It Is Already Someday

Be the kind of person you’d like to meet.

That’s the answer to the question that has eluded me for the better part of a year.  Becoming the kind of person I’d like to meet.

That’s why I decided to start this blog. 

Kind of simple, really---which is probably why it took me nearly 11 months to stumble into the answer.  The simplest answers are often the hardest to find.

It took me entirely too long to get here---whatever “here” is—but I’m here.  I’m ready to begin becoming the kind of person I’d like to meet.  Better late than pregnant never, I say.

Let’s face it.  When I started this blog, I was more than half-lit and watching bad network television while my family slept.  I was inspired by Beyonce, for f’s sake. At the time, I knew I was looking to accomplish something and that there was some need I was seeking to fill, but I couldn’t precisely define it.  Truth be told, I still can’t.  And that’s okay. 

I just needed to get to the point where I could honestly say that it is okay that I don’t really have an end-game in mind but that I plan on embracing the path(s) I take to get me there.  I think I’m finally there.  It is okay.  I have no idea what the FUCK I am doing.  And it’s okay.

So, maybe I'm now better prepared to blast my thoughts out into the scary world.

I was cautioned that this blog-thing is a slippery slope, and since I NEVER LISTEN, I was blindsided by the responses that would have been utterly predictable to anyone who had actually listened. 

Overwhelmingly, the response was favorable---but the favorable feedback was accompanied by the (dreaded) follow up question that I was totally unprepared to answer.  Kinda like this: 

Honest, well-meaning question #1: I really like your blog.  You need to figure out what your brand is before you take the next step.  What’s your brand going to be? (Answer:  My brand is JCrew.  And whatever RueLaLa is selling that day)

Honest, well-meaning question #2:  I really like your blog.  Have you figured out how to market it to make money from it?  (Answer:  Beats the f’ing f out of me.  But if someone wants to pay to hear the disjointed mess in my head, I guess there truly is a market for everything)

Honest, well-meaning question #3: I really like your blog.  Have you considered using pictures of Little M and her real name?  (Answer:  Yes, I’ve considered and no, I won’t be using her pictures or her name.  Thus far, she has consented to being chronicled, but in the interest of sparing her future problems with boyfriends/evil classmates/future employers/deans of admissions, she shall remain Little M until she is taller than me in 2 years.  Then, I guess she will be Medium M.

And then there’s the suggestion box:

Suggestion box item #1:  You’re really funny, but I only like your funny posts.  I can get deeper thoughts from better sources.  Funny posts only, please!

Suggestion box item #2:   I love when you expose what makes you vulnerable, but you really don’t need to use the f-word to make your point.  And don’t try to be funny- feelings are SERIOUS business.

Suggestion box item #3:  I love your posts about social issues.  Can’t you just do that?  It’s so important to eat organic/ban the TV/support equal rights.

Suggestion box #4:  I’d love your blog more if you stopped promoting the gay agenda.  You’re going to hell along with your little gay friends.

Ahhhh, suggestions.  This is where I have to lie and pretend to love constructive criticism; but, with that in mind, I finally have a response to the suggestion box that I can proudly stand behind.

I’m kind of an actual person here.   A whole person, too.  Sometimes, I’m funny and sometimes I’m serious, and sometimes I spew about social issues, and sometimes, I lie about eating organic, sometimes I fret about nail polish and sometimes I am a complete pain in the ass.  Sometimes, I’m all of these things at the same time and, other times, I am none of these things, and sometimes, I’m a combination.  It would be great for a lot of people, and mostly myself, if I could check one box and just be done with it and be ONE thing to the outside world.  Thankfully, it doesn’t work like that.

I’m kind of a whole, actual person here---I can’t just be part and parceled out for the benefit of world at large.

Insert HUGE sigh of relief here.

I was never a huge fan of boxes.

Oh, and I will always love and liberally use the f-word.  It’s just so fucking versatile.  It’s staying.  And I will never, ever, ever shut up about equal rights.  For everyone.  Without going into detail, primarily because it’s not my story to tell, I’m part of a package deal where gay rights are concerned, and I suppose I will have great company in hell.

There’s something else, too. I want to become the kind of person who I’d like to meet:

Because I have a daughter who watches every move I make and re-enacts most of them

Because my daughter already IS that type of person.

This blog is an open letter to my daughter—a person who is already a girl of quality.  I don’t want it to be my parenting that jacks that up for her.

If the only person who ever reads what I write is Little M, (you know, when she actually learns how to read) that’s more than okay with me.

I want her to get to know ME.  The real me.  The one who has more questions than answers, more opinions than reasonable thought, more doubts than confidence.  THAT ONE.   Not Mommy.  Plain Old Me.

I realized how how cool it was to view your parents as actual, you know, people when I attended my dad’s retirement dinner a few years ago, and I watched him interact---as himself and not as beleaguered dad whose kids depleted his money, brain cells and general sanity—with his coworkers of 40 years.   It turns out that my dad was Mr. Popularity, a practical joker, a huge softy, and more than a little silly.  I never knew.  I knew him as “Dad”—you know, the Dad that had to be responsible and authoritative and pretend to have all of the answers and had his patience repeatedly decimated by his ornery kids.

He did give me some hints, though.  I distinctly recall him once saying that “I wasn’t always mean.  I got that way from paying your bills, trying to get you to behave, and tripping over your shit for 18 years.” 

Right.  I get that now.  After all, I am the person who has convinced her child that the security cameras at Target are satellites on direct feed to Santa AND that we have our own Elf hotline (our personal Elf concierge is the divine Reginald) who can add or remove toy inventory from the sleigh after receiving my phone call.  Luckily for me, Reginald is covered under free mobile-to-mobile minutes.  I’ve been speaking to him a lot these days.

(Side note:  I told a friend the satellite story, and the response to that was “I can’t wait for the day that Little M learns to read and calls you out on all of your bullshit.” 

Riiiiiiight.  This is my blog, and as such, I can post a time-capsule note for Little M.

Older, Medium M who is reading this entry 10 or 20 years from now….I was completely full of shit and I made up all sorts of creative stories to get you to behave/stop destroying property/shut the hell up/free me up for 12 minutes to take a shower.  You’re my daughter.  Be creative.  Take advantage of technological advancements when you invent completely outlandish stories to entice/threaten your own kids.  So long as it involves The Man in Red, kids believe anything.  Oh, and if you need 20 minutes of peace, TV is an awesome babysitter.  All of the Chinese words you know- yeah.  The Magic Box taught them to you. Not me.  I can barely speak English).

So, how does this all translate in my becoming the kind of person I’d like to meet?  I got my answer at a parent-teacher conference, of all places.   At one point in the discussion, M’s teacher indicated that she would normally discuss a child’s favorite activity…their thing, if you will…..only M’s favorite thing is everything.  My daughter is excited about everything and zealously delves into everything head first, without discrimination---and apparently, this is an enviable quality.   If that is an enviable quality for the best little person I know, it has to be a half-decent quality for the likes of me.

Be interesting.  Be real.  Be enthusiastic.  Be willing to acknowledge your flaws and fear.  Be generous.  Be involved.  Be kind.

Be the kind of person you’d like to meet.

Little M is already there.  I will get there….someday.  Between now and someday, I will take each day the only way I know how….one day and one step at a time…and take comfort in that, in some respects, it is already someday.

Thx For The Memories

Each summer, for as long as I can remember, I walked the entire length of the Brigantine Beach--from the end of the wildlife preserve on the North End to the end of the South Jetty.  That sounds more impressive than it actually is--Brigantine is no more than 7 miles long from point to point--but it a tradition that I upheld for many, many years, accompanied only by my Walkman...and then my Discman....and then my MP3 player...and finally, my iPod.  It was just me, my music, my thoughts, my beach and the only place that has remained constant in every single year of my life.

I should clarify two points.

1.  I took that walk every summer- except for this last one.  This summer, I was too busy, or too tired....too something-or-other...and I assumed that since little ever really changed in Brigantine, I could just resume the tradition in 2013.

2.  It is no longer the only place that has remained constant.  It had remained constant for many, many years, but no more.  Hurricane Sandy took care of that.

That's the thing about luck...and make no mistake, I've been extraordinarily lucky and for no reason that I can explain.  It runs out.  It runs out, often abruptly and without warning.

Had I known on Labor Day, as I packed up for the summer and left the little house without so much as a backward glance, that it would be the last time I would see my house looking anything remotely like my house,  I would have paused, taken it all in and given reverence to all of those big and tiny moments that took place between those walls.

I didn't know.  

I didn't know, I didn't think and I didn't say goodbye.  I can't remember the exact way the day played out--it was so ordinarily chaotic--but I'm sure it involved a flurry of making sure the car was completely packed and racing out the door to beat the traffic or to go the grocery store or something similarly inconsequential that seemed so critical at the time.

That house, as I knew it, is gone.

I don't want to make it sound more grave than it actually is.  The little house is still standing, and from the outside, it looks exactly the same as it always did. 

And that's where the similarities end. 

Bad things happen to the insides of homes when water, lots of water, sit inside them for 5 days.   

I need to pause to acknowledge that so many people have it so much worse.   This isn't my primary residence.  The house is insured.  I still have a warm place to sleep at night and no living things were harmed.   This is by no means catastrophic.

But it's still a loss.

It's a strange loss, too.  It's not so much a loss of things and so much more a loss of memories---memories that I'd hope to share with Little M, and while she experienced some of them, I doubt she'll remember.

There were many times, especially recently, when I flippantly (and scornfully, might I add) referred to certain features in that house as "the land where time stood still".     When you sleep on the floor because the bed you slept on in middle school wasn't really cutting it anymore (on a carpet in a sea-foam green color, to boot), you don't exactly stop to think how cool it is that your daughter got to sleep in the same exact bed that you did when you were her age.  When you trip over the over-stuffed and goldenrod-applianced kitchen, you think of your stubbed toe, not that the kitchen and its furnishings are amongst the few tangible things that your daughter can see that connect her to her great-grandfather that she'll never meet...and for that matter, you never really got to know yourself.

It was when my brother, dad and I cut and carried out a floor's worth of cold, soaking wet sea-foam green carpet (that was mixed with sewer water as an extra added bonus) that I started to realize that you can rebuild and you can modernize but you can never replace.

We sorted out and evaluated a lifetime's full of "stuff"...that didn't even include the furniture...and, in that process, we came across so many things that I had hoped to one day show to Little M, and now won't have that chance.

This is not to say that it was a completely unpleasant experience.   My brother and I are still, well, us....which basically means we are completely ridiculous...and I have not laughed so hard in years.

We might have taken the opportunity to rid the house of some items that weren't actually destroyed...but were just ugly/tacky/heinous/WTF were you thinking.

We might have discovered that there were multiple items in our medicine cabinet that expired in 1994.

We might have realized that our mom's issue with buying generic crap when generic will just not do has hit epic proportions...and just might have thrown those items out with glee.  (PS- Generic Oreos=child abuse.  Just sayin').

Oh yeah, and we discovered that my brother's dirty magazine collection from the early 90s (abandoned under a bed and forgotten for decades) ranks with Cher and cockroaches in terms of natural disaster durability.  I mean, really....those things survived without a mark on them.  How?   Seriously?  How?They also afforded us with the rare opportunity of completely horrifying our parents.  Once you hit your 30s, those moments are truly hard to come back and SHOULD ALWAYS be cherished.   

Next summer, we'll return to a place with a new kitchen, and new walls and new furniture and new floors...new everything.  We'll marvel at how good it looks and how new everything is and we'll start about the business of building new memories.  We'll sit in the new kitchen, and have breakfast and dinner and tell stories.  

And I will close my eyes and picture the old kitchen....the one I thought I kind of hated...and see my grandmother having her apres-beach beer in the frosted glass she kept in the freezer.   I will see the kitchen table where my brother and I had food fights, the table where we'd late night card games and even worse cocktail concoctions (Gin and Slurpees, anyone) and impromptu Jay-Z dance parties.  The table where my girlfriend-sisters would talk about boys and paint our nails/drink wine from a box or (God help me) Alize because we thought that was classier than Boone's/eat ice cream.

Look back.  Look forward.  And never, ever, ever again take for granted.

(and PS- I still maintain that Alize is waaaaaaay classier than Boone's),

When Hope is Not Enough

I must, must, must stay out of places like Sephora and Ulta.

Like mustmustmust.   I never learn.

I walk in those places innocently enough, on a quest for something innocuous like nail polish or lip gloss, and consistently walk out with a neon sign reading "RAPIDLY DECAYING HAS-BEEN" over my head.  And, yeah, a bag containing an anti-aging arsenal usually accompanies me, too, as I shame-slump to my car and ponder how the F*#@ I became a middle-aged train wreck.

If the product claims are to be believed, in 30 days, I will have the flawless complexion of a 22 year old Swedish model.  Alternatively, it's more than possible that in 30 days, I will have chemical burned my skin beyond recognition.  This might not be all bad, actually.  If I do, in fact, manage to burn off my face, I will select the skin of a 22 year old Swedish model as its replacement.  When doors are closed, seek windows, people.

I recently turned 37.  This means I am now officially the age that I once thought I'd be when I finally had my shit together--which, incidentally, I don't.  At all.

I've read enough women's lifestyle magazines in my lifetime with articles titled "40 and Fabulous" to have believed that with age comes wisdom and self-confidence and inner peace.  Now, that's some shit that should be sold at Sephora.  As it stands, I suppose I have 2 years and 11.5 months for the inner peace and grace to overtake me.  In the meantime, I will simply buy products called "When Hope is Not Enough, "Keep the Peace" and, god help me, "Miracle Worker"... and await magical transformation.

Yeah, I took women's studies classes in college.  Did well in them, too.  Can't you tell?

I don't think I'm alone in this madness, either....which in itself is some sort of madness.

I doubt that most men think of themselves this way.  In fact, I had lunch today at Buffalo Wild Wings and had the privilege of overhearing a bunch of middle aged men (complete with ill-fitting football jerseys that failed to conceal their guts hanging over their pants) complaining about how Erin Andrews has really "let herself go."

Riiiiiiiiiight.

I don't know with absolute certainty, but I feel pretty good about guessing that those guys possessed that delusional self-confidence that make them believe to their cores that the cover models from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue would duke it out for their affection.

Again.  Riiiiiiiiiight.

Compounding the madness is the fact that I'm raising a little girl, and the only thing in this world that I absolutely cannot screw up is her.  I swear up, down and sideways that I am raising her to be a woman of integrity, strength, dignity and character and that beauty is within...and when she's napping, I smear chemical glop all over my face to assault my wrinkles.  Hello, hypocrisy!

For the moment, I will cut myself a very small break and remind myself that I have taught her some worthwhile things---like how to throw zingers in foreign languages, how to ride the NYC subway, life lessons through song lyrics, how to run in heels and how NOT to cook.

This may have earned me a wrinkle or two,

Twenty Seconds

My friend P and I met during our first period class on the first day of high school.   I managed to see her  through my mass of 1989 Jersey hair, which, sadly, was crimped for first day of school stylistic effect.    It's entirely possible that my hair and my braces outweighed the rest of my 4'10", 75 pound body.  Thankfully (or regretfully),  my "claw" of Jersey bangs propelled me over the then-elusive 5 foot threshold.

I managed to see her through HER mass of 1989 Jersey hair, which reached dazzling heights courtesy of a Stiff Stuff/Aqua Net cocktail.  (You Jersey girls out there know exactly what that entails). Her hair was naturally curly---an attribute I envied for years.  Her name was alliterative--an attribute I envied even more.  For years.

We became fast friends.

Alphabetical order was also our friend, and P sat right behind me in nearly every class for 4 years.  

We shared a middle name (though I'm not sure if either one of us actually liked it), the written word, an outlook on life and wicked sarcasm.  We both got great grades and had extremely strict parents.  Neither one of us had ever taken so much as a step out of line.

We also shared a mutual desire to maximize our parents' tuition dollars by spending as little time as humanly possible actually paying attention in class.

Frankly, I'm amazed we learned anything at all.  

Our shared love of sarcasm and the written word led us to our enduring legacy--- the notes we passed, back and forth, all day long.  

We quickly learned that so long as you wrote the proper school heading on the top of the notebook page,  our teachers believed that we were ambitious and getting a head start on our assignments instead of screwing around all day, discussing those matters that teenage girls find to be so pressing.  Many of them were laugh out loud funny.  Some were funny on the surface, but actually thinly veiled something much more substantive just under the surface.

I kept every one.

Actually, I'm not amazed we learned anything at all.  We learned everything that mattered.

Life happens and it changes and it twists and it turns, and I lost P for a number of years.  I thought of her on my wedding day - the day my name FINALLY became alliterative, too.  

And then, years later,  I found her again.   It was then that I learned that you don't ever really lose that which is part of you---it simply resurfaces when you are ready to see it again.

We were great together as kids.  We've even better together as adults.  We still share a love of the written word, and an outlook on life, and our wicked sarcasm.   We also share the experience of a parent with cancer (the same kind, to boot, and it's not a common kind), a few battle wounds,  and our imperfectly wonderful only children---who are partners in crime.  We have taken steps out of line, and we've made some dubious choices and plenty of mistakes---and we've ended up exactly where we should be.

You don't ever lose that which is part of you.

We don't pass notes anymore, but we've found an even better way to communicate our irreverent thoughts.  

Yay Facebook!  Yay, Pinterest!  

I am absolutely a big fan of a source of convenient witticism for people with kids and jobs and chronic exhaustion that precludes us from inventing our own original irreverent thoughts much of the time.

Here are some of the classics that P and I have recently shared:

True dat!

Welcome to my world

C'mon, you know you've thought this

Sluts are people, too

And then, P shared one that truly resonated.  Like the shake-you-to-your-core kind of resonate.

Twenty seconds.  Twenty seconds.

Lives catapulted from fine to amazing.

Twenty seconds of courage.

All it takes.  Twenty seconds.

P has her own absolutely remarkable 20 second story---but that's her story to tell and not mine.  So I won't tell it---but I will say that P's bravery is otherworldly and the dividends were huge.

But I've catalogued my own inventory of 20 second moments.  My life---my messy, overbooked, chaotic, richly rewarding life--- was MADE in less than 4 minutes.

Those little twenty second bursts of humiliating, no-hold-barred courage----they made my life.

I'm convinced that those 20 second moments are almost always blurted out---hands shaking, voice shaking, words partially incomprehensible---and in those moments, we are at our most "real".

At least mine were, anyway.

20 seconds of:

I like you----please like me back.

I like you---please be my friend and play with me.

I like you---more than I originally intended

I think I love you----please love me back

I think I'm broken---please fix me

I messed up--- please forgive me

I'm miserable---please help me fix it

I need a friend----please take me in

I think I can---and I'm gonna try

I think I can- will you believe in me?

20 seconds.  An amazing life.  Not a bad trade.  

Of course, like many truths, this is simple but far from easy.  20 seconds is an excruciatingly long time to expose your soul to anyone---especially to someone who can just as easily drop or catch you.

20 seconds.  Worth the risk.

Thank you, P.

Gold Medal Observations

A few things have become readily apparent from watching the London Olympics:

1.  I need to pack it up and move to London- like immediately.
2.  I can at least partially blame my complete lack of athletic success on my height.  At 5'4", I'm too tall to be a gymnast and too short for virtually everything else.   Clearly, my advanced age, my general lack of coordination and my inability to do so much as a cartwheel have nothing at all to do with it.
3.  I see nothing ironic about shoveling ice cream into my face while watching others exercise on TV.
4.  Little M just might have the same sort of overinflated self-confidence that caused men to invade countries.

The London games are Little M's second Olympics, and she's actually seen less London coverage than in Beijing.  We've all seen less, though that's mostly because during the Beijing games, Little M was about 2 weeks old, and we were all awake--- all the freaking time.   Ahhh-- the good old days of sleep deprivation and watching coverage of a sport I've never heard of at 4 AM.

It certainly wasn't intentional, but it would appear as though much of the coverage that Little M has watched was of women's sports.   I probably wouldn't have even noticed if not for the little nugget that she dropped before watching Michael Phelps swim.

Mommmmy---- why are BOYS at the Olym-kicks?  The Olym-kicks are just for girls.  Boys can't play SPORTS!

Okaaaaaaay.

I attempted to explain to the young miss that boys were allowed to play sports, too---- and sometimes, they were even really good at them.  No avail.  She would have none of it.   I may as well have attempted to convince her that broccoli tastes better than ice cream.

Title IX be damned....reverse sexism is alive and well at Casa Sunshine.   Maybe I've taken the whole "girl power" message just a hair too far.

I was able to convince her to watch the Phelps race to illustrate that boys were, in fact, able to participate in sport.

Allow me to summarize how well that went.   FAIL.

In this particular race, Michael Phelps was swimming in an individual medley.   During this race, like in every other IM, Michael Phelps swam the backstroke----which just so happens to be the one swim stroke that Miss Know-It-All knows a bit about.

According to Little M, Michael Phelps swims the backstroke incorrectly.  As in terribly, terribly wrong.

Little M:  Mommmmmmmy....that BOY is swimming the backstroke wrong!
Little Miss Sunshine:  Ummmm, no.....he's the best swimmer that's ever lived.
Little M:  Mommy, at swimming lessons, they taught me to do the backstroke like this....(imagine a 3.5 foot person flapping her arms like a butterfly on crack).
LMS:  Well, that's how little kids swim the backstroke.  He's swimming it like grown-ups swim do.
Little M:  I am a genius at swimming.  Miss Trish told me so at swimming lessons.
LMS:  You are a good swimmer, but he is the best swimmer in the world.
Little M:  Whatever.   He needs to go to swim lessons with Miss Trish.  He's doing it wrong.
LMS:  (inward groan)
Little M:  I told you that boys don't belong at the Olym-kicks.  They don't know what they're doing.

I'm half tempted to write a fan letter to Michael Phelps that would read a little something like this:

Dear Mr. Phelps,

Congratulations on your amazing career.  I am a huge fan of your work and of your accomplishments.

However, I must note that my 4 year old daughter has taken offense to your incorrectly executed backstroke and has strongly suggested that you consider taking swim lessons as corrective action.

So that you know, my 4 year old is a self-proclaimed swimming expert, having completed 2 whole weeks of swimming lessons with Miss Trish in a dank and 120 degree natatorium that smelled like chlorine, exhaustion and feet.

Best of luck to you,

Little Miss Sunshine

--------------------------------------------
My daughter knows more about swimming than Michael Phelps.  Who knew?

And boys--- don't let Little M get you down.  Someday, your athletic achievements will be properly recognized.  I can just feel it.

 

Walk This World

So, I've spent a few very good days in America's heartland, and I completely get why this part of the country has earned that nickname.  I've only been here a few days and I strongly suspect that a part of my heart will always belong to this neck of the woods.

This probably comes as a shock, considering that I am as east coast as they come.

The people are just so.freaking.nice here.  Nice, and open, and friendly, and helpful.

This is a refreshing change from my time in charming east coast cities.  Don't get me wrong, I wear my misdirected rage with pride, but this is such a refreshing change.  I suspect that any person who would dress up like Cookie Monster in Iowa would be friendly monsters, and not tell me to blow him, like "Blow Me Cookie" in NYC once did.

Yes, that actually happened.  I was once propositioned by Cookie Monster.  Despite his generous offer, I declined.  What can I say?  I'm not a fan of overabundant body hair.

I'm sure that a major contributor to this trip being such a success is that I was traveling solo.  While I miss my people desperately, there's something about traveling without the protective armor of my people that enables me to be open to new experiences and new people in a way that I wouldn't have been if I were traveling with my (much beloved) crew.

It's cool--- in that, while I walked this part of the world by myself, I very rarely walked it alone.  I seemed to have picked up interesting companions that traveled nearly every segment with me.

My first night in town, I didn't pay attention to my clothing selection, and was wearing my Penn State shirt through the downtown area.  Brilliant.  Not only did I wear it in the heart of Big 10 Country (genius), but I also was proudly sporting it ON THE NIGHT THAT THE JERRY SANDUSKY VERDICT WAS READ.

Only me.

Suffice it to say that I was a conversation starter.

I came here to tell stories, and was humbly reminded that I am here to LISTEN to people's stories---to enjoy them, to learn from them, to experience them.  Amazing things happen when you shut up, open up and listen.

I'm not a "feelings" kind of person, but I will say that an open heart and an open mind definitely do facilitate wonderful experiences.  Somewhere in my chaotic life, I think I had forgotten that.

It's a good life.  It's a really good life.

Here's to Bernie from Iowa City, Beverly from Iowa City via St. Louis,  Mike the accountant turned cab driver, Joel who misses his kids from New Orleans, to my remarkable classmates.  I have learned from all of you.

Here's to the people who walk this world with me.  To those who walk with me on a permanent basis, and to those who just accompany me for a segment or two.  You all matter.  May I not again forget that.

With love,



PS- A huge thanks to everyone who sent notes of encouragement while I was here.  You know who you are, and now you know that it meant a ton to me.  You rock.

Short and Sweet

Greetings from Iowa City, Iowa!  Effective 4PM CDT, I have successfully completed my very first Iowa Summer Writing Festival Workshop.

I am so coming back next year.

The course itself was really interesting.  In my group, there was an actress (who has been ALL over TV for the last 20 years, and is lovely and charming and smart and funny in person), a PhD who is the child of Holocaust survivors, a filmmaker, a poet who happens to be the daughter of one of the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz, an officer in the US Army who served in Vietnam and spoke about the My Lai massacre, a senior exec at a NY based insurance company, and an ER doctor.

Oh yeah.  And little old me.  Me who writes about nail polish, ring around the penis, the crazy shit my kid says, and bribing my kid with Shamrock Shakes around the organic police.

I had some learning to do.  And I'm learning.

The essays written by my classmates covered the following topics:

1.  Education in desegregated schools in the South pre Brown vs. Board of Ed.
2.  The experiences and the treatment of returning Vietnam Vets.
3.  The death of parents and the powerlessness that surrounds it.
4.  The experience of Post-Aucshwicz survivors in post WWII Montreal.

Yeah, I wrote about pedicures with my daughter and her acquisition of a boyfriend (I still want to destroy that little f'er, btw).

Reading the beautifully written and compelling essays compiled by these people makes me feel all of the following:

1.  Girl, your life is a candy-coated bullshit kingdom.
2.  You are unbelievably lucky that your life is a candy-coated bullshit kingdom.
3.   Just because you're lucky and don't have compelling stories, doesn't mean that you don't have an entertaining voice and one that should continue to give this writing thing a whirl.

 Off to glorious Cedar Rapids Airport.

Literarily yours,

Sole Mate

I proudly hold the title of First Runner Up in the Most Popular Girl in my own home.  That’s not too shabby.  No one really needs to know that only two girls actually live there.

I'm more of a first-runner up sash kind of girl than a crown-wearing winner, anyway.

I concede defeat.  Sassy little 3-year old Madeline is by far the coolest girl in the house.  She just gave me hugs and told me that I was the "most beautifulish mom in Pennsylvania", so I'm willing to go on record as saying that she's the coolest little girl in the whole.wide.world.  

Considering that one of my favorite recreational activities is proclaiming Madeline’s wondrousness from every countertop, time-out step and rooftop in the metropolitan Philadelphia area, I should have previously considered that a non-relative might also find her to be wondrous as well.

This is all an unnecessarily verbose way of saying that my tomboy princess has a boyfriend.  His name is Drew.  I’m sure Boyfriend Drew is a sweet, charming and appealing young lad, but no matter.  I hate everything about Boyfriend Drew.  

I was hoping that we’d at least make it to first grade before boyfriends entered the picture.

I’m soooooooooo not ready for this.

Madeline sprung the existence of her beloved on me in the same place where we typically have our most robust woman-to-woman chats--- the nail salon, over pedicures. 

I could attempt to justify the acceptability of recurring child pedicures by indicating that pedicures are our bonding ritual, but the fact of the matter is that I have the ugliest feet known to man and I’ve passed on the Fred Flintstone gene to the girl.  Our toes require regular attention as to not frighten people and domestic pets. 

Sadly, our ugly feet are just a fact of life, and neither feminism nor more conventional parenting practices can change it.  Plus, you know, we bond. 

Ironically, the Boyfriend Drew pedicure almost didn’t happen.  We had no imminent need to glamorize that particular day, but I soon learned that Madeline had other plans. 

I was retrieving her out of her car seat to feed her a nutritious lunch of Chick-Fil-A (at the special, one-of-a-kind, all-organic outlet that only exists near my house), when I noticed that Madeline had brought a pair of flip-flops along with the shoes that she was actually wearing.  Like any seemingly adequate parent would do, I asked her why the flip-flops were accompanying us for lunch.  It went a little something like this:

Madeline:  Mommmmmmmmy…..you need to wear flip-flops to pedicures or you jack up the polish while it’s wet.

Nicole:  But we’re not getting pedicures today.

Madeline:  Mommmmmmmy….but I always get my toes done on Fridays. 

Right.  We got pedicures immediately following our healthy and gourmet Chick-Fil-A lunch.

We were innocently selecting our polish colors when I became acutely aware of Drew’s impact.

It is important to note that the polish selection is a key component of our pedicure process.  Madeline and I apply a similar, and somewhat Darwinian approach, to selecting colors--- first we narrow down to the general hue that we’d like applied (typically garish purples for Madeline, and boring, old person neutrals for me), and then we rank the remaining shades by the best color name.  Only the strong survive.

For the unindoctrinated, nail polish color names are one of the few remaining mediums where wordplay reigns supreme.  I mean, seriously.   How more perfect could the names “Pinking Up The Pieces”, “Steel-ing The Scene”, or my personal favorite, “Sole Mate” be?  Yes, my favorite nail polish shade is “Sole Mate”.  Hopeless romantic---or at least I am when my 3 year old daughter is not involved.

In any event, Madeline’s selection veered away from the characteristic Barney-purples and into deep shades of red---a deviation that raised my eyebrows.  I was about to ask her about the somewhat astonishing change when she dropped the bomb.

Mommy, Drew really likes red.

I responded, “Well, red’s a nice color, but who the hell is Drew?”  (okay, so the “the hell” part stayed in my head.  But I wondered.)

She got a faraway look in her eyes, as she responded “Mommy, Drew’s my boyfriend, silly.”

Initially, I was nonplussed with the concept of a boyfriend.  She’s a tomboy and her two favorite playmates are little boys named Mason and Timmy, with whom she has spent countless hours playing trains, rolling in the dirt, and my favorite, lets-see-how-quickly-we-can-transform-the-entire-downstairs-into-a-complete-shithole.

I quickly followed up with “So, Drew is your friend who is a boy, just like Mason and Timmy, right?” only to be brutally rebuffed with “No, Mommmmmmmmmy.  Mason and Timmy are my buddies.  Drew is my boyfriend,” complete with that faraway look.  Again.

A few thoughts crossed my mind:

1. You are so completely and unequivocally $()#$*()@#$*()@#$(*@#$.
2. Poor Mason and Timmy- they’ve been relegated to the dreaded “Friend Zone”- the veritable No Man’s Land for potential suitors. Poor kids. 
3. I hate Boyfriend Drew.  I reallyreallyreally hate Boyfriend Drew.
4. There is no way that Boyfriend Drew is good enough for my Madeline.
5. Too soon.  TOO SOON!  Not yet.  NOT YET!

As Madeline and I sat side-by-side in pedicure chairs, she debriefed me on all things Boyfriend Drew.  It turns out that Boyfriend Drew likes dinosaurs (most notably T-Rex), the color red, chocolate cupcakes but vanilla ice cream.  Drew pushes her on the swings at recess, counts first when they play hide and seek, and presents her with bouquets of Play-Doh eels.

And they said chivalry was dead.

While Madeline appreciates the eel bouquets and being the first “hider” in a rousing game of hide and seek, she does not yet share Drew’s passion for dinosaurs.  In fact, she shared this nugget with respect to the dinosaurs:

Drew likes dinosaurs, but I think they’re boring.  Do boys always like dumb things?

Ummmm, yes, sweetheart.   Boys often do like dumb, boring things.  This is a life lesson that is best learned early. 

Duh.

Upon further investigation, Boyfriend Drew doesn’t sound so bad---but I still hate him and want him nowhere near my daughter.   I’m sure I sound like a maniacal and overprotective parent (and that is largely true), but….this angst isn’t about Boyfriend Drew.  Boyfriend Drew is simply the catalyst.

This angst is about me.  This angst is about Madeline.  This angst is about us.  This angst is about where and when, from this point forward, our paths will converge and diverge and run parallel. 

This is entirely about and my little buddy---and the innumerable ways by which our interrelated but still completely unique stories form and reform in the coming years. 

We’re growing up, Madeline and me.  Growing individually. Growing together.  Growing collectively.  Growing apart.  Growing over pedicures and fast food and woman-to-woman chats and more pedicures.

Sole mates.

This growing up, process, though.  It scares the hell out of me.

As a parent, I’m intensely aware that she’s not mine as much as she is on loan to me.  I’d just really like for this loan to take the form of a long-term lease.   I know she can’t stay little forever, but I still want her to stay little—and innocent—for a while longer. 

Life with a small child means that days are long, but the years are short.  We started completely connected- wound together—and the process that follows is one that continually unwinds what once bound us.   We began with her needing me for virtually everything….and now she depends on me incrementally less with each passing day.  Some day, she might not need me at all.

OMG.  Some day, she might not need me at all.

Right now, she looks at me in wonder.  Right now, she looks at me like I am Christmas, her birthday, and Rapunzel rolled into one perfect package.  Right now, she looks at me like I have all the answers and that I can swoop in and solve every problem that crosses her path.

Someday, in the not too distant future, she will realize that I am somewhat tarnished.  And then, someday, she will realize that I don’t have all the answers and that I can only solve some problems.  Then, someday, she will regard me as being the problem.

Please excuse me as my heart breaks.  Just a little.

And, this is the easy part.  This is the part that is about me.  The important part is about her.  Despite my trepidation about her growing up, I don’t want to impede her growth process in any way.  To the contrary, I want her to grow up and have a big and extraordinary life in the way that she defines it.

I want her to grow up with the freedom to make her own choices, to defend her own beliefs and to make her own mistakes.  Gradually.

I want her to figure out who she is and to do it with honor. 

I want her to experience at least some of this growth without the complicating factor of the boys who, if introduced too early, can cloud her judgment and cause her to shape who she is based on their perceptions instead of her own.

I want her to experience relationships while minimizing the baggage that is associated with them.

I want to keep her little heart whole and unbroken----as long as I possibly can.  Right now, her little heart is open, honest and completely undamaged by the world around her.  With each boy that crosses her path, her little heart will grow and expand---and develop some wear and tear.  Her little heart will break and heal---of this, I am assured---but with each break, some scar tissue will form. 

I just want to keep that beautiful little heart in its pristine condition. 

I want her to believe, for as long as she can, that the world is exciting, people are good and hurt is temporary. 

I want to delay that moment when her heart begins to close off in fear of the world around her and the people who fill it.

I want her to believe, for quite some time, that there’s not much that some Oreos, a pedicure, and old mom can’t fix.

I’m learning to navigate the dance of parenthood.  I’m learning to coordinate when to pull in the reigns, and when to let them go.  At this moment, I’m going to let go of the reigns….just a little bit.

So, Boyfriend Drew, please take good care of my little girl.  If you hurt her in any way, I will break all of your dinosaur figurines and make it look like an accident.  She can be your girlfriend. But, Boyfriend Drew, heed this warning.  She can be your girlfriend…but, until further notice, she’s my sole mate.

Back From the Dead

About a month ago, Little M asked to play Whack-A-Mole on a Friday morning.  As I fancy myself as the World's Greatest Whack-A-Mole Player and I am anxious to cultivate the youngin's innate Whack-A-Mole prowess, I was more than happy to accommodate her request.

Yes, I am that good of a Whack-A-Mole player.  If you've played anywhere where I've played, I'm willing to bet that the high score you see on the machine is mine.  What I lack in hand-eye coordination (and that would be anything that remotely resembles coordination, in case you were curious), I more than compensate for in frustration, exhaustion, and a burning desire for a socially acceptable outlet to beat the living crap out of stuff.  Surely, these characteristics point to some aggression and anger management issues, but I'm kind of past that.  Until it's okay to taze/crate/wallop people and/or drink before noon, Whack-A-Mole will have to do.

The girl wanted to play Whack-A-Mole.  There are two places where this wish could have been granted:

1.  Option 1- The place located a mere 10 minutes down the road, which is like a Chuck E. Cheese on crack.  It is a children's play place, which means it is filled with copious quantities of other people's children (oh, my favorite), day care field trips, and EVERY.DISEASE.KNOWN.TO.MAN.   I usually just drive to the pediatrician immediately after departing this joyous place, because I know some undesirable plague is just brewing.

2.  Option 2-  Dave and Busters, located a solid 45 minutes away.  While it's a playground for drunk and disorderly adults, I figured it would be a safe bet at 11 AM on a Friday morning.

As I am a self-sufficient, confident woman, I did what every other self-sufficient, confident woman would do when faced with such a choice.  I conducted a highly unscientific poll of my Facebook friends.

My Facebook friends, wise as they are, resoundingly responded with a uniform reply---avoid disease and drive the 45 minutes to Dave and Busters.

But it was raining, Little M was whining "But I want to play whack-a-mole right now" in her charming howler monkey voice, and one dissenting voter indicated that I was a "paranoid, freakish germophobe"---so I made the foolish decision to spend an hour at the Disease Pit.

I've been paying for that decision ever since.

While the girl did demonstrate a remarkable prowess for Whack-A-Mole (though she did not overcome my new high score!!), the aftermath was, shall we say, costly.

It started with double-eye pink eye, which happened to arrive the morning of Little M's best friend's birthday party.  I exaggerate none when I say that Little M's pink eye was much worse for me than it was for her.  Yes, it was her eyes that were crusted shut, but it was my face, chest, arms, legs and torso that got kicked repeatedly (for 10 days) during the twice-daily eye-drop application fiasco.  Seriously.  I considered calling 911 at points and reporting parental abuse.

Apparently, the brutal abuse of eye-drop human applicators is a common phenomenon.  I know this because I googled "eye drops and preschoolers" and every single article mentioned a full headlock.  Wish they also mentioned protective gear.

At the end of night one of the great pink eye infestation, the girl also mentioned that both ears hurt.  Not long after that, I noted that my own throat hurt just ever so slightly.

And we all went down.


What does "we all went down" mean exactly?

Well...

For Little M, that meant pink eye, a double ear infection (that recurred), a sinus infection, and a brutal cough that lingered for 3 weeks---meaning that she didn't sleep and no one else did, either.  Oh yeah, and then for good measure, she was bitten by a deer tick.  Again.

For me, that meant strep throat, the sinus infection from hell, a fever that lingered above 101 for 14 days, ultimately bronchitis----which resulted in a pulled chest muscle that remains.

We all went down- and that's the simplified version.

This also involved a trip to urgent care, about 4 trips to the doctors, and a daily trip to CVS for weeks because the inane laws in this state don't allow me to buy multiple types of the good decongestants on the same trip.  I'm on a first name basis with the pharmacy tech, who probably does think I'm a crackhead at this point.

I must say that I'm very pleased with the creative drug cocktails I created to be able to function and go to work.  My personal favorite was the double shot of dayquil with a mucinex chaser-- a breakfast of champions, if you will.   It didn't do much in relieving the constant face pain and the cough that sounded like TB---but I was certainly mellow.  I'm trying not to read into the comments from multiple coworkers that hinted to how out-of-character pleasant I was.   Maybe that's all I need to do to become a people person - double up on decongestants and go on my merry way.

Don't even get me started on the prescription stuff. Z pack was worthless and I'm allergic to penicillin (like the stab me with an epi-pen kind of allergic), so I got to advance to the medication used to treat anthrax and TB.  Good times.

This was also the month when we learned that Little M is also allergic to penicillin (though, thankfully, not as severely as I am).  That was fun.

So, I'm back from the dead and I've learned a meaningful life lesson.  Facebook doesn't lie.  Seriously. I should have listened to Facebook.  Lather, rinse and repeat.