When being who you are is not enough

Like most American households with inhabitants under the age of 12, we have an Elf on the Shelf. From mid-November until last Saturday, we counted the days, hours and minutes until he would make his annual December 1st debut.

When we brought our elf home two years ago, I had high hopes that his presence would, as the brightly illustrated,  irritatingly rhyming book that accompanied him suggested, encourage our kids to tow the line for at least 25 days out of the year. I don't even bother reminding them that the elf is watching any more, as he's watched them argue, whine and blatantly disobey for the past two years and yet Santa has still made substantial deposits under our tree each time. Oh well.

What the book also suggests is that this elf is supposed to sit (sit!) on a shelf (a shelf!) and observe. He can't talk, and he can't be touched (sensory processing disorder, perhaps?). He's just supposed to sit. On a shelf. Hence the name, right?

Wrong.

Each morning for the past week, our neighbor carpool pals have skipped through our front door and immediately begun to regale my kids with stories of where they've found their clever (and sometimes naughty) elf.

This morning, he had commandeered the family's shoes, arranging them like train cars under the tree and coaxing the kids' stuffed animals into hopping aboard while he played conductor. Two mornings ago (or was it yesterday? I've lost track.) he was riding a Lego dirt bike up a ramp of brightly-wrapped gifts. The day before that, they caught him with a Barbie on his lap (naughty elf, indeed.)

That elf is making ours look like a first-rate dud. Our elf sits. On shelves. Sometimes he moves from one to another but always (until yesterday when the beginnings of an inferiority complex finally drove him to swing trapeze style from our dining room chandelier. My daughter's response when they found him hanging there like a little red bat? "Our elf finally did something funny!" My son's? "Yeah. That's kind of funny. I guess." ) he just sits.

In his defense, our elf has to find a perch at least a few feet off the ground to avoid getting spirited away and possibly dunked in the toilet by our 16-month old, who poos-poos rules in general and would thus have no qualms in breaking the "no touching" rule.

Beyond that, I'm going to guess that our elf is tired from all his flying back and forth to the North Pole to tell Santa how ornery our kids are (not that it matters) and does well to climb back up to his shelf when he makes his move each morning at 5:00. Or maybe he's tired from all those loads of laundry he's been doing for me in the wee hours of the night. If anyone has a line on that kind of elf, please share the love.

And if anyone has any suggestions for clever, exciting and/or naughty stunts our elf could pull off between now and Christmas morning, send those along too. If I'm, I mean he's, not too exhausted, we may just give them a whirl.

We are what we eat

There comes a time in the StereoMom's life when she realizes that if she were at a cocktail party or work function and the small talk turned to literature, she would be forced to admit that the stack on her bedside table was more about form than function and that the last book she'd actually read had a very high illustration to text ratio.

When I reached that point, I dug out my library card (because we StereoMom's have to save our pennies for giant pickles from the snack cart in the school cafeteria so our child isn't the only one who never gets to buy a snack) and started surfing the stacks. My first choice was Sula, a Toni Morrison book recommended to me by our summer office intern, a 19-year old with nothing but time and, fortunately, good taste in books.

Energized by the intellectual jolt and intrigued by an article I'd read in one of the Edible Communities magazines, I trotted back to the library and plucked a couple of Michael Pollan books - specifically, Food Rules, An Eater's Manual and The Omnivore's Dilemma - from the shelves.

Unfortunately, the books did not come with any warnings for StereoMoms with a high propensity for "mommy guilt", and so it is that I find myself fresh off of Food Rules and at once inspired to ditch the fat, sugar, salt and general excess that characterize the so-called Western diet and horrified by the amount of fat, sugar, salt and general excess that characterize the dietary habits of our family.

When I crawled into bed with the book two nights ago, my husband asked me what I was reading. After I explained the premise, he gave me a look that said, 'Don't even think about getting rid of my fatty breakfast pork products'  before he rolled over and closed his eyes.

The more I read, the more I found myself nodding and silently condemning myself as a mother for passing off "edible foodlike substances" such as Cheetos (but I buy the baked version!) and "fruit" by the foot (my husband gets the blame for those) to my kids.

If my son had any idea what was contained in Pollan's missive, he would organize himself a good ol'-fashioned book burnin' and toss every copy in the barrel. The processed snack category is one of his favorite food groups, second only to candy and desserts.

Moving from our "as is" state to a state more like the one Pollan proposes (he doesn't suggest that people completely forgo treats like fried chicken and cake but simply treat them as the treats they used to be decades ago before the dawn of fast food chains and big box snack companies) would be no small feat, particularly when it comes to the men in my house, who have been known to lunch on Club Crackers and pepperoni. But I was with him all the way until I got to Rule No. 64:

Try to Spend as Much Time Enjoying the Meal as it Took to Prepare It.

Indeed, Mr. Pollan. If you live in an empty nest, I'm sure it is lovely to savor every bite, appreciate the flavor, think about the time that golden baby beet spent blossoming in your garden. But just try enjoying a meal in a house where the adults are outnumbered and the combined age of the majority party is 11, and you, too, might find yourself shoving a stack of Trader Joe's pepperoni and Club Crackers down your gullet before racing from the table to the living room just in time to thwart a king-of-the-couch coup attempt by your toddler.

Somebody pass the Cheez-Its.

What's new, Pussycat?

It's November 28th, and my four-year old has already dictated four different Christmas lists to anyone who would oblige him a few minutes of time to take short-hand. My six-year old has been debating whether she should ask Grammy for an American Girl doll or an American Girl doll bed for the past two weeks because, as she was quick to point out to my husband, she only has a doll cradle, and American Girl dolls are not babies.
 
The irony is, in all the items on those four lists, I am hard-pressed to find something that we don't already own in some slightly modified form. Exhibit A: Power Blaster Buzz Lightyear comes equipped with a shield and space gun (that will disappear into the abyss under our couch before the end of the day on December 25), which none of the six Buzz Lightyears littering our living room floor has.

If my daughter opts for the doll, it will be her fourth of the American Girl variety (two she inherited from my niece and one was a birthday gift from Grammy, the bankroller), while the bed would be a novelty on a semantical technicality.

This phenomenon isn't unique to my kids . . . (what do I want for Christmas? Options I've entertained include a new purse, more office-appropriate pants and a salad spinner to replace the one that broke six months ago. After accidentally uttering that last item aloud to my husband I realized how lame it would be to get a salad spinner for Christmas, so I quickly and adamantly told him that I definitely did not want a salad spinner for Christmas.)

. . . or to things. Since I started (sporadically) writing this blog almost a year ago, several of the moms who read it have commented on how much they identify with what I'm saying, which is great. There's comfort in commiserating, satisfaction in standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the daily battles of raising kids, pursuing careers and sweeping three meals worth of crust and crud from underneath the dining room table at the end of each day.

On the flip side, however, those remarks bring into laser focus the undeniable fact that my adventures in parenting, marriage and life in general are ultimately no different than any other mid-30something wife and mom livin' the suburban dream. Funny how one day you just wake up and find that you have become a stereotype. A minivan-driving, carpooling stereotype who has "date nights", stocks her pantry with gummy vitamins and gummy snacks and scolds the teenagers who attend the high school down the street for speeding in her neighborhood.

On second thought, maybe I should just go ahead and ask for that salad spinner.

Lights, camera, action!

Our six-year old had a solo - a poem - in her kindergarten Thanksgiving chapel, which was two days before her brother's preschool Thanksgiving program. With both events scheduled for weekday mornings (are we the only parents who have to work to pay those tuition bills?), my husband, a teacher, had to make a difficult choice, and the Friday event, which included lunch, won out.

In my ongoing campaign for the title of Wife/Mother of the Year, I made a point of charging our video camera and actually remembering to take it with me to the chapel program so my husband could at least watch a replay of our daughter's 17 seconds of fame. Sliding into the gym minutes before the program started, I had forfeited all the good spots on the bleachers. Determined to find a good angle for filming, I parked myself on the end of a semicircle of first graders on the gym floor, trying not to wonder (or care) if any other parents thought I was a crazy pageant mom. 

As soon as the first notes wafted from the piano, I flipped on the camera and hoisted my right arm in a proud parent salute, my eyes darting back and forth between live action and camera screen. The kids belted out song after song about pilgrims, Indians (I know the term isn't PC, but if Florida State can get away with having some guy decked out in full Seminole face paint ride onto their football field every week and slam a spear into midfield, then I guess a bunch of five- and six-year olds should get a pass too), and eating turkey, until I was afraid our short-life battery and my tired arm would give out before the poem was recited.

I am proud to say that both the battery and my arm made it through the entire show. I am embarrassed to admit that I shot most of the program, poem included, with the camera on pause. I didn't even realize it until I got home and attempted to show my dad, who'd pulled house duty with our 15-month old so I could focus on the program (for all the good that did), her big moment that was, oddly, nowhere on the camera.

Needless to say, I let my husband man the camera during the preschool show, which lasted approximately seven minutes.

Hope your Thanksgiving was happy and that you enjoy this rendition of the holiday classic, "I'm a Little Indian."

The war on women

Watching one "15-minute" segment of the recent presidential debate before dozing off inspired me to make an attempt to return to the world of the socially and politically informed (Yes, I am one of those moms who completely checked out of the current events loop when my kids arrived on the scene. I will be the first to admit that I usually can't stay awake long enough after the kids go to bed to read in uninterrupted silence or watch the news, and on the rare occasions that I can I prefer vegging out with a mindless home decorating magazine to watching graphic images of the violence in the Middle East or following the latest reality TV show "celebrity" break-up news.)

So it was that I found myself trolling for post-debate commentary to see what I'd missed in the 60 minutes that I'd been snoring on the couch. 

I was not surprised to find polarized, passionate discourse replete with references to Big Bird and intolerant assertions from liberals who pride themselves on their tolerance (can I get an amen if you've ever disagreed with a lefty and been told you're wrong?) Nor was it news to me that there's a war on women. What was news to me was that Public Enemy No. 1 is the ultra-conservative, misogynistic GOP.

Women from sea to shining sea are claiming that Republicans won't sleep until every birth control pill has been flushed into the Atlantic and every woman returned to her rightful place at the helm of a well-kept home. Having been out of the loop for more than half a decade, I can't really say if these assertions are politically accurate, but what struck me in reading article after article about the persecution and injustice we as women face was: have we identified the real enemy?

A wealthy male presidential candidate whose wife chose a career in child rearing makes a convenient poster child for the war on women. But ladies, before we launch an overseas attack, let's take care of business on the homefront.

Let's stop spending billions of dollars each year on breast augmentations and Botox and start liking what we see in the mirror.

Let's stop blaming legislation for the fact that we can't achieve superwoman status and admit that we simply can't do and have it all. Let's make those difficult choices, accept the trade-offs that come with them and support our sisters who choose a different path.


Let's stop judging other women's marriages (or divorces) and parenting styles and start being more sympathetic and thoughtful when a friend opens up about family struggles.

Let's stop cutting ourselves down and start building stronger self-images, friendships and support systems.

Let's make like Nike and just do it, ladies. If not for our ourselves, then for our daughters.

Making the grade

We've been back to school for about a month in our house, so I figured now was as good a time as any to get back to the blog. (Thanks, by the way, to the two people who told me they've missed my posts.)

I'm happy to report that our daughter loves kindergarten. So much, in fact, that when I told her that she would get to ride home with me from her apple-picking field trip later this month rather than taking the bus back to school she balked. "But I just love school!" she cried. "Can't I ride the bus back and you pick me up at carpool?"

I'm thrilled she's thrilled to be there and even more thrilled that my son, who was very vocal over the past year about his intent to never go to school, admits to liking preschool. So, all is well on the emotional front. Not so much on the logistical front.

If I were to be graded on my back-to-school performance to date, I'd see letters that I never saw on real report cards in my entire career (ECON11 aside.)

Summer Reading Program: B-
In what was surely a precursor to the misery I will enjoy over the duration of my kids' elementary school days, the summer reading program was a hybrid of reading and artsy-craftsy activities, all based on a camping theme. I love reading. I do not love crafting. 

In summary, the kids had to complete a minimum number of activities to satisfy the basic requirement. Those who completed 50 activities would be rewarded with a special dessert in the library after school resumed. 

Momentarily forgetting that I a) do not enjoy making nature collages, b) work outside the home, c) have two other kids who require my attention and d) do not enjoy making nature collages, I told C we'd aim to earn that dessert.

Four days before the packet was due, I admitted defeat. It was logistically impossible for us to complete 24 activities in 96 hours. Fortunately, she has an optimistic streak. After a few seconds of disappointment she shrugged and said, "Maybe we can do it next year." Or not.

Back to School Night: D
With our toddler sick on back-to-school night, my husband flew solo to that event. Never again.

Four weeks into school, I still have not returned the milk break and cafeteria snack forms that I am allegedly required to return regardless of our participation in those programs. Nor have I signed up for the four requisite lunchroom and carpool volunteer shifts that we are asked to work over the course of the year.

My husband did sign us up for two Scientist of the Week slots, but my unit is on Fire Safety. (Seriously?) I'm hoping our local fire station offers free guest lectures.

When he returned with a legal envelope bursting with papers "that we're supposed to read. I figured you could look through them", I asked if he told the teacher why I wasn't there.

"No."

"Seriously?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Now I look like a deadbeat mom!"

"No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

"You're a teacher-pleaser."

"As a teacher, don't you appreciate that?"

Apparently not. I gave myself credit in this subject for sending in the summer reading packet and school supplies.

Supplies Procurement: C
I'm not sure if I should deduct points from the above for sending in the wrong school supplies, but that sure is what I did. Apparently the supply lists are unique to each campus in C's school, and I printed the wrong one. It became apparent to me only after my daughter skipped out of school the third day with a backpack full of Model Magic.

"We only use Playdoh," she advised when I asked why she was bringing home her supplies. Certain that Model Magic had been on the list, I walked over to her teacher to clarify.

"Oh, you must have printed off the ES supply list. I think they use Model Magic. It's fine, though. We have plenty of Playdoh. The only thing you'll need to send is a white pillow case."

Determined to prove that I wasn't a complete idiot, I went home, printed the RC list and stomped off to Target to buy an additional $75 worth of Crayola Twistable Crayons and No. 2 pencils.

Cafeteria Management: C
Because I missed Back-to-School night, I wasn't entirely plugged into the process for buying lunch in the cafeteria. 27 years ago, you forked over a dollar. These days you rattle off a PIN.

With plans to go out for a celebratory back-to-school lunch with my mom on her first Friday of school, I provided C with a light lunch and explanation why. Apparently one of the cafeteria workers was concerned by that and asked my daughter if she planned to buy a piece of pizza to eat with what she'd brought from home.

"No," C replied. "My mommy hasn't put money in my account yet."

No explanation as to why (the school says they e-mailed her PIN and account set-up instructions to my husband, he claims he didn't receive the e-mail) or that we were going out for lunch #2 in an hour and a half. Why is my family conspiring to make me look like a horrible mother?

Carpool: B
In a Murhpy's Law moment, I pulled into the carpool line on the first day that kindergarteners participated in it only to discover that I'd forgotten my number. Pinned in on all sides by parents who hadn't forgotten their numbers, I left my Stepford Wife minivan running and jogged over to the gym door, praying they would give me my child and the two neighbors I was also supposed to pick up that day.

They did, and I am giving myself points in this subject for being on time every morning that I have been responsible for dropping off the neighborhood carpool crew. Don't think that's noteworthy? Talk to my father.

And that's just my kindergarten report. My performance as a preschool mom is fodder for a whole other post. Here's hoping my eight-week progress report shows improvement.

I don't feel old until . . .

One would think that having three kids, a mortgage and a minivan would have grounded me in the reality that I am, well, old, a full-fledged grown-up who gets called "m'am" by teenaged cashiers and "Fill-in-the-blank's mom" by my kids' playmates. But the thing is, most of the time I don't feel old.

Looking out on the world (vs. at myself in the mirror), I still feel as if I'm looking through the 26-year old eyes that drank in the lapis skies of Kapalua while honeymooning in Maui. Then I look at pictures from that honeymoon and see my husband and I, almost a decade younger, looking . . . young. Well-rested. Young.

And then I get glossy photo collage thank-you cards from newly minted brides and grooms and think, "When did it become acceptable to send a blanket 'thanks for everything' photo card instead of a handwritten thank-you note?" Then I feel old.

The geezer in me thinks, 'Photo cards are for Christmas. Where's the monogrammed stationery? The personal note about how they'll think of us every time they whip up a batch of brownies with that hand mixer? The signature, for crying out loud?!?'

The thing is this bride is a lovely girl (old folks like me can call twenty-somethings "girls"), well-mannered, polite, sweet. I'm sure she's very appreciative of our gift (which, for those of you who were thinking you wouldn't have bothered with a handwritten thank-you for a hand mixer either, was cash for their nest egg. The hand mixer thing was for illustrative purposes only.) She has lovely parents who, I'm sure, taught her proper manners.

Which leads me to believe that the photo card must be a sign of our "convenience at all cost!" times. Well, it's a sign of the end times, if you ask me.

Crotchety old ladies like me prefer tradition over efficiency, the pen over the photo printer. A handwritten note indicates value - the writer values your investment in them enough to invest a few minutes of time in return. We also think all new brides should suffer like, I mean, share the same rite of passage that we did when we wrote 220+ thank-you notes back in 2003.

For a split second, as I stood there holding that card, I thought, 'Perhaps I'm overreacting. Perhaps I'm just out of touch. Perhaps this is the new standard for expressing gratitude.' So I did a litmus test with my husband.

"A 'thanks for everything' photo card?" I asked, checking his face for a reaction.

"Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too," he replied.

How I do look forward to growing even older with this man who appreciates the importance of a proper thank-you card.