For the last week (actually 12 days) I've been trying to get over a terrible cold. I've been suffering through it silently, dosing up on various cold medicines and praying to the Gods to kill me in my sleep.

It's tough to be a wife and mother when all I want to do is crawl under the covers and sleep for days. The housework has piled up. I have dishes in the sink, my son's toys are scattered all over the living room and I haven't had the energy to vacuum.

And trying to keep a certain 3-year-old occupied, in between blowing my nose and coughing up a lung, is pure Hell. Yes. With a capital 'H'. Add to that a meltdown of a preschooler and I nearly jumped from the second floor window.

My husband isn't much help when I'm sick. He tries to act as though he wants to take care of me, all the while staying as far from me as possible so that he doesn't catch what I've got. But as for helping with the housework? Only in my dreams.

That isn't to say that he doesn't do his fair share. He does, for the most part. But ever since I became a work-at-home-mom, the bulk of the chores fall on my shoulders. And then when I get sick he doesn't step in to help.

I can't figure out why. When he's sick, he acts like a big baby and I do the best I can to make things comfy for him. I take Dawson out of the house so he can rest and get over his sickness. But when I'm the one feeling miserable he tells me to suck it up.

Just the other day, as I was laying on the couch, sneezing and coughing, he had the audacity to ask me, "So, umm, are you going to get to these dishes?"

"Geez, I'm dying over here and that's all you can think about?" I asked. "I'll do them tomorrow when I feel better."

"What time tomorrow?" he snickered.

Now, I know he was trying to be funny. He's a comical guy. Joking is second nature for him. But he chose the wrong time to be Robin Williams. I flipped out.

"How can you ask me what time, when I've been sick for a week and a half and barely functioning? You stupid jerk!" I screamed. "What ever happened to that 'in sickness and in health' part of this marriage?"

I overreacted. I know that. It's just that there seems to be a double standard here.

When men get sick, they revert back to childhood and want to be taken care of. As a mother, and someone who nurtures, I don't mind taking care of my husband. However, when women get sick, all they want is someone to help them, but men act like the tough football coach and tell us to "Tough it out."

Do I have the right to be mad? Or am I just making a mountain out of a molehill?

Posted by Dana at 3:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm pissed off. No, I'm furious. I'm extremely angry at John McCain. I wanted to tackle this topic last week but I was seething after reading this:

Republican Sen. John McCain, campaigning through poverty-stricken cities and towns, said Wednesday he opposes a Senate bill that seeks equal pay for women because it would lead to more lawsuits.

Senate Republicans killed the bill on a 56-42 vote Wednesday night. Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev., had delayed the vote to give McCain's Democratic rivals, Sens. Hillary Rodham Clinton and Barack Obama, time to return to Washington to support the measure, which would make it easier for women to sue their employers for pay discrimination.

McCain skipped the vote to campaign in New Orleans.

I have been sputtering about this for days. It's just another piece of evidence that proves that Republicans do not care about women like they say they do. I've always wondered why women my age are mostly Democrats and I think I figured it out. The Democrats actually give a damn about the rights of women. And while I may disagree with abortion as a "reproductive right" I do understand why so many women vote Left.

The GOP is out of touch with reality. They are perfectly content on believing that a woman's "place" is in the home. Never mind that many women choose to be home with their children. So says McCain, "They [women] need the education and training, particularly since more and more women are heads of their households, as much or more than anybody else, and it's hard for them to leave their families when they don't have somebody to take care of them."

This remark just doesn't make sense to me. I can't see the correlation between women finding it difficult to leave their families to go to work and pay inequality.

When I worked outside the home I struggled with "mom guilt". It was hard to take my son to daycare each day, without feeling as though someone else was raising my child. But my family needed my income to make ends meet, and I actually liked working. It wasn't the worst thing I could be doing. But just because I found it difficult to be a mother and an employee, does that mean I shouldn't be upset that my male co-workers, with the same qualifications, and the same job training, received a higher salary than I did?

And what about the women who are college graduates, educated women with pertinent job training? Do they need more training and education to get paid equally? If a woman does the same work as a man, and has the same qualifications, education and work experience as that man, why is she paid less? Does that seem fair? Because the man has a penis he automatically gets a salary increase? Is he paid based on testosterone? Does producing estrogen automatically knock a woman's wage down?

It's true, more women are the heads of their households. More women control the purse strings. More women are in charge of family decisions. More women have greater influence in matters of business. It's also safe to say that women are better able to influence other women on how to vote in this coming election. But the one area where women are jipped is in salaries. We are still treated as second class citizens.

Why are we treated so unfairly? Is it because we tend to be more nurturing? Because we are partners, wives and mothers? Because we have vaginas? That's it, isn't it? Men are afraid of the power of the va-jay-jay so to punish us, we get paid less money so they can still feel in control. On top. Like they have more authority.

I've got a vagina that says these men better use their salary boosts to buy protection for their man parts, you know, just in case millions of angry women can't fight the urge to kick them in the balls.

From Comedy Central's Indecision 2008:

It's men like John McCain that make it impossible for women to escape these stereotypes. (I've found another reason to be glad I didn't vote for McCain in the Wisconsin primary.)

Posted by Dana at 3:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You know me: I just never promote or recommend a product on any of my blogs. But fellow Mommy-Bloggers, I have discovered a website that absolutely rocks, and it's great for homeschoolers and parents as well as your child's teachers.

I am just so EXCITED over this discovery!

Steve Spangler Science takes the experiments into your kitchen or back yard, and encourages your kids to get down and dirty with them. With Steve's advice, freebies, and budget-conscious kits and products, your child will learn that good science doesn't exist within the pages of a dry textbook or even within the four walls of a classroom. Good science is all around us, and when a child is allowed - nay, ENCOURAGED - to make loud noises and blow things up and walk on water and make geysers and create glow-in-the-dark alien goo and lava lamps and potato-shooters (NOT guns!), our children will become enthusiastic and excited and eager to learn more.

I have always believed that a good lesson not only teaches our children something important: it also encourages our children to try and discover MORE and MORE, and to make connections.

I can't begin to tell you how much I am enjoying my discoveries on Steve Spangler Science. And, you can even sign up for a free "Experiment of the Week!" FREE!

Right now, Steve Spangler is running a contest on his blog, and if you enter, you might win TEN DOLLARS' worth of science coolness for your children! It's easy to enter; all you have to do is look at the bees and make a guess.

Bees? Well, you'll just have to go there and check it out. I think it's FANTASTIC.

As parents, we want to help our children think "out of the box," and the kind of science Steve Spangler encourages is perfection plus. Steve's experiments also involve ordinary household things, such as baking soda or cornstarch, that are in the pantry anyway. There isn't much expense with Spangler experiments. It's also good for our children when they see the adults in their lives participating and enjoying.

I've seen Steve Spangler on "Ellen," and he's all over You-Tube. Remember that awesome Mentos/Diet Coke geyser experiment? That's Steve Spangler!

My kids are in their twenties, and my neighbor's children are seven and eleven, and I'm in my, um, anonymous middle years, and I'm not sure who had the most fun doing that in my back yard!

Steve Spangler Science is having a contest! Go enter it right now; maybe you'll win it.

Posted by Mamacita at 6:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a kid, my family used to drive down to Alabama almost every summer. We had relatives down there, and there would be canvas army cots all over the place at night. My Alabama cousins were many years older, and I thought they were adults, I really did. Cool, stylish, trendy adults. I think the cousin closest in years to me might have been twelve.

It is the trip itself that I want to talk about. And traveling peripherals.

This was before the time of the interstate highway, and the drive took us through every little town, middle-sized town, and city in southern Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and half of Alabama. We stopped at the occasional little local restaurant, because this was also before the day of the big chain restaurants. This meant, of course, that most of the time the food was actually good. Our car did not have air conditioning, which meant that we rode with all the windows down. It also meant that Dad had a very sunburned left arm.

There was no such thing as carseats for babies or toddlers, unless you counted those little canvas seats that hooked over the back of the front seat, and when we were on vacation, the car was too full for one of those. There were no seatbelts, either. Two parents, four kids, and a grandmother in one '59 Chevy made a pretty full load.

There was no stereo in the car, either. Not even a radio.

Dad was in charge, and we stopped when HE wanted to stop. And if we needed him to stop, it was of vital importance that we never tell him we needed to stop. It made him mad, and he would drive even farther just to demonstrate that he was in charge. This never bothered me, because I could, even as a small child, "hold it" for hours on end, but it pretty much killed my Other Sister, who generally needed to pee every twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes from our house and she was not only asking if we were there yet, she was already asking to go to the bathroom.

Hub and I could never afford to take our children on a real vacation until the summer between their 3rd and 5th grade. That year, we borrowed my parents' van, mortgaged our financial future for NINE YEARS with a new Discover Card, and went to Disney World.

That's right; it took nine years to pay off Discover. NEVER USE THIS CARD. It has the highest interest in the universe. But I digress.

My point is, all my father and mother had to do to maintain almost perfect order in a vehicle was to turn around and say "You kids sit still and behave." And we did. We weren't buckled in, so sitting still took some real effort, but disobeying our parents was far worse than sitting still. We looked out the windows, and counted cows, and sang, and played word games, and napped. We ate only when Dad stopped at a restaurant, although we did travel with a bushel of fresh peaches; we loved to watch dad toss the pits out of his window.

On that trip to Disney World with my own kids, all we had to do was say "Sit still and behave." and they behaved. We didn't travel with toys, or vcr's. We looked out the windows and counted cows and sang and played games. Sometimes, the kids napped. Really, the only differences between our trip and my parents' trip were the seat belts, the cooler of fruit, the air conditioner, and the fact that we usually stopped when the children said they needed to stop.

Here is what I do not understand at all, not one single little tiny bit: why do modern parents supply their vehicles - and thus their children - with all the comforts of home? Why do families need movies, and toys, and a constant supply of snacks, for a road trip? Why do parents nowadays allow their children to dictate when they stop and where? Why don't parents tell their kids to look out the windows, count the cows, play word games, and sing?

My parents talked to us when we were on the road. A lot of modern parents couldn't talk to their kids if they wanted to, because the kids are watching Disney in the back of the minivan.

Modern kids couldn't tell you about the scenery because they never look at it. They demand the same comforts of a vehicle that they demand at home: television, toys, food, drinks, and their own way.

A lot of modern parents would gasp in horror if they heard another parent say "You kids sit still and behave yourselves."

When did it happen that road trips became such a big deal? Tons of toys. Baskets and boxes of juiceboxes and graham crackers and cheese and bottled water. Always with the water. I don't think most people these days have ever been really thirsty because they're never without a bottle of water.

We never had drinks in the car. We drank when we stopped. We knew what it felt like to be genuinely thirsty and we appreciated those rare drinks very much. There were no sticky spills and no crumbs or wrappers in my parents' car.

When we stopped to eat, we parked and went inside. No food or drinks came back outside with us. We ate and drank in the restaurant. And we appreciated it, for we were hungry. After we ate, we weren't hungry and didn't need any snacks or drinks "for the road."

I do not mean that families should travel without air conditioning, or that the occasional drinkbox is going to make the earth stop turning. But I do believe that with many families, it's gotten completely out of hand. With some families, the children are in charge!

We provide so much stimulation via toys and videos and other OUTSIDE sources that our children are never given the chance to learn how to entertain themselves from WITHIN.

It's certainly easier to just hand the kids a graham cracker and the remote to the DVD player installed in the minivan, than to teach your kids to obey you when you tell them to settle down and behave, and to entertain themselves by looking out of the window, or reading a book, or ANYTHING that doesn't entail bothering his/her siblings. If the means of entertaining himself/herself comes WITHOUT a theme song, so much the better.

And if the kids tell you they're thirsty, tell them they can get a drink at the next stop.

What's the matter with people these days? Let your kids get thirsty. Let them get hungry. Don't anticipate EVERYTHING because when you do, they don't appreciate what they get when they get it.

If they cry or scream for food or toys, etc, tell them to look out the window, and count the cows, and see who can be first to find a blue house. You might also practice turning around and saying, "You kids sit still and behave."

And if they don't obey you, you've got a far bigger problem than you might think.

(Cross-posted at Scheiss Weekly)

Posted by Mamacita at 6:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This post might alienate some people, but that isn't the intention. It's about sex, and since most of us aren't very interested in sex, go ahead and take a nap.

SEX.

First of all, I'm for it.

Secondly, there's a time and a place for everything. Sleeping, eating, rollerblading, driving, leaving home, movies, red wine, golfing, websurfing, and, yes, sex. Try any of these things when you're too young or too old or too tired or at work or at someone else's house or ovulating or angry or with the wrong person or just having an off day, well, let's just say that things won't go as they should, and that's an understatement. And to try and persuade or even, heaven forbid, force, someone to do any of these things when they really don't want to, is to be the opposite of a friend, and worse even than an enemy.

When, then, should these things, and others, be done? They should be done when the time is right, and the place is right, and the people are right. When do we know that? I don't know. We just know. But what if everybody else is doing these things and they're making fun of me because I'm not? Ignore them. They're not you, and they can't make decisions for you. But, but, but, I WANT them to! No, you don't. Not really. But, but, but, people are doing these things everywhere. All the coolest celebrities are doing them and they look awesome.

Uh huh. Is this what it's come down to? Celebrities are our young peoples' mentors now? Actually, as long as parents give in and give in and kowtow, celebrities rule. Fashion, music, behavior. . . . .besides, many kids nowadays see celebrities more frequently than they see their parents. Kids spend long hours home alone in front of the tv, and lifestyle examples are rampant all over the networks. All of them look like more fun than their parents' lifestyles, unless you've got parents who imitate celebrities in their indiscriminate helping themselves to other peoples' spouses, and their utter disregard for the homes they destroy, the people they devastate, and the children they traumatize.

But yeah, young people today think celebrities and other peoples' mothers are awesome!

You know, just like us, when we were their age.

Celebrities are out there everywhere. There are more celebrities than regular people, in some areas. Celebrities, wearing g-strings and two styrofoam egg carton sections, carrying french bread in a mesh bag, talking on a cell phone and frowning at the ten thousand photographers who are following them. Celebrities, making babies and abandoning them like so much dross. Celebrities, walking out on pregnant wives or girlfriends that they might take up with yet another celebrity and impregnate them, too. Studly celebrities with high sperm counts, going from flower to flower like King Mongut. Celebrities, unmarried but reproducing like crazed ferrets, dancing on top of talk-show furniture and spouting philosophy that any sane and educated person would laugh at, but which an un or under-educated person might ostensibly fall for. And it is my firm belief that many of our young people are at the very least, undereducated.

Tom Cruise ROCKS, and Katie is so LUCKY he looked her way, and their baby is AWESOME, and, um, married? No, but it's okay because they're CELEBRITIES. Celebrities DO it, so if I do it, maybe I'll get as lucky as Katie. She's so LUCKY. And I KNOW that Tom will never leave her the way he left two other wives; he's CHANGED. Sure, he was married when she started having sex with him but that's all right because she LOVED him and, well, it's just ALL RIGHT.

It makes me remember Michael Landon, "Mr. Family Values" of the seventies and eighties, and how he made and walked out on several families, all the while wearing his "TV's Perfect Father" crown for some people. (He also helped ruin Laura Ingalls Wilder's beautiful stories, and for that I shall never forgive him.)

A lot of old celebrities are dating young women. Is this cool? Would you really want your daughter to have sex with him? Why is this penchant of so many celebrities - and noncelebrities, for that matter - for young girls played up as "cool?" It's not cool when horny wrinkled old men put their hands all over women who could be their daughters, age-wise! It's NASTY! People like Pitt and Cruise and Landon leave their wives of many years, they leave their children, and shack up with other women, some of whom are young enough to be their daughters. Personally, I think it's a compensatory thing. Why are we so reluctant to call this behavior by its true name: adultery. Adultery is a sin, not something cool to emulate!

With or without a camera aimed in a person's face, people should behave themselves. Period. Is there ever a good, ethical reason for adultery and abandonment? No, there is not.

Where am I going with this ramble? I'm not sure. There are things I'd like to say and I'm not sure I can say them without offending somebody, but then, that's never stopped me before, and if somebody IS offended, maybe he/she/they need to take a good long look at themselves through other peoples' eyes. Harrison certainly has an advocate!

Perhaps one of the points is that there are many aspects of life that are wonderful. Some of them are available for people of any age; several of them are available only for people of a certain age, and several of them are appropriate only for people of a certain age and circumstances. Or should be.

Remember the Seven Deadly Sins? The Seven Virtues? Remember what Mordred thought of the Seven Virtues? Remember what kind of person Mordred was? Does anyone know who Mordred was? Has anyone ever heard of Mordred?

The Seven Deadly Virtues, those ghastly little traps,
Oh no, my liege, they were not meant for me.
Those Seven Deadly Virtues were made for other chaps,
Who love a life of failure and ennui.
Take Courage-now there's a sport
An invitation to the state of rigor mort
And Purity-a noble yen
And very restful every now and then
I find Humility means to be hurt
It's not the earth the meek inherit, it's the dirt
Honesty is fatal, it should be taboo
Diligence-a fate I would hate
If Charity means giving, I give it to you
And Fidelity is only for your mate
You'll never find a virtue unstatusing my quo, or making my Beelzebubble burst;
Let others take the high road, I will take the low;
I cannot wait to rush in where angels fear to go,
With all those Seven Deadly Virtues free and happy little me has not been cursed!

And the Seven Deadly Sins?

Pride is excessive belief in one's own abilities, that interferes with the individual's recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.

Envy is the desire for others' traits, status, abilities, or situation.

Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.

Lust is an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body.

Anger is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury. It is also known as Wrath.

Greed is the desire for material wealth or gain, ignoring the realm of the spiritual. It is also called Avarice or Covetousness.

Sloth is the avoidance of physical or spiritual work.

Is it just me, or have those Deadly Sins somehow become the typical lifestyle of a lot of people? Is there ever really a good excuse for any of them? I can't think of one.

Ghandi had his own list of sins. Look.

Wealth without Work

Worship without Sacrifice

Now, far be it from me to sermonize. Sermons usually put me to sleep. Sermons often make people get up and go out and do the very thing they were just sermonized against just for spite. (not that I would know.) But I have seen a lot of heartbreak and disillusionment in our young people, because they disregarded certain conventions and 'did their own thing' to the tune of flouting old-fashioned boring things like morality and fidelity and chastity; besides which, such doings often bring yet another innocent being into the world who gets to reap the benefit of being raised by teenagers, fed by government-subsidized programs, educated via free book rental, clothed by the salvation army, and housed by charity. Yes, sometimes it works, but it would have worked better if it had been done later. Have you any idea how many kids in the public schools have parents who have passed the same VD's around from household to household? And you really don't want to get me started on parents who have a winter coat, shoes, and reek of nicotine and recent sex when their children have no socks or coat and their shoes are held together with rubber bands and duct tape, who depend on free lunch for survival. Most of you wouldn't BELIEVE the stories most teachers could tell you. I'd like to have a nickel for every poor little kid I've had in class who never knew from day to day which "Uncle" would be sleeping with Mommy on any given night. Some of these parents have lost their minds, putting themselves first in every aspect of life! First, when they ought to be last and their little children first. . . .

Oh, I'm making lots of friends with this post, aren't I.

It's too late to make a long story short, so I'll end with this. Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Lindsey Lohan, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Harrison Ford, Jerry Springer and anyone he's ever had on his show, Elizabeth Hurley, and lots of other unwholesome 'celebrities,' are not mentors or icons or role models. They are clowns. Ideally, we go to the circus, point and laugh at clowns, and then leave them behind whilst heaving a sigh of relief that we are not them. Clowns are to be laughed at, not brought home and given the run of the bedroom. We laugh at clowns, we don't let them whisper promises in our ears and pour us one more glass of wine and remove our clothing and impregnate us.

And how do we know a clown when we see one? Oh good grief, people, a clown is the idiot who tries to talk us into anything we don't really want to do, and who makes us feel inferior and behind the times and childish if we protest. If anyone tries to mess with you in any of those ways, PLEASE try to visualize the big red nose, the greasy red lips, the acne underneath the whiteface, and the infected boils under the suspenders. If you're still horny after picturing that, you've got far bigger problems than I could deal with here. In fact, you might even be the clown in the relationship.

If your mind is telling you to 'wait,' then wait. Nobody on this entire planet has the right to make you do 'anything' you don't feel ready to do. The Seven Deadly Sins are gross, disgusting, inferior lifestyles; don't let anyone try to cover them with sparkle-dust and fool you. All the glitter in the world won't cover a pile of shit that big. It might shine, but it will still stink. The Seven Virtues might be difficult at times, but ultimately, they are your best bet for a good life. And Ghandi's list is perfection.

Yes. I am speaking from experience, in many ways. I want everyone to have a better life than I have. I want everyone to be happier than I am. I want everyone to be smarter than I am.

I want everyone to do his/her own thinking, and I want everyone to stop trying to talk kids into things they would be better off not doing. I want these celebrities to stop sugar-coating lifestyles that are really just selfish inability to commit. Adopting orphans from faraway lands does not negate a personal lifestyle that is immoral.

I've always been a little bit afraid of clowns. I think it's because all that paint and nonsense can fool some people into thinking that anything the clown suggests is a really good idea.

Honk honk. Beep beep. Why DON'T you want to, sweetheart, everyone else is doing it. You don't want to be the ONLY ONE who isn't, do you? Come on. Loosen up. Whoops, sorry about the lipstick smears. Beep beep, hahahahahahahahahahahaha. . . . .

And HOLY COW, people who live like this sure hate it when a finger is pointed at them!

"My personal life is nobody else's business!" Why, of COURSE not, dear. You go right ahead and commit adultery if the urges are that strong; never mind all those young people watching your every move.

Parts of this were posted on Scheiss Weekly in February of 2006.

Posted by Mamacita at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Did I catch your attention with that title? Good. This rant isn't, of course, about YOU, but it's about people we know, now isn't it. It was first published on Scheiss Weekly about a year go, but after returning from a trip to the grocery store during an ice storm in mid-February and seeing small children dressed in halters and flip-flops, I feel the need to post it again.

Remember when little kids were allowed to look, dress, and act like little kids? You know, before idiot parents started dressing them like whores Britney Spears?

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if little five-year-old girls started getting off the school bus with shaved heads and no underpants. Wouldn't that be COOL?

I hope you don't think I was being harsh up there in paragraph two where I used the politically incorrect expression "idiot parents." Because you can save your energy; I should have used a harsher word than merely "idiot." Small children don't buy their own clothing, you know, nor should they have more than a "do you want the red or blue shirt" say in the choosing of said clothing. So when we see tiny little girls prancing along the sidewalk dressed exactly like the two-bit prostitutes leaning against the lamppost there by the alley, who's responsible for that? Madison Avenue? The Gap? MTV? Nuh uh. Whatever adult, be it Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, or Aunt Matilda, who bought the outfit, that's who's responsible. Don't try to make excuses and blame anybody or anything else; the fact is: a little child wears whatever the adult in charge puts on him/her. And from the looks of some of the little children in the mall the other night and the grocery store an hour ago, there are some pimps out there masquerading as parents.

I let my children have a voice in the selection of their clothing, sure. The same voice they had at dinner: take it or leave it. As they got older, they were allowed a little more voice, but the fact was, I paid for their food and for their clothing and therefore, I was the one whose choice ultimately won out. I did not dress my children like whores and thugs because I considered that mentality a joke. I mean, what decent parent would DO THAT?

They don't, that's what. Parents who do that are not decent parents. Their mentality is stuck in seventh grade, and their morals are leaning against the lamppost by the alley, and they were standing behind the door trying to keep their pants up when judgment was passed out.

Sorry, I'm ranting again. But I really think that any adult who dresses a child like a hooker or a cheap thug is someone to watch very, very carefully. They obviously want their child to appeal to a certain kind of person, and I find that extremely scary.

Oh, look, a seven-year-old girl in fishnet stockings, Daisy Dukes, and a halter made of two rosebuds and a piece of velvet ribbon! Isn't that just the cutest thing? Her whale-tail just MAKES that little outfit! And the little boy with four inches of underwear showing, and the t-shirt with the obscene remark about teachers on it, complete with graphics? So cute. Such a little man.

Gag me with a spoon.

Posted by Mamacita at 5:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Waking up to the smell of noxious burning is never a good thing.

See, I was under the delusion that since all three kids are home from school today, I might actually get to sleep in beyond five am. When my husband and kids all leaped out of bed at quarter past five, I assumed he would wake me when he wasn't able to supervise them any longer.

Uh, no.

The three kids were in and out of our big bed, and I drifted in that half-sleep, half-awake state that has been so common over the last eight years. I was aware, but not aware.

"Mommy, there's a leg bag in the microwave." My son shook my shoulder. It didn't occur to me to question him about this "leg bag" thing.

I immediately leaped out of bed, in fire-fighter mode. As I passed by the bathroom, my husband yelled "Are you cooking something? I don't like what I'm smelling..."

I raced to the kitchen, trailing kids, to find that my nearly-four-year-old had put an ankle weight in the microwave and turned it on. For two minutes. It was black, smoking and bubbling as I wrenched the door open, to be greeted by a cloud of foulness.

I don't know what I said, exactly, but it had a lot of primal screaming for punctuation. My kids stood in a semi-circle around my quaking frame, upper torsos leaning backwards like shrubs in high winds. (I just typed quacking. I might have been doing some of that, too.)

My husband appeared, and we rapidly fanned out, opening doors and windows. The indoor-only cat took the opportunity and ran out the door, to the howls and hysterical tears of my oldest. The smoke detector never went off. I don't know if that is a good thing, or not.

Yes, at seven o'clock this morning, you could have found me in the backyard, shaking a bowl of cat kibble and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty." At seven-o-five, you could have found me on the deck, separating my two oldest children, with one of my palms on one forehead, one of the other forehead. Every time the cat made an appearance, my daughter would grab at her, and my son would simultaneously charge, freaking the cat out and sending her scrambling under the deck.

"It is seven o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood is still asleep. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

I finally captured the cat, and locked her in the bathroom. Then I made a huge mug of coffee and turned on some Bob Marley. I've been walking around fanning the air in my house with a giant plastic lid to a giant plastic container, swaying my hips to the beat.

The kids are spending the night at Grandma's tonight. Every little thing is gonna be all right.

Our contest is live! Use that search function and get your answers in before Sunday night! Click here (or up on the "Fun") to play!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Have you ever heard or read something and thought, "I wish I had said that! That is so what I have been trying to say!"? I have recently been reading...actually devouring... Arianna Huffington's book On Becoming Fearless. In one of the first chapters she quotes actress Rosanna Arquette in what I think is one of the most brilliant statements I have read in a while. After reaching out to other during the process of producing a film called Searching for Debra Winger, she states (and here is where it gets good):

"It set me on my path to stay positive...to connect with other women, my tribe. We have to cut out competition, because we are all on the same path of fearlessness, to be truly who we are, and this is our birthright! It's time we support and love each other in what we want to do in life so we can look at each other and know we are safe. Let's celebrate each other's individuality, blessings--and cellulite."

Yes! Exactly! Now, in the book she was being quoted in a chapter on Fear About the Body, but is that not exactly what we all would love to happen. Especially with people shoving the Mommy Wars down our throat?

Continue reading "Ladies, welcome to your tribe" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 12:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Why, oh why, for the love of all that is scared and holy, does the world insist on changing things that are perfectly good just as they are? I take is as a personal affront when the landscape around me changes without my categorical say-so. The burgeoning condo explosion in Minneapolis renders me positively unhinged. Someone decided it would be great to tear down my elementary school and build a new one, and I subsequently careened into a tizzy from which I have still not yet recovered. I yearn to find who is responsible for the offense and offer them a piece of my traumatized mind. How dare they alter the landscape of MY CHILDHOOD! How inconsiderate. I mean, really.

It’s the lack of warning I find so unsettling. If someone had told me my elementary school was being torn down, I could have taken pictures or something. I could have made a scrap-book (I have never in my life composed a scrap-book). But NOOOO. Now it’s too late. I discover these things after the fact. I drive down the street and come face to face with the new structure and the shock of a transformed landscape, and I am supposed to just shrug my shoulders and accept it. It’s not that easy for me. When I am left with only what memories remain in the not-so-reliable recesses of my brain, I worry that I won’t be able to conjure them up ever again. Memories like the smell of the old lunchroom (sour milk) or the monkey bars I used to do penny-drops from. They were painted green and badly chipped. I worry that those memories will disappear forever.

Last night Jim and I had a hankering for Ice Cream, so I made a run to the local DQ. I perused the menu and noticed that the Mister Misty is no more. Mr. Misty is DEAD with a capital “D”. Deader than a door nail. In its place is a totally extreme concoction called “Arctic Rush” which begs the question, what the Hell happened to Mister Misty, and why did no one consult me before knocking him off? Mr. Misty was perfect just the way he was.

When I was 9 or 10 years old I would scrounge change from my mother’s purse (sorry Mom – I had a short-lived stint as a delinquent that ended promptly when you said to all four of us in the back-seat of the car “someone has been taking money from my purse. I think I know who it is and I would like it to stop”. At the time I slouched and avoided eye contact, but 27 years later I can admit IT WAS ME!!!). I would take my pilfered coins and ride my bike to Dairy Queen where I would order a Mister Misty. Usually a red one. Then I would go down the street to Fanny Farmer and order a small bag of gummy bears, and sometimes some red licorice bits. Then I would eat my illegally acquired contraband treats in solitude and ride my bike home with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I attribute the nausea more to shame than to sugar. It was about that time that I learned that things taste much better when the acquisition of said things does not involve stealing from your mother. Shame really has a way of sucking enjoyment out of an experience. That lesson stuck with me.

So really, Mister Misty taught me that stealing is wrong, and that nothing good can come of dishonesty and general sneakiness. And Mister Misty is dead. You can see why I am so upset now can’t you!

Why does everything need to be “rush” or gush” or “huge” or “tiny” or otherwise totally insane and extreme? Some marketing executive somewhere figured out that as parents, we will accept nothing less than shockingly bright colored, reminiscently fruit-flavored, edible treats that go way beyond just tasting good. Those edible treats must be so totally extreme that they will make our children’s eyes roll back into their heads whilst catapulting their brains down the rabbit hole and into another dimension. All for an economical price that can be purchased in bulk. Now THAT’S extreme value.

Back in my day, we entertained ourselves by combining Two liters of Rondo, Sunkist, Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew and calling it “suicide”. We felt quite riotous and rebellious drinking our brown-colored carbonated concoctions. And "suicide" was just a name. No one actually died. The negative outcome was limited to a nap-inducing sugar crash. At least we used a little creativity. Another game we played involved combining liquids found in the pantry (think liquid smoke, vanilla and peppermint extract) and daring each other to sip it. That was also pretty extreme. Extremely gross. And we were all GIRLS! I shudder to think what boys did for fun.

Arctic Rush. Fruit Gushers. X Treme Jello. So that’s what the kids are doing these days. Oh, my dear Mister Misty. If someone had the manners to ask my permission before they aced you, you’d still be around. Had I known Mister Misty was being laid to rest, I could have toasted his departure into the afterlife. Alas, it was not to be. Goodbye Mr. Misty. I miss you already.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

My oldest daughter was already in a foul mood when I picked her up at her first grade classroom. By the time we reached the border between the school yard and the neighboring park, she was kicking rocks and yelling at her brother to stop looking at her, stop walking near her, and stop being related to her. I requested that she speak nicely over my shoulder. Other parents walked calmly with their arms around their children. I was walking faster and faster, shoving the stroller ahead of me, trying to avert a full-blown revolt. My son dragged his feet, and investigated the clouds. The toddler in the stroller yelled "Wheeeeeee!" and I broke into a trot, hoping to encourage the kids to pick up the pace.

I made it through the park, and turned around to see my son standing about 50 feet away, up to his ankles in a puddle. My oldest was on top of the monkey bars, chatting with friends below. I opened the van, loaded up my youngest in her car seat, and then stood with my hands on my hips and sucked in a lungful of air.

"Heeeeeeeey! Come oooooooooooooooon! Time to GOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

My son sloshed to the car, leaving his shoes midway between the puddle and the van. My oldest turned a deaf ear.

"Get over here right now, young lady!" I bellowed across the park. Random children startled, and began to head my way. "No! Not you kids!" I made shooing motions with my hands. Sheesh.

My daughter shinnied down the pole and came sauntering over, fists on her hips. My son had buckled himself into the middle row of the van, leaving my daughter with a choice of the backseat or the backseat.

"Get out of my seat!" She made the same shooing motions I had moments earlier. Heh. She drove home her point with a ferocious scowl.

"No, he's sitting there." I interjected. "Why don't you just climb into the back and get buckled so we can go home."

She turned the scowl on me and said in a piqued tone: "What am I? Black?"

*needle scratching across vinyl*

"What? What did you just say?" I was equally outraged and baffled.

"I'm not black. Why should I have to sit in the back?" She explained, still in a sassy tone.

"What are you talking about?" I was getting really upset. "Where did you hear that? Who said that to you?"

"My teacher read us a book about it on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. That lady Rosa was really brave." She was puzzled at my agitation.

I took a big breath. "I never want to hear you say that again. That is a racist remark. Do you know what that means?"

For the next half-hour, I lectured ferverently on the importance of treating everyone as equals. The thing is, I know that they do. There is no basis for racist anything in our family. We have taught them from birth to respect and celebrate diversity. I found it astounding that my daughter could take a concept from a children's book and twist it into a hateful phrase. My daughter, who corrects me when I use the word "indian" - "Moooooom. They are Native Americans!" How easy it was for her to misunderstand, and to simply accept the idea that blacks ride in the back. I'm still uneasy about it.

I'm going to mention it to her teacher when the kids go back to school on Tuesday. And I'm going to keep the dialog going. This is another of those pages in the parenting manual that someone must have ripped out or colored over. Anyone have any suggestions?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 3:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday I got the “Ding!”. It happens about once a week. The annoying noise my car makes when it’s nearly out of gas. Driving along, searching for a good song on the radio, deep in thought, and suddenly I am jolted from my stream of random thoughts by a ding from my dashboard. This announcement, indicative of a near-empty gas tank, typically happens when I am late getting to an appointment for work, or eager to get home to see my family. It’s annoying. Can I just say how irritating it is when inanimate objects make demands on your extremely limited time via “the ding” or “the beep”?

“Please take the ticket.” Oh? Is that what I do when I park in a garage? Take the ticket? Thank goodness you told me! I was thinking of putting the car in park right here in the ramp entrance, setting my car keys on top of you, Mr. Machine, and walking away! That instruction may be helpful for someone who, say, hasn’t left the house in fifteen years, or perhaps a visiting aborigine (assuming they had learned to drive a car during their stay), but really, how often does that really happen? Why do we all have to listen to it? Who doesn’t know what to do when they enter a parking garage and a machine spits a ticket at them?

Or how about when its 2 degrees outside with a wind chill of 15 below, and you are at the pump trying to maneuver your back to the wind to keep your face from freezing while pumping some Godforsaken gas in your car? And the pump starts making all these aggressive beeping sounds? “Beep!” Would you like a car wash? “Beep!” Flip the lever stupid! “Beep!” You put the card in the wrong way. Moron. “Beep!” How about some beef jerky? It’s on special! “Beep!” Are you sure you don’t want a car wash? “Beep!” Are you really, positively sure you don’t want a car wash? Because you can have one! For only $4.99! And I want to raise my middle finger and say “Beep you Mr. machine! It’s cold out here, you heartless bastard! Stop asking me insipid questions! I just want to get some gas and go home! I just want to go HHOOMMEE! ”. I am not a violent person, but by about this time, I want to punch the machine in the digital display with my frozen, throbbing exposed knuckles.

And I jump through hoops and try to press all the appropriate buttons as the flesh on my fingers begins to freeze to the metal gas pump handle, and my ears begin to develop frostbite. I finally get the gas pumping, return to the protection of my car and heave a sigh of relief while the gas tank slowly fills.

Then it starts again. “Beep!” your tank is full! “Beep” do you want a receipt? “Beep!” Last chance for beef jerky! And I begin to kick the gas pump with my frozen toes.

One might ask, what kind of person allows an inanimate object to draw such deeply rooted ire? And then writes about it on the internet? Me, that’s who. I am not sure what that says about me. It can’t be good. But there it is none the less.

Is detailing for you my hatred for gas pumps the point of this exercise? No, believe it or not. That was just the warm-up. I have yet to have a point.

Yesterday, as I battled the cold and lamented the drill sergeant-esque beeping demands of the gas pump, I looked around me and observed the people filling up their cars at the station.

There was a man in a funky leather jacket gassing up his blue Subaru, and another man scraping the ice of the back window of his Hyundai. Protected from the wind inside my car, I tried to discreetly size each person up based on their physical appearance. Then, I tried to determine how their choice of car fit in to the overall image.

The guy with the cool leather jacket was wearing slouchy, worn Levi’s and was pretty cute. Perhaps he was a musician. At least I wanted to think so. His car, though, was a bright blue Subaru. The color just didn’t quite jibe. It was a bit girly, really. I thought to myself, “maybe it was his mother’s, and he is a struggling musician, and the only reason he drives it is because it was free?” Satisfied with my imagined justification for his choice of car, I looked the other direction. There, I observed the man driving the Hyundai. He was young and also cute. He donned a big parka, and had a 5 O’clock shadow. He looked like a poet, or a writer. But he was driving a Hyundai. Perhaps he was another starving artist. The Hyundai was a little disappointing though. A more fitting car would be an ’82 Cutlass Sierra or something. Something different and un-pedestrian. Again, the car didn’t match the image. “Maybe he won it in a contest” I thought. Yes. That’s it. Satisfied with my conclusion, I glanced at the gas pump to see if my tank was full yet.

And then it hit me. I was observing these people around me, sizing them up by their cars and judging their choices from the safety of my MINIVAN. Yes. My MINIVAN. I DRIVE A FREAKING MINIVAN. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I mean, I practically had to be dragged kicking and screaming to get to the point of minivan owner. In fact, the entire story about how exactly I went to South Carolina for a funeral, flooded the bathroom, and came home with a minivan can be read here. But my point, if I have one, and your opinion regarding that matter is clearly subjective, is that while out there gleefully throwing stones for my own entertainment, I live in a big old glass house. A glass house in the form of a silver Town & Country minivan.

I would hate for anyone to look no farther than my minivan to size me up, regardless of the fact that my license plate reads “M-L-F” (no lie. And it’s not a vanity plate, but an infinitely amusing coincidence).

I never thought of myself as a minivan type person. I gaze longingly at Mini Coopers and red convertible Cadillacs from the 70’s. THOSE are the kind of cars I would choose for myself. I would hate to be sized up by my car alone. Just like I would hate to have anyone judge me or my abilities based on any one single facet of my life. Motherhood for example. Or Mommyblogging. Or running marathons, or my political affiliation, or the fact that I have an irrational hatred for beeping gas pumps.

But there I was, committing the crime myself against unsuspecting people at the gas pump. Glass minivan indeed. I am guilty as charged.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I always thought I would be the kind of mother who would not allow Barbie dolls as toys. I believe they perpetuate the pressures girls and women feel to attain an unrealistic and unattainably perfect physical appearance. The oversized eyes and vacant expression never did much for me either. Barbie definitely does not look like anyone I would want to hang out and have a beer with. First of all, I am not sure if the jointless elbow would allow her to get the actual beer to her mouth, and that would lead to a real spectacle with all the spilling and missing, not to mention a waste of perfectly good beer. Second of all, that doe-eyed stare is really pretty creepy. It just doesn’t look like Barbie has much going on in a cerebral sense. She doesn’t seem very witty or bright. And I like having beer with people who are witty and bright.

The “happy to be me” doll always seemed like a good idea. She was the doll with a reasonable waist to hip ratio, normal sized breasts, and big flat feet. I have big feet, and I would bet a large sum of money that my daughter will have big feet. She carries the genes of her size 11 shoe donning mother and her size 12 shoe wearing father. Sorry Madge! You might have to special order your shoes from the Bigfoot store. This is just one reason why I prefer that her toys resembling the human figure (however loose the translation) not make her feel like a flat-chested Amazon freak in comparison.

The recent reports about Barbie mutilation have changed my mind about the entire subject of the busty doll. Why deny my daughter the opportunity to use her budding creativity to concoct new and unusual ways to mutilate an unrealistic fashion icon? I mean, there is SCIENCE involved! Don’t girls need more science? What happens when plastic is microwaved and set on fire? Is she flammable or does she just melt? How high does the flame need to be? When Barbie is scalped, girls can examine the way the plastic hair is manufactured to fit into the tiny holes on her head! These are great, thought provoking experiments, people! What happens when Barbie is submerged in acid? Alkalaine solution? How long does it take for a golden retriever to chew up and ingest her? How does a journey through the digestive system of a Canine affect Barbie’s hair-do?

I learned firsthand about the flammability of the bionic woman’s plastic breasts when, at the age of 9 or 10, I held her chest over the flame of my parent’s gas range. Okay, she was the Bionic woman, not Barbie. But the whole reason I was melting of her bosoms was because I had no Ken doll. The bionic woman was a little taller and a little bigger than Barbie, so when I managed to melt off her plastic lady lumps she made an odd-looking sort of man who reeked of melted plastic char. So really if you think about it, she might have been the very first transgender Barbie. In stores soon. Remind me to contact someone about my fair share of royalties for that one.

The bionic woman’s transformation might not be considered true Barbie mutilation. It was not gratuitous in that I had a purpose in mind. I needed a male doll for all the love scenes I played out as a manifestation of my budding curiosity of human sexuality. I watched WAY to much love boat as a child. Barbie mutilation did come later though.

In a recent Christmas eve white elephant gift game with my family, one of the most coveted prizes was a severed Barbie doll head. Her hair had been shaved in front, and she had been defaced with permanent markers. That was just her head. I can only imagine what terrible fate her plastic torso and appendages has succombed to. She was one artifact that remained from the childhood of eight grown women (my three sisters and I, and our four cousins who are all women).

My Nieces, who are now 13 and 14 have had their own fun with Barbies. They threw them in the street to see what happened with buses ran over them. Their surviving Barbies are used as models for their own version of project runway (head trauma Barbie is still able to model in spite of her injury).

Looking at the Barbie phenomena this way, in which Barbie mutilation is a rite of passage I would never want to deprive my daughter of, I can now feel free to shower my sweet daughter with them. I would be doing her a disservice by not providing her with the materials with which to explore her budding creativity, experiment with plastics in varying environments and manifest her disgust for things disposable and commercialized. She can get in touch with her inner degenerate. I will empower her to reject Barbie’s inanimate blank stare by giving her the opportunity to deface and maim if she so chooses. And if she asks me for assistance and ideas, I am here to serve. As far as I’m concerned as long as she doesn’t move on to mutilate living creatures, it’s all harmless exploration and expression.

And the final score is: Kids: 1, Barbie: 0, Mattel: $6 Billion in annual revenues

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

What’s that? What’s happening, you ask? Oh. The red and khaki clad Target employees running towards the toy aisle with mops and pails! No, no one’s precious progeny piddled on the floor. What happened to my head, you ask? Why are you speaking to a bloody stump of a neck where my head used to be? OH! That. Don’t mind me. Christmas shopping for my toddler just caused my head to explode. Oh, and where are my manners? Here, let me get you a tissue. Pardon me AND my skull fragments for two weeks.

Elmo and Big Bird. Baby Einstein DVD’s. Developmental toys. Fingerpaints and Flashcards. Things to push and things to pull. Do I buy her Crayons? Play-doh? What about a goldfish?

Will my child even remember any of this?

Good heavens I have to buy her SOMETHING! Something to put under the tree! Something to develop her Brain! Something to develop her talents! I start sweeping toys off the shelf and into my cart with wild abandon. If I don’t buy her these things, what kind of parent am I?

I am the kind of parent who feels like a total sucker. I buy into this stuff hook, line and sinker. I am sure I will spend at least $200 on the child before all is said and done. Meanwhile, her favorite toy is a duct-taped dilapidated shoe box we pull her around in on the carpet of her bedroom. That, and a tennis ball. She is not even old enough to produce a Christmas list, yet I am out scouring the toy section to buy the perfect toy. The perfect toy that will likely sit deserted in a pile of a hundred other perfect toys while she intently examines a tube of my concealer for 45 minutes.

The truth is, I could slap on her cowboy boots, hand her a bowl of strawberries and plop her in her favorite shoebox for a few pulls across the floor, and she’d be as happy as a dingety-danged pig in slop.

So why do companies market to children? Children have no money! They are lucky to have a regular supply of food and shelter! Mine has not earned a single red cent in her 15 months outside the womb. She has never even taken out the garbage, yet we toil away day in and day out, and the kid gets a free ride. Sheesh.

You want to know why companies market to kids? Take a look in the mirror at the sucker who hands over their hard-earned dough. That person is precisely why companies market to kids. Their marketing allows us to fulfill the fantasy. The question is, whose fantasy is it, really? Is it the child’s fantasy? Sometimes. Is it the parent’s fantasy of providing a blissful toy-filled childhood? Likely, often the case. But the fantasy truly belongs the guy making a 60% profit on the hunk of plastic manufactured in China he just unloaded on you. The hunk of crap you bought because you are convinced that it’s going to stimulate your child’s intellectual development, hand-eye coordination, artistic capability, whathaveyou. The hunk of crap you will unload at a garage sale in the near future for one tenth what you paid for it. THAT GUY is precisely who is fulfilling their fantasy here. One hundred percent. Fantasy. Fulfilled. Cha-ching.

Sometimes I am convinced that the great American pastime has become fighting in vain to prevent someone from separating you from your money. It’s a difficult game to win.

This is the time of year when the dogged pursuit of our dollars is truly relentless. I mean, the health of the American Economy is depending on our holiday spending, right? FOR PETE'S SAKE.

I admit, I am a skeptic when it comes to these things. On a certain level I am aware of the sickness of materialism. How it distracts us from what is truly important. We derive great satisfaction from filling our homes with vast collections of stuff while we avoid thoughts of human suffering and abject poverty.

I am aware of all of this, and it disgusts me. Yet, I still went out shopping last weekend and came home with a stuffed elephant toddler chair, finger paints that my daughter can’t use for a year and a half, an Elmo doll that sings “Shout”, neon pink Duplo blocks, a 100 piece plastic pretend food set, and a frigging pink leotard and tutu. I was drunk on Christmas spirit. Smack-addled by visions of my daughters beaming face on Christmas morning. I had lost all control. I failed miserably at fending off the spending. I hit rock bottom, baby. I didn't even know what hit me.

In other words, I am a sucker who knows she is a sucker. Is that better than being a sucker who doesn’t know she’s sucker? I would like to think so. I suppose it’s optimal to not be a sucker, and to know that you are not a sucker. Although that might be a bit boring, really.

Maybe someday I will get there. But I doubt it. For now I think I am allright with being a sucker who knows she's a sucker. I sold my soul for a moment of parental bliss in which I get to watch my beaming toddler grow rapidly and inevitably more materialistic while simultaneously modeling to her that stuff, and giving stuff to people that you love, is extremely fulfilling. Oh? You want to separate me from my hard earned money? By all means! Just give me a shopping cart-o-crap for it and everyone's happy! In the mean time, I will be sure to let you know when I plan to hold my next garage sale. Because odds are there will be a crap load of barely-used children’s toys for sale at one tenth what I paid for them.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday, another report came out about the topic of mothers who work vs. mothers who stay at home and the impact it has on their children’s development. Another report that left me reeling with insecurity and guilt. Another report that made me question the choices I have made. Another report that made me feel like I am failing my daughter. I sat in tears as I watched the news and felt so incredibly trapped by my financial situation.

This is such a touchy subject. I am certain that every mother wants to do what is best for their child. I also believe that every mother worries that they are failing their children in some manner. I think this fear contributes to the judgments we pass on one another as mothers. We want so badly to convince ourselves that we are doing things the right way that sometimes we say things that imply other people are doing things the wrong way. Because it’s not our way.

I have never felt so blessed and so terribly guilty as I have since I became a mother. There are so many choices parents make every single day. Difficult choices. Some parents make a choice between paying being able to pay the mortgage on a house in a good school district, or staying at home. For some parents it’s a choice between going on welfare to stay at home or working.

The topic of stay at home moms vs. working moms evokes passionate opinions from women on all sides of the equation. I do know we all want what is best for our children and for our families. I know there is no one “best” way to do things. Every child is different, every family is different, every family’s financial situation is different.

I am a working mother, and I am fortunate enough to have in-laws who are retired and spend every weekday taking care of Maggie. Every day from 8:00 a.m. to the time her dad picks her up at 1:00, Maggie gets a 2 to one adult to child ratio. She is read to, and she is played with, and she is sung to, and she is hugged about a hundred times in those hours.

I am so incredibly fortunate to have been given this choice by my in-laws.

At 1:00 every day, Jim picks Maggie up and brings her home, and from 1:00 to 5:15 it’s Daddy and Maggie time. I get home at 5:15 and that is when I get to spend time with her.

From 5:15 to 7:30 I play with Maggie, feed her, feed Jim and I, try to clean up the kitchen, and field phone calls and random people knocking on the door. Sometimes I take Maggie with me for a walk or a run. Every other night I give her a bath. I have two and a half hours a day from Monday to Friday to spend with Maggie and to get all of this in. Meanwhile, I go through the typical working mother self-torture.

Here is a sample of my Inner dialogue on any given evening:

“Am I talking to her enough? Am I developing her language skills appropriately? Am I enunciating properly? Do I give her enough hugs? Am I setting limits? Is it better to use this time playing the piano or reading a story? If I get sucked into watching “the biggest loser” on television between 7:00 and 7:30 and reading to her during the commercials, does that make me “the biggest loser” as a parent? I think the answer is yes. Damn. Failed again. I don’t know if she had a nap today! I don’t even know what she had for lunch! Did she poop? I don’t even know if she pooped today! I am a horrible horrible mother. My mother in law has a bigger influence on her than I do! Do I even know what words she is being taught? Do I even know what games and songs she is being taught every day? No! I am allowing someone else to raise my child. What if the next time she falls down and hurts herself, she reaches for grandma instead of me? What if she does that and it hurts me so much that I get insecure and close up? What if that makes me start detaching myself from her? Am I mature enough emotionally to handle that? On a conscious level, yes, but what about my unconscious? What could I do better? Can I even recognize where I am failing”?

And right about NOW my head explodes and brains and skull fragments slide slowly down the walls of the kitchen leaving red trails of blood.

The dialogue above was ONE NIGHT’S WORTH. Yeah, Mothers really need more to question.

Factor in efforts to have a life of my own, work on my marriage, be a good friend, and take care of myself and exercise, and it’s no wonder I feel like I am doing a half assed job in everything. INCLUDING MOTHERHOOD. The guilt in that statement? ENORMOUS. Just enormous. I have no idea how single mothers handle all this on their own. I think every single mother out there deserves a freaking medal for just getting it done, day after day. It’s HARD.

The report I mentioned concluded that children with stay at home mothers had significantly higher developmental skills than children who were in day care.

The report concluded that best scenario for kids goes like this:

1. stay at home with mom
2. stay at home with nanny
3. grandparents
4. day care center

My problems with this “study” are numerous. There is so much variation in the quality of child care available, and there was no mention of this in the blurb that I saw. There was no mention of how parenting style factors in. No mention of what working parents can do to minimize the negative impact that day care might have on their kids.

I live in the state of Minnesota. We have the HIGHEST percentage of working mothers in the country. Our children also typically have the HIGHEST test scores in the nation. How does that jibe?

Is anyone talking about how incredibly hard it is to raise a family and own home with one income? How it keeps getting HARDER? Is anyone talking about how we can help families with limited financial means stay home with their kids? Is anyone talking about women who earn more than their husbands? How these women can handle the incredible amount of guilt they carry for not being the one who has the biggest influence on their children’s day to day activities? For not knowing what their kids had for lunch and how many times they have pooped that day?

I know so many dedicated, loving mothers who work outside the home. Great mothers. I know these women struggle to come to terms with the choices they make. I know that it hurts to be informed that the choice you made might limit your child’s developmental potential

I know many dedicated, loving mothers who have chosen to stay at home with their children. They have sacrificed careers to be with their kids every day. It’s hard to stay at home. It’s hard to deal with people who judge you for being a stay at home mom. It’s hard to deal with the lack of adult interaction. It’s mentally and emotionally draining to work with kids all day long. It’s hard to survive on one income.

I think my point, if I have one, is this: Yes, I want to have access to as much information as possible to help me make the best choices. But not so much information that I live in a constant state of self-torture, angst, regret, resentment and insecurity.

No, I don’t need any more reason to question myself. I do that plenty. Sometimes it does seem like motherhood is an uphill battle. Feeling like a GOOD mother is darn near impossible. Especially if you listen to the opinions of every Tom Dick and Harry out there. And if you are one of the people spouting off statistics and instilling fear, perhaps ask yourself if you are really doing it for the benefit of another mother and their child, or if you are doing it to reassure yourself that you have made better choices than someone else. Do you need to compare yourself to someone else to feel like a good mother?

I need to remind myself that the ultimately, it’s me who needs to be okay with my decisions. I need to feel like I am doing as much as I can with the resources I have. I need to give myself a break once in a while and accept the fact that I won’t always be perfect, but that does not mean I am not a good mother. It does not mean that I can not be a good friend, or wife, or employee. I just means my choices might be more difficult, and that I have to listen to my own heart more than I listen to sensationalized news reports with limited contextual information. I think I can do that. I hope I can.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on October 5, 2005

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 12:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (1)