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

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