Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Hallelujah. Holy Sh*t. Where's the Tylenol?

Christmas is rearranging half of your furniture and art to accommodate a tree and decorations that you will enjoy for 3 weeks.

Christmas is cleaning out the playroom and bookshelves and closets to make room for more things to fill your playroom and bookshelves and (eventually) closets.

Christmas is always having the radio tuned to that soft rock station you would never normally listen to that plays round the clock Christmas music, even though they are playing Last Christmas, Jimmy Eat World instead of the vastly superior George Michael rendition.

Christmas is listening to three song singing decorations belting out different tunes at once repeatedly interspersed with the train noises of the toy train circling your tree because your three year old just can't get enough and can't hear you begging for mercy over the joyous sounds of the season.

Christmas is fielding a barrage of questions regarding the logistics of execution, plausibility of this guy being real while, for example, monsters under the bed are not, and whether or not Santa is watching the writing of this letter and if so, why it needs to be written.

Christmas is hoping to hell you field that barrage of questions expertly enough to keep him in the believers camp for one more year not only because you have a younger one to protect from premature bubble bursting but also because you just can't accept that you have a child old enough to be leaning this way already.

Christmas is driving around the neighborhood really really slowly with one boy on your lap and the other one helping Daddy drive the truck to look at the spectacular results of your neighbor's decorating efforts and smiling broadly as your littlest yells, "Tismas lights!" at each and every house.

Christmas is tucking in your three year old each nap and each night of the entire month of December and having him tell you, "Merry Tismas Mommy" each and every time and even getting a "Happy Birthday" and "Happy Halloween" thrown in once when the day was extra fun and Christmas-y.

Christmas is having a ton of time off with no rushing or appointment keeping or deadline meeting so that you and yours can eat breakfast slowly and wear PJs until lunchtime and make the only agenda items for weeks be: be together, have fun, eat, sleep, repeat.

Christmas is doing nearly all your shopping on your iPad, in your bathrobe, at one store (Amazon, I'm looking at you) in about five minutes flat (after loads of careful thought and consideration, of course).

Christmas is spending the rest of the weeks before Christmas contemplating then searching for then wondering how you will take delivery in time of the perfect gift for that person in your life whose gift simply won't be found as a Prime item.

Christmas is Christmas Vacation, Home Alone, A Christmas Story, bowl games, and carefree empty calories.

Christmas is Irish Coffee, Bloody Mary, Moscow Mule, Malbec, Craft Beer, Coors Light, Hot Chocolate, Peppermint Tea, and lots and lots of water. It's Texas Trash, peanut brittle, Christmas tree cookies, ham, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, random candies, black eyed peas, and lots and lots of sweat pants sporting.

Christmas is family and friends and cheer and beer and love and laughter and light and bright and merry and fuzzy and snuggly and lovely good times. It's overcommitted calendars and bickering and Santa's watching threatening and headaches and sugar crashes and bloated bellies and insanely crazy times.

And I love love love it all.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Two Years

The calendar of our lives are marked not by dates or years but events. Events that lead our minds to organize the files of our existence into before and after.

Before kids. After college. Before I met him. After I left him. Before the storm. After the split.

Before cancer. After death.

How can it be that two years have passed away since he did? And yet how can it only be two years? The passage of time when met with the enormity of loss can play such tricks. The before sometimes feeling painfully short and the after an endless expanse.

But life, and time, marches steadily on despite our warped perceptions. And life is truly and magnificently good despite the fact that it must inevitably end.

I love him. I miss him. In this exceptional after.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

The 7 Habits of Highly Annoying Children

Let me start with the full disclaimer that I ADORE my children. They light up my life, amaze me (almost) every day with their capacity to learn, laugh, love, and live fully and I simply wouldn't want to be in this world without them. Obviously.

That being said, they have some super annoying behaviors and habits that I could most definitely live without and in my observations of other people's offspring, these habits appear to be somewhat universal.

These are things that make me roll my eyes, whisper not so nice things, and on the occasion, for fleeting but intense moments, question my decision to procreate. In no particular order, 7 habits of highly annoying children:

1. Answering the question "How was school today?" with a 15 minute monologue about the Five Days at Freddy's game you played at recess or yelling at me across the house to "Come quick!" like someone's hair is on fire only so you can corner me for approximately an eon yammering on and on and on about the new monsters you bred and what sounds they sing. Your child will not stop even to take a breath to provide the pause you so desperately need to ask a more specific question like, "What was the number of the day?" or "Who the hell is Freddy and has it been five days yet?"

2. Picking some random sound or word or phrase and saying it (loudly) over and over and over again. As I write this, one of them is saying," Nutty nut. Nutty nut. Nutty nut. Nutty Nut" like 27 times in a row right next to my head. Why, yes. Yes you are making me "Nutty Nuts."

3. Using my body as a launch pad. Look. I'm all for you bear cubbing around with each other and even with your father but I don't do rough games. My softer parts don't like to be smashed and squished. Haven't my breasts suffered enough? You've done your part to ensure they will never again stand at attention without the aid of serious reinforcements. I don't need you to physically push them further into descent.

4. OMG the screaming. WHY WHY WHY do kids have to scream so damn much? They scream when they are happy. They scream when they are mad. They scream when they are good. They scream when they are bad. It's like they don't even hear me when I scream, "BE QUIET!"

5. The one bite every 7 minutes meal plan. Okay. I get this at dinner when out of desperation I've allowed you to have crackers, goldfish, granola, and 4 pieces of fruit between lunch and the next meal. But why aren't you ravenous at breakfast?! You ate nothing at dinner and you slept for 12 hours. Why aren't you inhaling those scrambled eggs dude? Pick.Up.The.Fork.And.EAT already.

6. Constantly interrupting. It seems we never get to complete a thought or hell, even a sentence before one of them jumps in to say something super important and interruption worthy like, "I scraped my knee seven weeks ago." or "I like turtles." We find ourselves doing and saying everything in super high speed in an effort to reach completion and yes, that includes knocking boots. Which leads me to my 7th and final habit of highly annoying children.

7. Cock blocking. I don't know if I'm going to be "in the mood" during the hours of 12:30 and 2:30 on Saturday of next week but my mood is really of no consequence in this equation. If you want any semblance of a sex life in parenthood you better pencil it in to the ol' family calendar or go dry and wither on the vine. Care for a bit of spontaneity? As one mother put it to me when I first began this journey, "How fast can you f*ck?"

And honestly, I do love those little buggers with every fiber of my being. For real. Even when I'd rather scoop my own eyes out with a rubber coated baby spoon than be in their presence for one moment longer.

Image credit: Quicklol.com

Friday, April 28, 2017

Shorts Under Dresses: An Underlying Issue

A friend recently relayed a story to me about her 4 year old daughter and a dress code at the preschool she attends.  Girls are required to wear shorts underneath their skirts, which is no big deal if your child goes along with the policy. In my friend's case, however, her daughter wasn't on board and it made for a very trying and tiring ordeal getting ready on school days.

Getting kids fed, dressed, and out the door with a healthy meal in hand is HARD work. Having to fight over a pair of shorts under an already perfectly reasonable garment is not a battle worth waging. In order to regain calm in their morning routine, the teacher and mother discussed the conflict and came to an agreement. Her daughter could skip the shorts so long as she wore long dresses or skirts. Problem solved, right?

Technically speaking, yes, the problem was solved. But it points to a much larger underlying issue that needs more illumination. 

Our culture has an unhealthy relationship with the human body, especially that of the female variety and we are pushing these skewed views on girls earlier and earlier in life.
This 'shorts under dresses' policy seems to be aimed at modesty. These children will be playing on the playground and it would be "indecent" for their underoos to see the light of day, even for a moment. The problem is, there is nothing "indecent" about a 4 year-olds underpants! Why can't little girls just be little girls without worrying about some other preschooler possibly seeing their fully covered bum?

In other cultures, many European ones for example, it is common place to see pre-adolescent children running around the beach in nothing but a strip of zinc on their noses. It is not indecent or inappropriate because they are children not adult, sexual beings. 
I don't understand how we could wish to avoid at all costs a little girl with her dress pulled over her head but we don't bat an eye when we see a a preschooler in full makeup and a miniskirt. Is it the physical play that gives our society pause? The miniskirt is okay because she isn't on the monkey bars? 

When we start forcing restrictions of this nature on our girls at such a tender, young age, we lay the foundation for body shame. We teach them that through their clothing choices they are sending messages and how those messages are interpreted are their fault. We are sexualizing their bodies long before they reach puberty and the unintended consequences are great. 

We shame mothers for breastfeeding in public but embrace billboards of giant boobs to sell beer. We blame victims of sexual assault for the length of their skirt while at the same time calling those who cover it all up prudes. And now our 3 and 4 year old females have to wear shorts under their skirts to satisfy someone's pursuit of modesty. What's next? Will public diaper changes be the subject of public shaming?

A school rule about shorts under skirts isn't a big deal on the surface and I'm not advocating for clothing optional classrooms. This rule makes sense to me in a middle or high school where hormones are raging and a glimpse under a girl's skirt will most definitely cause a reaction. I'm just concerned about the subtle messages we are sending our preschool and elementary-aged girls that stick around and shape the women they become.

If you think that a preschooler's underpants are lewd, maybe it is you that has the problem, not the innocent child.

If we stop and ask ourselves why someone decided this rule is necessary to begin with, we may uncover some indecent things about our society that should no longer go ignored.

IMAGE Monkey Bar Buddies

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Building a Wall Around My Bubble

As things have increasingly heated up over the last couple weeks, I've found myself overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with information, with emotions, with uncertainty.  At times I'm overwhelmed with disbelief and even anxiety.  But above all of these things, I'm totally and completely overwhelmed with negativity.

And that is going stop.  Now.

At the risk of coming across as too apathetic, I'll admit that I tend to live my life inside a comfortable and selectively clueless bubble.  My bubble is filled with family, friends, and community.  Inside of it I teach my children to be good people.  I partner with a man who makes me feel like we can move mountains together. I strive to be the best me I can possibly be. I make goals and work hard to achieve them.  I share myself openly with those I like, care about, and love.  Lately, though, my cozy little bubble feels at risk for popping.  And I'm not willing to let that happen.

So I'm going to build a wall around my bubble.

I make no outlandish claims that someone else is going to erect this wall for me. But build it, I will.

And the only "immigrants" I will defend against at my borders are hate, overreaching power, reversal of hard fought progress, division, and this ceaseless stream of negativity that threatens to terrorize us all.

I have work to do.  I have boys to raise.  A marriage to nourish.  A business to build.  Friendships to foster and tend.  I refuse to set these things aside and tread water in this vicious, turbulent sea of uncertainty.

I will rise above it.  I will continue working hard.  I will never give up on my dreams. I will keep an open heart and lend a helping hand. I will be positive and self reliant and strong.

In short, I will be AMERICAN.

So maybe I won't build that wall after all.  I don't believe it will help anything anyway.  I'll just let my bubble do what it does best...float up, up and away from it all.

IMAGE CREDIT: weknowyourdreams.com

Thursday, December 15, 2016

The Case for a Crazy Christmas

I don't know what to say, except that it's Christmas and we're all in misery. 
-Ellen Griswald

Lately I’ve seen an article here or there making the case for a cozy little Christmas at home with just the immediate family gathered round.  And I totally get it. The absence of busy airports or crabby kids on a long car ride, the avoidance of days of packing to go and days unpacking to get resettled at home, the potential for sleepless nights with kiddos not tucked into their own beds, and a litany of other headache inducing drama that goes hand in hand with a Christmas that involves extended family.  Not having to deal with all that and more has big appeal.  
But here’s the deal for me and mine.  Christmas just isn't Christmas without all that. We’ve committed to spending Christmas with our extended family as long as possible, even though it’s sometimes outrageously difficult.  Here’s why. 

  • For us, part of what is fun about the holidays is we relax and I don’t mean we sit with our feet propped up.  We ease up on rules, we don’t fret about precisely implemented nap and bedtime schedules, and we let them eat dessert for basically every meal.  It’s hard to be that loose at home.  
  • Being surrounded by a bunch of adults who love your children and have a familial responsibility for their welfare allows you and your partner to actually relax, feet propped up and all, for a while. Maybe you can even get out for a date without paid childcare, even if it is only to a dinky theater an hour away with a screen scarcely bigger than your living room set. 
  • I’m paying it forward.  I’m making big deposits into the grandparent karma account in the hopes that when my kids are grown with children of their own, they will choose to spend their holidays with us.  Tenuous I know, but can’t hurt to try.
  • Obviously you’ve seen Christmas Vacation.  Being one of my all time favorite movies ever, I just have to insert some of that Griswald-esque mayhem into my family Christmas or it falls a little flat for me.  I’m just that kind of crazy.
  • Our family is full of storytellers.  Yes, I’ve heard some of the same stories too many times to count, but it is in the retelling that we feel connected as a family, that our children learn about those that came before them, and we internalize our place in this wide wide world.  Many hours of our holidays are spent telling and listening to stories and we only get that when we gather round those that lived to tell them.
  • I grew up thousands of miles away from my extended family.  I had a very limited relationship with my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins.  I promised myself that my kids would have what I didn’t and with Christmas, I’m making good on that promise.
  • Finally and most importantly, we won’t have the chance to be with these loved ones forever.  As someone who has experienced the loss of a beloved parent I know first hand the very real value of spending every bit of time together that you can.  If we are fortunate, we will have many Christmas’s to come as an immediate family unit after they are no longer here to enjoy it with us.  Until then, they can count on us at Christmas.  
Image Credit: Me

Monday, November 14, 2016

An Open Letter to My Baby Maker

Dear Reproductive System,

It's been a long, exciting, and sometimes nail biting ride but like a teenager that's tapped into her second bottle of Boone's Farm, I'm sorry to say it's time to cut you off.  Before heading into surgery bright and early tomorrow morning, I wanted to take a minute to properly acknowledge your contributions.  

To my ovaries, I want to say thank you for producing healthy, viable, single eggs each month with the precision of an expensive Swiss timepiece.  Two of those lucky eggs, thankfully 36 cycles apart, met up with some fantastic sperm friends and resulted in the finest baby boys a parent could dream to create.  And though you may continue dutifully to push those eggs out onto their yellow brick road to a new world, I'm afraid to say that henceforth, they will be met with a road block too perfectly engineered to subvert.  

To my uterus, it's been an honor.  I felt merely a bystander as you grew to such astonishing size while safely housing growing humans and the organ that nurtured them for 40 awe inspiring weeks, not once but twice.  I was equally as dumbstruck with the speed in which you contracted back to a pretty much normal size in the weeks following your inhabitants ejections.  I wish I could say the same for the flesh surrounding you.  

Sweet, circular cervix, thank you for opening up and accepting the outsiders that combined with our eggs in order to spark a new life on two earth shattering occasions.  It would have been nice if you'd been a bit more of a team player that first time around with dilation and all but who's keeping score?  You were a pin hole and became a turtle neck.  I couldn't ask for anything more.

Finally, fallopian tubes, your smooth and straight path made it all possible.  Without your easily navigable and wide open roads, those tiny balls of female DNA would never have partnered up with those microscopic tadpoles and I'd be sleeping in on Saturdays.  Tomorrow morning, you're going under construction, never to be opened for traffic again.  

We've been a remarkable team in this thing called creating life.  Thanks for all the hard and noble work.  Moving forward, I will rejoice in foot loose and fancy free sexual contact with my spouse, free from ovulation imposed limitations.  

In the seven minutes we have to spare, we will let it rip and never ever again pee on a stick!  

Hasta la vista,
The Rest of Me