Adventures in Flying with an Addict or Jesus Doesn't Want You to be an Asshole

The other day I was flying home. It might surprise you to know that I’m really more of an introvert; all of the jobs I’ve had require me to be an extrovert so when I’m not working, I tend to be quiet and keep more to myself. I was plugged into a podcast when my seatmate looked over at me and mumbled something. I unplugged, answered his question and plugged in again. And again, he leaned over and mumbled something.

Me: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Him: “This is my first flight. I’m on my way to rehab.”

I sighed and knew that I would be engaging with this person the whole flight and was already calculating how long this was going to take. As our plane taxied for take-off, my seatmate shared with me a quick synopsis of his life so far. Four kids, married for 15 years but about to divorce (she doesn’t know it yet), first kid at the age of 17, crack addict, 17 charges against him, born in the south, heading to a $60k rehab in Fort Lauderdale. That’s a lot to accomplish by your early thirties. Heading to rehab? So there’s a super great chance he’s either a little high right now or is in withdrawal. His jitters could be from drugs or nerves or maybe a bit of both.

One of the few things I’m good at is being the cheerleader, providing the pep talk. And here’s a man who is pouring his heart out to me that might just need one. I’m no Nicholas Sparks and hate being sappy, but at the same time, I felt like maybe we were sitting together so that he could hear that he was making the right choice.

Turns out crack addicts do not have a filter. Or maybe they just are really vulnerable. Or maybe they just don’t know social cues and overshare. Look at it however you wish – I thought all three during this 90 minute flight. Robert (we shared names halfway through his flight) couldn’t believe I was traveling alone and wondered if my marriage was on the rocks. Nope, I’m just capable of traveling on my own and someone has to take the kids to school if I’m gone. Robert loves his kids and repeatedly tells me this is for his kids and I agree, as parents, there’s nothing we won’t do for our kids. If the loves of your life don’t motivate you, nothing will.

Since we were flying in a filter free zone, Robert leaned over after we’d had a riveting conversation about cell phone carriers and asked if I believed in God. Nothing like a new topic without a segway. At the same time, that’s what was making this conversation most entertaining – having no idea where the heck this train was headed. And I thought, what an incredibly personal question. And where was Robert on this – he’s southern, isn’t this all they do down there?

Me: “Well, yeah, I believe there’s a higher power. I was raised Catholic but am between religions right now.” 

Robert: “I want to believe but a lot of time I don’t want to believe there’s a God.”

Good Lord. I don’t want to get into a whole religious conversation. I’m not that person. So here’s how the rest of this went.

Me: “I think there are a lot of things happening that are hard to explain and there’s probably something behind them. But I don’t think there’s one right or one wrong religion.”
Robert: “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a God. Right?”
Me: “Well, I don’t think there’s a judgy God up there. I just think that we are all supposed to be good people. Just be a good person and you’ll be fine. Don’t be an asshole. That’s what I think it’s all about, regardless of who you are and what you believe.”
Robert: “I like that. Not a judgy God. I’m a good person. I may not seem like it and I haven’t made good choices, but I’m a good person.”

He says this like a person clinging to a life raft and I realize that this conversation might mean something to him later. Shit.

Me: “Of course you are a good person. Look. We all fuck up. We just have to try our best every day. And some days our best sucks. But the next day we just try again to be a good person.”

Robert is nodding along and I feel this responsibility to not screw this up. Like he needs to know that what he’s done thus far in his life doesn’t define him.

Me: “So just do your best, be a good person and don’t be an asshole. I think if you follow that, you are good.”

Worst pep talk ever. But I realized this is what I believe. I don’t care if you are Catholic, Methodist, Buddhist, Muslim or an atheist. Be a good person and if you aren’t, try harder tomorrow. Maybe it isn’t as complicated as we all like to make it. Stop judging others. If you do believe in God then let him handle that. I feel like Jesus is up there face palming and shouting down “Don’t be an asshole!” (My Jesus swears.) So now I take my own advice. I stop being a pretentious asshole and remember that I’m engaging with a human being. I tell Robert he’s brave for going to rehab, for admitting to his oldest daughter that he is a crack addict, for doing something scary. He nods more and seems to need to hear it. And then our flight lands. I am relieved it is over because I don’t want to screw Robert up. He asks where I’m heading next and then I explain how to find your next gate at the airport. He offers me some sunglasses which I decline. And we disembark.

We bump into each other again at the departure signs and I help him figure out his next gate. He wants me to walk him there and I walk a little ways with him and then tell him the rest is on his own, much like the next part of his life. But that he can do it – he can find his gate, he can handle rehab, he can be clean for his kids. I wish him luck and I mean it.

I have no idea if Robert made it to rehab or if he’ll stay clean afterwards. Fort Lauderdale seems like a pretty stupid place for a rehab center – I’ve watched MTV Spring Break. But even if Robert fucks up again, he gets a new chance to make good choices tomorrow, because isn’t that what it’s really about? 

After School Specials and PSAs or Does Someone Have a Banana

Warning: This post is full of alphabet soup – TMI, NSFW, you name it - which means, it’s probably a pretty fun read.

Things that make me queasy: hang nails, Band-Aids, splinters, sex talks. There are two ways to approach these four things. You can slowly take care of them or you can rip them off. Either way is painful so you just have to figure out how long you want to endure. 

As a parent there have been a few things I’ve dreaded dealing with: sucking snot out of baby noses, belly buttons falling off and explaining where babies come from. I knew the day would come where I would have to talk about the birds and the bees and while I really wanted to be enlightened, brave and evolved enough to handle it maturely, I had absolutely no experience with it. My own experience with “the sex talk” was less than ideal.

I was a senior in high school and was going to my very first OBGYN appointment because I had my first yeast infection (warned you about the TMI…) At the appointment, I got a prescription for medication and paid for it myself, which was probably the first time I’d had “adulted.” I called my mom from school…on a pay phone. (Yes, I’m that old.)
Me: “I got a pill. It was like twenty bucks.”
Mom: “Well that’s your choice for your decisions. If you need a pill then you’ll have to pay for it.”
Me (thinking this was a little harsh for simply being sick with an infection I didn’t want): “Huh? I have an infection…”
Mom: “What? Oh. Well, okay then. I’ll see you at home.” Click.

Good talk Mom. It took me about five minutes to realize she thought I meant The Pill. Poor Mom. If I put myself in her shoes, she was either caught off guard or the complete opposite – preparing for the worst. Now to my mom’s defense, I was 1) her first born, 2) a girl, and 3) we were Catholic. Pretty much the perfect storm for an epic fail of a sex talk. As an adult reflecting on that special Hallmark moment, I was determined to do a better job with my kids. I was raised on the Church of Oprah damnit! Oprah says we have to talk openly about this with our kids! (Great advice from a woman who has dogs for kids – all she has to do is drop them off at the vet and the sex talk is over!) Even 15 years later, it still bothers me that I missed the Oprah show that was advertised as “the one you can’t miss!” that detailed all the crazy things kids were doing these days (these days being the very early 2000’s). I frantically asked my friends what information was covered. In hushed tones, I was told about rainbow parties, jelly bracelets, and scary things on buses. And this was just for middle school kids! Even though I wasn’t even pregnant, I was already sweating.

Fast forward ten years. I’m pregnant with the Squirrel and the Moose was noticing that I was blowing up like Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. And then it happened. It was six a.m. and my little five year-old asks “How is the baby coming out? How did the baby get in there?”

And I panicked. Granted, I was decaffeinated and it was six a.m. But still, Oprah says I should always be prepared for The Talk. I stammered and said “They just come out. Do you want a pop tart?” Epic Fail! I could feel Oprah frowning. I spent the better part of the next week trying to come up with a response for the next time I was asked. I consulted mommy friends and was told whatever you do, don’t tell him the doctors take it out of your tummy with surgery because then he would worry if I was safe! Use real terms! Don’t tell him anything! Babies come out of belly buttons! My mommy friends weren’t as helpful as I would have liked – isn’t there protocol for this? I was determined to do better next time I was asked a Major Life Question in the wee hours of the morning because I’m evolved! So naturally, when the Moose asked me again a week later, I did no better. “Um….that’s a great question. Um….let’s talk about it tonight.” The Moose, who is of course very intelligent, could not figure out how I could not know how a whole baby showed up in my tummy. But at least I had bought myself 10 hours.

That night I informed him that babies come from mommies and daddies making decisions to have a baby (Oprah fail) and that they come from a place on a mommy that is under our swim suits. This was not my finer moments. I just could not say the word “vagina.” But at least I hadn’t said that they come from belly buttons or from major surgery so hopefully he wouldn’t be scarred for life, right? Of course the Squirrel was born from a very scary emergency surgery that led his dad to promptly have a vasectomy so he would never experience a birth again. Thankfully the Moose didn’t ask why daddy had peas on his crotch.

Now that I had two boys I realized I just have to take this bull by the horns and figure out how to do The Talk. I decided that it needed a strategic approach and would treat it like a larger After School Special followed up with mini PSAs. Oh, I am a child of the 80s…#themoreyouknow

It’s a careful line to walk between not telling them enough and going into details about a mucus plug, although that thought would put me off sex for a while so maybe that’s how we have a safe sex talk. I’m not saying I’m doing this correctly – in fact, if you google it, I’m sure you’ll find I’m completely botching it. But even if I don’t get each mini PSA correct, at least I’m keeping the conversation moving and from becoming a taboo topic in the house. Because the more you know, the less you’ll be inclined to hide stuff from me and we all know you can only hide a pregnancy for about 6 months. My rule is if you ask, I will answer. So let’s see how this has worked so far….

Jenny’s Attempts at Sex Talks:

The BIG One, Part 1
I overhear the Moose say the word “humping.”
Me: “Do you know what humping means? It’s a pretty crude word and I’d rather you not use it. And if you are going to use it, you should know what it means. Should we talk about it?’
Moose: “NOPE!”
Me: “Okay then, then don’t use it until you want to talk about it.”
END SCENE

The BIG One, Part 2
The Moose and I are having a fairly benign conversation and he starts pussyfooting around asking A Question.
Me: “If you have any questions, I will answer them. You should always just ask me rather than get ‘information’ from your friends because I will tell you the truth every time.”
Moose: “Nope, no questions!”
Moose: “Well…”
Moose: “Okay, where DO babies come from?”
Me (deep breath because my moment is finally here): “So you know boys have penises. Well women have vaginas, which are located under their underwear….”
I’m proud to say we had a full discussion that traveled from the living room, to the dining room to my bedroom. And when he got to the part about “but HOW is a baby made” I actually talked about sperm coming out of a penis and then got into how cool genetics are.
END SCENE

And then for the mini PSAs…

PSA: Wear a Condom
Me: “Look, your brother isn’t at the dinner table yet which gives me a chance to explain the fourth Golden Rule, always practice safe sex. You can get awful diseases if you don’t practice safe sex, including HIV. That’s why you have to always practice safe sex. There are these things called condoms and you should always use one.”
Moose: “MOM!”
Husband: “You know what they say, no glove no love.”
Me: “Ooh, high five! I’ll have to get a banana to show you one day.”
Moose: “SQUIRREL! COME TO DINNER!!”
END SCENE

PSA: Sexting
Me: “Squirrel isn’t at the table yet, so I’ve got to talk to you about something important. I know you are thinking of texting a girl so let me just say, never text a naked picture of yourself. And if you get one from someone, delete and tell me. Never forward it on.”
Husband: “Geez – I don’t think he’s even thinking about this stuff yet.”
Me: “You can never be too careful. You can get busted for child pornography if you forward a picture on!”
Moose: “Oh. My. Gosh.”
Squirrel: “Hey! What’s for dinner?”
Me: “I’m just saying, don’t send one and delete one if you get one!”
END SCENE

PSA: Boobs
Squirrel: “You know, girls have nickels.” (Interpretation: nipples – it’s too cute to correct)
Me: “Yes, girls AND boys have nickels. You have nickels.”
Squirrel: “Girls have booves too. But boys don’t have booves.” (Interpretation: boobs – again, cute!)
Me: “Boys and girls both have breasts.”
Squirrel: “But girls have booves.”
Me: “Girls have mammillary glands in their breast area so their breasts are larger, yes.”
Moose, giggling

END SCENE

So that’s how I’m fighting Dick Pics, one PSA at a time. Ladies, you are welcome. Hopefully by taking an open and matter-a-fact approach to all of this, we keep sex from becoming a taboo topic. Is this easy? Nope, not at all. I am swimming in a world of discomfort. But I am raising men. And we all want world full of considerate, responsible men. Don’t get me wrong - I sincerely hope that I never have to talk about oral sex, the female orgasm or masturbation – but I also realize that I might have to one day and I’m going to remember that the pain of talking about it is worth the trust and open communication I’m hoping to foster with my boys. When it comes down to it, sex talks are really all about science and respect. So I’m actually just pushing that STEM agenda that we hear so much about. Big Bang Theory meets Aretha Franklin!

Good luck my friends. We all are going to need it.

Find My iKid or Nail Guns and Six Year Olds Don't Mix

“Where the hell is the Squirrel?” I called out for the hundredth time. The Squirrel has a pack that he likes to run with, a collection of neighbor boys aged 4-7, which of course is the optimal age for decision making. These boys hop from house to house so it’s really anyone’s best guess where they are. They could be inside watching TV, outside on a trampoline, hiking through the prairie grass, or tearing up someone’s landscaping. They are randomly kicked out of houses for dinner time, during which time they will sit outside pining rather than go to their own homes.

The Moose is also out and about with his friends, playing basketball and descending on kitchens like locusts as only middle school boys can. I love how my kids have neighbor friends to play with and encourage them to bring friends home or play outside. However…I do want to know where they are at all times.

Does this make me overbearing? Who cares! I grew these kids myself. I have made sacrifices for them, including the ability to pee without interruption. These boys beat my heart and I’m pretty sure they still have some of my blood running through their veins. So do I want to know where they are? Yes and I don’t feel bad about it. When I don’t know where they are, it is hard to breathe. Not knowing where they are is like not knowing where my right hand is. Does that sound crazy? Well that’s how it feels.

I’ve seen those memes floating around Facebook about how when we were kids back in the good ole days, our parents sent us outside to play for the day after breakfast and didn’t expect to see us until dinner time. That in our day we tramped through the woods, built forts and drank full-sugar Kool Aid and bologna sandwiches. And by golly, that’s the way it should be now too dammit! We are too involved, too worried about safety, too much everything. We are raising soft kids!

Are we? Or are we just trying to make sure our kids live to see the age where they can use those college savings accounts we’ve been warned to have? I’ve seen what the Squirrel can do when left to his own devices. He’s quite resourceful. And if given the opportunity to build his own fort without adult supervision, he’d be over the moon – especially when he got his hands on that nail gun. And trust me, he’d find the nail gun. This is a child that used to grab kitchen knives when he was three and declare that he was old enough now for a butcher knife. And that happened when I was only a room away. Give him a whole day to wreck havoc on the world? Well, how much do you enjoy your personal safety and peace?

Were parents better back in the 70’s? Can’t we just embrace that we’ve learned things over the last four decades and have made adjustments? Mixing a cup of sugar into a pitcher to make Kool Aid? Mmm…maybe not. Let’s save the sugar for things that we can actually eat, like frosting and cookies. I grew up watching shows like The Dukes of Hazzard. In a fit of nostalgia, I sat down with my kids to watch it – this is what good TV was when I was growing up! The warm fuzzies subsided to the realization we were watching a show that flaunted a scantily clad woman who had a questionable relationship with her cousins. And wait, what the fuck is that on the General Lee? Is that a Confederate flag? What the hell! When I was a kid, I’m pretty sure I thought it was just stars and stripes. How about we flip on Modern Family so you can understand that different cultures and sexual preferences are okay?

Look folks, we go into panic mode if we can’t find our phone. Yes, in the decades since the good ole days we’ve advanced enough that we don’t have landlines anymore and all use mini computers that fit in our pockets for phones. You don’t hear me bitching that I’m not linked to the wall with a cord when I order my pizza – see, progress is good! Did you know there is a phobia now for people who fear losing their phones? We even have an app for it – Find My iPhone. So it’s acceptable for me to freak out when I don’t know where my phone is but I’m supposed to be cool with letting my Moose and Squirrel go MIA for a whole day. Because those priorities seem to be well aligned…

Granted, maybe I could scale back the full blown panic I feel when the Moose goes to a public bathroom. Have I almost burst into a men’s restroom to check on him? Yes, yes I have. Am I proud of that fact or the fact that I’ve almost done this multiple times? No, no I’m not; but I’m willing to bet there are a bunch of moms out there that would nod and say, “I get you.”

I’m not always going to be this way. The Moose and Squirrel will eventually go to college and at that point, I really don’t want to know where they are all the time much less what they are doing*. In fact, knowing what the Squirrel is up to might make me an accessory to a crime. They need to have the freedom to have fun and make mistakes so that when they are older they will think, “thank goodness we pulled that off!” But until they move out, I am on a need to know basis and I will always need to know. And if they don’t want to share that information, well that’s what Find My iPhone is for. Ha ha, you thought you pulled one off by getting a phone in fifth grade – joke’s on you Kiddo!

So I’m not going to feel bad that I parent in the current century. I don’t really want to go back to the times where second hand smoke was acceptable, car seats were optional and the internet wasn’t even conceived. Some things change for the better. I’m willing to bet nail guns have gotten more powerful and ER visits more expensive. I’ll care less about where my children are when there is an app called Find My iKid. Until then, I’ll be knocking on your door to see if the Moose and Squirrel are there.

*As long as they follow the Four Golden Rules, they will be fine. (See prior Four Golden Rules blog...)

The Pain of Moving On or Where Is My Teddy Bear

I have lost a great many friends. Close friends. Friends that have gone on vacations with me, friends that have gone to the movies with me, friends that I eat dinner with. I know these friends’ birthdays, families, and likes and dislikes. We were close and then, in a blink of an eye, they disappear from my life. Sure, they may stop by occasionally, but it is never like it was. Did I do something to drive them off? The only thing I think I did was go shopping. And yet, that’s all it took. One quick trip and our friendship disappears.  These friends all had something in common. They were all my sons’ stuffed animals.

It started with Butcho, a lovable brown puppy, the Moose’s first stuffed animal. He joined us on a Disney cruise where he sailed the seas and played with the towel animals. And who could forget Wuzzy, an orange cat that was the Moose’s best friend for years. Wuzzy went everywhere with us; he had quite a lot to say, especially at bedtime when he would tell the Moose stories. After years of friendship, I thought we were close. I thought we had a lifelong commitment. But I was wrong. Butcho and Wuzzy both left me as the Moose grew up.

The Squirrel was never interested in stuffed animals until this year. Once he found his niche, he sunk in with his whole imagination. The Squirrel has an obsession with stuffed bunnies, the more realistic looking the better. (Cue pun about multiplying like rabbits – it would be funny if it weren’t true.) We have Fisher Butcher, Wisher Washer, Wisher Washer 2, Bouncer Waller, Sunny Loppy, Zooey Bella, Torpedo Speedo Creampuff, Pumpkin Pot, Dot Ginger, Tulucy Dutch, Winter Mangrove, and our latest, Woodchip Fluff*. The Squirrel has created backstories for each and every one. They have birthdays, birthday parties, and families. Heck, I even made a Halloween costume for Winter Mangrove this year. And don’t get me started on the very confusing weekend when Fisher Butcher had gender identity issues and briefly was a girl bunny (he’s back to being a boy now.)

And then, just like that, the current best friend bunny is out as a new one comes in. And the Squirrel could care less – he’s just excited for the newest friend. After months of joining us at dinners, swim lessons, movies, and road trips, Winter Mangrove has been relinquished to the bed and Woodchip Fluff is with us 24/7. The Squirrel sees no betrayal, while I struggle to let go of an object that I not only kept track of ALL THE TIME but also provided narrating for at bedtime. As soon as I get attached, a new bunny becomes the best friend. I am going to need a support group…filled with stuffed bunnies who can commiserate.

Why does this bother me? What is it about the Butchos, Wuzzys, and Winter Mangroves out there? (Let’s be honest, I doubt there are many Winter Mangroves floating around, but you get the idea.) I think it’s the idea that the kids are growing and changing and frankly, I’m just not ready. They see an old stuffed orange cat, and I see years of this cat being in our lives, being loved by my Moose. Each bunny that becomes a supporting actor to a new main lead actor means that a little more time has passed. And one day, all of these bunnies will be under the bed as having imaginary friends will become “uncool.”

This is the cycle of life, right? Enjoy the moment, blah blah blah. I’m trying. I’m trying to see wonder in my youngest’s eyes and I hope that spark always remains. I watch my oldest navigate the world of middle school and hope he keeps a sense of humor. It is tough roads up ahead. Friends get confusing and school gets hard. And sometimes we could all use a stuffed animal to snuggle with at night, no matter how old we are. I hope they remember that and know it’s okay. Wuzzy and Fisher Butcher are waiting.

*Yes, the Squirrel has named each and every one of these rabbits himself. Plus there is also Grasser Rapper, an actual real live bunny he caught (and released) this summer. I had suggested naming him Thumper. Silly me.

A Nut-Free Squirrel or Don't Feed the Gremlin

No eggs, no nuts, no peanuts, no lentils, no chickpeas, no soy protein. It is our mantra. Our Squirrel* was born with food allergies, which makes each meal an adventure. Every time we eat, we hope that his food is safe. Restaurants are no longer relaxing but instead a source of stress until I’ve watched him eat and then I wait. If ten minutes elapse without any excitement, I switch from being worried about food to worrying about people overhearing my children having an inappropriate conversation about plugging a toilet at the library (true story.)

What a stressful way to live. Sure, I guess. From what I read on blogs and discussion boards, there are people who avoid life because of food allergies. And that was certainly my knee jerk reaction too. “We’ll never be able to travel! To eat out! To visit friends and family!” We lived like that for a little while too. Life is definitely easier and safer at home. But what fun would that be? After the initial shock of learning about the severity of his allergies, we decided that we weren’t going to let it limit us. We’d just adjust. We pack snacks and meals if needed. We call ahead to restaurants and birthday parties. I research cities we are staying in for friendly restaurants. We wipe down plane seats. We watch the playground for kids eating picnic lunches of peanut butter sandwiches. We have a supply of cupcakes in the freezer for birthday parties. We travel everywhere with epipens and benadryl. I refuse to let some fucked up blood fuck up our lives. Is it scary? Yes. But life, if lived well, is scary.

Did you know that food allergies are considered a disability? Yet, I read articles about people making fun of kids and people with peanut allergies. We don’t make fun of other disabilities or people with cancer so why food allergies? This was how he was born; trust me, I wish it was different. “Why should we not eat a peanut butter sandwich just because it could ‘kill’ your kid. It’s called survival of the fittest!” Hey, I love peanut butter too! I eat nuts and eggs whenever I’m not around my Squirrel. However, not to get dramatic, but yes, a peanut butter sandwich would probably kill him; it has killed others. To say that your right to knowingly** expose my kid to peanut butter so you could eat a sandwich, well, that makes you a jackass in my eyes. Maybe you’ve never watched your child dying because their body was strangling them. I sure hope you haven’t. Car accidents, sky diving and emergency surgeries don’t touch the fear you feel when you see your son’s eyes roll back in his head as he turns gray, and loses consciousness as his body shuts down because of a bowl of cereal with the wrong milk. Milk. People, it’s supposed to do a body good…unless it is poison to your body. Then it will shut it down faster than a sober coed shuts down an obnoxious drunk frat boy. To hear someone callously laugh about how a peanut could kill someone and that’s just nature taking care of the weak makes me sad and also want to punch them in the face. Hard.

Food allergies don’t mean we are picky. It means that we have to take all food into consideration and God help us (literally) if we screw it up. If we screw up just a little, it looks like the Exorcist. If we screw up big time, then it is an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. And that is why it brings tears to my eyes when other people watch out for my Squirrel. There are so many of you out there! I am overwhelmed by good people! Maybe you are the mom who told him to watch out because someone was eating a peanut butter sandwich at a basketball game. You might be the group of parents at the party that want to make sure you bring the right food so he’s safe. You might be the parent who emailed me the day of the birthday party, when I am sure you are running around trying to get ready, to see what candy he can have in the piñata and then you go out and put together a special bag just for him. Perhaps you are his teacher, who called me at 6:45 a.m. to double check with me if the school lunch would be okay for him. Maybe you are my family who learned how to bake without eggs so we can have safe meals every time we are at your house, including Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. Whenever I experience these moments, I am emotionally brought to my knees because you cared about someone I love with all my heart. It might just seem like you are being a human being, but to me, your concern is worth more than gold. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a city to raise one with food allergies.

Because of people like those I’ve described above, I can drop my son off at school, birthday parties and playdates. Thank you all for inviting the scary food allergy kid! I just tell parents to think of him like a Gremlin. Don’t feed him or water him and he stays nice and cuddly. And if you do feed him, please use the cupcake I brought along. I can deal with a kid jacked up on sugar, as long as it doesn’t have a side of nuts or eggs.

*Yes, I know it is ironic that I call him Squirrel but he can’t have nuts.

**I said knowingly because you do actually have a right to eat what you want. You don’t have to apologize for eating a peanut butter sandwich! I’m talking about the dicks that would go out of their way to expose my kid to an allergen. They are assholes. You, eating a peanut butter sandwich at a picnic, you are fine. You don’t know that my kid has allergies. How could you? And even if you know we are going to be there and you take precautions like washing your hands and giving us a heads up, great! You are totally fine. Basically, if you are worried about it, then you are not an asshole. 

Effing Phone or Living a Ben and Jerry's Life

Facebook, email, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. So many ways to connect with people in our attempt to distance ourselves. Are you sick of reading about how we should be “hands free”? How our kids are drying up without our attention because we are glued to a screen? That we feel our self-worth based on the number of likes we get on Facebook? That someone is a social media celebrity as opposed to just being a celebrity? What the hell does that mean anyway? I’m sick of reading about it too but I think it’s because I’m guilty of it rather than being bored from another cliché article about screen time. So here’s one more!

Hello. My name is Jenny and I’m addicted to my phone. I’m not alone – in fact, you might be reading this while your family is running around you in the kitchen. Maybe you are killing time waiting for practice to get over. Maybe you don’t want to actually talk to anyone right now so you peek in to see how your 246 Facebook friends are doing. Maybe you just need to escape.

I’m not judging. I get it. I so so get it. There are moments that I need to be alone and if I’m in a crowd, looking busy on my phone will do the trick. Maybe I’m messing around on my phone because I’m bored and hate waiting. Sometimes I’m feeling lonely and this makes me feel connected. Whatever the reason, at the end of the day it numbs and feeling numb can feel way better than feeling isolated, ignored, overwhelmed and anxious.

This phone addiction is not something I’m proud of. I hate it when I realize I want to grab it when I’m chilling out with my family and honestly, I’m doing my best to curb it. But it’s not easy. And that pisses me off. How did I get attached to some stupid device? Why do we feel a need to overshare? And why can’t I remember that everything looks better through social media tinted glasses?

I was talking to my sixth grader about social media. He says everyone is on Instagram in sixth grade and I asked him if he wanted an account. He said no. He doesn’t like it when everyone only stares at their phones.

The first thing I thought was “Goddamned motherfucking phone! I have got to quit this shit!” (Yes, this is how I think. I’m not proud of the swearing either but you have to pick your battles.) I think I finally found my motivation. I would do anything for my kids* and here is my baby saying he doesn’t like it when everyone is always on their phone.

Oh the shame. He wasn’t referencing me but he might as well have been. And I’m so happy that he hasn’t started being on his phone 24/7 yet. There’s still time! I’ve got to act now before he starts to think that it’s normal to look down instead of looking people in the eye. My first step is to stop reaching for that fucking phone all the time. Start small and keep it in a different room when the kids are up. Maybe progress to ignoring it when everyone has gone to bed. What will I do with my time?! I could cure cancer, create world peace or just go to bed so I could actually try to get 7 elusive hours of sleep.

It’s not often when our kids catch us in bad behavior but thank goodness it happens occasionally. Because nothing motivates me more than the Moose and Squirrel. If this bothers them, then that’s all I need to help stop the madness. I might need a support group in a church basement to get me there, but I’m going to do my best to log off more than I do now. Just like ice cream, everything is good in moderation. I’ll take a full-fat life over a fat-free online presence any day.

*However I refuse to ever wear those team color overalls. That’s a hard no and a second tier golden rule in my house. No team color overalls. Period. I also won’t purchase them for anyone and I told the boys if I saw them wear them in public, I would literally cut them off their bodies right then in there. Hopefully they are wearing something underneath.

Games, Tournaments and Walking Tacos or Where is my Medal?

We have become THOSE parents. The ones whose weekends are dedicated to gyms and fields, who have gameday gear, and are constantly running a load of wash late at night so my kid’s uniform doesn’t stink out the other team on day two of the tournament. And to quote McDonald’s, we are loving it (mostly.) How the heck did we get here? Who have we become??

Years ago, back BK (Before Kids), we used to enjoy going to movies, eating out, sleeping in, dedicating weekends to long runs (enjoy might be a strong word for this) – basically doing whatever we wanted. And we’d look at our friends running to soccer and basketball tournaments that lasted the WHOLE WEEKEND and think, “Ugh. That looks disgusting. There is no way we are doing that when we have kids. We are not giving up our weekends just for our kids to play in tournaments. We will maintain that sense of self and not live our lives solely for our kids.” (Ha. Ha. Ha. Older me is laughing cynically right now as I type.)

Then we had kids. Mic drop.

I contemplated ending the blog there for a dramatic finish but I’m far too narcissistic to leave my thoughts unsaid. So as I was saying, then we had kids and found out that you don’t really have free will to do whatever you want when your job is to keep someone alive at least until they get to the age where they can reach the poptarts on their own. As our first kid grew, we put him in the typical sports programs through parks and rec. Then soccer league and basketball league. And then the day came when we agreed he could play his first soccer tournament. And I dreaded that weekend because I knew how bad it was going to suck. I was going to have to sit there under those stupid tents, WAITING around all day for my kid to play a couple of games against crazy soccer teams, WASTING a WHOLE weekend of my life when I could be doing much better things like anything else. UGH! I was gnashing teeth and pulling out my hair at the thought.

And then the dreaded weekend came and lo and behold, I got it. That tournament was a blast! I loved it (I think he did too…) This was so much fun – the anticipation, the excitement of the game, the comradery, hanging with the other parents. Sure it took up my whole weekend, but so what? I finally understood how my friends “gave up their freedom” for their kids’ sports and didn’t lose their souls in the process.

Maybe it’s because I just love sports in general. I am that parent yelling during the game, and admittedly I am pretty competitive. Not in that “living vicariously through my child” kind of way but because I love a good game. And I love my kid. And when those two worlds combine, a loss or a win is that much more emotional. My head is in my hands when we are down 2 points with a minute to go and my kid is at the free throw line, I’m jumping up when my kid blocks a goal, and I’m jerking around in my seat when the running back is running down the field as though my movements will somehow shift the space he can run through.  Through these short years I’ve already figured out to keep my mouth shut after a bad loss except to say that I love watching him play, to unpack the sports bag first when you get home to avoid serious stinkage, and to pack lots of snacks because I have yet to read research that says donuts are an appropriate pregame snack.

I’m not going to lie, it can get tough to get everything that needs to get done in a weekend completed in a few short hours because we are at tournaments Saturday and Sunday. Don’t get me wrong - I love the games. However, I’d like to make a couple of quick suggestions to anyone organizing these tournaments.

First, can the championship game please be played first at the end of the tournament? I feel like we are being penalized for being good because the number one teams in the brackets always play last. Why do we have to wait the extra two hours? Just a suggestion…

Second, has anyone considered setting up a discreet mini bar? There are times where just one beer would really take the edge off. We could be limited to just one, unless we are waiting an extra six hours and playing the 9 p.m. game because we are in the championship game and then we’d get one more.

And finally, can parents start getting the swag too? Sometimes after a particular tough and long-houred tournament, I feel like I too deserve a shirt or medal – really whatever you are giving out. Because even though it is Sunday at 8 p.m. when we get done, I still have to get groceries for the week. And that deserves a medal.

Regardless if my suggestions are ever taken into account, I concede that my 21-year old self didn’t get it. I understand how much fun it is to sit in a gym or on a soccer field for the whole weekend. I have learned to maximize those short hours in between games to run errands if possible. My bleacher seats and soccer chairs take up a permanent place in my trunk. I bought a Subaru Outback over other cars solely because I was picturing whether football pads would fit in the back. I would probably wear facepaint to a game if another parent suggested it. I am all in. Now if only the music concerts could be as entertaining. My youngest seems to be more of a rock star than a soccer star and I already have a headache at the thought of his recorder concert – only 4 short years to mentally prepare myself for that one.