The Great Bon Bon Debate

When you ask a stay at home mother or father what they do during the day, there's a 98% chance that you're going to get a snide comment involving soap operas and Bon Bons hurled at you. While nothing could be further from the truth, I also think there are some days that nothing could be closer to the truth. Before you stone me with your Bon Bons of bias, hear me out. While I recognize that the list of shit required of us on a daily basis is lengthy and tedious, I also admit that I am not above ignoring said list when the mood suits me, which is not an option when you're working a nine to five. It was in the high 70's this entire week and I am not ashamed to say that I left a dirty toilet, a pile of dishes and a mound of laundry in lieu of enjoying the sunshine with my kids, again not an option when you're commuting to the office everyday.  My friend Kate would say each choice has its challenges and she would be right. She is an amazing woman, who works full time days and conducts international conference calls after she's served out her nightly mommy duties...so there's that.  I'd say her challenges outweigh mine and I'm saying that in all sincerity. Everyone has days they just don't want to do it anymore regardless of their place of employment.  And again, I'm not belittling the challenges and responsibilities involved in the path I've chosen. I work damn hard whether I'm preparing a meal, struggling to get a squirming toddler into her diaper or sitting on the floor playing "Memory".  I don't get to use the bathroom by myself and I usually don't get to enjoy a meal while sitting, let alone actually savor the food I'm eating. I'm not allowed to be sick and should a virus decide to rebel, I don't have a place to send my kids so I can recuperate. Most days, no matter how many times I vacuum or sweep nothing looks clean and enduring two children in the throes of temper tantrums can be more than overwhelming, but on the plus side I'm not rushed or confined to a certain schedule aside from my son's school and extracurriculars, which are few. I don't have deadlines. I can do my "job" in my pajama's or I can put on make-up and do my hair, my choice. Most importantly, I get to be constantly involved in my children's activities, which can be a blessing and a curse depending on the day.  It didn't always feel like this. I would tell people my husband would "never understand just what I do during the day." I'm pretty sure I used the infamous Bon Bon and soap opera line many times. It took a lot of exposure and practice to make staying at home an enjoyable privilege. Yes, I'm still tired most days both at the beginning and the end, and I don't always love my life but I've stopped  condemning it. It is not the unexplored level of hell in which I once convinced myself  I existed.  I've gotten to know my kids very well and we've all begun working as a mostly cohesive unit. Again, I can't speak for all of us staysies.  Every kid is different and so is every parent.  As I sit here,admiring the tan lines from my watch and sandals...hard earned tan lines, gained through a week of heavy outdoor activity with my two kids who never slow down...I can't help but think of how awesome my job is and how lucky I am to have such manageable work, not to mention a great "office". Of course we are treading on Spring/Summer, which always makes the job that much easier AND likable.  I'm pretty sure I'll be ready to quit once the cabin fever of Winter is upon us again.

God bless us...every one.

I know it's Christmas, not only because my inbox is cluttered with online fliers touting  "BIG HOLIDAY SAVINGS," for everything on my "child's wish list," but because I'm asked several times a day if I've finished my shopping yet and/or how much of my son's "wish list" is going to be under our tree Christmas morning.  To wit, my gnawing acid indigestion has become yet another sign that the holiday season is upon us.  The answers are; not even remotely, there will be much disappointment and pass the Tums.  Ev turned 4 in July and as such, his awareness of Christmas, as it is defined by a child, is only just beginning to blossom. Last years trifling note to Santa was replaced by an entire catalog of circles that I've only briefly perused.
      Our holiday resources are on the meager end this year and shopping for gifts has been a low priority. Budgetary restrictions have had a lot of influence over my re-examination of the season of giving.  I've read many articles over the past couple of days regarding the subject of giving and how, financial times being what they are, many parents felt they would be unable to give their children a "good Christmas" this year.  I've spent the past month, wracked with guilt over not being able to provide that "good Christmas"; looking at my paltry bag of toys and wondering what my son will think when he wakes up and sees so much empty space under the tree that, just last year, would've been filled with more brightly dressed packages then he could wrap his head around.  Then I watched the news and heard about children who may wake up to nothing, because donations have been lacking at Toys for Tots and other charitable foundations.  I saw an unemployed mother and father of 4 living in a friend's vacant house, with a seriously ill teenager and wondering how they were going to afford her medical bills, let alone provide any sort of Christmas cheer for their children.  I read Facebook posts from friends and family members overseas, who would be spending the holiday in an army barracks and my whole idea of  having a "good Christmas" devolved or evolved depending on your view.  My first thought was to pick one gift from the bag, for each child and take the rest to Toys for Tots, but my mother was quick to point out that expectations for Ev have already been set. He'd written a list, checked it twice and been promised as much generosity as Santa could bestow. So I decided I would take whatever money I was going to use to "finish up" shopping and put it toward one of my favorite charities, Horizon's for Homeless Children. I also realized something very important. Chris and I need to begin setting the standard for what Evan's definition of Christmas should be and I'm not entirely sure that definition needs to include one half of a Toys'R'Us "Holiday Book".  Now, maybe if we were in a different place this year I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be happily wrapping all the circled gifts of Ev's choosing and wondering which one was going to be his absolute favorite. But I'm not and in a way, I'm appreciative of this forced new perspective. It's easy to get caught up in the material aspect of the season and even easier not to, mostly because I don't have a choice, but also because without the noise of commercialism I've been able to remember the most important gifts. Ev and Quinn both have their health, they have a loving family and we'll all be together. I don't want Evan or Quinn to think of Christmas as just one more day to inventory what they have and what they've yet to receive. I want them to understand how much they already have, before they even begin to unwrap a box. And, I want them to experience how much can be received purely from giving.
      All Bob Crachett wanted was the day off from work, a fine, fat goose and his son's health. He got all 3 and even though his wishes weren't gift wrapped, his family seemed to have a very "good Christmas."

Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year!

Video Killed the Academic Star

Remember, like, 5 years ago, when experts where touting the power of Baby Einstein. Baby Einstein was the key to unlocking your child's limitless potential. It would help them read and comprehend and get into Harvard before 18...basically turn them into little prodigies.  Remember how parents clamored for all the ridiculous, ridiculously expensive Baby Einstein videos, not to mention all the other crap and swore up and down that it was really making their children smarter. Well guess what, smarmy, "my kid read Nietzsche yesterday, thanks to Baby Einstein" parents. Sorry to ruin the ivy league dreams, but those videos were actually giving your children A.D.D.  That's right. "leading experts" have confirmed there is NO SAFE AMOUNT OF TELEVISION/VIDEO VIEWING for children under the age of 3. That means my children will be on Ritalin before age 10.  I'm guessing these experts never had children. I'm assuming that because these experts never had children, they've never had to prepare a meal with an extra 18 to 30lbs attached to each leg, whining and complaining and making demands...or do laundry, dishes, vacuuming or go to the bathroom under those same conditions.  Of course, I could be wrong. "the experts" may have had children. Children who never watched a second of television. Children who are now discovering new elements, or heading world renowned surgical teams, or proposing new fossil fuel theories. We'll never know. 

I need television. Sometimes, yes, it's my babysitter. And, sometimes I will admit, it's a technological saviour.  I don't stop doing, from the moment my feet hit the floor to the moment their heads hit their pillows and I am able to maintain my sanity thanks to the modern marvel that is broadcast television.  I can't give you a rundown of how many hours a day my cherubs sit, quietly, indulging in what I feel is educational programming. An hour or two in the morning, maybe one in the afternoon...since they don't fucking sleep and I need some way for their bodies to stop and rest for more than 5 minutes...and after dinner until bedtime, maybe another hour or two.  I've definitely exceeded what's considered the healthy maximum, for Ev. Quinn is completely screwed.  That girl is going to be some teacher's foaming, screeching,disciplinary nightmare. I'm not sure her television viewing will be the sole cause of that outcome, but it definitely can't help...if I agree with the experts. Which I don't. 

I watched television as a kid. Hours of television. Sometimes starting at 5 in the morning. Anyone else remember Saturday morning cartoons as a staple of childhood?  Granted, I'm not the Proust of my generation, nor am I sitting around a think tank, solving exhaustively complicated mathematical equations, but I've never had trouble focusing when I needed to and I've never been diagnosed with A.D.D.  The article I read stated, in so many words (because I don't feel like looking up the direct quote), that rapid development occurs mainly in infants and toddlers and that viewing a program for even 5 minutes can be overstimulating.  That a child's brain then becomes wired for constant, rapid stimulation and can no longer slow down and process things...in so many words.  Are they right? My daughter, as I've stated many times before, is a whirling dervish of curiosity. She is also easily amused by my key chain. She can sit on the floor with my key chain for a half hour; clinking it, dropping it, moving the keys from one side of the clip to the other.  I wouldn't say she actively watches television on a consistent basis, but sometimes she does. Sometimes, it's just background while she fiddles with her colorful and stimulating toys. Either way ,it hasn't seemed to affect her and somehow, even when she really starts to appreciate t.v. for what it is, I think she'll be okay. 

Maybe A.D.D. is the product of outside sources; television, sugar...etc.  Maybe A.D.D. is genetic, occuring in some regardless of abstinence from over-stimulation.  I don't fricking know. I know that tonight, when I got home from work, after I put Quinn to sleep, I propped my son in front of the boob tube and put my feet up for the first time since I'd woken up this morning...and I'm okay with whatever results from that in the future. I could go on, but I've got some shows On-Demand that I really need to catch up on. Viva la televisione! 

Jury of your peers

You know me, I'm not one to judge, but good lord do women know how to cut each other down for no apparent reason, or is it just me? I've made more than my fair share of personal assessments so I know when people say, "I'm not one to judge," or my favorite, "You know I love Marci, but...", we are noting or have noted any "wrong doings" to share with someone else, who has probably never been one to judge.

 Finding other's weakness' is like shooting fish in a barrel. Fashion, diet, hygiene,childcare...everybody has something they're not the best at, as well as somebody to point that shortcoming out to them. I've been known to deliver criticism directly, but for the most part, my "suggestions" surface after the beacon of imperfection has left...because I am a pussy and I fear confrontation. Critiques come in the form of gentle ribbing i.e. "You should tell your kid to shake hands with the rest of the playground, so all of the kids will be sanitized." I've served the "compliment sandwich", "You're so attentive to germs. With that much sanitizer your kids will never build up antibodies. You are the cleanest person I've ever met!" I've used it's more passive cousin, the self-effacing simile: "You know I'm about as hygienic as a farm hog, so what do I know but, isn't that a taaaad too much sanitizer?" I tend to be a gray area type of condescending bitch, but there are those who put it right out there in black and white. You know them? The ones we denounce for their lack of  self-censorship? "Jesus H! What do you, go through, like,a bottle a day? That kid must have NO freakin' immune system!" Sometimes I tell myself I'm being helpful; offering advice for which no one has asked. Other times, I convince myself it's out of love; that's where the, "You know I love so and so," comes into play. But in the end it translates into the same thing, "I think I'm better than you and this is why." We all do it, everyday, whether we call it what it is or keep it under the guise of caring/concern. Those of us that deny it are the ones that are the most guilty. 

I was talking to my friend, Shanna last week about parenting and being a mom in particular. For every mother issuing a punishment, reacting to an injury or dealing with defiance, there are 3 more standing in judgement of her every decision. I know this because, like I said, nine times out of ten, I'm one of those 3. And, it goes deeper than sanitizer, no pun intended. Society has heaped so much scrutiny onto our shoulders, from how we handle our kids, to how we handle our homes, to how we handle ourselves; don't you think it's time we, as sisters in the battlefield that is child-rearing, let up on each other?

When we choose to stay at home and raise our kids, we're seen as martyrs who lack goals. When we choose to go to work each morning and leave our children in the capable hands of a daycare provider or nanny, we're seen as selfish and lacking a nurturing instinct. Whoa, there are women who don't want to be the primary nurturer? (I've yet to hear a man get reamed out for not choosing that role.) And still, some of us have no choice either way and are forced in one direction or another. Women have to WANT  to wear every hat and wear them well, lest we be condemned by the jury of our peers, who think they could do it better. Talk about damned if you do, damned if you don't. Both Shanna and I really thought about what it meant to be pigeonholed by other people's assumptions and by our own gender. It sucks. It sucks that we barely know each other and feel like we can make complete character assessments based on...what? What a mom decided to wear that day? Their weight? Their children's weight? Their discipline techniques? Their lack of discipline techniques? What we heard from the nanny?

When I think back on the all the parenting assassinations I've made, regarding people I hardly knew, it's astounding. I mean, I'm not one to judge, but if you ask me, I'm a douche bag. I'm also jealous, insecure, bored with my own life and overcompensating for what I feel are my personal shortcomings as a mother and a woman. I'm not saying I'm going to completely stop judging people, because that would be an out and out lie. Criticism is like nicotine; you don't go cold turkey. What I am saying is, I'm going to start being a lot more empathetic to the fact that we don't exist in a box. Every mom...every person, lives according to what works for them, not for me. Let's stop scrutinizing each other and get back to scrutinizing men. It's their fault...everything is their fault ; )

(End Note: We haven't, actually stopped scrutinizing men, they've just stopped caring.)

Keeping up with the Duggars

I get it, Michelle Duggar. I get why you're addicted to having babies and I don't think it has as much to do with what Jesus is commanding, as it does with what your clock is commanding. My daughter recently turned one year. She's a beast. She's a walking, garbling, feasting ball of fire and she's no longer an infant, which has my hormones in an uproar. I've spent countless hours awake with her, anticipating the infant to toddler changeover. I've heard tell that at zero hour, the converted toddler automatically goes into 12 hour sleep mode, eats whatever you put in front of it and becomes more easily amused by itself, though Q.0 has yet to deliver those kind of sophisticated results.

 I was in the process of swapping 6-9 month outfits for 12-18 when this immense hollowness just, sort of, carved itself into the pit of my stomach. The thought hit me that Quinn was, very possibly, my last baby and that realization turned bagging up her things into this surreal grieving process, that I wasn't prepared to experience. Despite my need for more than 4 hours of sleep a night, my excitement that my breasts were once again my own and the knowledge that Evan would be going to school soon, giving me back some of my life, I convinced both myself and Chris that I could, indeed,deal with the rigors of pre and post pregnancy, one more time. Chris called me a "crazy bitch" and assured me that if I didn't sign off on the vasectomy, he'd wind up in an alley in Chinatown, allowing an unlicensed veterinarian to "neuter" him. 

He's right. The fact of the matter is I don't really believe I want another child.  What I want, is to know that I could have another one and at almost 35, it will only become less likely...unless I want to get pregnant again in the next couple of years; which I do not. It's unnerving to see and feel myself getting older, but it's even more unnerving to know that my "babies" are getting older and that soon I won't even have babies. I'll have kindergartners, then middle school-ers, then teenagers, then young adults, then...I'm killing time waiting to die. My children's development and my own fertility have suddenly become the ultimate measurements of time. I hear the phrases, "It goes by so quickly," and "I wish I could keep him/her a baby forever," uttered all the time by parents and grandparents alike.  I assure you the need for a halting of time has nothing to do with age of the child.

After I tried to convince Chris we should spend another year being awake almost 24 hours a day, I gave some thought to what I could really, emotionally afford and the cost of miscalculating my expectations. How much more patience and tolerance can I spare before I become the "minivan in the lake" mom?  How many more years of bodily sacrifice do I want to endure? (I'm just starting to get the "house" back in order.) How much longer can my husband and I exist as nothing more than two bodies, bumping around the same space but never, actually coming into contact? (We're just starting to get that "house" back in order, as well.) When you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, why put the car in reverse? There is a small part of me that wants to have another baby for a legitimate reason; I love children. But, my sister-in-law Amy said it best, "Know your limitations." If I thought I could handle it, I'm sure I'd have a Duggar dozen, but I have the common sense to accept that two children can sometimes be two children too many. Also, I have the sanity to understand that whether or not I aid in the continuation of the species I'm going to continue to age; only, unlike Michelle Duggar, my uterus won't have to be dragged behind me on a Radioflyer.

Peeing in my Cheerios and other non-productive sentiments.

I reserve the right to be upset. I demand the freedom to not be appreciative, every second of the day. I don't require a reminder of my blessings on days that I feel cursed. What I'm saying is, I'm okay with holding on to a little disappointment when things aren't going well and to be honest, I find value in the occasional pity party. As I was leaving for work this morning, I was greeted by a neighbor. "How ya doing?" She asked, watching her leashed rat sniff around my parents yard. "Great, except I'm on my way to work, so I could be better." Pretend frowny face, fake laugh. "Well, you're lucky to have a job to go to, so that's something to think about." She replied as her "dog" finally dumped on my parents lawn...which is two feet away from her lawn.  But, the 2 ton shit and the 3lb, yipping nightmare that produced it are fodor for another day.  That statement was the impetus for this pointless barking session, so blame Val for having more of my rancor shoved down your throats. I wasn't really upset about the prospect of going to work, but that's not the point. It was the idea that other's unemployment should automatically negate any frustration I might have about having to work a holiday weekend. I could've retorted with the news that my husband would,soon, be among the unemployed, but my guess is she wouldn't have really cared and if she did engage me, she would've found a silver lining to that, as well. I'd be lying, if I said life was going the way I wanted at this very moment and I've been feeling a little underwhelmed. There are a lot of well intentioned people, whose glasses are constantly teeming, even at their emptiest. I can admire that...from a distance. I'm not a 24/7 Negative Nancy. I know when to count my blessings. I am aware that I have it a lot better than alot of people and that things could, undoubtedly be worse. There are some moments when knowing that we haven't hit the bottom doesn't make us feel any closer to the top and having our feelings devalued, just seasons the misery with guilt. "What right do I have to be upset when everyone's healthy and I'm not on the street?" I have every right and I'm going to start exercising it. Everyone's personal struggle is different and everyone's perception of pain,both emotional and physical is skewed. In those moments, just having a shoulder or a simple, "Sorry you're feeling that way, but it will get better," can make all the difference. Having a day or two, here and there to wallow in self-degradation, can supply valuable insight into how to begin climbing out of the funk. It also gives appreciation to the days that go really well or the news that truly is outstanding. I don't think there's anything wrong with realistic expections or telling oneself that things aren't so bad that they can't get worse. It's not instigating a fall, it's avoiding a deep, canyon plummet and it's not for everybody, I get that. I can be the "bring-down kid" sometimes. So I'll make a deal. I promise not to tell you how I'm actually doing/feeling, if you promise you'll stop comparing my hiccup to a cancer patient, a tornado stripped suburb or a tsunami victim. I understand those are far more dire straits.

Only 1% of the people that ask how I'm doing, actually care about how I'm doing, anyway. I guess if I want to avoid getting a ticket from the gratitude police, my best bet is to answer "Great," force my frown upside down and walk away BEFORE I puke into it.

Poop by any other name...

I am a vulgar woman. My language is beyond repugnant. If a truck driver swallowed a longshoreman, then had a conversation with Andrew Dice Clay and you overheard it, that would be a good example of my everyday vernacular. To be fair, I always follow up my lewd commentary with a "Pardon my french." My bawdry blunders occur so often, that my son has actually started telling people to pardon my french, as well. I caught my son swatting at bugs on the playground, yelling "Get lost, ASSHOLE FLIES!" This, of course, encouraged the whole group to start chanting "ASSHOLE FLIES, GET LOST, ASSHOLES!" There are no words to describe just how funny a battalion of angry toddlers, screaming "asshole", can be and yet, I had to be responsible. I felt like a hypocrite. I can't be in the car with or without my kids for 5 minutes without using, among other much more colorful slang, the words "Shit" or "Asshole". There's no question of where he's getting his crass vocabulary. I spoke with one of the other moms immediately following the incident and she said, "It's always funny when it's not your kid." To be honest, my kid is a riot, especially when spitting out a properly placed curse word. Unfortunately, other people don't have the same tolerance for profanity that my husband and I share. Since consistency is key in raising kids,that means every instance must be acknowledged by the same consequence. Here's my thing; I know it's not good for my son to scream expletives at the playground and I understand why, but when did poop, pee, doodle, booger and...wait for it...stinky get added to the "Do Not Utter" list? I hear the word, "Pottymouth" kicked around a lot, spending the majority of my life on the playground. I've got to tell you, poop is fun to say and last time I checked, using it doesn't hurt anyone. I do correct my child when he uses it, though VERY reluctantly. I always believed words were just words. They only carry as much weight as we allow them to, right? Some words are weightier than others and even though I probably have the world's worst "pottymouth", there are some words even I am offended by; you know the racially motivated, big bombs that I can't even say in my head without feeling ashamed. I can assure you poop, pee, doodle, booger, butt and any other words in that vein did not make that cut. So what is the issue with these words? They're disgusting-true, but other than that, who cares? In fact, the more I feed into this whole, poop=punishment mentality, the more Evan seems compelled to say those words. So, how do I let my son continue to use words that don't bother me, but seem to upset the sensibilities of so many others? Words. Words,words, words.

Never has a word caused more problems for my son,
than that whose meaning lies
within the bowels of defecation.