My adorable daughter missed the bus coming home today - this, on the day that she was admitted into the gifted program. Oh no, the irony is not lost, particularly since they expect her geniusness to get to school on one bus, get on a separate bus to get to smartypants school, and repeat the process to get home. Wagers on the number of days this doesn't work as designed?
Remodeling the joint - pardon the mess!
Monday
Carpool to the rescue
You know that as a parent you will make sacrifices for your children. Giving up your favorite cocktail, your sanity, going to the bathroom alone... the list is long and twisty. It's a well-advertised parental issue. "Your life is no longer your own," the experienced parents warn you. "Better go out on that last dinner date before the baby comes."
As I drop the boys off at school this morning, it became abundantly clear that I had not been warned completely. There is, apparently, a preschool mom dress code. And I am not in compliance.
I usually drop the boys off in the carpool line. I heart the carpool line with all of my being - I pull up, they open the door, the boys get out, and I drive off, with no one the wiser to the fact that I'm wearing the same sweatpants that I slept in. But today, I have to pick the boys up early, so in I go, sporting jeans & a sweater, thinking that I'm dressed adequately enough to talk to the teachers. I was so mistaken.
These mommas are dressed to the nines. Full hair & makeup, heels - hell, I don't dress that nicely to go on the occasional date with my husband, much less to drop my kid off. Add to the fact that today of all days, I am sporting a camping hangover* and a sinus infection, and it is safe to say that I have not done my hair.
And the matching tracksuits - good grief, where are they getting these things? It was like a pastel explosion on the toddler hallway - Easter Eggs gone wild. Some of the true overachievers were actually coordinated with their children - and not just the girl children, mind you. Hello, therapy. (Or a rise in the number of florists. I'm just saying.)
This is one sacrifice, though, that I'm not making - sure, I care what I look like, but I care even more about getting some sleep. Organizational consultants be damned, I'm barely functional at 7am, and getting 3 kids out the door in weather-appropriate clothing is about all I can manage. I flatly refuse to get up that 45 minutes earlier that it would take me to shower, dress, find the appropriate purse to match, and make the 3 attempts it takes to put on makeup in a way that looks reasonable.
I have got to stick to carpool. Or find one of those crunchy liberal schools where Birkenstocks are considered high fashion. I hear they make them in patent leather now - are those still "in"?
* It is never, never a good idea to sleep outside in 30 degree weather. No matter what those cute crunchy granola guys say, no amount of gortex & fleece can keep you from getting even sicker than you started. And no length of hike will make 16 9-year-old girls tired when they're basically at an understaffed slumber party.
As I drop the boys off at school this morning, it became abundantly clear that I had not been warned completely. There is, apparently, a preschool mom dress code. And I am not in compliance.
I usually drop the boys off in the carpool line. I heart the carpool line with all of my being - I pull up, they open the door, the boys get out, and I drive off, with no one the wiser to the fact that I'm wearing the same sweatpants that I slept in. But today, I have to pick the boys up early, so in I go, sporting jeans & a sweater, thinking that I'm dressed adequately enough to talk to the teachers. I was so mistaken.
These mommas are dressed to the nines. Full hair & makeup, heels - hell, I don't dress that nicely to go on the occasional date with my husband, much less to drop my kid off. Add to the fact that today of all days, I am sporting a camping hangover* and a sinus infection, and it is safe to say that I have not done my hair.
And the matching tracksuits - good grief, where are they getting these things? It was like a pastel explosion on the toddler hallway - Easter Eggs gone wild. Some of the true overachievers were actually coordinated with their children - and not just the girl children, mind you. Hello, therapy. (Or a rise in the number of florists. I'm just saying.)
This is one sacrifice, though, that I'm not making - sure, I care what I look like, but I care even more about getting some sleep. Organizational consultants be damned, I'm barely functional at 7am, and getting 3 kids out the door in weather-appropriate clothing is about all I can manage. I flatly refuse to get up that 45 minutes earlier that it would take me to shower, dress, find the appropriate purse to match, and make the 3 attempts it takes to put on makeup in a way that looks reasonable.
I have got to stick to carpool. Or find one of those crunchy liberal schools where Birkenstocks are considered high fashion. I hear they make them in patent leather now - are those still "in"?
* It is never, never a good idea to sleep outside in 30 degree weather. No matter what those cute crunchy granola guys say, no amount of gortex & fleece can keep you from getting even sicker than you started. And no length of hike will make 16 9-year-old girls tired when they're basically at an understaffed slumber party.
Wednesday
Frowzy Cottontail
slovenly: negligent in neatness especially in dress in person, habitually dirty and unkempt. syn: frowzy
I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad housekeeper. Not so bad that the Board of Health has me on their regular route, but bad enough that if we had smaller dogs, we might mistake them for the hair ball that just rolled by. Or vice versa.
The cleaning, it must be done. It is not that I don't like clean, per say, although dirty is a fine excuse to close the door to visitors, which we all know I think is a good thing. But you see, I have seen the light, and the cleaning, it must start. (And as a disclaimer, we are not unsanitary, just a mess. With dog hair.)
The problem is, of course, that I went to my mother's for the weekend. And I was skeeved a bit. That's all I'll say, skeeved, since I don't want to out her or anything, but I think it's safe to say that many of us have gone to our parents, harbingers of our youthful clean memories, and well... Been skeeved. And I cannot start out being all skeevy and what-not, because if I start there, where, oh where, will my grown children find me? Somewhere worse than slovenly? Say, south of a hovel, yet north of condemned?
So in my academic way, I have a bought a book on housekeeping, which is fine, and will delay the actual work until I have studied for days on the art of housekeeping. I am 20 pages in, and while I admire this woman's devotion to all things mop and broomish, I am afraid. Her weekly cleaning list? Is a page long. It would take me a year. For the weekly cleaning. The book itself? Oh, 600 pages or so. Seriously, 600 pages on correct cleaning solutions for everything from abrasive cleansers to wine stains.
I had no idea. No clue, honestly, since I don't think I recall my mother "Fall Cleaning", especially with us participating. I remember the cleaning service that broke things, and the yelling and threatening re:room cleaning, but not her actually doing any of the things on this list, like vacuuming window treatments and all that. (page 30 or so does address hiring someone, but I'm not ready to open the door, remember? the mess?)
This must be penance for something, like the quitting of the latest volunteer assignment. Yes! I! Quit! Teacher assignments be damned, I have quit. Quit! I am relieved, and still horribly guilted every time I see the committee head's child, but the guilt can be assuaged with alcohol, so we're fine. Quit!
Back to my reading - I am kinds of excited about the next topic, "Neatening." Do you think there will be a subsection entitled "Proper methods for tying down messy children"?
I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad housekeeper. Not so bad that the Board of Health has me on their regular route, but bad enough that if we had smaller dogs, we might mistake them for the hair ball that just rolled by. Or vice versa.
The cleaning, it must be done. It is not that I don't like clean, per say, although dirty is a fine excuse to close the door to visitors, which we all know I think is a good thing. But you see, I have seen the light, and the cleaning, it must start. (And as a disclaimer, we are not unsanitary, just a mess. With dog hair.)
The problem is, of course, that I went to my mother's for the weekend. And I was skeeved a bit. That's all I'll say, skeeved, since I don't want to out her or anything, but I think it's safe to say that many of us have gone to our parents, harbingers of our youthful clean memories, and well... Been skeeved. And I cannot start out being all skeevy and what-not, because if I start there, where, oh where, will my grown children find me? Somewhere worse than slovenly? Say, south of a hovel, yet north of condemned?
So in my academic way, I have a bought a book on housekeeping, which is fine, and will delay the actual work until I have studied for days on the art of housekeeping. I am 20 pages in, and while I admire this woman's devotion to all things mop and broomish, I am afraid. Her weekly cleaning list? Is a page long. It would take me a year. For the weekly cleaning. The book itself? Oh, 600 pages or so. Seriously, 600 pages on correct cleaning solutions for everything from abrasive cleansers to wine stains.
I had no idea. No clue, honestly, since I don't think I recall my mother "Fall Cleaning", especially with us participating. I remember the cleaning service that broke things, and the yelling and threatening re:room cleaning, but not her actually doing any of the things on this list, like vacuuming window treatments and all that. (page 30 or so does address hiring someone, but I'm not ready to open the door, remember? the mess?)
This must be penance for something, like the quitting of the latest volunteer assignment. Yes! I! Quit! Teacher assignments be damned, I have quit. Quit! I am relieved, and still horribly guilted every time I see the committee head's child, but the guilt can be assuaged with alcohol, so we're fine. Quit!
Back to my reading - I am kinds of excited about the next topic, "Neatening." Do you think there will be a subsection entitled "Proper methods for tying down messy children"?
Monday
Walk the talk
There has been a lot of bus-stop conversation over the last week about what we are telling our children today. I still wish I knew.
The boys are having a day to talk about our friends in the military, and how people are helping to keep us safe. This seems innocuous enough for 5 year olds, as long as they don't ask me what they are keeping us safe from.
I have no idea what my 4th grader will learn today. I just hope I don't have to talk about it with her, but I cannot come up with something coherent to talk about.
It is not that I wish to dishonor those who gave their lives in such a tragic event, and all of those who have worked tirelessly over the last 5 long years to improve my safety by not talking about it and them. We live within 30 miles of Washington, and we are acutely aware of terror levels, low-flying planes, and evacuation routes. The parents, are, anyway; my children still point at the planes with wonderment.
I just don't know how to explain it to them. How can you talk to your children about something that your own heart cannot wrap itself around - that people can be so evil and unfeeling as to twist their beliefs and make it ok to take another life?
I have read all of the parenting articles that explain what to say about war, and terror, and the unexplainable. I used to think that a firm "we are your parents and we'll keep you safe" was enough. In a pinch, "God will protect you" would seal the deal. Even a pithy "Everything happens for a reason" could satisfy them. But after all that has and continues to happen, I'm not sure I believe those answers anymore, and I can no longer confidently spout them at my children.
The kids were all under 4 when things changed; they have never seen the towers, not even on the news. We turn the channel when commercials advertising the tributes are played, the seemingly countless TV movies that are shown. I'm not naive enough to think that Katie doesn't know anything - girls and teachers talk, and this is a lesson that she's likely had in school. The boys, however, are still blissfully ignorant - New York is only the place where Aunt J lives.
In watching the Jules and Gedeon Naudet documentary again last night, one of the fireman made a statement that sums it up for me - something to the effect that he had no idea how evil evil could be.
My children are still loving and kind - their idea of a horrible event is when one won't let the other go first on the swing. Even my 4th grader doesn't truly understand heartbreak and loss, and I'm not eager to dispel their feeling that the world is generally a good and safe place for them to be. Call me unpatriotic and unfeeling for those families, but I want them to know a Norman Rockwell childhood. There is time yet for them to understand evil, hatred, and senseless acts.
So today, I will find a mass, and light a candle, and the kids and I will say an extra prayer for the freedoms we enjoy and the protection of all those fighting at war. And I will quietly pray that my children never have to explain how hatred can consume people and bring such destruction.
The boys are having a day to talk about our friends in the military, and how people are helping to keep us safe. This seems innocuous enough for 5 year olds, as long as they don't ask me what they are keeping us safe from.
I have no idea what my 4th grader will learn today. I just hope I don't have to talk about it with her, but I cannot come up with something coherent to talk about.
It is not that I wish to dishonor those who gave their lives in such a tragic event, and all of those who have worked tirelessly over the last 5 long years to improve my safety by not talking about it and them. We live within 30 miles of Washington, and we are acutely aware of terror levels, low-flying planes, and evacuation routes. The parents, are, anyway; my children still point at the planes with wonderment.
I just don't know how to explain it to them. How can you talk to your children about something that your own heart cannot wrap itself around - that people can be so evil and unfeeling as to twist their beliefs and make it ok to take another life?
I have read all of the parenting articles that explain what to say about war, and terror, and the unexplainable. I used to think that a firm "we are your parents and we'll keep you safe" was enough. In a pinch, "God will protect you" would seal the deal. Even a pithy "Everything happens for a reason" could satisfy them. But after all that has and continues to happen, I'm not sure I believe those answers anymore, and I can no longer confidently spout them at my children.
The kids were all under 4 when things changed; they have never seen the towers, not even on the news. We turn the channel when commercials advertising the tributes are played, the seemingly countless TV movies that are shown. I'm not naive enough to think that Katie doesn't know anything - girls and teachers talk, and this is a lesson that she's likely had in school. The boys, however, are still blissfully ignorant - New York is only the place where Aunt J lives.
In watching the Jules and Gedeon Naudet documentary again last night, one of the fireman made a statement that sums it up for me - something to the effect that he had no idea how evil evil could be.
My children are still loving and kind - their idea of a horrible event is when one won't let the other go first on the swing. Even my 4th grader doesn't truly understand heartbreak and loss, and I'm not eager to dispel their feeling that the world is generally a good and safe place for them to be. Call me unpatriotic and unfeeling for those families, but I want them to know a Norman Rockwell childhood. There is time yet for them to understand evil, hatred, and senseless acts.
So today, I will find a mass, and light a candle, and the kids and I will say an extra prayer for the freedoms we enjoy and the protection of all those fighting at war. And I will quietly pray that my children never have to explain how hatred can consume people and bring such destruction.
Wednesday
Hair of the Dog
So I'm back again.
Did you know that many bloggers leave notes stating that they're off to work on some fabulous something, and that they'll be back later? That they don't leave their 6 readers hanging? My apologies, y'all, I've been incredibly rude, just disappearing and all. Next time, a note. And a list of wonderful projects that I'll procrastinate on while I'm gone.
I'd love nothing more than to provide you a list of what I've gotten done lately, but it would be not very interesting. Long, perhaps, but unless you're an anxious parent waiting for a Girl Scout troop or some other piece of paperwork that I happen to be holding, not interesting. The rest of the list is work stuff, which, well, I think we all know what happens to people who write about their jobs, right? So none of that either.
So anyway.
My house is currently suffering a bit from the post-summer hangover, which is not, contrary to popular opinion, cured by school. Even for me, and I am a lover of all things school, aside from cafeteria food.
All three kiddos are back in class, thank goodness - Will & Finn have started Kindergarten, and Will's sporting a loose tooth, much to Finn's great distress. Katie has already forgotten to bring home an assignment to complete, possibly breaking all previous records, since it's only Day 2. We've already marked off almost all of the mandatory school items: the sick child pediatrician visit (Katie), the discussion as to why we do not discuss penises with our teacher (Finn), and the forgotten book order (Will). I expect "loose glasses" to occur around Day 4, which should cover us until mittens and hats make an appearance.
My own personal summer hangover is becoming a bit more of a life hangover - now that I'm supposed to have all of this time on my hands, what on earth do I do with it? I'm feeling a little suffocated, honestly, like I need some air and a good stiff drink to send me on my way.
Volunteering for more things at school is not an option (particularly with no snack basket), and while I'm really pretty good at my job, it's not something I love to do. (Contrary to popular belief, I do not crave the ability to boss other people around and create schedules that I force them to follow. Seriously.) I have started going to the gym, but that is far more the need to look nice in my sister's wedding pictures than for any enjoyment. I need something else. More Summer in my Fall, perhaps.
I read somewhere that when you're not sure what you're doing, just fake it. Eventually you'll figure it out, and no one around you will be the wiser, since you've been doing it all along. This is frightening advice to someone who hates to try anything without the guarantee of perfection, but I think that's going to be the cure around here. I'm going to indulge my pathological need for paper and fabric, pretend that I know what to do with them, and start making things. Maybe spend a little time looking at other people's art, but more time making my own. Maybe relax the rules a little bit, and accept that things don't always have to look exactly like the picture. Never fear, I'll be foisting the creations off on some of you soon. Share the wealth and all.
Fall has always felt a little more like time for a new year than January for me - new season, new school, new things to learn. Maybe this time, the kids shouldn't be the only ones making supply lists.
I am amending this, later, to add that apaprently Day 2 has also given us our first case of pinkeye. Bring it on, Day 3, because I am now armed with antibiotics and some q-tips. Bring it on.
Did you know that many bloggers leave notes stating that they're off to work on some fabulous something, and that they'll be back later? That they don't leave their 6 readers hanging? My apologies, y'all, I've been incredibly rude, just disappearing and all. Next time, a note. And a list of wonderful projects that I'll procrastinate on while I'm gone.
I'd love nothing more than to provide you a list of what I've gotten done lately, but it would be not very interesting. Long, perhaps, but unless you're an anxious parent waiting for a Girl Scout troop or some other piece of paperwork that I happen to be holding, not interesting. The rest of the list is work stuff, which, well, I think we all know what happens to people who write about their jobs, right? So none of that either.
So anyway.
My house is currently suffering a bit from the post-summer hangover, which is not, contrary to popular opinion, cured by school. Even for me, and I am a lover of all things school, aside from cafeteria food.
All three kiddos are back in class, thank goodness - Will & Finn have started Kindergarten, and Will's sporting a loose tooth, much to Finn's great distress. Katie has already forgotten to bring home an assignment to complete, possibly breaking all previous records, since it's only Day 2. We've already marked off almost all of the mandatory school items: the sick child pediatrician visit (Katie), the discussion as to why we do not discuss penises with our teacher (Finn), and the forgotten book order (Will). I expect "loose glasses" to occur around Day 4, which should cover us until mittens and hats make an appearance.
My own personal summer hangover is becoming a bit more of a life hangover - now that I'm supposed to have all of this time on my hands, what on earth do I do with it? I'm feeling a little suffocated, honestly, like I need some air and a good stiff drink to send me on my way.
Volunteering for more things at school is not an option (particularly with no snack basket), and while I'm really pretty good at my job, it's not something I love to do. (Contrary to popular belief, I do not crave the ability to boss other people around and create schedules that I force them to follow. Seriously.) I have started going to the gym, but that is far more the need to look nice in my sister's wedding pictures than for any enjoyment. I need something else. More Summer in my Fall, perhaps.
I read somewhere that when you're not sure what you're doing, just fake it. Eventually you'll figure it out, and no one around you will be the wiser, since you've been doing it all along. This is frightening advice to someone who hates to try anything without the guarantee of perfection, but I think that's going to be the cure around here. I'm going to indulge my pathological need for paper and fabric, pretend that I know what to do with them, and start making things. Maybe spend a little time looking at other people's art, but more time making my own. Maybe relax the rules a little bit, and accept that things don't always have to look exactly like the picture. Never fear, I'll be foisting the creations off on some of you soon. Share the wealth and all.
Fall has always felt a little more like time for a new year than January for me - new season, new school, new things to learn. Maybe this time, the kids shouldn't be the only ones making supply lists.
I am amending this, later, to add that apaprently Day 2 has also given us our first case of pinkeye. Bring it on, Day 3, because I am now armed with antibiotics and some q-tips. Bring it on.
Flotsam and Jetsam
So I'm going to warn you ahead of time - I've got a lot going in swirls in my heads, but none of it will form a coherent sentence. Work with me.
In one of the "you don't see that everyday" moments of my week, I witnessed a guy drive into the pit at the oil change place. Now, it is one of my greatest panics that I miss the spaces and crash into the guy standing below my car to change the oil, but I have talked myself into thinking that it could never happen. I was wrong. It was quite a spectacle, and you have never seen 4 more perplexed mechanics standing around trying to figure out how they would get him out. (To be fair, it was only one tire of a minivan, but still. Impressive.)
I am apparently not raising model children, but instead, a theatre troupe. Within the last two days I have discovered that my daughter has become adept at faking stomach ache when pressed to clean up her room, my son can collapse into a heap of fake tears when told he cannot have yet another stuffed animal (we'd like to apologize if you were in Kohl's at that exact moment), and the other guy is apparently imitating Wile E Coyote as he slams into and subsequently peels himself off of doors, walls, and floors. Tour dates and ticket prices will be set soon, hopefully off-setting their college tuitions.
World wars are organized more quickly than my beach packing list. (Unless, of course, they aren't, which should likely be a different set of blogs.) All of the things that my husband must! have! now! for the beach are no longer available, and the current selection of hip board shorts and wimpy plastic shovels are not to his liking. I can, however, procure adorable wool flannel culottes for K, which will likely not be wearable until sometime in November. At which time bathing suits will again be displayed.
And I find myself incredibly inspired by this whole "buy nothing" movement where people stop shopping for new things and only thrift them. (Better rules can be found here) This intrigues me, if only to avoid weeping in horror at the size of the pants I am buying, but I will have to wait until the back to school rush is over. Somehow used pencils and crayons have no warm vibe for me.
And finally, in horror, I hated buying school supplies yesterday. No warm glow at perusing the notebooks, no high from the smell of new crayons. Just rack after rack of folders with tacky sayings and horrid 70s airbrushed pictures on them, none of which I want my 8 year old to carry. For a office products junkie, this is disappointing. Maybe a trip to the organizational things store will cure my ills.
My head is now emptier, and W has "new moves" for me to see. And I, apparently, have to find summer things well after the retailers' expiration date. Manly sand shovels, anyone?
In one of the "you don't see that everyday" moments of my week, I witnessed a guy drive into the pit at the oil change place. Now, it is one of my greatest panics that I miss the spaces and crash into the guy standing below my car to change the oil, but I have talked myself into thinking that it could never happen. I was wrong. It was quite a spectacle, and you have never seen 4 more perplexed mechanics standing around trying to figure out how they would get him out. (To be fair, it was only one tire of a minivan, but still. Impressive.)
I am apparently not raising model children, but instead, a theatre troupe. Within the last two days I have discovered that my daughter has become adept at faking stomach ache when pressed to clean up her room, my son can collapse into a heap of fake tears when told he cannot have yet another stuffed animal (we'd like to apologize if you were in Kohl's at that exact moment), and the other guy is apparently imitating Wile E Coyote as he slams into and subsequently peels himself off of doors, walls, and floors. Tour dates and ticket prices will be set soon, hopefully off-setting their college tuitions.
World wars are organized more quickly than my beach packing list. (Unless, of course, they aren't, which should likely be a different set of blogs.) All of the things that my husband must! have! now! for the beach are no longer available, and the current selection of hip board shorts and wimpy plastic shovels are not to his liking. I can, however, procure adorable wool flannel culottes for K, which will likely not be wearable until sometime in November. At which time bathing suits will again be displayed.
And I find myself incredibly inspired by this whole "buy nothing" movement where people stop shopping for new things and only thrift them. (Better rules can be found here) This intrigues me, if only to avoid weeping in horror at the size of the pants I am buying, but I will have to wait until the back to school rush is over. Somehow used pencils and crayons have no warm vibe for me.
And finally, in horror, I hated buying school supplies yesterday. No warm glow at perusing the notebooks, no high from the smell of new crayons. Just rack after rack of folders with tacky sayings and horrid 70s airbrushed pictures on them, none of which I want my 8 year old to carry. For a office products junkie, this is disappointing. Maybe a trip to the organizational things store will cure my ills.
My head is now emptier, and W has "new moves" for me to see. And I, apparently, have to find summer things well after the retailers' expiration date. Manly sand shovels, anyone?
Monday
Oh give me land, lots of land....
Some of you may have noticed that I have a subtle theme of not liking my neighbors. Or maybe even people in general, it's hard to tell. There are reasons for this. Neighbors, I have decided, are the universe's way of forcing you to learn to say nothing when saying something would be so much more satisfying.
I bring this up because my husband met our new neighbors on Saturday, and they are decidedly not our kind of people, which is a disappointment, because we were social with our last neighbors, who we liked until they left us. It's not that we don't want them to be happy, but we're ticked that they executed the "lots of land and no neighbors" strategy first, and left us with... The new people. The new people are fine, honestly, but have already peppered us with questions about drainage, carpet stains, and wall color choices... for a house I didn't live in. They are not becoming people I can happy hour with, like our last neighbors.
Suburban neighborhoods are like a dreadful repeat of high school, which I was decidedly not good at. I was the girl that no one knew how to take because I had mastered advanced nerdy sarcasm, and the rest of the class was more worried about scoring Bon Jovi tickets. Repeating high school was not on my priority list, but a la Groundhog Day, here I am. Replace the mailboxes with lockers, and I'm transported back.
I can't talk to M, because I'm friends with J, and the two of them have some feud going on because M didn't invite J to playgroup because J has a boy, and we all know that boys and girls should never socialize. D is someone I could like, but she's a bit like the nice girl that hangs out with the "bad crowd" and I can't keep telling her that no, I can't come to the neighborhood kegger, so I avoid her. A is friends with M & G, and since M is involved in the feud, I have to be careful socializing with A, because I will then have to answer back to J because M might be there.... Are you tired yet? Keeping up?
So I spend my days in my house, with my children, avoiding them, and appearing "busy". Or picking the farthest seat away from "the group" at the pool. I am beginning to think that this why the original settlers all had so much land - they didn't need to farm that much land, they just couldn't stand each other. I'm even thinking that homeschoolers have the right idea, not because I'm so at odds with the school system (which inexplicably discourages a 5 year old from using the word "damn" in appropriate context), but because then I wouldn't have to face all of those wacky suburban mothers jockeying to get their child into the right class.
But instead, I'll live in my white bread neighborhood with my tract house and quietly try and move through unnoticed by my neighbors. I learned to disappear in high school; maybe it will work twice. Got any blue eyeshadow?
I bring this up because my husband met our new neighbors on Saturday, and they are decidedly not our kind of people, which is a disappointment, because we were social with our last neighbors, who we liked until they left us. It's not that we don't want them to be happy, but we're ticked that they executed the "lots of land and no neighbors" strategy first, and left us with... The new people. The new people are fine, honestly, but have already peppered us with questions about drainage, carpet stains, and wall color choices... for a house I didn't live in. They are not becoming people I can happy hour with, like our last neighbors.
Suburban neighborhoods are like a dreadful repeat of high school, which I was decidedly not good at. I was the girl that no one knew how to take because I had mastered advanced nerdy sarcasm, and the rest of the class was more worried about scoring Bon Jovi tickets. Repeating high school was not on my priority list, but a la Groundhog Day, here I am. Replace the mailboxes with lockers, and I'm transported back.
I can't talk to M, because I'm friends with J, and the two of them have some feud going on because M didn't invite J to playgroup because J has a boy, and we all know that boys and girls should never socialize. D is someone I could like, but she's a bit like the nice girl that hangs out with the "bad crowd" and I can't keep telling her that no, I can't come to the neighborhood kegger, so I avoid her. A is friends with M & G, and since M is involved in the feud, I have to be careful socializing with A, because I will then have to answer back to J because M might be there.... Are you tired yet? Keeping up?
So I spend my days in my house, with my children, avoiding them, and appearing "busy". Or picking the farthest seat away from "the group" at the pool. I am beginning to think that this why the original settlers all had so much land - they didn't need to farm that much land, they just couldn't stand each other. I'm even thinking that homeschoolers have the right idea, not because I'm so at odds with the school system (which inexplicably discourages a 5 year old from using the word "damn" in appropriate context), but because then I wouldn't have to face all of those wacky suburban mothers jockeying to get their child into the right class.
But instead, I'll live in my white bread neighborhood with my tract house and quietly try and move through unnoticed by my neighbors. I learned to disappear in high school; maybe it will work twice. Got any blue eyeshadow?
Tuesday
Hot enough for ya?
Dear Party Hostess,
I would like to clarify something for you, because apparently Miss Manners is falling down on the job.
1. When you address your pumpkin's party invitations to a family with more than one child, it is customary to address the invitation to the child(ren) invited. For example, if you address it only to K, then only K will be attending. Do not act all surprised and partially offended that I then must leave to go and retrieve the other invited children if you address the invitation poorly. ("The M family" would have sufficed. Seriously.)
2. If you are expecting me to know something particular about a party, say that bathing suits are proper attire, it is also helpful for you to a)note it on the freaking invitation, or b) call me and mention it. Kreskin the Magnificent does not live here.
3. If it is indeed 100 degrees in the shade, it is (perhaps) a good idea to move your party indoors, or expect parents of the invitees to want copious amounts of fluid. One water bottle does not get the job done. Especially when one bottle is meant for a family of 5. Tap water and cups would have been sufficient, I swear. Especially since you also provided one shade umbrella. For yourselves.
With warm regards,
Carpool Mom
I would like to clarify something for you, because apparently Miss Manners is falling down on the job.
1. When you address your pumpkin's party invitations to a family with more than one child, it is customary to address the invitation to the child(ren) invited. For example, if you address it only to K, then only K will be attending. Do not act all surprised and partially offended that I then must leave to go and retrieve the other invited children if you address the invitation poorly. ("The M family" would have sufficed. Seriously.)
2. If you are expecting me to know something particular about a party, say that bathing suits are proper attire, it is also helpful for you to a)note it on the freaking invitation, or b) call me and mention it. Kreskin the Magnificent does not live here.
3. If it is indeed 100 degrees in the shade, it is (perhaps) a good idea to move your party indoors, or expect parents of the invitees to want copious amounts of fluid. One water bottle does not get the job done. Especially when one bottle is meant for a family of 5. Tap water and cups would have been sufficient, I swear. Especially since you also provided one shade umbrella. For yourselves.
With warm regards,
Carpool Mom
Pop Quiz
You would think, as someone who spent a crazy amount of time in school, that I would be pretty comfortable with grades and report cards. Essay tests, even. But alas, I have test anxiety. Huge, martini inducing test anxiety. For it is review time at work, and I am terrified that they will finally figure out that I am a slack remote employee, and although I do finish things in a timely fashion, I am doing laundry at the same time. Or crafting. Or something else to procrastinate making out that project schedule.
In an effort to stave off my anxiety, and inspired by a motherhood questions posted by a girlfriend, I've made a list, instead, of all of the things I didn't know I'd need to know about being a mother.
1. If you are not a morning person, all of your children will be. And they will drag you, kicking and screaming, into your day by requesting pancakes before the sun is up. And their first read words will be "Diet Coke."
2. In order to procure the "best" school placements, brownie troops, and other assignments for your child, you will become a volunteer crack whore. Got 524 envelopes to stuff? Will it get my child into the best 4th grade class? Bring it on, paper cuts be damned.
3. You will not know who has the number 1 hit song, but you will know every single lyric to Laurie Berkner, long after your children do. (And you will forget you have no children in the car, and be singing it. Hopefully alone.)
4. You will be able to scientifically prove that laundry multiplies on its own, yet the socks disappear. You will also learn that purple and yellow plaid does indeed match orange and brown stripes. Particularly if it gets you to school on time.
5. Teddy Grahams are indeed a suitable breakfast food, particularly if it buys you 5 minutes of sleep. M&Ms will buy you 15 minutes, but you will pay later in sugar high.
6. You will learn 462 ways to prepare crow in order to make up for the pre-children "I'll never" statements you've made. Examples will likely include "I'll never allow my children to throw a public tantrum" and "I'll never send my child to day care with a fever."
7. You will learn to play day care or babysitter roulette, and know precise combinations of Motrin and drop-off times to get through a certain meeting or dinner date before they call you to come get the sick child.
8. You will learn that your children will cause spontaneous weeping as they tell you they love you, that you're the best mom (or the worst, depending on the day), that they are glad you know how sew/throw a curve ball/kiss the hurt away.
9. You will learn that the parts you thought would be hard (infancy, terrible twos) were easier than you thought, and that you are more afraid of the older child who can talk back. (And does.)
10. You will learn that you know nothing about anything, but have become a pretty good guesser.
After all of the panic over my work review, I sat through a love festival, once again (somehow) wowing my employer with what I felt were mediocre accomplishments. I can only hope that my life review is going as well.
In an effort to stave off my anxiety, and inspired by a motherhood questions posted by a girlfriend, I've made a list, instead, of all of the things I didn't know I'd need to know about being a mother.
1. If you are not a morning person, all of your children will be. And they will drag you, kicking and screaming, into your day by requesting pancakes before the sun is up. And their first read words will be "Diet Coke."
2. In order to procure the "best" school placements, brownie troops, and other assignments for your child, you will become a volunteer crack whore. Got 524 envelopes to stuff? Will it get my child into the best 4th grade class? Bring it on, paper cuts be damned.
3. You will not know who has the number 1 hit song, but you will know every single lyric to Laurie Berkner, long after your children do. (And you will forget you have no children in the car, and be singing it. Hopefully alone.)
4. You will be able to scientifically prove that laundry multiplies on its own, yet the socks disappear. You will also learn that purple and yellow plaid does indeed match orange and brown stripes. Particularly if it gets you to school on time.
5. Teddy Grahams are indeed a suitable breakfast food, particularly if it buys you 5 minutes of sleep. M&Ms will buy you 15 minutes, but you will pay later in sugar high.
6. You will learn 462 ways to prepare crow in order to make up for the pre-children "I'll never" statements you've made. Examples will likely include "I'll never allow my children to throw a public tantrum" and "I'll never send my child to day care with a fever."
7. You will learn to play day care or babysitter roulette, and know precise combinations of Motrin and drop-off times to get through a certain meeting or dinner date before they call you to come get the sick child.
8. You will learn that your children will cause spontaneous weeping as they tell you they love you, that you're the best mom (or the worst, depending on the day), that they are glad you know how sew/throw a curve ball/kiss the hurt away.
9. You will learn that the parts you thought would be hard (infancy, terrible twos) were easier than you thought, and that you are more afraid of the older child who can talk back. (And does.)
10. You will learn that you know nothing about anything, but have become a pretty good guesser.
After all of the panic over my work review, I sat through a love festival, once again (somehow) wowing my employer with what I felt were mediocre accomplishments. I can only hope that my life review is going as well.
Sunday
Empty Nesting
Oh, hi there.
Things have been merrily rolling along here in the McG household, summer is half over, thank goodness, W has put his head underwater without being pushed, F can dive into the pool on purpose, and K has survived her first week of sleep-away camp.
And I have figured out why it was that my mother complained of being sleep-deprived all of those years. While we chalked it up to my sister sneaking out a few times a week (Hi, K!), I now know the answer. The nest wasn't full, and the motherhood radar was too busy being on full-alert, keeping her from sleeping.
How do I know this? Because for the first time ever in my daughter's life, I did not speak to her for a solid week. 6 whole days, people. Not a word. Barely even a misspelled postcard, I'll have you know.
And I slept like crap.
No matter what time I went to bed, the amount of caffeine or alcohol I consumed, the number of pillows I stole from G... No joy. Up at all hours, and I could not figure out what the hell was going on.
Saturday morning, my 48 pound bundle of 'tween launched herself at me, threw her arms around my neck, and told me that she missed me more than anything. Saturday night, I slept like a babe, all of my sweet chickadees home in their nests.
Sunday morning, she awoke and asked if she could go again next year.
Does my camp fee include my scrip for Ambien?
Things have been merrily rolling along here in the McG household, summer is half over, thank goodness, W has put his head underwater without being pushed, F can dive into the pool on purpose, and K has survived her first week of sleep-away camp.
And I have figured out why it was that my mother complained of being sleep-deprived all of those years. While we chalked it up to my sister sneaking out a few times a week (Hi, K!), I now know the answer. The nest wasn't full, and the motherhood radar was too busy being on full-alert, keeping her from sleeping.
How do I know this? Because for the first time ever in my daughter's life, I did not speak to her for a solid week. 6 whole days, people. Not a word. Barely even a misspelled postcard, I'll have you know.
And I slept like crap.
No matter what time I went to bed, the amount of caffeine or alcohol I consumed, the number of pillows I stole from G... No joy. Up at all hours, and I could not figure out what the hell was going on.
Saturday morning, my 48 pound bundle of 'tween launched herself at me, threw her arms around my neck, and told me that she missed me more than anything. Saturday night, I slept like a babe, all of my sweet chickadees home in their nests.
Sunday morning, she awoke and asked if she could go again next year.
Does my camp fee include my scrip for Ambien?
Monday
It's raining, it's pouring....
Instead of looking for the perfect wicker snack basket, I am now looking for an ark. Preferably used, with low mileage, and able to house no more than my family of 5 and 2 dogs. I have had enough of my neighbors and I would like to gracefully say "No, I'm sorry, no more room!" with a big grin and a straight face.
No, seriously, it has rained for three straight days, with no visible end in sight. "Well, I won't have to water the grass for at least two weeks!" the Pollyannas say. Well screw you, Polly, I'm stuck here with threeobnoxious adorable children, and I've had enough. I'm beginning to invent tasks (like knitting something) in order to avoid the obvious ones that are staring at me, like laundry and actual housework.
I have, however, surfed blog after blog, which I highly recommend - just pick a link and wander, it's amazing what you'll find. I've found crafts I wished I had made, people on the verge of getting an adoption referral, old friends that I thought I had lost, and things I didn't know I wanted and now will be mercilessly trolling eBay for. (Seriously, I need that pie carrier. Imagine the envy of the other t-ball moms!)
Now to surf to find the way that the old man actually slept well enough during a thunderstorm to snore - anyone have a good link for an overnight nanny service?
No, seriously, it has rained for three straight days, with no visible end in sight. "Well, I won't have to water the grass for at least two weeks!" the Pollyannas say. Well screw you, Polly, I'm stuck here with three
I have, however, surfed blog after blog, which I highly recommend - just pick a link and wander, it's amazing what you'll find. I've found crafts I wished I had made, people on the verge of getting an adoption referral, old friends that I thought I had lost, and things I didn't know I wanted and now will be mercilessly trolling eBay for. (Seriously, I need that pie carrier. Imagine the envy of the other t-ball moms!)
Now to surf to find the way that the old man actually slept well enough during a thunderstorm to snore - anyone have a good link for an overnight nanny service?
Thursday
Let the games begin...
While driving somewhere yesterday, we see a girl on a motorcycle with a long braid - F points it out to me.
F: "Mom, look, there's a girl on that motorcycle!"
Mom, sensing a parenting moment that shouldn't be missed: "Yes, F, girls can do anything. That's a really cool motorcycle, isn't it."
F, smirk on his face: "Mom, girls are pretty."
So much for the parenting moment - let the dating begin.
F: "Mom, look, there's a girl on that motorcycle!"
Mom, sensing a parenting moment that shouldn't be missed: "Yes, F, girls can do anything. That's a really cool motorcycle, isn't it."
F, smirk on his face: "Mom, girls are pretty."
So much for the parenting moment - let the dating begin.
Tuesday
So.
So.
Things have been a little crazy over here - the end of school, the beginning of summer camp, the end of t-ball, the beginning of swimming lessons - we're pretty much in a merry-go-round of activity over here, and I want to get off. Now. Because, well, summer is for relaxing, I hear, and all I keep doing is getting in the car. And packing tote bags. And getting out again. Someone less organizationally-challenged than I will tell you that I should have a tote bag for each activity so that I can skip the packing step, but that is also likely the mother that has the wicker snack tray for t-ball (no, seriously, she does) and I can't stand her. So I pack the bag each time we go. It kills the time between "Get your shoes on" and "Get. Your. Shoes. On. Before. I. Call. Your. Father. To. Scream. Even. Louder. BecauseHeWill."
So I haven't had a lot of mom time this summer, yet, but I did have enough time to read this and wow, are mommas everywhere ticked off. As a working mom myself, I get some of what she's saying, but I'm not so sure why she's surprised that the stay at home moms are angry with her - they give me crap, and I live next door. How much easier is it to send a nasty-gram email to someone you've never met?
I work for a lot of reasons, and while the money is nice, it is mainly for my sanity. And my children's sanity. Because although I am not many of the things Linda professes that working moms are, I do have a need to see people I'm not related to on a regular basis, and to have the house quiet for a few minutes. And I will do almost anything to get those things for myself. I've even bought a GameCube to ensure my 10 minutes of quiet at the end of the day. There, my dirty secret is out.
But what I don't get, honestly, is why some of the stay-at-home moms think that all working moms don't value that work that a stay-at-home mom does. Dude, I get it. I know that work is often easier, if less fulfilling. But I can't do it and be content with myself. And it's not an intellectual thing, it's a sanity thing, pure and simple. And I'm tired of the moms who choose to stay home making me feel bad about protecting my mental health while bringing in some fun money at the same time.
It's not a competition, so why do we have to continuously try to outdo each other? Put down the wicker snack basket. You're making us feel bad, and does it really make you feel that much better?
Things have been a little crazy over here - the end of school, the beginning of summer camp, the end of t-ball, the beginning of swimming lessons - we're pretty much in a merry-go-round of activity over here, and I want to get off. Now. Because, well, summer is for relaxing, I hear, and all I keep doing is getting in the car. And packing tote bags. And getting out again. Someone less organizationally-challenged than I will tell you that I should have a tote bag for each activity so that I can skip the packing step, but that is also likely the mother that has the wicker snack tray for t-ball (no, seriously, she does) and I can't stand her. So I pack the bag each time we go. It kills the time between "Get your shoes on" and "Get. Your. Shoes. On. Before. I. Call. Your. Father. To. Scream. Even. Louder. BecauseHeWill."
So I haven't had a lot of mom time this summer, yet, but I did have enough time to read this and wow, are mommas everywhere ticked off. As a working mom myself, I get some of what she's saying, but I'm not so sure why she's surprised that the stay at home moms are angry with her - they give me crap, and I live next door. How much easier is it to send a nasty-gram email to someone you've never met?
I work for a lot of reasons, and while the money is nice, it is mainly for my sanity. And my children's sanity. Because although I am not many of the things Linda professes that working moms are, I do have a need to see people I'm not related to on a regular basis, and to have the house quiet for a few minutes. And I will do almost anything to get those things for myself. I've even bought a GameCube to ensure my 10 minutes of quiet at the end of the day. There, my dirty secret is out.
But what I don't get, honestly, is why some of the stay-at-home moms think that all working moms don't value that work that a stay-at-home mom does. Dude, I get it. I know that work is often easier, if less fulfilling. But I can't do it and be content with myself. And it's not an intellectual thing, it's a sanity thing, pure and simple. And I'm tired of the moms who choose to stay home making me feel bad about protecting my mental health while bringing in some fun money at the same time.
It's not a competition, so why do we have to continuously try to outdo each other? Put down the wicker snack basket. You're making us feel bad, and does it really make you feel that much better?
Monday
Snipe Hunting
Over the past several years, I have read the sporting stories about out of control parents harassing their children, harassing the other children, harassing spectating children - harassing basically anyone under 4 feet tall holding a juice box. And I smugly said to myself that I was better than that. I was not one of those parents.
Apparently, I was wrong, and I would like my crow grilled with a side salad, thank you very much.
We spent Sunday at a tae kwon do competition for K, who loves these things. Honestly, it's like watching 82 instructors herding 624 cats around a gym, but she loves them, so I pay my entry fee, admission for the rest of us, and we go so that she can compete. She's a green stripe now, which basically means thatwe've paid $4 million in testing fees she's in the advanced group now, and competition gets a bit stiffer. These girls don't play around any more, they've earned a few trophies, and they like it.
There are three parts of the competition - form, board breaking and contact sparring. If you're new to martial arts, form is basically the dance-off, and the other two are basically what they sound like, particularly the contact part. Form went off without a hitch, one trophy earned, two to go. Board breaking wasn't a total loss, and she broke one of the two, second trophy in hand.
And then we get to the sparring. Now, the entire427 2 hours, K sat with her 4 other competitors, all girls 7&8, all green belts, blond ponytails o'plenty. They giggled, clearly gossiped about the competition, and basically acted like 8 year old girls. I go to the floor to adjust K's sparring chest pads, which are not unlike the Michelin Man ensemble, and the other girls are talking smack to my girl.
"You know, we just love to spar. My kicks are the best in class."
"K says she really just doesn't want to spar S, she's dangerous."
"She's just scared because she's so much smaller than we all are."
Now. To be fair, K was easily 6" shorter than the crowd. It's a place we're pretty familiar with, being that she's often mistaken for a triplet with my 5 year olds. It's not like they had to look far for material or anything.
And apparently, this "women are bitches to each other" starts in grade school and does not allow a grown woman to stop herself, even when talking to a snarky 8 year old with better hair. Without a thought in my head, I answered truthfully & all mom-like, "All four of you are going to do fine. And K won last time, so she'll be just fine."
Whoops. Apparently, that second bit? It was out loud. I am that parent. And I didn't even realize it, since the girlfriend code had kicked in, and I had defended my girl. My husband, on the other hand, suggested I take a walk around the parking lot and that perhaps I was taking this too seriously.
It definitely brings up the bigger question for me about why women can't just be supportive, even at a young age, and what we're teaching our girls. K and I talked about standing up for ourselves, and that perhaps Momma got a little over-protective of her Princessa. K admitted that she was happy I put an end to it, which is all I wanted, and that she needs to tell people that she's sick of being picked on instead of just sitting there and taking it. We came up with some choice comebacks for short jokes, all of which were her ideas, not mine, I promise.
And I will apparently be entering "sports parent snark management" sessions, as dictated by my loving husband.
Oh, the sparring results? She pretty much got her ass handed to her by the "dangerous" girl. Anyone have any barbecue sauce? I hear it's great with crow.
Apparently, I was wrong, and I would like my crow grilled with a side salad, thank you very much.
We spent Sunday at a tae kwon do competition for K, who loves these things. Honestly, it's like watching 82 instructors herding 624 cats around a gym, but she loves them, so I pay my entry fee, admission for the rest of us, and we go so that she can compete. She's a green stripe now, which basically means that
There are three parts of the competition - form, board breaking and contact sparring. If you're new to martial arts, form is basically the dance-off, and the other two are basically what they sound like, particularly the contact part. Form went off without a hitch, one trophy earned, two to go. Board breaking wasn't a total loss, and she broke one of the two, second trophy in hand.
And then we get to the sparring. Now, the entire
"You know, we just love to spar. My kicks are the best in class."
"K says she really just doesn't want to spar S, she's dangerous."
"She's just scared because she's so much smaller than we all are."
Now. To be fair, K was easily 6" shorter than the crowd. It's a place we're pretty familiar with, being that she's often mistaken for a triplet with my 5 year olds. It's not like they had to look far for material or anything.
And apparently, this "women are bitches to each other" starts in grade school and does not allow a grown woman to stop herself, even when talking to a snarky 8 year old with better hair. Without a thought in my head, I answered truthfully & all mom-like, "All four of you are going to do fine. And K won last time, so she'll be just fine."
Whoops. Apparently, that second bit? It was out loud. I am that parent. And I didn't even realize it, since the girlfriend code had kicked in, and I had defended my girl. My husband, on the other hand, suggested I take a walk around the parking lot and that perhaps I was taking this too seriously.
It definitely brings up the bigger question for me about why women can't just be supportive, even at a young age, and what we're teaching our girls. K and I talked about standing up for ourselves, and that perhaps Momma got a little over-protective of her Princessa. K admitted that she was happy I put an end to it, which is all I wanted, and that she needs to tell people that she's sick of being picked on instead of just sitting there and taking it. We came up with some choice comebacks for short jokes, all of which were her ideas, not mine, I promise.
And I will apparently be entering "sports parent snark management" sessions, as dictated by my loving husband.
Oh, the sparring results? She pretty much got her ass handed to her by the "dangerous" girl. Anyone have any barbecue sauce? I hear it's great with crow.
Wednesday
Brunch for three, table by the window, please
Do you think Child Services comes if your children ask for a SeaBreeze for a breakfast drink? And when you answer in confusion that you don't have SeaBreeze juice, they correct you and are able instruct you to make it with the "red berry and the orange juice, momma. Top shelf."
Apparently this "how bad can it be" thing can be taken too far. And their father and I need to discuss what happened when I went camping this weekend and he was in charge...
Apparently this "how bad can it be" thing can be taken too far. And their father and I need to discuss what happened when I went camping this weekend and he was in charge...
Tuesday
Not so funky fresh....
I'm in a funk. There. I've said it. A deep dark blue capital "F" funk. Which hopefully will explain my silence. Even if it doesn't, I'm funky, and not in a good way. Be warned.
I know it's Spring, and the fog should be lifting, and that if I waste Spring in a funk, it will soon be Summer, which puts me back in the funk because it's freakishly hot and I must remain lily white or risk more surgery, which my sweet husband has deemed I've reached my limit on.
But Spring also brings tax time, which I have tried to be cheery about, but it's the first year we've actually owed money, and when the Ms do something we do it big, and owe the GNP of some developing nations. Funkalicious.
I know that school is still in session, which should give me time to relax, but I'm funky because I have to figure out what to do with the summer, and these stay-at-home mothers are taking all of my spots in the good camps because they aremaniacal organized, and I'm not.
And worst of all, do you realize that people actually finish a craft project? And have time to have their adorable children model it, and take fabulous photographs with witty blog entries? Seriously. I should take inspiration from these folks, but I'm not. I am, however, using them as excuse to shop for supplies, which I'll soon stack on top of the other unused supplies use for the project. And maybe finish it. And maybe be able to find the top of my desk afterwards. So there. Maybe the project will even be an interpretive piece on my funk. Double so there.
I think that the worst of it is because my neighborhood mom-friends are sailing through things like stomach flu and mumps rumors, report cards and kindergarten registration like it's a cake walk. Meanwhile, I'm making decisions for the boys based on the phrase "How bad could it be?" Anyone find the parenting book that endorses that one? Is it just the working moms who say these things? Because let me tell you, this is not something I've heard on the playground.
"How bad could it be?"
"We're just going to throw them in and see what happens."
"What the hell, we already have a therapist for one of them anyway, and I bet he'll take on the rest of them."
The teachers have said that W & F could benefit from an additional year of preschool. They are academically ready, but... They're Boys.
Seriously? Your rationale is based on the fact that they are boys. Sure am glad I took a day off from work for you to attend that enrichment training. Seriously.
Because the boys' birthday is in March, they're in that gray area of hold back. Summer moms get the luxury of the guilt-free decision. "Oh, she has a summer birthday," the other moms agree. "Definitely hold her. You'll be so happy."
But us? No knowing agreement here. We get the "Oh" commentary, with the expression your mother makes when you tell her you're moving in with the boy prior to marriage. "But they seem so.... Smart. But you know, boys are like that."
So I've had angst, and funk, and some wine, and more angst. And at the end of the day, we're going to throw them in. The classes are small, and I have to make some sort of decision, because they have to order books, you know, and registration was, like, 5 years ago. And never in a million years did I think that my parenting was going to be based on "how bad it could be", but there you are. Standing in the middle of the road, waiting for the truck to flatten you while you agonize over the decision. And in addition to the college fund, we'll be saving for the therapy our decision will ultimately cause. Maybe for us, maybe for them.
How bad could it be?
I know it's Spring, and the fog should be lifting, and that if I waste Spring in a funk, it will soon be Summer, which puts me back in the funk because it's freakishly hot and I must remain lily white or risk more surgery, which my sweet husband has deemed I've reached my limit on.
But Spring also brings tax time, which I have tried to be cheery about, but it's the first year we've actually owed money, and when the Ms do something we do it big, and owe the GNP of some developing nations. Funkalicious.
I know that school is still in session, which should give me time to relax, but I'm funky because I have to figure out what to do with the summer, and these stay-at-home mothers are taking all of my spots in the good camps because they are
And worst of all, do you realize that people actually finish a craft project? And have time to have their adorable children model it, and take fabulous photographs with witty blog entries? Seriously. I should take inspiration from these folks, but I'm not. I am, however, using them as excuse to shop for supplies, which I'll soon
I think that the worst of it is because my neighborhood mom-friends are sailing through things like stomach flu and mumps rumors, report cards and kindergarten registration like it's a cake walk. Meanwhile, I'm making decisions for the boys based on the phrase "How bad could it be?" Anyone find the parenting book that endorses that one? Is it just the working moms who say these things? Because let me tell you, this is not something I've heard on the playground.
"How bad could it be?"
"We're just going to throw them in and see what happens."
"What the hell, we already have a therapist for one of them anyway, and I bet he'll take on the rest of them."
The teachers have said that W & F could benefit from an additional year of preschool. They are academically ready, but... They're Boys.
Seriously? Your rationale is based on the fact that they are boys. Sure am glad I took a day off from work for you to attend that enrichment training. Seriously.
Because the boys' birthday is in March, they're in that gray area of hold back. Summer moms get the luxury of the guilt-free decision. "Oh, she has a summer birthday," the other moms agree. "Definitely hold her. You'll be so happy."
But us? No knowing agreement here. We get the "Oh" commentary, with the expression your mother makes when you tell her you're moving in with the boy prior to marriage. "But they seem so.... Smart. But you know, boys are like that."
So I've had angst, and funk, and some wine, and more angst. And at the end of the day, we're going to throw them in. The classes are small, and I have to make some sort of decision, because they have to order books, you know, and registration was, like, 5 years ago. And never in a million years did I think that my parenting was going to be based on "how bad it could be", but there you are. Standing in the middle of the road, waiting for the truck to flatten you while you agonize over the decision. And in addition to the college fund, we'll be saving for the therapy our decision will ultimately cause. Maybe for us, maybe for them.
How bad could it be?
Wednesday
Independence Day
So yesterday, my boys were 5. 5! How did these little bundles of baby turn FIVE?
Now. While this post should be sweet and full of my love for my boys, it will turn inevitably to one about me, so let's spare you the sap and get right down to it.
I had to buy my two boy children completely different gifts. And I was completely and utterly traumatized.
Now, those of you with singletons are likely staring at the screen thinking that I have finally lost my mind. And I may have, but that would be an entirely separate matter. Even moms of boy/girl twins likely think I'm a loon, since this is something they have dealt with all along.
But I'm hoping that some of you with same-sex twins understand my plight - they are completely separate children. When the hell did that happen?
Most people I know with twins spend a crazy amount of time ensuring that things are fair and balanced. My poor husband couldn't even stomach the idea of the boys having different mobiles over their cribs - what if one of them got into Yale, and other couldn't even get into community college... And it was because of the mobile?
Twin moms everywhere have lengthy conversations about what to call their twins. "The twins?" Definitely not, we all say, they are separate people, not a unit. But at the end of the day, I was in a pretty good groove of buying two of everything boy, and if it wasn't the exact same thing, it was a close relative. One gets Spiderman, the other gets Batman. Done.
But this year? This year, they throw me. After his epiphany (and much pushing and yelling), W wanted a scooter. So a scooter it was. But no amount of creative suggestion could sway F from his chosen prize - a Fantastic Four skateboard. "A fast one!" he crowed. W also couldn't be swayed, and Lord knows I tried.
So last night, the boys received their bounty - a Fantastic Four skateboard for one, and a blue scooter for the other. They are thrilled, my husband and I, perplexed.
When on earth did these toddlers turn into people with opinions? And different ones, at that? We knew they had opposite temperaments, but they seemed to do things in waves. W walked first, F three weeks later. F showed his teacher his penis, W pulls his pants down in class 6 months later. But this, for some reason, was completely unexpected. (Not as unexpected as the dual pantsing, but I digress.)
Try as I might to remember that they are indeed separate individuals, I too was lumping them into a group for ease of use. I grab two of everything, from shirts to toys. They are "my boys", not W & F. Yet apparently, 5 brings independence, not only from me, but from each other, which is interesting and sad all at the same time.
So the science experiment at our house continues while I adjust my shopping habits. And if W doesn't get into Yale, blame the scooter.
Now. While this post should be sweet and full of my love for my boys, it will turn inevitably to one about me, so let's spare you the sap and get right down to it.
I had to buy my two boy children completely different gifts. And I was completely and utterly traumatized.
Now, those of you with singletons are likely staring at the screen thinking that I have finally lost my mind. And I may have, but that would be an entirely separate matter. Even moms of boy/girl twins likely think I'm a loon, since this is something they have dealt with all along.
But I'm hoping that some of you with same-sex twins understand my plight - they are completely separate children. When the hell did that happen?
Most people I know with twins spend a crazy amount of time ensuring that things are fair and balanced. My poor husband couldn't even stomach the idea of the boys having different mobiles over their cribs - what if one of them got into Yale, and other couldn't even get into community college... And it was because of the mobile?
Twin moms everywhere have lengthy conversations about what to call their twins. "The twins?" Definitely not, we all say, they are separate people, not a unit. But at the end of the day, I was in a pretty good groove of buying two of everything boy, and if it wasn't the exact same thing, it was a close relative. One gets Spiderman, the other gets Batman. Done.
But this year? This year, they throw me. After his epiphany (and much pushing and yelling), W wanted a scooter. So a scooter it was. But no amount of creative suggestion could sway F from his chosen prize - a Fantastic Four skateboard. "A fast one!" he crowed. W also couldn't be swayed, and Lord knows I tried.
So last night, the boys received their bounty - a Fantastic Four skateboard for one, and a blue scooter for the other. They are thrilled, my husband and I, perplexed.
When on earth did these toddlers turn into people with opinions? And different ones, at that? We knew they had opposite temperaments, but they seemed to do things in waves. W walked first, F three weeks later. F showed his teacher his penis, W pulls his pants down in class 6 months later. But this, for some reason, was completely unexpected. (Not as unexpected as the dual pantsing, but I digress.)
Try as I might to remember that they are indeed separate individuals, I too was lumping them into a group for ease of use. I grab two of everything, from shirts to toys. They are "my boys", not W & F. Yet apparently, 5 brings independence, not only from me, but from each other, which is interesting and sad all at the same time.
So the science experiment at our house continues while I adjust my shopping habits. And if W doesn't get into Yale, blame the scooter.
Monday
Other Voices, other tunes
I had the luxury this weekend of getting a vacation from my family - spending the weekend at a scrapbooking retreat, with a group of new friends. The scrapbooking was great, the laughter loud, the reminiscing a bit teary. And then we started talking about church.
Now before I start this, I will say this about my new friends. They are lovely. "Lovely" isn't a word I use all that often - it feels contrived. But lovely they were, generous and kind to the new girl and her friend. I genuinely enjoyed their company, and can't wait to do it again.
I spent two full days with them - shared pictures of our children, tales of our husbands, discovered that we all used the same OB to deliver. I have seen almost all of them in pajamas. But then, the specter of the really and truly faithful loomed around the table. These women are religious with a capital R, and honestly, in all of the best ways. They are honest about their faith, not pushy, not judgmental. Their faith is the foundation of their lives and families, and they truly care about each other, and those around them. And if they are lovely, and caring, and kind... Why do my defenses go up when they start sharing their faith with me?
I would like to think I am quietly faithful. I'm a big fan of God, even if he did not deliver me from twin toddler Hell as quickly as I asked. (To be fair, if I had gotten that screeching request full of expletives, I might not have honored it either.) I like the idea that something bigger than my tiny self exists and is steering me a bit, even if I insist on turning the wrong way.
When G and I got married, I railed against a church that I felt was "closed." The priest that helped perform the ceremony explained that it was like being invited over for dinner. You're welcome to come and share the meal,he said, but not go back into the kitchen and help make dessert. As I drove home yesterday, I found myself thinking of this - how is it that I can rail against something because I think it is closed, and then not be open to the idea of a different way to celebrate my faith?
I admire these women. They really and truly believe that God will take care of them, those they love, and those for whom they petition. They are good models of what I think faithful women can become. The women, my new friends, are open to others. They didn't care that I practiced a different way, or admitted that I sometimes didn't feel comfortable in a church with contemporary music. Their hearts and minds are open.
At the end of the day, the problem lies within. In my mind, I just can't let go. I try, albeit half-heartedly. I ask for help, but don't believe it will come. I try and attend a mass, but then drift off making mental grocery lists during the service. I will try and read a faith-based book, but put it down as soon as I think it is "too preachy", or "not my style." At the end of the day, I am intimidated by their honesty and willingness to listen to another voice.
I write this not to start a debate, although it might, and it might be an interesting one. I write this to start a process of being more honest, mainly with myself. I can't continue to be cafe religious, only taking the things that suit me, and leaving the brussel sprouts behind. In doing that, I think I am becoming the type of person that really and truly bugs me - the ones that are professedly faithful, yet judge and berate those who choose a different path.
So here goes. Where this leads me, I'm not really sure. But I guess that's part of the point, right?
Now before I start this, I will say this about my new friends. They are lovely. "Lovely" isn't a word I use all that often - it feels contrived. But lovely they were, generous and kind to the new girl and her friend. I genuinely enjoyed their company, and can't wait to do it again.
I spent two full days with them - shared pictures of our children, tales of our husbands, discovered that we all used the same OB to deliver. I have seen almost all of them in pajamas. But then, the specter of the really and truly faithful loomed around the table. These women are religious with a capital R, and honestly, in all of the best ways. They are honest about their faith, not pushy, not judgmental. Their faith is the foundation of their lives and families, and they truly care about each other, and those around them. And if they are lovely, and caring, and kind... Why do my defenses go up when they start sharing their faith with me?
I would like to think I am quietly faithful. I'm a big fan of God, even if he did not deliver me from twin toddler Hell as quickly as I asked. (To be fair, if I had gotten that screeching request full of expletives, I might not have honored it either.) I like the idea that something bigger than my tiny self exists and is steering me a bit, even if I insist on turning the wrong way.
When G and I got married, I railed against a church that I felt was "closed." The priest that helped perform the ceremony explained that it was like being invited over for dinner. You're welcome to come and share the meal,he said, but not go back into the kitchen and help make dessert. As I drove home yesterday, I found myself thinking of this - how is it that I can rail against something because I think it is closed, and then not be open to the idea of a different way to celebrate my faith?
I admire these women. They really and truly believe that God will take care of them, those they love, and those for whom they petition. They are good models of what I think faithful women can become. The women, my new friends, are open to others. They didn't care that I practiced a different way, or admitted that I sometimes didn't feel comfortable in a church with contemporary music. Their hearts and minds are open.
At the end of the day, the problem lies within. In my mind, I just can't let go. I try, albeit half-heartedly. I ask for help, but don't believe it will come. I try and attend a mass, but then drift off making mental grocery lists during the service. I will try and read a faith-based book, but put it down as soon as I think it is "too preachy", or "not my style." At the end of the day, I am intimidated by their honesty and willingness to listen to another voice.
I write this not to start a debate, although it might, and it might be an interesting one. I write this to start a process of being more honest, mainly with myself. I can't continue to be cafe religious, only taking the things that suit me, and leaving the brussel sprouts behind. In doing that, I think I am becoming the type of person that really and truly bugs me - the ones that are professedly faithful, yet judge and berate those who choose a different path.
So here goes. Where this leads me, I'm not really sure. But I guess that's part of the point, right?
Friday
As promised...
In my last post I promised more W stories, so here's this week's installment in the Life of W. (There are actually several new proud F&K stories, but those can wait.)
While W is my sweet and caring child, he is not, shall we say, an athlete. Which is odd, since he is the splitting image of his father, who was an athlete with a capital A. At the end of the day, W is my child. Which, while could land him a college scholarship, is unfortunate as a male child in the M household.
It is kind to say that we (W & I) are not coordinated. In any fashion. We are fortunate to get through the day with only bruises that we remember getting, since we often run into things and just don't notice. In a shock to only my husband, I was essentially kicked off my childhood softball team by being placed in the far left outfield. (The shock has worn off, I promise.)
So the weather here is warmer, finally, and the neighborhood is out and about, driveways covered in chalk and bike helmets. W is thrilled at the chalk. Draws me lots of pictures, writes his name, even tries his "opposite" hand in my effort to make the OT happy. And then, the bikes are brought out.
"You know, Mom, I like to walk and hold your hand."
"Don't you want to try your bike? Just to the next driveway?"
"You know, Mom, the weather is lovely. Martha said the weather is good for walking."
Hmmm.
This is all fine and well, I don't like riding bikes either, but I was left with fairly stern instructions by G. "Get W on his bike today. All he has to do is ride 2 driveways and I will be happy. He will do this by Spring if it kills us."
Hmmm.
Now, I must stop and confess that I am not a "pusher." If he doesn't want to do it, fine. It is not a battle I am willing to fight. But as the lone not-quite-5-year-old on the block who flatly refuses his bike, G has dictated that it is time. The bike must be ridden, or we, the M family of Northern VA will be entered into the Hall of Shame of playground parents.
Hmmm.
After much cajoling, wheedling, and bribes of the promise of Girl Scout cookies, the bike is out of the garage. And in no time flat, offered to F, who takes off like a speed demon. Not what I had hoped for.
And this is how G finds us as he pulls in. Me with a book in the lawn chair, F whizzing by on the bike, K on her scooter, and W drawing flowers. Not what he had hoped for.
I now interrupt this idyllic scene to insert the pushing. G pushes W, who then throws a bit of a fit, which ends... With W on a 2 wheel scooter, no helmet, going three driveways.
This is what I was hoping for.
While W is my sweet and caring child, he is not, shall we say, an athlete. Which is odd, since he is the splitting image of his father, who was an athlete with a capital A. At the end of the day, W is my child. Which, while could land him a college scholarship, is unfortunate as a male child in the M household.
It is kind to say that we (W & I) are not coordinated. In any fashion. We are fortunate to get through the day with only bruises that we remember getting, since we often run into things and just don't notice. In a shock to only my husband, I was essentially kicked off my childhood softball team by being placed in the far left outfield. (The shock has worn off, I promise.)
So the weather here is warmer, finally, and the neighborhood is out and about, driveways covered in chalk and bike helmets. W is thrilled at the chalk. Draws me lots of pictures, writes his name, even tries his "opposite" hand in my effort to make the OT happy. And then, the bikes are brought out.
"You know, Mom, I like to walk and hold your hand."
"Don't you want to try your bike? Just to the next driveway?"
"You know, Mom, the weather is lovely. Martha said the weather is good for walking."
Hmmm.
This is all fine and well, I don't like riding bikes either, but I was left with fairly stern instructions by G. "Get W on his bike today. All he has to do is ride 2 driveways and I will be happy. He will do this by Spring if it kills us."
Hmmm.
Now, I must stop and confess that I am not a "pusher." If he doesn't want to do it, fine. It is not a battle I am willing to fight. But as the lone not-quite-5-year-old on the block who flatly refuses his bike, G has dictated that it is time. The bike must be ridden, or we, the M family of Northern VA will be entered into the Hall of Shame of playground parents.
Hmmm.
After much cajoling, wheedling, and bribes of the promise of Girl Scout cookies, the bike is out of the garage. And in no time flat, offered to F, who takes off like a speed demon. Not what I had hoped for.
And this is how G finds us as he pulls in. Me with a book in the lawn chair, F whizzing by on the bike, K on her scooter, and W drawing flowers. Not what he had hoped for.
I now interrupt this idyllic scene to insert the pushing. G pushes W, who then throws a bit of a fit, which ends... With W on a 2 wheel scooter, no helmet, going three driveways.
This is what I was hoping for.
Tuesday
Too good to be told
I laugh at things. A lot. Perhaps more than I should, and these things are often at my children's expense.
I tell stories. A lot of them. Mostly to hide my own fear of how badly I've screwed my kids up, or to illustrate that yes, I do realize how ill-behaved my sweet boy appears to, well, most everyone. A funny story hides a million sins.
But what I've noticed lately, is that W is getting shafted. His brother F has stories and colorful nicknames. (The "toilet plugger", for one) His sister K has sweet stories and glowing reports of her royal achievements. (Did you know she's reading on a 6th grade level?) Even their father has some stories.
But W? Nada. Nothing. Shafted.
It's not that he's not interesting, really. He is a delight, I swear. And funny to beat the band, when he's in a goofy mood, which is often. But as the quiet twin, he often gets overlooked for his oddball brother, who can be infinitely more attention-getting, and not always in a good way.
W has a new habit, which is funny and endearing, but perhaps a little telling as well. When he starts a story, it goes in fits and starts, something like this:
W: "Mom. Mom. Mom. Today in school we... Mom. We just tried... Mom"
I thought, at first, that perhaps his little brain just couldn't get the sentence slowed down enough to get it out. But as I sit and wonder, perhaps he's just trying to make sure I'm still listening?
I had (have?) a New Year's Resolution to write things down. "You should write a book" my neighbor said, after a recounting of F's horrible day, involving the tae kwon do penalty box and some choice tantrum throwing. While those things are funny and memorable, maybe it's the W stories that I need to be sharing.
It's ok, buddy. I hear you.
I tell stories. A lot of them. Mostly to hide my own fear of how badly I've screwed my kids up, or to illustrate that yes, I do realize how ill-behaved my sweet boy appears to, well, most everyone. A funny story hides a million sins.
But what I've noticed lately, is that W is getting shafted. His brother F has stories and colorful nicknames. (The "toilet plugger", for one) His sister K has sweet stories and glowing reports of her royal achievements. (Did you know she's reading on a 6th grade level?) Even their father has some stories.
But W? Nada. Nothing. Shafted.
It's not that he's not interesting, really. He is a delight, I swear. And funny to beat the band, when he's in a goofy mood, which is often. But as the quiet twin, he often gets overlooked for his oddball brother, who can be infinitely more attention-getting, and not always in a good way.
W has a new habit, which is funny and endearing, but perhaps a little telling as well. When he starts a story, it goes in fits and starts, something like this:
W: "Mom. Mom. Mom. Today in school we... Mom. We just tried... Mom"
I thought, at first, that perhaps his little brain just couldn't get the sentence slowed down enough to get it out. But as I sit and wonder, perhaps he's just trying to make sure I'm still listening?
I had (have?) a New Year's Resolution to write things down. "You should write a book" my neighbor said, after a recounting of F's horrible day, involving the tae kwon do penalty box and some choice tantrum throwing. While those things are funny and memorable, maybe it's the W stories that I need to be sharing.
It's ok, buddy. I hear you.
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