see proof of kiddoporosis - this was my best and it is pathetic):
1. Gender
It pays not to be female when it comes to osteoporosis. It is definitely a disease that strikes women more than men. It also appears to pay not to be female to prevent kiddoporosis because if you weren't a female, you wouldn't be a mom. Um, not much you can do about this one. Sorry.
2. Age
Being old is a risk factor to osteoporosis and there's nothing you can do about it. See above. Sorry.
3. Drink Milk
Finally! Something you have some control over. Calcium is supposed to help prevent osteoporosis. But I don't think drinking milk helps with the decline of kiddoporosis, although it is still good behavior to model. I would like to tweek this piece of advice a bit and recommend drinking alcohol. It definitely helps me when I have a beer and then hear the kids scream at each other, jump on each other and throw soccer balls at my new TV. I feel a little less insane and my voice sounds a little less loud (in my head) as I yell at them that for the last time, NO MORE THROWING BALLS IN THE HOUSE!
4. Exercise
Weight bearing exercise is a great prevention tool against osteoporosis. And I fully throw my support behind this for kiddoporosis. Why? Because my friends, you are either going to be running after your children or running away from them (did I mention the marathon earlier?). And I have a personal motto that I always want to be stronger than my kids because it's important that they always know that Mom is the Boss. The problem is that I'm 5'2 and I have two boys. In fact, Moose, at the ripe old age of 7, only weighs 50 pounds less than I do, which tells you 1) I don't have much time to seriously start lifting weights and 2) I really need to get to work losing the baby weight from the Rock. Either way, I'm going to have to become a body builder, but hey, anything for the kids, right?
So good luck everyone! Pray for the days when parenting is a blast. And drink wine and run (away) when parenting sucks. Or at least hide in your kitchen with a pitcher of Kool Aid until the kids pass out from exhaustion.
Basically, I've been busy being a mom.
Why is it that there are days that being a mom is the most wonderful thing in the world? I have days where I get the kids involved in art projects, I make a creative lunch that everyone eats, we snuggle, read, watch a movie and everyone is happy. And I think, "Yes, this is what being a mom is all about. My boys love me and I love them. It's too bad I'm not a stay-at-home mom." THEN I have days (that have been a bit frequent lately) where I realize that the boys are trying to kill me, at least mentally and emotionally. And I really am huddled in the kitchen, hiding, counting down to bedtime. That's when I realized that being a mom is a bit like having osteoporosis. There are times that kids will just suck you dry and leave you a brittle, fragile (at least mentally) person.
One of the great things about being a parent is that you get to relive all of that kid-stuff, like Halloween (G-rated), Disney movies and trips to the zoo. You get to see things through their eyes again (cue cliche). It's also times like these when you notice other details, like how the tigers that pace in front of their cages at the zoo actually have a crazed look about them, and you realize that you too sometimes have that same mad-look when stuck inside your house all day with your kids because it's too cold to go outside.
But wait my friends, there is hope! Much like osteoporosis, there are things we can do to stop our children from breaking us down, sucking out our energy and leaving us in a pile of dust on the floor.
Here is my list of prevention against osteoporosis and kiddoporosis (sorry - it's the only name I could come up with - see proof of kiddoporosis - this was my best and it is pathetic):
1. Gender
It pays not to be female when it comes to osteoporosis. It is definitely a disease that strikes women more than men. It also appears to pay not to be female to prevent kiddoporosis because if you weren't a female, you wouldn't be a mom. Um, not much you can do about this one. Sorry.
2. Age
Being old is a risk factor to osteoporosis and there's nothing you can do about it. See above. Sorry.
3. Drink Milk
Finally! Something you have some control over. Calcium is supposed to help prevent osteoporosis. But I don't think drinking milk helps with the decline of kiddoporosis, although it is still good behavior to model. I would like to tweek this piece of advice a bit and recommend drinking alcohol. It definitely helps me when I have a beer and then hear the kids scream at each other, jump on each other and throw soccer balls at my new TV. I feel a little less insane and my voice sounds a little less loud (in my head) as I yell at them that for the last time, NO MORE THROWING BALLS IN THE HOUSE!
4. Exercise
Weight bearing exercise is a great prevention tool against osteoporosis. And I fully throw my support behind this for kiddoporosis. Why? Because my friends, you are either going to be running after your children or running away from them (did I mention the marathon earlier?). And I have a personal motto that I always want to be stronger than my kids because it's important that they always know that Mom is the Boss. The problem is that I'm 5'2 and I have two boys. In fact, Moose, at the ripe old age of 7, only weighs 50 pounds less than I do, which tells you 1) I don't have much time to seriously start lifting weights and 2) I really need to get to work losing the baby weight from the Rock. Either way, I'm going to have to become a body builder, but hey, anything for the kids, right?
So good luck everyone! Pray for the days when parenting is a blast. And drink wine and run (away) when parenting sucks. Or at least hide in your kitchen with a pitcher of Kool Aid until the kids pass out from exhaustion.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
A Pink Gladiator and a Hair Stylist Boxer
My sons' names are Maximus and Rocco; rather tough names for little boys. They came about them innocently enough - I didn't start out trying to name my kids to be future gangsters or bounty hunters. I always liked the name Max, but felt we needed a "full" name. I hated Maxwell and Peter couldn't stand Maximilian (my first choice). So Maximus it was. I associate Maximus with Gluteus Maximus (probably my fitness background) but later we learned everyone thought we named him after the Russell Crowe Gladiator movie (including the priest that baptized him). Nope. We just liked the name Maximus over all other versions.
Rocco came about his macho name a little differently. We aren't crazy enough to name him after a boxer. He was supposed to be a Jaxson but after a very rough entry into the world, we named him to be strong like a rock, a fighter. He needed every bit of moxy we could give him and it turns out he lives up to his name and wears us out constantly.
But I'm not writing this about why my boys have really masculine names. I'm writing about the color pink and hair dryers. See, for as macho as my boys sound, they have a softer side.
It started with Maximus. Every since he was little, his favorite color has been pink. It was so cute we thought and didn't think much of it. We are cool, enlightened parents after all and are perfectly fine having a little boy whose favorite color is pink. That is until kindergarten. Wasn't he supposed to grow out of this by now? The moment of truth came at the kindergarten open house when we were sent home with a questionnaire. Benign question number 3: What is Max's favorite color? Max piped up with "Pink!" and we asked (not a proud moment) "Don't you have other favorite colors too?" Max looked puzzled and said, "Well, I like blue and red too I guess." "Great!" we said and enthusiastically wrote down blue and red. Because, what would the other kids say to Max when they learned his favorite color is pink? Then Pete and I looked at each other and asked, why are we trying to make our kid someone he's not. So what if his favorite color is pink? We'll teach him that it's okay to be a little different and to be proud of who you are. So reluctantly, we wrote down pink next to blue and red. Sure enough, Max came home and told us that boys aren't supposed to like pink and was it okay if he did. By now I was mad enough at myself for trying to push some stupid cultural bias on him that I said "Your favorite color is pink and that's perfectly fine. Everyone has a different favorite color. And yes, there are lots of girls who like pink, but there are also girls that like blue, like me. So pink is your favorite color and that's just great." And we've never since questioned his favorite color, which to this day, is still pink. Maximus will probably be one of the few NFL players that is excited when they break out the pink breast cancer awareness gloves for October.
Little did I know that Max's pink would break me in for Rocco. Not built like his linebacker big brother, Rocco is a thin little boy, which will help him when he is sneaking out of my house at night and stealing cars. Rocco is wiry, good at climbing and absolutely fearless (to a fault). He's going to be the individual sport type of kid: wrestling, track, BMX biking, and skateboarding. He's also going to be a hair dresser. There is nothing that gets Rocco more excited than my hair dryer and curling iron. He loves plugging anything into an outlet, which scares the crap out of me. Before you roll your eyes at my lack of parental safety awareness, I'll cut right to the chase and let you know that he can remove the safety caps on the outlets. So there, I'm more on top of it than you think. It's just that Rocco is smarter. Anyway...Rocco has always been obsessed with my hair and insists on it being worn down (ie, not in a ponytail or headband). Every night I have to take my hair down if I have it up and then he plays with it while we read, rock, sing, etc. He regularly looks at people and comments on their hair cuts. And when we spent a recent night at a girlfriend's house, his favorite part of the visit was watching her fix her hair in the morning. She and I looked at each other and agreed that he would probably be a hair stylist - to the stars. And you know what, I'm totally fine with that. I went through the phase of thinking my boys could only do "boy things". I bought him a comb and brush for Christmas so he'd stop swiping mine. When it comes to Rocco's future, I only have two conditions. The first being that he goes to college, preferably for an electrical engineering degree, because he shows an affinity to electricity and engineers make good money. Second, when he is rich and famous for being the stylist to the stars, he has to do my hair (and Summer's hair) for free because we discovered him first.
My boys are perfect just the way they are. They may not always act perfect, they think farting is funny and like to belch at the table. But if one looks like a football player that loves pink and the other sounds like an Italian gangster but does hair, then so be it. At least my hair will look good.
Rocco came about his macho name a little differently. We aren't crazy enough to name him after a boxer. He was supposed to be a Jaxson but after a very rough entry into the world, we named him to be strong like a rock, a fighter. He needed every bit of moxy we could give him and it turns out he lives up to his name and wears us out constantly.
But I'm not writing this about why my boys have really masculine names. I'm writing about the color pink and hair dryers. See, for as macho as my boys sound, they have a softer side.
It started with Maximus. Every since he was little, his favorite color has been pink. It was so cute we thought and didn't think much of it. We are cool, enlightened parents after all and are perfectly fine having a little boy whose favorite color is pink. That is until kindergarten. Wasn't he supposed to grow out of this by now? The moment of truth came at the kindergarten open house when we were sent home with a questionnaire. Benign question number 3: What is Max's favorite color? Max piped up with "Pink!" and we asked (not a proud moment) "Don't you have other favorite colors too?" Max looked puzzled and said, "Well, I like blue and red too I guess." "Great!" we said and enthusiastically wrote down blue and red. Because, what would the other kids say to Max when they learned his favorite color is pink? Then Pete and I looked at each other and asked, why are we trying to make our kid someone he's not. So what if his favorite color is pink? We'll teach him that it's okay to be a little different and to be proud of who you are. So reluctantly, we wrote down pink next to blue and red. Sure enough, Max came home and told us that boys aren't supposed to like pink and was it okay if he did. By now I was mad enough at myself for trying to push some stupid cultural bias on him that I said "Your favorite color is pink and that's perfectly fine. Everyone has a different favorite color. And yes, there are lots of girls who like pink, but there are also girls that like blue, like me. So pink is your favorite color and that's just great." And we've never since questioned his favorite color, which to this day, is still pink. Maximus will probably be one of the few NFL players that is excited when they break out the pink breast cancer awareness gloves for October.
Little did I know that Max's pink would break me in for Rocco. Not built like his linebacker big brother, Rocco is a thin little boy, which will help him when he is sneaking out of my house at night and stealing cars. Rocco is wiry, good at climbing and absolutely fearless (to a fault). He's going to be the individual sport type of kid: wrestling, track, BMX biking, and skateboarding. He's also going to be a hair dresser. There is nothing that gets Rocco more excited than my hair dryer and curling iron. He loves plugging anything into an outlet, which scares the crap out of me. Before you roll your eyes at my lack of parental safety awareness, I'll cut right to the chase and let you know that he can remove the safety caps on the outlets. So there, I'm more on top of it than you think. It's just that Rocco is smarter. Anyway...Rocco has always been obsessed with my hair and insists on it being worn down (ie, not in a ponytail or headband). Every night I have to take my hair down if I have it up and then he plays with it while we read, rock, sing, etc. He regularly looks at people and comments on their hair cuts. And when we spent a recent night at a girlfriend's house, his favorite part of the visit was watching her fix her hair in the morning. She and I looked at each other and agreed that he would probably be a hair stylist - to the stars. And you know what, I'm totally fine with that. I went through the phase of thinking my boys could only do "boy things". I bought him a comb and brush for Christmas so he'd stop swiping mine. When it comes to Rocco's future, I only have two conditions. The first being that he goes to college, preferably for an electrical engineering degree, because he shows an affinity to electricity and engineers make good money. Second, when he is rich and famous for being the stylist to the stars, he has to do my hair (and Summer's hair) for free because we discovered him first.
My boys are perfect just the way they are. They may not always act perfect, they think farting is funny and like to belch at the table. But if one looks like a football player that loves pink and the other sounds like an Italian gangster but does hair, then so be it. At least my hair will look good.
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