Parenthood or Age?

This is totally what I look like.  Really.
Reprinted from toonbarn.com.

When I was a kid, I was occasionally annoyed by my parents (well, my dad, really) falling asleep on the couch in the evenings.  Well, maybe not annoyed so much as disappointed.  There was so much to do!  There were games and movies and playing and eating that could be done!  How dare they (he) fall asleep when spectacular me was there!

Fast forward a decade or two (fine...or three or four).  Having a kid is tiring.  Being old is tiring.  Multiply the two, and your body doesn't stand a chance.  Which, as you know, I have fully acknowledged over the past several months.  I am going to be tired.  And as much as I love my kid and love spending time with him, I am very lucky that he goes to bed early.  Especially lately, as you will see.  But I have fully acknowledged that it is reasonable for me to want to nap a bit.

Over the past few weeks, though, it's more than nap.  I have been physically INCAPABLE of staying awake.  About 8:30 (yes, I know that's pathetic), no matter where in my house I am or what I am (or should be) doing, I will completely pass out.  We're talking snoring, drooling, offensive sleep.  And there's nothing I can do about it.  For a short time, my paranoid self seriously wondered whether I had been accidentally drugging myself.  I seriously pass out and wake up hours later, in a painful heap on the chair or couch.  And it's completely involuntary.  Sad.

So I guess I owe all adults an apology.  I hadn't realized.  At all.  And it makes me worry about the other involuntary body reactions that are likely coming.  Is this the beginning of the end?  Will I soon end up a drooling mess while in line at the grocery store?  Is an oxygen tank just months away?  Is my physical reaction to parenthood or age?  Either way, good to know there's yet another thing I can't control in life.  Awesome.

The Christma...Er...Holid...Um...Christmas Spirit

As you may have noticed, there are many things that differ in living in a smaller community than a big city.  One of the funnier ones to me at the moment is the whole "Christmas vs. Holiday" debate.

When I lived in Chicago, I found the stories about the "war on Christmas" to be hilarious.  The concept that people find it offensive that people are trying not to be offensive, cracks me up.  I couldn't fathom that anyone cared whether an obnoxious evil empire such as Wal-Mart says "merry Christmas" or "happy holidays."  Either way, aren't they saying "enjoy your time for these few weeks and pretend that your crappy paycheck is bigger than it is so you can buy things here and give us less-crappy paychecks"?  So the whole thing was funny.  Plus I distinctly recall that, when I went to law school (a religion-based school) after years of public schooling, it was cool to see nativity scenes in the halls and have "Christmas" be ok.

Yeah, well, things are a bit different here.  I now work for a government organization--about as "politically correct" as you can get.  Even more, I am in charge of said "political correctness."  So when a few weeks ago my office got a call from my predecessor, asking for his Christmas tree back, I was dumbfounded.  Not only that this guy thought I had his tree hiding somewhere under my desk, but because HE HAD A CHRISTMAS TREE AT WORK.  Don't get me wrong, I had a little one in my firm in Chicago.  The building itself decorated.  But we were a private organization.  The fact that it's ok in government to go ahead and celebrate CHRISTMAS?  Crazy.  But it's more than that.  I am now worried that my Christmas cards say "Happy Holidays."  I truly believe that there will be some people here who will be offended.  They will view my lack of "ho-ho-ho" as a full-on assault on the lives of their children and grandparents.  Even when I sort of bring it up to my superiors, their eyes get big and they immediately make sure we are clear--I am not allowed to touch "Christmas."

Which is fine with me.  I love Christmas.  I am rather spiritual, when the mood strikes me.  And I don't see the big deal, either way.  But every time anyone says "Christmas party," I can't help but take a sharp breath in.  It is hilarious.  How did I become this person?  I finally get to fa-la-la my way around an office, and instead I worry that someone is going to (rightfully, per the law) complain. 

Am I now the Grinch?  Or is he even allowed to exist?  Apparently here, he is.  Which is great, and unnerving, and wrong, and odd.  So if you happen to live here, please don't sue us.  I'll be forced to report you to Santa.

And...We're Back

Hi Folks!
Thanks for your patience over the last several months!  Things have been running and running, in the Carpool lane.  So much for being the "slower" lane.

We're doing well here in Montana and sort of settling in.  My kid absolutely loves everything about his new life.  He has the world's greatest nannies--particularly Grandpa!  He's getting big fast, and has started chatting up a storm.  He loves running around outside, even though it's getting cold here (like really, really cold).  And the whole Christmas light thing is making each day worth living.  So overall he's pretty happy.

I'm doing pretty well, too, though I miss those of you in Chicago (and Arizona) terribly.

I promise to get back on track with my updates here, as there are plenty of crazy stories to go around!!  Thanks for tuning in again and looking forward to our chats!

Hope you are well and stay tuned for more posts soon!

Just...Wow

I believe I have mentioned my understanding that, were my child to be prematurely famous, I would most likely join ranks with the Dina Lohans and the Drew Barrymore's-moms of the world.  I suspect I would be obnoxious (well, more than I am).  So while I don't know that I would walk away from the situation, I certainly don't seek it.

So what about on a smaller level (and one that is less about ME)?  We in Montana have been absolutely blissful about our darling Little League World Series team.  This group of 12-13 year olds has had us all enchanted for weeks now.  They made it all the way to the US Championship game, undefeated.  Which is incredible, particularly as Montana had never previously had a team in the series.  They were awesome.  And they gave the entire state something to cheer about.  Everyone has a story, from "I live down the street from #12," to "I know the coach well," to "I dated the uncle of the pitcher when I was in high school and he looks just like him and it cracks me up every time I see him."  It has been fun.

But the parent in me is (insanely?) worried about the situation.  These kids are in junior high.  Within weeks they went from about to start school to national spotlight, parades, front page of the paper every day.  I can't imagine what is going through their heads.  They are hometown heroes.  And they're just little kids.  Awesome?  Totally.  Worrisome?  For me.  I can't get past the fact that these kids can't believe that this is the pinnacle of their lives.  Or, worse, that they expect the next decade to be just like this.  I know, I know--I'm nuts.  Am I?  Am I completely insane to both want such an event in my kid's life and be grateful that it's not him?

I am fairly confident that most generations freak about the speed with which their children grow.  And I mean in terms of "zero to adulthood."  Fourth graders are in gangs.  Sixth graders are being sent home from school for dressing like garden tools.  And twelve year olds are being given parades.  Are we nuts to think that this stuff should slow down a bit?  Could it be done, anyway?  Am I just exceedingly OLD?  For once I'm not sure who's crazier--me or the rest of the world.

That Ship Has Sailed

I'm not certain why, but for the most part, I don't like being social.  At all.  And if I were to be honest, I never have. 

Well, that's not exactly true.  I like the company of other people.  During the day.  But once 5:00 hits, I have absolutely no desire to leave my house (lately, 5:00am).  That's one reason why I loved being a litigator.  Most of our socializing occurred during daylight hours (sure, they often passed into nighttime hours, but I was typically out of it by then).  A vampire I could never be.  I used to drive my friends insane because I wouldn't want to go out at night, unless it was a continuous motion from the earlier part of the day.  I always had a good time when I did.  But getting me out the door was a chore.

Truthfully, it was also a reason why I was excited to have a kid.  I had a built-in excuse.  What I hadn't realized, though, is that many people don't have kids and many others don't parent the same way.  So I still come away with the guilt, though it is about a million times more difficult to leave my house than it was previously. 

This has not been an issue for the past few months.  At all.  I have been blissfully ensconced in my house, alone with my kid.  But now it seems that I am getting more and more invitations to leave it.  And the thought makes me nauseous.  Seriously--what the heck?  People are being nice.  I have opportunities to have fun and get to know people.  And I have absolutely no desire.  I see it as an obligation, not as a chance.  I had thought I would someday enjoy getting out into the world.  But now I am thinking that the ship has sailed.  I am perhaps destined to be the little old woman who never leaves her 12 cats.  I will become that person who growls at kids when they come to the door, peddling things.  And I will be in heaven.  Goodbye ship.  Hello island.

Quote of the Day

The art of being a parent is to sleep when the baby isn't looking.

-Anonymous

Really?

This weekend, my son and I went to the park.  It was a beautiful day, though a bit warm, but the bulk of the slides and things were in the shade by the time we got there.  We had a blast.  But, naturally, I left the park only after having an altercation with another mom.

I say "mom," but the woman could have just as easily been a nanny or a cousin or a stage manager--I don't really know.  I'm guessing mom, though, based on several factors.  Anyway, my kid and I were gleefully going down the slide, when a little boy and his "mom" walked over to the playground.  I heard her say something about it being hot and she sat on the bench and told him to go play.  The little boy ran over and, desperate for companionship, started talking to me.  He was 5 and his name was Grover.  His name wasn't actually Grover, but (a) I'm not putting a little kid's real name in here and (b) I can't remember it anyway.  So, I was saying.  Grover was 5 and told me all about his brothers and how he wasn't going to school until he's 6.  He was a funny, clearly smart, personable kid, so we let him follow us around to the slides and the swings, and chatted with the kid.

I should mention that "mom" watched the entire time, so I felt better about it.  I smiled at her, and she ignored me.  Because I was in a particularly generous mood, I relfected on that morning when I asked my own kid to leave me be on the back steps, while he ran around the yard.  Parents get tired.  Fair enough.  So anyway, Grover was a total champ, talking to my own son and being extremely gentle with him.  I loved the kid.  I seriously was blown away at how considerate a 5 year old could be.  So we played and played. 

Finally, we had to go.  I said goodbye to Grover, trying not to let the look of disappointment on his face make me cry.  I told him we would see him again at the park.  As we walked away, I decided to swing by "mom" and let her know her kid rocked.  So we took the long way around, got within about 20 feet, and half-whispered "Grover is an awesome kid."  She looked at me as though I had informed her that her second head was gnawing on her shoulder.  She (not whispering) said "it's none of your business, and you should stay away from other people's kids."

Really?

While I, of course, came up with a million rebuttals later, I have to admit that for once I was at a loss for words.  We simply walked away.  But, really?  What the heck?  I justify it with typical "parenthood is hard" and "people are going through things" pep talks.  But, really?  I'm stepping in and doing YOUR job at the playground, and I get yelled at?

As you know, I'm all about justifying things that people do that are crazy.  But today, I'm just going with "people are crazy."

The Wild Wild West

Badger, Badger

A while back, I gave a glimpse into the beauty that was my new neighbors parroting my old, and doing construction at all hours.  Well, I am happy to say that they have sold their 12 bedroom multi-pool mansion and the new people are not yet in.  It's heaven.  All quiet and peaceful.  Well, sort of.

It's not loud, per se, but there is a noise that sort of runs under the nights here.  It's animals.  Sure, some are the cats and dogs of the neighborhood.  But there are others.  Last night I heard an owl.  Many nights when it's warmer, the crickets come out.  I swear to all higher beings that I once heard a bear.  Or it may have been a mountain lion--regardless, I am sure it was scary and had teeth.  And it totally, totally freaks me out.

When in Chicago, I had a relatively fine time wandering around the city at night.  It didn't happen much, but I wasn't particularly afraid as I walked home from a bar, found my car after a concert, or roamed the alleys after finally finding a stupid parking space at 3am.  I probably shouldn't have been as relaxed as I was.  The tavern owner a few blocks away was killed in his alley behind the bar one night.  Muggings are prevalent.  It is, in fact, Chicago.  But blissfully I never had any problems.

So that's why it is so stinking funny to me that I am terrified to go out of my house after dark here.  Sure, everyone is packing, but that doesn't bother me.  I am instead afraid of the animals.  Seriously.  Even the stupid cats.  It scares the hell out of me, and I've even had nightmares about fighting off a tiger in the backyard.  When I was a kid, we had a badger under our back porch.  Now I sit and fear that one will pop out at me (dancing, of course), rip my head off, and take my child to go live with the badger colony and be raised as its own.  And while I'm all for Bucky and friends visiting, I'm fairly certain that they're not as friendly here as they are in Madison. 

Yes, I admit, this makes me a huge pansy.  If either of my grandfathers could hear me now, they would be appalled (though not likely shocked).  Why am I such a chicken?  It's not like I'm not used to animals.  I didn't have a particularly bad experience with one, other than a few donkey lawyers.  So why am I suddenly afraid of the wild, wild west?

While you answer that, I'm huddled in the corner, waiting for daylight, listening for Bucky to emerge....

Should I Not Do That?

As I have mentioned (repeatedly) I have a bit of a sweet tooth.  And as I have also mentioned, it is growing.  Yesterday I mentioned my newfound talent of offing an entire cake or batch of cookies.  But the funny thing is, this desire for sugar generally only kicks in after my son has gone to bed.  Case in point.  For the last few nights, I have baked cookies.  For my kid, of course.  But this logic is sort of flawed when I manage to devour each and every one, before he wakes in the morning.  The moment his head hits the pillow, I desire anything and everything sweet.  And for better or worse, it's hit-or-miss whether that "anything" is in my house.  Therefore, what many of you won't think is funny are the thoughts that sometimes go through my head as a result.

I guess you could say it has actually crossed my mind to go to Dairy Queen and pick up a Blizzard.  Or to the grocery store and get a cake.  After my kid is asleep.  HORRIBLE!!!  I guess it's debatable how serious I am.  I mean, I haven't actually done it, so I must not be completely awful, right?  But, man, do I want to.  The conversations in my head are priceless.  "You know, he's just going to be asleep...."  "Are you INSANE?  You can't leave your kid alone in the house!!!"  "Of course not.  But, he's just going to be asleep...."  For all law enforcement, DCFS, newspaper and other authority figures freaking out, I of course will never actually leave my kid alone.  Heck, I freak out when a sitter is here.  I'm just sayin.  Sometimes the desire for a Butterfinger Blizzard is so overwhelming, a teeny tiny little voice says "go ahead."  AGAIN--it won't happen.  Please don't come take my child.  Just sayin.

Mmmmm...sheet cake....
I know I have a problem.

Is It Bad to Eat an Entire Cake?

I will wait until you leave,
then eat the entire thing.
Ugly flowers included.

I've never really paid that much attention to what I eat.  I'm about 9 feet tall, so there has always been plenty of room for the food to go.  That said, my weight has ballooned over the past several years, as it often does in women of a certain age.  And, of course, there's the gift of a 3rd stomach that my child gave me.  It's the gift that keeps on giving.

Generally I can say that since my son was born, I haven't had the time or the inclination to eat a lot of bad things.  Until now.  Recently I have been doing what I assume you can only call stress-eating.  Worrying about the past, the future and everything in between, I find comfort in having a cookie.  All of them.  I get absolutely livid when the women at the grocery store don't have the individual slices of cake sitting out, and so I buy an entire cake.  And eat it.  What?  It helps.  So I keep doing it.

And, man, I can feel it.  I must weigh about a million pounds.  But I can't stop.  Yesterday I was around people who were having a celebratory cake.  Most of the women either obligingly declined, or took small pieces or even scraped off the frosting.  Yeah, I had seconds.  And I even thought about scraping off the excess frosting from the cake board. 

I guess it's fine if it makes me happy, right? Ok, even I don't buy that one.  But I guess I keep thinking it will stop when the stress stops.  Which should be any second now, right?  RIGHT?

Culture Wars

What?  They're cute.

When I was a parent in Chicago, there were about a million things I wanted to do with my kid when he was old enough.  Almost all included cultural experiences that would (hopefully) open his mind and expand his world in ways that I couldn't alone.  I was (am) very excited to show him different foods and museums and music experiences and hope that some of it becomes the wonderous world that I had experienced, too.

Things are a bit different here, though I am first to say it's not that there is no culture.  It's just that the culture is different.  Very, very, very different.  I believe I mentioned there is one Indian restaurant that I have found, and they sadly don't deliver.  And I won't even get into the "museums."  BUT there are other experiences that Chicago simply doesn't have.  For example, this week is the continuation of the state fair.  We are considering going, in order to watch a friend's nephew show his pig.  Never seen someone show a pig before.  It will be a cultural experience (shock) to both of us.  Can't say there's much pig showing in the Loop.  I will reserve my lawyer jokes for the moment.

My point is this--I am deeply concerned about giving my kid a worldly experience.  Because there is not much travel money, for a while at least, we will have to satisfy ourselves with in-home learning on the subject.  But that said, there really are things here that offer great opportunities, as well.  For example, apart from the pig experience, I would wager not many mid-westerners know the true story of Lewis and Clark.  Here it's pretty standard.  And hiking and skiing aren't prevalent along Michigan Avenue (though, truthfully, they're not with me, either).  History surrounds you, no matter where you are.  Are the cultural experiences equal?  Heck no.  But I lived here until I was 22 and don't think I am a complete idiot about others and history, so I'm guessing it's all stuff you figure out.

Now excuse me.  A pig is waiting for my attention.

Big Surprise

Needless to say, there are many aspects of being a parent that surprise me.  Ok, fine, ALL aspects of being a parent have caught me off guard.  Everything from how much I would adore this kid to how completely my life would change.  You name it, I didn't see it coming.  But at the end of the day, you learn a lot about yourself in the process.

But.  At the moment I am struggling with something that really has thrown me off.  In short, I worry that my kid won't like me.  I know, I sound insane.  Generally, I'm not one to spend a heckofalotta time worrying about whether a guy likes me.  After many years and many experiments, I have generally come to the conclusion that you either do or you don't.  Not much to do either way.  But with him, it's sort of always in the background, now that he's developed his own personality and can voice his opinions.  And, as is pretty much always the case with toddlers, his opinions are extreme.  Really, really extreme.  If he likes something, there are squeals and giggles and fist pumps (maybe I shouldn't have watched Jersey Shore when pregnant?).  If he doesn't like something, I am slightly embarrassed to say he has started the foot stomping and swinging of plastic golf clubs.  I have no experience with such things, but it is my understanding that this is normal.  But to me, it's an entire world of craziness.

The worst part is that it has opened up a box of total apprehension, as well.  In myself.  I have never really had anybody express displeasure at my daily activities the way he does (I believe I mentioned I am not married).  And while it's not a huge deal on a daily basis, it does sort of wear on me overall.  And particularly when worrying about everything I do--eventually going back to work, day care vs. sitter, EVER leaving the house (you get the picture)--I start to fear that he won't like me. 

It's insane, I know.  Totally, totally insane to worry about whether a one year old dislikes you.  Even more insane to worry about whether a one year old may eventually dislike you, for decisions you haven't yet made.  Even, even more insane to think that a kid can go even days without disliking something about parents.  I mean, come on--who wouldn't dislike someone who does things generally boring without explaining why, including making us walk around in our own pee and forcing us to get off of the kitchen table when it's so much fun??

Maybe I should drink more.  Or less.  Either way, if every day of parenthood is filled with these crazy thoughts and fears, it's going to be a bumpy, bumpy ride....

Quote of the Day

Hello, folks.  We are going to be starting a new segment here on Sundays, called quote of the day.  If you have any favorite quotes--inspirational, funny, touching or just interesting, please send them my way.  Don't forget to give credit where due!

"The baby was a lovely little boy, but sad to say, he did not weigh sixty pounds.  That is what I had gained and that was what I had to lose."

-Barbara Bush

A Blanket By Any Other Name

A good friend recently made a comment that makes me see how insane perspective can be.  We were having a little picnic in my backyard with our kids.  My son absolutely adores her kids, and I was beyond thrilled to find when I moved here that she and I have a lot in common.  As a result she has become a great friend.  Anyway, when it came time for our dining al fresco, I ran into the house and pulled out my supermom blanket.  Let me pause here to explain this thing.

The supermom blanket is a super-duper, totally awesome item comprised of wet-proof material on one side, and a soft, but washable blanket material on the other side.  Bonus?  It folds up into a bag so that your hands are free when toting it to the park or pool.  I freaking love the thing.  And I am particularly proud because I actually purchased it following the spectacular destruction of my career.  I want to say it was $20 or less.  I saw it as one of the items of the week in a parenting magazine (don't forget to vote for best blog!  yes, I am shameless) and had to order it.  I saved up for it and everything.  And I love it.  It was one of my more sensible purchases.

So, anyway, I look at the supermom blanket as a smart purchase, made after thought and only because of its totally reasonable price and lack of a label such as "Pottery Barn Kids" or "Prada."  Yeah, well, my friend laughed when I brought it out and commented that she was telling her sister-in-law about the supermom blanket and comparing it to her own use of towels on such occasions.  Oh.  Right.  Towels.  Perhaps THAT would be the sensible thing to do.  She meant it as a slam on her own lack of supermom blanket, but I cracked up because I really saw how silly such a purchase is.  In short, I am delusional as to what, exactly, sensible spending is.

For over a decade, it has been second-nature to me to just, well, buy stuff.  And I justify it.  I have totally used the supermom blanket and I stand behind it being one of the more awesome purchases a parent can make.  BUT sensible?  Not so much.  Sure, it frees up the hands when walking the 20 feet from my backdoor to the middle of my lawn.  Sure, our behinds don't get wet and our towels are free for toweling.  But sensible?  Not so much. 

I'm constantly fascinated by how wrapped up in our own worlds we can be.  I hadn't really even realized the world I had created (nor all the stuff in it) until I backed out a bit.  Parts are good, parts aren't.  But I think it's recognizing the difference that can be the battle.

That's Goofy

Originally from
http://www.toontown.net/

When I was a kid, I was in love with Disneyland.  Ok, fine, I still am.  I truly, truly believe that it is the Happiest Place on Earth, as it claims.  There are no problems that can't be solved just by paying your $5K per family and walking in the front gates.  It's heaven.

That said, I've never been a huge fan of Mickey Mouse.  We didn't have the Disney Channel (for those of you too young to remember, there was a time before satellites or DVDs, when things like Disney and In Living Color were merely rumors to those of us in the sticks).  So my experiences with Mickey were sort of hit or miss.  Now that we watch Disney Jr. most days (well, have it on, more than "watch"), my suspicions are confirmed--Mickey's a bit of a jerk.  Minnie's not much better; I find her vapid and a bit annoying.  And don't get me started on the two Ducks.  Pluto is really about the only nice character.  So, not so much impressed with the Club.

But there is one character with whom I am fascinated:  Goofy.  I, like many of my generation, loved the movie Stand By Me.  There is a line in it that I got, but didn't really pay attention to.  One of the characters comments that "If Mickey's a mouse, and Donald's a duck, and Pluto's a dog, what the hell is Goofy?"  While I understood the line, I didn't really consider it until recently.  And now it annoys me.  A lot.  What the hell IS Goofy?  Seriously, if you're going to come up with a cast of characters comprised of various, talking animals, why do you plunk in something completely out in left field?  I'm so confused.  He's clearly not a dog--Pluto is.  He's not a mouse.  He's not a horse.  The best I can come up with is that someone got a little high and rode Space Mountain a few too many times. 

If you have a better theory, I am all ears.  Because it's driving me insane.  Why?  Why Goofy?  Why?

A Snoop is Born

Not just for bird watching in Monana

As shocking as this may sound, I pretty much across the board tend to judge people I don't know.  I know I talk a lot about trying not to judge my friends, and that's true.  But if I don't know you, chances are I will reach a number of conclusions based on what I see, without any investigation or concern.  Sorry.  It's not something I'm proud of.

That said, when I find myself falling into a category of people whom I roundly judge, it cracks me up.  For example, I think people who sit at home and watch their neighbors and gossip are absurd.  Which is why I think it's hilarious that I find myself doing it.  There is a woman who, a few times per week, parks across the street, then walks maybe a half block to someone's house and goes in.  Why she parks so far away is anyone's guess.  Maybe she likes the particular angle of the sun there.  Maybe she is concerned that the car will get randomly hit by one of the 4 cars that go down the street each day.  Or maybe, as I have conjured in my crazy little head, she is having an affair with one of my neighbors and is delusional enough to think that she's not drawing attention to herself by parking there.

Naturally, I go with the last one.  It's by far the most interesting.  Sure, I have nobody to gossip to about my speculation who would care.  But nonetheless, I do it.  I find myself immediately emailing people in Chicago to tell them my theory.  And, naturally, they couldn't care less.  Nor could I.  But it's something to do.

This is why I am so judgmental of judging.  Because sooner or later, I end up in the messy cauldron of the judged.  So beware that, even though I hate myself for it, I'm watching you.  And you.  And...well, not you, you are boring. 

Life Hunters

As I have mentioned, I am obsessed with the HGTV shows House Hunters and House Hunters International.  The voyeuristic thrill that people get from "reality tv" shows, I get from...well...reality houses.  I guess it's more than that--I love watching people react to what they see and to the possibility of change in their lives.  Particularly on the International shows.  Watching huge life-altering decisions being made (though they are undoubtedly doctored for tv) is awesome.

So I have come to the conclusion that life should work the same way as these shows.  In short, all major life decisions should be solved through a number of steps, systematically designed to reach the best result within a half hour.  Hear me out.

First, you take your problem to an expert, with a wish list of what you want from your solution.  Not only does this mean that you will get some or all of the items on your list, it also means you have to identify what you want, beforehand.  Easy to do when talking about fireplaces and backyards.  Bit more of a challenge when determining where to work, or whether to stay with your spouse.  So having a clearly defined set of parameters will be lovely in life.  Next, your expert picks three of the best possible solutions out there, and presents them to you.  Each has its own plusses and minuses, but each also bears the thrilling probability of happiness.  In life this would look something like: (a) here is George, who has a great job as a pharmaceutical rep and is therefore loaded, but who has a thing for twenty-year-old girls; (b) next we have Phil, who lives in his parents' basement but loves children and animals; and (c) finally, we have Andre who is quiet, nice, makes a good salary and is secretly gay.  Pick.  Ok, well, I would be hoping that the options are better than that, but you get the picture.  Finally, based on the information given to you in a nice little ribbon-wrapped package, you make your choice.  Three months later, we check in on your decision and 100% of the time, you are thrilled and have found a way for your couch to fit.

I guess my issue is with this whole "you're an adult and you have to make life-altering decisions every day and you will never know whether they were right" thing...and it sucks.  I'm not kidding when I say the best lesson I have learned in recent years is to take things day-by-day.  Because (MUCH to my chagrin, and to paraphrase some idiotic Meg Ryan movie), no matter how much you plan, there's no home safe enough, no relationship secure enough and you're just setting yourself up for an even bigger fall.  So until we come up with the reality-reality Life Hunters (oooh, and Life Hunters International), that's the best I can do for the moment.

And I pick Andre.  Good resale value. 

I Was Invited to the Party!

Rarely a day goes by where I am not reminded that I am, and always will be, 15 years old.  Recently, this came in the form of being "included" by another mom in a silly kid activity.  The activity was too old for my son to care, and she was likely desperate for one more person to fulfill the requirements.  But nonetheless, it was really thoughtful of her to ask.  I felt as though I had finally been asked to go to that great kegger everyone was talking about.  But a kegger with stickers.

It's just so funny to me that, no matter what each of us has been through, we revert back to the basics.  We want to be liked by the other kids.  We want to be included.  We want to feel as though we have something to contribute, that everyone else sees.  None of that goes away, just because we pack on the years (and likely the pounds) or because we move or because we're different.  And particularly, none of that changes because we have kids. In my opinion, it just rears its head for the last.

As school begins to revv up around the U.S., those feelings of the first day come roaring back to me and I start to wonder whether we shouldn't all start anew each year.  I have a great friend who actually hated starting a new year.  But I am hoping that we can all see new starts for the hope they offer.  The anticipation of feeling that anything is possible is right there.  It's a new start, and maybe this year, we will finally figure life out.  Maybe this year our hair won't frizz.  Maybe this year we'll ace that class, because we will finally study.  Maybe this year we will figure out that it doesn't matter whether the other kids like us.  Maybe this year we'll get it right.  Because we all deserve multiple chances to get things right.

I Don't Care How Grandmotherly You Look...

Many of you will one day be grandparents.  At a minimum, many of you will one day, LOOK like grandparents.  When you reach this point of distinction in your life, please do me a favor:  no matter how cute and wrinkled you may be, please DO NOT GIVE SOME RANDOM PERSON'S CHILD CANDY.

This was a huge lesson for me in how quickly things can go crazy.  Yesterday, I was in a public place and was sitting with my kid.  He was, per usual, entertaining everyone around him and making friends.  As I went to dig through my monsterous bag for something (I don't remotely remember what, but I'm quite certain it was unimportant), he had toddled over to a woman with whom I had been speaking earlier.  She was older and had announced to the group that she had 18 grandchildren and 24 great-grandchildren.  Apart from the shock of the sheer numbers here, I was sort of amused by the fact that she didn't really say it with great enthusiasm.  She sort of said it like "why didn't I teach my freaking kids about birth control."  Anyway, my kid had wandered over to her, and while I knew exactly where he was, I had my head in the bag looking for the amorphous thing of import.  When I looked up, he was taking a piece of the Three Muskateers bar she had been muching on.  She handed him the piece of the candy and he very happily munched along.

Well.  Immediately, about a million different scenarios that my parents had instilled in me since birth popped into my head.  Was there a razor blade in the candy?  Was it poisoned?  Was she trying to lure him into a white van with the windows covered up and no license plate?  Was she going to grab him and run?  Where the hell was whatever I had been looking for?  All of the stories parents tell to scare the hell out of children finally worked--on an adult.  I was terrified.  Not to mention, of course, the fact that I was trying to keep sugar away from the kid as it was almost his bed time.  Not cool.

I'm going to have to assume that the chocolate was neither poisoned nor the root of any evil plot.  My stellar detective work is based on the fact that (a) she was eating the candy, too, and (b) it is several hours later and he has not sprouted a second head, and (c) he is currently asleep about 10 feet away from me.  But what the hell?  Why would anyone think that the move was in any way ok?  I get that she was trying to be nice--and she was.  He was elated.  But, seriously? 

I'm all for community raising of a child.  But have we way overstepped our boundaries when it comes to other people's children?  Where is the line?  I'm totally fine with someone helping me out and grabbing one of the 1900 bags, etc, in my hand when I'm trying to juggle stuff.  I'm great if someone plays peek-a-boo when he's cranky in public.  I love when people tell me he's adorable.  But to me, handing a kid food of any sort is not ok.  Am I out of line here?  Do I just have great-grandma bias?

Oops

Hi folks.  We are having some technical difficulties.  Please check in later in the week for new posts.  In the meantime, enjoy some of your past favorites.  And whether fast lane or carpool, may the force be with you.

Welcome to the Ends of the Earth

My postman, George.

I admit that I am a bit old-fashioned.  I actually use mail (you know--the form of communication that involves pieces of paper, a stamp, and postmans...er, postpeoples).  I do so, understanding that this particular form of communication takes quite a bit longer than normal.  Or, at least, that was my "understanding" when I lived in Chicago.

Here?  Said form of communication takes anywhere from a bit longer than normal, to FOR-FREAKING-EVER.  And I'm not just talking about the government's operation.  They're actually one of the best.  I'm also talking about private courier services.  I have ordered a handful of things online, particularly diapers and a slider grill pan that was 80% off.  Anyway, previously when I placed a diaper order, I could expect to get my shipment within 2 days.  I understood that we're a bit more...well...nowhere, here, so it would likely take longer.  Try 5 times longer.  I wish I were kidding.  It's like even the couriers just wait until they get a certain number of packages going out this way before delivering, so that they can save the horses.  It's driving me nuts.

The worst part is that generally one only orders things online here when there isn't a particular store within, oh, 5,000,000 miles.  Ok, diapers are a bad example.  But, still.  Diapers at http://www.diapers.com/ are considerably less expensive than at the stores here.  Even in Iowa, they get the diapers within days.  Here, it's weeks.  So I end up paying more for a necessity, just because nobody wants to come out to the ends of the earth.  What a racket.

If anyone is looking for a sure-bet money maker, I say find a way to get stuff to people in the boondocks who need them.  Because, this is insane.  And dammit, I may have gone half a football season without a square hamburger, and THEN where would I have been??

I Like My Kid

I believe that, unless you are a total psychopath, you love your kids no matter what.  (On a side-note, I believe one should love his/her significant other's kids, too, but this is a conversation for another day).  Whether or not you like them, however, can be another story.  Did Hitler's parents like him?  I suppose that depends on a number of factors.  But you get the point.  Love your kids.  Hope to like them.

Yeah, well, after getting to know him the past few months, I genuinely like my kid.  And I find this awesome, primarily because I also fully understand how little I get to do with his personality.  Let me state for the record that I am a believer in nature and nurture--one's genetics, along with one's circumstances can dictate a whole heckuvalot.  But what cracks me up on a daily basis are all of the little traits of my son's that I know for certain I didn't teach him.  It's awesome.  He's his own little person.

I happen to find this kid funny, sweet, determined, smart and absolutely kind.  Today I had a lunch date and was gone for a few hours.  And I MISSED HIM.  How awesome is that?  I truly enjoy being with him.  And not just because he's my kid.  I like his little personality and think he's the bees' knees.  What an unexpected bonus!  I know that makes me sound totally insane, but I just never really contemplated thinking like that.  How cool.

We are all really lucky to have certain people in our lives without whom life would be a little bit...less.  Some of these people are shorter than others.  I hope all of your days are filled with the tall and the short variety--blood relatives or not.  What's the point in spending time with people who suck?

Plane Error

I desperately want to travel again.  I dream and dream about future days, when I can hop on a plane and go...well, anywhere, really.  I can't wait to hit the road and see things and places and people.  I can't wait to taste foods--new and old--and feel sensations that have only been in my mind.  There are several obstacles to my doing so right now.  Money, of course, is a biggie.  Family considerations is another.  But one of the biggest has to do with my irrational issues, and nothing more.  I want my son to come with me, and the thought of my child on a plane makes my head explode.

I recently had a conversation with a good friend who lives in California.  We would love to see one another, and would love to have our kids meet.  Sounds simple enough, right?  Um, no.  There are the above considerations.  But the biggest hurdle for both of us is the idea of a plane ride with toddlers.  We have agreed that, should we meet up, it will be a maximum of one plane ride each, to be under 2 hours.  Even then we will have to bring entire bottles of booze and gift cards in apology for everyone else on the plane.  And this is my problem with the issue.  Why do I care so much what everyone else on the plane thinks?  Unless the flight is ungodly early or late, why should I apologize for my one year old being a one year old?  Well, because I used to be one of them (the glare-rs).  And because I know they hate me.  And I hate it when people hate me. 

Crazy, right?  Yet I still can't even explain how my head starts to throb when I think of him in a tiny area for hours.  He won't even sit at a kitchen table for more than 10 minutes.  Movies can distract him for about 5.  Toys?  Not going to happen.  Sleep?  Forget it.  Basically, there is nothing for him to do but get up and down and run up the aisle and kick the little old woman next to me who smells like feet.  Even describing it, I get sweaty palms.  I truly think it is a phobia.  Maybe we should name it:  Ilovemytotbutcanonlytakehimintopublicforfiveminutesobia.  Too long?  I'll work on it.

Like most people I fantasize about winning the lottery.  However, unlike most people, I desire this most so that I can charter planes.  The idea of my kid flying around the flying machine makes me smile.  He can kick and roll and squeal and scream, and nobody cares because I am paying them not to.  Ahhhhh.  Peace. 

Sigh.  I know I have asked the question before, but when it comes to travel, it takes on a new spin.  How much should we care what other people think?  And if we do care too much, how do we stop?  Ok, fine, how do I stop?

The Social Situation

I think my kid is a good combination of cautious around strangers and sociable.  This is my perpsective based upon absolutely no evidence whatsoever.  But on the one hand, he's usually pretty quick to stay close to mom when there are new people around.  On the other, once he is comfortable he will be as chatty as Regis, particularly if the audience includes a pretty girl.  Not bad.

BUT.  I freak out about my choices as a parent and how they will affect this kid's social development.  I worry that I spend too much time with him.  I worry that I don't spend enough time with him.  I worry that he doesn't see a lot of other kids.  I FREAK at the idea of him spending massive amounts of time with other kids.  I worry he will be a bully.  I worry he won't.  It's a never-ending stream of worry, all centered around something that I most likely have absolutely no control over.

The biggest question is what happens when (please, God) I find a job.  Do I put him in daycare?  Do I find a sitter?  We moved here so that such choices are easier, and they are.  But unless my dad wants to quit his job and work full-time for free as the baby's b*&ch, the social question still must be posed.  The kid is 15 months.  Does he need interaction with other kids?  Will he be ok without me around every day and still know that I haven't left him?  Does he even give a crap?  Probably not.  Nonetheless, it is something about which I will worry until he is safely in kindergarten, where I am legally obligated to let him do his own thing.

Biggest. Sucker. Ever.

I was always a bit sad, living in high rises and walk-ups, that I never got kids coming around selling things.  On Halloween, it killed me that I never (NOT ONCE) had trick-or-treaters.  I always bought the candy, mind you, but that was dealt with in proper form.  My friends had it right--they would hide on their living room floor when little kids rang the bell (you know who you are, and you were totally justified).  But I missed the peddlers.

So.  I have already pushed this longing to the back of my mind.  Why, you may ask?  Well, because it is perfectly clear to me that every single person in this town who is selling something has targeted my house and has chosen approximately 3 minutes after my kid has gone down for a nap, to ring the bell.  Repeatedly.  They have learned that this house is THE house, by word of mouth.  Got cookies?  Oh, check out that chick on the corner.  Selling magazines?  The corner house will buy, no matter how insanely expensive the magazines are.  Pushing religious materials?  Yeah, that broad is so in need of conversation, she will actually act interested.  Stop by.  And be sure to wake the kid, just to really drive home the remorse she will feel later.

I have always been a sucker.  I over tip.  I talk to people I shouldn't.  I say "yes" without considering whether I should.  But when one has minimum spending cash on hand, being a sucker hurts a bit more.  Yet I CAN'T STOP.  Anyone who rings the bell is treated to the sale of the century.  And I just can't make myself turn them down.

I like to pretend that this is a good trait of mine.  I am perfectly aware that it is not.  Maybe some day I will learn to push away those asking me to pay them to compensate for their crappy childhood as evidenced by the fact that their parents are sending a 5 year old door to door without checking on them.  Hopefully not.  Regardless, if you need me, I will be lying on my living room floor, hiding.  Actually, that's my motto from now on:  when all else fails, hide.  Then they can't find the suckers.

Country Girls

One of the most surprising things for me to learn upon going to the big city was that, for the first time in my life, I faced blatant sexism.  I very much remember the first time well.  I was sitting in Constitutional Law class when a guy my age made some comment to the tune of how 50% of the class (guess which half?) belonged in the kitchen.  He was totally kidding, right?  Nope.  He was provoking people?  Nuh-uh.  The kid (and several others who sided with him) believed that those of us missing Y chromosomes (and various body parts) had no business being lawyers.

The worst part is that he wasn't alone.  Both intentional and wholly unintentional bias is rampant throughout the legal profession.  By the time you get to the top of most firms, particularly large firms, you can usually count on one hand the number of women.  Some of it is the choice of women--when faced with ivy league college tuition costs for preschools versus staying home with the kids, something has to give if it can.  Some of it is that law schools weren't 50/50 until about my generation, so maybe they're making their way to the top.  I doubt it.  A lot of it really is that there is a wide-spread belief, among peers and more often among clients, that the woman can't cut it. 

I'm not preaching today about the situation.  It is what it is.  But what absolutely SHOCKED me is that it really doesn't seem that way here.  I had come to assume that it was my experience that was unique.  I was surrounded by incredible people who never once questioned, nor let me question, my abilities because I am a woman.  And over the past several years, I figured that these people were just special.  Well, they are.  But I also really do think that things are just different out here.  When you think about it--it makes sense.  Life here is primarily about survival.  Particularly for those who came from farm and ranch backgrounds.  The women typically had/have a heckuvalotta kids and raise them while branding cattle and shooting deer.  Those without such histories simply need to be able to hold their own (and typically can--my advice is to pick bar fights in Montana with guys).  Or maybe I am painfully stereotyping.  Regardless, unless they are women with too much money and way too much time, the chicks out here are badasses.  And the people out here love them that way.

There's some relief in this realization for me.  I felt pretty down about the entirety of the world, based on some of my experiences.  I just couldn't fathom that the world really is a place where women are secondary.  And I started to think that I was the freak because I didn't think that was right.  Well, gentlemen and particularly ladies, I am here to tell you that I may be a freak, but the belief that women are anything lesser ain't the "way of the world."  So don't buy it.  And if it comes to it, get yourself a horse and come on out to the wilderness.  We could always use another badass or badass supporter.

Vacation Time

Recently, I had an absolutely blissful vacation.  Seriously, it was amazing--the rest and relaxation, the overeating, the beautiful landscape.  You see, thanks to one of the world's kindest women, I was given the afternoon off from my life.  I went to a movie.

First and foremost, let me say that I love the people in my life as well as many aspects of it.  And particularly when it comes to my kid, I am grateful for each and every minute that I have with him.  But as we all know, there are days when you just need a break from your life, even if you are rich and famous like Rupert Murdoch.  Ok, bad example.  But my point is that every once in a while, escapism is fantastic.  And if you are a parent without reprieve at all, well, those moments are vital.

I used to get paid to travel the world.  I had clients located throughout the world and was blessed to get to spend days in Milan, Brussels, New York and Dublin.  And I loved my job.  So back then, even my working travels seemed like vacations.  When I did go on vacation it was to romantic destinations like the Caribbean (with my mother, mind you, but it was still fun--more fun, actually).  I knew how to vacay.  And I was VERY particular about how vacation time was spent.  Even if I was able to shop or eat well or have an occasional spa treatment, it all had to be the best.  I had absolutely NO reason for being such a snob, mind you, apart from the fact that I could. 

Let's just say things are different.  I can't possibly leave the city right now, let alone the country, for a number of reasons.  And relaxation sort of goes out the door when you worry 24/7 about things like food and shelter.  That said, when you have guardian angels, miracles can happen.  The other day, my aunt (with appearances by my dad) watched my son for an entire afternoon.  Knowing how much I needed to just get away for a few hours, she gave him an afternoon of bliss.  And I disappeared into air conditioned pretend land and for the first time in a long time, it wasn't me making up the stories.  I was a little disheveled after I came out into the sunshine, but I was calm and happy.  And was very much ready to see my kid.

Don't get me wrong--I would love to wake up tomorrow in Hawaii.  But now I would prefer that my family be with me.  I don't think having a kid or moving changed me, so much as it brought me back to me.  I still love nice stuff, and would do almost anything to win the lotto.  But in the meantime, these little respites make me about as happy (if not happier in some ways).  I don't recommend having your life turned upside down.  But if it does go all topsy-turvy, it may take you to the people who matter most.  The ones who are there for you when you need them.  And maybe you might be lucky enough to find yourself out there in vacation land, too.

The "Real" Me

See? Madonna forgets too

I have been doing something lately that I find offensive.  First, let me say that I don't find it offensive in others, by any means.  Just me.  And if you see me wandering around the Home Depot or Albertsons lately, you would see why.  For the first time in about 25 years, I am leaving the house without makeup.

It's not really the fact that I'm doing it, so much as the fact that I don't even notice.  I literally forget to try to look nice. Today, for example, I walked in the house, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room, and almost had a heart attack because I thought I was being visited by my long-passed great-grandmother Lucille.  And, please don't haunt me Lucille, but toward the end there you weren't that much of a looker even when alive.  But my point is, I had absolutely no idea that I had gone into public like that.  I even had some stupid barrette hanging off of the side of my head, that I had put in so that I could see where I was aiming the hose when the kid and I were playing water wars.  So sad.

In Chicago, as you can imagine, it's not normal for anyone to go anywhere without full makeup.  You are allowed to pretend that you don't have any on, only if you are coming from your yoga class and are "glistening" with sweat and chic beauty.  But even then you still have on 3 inches of concealer and mascara.  I even stopped going to the grocery store after I had a baby, just so I didn't have to put my face on.  Sure, I said it was so that someone else could climb stairs with 12 jugs of formula water, but in truth it was because I didn't have the energy to look decent.

Fast forward.  Now not only do I not have the energy, I apparently don't have a clue.  This has gone on for multiple days.  If those who "talk" here had seen me, I'm quite certain I would have been the talk of the party circuit for months.  Not pretty--neither literally nor figuratively.

So, am I losing my mind or my inhibitions?  This one is a toss-up.  Sure, it's sort of freeing to literally not care.  But it's also disturbing.  Shouldn't we want to look good for our fellow mankind?  Or as a single, jobless mom, have I just completely stopped caring?  Sigh.  Gladly accepting Sephora samples and Maybeline rejects.  If not for me, send them for the good of the city.

Too Soon?

Reprinted from
http://www.elisemyers.wordpress.com/
And I am sorry if this photo
offends you.  It makes me
feel better about my parenting.

As you are likely aware, I am a huge sports fan.  There are very few sports that I have come across that I don't like, love, or at least tolerate enough to have on TV during the day (perhaps curling...).  For example, this weekend I was in heaven watching the British Open golf, the World Cup soccer ("football" to some of you), and, well, watching the Cubs suck.  Pretty standard, really.  All I needed was some football (sorry, "American football") and I would have been set.  It was great.

I spent many hours when I was pregnant worrying that my son would not like sports.  It wasn't that I was worried that he wouldn't want to play--I will absolutely pretend to support him if that is his decision.  But I was afraid that he wouldn't tolerate them.  And, as they are almost always on in my house, that could be a huge problem.  I still worry about it.  But now I'm also starting to worry another way....

I am starting to become afraid because of my kid's obsession with sports.  He says a few choice words these days, but the biggies are:  "hi," "up," "ball" and "go, Cubs, go."  No, really.  And "ball" means any and every round, possibly bouncy object AND basketball hoops.  When we go for a walk, it's all I hear, because there are so many hoops in my neighborhood.  He got so excited this morning at finding a new hoop in the hood, I thought I was going to have to tackle him.  At which point he probably would have bounced up and yelled "touchdown." 

The other night, we were reading his formerly favorite book, "Boy of Mine."  It's about how awesome he is and how much I love him.  But he literally smacked it out of my hand and made me pick up a book his aunt Kate gave him called "Chicago Cubs, 101."  Thanks Kate.  It teaches the history of the Cubs, as well as the basics (bat, ball, Ron Santo, etc).  He made me read it over and over and over again.  And by the fourth time, I sort of started to freak out.  Really?  You don't want to read "Goodnight Moon"?  Should we watch The Wiggles?  How about a nice game of peek-a-boo?  Nope.  The kid wants to read sports books.

Don't get me wrong--I love this.  I will tell anyone and everyone around that he is a sports nut with a pride that really should be reserved for actual accomplishments.  I'm thinking of having him sing the Bears fight song into a recording, so that we can be rich and famous.  BUT...isn't it a bit...much?  The kid is one.  I don't want him to burn out.  He'll be hating all things "ball" by the time he's in preschool. 

So what do you think, public?  Do I have a budding first baseman, or a kid who will never talk to his mother again because he hates all things sports by the age of 5?  And am I Mother of the Year (though I have no control over his likes) or is child services coming for me soon?  Don't answer that last one.

Ouch.

My ex and his new wife.

As a handful of you can attest, I was not very nice to my college boyfriend.  It most certainly wasn't intentional, but you could probably say that I was downright horrible.  It is something that I have felt awful about for years.  I was young and commitment phobic, he was mature and looked toward the future.  All in all, I was a huge jerk.

I have tried, intermittently, to apologize to him.  But it's going on over 15 years, and my apologies still haven't been accepted.  As I mentioned, we were all a very tight-knit group and still try to keep in touch as much as possible.  Sadly, though, when I say "we," he's not really included.  I think R in Idaho may have had some contact, but other than that, it's been radio silence.  But in the past few weeks, I have had the VERY great pleasure of talking with a handful of our clan and it has been a great tonic.  So, I thought, it would be fun to try to track down college guy and try again to mend the friendship.  So I did what all sane, adult people do these days.  I cyber-stalked him.  It took about 5 minutes, but I found him.  Photo and everything, on a blog his sister writes.  He has changed professions and states, but looks to be doing well.  And then I saw it.  Last fall he got married.  Ouch.

Before you get all indignant, I'm not upset that he married someone other than me.  As I said, it was 15 years ago, and I was...mean.  But it's just seeing it there, all in cyber-reality.  The photo of him with his wife at some party, looking all happy.  I realized that I was never going to get a chance to apologize.  He wouldn't be joining our email chats.  He would be coming to Vegas with us and our kids (when they're older, of course.  Is 5 too young for Vegas?).  He had gone and made a huge life change without telling any of us.  He had walked away.

I guess I forget that my closest friends are allowed to have lives without me.  That's shocking to me.  What do you mean, you don't want my opinion or good wishes?  Or, in this case, what do you mean you don't want my apologies?  I guess I need to learn to let things go.  AND to be nicer to people.  Because you never know when you might lose them.

Do As I Say...



From http://www.derekjeter.com/
And if you are getting
life lessons from Derek Jeter,
you may be in worse shape
than my kid.

 Easily one of my biggest, and most annoying faults is my exceedingly low patience level.  I say annoying and I mean both to others as well as to myself.  It's seriously irritating how quickly I can go from "cool" to "what the...."  And we are talking 24/7 here.

One of the nice things about Montana is there isn't a ton of waiting.  Sure, people are slower, but there are fewer of them and they generally don't get too uptight much.  So the entire stress level in public places is much lower.  Unless I am there.  I cannot begin to comprehend what the problem is, when someone can't bring me the stupid soda I ordered.  If you're driving too slow in front of me?  I sit about 5 inches from your bumper and glare into your rear view.  And I literally have no place I have to be.  If I asked you for a job?  I can't comprehend why it's be 5 minutes and I haven't heard anything.  I drive myself insane.  Those around me can comment as to how pleasant this aspect of my personality is to them.  But I'm guessing there are few who love it.

But the worst part is that I see it in my kid.  He'll hold his hand up for another bite of food and while I am cutting whatever our feast happens to be, he will let out a squeal and will grab the entire meal off of the plate anyway, because I am too slow.  If he wants his shoes on, there is no finishing the dishes--he wants them on NOW, dammit.  It's hilarious.  And I get that I am the parent so his poor life really is "do as I say, not as I do."  But there is a part of me that feels incredibly guilty about it.  Yet I can't decide whether I want to change my ways as a result of the guilt, or go easier on his.  As the latter seems less invasive to me (and quicker), probably that one.

There are so many things that are lessons we teach our kids but don't follow.  I have to wonder where we went astray.  Clearly we know about the right path, or we wouldn't be teaching it.  So we were likely taught the good stuff.  So how in the world did we fall off and how do we keep our kids from doing it?  I'm guessing there is no way.  We know too little about this whole process.  And THAT is annoying.

If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them.  Now.  Right now.  I want to hear them NOW.

A Wrinkle in the Plan

My female relatives are incredible.  This statement is true in many contexts, but in one particular area, they really stand out to the general public--their skin is gorgeous.  My grandmother is model-beautiful at 150 (she would kill me if I actually said her age).  My mother is stunning.  My aunts glow.  They all look terrific.  And this is a particularly incredible feat considering the fact that half of them spent a lot of time on a farm, sans sunscreen.  But it's true.  Barely a wrinkle in sight.

Because I refuse to do a self-analysis, I will just contend that my skin is ok.  It's relatively normal, I would say, particularly for my age.  Lately, I have seen the deepening of some wrinkles on the forehead, but what do you expect when you are constatly squinting at a toddler, trying to figure out his next move.  But there is one issue that sort of bothers me, and I have no idea why.  I don't have laugh lines.

For those of you who don't watch daytime TV, laugh lines are those little "(" and ")" lines around your mouth.  It is very popular for men and women, alike, to use various forms of toxins to remove these lines.  Most people hate theirs and spend good money to get rid of them.  So why, in the name of Dr. Dre, am I feeling weird about not having any?  Because I wonder whether I have laughed enough.

I know--freakish.  But the thought crossed my mind the other night.  What if I don't have these annoying little wrinkles because I don't smile and laugh enough.  Don't get me wrong--the entirety of my childhood and a good chunk of my adulthood was absolutely blissful.  I think I generally have a good time, even when things are bad.  But I'm wondering if all of this joy/ smiley-simle stuff is just in my head and I walk around glaring at everyone all of the time?  I'm not really sure that I care, if this is the case, because I also dislike people in my head a lot and it really saves time if we just get that out in the open right away.  But what am I teaching my kid??  What if he doesn't think mommy smiles?  What if I raise a kid who thinks it's bad to show happy emotions?  What if he pierces his eyebrow at the age of 3 and asks to be called "Prince Dark"?

I know--I know.  Lay off the vodka.  But when you have very little adult conversation time, these are the things that pop into your head.  Maybe I'll draw the lines in every morning.  Has a makeup company come up with a liner for this yet?  If not, I should pitch it.  I can't be the only Debbie Downer out there.  Heck, the entire East Coast would totally buy the stuff.  I'm all over this idea.  In the meantime, dear readers, know that I am generally trying to smile.  Even if I can't prove it.

And hi Grambo.

A Common Thread

Apparently, it is me.  There is a very familiar occurrence happening here.  And sadly I am not talking about any of the millions of really great things Chicago has to offer.  I'm talking about inconsiderate, insanely loud neighbors.  And it's possible that this "little bit of home" will send me over the edge.

I had the wonderful fortune of having neighbors in the city who decided to convert a residential garage into a venue for rock concerts.  No, really.  I'm actually not just being snarky here--they charged people and everything.  About the only questionable part of my statement is the term "rock"--their music generally sucked.  And the true joy was that the garage was located three stories down, but 5 feet across from my bedroom.  It was fan-freaking-tastic.  My mom stayed over one night and we couldn't hear each other talk, it was so loud.  Plus, bonus--people would come out into the alley way and smoke and drink and yell at one another (or whatever it is that sociable people do). 

Being me, I of course handled the situation in a completely adult, non-emotional manner.  I cried.  A lot.  And then I emailed and called the Alderman.  Constantly.  I basically threatened to personally begin a campaign to unseat him if he didn't fix the problem.  Sadly, I had no idea he wasn't planning on running for re-election.  BUT in a rare act of generosity rarely seen in Chicago politics, his office put a (sort of) end to the concerts.  Took pretty much the summer of 2010, but my newborn was finally allowed to sleep.

So....here we are.  The first few weeks of being in Montana, it was so quiet at night, it completely freaked me out.  It was just strange.  No sirens.  No yelling.  No bar across the street.  Very, very weird.  And then I got used to it and it was heavenly.  And then my neighbors started rennovating their house.  For some reason that defies logic, they decided that between 11pm and 3am is the best time for working.  I'm not kidding.  They are pounding and sawing and blaring Guns N'Roses (yup, we're in Montana) all night long.  It's as though the thousands of miles never happened.  But this time, if I call the cops they will be very confused and likely laugh at me.  If they're even up at that time of night.

So what do I do?  Well, I tried walking over in my slippers to have a polite discussion with them.  After all, unlike in Chicago, I was fairly certain that, though they probably had guns, they likely only used them to take out furry things.  But nobody answered the door.  That happens a lot here (remind me to tell you about the kids selling things--man, I'm a sucker).  Anyway, so then what did I do?  I cried.

Blissfully, it seems that they are about done with the HGTV show over there.  But I guess it goes to show you that some things never change.  You can be miles from where you were, and still you experience frustrations that make you want to scream.  I guess there is some comfort in that, though.  Like maybe we take our crap with us wherever we go.  I don't know about you, but that sort of makes me feel better.

But maybe I am just sleep deprived.

Re-Jected

I am most certainly no stranger to rejection. No.  Let me rephrase that.  I have been rejected by everyone and everything from Dusty Cladis to Tylenol.  And, trust me, neither of those examples was pretty.  I have been rejected by boys, by men, by jobs, by friends and (most frequently) by alcohol.  You get the picture.

So lately my kid is going through a phase.  I have learned from my friends who have older children, as well as various NBC shows, that my child will go through many phases.  During this particular phase, we are experiencing crazy highs as well as lows so insane, they make Lindsey Lohan look like Hillary Clinton on the respectful citizen level.  He has molars coming in, he can't quite talk, he can't quite keep up and all of this is both exciting and really, really frustrating for him.  As a result, about 15 times per day, I get the most delicious hugs and kisses and smiles and giggles that make my life worth living.  And about 10 times per day, I get rejected faster than Gretta Van Sustren pledging to be a Tri-Delt.  The kid swings so fast, I have learned to simply look at him like he's nuts and walk away.  This, of course, results in a flood of tears (his and mine) followed by the pulling on the pant leg which I will take for "I'm so sorry mom" until he can say otherwise.  In short, I'm used to it.

But my poor dad isn't.  As I have mentioned, he LOVES being Grandpa, and the kid couldn't love him more.  The baby toddles out to peek into the back parking and see if Grandpa's truck is there, the first thing every morning.  He adores the guy (but, really, who doesn't).  The two of them are inseparable.  But.  Because the baby is going through his...thing...there are the rare occasions when Grandpa gets the brunt.  Case in point?  The other day the kid tried for Grandpa's glasses.  This happens a lot--he is obsessed with glasses.  Maybe he'll marry Tina Fey; who knows.  Anyway, Grandpa said loudly "no" and took them away.  You would have thought he had smacked the kid (which, for the record, he would never, ever, ever do).  The baby screamed and cried and when Grandpa tried to hug him, he received a big old smack himself and the baby ran to me.  Ouch.  Rejection at its finest.  I seriously think it hurt my poor dad's feelings.  I felt (feel) awful.  I tried to explain that the baby doesn't mean it, and my dad clearly understands.  Plus the kid was toddling after him again within 3 minutes.  Seriously, to him, nothing ever happened.  But I could tell it bothered Grandpa.

These kids.  Man, are they a head trip.  I don't care who you are or how secure you may be--if a child you love gets into your head, you're a goner.  Not even your high school soul mate sleeping with your math teacher can equate to that kind of rejection.  And it can hurt.  A lot.  But the nice part is, nobody you have ever met can love you the way they can.