Category Archives: Everyday Life

December 1, 2011 · 1:27 pm

Still Time for Adventure

“It’s real smooth,” he explained. And so was he, my brother-in-law talking me into riding a roller coaster over Thanksgiving break. The Alpengeist. I watched as it looped and twisted through the night sky, dozens of feet dangling in midair while hands braced the harnesses that kept occupants inside the car at all times.

I knew no one else would ride with him so I agreed. I like roller coasters, the ones that aren’t scary, but I really feel like I’m getting too old for this stuff. I don’t think my heart can take it anymore. I knew the ride would be quick. I just tried not to think any more about it.

As our turn approached, I made two requests: no front row and I had to have an inside seat. The less I saw of the ground and the fact that I was nowhere near it, the better.

When we boarded, two gray-haired men took the seats next to us. They were father and son. The son kindly tucked in his dad, put his hood on him, and asked, “Dad, are you OK?”

My brother-in-law turned to me and said, “Do you scream?”

I said something like, “Uh, you better believe it.”

I locked my eyes on the row in front of me and as the coaster started downward, let out a scream that lasted half the length of the ride. More screaming followed. Panic set in. I couldn’t tell whether we were up, down, left, or right. Could this entire ride be upside down? What was this? When would it end?

When we finally stopped, my trembling fingers couldn’t undo the harness. I could barely stand on gelatinous legs. As we walked to our family, the man who had been sitting next to me turned to me and said he was 87 and he just thought he’d try it. What?

If I hadn’t had a mouth full of cotton, I would have asked him a hundred questions. He seemed OK. And except for my screaming, he probably had a great ride.

My kids, mother, and sister wanted the verdict. “Mommy, did you throw up? We heard you screaming. We can’t believe you rode that.” Very funny. This ride is touted as “one of the tallest, fastest, most insane coasters in the world.” I’m convinced.

I’m not adventurous or spontaneous. I’m a hardcore planner and I painstakingly think things through. I don’t care for adventure that takes my breath away, but every now and then I can be talked into something stupid. There have been times when, through sweaty palms, knocking knees, and not being able to catch a breath, my prayers have included more than a few curse words. But I feel like sometimes you get a free pass when panic sets in.

Deep down, I know it can be a good thing to make sure there’s still blood pumping through your veins, that it hasn’t seized up like water in molten chocolate. I need to know my heart can take a jolt, especially with teenagers coming my way in four years.

So maybe I shouldn’t write off adventure yet. Maybe there will still be hope for me at 87, and my kids will still be able to talk me into a little something stupid. What will I have to lose? Maybe nothing but a pair of false teeth.

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November 27, 2011 · 9:54 pm

It’s All About Me

So it looks like I’ve been given a blogging award by Mommy Said a Swear Word. It’s kind of a cool feeling to be honored for something that I put quite a bit of effort into. I mean, I think about it often. I spend time with it. I nurture it. I’ve watched it grow. And for my hard work and loyalty—and so soon after my blog’s birth—I have this lovely badge of honor to proudly display. Someone likes what I do. They appreciate me. I don’t know what to say. Just, thank you.

It is mind-blowing, this praise thing. There has to be a way to get our kids into this award business. It would be pretty cool if, say, instead of during a quiet meal that I think my son enjoys, he didn’t lean over to me and whisper, “This is disgusting.” I’d much rather be presented with a ribbon or a trophy or hear, “Thanks, Mom, for a warm meal every night.” But, hey, that’s just me maybe?

So to proceed with the acceptance of this award, I must reveal seven secrets about myself. Since I am quite the boring mom, really, and have no secrets that I can think of (or can remember anyway), I’ll tell you seven things about me that you may or may not want to know.

1) I am terrified of heights. In movies where a character is faced with a scene on a ledge or something equally horrific, my palms sweat, I go weak and panic. I’m having trouble typing this just thinking about it.

2) My job as a reporter many years ago allowed me to do some really cool things and meet some awesome people. I flew in a four-seater airplane (couldn’t look down!) and then wondered the whole time why on earth I agreed to it.

3) I can touch my elbow with my tongue.

4) If my house caught on fire, I’d try to grab my recipe box (after my kids, of course). It is a large antique recipe box that I have put a lot of time into and all of those recipes are delicious. But I wouldn’t ask my kids for their opinion on that.

5) I do not like Elvis music. I never have. Never will.

6) I do, however, love old things. I collect jadeite dishes and vintage kitchen items, Art Deco pictures, and other odds and ends from the 1920s through ‘50s. They just don’t make stuff like they used to.

7) I love music, but I often cannot tell you who the singer is or the name of the song. When the show CSI first came out, I got caught singing the wrong lyrics. I wondered why they picked a song about New Orleans for a show based in Las Vegas.… “Neeeeeew Awlins, doop, do, doop, do.”

Now I have to list blogs I enjoy. I am just getting the hang of all of this to start actually following other people regularly, but here are a few that have caught my eye so far, a smorgasbord of fun spaces. I may have left someone out (blogroll to come soon). But really, go check these out.

Mommy Said a Swear Word

Messy Quest

Melissa’s Southern Style Kitchen

Momma Be Thy Name

This Woman’s Work

The Unvarnished Mom

What I Meant 2 Say 

 

 

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November 16, 2011 · 1:04 pm

The Picture—and What the Boys Saw

For a week my son had been waiting for the new Lego Club magazine with all the vigor of a dirty old man sitting on a park bench watching for the next caboose to jiggle by. I could almost see him licking his chops, chuckling in creepy delight.

When my son revealed to me that this new magazine had a naked girl in it, I knew better but he couldn’t be swayed. “She’s naked and they show her back and her butt,” he giggled in delight.

The boys at school had already brought in their copies. I could just see them huddled around this fantastical image of something they thought they were seeing, pointing and whispering at things that surely weren’t there, hiding this golden gem when the teacher walked by.

Each day after school, my son groaned when his magazine turned up absent in the mailbox.

I asked him why he was so interested anyway. The answer? Simple. He wanted to see a naked girl. Son, you and most of the rest of the boys in the world.

He said he knows what he looks like. And it’s been many years since he’s walked in on me getting dressed. As hard as it is when your kid starts thinking about that, it’s normal. It’s innocent. What is so secret and hush-hush? Kids are curious. And when you think you see something in a magazine that you’re not supposed to see, that makes it all the more tantalizing.

When my son’s magazine finally did come, I handed it to him and he took off wearing a smile. He tore through the pages and I heard those giggles again.

What did I find when I came to inspect this naked lady in all her bare-bottomed glory? A 1×2-inch photo of the Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides cover. The woman was the size of my thumbnail. I needed a magnifying glass to see her parts.

Good grief. Males. Idiots.

I went online and blew up the photo, along with his dreams. “Do you see this picture?” I asked him. “Do you see what she is?”

“A mermaid,” my son answered.

“Yes, that’s not her butt. There’s no crack. She has a fish tail.”

His face went blank. For a second.

“She still doesn’t have anything up top,” he countered.

I guess sometimes you don’t have to see to believe.

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November 7, 2011 · 1:40 pm

A Boy and a Camera

One thing my family can agree on is animals. Watching them, learning about them, it’s something we all get in on. But my son can read a book about animals, absorb it, and relay the facts to you repeatedly. Often more times than you want to hear them. He constantly begs us for sometimes bizarre pets: a huge saltwater aquarium for his room, lizards of all sorts, alpacas, sheep, horses.

When he learns about an animal, his first question is always, “Can you have it as a pet?” My frequent response is, “If you live on a farm.” When he grows up, he plans to live on a farm and have all of these animals, but he’ll need my help of course. Well, he is welcome to do that but I’m no farmhand.

In your face. Taken by my son, 8.

This weekend we went to a nearby science center. My kids love to visit the animals and have been bringing the camera on recent visits. Soon I fear we will have more pictures of these animals than we do of the kids.

The kids fought over the camera, each having to get a shot of each animal. I’ve been through this more than once now. But I see something there, a talent that my son doesn’t yet feel. He is actually pretty good at this photography thing. I try to give him a few pointers without interfering too much, you know, that nagging thing moms do. Animals are like kids and you have to be patient, I told him several months ago. Wait for the shot. Zoom in. Hold still.

And this weekend he did. I think he’s a natural.

So many times, for other things, I have to constantly remind him. But not about this. He takes the camera, seeks out a subject, frames it, shoots. Unfortunately, past subjects have included my rear end in a pool with plans of making a poster-size print for his wall. And other than that one, some of his pictures are pretty darn good.

My daughter’s unsteady hand captures shaky, fuzzy images. She’s only six. It’s hard to push the button, hold the camera, and get the shot before the animal darts away in a playful frenzy. Maybe she’ll get there too.

These guys are huge and my son loves them. We say hello to them at every visit.

Even sometimes now I don’t get close enough to my subject. My images sit too far off and framed by too much space.

But my son seems to know how to do it with not a lot of guidance. It’s neat to see something develop in your kids right before your eyes. To me, his pictures are worth more than words.

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November 4, 2011 · 9:25 am

Box of Germs

There’s a public place crawling with cooties, infested with every sickness known to motherhood, and filled with ear-piercing screams that frightens me, almost worse than any bathroom (not all of them, come on now). It takes my germophobia to a whole new level. It’s the pediatrician’s office.

As my kids and I waited one day this week to find out whether my daughter had strep (she did), my hysteria settled in.

Any time my kids and I visit that box of germs, I know we are gambling with our health. It’s not like school where there is a chance of getting sick. Real, live sick germs crawl all over this place day and night. You go in there, you will touch something that a sick person has touched.

My brain goes into overdrive. What do these kids have? Is it worse than what we have? What will we end up getting on our way out? I plop my kids in the seats farthest from anyone. I shriek-whisper to them not to touch anything. Repeatedly. We hand-sanitize several times a visit if necessary.

It’s a house of horrors where tortured kids scream in pain. My kids and I slink down in our seats and hope that’s not what’s in store for our tiny room. The other day a kid down the hall was screaming, “I can’t take it! You’re killing me!” Well, we couldn’t take it either. We were about to get our coats and tiptoe for the nearest exit.

Our doctor said it was an ear problem. I nearly collapsed at the memories of someone prodding in my ears as a kid and adult and my own threats to punch them if they didn’t stop. Who do these doctors think they are?

The good news is, I don’t need a therapist to help me figure out the traumatic event that triggered my germophobic behavior either. Many years ago during our first after-hours visit, my kids and I sat crammed into “the sick room” waiting for an hour to be seen. Everyone in that room looked sweaty and miserable and coughed. And coughed. And coughed.

I thought I had died and that was my hell. I tried to disguise the fact that I was using my hand as a germ shield over my nose and mouth. I stole bits of clean air when I could. I fought off a panic attack. I fidgeted in my seat. I made sure the kids didn’t touch anything or anyone. When would the stinking nurse call our name?! We were only there for an ear infection for Pete’s sake! Don’t they have a separate room for that?

When the kids were younger, one trip to the doctor so often led to a return visit within a week with what we caught there. We could have caught it somewhere else, but my kids weren’t in preschool at the time. The pattern fit. It was a running joke when we left the doctor. “I’m sure we’ll see you in a week.” Most of the time, we did.

I’m always thankful for our doctor’s wisdom—goodness knows he has shared a lot—and the medicine. But I am always ready to run out that door and into the fresh air because that’s a long time to hold your breath.

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October 26, 2011 · 2:06 pm

Lots of Miles on This Baby

This week our van passed 100,000 miles. Not a big deal, really. But it kind of is. I was four months pregnant when we bought that van. That kid is now almost 9. I used to feed him in the backseat, change his diaper in the trunk, wrestle him into his car seat, and listen to him exercise his lungs at top volume on eight-hour road trips.

Early on we discovered long car trips were unbearable with young children. Not only did we have to pack the whole house, all teetering in the rear, but that van has heard more curse words than the Eagles’ stadium. The steering wheel has taken a beating, all thanks to I-95 traffic and a screaming toddler.

No diapers back here. Just smelly game-day stuff and lots of dirt.

The side door cup holders still hold the rocks from our many trips to the park when my son was a toddler. The carpet is stained with milk shakes, ground-in Goldfish, and matted raisins.

It took me five months to learn to park that van. Let’s be honest, I still have trouble.

I’m not sentimental toward it; I’ll be glad to see it go when the time comes. But when I look back, I’m amazed at the ground it’s covered, not to mention what it’s been covered with, and what it’s seen us through. Man, my kids aren’t babies anymore.

Car seats have given way to booster seats that the kids can strap themselves into, their heads hanging like limp rag dolls when they fall asleep.

The screaming has given way to giggles and after-school discussions, sometimes in whispers from the back too far away for me to hear. Or sometimes both kids yell at once, “Hey Mom, you’ll never guess what happened at school today.”

The trunk now holds chairs, soccer balls, and dirty cleats, while the sweaty kids with the crumbly snacks relay the good plays of the game.

The van has only seen one speeding ticket. Unfortunately, the kids saw that too. The son who “really had to go” suddenly had to go no longer. The cop, not sympathetic.

The van has left me stranded only once and that was in our driveway. Like people, it has become stubborn with age. The side door latch gets stuck and takes repetitive slamming and a few choice words to whack it into place. Sometimes the key won’t turn in the ignition…unless you open the driver-side door and say a few more choice words.

Our van is like a pair of broken-in jeans: It’s the perfect fit for us. But I know the time is near when we’ll have to start all over, worrying about spills and muddy shoes. Though I love the idea of driving around in a sportier model, wind in my graying hair, I can’t get over the comforts of a van. I look forward to the adventures the next new van will hold: seats filled with tweens gossiping about the latest and greatest, dating, learning to drive.

But for now, candy wrappers stick to the console, favorite toys go on every trip, and the DVD player still features Disney favorites. Soon the kids will be taller and surely smellier. And thankfully, they can sit in the way back.

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October 21, 2011 · 1:26 pm

Confessions of a Germophobe

When you have kids, it happens. Or at least, it happened to me. All that guck spilled forth on you each day. The shriveled-up, days-old food they’d slowly bring to their toddler mouths on gooey fingers. Rubbing their hands over every public surface before wiping their eyes, nose, mouth, and tongue with furious pleasure. It didn’t take long for me to become a germophobe. I’m trying to break free. But I still have many moments. And now that sick season is upon us, my soap sits at the ready.

I know what my kids touch every day. I know it’s good for their immune systems. Still, they don’t need to touch every germ, do they? They don’t need full exposure. Last year my daughter brought home everything from kindergarten. And I mean everything.

Now those are clean hands.

We wash our hands when we come inside from anywhere. I think that’s a sound rule. I hear and see what goes on. Toilets flush and sinks spray on for two seconds. Boogies go in places. In places. Raggedy dolls need to be washed. Hands rub over the bottoms of shoes that step in who knows what. It’s a nasty world out there.

And school? That warm bubble of sweaty kids, crammed into classrooms, sneezing and talking in each other’s faces? I’ve been there in classes where kids have coughed in my face. They go outside and never wash their grubby hands before lunch. I deal. I cringe, but I deal.

But I heard those four little words from my son on the way home from school this week, those words I dread every year.

“So-and-so threw up today.”

Great. Just great.

“And she didn’t even go home.”

Stop. The. Car.

“What?! Why didn’t she go home? She sat in your class all day?”

“Yup.” I think he knew that bothered me a great deal, and I think he liked it.

The interrogation began. As always, I wanted to know if he was anywhere near this vomiter at any point of that day or the days leading up to it. Did she breathe on him? Does she sit at his table? Did anything splash in his direction? (That has happened before…and it involved his lunch tray. Ew.)

Her being a girl means that there is likely no way he had any contact with her whatsoever.

Throw-up scares me. We had held out for seven years. Seven years, people! Until my daughter started kindergarten and brought that nasty bug home to us last year. She suffered for a fraction of our misery. My husband, son, and I were laid out for a weekend while she did nothing but beg us to play with her. I lay motionless and let my husband do almost all of the cleanup. He is great about that. I make an effort, all the while gagging and convulsing like a dog in the yard retching up dinner.

Kids, this is the reason we only put food in our mouths. Not thumbs or boogies. We don’t touch our nasty shoes while we’re eating dinner. We wash our hands for more than two seconds. We don’t pick up strange things off the ground and say, “What’s this?” It’s your ticket to the doctor, that’s what it is. Put that nasty thing down.

I just can’t get over my phobia yet. Sorry. Sick season is here, my soap is ready, and my nagging resumes today.

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October 17, 2011 · 3:36 pm

A Toy Story

If you know my daughter, you have most likely met the ragged counterpart that dangles by her side. It wasn’t that long ago that she carried her doll everywhere. Now it’s just almost everywhere. Still we cannot get over the hump of letting go. Did I say ragged? Mmm. You look at this doll and think you understand where rag doll got its name.

The thinnest, most threadbare piece of cloth holds my daughter’s favorite doll together. Once velvety soft, Ballerina’s see-through skin now shows the dark blue threads beneath. My daughter doesn’t like these threads that intersect under her doll’s happy face, so I tell her these are her veins, just like ours.

Her head, once crowned by yellow yarn pulled into a thick ponytail, now shows only the yellow fabric underneath that is fading away from delicate rubbing when my daughter falls asleep.

This doll is loved.

The tulle tutu, long gone, disintegrated in many washes. Her satin slippers have busted and been sewn so many times by my loving husband, I don’t know what keeps them together anymore.

And Ballerina’s skin, which runs like a pair of cheap stockings, gets stitched up by Dr. Dad just as often to keep her stuffing in.

Every piece of yarn hair that fell out, every tutu scrap that fell off, my daughter agonized over. “Will Ballerina be all right?”

My daughter has slept with and carried that doll around since she was about nine months old. Every night my daughter looks at peace, Ballerina in her arms or spread across her face, just as when my daughter was a baby. If my daughter awakens in the middle of the night to find Ballerina has jumped ship, it is our job to stumble down the hall, tear apart the bed, crawl underneath it, or stretch our arms behind it in search of her.

Ballerina has wiped away tears and snot, given countless hugs, and snuggled numerous hours of the day. She goes on every trip. She watches every movie. She gets invited to tea and birthdays. She is raced to after school each day. And she is sometimes unbearably hard to part with in the mornings. She has earned every battle scar, every loving stitch, and her worn-down, onion paper skin simply by being held and being there—just pure love.

One look at that doll, and anyone else would throw her in the trash. My daughter sees love and comfort, and cries whenever I tell her I’m not sure how much longer Ballerina will make it. So we sew and mend and do a little dance and hope that Ballerina will last just as long as our daughter’s love for her does. And every time I put her in the washing machine, I pray she will come out in one piece.

In many ways, it will be a relief when my daughter is not so attached to Ballerina. I often tell her to leave Ballerina in her room, put her down, or leave her home, mainly for fear the doll will bust at the seams beyond repair one day, but also because my daughter is getting too old for all that. But I know it will mean a lot of things when Ballerina is forgotten. When that time comes, I will tuck the doll safely away, whatever her state, because somehow I have become attached to all the memories stitched inside.

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October 7, 2011 · 10:30 am

GOAL!

It may have been the build-up. The longest set-up in the history of eight-year-old soccer. He stood there, trying to get the best angle, turning this way and that for what seemed like ages while some invisible force kept the other players far enough away for him to get everything lined up just right. Fists clenched, I held my breath and played it cool on the outside, but in my head I screamed, “JUST KICK IT! KICK IT! KICK IIIIIITT!” Finally, he did. And he scored what turned out to be the winning goal. My son’s first goal.

That goal wasn’t my success, but it sure felt like I had won. Teetering on the edge of my seat, it’s all I can do sometimes to even remain in it. There’s a lot of stress involved when you’re the parent watching the game. I never knew that before sitting through seasons of sports and games sometimes too painful to watch. It’s hard to see your kid being just like you.

My hope is always that he’ll overcome his fears because I never overcame mine. Isn’t that what we all want, for our kids to do better than we did? To not endure the same embarrassment? Courage. He needs courage. And it took awhile, but he’s finding it.

Lately my son had been improving little by little, making contact with the ball. Some days that’s all we could wish for. Then he had one good game. It was promising.

So last week, when my son’s team played a bunch of his classmates, I wondered how things would turn out. Would he step up and have fun with these boys he rough and tumbles with on the playground or clam up? When the ball came his way and his classmate was the one pushing it toward the goal, my son did nothing but step aside and let him score. I wanted to laugh and cry and yell at him to kick the stinking ball.

He said his heart was about to pound out of his chest. Nerves. Ah, just like me. I never did well at sports. I prayed the ball wouldn’t come near me. What my poor parents had to sit through. But seeing my son push himself and go farther in one season than I ever did my whole childhood, it makes a mom proud.

When my son scored last night on his third attempt, my nerves were shot. In an instant, a lump caught in my throat like a supersize wad of bubblegum. My eyes glazed over with a sheet of tears so fast, I feared I’d lose them there on the field, but not before I saw a smile spread across my son’s face and a humble celebration. And my husband, a quiet man who doesn’t give his emotions away easily, jumped from his chair with his arms raised in victory and cheered like he’d been living for that moment his whole life. The shock of that was enough to bring me back to reality.

I’m not sure who slept with a bigger smile on their face last night: my husband or my son. But the relief of knowing my son found his courage and maybe isn’t so much like me will make me smile for many nights to come.

Go, son. You did it. The success is yours.

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September 22, 2011 · 12:06 pm

Taming of the Tantrums

Strolling through the aisles of a store recently, I heard the start of a giant fit coming on. A toddler wanted out of her cart. Those pesky toddlers can be persistent. Boy, the memories flooded back. My quiet shopping experience had become stained by the piercing shrieks and then constant screams of this little girl who wanted nothing more than to be out of her cart. I snuck a few glances to see if her mom was “stuck,” meaning could she even get out of the store. She quieted when her mother held her. Then she started up again–she wanted down, and she repeated that for a very long time. This fit went on for a good ten minutes. It was loud. The mother made no effort to make a beeline for the door.

All I could think was two things: 1) Why doesn’t she run out of the store and save herself? I would have had it by now. When you run out of cookies, get thee to a door. 2) I have been there and I am so glad I am done with that!

Six years ago…

One morning I took my kids, two and a half years and six weeks old, to a craft store to buy some Halloween stuff to make with my son. I knew what I wanted. It would be a quick trip. This was one of the first outings alone with my kids, and it was a doozy.

I picked up the things I wanted and my son pointed out what he wanted. I told him no. That’s where I lost all control. He went into full fit mode: volume turned up, body convulsing out of control. I was in a bit of a pickle. This craft store had tiny carts and the carrier my daughter was in did not fit in a cart. I had carried her in and walked my son in. I was stuck in the store with a toddler in a full-blown tantrum. All I could do was gently hold him down in the aisle and wait it out.

At first I laughed. I’d wait this beast out. Well, I waited. And waited. People stared. My daughter slept. I still couldn’t pick up my son at all. Two older ladies came by. “I’ll bet you’re two and a half,” one said to my son. I laughed. She nailed it. God bless her. She understood. She offered to take my son out in a cart. That made him scream more because he thought I was giving him to this stranger, which at that point I felt like doing.

I thanked them but waited another minute and my son calmed down long enough for me to grab him in a football hold and loop my other arm through my daughter’s carrier. I ran for the door and through the parking lot, my son kicking me and biting me the whole way. While I tried to strap him in his car seat, he kicked me in the face, pulled my hair, and grabbed at my face with what felt like sharp claws. I can’t even mention the words that were going through my head and I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way home. I didn’t go back to that store for months.

I have been fortunate these past six years. That was the worst public display and nothing else has compared, but it scarred me for life.

Looking back to that day, when I realized I couldn’t escape my stupidity, I should have bought the silly wooden pumpkin that he wanted. I saw that fit coming and I could have said, “Sure, you can pay me back.” It wouldn’t have spoiled him. But it would have saved my sanity and helped me avoid a few battle scars. Had it not been there, that fit would have played out somewhere else, but maybe I would have been able to make a run for it. Regardless, I learned early on, it’s always better to shop without kids.

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