The Ties That Bind

Only a really special mommy blogger would neglect to write an essay on Mother's Day.  Just so we're clear,  "special" is more accurately defined as "preternaturally delinquent".

I kinda dropped the ball.

In a separate post, I will bore you with the sad tale of how a 30 minute trip to the Oasis Family Fun Center rapidly snowballed into the 12 day (and counting) viral and bacterial infestation from hell.   How Little M and I have escaped being thrown into the street-- or alternatively, to the wolves-- is actually a miracle for the ages at this point.  Between the two of us, we've had pink eye, two sinus infections, an ear infection, strep throat, and have coughed pretty much nonstop for weeks.  We're an absolute joy to be around and I'm now on a first name basis with the pharmacy tech at CVS (Hi, Mark!).

Oh yeah, and my driver's license has been scanned so many times in the process of purchasing the good, behind-the-counter decongestants that I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if the state police now suspect me of building a meth lab in my basement.  Which is ridiculous.  Not because I'm above meth at this point if it makes me feel better, but because anyone who sat near me in 10th grade chemistry class knows that I am incapable of anything that is even remotely related to, you know, chemistry.

Can we file this under "partially excused delinquency"?

Then, there was another slight problem.  For having written something like 50 posts related to motherhood, I didn't have the foggiest clue as to how to tackle the Mother's Day post and adequately do it justice.

I had all sorts of ideas- most of them bad- so I resorted to pinterest and other internet timesucks instead.

And then, I came across a few articles---on msn.com, which last I checked, was a respectable news source- that really, really, really rubbed me the wrong way.

Article #1- Katherine Heigl Shows Off Her Adopted Daughter
Article #2- Nicole Kidman's Adopted Daughter Says She's Not an Absentee Mom
Article #3- Sandra Bullock's Mother's Day With Her Adopted Son

WTF?   What? The?  F###?

Why the qualifier, MSN?   Why the asterisk?  It's insensitive.  It's disrespectful---to the parents and to the children. And it's just plain wrong.

These celebrities were with their CHILDREN.  Not their adopted children.

I can't imagine anyone introducing their own child as "This is Jane- my adopted child."  Seriously?

How do you think those kids would feel if they read this article?  Like they're somehow less real, less connected, less part of the family than a biological child?  I can't speak for these children or their feelings, but I have to say that it is irresponsible to even take the risk that they would feel that way.

What's more, those statements undermine the parents and the families they've built.  It's as if the news sources are somehow saying that families which are constructed in other-than-biological ways are less valuable and less intact.

That's total crap.

There's very little about life, or about parenting, that's universal, but I do strongly believe that the following three statements apply to virtually all families:

1.  Bringing a child into a family is the result of a lengthy process.  In some cases, that lengthy process is pregnancy.  In others, that lengthy process is pregnancy with the knowledge that you'll be a single parent.  In others,  that process is infertility, then fertility treatments, then a pregnancy.  In others, that process is infertility, then fertility treatments, then surrogacy.  In others, that process includes the myriad of steps involved in an adoption---which could include last minute decision changes by birth parents,  months spent in a foreign country,  months spent with social workers and lawyers and therapists.  In all of these cases, it's the result of a long, often painful and frequently expensive process.

(And, if you ask me, the process I went through to have Little M- the, wow I'm pregnant process with virtually no interventions to speak of--was the easiest of all of the options.)

2.  The raising of the child---you know, the actual parenting part of the show-- is where families are made.  It's the love, the wiping of the noses, the cleaning of the puke on the floor, the shuttling to travel baseball and travel soccer and ballet lesson, the checking of the homework, the chasing away the closet monsters, the tea parties, the games of driveway basketball--that makes a parent.  Not the manner in which a child enters a family.  The everything that happens AFTER a child enters a family.

3.  It's love, it's commitment, and it's hope that builds a family.  It's not biology.

Shooting the messenger

If only closed minds came with closed mouths.


In the last few days, I've heard multiple stories recounting not only hatred and ignorance toward people who are gay, but also toward people are who straight and working toward building a world that is more tolerant and more accepting.


I'm outraged.


I'm certainly in no position to be the morality police, and nor is anyone else, but I just have to say it.  When did love become immoral and hatred become the moral high ground?   This isn't a blog about religion  (and nor will it ever be), but I'm pretty sure that nobody's God/higher power wants its followers to act in hatred in its name.


Now, I don't know too much about this whole life thing and I know we are all unique and with different needs, but I steadfastly believe these to be two things we all need:


1.  To feel welcomed, to feel accepted, to be wanted in the places that we happen to be.
2.  To have a soft place to land when things don't go as planned.


At this point, just about everyone knows that bullying is a major problem in schools---and in life.  You hear so many stories about teen suicides after extended periods of bullying- when one teen suicide is one too many.  And you hear responses from some adults that suggest that bullying is just a part of growing up.  


News Flash:  Bullying is abuse.  It's not a rite of passage.  


What's more, bullying now takes on a different, and more vicious dimension than it did 20 years ago (when yes, I was bullied, too).   It's no longer limited to a small distribution--- it's blasted via email, and facebook, and twitter, and texting---and people have a tendency to be even more malicious behind a keyboard than in front of a real, flesh and blood person.


It's hard enough to be any teenager---to be in the process of figuring out who you are and where you stand in this world--without the additional (and gut-wrenching) complications associated with being gay.  Unfortunately, that same pervasive insecurity that is nearly synonymous with being a teenager often prompts teens to be ruthless toward each other--particularly those that don't fit neatly into social conformity.  As a result, gay teens often get brutalized by their peers.  Don't believe me?  Check out the Trevor Project or the It Gets Better Project.  You'll see what I mean.


And many adults, those adults who should have the perspective and life-experience to step in and stop the nonsense, either turn their heads or perpetuate the cycle by saying that being gay is a choice, and an immoral one at that.


Here's the thing.   Anyone who's watched someone go through the process of coming out (and, yes, I have) realizes that being gay is not a choice.  Who would choose to be ostracized?  Who would voluntarily choose to do an inventory of virtually everyone in their lives--even those people on the periphery-- to see who in their life stays loyal and who bails once they come out?  It's like saying that someone would choose to be homeless.


And, for the record, I don't recall choosing to be straight.  It just happened.  


A good number of high schools and universities now have Gay-Straight Alliance groups.  Alliance.  Support.  Solidarity.  Tolerance.  Respect.  How great is that?   


Apparently, not everyone agrees.  Apparently, the same people who are anti-gay also believe that straight people who join in alliance are equally immoral.


Right.   Because ignorance and hatred are so frigging morally awesome.


What I want to do at these people is scream:


What if that child was YOUR child?  Still okay with the bullying?  Still okay with the verbal abuse?  Still against  gay-straight alliances when it's YOUR child who takes the brunt of the ignorance?  You ready to change your tune yet?


My daughter is only 3, but you know what?  She might be gay.  I just don't know it yet.  


Irrespective of her sexual orientation, I would want her to grow up in a place where she was accepted, and had allies, and was surrounded by supportive people.  


I couldn't care less if Little M was gay.  My love for my daughter is unconditional.  There's nothing (okay, nothing short of capital murder) that would make me love my daughter any less.  I care that she's kind, and I care she loves and is loved in return.  The gender (or race or religion) of who she loves?  Utterly and completely irrelevant.


People who work to make our schools a friendlier, more accepting place should be applauded-  not denounced.  People who impede understanding should be ignored--not embraced. 


It gets better,

A swing and a miss

I'm not at all cut out for a career in food service.

Yesterday was the annual fun fair at Little M's school.  The fair, much like the school, is adorable, and well-run and charming and lovely.

Or at least it was until I showed up.

I signed up for a volunteer shift---at the food tent---at lunchtime.  I just might be the dumbest smart person alive.   My paid job is stressful, and my life's not exactly a cakewalk, but I exaggerate none when I say that I was more stressed out and on edge during those 60 minutes in the food tent than I've been in years.

People are nuts.  Especially when they're hungry.  Oh, and I'm nuts.  Especially when I'm short on patience---which is, as you all know, virtually all the time.

You add my inherent lack of patience to my four main pet peeves in life, and it will become obvious to you why the food tent at lunchtime idea was a very bad one indeed.

My other pet peeves?  They'd be, in no particular order:

(1) People who are high maintenance
(2) People who special order
(3) People who wiffle-waffle on decisions when there's a long line;  and
(4) People who say "Give me" and "I need" instead of "May I have" and "Please".

So, clearly, I was the best person for this particular job.

I was actually holding up reasonably well until close to the end of my shift---when I became completely unglued.  It started with a nasty attitude (not mine, by the way...at least, not yet), and a few give-mes, and was followed by a few "I needs" before veering into the territory of my personal favorite-  the "get me."

It came to a stunning crescendo when the person commented that I was a bit slow and followed it up with a "Are you LISTENING to me?"

Now.  I don't like confrontation.  I don't do it.  I'm a chicken and I was raised to be a "nice girl" (and I could rant for days on that one), so I normally just take stuff like that, internalize it and move on.  Which is what I intended to do today.  I'm not going to embarrass my daughter and cause a scene.  AT HER SCHOOL.  No, thanks.  I smiled, finished the food transaction, and finished out my shift.

That said, I was definitely flustered and that fluster set the tone for the next few hours.  I left my shift to rejoin my family, and the first words out of my mouth were "Where's the beer tent?"  Turns out that beer tents are frowned upon at preschool events.

But my mood?  My mood was definitely shot.  That person definitely got to me.  I was undoubtedly on edge.

Like most parents, I have my moments when I really doubt that I'm doing a good job as a mom---doubts that I'm making the grade, doubts that I'm raising her to be a considerate individual who will give to this world instead of take from it, doubts that she wouldn't be infinitely better off if she had a different mother.   Add in some working mom's guilt for good measure and fold in some developmentally normal preschool tantrums and.....voila!  A.BIG.FAT.MESS.

I can usually keep it together when at parenting at home.  Parenting in public, though-- parenting in public, in front of an audience, is another animal entirely.  I cannot be the only person who feels this way.

Parenting in public gets judged---often harshly--by a panel of judges who, at best, knows 25% of the story.  And we all have done it.  For better and for worse, we assess the quality of our own parenting--- and we determine own parental identity on a relative scale--- by judging others...usually at the moment when their kids are acting like, ummm, kids. Parenting in public, particularly after your kids act up, is part actual parenting and part performance art---put on display to show the other parents in the room how competent you are as a parent as much as it is about actually parenting your kids--- and I'm so tired of it.

Yes, Little M did something at the fair yesterday that required some level of discipline and parental involvement.  The problem is that I blew the call on how to discipline her----and I blew it BADLY.   There were a lot of people around, and there was a lesson to be learned, and I was really, really harsh.  Unnecessarily harsh.  I didn't yell, or hit----but I most definitely stung with words-- and I know part of that originated from the fact that I was parenting in front of an audience.

I've apologized, profusely, to my little girl.  She may have forgiven, but I'm not willing to forgive myself for that one.

After I had said my peace, Little M looked up at me.  She didn't cry, she didn't fuss.  The look in her eye, though?  It crushed me.  She looked at me like I betrayed her---which is appropriate, because I did betray her. I recognized that betrayed look in her eyes--it's one of my own.  That's a tough pill to swallow.  I hurt my little girl's heart- that's an even tougher pill to swallow.

I love my daughter.  I'm her parent.  I'm not her friend.  I need to discipline her, and set limits and guidelines and all of that good stuff.  This isn't about not ever upsetting her---I'm truly a parental failure if that happens---but about disciplining her in a way that honors her spirit, and respects her feelings and protects her beautiful and precious little heart.   I failed yesterday.

It's not about how I parent the average child, or anyone else's child----it is how I parent THIS child.  MY child.  My ONLY child.  My beautiful, sensitive, kind-hearted, compassionate, empathetic, will-never-let-another-child-cry-without-giving-them-a-hug wild child.   The same sensitivity that makes her heart so beautiful is the same sensitivity that makes her heart hurt and ache so badly-- a trait that we share, and a trait that I ignored for a not-great reason yesterday.

I am so sorry, Little M.  Mommy loves you- and will try so much harder.

Dress You Up

Today, I realized that it is virtually impossible to "Like A Virgin" era Madonna tunes and be in a bad mood.  

As my revelations go, this one was pretty genius- thus, handily distinguishing it from most of the crap that flits through my brain on a daily basis.

I was driving home from an MRI (I'm fine- just a nagging injury that refuses to go away) and was in the kind of mood that only a claustrophobic person who had just spent the half hour in a loud, thumping machine could be in.

Side note:  The person who told me that an MRI was analogous to the middle of a donut was either a liar or a moron.  Donuts are awesome and delicious.  MRIs are neither. 


I realize that I sound like a bit of a moron with no internet access. I also realize that, in this particular case, that's all true.  I would have actually researched MRIs, but myWebMD privileges have been completely revoked as to preserve the sanity of everyone who spends time in my presence.  


It was the time that I was convinced that I was completely doomed due to unexplained night sweats that cost me the privilege.  It went a little something like this:


LMS:  I think something's really wrong with me.  I've been having these night sweats.
Husband:  Oh?
LMS:  WebMD says that unexplained night sweats are a sign of cancer.
Husband:  Well, what about night sweats caused by people who sleep in sweatshirts and sweatpants in 90 degree weather? Is that a sign of cancer, too?


Right.  Right.


So, I'm driving home and grumbling something incoherent about donuts and satellite radio came up huge for me.  Huge.  Madonna.  1985 Madonna.

Even better- it wasn't just 1985 Madonna.  It was "Dress You Up".

I remember taping that song off of the radio in 4th grade and playing it a few hundred million times.  Of course, back then- I thought the song was about clothes.  Then again, I also thought that "Material Girl" was also about clothes.  C'mon.  It's not that much of a stretch for a 9 year old.  Clothes are made out of material.

It took all of 8 seconds to transform me from a generic shrew to a smiling person with windows down, sunroof open, and music blasting at levels unacceptable to those who don't want to be permanently deafened.

It. Was. Awesome.  I might have even whistled, but I don't know how.

Oh, how it was a simpler time, back in 1985.  Back then, the only thing I wanted out of life was my very own "Like A Virgin" cassette tape.  There was only one thing standing between me and my 9-year old dream.

My mom.

In 1985, I stood a better chance of getting a brand new car, a pony, and a handgun than I did of getting anything to do with Madonna.  Madonna was contraband.

I have a great mom.  My mom was strict, paid attention to details, and set rules, and listened to song lyrics and did all of those things that good moms were supposed to do.  There were lots of rules and lots of restrictions.  While I am so grateful for these characteristics as an adult, let's just say that I was decidedly less so in 1985.

Ralphie from A Christmas Story heard a refrain of "you'll shoot your eye out" every time he mentioned his beloved Red Ryder BB Gun.  Me?  Every time I mentioned the word Madonna, I elicited a response of "No.  You'll get pregnant."

I had no chance.  No chance.  Except...

Same as in Ralphie's case, dear old dad came through for me as well--only, in my case, it wasn't as sweet and heartwarming.

One fine Saturday, my dad had the misfortune of being in a store with me and my four year old brother while my mom was getting her hair cut.

While we were out, however, I noticed and seized my window of opportunity.   I grabbed the tape while we were passing through the music section of the store and showed it to my dad.

The magic words?

Those would be....Hey Dad.  I need this for CCD.

The poor man was in a store, probably armed with a honey-do list, with two children who clearly did not want to be there and were probably behaving like either feral cats or straight-up ingrates.  He did what any other parent with 2 kids in a store on a Saturday would do---briefly glanced at the tape, threw it in the cart, and asked one follow-up question.

Dad: Madonna?  What the hell kind of name is that?
LMS:   It's a religious name, Dad.  I told you it was for CCD.

Score.

Little M's days of being illiterate are rapidly dwindling.   I suppose this means that I may need to start watching what I say.  With that in mind, this post just might be the first one I share with her.

No, it's not to share a charming anecdote of what her mother was previously like before I became a boring old hag.  It's to share with her a very important life lesson.

Listen to your mother.  Always listen to your mother.

I thought that I was crafty. I thought that I had beaten the system of parental bureaucracy.  I thought that I was on a path toward world domination.

No matter.    Mom wins.   Bought that Madonna tape, and guess what?  Mom was right.

I did get pregnant:)

Listen to your mother,

Vacation at BJs

We can file this one under "Things I Never Thought I'd Hear In My Lifetime".

Someone told me that they missed my blog.

Well.  I'll be.  Who'd have thunk it?  Certainly, not me.

Admittedly, I've been a bit speechless over the last few weeks.   Call it writers' block.  Call it thinkers' block.  Call it that I've heard some feedback that ranged from "really----another mommy blogger????" to "stupid".  I'd say that I just stopped playing, took my ball,  and ran home, but I don't necessarily think that's true.  Partially true?  Certainly.  Entirely true? Nope.  More than anything, I think it was just a call for some much-needed introspection.  It's a character flaw- but, hell.  It's my character flaw, and I'm more than okay with it.

Okay, and maybe it was time to take a brief respite from writing about life, and you know.... go about the business of actually living it.

I think I need some practice at that "living life" thing.  Here's what I did:

1.  Worked.  And worked some more.  And, yeah, then worked a little bit more.
2.  Worked out.  Woo hoo.
3.  Washed a few thousand loads of laundry.
4.  Attempted to negotiate with a pint-sized nudist tyrant.  I long for the days when I whined about her terrible clothing choices---now, I'd prefer that she'd, you know, wear them.
5.  It's not confirmed, but I'm pretty sure that my dad started a mulch fire at Easter brunch.
6.  I absolutely did not start a mulch fire at my own place of employment. I know that smoking is gross, and I know that I'm a smoker....but dammit, I am a RESPONSIBLE smoker.
7.  Ate about 27 pounds of Easter candy, and yes, I did pick out about 5 Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs from my brother's Easter basket.  Being the firstborn carries certain privileges.  Looting Easter baskets is one of them.

Oh, yeah.   And I came to a harsh, stark realization.  I'm supposed to be an adult-- and there comes a point in every adult's life when you need to accept the sad truth.  This truth I of which I speak?  Adults.  They grocery shop from time to time.

Flapjacks!  Fiddlesticks!  Foodles!

Yes, I'm expanding my vocabulary to include other words that start with the letter "f".  It's not going well, but it had to be done.  Just last Friday, my charming and articulate daughter announced TO MY MOTHER that her "frigging dog is frigging nuts."  The girl is clearly profane, but she's not a liar.  That dog (and my deepest apologies to that flapjacking canine) is frigging nuts.

What was I rambling about, again?  Oh, that's right....the need for me to procure some groceries.

There's only so many days you can offer dry noodles, cereal remnants and Easter candy for dinner before you realize that you're a complete failure as an adult.  Even college students have Ramen noodles in their stash.

Who am I kidding?  I could have dined on the stale contents of my pantry for 5 more days----but I was also fresh out of Diet Dr. Pepper.   Travesty-- so, I did what any respectable, responsible adult would do under the circumstances.  I called my husband before leaving work and with unmistakeable pride in my voice, I announced, "I will stop at BJs on the way home."

I imagined my Nobel Peace Prize being polished in my honor.  Or, at the very least, having a small neighborhood parade planned.   Instead, I had a shopping list dictated to me.  Who the hell actually EATS cottage cheese, anyway? Gross.

I bravely ventured into BJs, armed with a shopping list written in lipliner and a mission to fill the cart with foodstuffs other than soda and Cheez-Its.  I was going to buy healthy, nutritious food!  I was going to buy lunchmeat (even if I think it's naaaaaaasty and refuse to eat it)!  I was going to use coupons!

It warrants mention that I was completely starving, bordering on delusional, when I walked into the store.  That's the only way I can reasonably explain the whole coupon thing.  I'm not that organized.

I should have known that when I heard LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem" (aka the worst song ever recorded) playing over the loudspeaker  as I entered the store that this shopping trip was about to go off the rails.

Ever attempt to grocery shop with visions of urban hamsters dancing atop Kias running through your head?   Ever attempt to grocery shop as you play the role of "Tired Middle Aged Broad" in Jersey Shore- Downingtown BJs edition?

Every day I'm shuffling...


That line ran through my head....nonstop....as I spent something like $400 filling my cart full of random items that only starving people purchase.   Like cottage cheese.  And corn bread.  And about 12 pounds of ravioli.  And a freaking rotisserie chicken.

Every day I'm shuffling...


That line ran through my head....nonstop....as I ate approximately a half pound of swiss cheese after it was sliced at the deli counter.  (Yes, I paid for the pre-binge weight of the cheese.  I made have no remaining pride, but I do have some integrity).

I left that store with a SUV full of crap, and I'm pretty sure we still have nothing to eat.

I just wrote about my boring life, responsible smoking, toddler nudity and grocery shopping.  I don't know much in life, but I'm pretty confident in saying that the person who mentioned they missed my blog now sorely regrets the little nudge of encouragement sent my way.

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

I'm not even the slightest bit interested in science fiction, but I think I have entered some sort of parallel universe.  It's as if I've entered the twilight zone.  I'd say that I am a beacon of sanity in a world of crazy, but that's just laughable.  Maybe I'm just well-rounded, moderately crazy in a world of off-the-chain crazy.

It started innocently enough on Friday morning, when I was able to take a 7 minute shower in complete and utter silence.  This never happens.  On average, I'm interrupted, i don't know, about 20 times in the span of a 7 minute shower for such crises as missing oreos, broken crayons, noodles on the ceiling,  missing pieces of cereal sculptures, missing Barbie shoes, the unspeakable crime of not having more Doritos in the house.

Don't even get me started on the last time I peed in peace.  I think it might have been in 2008.  I once said that I went back to work after Little M was born for the opportunity to eat and pee in peace.  That's an untrue statement.  Now, people talk to me over the walls in the ladies room.  Joy.  Don't people know that I come to work in the hopes that I just might seize that elusive 2 minutes of peace?  It's gotten to the point that I've found a "secret" ladies room  (and I will NEVEREVEREVEREVER tell where it is), and if someone happens to be in there at the same time as me, I am not nice.  Like, as in, eye-dagger flashing, if-looks-could-kill-you'd-be-six-feet-under, not-at-all-nice.  For crying out loud- All.I.Want.To.Do.Is.Pee.In. Silence.At.Least.Once.A.Calendar.Year.  Is that too much to ask?


If there is any upshot to this insanity, it's that I get to feel needed and I get to feel popular.  I'm practically Jennifer Aniston the second I even glance at a bathroom or contemplate eating.  So, at least there's that.

Woo hoo.  I'm so excited about that, I could just pee.  Oh, right........right.  Therein lies the freaking problem.

Back to Friday morning and the freakish incident of the uninterrupted shower.   I exited the shower with (a) no shampoo still in my hair, (b)  no conditioner still in my hair and (c) will all traces of soap and shaving cream washed away from my body.  Weird.  I marveled in this wonderous event for all of thirty seconds before I glanced downstairs.

I think that if my family room were actually firebombed, it might have caused less damage.   In the span of 7 minutes, the young lass managed to accomplish the following:

1.  Moved a kitchen chair to the counter to retrieve 4 Crumbs cupcakes, and return chair to original location.
2.  Ate the icing off of all 4 Crumbs cupcakes, and removing the icing residue from the cupcakes by sliding her hands across the coffee table and the walls.
3.  Located 250 envelopes from the hall closet and distributed those envelopes evenly across the family room.
4.  Retrieved all of her underpants and socks from her dresser and scattered them in various locations in the family room.
5.  Glitter glue.  All I have to say.  Glitter glue.
6.  Crumbled portions of cupcake carcasses and ground cupcake dust into the carpet.
7.  Lemonade.  Everywhere.

7 minutes of showering.  2 hours of cleanup.  Might have been a decent trade.

As a follow-up to the extensive clean-up process, I decided to play "real mommy" and spend time with a complete stranger whose offspring happened to be the same age as mine.

In the future, please remind me that this story never ends well.

Key takeaways from this adventure are:

1.  I am to be pitied because I have a job outside the home.  (GRRRRRR.  Just GRRRRRR.  Aside from the off-chance that I can pee in peace, I also go to work because I am actually decent at it.  Go figure.  I can solve work problems.  I can't always solve the problem of a child that prefers to wear 3 pairs of underpants on her head and none on her bottom).
2.  I am not only incompetent, I am also a liar, and not only am I a liar, I am a liar that makes her child an accomplice.

Here's the shakedown, the breakdown.

Was talking to this complete stranger, and the topic of feeding the offspring came up. Feeding the offspring.  I'm a fan.  I try to do it daily, as a general rule.

The topic turned to organic foods and the importance of knowing the origin of food- both important topics.  And then....then I heard this.

I just think that feeding kids any non-organic food is child abuse.  Don't you agree?

Ummmm.  Ummmmm.  Ummmmmm.


What I was thinking:  I once fed my kid organic Oreos.  That, my friend, is abuse.  Those things really hurt when they're flung at your eye sockets by the people who live in your house.

What I actually said:  (sheepish gulp):  Absolutely.

Then, the follow-up comment.

"It's just so important to know where everything that you eat comes from."

What I was thinking:  I totally agree.  I can almost always tell you what box my kid ate from.  And those munchkins came from the floor of the Kennett Dunkin Donuts- which is the clean Dunkin Donuts.  I would never let her eat from the floor at the Dunkin Donuts on Market Street.

What I actually said:  I couldn't agree more.

What I actually did:  The second the stranger turned her back, I ran to Little M and made a deal with her.  The deal went something like this:

If you say agree with everything I say in the next half hour, and say nothing about the Doritos that I saw you lick the cheese and seasoning from and then put the actual chips back in the bag, I will buy you a Shamrock Shake.   


Easiest deal I ever made.  My girl is an outstanding actress.  The girl also loves playing a role in a pre-school conspiracy.

I don't mean to sound completely flip about feeding Little M properly.  The girl eats her fair share of organic foods.  The girl eats her vegetables. The girl's spent plenty of time in Whole Foods.  I do my best to be responsible.  I just don't take the whole thing too seriously.  She has my genes- she's going to be more serious than she needs to be whether she wants to or not.  She can temper this seriousness with real Oreos and ice-cream for breakfast and the occasional enactment of the 5 second rule.

The Shamrock Shakes were delicious.  We had them after our trip to Whole Foods.

Velveteen and other rabbits

So, I'm nearly a quarter of the way through of my year-long anthropological experiment.  In some respects, the time has flown by at an unbelievably precipitous pace, and in others (particularly in those moments when I'm actually doing the heavy lifting), the time passes at a rate more commonly observed on treadmills.

This seems to be as good a time as any to reflect on what, if anything, I've actually learned.  I'd procrastinate and delay this introspection until tomorrow, but the penultimate episode of One Tree Hill is on tomorrow night, and I need to keep my priorities in order.   This also seems to be as good a time as any to casually mention that if anyone calls, texts or otherwise interrupts me on Wednesday, April 4th between the hours 8 and 10 PM,  they'd better be on fire.  I've invested 9 years in the fates of Nathan and Haley and Brooke---and I'm not above going Dan Scott on someone's ass (my fellow One Tree Hillers will know what I mean) if I am interrupted during the series finale.

Yes, I know that One Tree Hill might just be the worst written show in history.  Whenever you can honestly say that Steven Colletti (from Laguna Beach fame) is the best actor on any show, you know it's bad.  Mock me as you will, and it won't make even the slightest dent in my admiration.

So, what have I learned after 90 days?  In addition to the now-obvious facts that it's pretty hard to come up with new daily new experiences when you're an old dog (ok, let's face it, an old bitch) and it's even harder to come up with daily good deeds no matter how well-intentioned you are, I think I can boil it down to this:

My daughter.

My daughter is the reason.

My daughter is the root cause of the all of the new experiences and she's the reason why I want to do good deeds.

My daughter is the reason that I want to be better, braver, stronger, more accomplished.

I thought I was supposed to be the one teaching her, inspiring her, guiding her.  Fool.

Fool. Fool.  Fool.  Fool.  Fool.

My daughter is the teacher.   I'm just ridiculously fortunate that someone trusted me enough to loan her to me for a while.  As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm not a religious person (and I won't talk about religion here), but that doesn't mean and has never meant that I don't believe in anything.  In my esteemed tradition of quoting bad pop song lyrics, I bring you the lyrics to the Live song "Heaven", which pretty much nails it:

I don't need no one to tell me about heaven
I'll look at my daughter
and I'll believe.


It's that simple and it's that complicated.

My life is that simple and my life is that complicated.  That's probably the other big takeaway from the last 90 days.

Watching my complicated daughter makes me appreciate the life's complications and watching my daughter's simplicity makes me appreciate the simplicity in everyone else.  And don't even get me started on the contradictions.  If I'm a walking, talking anomaly, Little M is a running, screaming anomaly.

She's taught me that a good nature and a foul mouth can harmoniously co-exist.  How else can you possibly explain a child who is first to console a friend, wants to save sick kids and lonely stray bananas, and wants to give her toys to kids how need them more----and then follow that up with charming and ladylike phrases such "I smell like a french whore" (she totally did, btw, after a dousing with Eau de Sponge Bob) or "stop at the stop sign, you douche".

She's taught me that words are words, and actions are actions---and that actions trump words every time.

She's taught me to ask for what I want----directly, actively and clearly.  I'm proud to report that I am so much less bossy than she is.  I've never barked out orders for shamrock shakes at 1:30 am.  On a Tuesday.

She's taught me that if you love someone, you tell them.  Then and there.  In the moment.

She's taught me that if you're unhappy about something, SPEAK UP.  I'm also proud to report that I've not told anyone that their rules are stupid...but I've thought it.  And that's progress.  Who am I kidding?  I've selectively started to tell people that their rules were stupid.

She's taught me to forgive---quickly and without strings and without conditions.  Cookies help.

She's taught me that sometimes the wrong choices bring you to the right places.

She's taught me, in her glorious impatience and dogged stubbornness that I know is hereditary, that if you really want something, you fight for it.  (My apologies to everyone in Target who has witnessed these fights firsthand).

She's taught me that being real is more valuable than being perfect on the surface.

She's taught me that once you are real to someone, you can't revert back to being a shiny new toy. (yes, my favorite story as a child was The Velveteen Rabbit).

And most importantly, she's taught me that the most important good deed that I can accomplish is making other people feel important.  To validate them.  To show up when they need you.  That a busy calendar is a great thing to have, that trying to make the world a better place is a great goal to have, that working hard and accomplishment are honorable goals---but while you should respect those people who make time for you in their busy schedules, you should love those people who don't look at their schedules when you really need them.

I guess it's simple, but it's not easy.  That remembering details and birthdays and baby showers and art shows matters and favorite colors and names of children and pets and boats matter.  That showing people that they are important---that they matter---is the single greatest good deed.

Mama's a Meathead

It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words.  It's also been said that you should be nice to your mother.

What I've learned is that when your mother is a photographer, you need to be extra-super-I.suck.helium nice.

Epic fail.

In my parents' house, there is one particular (and, might I add, prominently displayed) picture that set off about 20,000 words (most of them profane) and also makes me seriously question what I did that reallyreallyreallyreally pissed my mom off.

The picture, you ask?  That would be a family picture of Little M's first ever beach day.  This should have been a beautiful family milestone, captured forever on film.  Little M looks adorable, and her dad looks good.  And then there's me-- a ghostly pale, still +5lb postpartum mom in a bathing suit- shot from a not so flattering side angle.  I'm acutely aware that the camera can add 10 pounds, but I was unaware that it could also add cellulite. It's awful.  AWFUL- and it's on display for all the world to see.

Let it be known that I'm not a "let's display bathing suit pictures of me" kind of person.  I'm not a tight clothes person.  I've lived in a neighborhood with a pool for nearly four years, and I've been to the neighborhood pool no more than 6 times, and at least 2 of those times, I wore a floor length maxi-dress.  There are few places were I am comfortable wearing a bathing suit.  The time I was un-self-conscious in a bathing suit was, ironically enough, when I was pregnant---and that's primarily because I (a) knew that I looked like a beached whale, (b) didn't much care and (c) I was wearing said bathing suit to attend aquacize class with senior citizens and and even though I was a double-wide load, I was at least a double-wide load with relative youth on my side.

I'd say that I hate that picture, but the truth is that picture was a wake-up call and the catalyst for a major physical transformation.   For this very reason, I'll always have a special fondness for that picture.

Following is a brief list of my initial reactions to that picture:

1.  WTF!  What the $*(#$(*)$   $*($(*$(($*$  #@(**(@@(#@(  happened to you?  You used to be kinda cute.
2.  Oh, for shit's sake- what's next?  Elastic waistband pants?  
3.  I'm pretty sure that your ass did not have a baby, though this picture indicates otherwise.
3.  Maybe one of those 1920's style swimsuits would have been a better idea.
4.  JESUS!  Where is your pride, girl?  It's been 10 months since you had the kid.
5.  You had a child- that doesn't entitle you to go to complete crap.
6.  When exactly did you grow a second ass?
7.  This is Brigantine, not Sea World.  C'mon, Flipper, do something with yourself.

I'm not disputing that I am brutally self-critical.  I'm also not disputing that I, like many women, have my fair share of body-image issues.   I can never find my keys or my ID badge, but I can locate every flaw on my body----blindfolded.  It is what it is.  I'm just not a fan.

When I was in my twenties, I was told that you began to appreciate your body in your thirties.  Lie.  Before Little M was born, I was told that pregnancy and parenthood would lead to greater appreciation.  Bigger lie.    Suffice it to say, I wasn't a "I love being pregnant" kind of person and I wasn't the person who marveled over how my body could sustain life.   I was more of a "the end better justify the means" kind of pregnant person.  As far as I'm concerned, the only good thing about being pregnant was the part when it was over and I got to keep the best.little.girl.in.the.world.

That picture, though---that picture really got to me.  I hated that picture, and I hated that I hated that picture (make sense out of THAT one).  I didn't want to raise a daughter with the same body-image issues that  plagued with, but at the same time, I didn't want to be a hot mess, either.  I needed to do SOMETHING.

Here's the cool part- I actually followed through.

The credit actually goes to my husband, who was talking about a few coworkers who had drastically positive results after completing a program named Insanity.  After about a beat, I was sold.  How hard could a 60 day workout program be that was sold via infomercial and successfully completed by a small group of accountants?

Riiiiiiiiiiight.

I was the one who was insane.  I've worked out regularly since I was 18, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack during my first Insanity workout.  During the warm-up.

That first workout was 2 years and 5 months ago.  I have not looked back.

The first few weeks were absolutely brutal, but I pushed on.  6 days a week.  At godawful hours.  Through knee pain, and back pain, and a partially torn rotator cuff.   Nothing, and I do mean nothing, was going to stop me from completing that 60 day program.

At the end of the 60 days, I did what only a criminally insane person would do.  I went "Insane" again, then moved onto P90X (way easier than Insanity), Insanity Asylum, P90X2, Chalean Extreme.  I joined the Beachbody cult and became a workout junkie.

Basically, I became a meathead.   Who knew that I would love being a meathead?

Through the great meathead transformation, I began to make peace with my own body.  Not because of how much better I started to look- though it was a vast improvement from the zoo animal called "Squishy Mommy" that I once resembled---but because of what I was able to train my body to do through hard work, determination, and a whole lot of pain.  This body could now do push-ups (real "boy" pushups) and lots and lots of them.  The body that struggled with 8 pound weights could consistently workout with 20 pound dumbbells (and, in some cases, up to 30 pounds).   Squishy Mommy could now do an occasional "real" pull-up, and leap through agility ladders, and one-armed pushups.

I gleefully bid adieu to Squishy Mommy.  Squishy Mommy is no more.   May we never meet again.

These days, Mama's back to pre-baby weight, with an extra added bonus--this Mama has muscle and the pride of knowing that those muscles were hard-earned.  Little M will hopefully never remember Squishy Mommy, but I sincerely hope she remembers our workouts together.  The girl loves her 2 pound purple weights---and she has gorgeous form on her shoulder presses.

I remain a work in progress----but I'm loving the work, and I'm loving the progress.

It's great when it's earned,

Above the clouds

In my lifetime, I’ve been reprimanded about 143,000 times for having my head stuck in the clouds  (let’s not discuss how many times I’ve been yelled at for having my head stuck up my ass).  It’s not completely unfounded- I do have a tendency to live in my head.   The beautiful thing about air travel is that for the duration of the flight, I am beyond reproach—at 37,000 feet, my head is literally in the clouds. 

Three coach tickets to Grand Cayman:  $2200

The ability to say:  So what if my head’s in the clouds? Yours is, too.  PRICELESS.

Another wonderful thing about travel is that it quenches some of my restlessness.   I am innately restless.  I am innately complicated.  I am off-the-charts intense.  These factors are either going to be the biggest contributors to my having a life less ordinary, or they’re going to give me a frigging ulcer. 

It’s a toss up.  Place your bets.

It would be one thing if my being…well, me….was a choice or a switch that I could periodically toggle between on and off- but, alas, it’s not.  That insatiable sense within me---to dig deeper, to reach higher, to maximize every minute, to experience more, to experience different---for better or worse, that is me.  I can’t turn off that itch any more than I can turn off being a girl, or being right handed or having the ugliest feet the world has ever seen.

I’m no rocket scientist, but I’m smart enough to know that this restlessness is the single most polarizing thing about me.  Others who are also (at least in part) restless generally appreciate the madness and understand what it’s like to be dissident.   The other 75% of the human population---you know, the normal people—wonder what the f is wrong with you that you just can’t sit still, be happy, follow the script.

Before I delve any further—please note that the restlessness has nothing at all to do with money and even less to do with the acquisition of material things.    Sure, I appreciate nice things (who doesn’t?) and have more than my fair share (I’m lucky!), but the things are not, and have never been, the point.   She who dies with the most toys is still dead.   It’s about the acquisition of experiences, some grand and some simple, and moments and people to meaningfully share in them.  It’s about cramming as much accomplishment, extraordinary, and uncommon into the undetermined amount of life I get.    I could die tomorrow- and I’d hate to think that I wasted an inordinate amount of that time observing life instead of participating in it. 

Imagine that.  I digress again.   I just may be one of the most circuitous storytellers of all time.  I love travel.  I love the thrill of experiencing new places.   I love adventuring.  I love having my head in the clouds.  I am a horrendous flier.   I am a white-knuckled mess at every little bump.  My 3 year old is better flier than I am.

I may come across as a pretty timid person, but the fact of the matter is that I’m generally pretty brave.  One of the few things that can reduce me to a worthless pile of mush is a flight attendant’s voice announcing “The pilot is turning on the fasten seatbelt sign.”  

Damn you, turbulence.  I am so not a fan.  Not in the air.  Not in life. 

I’ve received plenty of (great) guidance over the years to overcome my fear of flying.  I’ve gotten stupid drunk. I’ve pretended that turbulence is just a speed bump.  I’ve switched to the window seat so that I can see sources of turbulence before they hit.  I’ve tried to retrain my brain to ignore the bumps and just continue reading my book/listening to my music/starting off into space.  I guess I’ve made some small progress.  If there’s anything positive to say about being a 36 year old chicken, it’s that I’ve never once even considered allowing my fear to stop me from flying.

Little M loves to fly- absolutely loves it.  The poor kid has been some flights that are best categorized as hellacious (and I’m not being overdramatic- the flight attendant said that one particular flight was the worst she had been on in a decade) and she still loves it. I’m kind of disgusted with myself for allowing her to see me freak out on bad flights- the last thing my daughter needs to see is a scaredy-cat parent.

But then, I remember. 

I remember that life is bumpy and life is turbulent and life can scare the crap out of you and that your safe landing isn't always under your own direct control.  It would be so great if life were smooth sailing, but it just isn’t.  I remember that the only way to get to a destination that’s beautiful and worthwhile is buckling your seatbelt, squeezing the hell out of the armrests,  cursing under your breath, plastering a fake smile on your face, and riding out the turbulence.  Staying home and cowering down is just not an option.  To get anywhere worthwhile, you need to ignore your fear, take the risk, and to get on the damned plane.

This might not be the worst lesson I’ve ever shown my daughter.

Spring!

Presently nursing a sunburn that is most aptly described as wicked.  I know, I know- and I'm not really whining.  I'm just cyber-whining.  I'd much rather be a puffy lobster-red ahole than living my everyday life, but still....ouch!

SPF 50 sunscreen is a lie.  LIE!  Once upon a time, I believed that most painful place to be sunburned was the top of my feet.  That's wrong.  The tops of my feet, much like the rest of me, are well-done at the moment, but the pain of toasted toes pales in comparison to the pain of two scorched wrists.   Wrists, I have never properly acknowledged how many times in a day that I use you, flex you, abuse you.  Sorry, wrists.  You are hardworking wrists.  I will take better care of you, wrists.   Only the best for you in the future, wrists- SPF 100 is coming your way!

You'd never be able to tell that Little M has seen the light of day, however.  Frankly, I am kind of stunned that the child hasn't drowned in sunblock by this point.  We'll deem this my one meaningful accomplishment in the realm of traditional motherhood.   Let's face it- these days, very few things more loudly articulate to the universe (and the mommy-verse tribunal of judgment) that you are a piece of crap, unfit parent than a child with a tan line.  Even I got the memo on that one.   I'm on the receiving end of enough (mostly-deserved) parental judgment- I don't need to add a rogue tan line to the mix.

(Not that I'm making light of skin cancer, but exactly when did kids with tans become a parental faux-pas on par with having your child build a meth lab in the basement?  Just wondering.  Actually, maybe the tan is more of a faux pas.  I'm pretty sure I know people who would praise the scientific acumen of their meth-lab building offspring.)

I'd venture to guess that my brain has rotted a bit from its general state of inactivity over the last few days.  If not for Facebook,  I would have entirely forgotten that today marks the kickoff of my most favorite season.   If not for Facebook, I would have entirely forgotten that the first day of spring is also the same day of a most baffling tradition- Free water ice day at Rita's.

I.Just.Don't. Get. It.

Now, I love water ice, and I like Rita's.  I'll go to Rita's, on average, twice a week during water ice season.   Where you won't see me....ever again.....is Rita's on free water ice day.   I'm serious.  If the apocalypse were upon us, and the only place I could reach safety was Rita's on free water ice day, I'd just have to die.

About ten years ago, I attempted the free water ice line.  I took one glance at the 100-person deep line, realized that water ice cost (at most) $3 and got out of dodge with my dignity intact- never to return.

It warrants repeating that I LIKE Rita's, and I certainly like things that are free.  The problem, in my mind, with free water ice day is that it combines free sweets with a bunch of things that I truly don't like, which include:

1.  Long lines-  the longer the line, the further the decline of general human behavior.
2.  Other people's children---Love my own kid to the moon and back.  Love her friends, my friends' kids, and very cute kids (I'm talking babygap-ad cute kids) belonging to strangers.   Average children belonging to strangers, in a long-line to boot----NO THANKS.  I'll pass.
3.  My own child in a long line---- because there's only so many times that you can hear the phrase "Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmy, is it our turn yet?" before you seriously consider selling your own kid.
4.  My own self in a long line----I'm convinced that the phrase "ye of little patience" was crafted with me in mind.

I also think in numbers and equations.  Call it an occupational hazard.   Sunshine math indicates that a 100 person line would probably take an hour to clear.  If I were to pay market rate for 3 water ices out-of-pocket, it would cost me no more than $10.  The last time an hour of my time was worth less than $10 was in 1992.  With this in mind, the decision is easy for me.  I can break my water-ice fast on the second day of spring, at the cost of approximately $10----and leave the place with my sanity and dignity mostly intact.

For the record, I am strictly a cherry water-ice kind of girl.

It ain't free if it costs you your sanity,