Just when parenting deja vu starts to settle in, your toddler prances into the kitchen five minutes before dinner, announces that she's poopied and then hands over the end product, which she was considerate enough to scoop up (bare handed, natch) after initially depositing it onto the living room floor.
In six and a half years and three kids, I can honestly say that was a new one on us. Who says life with kids is boring?
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Minivanity Mom: March Madness Edition
In honor of our hometown team's appearance in the Sweet 16 tonight, I'd like
to share a few hastily composed thoughts on the parallels between parenting and
coaching. How would you expand the list?
Offense Sells the Tickets, Defense Wins the Game
Whether you're trapping (for those of you married parents with one child), playing man-to-man or in a zone like my husband and I, the same basic defensive principles apply. Stay down in your stance and communicate.
Exhibit A: After a recent Friday of shuttling people to school, the doctor's office (our 12th visit of 2013), the Walgreen's drive-through and our accountant's house to pick up our tax return, my nerves were shot. So when my eldest commenced with aggravating her brother to the point of inducing ear-piercing shrieks, I gave them fair warning to stop. And when they didn't, I lost it. 24 seconds after my husband got home, I was out the door, but before the lock clicked I made sure to verbal the punishment I had handed down before his arrival: no television for the guilty parties for the rest of the day. Punishment for my husband, too, but that's called taking one for the team.
Clock Management
This is always important but rises to the level of critical late in a close game. Quick shots and ill-advised threes are not what most coaches look for when time is running out and you're up a bucket or two. I learned last week that most coaches even designate an assistant to do nothing but watch the clock late in the game to ensure they don't lose even a tenth of a second after a made shot or turnover. I need one of those on school mornings.
My teacher husband is usually long gone before our kids wake up, which means I have the pleasure of cattle prodding our daughter to eat breakfast, brush her teeth and hair and get dressed while I scramble to pack lunches, snacks and the permission slip-Malaria kit donation-library books-baggie of Box Tops-signed progress report o' the day. Inevitably, this process goes down to the wire. The kicker is I'm usually awake by 5:30 a.m., but nine mornings out of 10 I use that time to a) hear myself think and b) fold laundry, prep dinner for that evening, check e-mail, stuff outgrown/outdated clothing in a back for the Vietnam Veterans donation truck that makes a monthly stop at our house, and so on. Have I considered doing those things before going to bed at night? Yes, but if I don't fall asleep with my 5- and 6-year olds, then I'm more interested in eating ice cream and watching the tournament games than in washing the dinner dishes.
Game Changers
A stand-out player, a pivotal foul call, a hustle play: all game changers, people or points in time that swing the momentum or, uh, change the course of the game. In our house, this is my 6-year old. Between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 3:15 p.m., Monday through Friday, peace reigns at our house. My son and younger daughter co-exist happily (mostly because my son is a peace maker who is supremely tolerant of his little sister), and I, meanwhile, don't feel like I'm enduring a four-hour cross-examination by Jack McCoy.
All that changes the moment our neighbor's red van rolls in the driveway.
From the moment she breezes through the door, Tinkerbelle backpack dangling from her hand, navy knee socks shoved down around her ankles, she is intent on wreaking havoc. Well, maybe that's not actually her intent, but it's usually the outcome. If her brother has received anything - a birthday party invitation from a classmate, a Dum Dum from the bank, anything - and she has not been equally compensated, she proclaims injustice and punctuates her proclamation with foot stomps and scowls. (Side note: She sees no problem when the tables are turned, however, as it's "different" when she's the only one of her siblings invited to a paint-your-own pottery party.)
Before she even changes out of her plaid uniform skort, she's pushing buttons, mine included. She is what you would call an agitator, a pot stirrer, relentless and seemingly tireless in her campaign. My prayer is that she will someday constructively channel this tenacity in support of a good cause. Maybe equal pay for women since she's so intent on ensuring there is absolute equality (so long as it favors her) in our home.
Go team!
Offense Sells the Tickets, Defense Wins the Game
Whether you're trapping (for those of you married parents with one child), playing man-to-man or in a zone like my husband and I, the same basic defensive principles apply. Stay down in your stance and communicate.
Exhibit A: After a recent Friday of shuttling people to school, the doctor's office (our 12th visit of 2013), the Walgreen's drive-through and our accountant's house to pick up our tax return, my nerves were shot. So when my eldest commenced with aggravating her brother to the point of inducing ear-piercing shrieks, I gave them fair warning to stop. And when they didn't, I lost it. 24 seconds after my husband got home, I was out the door, but before the lock clicked I made sure to verbal the punishment I had handed down before his arrival: no television for the guilty parties for the rest of the day. Punishment for my husband, too, but that's called taking one for the team.
Clock Management
This is always important but rises to the level of critical late in a close game. Quick shots and ill-advised threes are not what most coaches look for when time is running out and you're up a bucket or two. I learned last week that most coaches even designate an assistant to do nothing but watch the clock late in the game to ensure they don't lose even a tenth of a second after a made shot or turnover. I need one of those on school mornings.
My teacher husband is usually long gone before our kids wake up, which means I have the pleasure of cattle prodding our daughter to eat breakfast, brush her teeth and hair and get dressed while I scramble to pack lunches, snacks and the permission slip-Malaria kit donation-library books-baggie of Box Tops-signed progress report o' the day. Inevitably, this process goes down to the wire. The kicker is I'm usually awake by 5:30 a.m., but nine mornings out of 10 I use that time to a) hear myself think and b) fold laundry, prep dinner for that evening, check e-mail, stuff outgrown/outdated clothing in a back for the Vietnam Veterans donation truck that makes a monthly stop at our house, and so on. Have I considered doing those things before going to bed at night? Yes, but if I don't fall asleep with my 5- and 6-year olds, then I'm more interested in eating ice cream and watching the tournament games than in washing the dinner dishes.
Game Changers
A stand-out player, a pivotal foul call, a hustle play: all game changers, people or points in time that swing the momentum or, uh, change the course of the game. In our house, this is my 6-year old. Between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 3:15 p.m., Monday through Friday, peace reigns at our house. My son and younger daughter co-exist happily (mostly because my son is a peace maker who is supremely tolerant of his little sister), and I, meanwhile, don't feel like I'm enduring a four-hour cross-examination by Jack McCoy.
All that changes the moment our neighbor's red van rolls in the driveway.
From the moment she breezes through the door, Tinkerbelle backpack dangling from her hand, navy knee socks shoved down around her ankles, she is intent on wreaking havoc. Well, maybe that's not actually her intent, but it's usually the outcome. If her brother has received anything - a birthday party invitation from a classmate, a Dum Dum from the bank, anything - and she has not been equally compensated, she proclaims injustice and punctuates her proclamation with foot stomps and scowls. (Side note: She sees no problem when the tables are turned, however, as it's "different" when she's the only one of her siblings invited to a paint-your-own pottery party.)
Before she even changes out of her plaid uniform skort, she's pushing buttons, mine included. She is what you would call an agitator, a pot stirrer, relentless and seemingly tireless in her campaign. My prayer is that she will someday constructively channel this tenacity in support of a good cause. Maybe equal pay for women since she's so intent on ensuring there is absolute equality (so long as it favors her) in our home.
Go team!
Friday, December 7, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, November 30, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
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."
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."
Saturday, October 6, 2012
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
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'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.
Monday, July 9, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
An inconvenient truth
First, a confession: I like Taylor Swift songs. Not all of them, but a handful of them, which I gleefully crank up in my car as I did on my way into work Tuesday.
Given that the kid is barely old enough to order a cocktail, I expect wisdom from her songs. I just like the catchy tunes and the fact that she actually plays and writes her own music. So I was surprised to find myself getting philosophical (at 8:30 in the morning, no less) in response to this five-word phrase from the song Ours: life makes love look hard.
In my experience, love is hard. Loving someone else (a spouse, a child, a sibling) means you love yourself a little less, and human beings aren't hardwired to do that. Whether you believe it's a product of evolution or the Biblical fall from grace, people have an innate tendency to look out for No. 1.
The Wikipedia definition of love includes words like kindness, compassion, and "the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another." Love is, by nature, unselfish, and people are, by nature, selfish.
Think I'm a pessimist? Think of all the times you've been angry at your spouse or significant other. Why were you upset? If you dig deep enough, I'd be willing to wager that it stemmed from the fact that your needs weren't met. You didn't get "your way."
Even loving your kids can be a challenge of epic proportions. No one on the planet is needier and greedier than young children. According to Parent Further, most kids are still self-centered at the age of nine. I would argue that most of us never completely outgrow that tendency toward self-absorption, we simply learn to keep it hidden from the outside world.
Yet it always rears its head in some fashion.
For instance, my husband and I struggle to accept the loss of freedom that comes with being a parent. We envy those people who can do what they want to do when they want to do it. We don't get to do what we want to do. No fair! So we lose our tempers (with the kids and each other), and then we realize that we're modeling the very behaviors that we're trying to teach out of our kids.
Love is not simply a feeling. It is a choice, a daily decision to prioritize the needs and well-being of another person ahead of your own.
The good news is, when you make the choice to love other people they're probably going to love you back (even when you're cranky and critical.) By virtue of the fact that we're all innately self-centered, we all have moments when we're a little bit difficult to love, and circumstances of life - slim budgets, sleep deprivation, stress at work - don't make it any easier.
So for the record, Ms. Swift, I say love is hard. But worth every difficult second. I hope my loved ones would agree.
Given that the kid is barely old enough to order a cocktail, I expect wisdom from her songs. I just like the catchy tunes and the fact that she actually plays and writes her own music. So I was surprised to find myself getting philosophical (at 8:30 in the morning, no less) in response to this five-word phrase from the song Ours: life makes love look hard.
In my experience, love is hard. Loving someone else (a spouse, a child, a sibling) means you love yourself a little less, and human beings aren't hardwired to do that. Whether you believe it's a product of evolution or the Biblical fall from grace, people have an innate tendency to look out for No. 1.
The Wikipedia definition of love includes words like kindness, compassion, and "the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another." Love is, by nature, unselfish, and people are, by nature, selfish.
Think I'm a pessimist? Think of all the times you've been angry at your spouse or significant other. Why were you upset? If you dig deep enough, I'd be willing to wager that it stemmed from the fact that your needs weren't met. You didn't get "your way."
Even loving your kids can be a challenge of epic proportions. No one on the planet is needier and greedier than young children. According to Parent Further, most kids are still self-centered at the age of nine. I would argue that most of us never completely outgrow that tendency toward self-absorption, we simply learn to keep it hidden from the outside world.
Yet it always rears its head in some fashion.
For instance, my husband and I struggle to accept the loss of freedom that comes with being a parent. We envy those people who can do what they want to do when they want to do it. We don't get to do what we want to do. No fair! So we lose our tempers (with the kids and each other), and then we realize that we're modeling the very behaviors that we're trying to teach out of our kids.
Love is not simply a feeling. It is a choice, a daily decision to prioritize the needs and well-being of another person ahead of your own.
The good news is, when you make the choice to love other people they're probably going to love you back (even when you're cranky and critical.) By virtue of the fact that we're all innately self-centered, we all have moments when we're a little bit difficult to love, and circumstances of life - slim budgets, sleep deprivation, stress at work - don't make it any easier.
So for the record, Ms. Swift, I say love is hard. But worth every difficult second. I hope my loved ones would agree.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Help Wanted
Salary.com has a fun Mom Wizard tool that helps moms - both stay-at-home and "working" - calculate their hypothetical average annual mom salary based on how many hours each week they devote to duties associated with traditional roles from janitor to psychologist. Based on what 6,000-plus stay-at-home moms reported in a 2012 survey, they're worth an average of $112,962 per year and earn most of that by clocking some serious overtime. Since I'm a "working" mom, my fictitious annual paycheck is slightly higher at $121,000 and change.
While you don't apply and interview to be a mom (consider the impact on population if that was, in fact, the process), I would envision the posting looking something like the following:
Position Title: R.E.M (Results Everywhere Mom)
Description: The R.E.M. serves as Subject Matter Expert on all topics and utility player for home and away teams.
Responsibilities: Space restrictions prevent posting here. See Addendum for details.
Required Skills: Must be able to multitask, think on your feet, sympathize (with children who've scraped their knees, husbands who've 'had a rough day', etc.) and operate on fewer than five hours of sleep. Mastery of these skills qualifies applicants to perform all tasks associated with said position as well as Executive Leader of Any Country in the World. Responsibilities may differ. See specific Executive Leader postings for details and application requirements.
Preferred Characteristics:
While you don't apply and interview to be a mom (consider the impact on population if that was, in fact, the process), I would envision the posting looking something like the following:
Position Title: R.E.M (Results Everywhere Mom)
Description: The R.E.M. serves as Subject Matter Expert on all topics and utility player for home and away teams.
Responsibilities: Space restrictions prevent posting here. See Addendum for details.
Required Skills: Must be able to multitask, think on your feet, sympathize (with children who've scraped their knees, husbands who've 'had a rough day', etc.) and operate on fewer than five hours of sleep. Mastery of these skills qualifies applicants to perform all tasks associated with said position as well as Executive Leader of Any Country in the World. Responsibilities may differ. See specific Executive Leader postings for details and application requirements.
Preferred Characteristics:
- Able to execute all tasks (see Addendum) with one hand. In addition to responsibilities associated with the role, this preference applies to conducting personal activities, including hygiene and electronic communication.
- Agreeable to time and temperature constrictions on mealtimes. Specifically, must be able to consume meals while standing, walking, driving or breastfeeding anywhere from 30 seconds to 30 minutes after the food has been served.
- Adept at teaching complex concepts (e.g. time, space, appropriateness, etc.) and answering questions from the routine (are we almost there?) to the uncomfortable (how did that baby get in your belly, and how is it going to get out?)
- Possessed of a superhuman immune system, ensuring that all job responsibilities, as outlined in Addendum, are executed 24 hours per day, seven days per week through viral, bacterial and previously unidentified family epidemics.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Energy monsters
Just when I think I've made peace with the long list of areas in which I'm under-performing (have you seen my laundry room? Read my post about how my kids watch TV before bed?), I am reminded, this time by my local utilities company, that the list is, apparently, infinite and now includes "responsible energy consumption."
That's right. We're energy hogs, and as the self-appointed lights police of our household I took the news very personally.
According to our Smart Energy Profile, Louisville Gas & Electric Co.'s (LG&E's) latest initiative to shame, er, educate people on the topic of energy stewardship, we used 42% more energy than similar homes in the last two months. Our ranking last month? 89 out of 100.
Had it not looked like our monthly bill, I probably wouldn't have opened the envelope, as I have reached my saturation point with their pleas for us to enroll in demand conservation programs (relinquish control of my thermostat to the powers that be at LG&E? I don't think so.) And were I not hyper-competitive, I probably wouldn't be at all bothered by these statistics. But 89 out of 100? Seriously? We're doing that badly?
So I read the profile, which included a personalized action plan for beating some of our neighbors, I mean, operating a more energy efficient household. Our tips included closing the shades in the summer (wouldn't this necessitate turning on more lights? Or maybe we should invest in head lamps?) and testing and sealing any leaky ducts (our house is over 80 years old. Everything leaks! Ducts are probably the least of our concerns.)
Indignation quickly replaced my embarrassment over our abysmal ranking. While certainly a nice reminder that little changes can make a big difference, the profile didn't reflect the converse of that theory: little people can also have a gigantic impact on energy consumption.
Though our home was originally designed to accommodate a family of four, by today's standards we're packed in like sardines. I would be willing to bet that we are one of few five-person families living in a same-size house. So there, LG&E!
To compound the situation, our kids are always here. Daycare is in our living room, which is wonderful in so many ways but costly in terms of energy consumption. Unless we ask our parents to strap on one of those head lamps and bundle up in the winter, I'm afraid we'll have to keep hogging it up until our youngest enters kindergarten. In the fall of 2016.
Feeling compelled to justify our wastefulness, I went to LG&E's Web site to further customize our home profile with the number of adult and child occupants. While there, I also sifted through the company's full suite of recommendations for reducing energy use.
Wash clothes in cold water. (Mostly) already doing this, though primarily to preserve clothing quality rather than conserve energy, but since the site didn't require me to state my motive it counts.
Unplug appliances and electronics when not in use. No can do. Besides the fact that unplugging our TV and Dish receiver would reset the entire system each time, one of my OCD hang-ups is when the clock on a small appliance is flashing the incorrect time. Constantly resetting clocks on everything from coffee makers to iPod docking stations would drive me mad. It's not worth the $16 we'd save each year.
Host "fancy dinner" nights. Let your kids trick out the table with linen cloths, bedazzled centerpieces and candles, then turn out the lights. Okay, this wasn't an official recommendation, but we did it last night at the kids' request. Saving money while setting the stage for a semi-peaceful dinner scenario? Now that's what I call a smart tip.
That's right. We're energy hogs, and as the self-appointed lights police of our household I took the news very personally.
According to our Smart Energy Profile, Louisville Gas & Electric Co.'s (LG&E's) latest initiative to shame, er, educate people on the topic of energy stewardship, we used 42% more energy than similar homes in the last two months. Our ranking last month? 89 out of 100.
Had it not looked like our monthly bill, I probably wouldn't have opened the envelope, as I have reached my saturation point with their pleas for us to enroll in demand conservation programs (relinquish control of my thermostat to the powers that be at LG&E? I don't think so.) And were I not hyper-competitive, I probably wouldn't be at all bothered by these statistics. But 89 out of 100? Seriously? We're doing that badly?
So I read the profile, which included a personalized action plan for beating some of our neighbors, I mean, operating a more energy efficient household. Our tips included closing the shades in the summer (wouldn't this necessitate turning on more lights? Or maybe we should invest in head lamps?) and testing and sealing any leaky ducts (our house is over 80 years old. Everything leaks! Ducts are probably the least of our concerns.)
Indignation quickly replaced my embarrassment over our abysmal ranking. While certainly a nice reminder that little changes can make a big difference, the profile didn't reflect the converse of that theory: little people can also have a gigantic impact on energy consumption.
Though our home was originally designed to accommodate a family of four, by today's standards we're packed in like sardines. I would be willing to bet that we are one of few five-person families living in a same-size house. So there, LG&E!
To compound the situation, our kids are always here. Daycare is in our living room, which is wonderful in so many ways but costly in terms of energy consumption. Unless we ask our parents to strap on one of those head lamps and bundle up in the winter, I'm afraid we'll have to keep hogging it up until our youngest enters kindergarten. In the fall of 2016.
Feeling compelled to justify our wastefulness, I went to LG&E's Web site to further customize our home profile with the number of adult and child occupants. While there, I also sifted through the company's full suite of recommendations for reducing energy use.
Wash clothes in cold water. (Mostly) already doing this, though primarily to preserve clothing quality rather than conserve energy, but since the site didn't require me to state my motive it counts.
Unplug appliances and electronics when not in use. No can do. Besides the fact that unplugging our TV and Dish receiver would reset the entire system each time, one of my OCD hang-ups is when the clock on a small appliance is flashing the incorrect time. Constantly resetting clocks on everything from coffee makers to iPod docking stations would drive me mad. It's not worth the $16 we'd save each year.
Host "fancy dinner" nights. Let your kids trick out the table with linen cloths, bedazzled centerpieces and candles, then turn out the lights. Okay, this wasn't an official recommendation, but we did it last night at the kids' request. Saving money while setting the stage for a semi-peaceful dinner scenario? Now that's what I call a smart tip.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Here comes the space ranger bride
To my future daughter-in-law (whoever you may be),
Eschewing the standard band or DJ entertainment options, he's decided it would be more interesting to feature a giant waterslide and inflatable bounce house. Okay, forget the flats. Buy a nice pair of flip-flops.
Again bucking tradition, he's decided the wedding party will be costumed in Toy Story apparel and has already assigned everyone in our family characters. His older sister will be outfitted as Jesse the Cowgirl, your future father-in-law as Rex the dinosaur, and yours truly will appear as Evil Dr. Porkchop. S will, of course, wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, which may be a bit short in the inseam unless you take the plunge within the next six months.
When I asked him what his wife would be wearing, he seemed puzzled as he replied, "My wife?" Don't worry. His sister and I explained that you come with the cake, and once we got that cleared up he agreed to let you wear a white dress. I simply advise you look for one that works with a space ranger helmet since you will be Mrs. Buzz Lightyear.
I'm sure it will be a lovely affair and hope you're just as eager to join our family as we are to have you in it. I'll save my letter on the topics of his enthusiasm for picking up toys and dirty clothes and, um, selective eating habits, for after the nuptials.
I'm writing today to let you know that you have snagged the rare breed of fiancée who has already taken the lead on wedding planning. For years, the debate has raged as to whether it's a good thing for men to have an opinion about the wedding details. While one side bemoans the fact that their soon-to-bes don't seem to care at all about the wedding (um, they don't, but that doesn't mean they don't want to marry you. They simply don't care about aisle swags and party favors.), the other wonders why you'd want their input. What if that opinion you say you want differs from your own? Then you have to figure out how to tell him no without coming across as a battle ax before you even say "I do."
At any rate, your beloved falls into the camp of having an opinion, and it surfaced after his first bite of "deee-licious" wedding cake this past Saturday, when he seemingly decided that the cake alone would be worth getting married for. Yours, by the way, will feature Buzz Lightyear.
Your parents will be thrilled that they're inheriting a thrifty son-in-law who will save them hundreds of dollars on the wedding venue by hosting the affair in his Grammy and Papaw's backyard. You may want to consider flats so you don't sink into the grass.
Again bucking tradition, he's decided the wedding party will be costumed in Toy Story apparel and has already assigned everyone in our family characters. His older sister will be outfitted as Jesse the Cowgirl, your future father-in-law as Rex the dinosaur, and yours truly will appear as Evil Dr. Porkchop. S will, of course, wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, which may be a bit short in the inseam unless you take the plunge within the next six months.
When I asked him what his wife would be wearing, he seemed puzzled as he replied, "My wife?" Don't worry. His sister and I explained that you come with the cake, and once we got that cleared up he agreed to let you wear a white dress. I simply advise you look for one that works with a space ranger helmet since you will be Mrs. Buzz Lightyear.
I'm sure it will be a lovely affair and hope you're just as eager to join our family as we are to have you in it. I'll save my letter on the topics of his enthusiasm for picking up toys and dirty clothes and, um, selective eating habits, for after the nuptials.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Brother B and the lady who lunches
According to our fridge, it's officially commencement season. Our eldest even got in on the action earlier this month and is now the proud owner of a preschool diploma. Open house invitation to follow.
Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.
For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.
She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.
If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.
Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:
"My dad likes to . . . help people."
"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."
What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.
I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.
C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.
Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.
Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.
Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.
For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.
She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.
If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.
Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:
"My dad likes to . . . help people."
"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."
What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.
I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.
C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.
Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.
Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Truth in advertising
I'm writing this from the front porch of The Beaumont Inn in Harrodsburg, KY. For my Mother's Day gift this year, my husband booked two overnight reservations: one for us at the inn and one for our three kids at his parents' house. I literally shrieked with joy when he told me.
I used to pass judgement on parents who celebrated their respective "days" by getting away from the people who made them parents in the first place. Then I became a mother.
Now I pass judgement on mothers who wax poetic about motherhood. Being a mom is tough, demanding, thankless and exhausting, and I firmly believe that women who say otherwise are either a) trying to fool you or b) trying to fool themselves.
There are moments of unparalleled joy, to be sure, but in the early years especially, when you're sleep-and shower-deprived and your little angels are 100% dependent and demanding, it's been my experience that the moments of tedium, frustration and exhaustion dominate.
I love my children and make daily sacrifices for them because that's what I want to do. However, I also enjoy leaving them with my in-laws for the occasional overnight getaway with my husband (our last, for the record, was in October) and don't mind candidly informing the sweet woman who works in our church office that, in fact, not every single second with our kids is "fun." (A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she thanked me for being honest and proceeded to confide about some serious challenges they're enduring with their college-aged son. Apparently honesty begets honesty, and I'm not the only mom who thinks that motherhood is more than blue skies and rainbows.)
If honesty begets honesty, then propaganda like the Johnson's Baby ad I stumbled upon while paging through the latest issue of Parents magazine on Monday evening begets false expectations of parenthood.
A half-sheet insert that makes holding your place (if "your place" happens to be anywhere other than the ad insertion point) impossible while trying to simultaneously fix an almond butter sandwich and apply lip liner to your five-year old who's getting costumed for an in-house production of "Princess C slays the fire-breathing dragon", the ad was nearly ripped out without a second glance. For some reason, though, I read it.
Apparently, Johnson's is sponsoring a "moments of joy" contest on Facebook, so the ad featured excerpts of "what moms are saying about their joyful before-bed moments."
According to this ad, every night (with Johnson's Baby bedtime bath, of course) is sweet, relaxing, cuddly and wonderful. Smiling babies drift off peacefully (by 8:30 at the latest, of course) while their moms marvel at the wonder of it all.
The one that made me guffaw out loud: "Right before bed I sing to Brody and he reaches up and touches my face before he smiles at me, and then drifts off to sleep."
Bedtime at our house goes down more like this: "After finally wrestling C into a clean diaper and pajamas, I take her to the glider for round two where she proceeds to wriggle, squirm and smack me in the face repeatedly while giving me a look that says, 'What? You gotta a problem with me slapping you in the face?' Exhausted, I finally deposit her, still wide awake, in the crib, from which she chucks all her pacifiers and sings to her lovey before finally giving it up 20 minutes later. At least she doesn't scream for 20 minutes (or longer) like her older sister used to at that age."
Maybe I need that bedtime bath stuff. No, wait. I've tried that. Our kids seem immune to the powers of its calming lavender scent.
I get that the goal is to sell baby wash. But I do wonder if ads and contests like this don't have the unintended affect of creating false expectations of what parenting will be like or, even worse, making parents (like me) wonder what it is they're doing wrong to have homes in which bedtime (or any time) more closely resembles a three-ring circus than a Norman Rockwell postcard.
If Johnson's wanted my money, they'd sponsor a Facebook contest challenging parents to keep it real. Wow, your son rubbed lotion in your hairbrush while pretending to be a dentist? So did mine! Your 10-month old thinks unlatching the fire screen every time you admonish her with a "no, no" is hilarious? Mine too! Honesty, in my book, is worth its weight in gold.
I used to pass judgement on parents who celebrated their respective "days" by getting away from the people who made them parents in the first place. Then I became a mother.
Now I pass judgement on mothers who wax poetic about motherhood. Being a mom is tough, demanding, thankless and exhausting, and I firmly believe that women who say otherwise are either a) trying to fool you or b) trying to fool themselves.
There are moments of unparalleled joy, to be sure, but in the early years especially, when you're sleep-and shower-deprived and your little angels are 100% dependent and demanding, it's been my experience that the moments of tedium, frustration and exhaustion dominate.
I love my children and make daily sacrifices for them because that's what I want to do. However, I also enjoy leaving them with my in-laws for the occasional overnight getaway with my husband (our last, for the record, was in October) and don't mind candidly informing the sweet woman who works in our church office that, in fact, not every single second with our kids is "fun." (A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she thanked me for being honest and proceeded to confide about some serious challenges they're enduring with their college-aged son. Apparently honesty begets honesty, and I'm not the only mom who thinks that motherhood is more than blue skies and rainbows.)
If honesty begets honesty, then propaganda like the Johnson's Baby ad I stumbled upon while paging through the latest issue of Parents magazine on Monday evening begets false expectations of parenthood.
A half-sheet insert that makes holding your place (if "your place" happens to be anywhere other than the ad insertion point) impossible while trying to simultaneously fix an almond butter sandwich and apply lip liner to your five-year old who's getting costumed for an in-house production of "Princess C slays the fire-breathing dragon", the ad was nearly ripped out without a second glance. For some reason, though, I read it.
Apparently, Johnson's is sponsoring a "moments of joy" contest on Facebook, so the ad featured excerpts of "what moms are saying about their joyful before-bed moments."
According to this ad, every night (with Johnson's Baby bedtime bath, of course) is sweet, relaxing, cuddly and wonderful. Smiling babies drift off peacefully (by 8:30 at the latest, of course) while their moms marvel at the wonder of it all.
The one that made me guffaw out loud: "Right before bed I sing to Brody and he reaches up and touches my face before he smiles at me, and then drifts off to sleep."
Bedtime at our house goes down more like this: "After finally wrestling C into a clean diaper and pajamas, I take her to the glider for round two where she proceeds to wriggle, squirm and smack me in the face repeatedly while giving me a look that says, 'What? You gotta a problem with me slapping you in the face?' Exhausted, I finally deposit her, still wide awake, in the crib, from which she chucks all her pacifiers and sings to her lovey before finally giving it up 20 minutes later. At least she doesn't scream for 20 minutes (or longer) like her older sister used to at that age."
Maybe I need that bedtime bath stuff. No, wait. I've tried that. Our kids seem immune to the powers of its calming lavender scent.
I get that the goal is to sell baby wash. But I do wonder if ads and contests like this don't have the unintended affect of creating false expectations of what parenting will be like or, even worse, making parents (like me) wonder what it is they're doing wrong to have homes in which bedtime (or any time) more closely resembles a three-ring circus than a Norman Rockwell postcard.
If Johnson's wanted my money, they'd sponsor a Facebook contest challenging parents to keep it real. Wow, your son rubbed lotion in your hairbrush while pretending to be a dentist? So did mine! Your 10-month old thinks unlatching the fire screen every time you admonish her with a "no, no" is hilarious? Mine too! Honesty, in my book, is worth its weight in gold.
Friday, May 18, 2012
I "like" it
As anyone who knows me will attest, punctuality has never been my hallmark. So it should come as no surprise that I am quite tardy to the social media scene. To be honest, the only reason I'm showing up at all is because it's become increasingly clear that in order to perform well at my paycheck job it's unavoidable.
So it was that I signed up for a Twitter account a few weeks ago. I have yet to Tweet. Neither have I checked in on the entities that I'm "following." I have a Facebook page that contains my name and nothing else.
I'll admit I've been a hater. I don't do things just because everyone else is doing them. And I definitely don't do things just because everyone tells me I should. (No, I do not wonder why my kids are so hard headed.)
I also don't fancy my life that interesting that people would want to "follow" it via social media channels. And yet, they seemingly do.
Before I paint an inaccurate portrait of my popularity (or Klout, as it's known in the social media world), let me explain. I have two "followers" on my Twitter account. One is my job-share partner, and the other is another colleague. The majority of my "followers" (and they aren't many - maybe a dozen) are on our corporate social media tool, Chatter.
The first few times I got the e-mail notification that someone new was "following" me, I felt incredulous. They're following me? Then as more notifications rolled in I started to feel a little panicky. They're following me?
They must expect me to say something profound. Or entertaining. Or at least useful.
I started to feel performance anxiety. They're waiting for me to post something. I should post something. What should I post?
I started wracking my brain for useful, profound things to share with my colleagues, and I actually hit upon something that I thought qualified as the former. So I posted it. Which makes it sound like such a straightforward process, right?
Wrong.
The rules of the social media road run counter to the natural tendencies of those of us who value things like tone, syntax and proper punctuation. They fly in the face of those of us who edit e-mails and capitalize proper nouns when texting.
It took me fifteen minutes to craft, edit and finally post a 48-word, um, post (what else do you call them? Does anyone but me care that I used the word "post" twice in the same sentence? Probably not.)
I'm clearly no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's a disproportionately long time for so few words.
So I posted and waited. Would anyone "like" what I'd said? Would anyone post a comment in reply? Minutes ticked by. An hour passed. Nothing happened. I knew it. Nobody likes me. And that post was clearly not at all useful.
In two days on the social media scene I suffered from performance anxiety and junior high-esque insecurity. Who needs it?
Then I logged in at work yesterday and was surprised and, I can't lie, delighted, to find that three people "liked" my post. One was my faithful job-share partner and the other my boss, which is somewhat akin to having your parent and sibling "like" your post, but whatever. At least my post didn't go completely ignored.
As the day wore on, a few more people liked my post. Someone commented that she'd downloaded the app I recommended. As of this morning (yes, I checked again) 10 people "liked" my post.
And you know what? I like being "liked", which is, I'm sure, the driving psychology behind the whole phenomenon. Who among us doesn't like to be "liked" and "followed"? As the mom of three children who literally follow my every move, I appreciate the virtually variety even more.
So while I have no delusions of building a gigantic flock of Twitter followers, I think I may actually enjoy posting useful, if not profound, information for my colleagues and receiving the same from them.
And if anyone reading this blog wanted to, you know, recommend it to a friend who might actually leave a comment on it, please feel free. My ego can only take so many months of stone silence in the comment field below . . .
So it was that I signed up for a Twitter account a few weeks ago. I have yet to Tweet. Neither have I checked in on the entities that I'm "following." I have a Facebook page that contains my name and nothing else.
I'll admit I've been a hater. I don't do things just because everyone else is doing them. And I definitely don't do things just because everyone tells me I should. (No, I do not wonder why my kids are so hard headed.)
I also don't fancy my life that interesting that people would want to "follow" it via social media channels. And yet, they seemingly do.
Before I paint an inaccurate portrait of my popularity (or Klout, as it's known in the social media world), let me explain. I have two "followers" on my Twitter account. One is my job-share partner, and the other is another colleague. The majority of my "followers" (and they aren't many - maybe a dozen) are on our corporate social media tool, Chatter.
The first few times I got the e-mail notification that someone new was "following" me, I felt incredulous. They're following me? Then as more notifications rolled in I started to feel a little panicky. They're following me?
They must expect me to say something profound. Or entertaining. Or at least useful.
I started to feel performance anxiety. They're waiting for me to post something. I should post something. What should I post?
I started wracking my brain for useful, profound things to share with my colleagues, and I actually hit upon something that I thought qualified as the former. So I posted it. Which makes it sound like such a straightforward process, right?
Wrong.
The rules of the social media road run counter to the natural tendencies of those of us who value things like tone, syntax and proper punctuation. They fly in the face of those of us who edit e-mails and capitalize proper nouns when texting.
It took me fifteen minutes to craft, edit and finally post a 48-word, um, post (what else do you call them? Does anyone but me care that I used the word "post" twice in the same sentence? Probably not.)
I'm clearly no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's a disproportionately long time for so few words.
So I posted and waited. Would anyone "like" what I'd said? Would anyone post a comment in reply? Minutes ticked by. An hour passed. Nothing happened. I knew it. Nobody likes me. And that post was clearly not at all useful.
In two days on the social media scene I suffered from performance anxiety and junior high-esque insecurity. Who needs it?
Then I logged in at work yesterday and was surprised and, I can't lie, delighted, to find that three people "liked" my post. One was my faithful job-share partner and the other my boss, which is somewhat akin to having your parent and sibling "like" your post, but whatever. At least my post didn't go completely ignored.
As the day wore on, a few more people liked my post. Someone commented that she'd downloaded the app I recommended. As of this morning (yes, I checked again) 10 people "liked" my post.
And you know what? I like being "liked", which is, I'm sure, the driving psychology behind the whole phenomenon. Who among us doesn't like to be "liked" and "followed"? As the mom of three children who literally follow my every move, I appreciate the virtually variety even more.
So while I have no delusions of building a gigantic flock of Twitter followers, I think I may actually enjoy posting useful, if not profound, information for my colleagues and receiving the same from them.
And if anyone reading this blog wanted to, you know, recommend it to a friend who might actually leave a comment on it, please feel free. My ego can only take so many months of stone silence in the comment field below . . .
Friday, May 11, 2012
Guilty as charged
In case you're not familiar with the term "mommy guilt", allow me to break it down for you. "Mommy guilt" is the phenomenon in which mothers, feeling personally and solely responsible for the health and well-being, both present and future, of their children, believe that their children's mental, physical and emotional welfare is compromised or, in some cases, flat out damaged, when they don't pour 100% of their time, energy and resources into those children.
Put more simply, "mommy guilt" is feeling like you're failing your kids on a daily basis.
I'm not sure if "mommy guilt" is a product of our two-income culture (does anyone remember June Cleaver feverishly packing for a business trip, fretting that Wally and The Beav would experience separation anxiety for the 72 hours that she was out of pocket?) or of our tell-all tendencies. Perhaps mothers throughout the ages have been wracked with guilt of this nature, but we only began hearing about it at the dawn of the technology age.
I work outside the home three days per week (and feel guilty sometimes for being gone, especially when one of the kids is under the weather or particularly clingy in the morning) and have begun to hear buzz from other women in my organization about managing the "mommy guilt" they feel for pursuing a career and allowing their spouses/partners/nannies to do the bulk of the child-rearing. Even women who have no desire to be stay-at-home moms struggle to squelch the nagging feeling that they should be home with their kids.
But "mommy guilt" does not discriminate. As a part-time paycheck earner, I have the distinct opportunity to experience, to some extent, what it's like on both sides of the fence. And I can tell you that I feel just as guilty, though for different reasons, on the days I'm home with the kids as I do on the days I'm at the office.
Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, I beat myself up for skipping a visit to the lactation room. My baby will surely sprout horns and a permanent case of strep throat if we have to give her formula when I'm working, right?
Earlier this week, after getting a call from home that my youngest was running a fever (though otherwise symptom-free), I worried, fretted and convinced myself that I should definitely be at home (where I would have done precisely the same thing our parents did for her.) Then I felt guilty for ducking out of a staff meeting to check a voice mail update from my mother-in-law.
On Wednesdays and Fridays, I torture myself with a running tally of all the times throughout the day that I've lost my temper, failed to capitalize on a teachable moment and/or missed the opportunity to "catch" the kids being good. I also classify reading a magazine as a "guilty" pleasure. Unless those magazines contained illicit material (which they don't!), I don't think paging through something other than Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom constitutes a sin.
Did I mention what an utter failure I considered myself to be after serving frozen fish sticks for dinner one night? While they've now earned a semi-regular spot in our culinary repertoire, I still feel a twinge of guilt anytime I pull dinner - other than a homemade, frozen-for-a-busy-night casserole - from the freezer.
I don't hear much about "daddy guilt." Actually, I don't hear anything about "daddy guilt", and I attribute that to antiquated expectations that still linger in our social consciousness. Men are breadwinners, women caregivers. Though the trend over the last couple of generations has been toward uber-involved daddies (some even blog about it - Babble has a Top 50 of 2011 list if you're interested) I'd venture to say that social stereotypes still run deep in most places.
I'd love to say more on the topic, but I'm already well over the recommended 500 words that represent the sweet spot of blogging and my nine-month old is stirring. There's nothing like ignoring a baby while blogging to get your day off to a guilt-riddled start.
Put more simply, "mommy guilt" is feeling like you're failing your kids on a daily basis.
I'm not sure if "mommy guilt" is a product of our two-income culture (does anyone remember June Cleaver feverishly packing for a business trip, fretting that Wally and The Beav would experience separation anxiety for the 72 hours that she was out of pocket?) or of our tell-all tendencies. Perhaps mothers throughout the ages have been wracked with guilt of this nature, but we only began hearing about it at the dawn of the technology age.
I work outside the home three days per week (and feel guilty sometimes for being gone, especially when one of the kids is under the weather or particularly clingy in the morning) and have begun to hear buzz from other women in my organization about managing the "mommy guilt" they feel for pursuing a career and allowing their spouses/partners/nannies to do the bulk of the child-rearing. Even women who have no desire to be stay-at-home moms struggle to squelch the nagging feeling that they should be home with their kids.
But "mommy guilt" does not discriminate. As a part-time paycheck earner, I have the distinct opportunity to experience, to some extent, what it's like on both sides of the fence. And I can tell you that I feel just as guilty, though for different reasons, on the days I'm home with the kids as I do on the days I'm at the office.
Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, I beat myself up for skipping a visit to the lactation room. My baby will surely sprout horns and a permanent case of strep throat if we have to give her formula when I'm working, right?
Earlier this week, after getting a call from home that my youngest was running a fever (though otherwise symptom-free), I worried, fretted and convinced myself that I should definitely be at home (where I would have done precisely the same thing our parents did for her.) Then I felt guilty for ducking out of a staff meeting to check a voice mail update from my mother-in-law.
On Wednesdays and Fridays, I torture myself with a running tally of all the times throughout the day that I've lost my temper, failed to capitalize on a teachable moment and/or missed the opportunity to "catch" the kids being good. I also classify reading a magazine as a "guilty" pleasure. Unless those magazines contained illicit material (which they don't!), I don't think paging through something other than Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom constitutes a sin.
Did I mention what an utter failure I considered myself to be after serving frozen fish sticks for dinner one night? While they've now earned a semi-regular spot in our culinary repertoire, I still feel a twinge of guilt anytime I pull dinner - other than a homemade, frozen-for-a-busy-night casserole - from the freezer.
I don't hear much about "daddy guilt." Actually, I don't hear anything about "daddy guilt", and I attribute that to antiquated expectations that still linger in our social consciousness. Men are breadwinners, women caregivers. Though the trend over the last couple of generations has been toward uber-involved daddies (some even blog about it - Babble has a Top 50 of 2011 list if you're interested) I'd venture to say that social stereotypes still run deep in most places.
I'd love to say more on the topic, but I'm already well over the recommended 500 words that represent the sweet spot of blogging and my nine-month old is stirring. There's nothing like ignoring a baby while blogging to get your day off to a guilt-riddled start.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
If you can't beat 'em . . .
I'm not sure if it's the age, the DNA, or a combination of the two, but my children delight in non-compliance. In their worst moments, this takes the shape of foot-stomping, red-faced defiance. In their better moments, it looks like two kids ignoring their parents' requests to get dressed/brush their teeth/get in their booster seats so we can get the heck out the door.
Never one to run ahead of schedule myself, having two kids suddenly go deaf in the 20 minutes before we need to be out the door in order to arrive at our destination only marginally late is maddening. I've tried plenty of tips and tricks from Parents magazine (though I draw the line at letting my daughter go to school in pajamas. The one time my son wore his bathrobe to church and brunch had nothing to do with the fact that we were running late.)
And I've done plenty of things (yelling, threatening, yelling some more) that the experts in Parents magazine say I should never do.
I hesitate to say it, because seemingly as soon as I hit on something that works the kids realize I've gotten the upper hand and stop responding to the thing that worked like a charm just days before, but I may have struck gold yesterday.
With a big project looming at work, I was trying my best to get some things done from home, which is always a comedy of errors when you have three kids and no childcare. At lunchtime, everyone except me was still sporting nighttime attire and breath, and my friend, God bless her, had generously offered to have the older two kids over to play in the afternoon so I could actually get some things done.
I foolishly thought that the promise of a play date would be enough to kick the kids into high gear, but it quickly became obvious that ignoring me was just as entertaining as romping with friends. My blood pressure was on the ascent when my daughter, in response to something I'd asked her to do, belted out a gleeful, "No way!" and then quickly announced that it was opposite day.
Since she'd caught me before I completely lost my temper, I played along.
"I definitely do not want anyone to brush their teeth before we go to L's house to play," I announced.
Four little feet scurried to the bathroom.
"Do not, under any circumstances, stand still while I brush your hair," I commanded.
One squirmy little rebel turned to stone before my eyes.
And on we went until we were buckled in the truck and on our merry way.
Like in The Perfect Storm, the circumstances were ripe for this game to play out in my favor.
First, it was their idea. Had I suggested that it was opposite day, I'm not so sure it would have gone over as well. But maybe it would have, because the game was also . . .
Silly. Kids like to be silly, and they love it when grown-ups are silly with them. My sense of humor is more dry to acerbic than silly, so I have a hard time getting into that mode. I like to think that it makes my silly moments even more special.
And finally, opposite day enabled them to indulge their penchant for defiance. They could do precisely what I told them not to do and get away with it - how splendid!
Stay tuned for next week's update, when opposite day will have likely lost its luster, and I'll be back to playing Joan Crawford sans the wire hangers.
Never one to run ahead of schedule myself, having two kids suddenly go deaf in the 20 minutes before we need to be out the door in order to arrive at our destination only marginally late is maddening. I've tried plenty of tips and tricks from Parents magazine (though I draw the line at letting my daughter go to school in pajamas. The one time my son wore his bathrobe to church and brunch had nothing to do with the fact that we were running late.)
And I've done plenty of things (yelling, threatening, yelling some more) that the experts in Parents magazine say I should never do.
I hesitate to say it, because seemingly as soon as I hit on something that works the kids realize I've gotten the upper hand and stop responding to the thing that worked like a charm just days before, but I may have struck gold yesterday.
With a big project looming at work, I was trying my best to get some things done from home, which is always a comedy of errors when you have three kids and no childcare. At lunchtime, everyone except me was still sporting nighttime attire and breath, and my friend, God bless her, had generously offered to have the older two kids over to play in the afternoon so I could actually get some things done.
I foolishly thought that the promise of a play date would be enough to kick the kids into high gear, but it quickly became obvious that ignoring me was just as entertaining as romping with friends. My blood pressure was on the ascent when my daughter, in response to something I'd asked her to do, belted out a gleeful, "No way!" and then quickly announced that it was opposite day.
Since she'd caught me before I completely lost my temper, I played along.
"I definitely do not want anyone to brush their teeth before we go to L's house to play," I announced.
Four little feet scurried to the bathroom.
"Do not, under any circumstances, stand still while I brush your hair," I commanded.
One squirmy little rebel turned to stone before my eyes.
And on we went until we were buckled in the truck and on our merry way.
Like in The Perfect Storm, the circumstances were ripe for this game to play out in my favor.
First, it was their idea. Had I suggested that it was opposite day, I'm not so sure it would have gone over as well. But maybe it would have, because the game was also . . .
Silly. Kids like to be silly, and they love it when grown-ups are silly with them. My sense of humor is more dry to acerbic than silly, so I have a hard time getting into that mode. I like to think that it makes my silly moments even more special.
And finally, opposite day enabled them to indulge their penchant for defiance. They could do precisely what I told them not to do and get away with it - how splendid!
Stay tuned for next week's update, when opposite day will have likely lost its luster, and I'll be back to playing Joan Crawford sans the wire hangers.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
The Danger in Disclosure
I'm a proponent of talking to kids the same way you'd talk to adults. I don't "dumb down" my vocabulary or explanations, and I definitely don't do baby talk. As a result, my 5- and 4-year olds are relatively well-spoken and informed children. I have learned as of late, however, that when it comes to responding articulately to their endless string of "Whys?" there can be danger in full disclosure.
For instance, when you set a precedent of sharing details they come to expect that level of specificity on a regular basis, which made for an interesting situation when we were trying to explain why my husband was out-of-commission following his recent vasectomy. Everyone from our neighbors to my former boss enjoyed hearing stories about my husband's "hurt penis."
Also, by introducing complex concepts you open the door to loose interpretations and misapplications. Such was the case when I, at my wits end with my eldest daughter's constant need for entertainment and companionship, announced that it was high time she learn to play independently. Besides helping her develop self-reliance and faith in her own problem-solving and creative abilities, this critical life skill saves me from assuming the role of perma-playmate/cruise director.
After learning that "independently" meant "alone", my daughter decided she was adamantly opposed to independent play, despite my reassurance that it was not punishment.
Knowing this, I shouldn't have been surprised last Saturday when, horrified to learn that "the plan" for the day was for my husband to work on refinishing my parents' kitchen cabinets and for me to clean our blinds and windows, she announced, "You know it's no fun for me to play independently." So she didn't, opting instead to shadow my every move, which made the messy, tedious spring cleaning job even more enjoyable.
Mere days later, after she and her brother discovered the heap of plastic junk that my husband had "accidentally" tossed into the outside garbage can before mowing the backyard, she wailed, "How are we supposed to play independently if you throw away all of our toys?!?" Stifling a laugh, I reminded her that there were still plenty of toys on our property with which they could play independently.
My son, a champion independent player, takes a less-accusatory approach, preferring instead to capitalize on my fondness for the concept when his sisters are encroaching on his territory (the younger) or tormenting him (the older.) Just yesterday, when his big sister invited herself into his game of whatever, he looked up at me with his giant blue-gray eyes and said, "Can I just play independently for a little while?"
Yes, buddy. And as for me, I'm going to practice being vague.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Man's best friend
Those who think that a dog offers the ultimate in companionship have never met my son's imaginary friend, Tooby. Allow me to introduce you.
Tooby is a reformed hitter who just one short year ago was not apt to heed his parents' instruction. Upon first introduction, I feared that my son had fallen in with a bad crowd at the ripe old age of 2 1/2, as we only heard about Tooby when we were correcting one of our kids or sharing a "learn from my mistakes" story. Just like my husband, for example, Tooby once failed to heed his mother's warning not to stand up in his chair at the table and took a nasty tumble as a result of his disobedience.
Over the course of the past year, Tooby has celebrated birthdays ranging from his 10th to his "90-12th", though he has seemingly settled into being 19 "like Austin", my oldest nephew.
Tooby is a vagrant, having lived in houses mere blocks from our own all the way to an impressively large stucco number at the corner of 16th Street and Muhammad Ali Boulevard.
Tooby is an animal lover, having assembled a menagerie in one of those above-referenced backyards that included a hippopotamus named Sarah Bates. I appreciate the shout out, Tooby.
Tooby is an unobtrusive guest, so I don't mind when he arrives unannounced for dinner or a playdate. Last night he unexpectedly accompanied us to my husband's basketball game, and since he's 19 he enjoyed the privilege of riding in the front passenger's seat (after I moved my diaper bag to accommodate him, that is.)
My daughter once accused Tooby of being imaginary, which infuriated my son. So you can imagine my surprise when one day, during a discussion on creation (Did God make mountains? Did God make horses? Did God make ice cream?) my son pointed out that God made everything "except Tooby, because he's not real. I made him."
Tooby has been busy lately, or at least I assume he has because we've heard less about him in the past several months than we had in the previous year. I guess college and part-time jobs and all the other things that occupy a 19-year old's mind have made it tough to keep in touch with almost-four-year old friends who don't text.
I admit that I have enjoyed having Tooby around (once he got his act together and stopped hitting people, that is) and will be sad when he takes his final leave, as I guess most imaginary friends do. I suspect that time is drawing near, but before it happens I'm going to make every effort to meet my namesake hippo. Wouldn't you?
Tooby is a reformed hitter who just one short year ago was not apt to heed his parents' instruction. Upon first introduction, I feared that my son had fallen in with a bad crowd at the ripe old age of 2 1/2, as we only heard about Tooby when we were correcting one of our kids or sharing a "learn from my mistakes" story. Just like my husband, for example, Tooby once failed to heed his mother's warning not to stand up in his chair at the table and took a nasty tumble as a result of his disobedience.
Over the course of the past year, Tooby has celebrated birthdays ranging from his 10th to his "90-12th", though he has seemingly settled into being 19 "like Austin", my oldest nephew.
Tooby is a vagrant, having lived in houses mere blocks from our own all the way to an impressively large stucco number at the corner of 16th Street and Muhammad Ali Boulevard.
Tooby is an animal lover, having assembled a menagerie in one of those above-referenced backyards that included a hippopotamus named Sarah Bates. I appreciate the shout out, Tooby.
Tooby is an unobtrusive guest, so I don't mind when he arrives unannounced for dinner or a playdate. Last night he unexpectedly accompanied us to my husband's basketball game, and since he's 19 he enjoyed the privilege of riding in the front passenger's seat (after I moved my diaper bag to accommodate him, that is.)
My daughter once accused Tooby of being imaginary, which infuriated my son. So you can imagine my surprise when one day, during a discussion on creation (Did God make mountains? Did God make horses? Did God make ice cream?) my son pointed out that God made everything "except Tooby, because he's not real. I made him."
Tooby has been busy lately, or at least I assume he has because we've heard less about him in the past several months than we had in the previous year. I guess college and part-time jobs and all the other things that occupy a 19-year old's mind have made it tough to keep in touch with almost-four-year old friends who don't text.
I admit that I have enjoyed having Tooby around (once he got his act together and stopped hitting people, that is) and will be sad when he takes his final leave, as I guess most imaginary friends do. I suspect that time is drawing near, but before it happens I'm going to make every effort to meet my namesake hippo. Wouldn't you?
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