Generation X, Y, Z

There are things we do as parents that in retrospect realize were great, big mistakes. We can either suck it up and admit we messed up, or pretend we’re perfect and refuse to back-pedal. Personally, and coming from a childhood of the latter, I prefer to suck it up, admit I made a mistake, and back-pedal. Quickly.

Perhaps it’s a Spring thing, but I’ve been seriously giving some thought lately as to what we’ve invited into the house under the guise of entertainment. The Xbox, Wii, iPods, Nintendos; they’ve taken over my daughter’s brains. The Nintendos were bought with the intention of making long car trips more tolerable, the Xbox and Wii as rainy day entertainment and the iPods….well, they were Christmas gifts so I blame Santa for those. Never trust a guy who wears a red suit.

I’ve tried to be “cool mom” about all of them, really I have. I took an interest in the tiny screens of the Nintendos, pretending to actually see what was going on when in actuality it looks like a frenetic blur of colourful dots to me. I bought Wii fit games hoping to balance the fact that most of the Wii games require only your fingers and thumb to move with any intensity. And the iPod? Quite honestly, all of the applications on those things just stump me. I’m still mystified by the phenomenon of Angry Birds and just…don’t…get it. Why would I want to throw a bird at a pig? I have nothing against the pigs. And throwing the birds by slingshot? Of course that’s going to make them angry…duh.

I’ve pretended not to feel the pangs of second thoughts about all of these electronic things, I do realize that they are part of our world today. However, lately all of it has become too much of a part of my world and I feel the need to back away, fencing sword in hand, and keep some of it at bay. And after months of unsuccessfully trying to cut down on the electronic usage in our house, I finally decided on an all or nothing approach and made Sundays “electronic free days.”

My younger daughter embraced the idea whole-heartedly. Nothing makes her happier than having a conversation and spending time together. Cooking, art, gardening, house-cleaning, it’s all fun stuff if it means time with mom. But my older daughter, who is just hitting the ‘tween years and all the hormonal mess that brings, was…not…thrilled.

Perhaps my timing was off but last Sunday morning I happily greeted her with the electronic free Sunday idea. Last to wake, she had wandered down the stairs; hair disheveled and still in her PJ’s. Oddly, my "great idea" was rewarded by a single turn on her heel and the view of her backside disappearing up the stairs again. At the time, I figured she went to brush her teeth or to take a shower and get ready for our day of fun. After a half hour passed however, I went upstairs to check on her and saw that she had gone back to bed, covers tightly over her dear little, electronic free head.

I guess that meant she was not happy with the plan.

At the risk of sounding completely out of touch and well…old, I wonder about the up-and-coming generation and what we’ve done to ourselves as a society. You can’t seem to go to any event without seeing everyone plugged into something. Cell phones, palm devices, Nintendo, iPods; and there are hundreds of other devices I can’t even name. It’s kind of sad, really.

The other night my husband went out to a bachelor party. Mid-way, he couldn’t help but notice that every few minutes, the other men were pulling out their hand held devices, emailing photos of the event and texting people who apparently “needed” to know how exciting sharing a drink at the local pub was.

Huh??

What ever happened to living in the moment and giving people 100% of your time? What does that do to this generation as far as their social connections and friendships? Hmmm, I’ll ponder on that for awhile before I just shake my head and move on. Or maybe I’ll text somebody about it. Just a sec while I put all of you on hold and give you half of my attention…

Anyways…where was I? Oh yeah, writing in my Blog.

The generation that dominates the workforce today has been dubbed Generation Y. Wikipedia characterizes them by; “people born in the 70’s marked by an increased use and familiarity with communications, media, and digital technologies.” That would be an understatement. Personally, I’m from Generation X. Born in the 1960’s we are characterized by Jane Deverson’s study in 1964 as people from a generation who; “sleep together before they are married, were not taught to believe in God as 'much', dislike the Queen, and don't respect parents.” Yeah well…I take the 5th on the first two and have no issues with the Queen, I don’t even know her. We won't even go into the parents. Why somebody felt the need to pair my age with a letter is beyond me, it’s too much like algebra. (Which would send me screaming from the room.) What happens when they run out of letters in the alphabet? Is that when the Big One wipes out humanity as we know it and we go back to Generation A again? All the Generation A cells hanging out in the primordial ooze can’t for the life of them figure out why Generation B would want to mutate into anything beyond a single-celled organism. It just invites deep thought and communication.

But I digress.

So electronic-free Sundays it is and I’m hoping this experiment will invite more art and outside time now that summer is creeping up on us. My girls will emerge from their den of “high scores” and “level ups” to blink wondrously at that bright thing that hangs in the sky and creates Vitamin D. They will revel in all the green, growing stuff that litters their planet and willingly pull on their sandals to exit the house, once again mucking around in the backyard in the dirt and grass to discover what lurks there. They will tag along with me daily without complaint, walking the dogs and happily picking flowers and listening to the birds. Yep, I have high hopes.

But for today, once my older daughter decided to emerge from her cocoon of denial, I dug out the art supplies from our art closet. I figured it was a good place to start. We had paper, paints, markers, clay--every form of art supply known. I spread it all out on the table and started drawing with my younger daughter. We drew frogs, flowers, butterflies and trees. We drew silly things, pretty things, scary things; we created a world without electronics. Sheer bliss. After about an hour (and begrudgingly I might add) my older daughter picked up a pencil and plonked herself down, finally realizing that she had no other options.

“There are books too, you know. You don’t have to do art if you don’t want to.”

“I read at night time,” she grumped. Pause. “Can I read a book online?”

“Um…how about just a book from the bookshelf? I’m really trying to stay off the computers too.”

Eye roll. (I hate eye rolls, but you really have to pick your battles) “Fine.”

After her frustration died down however, I could see she was really getting into her art. And we were chatting! Not that chatting that occurs when their attention is focused elsewhere. Real chatting with complete sentences and everything.

An hour passed before she stopped drawing and sat back with a huge grin on her face. “Perfect!”

“What did you draw?”

She held up something that resembled a comic strip. “A Pokemon! This is how he starts and then he mutates into…..” and her description kind of merged with the screaming sound in my brain.

Note to self: this is the first Sunday. I will not be defeated. My fencing sword is drawn.

Writing and Children

…don’t go together at all. Reading and children, yes. Like butter and toast, in fact. But trying to write with children around is like repeatedly trying to start a car without a battery. I know this now because I tried to work on my novel this summer with both kiddos at home.

Silly me.

Erroneously, I figured that while my little darlings were doing what darlings do while out of school (the stuff that didn’t include trips to the museum or playing board games together) I could get some writing done. I’m working on a paranormal fantasy and plan to have it done by October. But, I reasoned, if I could get some writing done this summer, I might move that date to up to September.
It sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea.

Our first day of summer vacation, we had a lovely morning taking the dogs for a long hike. We followed that up by spending most of the day at the museum together and by the end of the day, were all pretty tired. When we got home, my darlings decided to spend an hour on their computers before making homemade pizza for dinner.
Perfect. That would mean I could write for a whole hour.
Or so I thought.

Cronan drove in silence, glancing over at her. He ran his hands over the steering wheel restlessly. Unbidden, something inside him slowly began to stir to life.

“Look mommy, I made an outfit!” My oldest was playing a dress-up game on her computer.
“That’s beautiful, honey. I like the colour of the dress you chose.” I smiled at her enthusiasm. Okay, back to writing.

Parking the car in front of her house, he followed Lucinda to the front door like a shadow.

“I put make-up on mine! Do you like it?” My younger daughter is playing the same game and, not to be outdone, has dressed her model up in hot pink with matching eye shadow.
“Wow, sweetie. That’s really sparkly. I like it!” Okay…what was I writing again? Oh, yeah. My antagonist lead character was about to disclose the beginnings of his dark secret to the reader.

Wordlessly, Cronan placed his firm hands over hers and pulled the key out. She left him at the open doorway, dropping her coat on the floor and leaving behind a trail of water into the kitchen.

“Do you like her shoes? I matched them with her dress.”
I look up, slightly bleary-eyed. Straddling two worlds is sometimes a difficult task as a writer. “I love them. They’re really fancy. She looks like she’s going to a party.”
My antagonist is restlessly moving across the computer page as I attempt to get him back on track. Okay. Now.

Cronan crossed over and shut the door behind him, turning the lock with a quiet click. His icy eyes flashed as Darwin skated in the room. The dog growled menacingly and backed up towards the hallway. “Shall I let him out?” he grated evenly.

“Zeus wants out, mommy.”
“Okay.’ Distracted, I continue to type. “Can you let him out, honey?”
“I got up last time.” I glance over at my oldest and see that she is completely absorbed in her game. Big sigh. “Okay, Zeus. Last time, buddy.” I let our dog out and walk back over to my chair, grabbing my laptop. My antagonist starts to drift off the computer page again. I hustle him back on-task.

She turned around and almost fell into Cronan, who was directly behind her. Startled, she involuntarily drew in her breath.
“My apologies,” he intoned.
“I need to sit down.”
“You need a drink.”
“I don’t drink.”

“Oh, mommy, look at this!! You can give them a background!”
“What?”
“A background! You can make a house for them!” My younger daughter’s eyes shone as if she’d discovered a diamond under her pillow.
“Great, honey. That’s fabulous. I like that pink you chose for her room too.”
I look back down at my computer screen to discover that my antagonist has wandered off and is sitting beside my younger darling now, marveling at what a great room her diva has. I shake my head to clear it. “Is there anything else you want to show me? Mommy’s kind of trying to write while you guys are playing.”
“Sorry."
“It’s okay. I was just wondering if you wanted to show me anything else.”

Both my girls look up at me with blank faces.

“Just asking.” Taught smile on my face, I motion for my antagonist to get back into my computer and back to being sinister. I begin typing again.

“You need one tonight.” Cronan smiled widely. He picked up the wine bottle from where it had been shoved in the corner on her counter top. “Do you have a bottle opener?”
Lucinda shook her head as she dropped into the chair, shivering in her wet clothes.

“I’m hungry.” My oldest chimes in.
My computer screen seems to brighten for a second, but I figure it's probably just my imagination. “Okay. What do you want?”
“Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“Do you want one too?” I wisely ask my younger daughter. She continues to type on her computer, oblivious. Because obviously, her game is fascinating and taking up 100% of her attention. “Sweetie?”
She looks up at me.
“Do you want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
“Um, okay.”

I walk into the kitchen and begin my task. My antagonist, amused, follows me and waits patiently to be told what his next foreboding and sinister move will be.

“Here you go.” I set their sandwiches down and sit again, computer in my lap, and begin to type.

“I’m cold,” Lucinda whispered to herself. Her white t-shirt clung to her skin.
“You need to change into some dry clothes.” He pulled the cork out, eying her as he inhaled the cork’s aroma.


“I need the crusts cut off.”
“What?”
“I always have the crusts cut off, mommy.” My younger daughter looks at me like I’ve committed a cardinal sin.
“Of course, what was I thinking?” My antagonist rolls his eyes at me like I should have known all along. He goes and sits beside my younger daughter and smiles proudly at the fashion diva she’s created.
“Here you go!” I am cheerful. I am super-mom. I am getting a little pissed at all the interruptions.

My antagonist laughs at me as he slides back into my story.

“Anything else?” I ask my darlings patiently.

They both don’t hear me, of course, because the game they’re playing is so freaking fascinating.

“Okay. Back to writing.” I wait to see if they answer me. They do not.

Lucinda ignored him and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
Opening a cabinet door, he helped himself to two glasses in the cupboard.
Lucinda vaguely wondered how he knew where her glasses were kept, but she was too cold to ask. She watched as poured the dark, red liquid into the glasses and ran his finger along the rim to catch a stray drop. He slowly licked the drop of wine from his finger.

“Oh my gosh, that’s sooooo funny!” Both my daughters explode into a fit of the giggles. I look up to see that my older daughter is peeking over her sister’s shoulder.
“What’s funny?”
“Look mommy!”
I dutifully get up and have a look. Her diva is dancing around with a cat. A bright pink, feather boa is slung over her shoulders. My antagonist peers over my shoulders and begins to laugh as well. I resist the urge to smack him upside of his darkly handsome, yet foreboding face.

“How clever, yes, ha-ha. That’s pretty…silly. Did you make the cat too?”
Silence.
Smile still plastered on my face, I once again, get back…to…my writing.

“Thank you,” Lucinda said quietly as she accepted the glass. Still shaking, she watched as her wine trembled in the glass. “A patient died today. We had to put him to sleep.”
“Things die, Lucinda. You know that.”
Lucinda looked up at him in disbelief. He was standing too close to her, as usual. He kneeled in front of her, placing his hands on her knees. She involuntarily sat back, wondering why he had no sense of personal space.

“Woof!”
“Mommy, Zeus wants back in.”
I get up…again…and stomp over to the door. Wordlessly, I stomp back over to my computer and sit. Several seconds tick by before I furiously begin to type once again.

“I could have saved him.”
Cronan raised his eyebrows.
“I could have.” Lucinda stared into her glass. “It’s not my job to decide whether something lives or dies.”
“Everything gets its time on this earth, Lucinda. The trick is, knowing when it is time to stay, and when it is time to move on.”
“Is that the trick?” She started to raise her glass to her lips, and lowered it again.
Cronan smiled, “Drink, Lucinda. You will feel better.”

“I’m thirsty.”
My fingers stop. “Why don’t you get yourself some water?” I grate.
“I don’t want water. I want a glass of milk.”

My antagonist looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

Knowing that the milk carton is far too heavy for my youngest to pour herself, I reluctantly get up. “Okay. Do you want some too?” I ask my older daughter.
My words fall on deaf ears.

“Do you want a glass of milk?” which comes out a little too loud.
My older daughter looks up at me with a frown.
“Milk. Do you want a glass of milk? I’m getting some.”
“Yeah, okay.” And she blissfully goes back to her game.

I slosh milk into two large glasses, more milk than I know they can drink, and set the glasses onto the coffee table. Task done, I point firmly to my computer. My antagonist pulls himself reluctantly away from Diva Land and slinks back into my computer pages. I type.

“My hunch is that you do not drink enough.” He reached up and pushed some of her wet hair back from her face. He ran his thumb lightly over the two small, white scars that stood out against the pallor of her skin.
Lucinda raised the glass and drained it, pulling away from him.
“You will end up on your back at that rate.”
“Maybe that’s where I want to be right now.” Lucinda stood and walked over to the open wine bottle, pouring herself another glass.

“Can I have a pillow?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nevermind. I’ll get it.” My older daughter hops up to grab a pillow and settles happily back down onto the couch.

Writing…now.

“So,” Lucinda turned and faced him, “why are you here, Cronan?”
“In your house?”
“No, in this town. You seem quite…worldly. Why did you move here? It’s a small town and not much in it.” She took a sip of wine and let it flood her mouth before swallowing. “My friend, Lucas, just moved into town to get away from the city…I guess. Why did you move here? What are you running from?”
A flicker of something indiscernible passed over his face. “Not from, Lucinda, to.”
The heady smell of wine overwhelmed her senses. “I don’t know what that means, Cronan. You’re being vague on purpose.”
“Why are you here, Lucinda?” Cronan took a step towards her.

“This game is boring. What’s the name of that wolf site that I was on the other day?”
I close my eyes briefly. “The one that had a museum link?”
“Yeah, that one.”
I search my chattering brain for the name and can’t come up with it. “I don’t remember.”
My daughter sighs, exasperated. “It had a picture of a grey wolf on the page.”
“Yes, honey, I know. I don’t remember.” My fingers are frozen mid-type and mirror my characters who are frozen in their repartee. After several moments, I continue.

Lucinda took another generous sip from her glass. The dark red liquid slid down her throat, warming her insides to a dull roar. “I’m here…I’m here because my fiancé died.” The confession was out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop herself.
Cronan paused. “Again, everything gets its time on earth.”
Lucinda’s eyes welled up with tears. She caught her breath and turned her back on him. Setting her half empty glass down, she steadied herself against her counter.
Cronan was behind her in a flicker.
“I am sorry. I can be quite…heartless at times,” he murmured evenly.

“WolfQuest!!”
I practically jump out of my skin. “Great, honey. Why don’t you go there now?”
“Cool! I love WolfQuest.”

Typing.

“No, you’re right. Everything has it’s time.” A tear slid down her face. She could feel Cronan’s breath on her hair. His presence was hard to ignore, it pressed behind her insistently. Through her haze, she felt her heart leap frantically. His hands slid lightly over her hips and she felt him inhale deeply. Panicking, she grabbed her glass and slipped past him, backing up towards the center of the kitchen.

“I thought you wanted to play dress-up?”
My eyes snap up to my younger daughter. Sensing her sister has gone onto something bigger and better, she is peering over her shoulder.
“Stop looking over my shoulder!”
“What site are you on?”
“None of your business! Play your own game!”
“Mommy, she won’t let me see what site she’s on!”
“Please tell her what site you’re on and stop arguing.” Both my characters are looking at me, eyebrows raised. I know, I know.
My older daughter sighs dramatically. “WolfQuest! Okay?”

I wait. I type once again.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Lucinda’s thoughts darted around like trapped rabbits. “Why are you here, Cronan?”
His eyes burned a clear grey, stripping her of her armor.
Lucinda swayed slightly, the room beginning to tilt. “I think it would be best if you left now.”
“Is that what would be best?”
“Yes, please leave.”
He considered her request and set his glass down, thumb running along its rim. “I will…for now.”

“How do you spell quest?”
I can hear both characters yell the letters out in my brain. I quietly spell it for her, however. Too quietly--because I am trying to not…lose…my temper.
“Thanks, mommy.”

I immediately feel like a heel. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

Lucinda finished the rest of her drink in one gulp. The room began to spin. “You never told me your last name, by the way.”
A small, triumphant smile touched the corners of his mouth.
Lucinda watched his lips as he began to form a word. In the distance, she heard a glass break, shattering his reply.


“Look mommy, you can pick what wolf you want to be! Which one should I be?”

And it is at that moment, my friends, that I give up on my writing. “How about I help you choose? I’ve always liked grey wolves.”

I save and close out of my novel and for the next twenty minutes, my younger daughter and I play with our wolf in WolfQuest. My antagonist cheers us on; a big smile on his face and a bright pink, feather boa slung over his broad shoulders.

Summer Break

May 2010
I will be taking a Summer break from blogging.
Writing with kiddos in stereo is quite impossible.
Back in the Fall...

Into the Dressing Room...or not, from "Mom Emails"

“How about this?”
“No, daddy, flowers don’t go with pink polka dots!”
“This one?”
“Butterflies and stripes?” (a look of dismay from our younger daughter) “Pink can’t be with yellow, daddy, they don’t match!”
I give my husband a sympathetic look as he hangs the clothes back on the rack.
“I’m going to, um, go look at boy clothes now.”
Both girls absently wave at him as he walks away, shooed so unkindly from the girl zone.

Today in Target, we have decided as a family to go shopping for kid clothes. My husband, always helpful, has bravely been attempting to put girlie outfits together for our 8 and 10-year-old daughters.

And unfortunately, at least according to our girls, he has failed miserably at that.

Poor guy, he really does try. Some day, they will appreciate his fashion sense and interest…but not today.
Because today, we are here to not only pick out, “New Spring Outfits,” but outfits that can also serve as, “School Picture Outfits.” You know, those over-priced, over-posed, hit-and-miss pictures that end up as grandparent bragging fodder.
And because I know my fashion sense is not only gloriously out of touch to an 8 and a 10-year-old, I stand back. Way back. In other words, I wisely opt out of putting my two-cents into anything fashion related that touches their dear, little hands.
Because I grew up differently.
My mom loved to dictate to me what I could and could not wear. And in the 1970’s folks, that really sucked. Remember platform shoes? Too high. Satin pants and jackets? Too tight, too trendy. Peasant skirts? Too ragged. Lace-up jeans? Too sexy. Anything made of cloth? Too low, too high, too red, too blue, too old, young, expensive, cheap, disco, hip-happening, popular…too me.
What was left then, you ask? Polyester stretchy pants. Holly Hobby skirts. Wrangler jeans. Plain-Jane t-shirts (no graphics). Oh yeah, mom was determined to make me into a fashion and social outcast.
Baggage you say? Yes, I say. And not the cute kind.
Now, you may say that it’s shallow and silly to care about stuff like that as a kid. Even more so to hold onto a grudge as an adult. And to that…I blow you a big, fat, slave-to-fashion raspberry.
Fast forward to my life with my kids (she said, stamping her foot like the teenager she isn't). I am determined to allow my children to have their own clothing choices. As long as; 1) we can afford it, 2) they’re clean clothes and don’t smell, and 3) their girl bits and pieces are covered. Once they’re of age, I can’t even say much about #3 because as an ex-punk rocker (oh yeah, mom got it back in spades once I moved out) I can’t say that my girl bits and pieces stayed covered 100% of the time.
But for now, I walk my two little darlings back to the changing rooms with their sane choices and begin to follow them back into the stalls.
When, it happens.
The moment I have been expecting.
The little hands go up and the faces get that slightly pitying look as they both explain to me that I am not needed in the dressing room, thank you very much. They explain this to me politely, mind you, but the line was definitely drawn in the sand.
Oh dear.
I paste a brave smile on my face and back away, telling them both that I will be cheerfully waiting for them at the front.
And I leave them to it.

“I’m going to wait here for my girls,” I explain to the two sales ladies out front.
“Okay,” says Too-Young-To-Understand Sales Lady #1.
“This is the first time I’ve been told to leave.” I laugh nervously.
“Guess they’re growing up, mom,” says Old-Enough-To-Get-It Sales Lady #2.
“Yep. So…I guess…I’ll just…wait.” I stare off into space, mind whirring. “Maybe I should ask for them to come out and show me? Once they pick an outfit they like?” I don’t know why I am seeking absolution from Sale Lady #1 and #2, but, for some reason, I don’t know what to do with myself all of a sudden. Plus, I start to feel like I’ve become a slightly varied shade of my mom.
Which is unsettling at best.
“That’s probably a good plan,” Sales Lady #2 smiles at me.
Sales Lady #1 shrugs her shoulders.
I dismiss Sales Lady #1 immediately and return Sales Lady #2’s smile. “Okay, I’m just going to go tell them that.”
I inch my way down the changing room hallway to relay this message to my girls, when I am overtaken by another mom and her daughter. The mom looks harried as she pushes her way past me, and her daughter dutifully follows her with an armload of “New Spring Outfits.” Pushy Mom then proceeds to shove her way in the door of the change room while giving her daughter instructions.
“I want you to try those on first. Those shorts with that top. If they look good, then try on that dress afterwards.”
And she stands there.
With the door to her daughter’s changing room wide open.
While her 13-year-old proceeds to do as she told.
I was horrified.
I shrunk back down to the mirror at the head of the hallway. At the same time, I felt myself shrinking into that fashion micro-managed 13-year-old again. I have the sudden urge to throw my debit card at my girls and tell them to finish their shopping, I would not in any way be telling them what to choose.
At that moment my 10-year-old pops out of her dressing room wearing a dress that looked fabulous on her.
“I love it!”
“I think it’s a little short,” my daughter replies, fingering the black and polka dotted skirt. “It just feels weird.”
“Oh,” I eyed the hem of the dress, which sits exactly at the bottom of her knees. “Really?” My mind whirrs away as I am trying to recall just when she joined a convent. “Well, pick what you want to, honey. If you’re not comfortable, there’s lots of other dresses in the store.”
She nods and disappears back into her dressing room. I catch the eye of the other mom who is manhandling her teenager into one of the t-shirts she had picked for her, and again, I am horrified. I assume the child has been dressing herself since she was 3-years-old, but, in this case, I could be wrong. However, trying to give Pushy Mom the benefit of the doubt, I remind myself just last month, I had been struggling with my 8-year-old to get her into a pair of jeans. But that was because they had that funky button-and-elastic adjustable waist band.
Right? Right?
I quietly wonder if she could have done it all herself. And then I make a mental note to show my daughter how to adjust her own waistband in the future.
“We’re getting these shorts and this top,” Pushy Mom huffs. “You say you like the dress, but I think the color is wrong for your skin.” And out she goes with her purchases leaving her daughter to hang up the dress, hands running over it longingly.
And I do not use that last word on a lark.
I catch the 13-year-old’s eye as she makes her way down the hallway, dress in hand, and give her an encouraging “hang in there” smile. She returns it and I believe we have some sort of understanding. If I could have, folks, I would have bought her the dress myself.
There are so many ways to micro-manage your kids. I fully admit that I do it. And I daresay all parents are guilty to some degree. I have a horrid time with field trips, I’m not really fond of my girls playing in the front yard when we have a perfectly fine (and fenced-in) backyard, I don’t readily hand them over on play dates until I get to know the parents and I don’t like other people driving them around. I know some of these quirks are my unreasonable baggage. But clothes? No way. I may eat my words five years from now when the latest trend is polo shirts and beige Dockers, for that would truly horrify me. But I would suck it up—I swear I would—and let them be.
Because there are other things to fuss over.
For now, “New Spring Outfits” boiled down to a yellow sundress that almost reached my 10-year-olds ankles, and a ruffled, hot pink skirt and matching, ruffled t-shirt that made my 8-year-old look like she belonged in a Cyndi Lauper video.
But I love them both…and I’m not just talking about the outfits.

And it's not my writing but...

I absolutely had to share this because I think it's a freaking brilliant piece of writing. From American Gods by Neil Gaiman.

"I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen–I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones who look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone's ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline of good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we'll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of The Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind's destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it's aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there's a cat in a box somewhere who's alive and dead at the same time (although if they don't ever open the box to feed it it'll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn't even know that I'm alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn't done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what's going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies too. I believe in a woman's right to choose, a baby's right to live, that while all human life is sacred there's nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you're alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it."

...and If I could ever have a writerly coffee with the man and not manage to make an absolute fool of myself, I would consider one of my three wishes granted.

Bored Games, from "Mom Emails"

Board games.
A rite of passage wherein the parent comes to the realization that their beloved toddler has moved beyond the phase of popping game pieces into their mouths to experience new texture and flavor sensations. It is a portion of the parent’s life wherein their company is required, coveted in fact, and so they begin a road of logging in countless hours of game play. Of making it to King Kandy’s Castle and not getting stuck on a gumdrop in Candyland, of climbing ladders and not falling down a chute in Chutes and Ladders, and of becoming a Pretty, Pretty Princess by stealing everyone else’s jewelry.

Later, that said parent will graduate onto games such as Monopoly, Scrabble, Battleship and Life. Buying hotels (if the game progresses that far), making up words to maximize points, sinking battleships, and beating your children in the game of Life (don’t ponder on that one for too long).

Beyond that, the parent’s participation is no longer required.
The board games are replaced by more sophisticated playmates; Xbox, Wii and Nintendo, which require no other human interaction at all, save for the occasional “Wow, top score? That’s great honey.”

Beyond that…well, lets just say I haven’t experienced that yet.

So, let’s back up a bit. Board games.

When my first child stopped showing an interest in how things tasted and started becoming interested in how they worked, we ran out and bought our first “family” board games. I was so excited to purchase Candyland and Chutes and Ladders, I could hardly wait to set them up and start playing.

Now things were going to get interesting!

So, let’s discuss Candyland.
It is a simple game with simple rules, and consequently, after playing it several times…the mind begins to wander. I found myself pondering on the child named Lolly and creatures depicted on the board, and the fact that they looked rather psychotic. (Most likely, I reasoned, it was because they lived in Candyland and probably didn’t eat their vegetables.) But why would Lord Licorice look so evil? Was he planning the overthrow of the Candy Kingdom? And why did Gumdrop look like a dinosaur? Was he a dinosaur gumdrop? And what about Gramma Nut? A creepy lady with a doggie basket, she kind of reminded me of the witch from Hansel and Gretel. I wanted to yell, “Run home, Lolly! These people are not your friends! They will lead you down a path of cavities and weight issues for the rest of your life!”
But, to children, this game is a goldmine of giggles and hours of entertainment. And after playing as much of this game as I could stand, I would find myself skillfully leading my daughter onto other things.

Yes, I’ll admit it. After logging in an hour or so of Candyland, in spite of how happy it made my 3-year-old, I needed a change of pace.

Onto Chutes and Ladders. Called Snakes and Ladders when I was a kid, why they changed the name, I’ll never know. Maybe a parent complained the snakes were giving their child nightmares. Or, maybe Herpetologists complained that it led children to believe that sliding down snakes like ropes was an acceptable thing to do, which we all know, isn’t.
Snakes aside, my child was always quite sad that the little boy on square 24 had apparently bumped his head falling down the chute, and the little boy on square 60 had broken his arm riding his bicycle. (Let that be a lesson to all you kids—bicycles are not for riding.) But, I would remind her, the little boy on square 36 got to climb up the ladder because he ate his vegetables, and the little girl on square 49 slid all the way down to square 11 because she ate too many cookies and got a tummy ache.
Now that’s some good and sneaky parenting propaganda. Remind me to write Milton Bradley and thank them for that.

These types of games breed like rabbits. Our game closet was soon spilling with games such as; Pretty, Pretty Princess, (a great game that encourages girls to steal and fight over each others jewelry), Trouble (I want to smash that Pop-O-Matic bubble sometimes for never rolling 6’s), Hullabaloo and Mousetrap. These board games stick around for years. All the way through the ages of 3 to 6-years-old, if I recall.
So get used to them. Love them, make up stories in your head as you gaze, bleary-eyed, at the techno-color illustrations on the boards or hop around like a ninny as the Hullabaloo guy tells you to; “Do the funky-monkey dance!”
But, take heart, for after the simplistic board games deemed for ages 3-6 years old, there comes a developmental leap that is quite exciting.

Games for 7-years and older.

The first time my children asked for the game of Monopoly, I about let out a whoop of joy. Now here was a game I had longed for as a kid! I never got it—but I wanted it more than anything. I couldn’t purchase it fast enough.
The day that my children and I played Monopoly, we played, and played, and played…into the wee hours of the night.

Because the game…doesn’t…end.

Nobody wins, and nobody loses. It just goes on forever. If you even get to the point where you can start buying hotels, you are doomed. Once your child lands on your hotel and cannot come up with the money to pay you—the rules of the game will need to be altered. Who wants to take all of their child’s hard-earned money and leave them destitute? Not me. So, the rules must be morphed into slightly “new rules.” The player can pay you what they can, or owe you, but they cannot go out.

Because going out, of course, is not fair.
And to a kid, life has to be fair.

A better and more sensible game is Scrabble.
If your child can spell.
When we started playing this game, mine couldn’t quite spell. The game was relegated to me peeking at their letters and helping them come up with something other than “poop” or “butt.” Basically, it was a game wherein I played against myself. I like to think it helped them with their spelling and vocabulary in some abstract kind of way that doesn’t involve four-letter words, but only time will tell.

Battleship was another good game. The one snafu however, is how odd it was that my child’s ships seemed to teleport around on the board. Maybe there is a Bermuda Triangle within the plastic, I’m not sure, but I swear that I would never manage to track down my 7-year-olds ships and sink them.

Enjoy the board games while they last. If you are a parent, you will come to the realization that a good portion of board game parenting is a delicate balance of the good and the bad.
The bad? Realizing why your parents made the decisions about your leisure time that they did. And then sticking your fingers in your ears and denying that you have become like your parents and are making the same, unpopular decisions for your own children. The good? Re-living your childhood. In all it’s wacky, rolling, counting, rule-bending glory.
Remind me to thank my parents for the hours of these bored, um, I mean board games they played with me before coming up with an excuse to go do…something else.

We have almost grown out of these board games, sadly enough.
There are a few that linger. Charades, ThinkBlot, Scattagories.
My children have now moved onto an array of Xbox, Wii and Nintendo DS games. I’ve tried some of their games on the Xbox and the Wii, mostly so I don’t get labeled the “un-cool” mom. They mystify me, however, in that the social interaction sometimes is truly lacking.
Do I long for the days of endless hours of Candyland and Chutes and Ladders?
Not really.
I know my children’s brains are becoming more complex and that is reflected in their leisure time. And rejecting electronic leisure is, in my opinion, not accepting the fact that technology has become an ingrained part of my children’s world. I do manage to slip some social interaction in when my children want to plug themselves into an XBox or Wii game. They'll thank me for it later when they realize they are capable of a normal conversation that doesn't involve phrases such as, "high score" and, "what level did you get to?" It is a delicate balance and I try to be fair.
I must say, however, that if my children ever ask for the Wii version of Monopoly (oh yeah, there is one) I will be nixing it. We have a perfectly good version of Monopoly in a box, in our game closet. They may go fetch it and I will be happy to play it with them.
We may even finish the game someday.

Magazines and Other Fashion Things

I love fashion magazines. They take up the smallest portion of your brain to thumb through and less than that to read the articles. Plus, the colorful pictures and digitally stretched and enhanced models are just so pretty to look at. However, there is one thing that bothers me about these magazines. The section wherein the reader is subjected to; “What Women Should be Wearing in their 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and 50’s!" drives me crazy. In some enlightened magazines (that realize older women in their 60's and 70's do not run around naked) they will deem to include these age groups in their fashion advice.
You mean women aren’t relegated to wearing burlap sacks when they're turned out in the pasture at 60-years-old?
Good to know…
So, it’s not that I mind the fact that the magazine is attempting to dictate to the public what the latest fashion trend is. After all, I spent my $5 to be told as much. I just hate that once you reach the age group of “women in their 40’s,” automatically, it is assumed that; 1) you will be revisiting the age of Dynasty and covet huge and severe-looking shoulder pads, 2) beige, gray and (ick) tweed, become your best color choices, 3) everything needs to be paired with black or brown alligator or snakeskin high-heels, and, 4) draping your body in gaudy, gold jewelry or layers of gold chains is the thing to do.
At 45-years-old, my shoulders are not quite stooped enough to need shoulder pads, I’m fighting the gray at my temples and have no need for that color in my wardrobe, alligator and snakeskin look best on, oh, I don’t know…alligators and snakes.
And that much gold jewelry is going to make me look like I need to be committed into the nearest asylum. Or look like Mr. T...if you remember who he is.
Now, let’s examine what women in their 20’s get to wear.
Cute, trendy dresses in bright colors such as; apple green, pumpkin orange, rose pink and cardinal red. Plastic, chunky jewelry in a rainbow of colors and shapes. And shoes in an array of styles; heels, flats, boots…with not an alligator or snake in sight.
Yep, those gals in their 20’s get to wear all the good stuff.
Women in their 30’s? Same thing…sort of. But you can sense that they are already starting that downward slide that lands them into the fashion dustbin filled with the 40-year-olds.
Now, once women hit their 50’s and 60’s…there, the fun begins. Apparently, if you’ve made it to those venerable ages, you get to wear whatever the hell you want. Cute, little, A-line Mod dresses in all colors imaginable? The green light is on. Long, gothic-inspired skirts with flouncey or fitted tops? You go right ahead, sister. The world of fashion is your oyster, because you have earned it. We, the fashion police, have given you license to wear anything and everything. You have our blessing.
Or, maybe women at this age won’t stand to be fashionably boxed-in and told what to wear.
Wouldn’t it be nice if all fashions were available for every age (and size) of women out there? Personally, I hate being shuttled over to the “Women’s” section of the department store. Quite frankly, the styles of clothing there just makes my skin crawl. Give me the fun and colorful fashions of youth…in a size 10, thank you very much.
But, no. The cute fashions are sequestered in the Misses section, far, far away from the dreary Women’s section of the department store. And, to add insult to injury, the Misses section clothing sadly stops at size 6 which, (and I have actually held the clothing up to clothing that my 9-year-old daughter wears) the only variation between it and a kids size 8, is that the Misses size 6 is slightly wider in the shoulders.
It’s a crying shame.
So, I will continue to buy the fashion magazines. And I will continue to rage against being fashionably boxed-in and laid to rest at 45-years-old.
I will skip that section completely.
Perhaps once I turn 50, I can have some real fashion fun.
Or perhaps I will continue to troll the Misses section in the hopes that one day; everything they have will be available in my size.