The Return of the Prodigal Pants

I don't know if there is such thing as a writer's coma, but I think that I have been in one for several months.  It's not so much that I can't think of anything to write about... I frequently write blog entries in my head.  Mostly ones that highlight my borderline functional parenting moments or those that deal with the follies of my 4 children.  I had a whopper all worked out, but the child who starred in the tale will k-i-l-l me if  I actually publish it on the internet, so too bad for you... and now since I'm up a creek with no funny story,  here's an update on what's been going on the last few... um... months.

• I have officially started back at school and am moving slowly along my path toward becoming a midwife.  I got 100% in my first class - intercultural communications.  (Which was not that difficult since, based on their answers, most of the class thought that the homework questions were actually a Facebook survey.)    I thought about sending my resume into the UN after my perfect performance, but my husband doesn't believe in the UN, so... peace at home before peace in the world I guess. 

I have several sciencey kinds of classes that I'm starting and  have to do a statistics course that I am procrastinating as long as possible.  I 'm good with the words, but the numbers- not so much.  Also, I'm pretty sure statistics is just something that big fat liars made up to try to convince everyone else that they're not big fat liars.  (PS - I had to take a math placement test.  Mediocre is over-exaggerating my performance. I swear the only thing that saved me is that my daughter broke her arm in two places at the beginning of the school year which meant that I got to act as 5th grade scribe/tutor for 5 weeks... also, I Googled "college math placement test" about 2 hours before I had to show up.  Say what you will about Google.  As far as I'm concerned they can map my house all they want as long as they help me test out of basic college algebra.)  

•  I have lived to celebrate another birthday, ushering in my late-mid -30s... and that's all I have to say about that... except- my mom got me the best birthday present ever... 2 days with a bunch of hippy birth junkies whose idea of a fun Friday night is a women's energy/sharing/dance circle and swapping stories about placenta encapsulation.  I am out of my mind excited.  By the way Eugene Oregon... if you smell something strange, it's just my deodorant.

(...one more thing about the birthday. Every year on December 10th I reacquaint myself with the famous people who share my astrological sign.  Sagittarius.  Basically we break down like this... writers (Mark Twain, Emily Dickenson, Jane Austen), musicians (Beethoven, Hendrix, Donny Osmond, and Billy Idol), actors (Don Johnson) and politicians (Winston Churchill) including a couple of despotic tyrants.  I was feeling like I had really found my people until it occurred to me that the horoscope folks probably don't include normal and boring lives in these lists and so it is very likely that every other astrological sign has a similar roll call of awesomeness... except for Donny Osmond.

• The baby has cavities all over his mouth.  You don't know judgement until your dentist peeks into  your baby's mouth and the look on her face says "clearly he's been sucking down Dr.Pepper and Pixie Stix for 14 months".  The first dentist (yep, more than one dentist) actually showed me how to put the toothpaste on the tooth brush and then made little circles with it in the air to demonstrate proper brushing technique.  I'm not kidding.  Just for the record... I have never had a cavity.  Ever.  I never had braces.  I never had a retainer and I have all of my teeth including the 4 wisdom ones.  Clearly, this is totally my husband's fault.

• It's Christmas again.  I have been possessed by the Spirit of Crafters Past and have an unexplainable and obsessive urge to make stuff out of paper and felt.  Not necessarily in that order.

Merry Christmas all... and on that note, I'm off to send an email to Santa telling him that my kids are signing up for a Chilean miner"s pocketfull of coal if they don't stop their fighting.  It usually solicits good results - after the crying and screaming that I am "the worst mom ever,  seriously Mom, ever."   Aaah.  I love being the best at stuff.

He's watching our pants with the eye of the tiger.

I have, what I refer to as "The Crazy". Every time I had a baby, I heard a lot of talk about depression...but not so much about crazy. I kept reading those online screening tests.  Apparently someone, somewhere thought to themselves "Clarity and accurate judgement- that totally describes the clinically depressed.  This self diagnosis thing is fool proof." Just a hint Mr. Depression Test Writer, asking women who are dealing with the hormone induced free fall that is the post partum period the question: "hey crazy lady, are you crazy?" might not be the best screening mechanism.  Just a thought.   The problem for me was that these surveys seemed really concerned with things like "crying for no reason" and "fear of death", but "head exploding into flames when the three year old spills her juice (again)" - not so much. I figured, therefore, that crazy was normal... and therefore I was normal... and therefore - problem solved.

During the first few months after my third child was born, I finally realized that being bossed by The Crazy really wasn't normal (and when I say "I realized", what I mean is that my husband made an appointment for me with my doctor, drove me to said appointment and told my doctor not to let me out of her office until I agreed to a pharmaceutical exorcism.)  It was practically a reality television show...but it worked, and The Crazy was fired from being the boss of me.  Until this weekend... when we put up our Christmas tree.

Every year I manage to convince myself that this is going to be big fun for the whole family.  I picture my children gathered around the tree looking like 3 little models for The Gap.  In my mind there's usually a lot of dark washed denim and  layering of vintage tee shirts and hoodies and maybe the occasional piece of corduroy.  I picture matching ornaments that each child hangs in a predetermined "decorating zone" that leaves plenty of room between siblings to avoid elbows and whining.  The ornaments (of course) coordinate with the stockings that I laundered and packed away carefully the previous year.  I picture everyone snacking on cut up vegetables and whole grain crackers and warm cider.  Oh, and there's music.  Handel's Messiah - all 2 hours of it - which we can stream from the NPR website.  (This is not product placement for NPR - I promise.)

But...

 Every year I find myself staring into a box of ornaments which contains a grand total of 14 glass balls in 14 different colors (8 of which are missing the tops and hangers), 1 Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer made from 2 old-school clothes pins and a piece of red felt, 1 glitter covered canning lid with my picture from Kindergarten in the middle, some white wire snowflakes, and a handful of green jingle bells.  Every year I try to figure out where I put that other stocking.  Every year I end up totally annoyed because my kids insist on hanging every mismatched ornament in the same 8 square inches of space and I find myself saying things like "just wait until after I hang this part up and then you can help" over and over again, while feeding them left over Halloween candy and yogurt for lunch. (Thank goodness they trick-or-treated in a good neighborhood this year.)

So this year, in an attempt to include my children in their childhood memories, I let them help me.  We assembled a chain made from silver and gold paper that I found in a box during our move.  (I did half, they did half.  Then I fixed their half when they weren't looking).   I also let them help me fold origami star ornaments (my attempt at a coherent tree theme)  from brown paper lunch bags (seriously, I had tons of them and they were free) - or in other words, they watched me fold origami star ornaments from brown paper lunch bags.  (For some reason they weren't totally on board with the "organic look" of brown paper lunch bags.)  I also let them help pick the decorating music.  We each got to choose a song.  I picked The Messiah.  I went first.  After 30 minutes of my "song", they caught on, and my son started asking "is it my turn yet Mom?", "how 'bout now?", "do we get to hear my song now Mom?".  Hoping that it would be a short selection and then we could get back to Handel, I consented to play his carol... which turned out to be "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor.

As I watched my son take his power stance and start up his air guitar to the "dun... dun, dun, dun... dun, dun, dun...dun dun duuuuun" riff at the beginning of his chosen song,  I gave up.  I decided what he needed was not a crazy mother and a perfect Christmas tree.  I decided that what he really needed was... an awesome drummer.  He smiled at me as I sat down next to him and did my best Tommy Lee (wrong band - I know).  I smiled at him as he rocked his head back and forth and made a face that clearly said "I am the best air guitarist ever".  Then I smiled at The Crazy and waved goodbye to her... and her tree.. and her memories...until next year.

My pants don't come from Brass Plum

In December of 1982 I turned 8 years old.  I don't remember exactly what I got for my birthday, but the smart money says: scriptures, a CTR ring and a dress for my baptism.  The good thing about having a December birthday is that when you hit one of those years (like 8- for those of us baptized at 8) when you get "responsible gifts" you know that the "party it up gifts" are only 2 weeks away, unlike my sisters who all have summer birthdays and had to wait 6 months.  My "party it up gift" for Christmas '82 was... a Cabbage Patch Doll.  Her name was Carlotta Lotti (with my surname obviously) and she smelled like fake baby powder mixed with new plastic.  Because it was the first year that these dolls were available there was a lot of Patch envy and I was more excited about that ugly little doll than maybe anything else before or since - except perhaps, for my phone shaped like a pair of big red lips that I got when I turned 14 (I have shared my lip phone obsession before I think.)

Here's the thing - as you might remember from my previous sentence, I was 14 when I got that phone.  I was a full on teenager doing full on teenager things.  I was wearing high heels and makeup and had my very own bra and everything.  Do you want to know what my 9 year old daughter has wanted for the last two Christmases?  A phone - of the cellular variety - a distant and much uglier cousin to my rad red lip phone.  My daughter is not 14.  My daughter is 9.

My daughter is 9 and is now what might be referred to as a "Tween".  Let's get one thing straight right now.  This is not even a real word people.  (It's not. It's an unword.)   This is a word that is thrown about as though it is an actual developmental stage.  (It's not.  It's an unstage.)  This word is supposed to explain lots of things, and describe lots of things, and make you understand lots of things about your child that, as a member of an aging Generation X, you did not know before it was so eloquently explained by the advertising executives and magazine editors who made it up and can now parle your new parenting saavy into selling almost grown up things to the parents of people who are not even close to grown up.  This word is a marketing predator.  It is the assassin of an entire generation of children's... childhood.  (And last time I checked "childhood" is an actual stage of life).

Because the phone was a definite non-starter, I googled (made up word) "what to get for your Tween for Christmas" and not only did I not find a gift, but was shocked and awed (made up phrase) at some of the entries I found.  (Almost all of which were aimed at girls.  Hmmm.)  The worst of which was entitled "When to get your Tween her first bikini wax".  (In the spirit of full disclosure I must tell you that I did not actually read this article.  I'm allowing myself to imagine it saying something like this:  "If you are reading this you should really take the wax job money and start a therapy fund for your poor kid.  Trust us she's going to need it.")

 Just to be clear, I'm all for personal hygiene and I think that that includes hair removal - FOR ADULT WOMEN (and, let's face it, sometimes men) that are old enough to give informed consent to the very painful process that is having your hair smothered in hot wax and ripped out at the root.  I am not okay, however, with a horse pill sized dose of adult vanity (of which I have plenty - I use two different eye creams twice a day to keep the wrinkles on someone else's face) being allowed to ooze all over my kid.  If the Madison Ave people (or wherever they are these days) want to stick a cell phone in their daughter's hand, slap some lipstick on her and yell "call me when you get there" as she sprints alone towards her future, fine.  But I intend on staying no more than 2 steps behind mine for the foreseeable future.  Just in case.

I want my daughter to be a child while she's a child.  I want her to be a teenager while she's a teenager.  I want her to squeeze every drop of her youth out of life like one of those crazy Jack LaLanne juice machines,  (who knew that carrots had so much liquid inside them)  and then I hope she can close the door behind her and feel like she's arrived somewhere important.  I want her childhood to not only prepare her to be an adult, but to liberate her to be an adult woman.  I do not want her turning into one of those 40ish year old women that still shops in the "Brass Plum" at Nordstrom because someone made her believe that 17 is the only age that is acceptable and beautiful and worth being.  (Long story short ladies, just because it fits, doesn't mean it fits your age.)

My nine year old doesn't need her eyebrows tweased (well, she sort of does but she doesn't know that yet.)  She doesn't need her hair colored.  (She will, she's going dishwater, but she doesn't know that yet.)  She doesn't need high heeled big girl shoes.  (She will, she's probably not going to be much taller than me, but she doesn't know that yet.)  What she does need is as much time as possible to not change a single thing about herself.  She will find that there will be a multitude of lifetimes to worry about that.

What she needs most of all though is a mom who can figure out what to get a nine year old girl for Christmas.  Maybe I'll try to find my old Cabbage Patch doll and call it "vintage Tween".  I bet I could make millions.

Santa's pants are still in his closet and yours should be too...

Many of you have heard about my neighbors.  Let's just say if life was cheer camp, and you got the spirit stick for putting up the most holiday decorations, they would be a cheerleading urban legend.  (I  was never a cheerleader and hence, never went to cheer camp, but I have watched "Bring It On" - more than once I'm sorry to say.  I do not like this movie, or the people pretending to be actors pretending to be cheerleaders in it, but sometimes you gotta watch the train wreck.  Don't pretend you haven't seen this movie people- I can feel your judgieness all the way from here.)

Anyway, at Halloween the Griswalds put up - and I am totally not kidding - 4 stuffed persons in various chainsaw murderer/angel of death/psycho stalker outfits and propped them up all over the lawn.  One was actually climbing up the side of their house until the wind knocked it down.   Also, there was a head floating in a jar of ... something on a table by the door, about 30 cardboard headstones on the grass, a skeleton emerging from a grave, cobwebs, haystacks, orange/purple/magenta lights, and (my personal favorite) spooky music which we all got to enjoy for 3 weeks every night from 6ish - 9ish.  Luckily for us, this is when we are trying to put our children to bed.  There's nothing like family prayer and scripture study to a soundtrack of screaming, howling and moaning - come to think of, that's what bedtime's like everynight... so nevermind.

Now they have crossed the line.  Two words - Christmas decorations.  I know you are checking your calendars and wondering why you do not remember having your turkey and pie.  That, dear people, is because it is November 11th.  I find this behavior offensive and morally objectionable (you heard me - morally objectionable.)  It is not time to be looking around, trying to figure out what stuff we want, but for appreciating the stuff we have.  It is not time to be asking for more when we have too much already - and they do - I've seen their garage.  It is time for us to take a stand against the gullible consumerism that has bored its way into our culture and taken over our precious holiday time. (P.S. neighbors - just because they sell it, doesn't mean you need it.)

So, in a totally futile attempt to resist my neighbor's holiday coup d'etat I am concentrating on the things I am thankful for until after Thanksgiving, (when I will hopefully not turn into a big, fat hypocrite.)  Here are some of the things I've come up with...

1.  I am thankful for running water in my choice of hot or cold.  Did you know that according to the World Health Organization (2006) 42% of the people on the African continent still used "unimproved sources of drinking water".  (The internet is a handy thing, huh?)  It is a great thing to live in a place where you can have confidence that the water going into your child's mouth didn't just serve as a bovine day spa.

2.  I am thankful for my ears - specifically for two reasons.  One - so that I can hear the sound a basketball net makes when the ball falls through just right.  It's somewhere between a snap and a woosh - a snoosh, and if you've never noticed it, I'm sorry for you because it quickens my pulse - really.  Two - so that I can hear my three year old say "I just wuv you sooo much" at random intervals throughout the day.  Often when he's in trouble - the kid's no dumby.

3.  I am thankful for a birthday in December.  It is the fanciest time of year, with the prettiest lights and best food.  It's like everyone got everything all dressed up just for me.  For anyone who has a December birthday and doesn't like it I say - you're wrong, get over it.

4.  I am thankful for hair dye and anti-aging/anti-sagging/anti-ugly cosmetic products that are not tested on animals so that I don't have to feel guilty as I try to maintain my healthy, youthful glow.  (I have to be honest here - I would use them anyway.  Have you noticed that the only people that protest animal testing are those too young and healthy to need medicines and miracle creams.  I am not for animal testing, I'm just saying...)

5.  I am thankful for Al Gore's most famous invention - the internet...  without which, I would not be talking to you and wasting my time on my various moral crusades like this one - recently named "Citizens Against Untimely Holiday Decorations"- (nor would I be able to quote WHO facts as per #1).

6.  I am thankful for the surgeon that repaired my torn ACL 15 years ago.  I've run a lot of miles on that knee and the scar is cool.  Sometimes I pretend it's from a knife fight in a biker bar.  I know, I don't seem the type but...

7.  I am thankful that I can read.  Imagine the things that you would not know if you couldn't read.  No Walden, or Ikea assembly instructions, or street signs, or online suggestions for how to get vaseline out of your two year old's hair at 2 am (the answer is cornstarch and then shampoo - just in case).   Because I can read, no one can ever lie to me about what God says I should or shouldn't do, or control what I know and understand.  I feel a deep sorrow for women in other countries and cultures that do not have this blessing.  In the words of my 7 year old niece - "Books are powerful".

8.  I am thankful that I can laugh a big huge laugh and I'm not afraid who hears me.  Sometimes, especially when times are low, a laugh that comes from way inside you and rumbles around in your chest for awhile before it bursts out loud can clear a lot of sorrow from the soul, like the way duct tape can take all the fuzz balls and mystery hairs off of your pants in like 2 seconds.

9.  I am thankful for duct tape - since we were on the topic.  One of the most important lessons learned from my ancestors (specifically my grandfather, who is still alive so I don't know if he qualifies as an "ancestor" yet) is this - you can fix anything with duct tape.  (There may be duct tape holding my knee together.  Who really knows?)

I just hope when we finally do hang our blue holiday twinkle lights (my husband got them on sale and now everyone thinks we celebrate Hanukah) that I will remember that all of the holiday pretty is really about the most important things to be thankful for and not at all about needing more of the things that in the end mean not much.