Category — I’ve Got Issues

I’m fed up with distorted images of women and girls.

Recently the websites I frequent kept assaulting me with pictures of a mother who’d made some questionable choices. It doesn’t matter which mother, because these news stories are all the same. Just another mother who does something extreme, which becomes sensationalized, it seems, entirely so that the vast majority of us will gasp in real or mock horror, and opine on this particular individual’s lack of parenting skills, sense of propriety, or grip on reality. Another crazy-pants mother spotlighted because of how she feeds, grooms, disciplines, or otherwise raises her kids.  Some cases are horrifying, others comically grotesque, but in all, the women (okay, parents: an occasional nut-job dad appears) are caricatures.

And that’s wrong. Because whatever the headline, these are real people making choices with real consequences. And often they are people who are sincerely parenting as well as they know how, and they’re held up as a punch line, or a symptom, or a cautionary tale. I’m not saying that the mothers in each Shocking Mother Story of the Day are blameless and innocent. But their children are, and they don’t deserve to have family lives raked over the coals to satisfy our collective blood lust. It feels like something primitive, a sort of bitter satisfaction, an appealing reassurance that, “No matter what my flaws are, I’m not that bad.”

I think that this rush to judgement is a reaction to how judged we all feel these days. Because the other side of this distorted female coin is the media-manufactured image of what we are supposed to be: beautiful, successful, slim, crafty, sweet, sexy, patient women. Women who adhere to a standard that is only possible with the help of photographic alterations and endless investments of time and money.

In both cases, media is obliterating the normal. There’s nothing newsworthy about an average mom who loves her kids and makes considered, reasonable parenting choices. The wacky just sucks us in.

But we’ve got to stop allowing ourselves to be spoon-fed media crap. It’s hard not to careen from a story of a mom of a 2-month-old taking her sleek-angled, spiky-heeled bod to a hot yoga class, then read about the latest mother who tied her child to a chair for not eating peas and console ourselves that, sure, we’ll never be her, but at least we’re not her.

Recently I fell into a sort of existential despair when I learned that one of my daughter’s 4th-grade friends loves the show Dance Moms. I’d heard, vaguely, that it was awful. Then I watched an episode–the little girls wearing make-up, the fights and emotional abuse, the sexualized dancing–and thought about what lessons it was teaching young girls who watch it. I’m sure that one could make an argument about the value of working hard, but there are surely better vehicles for learning those lessons, right? Please? Worse is knowing that these are real children living it, and real mothers who sincerely want to make the best choices for their little daughters and have somehow decided that this is it.

We need to refuse to consume the crap that denigrates and debases all of us. We need to stop finding entertainment in real lives that are lampooned in reality shows like Toddlers & Tiaras and Dance Moms. Refuse to accept fiction masquerading as how-tos in beauty and celebrity magazines. Stop fueling the social media frenzy over each Shocking Mother Story of the Day by refusing to click on all of those Bad Mommy Stories, no matter how curiosity-inducing a headline may be.

Because most of us are consuming way too many media-concocted narratives that are poisonous. These stories don’t help us learn about ourselves or make the world a better place. There is beauty, and drama, and power in the average and the everyday. There are plenty of “normal” mothers who do extraordinary things, and there is so much about our normal lives which is extraordinary. If we spent more time recognizing this and reveling in it, all of our lives would be richer.

What disturbs me most is that it feels like things have gone beyond sensationalizing the exceptional and into obliterating the normal. I read recently that some online shopping sites now airbrush out kneecaps when they’re selling skirts and shorts. Because kneecaps are considered unsightly. So pedestrian, really, to want to be able to bend your knees.

Screw that. I like my knees. Hell, I like your knees. And I don’t want to spend my time judging your parenting–or hers either–because life is hard enough without all the judging. And reading this stuff, and watching this stuff, it’s really tough not to judge. So I’m going to do my best to avoid it. Tune it out. I resent the stories about the Bad Moms, or seemingly Bad Moms, just like I resent those pop-up ads that show the sad fat lady shrinking and shrinking until she’s a happy skinny lady. I feel like these messages are trying to shrink all of us, and when we don’t notice it, we consume it mindlessly. We accept it as if it is worthy of our attention.

I don’t think that I’m the only one feeling this way. We so crave the normal and self-affirming that bloggers are giddy over a celebrity choosing parenting priorities over appearances.  We get all excited about Dove’s ad makeover campaign, even if it, like its “real beauty” campaign, is kind of fake, too. We congratulate smart, powerful women for being brave enough to eschew foundation make-up.  The Bloggess, a champion of all that is heartbreaking and hilarious about the everyday and who insists that every one deserves to feel gorgeous and special once in a while, is on the bestseller list, along with several of my favorite, most kick-butt women.

So, what can we do? Notice what we’re reading or watching and think about how it impacts our perceptions of ourselves and others. How is our media diet impacting the health of our souls?  We need to refuse to consume media that creates fun-house spectacles of other women or insane expectations of ourselves.  We need to take a lesson from that 8th grader with her Seventeen petition and speak up to media who aren’t treating us right. We can choose to focus on the perspectives of those moms and other women who offer integrity and insight, whose stories enhance our appreciation of our own journey as parents and as people and provide new perspectives and understanding of our world.

We need to ponder what deserves the gift of our attentiveness, and direct our attention with consciousness and compassion.

This not-super-fit but salty-delicious seaside chair was brought to you by. . . knees.

I lost it a bit yesterday.

I’ve got a soda problem. I just love it. And I know it’s terrible. It’s chemicals in a can. It’s got caffeine, and I’m ridiculously sensitive to caffeine–if I have two Coke Zeros, then I’m screwed, sleep-wise. So I’m intermittently abstaining from soda, trying to quit, or off the wagon completely in what appears to be an endless cycle. If I could keep it to one or two cans a week, that would be acceptable, but it’s tough. Right now I’m once again in cold-turkey mode.

This time, I’m augmenting my #1 favorite beverage–tap water–with the occasional chai iced tea and club soda. Drinking club soda at my sister’s reminded me that I like club soda much more than seltzer. Which is a shame, because it seems very similar except that it’s got some added sodium and it tends to be less conveniently available.  Also, the bottles, while cute, seem shockingly wasteful to me, yet I can’t commit to the big plastic bottles because I wouldn’t drink enough before they go flat. You know that I’m cheap. So I went out and bought myself some cute little bottles of club soda, but I perversely feel like they are a special treat.

Meanwhile, my kids aren’t allowed to drink soda. Or, at least, not under everyday conditions. Usually, we try to just act neutral and model good behavior when it comes to dietary choices, like my mentor Ellyn Satter says. But this doesn’t work, because Cute W and I love soda, and we hate how much we love soda. The girls can have a soda at parties, they’re usually allowed up to one soda per day on vacations, and sometimes at the movies or a restaurant. They rarely finish the sodas, like that time we bought them on our “live”-blogging car trip.

Really, they just like the idea of soda. Because it is forbidden at their house, it is pure animal instinct that they must ask for it repeatedly and accept it whenever it’s offered. Dogs have to pee everywhere. Seagulls must pester you if you try to picnic on the beach. And my children must beg for soda. We know (and if we didn’t, Ellyn Satter would tell us) we’ve created this monster. Still, it’s monstrous.

So, yesterday, M asked to try a club soda. She doesn’t like club soda. Both girls have tried club soda and seltzer, and they don’t like either one of them. Still, its soda-like effervescence called to her, and it seemed better to let her try so that she’d just remember that she didn’t like it. So I repressed a sigh and consented.

In opening the bottle, M sprayed club soda all over the floor. Okay. A rookie mistake. Then, as she started to lift the bottle to her lips, I suggested, “You know, it would be better with some ice. Room temperature probably won’t taste too good.” M ignored me and took a sip. And then, with great drama, she ran past the sink and to the nearest door, where she spat out her small taste of club soda. But she was determined, and  J was now intrigued and asking for a taste. I pulled out the ice cube tray and two glasses. M ignored me and the glass, instead pressing an ice cube at the top of the bottle, because the bottle is cute.  This drove me slightly crazy, because the ice cube was clearly too large for the mouth of the bottle. But I restrained myself admirably.

Finally, M gave up and poured some club soda over the glass with ice, setting down the half-full bottle as the (small) glass fizzed to the rim. I picked up the bottle in order to pour the other half into an ice-filled glass for J. As I lifted the bottle from the table, M grabbed it by the bottom. Because she did not want to share.

She did not want to share the bottle of the stuff that she had, moments ago, run moaning to the door to spit out.

I was forced to use italics so that we’re clear on how freaking ridiculous she was being.

Alas. I chose to descend to her level.

This is when I said, “Let go.” And she ignored me. Since she was tiny, M has done this. She digs in her heels, driving me from somewhat sympathetic to mildly annoyed to extremely irritated to ballistic. She was the toddler who ran screaming from time-out until I would put her into her room and close the door and hang onto the knob from the outside for her own protection. Usually it’s over something stupid. Like half a bottle of club soda. So we played tug of war with the bottle while I said, “Let go-let go-let go!” with a steadily rising voice, much like Bill Cosby with his “Come here-come here-come here” routine (which, if you don’t know this, you simply must click over and watch a bit–funny, too, because apparently he has child/soda issues, as well).

I’m not proud of this. Here’s yet another way in which I am utterly screwed as a parent. I hardly ever yell. You would think that my children would appreciate that, especially when you can hear parents say all sorts of nasty stuff in all sorts of mean voices just at the grocery store. Oh, no. Instead, I have raised children who are deeply sensitive to the slightest change in tone of my voice. So when I raise my voice into loud talking, they are appalled, wounded, aggrieved. And I feel like CrapMom.

At approximately the fifth “Let go,” M wisely chose to let go, and I proceeded to pour the other half of the club soda into J’s half-filled glass. At this point, M, emotionally-wounded-by-loud-talking-Mommy, exited the house. Whether it was merely to avoid hanging around with me or, as I suspect, in order to try one more sip of the cold club soda and then feel free to pour it into the closest shrubbery while I wasn’t looking, I don’t know. What I do know is that we have a no-walking-outside-with-glass-or-ceramics policy that I had not yet reviewed for the spring season. Still, you’d think my 9-year-old would remember this. But instead of following her and insisting that she re-pour the club soda into plastic, I just thanked my lucky stars that she was out of the damn house.

Then I turned to J, who was attempting to dislodge additional ice cubes from the empty ice cube tray. “Two ice cubes should be plenty to make it cold enough,” I advised. “If you want it colder, you can stir it around.” She wanted it colder, of course, because she does not like club soda. She thought that if it were colder, she might actually like it. She sat for a minute, looked at me furtively, then got up and walked over to our counter-top water tank to add some water to the club soda to make it more palatable.

At which point I lost it again. “Stop right there! If you want to add water, it’s because you don’t like the club soda! Give me your club soda and I will drink it for you, because I actually like the club soda just the way it is! And I actually have to go to the store and pay money to buy the club soda. Water is free! So, if you don’t like the club soda, don’t drink the club soda! Drink the delicious, readily-available, completely free water!!!” All of which I said in my very loud talking voice.

She looked like she might burst into tears. And I was overcome with remorse. “No, J, it doesn’t matter. Add water if you want. Just don’t take more if you don’t like it. Can you see how I would find this annoying?”

“Never mind,” she sniffed. “I don’t want it anymore.” And she took her glass of club soda and fled the room.

- – - – - – - – - – -

Last night I tried to write this post and it felt too unbelievably tedious to write. Because it was so unbelievably tedious to experience.  But I know that some of you are entertained my most most epic parenting fails, so. . .VOILÀ.

And it gets even better. The girls were awake this morning before either of us, and when he came downstairs, Cute W discovered a half-full bottle of club soda sitting on the kitchen table. He asked, and neither of the girls ‘fessed up.

So, what about you guys? Do you have food or soda battles? Do you think I should never mention club soda again, forbid it and lock my club sodas in a liquor cabinet, or give up and have us all drink soda to our heart’s content?

Last night was date night. Cute W had bought tickets to see Guster at the Egg for Valentine’s Day, and we were going out for Vietnamese food for dinner first. Our usual sitter was performing in a school concert, so we booked one of her friends, a nice girl who’d babysat with us before. Cute W took the bus to work in downtown Albany so that I could meet him, and then we’d drive home together at the end of the evening. The girls enjoy a babysitter evening: it usually involves more tv than usual and something unhealthful for dinner.

So 6:30 pm came, and there was no babysitter. We’d originally talked about 7 pm, so I hoped that she was just off by half an hour. I emailed her and called her cell, and updated Cute W that I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to Van’s for dinner. By the time it was after 7 pm, I had: called the sitter again, called a neighbor, posted a pathetic status to Facebook, brainstormed with Cute W and another friend, looked unsuccessfully for the babysitter’s mom’s phone number, and presented the girls with the frozen pizza extravaganza that was their dinner. M was grouchy, and J became so upset with my agitation that I had to spend precious time holding her on my lap reassuring her that it was no big deal, really not a problem at all, such a tiny occurrence among the many more wonderful and terrible things that could happen. . . all while I just wanted to put her down and get back on the phone.

Except, that’s when M reported, “J says her stomach hurts.” Sure enough, J was clutching her stomach and beginning to cry. Babysitter Friend said, “I’m sure she’s fine. Go, go!” But that is what Babysitter Friends are supposed to say. The jig was up. J was almost completely, positively, surely just suffering from the stress of seeing me pacing and calling and ranting for the last hour. But how could I ever forgive myself if she brought a stomach bug into the house of Hostess Friend and did anything that would require Bodily Evacuation Material Clean-Up from Babysitter Friend?

I called Cute W to abort the mission. Actually, I offered him the option of waiting for our friends to bring him the tickets so that he could see the concert by himself, but at that point, he was too crabby.  He had spent the past hour and a half basically hanging out waiting for me, and now he had to walk to a bus stop to catch a bus home. If we’d given up earlier and he’d had his car with him, he could have gone to his regular Wednesday night soccer game, but now the whole evening was trashed.

Speaking of the whole evening, it would have been most appropriate if there had been an announcement at 6:25 pm: “The role of Katie’s Id will be played by Miss M. B. this evening.” Throughout the night, she’d say things like “This is all [babysitter]‘s fault!” and  “What is wrong with her?!? I’m so mad!!” All while I’d say half-soothing motherly things like, “I understand that you’re angry and disappointed, but I don’t think that this is helpful right now.” The girls headed into the night air to head for home, J clutching her stomach and sniffling, M rolling her eyes like a crazed horse, “J’s totally fine! Her stomach doesn’t even hurt! You were about to go! This is ridiculous!” At the car, M happened to run into another neighbor, one of her friend’s dads, who made the mistake of asking her how she was. What followed was a full-on angry rant. As I caught up with them, he called out, chuckling, “Great night, huh?”

Sure enough, my perfectly healthy J was asleep by 8:45 pm, and soon afterwards I ran out quickly to catch Cute W at the bus stop (yes I left them alone. I’m okay with 15 minutes, not 3 hours). Lucky for me, Cute W brought some spring rolls for my late dinner. Do you think I could have possibly eaten every single one of them? Oh, yes I did.

You may remember that I was a little bit bummed earlier this week because I wanted to see Miss Representation, but it conflicted with the concert/date night. So the evening was a double waste, because if we hadn’t planned to go to the concert at all, we could have just barely squeaked through some tag-team child care, with me going to see the movie, then coming home in time for Cute W to go to his soccer game.  Oh well.

I’d sent an email to our babysitter asking her to please check in to let us know she was okay, and I received a very apologetic reply later that night. She’d completely blown it off. She was performing in the school concert, too.

It’s just a good thing that M doesn’t have access to email yet!

Please do not comment that I should have called you. It’s hard to ask for help, it took a while to realize that the sitter was never coming, and then I thought I’d achieved a back-up plan. If I’d had more time and/or didn’t have a feasible back-up plan, I might have called you. But if you tell me now how very bored and up-for-anything you were last night, even though I know you’re being kind, it will sort of make me want to hit you. I’m not saying that that’s a mature or appropriate response, but that’s how I will feel. Also, keep in mind that in all likelihood, my daughters (and perhaps YOUR children) will be babysitters in the future, and they are likely to make the occasional mistake, too.

*Team B refers to our dorky referring to ourselves as a family team when we need to pull together and accomplish something. Yes. You can throw up now.

The other night I couldn’t sleep because I found myself designing Maternal Merit Badges.

I was thinking about how it’s So Not Helpful to tell other moms that things will get tougher (or, like one commenter reported, “What I’m doing is much harder than what you’re doing!”–nice). Meanwhile, kind words–especially from strangers, because if you’re not getting kind words from your friends, you need new friends–can make all the difference. Once, my older daughter staged a particularly heinous and loud tantrum in JoAnn’s Crafts, and I just had to power through it to get my errand done. An elderly woman approached me and congratulated me on how I was handling my children. I went from melting-into-the-store-linoleum shame to feeling like I had a spotlight shining on my moment of maternal excellence, complete with an angelic chorus singing praise to me. It was wonderful.

But people don’t want to intrude, or they feel awkward, or whatever. Even if you try to catch a mother’s eye to give her an “Atta girl!” look, you’ll fail, because her eyes are cast down, watching herself melt into the floor. I remember someone forwarding me a video about using a simple sign to thank veterans, and that same day I ran into some soldiers and asked them about it, and they’d never heard of it. Huh. Well, that’s ineffective.

Instead of sleeping, I was mentally designing patches. One could be the Nom, Nom patch, with a little motto around the border saying “From hungry to happy: Yay, You!” I could hand it to the mama who’s nursing at the restaurant or the mama who pulls out a bottle in the middle of a bunch of breastfeeders. Possibly a Cucumber patch, with “Way to Keep Your Composure!” for the mother in the check out line who is so successfully not shrieking in spite of her child’s appalling behavior. Cast Iron Stomach for excellence in the realms of Bodily Fluid Management and Inappropriate Food Removal. Maybe a Free Fashion patch with a motto like “Independence & Creativity Kick Matching’s Booty.”

Of course, then it occurred to me that knowing how we are (or possibly, maybe this is how I am?), you’d have to put some sort of disclaimer on the back of any patch. Something that said, “No, I’m not being sarcastic and snarky. I’m totally sincere. I don’t know you, but I’m deeply impressed by the rockin’ awesome job that you are doing as a parent at this moment. Seriously. I mean it.” Because otherwise I could imagine that a patch recipient might think it was a cruel joke.

I also considered that all of these patches or badges or whatever would have to be attached somewhere, which made me think of my daughter’s Girl Scout Sash.

And then I free-associated a bit, thinking that this is similar to the “Mother of the Year” sash that I sometimes joke about when I’m doing a crappy job as a mother (I even sing a sort of pageant-inspired tune). And I knew that I could tie up that symbolism, of individual little merit badges that attach to a big draping thing borne of shame at how we’re not doing well enough. Maybe the patches can cover it? Maybe the basis of any maternal pride is in knowing that we can’t control the fact that we have failed and will fail again? And I could easily spend another 4 hours on putting together metaphors which would remain labored and unappealing.

At which point I was turning over and telling myself to stop thinking about this already, because if I didn’t stop, I was going to have to get up and write something, and then I’d definitely be awake for another two hours.

So I went back to mentally designing these patches. Which will never exist, because I have neither the skills nor the budget to produce such items, and even if I did, who would actually want them? There are about 8 people out there who actually display my bumper sticker.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time. Like the Laundry Flowchart, which took me hours because I had to locate and learn how to use a flowchart program. Or sometimes it will be an essay or a post here. But it’s difficult for me to function until I’ve worked through whatever crazy idea it is, even if it’s not one of my best ideas. So I present to you Maternal Merit Badges in the hope that, now that I’ve done it, I can expunge it from whatever clunky, uncontrollable creative process forces an entire section of my brain to figure out how to make them. And I can reclaim that portion of my brain for more useful and productive tasks.

Sneakily, my kids got old, and now I’m the mother of Big Kids. They’re 7 and 9, so I knew that they were aging, of course, but it really struck me today at the grocery store. For about two years I walked the grocery store with M strapped to my chest, carrying on a continuous monologue about the splendors of delicious produce, the perils of partially hydrogenated oils, the changing seasons as they played out in large cardboard displays of foods and beverages. The trip would end with me talking too much with the cashier. I couldn’t help myself. There would be an awkward pause and I’d realize that I needed to make more friends who could respond to me verbally.

Then there was juggling the two girls: a short-but-bleak period when J would yell when strapped down and grab and throw jars when not strapped down. The constant choices: get out of the check-out line to run to the potty, or risk a 5-minute wait? Accept the proffered cookies because it’s polite, or refuse because the children were until this moment oblivious to the existence of cookies at this counter? Beg for another sample, or just pretend I didn’t see that my child wrapped her deli cheese around the shopping cart handle?

Literally juggling children

Today I was alone, efficiently unloading my groceries into the car. Nearby, a woman chatted with her infant while walking a slow pace for the toddler holding her by the shirt through the parking lot.

I don’t miss it. In fact, I’d almost forgotten what that was like.

On the rare occasions when the girls come along to the grocery store these days, I send them out on assignment to divide and conquer the list. They joke and skip along and quietly negotiate, then bat their eyes with extravagant, charming puppy dog faces while holding up a package of Oreos. They’re helpful. It’s a completely different experience from my early mama days.

All of which made me think of those mothers of older children that I’d encounter back when the girls were little. The ones who said that their children became more difficult, the problems were tougher, that parenting is progressively more challenging. My children were challenging as infants and toddlers, and hearing those women scared me.

Those women scared me.

I call bulls%^t.

Parenting a 7-year-old and a 9-year-old isn’t always easy. The dilemmas are both more subtle and complicated. For example, just in the past week for my older child, I’ve had to:  tackle the topic of showers and deodorant without sounding insulting,  act  sweet to a mom who pretended that deliberately excluding my child was an oversight, and explain prostitution (in the most general terms possible, I assure you).

But more work? More work? No way.

Here are just a few examples:

THEN: I would wake up several times during the night, breastfeeding again at 5-something am, and just as baby fell asleep again, toddler was up and ready to play.

NOW: I roll out of bed at 7 am to the sound of the 9-year-old showering while the fully-dressed 7-year-old is reading with Daddy.

 

THEN: If I forgot a crucial ingredient for dinner, I’d have to strap both girls into the car and drag them to the grocery store with me or wait until Cute W could bring something home, throwing off the entire bedtime routine.

NOW: If I forget a crucial ingredient for dinner, I quickly drive to the nearest store after reminding the girls that I’ve got my cell and the next door neighbors are home in case of emergency.

THEN: Going to the bathroom alone was difficult. Company or screaming at locked doors. Once when I had the stomach flu, I ran off to vomit, and M followed me and clung to my legs, sobbing, while I heaved.

NOW: We all go to the bathroom by ourselves. Recently I had to purchase a tampon from one of those vending machines in a public bathroom and both girls just looked away discreetly.

 

THEN: If I tried to leave the house on my own, one or both girls would sob and occasionally break free and actually chase the car down the driveway.

NOW: When I leave the house, the girls look up briefly and say, “Bye Mom!”

I’m rambling now, aren’t I? Well, it’s difficult not to exult in the freedom of it all.

So, what the heck is with those mothers-of-older-kids? Is it the same nasty, competitive instinct that causes women to ramble about their Horrifying Labor Experiences at a baby shower? Have they forgotten what life with very young children was truly like? Did they just get it wrong somewhere, so their kids aren’t turning out as awesome as mine? I don’t know.

But if you’re a mother of a toddler and/or an infant and someone starts telling you that it only gets tougher, perhaps that was that person’s experience. It doesn’t have to be yours.

Adorable? You bet! Easy? Nope.

And, okay. I don’t have teenagers yet. There are so many years ahead, full of hormones and college decisions and driving. But right now, it feels like I can conquer any parenting challenge with the benefits of a full night’s sleep, an occasional workout, and a hot shower pretty much any time I choose. And if I’m wrong, don’t tell me. It doesn’t help to scare me.

J is marginally less itchy, so that’s good. Cute W and I still are still feeling unwell.

Nevertheless, we had a date night. It was sort of unavoidable. We’d bought tickets a while back to see Mike Doughty at The Linda. I mean, I’m generally pro-date night, but 45 minutes before the babysitter was due to arrive, I was lying in  bed, moaning. An hour before she was due to arrive, Cute W was sleeping. But we rallied.

Okay, but here’s the bad part. Last night, I received an email asking if I could do a job at church on Sunday. We hadn’t planned to go to church on Sunday. No one except M feels good, and Cute W actually has to work at a big meeting on Sunday afternoon (I know that’s ridiculous. His organization always has a meeting on Oscar night. How stupid is that?).

So this morning I was looking at the email, and I composed something like, “We weren’t planning on being there on Sunday because 3 out of 4 of us don’t feel good. But if you’re really desperate, I could come.” I asked Cute W, “How’s this?” And Cute W said, “You don’t want to go. You should just say no.” And I took a big pause. Because the truth is, I just totally wasn’t up for going or doing the job. And if I said that I could possibly do it, of course I would end up doing it. So, against my better judgement, I dropped the if-you’re-desperate disclaimer and just said “Sorry.” And then I left to take M to ice skating.

Sometime during the day, I realized that the person asking me to do a church job was the mother of our babysitter for the date night. Which, of course, I had known all along. But I’ve been so foggy-brained that I did not put together these facts to formulate the complete concept. That I am a scumbag who is apparently well enough to go on a date but unwilling to do a job the following morning at church. This all came to me when I was mpt at jp,e not at home. I resolved to send an addendum to the previous email with the deleted “But if you’re really desperate, I could come” line.

I arrived home, and Cute W yelled, “Hey, babysitter’s mom called! She wants to know if we still need a babysitter since we’re so sick!”

I thought that he was yanking my chain. No, he wasn’t.

He explained to me about how he explained to her about our long-ago-purchased tickets.

I sat down and put my head between my knees. “And did you tell her that if she’s desperate I can do it?”

“Yes,” he said, laughing. And I didn’t email or call her.  For now, I have no plans to go tomorrow. Hopefully when I do show up, there will not be pointing and muttering.

M ran directly from her friend’s minivan into the house and to the computer. A beeline to our computer can only mean one thing: there’s something that she wants to buy.

We have entered that very special time in a young girl’s life when a great deal depends on whether you have That Thing That Everyone Has.

I first noticed this several months ago, when I overheard two moms talking about buying gifts for a friend’s birthday. “I figured we’d just go to Justice. . . ?” the guest’s mom asked. “Of course,” birthday girl’s mom answered. “She’ll like anything from there.” Huh. Where had I been? It turns out, I really don’t mind Justice.  They have pretty good messages, which is important to me. I just went to look for some samples: “Be Yourself,” “Friends Are Sweet,” “Smile Everyday,” and “I <3 to Hug My Brother.” Nice. Unlike some other places (I’m talkin’ about you, JC Penney! I’m glad that you stuck up for Ellen, but I am still mad at you).

Next, it was the Christmas list, which included a fuzzy purple North Face jacket. You may recall that M considered it a Grave Injustice that I didn’t just buy the jacket because of my Deep And Abiding Love For Her. That, my dear, is what doting grandparents and Christmas are for. However, shortly after the our store encounter with the North Face jacket, I realized that everywhere I turn there are children wearing North Face jackets. How had I missed this? And then I’d see random kids tossing their $100 North Face fleeces onto, say, the damp and dirty floor near the ice rink. And I was simultaneously fascinated and appalled.

Must-have North Face, Justice Bag

Anyway, as M started tapping on the computer keyboard, I hovered to see exactly what was so important now. She’s a slow typer. “V-e-r-a B-r. . .”

“Vera Bradley?” I asked. “A Vera Bradley something?” I have heard of Vera Bradley. I’m not a shopper, as we all know, but I know that there are moms who like Vera Bradley.  I have purchased exactly two purses in the last ten years, and both were on sale at Target, but I’m vaguely aware of general purse culture. There’s, like, Coach and Kate Spade, right? I learned about Birkin bags from Gilmore Girls. But, whatever.   The truth? Vera Bradley bags have always seemed pretty-but-matronly to me.

“Yes,” M answered. “A Vera Bradley lunch bag. I really need one.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t need one. You have a lunch bag. But you want one?”

“Okay, whatever. I want one,” M answers. She’s irritated, because I’m quibbling.

She looks and settles on the perfect bag, the one that she needs, a lunch bag in Ellie Blue with elephants on it. No one has the one with elephants.

“So, your friends have these bags?” I ask. She proceeds to point out the various styles. Look, this pink one is what her friend just got for her birthday, and that’s her second lunch bag.

“Well, it makes sense, then, that it was a birthday present. You don’t need a lunch bag, but you could buy it yourself, or ask the Easter Bunny,” I suggest.

“Easter! That’s it!” M’s psyched. “. . . Wait, when’s Easter again?”

“April,” I concede. I feel a little bit bad about it, really. I can tell that a need this urgent cannot wait for six weeks.

She is wavering about whether or not to purchase it herself. I ask, “So, do a lot of your friends have bags like this?”

“Oh yes,” she answers, and there’s a long list. Several friends have one, a few have two, one friend has three different styles of lunch bags, one of which is “this very sophisticated leather bag.” Ah. Even M is willing to concede that three bags is excessive.

But this inventory really gets to me.  How does it happen that every mother and child is aware of the latest trend and has jumped onto it with such wild abandon? Is there some sort of newsletter that I need to start getting? I’m not saying that we need to get everything that everyone else has, but how is it possible that six different households have the exact same item, and I haven’t ever heard of it? Seriously, are there meetings for the parents of tween girls so that I’m not oblivious of, like, everything?

“And how long,” I probe, “have all of your friends had these bags?”

“Forever!” she answers, and the injustice is causing a squeak in her voice. “For years! For years I’ve wanted a bag like this!”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “I bought you a new lunch box thing this fall when your old one was getting all nasty. Why didn’t you just say that you wanted this one instead?”

“I tried!” She swears. “I asked you and you said no.”

“Oh no, I didn’t. I was not even aware that such a thing as a Vera Bradley lunch bag existed. You have never mentioned this item to me in your entire life.”

“I did!” she protests, “But you just went ahead and bought that other one.”

“Okay, that’s not how it happened,” I say. “Why would I buy something for you that I didn’t like? I asked you about it, you liked it, and I bought it. I’m pretty sure that it was even more expensive than the one you want now. If you’d asked me for this lunch bag when you actually needed a lunch bag, I probably would have bought it. But you didn’t.”

And even as I’m saying this, I’m racking my brains. Because, did she make some sort of weak protest about another style of bag? And I liked the kind we’d had before because it included loads of Bento boxes? It’s possible, but if she did, she didn’t say much. I’ve seriously never heard that there was such a thing as a Vera Bradley lunch bag. And, in any case, I swear that she did approve the lunch box we bought, and when it arrived she was happy with it, absolutely.

“Okay, well, I’m buying it myself,” she’s decided.

And then, because it kills me that she’s getting something that everyone else has, mostly because everyone else has it, I start Googling about, looking for other fabulous and attractive lunch carrier items. But it’s a colossal waste of time. She’s emotionally attached to the elephants by now. She’s not changing her mind.

She goes upstairs for money. It’s $34.

“Plus shipping,” I remind her.

“Oh, but Mommy-dear-I-love-you-so-much, maybe you would like to pay for the shipping out of the goodness of your heart?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” I say. “So that’s actually $42.” She sighs heavily and heads upstairs for more cash.

“Do you have change for a fifty?” she asks. The girl has a fifty. This is not a hard life that she has.

Moments later, I’m calling to her again, “Honey, sorry! I forgot about tax! It’s another $3 and change!”

“Ohhhh,” she moans, “Can you just deduct that from my allowance, please?”

So the bag is coming. And life will be complete. Until the next trend.

This week, I feel like I’ve just been puttering around, completely unproductive. Part of the problem is that I arrived home Tuesday night, so on Wednesday morning I was sleepy, unpacking, and in need of a grocery run. On Thursday morning I had an appointment that got cancelled, but instead of just moving on to the next item on the agenda, I sort of floundered. Like, all morning. So I’ve been pondering why  this week has been such a waste, and I came up with a whole list of excuses reasons.

I really need a list. For me, there’s nothing like a good To Do list to keep me on track. If I begin to slow down, I look at my list and it jolts me into action. Or if I want to take a break or eat lunch, I tell myself that I have to check something off the list first. Sometimes I’ll make a list of things I enjoy doing and things I hate doing, and I have to do something I hate (like making phone calls) before I’m “allowed” something I enjoy (like working out or folding laundry with a tv show on). I’m so obsessive-compulsive about my lists that if I find myself doing something productive that wasn’t on the list, I add it to the list just so that I can cross it out immediately and feel proud. I often make a list for the week on Sunday night, and I didn’t this time because we were skiing. Yeah, I know I should make a list now. Absolutely: you’re right. But I’m afraid I’ll freak out over everything that I haven’t accomplished all week. So I’ll continue to write this post. Then, at least, I’ll have something to cross off my list right away.

I need to do a calendar review, which I didn’t do this week, either. I’m terrible with schedules. I don’t know why, but I’ll do crazy, stupid stuff like, for example, forget the time of a lesson that my kids have been attending every week all school year. Suddenly instead of thinking, “We need to leave at 4 for 4:30 gymnastics,” I’ll think, “We need to leave at 4:30 for gymnastics.” I don’t know why I do this, but it’s like my sense of direction issue. If I just make sure to review everything two or three times, I’m usually okay. Also, a calendar review at the beginning of the week throws up red flags, like with last night’s concert, in which: 1) I received two different fliers telling us to arrive at two different times, 2) I realized that M was planning to wear something way too casual and made an emergency shopping trip for slacks, and 3) I thought that I could just blow off the request for reception treats just this once until M arrived home hours before asking, “What are you making for tonight? I hope it’s something good because we all worked really hard.” Dang. I made chocolate chip cookies. Which we couldn’t eat due to the fire alarm. Yet when I retrieved the plate this morning, only smears of chocolate were left.

I need to step away from technology. I have three different emails (personal, Capital District Fun, and Kids Out and About), a Google reader, Twitter, and the comments here on the blog and via Facebook to check. Any one of these  is fraught with peril, because there are invariably fascinating links that lead to items to read that lead to further links to videos I simply must watch. The challenging part, here, is that keeping up with all of that stuff is part of doing Capital District Fun and Kids Out and About. But it can get ridiculous: there are times when by the time I’ve checked the last item on the list above, my emails have been pinging at me for attention again.

I need to set a timer. Actually, I use a timer often already. Right now I have it set to remind me when to start the slow cooker. I often set it to remind us all when we have to leave for whatever class or activity is coming up. I do timed writing and timed workouts pretty regularly.  And when I’m doing something that I hate, I’ll sometimes set the timer for, say, 10 or 15 minutes, and I lie to myself that as soon as the timer goes off I can stop. It’s a lie because once I’m 10 or 15 minutes into something it’s easier just to finish whatever it is (like, say, cleaning the bathrooms or filing). But now I’m thinking that I need to set a time limit on the technology stuff. I have other time-sucks that I need to limit, like when I’m fed up with all of our meals, and I’ll while away a very long time searching for recipes.

Books in the return bin at school

You know what? I didn’t do so badly this week. I grocery shopped, I worked out on Wednesday & Thursday (we’ll see about today), I came up with two pretty good new recipes, those chorus slacks were on clearance for $6, and I’ve kept up with the blog. Plus, I volunteered at the school library, and I chauffered my friends’ cat.

So, anyone got organizational tips to share?

Poor Kitty! He deeply resents his bath and subsequent jail time.

Okay. There’s no avoiding it anymore. Time to go make that To Do List. Well, maybe lunch first.

Oh, please don’t tell me that you’re so young that you don’t remember Stuart Smalley from back before Al was the US Senator from Minnesota. Seriously. I don’t need to hear that.

I said recently that I wasn’t coming up with any resolutions, but I’ve actually got one. I’ve decided that I’m going to try to have only positive thoughts about myself. For example, instead of thinking “I’m a dork,” I’ll try to think “I’m full of awesome” instead.

This has turned out to be more challenging than I anticipated. For a girl with kick-ass SAT scores and an advanced degree from an Ivy League school, you wouldn’t expect that I’d think, “Wow, I’m unbelievably stupid” too often. Alas, you’d be wrong. I’ve realized how critically I view myself. Like, all the time.  Once I became aware of this alarming tendency, I decided that this bullshit simply. must. stop.

And shortly after making this resolution, I did something like, oh, I don’t know. . . drive my car directly into my garage door.

No, I’m not kidding. I wish.

We’d put one of those cargo carriers on the roof of our car for our holiday trip, and we hadn’t taken it off the car. I generally forgot that it was even there, but my driveway’s so long that by the time I’d traveled from street to garage, the garage door was fully open and I was in the clear. Except last week, when I planned to park in the driveway. Except it was snowing. So to avoid clearing snow later, I changed my mind, hit the garage door opener, and drove right in. Until there was a loud and alarming crunch.

Okay, so it doesn’t look so bad. But the door was broken enough and sort of bowed in just enough that it couldn’t go entirely up or entirely down. With the cargo carrier on top, the car couldn’t even fit into the garage. Luckily only the door itself was damaged: the car was fine.

Anyway, Cute W was out of town when this happened, and I switched to parking on his side of the driveway. Then, the night he was due home, I thought, “Gosh, he’ll be home so late, and he’ll be tired, I don’t want to disorient him by parking in his usual space.” I’d forgotten entirely why I’d parked on his side to begin with. So the next time I came home, I pressed the garage door opener, waited an extra-long time to ensure that the door was finished going up, and I drove into the garage door again. (If you’re confused here, see the phrase in italics in the previous paragraph.)

I couldn’t write about this while it was still fresh, but it’s resolved now. The door was semi-functional, but semi-functional just doesn’t cut it where Cute W is concerned, so he’s replaced it. The job took him all weekend, and although I tried to help, it was a bit like when your 3-year-old tries to help unload the dishwasher.

Actually, I was tempted to take a picture of Cute W, because he was wearing these grease-stained jeans with a super-masculine tool belt over it and a bunch of tools hanging off of that except that one pocket held a pencil with pictures of fluffy puppies and pink roses on it. It was hilarious. But at the time he was cursing and muttering, and I was overcome with remorse. And feeling like an idiot dumbhead a$$h63 intelligent person who had made an two unfortunate errors.

So again, it’s more challenging than I anticipated. But that’s what makes me feel that it’s a worthy endeavor. If you generally don’t do resolutions, or if you just haven’t settled on one yet, what about this one? Try listening to yourself and your internal monologue. And if it’s mean, unhelpful, or depressing, just shut it off. Replace it with something a little more joy-affirming instead. And if you’re having a bad day when you’re feeling like you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, just think: “Hey, at least I didn’t just drive my car into my garage door twice.”

I was tidying up my room last weekend, and I decided to make a clean sweep and clear away a mound of clutter.

And by clutter I mean precious gifts from my beloved daughters.

I know, I know: I’m a terrible person. But I’m going to say it, so just go ahead and judge me. My kids make some wonderful, crafty, thoughtful gifts, and I am so happy to receive them. They also scavenge their rooms for their own beloved treasures which they wrap for me, Cute W, and each other. It’s so sweet. It’s genuinely moving. And then the gifts stays there in my room or around the house on display. For years. And collect dust.

Here, for example, is a sampling of some of the items that were on my bureau:

Readers who attended our nursery school will recognize the two big keepsake boxes. Gorgeous works of art with tissue paper and pom-pom balls and 3-D felt flowers that periodically fall off or crumble. Try dusting these puppies. Yikes.

Two of the many scavenged items that I’ve received include this blown-out Chinese lantern firecracker and a half-filled plastic snow globe from a garage sale.

There’s also a photo of us in a frame from Marshalls that the girls picked out all by themselves.

This is a mere fraction of the items that are on display throughout the house. Even the cards they make are huge showpieces. Including this little beauty, which you have to read to truly appreciate:

It makes me a little nuts, because of course I keep these things. And putting them away feels wrong, like I don’t love my kids. But the stuff takes over my space. That little patch of bureau up there? It’s not serene. So I relocated all of the items above except for the framed picture.  I couldn’t even manage to box them, but I put them on a low, less prominent shelf for now, with storage in the plans for the future. What do other people do with these? Like, nursery-school parents, did you wrap your box in plastic so that it would stay intact and clean, or have been using it? And if you’ve been using it, will you use it forever and ever? Is it because you love your child more than I love mine?

Putting some empty space on my dresser made me feel like I could breathe easier. Ah, serenity:  I felt like the oxygen level in the room increased.

What makes me crazy is that you’ll see those magazine articles about clever things to do with your kids’ artwork, and they look so lovely, like the stuff’s been curated by a gallery owner. I swear, sometimes I feel like magazines are created expressly to make me feel like I suck. But that’s a little snapshot, and they usually don’t mention that there’s this other stuff that just got tossed in the trash. Right? I mean, someone who has this one corner of their house that looks that beautiful probably does not have any old exploded firecracker wrappings lying around at all, right? So why does it feel perfectly reasonable when the design-happy magazine people make the “tough choices,” but I feel like a mean ol’ Mommy if I put something away that my kids gave me four years ago that they’ve since forgotten about entirely?

Actually,  I have my own lovely little curated corner:

Right above my computer, this display is one of my favorite things in the house. But I feel a little guilty about it, too. The frames were super-cheap, from Ikea. I started with the four bottom paintings, but when the girls got wind of it, they wanted to choose more of their own art, and it drove me a little crazy. Because I wanted to pick my favorites.  I let them choose a few, but I’ve been gradually replacing the stuff they picked with new art, and now the only one to be replaced is that top yellow one: it’s in colored pencil instead of paint like the rest of them.  Of course I don’t say this to the artist. I just periodically suggest painting on standard copy paper so that hopefully an item will be produced that will fit in with my aesthetic vision. Then I can exclaim over it and ask if she’d mind terribly if I swap it in, not because I dislike the pencil, but because this one is so stunning!

I’ve received some lovely homemade jewelry, like this brooch and this necklace:

My mom tip? Church is the perfect place to wear the homemade jewelry. It’s formal enough that you’re not out-of-place wearing sequins, and you’re sure to get compliments from other mamas. But I don’t wear a lot of jewelry, ever, so months will go by between wearings.

I’d thought about writing this last weekend when I cleaned, and then I was reminded this morning when I saw that J’s started putting gifts under the tree, including a gift bag with–okay, I can’t tell, because it’s for Cute W, and it’s scavenged-but-thoughtful. You see the dilemma here? I love the care taken in choosing and/or making these gifts. I’m not going to suggest that we go out shopping. Well, luckily, I just tidied, so there’s plenty of fresh space on my dresser.

What about all of you? How long do you display your gifts? Do you feel guilty picking and choosing, or should I just get over it?