I am a total goody-two-shoes. I am a rule-follower and a risk-avoider and always have been. Very boring and sensible.
But I did once hitchhike 200 miles through the south of France, along the Route Napoleon. I was studying in Grenoble and three friends and I decided to go to Nice. We split up into boy-girl pairs and set off on a chilly day in February with a couple of backpacks and a cardboard sign. It took us a full day to reach Nice, but we got there, in the company of several nice ordinary people and a few harmless wackos. Plus a priest, who picked us up about 50 miles from Nice and took us to a nice convent he knew about, near Grasse. He (and the nuns) insisted that we have dinner there and then they put us on a bus for the very last leg of our journey.
Somewhere, I still have that cardboard sign reading "Destination Nice s'il vous plait."
*
And while we're taking this walk down memory lane: The story of how we got our dog, eight years ago today. Jeff and I were living together and engaged but not yet married. He had wanted a dog for a long time. I hadn't grown up with any pets but being all starry-eyed and goo-goo over my man, I started getting starry-eyed and goo-goo over all the cute doggies on Petfinder too.
One day we found an adorable little terrier there. We contacted the foster caregiver and scheduled an appointment to drive out to the boonies and meet this dog. The caregiver assured us that he was extremely sweet and gentle and would make a delightful pet. She encouraged us to take him out for a get-acquainted walk. We did and about 200 yards from this woman's house, stopped to play a bit with the dog--at which point he decided to sink his teeth into Jeff's arm. Not just a little puppy nip but a full-on chomp. We ran back to the house with blood gushing all over, handed off the terror terrier, and headed straight for the nearest ER. Jeff needed 6 stitches but did manage to avoid a series of rabies shots.
The next day we went to an animal shelter near our apartment. There must have been 50 dogs there, all barking like crazy trying to get our attention. The one who didn't bark, but just shyly gazed at us from behind the wire fencing, was the one we took home.
*
You know what today is, right? So which one of these is a true story?
For more fact vs. fiction:
My Life As It Is
The Mummy Chronicles
The Hip Mom's Guide
Updated Wednesday April 2: The dog story is about 60% true. It all happened except for the bad bite. The France story is 100% true. And here's a bonus story about my travel companion that day. A couple months ago I Googled him, since I am nothing if not nosy, and found that he is a spokesperson for the U.S. State department. Because his statements were similar to those of his colleagues with different names, some bloggers accused them all of not actually existing--just being sock puppets for the department. Surreal, since I can assure these bloggers that I spent several months seeing and talking to this person every day.
Showing posts with label Blog Exchange. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blog Exchange. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Saturday, March 01, 2008
As luck would have it
Sometimes people confuse true luck with winning things. While I don’t deny that it’s good fortune to win a lot of contests, prizes or money, I don’t consider this the really GOOD luck.
The really good luck is something that I possess. I don’t often win contests (although I do occasionally). It isn’t often that I get something for nothing. But I’m rich anyway.
Here’s why I’m lucky:
I never had to really study much in school. I could often get an “A” in a class without much effort.
I took risks with my safety in college and lived to tell the tale.
Just when I was about to resign myself to never finding someone to spend my life with, I was asked to be a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding and met my husband.
Even though I had several risk factors for infertility I was able to get pregnant and have children.
My children have been born healthy and continue to be healthy for the most part.
I have a nice home and many of the things that I want . . . and all of the things that I NEED.
My family supports me in whatever I try to do.
Things just seem to work out for me. Much as I worry about things, everything generally turns out fine.
It may be great to win a lot of money and prizes, (and I certainly wouldn’t turn any of it down!) but if I had to choose one, I’ll choose my type of luck every time.
Heather is mom to 2 young children and is currently baking baby #3. When she’s not counting her blessings she’s writing about life’s minor irritations at her blog Cool Zebras, where you can find the wonderful Mayberry today. To read how lucky the rest of the blog exchange participants are, please click here.
The really good luck is something that I possess. I don’t often win contests (although I do occasionally). It isn’t often that I get something for nothing. But I’m rich anyway.
Here’s why I’m lucky:
I never had to really study much in school. I could often get an “A” in a class without much effort.
I took risks with my safety in college and lived to tell the tale.
Just when I was about to resign myself to never finding someone to spend my life with, I was asked to be a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding and met my husband.
Even though I had several risk factors for infertility I was able to get pregnant and have children.
My children have been born healthy and continue to be healthy for the most part.
I have a nice home and many of the things that I want . . . and all of the things that I NEED.
My family supports me in whatever I try to do.
Things just seem to work out for me. Much as I worry about things, everything generally turns out fine.
It may be great to win a lot of money and prizes, (and I certainly wouldn’t turn any of it down!) but if I had to choose one, I’ll choose my type of luck every time.
Heather is mom to 2 young children and is currently baking baby #3. When she’s not counting her blessings she’s writing about life’s minor irritations at her blog Cool Zebras, where you can find the wonderful Mayberry today. To read how lucky the rest of the blog exchange participants are, please click here.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
What do gay cars, crazy architectural renderings, and I have in common?
So the Blog Exchange assignment is "Best of 2007." I think my partner is on the road so I'm going to put up my post right here, but you can click the BE link to find several more good reads on the topic.
Now. What exactly was the Best of 2007? I can't talk about the best movies because I think I saw two new releases this year (both of them on pay-per-view on my couch). TV shows? You've probably already heard of "Project Runway." Music? You did see my music meme post, right? Books ... did I mention I read The Count of Monte Cristo this year? I did? Also it wasn't published in 2007. Never mind.
In fact, I think every "best of 2007" list in the world has already been done. Top PR blunders, best gay cars, top new organisms, sexiest athlete wives, most interesting webcams, craziest architectural renderings, and 15 different accountings of top buzzwords.
What could I add to this genre?
- Best ways to entertain a little boy in an airport? (#1: dry, crumbly muffin.)
- Best family history find? (#1: The annotated Barbie clothes dresser).
- Blurriest ice shanty pictures? (#1: Mayberry's shantytown).
- Best unintended innuendo at the doctor's office? (#1: Your T&A Journey.)
- Top toilet interviews? (#1: Jo's video, of course.)
Photo: Quentin Jones, theage.com.au.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Well, spank my ...
I am not a spanker.
(Just a clarification for you Googlers: I am talking about disciplining kids here.)
There are no scenarios in which I can imagine hitting my kids on purpose. As a parent, my two biggest responsibilities are to keep my children safe from harm, and to love them unconditionally. If I strike them, either in anger or in an attempt to teach them a lesson, I have failed in both those responsibilities. Even if that lesson is an important one (don't run in the street; respect your elders; calm down now). Even if I just tap a diapered bottom. Even if I count to 10 first.
Sure, I want them to obey me. I want them to be well behaved. But I don't want to achieve those goals through intimidation and anger. I want to help my children learn values, so that they behave because they know it's the right thing to do. I want them to feel good about themselves and their decisions. If they're obeying the rules simply because they fear a whuppin', they haven't learned the skills they need to make good choices later. And once again, I've let them down as a parent.
I'll admit this all sounds mighty hippie. Like in our house we all sit around and talk about our feeeeeelings instead of doing anything. Like we are those ineffective parents who sit on the sidelines and feebly call out "No sweetie! Let's be nice to our friends!"
Let me assure you that we do discipline our children. We remove privileges, we use time-outs, we are consistent and firm. We allow natural consequences to make their own points. And nope, these strategies don't always work, so sometimes we get frustrated.
But we don't hit. I would be livid if anyone else laid a hand on my children, so why would I ever think it's okay for me to be the one delivering the blow? I read a post recently in which a mom said that the only time she ever spanks is if her child intentionally hurts another person or an animal. Where, oh where, is the logic there? "No hitting!" [whack!] "You know you're not supposed to hit!" [smack!] "This is what you get when you hit!" [slap!]
Yeah. That seems effective.
Do I sound a little more ... provocative than usual today? That's because we're debating! Today's Blog Exchange is a series of arguments on hot topics. So be sure to click over to Webkittyn Warbles for the flip side on spanking -- she does make a good case. You can also visit the BE site for more juicy debates.
(Just a clarification for you Googlers: I am talking about disciplining kids here.)
There are no scenarios in which I can imagine hitting my kids on purpose. As a parent, my two biggest responsibilities are to keep my children safe from harm, and to love them unconditionally. If I strike them, either in anger or in an attempt to teach them a lesson, I have failed in both those responsibilities. Even if that lesson is an important one (don't run in the street; respect your elders; calm down now). Even if I just tap a diapered bottom. Even if I count to 10 first.
Sure, I want them to obey me. I want them to be well behaved. But I don't want to achieve those goals through intimidation and anger. I want to help my children learn values, so that they behave because they know it's the right thing to do. I want them to feel good about themselves and their decisions. If they're obeying the rules simply because they fear a whuppin', they haven't learned the skills they need to make good choices later. And once again, I've let them down as a parent.
I'll admit this all sounds mighty hippie. Like in our house we all sit around and talk about our feeeeeelings instead of doing anything. Like we are those ineffective parents who sit on the sidelines and feebly call out "No sweetie! Let's be nice to our friends!"
Let me assure you that we do discipline our children. We remove privileges, we use time-outs, we are consistent and firm. We allow natural consequences to make their own points. And nope, these strategies don't always work, so sometimes we get frustrated.
But we don't hit. I would be livid if anyone else laid a hand on my children, so why would I ever think it's okay for me to be the one delivering the blow? I read a post recently in which a mom said that the only time she ever spanks is if her child intentionally hurts another person or an animal. Where, oh where, is the logic there? "No hitting!" [whack!] "You know you're not supposed to hit!" [smack!] "This is what you get when you hit!" [slap!]
Yeah. That seems effective.
Do I sound a little more ... provocative than usual today? That's because we're debating! Today's Blog Exchange is a series of arguments on hot topics. So be sure to click over to Webkittyn Warbles for the flip side on spanking -- she does make a good case. You can also visit the BE site for more juicy debates.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Orange
I remember last year about this time when Fa discovered her favorite color.
She was in her first week of "Mommy & Me". She was painfully shy and she found some comfort in her spot behind the easel. (She is still very comfortable there, but for different reasons and she creates some gorgeous artwork.)
Armed and double fisted with paint brushes, two yogurt cups placed in front of her filled with red and yellow paint, she began her exploration.
Broad strokes of cherry red paint covered the butcher paper. She used thick layers of red on top of red. Satisfied with her work, she placed the red brush in the red yogurt cup.
Seemingly complete, she pondered her work. You could see the thought bubble rising from her head..."Something's missing, I'm not done yet."
Gently, she raised her second brush loaded with yellow paint and slid it across the red background. The colors magically changing right in front of her eyes. Woah!
"Look at what you discovered!", sang her teacher with glee...
"I don't see that color in your paint cups. I only see yellow and red. What happened?"
And it has been her favorite color ever since.
Fa is an almost four year old who lives with her Bloggin' Mamma ~JJ! in a suburb outside of NYC. She loves to paint and draw pictures all day long and go to art museums. She just started preschool and her mom is having major separation anxiety. You can read all about her and their separation woes over at ~JJ!'s Blog Gaining Balance.
Thank you from the bottom of our paint cups to Mayberry Mom for sharing her creative space with us for this month's Blog Exchange. The Blog Exchange is a monthly blog share that allows all participants to share their creativity on a new and different canvas. Come, be creative with us. And go read Mayberry Mom's artwork over at Gaining Balance today.
She was in her first week of "Mommy & Me". She was painfully shy and she found some comfort in her spot behind the easel. (She is still very comfortable there, but for different reasons and she creates some gorgeous artwork.)
Armed and double fisted with paint brushes, two yogurt cups placed in front of her filled with red and yellow paint, she began her exploration.
Broad strokes of cherry red paint covered the butcher paper. She used thick layers of red on top of red. Satisfied with her work, she placed the red brush in the red yogurt cup.
Seemingly complete, she pondered her work. You could see the thought bubble rising from her head..."Something's missing, I'm not done yet."
Gently, she raised her second brush loaded with yellow paint and slid it across the red background. The colors magically changing right in front of her eyes. Woah!
"Look at what you discovered!", sang her teacher with glee...
"I don't see that color in your paint cups. I only see yellow and red. What happened?"
And it has been her favorite color ever since.
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Fa is an almost four year old who lives with her Bloggin' Mamma ~JJ! in a suburb outside of NYC. She loves to paint and draw pictures all day long and go to art museums. She just started preschool and her mom is having major separation anxiety. You can read all about her and their separation woes over at ~JJ!'s Blog Gaining Balance.
Thank you from the bottom of our paint cups to Mayberry Mom for sharing her creative space with us for this month's Blog Exchange. The Blog Exchange is a monthly blog share that allows all participants to share their creativity on a new and different canvas. Come, be creative with us. And go read Mayberry Mom's artwork over at Gaining Balance today.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Dear Mr. President
Dear Mr. President,
I understand that you are used to getting your way, in fact have never not gotten what you loudly demand, but I feel there are some things that we should discuss. I’d like to take a minute to review your take on the environment, your foreign policy, and even weapons of mass destruction. Is that OK? Do you have a minute? Good.
Let’s start with the environment. Seriously, what do you have against the landfills? Why do you feel the need to wait until I change your diaper to have a poop? Couldn’t you use the slightly wet diaper that’s already on your tush? No, you wait until I’ve changed you to let loose, forcing me to use yet another diaper. One of these days the landfills are going to overflow and it’ll all be your fault. OK. Maybe my fault a little for not using cloth diapers, but still! You’re the one who wastes perfectly good diapers. (Not to mention the fact that you are wasting away your college tuition. Just sayin’.)
Moving on to my foreign policy issues. How exactly do you decide who will be friend or foe? We walk into a room and you’ll befriend someone and latch on to them for the rest of the day. Everyone else who tries to talk to you or play with you gets the cold shoulder. I have yet to understand what draws you to one person, but not to another. Is it the color of their shirt, or something more abstract? It would really help me if you could give me a hint or two so that I can clue in the people who really want to bond with you.
Maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration to categorize your gas as a weapon of mass destruction, but when you come into our bed early in the morning, snuggle under the covers, and let one rip, well, let’s just say that you can get us to get up pretty darn fast. I really wish you would refrain from using your secret weapon, especially when we’re in the closed car on a warm day. It’s really uncalled for, I’d even go so far as to say downright evil.
Now that you have acquired a Vice President your father and I are quite worried about our little democracy. Aside from the few issues I’ve mentioned above we feel that you’ve been quite a reasonable ruler. We hope that now that there are two of you and two of us you will not take advantage of the situation. If you do we might have to consider impeaching you, or at least taking away your Dora privileges. Consider yourself warned.
Sincerely,
Your mommy
This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.
When I’m not busy working, cooking, or running after my toddler, C, I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently wading through. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Random-8-er link-a-later
(Not to be confused with Tow Mater or Linkletter).
Quite by chance I was tagged by Jeff (not the one I'm married to) for the 8 things meme, the one with all the rules. Since I've already done 7 random things (teen-style) and 7 facts/habits and 5 more things you didn't know (travel edition), this time I decided to spin off Jeff's idea of randomness and linkage. So here are 8 blogs from my blogroll, selected at random (I even did it all scientific!), and how they got there.
1. Binkytown: I started reading Binkytown when we were matched in the Blog Exchange way back in May 2006 (read my post and hers on the topic "Mother May I"). I've been stalking her ever since and not just because we live close to each other and have binky-addicted boys the same age. She has a wonderfully authentic voice and as I just commented on one of her recent posts, she does a lovely job of zeroing in on those small, significant moments of motherhood and writing about them.
2. Blooming Yaya: Another Blog Exchanger -- we swapped on the challenge of "post inspired by a song" and I don't think we could have come up with two more different posts on that angle. She's a mom of three, a very thoughtful and honest writer; go visit if you haven't already.
3. Chaos Theory: Holy cow, where would my blogroll be without the Blog Exchange? Last fall we debated the subject of ads on blogs: yea or nay? Luckily, Sherry was gracious even though I took an opposing position (one that I must say I didn't really believe in!). She is undertaking a big project at the end of this month and could use everyone's support--and maybe some ideas for posts.
4. The Gimlet Eye: I first met Dawn at BlogHer last year. She is not only funny and supersmart (as a mom with two kids in child care, I love reading about her work in early childhood education), she has really hot shoes.
5. Greeblemonkey: I think Aimee commented here first and after a few visits to her bee-yoo-ti-ful blog, I added her to my must-read list. And must-see, because her photography is not to be missed.
6. The Karianna Spectrum: Another BlogHer find! There is never a dull moment at Kari's, with two adventurous boys and more than her fair share of twists and turns. She turns it all into entertaining, and poignant, blog fodder.
7. Magpie Musing: Here, I think, is someone else whose comments here led me back to her blog, and now I'm there every day. Magpie shares my thrill at finding quirky tidbits in the New York Times and elsewhere in the world of words.
8. Nonlinear Girl: I believe she found me first and for that I'm glad. This blog is a winning mix of cute kid, family memories, deep thoughts, and a weekly random quote and unrelated photo, which charms me every time.
Quite by chance I was tagged by Jeff (not the one I'm married to) for the 8 things meme, the one with all the rules. Since I've already done 7 random things (teen-style) and 7 facts/habits and 5 more things you didn't know (travel edition), this time I decided to spin off Jeff's idea of randomness and linkage. So here are 8 blogs from my blogroll, selected at random (I even did it all scientific!), and how they got there.
1. Binkytown: I started reading Binkytown when we were matched in the Blog Exchange way back in May 2006 (read my post and hers on the topic "Mother May I"). I've been stalking her ever since and not just because we live close to each other and have binky-addicted boys the same age. She has a wonderfully authentic voice and as I just commented on one of her recent posts, she does a lovely job of zeroing in on those small, significant moments of motherhood and writing about them.
2. Blooming Yaya: Another Blog Exchanger -- we swapped on the challenge of "post inspired by a song" and I don't think we could have come up with two more different posts on that angle. She's a mom of three, a very thoughtful and honest writer; go visit if you haven't already.
3. Chaos Theory: Holy cow, where would my blogroll be without the Blog Exchange? Last fall we debated the subject of ads on blogs: yea or nay? Luckily, Sherry was gracious even though I took an opposing position (one that I must say I didn't really believe in!). She is undertaking a big project at the end of this month and could use everyone's support--and maybe some ideas for posts.
4. The Gimlet Eye: I first met Dawn at BlogHer last year. She is not only funny and supersmart (as a mom with two kids in child care, I love reading about her work in early childhood education), she has really hot shoes.
5. Greeblemonkey: I think Aimee commented here first and after a few visits to her bee-yoo-ti-ful blog, I added her to my must-read list. And must-see, because her photography is not to be missed.
6. The Karianna Spectrum: Another BlogHer find! There is never a dull moment at Kari's, with two adventurous boys and more than her fair share of twists and turns. She turns it all into entertaining, and poignant, blog fodder.
7. Magpie Musing: Here, I think, is someone else whose comments here led me back to her blog, and now I'm there every day. Magpie shares my thrill at finding quirky tidbits in the New York Times and elsewhere in the world of words.
8. Nonlinear Girl: I believe she found me first and for that I'm glad. This blog is a winning mix of cute kid, family memories, deep thoughts, and a weekly random quote and unrelated photo, which charms me every time.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
The Boy on the Carousel
I fell in love with my husband because I knew he would be good father. We were not even dating at the time. In fact, I was dating his roommate.
Yes, that's right, I dated my husband's roommate. And it was a terrible relationship that should never have lasted the year and half that it did. But it brought me to Doug, and that was worth it.
I fell in love with Doug on a carousel. A big group of friends went to the local amusement park. We went on the carousel, and there was a small boy sitting on a horse that was next to Doug's. I have no idea where this child's parent was, but he ended up talking to Doug. The boy was having a hard time because the carousel wasn't starting, and Doug entertained him by showing him how to say "giddy up horsy" and hit the horse with the reins. And Doug did that until the carousel started and throughout the ride.
I fell in love with Doug in that moment. We had become very good friends while I was dating his roommate, and somehow ended up near each other on the carousel. And I knew that he would be an amazing Dad, and I wanted him to be the father of my children. But, because I'm an idiot, even after this, I kept dating the roommate, which was ridiculous.
But, 10 years later, he is the amazing father that I imagined on that long ago carousel ride. Very involved, and so in love with his little boy that he writes open letters to him. He leaves work every day at 5:00 pm just to spend an hour with Michael before he goes to bed. And sometimes then works late into the night to make up for that, but he refuses to not see his son before bedtime every night. When Michael was first born, Doug took two weeks off of work, and helped me with night feedings, and literally has been involved with Michael's care from day one. He celebrates every one of Michael's successes, big and small, and cries when he is hurt, sick, or sad.
I'd like to go back and find that little boy on the carousel and thank him. Because if it wasn't for him, I never would have noticed the amazing father that Doug would become.
This post is part of The Blog Exchange. Jodi is mom to a 2 year old, a part-time lawyer, and wife. She blogs at Jodifur about all these things and many more. Please visit her site, and you will see Mayberry's post. And thanks to Mayberry for being such a great hostess!
Yes, that's right, I dated my husband's roommate. And it was a terrible relationship that should never have lasted the year and half that it did. But it brought me to Doug, and that was worth it.
I fell in love with Doug on a carousel. A big group of friends went to the local amusement park. We went on the carousel, and there was a small boy sitting on a horse that was next to Doug's. I have no idea where this child's parent was, but he ended up talking to Doug. The boy was having a hard time because the carousel wasn't starting, and Doug entertained him by showing him how to say "giddy up horsy" and hit the horse with the reins. And Doug did that until the carousel started and throughout the ride.
I fell in love with Doug in that moment. We had become very good friends while I was dating his roommate, and somehow ended up near each other on the carousel. And I knew that he would be an amazing Dad, and I wanted him to be the father of my children. But, because I'm an idiot, even after this, I kept dating the roommate, which was ridiculous.
But, 10 years later, he is the amazing father that I imagined on that long ago carousel ride. Very involved, and so in love with his little boy that he writes open letters to him. He leaves work every day at 5:00 pm just to spend an hour with Michael before he goes to bed. And sometimes then works late into the night to make up for that, but he refuses to not see his son before bedtime every night. When Michael was first born, Doug took two weeks off of work, and helped me with night feedings, and literally has been involved with Michael's care from day one. He celebrates every one of Michael's successes, big and small, and cries when he is hurt, sick, or sad.
I'd like to go back and find that little boy on the carousel and thank him. Because if it wasn't for him, I never would have noticed the amazing father that Doug would become.
This post is part of The Blog Exchange. Jodi is mom to a 2 year old, a part-time lawyer, and wife. She blogs at Jodifur about all these things and many more. Please visit her site, and you will see Mayberry's post. And thanks to Mayberry for being such a great hostess!
Friday, June 01, 2007
Dads of the 21st Century
Originally posted at Jodifur as part of the Blog Exchange.
So Father’s Day is coming and I have a small bone to pick with Hallmark, American Greetings, and their ilk. A bone and a news-flash: I know you may find this nearly impossible to believe, but my dad does not play golf. Neither does my husband. Nor do they sit on their butts all day with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other. They do not fish, tinker with their cars, or obsess about sports in any way, shape or form. And neither of them owns a recliner!
Therefore: Father’s Day cards featuring the above don’t work for me and my kids. We come to the drugstore prepared to drop $5—maybe $10!—on cards for Daddy and Grandpa. And we find: nothing. I don’t want to tease my dad about his (nonexistent) TV habit; the man is far (far, far!) more physically fit than I am. I don’t want to give my husband a card with a necktie on it; he wears one maybe three times a year.
There are cards now for your grandma’s new hip and your boss’s new job and your neighbor’s new pool. How about some Father’s Day cards that branch out maybe a teensy bit beyond the ‘60s stereotypes? My dad was as close as he could get to a stay-at-home dad—two decades ago. My husband is one of the best cooks I know and is also the chief tailor/button-sewer-onner in our household. Any chance that we’ll find cards that really reflect our guys and how much they mean to us?
I doubt it. So we’ll be getting out the construction paper and markers and taking matters into our own hands. Nothing says “We love you” like toddler scribbles and some Dora the Explorer stickers—am I right?
So Father’s Day is coming and I have a small bone to pick with Hallmark, American Greetings, and their ilk. A bone and a news-flash: I know you may find this nearly impossible to believe, but my dad does not play golf. Neither does my husband. Nor do they sit on their butts all day with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other. They do not fish, tinker with their cars, or obsess about sports in any way, shape or form. And neither of them owns a recliner!
Therefore: Father’s Day cards featuring the above don’t work for me and my kids. We come to the drugstore prepared to drop $5—maybe $10!—on cards for Daddy and Grandpa. And we find: nothing. I don’t want to tease my dad about his (nonexistent) TV habit; the man is far (far, far!) more physically fit than I am. I don’t want to give my husband a card with a necktie on it; he wears one maybe three times a year.
There are cards now for your grandma’s new hip and your boss’s new job and your neighbor’s new pool. How about some Father’s Day cards that branch out maybe a teensy bit beyond the ‘60s stereotypes? My dad was as close as he could get to a stay-at-home dad—two decades ago. My husband is one of the best cooks I know and is also the chief tailor/button-sewer-onner in our household. Any chance that we’ll find cards that really reflect our guys and how much they mean to us?
I doubt it. So we’ll be getting out the construction paper and markers and taking matters into our own hands. Nothing says “We love you” like toddler scribbles and some Dora the Explorer stickers—am I right?
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Someday
To the as yet unknown true love of my life,
It’s coming on Mother’s Day, and I find that I miss you, now more than usual, in some strange backward manifestation of grief, as if you had been here all along. I’m not sure how or when, but you’ve settled yourself in the deepest seat of my heart, content to wait until we can be together. Not in silence – no, you wait with such clamor and excitement that it’s hardly like waiting at all, but more like an insistence that time move faster and hurry our anticipated meeting. I wonder sometime if you’re the reason my heart beats at all, and I’m scared to realize the power you already hold over me – how much you are already the center of my life.
Sometimes when I lie in bed at night, I close my eyes and I see you. I see your eyes, and they sparkle and shine and I wonder at such brilliance in a simple shade of blue. I see your nose, tiny and pert and perfect – but not – just like mine. I see your wispy tufts of hair, and it reminds me of my father’s at the end, and I wonder if maybe we won’t call you Baby Eaglet too.
But mostly I see your smile, open mouth, not an ounce of self-consciousness, just unaffected joy at something so simple I probably would have missed it without your laughter telling me to notice. I see me in your smile, and my mom, and my sister. But there’s something else too – shades of a man I’ve never met, who will someday change my life. A man who knows you already – just as I do – and sees himself in that smile I love.
I don’t know when we can be together, but I know we will be. I’m frightened sometimes, because I love you so much already, and I don’t know how to love more than this. It hurts my heart sometimes, the intensity of what I feel. And yet I know that when I see you, when I know you even more and feel the reality of you in my arms, my heart will break a thousand times over just trying to make room for everything I will feel. I wonder sometimes if you will completely destroy me, only to build me back up into everything I was ever meant to be.
Some people will never understand how much I love you now, today, years before we even meet. They don’t feel what I feel – they don’t know you like I do. But that’s okay, because it means it’s special, this bond we share: precious and misunderstood and just for us. When I miss you too much, I’ll just hold my hand to my heart and know that you’re there, waiting.
I’m waiting too.
With all my love (and even more than that),
Your Mama
----------------------------------
This post was written by Lara David as a part of the May Blog Exchange about Mother’s Day. Lara is a 20-something writing her way through life one day at a time, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons at Life: The Ongoing Education. Plus, I'm writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.
It’s coming on Mother’s Day, and I find that I miss you, now more than usual, in some strange backward manifestation of grief, as if you had been here all along. I’m not sure how or when, but you’ve settled yourself in the deepest seat of my heart, content to wait until we can be together. Not in silence – no, you wait with such clamor and excitement that it’s hardly like waiting at all, but more like an insistence that time move faster and hurry our anticipated meeting. I wonder sometime if you’re the reason my heart beats at all, and I’m scared to realize the power you already hold over me – how much you are already the center of my life.
Sometimes when I lie in bed at night, I close my eyes and I see you. I see your eyes, and they sparkle and shine and I wonder at such brilliance in a simple shade of blue. I see your nose, tiny and pert and perfect – but not – just like mine. I see your wispy tufts of hair, and it reminds me of my father’s at the end, and I wonder if maybe we won’t call you Baby Eaglet too.
But mostly I see your smile, open mouth, not an ounce of self-consciousness, just unaffected joy at something so simple I probably would have missed it without your laughter telling me to notice. I see me in your smile, and my mom, and my sister. But there’s something else too – shades of a man I’ve never met, who will someday change my life. A man who knows you already – just as I do – and sees himself in that smile I love.
I don’t know when we can be together, but I know we will be. I’m frightened sometimes, because I love you so much already, and I don’t know how to love more than this. It hurts my heart sometimes, the intensity of what I feel. And yet I know that when I see you, when I know you even more and feel the reality of you in my arms, my heart will break a thousand times over just trying to make room for everything I will feel. I wonder sometimes if you will completely destroy me, only to build me back up into everything I was ever meant to be.
Some people will never understand how much I love you now, today, years before we even meet. They don’t feel what I feel – they don’t know you like I do. But that’s okay, because it means it’s special, this bond we share: precious and misunderstood and just for us. When I miss you too much, I’ll just hold my hand to my heart and know that you’re there, waiting.
I’m waiting too.
With all my love (and even more than that),
Your Mama
----------------------------------
This post was written by Lara David as a part of the May Blog Exchange about Mother’s Day. Lara is a 20-something writing her way through life one day at a time, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons at Life: The Ongoing Education. Plus, I'm writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.
Mother's Night
Originally posted at Life: The Ongoing Education as part of the Blog Exchange.
11:30 p.m. I finally finish working/blogging/folding laundry/puttering around. I’m nearly ready for bed, brushing my teeth, when I hear my son’s cry.
I enter his dim room. He’s standing in his crib, sobbing. I can hear the tears and the snot all over his face, even though I can’t see them. I crawl around on the floor, feeling for the pacifiers he’s either dropped or hurled to the floor in anger. One, two, three—I feed them back to him through the bars. He crouches down long enough to pick them up, and just as quickly pulls himself back onto his feet.
I stand next to the crib and he grabs for me, his arms tight underneath mine, his head on my shoulder. “Hold you,” he gasps between sobs. “Hold you, Mama.” I rub his back and tell him, over and over: “It’s nighttime now. I’ll hold you in the morning.”
Still angry, still sobbing, he soon gives up. He sits down, but he can’t help himself. “Hold you, Mama. Hold you.” But now the yawns come, too, amid the sobs and the pleas and those sharp, damp intakes of breath.
I sink down to the floor, stretch out, wait. Keep murmuring. “In the morning, sweetie. In the morning.” The wails soften and the intervals between them stretch longer. Eventually I hear the chok-chok-chok of the pacifier in his mouth, the slowing of his breathing.
Cautiously, gingerly, I stand. Tiptoe to the door, my hand on the knob.
“Mama stay.”
“Yes, baby. Mama will stay.” I return to my post on the floor, waiting and listening. Mama stays.
11:30 p.m. I finally finish working/blogging/folding laundry/puttering around. I’m nearly ready for bed, brushing my teeth, when I hear my son’s cry.
I enter his dim room. He’s standing in his crib, sobbing. I can hear the tears and the snot all over his face, even though I can’t see them. I crawl around on the floor, feeling for the pacifiers he’s either dropped or hurled to the floor in anger. One, two, three—I feed them back to him through the bars. He crouches down long enough to pick them up, and just as quickly pulls himself back onto his feet.
I stand next to the crib and he grabs for me, his arms tight underneath mine, his head on my shoulder. “Hold you,” he gasps between sobs. “Hold you, Mama.” I rub his back and tell him, over and over: “It’s nighttime now. I’ll hold you in the morning.”
Still angry, still sobbing, he soon gives up. He sits down, but he can’t help himself. “Hold you, Mama. Hold you.” But now the yawns come, too, amid the sobs and the pleas and those sharp, damp intakes of breath.
I sink down to the floor, stretch out, wait. Keep murmuring. “In the morning, sweetie. In the morning.” The wails soften and the intervals between them stretch longer. Eventually I hear the chok-chok-chok of the pacifier in his mouth, the slowing of his breathing.
Cautiously, gingerly, I stand. Tiptoe to the door, my hand on the knob.
“Mama stay.”
“Yes, baby. Mama will stay.” I return to my post on the floor, waiting and listening. Mama stays.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Indescribable
Yesterday Ry and I attended the funeral of the 23 year old son of a co-worker. He had been crossing the street in a crosswalk with friends and family and was hit by a car. He was flown via air ambulance to a trauma centre and passed away there surrounded by his family. He was happy, in university persuing a degree in physics, had a beautiful girlfriend, a job. He had dreams of having a large family of his own one day. Of a great career. What more could a mother ask?
His 4 siblings and his mother and father all spoke at his funeral. It was standing room only and people were packed in right to the doors. The overflow, lobby and hallways were full. There was not a dry eye in the house. His family all read him letters that they had written to him. His father closed with "and as I signed every card I ever wrote you, your one and only Daddy." That's when I lost it. His mother thanked God for the privilege of being his caregiver for 23 1/2 years. As I stood at the back of the funeral home holding Ry in his carrier, swaying and bouncing, kissing his head, looking into his beautiful loving eyes, I could only cry. Cry for the parents who raised this wonderful young man and lost him. Cry for the mother who, for 23 1/2 years felt the amazing and indescribable love that I have only experienced for 4 months. Selfishly, cry out of fear that my baby will grow up and one day be hurt. I know it will happen. I hope it's closer to a scraped knee than a car accident.
I worry. I inherited it. My mom worries. My grandma worries. I wonder if I will ever have a day in my life that I don't spend time worrying about the people I love. Is it simply the fate of a mother? Am I wasting my time when it's all in the hands of God or the universe or however you want to think of it? I enjoy my life immensely. I may enjoy it even more if I didn't worry, but I can't help it. It's not debilitating, but it does go overboard at times when I dream of the horrible things that might have happened when someone is late or not answering the phone.
As I type this, I realize that this post doesn't even come close to describing how I felt or, more importantly, how this family felt yesterday. I can't put it into words. Someone more talented at writing than myself may be able to, but I have my doubts.
I do know this. You have no idea how much your mother loves you until you become one yourself. I would endure any pain or torture to save Ry from it. Without a thought. Gladly. With privilege. It wouldn't matter what it was, how much it hurt. For him, anything. Even while pregnant I loved him immensely, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that came over me when I held him in my arms. It grows more powerful every day. How do you describe the love of a mother?
Eternal. Physical. Overwhelming. Soul-deep. Heartbreaking. Ageless. Timeless. Undying. Passionate. None of those words do it justice.
How do you describe the love of a mother?
I would love to hear it. One word or an essay, it doesn't matter. I want to know.
His 4 siblings and his mother and father all spoke at his funeral. It was standing room only and people were packed in right to the doors. The overflow, lobby and hallways were full. There was not a dry eye in the house. His family all read him letters that they had written to him. His father closed with "and as I signed every card I ever wrote you, your one and only Daddy." That's when I lost it. His mother thanked God for the privilege of being his caregiver for 23 1/2 years. As I stood at the back of the funeral home holding Ry in his carrier, swaying and bouncing, kissing his head, looking into his beautiful loving eyes, I could only cry. Cry for the parents who raised this wonderful young man and lost him. Cry for the mother who, for 23 1/2 years felt the amazing and indescribable love that I have only experienced for 4 months. Selfishly, cry out of fear that my baby will grow up and one day be hurt. I know it will happen. I hope it's closer to a scraped knee than a car accident.
I worry. I inherited it. My mom worries. My grandma worries. I wonder if I will ever have a day in my life that I don't spend time worrying about the people I love. Is it simply the fate of a mother? Am I wasting my time when it's all in the hands of God or the universe or however you want to think of it? I enjoy my life immensely. I may enjoy it even more if I didn't worry, but I can't help it. It's not debilitating, but it does go overboard at times when I dream of the horrible things that might have happened when someone is late or not answering the phone.
As I type this, I realize that this post doesn't even come close to describing how I felt or, more importantly, how this family felt yesterday. I can't put it into words. Someone more talented at writing than myself may be able to, but I have my doubts.
I do know this. You have no idea how much your mother loves you until you become one yourself. I would endure any pain or torture to save Ry from it. Without a thought. Gladly. With privilege. It wouldn't matter what it was, how much it hurt. For him, anything. Even while pregnant I loved him immensely, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that came over me when I held him in my arms. It grows more powerful every day. How do you describe the love of a mother?
Eternal. Physical. Overwhelming. Soul-deep. Heartbreaking. Ageless. Timeless. Undying. Passionate. None of those words do it justice.
How do you describe the love of a mother?
I would love to hear it. One word or an essay, it doesn't matter. I want to know.
Nicole blogs about whatever strikes her fancy at Much More Than a Mom dot com. She's a mom, wife, daughter, sister, fur-baby mama, friend, teacher, geek-in-training, fitness instructor, personal trainer, workshop presenter. She knows a lot about very little and very little bit about a lot. She pretends she doesn't care what anybody thinks, but secretly cries in the bathroom if somebody doesn't like her. She is also the founder & senior editor at The Opinionated Parent, where one of her favourite things to do is give stuff away. She's visiting as part of this month's Blog Exchange, for which we've all chosen our all-time favorite post. Read mine at Nicole's place today!
Thursday, March 01, 2007
When Ragtime Rosie Ragged the Rosary
Originally posted at Blooming Yaya as part of the Blog Exchange; our assignment was to write about a song (or compose one of our own, as Bobita did).
Really – it’s a song. You can Google it.
Don’t most kids grow up singing goofy novelty tunes from 1911? No? Just me? Huh. You didn’t dance to this song at your wedding reception? Just me again?
You missed out. My dad is a musician—a banjo player and a singer—and this is one of my favorite songs from his exhaustive repertoire. Composed by a man named Lewis Muir (or maybe Edgar Leslie), it goes like this:
Old Parson Lee from Tennessee
In accents loud and clear
Said “Folks I’m awfully sorry
But our organist ain’t here.
I’d like to get someone to volunteer
To help us out”
Well a gal named Ragtime Rosie got up
And said that she could play
The Parson seemed delighted
And said “Just step this way.”
The congregation bowed their heads to pray
Then came a shout
CHORUS:
When Ragtime Rosie ragged the rosary
Deacon Alexander started in to reprimand her
But he turned around only to see
That instead of prayin’ Rosie had the folks a-swayin’
That tune so sweet
Was such a treat
It charmed their feet and set them
Dancin’, prancin’
Ragtime two-step ‘til old Parson Lee
He forgot his sermon and began to squawk in German …
That’s from memory, but it checks out. This song was always a huge hit with me and my brother and sister when we were kids. It has a great beat, fun rhymes, and rags (har har) on how boring church can be. Perfect! (You can listen to a sample--look for Track 12. Disclaimer: Not my dad.)
As a child I thought it was cool that my dad was in a band and we could go see him perform (another of our favorite tunes was something called “Chili Bom Bom” because tee-hee! He said “bum”!). As an adult, I’m very proud of both his talent and his role in preserving an important piece of Americana: traditional jazz from the early 20th century. It goes way (way, way) beyond “When the Saints Go Marching In” and believe me, my dad has the LPs, CDs, and sheet music to prove it. He also has some pretty good stories. Here’s one from his site.
Really – it’s a song. You can Google it.
Don’t most kids grow up singing goofy novelty tunes from 1911? No? Just me? Huh. You didn’t dance to this song at your wedding reception? Just me again?
You missed out. My dad is a musician—a banjo player and a singer—and this is one of my favorite songs from his exhaustive repertoire. Composed by a man named Lewis Muir (or maybe Edgar Leslie), it goes like this:
Old Parson Lee from Tennessee
In accents loud and clear
Said “Folks I’m awfully sorry
But our organist ain’t here.
I’d like to get someone to volunteer
To help us out”
Well a gal named Ragtime Rosie got up
And said that she could play
The Parson seemed delighted
And said “Just step this way.”
The congregation bowed their heads to pray
Then came a shout
CHORUS:
When Ragtime Rosie ragged the rosary
Deacon Alexander started in to reprimand her
But he turned around only to see
That instead of prayin’ Rosie had the folks a-swayin’
That tune so sweet
Was such a treat
It charmed their feet and set them
Dancin’, prancin’
Ragtime two-step ‘til old Parson Lee
He forgot his sermon and began to squawk in German …
That’s from memory, but it checks out. This song was always a huge hit with me and my brother and sister when we were kids. It has a great beat, fun rhymes, and rags (har har) on how boring church can be. Perfect! (You can listen to a sample--look for Track 12. Disclaimer: Not my dad.)
As a child I thought it was cool that my dad was in a band and we could go see him perform (another of our favorite tunes was something called “Chili Bom Bom” because tee-hee! He said “bum”!). As an adult, I’m very proud of both his talent and his role in preserving an important piece of Americana: traditional jazz from the early 20th century. It goes way (way, way) beyond “When the Saints Go Marching In” and believe me, my dad has the LPs, CDs, and sheet music to prove it. He also has some pretty good stories. Here’s one from his site.
My dad’s not Catholic, but I’m pretty sure he was saying a few rosaries that night.In 1963, we played at a joint on Chicago Ave., between State and Wabash. We had just finished playing the Saints as our closing number. A guy with a beret walked in and wanted us to play the Saints. Persuaded by the $50 tip, we played it again. Sometimes on Fridays (Saturday morning!) we would go down State St. and play for tips at a gin mill that was open until 5 a.m. We asked Freddy the Frenchman (as we quickly named the big tipper) to go with us.
We were driving down State and one of our guys asked Freddy what he did for a living. He said "I'm a professional thief" and pulled a pistol out from under his jacket! We told him we had changed our minds about playing more and dropped him off on a corner. We went on down to the club and started playing.
A little while later Freddy came in. He hung around while we nervously began to pack up. He said he didn't like the piano player (not one of our guys) and if he didn't stop playing he would shoot him! Our guys rapidly packed up and started to leave. I was the first one out the door! Freddy started shooting up the joint, grazed the piano player, and robbed the bartender. Two of our guys tackled Freddy as he left the bar and held him until the police arrived.
Dirty Laundry ~ Kickin' It MY Style!
I make my living in the college halls
Accused of crushin’ students’ balls
But wait a minute, housework calls…
Got too much dirty laundry
Well I could have been recluse
But I wound up here
Moppin’ floors and washin’ dishes
I think I need another beer
Come and wipe away my tear
Got too much dirty laundry
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around
I’ve got the dinner-prep and bath-time
All before five
Let me tell ya 'bout the sink slime
Splashed up in my eye
This stack o’ dishes oughtta be a crime
Still there’s dirty laundry
Now I gotta change a diaper
Cuz it’s drippin’ wet
And...now I gotta get a phone call
A student, I bet
Get the wetwipes, break a sweat
SHIT!! The dirty laundry!
I think I really need to figure out
What's going on
Just made the second phone call
Cuz hubby’s not home
For this, the bastard will atone
Fuck the dirty laundry
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around
Hi! My name is Bobita and I am visiting today for the March Blog Exchange! Usually, you can find me over at my place, Blooming Yaya, where there is no shortage of complaints about dirty laundry (even without the help of Don Henley!). Please head on over to my place where Mayberry Mom is singin’ her tune today!
If you would like to be part of next month’s Blog Exchange, please click the link above or the button in the sidebar…why not join all the fun?!
Accused of crushin’ students’ balls
But wait a minute, housework calls…
Got too much dirty laundry
Well I could have been recluse
But I wound up here
Moppin’ floors and washin’ dishes
I think I need another beer
Come and wipe away my tear
Got too much dirty laundry
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around
I’ve got the dinner-prep and bath-time
All before five
Let me tell ya 'bout the sink slime
Splashed up in my eye
This stack o’ dishes oughtta be a crime
Still there’s dirty laundry
Now I gotta change a diaper
Cuz it’s drippin’ wet
And...now I gotta get a phone call
A student, I bet
Get the wetwipes, break a sweat
SHIT!! The dirty laundry!
I think I really need to figure out
What's going on
Just made the second phone call
Cuz hubby’s not home
For this, the bastard will atone
Fuck the dirty laundry
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around
Hi! My name is Bobita and I am visiting today for the March Blog Exchange! Usually, you can find me over at my place, Blooming Yaya, where there is no shortage of complaints about dirty laundry (even without the help of Don Henley!). Please head on over to my place where Mayberry Mom is singin’ her tune today!
If you would like to be part of next month’s Blog Exchange, please click the link above or the button in the sidebar…why not join all the fun?!
Monday, January 01, 2007
Standing up for change
Originally posted at CrankMama as part of the Blog Exchange; a post at BlondeMomBlog inspired the topic.
I really hate those ostensibly humorous articles in parenting magazines that purport to list all the ways your life changes when you become a mom. You know the ones: Your purse/car/ass gets bigger; your libido/ability to sleep/boobs get smaller, ha ha ha. Aside from being totally trite, these pronouncements are quite often not even true. (My ass would beg to differ, but that’s, um, behind the point.)
So I’m not going to talk about the ways that motherhood has changed me. I’m going to talk about the changes we experience over and over and over for the first, oh, three to four years of our children’s lives (have more than one kid and you can get quite a lengthy streak going). What changes are these? The diapery ones.
Remember how you started? Oh so gently and nervously lifting that tiny baby’s tiny bum, fearing she’d break at the slightest touch, never knowing quite what you might find inside that eensy-weensy Huggie? Were you amazed at the sounds and the stuff that could emanate from the rear end, when the front end was so angelic?
Those newborn days were the easy part, though. If the blowout was bad enough, I’d just toss the whole kit and caboodle. Not the baby, but the diaper, the 27 wipes, and the onesie coated in poop up to the neckline. At less than $2 a pop, why even try to wash it? (Environmentalists, come beat me now.) But at least we were dealing with a complacent victim—screaming excepted, they couldn’t do much to escape our ministrations.
These days, I’m changing a fully mobile toddler, which means I’m a master at the one-handed vertical diaper replacement.
Step 1. Gather supplies, preferably on the sly so as not to alert child to upcoming indignity.
Step 2. Lure him into position: facing armchair, with array of enticing books displayed on the seat; at windowsill, with the promise that a big truck will definitely be passing by soon; on kitchen chair, with sumptuous buffet of Veggie Booty, Craisins and pretzels on table; or on top of dryer, the better to view backyard neighbors’ garish holiday lights through laundry room window. (Not recommended: In front of sister’s dollhouse, lest the dining room rug meet an unfortunate end.)
Step 3. Wrap one arm firmly around baby’s chest to keep him in position. Use other hand to unsnap onesie. Tuck dangly end of onesie over back of shirt collar to secure—or in a pinch, use your teeth.
Step 4. Now go! Remove old diaper, place far out of child’s reach. Quickly clean him up. Replace with clean diaper. If necessary, let fidgeting child scamper about in unsnapped onesie and bare legs for a few minutes while you dispose of old diaper.
Step 5. Dream wistfully of potty-training.
Actually, don’t. I’d rather change two dozen poopy diapers a day than deal with the seemingly endless process that is “toilet learning.” Drop everything when that little voice pipes up with “I needa go potty”? Constantly carry 3 pairs of Buzz Lightyear underpants and a plastic bag in my purse? Clean up after a little boy who can’t aim? Please, pass the Pampers.
I really hate those ostensibly humorous articles in parenting magazines that purport to list all the ways your life changes when you become a mom. You know the ones: Your purse/car/ass gets bigger; your libido/ability to sleep/boobs get smaller, ha ha ha. Aside from being totally trite, these pronouncements are quite often not even true. (My ass would beg to differ, but that’s, um, behind the point.)
So I’m not going to talk about the ways that motherhood has changed me. I’m going to talk about the changes we experience over and over and over for the first, oh, three to four years of our children’s lives (have more than one kid and you can get quite a lengthy streak going). What changes are these? The diapery ones.
Remember how you started? Oh so gently and nervously lifting that tiny baby’s tiny bum, fearing she’d break at the slightest touch, never knowing quite what you might find inside that eensy-weensy Huggie? Were you amazed at the sounds and the stuff that could emanate from the rear end, when the front end was so angelic?
Those newborn days were the easy part, though. If the blowout was bad enough, I’d just toss the whole kit and caboodle. Not the baby, but the diaper, the 27 wipes, and the onesie coated in poop up to the neckline. At less than $2 a pop, why even try to wash it? (Environmentalists, come beat me now.) But at least we were dealing with a complacent victim—screaming excepted, they couldn’t do much to escape our ministrations.
These days, I’m changing a fully mobile toddler, which means I’m a master at the one-handed vertical diaper replacement.
Step 1. Gather supplies, preferably on the sly so as not to alert child to upcoming indignity.
Step 2. Lure him into position: facing armchair, with array of enticing books displayed on the seat; at windowsill, with the promise that a big truck will definitely be passing by soon; on kitchen chair, with sumptuous buffet of Veggie Booty, Craisins and pretzels on table; or on top of dryer, the better to view backyard neighbors’ garish holiday lights through laundry room window. (Not recommended: In front of sister’s dollhouse, lest the dining room rug meet an unfortunate end.)
Step 3. Wrap one arm firmly around baby’s chest to keep him in position. Use other hand to unsnap onesie. Tuck dangly end of onesie over back of shirt collar to secure—or in a pinch, use your teeth.
Step 4. Now go! Remove old diaper, place far out of child’s reach. Quickly clean him up. Replace with clean diaper. If necessary, let fidgeting child scamper about in unsnapped onesie and bare legs for a few minutes while you dispose of old diaper.
Step 5. Dream wistfully of potty-training.
Actually, don’t. I’d rather change two dozen poopy diapers a day than deal with the seemingly endless process that is “toilet learning.” Drop everything when that little voice pipes up with “I needa go potty”? Constantly carry 3 pairs of Buzz Lightyear underpants and a plastic bag in my purse? Clean up after a little boy who can’t aim? Please, pass the Pampers.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Green
Originally posted at Growing a Life as part of the Blog Exchange.
I can be laidback about some things (see: dog hair on floor, presence of; vegetables in children’s diet, absence of). But there are Rules about Christmas Trees, and they cannot be broken, at least in my house. (Whatever you want to do at your house is cool with me, especially if you are serving Champagne and eggnog.)
1. None of this artificial business. The tree has to be real. Yes, I know I will be picking up needles, and probably finding them in my son’s diaper too, long past Valentine’s day (oh, and they have to be short needles – not those long silky kind). Yes, I know it’s a hassle to wrestle it on top of the car, through the front door, and into the tree stand. I know there are fake trees that look very real. But you will never, ever, ever convince me to have one in my house.
1a. Corollary: Proper scheduling. Fake trees can go up anytime, but a real tree must be purchased, decorated, and disposed of in a more reasonable time frame. There is no need to follow the lead of the department stores and put up the tree in October. It should go up on or about December 10 and be out on the curb by New Year’s Day.
2. This is my living room, not the Sunset Strip. White or colored lights are both acceptable, but there must be no flashing. Lights must be small, plain bulbs, not huge reindeer or chili peppers or any other funky shape. Ornaments should most certainly not require batteries to power lights, music, fog machines or any other "special" effect.
3. Ornaments must be one-of-a-kind. No generic packages of 12 multicolored balls or 24 icicles or 6 of those weird upside-down ice-cream cone thingies. (I will make an exception for candy canes—if they are edible.) Ornaments should be fun, interesting, homemade, acquired for a reason or received as a gift. They should commemorate vacations, new babies, new homes, hobbies or jobs. And no tinsel!
4. Decorating is a family affair. Everyone must go together to pick out the tree; everyone must help drag the boxes of ornaments and other goodies from the basement; everyone must help put the ornaments on the tree. And everyone must listen to Bing Crosby’s Christmas album.
5. Enjoy it! Every night before bed, turn off all the lights except the ones on the tree. Squint a little so everything’s all twinkly. Admire, and go to bed dreaming of Harry Connick, Jr.
I can be laidback about some things (see: dog hair on floor, presence of; vegetables in children’s diet, absence of). But there are Rules about Christmas Trees, and they cannot be broken, at least in my house. (Whatever you want to do at your house is cool with me, especially if you are serving Champagne and eggnog.)
1. None of this artificial business. The tree has to be real. Yes, I know I will be picking up needles, and probably finding them in my son’s diaper too, long past Valentine’s day (oh, and they have to be short needles – not those long silky kind). Yes, I know it’s a hassle to wrestle it on top of the car, through the front door, and into the tree stand. I know there are fake trees that look very real. But you will never, ever, ever convince me to have one in my house.
1a. Corollary: Proper scheduling. Fake trees can go up anytime, but a real tree must be purchased, decorated, and disposed of in a more reasonable time frame. There is no need to follow the lead of the department stores and put up the tree in October. It should go up on or about December 10 and be out on the curb by New Year’s Day.
2. This is my living room, not the Sunset Strip. White or colored lights are both acceptable, but there must be no flashing. Lights must be small, plain bulbs, not huge reindeer or chili peppers or any other funky shape. Ornaments should most certainly not require batteries to power lights, music, fog machines or any other "special" effect.
3. Ornaments must be one-of-a-kind. No generic packages of 12 multicolored balls or 24 icicles or 6 of those weird upside-down ice-cream cone thingies. (I will make an exception for candy canes—if they are edible.) Ornaments should be fun, interesting, homemade, acquired for a reason or received as a gift. They should commemorate vacations, new babies, new homes, hobbies or jobs. And no tinsel!
4. Decorating is a family affair. Everyone must go together to pick out the tree; everyone must help drag the boxes of ornaments and other goodies from the basement; everyone must help put the ornaments on the tree. And everyone must listen to Bing Crosby’s Christmas album.
5. Enjoy it! Every night before bed, turn off all the lights except the ones on the tree. Squint a little so everything’s all twinkly. Admire, and go to bed dreaming of Harry Connick, Jr.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
An open letter to anyone throwing a sales-pitch party
Originally posted at Taste the World as part of the Blog Exchange.
Do you want to know how many of these parties I’ve been invited to in the last month? Do you? Too bad, because I’m going to tell you anyway: More than 10. That’s five toy parties, one jewelry party, one “home décor” party, one paint-your-own pottery party, one handbag party, one clothing party, and one skin care/makeup party.
Give me a break!
Even if I wanted any of this stuff, who actually has the time and money to attend all these events? Not me. Look, I want to support my friends, and if this is the career you choose to pursue, then I’ll try to help out. IF you’re selling a product I might consider buying, and IF you actually know me. Please don’t send me an invitation because I’m a friend of a friend of your cousin’s neighbor’s co-worker.
I can easily see how if you’re a stay-at-home mom, or a retiree, or someone who can’t work due to a disability, this all sounds like an ideal way to pick up some extra cash. But think about who you’re picking up that cash from. It’s usually people just like you.
I think that’s what bothers me most about this kind of business. It’s built on the idea of recruiting you to go out and recruit more people to buy from you, or better yet to sell for you. So you’ve got to constantly be on the prowl for new victims. As one promotional website puts it, “go out with the idea of making a million friends instead of a million dollars.” Yeah, right. Trust me, those million people are not your friends. They are probably dreading your next invitation.
It’s a sweet deal for the people at the top of the pyramid, huh? They have no overhead, because their salespeople (and their friends) are offering up their own living rooms as the selling floor. They don’t have to recruit new reps, because their salespeople do that for them too. That same promotional site also says, “Do you enjoy sales? If not, that's great, because you don't have to be a salesperson in order to succeed. This is a business of sharing information, and there are great tools that'll help you present the products/services and business to your candidates. All you do is work with those who are interested.” What a load of crap! You’re not working with “those who are interested”—you’re working with those who are too nice to say no.
As for me: No more Ms. Nice Girl. Instead of shopping in your home, I’ll shop in my own—online.
Do you want to know how many of these parties I’ve been invited to in the last month? Do you? Too bad, because I’m going to tell you anyway: More than 10. That’s five toy parties, one jewelry party, one “home décor” party, one paint-your-own pottery party, one handbag party, one clothing party, and one skin care/makeup party.
Give me a break!
Even if I wanted any of this stuff, who actually has the time and money to attend all these events? Not me. Look, I want to support my friends, and if this is the career you choose to pursue, then I’ll try to help out. IF you’re selling a product I might consider buying, and IF you actually know me. Please don’t send me an invitation because I’m a friend of a friend of your cousin’s neighbor’s co-worker.
I can easily see how if you’re a stay-at-home mom, or a retiree, or someone who can’t work due to a disability, this all sounds like an ideal way to pick up some extra cash. But think about who you’re picking up that cash from. It’s usually people just like you.
I think that’s what bothers me most about this kind of business. It’s built on the idea of recruiting you to go out and recruit more people to buy from you, or better yet to sell for you. So you’ve got to constantly be on the prowl for new victims. As one promotional website puts it, “go out with the idea of making a million friends instead of a million dollars.” Yeah, right. Trust me, those million people are not your friends. They are probably dreading your next invitation.
It’s a sweet deal for the people at the top of the pyramid, huh? They have no overhead, because their salespeople (and their friends) are offering up their own living rooms as the selling floor. They don’t have to recruit new reps, because their salespeople do that for them too. That same promotional site also says, “Do you enjoy sales? If not, that's great, because you don't have to be a salesperson in order to succeed. This is a business of sharing information, and there are great tools that'll help you present the products/services and business to your candidates. All you do is work with those who are interested.” What a load of crap! You’re not working with “those who are interested”—you’re working with those who are too nice to say no.
As for me: No more Ms. Nice Girl. Instead of shopping in your home, I’ll shop in my own—online.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The blog ad debate
Originally published at Chaos Theory as part of the Blog Exchange; our assignment was to debate opposing sides of a topic with our partner. NB: If I had enough traffic to sell ads, I'd totally do it.
Why do you blog? For hits, for comments, for notoriety, for a steady stream of virtual pats on the back? If so, then bring on the ads. It’s a win-win: You’re even more motivated to bring in visitors, because they bring dollars with them. And your advertisers are happy, because you’re the ideal vehicle for their messages. They don’t care whether you’ve connected with your readers, whether you’ve helped someone by sharing your experiences, whether you’re a damn good writer. Just bring in the eyeballs, that’s all they ask.
But if you’re like most of us—if you blog out of a need to process what’s happening around you, or hone your writing skills, or keep some kind of a grip on your memories of what your children or pets or coworkers do all day—then what’s with the “buy-it-now” business? Yeah, I get that it’s nice to pick up a few bucks for doing something that you’ve been doing for free. I get the whole “If you’re paid to do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.” But who are we kidding here? If you calculate the hourly rate, wouldn’t you be better off flipping burgers? Are blog ads any more of a moneymaker than those “make millions stuffing envelopes from home” scams?
Generating enough traffic to attract ads means blogging often, and well enough to convert at least some curious clickers into faithful visitors. And there’s no way I can argue against that. And sure, what’s the harm in a few extra text links, or a promo in your sidebar? Ads are everywhere these days, from eggs to airport luggage carousels; most of us are pretty savvy at tuning them out. No one’s forcing your readers to click. (Although you will have to find extra time to manage your advertising, lest you let slip an ad that you or your readers find insulting or offensive; make sure you factor that in to your net profit.)
But let’s forget the reader and focus on the writer. Because once you’ve taken that step, once you’ve crossed that line into commercialism, what you post is going to change. You will never again write without thinking “I wonder if this will be a popular entry… Is this going to turn off any of my readers? Maybe I should change the title or delete this paragraph or…”
And also: “I haven’t posted yet today. Gotta get something up or my stats will drop. There’s nothing I feel like writing about… I have to come up with something… What am I going to do?” And suddenly your fun hobby, your therapeutic outlet, your means of connecting with like and unlike minds around the world—suddenly it’s just another job.
Why do you blog? For hits, for comments, for notoriety, for a steady stream of virtual pats on the back? If so, then bring on the ads. It’s a win-win: You’re even more motivated to bring in visitors, because they bring dollars with them. And your advertisers are happy, because you’re the ideal vehicle for their messages. They don’t care whether you’ve connected with your readers, whether you’ve helped someone by sharing your experiences, whether you’re a damn good writer. Just bring in the eyeballs, that’s all they ask.
But if you’re like most of us—if you blog out of a need to process what’s happening around you, or hone your writing skills, or keep some kind of a grip on your memories of what your children or pets or coworkers do all day—then what’s with the “buy-it-now” business? Yeah, I get that it’s nice to pick up a few bucks for doing something that you’ve been doing for free. I get the whole “If you’re paid to do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.” But who are we kidding here? If you calculate the hourly rate, wouldn’t you be better off flipping burgers? Are blog ads any more of a moneymaker than those “make millions stuffing envelopes from home” scams?
Generating enough traffic to attract ads means blogging often, and well enough to convert at least some curious clickers into faithful visitors. And there’s no way I can argue against that. And sure, what’s the harm in a few extra text links, or a promo in your sidebar? Ads are everywhere these days, from eggs to airport luggage carousels; most of us are pretty savvy at tuning them out. No one’s forcing your readers to click. (Although you will have to find extra time to manage your advertising, lest you let slip an ad that you or your readers find insulting or offensive; make sure you factor that in to your net profit.)
But let’s forget the reader and focus on the writer. Because once you’ve taken that step, once you’ve crossed that line into commercialism, what you post is going to change. You will never again write without thinking “I wonder if this will be a popular entry… Is this going to turn off any of my readers? Maybe I should change the title or delete this paragraph or…”
And also: “I haven’t posted yet today. Gotta get something up or my stats will drop. There’s nothing I feel like writing about… I have to come up with something… What am I going to do?” And suddenly your fun hobby, your therapeutic outlet, your means of connecting with like and unlike minds around the world—suddenly it’s just another job.
Friday, September 01, 2006
And She Shall Have Her Ven-ge-ance
Originally posted at Bethiclaus as part of the Blog Exchange; the assignment was to write a short story based on one of these prompts from McSweeney's.
Georgia looked again at the precise stack of white paper, the one that had been sitting on a corner of her desk for more than three weeks. Every time her eyes met the accusing pile, her stomach tightened a tiny bit more. Like in the Grinch, when you see his heart shrinking to two sizes too small.
Just read it. Just the first few chapters.
She’d have to, of course. There was no getting around it, no allowing it to burrow under all the other manuscripts in her office. No opening, somehow, the hermetically sealed window and letting each page float gracefully down to the street.
I can’t. I can’t stand it.
Val poked her head in the door. “Ready to go? I’ll walk you to the subway.”
“I can’t. I have to read this.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. Ruth wants a report on everything with a February pub date by tomorrow. This is the last one.”
‘Cause it’s gonna suck. Or worse, it might actually be good. Then I’ll really fucking lose it.
“Shit. Well, see you tomorrow then.”
After she waved goodbye to Val, Georgia removed the big blue rubber band from the manuscript and centered the pile on her desk. She left an empty space to the left where she would place the pages she’d read, face down. She rooted around for a good pen. She found a pad of sticky notes that were neither too big nor too small. She checked her email again, skimming quickly past Ruth’s reminder. She went to the ladies’ room and the water cooler.
For god’s sake. You are a grown-up and a professional. Forget about who wrote it and just read it.
Deep inside her bag, her phone buzzed. Nick.
“Hi…. No, still at work… awhile, I have a manuscript to read… no, I can’t. I really have to finish this tonight.”
Wish I could tell him. I hate this.
“OK, talk to you later. Uh huh.”
She switched off the ringer on the phone and tucked it away.
If we feature this—if I have to actually write something about this cretin for publication—I will officially freak out.
She squared her shoulders and flipped over the cover letter, the title page, the page that said “Acknowledgments TK.”
Yeah, acknowledge this, asshole.
Did I actually just think that? This moron has driven me to complete cliché.
Page 1 stared her in the face. After she read the first sentence, she smiled. A tiny twist of the lip, at first. Then she laughed, loud and long.
“Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.”
Georgia looked again at the precise stack of white paper, the one that had been sitting on a corner of her desk for more than three weeks. Every time her eyes met the accusing pile, her stomach tightened a tiny bit more. Like in the Grinch, when you see his heart shrinking to two sizes too small.
Just read it. Just the first few chapters.
She’d have to, of course. There was no getting around it, no allowing it to burrow under all the other manuscripts in her office. No opening, somehow, the hermetically sealed window and letting each page float gracefully down to the street.
I can’t. I can’t stand it.
Val poked her head in the door. “Ready to go? I’ll walk you to the subway.”
“I can’t. I have to read this.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. Ruth wants a report on everything with a February pub date by tomorrow. This is the last one.”
‘Cause it’s gonna suck. Or worse, it might actually be good. Then I’ll really fucking lose it.
“Shit. Well, see you tomorrow then.”
After she waved goodbye to Val, Georgia removed the big blue rubber band from the manuscript and centered the pile on her desk. She left an empty space to the left where she would place the pages she’d read, face down. She rooted around for a good pen. She found a pad of sticky notes that were neither too big nor too small. She checked her email again, skimming quickly past Ruth’s reminder. She went to the ladies’ room and the water cooler.
For god’s sake. You are a grown-up and a professional. Forget about who wrote it and just read it.
Deep inside her bag, her phone buzzed. Nick.
“Hi…. No, still at work… awhile, I have a manuscript to read… no, I can’t. I really have to finish this tonight.”
Wish I could tell him. I hate this.
“OK, talk to you later. Uh huh.”
She switched off the ringer on the phone and tucked it away.
If we feature this—if I have to actually write something about this cretin for publication—I will officially freak out.
She squared her shoulders and flipped over the cover letter, the title page, the page that said “Acknowledgments TK.”
Yeah, acknowledge this, asshole.
Did I actually just think that? This moron has driven me to complete cliché.
Page 1 stared her in the face. After she read the first sentence, she smiled. A tiny twist of the lip, at first. Then she laughed, loud and long.
“Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.”
Thursday, June 01, 2006
What's in a Name?
Originally posted at Motherhood Uncensored as part of the Blog Exchange.
The moment of truth came not at the altar, when I said “I do.” Nor did it come during our honeymoon, or when we crossed the threshold for the first time as husband and wife.
In fact, Jeff was miles away when it happened. The Moment was between me and the desktop support guy at my new job. It was my first day, and he was there to configure my computer and set up my email account. He asked, innocently enough, what my name was, so he could create my username and address.
I froze and fumbled for an answer. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. It was three weeks before my wedding, and I still hadn’t decided whether or not to take my husband’s surname. Now, suddenly, my feet were to the fire. It was time to make my choice.
I’d thought about it a lot. Way too much, probably—for years before I even met my future spouse. On one side, my feminist beliefs. Why should I change my name, sublimate my identity, just for some archaic, patriarchal tradition? Why should I have to go through the hassle of getting a new social security card, changing my passport, alerting every friend, relative and creditor I’d amassed in the previous 30 years? Plus, I already had an eight-year career as a writer and editor. I had a stack of clips with my maiden-name byline. Plus, it is a nice name—alliterative, easy to pronounce and spell.
But there were compelling arguments the other way too. If I chose not to change, I’d always have to correct people when they called me “Mrs. Jeff’sName.” I might feel like being married was no different from living together, as we’d already been doing for over a year. And what would happen when we had children? I wasn’t about to give them a five-syllable, hyphenated last name. They’d get his name, and then I’d be the odd woman out in my own family.
I pondered it day and night. I envied my friend Laurie, who married a man who happened to have the exact same last name she did. I thought about using my maiden name for work and his name for everything else. I wished I could fall back on my college-era plan, which was to marry someone with a one-syllable last name so I could use both mine and his (2 + 1 = manageable; 2 + 3 = not).
When I landed the job, fairly unexpectedly and so soon before the wedding, the balance started to shift, ever so slightly, in favor of making the switch. I was at a new company in a new industry, meeting a lot of new people. No one knew or cared about my byline. But in the end, the winning argument was the thought of my future children. I very much wanted to share a name with them. So in my first act of Mommy sacrifice, I gave up my maiden name. There in my cubicle, the die was cast, and I’ve been Mrs. Jeff’sName ever since. I don’t regret it, but I still miss my old name.
A few weeks after the wedding (conveniently after the email address was up and humming and all the other bureaucratic paper had been chased), he told me how much he liked my maiden name. And that if I’d wanted him to, he would’ve taken MY name instead. Now why didn’t I think of that?
The moment of truth came not at the altar, when I said “I do.” Nor did it come during our honeymoon, or when we crossed the threshold for the first time as husband and wife.
In fact, Jeff was miles away when it happened. The Moment was between me and the desktop support guy at my new job. It was my first day, and he was there to configure my computer and set up my email account. He asked, innocently enough, what my name was, so he could create my username and address.
I froze and fumbled for an answer. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. It was three weeks before my wedding, and I still hadn’t decided whether or not to take my husband’s surname. Now, suddenly, my feet were to the fire. It was time to make my choice.
I’d thought about it a lot. Way too much, probably—for years before I even met my future spouse. On one side, my feminist beliefs. Why should I change my name, sublimate my identity, just for some archaic, patriarchal tradition? Why should I have to go through the hassle of getting a new social security card, changing my passport, alerting every friend, relative and creditor I’d amassed in the previous 30 years? Plus, I already had an eight-year career as a writer and editor. I had a stack of clips with my maiden-name byline. Plus, it is a nice name—alliterative, easy to pronounce and spell.
But there were compelling arguments the other way too. If I chose not to change, I’d always have to correct people when they called me “Mrs. Jeff’sName.” I might feel like being married was no different from living together, as we’d already been doing for over a year. And what would happen when we had children? I wasn’t about to give them a five-syllable, hyphenated last name. They’d get his name, and then I’d be the odd woman out in my own family.
I pondered it day and night. I envied my friend Laurie, who married a man who happened to have the exact same last name she did. I thought about using my maiden name for work and his name for everything else. I wished I could fall back on my college-era plan, which was to marry someone with a one-syllable last name so I could use both mine and his (2 + 1 = manageable; 2 + 3 = not).
When I landed the job, fairly unexpectedly and so soon before the wedding, the balance started to shift, ever so slightly, in favor of making the switch. I was at a new company in a new industry, meeting a lot of new people. No one knew or cared about my byline. But in the end, the winning argument was the thought of my future children. I very much wanted to share a name with them. So in my first act of Mommy sacrifice, I gave up my maiden name. There in my cubicle, the die was cast, and I’ve been Mrs. Jeff’sName ever since. I don’t regret it, but I still miss my old name.
A few weeks after the wedding (conveniently after the email address was up and humming and all the other bureaucratic paper had been chased), he told me how much he liked my maiden name. And that if I’d wanted him to, he would’ve taken MY name instead. Now why didn’t I think of that?
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