Liar, liar, pants on fire.

One of the benefits of having more than one child is that it makes it really easy to deflect responsibility for things which you might rather avoid. Like, for example, when your nine year old asks you what happened to the Necco roof tiles on the gingerbread house that she made during her special "all-cousins-overnight-gingerbread-and-toaster-waffles-extravaganza" at her Grammy's house. If you have more than one child you can say something like "I'm sorry, I'll talk to your brother about that. He's only three. Thanks for being so patient with him."... and as long as you can keep the concerned mother face, (the one where you furrow your eyebrows and nod your head slowly,) she need never know that it was actually you prying those sugary architectural embellishments from the facade of her little edible cottage. (By the way, if you ever find yourself needing to steal candy off of your own child's gingerbread house go straight for the non-spoon end of a metal baby spoon. You might think that a butter knife would be the natural "go to", but it's too round and slips a lot. The spoon is blunt for stability and slightly curved for excellent leverage. I'm telling you, that royal icing could replace the O-rings in the space shuttle. There's no getting through that stuff.)

Now, it may seem wrong to tell such a... well, a big old fat lie to your kid, but I'm a big believer in the concept of "net good", and I'm pretty sure that leaving my daughter with a memory of her mother sitting on the kitchen floor in her "sock monkeys and airstream trailers" pajamas hacking away at her gingerbread house with a baby spoon would not be good for anyone.

I find it interesting what we remember about our parents. My guess is that the stuff that I want my kids to remember is not what they'll remember about me. I picture them reading Charles Dickens'  "A Christmas Carol" to their children one day saying "Your Grandmother loved this story. She used to read it to us every year. As a matter of fact, it was because she so diligently read to us for at least 20 minutes a day, as suggested by the American Academy of Pediatric Know -It- Alls, that I was inspired to write that Nobel Prize winning novel last year." In reality however it will sound more like this: "I didn't know that Go Dog Go was so long. When my mom read it to me it only had 10 pages. Weird. Maybe this is a different version."

Aside from liberally editing annoying children's stories and the seizure of gingerbread house candy, there are other parenting moments of which I am not particularly proud. For example,
telling my three year old that although it was unfortunate that her binky was missing, she had surpassed the approved "binky use" age threshold and would therefore need to soldier on through childhood without it. (It worked well, by the way. She never asked for it again). Or,
insisting to my son that there was a Storm Trooper hiding in the basement so that he would embark on a "search and destroy mission" and leave me alone to write on my blog. (I know, weasely, but again, effective.) Or my running narrative of nearly every Disney princess tale where I inform my daughter that if Cinderella had stayed in school and gotten her Master's Degree she could've moved out on her own and not married the first boy that asked her to dance. (I'm sticking by that one.) Or my favorite seasonal lie - "I'm emailing Santa, not his elves, him. I'm sure he'll be interested to know that you think I'm a "total meaner" for making you fold your clothes." I can solicit all kinds of good behavior with that one.

Let's face it folks, a lot of parenting is just finding the smallest lie that works best at the time. Is it wrong? Almost probably. Is it effective? You betcha, and if you really think about it, believing tiny little lies are a lot of what childhood is about anyway. Sometimes lies sustain the wonder of the child (ala Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the belief that you really can grow up to be a Jedi). Sometimes lies, however, sustain the sanity of the parent. And when there is not much sanity to be found, I'll take it where I can find it. Even if it's stuck to the roof of my kid's gingerbread house.

Don't destroy the only pants you have

Have you ever been going through one of those times of life when you didn't think things could get much worse?  I'd like to give you all some advice just in case you ever find yourselves in just such a situation.  First, do not, under any circumstances say, "at least it can't get any worse".  Trust me, it can get worse and if you say it out loud, karma/fate/God/voodoo will think you are double-dog-daring them and then... it will get worse.

Second, (and this may seem like a no brainer to the rest of you, but it is a lesson I recently learned), identify self destructive behaviors and run away from them - before the self destruction.  Now, self destruction can look like a lot of different things - it's the shape shifter of mental illness.  Sometimes it looks like 5 or 6 chocolate bars.  Sometimes it looks like a really great pair of shoes that you cannot afford, unless you sell one of your children... short term gain, long term loss there people - plus, they don't let you have fancy shoes in the pen.  Sometimes, however, self destruction is the phrase "how hard could it be".  Warning - if you think this, you have either grossly overestimated your abilities, or seriously underestimated the difficulty of the task which you endeavor to undertake.  Put on the music from "Chariots of Fire" (in your mind - obviously) and sprint in the opposite direction.  "How hard could it be" is like the plague of positive thinking and it will kill you.

My most recent "how hard could it be" moment started with a simple observation:  "I really need a haircut".  Yeah, I know - where was the voice in my mind that was giving this advice then, I ask you?  Probably drowned out by the loud and slightly crazed voice saying, "Use the razor instead of scissors.  That's what Stella does."  (Stella is the woman that has been cutting my hair for 10 years, and ps - she's probably going to break up with me now).  So...  I picked up my razor - the one I use to shave my legs- super professional - and I started hacking away at my hair.  I know.

I finished the front and sides and as much to my suprise as anyone's, it looked pretty good.  Unfortunately for me, and contrary to the lie I've been telling my children for basically their entire lives, I do not actually have eyes in the back of my head, and it's hard to hold a mirror and razor at the same time.  Well what would you have done?  I went with a kind of Zen-mystic style of hair cuttery, where you become one with the blade and feel your way through the task without actually watching what you are doing.  You use your spiritual eyes instead really.  Good for motorcycle maintence and midwifery, not so much for cutting your own hair.  I must admit that cleaning out the razor after each pass over my head was pretty rad.

However...

My cutter's high came to a screeching halt when I finally looked in the mirror.  The funny thing is that I actually expected to see a high quality hair cut back there.  What I got instead was a jagged mixture of short and shorter hair with two literally bald spots where I had apparently and unknowingly taken my hair off at the scalp.  How I could not have felt this I do not know, I guess I was in "the zone".  (I'm blaming the Bible for all of this, by the way.  I think that those stories of people like Job that shaved their heads and covered themselves in ashes when things went wrong really spoke to me.  I'm not blaming God.  I like Him a lot.  I just think that those stories should come with some kind of warning.  Like blowdryers that say "do not use while sleeping" and stuff like that.)

My husband was called in to repair the damage - because he is a trained cosmotologist.  And when I mean trained, I mean - he cut lots of guys' hair on his mission.  He had about as many options as a field surgeon in the Civil War.  Amputate quickly or amputate slowly.  It wasn't pretty - what am I saying, it isn't pretty.  (My fault, not his.)  Actually, if he'd have cut the back to begin with it would've been... well not good, but not Schindler's List either.

So, the upside - I didn't eat myself into oblivion.  The downside - two bald patches  in the back of my head - have you not been listening?  At least it won't take any extra work to grow back my hair, (unlike pie induced weight gain) just a little time (exactly like pie induced weight gain).  And the next time things get worse when I thought it wasn't possible - I'll have my husband hide my razor.

I can't put my pants on by myself.

I have always considered myself to be a fairly smart girl.  I have had the occasional lapse in judgement.  For example, the first time I went skiing it went something like this- 

boyfriend - "I'll teach you"

me- "ok"

boyfriend- "Do this"

me- " Hey I just tore my ACL.  Sorry cute ski patrol guy that is cutting my pants off - I didn't shave my legs."   

As you can see, usually my bad decisions are compound bad decisions (and often involve boys - go figure).  Despite this, people don't typically treat me like an idiot.  Until today.  At the Home Depot.  I needed to buy some moulding (which I cut on the mitre saw by myself  - and the corners are perfect thank you very much).  Anyway, they have those big open carts at Home Depot especially designed for carrying 12 foot lengths of moulding, and they say "DO NOT RIDE ON CART" all over them.  I have a two year old boy - he rode on the cart.  

As soon as I hit the door from the parking lot it started.  I was greeted with "He can't ride on that cart". (Another employee actually speed walked across the parking lot to tell me this as well.)  I told them that they didn't need to worry about it because he was my kid not theirs and I wasn't going to sue them if he fell the (literally) 6 inches to the floor.  Greeter/Rule Enforcer was not impressed.  So he climbed down and I said - " I'm sure it's going to be safer for him to be running through your store while I wrangle this big moulding carrier cart."

Everytime I stopped, my son climbed on the cart -  and like some little safety patrol drop out, a Home Depot employee was there, looking very grave and insisting that I save him from certain doom.  Seriously Home Depot - I grew up riding in a van that didn't even come with seat belts... and I drove ...when I was 9...while sitting on my dad's lap.  Your low rider carts do not strike fear into the heart of this girl.

So finally I make it to the parking lot (after pointing out to the "see you later" lady that since I needed both hands to steer the cart, it would be more dangerous for my two year old to be running loose in the parking lot than hitching a ride with my moulding.)  I start loading my moulding into the back of my father- in-law's really big truck and I realize that it's hanging out the back.  So, because I know these things, I start looking for something to use as a flag to mark the end of the moulding.  AS I AM LOOKING FOR A FLAG - some random man comes up to me to tell me that I need to mark the end of the moulding with a flag.  Poor, poor man.  "Yes - I know" I said with my hands on my hips and not a very nice look on my face "what is it about people today?  Why does everyone think they need to tell me what to do?"  (I will let you play my voice in your head - use your imagination).

Apparently he did not know the answer to this question, because he just looked at me.  Maybe he thought that if he didn't move I wouldn't be able to see him - like those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.  Come to think of it, I can't remember where he went.  Maybe he's still standing there, holding really still and wondering what was wrong with the crazy, angry, hostile - but not stupid - lady at the Home Depot.

Peg leg pants

I am a huge believer that a woman needs to have marketable skills.  In my opinion, (and since you're reading this I'm assuming you want my opinion,) the ability to be financially independent is vital to the long term well being of any girl, let's face it - stuff happens.  Because this is a subject so dear to me I have worked long and hard and can now do... absolutely nothing that anyone will pay me for.  Until now.  One word.  Pirate.

How, you might ask, have I settled on this lucrative career in "open ocean asset liberation"? Well, I attended the Portland Pirate Festival this weekend with my family (yes there is such a thing - my people are very organized), and I have seen the future.  Judging from the other attendees, whom, I can only believe, are pirates themselves, I need only three things - 

1.  A really bad English accent - I should actually call this a "British" accent, because I heard bad accents from every corner of the Queen's realm.  Irish, English, and I'm presuming Welsh. (I don't really know what the Welshies sound like.  Do you?  Well neither did the people imitating them.)  Also, there were many psuedo Scotts there doing great injustice to this lovely accent. Many of them, men in kilts.  Many of them playing bagpipes (ok - actually only one with bagpipes), but bagpipes are loud, so I just pretended.   Regardless, I can do a bad accent with the best of them, so...check.

2.  Boobs.  Apparently, girls are totally allowed to be a pirates,  (the bad luck on ships thing is a myth, we like diversity aboard), but only if you wear a dress that is too small, with a corset that is too tight (it is best if the clasps make a creaking noise when you move),  so as to heave your boobs as close to your collarbone as possible.  This must come in handy during hand to hand combat - distraction technique.

 Bra in the way?  No problem, totally optional, simply toss it into the sea.  Go ahead, take the girls out for a walk without a leash and get the most bounce possible.  (Also, all those bras lying on the seabed make for an excellent reef starter.)  Didn't know pirates are eco friendly did you?

  Obviously, I've got the equipment for this but I will need to invest in some new pieces for my wardrobe.  (I think I will keep the bra though.  Maybe those other pirate gals haven't nursed three babies, but I have.  So, there you go). 

3.  Complete lack of concern for hygiene.  I admit, this will be the biggest challenge to my getting ahead in the pirate world.  I really like showers.  Also, I like pedicures, all manner of high end moisturizes and really good makeup.  (I think I can keep the makeup as long as I use every product I have when I wear it.  Pirates don't do the "natural look.")  I'm pretty certain that they will confiscate my deodorant though.  Maybe they have the same rules as the airlines - no gels or liquids over three ounces.  Stinky, but safe.

As you can see, I am totally qualified for life on the open seas and may be seeking employment soon.  So don't be surprised if I'm looking like a true career woman in our family Christmas card this year.  I'll be the one in the velvet corset.

 

 

grass stained pants

My husband Derek and I have a standing joke that, although based on stereotypical gender-role assumptions, for us is sadly true.  In our marriage, I am the boy.  I'm not certain whether or not this phenomenon is a product of being raised by a stay-at-home dad (although obviously my mom made a suggestion here and there), or,  if when God was organizing intelligences and creating souls, some actual boy cooties somehow contaminated my otherwise pristine femininity.  (I had to keep sounding that word out - it's tricky).

I have long believed that there was some kind of secret orientation to girlhood where secrets of the girly sisterhood were explained.  Clearly, I was not invited and I think I missed some of the finer points that govern girly conduct.  For example, I do not even like the word cuddle let alone the actual act.  (Quoting my 15 year old nephew "It makes me want to throw up in my mouth").   I use quotes like - "It makes me want to throw up in my mouth".  I think Valentine's Day is a holiday promoted by the greeting card cartel (or "cardtel" for short) for the sole purpose of exploiting an unwitting consumer base, and if Meg Ryan's in a movie, I ain't watching it.

But it became clear to me today, as I watched my 5 year old niece play soccer, that the major difference between me and other girls can be summed up in one word - and here it is- "balls".  (Stay with me people).  As I watched my niece run around the field with her little pigtails bouncing, in a shirt that came down to her shin guards, the only thing I could think was "GET THE BALL".  While the other moms were shouting encouraging words like " do your best",  "good try, Honey" and "that's okay - it really doesn't matter which goal you score on Sweetheart",   I seriously wanted to yell - "don't let him take that ball from you - KNOCK HIM DOWN".  (Apparently, the rules on parental conduct have changed since I was in sports. Apparently, we don't say things like this anymore. When I was in a game - any game - my family was like some kind of crazed tribal war party ready to verbally assault anyone in their path including, but not limited to: the referees, other parents, players, and food vendors.  It was how they showed they loved me.  There was none of this silent treatment, passive-aggressive, "parental observer" nonsense.)  At one point a little boy from the other team actually yelled "I want a hug mommy" and ran off the field, during the middle of a "play" (I use this term loosely).  His mom totally hugged him and giggled about how cute her little cherub was.  I, on the other hand, noticed my niece's team's advantage and was on the verge of yelling "score now- that little momma's boy left the goal open", but thought better of it.  The thing is, if that were my little cherub, I would've thought the same thing, and sent his little goalie butt back in the game.  I ask you, what kind of boy-girl am I, to put a ball in front of a little boy's affection for his mother?  A winner, that's what.  It's not a pretty snapshot of my soul, and I'm not saying it's right - but there you have it.

I was always more aggressive than the girls around me.  I never wanted to be a cheerleader.  If those girls needed someone to cheer for, I figured they could cheer for me.  I never cared what my hair looked like (while I was playing). In high school I let my boyfriend (a soccer player himself) shave the whole back of my head because the hair was bugging my neck when I had to set the volleyball (something I did often, since I was a setter).  My mother took it rather well, I must say.  

I wasn't one of the girls that screamed and ran away when a little boy chased her on the playground.  If a little boy chased me, either I would turn on him (who's chasing who now, little man?), or simply outrun him (the best feeling in the world is to outrun a boy - even now.  I know, I've got "issues"- are you not paying attention?).  And I certainly was not going to be polite and take turns at getting the basketball... or volleyball, or softball, or baseball.  (Although, ironically for this post, never a soccer ball.  We didn't play soccer in the Montana of my childhood.  It was a state law or something - too European for Big Sky Country.)

In the end, my niece's team scored "some" goals and the other team scored... I'm going with - "not enough to beat us" goals (again, scorekeeping is not allowed).  My niece scored three times, and I kept my big mouth shut - for her sake.  But deep down, when I watch her play, I can still feel that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you're going to get to the ball first.  And the adrenaline rush of being better than that other kid, and seeing that quantified, with mathematical certainty on a score board is something that, though I know I should've gotten over by now, will always feel really, really good.  Which just goes to show that sometimes - to this girl at least - it's totally about if you win or lose and not at all about how you play the game.

Make sure you pack your pants...

Listed Rant...

The 5 things I hate most about moving-

5. moving- Just say the word and people take two steps back. No one likes to pack their own stuff around let alone someone else's. And let's be honest - we've all got too much crap that we don't need but insist on keeping "just in case." (This is why I'm amazed that we got so much wonderful help with our move this weekend. Thanks all - clearly you are just better than I am.)

4. What the heck is that stuff behind the refrigerator - (and washer/dryer for that matter.) If you don't know what I'm talking about then you are clearly a better housekeeper than me, or you've just never looked. Trust me - ignorance is bliss, but it can also be really dirty.

3. No window coverings in the new house- Sorry neighbors, but you're just going to have to watch me... do everything. I can only crawl across the floor like some sneaky Army Ranger guy for so long. Mostly because it hurts to drag yourself across carpet, and if you've just showered you get all linty. I suppose I could run really fast, but I can't really run that fast, and plus... bouncing -yikes.

2. Hanging pictures- How I deal with this dilemma: I don't hang pictures. I prop them against the wall on top of the fireplace, armoires, cabinets and sometimes the floor and call it good. I don't think of it as lazy, I think of it as "artsy".

1. The kids still insist on eating - Like 30 times a day my kids tell me they're hungry (physically impossible I say). And while this is annoying anyway, I find it particularly irksome when I'm in the middle of a project like putting away every last one of our earthly possessions. Come on people- let's show slightly more grit here. Those Donners did okay for a really long time and they moved from way farther away than we did.

Hopefully this will be the last time I have to pack up my pants.

Stretchy Pants

Who here does yoga - (yeah, I know "practices" yoga)? Of those of us who just raised our hands, who attends an actual yoga class - okay I know at least I know what I'm talking about then -

So... in a yoga class you have all your classic "Breakfast Club" characters. You have your perky and perfect Molly Ringwalds (their outfits match their mats), your muscle bound Emilio Estevezes (huh?) - (to be fair they are a bit older and pudgier than Emilio, and they are not very stretchy) , a lot of your strange and... well let's just go with strange Ally Sheedys. I'm assuming that there are smart and nerdy ones too - like that kid that was in every single John Hughes movie, but we don't get to talk, so they are a mystery to me. Anyway, I think that I just may be the Judd Nelson of the 24 Hr Fitness Friday late afternoon yoga class.

While my instructor is concentrating on "inhaling joy and exhaling gratitude" (her exact words) - I am concerned with inhaling the odd mixture of smells coming from the man next to me. While the Molly Ringwalds and especially the Ally Sheedys are allowing their minds to be "silent and present" my mind is extremely concerned that there seem to be an awful lot of times when my bum is stuck up in the air, and I am a bit more than a bit sweaty, because I just came from my cycling class and I think I might have bum sweat marks on my stretchy yoga pants and I'm hoping the person behind me is not looking at my sweaty stretchy yoga bum.

But the pinnacle of my shame came, when, at the end of class the instructor told us to "have a little fun on our mats before we worked toward 'bird of paradise' " - which I can only assume is not an actual bird - and I looked around and everyone was doing, like, free form yoga- like they actually knew what they were supposed to do, (including the pregnant girl next to me,) and they were focused on the whole joy/gratitude thing. Well ,what would you have done? I went with "fake it". However, there are some things you just can't fake, and at the top of this list is: flexibility. So I started twisting and writhing right there on my mat until I was laying on my belly (sort of ) with one knee underneath me and up by my chin, and my other leg extended all the way back behind me. (Don't ask me to replicate it.)

Then, in true Judd Nelson style, I started laughing - not quietly - because all I can picture is... well, me in this ridiculous position obviously (which by the way, only serves to emphasize the bum sweat thing). Let me tell you - yogies might be flexible, but they are not funny -
and so I'm pretty sure one more class like that and I will be serving Saturday detention in the Daycare Center ... maybe I should wear a bandana around my knee.