Writing with Scissors

Generation X, Y, Z

2011-04-12T09:44:00.021-04:00

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

2010-08-27T13:38:00.027-04:00

…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

2010-08-04T15:25:00.003-04:00

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"

2010-03-22T13:20:00.014-04:00

“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...

2010-03-10T07:26:00.004-05:00

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"

2009-11-15T17:42:00.016-05:00

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

2009-09-07T17:11:00.044-04:00

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.

Pirate Squirrels

2009-07-29T17:12:00.011-04:00

I love animals. I've been a vegetarian for over 20 years and would do anything and everything for an animal in need. Just ask my family. They share their house with no less than three cats, two dogs, two turtles, two mice and eight tanks of fish. It's quite a menagerie.
However, the squirrels in my backyard are not part of my brood, and are probably the most pirate-like and crafty, little tree-rats I've ever seen. The latest thing I'm lamenting over is that they've taken to draining my hummingbird feeders of all the sugar water.
I hope they get cavities.
Anyways, I got home today from the movies and I looked outside to see one chewing away on, of all things, a poisonous ant bait trap. I had no idea where he got it from, but thinking of his welfare, I ran outside yelling at the top of my lungs like a maniac. Oddly enough, the thing hightailed it off my deck and up the nearest tree, staring at me triumphantly with his beady, little eyes. So there I stood, at the base of my tree, heart pounding and visions of convulsing, dying squirrels in my head. Frantic and wondering why on earth he had failed to see the error of his ways, I started tossing sticks up at him, trying to get him to drop the ant bait--all the while, yelling that he's making a huge, life-altering mistake.
The thing just sat up there on the tree branch, chewing away on the ant bait, like the stubborn, little tree-rat he was.
In a fit of despair, and because I couldn't have his death on my conscience, I kicked off my shoes and went climbing up the tree, hoping I could scare the little, ratty pirate into dropping the poison.
My one thought; "What dumb squirrel eats ant bait?"
Oh yeah, mine do.
I managed to get half-way up the tree, cursing like a sailor, before I realized:
1) I had my lacy and expensive black skirt on,
2) it was now hung up on a tree branch behind me and fluttering in the breeze--way over my head.
3) My bright pink Victoria's Secret "I see Paris, I see France, I see Pink Underpants" were now flashing my neighbors who were,
4) having a civilized BBQ with about five of their closest friends in their backyard. And all were looking up at me with either amusement or shock--I couldn't tell which, because suddenly everything was much too bright.

Meanwhile, the squirrel had nimbly leaped over to the next tree--ant bait still clutched in his ratty little paws.

I stared up at the pale, blue sky wondering what the weather was like somewhere else and casually reached behind me to tug my skirt down to a more acceptable level, backing quietly with my remaining dignity down the tree--all the while thinking the worst squirrel hating thoughts you can imagine.
The battle rages on....

The Ripple Effect

2009-07-29T17:09:00.006-04:00

A friend of mine is a social worker. She was recently worrying that what she did for a living was related to her ego rather than a genuine desire to help people. Yes, before you shake your head, I too, say, "If it's ego,then so be it. You are doing so much more than 99% of the population of the world!"
It takes a very special person to dedicate their lives to helping others. And really, the rest of us could do a little of the same. Sharing the milk of human kindness with this ailing world would make the drink go so much further. My response to her thoughts was that the world operates on a ripple effect. There are "good" ripples, and there are "bad" ones. Any good ripple is valuable, regardless where within yourself it comes from.
Here's what I tell my kids, and bear with me, because it is extreme to illustrate a point.
Let's say you are on the playground and there is another child there that looks a little dirty, acts a little unacceptable, and generally isn't someone you would walk up to and play with. And, let's say, that child decides, through some twist of fate, to come over and ask you to play. What do you do?
Of course, my girls, being the lovely children they are, decide that they would both run away screaming.
So, let's go with that.
You run away screaming. The child, unfortunately, assumes that he is unworthy of playing with and his self-esteem sinks even lower than it started at that morning. Never mind that his mother's washing machine broke earlier that week, which explains the dirty clothes. And never mind that the stress at the child's home has been high that week because the father has lost his job due to the economy and can't provide for his family. The child has come to the playground that morning to escape the fact that his parents are, at that very moment, arguing at home and contemplating a divorce.
This would be, the pre-ripple effect.
So, back to my kids running away screaming.
The child has come to the unfortunate conclusion that he is unworthy of playing with. Tiring of playing alone, he decides to go back home. Unfortunately again, he walks in on the argument his parents are having and it has turned ugly. The parents, embarrassed by their behavior, turn their stress on their child and compound the child's feelings of unworthiness.
And it goes downhill from there.
The "bad" ripple effect. Everybody loses.
Here's another scenario.
My lovely children, playing at the playground, see another child there that looks a little dirty, acts a little unacceptable, and generally isn't someone they would play with. And, through some twist of fate, they decide to go over and ask him to play.
If only because there happens to be no other children at the playground that day and my children don't wish to play with just each other.
Or perhaps, because it is what my children should do.
In a perfect world.
The child is able to escape, if only for an hour, from the stress at home. Which has been caused by the father losing his job and inability to provide for his family. Which has been compounded by the washing machine breaking and the mother's inability to clean her family's clothes.
The child is able to have fun and be a child. If only for an hour. And at little cost to my children.
The child's self-esteem inches up a fraction. He goes home and is able to completely miss the argument his parents have had, and were eventually able to talk out.
Things go up from there.
The "good" ripple effect. This may be an extreme example.
Or not.
Every little thing you do affects something. Every ant you step on, every disapproving look you give to your kids, every telephone call or email you don't return, every "white lie" you tell, every smile you don't give, every stray you don't take in, every favor you opt out of, every child you ignore, and every "hand up" you choose not to offer.
I hope my children will realize that any little "good" thing they choose to do, is valuable.
And I hope my social worker friend does too.

The "New" Kid Food Pyramid-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-07-25T11:49:00.033-04:00

My mom was a health nut. Growing up in the 70’s only fueled her fire to subject myself, her only child, and my step-father to her nutty, crunchy ways. Many times we found ourselves eating questionable food—we knew it was healthy, but we were never quite sure what was in it. Combined with the fact that I also grew up in a household that was forever pinching pennies, there was never the option of not finishing my dinner or being picky to any degree. Casserole? Who knew what leftovers were lurking in it? We ate it all. Meatloaf? We ate that too, even when she was going through her soy nut-loaf phase. Sunflower seeds, homemade bread, barley soup? Always in my school lunches; shelled and unsalted, crusty and burnt on the bottom, stinky and lumpy (but nutritious!) I ate it all. Penny pinching led my mom to make some very unpopular choices. When the ferries went on strike and we couldn’t get milk delivered to the island we lived on, we drank powdered milk for an entire three months out of necessity. After the ferries were able to bring the "real stuff" to our island, my mother decided that we had saved so much money drinking the powdered stuff, she would continue to purchase it.
And there is nothing that tastes more disgusting than powdered milk.
But, we drank it. Because we had no choice.
Fast-forward many years later to myself and my own two children.
Where did I go wrong?
We are all well-acquainted with the Food Pyramid set forth by the USDA. It is well-balanced, can be adjusted for different cultural groups and dietary needs, and looks sound and sane...on paper. There is even a separate Food Pyramid for children.
It is comprised of; 6 oz. of grains, 2-1/2 cups of vegetables, 1-1/2 cups of fruits, 3 cups of milk, and 5 oz. of meat or beans.
Let me pause for a moment because I cannot write and laugh at the same time.
Here is the Food Pyramid for children, as it exists in my household.
There is the “White Food” group. It is comprised of potatoes, rice, noodles and milk (not powdered) and includes bread, with the crusts cut off, and bagels with cream cheese. It is well received, coveted in fact, as long as you don’t try and put anything, I mean anything, upon or in the first three things. A serving size could range anywhere from several grains of rice to a spoonful of mashed potatoes or quite possibly a whole entire, small bagel with a smear of cream cheese.
There’s the “Fruit” group. No issues there as long as there is no white stuff left on the peeled oranges or bruises and other suspect color variables on the outside of the fruit and it’s skin. A serving size could be 20 blueberries or even a whole, entire banana...on a good day.
There is the “Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich” group. Without this group, most children would starve. As long as the jelly is grape. If there is a one inch by one inch cube missing from the very center of the sandwich, chances are, the sandwich is finished and can move onto the bird feeder outside.
There is the “Sugar and Other Yummy Things that Mom Won’t Let Us Have” group. Let your mind go wild with that one. Serving sizes vary according to how generous I'm feeling that day.
And then there’s the other one. The “Vegetable” group.
Oh yeah, those things.
Serving size: whatever you can sneak or suffer "The Look" through.
Once, in a fit of despair and self-righteousness, I chopped up broccoli and mixed it into my daughter’s peanut butter for her jelly and peanut butter sandwich.
It was not well-received.
I tell my children that because they do not willingly eat their vegetables, I am forced to hide them within my cooking.
Cooking.
Ha. Let me digress a bit.
A definition of cooking is as follows. Cooking: to combine several single ingredients thus creating a new and complex dish that is both edible and palatable.
Not in my house.
Combining ingredients would mean that two or more things would be touching each other on the same plate and we all know, that would be breaking an unspeakable kid-law punishable by looks of disgust, screams of pain and torture, and retching.
In other words, I don’t even try.

So, here is my letter to the USDA Food Pyramid people.

Dear Sirs or Madams Who Do Not Have Children of Your Own:

While the Food Pyramid undergoes revisions to include the Vegetarian Food Pyramid,the Mediterranean Food Pyramid, the Asian Food Pyramid and the Latin-American Food Pyramid, it appears that your Kids Food Pyramid may need some revisions as well. In order to keep parents everywhere sane and boost our crumbling egos, please revise your Kids Pyramids along these lines:

(Serving Suggestions will be omitted in order to better facilitate parental and child harmony.)

Thank you,
Clarissa Johal

Where Do Babies Come From? from "Mom E-mails"

2009-06-15T19:33:00.023-04:00

December 21, 2006

My six-year-old daughter’s first grade teacher is pregnant. So consequently, my daughter has been coming home with a lot of questions.
Questions that her teacher had been avoiding quite adeptly.
The latest question was at 6:00AM in the morning.
My husband was conveniently taking a shower at the time and my darling came running top-speed into our bedroom asking how babies were made.
Being half-asleep and on autopilot, I replied with, "The sperm and egg meet in the mommy’s body and blah, blah, blah..." Basically, my mother’s explanation. The explanation which carefully avoided the semantics of sex; but explained in great detail the development of the fetus to the magical arrival of the baby.
However, my daughter, always full of questions impossible to dodge, replied with, “How does the sperm get inside the mommy’s body?”
"Ummm, the daddy puts it there." I was suddenly wide awake and realized that I had stuck my foot in it, big-time.
"How?"
Long silence. “Can you give mommy a chance to wake up? It’s kinda early, honey.”
“Okay.”
I lay there as I listened to her footsteps pattering away and swore I could hear my mom in my head…laughing and laughing.
A couple of days later, my persistent child asked the same question...again.
“So, how does the sperm get inside the mommy?”
Sigh.
“I’ve ordered a book and I promise we will sit down and discuss it when the book arrives, okay?”
“Okay.”
I know what you’re thinking at this point. And I swear I wasn’t really buying time hoping she’d move onto something else.
Not me.
Quite honestly, I had trolled around on the internet the day she had asked me the “Big Question” and had come up with a book called, It's So Amazing! A book about Eggs Sperm, Birth, Babies and Families by Robie H. Harris. Of course after I got it, I realized that it covered everything.
I mean everything.
And all for ages 5 and up.
When my husband and I were expecting our first child 6 years ago, and before the reality of being parents had settled in, I swore that I would have an open-door policy talking about sex. Consequently, I reasoned, it would allow me to lay a great foundation with my children that would last throughout their teen-age years. However, oddly enough, I now felt this overwhelming desire to keep my 6-year-old innocent as long as possible and tell her the sperm was put into the mommy by the sperm fairy.
But she was asking me an honest question.
And the sperm fairy died in the 1950’s.
The evening I received the book, my heart was beating wildly and my mind was racing as I unwrapped it. I gave myself the, “you’re such a good mom” talk as I carefully leafed through the pages. I was going to end generations of ignorance! I was a child of the 70’s! Female liberation and empowerment was what it was all about!
But the sperm fairy would make a great story…
I sat down with my 6-year-old daughter the next day and we read the book from cover to cover. I only stumbled a couple of times on the v-word and the p-word but managed to not dissolve into an embarrassed fit of the giggles.
And thankfully, her curiosity was abated.
For now.

Bug-Girl-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-06-06T18:57:00.025-04:00

September 7, 2008

Our 8-year-old daughter has earned a dubious title in our family; Bug-Girl.
From the tender age of six, my little darling decided that she was going to grow up to be an entomologist and travel around the world collecting bugs.
I love bugs.
Actually, I really don’t.
But because I don’t want to be responsible for killing her dream, or her bugs, and sending her to therapy once she’s grown, I’ve allowed her to collect and observe a plethora of bugs in her bug jars. Fireflies, spiders, assassin bugs, flies, pill-bugs, assorted beetles, centipedes, dragonflies and walking sticks; they’ve all come to spend a night or two in an empty Prego jar.
I always think twice before rummaging around in my daughter’s room for anything, because you just…never...know.
And it doesn’t just stop at the collecting and observing--we’ve saved crickets from a sure death in our turtle tank, hatched praying mantises, gone through the caterpillars-into-butterflies life-cycle, fed a spider “fresh-caught flies” (until it happily reproduced and laid about a million eggs) and have had the pleasure of owning a “space-age gel” ant-farm.
When I’m secretly squishing ants on the counters of our kitchen, the irony is not lost upon me that we’ve purchased ants for my daughter’s “space-age gel” ant-farm.
However, through it all, she has taught me to appreciate all forms of insects. I’ve been educated on what it looks like to see hundreds of baby mantises hatch and crawl all over their netted and enclosed home like little ticks. And, I must admit, seeing caterpillars turn themselves into the alien-like cocoons which burst magically in the blink of an eye into wet and crumpled butterflies is pretty darn exciting. Especially, if you are a fan of butterflies.
I personally, am not a fan of butterflies.
I would sooner go into a cage of lions, and have had the pleasure of doing so, rather than witness a butterfly with wings the size of dinner-plates, spastically fly towards my head.
But I suck it up like any mom…because I love my daughter.
So, it goes without saying that I am constantly looking for classes and books to enrich my daughters bug-loving knowledge and experience. And it also goes without saying, that when I saw in our Parks and Recreation booklet that they were having an all-day Eco-Adventure kayaking trip around the wetlands, "Sure to be filled with insects and wildlife! A hit with your budding insect and wildlife-loving eco-child!" I signed us up immediately.
With no thought at all to the fact that…I don’t like bugs.
Wildlife yes, bugs no.

My daughter was thrilled.

Sadly, the night before our adventure, it rained and rained. However, the weather forecast promised sun and warm temperatures by the next morning, so I proceeded to pack and prepare for 8 hours of hot sun and humid wetlands. I packed our sun-hats, our camera, our waterproof sun-block and mosquito repellent, an emergency medical kit and our most rugged and element-enduring clothing. I packed our lunch in waterproof containers.
I was ready for anything.
Or so I thought.
True to the weather forecast, it was sunny and warm the next morning. In fact, it was 90 degrees of warm. However, it didn't seem hot in the wetlands at all. I think the fact that we were sitting in 2 inches of water all day, which had mysteriously pooled in the bottom of our kayak, made us feel much cooler.
And apparently, the heavy rain from the night before had flushed out many creatures we wouldn’t have normally had the gift of observing.
The neat thing if you should ever decide to participate in an Eco-Adventure trip; lots of wildlife. We saw beavers and beaver dams, egrets, vultures, frogs, flocks of birds; including Pileated woodpeckers, schools of beautiful fish, and the highlight—a bald eagle.
The not-so-neat things; bugs
Thousands of them.
Not the mosquitoes I thought there would be, I had prepared for that, but apparently after a hard rain, all the bugs in North Carolina were stranded in the trees around the wetlands and looking for "dry land."
In this case, “dry land” was our kayak.
There's nothing more nightmarish than being out in a kayak in the middle of a lake and seeing spiders the size of your hand scuttling across the water to dry-dock themselves in your boat.
Followed by; hundreds of more spiders.
After realizing that it was impossible not to have spiders in our kayak, we got used to flicking them out of our boat as they came.
And they came....and came...and came.
In addition to the spiders, every time we hit a tree trying to maneuver our kayak around the wetland area, hundreds of grasshoppers would rain down on our heads.
And I won't even go into the leeches.
Yes, leeches.
But, I was proud of myself. I didn't scream or jump into the lake and attempt to swim to shore like I wanted to. I didn’t tell my daughter she was crazy for thinking every spider and grasshopper would make an awesome and wonderful pet. I just endured. To be honest, I would do it again in a heartbeat to see my daughter as happy as she was. She didn’t stop smiling the whole time.
It’s what you do when you’re a mom.
I keep telling myself.
So this year, when the same trip came up once again, I bravely asked my Bug-Girl if she wanted to go.
Thankfully, she had, “done that, been there,” and didn’t.
No arguments here.

43-year-old Cartwheels-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-05-22T18:54:00.006-04:00

June 17 2008

Today I took my 6-year-old to gymnastics and they were practicing cartwheels and handstands. She understood the concept of the handstand but cartwheels involved too many things going on at once. After watching ten other little girls whip off a cartwheel like they've been doing it all their lives, she attempted to copy them, crumpling to the floor in a sparkly, spandex'ed heap.
On the way out, the instructors handed all the girls a sheet of paper, which turned out to be an incentive program to practice the skills at home. For each skill they master, they got a puzzle piece. When the "puzzle" was completed, they got 10 free tokens to Adventure Landing.
Very nice.
Being extremely goal-driven, my child asked me for help.
And not knowing this was a set-up, I said yes.
We got home and our practice session went something like this:

Step 1) I throw myself into a somewhat round'ish cartwheel--akin to throwing my 43-year-old body off a 5'4" bridge onto the floor.
Step 2) I laugh at myself, feeling kind of surprised that 30 years should make that much of a difference on my cartwheels. However, I try again--this time counting off what was supposed to hit the ground first.
Step 3) I suffer a withering glance from my 6-year-old as she notices all of my counting can't cover up the fact that everything kind of hit the ground all at once.
Sighing, she tries to duplicate my lame attempt.
Step 4) I take a deep breath and try again to perform a cartwheel. I mean really, 30 years was not that long ago. This time, I try it without counting.
Step 5) I pick myself up off the floor and determined to look like the gymnast I was, try again. This time, I crash over my child as she was trying out her own cartwheel and smack my head into the coffee table.
Step 6) At this point, my little gymnast gets very angry at me because she can't "get it," and of course, as with everything, it is my fault. Plus, she informs me, I have squashed her finger with my big foot.
I apologize profusely.
I kiss her upturned finger, which, oddly enough, is the middle one.
I tell her that her cartwheels look as good as mine.
She doesn't laugh at my joke.
On top of that--she gives me "The Look."

For those of you unfamiliar with, “The Look,” I will translate it for you;
"Mommy sucks right now because I'm hurt and mad."

This echoes similar “Looks” such as;
"Mommy sucks when she is waving a book in front of my face and trying to get me to read,"
"Mommy sucks because she is lecturing me about something I can't possibly care about right now," and,
"Mommy sucks because she is trying to get me to eat broccoli."

I can't win.

In the words of Claire from “The Breakfast Club”: "I'm sooo popular, do you know how popular I am?"
Of course, dear Claire was high at the time...

Santa Claus-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-05-22T18:51:00.012-04:00

December 26, 2006

Early this morning, my 5-year-old and I were sitting on the couch together, watching the fire crackle in the fireplace. We were the first up, as usual. Her Christmas present was that she'd been sick all week, struggling with a sinus infection and getting over conjunctivitis in both eyes. It's made for very short nights and even earlier mornings.
So, bleary eyed and congested, my little darling suddenly asked me...if Santa is real.
Now, I'm sure she's heard her sister and me discussing Santa and Christmas faeries; a traditional, but watered-down version handed down through generations of my family. Her 6-year-old sister knows (and has had no problem with the fact) that Santa is make-believe and Christmas faeries are a figment of her moms flightful, but “trying to keep the Scottish faith,” imagination.
My older daughter indulges me.
But, I guess I've never had a heart-to-heart with my youngest daughter about it. And, of course, this morning at 5AM and after dosing her up on sinus medication, saline nose spray, and eye drops...she chose to bring it up.
"Is Santa real?" she asked me again.
"Ummm…" I had about a thousand replies and couldn't seem to come up with one.
Her big, blue eyes started to fill with tears as she asked me again, "Is Santa real, mommy?"
Oh geez. On top of her lower lip getting all quivery, and her pinkish eyes welling up with tears, she was making herself all congested again.
Setting down my coffee, I gathered her in my arms and held her tight...and I lied.
Oh, the guilt.
I have made it a rule in my heart and home never to lie to my kids--even about the small stuff. So, it came out something like this;
"Do you think Santa is real?"
To which she nodded her head uncertainly.
"Well, if you think he's real, then he is." (Note to self, he's a spirit of...a feeling...historically, he was....blah, blah, blah. Shut up, head, you just lied to your child.)
"And he has a beard, mommy? And wears red pants?"
Oh boy, this was snowballing. "Ummm..."
My 5-year-old looked deep into my eyes and somehow, I just had this feeling she knew that I totally lied to her.
"Do you want to leave some cookies out for...um, Santa, and thank him for all your presents you got on Christmas? We didn't do that, did we?"
"Yes!"
"Okay, we'll do that tonight."
I sighed. When she turns 6-years-old, or whatever age, and discovers that there is no Santa, she's never going to trust me again.
Or maybe my older daughter will end up telling her when she wakes up this morning...

A Princess and Her Sword-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-05-22T10:53:00.027-04:00

March 19, 2006

Last night, my husband decided to have boy night. Most of his friends have gone on business trips so he decided to invite some new co-workers over. There was a visiting scientist from Thailand, another from Kenya, and another from some other place that had well-behaved children. Anyways, I guess you could say he wanted to make a good impression, new co-workers and all, because he was fussing about in the kitchen with the food for about an hour.
I decided to take the girls upstairs around 6:30 for their bath. Plus, I felt a responsibility to keep them from descending like locusts on my husband's painstakingly prepared food.
The girls were headed down the punchy-path already because they were tired and it was the end of the day. However, thankfully enough, bath time went without incident. I wrapped my children up in their fluffy towels, gave them a kiss on their damp, little heads, and told them to get into their PJ's.
As I drained the tub and rescued the toys, I could hear that my husband’s friends had arrived.
I patted myself on the back for being so organized.
And, I patted myself again for having such well-behaved children.
Yep.
As I was in my bedroom putting on my PJ's and robe, I heard yelling down the hall.
I opened my door to hear my 6-year-old screaming at the top of her lungs.
"No! Princesses do not carry swords!"
And my 4-year-old, equally as loud, "They do so carry swords! I say yes!"
I sighed, knowing this bliss was too good to be true, and started down the hall to break up the fight. Half-way down the hall, I was side-swiped by my 6-year-old, high-tailing it downstairs in her PJ's, still screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Princesses do not carry swords! Daddy!!"
And off she disappeared.
At the same time I ran downstairs to stop my lovely daughter from crashing my husband's boy party, my 4-year-old pushed past me, fuzzy "Wiggles" sword in hand, completely naked and screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Princesses do too carry swords! Waaaa! She said princesses don't carry swords, Daddy!!"
And skitching past my outstretched fingers, my darling 4-year-old ran screaming into the living room, waving her fuzzy, giggling sword over her head like some crazed, naked warrior.
At this point, I wondered if once I caught them, if anyone would notice if I used her fuzzy sword to smack them on both of their heads.
The faces of my husband’s co-workers were a blur, however, I was acutely aware that I had stumbled into man-territory.
In my bathrobe.
With one child in her PJ's...and another in her birthday suit.
I grabbed each child, made my apologies, and dragged our screaming, tired banshees upstairs.
Being the wonderful man he is, my well-meaning husband started after me to help, but I waved him away.
"Got it under control, honey!"
Yeah...right.
As I walked our girls back to their rooms, smile plastered on my face, I concentrated on the fact that this would all seem funny tomorrow morning.
Yep.
Doggedly, my 6-year-old was still arguing her point.
"No prince is going to marry you! Because princesses do not carry swords!"
"Well, I find a prince to marry me! I carry a sword!"
"Honey," I said to my eldest, "Princesses can carry swords."
"No, they can't."
"So if a dragon was swooping down to breathe fire on you, you're going to wait for a prince to save you? You're not going to pull out your sword and slay the dragon?"
"Umm, I'd wait for a prince to save me. Where's the prince? What's he doing?"
I started to reply with something clever like, getting his hair done or making cookies, but my 4-year-old beat me to it.
"He's marrying me! Because I carry a sword!"

That’s my girl.

In the Underwear Aisle-from "Mom E-mails"

2009-05-21T16:50:00.020-04:00

December 25, 2004

It was Christmas Eve, and I decided to nip off to Target to grab some last minute stocking stuffers. I made a completely practical "mom" decision and decided to get my girls...some underwear.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Underwear aisle; 10,000 choices, 10,000 sizes, styles and colors. I was overwhelmed by the colors and bright, shiny packaging. I started going for a package of "Care Bears," then realized my oldest was going on 5-years-old. Would she think that I thought she was a baby? Care Bears were kind of for little kids--and she was all grown up now at almost 5-years-old. Dora? No, she's sooo last year, Spongebob? No, my 3-year-old would be jealous, maybe I would get those for her.
Hmmm...
I put back the innocuous and smiling Care Bears and picked up a pack of "Bratz" undies.
Bratz.
My daughter’s fascination with them was purely because I thought they sent the wrong message to little girls. They smirked back at me from the underwear's plastic packaging, mocking me with their pouting lips and layers of blue eyeshadow. If I bought her these, would my daughter think I now condoned "Bratz" dolls? Would she grow up to wear too-tight jeans, cut-off shirts and too much makeup, parading a long line of Biffs and Jakes through my house? Would I wonder where I went wrong? Would she be so jazzed by her new Bratz undies that she'd want to show them off to all the kids in Kindergarten?
At this thought, I threw the pack of Bratz undies back on the shelf because I swore they had exploded into flames.

Unable to make a decision, my mind wandered and I started thinking about my almost 5-year-old beginning Kindergarten next year. And I proceeded to get completely choked up.
In the underwear aisle.
As I tried to get myself together, another mom walked by and without even looking, plucked a pack of underwear from the display and threw them into her cart.
"You okay?" she asked me.
"My little girl is starting Kindergarten next year and I can't decide on what underwear to get her," I managed to mumble.
She gave me a pat on the back, "It's gonna be okay, honey. They all gotta start sometime. Have a Merry Christmas."
I watched this other mom enviously as she meandered over to the boy's underwear aisle and plucked another pack (again, without even looking) off the display, tossing them into her cart.
She must just have too many kids to care.
So, back to my indecision. There were some cute undies with Scottie dogs...no, she’d see the dogs and want a puppy, no good. Plus, they're bikini...bikini? Can 4-year-olds wear bikini underwear? My mom didn't let me get bikini underwear until I was 13, she said it would make my hips grow funny. I started to feel my face grow warm as I realized the ridiculousness of that. I'm going to defy my mother and get these bikini undies for my child! Okay wait...I wondered if they'd be comfortable for a 4-year-old? Maybe not.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that no less than 20 minutes had ticked by and I still hadn't made a decision.
Feeling like a loser, I decided that my almost 5-year-old probably wouldn't want boring underwear in her stocking anyways. What was I thinking? What a dumb idea.
Maybe some cool socks!
I turned around with a triumphant smile on my face...until I saw all the choices of socks on display.

My smile faded and I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown...

"Mom E-mails" a Collection of Musings

2009-05-21T07:13:00.010-04:00

Sometimes I feel like my life is a string of hastily typed-out e-mails. My mom friends and I, for some oddly-conceived reason, find it much easier to send e-mails to each other as a way of keeping in touch about our daily lives, frustrations, elations and attempts to get together for random MNO (moms night out for those of you not in the know), rather than pick up that weird, outdated thing called a telephone. Not that we don’t call each other, because we do. However, the moment a mom’s hand touches the phone receiver, it sends out some sort of invisible signal to that mother’s child that the child is dying of starvation, thirst or some other life-threatening malady and they must be attended to—immediately. So, it isn’t uncommon to flick on my computer at 6AM in the morning to find an e-mail in my inbox from a stressed-out mom who spent the night in the ER with her child, who for some unforeseen reason, decided jumping jacks on the bed would be a fun activity. Once that mom opens her weary eyes in the late morning, peeks in at her child (who miraculously survived) and is able to open her e-mail; she will see the outpouring of support and sympathy from her friends and know she is loved. No invisible; “I’m about to pick up the phone” signal to contend with, no words wasted, just quick communication with those that love her. It’s a weird way to conduct friendships. However, I like to think of it as another layer of communication in this racing world of technology.
The listings from "Mom Emails" are from a string of hastily typed out e-mails. It’s a collection of musings, stories and anecdotes that trace my “life as mom” from the moment I moved to this place I call home with my husband and our two girls, to the moment I call the present. A moment where they are both in school and I am at home seeing 6 hours stretch before me with a combination of acute, empty-nest sadness and a guilty feeling of freedom. I can write uninterrupted! I can walk the dogs without pausing to examine every dead worm that has dried out on the sidewalk! I can talk on the phone, do housework and go grocery shopping; all uninterrupted and with no thought to my children's tolerance for such mundane activities! It’s a feeling that fills me with happiness, freedom, and a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. It’s also a feeling of such intense loneliness that sometimes I find myself watching old video tapes of their favorite cartoons they liked when they were young. However, I have to remind myself that my children are taking their place in the structure of the world and doing that inevitable thing that we’ve all been ambushed into without our permission—growing up.