Hijacked

by Cathy

This past weekend we attended my daughter's volleyball playoffs. While crammed into uncomfortable bleachers in a humid, smelly school gym, I struck up a conversation with a fellow school dad.

"So, what are your grown up Halloween plans for this weekend?" he asked. "Got any?" 

I was a little baffled as to how to answer this, since I'm not used to being asked what my plans are. But out, the sad truth came a tumblin'. "Nothing," I replied flatly. "Just a bunch of Halloween festivities for the kids. Boring stuff."

He almost leapt out of his seat. "I know, riiiight?!" he said emphatically, venting what was obviously boiling beneath the surface for quite some time now. "We've become so BORING! Everything we ever do is for the kids and nothing for us." With a sweep of his hand through the air, he drove his point home. "Our kids have completely hijacked our lives."

And brotha, ain't that the truth.

We are so exhausted and overrun with all of the kids' activities, that we don't have the time nor the energy to plan something for ourselves. As a matter of fact, it's something that doesn't really enter our minds as an option. And when it does? It's always an afterthought for which a zillion reasons are found to prevent:

It's too cold
It's too far
It's too late
It's too expensive
I'm too tired
I'm already cozy and have a million shows DVR'd
I don't feel like getting dressed up
I'm too lazy
I have nothing to wear
I'm too old
I just want to hang out in my drawers
We just got our new Netflix movie
We can make popcorn!

But like with anything else, you have to make things happen - things like jobs, sex, memorable times, opportunities and friendships. These things are not going to just fall into your lap. Put all of your excuses on the back burner and just DO it. Haven't we all had a time when we forced ourselves to do something that we could potentially have a lot of fun doing, and afterward,  are glad we did it and wondered why it took us so long to decide to feel this happy?

We all know that if something fails to be part of a routine for a long time, it's very difficult to work it back in. The sad part is that often, the most fun activities are the first ones we tend to cut out because we are too stressed, too tired, too worried or feel too guilty to enjoy. We need to get back to the place we were before we got hijacked by kids, spouses, stress, responsibilities and life. We need to ask ourselves, "Who was I before _______? Where has that person gone? What did that person enjoy doing? Why has it changed? How can I find that person I was once?"

We need to take control of our lives and our schedules as best as we can before we get rerouted into a direction from which we can't return. Just because our kids' schedules (or what have you) have a tendency to hijack our lives - doesn't mean we should be held hostage to it.

Gotta hand it to her....

by Patti
 

Last year, S wanted to be a thumb for a Halloween. Yes, a THUMB. Instead, because… THUMB?...she was a spider. And it was adorable.

This year she decided she wanted to be a weather map, which would have been really cool if her MOTHER had gotten her act together and figured out a way to make a weather map. Halloween nearing closer and closer, S dropped the weather map idea and decided to go all out as a hobo. A hobo cannot get more classic in terms of Halloween costumes. I mean, who wasn’t a hobo in the 70’s? I sure was. So easy! Wear some clothes that are too big, rat out the hair, blacken a tooth, carry a stick: Instant hobo!

But a mere few days before Halloween, a co-worker overhead me telling another co-worker how S had wanted to be a thumb, or a weather map, and how she’d had to take it down a few notches to hobo thanks to her MOTHER. That co-worker piped in that her daughter had once been a hand for Halloween – not just a thumb, a whole entire hand - and that she said she was pretty certain she still had the costume stored away somewhere. I didn’t say anything to S in the case that hand was long gone, but the next day, my co-worker walked in with a huge foam hand, complete with jewelry and hot pink nails. Oh, how the kid would flip.

I took the hand home and when S saw it, flip she did. She immediately stripped out of her school clothes and in one second flat became a giant walking hand with a finger-to-finger grin.

I remember her first Halloween when I picked up a tiny black cat suit on clearance days before Halloween (because I will never change). She was just so moldable back then. But now? She has her own ideas and opinions and ways of expressing who she is. And this is why I love my kid. She could be a princess or a gypsy or a witch; instead, she wants to be a thumb, or a weather map, or even a whole, entire hand, and she isn’t afraid to be different. 

Next year she wants to be a picnic. I was a picnic many, many, many Halloweens ago, and the fact that she wants to perpetuate such a preposterity is just the coolest thing ever. Life with that kid? Is a picnic.

"Day Off"

by Cathy and Patti

What do you do on your "day off"?

The coveted day off - whether it's on a weekend or on a rare, indulgent day off of work - is generally an oxymoron for busy moms. What do you end up doing on your "day off"? Do you spend it doing things you love? For yourself? Do you relax and pace yourself, taking in the scenery, a yoga class or shopping - without kids in tow?

What's your "day off" really like? Well, let us tell you about some of our "days off".

Cathy:
Last Friday, I had a "day off" of work which went something like this:
I woke up and went through the usual routine of making breakfast, lunch and snacks for both girls within 20 minutes. Once they were out the door, I had my raggedy clothes on, plastic tarped the kitchen and repainted two twin-sized headboards for the girls' room. Once those were done and set to dry, I made some calls, sent some emails, tidied up my disaster of a house and I was off to Costco. I had ten minutes to spare on the way home so I stopped in to see my parents. Dad was still at work so I was enlisted by mom to hold up a 496 lb. bed mattress while she ever so meticulously draped a bedskirt on the boxspring underneath it for what felt like an eternity. I cut my visit short to give me enough time to do the Costco shuffle with all of the boxes I still had to lug from my car up three flights of stairs (which took six trips), pack away, break down boxes for recycling, and cut up and package bulk groceries into a zillion freezer baggies.

Just before I did that last task, my husband unexpectedly came home early from a meeting. Relieved, I asked him if he could please go and pick up the girls from school as I was already five minutes late in doing so and it would really help me out.

"Oh man," he said. "I just got home and I've been waiting to use the bathroom for the last couple of hours. Do you mind if you go?"

Yes, I do mind. But what's one more dizzying, rushed task on to my day of dizzying, rushed tasks? I knew he would have gone otherwise, since he does help out with a lot at home when he can.

"Fine," I said, "but can you at least cut up the [Costco-sized] pizza and put the separate slices in freezer ziplocs?" I said,  hoping he would see the salmon, Italian sausages and chicken breasts that also needed the same attention. He half-heartedly groaned a 'yes' and I was already out the door. Back home with the girls, the pizza was put away but the other monster-sized food items awaiting my attention were mockingly still sitting on the kitchen table. And I still had to whip up dinner because the girls were starving. And we had a volleyball game of Bella's to go to in two hours. That was my "day off."

Last Sunday, I left Ari home with Joe during Bella's lengthy Nutcracker rehearsal at the ballet studio. After killing two hours shopping, I called home and confirmed with my husband that Bella indeed had to stay the full four hours and asked how he was getting along with Ari. "She's not here," he said. "I called my mom right after you left and my parents took her to the park and to IHOP."

Must. Be. Nice. Of course, silly me. It's his "day off" and dang it, he was having it. When do I get mine?


Patti:
I know I am lucky that M is a pretty hands-on dad who also cooks and cleans and does groceries and laundry, and let me tell you: after marriage and kids and a million years together, your whole idea of foreplay changes. A man who cooks and cleans and does groceries? Hot. BUT. This does not in any way mean that all is equal in the land of "days off". You see, on M's days off, he truly gets days off. Why? Simple: He's a man.

You see, it's no secret that women, especially mothers, do not get days off. In fact, the only real way a mom can get a day is to actually physically remove herself from her family. And if a mother actually does get a day off - perhaps a fun night out with friends - do you think she gets to sleep in the next day? No. Kids will wake up regardless of what occurred the night before, and they will be hungry, and they will ALWAYS come to your side of the bed. And if your husband was out with you on that same crazy night out, he will somehow find a way to take a nap the next day while you flip pancakes as your own stomach flips, or struggle to stay awake through Dora the Explorer, or play a 9th mindless game of Chutes and Ladders. ALL WHILE HE SNORES and you contemplate smothering him with a pillow. Instead, you complain, and when you do, he will retort, "It's my day off."

Just last Sunday, my one "day off" of work of only 2 during the week, I did the shuffle from morning to night. And it was SUNDAY. You know? The day of REST? So, that Sunday I woke up, made some pancakes for the kid, and then hustled off to the gym. Okay, yes, I did something for myself (how dare I), but I have to squeeze in some sweat-time at least a few days a week or not only will my pants not fit, I will become an even bigger bitch than I already am. M stayed home with the kid to ensure her survival (He's really good at ensuring survival from the couch. Amazing, actually.), but since he had an appointment to play tennis (day off!) and S had a birthday party to attend, I couldn't afford to waffle at the gym. Instead, I had to make sure my workout was efficient, efficient, efficient! I have places to be! So what is supposed to be a stress killer ends up only adding to my stress.

After the gym, I raced home, jumped in the shower, and with sopping wet hair, drove S to a birthday party. But first! I had to stop at CVS because S remembered we had forgotten to buy a part of the birthday gift. So I screech-detoured, lurched into a parking spot, sprinted through CVS with S in tow, threw money at the cashier, and screeched back to the party. While she was at the party, I drove to the grocery store and sped-shopped through the aisles, throwing in all of the snacks S would need for school while calculating dinners that needed to be cooked while making sure our butts stay clean with a jumbo-pack of toilet paper. My cart was teetering with frozen foods, fruits and vegetables, packets of bread, meats and cheeses.... I bionic-packed it all into my car, and then sped home to unpack it all and put it away. Our garage was otherwise occupied this day, so I had to park my car outside the garage behind the house, lug everything in no less than five trips by myself since M was at tennis (day off!), move the car around to the front of the house, run back into the house, put everything away, and bolt out the door with 2 minutes to spare to pick up S from the birthday party. As I was running out the door, I remembered that I forgot to grab S's ballet bag since she had rehearsal, so I ran back in, navigated the land mines of her room, and then headed out once again. By the time I sat in my car, I was sweating. I picked up S, drove her to the ballet studio and dumped her there, and finally - FINALLY, I took a breath.

.........................

We need a day off from our "day off".

The Hunchback of Bally Total Fitness

by Patti

The other day I was at the gym and when I was done with my cardio, I headed for the floor mats to stretch and do my sit-ups. As I waved my legs around in the air, feeling more ancient than ever, I noticed in the wall mirror that a man exercising on the stationary bike was staring at me. Immediately self-conscious, I lowered my legs and discreetly peeked at my crotch to make sure I wasn't giving some sort of free show. Nope. No holes. For once. I carried on with my stretching and leg-waving, when suddenly the man that had been staring at me was next to me. I told myself he had the right to stretch, but I still felt annoyed and uncomfortable, and I got up from the mat and headed for the weights.

No less than 3 minutes into my first set of weights, that man appeared on the machine next to me. I purposely cut my set short and wandered to another machine. He followed me. I did it again; he followed me again. Now I KNEW he was following me, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. After all, there I was, make-up-less, sweaty, lopsided bun.... I mean, seriously? WHY? After a good 20 minutes of feeling stalked, but not enough gumption to ask him why the hell he was doing it, I left. I ran to my car, convinced he was going to follow me out and chase me into some seedy ally.

When I got home, I told M all about it, trying to get a male's perspective. DO guys stalk ugly, sweaty, old bitches at the gym? Are they THAT desperate?

A couple of days later, I went to the gym again. I was relieved that Stalker Guy didn't seem to be there that day, and I happily worked out in complete, un-stalked oblivion. When I got home, M was sitting at the kitchen counter with S, and I threw down my gym bag and headed to the fridge for some juice.  "What is wrong with your BACK?" M practically shouted.
S laughed, "MOM! Your back looks so WEIRD!"

I craned my neck, stretching awkwardly to attempt to see what was freaking them out. S came around the counter and started lifting my shirt. She shoved her hand up my back and into my sports bra, did a little shuffling around back there, and, like a magician pulling scarves from his frilly sleeve, slowly pulled out the longest, thickest sock pretty much ever. Both M and S burst into laughter, while I stood there, completely shocked and bewildered, wondering how on earth I had possibly rocked the stair climber and weights and crunches as a complete and total hunchback.

M jumped from the bar stool and gleefully leapt into the family room, where he grabbed a couch cushion and shoved it up the back of his shirt.  Mimicking me, he puzzled out loud, "I wonder why that man was staring at me?" Then, his back deformed and protruding, he began to mime lifting weights and doing lunges. "I just don't get why that man was staring at me!" S and I were screaming with laughter.

The stalker's motives were finally explained. Let's face it: I'm the hottest hunchback at the gym.

No Bathroom Break Yet? Oh, Poop!

by Cathy

I've written here before about how we moms tend use the bathroom as a place of solace and solitude; we ALL could all use a Bathroom Break every now and then. But sometimes, even when you are actually using the bathroom for the services it was actually meant to provide - your basic hygienic upkeep and the relieving of your intestines, we still can't cut a break.

Mom friends of mine have shared stories with me about the shenanigans that ensue when they are using the toilet - how their toddlers sit on their laps while they read them books and sing songs or how they're crouching over and playing Legos or Barbies with them on the bathroom rug.

Now that my five-year old realizes that we all need privacy when we use the bathroom, she is willing to give me that from time to time. However, one night after her bath, she insisted on being a part of my bathroom time. Perhaps she wanted to upkeep the attention she received during the bath?

I am always taking advantage of my bathroom "alone" time by reading or checking email on my phone, and as luck would have it, I captured Ari's latest tactic of 'door measuring' on the video below. This is yet another clever way of how she is using her creative ways to invade my Bathroom Break.  (Turn up the volume.)

I had to laugh and even marvel at her determination and creativity. She will try anything to get my attention (which I am always giving her, by the way), even if it's through a locked door - the ultimate sign of KEEP OUT.

After observing this shenanigan of my own, I can comfortably say that even when I turn my young child away by requesting privacy, not only is she beginning to realize the concept of what that means, but at the same time, she finds ways to utilize her resourcefulness to still get what she wants. Kudos to her. Although she doesn't realize it now, this is surely yet another lesson that will come in handy for her later on in life.

But in the meantime? I can flush my "alone time" down the toilet.

Jesus to the Rescue

by Patti

S was four years old and had just finished her first year of preschool. She was attending a little Lutheran school in our neighborhood, and her favorite times during the school day were “Jesus Time”, during which they would sing fun songs about Jesus and recite sweet prayers.

Father’s Day was around the corner, and, because M had been particularly cranky of late, I thought it would cheer him up to receive a hand-picked card from S. I took her to Walgreen's, and she loved looking at all of options and taking her time to choose just the right one. She browsed for a bit, occasionally holding up one that caught her eye. Then she squealed in delight; apparently she’d found “the one”. I took it from her and saw that it was a glittery baptism card, covered with crosses and doves, and other religious symbols. “Oh honey, this is not for Father’s Day; this is for a baptism.”

“What is baptism?” she asked.

Struggling to find the answer she would understand, I told her, “Well, it’s when you go to church and get blessed by holy water so you can take Jesus into your heart.”

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no!" I reassured her, "It makes you happy!"

S looked at the card and then looked back up at me. "Let's get it. Papi's been really grouchy lately. He really needs some Jesus in his heart!"

Surprise Party

by Patti

When I first found out I was pregnant, I took 7 tests to make sure it was real. Because, you know, the missed period and boulder boobs were not enough proof. Once I was thoroughly convinced, I shared the news with M. And then M had a nervous breakdown. No, literally. As in, he got slurring-and-stumbling-drunk, leapt out of a moving car while we were driving in the middle-of-nowhere and ran/stumbled/ran/fell/ran/stumbled into the night, invaded a stranger’s yard and squatted in his garden, turned on said stranger’s garden hose, and dangled it over his head as he sobbed through the spraying water about how it was all moving too fast. 

This was not the way I had pictured it would be.

S was a total surprise party. I was not expecting the 2 red lines that screamed “PREGNANT! OMG YOU ARE SOOOO PREGNANT!” when I took the test. I mean, I wanted a baby, but that was supposed to be “someday”; not right now, not like this.  I’ll admit: My first reaction? Tears. Lots and lots of “What the hell am I going to do?” tears. Part of my reaction was my own fear and shock; the other was worry about how M would react. You see, M has never been good at handling stress. He is definitely not a curveball kind of guy. He likes things organized and planned and neatly lined up. I, on the other hand, am not only a curveball catcher, I am a curveball thrower. And this? Was most definitely a curveball.

And just as I suspected, he did not catch that curveball. Instead, it cracked him on the head and knocked him out cold.

At first, before the Big Breakdown, he was mad. And that made ME mad.  I mean, we had been together at this point for 11 years!  We were married! We loved each other! For crying out loud, grow up! But apparently he was not in the mood for me to be pregnant. This was, after all, in clear violation of The Plan.

Over the next few weeks, this new knowledge tucked deeply in our pockets, we lived our life, but we lived it on the outskirts. We were ever so careful not to make waves, not to get too heavy. I could see that M was trying to act all casual and normal; as if what was happening wasn’t really happening at all. As if we could just sit together in the living room and watch TV, or go out with friends, or eat dinner at our little dining room table, just as we always did, it would all just go away.

And then came that night. We had gone to a party and traded places: He drank, I didn’t. And he drank. And drank. And drank. So much so, that by the time we left, he zigzagged his way to the car. I took the keys from him, jammed his jacked-up self into the car, and started the long drive home. The party had been at somebody’s farm; we were literally driving in the pitch-black of nothingness. He was incoherently yammering on about a kid he had seen at the party – a little boy dressed up like a traditional Argentine gaucho - and how it had reminded him of himself when he was a boy, when suddenly, he started laughing. It was the crazy, shake-your-shoulders silent kind of laugh, and I was happy to see him laughing again, so I laughed, too. Maybe everything would be alright, after all! But then I realized: he wasn’t laughing; he was crying. That’s when he demanded that I pull over, and before I could even navigate to the side of the road, he was opening the door and jumping out and running into the darkness.

Mid-breakdown, as M sat there swaying from side to side in a squatting position with some stranger’s hose spraying water over his head, the porch light of the hose’s owner flicked on. I heard the door creak open, and I braced myself for shotguns in the air and a menacing “Get off my property!” Instead, a man appeared, the porch light framing him like a glowing ring. He came softly toward us; M just sat there, choking on the water that sprayed down his face. “Hey buddy, are you alright?”

M looked up at him, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he sputtered out into the water.

The man leaned gently into M and put his hand on M’s soaking wet head; a balm. “You take all the time you need, okay?”
 
After that night, we didn’t really talk about what had happened; we didn’t need to. I knew him well enough to know that something inside of him had shifted. It was as if that water had washed away the awful beginning, and we were starting clean.  A few weeks later, he came home from work with a little bag in his hands. He handed it to me, and inside was a tiny onesie with a cheerful yellow duck on the front. I held it out in front of me, imagining it filled up. I was smiling so big it hurt.

First Impressions

by Cathy

By now you must have read what prompted this baby of ours - this blog. The Uncorking of a Friendship explained how Patti and I met and how this all came to fruition.

Granted, I couldn't really stand her when I first met her back in January of 2006 - me, all pregnant and hormonal and she, all skinny and chirpy. But as Patti pointed out in that first blog post, as my belly expanded, so did our friendship and that of our daughters.

In every new friendship, there is always the memorable point in time when the relationship takes on a new form - a new meaning. Most notably, this is when one friend is invited/invites the other to enter their humble abode, their personal living space - their house.  The first time this happened for us was when Patti came over to see my new real baby - my second daughter, Ari - the one I had been hormonally pregnant with the entire duration of our friendship thus far. And what's shocking to me now as I think back on it, is that this happened a mind-boggling seven months after Patti and I met.

I had only been back from the hospital a few weeks when Patti and her daughter S came over to see the baby. I was appropriately sleep deprived and still sporting the tell-tale jelly belly. Wobbling around in my stretched out maternity gauchos and flowy top, I was eyeball-deep in new mommy mode. The kitchen was a nursery military zone - hardly a spot of counter or table was visible through all of the burp cloths, bottles, cans of formula, pacifiers, warming pots, bibs, blankets, napkins, towels, plates and utensils. Even the comfy loveseat in our kitchen was strewn with quilts, cloths and a giant boppy pillow. The floor in front of the couch was properly booby trapped with a bouncy seat.

When Patti first arrived, the baby was asleep so we had some time to sit out on my deck and enjoy the warm August night. We had no adult food or drink readily available in the house, which I didn't realize until we were chatting it up on the deck. Since I wasn't thinking straight, my husband was rummaging around our kitchen trying to find something to offer our new guest. Upon offering her a drink of cranberry/vodka, he quickly realized, after scraping around our freezer for a while, that we didn't even have a speck of ice. So Patti courteously sat there and drank her stacked, warm cocktail.

A few minutes went by and Joe slides the screen door open and pops his head out.

"Do you want a hard-boiled egg?"

Trying to keep her cheeks from exploding from laughter, Patti politely declined the tempting offer as I sat there with my eyes bulged out of my head, horrified. Of course if I were of sound body and mind, the Greek in me would have come out and I would have whipped up something from nothing. But for now, we had to contend with my sweet husband, (God love him) trying so hard to be a proper, respectable host. And he was doing the best he could considering the circumstances.

A few more minutes went by and out comes Joe. He plops a tub of industrial-sized hummus on the table and a plate of pita chips that were collected from the bottom 1/4 of the bag. Surprisingly, Patti didn't flinch. She happily sipped her flat cocktail and munched on the crumbs that she dipped into the big tub o' hummo. As if that weren't enough, considering how I looked and felt, she actually complimented me on how great I was rocking my mommy cleavage and how my hair looked like a lion's mane - all full, healthy and shiny. And that made me see myself in a whole, new, much-needed light.

I said to myself that night, that if a friend puts up with all of that and compliments me to boot, that is a friend well worth keeping. And I'm so glad I did.

Good Intentions

by Cathy

I vowed, when I had kids, that I would never be an embarrassing mom; I would never knowingly or purposefully embarrass my kids in front of their friends, peers, colleagues, or even...ahem...boys - unless of course they pushed me to the edge and really, in fact, deserved it. :)

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter came home from school with her snack barely touched. I asked her why she didn't eat her snack of apples, cheese and pretzels and could it have anything to do with the fact that her snack was APPLES? Because it would take an army to get her to eat all of the five crispy cut slices of the apple or any basically any kind of fruit. But, no. She claims she didn't eat it because she was embarrassed to pull out the pre-packaged snack in front of her friends.

Of course she didn't tell me this right away, and tried very politely (God love her) to imply that she felt embarrassed to tell me that she was embarrassed because of something I had done.

To be fair to her, I am willing to post a picture of what said snack looked like:

Laugh if you must, but when I saw these at the store, I thought they were an ingeniously packaged way for my kids to eat fruit. I bought one for my five-year old, and since I have to always be fair and buy them each the same (or similar) thing, I instinctively bought one for Bella too. Packaged with pretzels and cheese, I thought this would definitely aid in digesting the apparently offensive fruit.

It didn't occur to me that the Mickey Mouse shaped packaging and a picture of a quacking Donald Duck would, like, totally embarrass my ten-year old.

Mysteriously, however, the pretzels had all been eaten as had some of the cheese. Because of this, I finally got her to admit that the packaging wasn't the real reason she didn't eat the apples - it was just the plain fact that she didn't like APPLES. Okaay? "But still mom," she quickly retorted, "I didn't want to pull out the snack in front of my friends."

Boy, did I learn my lesson. What I think may be cute and appropriate for my five-year old may not necessarily be the same for my ten-year old. They DO have a five-year difference that includes varying stages of behavioral development. As an intuitive, supportive parent, I have to put myself in each one of their shoes equally and think how I would feel if [enter potentially embarrassing situation here] happened.

Their needs and life stages are so different and I can't assume they aren't or even compare them to each other. That would be like comparing apples to oranges.

Disco Cab

by Patti

I have this annual gig in Chinatown where I sing for a company holiday party. The man that hires me is Asian, and he hires me to sing all of the "American Pop" music, and also hires this beautiful Chinese singer, Li, to perform the traditional music.

The host of the party always insists that I bring along a friend to partake in the festivities, and a couple of years ago I dragged along Cathy to do just that. After the gig was over, Cathy and I stepped out into the frozen December air and briskly walked to my car. We were full and happy and I had a nice chunk of change in my pocket for the job just done. But when we got to my car, it wasn't there. We both just stood there and stared at the empty spot, as if by staring at it the car would magically reappear. But it didn't. Instead, the sign I had not seen before suddenly appeared: "NO PARKING. WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE."

It was 478305 degrees below zero outside, and we were screwed. Well, I was screwed; Cathy was screwed by association. Once I realized that staring at the now empty parking spot was never going to bring my car back, I snapped to attention. It was after midnight. We were in Chinatown.  It was fuhREEZING. Teeth chattering, we ran back to the restaurant to do what, I don't know, but it felt like progress, however delusional. On the way in, we ran into Li, who was bundled up and ready to bolt.  She must have seen our "screwed" expressions, because she caught my arm and asked me what was wrong. I explained to her that my car had been towed.

She clucked sympathetically. "What you going to do? No cabs now."

"I don't know." And I didn't. The only thing I could think to do was cry. But that wouldn't get us home, either, so I was out of ideas. The el rumbled in the distance. "I know! We will just take the train home, and then I can go and pick up my car tomorrow."

Li looked at me very seriously and leaned forward, her finger wagging. "Oh, no, no. You too pretty for train."

I'd never been told I was too pretty for anything, much less a train.

Li continued. "You too pretty for train. You get kill on train."

Man, pretty people have it rough, don't they? Li must have seen my desperation and offered, "Okay, I drive you, but not all the way home. I drive you to where I live in downtown, then you take cab to tow place."
Cathy and I looked at each other, relieved. We wouldn't be stranded in Chinatown, after all, AND we were saved from having to take that train that we were too pretty for. We hopped in Li's car and she drove us to her building, and then we hopped in a cab to the tow lot.

The ride to the tow lot took about 392 years, and at first, we were quiet, wrapped sullenly in our bad fortune, but then the cab driver turned on the music and suddenly the cab was transformed from a plain ol' boring taxi to a full-on Disco Cab! We were jamming to the extended dance mix of Lady Gaga and I could swear a disco ball descended from the cab's ceiling. We did some top-notch seat dancing and sang out loud to each other and snapped self-portraits on our phones, and laughed about how we were "too pretty for train", and for a while, I totally forgot that my car had been towed and that we were actually on our way to the Scariest Part of the Universe to pick it up. Instead, we were in our very own private club, glamorous and free and clicking pretend champagne glasses while glitter rained down on our heads.

By the time we got there, we were high on life again and all was good in the world. We paid the driver and then I turned to find myself facing a small shack with a little window covered in prison-like bars. I approached the window and shelled out a large chunk of the money I had just earned to get my car back. As I handed the man holding my car hostage the money, I realized then that even when the ride of life gets bumpy and goes off course, as long as you have good friends, a sense of humor, and some change in your pocket, you can still sing out loud to the music, dance in your seats, and enjoy the ride in your very own Disco Cab. And that? Is what makes it all worth it.

When Hoarding Comes in Handy

by Patti 

 

Is there anything more inconvenient than fishing something out of your purse, only to find that is smothered in YOGURT?

That is what happened to me the other morning. I was dropping S off at the bus stop, and as she was about to get out the car, I shoved my hand in my bag to pull out my cell phone, and discovered that an entire container of Yoplait Strawberry Delight had exploded in my purse. So not delightful.

Why did I have a container of yogurt in my purse? Ask my anal husband, who cannot stand even a spare scrap of AIR to be loose in the house. Sure, he can collect totally useless things like vintage swords and old-timey radios, but keep a useful plastic bag in the house? NEVER. So instead, this morning as I rushed out the door in my usual rush-out-the-door way, I had to shove my entire LUNCH in my PURSE.

So here I was, my entire lunch now drowning in Strawberry Delight. As was also my cell phone, my hairbrush, my makeup bag, my fluffy powder brush, my unpaid bill, my suede change purse, my wallet, my glasses….

Poor S knew the tidal wave of cuss words that was about to pour out my mouth, so she feverishly started hunting the car for napkins. Of course, I had precisely one. One napkin. One napkin to clean up gallons of Strawberry Delight. The bus pulled up, and S, relieved to escape the wrath of my yogurt-covered rage, quickly pecked my cheek, leapt out of the car, and rushed to the safety of the bus. Instead of going to work, I drove back home with yogurt all over myself and my things and my car, and went back inside to commence Project Clean-Up This-Crap 2011. I used almost an entire roll of paper towels. After I emptied my purse, I turned it inside out and literally ran it under the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Then, the clock taunting me because I was going to be late to work, I hastily shoved everything back into my purse. When I got to work, I once again emptied it out, and put my now soaking-wet stuff on a mound of paper towels on my desk.  There were are all my things, wet and shiny, laid out like dead fish on my desk.  I then turned my purse inside out, and ever-so-klassily placed it on my desk to dry, too.

Throughout the day, I told everybody about the purse incident, and I was amazed to find out that 99% of husbands do not ever throw anything away, ever. In fact, my co-worker Kristin said that her husband not only saves every plastic bag that comes across his path, he even saves the ones with holes in them, which means there are lunches falling out of bags instead of yogurts exploding in purses at her house. Cathy told me she has enough plastic bags shoved under her kitchen sink to save not only her family in a nuclear war, but mine as well, and probably everybody in Chicago. My cousin declared I was lucky that I have a husband who throws out things, since apparently most husbands are hoarders. But the general consensus was that, yes, this whole incident was clearly my husband’s fault, and that he should buy me a new purse.

I told him this last night, knowing quite well there will be no new purse. Instead, he’ll hand me a plastic bag and say, “Here’s your new purse.”

Fun, Interrupted

by Cathy

I was watching an episode of Parenthood the other night. One of the show's couples is separated, but take turns having their son visit. In this episode, the boy was to spend the weekend with his dad, who was at the woman's house to pick him up. "I made lunch for him for the next two days," the woman said, "so you don't have to worry about that." (Are men not capable of slapping some meat and cheese between two pieces of bread? But that's a whole different blog post...)This reminded me of the song and dance I always have to do before I leave my kids in the care of someone else at my house. Since Joe and I are blessed with plenty of family nearby, we get free babysitting services pretty much anytime we need them. As such, Joe feels like we should at least make it easy for the babysitters (usually the parents) by preparing dinner or throwing on a pot of coffee, partly because a) he feels bad that they have to watch our kids and cook for them and b) he gets annoyed that they will never 'make themselves at home' by helping themselves to the sandwich fixin's or looking for the coffee filters. Once, they even felt bad about turning up the heat and we returned from our night out to find them sitting there in their coats. Okaaay?

So to put them at ease and have everything at their disposal, I will inevitably be in the process of getting all gussied up - full-on hair and makeup, platform heels and sparkly jewelry up the wazoo - standing over my stove whipping up mac and cheese or sprinting down the hallway with my bath towel wrapped around me, attempting to rescue the burning pizza, all before I go out.

This process is the equivalent of you cleaning your house before your cleaning lady comes over.

The other night I was at a girls night out, and the only other mom at the table, who also happens to be Greek, says, "I had to make sure everything was handled before I went out tonight," referring to her first girls night out in a long time since having her baby.
"Don't tell me," I butted in. "Did you whip up dinner before you came out to dinner? Because I'm sitting here smelling like Greek pan-fried french fries. Sorry if I reek," I continued, fanning out my blouse. She erupted with laughter. She had whipped up a meal.

As moms, are we destined to never enjoy our rare Getting Ready To Go Out Without The Kids Routine instead of being interrupted by countless trips to the kitchen or the countless other preparations we must do to ensure proper care of our kids as we try to enjoy our night out? Are we destined to go out with one earring, incomplete makeup and no deodorant because we forgot what we were doing prior to running to the kitchen for the bazillionth time?

Wait, don't answer that. You need to focus on what to make for dinner before you go out. Get to it.

The Backstory

by Patti

Have you ever walked by a freak-out in progress? I’m talking about those parenting moments had in parking lots or grocery store aisles or restaurants; the ones you wish would have been had in private, or better yet: not at all.

I have walked by many of those freak-outs (like the lady at Target who, in total Christmas Meltdown Mode, roughly yanked her son by the arm away from the toy aisle and, through gritted teeth, threatened to tell Santa Claus of his awful behavior. Or, how about the lady at Jewel who had a total exorcist moment and shoved her kid down into the grocery cart for what must have been the billionth time while screaming “DAMN IT, STOP IT!”, while her other kid yanked incessantly on her leg), and before I became a parent, I would shake my head in judgment and just know without a doubt that if I was in that situation, I would never be so.... out-of-control.

Ha. Ha. HA. HA HA HA HA HA! Life has a way of showing us, doesn’t it, oh yes, it does.

When S was nearly 3 years old, we were in one of those overwhelming party supply stores, the ones that have aisles and aisles and aisles of overstimulation in the form of confetti! And balloons! And costumes! And glitter! And fluffy sparkly things! I was trying to buy favors for S’s upcoming birthday party, and when I say ‘trying’ I do mean trying. S was so completely hyper-aware of every fun and sparkly and colorful thing in that store, that what should have taken ½ hour tops was now verging on forever. Things really reached a peak when S, in frustration at being forced to STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING, started THROWING THINGS ACROSS THE STORE to get me back for being so terribly un-fun.  I hastily paid while my demon continued to torpedo Fun! Party! Supplies! across the store, and when I turned to stop her, I was pelted in the face by a plastic bag of bouncy balls. Burning, I yanked her arm and dragged her out of the store. We got to the car, and I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her up in the air  towards the car as she kicked and screamed. I lost it. I shook her – not in that horrible, “brain shake”, kind of way – just in a “STOP IT I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE !” kind of way.  I was just.... SO MAD at her; she had driven me to my every edge of parental sanity.  At that very moment, a man was walking by, and shaking his head at me in disgust, said, “Some people should never be parents.”

The thing is… that man? Had NO IDEA what I had endured all day. He didn’t know that S had been cranky and crying and whining and defiant most of the day. He couldn’t know that she had been a monster in the store, running around, throwing things, challenging me every step of the way. All he knew was that I was out of control, and that my child was crying. And he judged me.

And I used to do the same.

Now? Having walked in the shoes of a mother who has lost control, I imagine the backstory: That poor mother, she is dealing with 3 kids and none of them are listening to her. She has been patient all day, and now she is spent. She tries her best, she really does. She is just tired. Tomorrow she will start fresh.

And that’s all we can do: Start fresh.

Tiny Tyrant Trickery

by Patti

I was talking to my coworker, Kristin, about her delicious chunk of a baby, Mallorie. Kristin is about to hit that all-important milestone in parenting: surviving the first year. I asked her how things were going, and she lowered her voice and said, almost shyly, “Well, there is one thing I’m kind of worried about…”  She then proceeded to tell me that her little bundle of joy seemed to have developed a full-on foot fetish. Day after day, Mallorie expertly removes her adorable little socks, shoves her pudgy foot of choice into her mouth, and starts to suck. Hard. Of course, I laughed, because, as a mother, I too, have witnessed my own baby in the throes of her own fetish.  Since Kristin seemed genuinely concerned, I did her a favor and shared my story:

S had one of those colorful little exersaucers, and she would zip around the house in it, laughing almost fiendishly as she did. One day, I heard what sounded like a gagging noise, and I turned to find S standing in her exersaucer in the doorway, her fist shoved deeply into her mouth, a mischievous glint in her eye. Seeing that she was GAGGING, I promptly removed her slimy little dimpled hand from her mouth and told her, “No!” Her hand practically boomeranged straight back into her mouth, and she balled it up into a fist and shoved it as far back she as she could, and, surprise! GAGGED. Each time she did this, she would gag, remove her hand, and then laugh maniacally. The vicious cycle continued the rest of the day, and for many weeks thereafter. Each time, I would remove her hand, and each time, she would stick it right back into her mouth and gag herself.

I finally decided that I would try a little reverse psychology. After all, she was clearly getting tons of attention from me with this little maneuver of hers, so I decided to stop rewarding her with it. I didn’t have to play my game for very long, though, because shortly thereafter, I heard the usual gagging sound, and then a new, different sound. I turned to find S in the doorway again, this time, with a look of sheer surprise on her face. The other thing on her face? Vomit! Lots of it! And all over her hand, and down the front of her onesie. S just stood there in her little exersaucer, her eyes the size of plates, covered in the result of her own obsessive stubbornness.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. My poor baby was covered in puke and I stood there laughing.

After that day, S stopped shoving her fist in her mouth, but it wasn’t the end, no not by far. She found plenty of other things to obsess over, and, as each obsession eventually petered out, I learned to stop obsessing myself, and just let her be.

Kristin is still fairly new at the game of motherhood, but soon she’ll see that to survive, you have to remain one step ahead of these little tyrants. Yes, these babies are cute, but let’s not get crazy: they are tricky as hell and have a pretty solid strategy. Fetishes, obsessions, stubbornness, defiance, all cloaked in unbearable cuteness - it’s all part of the master plan to take us over and do us in. Kristin may be worried about her little foot sucker, but what she needs to realize is that if we, the innocent parents, are not careful, we end up the suckers, each and every time.

Eavesdropped: Liberty vs. Religion

by Cathy

The other day in our garage, Ari decided to share what she learned in school that day.

Now normally, when I specifically ask her:
"How was school?"
I get a generic "Goooood."
And to, "What did you do today? Anything exciting or fun?"
I'll get another generic, "We sang songs, did art and played outside."
This was a lot of information compared to the response I usually get from Bella, which is usually a flat, "Nothing."

As I was unloading the mounds of Target bags from the trunk, the two of them were goofing around with their bicycles on our driveway. Out of the blue, Ari starts:

"I pledge allegiant, to the father, of the United States of America..."
She kept going, but Bella and I were still stuck on that first sentence. We looked at each other and smiled as I whispered, "Awww, how cute. She has religion and liberty all mixed up."
We respectfully let her finish the pledge and I gave her big high-fives on learning to recite it - I mean, it's a lot of difficult, big, unknown words all strung together for a little five-year old to memorize.

Bella saw that I was still chuckling under my breath so she leaned in and said rather matter-of-factly:

"Well, if you think about it, she's right. She's pledging allegiance to Obama."

And I'll be darned if that doesn't make sense.

Bait and Switch

by Cathy

My co-worker Mary and I were ordering Chinese food the other day at the office and while on the topic of hot and spicy entrees, we drifted into relationship talk. She confessed to me with a worried smile that as an older (not old) widow, she will never get to experience being kissed or held by a man again and how sad that was. I just laughed and shared with her the following story:

Last night, while watching a sitcom about relationships with my husband, I realized I've been a victim of Bait and Switch.

As the pretend television couple was arguing over romance and how one of them likes it (surprisingly, the guy) and the other thinks it's a bunch of baloney (surprisingly, the girl), I got the impression that the duped party had come to terms with accepting that he will never experience the romance he wanted within that particular relationship (surprisingly, he came to terms with that). Was that man me?

Don't get me wrong - when I first met Joe, he was all about the romance. Since we met in the workplace, every morning I was greeted by a cup of Starbucks coffee sitting on my desk, little notes tucked into my inbox, a bouquet of flowers and a million little emails and calls throughout the day about nothing. He held my hand when we were out on dates and was fiercely jealous.

Fast forward 14 years and two kids later. I make my own coffee most days, I receive a bouquet of daisies on the prerequisite holidays if I'm lucky, and the emails, calls and notes are usually reminders about paying some bill or upcoming school activity. Hand holding is pretty much instigated by me. And the jealousy? Yeah. Notsomuch. Now granted, he is very caring and and thoughtful - he just doesn't express it as much as he used to. 

We all know that our lives now are not as carefree or stressfree as they were when we were younger and dating. Regardless, I found an opportunity to point out that this pretend television couple was remarkably like us except reversed. I calmly announced that he did the Bait and Switch number on me where romance is concerned. He reeled me in with Romance Bait and when he snagged his prey, he let the fishing line drop. He laughed with a "Yeah, right."

Do men not realize these things? Maybe not. Maybe it's our job to make it known that we women like to be romanced now and then - not just when we're being courted or during the fresh, new years of marriage. "Of course," said Mary with emphasis, recalling her early years. "They pull out all the stops to get what they want." So you see Mary, you're not missing out on much after all.

The point here is that I know Joe is capable of romance. I'm not expecting him hire El Divo to serenade me or to get on his knee and recite Shakespeare. But...romance, oh romance...where art thou?

Playing Devil's Advocate to Cathy's Bait and Switch

by Patti

Cathy’s post today about the ol’ “Bait and Switch” got me thinking: Are women the only usual victims of the Bait and Switch?

When M and I were first dating, would he have ever come to my door to find me in a saggy, ripped t-shirt, stained sweats, and a green mud mask on my face?

Would I have ever gone to his house with my hair throw haphazardly up into a messy bun, my zit lotion crusted onto my face?

Would he have stroked my legs only to find that they hadn’t seen a razor in 2 weeks?

No.

But that is what he often comes home to now.

Is he a victim of the Bait and Switch?

I heard a joke once where the groom is standing at the altar. As he sees his bride floating down the aisle, he smiles widely and leans into his best man and whispers, “I can’t believe how lucky I am! Now that I’m getting married, I’ll get a blow job every night!” Meanwhile, his bride, her eyes fixed dreamily on her future husband, thinks joyfully to herself, “Thank GOD I’ll never have to give a blow job ever again!”

Bait and Switch?

While Cathy makes some valid points about the vanishing act of romance after marriage and kids and bills and life’s stresses, I also wonder: Do both men and women get in to a dangerous comfort zone that leads to each partner feeling they’ve been duped?

She has made me think and want to examine my own acts of Bait and Switch. In fact, just this weekend I remarked to M how when we were first living together, he would often come home and search the house for me, calling my name. He simply couldn’t wait to see me. That’s because he knew that when he did, he would be met with excitement and a kiss. I wonder: when was the last time I met him at the door with simply a kiss and a hug, and not a barrage of requests and problems. I think this week one night, when I see him after a long day, I’ll pull a different kind of Bait and Switch. I will put on hold any complaints and will simply kiss him and be happy to see him.

Who knows where that will lead?

Unplugged

by Cathy and Patti 

We both have daughters of the Technology Age. You know: the kids who know their way around a computer better than a playground; the ones who play tennis on a screen instead of on a court; the ones who have play dates that consist of texting one another as they sit side by side.

Call us grandmas, but this bugs us. Whatever happened to human interaction? Whatever happened to summers of skinned knees and winters of board games?

We have each contended with Technology Tantrums and Digital Doozies in our households, and frankly? We have had enough.

.........

Cathy:

I never wanted to become that family on Oprah that had every technological device removed from their house because they weren't communicating with one another. That got me so freaked, I've hunted for any scent of us going down that path ever since. When I see my kids on their DS or their iPod longer than a half hour, I demand they turn it off and find something else to do. When I notice that my husband and I are perched in front of the television too long, we make an effort to turn it off and do something with the kids.

Bella happened upon my neighbor's Wi-Fi password while she was over their house one day over the summer - my nieghbor had no idea of the consequence of giving her the password since his daughter is younger, and to his credit, has apologized for overstepping boundaries and offered to change it. I decided against that, hoping instead, to use this opportunity to teach her the life lesson of "everything in moderation." Since then, she has been watching old Disney show reruns incessantly on her iPod; so much so, that she's plugged into her iPod when she's using the bathroom and even while brushing her teeth.

Last week, I had a Tech Snap. I asked her to shut it down and hand it over to me one night while she was laying in bed and it was almost 11pm, she repeatedly, defiantly said NO while begging to finish watching her show. This wasn't the first time she did this, but it was certainly going to be the last. I yanked it away from her as my screams wafted up through the open windows for all of my neighbors to hear what a psycho snapper I can be. No iPod for three days.

Eventually, in calm mode, she and I sat down to discuss this. I told her it made me sad when she comes home from school and plugs into that iPod and I can't ask her about her day. Or when she would rather be on that thing than cuddle with me at bedtime. She had no idea how it was affecting us. Then she got sad about it. She understood.

So I made a house proclamation: Going forward, for one hour before bedtime, no DS, iPods or computers. That goes for me and Joe as well. And every Sunday will be our designated family game night. Everything in moderation. Slowly, but surely, we'll reconnect by disconnecting.


Patti: 
S is an only child, so she doesn't have a sibling to turn to when she's in the mood for some Chutes and Ladders or Monopoly. She doesn't have anybody to play "school" with, or a rousing game of Twister. Instead, she has her Papi and me, and a very uninterested hamster, who let's face it, has really short legs (and arms?) and would not do well in a game of Twister. I always end up the "kindergartener" in her "classroom", and her Papi has played and (over)played Jenga. I'll admit: We, the parents, get lazy, and fun pickins get slim. So she has turned to her BFF, the laptop.That kid knows her way around a laptop better than Steve Jobs (may he rest in peace). In fact, her dream is to work for Apple one day (when she is done touring as a ballerina and competing in Wimbeldon, that is).

S can surf the 'net on her BFF for hours on end, if we let her.  She will even take it to the bathroom with her to Skype her cousins, or research bras (because she is impatiently awaiting the day she can have one), or make Christmas lists, or listen to Selena Gomez on YouTube. And I'm all, "Can't you just poop in PEACE?". 

But then I remember, this is coming from the woman who takes her Android into the bathroom with her to catch up on celebrity gossip and send emails to friends. Seems I can't poop in peace, either.

And M? Loves him some Craiglist. He can spend hours browsing at cars he will never buy on Craigslist. If he's not on the computer, he will sit in the bathroom with his own beloved Android and plug himself into Pandora while he poops or pees, but not in peace.

So are we wrong to insist S unplug herself when we can't even unplug ourselves to, uh, unplug ourselves?

And it's not just in our household that I am finding connections being severed. I do my best to plan lots of play dates for S, and she has lots of good friends to hang out with, but I have noticed more and more that these "play dates" have no "play" in them. Instead, she and a friend will sit in front of the computer and watch YouTube videos together, or "picto chat" on their DS's, or text each other while they are both sitting on the same couch.

So I have decided: We will instill a Poop in Peace Policy in our household, AND a Friends Without Electronics Policy. I am hoping the new PIP and FWE policies will bring back some good ol' fashioned quality of life into our lives. 

Ready? Set? UNPLUG!

.......

We love technology; we just don't love what it seems to have done to the human connections in our families and friendships. While we would never want to go all the way back to the days of being totally unplugged, we do want to honor the real live wires of our existence - the human ones that matter most.

Movie in My Mind

by Patti 

Last weekend I was fortunate enough to escape reality and travel up north to New Buffalo for a girls’ weekend. The weather was in the best mood: Cloudless blue skies, mid-70’s, soft breezes…. The trees were dappled with reds and golds, and the sunlight was all autumnal angles and tender warmth. Truly, it was one of the best weekends in recent memory, both weather-wise, and company-wise.

One of the days took us to the vineyards of Michigan, where we sampled wines and laughed about everything and nothing to the point of Ugly Laugh. You know that laugh: the one where your face becomes distorted from laughing so hard, and your mouth is forced into a freakin’ polygon? Yeah! That one! Anyway, on our drive home, we all got a little quiet, probably exhausted from laughing so much. The windows were down to let in the amazing Indian summer air, and the music floating from the car stereo was the perfect accompaniment. I watched soft green fields blur by, and as my hair was lifted gently by the breeze, I imagined we were all in a vintage red pick-up truck, winding down curvy country roads, the music a soundtrack to the movie in my mind. I felt pretty, young, free, and then… CRICKETY CRACKITY CRICKETY CRACKITY CRICKETY CRACKITY… What the…???

I turned my head, and right there behind me and totally stealing the show was a HUGE Bed Bath and Beyond bag hovering over my head, dancing and swaying and twisting and CRICKETY-CRACKETING itself right out of the cargo space and into MY starring role. The soundtrack did that record-scratching sound that you hear in the movies when the heroine is abruptly jolted out of her fantasy, and suddenly, I was in a Jeep, and the fields were just fields and my hair was stuck in my lip gloss.

I was in the backseat with Cathy, and apparently, she, too, had had her own movie going in her mind, and we both laughed to the point of Ugly Laugh again at the absurdity of it all. Couldn’t we just have that one momentous movie moment without it being ruined by something as boring as a Bed Bath and Beyond bag?

It made me think: We all have those moments where we, in our minds, are in a movie. We are gorgeous and free and headed for greatness. And then it never fails that we are somehow, some way brought back to earth. It might be a kid’s stomach flu, or a husband’s bad mood, or a glance in the mirror that reveals bags and wrinkles, or a forgotten bill that has now doubled, or a job that feels less-than-glamorous, or homework that needs checking…. Something always exists to remind us: Life is not a movie. It’s real.

 And though real life is punctuated by the mundane and the absurd and the frustrating and sometimes the down-right-awful, it is also full of moments like this weekend:  the peeing-in-my pants laughing, and the ripe grapes on my tongue, and the late-night talking, and the red leaves that fluttered before us as we sat on the back porch, and the friendships that deepened… all of that was real, too. And because of this, when the movie in my mind starts to play, I will enjoy it for what it is: a fantasy; a moment. Then I will gladly yell “CUT!”

Use Only As Directed

by Cathy

While I was out of town this past weekend enjoying a much needed girls trip, my house came close to burning down. Well, okay I won't be THAT dramatic but...

As I was standing in my newly decorated guest bathroom yesterday, waiting to wipe my five-year old, I happened to notice this:

Surely, when I decided to put this little candle into the alcove of the cubed wall shelf, I thought to myself, "Of course no one would ever think to light this candle while it's still in here. They would think to put it either on top of the shelf or on the basin countertop.' That's just common sense, right?

Right?

Well as you can see, I now have a nice-sized, crackly burn mark on the underside of the shelf, which stands out like a fly in milk.

Oftentimes I wondered how dumb manufacturers thought we, the consumer goods buying public, must be  when I would read some of the instructions that came with a particular food item or product. I would laugh incredulously when I would read, "Remove plastic before cooking pizza" or  "Apply only to affected areas" or "Unwrap all pieces before assembling" or as smoke is billowing out of a cup of coffee, "Caution! Contents Are HOT!" Do people have no common sense?

I'm starting to think not.

I'm starting to think that there's a reason instructions need to be so specific.  So the next time you think your coffeemaker has flatlined, make sure it's plugged in. And as you're waiting for your coffee to brew? Try not to blow dry your hair in the shower.

Thanks for listening as directed.

Dress to Impress

by Cathy

I knew this particular day was going to be busy: work, offsite meeting, family visit and Bella's volleyball game. I had to plan my outfit for the day accordingly as I always try to do. Something cute but easy. And definitely flats. I decided on a pair of cargo pants and a white V-neck, button-down, knit cardigan. Done.

At the volleyball game I ran into another mom from school I don't get to see very often, as tonight our two school teams were playing against each other. This particular mom is very down-to-earth, very humble and always had been since I met her.

It was warm in that gym as we stood and chatted away and I couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a Columbia fleece jacket over her shirt. As I stood there fanning myself and pushing my sleeves up, I saw the beads of sweat accumulating on her upper lip and her face was reddening. I wondered why she just didn't remove her jacket?

Well, apparently, she got to her breaking point. "I'm just gonna take this off," she said quickly. "I've got my grubby work clothes on under this, but who cares. I'm done dressing to impress the other parents. I was over that long ago." And...boom! She just said in three sentences what all the other mothers wish they could come out and say or do themselves.

You see, the moms at are our school are fashion showey. Super nice personalities, but it seems like there's always this underlying competition of outfits going on. I mean, what stay-at-home-mom comes to pick up her kids with perfectly creased gaberdine slacks, supple leather belt embellished with the Versace logo, Tory Birch flats and a perfectly tailored top with a matching cardigan?  Big designer shades, super sleeked hair in a high pony and an equally embellished Yorkie on a sparkly leash completed her picking-up-the-kids-from-school look.

Therefore, I immediately knew where this mom's exasperated confession was coming from. And yes - her hair was disheveled, her clothes were frumpy and she had not a lick of makeup on. But I found out she's a teacher. She sends her three kids off to school everyday and goes on to partake in an even more chaotic environment by teaching kindergarteners and first graders all day long.
"I'm on the floor most of the day with the kids" she offered, looking down at her clothes.
"Oh please. You don't have to explain to me," I replied. "I just give you credit for wanting to be with yet more kids other than your own on a daily basis."
She laughed.

As I looked around, I spotted a woman in skinny jeans, heels and a sheer top layered over lace (remember, we are at a kids volleyball game in a grammar school gym), and a woman in the fanciest, flounciest tennis skirt I've ever seen. We get it. You work out. Your legs are toned. You look like a Hamptons Hooker. The refs are gawking. Can you change into something more school-appropriate?

It's great to dress up, to look and feel put together and give off an impression as such. All women should strive for some version of that that works for themselves. But it's also important to be true to who you are. And if that means you are dressed like a Frumpalina on a daily basis, well, then so be it.

Spam

by Patti 

Last night I spent over an hour going through marketing emails that I never asked to receive, unsubscribing myself from all of them.  Want a sample? Let’s see…. InStyle, Daily Makeover, Groupon, 10(!) different real estate agents, LinkedIn, American Airlines, PetSmart, Apple, Trulia, 4 different Crains newsletters, some random energy company, an email from an 'As Seen on TV' company, Social Security(???), RISMedia, Us Weekly, Small Business Chicago…(PAUSING TO TAKE A BREATH)… Genie Bra (What? Did S – who is currently obsessed with bras – sign me up?), Chicago Business, Printable Coupons, Hotels.com, Carnival Cruises, Borne Company, Bally Total Fitness, Brain Bench, Barak Obama, Plato's Closet, Chicago Association of Realtors, Fresnobee, Orchard Bank, Rebecca – offering me a ‘Credit Card Bailout!’, Suzanne – offering me a ‘Mortgage Bailout!’ (Interestingly, NOBODY OFFERED ME A SPAM BAILOUT!)… But wait! There’s more! I just won’t ‘Spam’ you with the details.

During the process of unsubscribing, some of the ‘unsubscribe’ pop-ups were actually angry about it. One even exclaimed, “You jerk!” Another tried to play it cool and simply said, “See ya!”  Others were more melancholy about our parting, saying, “We will miss you”, or “We are sad to see you go.” 

But the kicker was the one who simply refused to believe I wanted to break up with it. “Are you sure?” it asked me. I clicked the “YES”(I am SURE!) box and submitted it. Another box popped up, “Please tell us why…” and I actually had to type out my reason for ending our totally one-sided relationship. Do you know how awkward that is? Once I submitted that, yet another box popped up, “We will send you an email shortly to confirm your decision. You are still subscribed until you click on the confirmation email.” I waited for the email. It never came. It still hasn’t come.

I have the feeling I will be seeing another marketing message from this company again. I’m sure it will just use the excuse that I never confirmed my break-up with it.  I am being Fatal Attractioned by Spam.

Automatic!

by Patti 

The other day I was driving down the street, a little speedily, as usual, when suddenly the driver of the car in front of me hit his brakes. Of course this meant I had to do the same, and the result was a major lurching forth of my car. My arm automatically flew across the front seat to protect…. My gym bag?

What I had just done is the classic Mother Arm.  No matter who - or what - is in your passenger seat, if you have to hit the brakes, your arm will fly across and form a barrier between the dashboard and that precious passenger, who might be a child, or a husband, or, yes, a GYM BAG. 

Automatic!

One day last week I went to my neighbor’s house to pick up S after work. My neighbor got a new puppy a couple of months ago, and the puppy is still this magically delicious ball of floppy fuzz, so I couldn’t help but scoop it up and cuddle with it. As I held the puppy, I started talking with my neighbor about our girls, when suddenly I realized that I was rocking the dog. And not only was I rocking the dog, I was PATTING ITS BACK LIKE I WAS BURPING IT.  I laughed about it, and pointed out to my neighbor what I was doing, and she told me that she, the mother of three kids, has also caught herself rocking the dog.

Just this past weekend I was at a wine tasting with Cathy, and having really enjoyed a sparkling Blanc de Blanc, I purchased a bottle.  I handed the bottle to Cathy so I could put away my wallet, and once I was done, I looked up to find her gently rocking the bottle. Not only was she rocking it, she had also made sure that the brown paper bag that the sommelier had placed it in was wrapped snugly around the bottle; so not only was she rocking the bottle, she had also swaddled the bottle.

This innate need to rock whatever it is we are holding is something I call the Mother Sway. Would we ever see our husbands rock the dog? Hell, no. Would a man ever hold a wine bottle and sway it in his arms? I HOPE NOT. But I have seen countless mothers do it, and doesn't matter if it’s a human baby or a dog baby, or even a thing-- if it’s little and you are holding it and you are a mother, it will be rocked.

Automatic!

And what about the universal Mother Head Turn? This is what happens when any mother is in public and hears a distant “Mommy!” It doesn’t matter if your child is right next to you, or if your child is 10 miles away playing at a friend’s house; if you hear a child’s voice call “Mommy!”, you will turn your head.

Automatic!

These behaviors are mysteriously rooted in all mothers. And these mothers could be grandmothers who have not had babies in 60 years; it doesn't matter. The instincts are strong and vibrant and mark a mother forever. Most of all, these behaviors link us in an inexplicably wonderful way. The link reminds me that during the times when I might feel alone on the Mothership, somewhere out there in the universe, there are millions of swaying mothers flinging their arms across passenger seats and turning their heads to the sound of “Mommy!” right along with me.