Quality Time at the DMV?

The paparazzi at the DMV were quite annoying.

Parent of a teenager tip:
Want some quality time with your almost-adult kid? Plan a day at the DMV!

The Division of Motor Vehicles is a surefire way to ensure hours together with nothing else to do but talk to one another and bond. Just be sure to act totally understanding of your teen’s annoyance at the fact that he might need to spend hours on his summer break getting a mistake corrected that the good folks at the DMV made! Don’t let on to the fact that this day is as exciting to you as when he was 4 years-old and you spent the whole day at the local waterpark and you were the center of his universe (insert bawling here).

When we realized several months ago that the ever-competent DMV had spelled my son’s name wrong on his driver’s license, I put off going to get it corrected until the summer. We had much more time to waste a few hours of our lives during our summer break rather than roll our butts out of bed on a Saturday during the school year.

So the dreaded task took place yesterday. Neither of us were particularly excited for this excursion. But then the thought occurred to me. This is uninterrupted time with my boy! Just him and me and 100 disgruntled strangers.

As the many stages of waiting occurred, I feigned annoyance at the complete inconvenience of this all as I took every opportunity to make this a mommy and me outing.

Arrival: Wait outside building for security to let us in. Chat about his morning at work, the next show to binge watch…(mom’s heart smiles!)

Check in desk: Get name change paper, go wait on another line. Those smartypants know what they’re doing though! That was the second half of the line - they SPLIT the line! We were about 10 people back from the “front” of the line, but the rest of the line was in another area to which we’d be herded off to when we got to the front of the fake line. While waiting, we start a friendly competition of what time we will leave the DMV.

Son adds: “I hate the DMV.”
Mom: “Welcome to adulthood. Wait til tax season.”

Conversation starts about saving for a car, what kind of car he would like, senior parking privileges…(mom’s heart is happy!)

Document check: Just when we think we’ve reached Oz, when the real line acknowledged us as the next victim, my son’s documents get checked, but it’s not over, folks. We are told to once again…wait. Have a seat until our number is called. This number was professionally scrawled on a ripped post-it note by a guy who talked about the deliciousness of pineapple on pepperoni pizza.

Son: “That guy needs to stop talking, he’s holding up the line.”
Mom: “Agreed. Plus it sounds disgusting.”

Conversation starts about the positives and negatives of pineapple and pepperoni pizza, the amazing buffalo chicken pizza that he wants for dinner… (mom’s heart is singing…)

Corral of seats: Watch and listen as numbers are called haphazardly, in no particular sensical order just to completely screw with us victims.

That’s fine, DMV. This just gives me MORE time with my baby! We watch videos on my phone of two brothers who do all kinds of fun tricks and we talk about recreating some of these at home, scroll through old pictures on phone, remember vacations, Kindergarten, baseball games....

To Be Continued…Oh yes, trust me, the saga continues. It is the DMV, afterall.

Dirty Little Secret

I put my sneakers on this morning in the usual spot, the tiled front entry. After I put them on, I realized that I didn’t have my keys so I started walking to grab them. I am a staunch believer in no shoes on in the house, but since I’m the one that cleans, I allow myself to break my own rule. However, I noticed all kinds of dirt on the creamy blush tile so I stopped dead in my tracks before trekking through 2 rooms to get my keys.  I was enraged!  "WHO dragged all this dirt into the house?" I wailed.

I inspected more carefully, then ever so sweetly asked my dear 17 year-old to please get my keys from the kitchen because somehow there was dirt on my shoes. When he came back with the keys, I realized where the dirt had come from and I announced, “Oh! It's from the mulch - I forgot I was watering the plants earlier.”

And without missing a beat, he sarcastically announced MY famous line, “I JUST cleaned the floors!”

Well done, son. Well done.

Midlife Bridal Shower

My bridal shower was almost 23 years ago.  

This means 2 things: 

1. I have been with my husband longer than I was alive not knowing him.

2. I am in serious need of more spoons. And a toaster oven.

I’ll never forget the comments from my aunts while I opened my ultra-absorbant dish towels, salad spinner and monogrammed water pitcher. First, the complete envy for dish towels was downright shocking. Their side conversations of wanting their own married-after-20 years- showers was bizarre. Aunt Mary said she could really use new towels while Aunt Karen agreed and added a new vacuum to the list of household desires. While friends added bows to my paper hat bonnet, I seriously pondered why on earth Aunt Mary and Aunt Karen didn’t just go to Bed Bath & Beyond and get themselves some new towels.

Fast forward nearly 23 years later and I am a wiser woman.

There are 2 reasons why Aunt Mary and Aunt Karen weren’t treating themselves to shiny new spatulas:

1. A mortgage

2. Kids

Oh, I’ll add a third reason - no online shopping in 1999.

When there is a monthly bill to keep a roof over one’s head, washing and rewashing the same three spoons because the other 13 in the set have mysteriously disappeared becomes normal.  Paying for our kids’ survival outweighs the want for bath towels that actually dry a human body.  And let’s face it, having to physically go to the store in the pre-online shopping era was just simply barbaric. 

I say we throw ourselves our own Midlife Showers!  Celebrate being married, surviving hot flashes, dealing with teenage hormones - hell, our own hormones! What’s on your registry? Keep an eye out for my list which may or may not include a gift card to help with the car insurance for my newly-licensed son.  

Special note: In memory of my Aunt Mary who passed away 11 years ago and in honor of my Aunt Karen.  These wonderful women are my mom’s sisters and were both a very special part of my childhood and growing up.

Additional special note: Actual bridal shower photo,June 1999. Who else wants the top-button cardigan over the dress to come back??

This is Me

My brain has been driving in 50 different directions lately. Of course, this isn’t unusual for a mom, a full-time working mom, wife, daughter, dog mom, anxiety-filled 40-something year old with a mortgage, a kid with a new license going to college in 16 months (oh my God, oh my God). 

About a month ago, I thought I’d try my hand at affiliate marketing. I wanted to weave my love of writing with marketing stuff that I currently own and direct my followers to some website to buy the things I love, and in turn, maybe make a few bucks. Turns out, I’m just not that person. 

Now, I love those people. I follow those people and they direct me to buy all kinds of things I love and don’t need. But when I really started to think about it, it’s just not me. I will not model in front of a mirror trying to convince the masses that a dress looks cute while popping a knee for the perfect shot. What I will do is make funny faces when I know someone is taking a picture. THAT'S me. 

You know what else I will do? I will use all my snark and 40-something wisdom to write about topics that are important to us. By us, I mean moms in the middle. We’re preparing our kids to leave the nest while caring for aging parents; scoffing at Mom Jeans because we did it the first time but have no idea what jeans to actually wear; perfectly content to go to bed at 10 on a Saturday night but forced to stay up until our teenager arrives safely home. 

Please join me on this wild ride, comment and share your ups, downs and in-betweens of this stage of life.

February and David Goggins

Run #1 of the 4x4x48 Challenge, March 5, 2021

February sucks.  It is the shortest month, but the longest.  It is a vast nothingness of nothing.  

Last February I trained for David Goggins’ 4x4x48: I prepared to run 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours in March. (If you’ve never heard of Goggins, look him up - you’ll immediately be both inspired and horrified). I did shorter runs during the week then multiple runs on the weekends to get ready. It helped me to have a goal to work towards and made the month go by with something to look forward to, if running 4 miles, every 4 hours for 48 hours and sleep deprivation is something one looks forward to.

So this year I needed a challenge to push me through this dreadful month.  At first I thought, in keeping with the “get uncomfortable” spirit a la David Goggins, I will get up every morning at 5:45 to do something - walk, stretch, workout, meditate. I hate mornings and I especially hate dark, cold winter mornings, so that’s the uncomfortable part. Then I laughed maniacally at the thought of me getting up 45 minutes before I actually needed to.  That’s a little too uncomfortable. 

This thought process brought me to my answer, 2022’s F**k February Goal. Too often (like, too too often, like every night) I am just too tired, too mentally drained from herding cats all day (I’m a teacher).  Although I almost always get in my workout,  I can then sit in front of the television for hours so that not one more brain cell needs to function. My goal: I will not watch television on weekday nights so that I can write, workout and meditate.  Instead of making excuses that I don’t have the time because it’s being eaten away by Real Housewives and Cheer, I will spend my weekday evenings productively not being attached to my couch. I am not giving up weekends because a girl’s gotta live…and catch up on what she’s missed all week.

I’ve been wanting to bring this blog back to life so here’s to 2022’s F**k February Goal.  Check in, keep me accountable and let me know what gets you through your "February!"

Isn't It Ironic?

Yesterday, as I rested my arms between sets of triceps and shoulders during my weight training, I found myself Googling the hours of our the local ice cream shop for date night.

 

Hanging in There

Completely forgetting that my equilibrium gets thrown off by going on a playground swing did not deter my 40-something old self from signing up for an aerial silk class. 

Twice.

Honestly, when I thought this was a good idea, I forgot that I have an equilibrium issue.  Because I’m 40 something and if I didn’t write that nugget on a Post-it, it’s lost and gone forever.

 

I came across this studio near me that describes itself as “circus, aerials, pole, lyra, silks, burlesque” so basically, it screamed to my middle-aged self that this establishment was clearly something I had to look into. I decided on the aerial silks class because why wouldn’t I want to hang from the ceiling of a warehouse flipping my “don’t have the flexibility of a twenty something any more” body through brightly colored fabric? 

 

Did I mention that I’m also scared to death of heights?

 

I hope that by now you checked out the link above to see this amazing art. It is beautiful and powerful.  The ways in which bodies become gracefully entangled in these vibrant silks is magical.

 

And looks nothing like I did my first time.  And definitely not my second. 

 

I signed up for the beginner’s class for obvious reasons.  The first class lived up to its name.  The instructor taught us beginners slowly and methodically how to flip ourselves through the fabric in order to get that beautiful silk wedged right up the lady parts or to squeeze our thighs like a tourniquet.  I actually did everything and had fun, but as the minutes ticked on, I felt the nausea come on followed by body parts beginning to bruise.  By the time I got home, I had a headache, was sick to my stomach, and couldn’t walk up the stairs because of that damn material squeezing at the back of my knees as we playfully hung upside down like a bunch of monkeys.

 

Naturally, I went back a week later. 

 

This time, the beginner’s class catered more to the advanced students.  Why were there advanced students in this class? Great question with absolutely no answer. I spent most of this class standing my with mask-covered mouth open in awe of my classmates’ talents.  This instructor had us attempting to climb up our silk like a rope in middle school gym class, turn horizontal, then flip ourselves a few times up our silk.  Having a hard time picturing this? Understandable.  The doing was way worse.  Then we were to FALL out of this contraption in which we put ourselves.  Even though I didn’t participate as fully as I did the first time,  it was still enough that I was nauseous again, went home with a headache again, and felt the beginnings of more bruises - again.  It was extremely difficult, I was extremely frustrated but this class taught me an important lesson. I’m a quitter.

 

What’s that saying - fool me once…Well, I’m over aerial silks. But I bought a 4-class pass and still need to use 2 more classes.  

 

So, I’ll keep you posted on how burlesque goes. 

Midlife Musings

When I started this blog about 13 years ago, I had a preschooler.  A three-year old boy who wielded a light saber, believed in Santa, and resisted naps like it was his job.  Our days were filled with park visits, playdates, reading books and singing silly songs. 

Fast forward, and here I am with an almost 17 year-old young MAN (and a yellow lab that behaves like a preschooler).  Hubby and I are on the cusp of an empty nest.  The Legos have long since been put away and have been replaced with mailers from colleges near and far.  Gone are the days of getting a babysitter so that hubby and I could go out to dinner and get a little break.  Now, we beg Monkey Man to go out to dinner WITH us.  

While Monkey Man continues growing inches over me, I watch as my midsection tries to creep inches over my waistband. Monkey Man is barreling on towards adulthood and all of the exciting adventures that await him, and I’m here in the throes of midlife, perimenopause, who the hell is that reflection in the mirror “adventures” - if that’s what we want to call sweating through our t-shirts in the middle of the night.  I no longer need to get up every few hours to feed a child.  No, no - instead,  I get up every few hours to pee.

This blog’s title is still aptly named, though.  You are kidding me continues to be a phrase I use daily, only now I might add in a few expletives since Monkey Man is older and we can laugh at mom’s potty mouth. 

Caught in the middle - We’re raising children and caring for parents; seasoned in our careers but not quite ready for retirement (mentally, oh yessss - financially, not quite yet), done with the clubs and bars but not quite ready for weekly bingo and dinner at 4pm.

Come along with me on this wild ride of midlife. Because misery - and menopause - love company.

The Human Vacuum

My refrigerator sits, a cold, barren wasteland, like the tundra of Alaska. Well, if the Alaskan tundra had empty food storage containers strewn about. I open the pantry and to my horror, I fear that thieves broke in during the night and ransacked the snacks, leaving behind empty granola bar boxes, bags that hold individual servings of chips and popcorn, and a few stray Cheerios at the bottom of the box.

My heart begins to race. I just went grocery shopping yesterday! How can this be? All that food - and money - gone! In less than 24 hours, I am back to square one. Back to my refrigerator looking like that of a college frat house with a bottle of ketchup, one lonely yogurt cup and something mysterious wrapped in foil.

I’m startled out of my panic when I hear a familiar voice chime in from behind me heading ever closer to the crime scene.

“Mommmm, there’s nothing to eeeaaat!” the voice moans as if the person who owns the voice hadn’t eaten in days.

And then it hits me. We have not been robbed by a gang of ravenous bandits. This was an inside job orchestrated and executed by my dear, sweet, bottomless pit of a 14-year old son.

I answer to his cries of starvation, “There’s plenty of watermelon, I just cut it up!”

“Nope. I ate it,” human vacuum says with a grin.

Grrrrr..."That’s the empty watermelon container? Could you please not put empty containers back in the fridge?” I beg, tears welling in my eyes as I remember the days when I could go to the grocery store but once a week.

I continue with my usual rebuttals. “Chocolate pudding? Popcorn? Yogurt? Strawberries? Cereal?”

“Ummm, nope. All gone. The granola bars are done,too. I left the empty box in the cabinet so you would know. Just wanna help you, mom!” he says while putting his arm around me and giving me a loving, and I detect, sarcastic squeeze.

“You know what else is all gone, too? My money. So get creative, kid, and enjoy that ketchup, cup of yogurt and mystery item wrapped in foil until payday!”

The Stomach Bug (as told by the classroom floor and trash can)

Floor: All day long, every day, I get walked on. Kicked. Dirt and goose poop get ground into my 1960s pores.

Trash can: We do have it pretty bad, don’t we? I mean, the teacher thinks she has it the worst? You see her crying when the kids are at art, grading that stack of papers while she stress eats 3 packs of Oreos from the vending machine. Pfft.  She's got it easy!

Floor: Yeah, and mumbling something about having to go pee but she also has to make 25 copies of 10 packets and the stapler in the machine wasn't working which meant she'd have to hand staple all those copies and she only had 20 minutes left.  Did she ever go pee?

Oh sorry, I digress. Please, enlighten me. How do you have it worse than me?

Trash can: Those kids throw booger-covered tissues and bloodied bandages in me from the 3-point line in the classroom!

Floor: Ahem. And when they miss, which they almost always do, they land on ME. So, you were saying?

Trash can: Paper towels that wipe down the filth of 25 eight-year-olds are nonchalantly tossed in me whenever the teacher has a minute to wipe down the desks in this place. And let’s not forget how I accompany the kids down the hall all winter long.

Floor: Ohhh right. The winter. (shudders)

Trash Can: Exactly! That walk of shame that I have to do, being held by some kid that is about to spew his Pop-Tart and chocolate milk breakfast of champions all over me!

Floor: Whoooa, hold on there, big guy. I have no warning! Zero! They just up and chuck all over me! At least you know that once they scoop you up and take you for a stroll, there is a very good likelihood that you will be the recipient of blown chunks. Me? One minute I’m relaxing while the kids are finally in their seats and I have a moment to myself and the next minute…

Trash Can: Ok, yeah. You win.

One Out of 12 Ain't Bad

“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?”

Well, Rent, glad you asked!

Since February just happens to be the worst month ever, let’s start out with that one. It is the saddest, darkest and strangely enough, shortest month. Twenty-eight days that seem to stretch on for years with its cold, black mornings of nothingness. We made it through the hectic holidays of December, a month that can be holly, jolly and fun for many but at the price of credit card debt, dysfunctional family get togethers, and misinterpreted “Happy Holidays!” and “Grrr, he didn’t say MERRY CHRISTMAS! Even though he was so pleasant and smiled. Why isn’t everyone participating in our beliefs?” We persevered through January, a month that starts off with resolutions of health and happiness and ends six weeks later in empty gyms and winter blues.

So, back to February. We muddle through, making Valentine’s Day into a holiday just to give ourselves some joy and chocolate in this bleak wasteland of winter. We even take off a Monday to stretch out a long weekend hoping Abe and George will give us a glimmer of hope in this most wretched month. Finally, the 28th comes, or in the godforsaken Leap Year, the 29th, and we gleefully rip February from our desk calendars in anticipation of March. March! Spring! Flowers and green, and sunshine!

Not so fast. Oh, March, you little lying weasel. You sneer at us like an evil villain pretending to bring hope because you carry the first day of spring in your pocket. You lure us to your windowless white van with your promises of candy and puppy dogs. But nope. Instead, you spit wreckless winds for 31 days, allowing April’s showers to show up like an unwanted in-law 30 days early. And then you have the gall to continue the temperatures of your ugly predecessor, February.

Then April comes hoppin’ down the bunny trail. Its pastel woven basket holds hopes of jellybeans and baby chicks and tulips and SPRING! The real SPRING! Hold on there, my marshmallow peeps. Sure, we are about two weeks into spring, but we all know how those May flowers are going to bloom. Yep. April showers. Downpours. N’oreasters. Heck, we might even get a good snowstorm this month. So, April? Your only redeeming quality is that you are one month closer to summer.

As we round out April, we head into the lovely sunshiney May. May you be happy now! May you find the joy that was sucked from you for the past 7 months! May you find a reason to get out of bed when the sunrise actually occurs before you open your eyes in the morning. Thank you, May for having 31 days. We relish every single one of them.

June, we’re not really sure what to think about you. You have such potential to be a great month, but sadly, you keep our children imprisoned in their schools until almost your last week! As if that’s not bad enough for the lil ones who just want out, think of the teachers trying to enrich their brains for those last three weeks! You bring such promise of summer and outside play and the anticipation of a long awaited break. But really, you’re just cruel.

July. July...what can I say? You are a close runner-up to May with your summer vacations, parades and fireworks, late nights with friends laughing and enjoying the laid back summa’ time living reminiscent of 80s Country Time Lemonade commercials. Sure, you bring on 100% humidity and bad hair days, but I’ll gladly wipe my brow with my hanky throughout the day for the sweet freedom you bring.

As we roll into August, some might still be enjoying a carefree summer break, but for anyone heading back to school soon, it’s a bittersweet month. Sometimes described as one long Sunday night, we know that September is hiding around the corner armed with freshly sharpened Ticonderoga pencils, crisp white notebook paper and a rainbow of new crayons, ready to jump out at any minute and scare the bejeezus out of us. It’s not only the back to school thing that is disappointing. It’s the mere threat that...winter is coming. Yep, in the wise words of Game of Thrones, it is. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month. But if you absolutely loathe temperatures below 65, August brings thoughts of fall which inevitably brings winter. And we all know how that goes. If you forgot, start at the top of this post.

Aside: We’re just skipping over September, October and November. Nothing notable here. Unless you’re into shipping the kids back to school so you can get back to lunching with friends, bulky sweaters and pumpkin everything, then have at it and celebrate!

So thank you, May, for being the one redeemable month in a dozen that could take a lesson or two from you and improve their games.

Let's hear from you! What's your favorite month and why? Or least favorite month? We like Positive Pollys and Pessimistic Pollys! All Pollys welcome!

Snow Daze

With the impending blizzards, ice storms, and other Disney-created winter shenanigans (yes, I’m blaming Disney. They have their hands in everything!  Friggin’ Elsa.), the Northeast continues to clamor to the grocery stores every five days to get their pick of French toast ingredients. Facebook becomes aflutter with photos of empty bread shelves and dairy cases.  Those that are SOL on just one more gallon of milk can be found sulking over dry Cheerios on Snow Day morning.

I, however, put a little forethought into these world-ending meteorological events and have assembled my own “Oh my God, we are going to be stuck in the house for ONE WHOLE DAY” survival package. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the Snow Day Survival Kit:

• Wine, ¾ of a bottle. Unlike what seems to be almost every other sloshed mom in the world, I only have alcohol in the house if we just had guests over or went to a BYOB restaurant. Well, lucky for me, hubby and I went out to dinner over the weekend and I have some liquid leftovers. I think there is a random Blue Moon in the garage somewhere by the wrenches, too. Such a feeling of freedom, of “it’s not a Saturday night, but it totally FEELS like a Saturday night, and I’m going to have a crazy glass of wine or beer from the bowels of the tool kit!” Because no one drinks wine any other night of the week.
  However, I can’t help to wonder - Why does having a Snow Day make one feel like one should drink? Why isn’t this any different from a typical day off? Maybe others were drinking all snow day long, but would these same people drink all day Saturday or Sunday? I do not take a single sip on my actual snow day off, as I have things to accomplish, like napping and standing outside in 25 degree weather while watching my child sled up and down a hill 2 times then just play in the snow with his friend. He could have played in the snow with his friend in my backyard. While I was INSIDE under a blanket. Not freezing.

• Science experiments. My son received this kit for his birthday almost a year ago. I excitedly pulled it out of the playroom to add to my kit with high hopes of bonding over conducting experiments with recyclables. Now, I teach math and science. Everyday. To children that are the same age as my son. I could easily do without one more science experiment, but what else would he do? Play on his Xbox all day talking to his friends through his headset? This was my very blatant attempt at stealing my child away from the evil Box of X. See above photo for science experiment results. Make note of how well this went over. 

• Cookies…Homemade, no less! By some Act of God, God being Martha Stewart,  I had every single ingredient in the house needed to make homemade chocolate chip cookies. This in itself is more earth-shattering news than the forthcoming blizzards considering when I attempt to make dinner, I am always without one key ingredient. I could not let these ingredients sit separately in the pantry when they could all have a snow day party together in my mixing bowl! Again, mom will win with homemade cookies and of course, I’ll get Monkey Man in on the act:
  “Hey, Monkey Man, want to help me make chocolate chip cookies?” I called out excitedly over Xbox chatter. 
  “Umm, now? Can I just finish this game? It’ll take like 2 minutes,” Monkey Man honestly responded, but I know better. I know that an Xbox game two minutes is equivalent to a football game two minutes.

After about 12 minutes, he appeared in the kitchen and helped me. For about three minutes. He then became quickly bored with this domestic act and asked to be relinquished to his online friends. Fine. More cookie dough batter for me - AND you’ll never know when they’re done and where I hid my mommy stash!

• A book. I will indulgently snuggle under a blanket and read a big-kid chapter book that does not include lesson plans, education theories or other work-related material. While my sweet gamer loses brain cells to that box, I will sit on the couch, in my pajamas (which, by the way, although not pictured as an exhibit, is an absolute essential for a snow day. Or any day in which one is housebound) and read!  I will read funny words that do not include the words quotient, partial products or electrical current!

There you have it, all ye who shudder at the thought of being left French Toast-less for your next big snow day. Get yourself together a Snow Day Survival Kit and welcome the next 3-6 inches. Which, by the way, is currently falling outside my window. Again. On March 1.  F’in Elsa.

Gotta go find my Survival Kit!

What’s in your Survival Kit? 

Cooking and Baking and Making...Not I!

We have a snow day here in North Jersey.  I'm a teacher, my child is a student, so that means we are home all day!  However, I just want to put it out there that on this snow day I am not:


1. Cooking. Someone is roasting a butternut squash today to make soup.  Who has a butternut squash just lying around in case of a snow day?   
2. Baking.  Again, five different kinds of cookies are being made today by people in cyberspace.  I think I have flour, sugar and baking soda in my cabinet.  But these people are whipping up cookies with ingredients like raspberry preserves and ricotta cheese and Crunch bars. (Fine, I know it's Christmas cookie season, but just let me have my rant...)

3. Making crafts with my child.  I learned he hated crafts when he was two, so this is never happening regardless of what Pinterest crap pops up on my newsfeed today.
(above facts provided by Facebook, the official source to know everyone else's sh&%)

I am getting a boatload of paperwork done! Bills to pay, calls to make, lessons to write...in other words, thank God for XBox.

However, I am taking said child sledding after lunch to ease my guilt of holing myself up in my room while I sift through everything that's been not-so-patiently waiting for me on my desk.

Whew. That was cheaper than a therapist. Thanks for listening.

You’re a Mean One, Mama Grinch

Call me a Grinch, there, it’s said
but I must admit it, this month I dread.

The month of December just adds more things to my already overflowing to-do list.  Here are the Top 10 Things I’d Rather Not Be Doing in December (or ever): 

10. Shopping with Hoards of People
Grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon in July is equivalent to slowly being poked in the eyeballs with barbeque skewers.  Any kind of shopping in December on any day of the week at any time of the day is like walking into 20 foot icicles hanging from my home and having them conveniently land in all orifices of my body while “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” plays on loop.

9. Cooking or Baking
I don’t enjoy either in my everyday life so why on Earth would I want to do mass quantities of it in just a few short weeks? 

8. Making Cards, Addressing Cards, and Mailing Cards
You see my family and me on Facebook, isn’t that enough?  And really, what do you do with the card when the season is over? If I told you what I did with the cards I receive after their three-week basket display, I probably wouldn’t ever receive another card again.  Let's save some trees, people, and my sanity!    

7. Receiving “Wish Lists” to Know Exactly What Someone Wants
Unless you are a child making your list for Santa, just stop it.  This takes the joy out of giving!  Okay, it’s great that I have a guide, but seriously, what fun is it to buy the purple cashmere sweater in the back right corner of Macy’s next to the mannequin with the curly hair?  Then I have to present this gift to the recipient as if it were all a big surprise.  Here’s 100 bucks.  Go fight the crowds and get it yourself.

6. Embarking on a Manhunt for the Perfect Gift
Fine, if we just stuck with #7 for people of all ages, this could easily be avoided.  However, I like to have some kind of element of surprise.  I like to give a gift that shows thought and creativity, like I actually know what a person likes and can translate that into a gift.  Oh, forget it.  We all know I’ll just get a gift card.

5. Seeing on Facebook that “Friends” Were Done Wrapping Their Gifts on November 20^th

Show-offs! They get their holiday jollies from feeling superior to us worker elves grimacing through the season. Let’s add to that photos of fully completed house decorations posted with the status “Done!”  They are begging for comments like, “Wow, you’re good!” But I beg to differ! They simply have way too much time on their hands or the incessant need for praise via social media.

4. Buying a Gift for Someone at Work Whom I Barely Know
“Hey, I think I saw you in the hallway one day and now I’m your Secret Holiday Little Person.  Now I get to buy you a generic gift like a candle that you will re-gift at your next generic party. Happy Generic Holidays!”

3. Attending Holiday Parties and Pretending That I Enjoy Small Talk
I don’t mind putting on a pretty dress and sipping a cocktail or two.  However, I’ll probably have to sip three or four just to get me through the dull conversation with Joshua the financial person who does financial things while I try to stifle a yawn between gulps of my cocktail.  Joshua has no idea he is causing me to become an alcoholic as I have to keep drinking to avoid disagreeing with his political and religious beliefs that he is trying to jam down my already alcohol-filled throat.  

2. Decorating Inside and Outside, but Mostly Outside
Our inside decorations take about an hour, start to finish.  Throw up a tree, hang some stockings, and we’re calling it a holly, jolly Christmas.  However it’s the outside that pains me because 1) I will always find the time to do this task on the coldest day of the year and 2) I’m afraid of heights and fear that I will fall 18 inches to my death from my step stool.   I don’t decorate with love in my heart, singing “Deck the Halls,” but rather, for my son’s memories. One day he will look back and remember his pretty house decorated by a Grinch at Christmastime. 

And the #1 Thing I’d Rather Not Be Doing in December? Elf on the F’in Shelf

Before Elf on the Shelf became popular, I created my own imaginary elf just to give myself something else to do in December.  Our imaginary elf visits each night from December 1 through December 24 and leaves a small chocolate like a candy kiss and sometimes a miniature note for our son in our cloth Christmas calendar that hangs by the front door.  He loves it, and that’s why the tradition has continued even though 10 of those days I'll be be awoken by a cry of, "Mommmm! The elf didn't come!" while I curse under my breath at our senile elf.  The “elf” forgets a lot of things when her brain is overloaded, which is everyday, and now the elf must bolt down the stairs, create a diversion, put the candy in the tiny calendar pocket, call her son back over to the calendar and tell her son that he just must have missed it, because, “Look, it’s right there!”

But I digress.  I hate Elf on the Shelf.  We never started the corporate one, and now he asks what it is and why that creepy doll doesn’t show up at our house.  I have to explain that OUR elf is all magical and mysterious and miraculously tiny while his friends’ elves stare eerily from atop kitchen cabinets and poop holiday m&m's leaving them all over the countertop to bring for school snack.

Let us “Bah Humbug” together - anything you don’t particularly look forward to during this festive, overpacked season?   

You Gave a Life. Now Get One.

Memo from Mom

To: Parents (probably more the moms, but I’m not going to assume that) of school-aged children

Re: You gave a life.  Now get one, too.

As our children grow older, we are faced with this conflicting moment when they simply don’t need us as much anymore.  They don’t need us sitting on the floor playing cars and trains (sniffle, sniffle).  But, OH! They don’t need us sitting on the floor playing cars and trains!  (hooray! hooray!) No more pretending like I enjoy making choo-choo noises for hours on end.

They are off to school, spending hours in a classroom with an adult who is paid to expand their minds while entertaining them and running interference with the myriad social situations they will encounter. Mama is no longer there refereeing the sandbox watching out for the little girl in pigtails who looks like an angel but is actually the devil’s spawn. 

Our children naturally want to spend less time with the people that brought them into this world, more time with the people that will teach them things about the world that their parents never wanted them to learn about, and, in a nutshell, gain their independence. This phase can leave many of us sitting on the living room floor wondering what to do with all those cars and trains. 

If I may be so bold, let me tell you what to do.  Stand up and go get yourself a life!  They don’t need you to spend three hours pureeing their sweet potatoes anymore (not that they really needed that, Gerber had it under control).  Mommy and Me classes are a thing of the past replaced by after-school and weekend sports and activities.  Leisurely walks around the neighborhood with a mommy friend at 10 a.m. pushing strollers have now become bike rides on a Sunday afternoon.  Those dependent babies are now independence-seeking school kids spending five days a week, approximately seven hours a day, in school.  They are learning about how to become productive citizens.  Now it’s your turn. 

It’s time to show your kids what you’re made of!  Let them see that you exist beyond getting whites whiter and perfecting your crock pot recipe by stalking Pinterest.  I’ve seen too many parent “living vicariously through my kid” casualties to let it go on any longer.  Your daughter’s perfect landing at the gymnastics meet was not your perfect landing.  It was hers.  Your son’s “Star of the Day” award from Kindergarten was not yours.  It was his.  And telling everyone and their brother about it still doesn’t make it yours.  Yes, you’re proud.  We are ALL proud of our kids.  Go on, be proud.  But also, be yourself. 

Have something that’s yours, something that makes you feel good other than telling the world that your kid doesn’t eat red dyes because you are mother of the year and we are all here just hooking up our children to artifical dye IVs.  Do something that belongs to you.  If you need or want to work, go back to your career or start a new career.  If you have the luxury (yep, I said it, luxury) of staying home while the kids are at school, get a hobby that keeps you engaged and makes you feel good about what YOU can do.  This does not mean cleaning out the closets and alphabetizing the spice rack.  Spend the time that your kids are in school learning about the world and themselves learning about the world and yourself.   

Please stop trying to find your self-worth from your children.  All of us parents do the best we can, have the best of intentions, and we rock in our own ways.  Your child’s successes don’t make you awesome, they make him awesome.  Now it’s your turn to go out and find your own awesomeness.

Sexy Halloween Costumes for Kids are No Treat!

The innocent holiday of Halloween is upon us when children around the neighborhoods will innocently hold out bags and pillowcases and bright orange plastic pumpkins with nary a "Trick or Treat" while begging for artificial dyes and high fructose corn syrup all the while forgetting their manners.  Seriously, if nice strangers are going to give out candy without luring the kiddies into their homes, the least these children can do is say thank you.  These tiny thieves are all led by their adult chaperones who also expect me to give them some sugar, so to speak.  Yes, bah humbug.

To make matters worse, the scariest part of this season is not the goblins and ghouls.  It's the girls scantily clad in costumes. In just a few weeks, we will open our doors and play, "Guess What I Am?" We will gaze upon a 7 year-old girl standing on our front stoop and guess if she is a kitty cat or a Pussycat Doll.  Since I'm pretty sure kitty cats don't wear black lycra mini-skirts with a sequined sports bra, I'm going with the latter.

Even Big Bird and Elmo have gotten their sexy back, but at least their moms and dads at Sesame Workshop stood up for them and realized it wasn't so cute. Sesame Workshop 

was so offended by what a costume marketer did to their precious muppets that it asked them to pull the muppets off their shelves in 2012 (however, a quick search will show it's back, but at least mom and dad tried). 

When, and more importantly, why, did Halloween become a time to completely sexualize young girls?  Why are parents sitting at home, perusing the costume circulars, thinking, "Yes! It is totally appropriate for my 5th grade daughter to wear a skirt that barely covers her nether regions and pair that with fish net tights, because that is EXACTLY what a peacock looks like!" 

Some adults and parents may think it's just an unfortunate by-product of our culture.  The other 364 days of the year, our children are seeing their former idol Hannah Montana twerk while bringing a new job description to the sports fans' foam finger. First graders wear shoes with tiny heels and makeup to get themselves that much closer to being a "grown up." However, some of us adults realize, "Hey, WE are the adults.  We have a say in what our children are wearing while soliciting sugar on the streets."  Some of us are wistfully remembering the days of plastic costumes sticking to our bodies while trying to breathe through a tiny mouth hole on a mask that was held onto our heads by the thinnest, frailest elastic ever made.    

So parents, stand up and declare, "I will not let today's trick-or-treat turn into tomorrow's turning tricks!"

Are School Supplies Going to Pot?

Memo from Mom

TO: Parents of school-aged children, Boards of Education, and School Administrators
RE: Reading, Writing and Socialism 101

September always marks a new year for me. Pointy pencils, colorful crayons, neat notebooks and fun folders are way better than sitting at home and feeling like you should be at some fancy soiree donning party hats, gowns and swigging champs (yes, I watch too much Real Housewives of OC) to ring in the real new year. Let me go shopping for new clothes, backpacks and lunchboxes and I’ll have a happy, back to school day, minus an excruciating hangover.

As much as I’ve loved to buy new supplies for myself when I was in school, when I taught school, and now for my son, I’m beginning to feel a bit swindled. I totally understand that schools have tight budgets. I am the first mom to bring in extra tissue boxes, cleaning wipes, hand sanitizer, construction paper or whatever the teacher might need for the classroom. As a teacher, I’ve spent more of my own money than I care to remember on cleaning products, basic supplies and supplemental activities to keep the kids engaged beyond paper, crayons, and my smiling face so I know how teachers need these supplies for the whole class.

As a parent, when I receive the supply list, I dutifully set out throughout the summer picking up pencils here, notebooks there, sometimes checking sales and sometimes just grabbing supplies as I see them so that I am not in a shopping frenzy the last week of August. However, I’m learning that many schools, and classes in my son’s school, have communal supplies - as in, “Hey kids, I know you picked out your favorite characters for your folders and mom bought you Elmer’s glue sticks so your papers actually stick, but we are going to put them all in a giant box and redistribute them to anyone in the class whenever they need something. Even if you take care of your one folder for seven months and Sally rips through four in two weeks.”

I am all for sharing, but when I’ve hunted down eight highlighters, five notebooks, five pocket folders, six glue sticks, tennis balls for chairs, crayons, etc. all summer long, packed them neatly into my son’s backpack and an overflow bag because we can’t fit all that into a backpack, with instructions to make sure he gives everything to his teacher, I can’t help to feel like a toddler – it’s not fair!

Most parents participate and use this as a teachable moment for their children – be prepared and follow directions! We spend our hard-earned money on supplies for everyone, while some others don’t contribute. I understand that some families cannot afford supplies, but this is where the district needs to kick in a few bucks, or parents can visit the dollar store.

Then there is the child who does not know how to care for his or her belongings. When little Joey didn’t bring in his first box of crayons, uses someone else’s crayons, then breaks his crayons because he doesn’t like his picture, Mr. Teacher should not be grabbing more crayons from the community pot to replenish angry Joey’s victims. A note needs to go home to Joey’s parents, saying pay up and bring Joey to therapy.

I teach my child to share, and he does a fabulous job at it, but if I find out that the Yankees folder we gleefully found is being used by another child, I will stomp my feet in that school office and demand a special PTA meeting. He’s still young enough to feel like a folder with his favorite baseball team is special. He picked it out himself and he will smile when he pulls that folder out of his desk. Don’t tell me he got an 11x17 piece of construction paper folded in half while Timmy across the room is beaming from ear-to-ear with my kid’s Yankees folder.

Alas, I am not one to simply complain. I will complain AND offer up solutions! Can I suggest that a portion of my beyond ridiculous taxes actually be put towards our children’s educations and not to the salary of the Assistant to the Assistant to the Assistant Superintendent? Districts, throw a few crayons to the kids and just let my child have his Yankees folder. And parents, model what you expect from your children. Follow directions and do what the teacher tells you to do.

The mom date - a new venture for Match.com?

Mom Dating. Who would have thought that after being married for 5, 10 or 15 years that we would be stuck again in that “asking someone out” stage? Because that’s exactly what attempting a friendship with another mom is like. There is no Match.com for moms seeking moms for friendship and commiseration, so we are left like animals in the wilds of school functions, playgrounds, and baseball fields.

Had I known before I had a child that I would be tossed back into the throes of middle school as a mom, I might have opted to continue living the socialite life of a married woman with a dog. Of course, this is where I proclaim my love for my child and tell you that I wouldn’t trade him for the world blah, blah, blah…

The only thing that has changed from then until now is in middle school when girls were mean I was anxiously awaiting my period. Now, I’m anxiously awaiting menopause. Other than that, there are still girls on playgrounds gossiping and judging and waiting for their little angels to be dismissed from elementary school. We are all guilty of it, I know. I try hard to not be as guilty of it as others, but it happens.

However, there have been many times where I’ve had the opportunity to chat or volunteer with a mom and get to know her better. I’ve met a mom or two whom I realized was a cool one in the bunch, someone who seemed on par with things that are important to me in parenting and who enjoyed occasionally bellying up to the breakfast bar in her pajama pants with a juice tumbler of wine on a Saturday night after the kids are in bed ready to dissect Real Housewives of every city in America.

I jumped ahead, though. Once you get to drinking in your pj’s you have established a friendship, so let me back up. It’s that time after chatting a bunch at school functions and finding out that she, too, considers pajama pants appropriate attire for anything (I obviously highly value women who enjoy comfort). After I’ve learned that she equally values working out hard and eating dessert harder, it can be natural to want to take it one step further and ask the anxiously anticipated fear of rejection question, “Want to grab coffee?”

Instead of going straight for the solo date, maybe a good strategy would be to use the kids as an excuse like, “Hey, want to take the kids out for ice cream?” then if the group date goes well, we can exchange email addresses (is getting a phone number to text too soon? I don’t know!). Then we can ease into that shared coffee on a Saturday morning while the hubbies have the kids at baseball practice.

Little kids have no problem walking up to another child at the park and calmly and ever-so-coolly asking, “Want to be my friend?” to which the reply is usually an enthusiastic, “YES!” and off they go running to discover their love of sliding, jumping and spinning in circles. Why can’t moms be like that? After we’ve chatted it up at a few soccer games one mom should just be able to turn to the other mom and excitedly ask, “Want to go shoe shopping?” to which the other would reply “Of course!” and both moms giggle off to the department store while planning an evening of pajama-wearing wine drinking while watching almost any show on Bravo.

Jim Gaffigan’s Dad is Fat + My Husband = Most Annoying Alarm Clock

Memo from Mom

To: Jim Gaffigan
Re: Thanks for waking me up

I know, you’re thinking, “How did I WAKE you up? I don’t live with you. And I certainly wasn’t in your bedroom! I’m a married man, you’re a married woman. Stop spreading these lies!”

Okay, Jim, slow yo’ roll. It’s all because of the Father’s Day gift I bought my husband. Your book, “Dad is Fat” was requested because my husband (and I) are huge fans of your comedy. So I obliged, and am paying dearly for it.

My husband has this problem where even though he can sleep past 6 a.m. on the weekends, his body won’t let him. Whereas I can will myself to sleep at any point during the day (I totally related to your napping chapter in the book), he just wakes up for no good reason, as if starting his day at the crack of dawn means getting a jump start on the laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning the toilets… but I digress. He doesn’t clean toilets. Or do laundry. You get the picture, Jim.

No, I will tell you, though, what he does get done at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning when I am enjoying slumber without an alarm clock and our son is contently playing baseball on the Xbox or reviewing the previous night’s baseball games on MLB Network. My husband is reading your laugh-out-loud book, next to me, in bed, with the light on. At 6 a.m. The first time I heard a chuckle it became embedded in part of a dream, I think I had a pet monkey who started laughing at me or something bizarre like that. The next time I heard him laugh, I looked at the clock and thought, “It’s impossible that the one person I share my room with is laughing at this ungodly hour of the day.” The next guffaw brought thoughts of, “Really? He has the light on and is LAUGHING while I am getting my required eight hours so as to not wake up a completely crazy, sleep-deprived person whom he has known for the last 16 years treasures her sleep almost as much as her autographed Rick Springfield jeans.

Rather than smacking my husband on the head in an effort to turn off what I lovingly referred to as the most annoying alarm clock ever, I simply kicked both you and my husband out of my bed. I hope it was good for you, Jim.