Now Playing
Current DJ: Jim K
King Tubby Natty Dub from Loving Memory Dub (Fuel 2000) Add to Collection
Requests? 773-DJ-SONGS or .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)
“Try Jell-O Pudding Pops, Frozen Pudding on a Stick!”
What’s up with quoting this seemingly random and delightfully kitsch-y commercial from the 1980s? Because I’m about to get all Bill Cosby on your asses. No, not Bill Cosby like THAT. I was thinking more along the line of his “Kids Say the Darndest Things” schtick. Bear with me. It’ll be good. I promise.
Because everyone and their sister is putting out a year-end Top Ten list, I decided I’d do the same. Except instead of ranking best albums of the year, best television events of the year, (Come on! They’re television events, for Chrissake! They deserve a Top Ten list!), or best crazy rants overheard on the Western bus, I’m going to rank my Top Five Shining Moments in Parenting for 2009. (This is a short column, so I’m only listing five). Many of them have to do with funny things my kids have said over the past year—this is where the Bill Cosby part comes in—and unlike the boring stories your boss and/or coworkers tell you about their annoying kids, you will actually get a chuckle out of these.
So, without further ado, I present for your consideration my year-end list:
5) The kids started preschool! Okay, this isn’t a humorous story about Winchie and Squeaky, but it was easily the best thing that happened to me on the parenting front this year. And to the kids. Preschool is for the kids. I keep forgetting that. It’s only a two-mornings-a-week kind of thing, but those are two mornings I get to live an adult life again. I can drink coffee and surf the internet! I can take a shower without someone screaming “Mommy!” and opening the shower curtain every five seconds! I can write a really excellent column for CHIRP! * grin * And the best part? Someone ELSE gets to take care of the kids! In fact, THREE other people get to take care of the kids. And, unlike me, those three people have degrees in child development and early education. I help my kids learn the alphabet; the magical Other Three help my kids learn to read. The Other Three help my kids learn to paint, to share their toys, to sing nursery rhymes that I’ve either forgotten or repressed. In other words, these Other Three, like all preschool teachers, are angels sent from heaven who create child-friendly environments designed to help make toddlers civilized members of society. (Not to mention the well-earned breaks they give to harried moms and other caregivers.). In short: Yay, Preschool!
4) Child One: “Eff-you! Eff-you! Eff-you!” Child Two: “A-hole! A-hole! A-hole!” Kids hear EVERYTHING you say. Then they REPEAT everything you say. While driving up to grandma’s house (really!) this summer, another car cut me off on the highway. Like any good mom with kids in tow, I screamed out, “Holy S#^&! F*&% you, you crazy a**hole!” and laid on the horn for a good 30 seconds. My kids were in the middle of a songfest at the time, and they decided to put some of Mommy’s creative language to music. For the duration of the trip, about 20 minutes, I was serenaded by Winchie singing “Eff you!” and Squeaky countering with “A-hole!” in the sweetest toddler-style sing-song voices this side of the Mississippi. Needless to say, I have watched my tongue since then. While I found the song hilarious, I really don’t want them to be the kids who teach all the other kids in school to swear blue streaks. I don’t want to get the angry phone calls from other parents and be rendered ineligible for the PTA before the kids even get to elementary school.
3) Sweet Squeaky. The family dog was feeling under the weather earlier this year. We took her to the vet, got her some meds to which she responded quickly, and all was well within a week. But there were a couple of days there where the dog did nothing but lay around on the couch. (This is not to be confused with her usual routine of laying around on the couch. When she’s feeling well, she will occasionally bark at other dogs walking by the house. When she’s sick, she will simply growl at them or fart in their general direction.) My daughter, Squeaky, loves our dog and was upset that she wasn’t feeling well. To make her feel better, Squeaky sought out the dog’s favorite toy and placed it next to her. Then she covered the dog with her favorite blanket and started singing “Rock-A-Bye Baby” in the hopes that it would make our dog happy. When the dog recovered, Squeaky was convinced it was due to her singing and the well-placed chew toy. Now Squeaky has decided to be an animal doctor when she gets older. That is, if the princess thing doesn’t work out.
2) Peace, love, empathy. While shopping at Target with both kids, we encountered another mom with a toddler. Ever the outgoing twins, Winchie and Squeaky both tried to say hello to the other kid, who, as it happened, was in the middle of a stage four meltdown. There was crying. There was screaming. There was stomping of little feet and shaking of little fists. Not for the first time, I thanked my lucky stars that it wasn’t me attempting to control that crazy toddler cyclone. I smiled what I hoped was an understanding smile at the other mom and tried to walk by without incident. But Winchie had other plans. When we pulled up next to the screaming boy, about to pass him in the aisle, my little boy shouts from the cart, “Hey, kid! Stop fussing! It makes your mommy crazy!!” Then he turns to me and says, “Right, Mommy?” To which I responded, “That’s usually the case, honey, but his mommy seems to be taking it in stride.” I shoot the other mom a kids-say-the-darndest-things/please-don’t-judge-me-by-my-son’s-behavior look and exit the aisle quickly.
1) The Only Band That Ever Mattered. I’ll admit it: I’m one of those moms who subjects her captive children to her favorite music when we’re all in the car together. I play it loud-ish (there are little ears in the car, after all). I sing along. The kids tell me to shut it, although not in so many words. I know it’s only a matter of time before they become mortified at the thought of riding in the car with me because someone might discover that Mommy is, in fact, a crazy person with horrible taste in music. Thankfully, that day has not yet arrived and the kids, for now, are digging my selections. Exhibit A: While pulling out of the driveway this summer en route to kiddie camp, Winchie asked me a question that brought tears to my eyes. Literally. Like the Grinch on Christmas, my little black heart grew three sizes that day. He asked me, “Mommy, can we hear The Clash?” What? Did I really hear that right? “What did you say sweetie?” I replied. “The Clash! London Calling!!” My God! There is nothing left to teach this little man! At 2.5 years old, he gets it! Go forth and conquer! As we listened to the album, I stole glances in the rearview mirror and saw him rocking out in his car seat with his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine toy in one hand and a juice box in the other. I’m not a huge fan of reality TV, but I sincerely wish someone had been filming this particular moment of my parenting experience. Exhibit B: While my daughter doesn’t complain when we listen to bands like The Clash, she definitely prefers music by female-fronted bands. One day this fall she asked who we were listening to because she liked the “girl singer.” I told her it was Le Tigre and the singer she liked was named Kathleen Hanna. Now whenever we get in the car, she asks to hear “Kathleen with the pretty voice.” I know every parent thinks their kids are the most amazing people on the planet, but I think this is definitive proof that mine actually are. (Sorry, other parents).
So, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed the official Midwestern Housewife’s Top Five Shining Moments in Parenting from 2009. Thank you for reading my column this year. I appreciate all the feedback I’ve received from readers whether in the form of comments here, on my Facebook page, or in person. Have a great 2010, everyone! Now I’m off to troll the internet in the hopes of finding a recipe for pudding pops. For some reason, I have a craving for frozen, over-processed, dairy-like dessert.
Is anyone else sick to death of the holidays already? I was all set to write a column about how my husband and I celebrate this time of year as an interfaith couple with toddlers, but I had to stop in the middle of the second paragraph. Gag! Who wants to read any more articles about how to make sure each tradition is respected and that the kids are exposed to the best of both religions? Besides, neither my husband nor I are what you’d call observant. We bow down to consumerism—patriotic and otherwise—at the end of the day like everyone else, whether you admit it or not. I want a framed print I saw at a gallery and a dress form for Xmas. As long as they’re under the tree, this is a successful holiday in my estimation. Jesus? I like him very much, but he no help with curveball. And candles are pretty, so we light up the menorah, my husband says some Hebrew words that my kids will one day understand (I’m all about phonetics) and we all have a cup of cheer. Then it’s back to watching TV, reading kids’ books, and building forts in the living room. Yay, interfaith holidays.
In my family, I’m famous for saying that I’d rather be put into a medically-induced coma than have to endure the holidays. Put me under right about now and wake me up on December 31st in time for a kick-ass, child-free NYE bash with all my good friends, bottomless champagne flutes, Nirvana as the house band, and Elvis, The King himself, serving up fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches sprinkled with powdered sugar all night long. (What? This is my fantasy. You don’t like it? Dream up your own!)
The holidays are all about indulging in fantasy and I don’t want to be responsible for making sure others’ wishes are fulfilled. Does that make me lazy? Maybe. I like to think it makes me realistic. Making sure everyone in the family gets to live their more-realistic-than-mine holiday fantasy takes work. Hard work. And the thing about holiday fantasies is that they’re damn near impossible to pull off sans flaws. The planets have to be aligned with your family’s collective chakras and there can be no disturbances in the Force. It’s a LOT of pressure and responsibility, which, frankly, I don’t want to take on. As an at-home mom with volunteer duties, a small business in the works, and parent-teacher conferences to attend, I have enough on my plate already.
I think this is why humans invented Santa Claus—to have someone to blame when the kids get upset that they didn’t get that gold-covered PlayStation they begged for or when your in-laws give you a not-so-subtle hint via a gym membership and/or cooking classes. Santa must’ve stopped at the wrong house! Maybe our neighbors got the stuff we wanted. I think humans invented God for a similar reason—the desire to place blame on someone other than themselves when things don’t turn out as planned—but that’s a topic for a separate article. Like I said, I’m not exactly observant.
Anyway, as I sit here typing and thinking, thinking and typing, I can’t help but wonder whether my kids are picking up on Mommy’s jaded attitude toward Xmas. As far as parenting-style goes, I’m much more like Roseanne than I am June Cleaver, so the kids shouldn’t really be surprised that I tend to buck the trends espoused in popular parenting magazines and mawkish talk shows. That said, I don’t want them to have the same hang-ups that I do. If they like this season, I want them to enjoy themselves. And I will willingly don the June Cleaver mask if necessary to make sure they’re happy.
I guess that’s why I dislike this season so strongly. I feel like everyone is being disingenuous just to please others because they feel they have to. But, in a lot of ways, that’s exactly what parenting is and why it’s such a difficult thing to deal with. I’d love to wear the “Nicole” hat, but find that I have to wear the “Mommy” hat all the time—even when kids aren’t involved—because “Mommy” is the one responsible for making sure all of the holiday magic happens. “Nicole” is content to lounge around all day in a Snuggie watching the usual Xmas specials and drinking hot cocoa.
So for those of you who are lucky enough always to have had perfect holiday seasons without a parent going postal, congratulations. Hug your mom and thank her for the effort—then nominate her for beatification. For the rest of us, do the same. Creating holidays out of nothing is one of the things moms do best. Truthfully this statement applies to anyone who is the head of a household. If you were raised by your dad or a grandparent or aunt, etc., give that person a hug, too, and let him or her know how much you appreciate their efforts. Better yet, offer to help them out this year and in the future. Making spirits bright is a tough road to hoe. I know the maxim is that whatever doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger, but I don’t think that’s true. The holidays don’t really kill people, it’s the stress and unrealistic expectations that do. And they don’t really leave us any stronger. They make us grumpy, irascible jerks for most of the season.
So, yes, I’m ready for the holidays to be over. I’m also looking forward to NYE. For me, it’s not a celebration to welcome in the new calendar year. It’s a congratulatory party to honor those of us who created the holiday fantasy for everyone else and didn’t lose our minds in the process. In reality my NYE will not feature a live set by Nirvana and sandwiches by Elvis, but it will feature good friends, good music, and good champagne. And, frankly, that’s enough to keep me going through the end of the month. That, and the promise of Santa delivering my heart’s desire on Xmas Eve. I’m not too old to live the dream.
Holidays are anniversaries of a sort. We’re celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice/Saturnalia/Festivus like we do every year, by getting together with our families, eating huge meals, watching TV, and giving gifts. These holiday get-togethers are usually hectic and always chock full o’ nostalgia—we miss those family members and friends who are no longer with us and we reminisce about the events of past holiday seasons. We can’t help it. It’s either something in the air or those tasty gingerbread lattes that everyone mainlines this time of year.
At the risk of sounding like a bad Hallmark commercial, as I stood in a favorite coffee shop debating the merits of hot spiced cider versus said gingerbread latte, I came to the conclusion that life is short. This silly decision shouldn’t have required the amount of time and brainpower I was giving it. So, I’ve decided to make my new year’s resolution early this year—or late, depending on how you feel about Rosh Hashanah. It goes something like this: Don’t waste time sweating things like mortgages, waist circumference, and whether anyone at future class reunions will notice my ever-deepening crow’s feet. (Of course they will. And they’ll all have their own sets, too. Oh, the joys of aging.) Enjoy the time here because it is a precious thing that should be spent it in the company of loved ones and friends. Engage in enjoyable tasks, not tedious ones.
Why the platitudes, you may ask? You can chalk it up to holiday-related nostalgia, but, as with many things, you can also blame Facebook. Thanks to a status update by one of my cousins, I was recently thinking about the last words of famous people. It got me curious, so I googled some of them. You’d be surprised how many pages are devoted to the subject. By and large, there were three themes: One, I’ve been a bad, bad person and am going straight to hell, so don’t bother praying for me (aka Repent Sinners! The end is near!). Two, I’m going to say something funny because I fancy myself a renegade and humor at this point seems inappropriate enough to cement my irreverent persona (see: Humphrey Bogart, Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas). Three, most applicable here, life is so short that I would give anything I possess to have just a few more minutes with the people I love. My dad falls into this latter category, so I find it especially poignant. (Sidenote: cancer sucks.)
This is what was on my mind while searching for just the right toy for my kids this year. I’m sure I’m not the only person on the planet to think about death while in a toy store at Christmas time, but really—what‘s the point? Is it worth giving yourself an ulcer worrying about whether Toys R Us will have enough of this year’s cool toy so your kid(s) won’t curse your name on Xmas morning? And what exactly does that teach your kids? What’s the point of walking around in a Norman Rockwell-inspired fog of idealized family life when in reality the same idealized set of people tend to drive you past the point of rationality in a mere 20 minutes? Of course you’ll have a profanity-laced meltdown a la Clark Griswold in “Christmas Vacation” if you set yourself up like this. Who was it who said that TV is the only thing that keeps families from killing each other over the holidays? Whoever it was was surely a modern day sage. (Now that I think about it, perhaps it was Bart Simpson. Yay, Simpsons writers.).
So, why do we delude ourselves into thinking materialism or notions of perfection are remotely important? And why do they always enter the forefront of our collective mind this time of year in particular? I realize these questions have been asked ad nauseum—Miracle on 34th Street, anyone?—and, because I’m not terribly clever, I’m asking them one more time. Seriously. So I’ve decided to dare my readers (all three of you—Hi, Mom!) to make this holiday season as stress-free as possible. Find the thing that drives you craziest about the season and neutralize it.
Hate buying useless crap for people just because it’s the holiday season and you think you have to? I dare you not to do it. Maybe buy one really nice gift, or, better yet, make something for your loved ones (DIY!! DIY!!) and leave it at that. It will be much more meaningful to the recipient(s) than a truckload of junk du jour and you will escape the mall zombies and subsequent stress, not to mention the amount of money and resources you’ll save on wrapping accoutrements. Your relatives will thank you and so will Mother Nature.
Hate cooking a huge meal for everyone—or worse, cooking a huge meal and then having people gripe about it? I dare you not to do it. Start your own tradition of pizza and/or Chinese take-out at holiday gatherings. I know I give thanks for my local restaurants all the time, why should the holidays be any different? Or have each of your guests bring a favorite food for dinner. Sure, you may end up with an entire table of donuts, goldfish crackers, and peanut butter cups, but is that really such a bad thing? At the very least it will be memorable, and isn’t that the point?
My family always wanted the “perfect” holiday. The problem is that such a thing doesn’t exist, hence the quote marks. Mom and Dad may have wanted me to remember fondly the Cabbage Patch doll for which they engaged in fisticuffs with other suburban parents when I was 7, the perfectly-roasted turkey at each Thanksgiving, and the lack of televised football at family shin digs each holiday season, and I do remember that stuff. But I also remember them freaking out about charred potatoes au gratin (Dear God! Now what will we serve our guests?!?), a tarnished silver coffee service set (Mom’s gonna be pissed! It never looked like this at her house!), and post-party stains on the rug (Goddamn that kid! He doesn’t understand the value of anything!!) Why? In the grand scheme, did any of that really matter? My dad’s last words were about how much he loved me and my mom, not about how much he wished he’d polished up that sugar bowl for Grandma’s coffee on Christmas Eve 1982.
So I dare you to have fun this holiday season. I dare you to let go of the stress and create something meaningful. Enjoy each other’s company as best you can. This is what I want for my kids. They will be getting toys on Christmas, but only a couple. They will be getting a tasty meal for Thanksgiving—sans turkey carcass as we’re vegetarians. And most importantly, they will be getting sane parents who show them that we care about THEM, not about stuff. I dare you to start your own traditions this holiday season—whatever you find most meaningful—and free yourself from needless pressure and corresponding regret. Enjoy yourself, because life is short.
One of the most fun parts of parenting is becoming proficient in all the stuff each of my kids thinks is cool. Winchie is very clear about his likes and dislikes. He likes trains, trucks, cars, baseballs, basketballs, and soccer balls. He also likes to dig holes in the back yard. That’s pretty much it. He loves to jump and run around, but will sit and read a book, too, provided the subject matter is something from his list of likes. Oh, and he also likes to build huge Lego towers only so he can stomp on them or crash one of his many wheeled toys into them. He loves his sister and his parents and we love him back. That’s all he needs to know. Give him a Thomas toy, toast with peanut butter on it and a lap to sit on when he wants it, and he’s the happiest camper in the universe.
I’m totally comfortable letting him engage in typically-boy activities like playing sports and crashing toy trucks into things because these activities bring him obvious joy and satisfaction. And I’m always more than happy to indulge him when he wants to engage in typically-girl things like playing with dolls or putting on lipstick. He’s open-minded and willing to try anything that looks like fun to him. He’s curious, but uncomplicated. What a great kid!
When it comes to my daughter, though, things are a little different. Of course, she is also a fantastic kid in my humble opinion, but she’s much more complex than her brother—or maybe it‘s just my relationship with her that‘s more complex. I’ll admit that I have the usual parental dreams of her turning out to be a little version of me (minus my insecurities and hang-ups, of course). So while I’m more than happy to let Winchie play with his trains and dig up the garden, I find it much harder to hold my tongue when Squeaky wants to do something that falls under the umbrella of “girl stuff.”
For instance, as those who know me well can attest, my everyday uniform consists of black, black, and more black, silver jewelry, chunky shoes (black, of course) and, now that I’m a mom, an industrial-sized canvas tote bag for all of the essentials like stuffed animals, blankies, and extra diapers. I wear so much black, in fact, that my husband will occasionally refer to me as Morticia and is visibly shocked when I wear anything in another color. I don’t do it because I miss the heyday of Wax Trax! or harbor secret vampire fantasies. Rather, I do it because I’m the laziest person on earth. Black matches everything and I don’t have to spend ten years searching my closet for something to wear. Oh, yeah, and I look good in black—all of us dark haired, dark eyed, olive skinned girls do.
Then there’s my daughter. She LOVES frilly, puffy, sparkly pink clothing. If it’s not entirely pink or has pink on it somewhere, she won’t wear it. Because she’s only 2.5 years old, she doesn’t yet know that tiaras exist, but if she did, she’d want to wear one around the house at all times and expect her subjects to genuflect accordingly. Her best friend is a stuffed pink bunny named Pink, when she grows up, she wants to be “a mommy,” and she loves playing with the kitchen set at preschool.
I’ll be honest. All of this makes me want to gag. And, so help me, the day she asks for a Baby Alive doll or Easy Bake oven, I will need to strength of 1,000 Hoover Dams to hold back the verbal condemnation of such hyper-gendered products. Yet, on the same token, I have no problem buying entire train sets and various sport-related toys for my son.
It’s like I’m living in one of those Frosted Mini Wheats commercials. The feminist adult in me wants to destroy all Easy Bake ovens, princess-themed toys, and anything that comes in both a blue version (for boys) and a pink version (for girls). If it appears in that Pepto Bismol colored aisle in the toy store, I’d like to take a blowtorch to it. I know toys are supposed to be all about escapist fantasies, but Bratz dolls? Really? I’d much prefer my daughter pretend to be a construction worker or a doctor or a rabbit than an empty-headed, materialistic, boy-crazy prostitot.
On the other hand, the kid in me knows Squeaky hasn’t read feminist theory and likes frilly, sparkly girlie stuff simply because she likes it. I didn’t teach her to like pink. She has always liked it. I didn’t teach her to like baby dolls. She just does. When my grandmother bought me a baby doll when I was three, I took one look at it and told her to give it to my cousin Jimmy. I wanted a Dukes of Hazzard guitar! When my mom bought Squeaky a baby doll, her face it up, she hugged it tightly, and asked for another one so her baby wouldn’t be lonely. She likes dolls and inwardly, I seethe. Her brother likes trucks, and I’m all for it.
So what’s a mom to do? In private, I throw up my hands and wonder aloud what planet my daughter came from. In public, I talk to my friends who also have kids and ask if they are as bothered by this gendered-toy dichotomy as I am. As one of them (a very intelligent and doting father of an adorable girl) recently pointed out, the problem isn’t with the products themselves, it’s with telling girls that they don’t have a choice and that cooking and childrearing are their only options in life. They can play with that stuff as long as they know it’s not a death sentence. As adults, they will have other options.
Of course, he’s right. These kinds of toys are only one avenue of many available for girls to explore. This may just be a passing phase for my daughter en route to another set of likes and dislikes My hope is that when Squeaky grows up, she will have even more avenues to choose from than those available to me or my mom. Fortunately, society seems to be moving in that direction, it just isn’t reflected in the toy aisle—yet.
And no, it hasn’t escaped me that I am a homemaker, so I shouldn’t be shocked when Squeaky asks for kitchen-related toys because she sees me cooking something everyday. My days consist of adult versions of the Easy Bake oven and child-sized dolls. But I don’t revel in it the way my daughter does and perhaps that’s the source of my ire. I did, however, choose this life (for now), and I know that it is temporary. Once the kids go to school full time, I plan on devoting more time to the business that I am just now starting up. (It would be off and running if I only had more time…) So I am definitely one of the beneficiaries of societal changes wrought by First- and Second-Wave feminists. I made a choice to stay home and I still have the option to work when I want to, how I want to.
But all that doesn’t stop my blood from boiling at Target when I see the face of a smiling little boy on a Doctor toy set (in a red and white box) on the shelf above the face of a smiling little girl on a Baby Care toy set (in a pink box). Yes, I can tell my daughter she has choices, but how can she believe it when faced with an option like this in the toy aisle? As a kid, I decided to reject all things pink and frilly when selecting my preferred toys and maybe that will be Squeaky’s decision as well. A mom can dream. Until then, I’m off to write a flame latter to Fisher Price, creator and distributor of the previously-mentioned toys on the Target shelf. I mean, really. How difficult would it be to use a picture of two kids—a boy and a girl—to sell both products?
Hey, kids! It’s that time of year again. Time to carve up squashes and gourds so the squirrels, rats, and pigeons can eat them before you’re able to use them as luminaria. Time to invest in bags of high fructose corn syrup-laden treats to pass out to the costumed neighborhood kids who ring your doorbell. Most importantly, time to sing yours truly a rousing and heartfelt “Happy Birthday to You”!!!
As those of us with October birthdays well know, this month belongs to ghosts and ghouls, not to us. Every year it’s birthday greetings with pumpkins and scarecrows, birthday cakes decorated with candy corn, and plush jack-o-lantern-themed birthday gifts. I hated it as a kid, but now I think it’s awesome in a kitschy kind of way. I mean, really—what better way to celebrate the day of your birth than with skeletons, vampires, demons and other symbols of death? Sweet!
So, yes, my birthday is nigh on 6 days away and for the first time in years I’m actually looking forward to it. Why? Because my husband and I are getting the f*@# outta Dodge! Woo hoo! My mom is coming in from out of state to watch the kids (and also get some quality grandma time with them) so that the hubby and I can have a weekend to ourselves. I can’t wait! It’s a chance for me to take off the 500-pound mantle of parental responsibility that I schlep around on a daily basis and don the carefree ingénue face that’s left over from the halcyon days of my youth. Okay, okay. So I’m too old to be an ingénue, not to mention infinitely over-experienced, but it’s a nice fantasy in which I like to indulge from time to time. Seriously, though, the difference between life with kids and life with kids at Grandma’s is akin to living a Jekyll and Hyde existence.
At home, I’m an ber-responsible mom of twins who dutifully reads and rereads toddler books to her kids, helps build forts out of folding chairs and comforters, composes new and exciting renditions of “Bingo”, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, and “Old MacDonald,”— not to mention watching endless hours of quality children’s programming. I try to engage in activities with the kids that are fun for all of us, too, like building huge Lego towers and then stomping them into oblivion, pretending to be Godzilla. (I’ve even gotten Winchie to scream “MOTHRA!!” a couple of times!) It’s fun for the kids and it’s a surprisingly effective way to relieve stress for me. Win-win!
I should add, in spite of the fun activities, that most days when I’m in mommy-mode I feel like I’m 438 years old. Yes, I expose my kids to underground music, vintage claymation, and outsider art, which a true 438-year-old probably wouldn’t, but the extra responsibility is what makes me feel older than Yoda. (I know…I know…Yoda was 872 or something, but you see what I’m getting at here). In my mind when I’m with the kids, I’m this bizarre chimera with Queen Elizabeth II’s hair, my grandmother’s wrinkled octogenarian face, the body of the Venus of Willendorf, and the feet of a Hindu sage who is still getting used to walking over hot coals: cumbersome, frumpy, and, for lack of a better term, ooooooooolllllllddddd. When I look in the mirror, it’s me, but with a crusty, curmudgeonly veneer, not unlike the ubiquitous latex masks for sale in every Walgreen’s this time of year.
When the kids go away, so does said veneer. In my husband’s words, I lose that “dead look” in my eyes and the sprightly, mischievous sparkle I had as a nullipara returns. I suddenly feel like I’m 25 again and that the world is mine for the taking. I’m not beaten down, resigned to my fate. No! I am the Lizard Queen! I can do anything! I can shatter the veneer of responsibility with sheer will and shine all the brighter for it. I’ve been known to dance in the streets and sing bawdy songs about the circus. Never having been incarcerated, I have no idea how it feels to be released after an extended stay in jail, but I’m guessing it’s something like this.
Does that mean I hate my kids? My role as a mother? My life? No. Of course not. My kids are kick ass and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. I enjoy being a mom, if, for no other reason than to ensure that there will be artists, musicians, writers, and dreamers walking the planet for generations to come. I love having the time I do at home with my children. Watching them grow and learn has been the most joyfully edifying experience of my life. I have grown and matured right alongside them. Having had this experience, I would never return to life the way it was before they arrived.
But, tempus fugit and all that. It’s birthday time again and time for me to let my inner Hyde out to explore the world, if only for one short weekend. Like a kid, I’m hoping to get one of the two things on my b-day wish list: white 20-eye Doc Martens or a framed mirror decorated with pictures of vintage Mexican pin-up ladies, sequins, and glitter. (Fingers crossed!) But the best present of all will be from my mom: Time. Time to reclaim some of my pre-parenthood identity. Time to shed the veneer of responsibility for a while. Time to reconnect with my senses of humor, style, and self. Time for me. And, of course, time to eat my weight in peanut M&Ms and Almond Joys. Hooray for Halloween! Have a great one, y’all!