Dear Black Sheep,
I'm not going to admonish you for "falling into the wrong crowd" because, honey, you didn't fall. You chose. But, hey, life is unfolding and blossoming all around you and inside you. These things that are happening now are good in the cosmic sense of you-wouldn't-be-who-you-are-today. And, today, you are incredible. Yup. Incredible.
You do live to be "old" (despite your endless renditions of Neil Young's Hey Hey, My My) and you give life, in more ways than one. You've touched lives and changed lives and, if you go, they'll never know your light. What will happen to them? Watch It's a Wonderful Life a lot.
Embrace your wit and intelligence and stop using your blonde hair as a sheild. (And, by the way, you're brunette now--by choice..ha!) Keep all that teen angst poetry. Shred your journals. Know that you're cool--who cares if others think it, you need to. You are so kind and caring--respect yourself the way you respect others. And know that you do find your place and that you do wind up, dare I say it?, happy. Be open to the everything-happens-for-a-reason philosophy.
Love,
Older, wiser (and brunette) you.
Onward.
P.S. There are people who think Black Sheep are pretty damn cool when you're older so eff the family stereotype.
P.P.S. Your idea of "thirties" being "your time" is right on.
Love and light, sister.
Thanks for the writing challenge, Amy!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Weekend Warriors
We don't leave the house on weekends.
My 1 year old is going in for his nap while my 3 year old is getting a snack and demanding our attention and whining that he's tired (aka "bored"). Then one of us takes said 3 year old for a walk to do something "FUN!" like pick up rocks and throw them in the sewer then he has his lunch. As he goes in for his nap, 1 year old is waking up. 1 year old has his lunch (and, on a good day, doesn't throw it back up) and one of us takes said 1 year old for a walk (provided he hasn't thrown up--if so, it's bathtime instead). Then it's time to get 3 year old up and we have a mad dash to all leave the house together and do something "FUN!" like pick up trash or play "is it mulch or dog poo?" (One of our lovely neighbors has graciously provided us with hours of "FUN!") The mad dash ends up in someone peeing, pooping, throwing up, or falling and smacking his head. Then, just as everyone is finally ready--clean, awake, and not bleeding--it's time for 1 year old to go in for his nap. When he wakes up...time for dinner!
My 1 year old is going in for his nap while my 3 year old is getting a snack and demanding our attention and whining that he's tired (aka "bored"). Then one of us takes said 3 year old for a walk to do something "FUN!" like pick up rocks and throw them in the sewer then he has his lunch. As he goes in for his nap, 1 year old is waking up. 1 year old has his lunch (and, on a good day, doesn't throw it back up) and one of us takes said 1 year old for a walk (provided he hasn't thrown up--if so, it's bathtime instead). Then it's time to get 3 year old up and we have a mad dash to all leave the house together and do something "FUN!" like pick up trash or play "is it mulch or dog poo?" (One of our lovely neighbors has graciously provided us with hours of "FUN!") The mad dash ends up in someone peeing, pooping, throwing up, or falling and smacking his head. Then, just as everyone is finally ready--clean, awake, and not bleeding--it's time for 1 year old to go in for his nap. When he wakes up...time for dinner!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Third Person Narrative--Momrepus asks "WHY?"
There’s someone standing behind you in line at the grocery store. He seems normal enough and starts talking to you. Fine. You’re pleasant and polite and then…he mentions “Joe”. Joe loves this. Joe does this for a living. Joe can’t stand it when people do that. You’re wondering if you know this Joe, or if this guy thinks you know Joe. This guy…what the hell was his name again?
Suddenly, you’re hit with it—that sick feeling in your stomach reserved for dark alleys and darker still parking lots. Your heart beats a little harder in your chest as your voice squeaks, “What’s your name again?”
He looks confused and upset. “Joe doesn’t like when people don’t listen to him,” he warns.
Alright...dramatic but I’ve always hated this. And, personally, the creep factor squashes anything Fear Factor can dream up. So why, WHY, do parents do this? Why do we talk about ourselves in the third person?
“Mommy will be right there, honey.” “Please don’t hit Mommy.” “Where is Mommy’s nose? Yes! That’s Mommy’s nose—you’re so smart!”
When did this happen?
A good friend of mine came to visit and, as she was leaving, she turned to me and said, “You know, my son did that, too.”
“Did what?”
“Referred to himself in the third person. It’s that damn Elmo. Once I stopped letting him watch Sesame Street, he stopped doing it.” Okay, it may not be that simple for all of us but, hey, if we never refer to ourselves as, well, ourselves, how will they learn? And while it may be easier for children to learn in the third person when they’re itty bitty newbies, two and three years old is old enough to learn proper grammar.
It took a week. “Oh, YOU want some more peaches? You say, ‘I would like some more peaches.’” (And, while you’re at it, get that “please” in there). It was a week of loud, drawn-out first and second person narrative but we survived, and our son is talking goodly. We’re so proud.
Suddenly, you’re hit with it—that sick feeling in your stomach reserved for dark alleys and darker still parking lots. Your heart beats a little harder in your chest as your voice squeaks, “What’s your name again?”
He looks confused and upset. “Joe doesn’t like when people don’t listen to him,” he warns.
Alright...dramatic but I’ve always hated this. And, personally, the creep factor squashes anything Fear Factor can dream up. So why, WHY, do parents do this? Why do we talk about ourselves in the third person?
“Mommy will be right there, honey.” “Please don’t hit Mommy.” “Where is Mommy’s nose? Yes! That’s Mommy’s nose—you’re so smart!”
When did this happen?
A good friend of mine came to visit and, as she was leaving, she turned to me and said, “You know, my son did that, too.”
“Did what?”
“Referred to himself in the third person. It’s that damn Elmo. Once I stopped letting him watch Sesame Street, he stopped doing it.” Okay, it may not be that simple for all of us but, hey, if we never refer to ourselves as, well, ourselves, how will they learn? And while it may be easier for children to learn in the third person when they’re itty bitty newbies, two and three years old is old enough to learn proper grammar.
It took a week. “Oh, YOU want some more peaches? You say, ‘I would like some more peaches.’” (And, while you’re at it, get that “please” in there). It was a week of loud, drawn-out first and second person narrative but we survived, and our son is talking goodly. We’re so proud.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Ew. How UnMommy-like of You
In response to Crystal’s writing prompt, I will say this:
Two friends, crackers, cheese spread, wine. And baby was not napping.
Let’s see…he sat in his highchair too long (because we were sitting at the table) and ate too little (because I couldn’t make up my mind—fruit or veggies). He sat in a wet diaper, which he NEVER does when we’re home. He got into things I wouldn’t dream of letting him near because I was talking and only watched him out of the corner of my eye. I had only one hand on him during those times when I probably should have been holding him in a mommy death-grip. I forgot his nuk when I brought him up for his nap. And his toy box didn’t get opened once—he played with Pat’s shoes and Janet’s tattoo…oh, and the cord that was lying around from the video camera charger. I think I may have gotten a picture of him doing one of those things. We also put a bottle of wine on his highchair and thought it was too funny not to take a picture of. Please, you must agree…
And, you know, I had a good time. So did the little guy. I say…not sure he needs a toy box. Not sure at all. Thanks J & P!
P.S. My (fantastical) friends brought this wine over for me and we laughed (a little too heartily) but, as a novelty wine, we thought, "It's gonna suck." Just an FYI...it's really not bad. Monday, August 13, 2007
Martyr Moms
No one likes a martyr…
Not even the kids you are supposedly giving up your life for. Neglecting yourself to serve your kids will only lead to resentment, bitterness, and a shoddy appearance—which, frankly, nobody likes, either—including you, let’s face it. And your kids, you know the ones to whom you are devoting yourselves wholeheartedly to the detriment of all else, will have little if any respect for you. So not only will your roots be showing, your fingernails chipped and cracked, your belly flopping and boobs sagging, but you’ll have kids who’d rather go to Jimmy’s house because his mom is “cool” (and, “hate her”, pretty). But is she really all that or does she just take care of herself? And before you bitch to your other martyr, supermom friends that Jimmy’s mom, and all those other moms who seem slightly more put-together than your average bear, have “way too much time on their hands”, let it be known that most of those moms beg, borrow, and steal that time. They have been known to kill for it, on occasion. Letting yourself go in the name of taking the best possible care of your children is bunk. You cannot give if you don’t receive. Let me repeat this kernel of wisdom: You cannot give if you don’t receive. You’ll have nothing to give. Think of it, if you must, as going to the gas station—something martyr moms do a lot as part of their never-ending chauffeuring duties—you need to refuel in order to keep going.
Take the help that’s offered, use that spa gift card and get a facial, splurge and go relax with a nice massage, buy yourself something you’ve been secretly coveting (and never mind Susie’s new doll that she “sooo wants” that it may sit among her 25 other dusty dolls that she “sooo wanted” a few months ago). To hell with the kids (for a day or two each month) and make your time all about yourself. Think “Me. Me. Me!” and you’ll do just fine.
Hey, love the new haircut.
Not even the kids you are supposedly giving up your life for. Neglecting yourself to serve your kids will only lead to resentment, bitterness, and a shoddy appearance—which, frankly, nobody likes, either—including you, let’s face it. And your kids, you know the ones to whom you are devoting yourselves wholeheartedly to the detriment of all else, will have little if any respect for you. So not only will your roots be showing, your fingernails chipped and cracked, your belly flopping and boobs sagging, but you’ll have kids who’d rather go to Jimmy’s house because his mom is “cool” (and, “hate her”, pretty). But is she really all that or does she just take care of herself? And before you bitch to your other martyr, supermom friends that Jimmy’s mom, and all those other moms who seem slightly more put-together than your average bear, have “way too much time on their hands”, let it be known that most of those moms beg, borrow, and steal that time. They have been known to kill for it, on occasion. Letting yourself go in the name of taking the best possible care of your children is bunk. You cannot give if you don’t receive. Let me repeat this kernel of wisdom: You cannot give if you don’t receive. You’ll have nothing to give. Think of it, if you must, as going to the gas station—something martyr moms do a lot as part of their never-ending chauffeuring duties—you need to refuel in order to keep going.
Take the help that’s offered, use that spa gift card and get a facial, splurge and go relax with a nice massage, buy yourself something you’ve been secretly coveting (and never mind Susie’s new doll that she “sooo wants” that it may sit among her 25 other dusty dolls that she “sooo wanted” a few months ago). To hell with the kids (for a day or two each month) and make your time all about yourself. Think “Me. Me. Me!” and you’ll do just fine.
Hey, love the new haircut.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Finding Relaxtion in the Strangest Places...
I sat in a parking lot outside a strip mall yesterday. It was early evening, still sunny with a warm breeze blowing. I just returned something (one of my least favorite things to do) and I got into my car to drive home. When I opened the door, I didn’t want to close it, didn’t want to put the key in the ignition—didn’t want to go home. I inhaled the summer air (and car exhausts). I looked around at the asphalt with its mustard yellow painted lines and cars scattered about and chain stores with obnoxious clearance signs in the windows and wondered why there wasn’t a spinning rack with “Wish You Were Here” postcards or a display of “My Mom Went to a Parking Lot and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt”. It was so damn relaxing, I thought myself at that moment the most pathetic creature to ever walk the earth. I didn’t want to go home but wanted instead to stay there in that shopping plaza and breathe in whatever fresh air I could while averting my eyes from the shops and cars.
It was that day, desperately attempting to delay my inevitable arrival at home, that I decided to stop by the natural food store I’d been eyeing for months. Upon reaching the door, I realized it was locked despite the open sign and as I was walking away noticed, for the first time, the United States Armed Forces recruiting center one door down. I eyed the damn place like a teen drooling over a tattoo parlor, knowing I couldn’t really go in but hesitating outside the door just the same. My hub mocked me when I got home, saying I was too old and they wouldn’t take me but never saying he hadn’t, on occasion, thought of it himself.
It was that day, desperately attempting to delay my inevitable arrival at home, that I decided to stop by the natural food store I’d been eyeing for months. Upon reaching the door, I realized it was locked despite the open sign and as I was walking away noticed, for the first time, the United States Armed Forces recruiting center one door down. I eyed the damn place like a teen drooling over a tattoo parlor, knowing I couldn’t really go in but hesitating outside the door just the same. My hub mocked me when I got home, saying I was too old and they wouldn’t take me but never saying he hadn’t, on occasion, thought of it himself.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and Buffy
It’s not a new concept: listen to classical music while you’re pregnant, play Beethoven to baby when he’s awake, leave Mozart softly wafting through the house when baby is falling asleep. You, too, can calm your baby and make him smart and happy with a flick of your clicker. Turn on the music, and make sure it’s classical.
Classical music has cornered the baby market. There are toys and dvds and cds chock full of Bach. There are studies to prove the calming and brain-enhancing benefits of Beethoven. Crib toys, bassinet radios, discovery centers, and more are readily available online, in catalogs, and in the stores as well as plastered onto baby registries as “must-haves” for the new bundle of joy.
We are pummeled with countless tips and tricks on how to get our unborn child to listen to classical music—really listen. When he’s older, they’ll boast, you’ll have a happy baby! Ads with beautifully humungous moms-to-be relaxing in a gliding rocker, eyes closed—in a serene, not exhausted, manner—with ipod earbuds pressed against their gigantic, yet perfectly round bellies tell you all you need to know. Right? You can soothe your kid into oblivion and, when all is said (by them) and done (by you), you’ll have an exceedingly happy baby. There is even a series of “Happy Baby” cds filled with hours of classical music. Seriously.
As luck, genes, environment, (or music) would have it, I do have a happy baby: an amazingly happy baby. I wonder what “they” would say if they knew that, at six months old, he stopped everything to whip his head around when the theme song to Buffy the Vampire Slayer blared out of our TV speakers. Not exactly Vivaldi but, I assure you, calming and cheering to him nonetheless. Granted, I watched it (a lot) when I was pregnant so there might be something to all that in utero stuff, but, as any BtVS fan knows, the tune is catchy and downright chipper. It makes me happy and makes my little guy happy, too. I sometimes sing him little ditties from the brilliant episode “Once More, With Feeling”, Buffy: the musical, during which he gets all wide-eyed and breaks out in the most adorable jack-o-lantern grin. There may be some giggling, cackling, and guffawing involved—from both parties. Even my toddler gets into it, now. He often requests the soundtrack and we dance around the living room, singing and laughing like lunatics. Bottom note: listen to whatever floats your boat, it will float baby’s too.
Classical music has cornered the baby market. There are toys and dvds and cds chock full of Bach. There are studies to prove the calming and brain-enhancing benefits of Beethoven. Crib toys, bassinet radios, discovery centers, and more are readily available online, in catalogs, and in the stores as well as plastered onto baby registries as “must-haves” for the new bundle of joy.
We are pummeled with countless tips and tricks on how to get our unborn child to listen to classical music—really listen. When he’s older, they’ll boast, you’ll have a happy baby! Ads with beautifully humungous moms-to-be relaxing in a gliding rocker, eyes closed—in a serene, not exhausted, manner—with ipod earbuds pressed against their gigantic, yet perfectly round bellies tell you all you need to know. Right? You can soothe your kid into oblivion and, when all is said (by them) and done (by you), you’ll have an exceedingly happy baby. There is even a series of “Happy Baby” cds filled with hours of classical music. Seriously.
As luck, genes, environment, (or music) would have it, I do have a happy baby: an amazingly happy baby. I wonder what “they” would say if they knew that, at six months old, he stopped everything to whip his head around when the theme song to Buffy the Vampire Slayer blared out of our TV speakers. Not exactly Vivaldi but, I assure you, calming and cheering to him nonetheless. Granted, I watched it (a lot) when I was pregnant so there might be something to all that in utero stuff, but, as any BtVS fan knows, the tune is catchy and downright chipper. It makes me happy and makes my little guy happy, too. I sometimes sing him little ditties from the brilliant episode “Once More, With Feeling”, Buffy: the musical, during which he gets all wide-eyed and breaks out in the most adorable jack-o-lantern grin. There may be some giggling, cackling, and guffawing involved—from both parties. Even my toddler gets into it, now. He often requests the soundtrack and we dance around the living room, singing and laughing like lunatics. Bottom note: listen to whatever floats your boat, it will float baby’s too.
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