Stage Mother

by Patti


Last weekend S and Bella had their Black Friday Nutcracker preview performance - at the mall. Okay, first of all, going to the mall on a Black Friday has been against my personal law for pretty much ever. Never, ever have I been to the mall on a Black Friday, and never, ever did I intend to. Wrestling the angry pre-Thanksgiving mobs for the last bag of stuffing at the grocery store is enough torture to carry me through the year; I don't need another dose of retail hell a mere short few days later. Alas, I love my kid - obviously.

Shortly before the performance, S pulled me aside and told me she felt nervous. I gave her a squeeze and held her hands, and noticed they were clammy. Having performed on stage since I was 13-years old, I knew exactly what she meant. Oh, that feeling. The butterflies and chattery teeth and knees that knock... I've had it all. "Just have FUN", I told her. "Get lost in the moment..." Off she went, brave, spinning in her velvet costume, her sponge-rollered sausage curls bouncing joyfully.

Cathy and I decided to view the show from the catwalk above the area they would be performing, and we settled in among other moms and dads with their cameras and iPads and cell phones. I watched with pride, enjoying the fruition of all those hard hours of rehearsals. I also noticed that S seemed nervous. I know my kid, and I can tell when she's present and when she's freaking the fuck out. She was freaking the fuck out. After the run-through, we went down to greet our girls, and I took S by the hand and pulled her aside. "You did so good honey; did you have fun?"
"Yes."
"Did you feel nervous?"
"Yes, I messed up on some parts. I knew I was messing up, and I don't know why!"
Having experienced what it is like to be nervous; to not be present during something that should be fun; to overthink it all, I offered her some tips, and sent her on her way, as they were going to do another run-through.

I found Cathy sitting on a bench and I sat down next to her while we waited. She turned to me. "Were you just being a stage mother with S?"
Surely she was kidding? "What do you mean?"
"I saw you over there talking to her, telling her to smile and stuff."
"Oh....NO. She told me she was nervous so I was just telling her to have fun!"

We both turned back to the kids; but the words kept swirling in my head. Had I made a mistake? Was I becoming the classic case of the mother who lost her chance at glory, and was now pushing it on to her own kid?  Had I gone all Toddlers and Tiaras on my daughter? Was I that? The STAGE MOTHER? 

On the way home, I asked S. "Honey, does it bother you when I tell you things about performing? Do you feel like I am pushing you?"
S leaned forward emphatically from the backseat, "NO! Never! I love it when you tell me things; it makes me feel better. I LIKE knowing how I'm doing."
"Okay, but if you ever feel bad, or like I am putting pressure on you, I want you to tell me, okay?"
"Please, Mom; I'm serious. I like it. Because you are honest."

I thought about her words most of the day. I am honest; does that make it right for me to say what I feel, regardless? And I know I tend to be a perfectionist; critical. Does that make my perspective precise? Or unfair? I am professionally experienced in the performing arts. Does this mean that I should offer advice to my kid? Or do I let her find her own way? It's a fine line, building self-esteem and confidence. If I fail to be truthful, how will S ever know when I mean it? If I pump her full of false praise, how will she separate the genuine from the inflated? It is my job, as a mother, to raise my daughter up; to fill her with self-pride and a sense of accomplishment. At the same time, it is also my job to make sure she knows that, no matter what, the one place she will always be able to come for the truth is me.

I also want S to know, as she is developing her interests and passions and finding the paths that will define her life, that her choices are to be hers and hers alone. Although it is exciting to see S choose some of the same paths I chose, I want her to make those choices of her own volition; not because I "missed my chance".  You see it every day, the fanatical parents on the baseball field, the mothers competing with other mothers backstage, the fathers angrily shouting across the ice to their hockey players..... What may look like support by the parent is sometimes actually regret and loss cloaked in support, and the child is the second chance. S is not my second chance. S is her own first chance, her own fresh start. Although I know this, it never hurts to remind myself.

Take flight, little one.

The Mommy Protection Program

by Cathy

I'm not sure who originated the following famous parenting adage, but I often refer to it in my head:

"Kids: You spend the first years of their lives teaching them to walk and talk and the rest, telling them to sit down and shut up."

I often think back to the days when I used to coddle my babies in my arms and coo at them affectionately, speaking slowly in Chipmunks-pitched tones to enable them to connect with what I am saying in the hopes that they will repeat it. Most specifically, the word 'mommy'. Every chance I got, I would get them to try to say any variation of that word: mama, mommy, mom. The reply would always be a babbling 'baba,' which in Greek, means dad.

"Great," I would mumble under my breath. "I did all the work! I carried them in my womb, along with several other pounds worth of fat and blubber that I had to work extra hard to drop - and still working on dropping - and I'M the one that gets up at night to feed them and for the most part, change their diapers, bathe them and do, oh, pretty much everything for them. How could they not say....."Moooooooom!!! Bella won't get off the computer! It's MY turn!"

Now, it seems that my "name" is constantly said; often preceding every single sentence uttered from my kids and often screamed from another room in the context of some sort of sibling rivalry or tattle tale situation. In fact, it's the ONLY name they can say. What happened to baba now? Or dad? Or papi? Even attempting to write out this post this very minute, I have been interrupted with a slew of "Mommies" followed by "Bella did this" or "Ari did that."

Please don't get me wrong - being called Mommy or mama or yes, even mom, is one of the most amazing things in this world. And sometimes, depending on the context and the tone in which its said, can elicit heartfelt tears. But sometimes...you just need a break. After having had your attention gotten seemingly hundreds of times a day with "Mommy" it gets a little...too much. And I'm sure the feeling multiplies with the more kids you have. I've often responded with:

"Am I the only one here?"

"I'm not heeere!"
"Your father is inside - why don't you ask him?"
"Whaaaaattt?!?!??!"
"I'M CHANGING MY NAME!"

Once, I witnessed a friend of mine go to an extreme parenting-avoidance situation. A group of us were enjoying an evening barbeque and bonfire, having some drinks and some laughs as the kids played indoors. This friend actually pretended she was a tree and stood cold still, arms out in branch formation, uttering not a word in the darkening dusk, hoping that her daughter, who was constantly calling out to her from the back deck, would in fact think she was...a tree.

There's a Greek saying that is loosely translated as: "Too much 'Kyrie Eleison' (Lord, have mercy), even God himself gets tired of." So it's only fitting and expected, that at times, we moms too get tired of hearing our "name" over and over again. Does it make me want to change my name and relocate to an undisclosed location at times? Of course. It's only natural and it's okay to admit it as a parent - as a mom. After all, you ARE the go-to person for almost everything and anything when it comes to your kids. And sometimes? That can be too much. But most of the time? You wouldn't want it any other way.

Dr. Google

by Patti

I made a startling realization the other day: Unless I Google "how to breathe in 5 easy steps", I may simply stop breathing.

I have become so reliant on Google for every answer to every question in my life, I am afraid I would not know how to survive without it. I have become the master of DIY in most every aspect of life, all thanks to Google. I taught myself how to use almost every software, how to rebuild a computer, how to zap computer viruses, how to heal a cold sore before it even happens, how to simplify fractions, how to hem pants without thread, how to rewire a chandelier, how to discipline my child....

Speaking of child, Google was just becoming its crazy, all-knowing self when I was pregnant. Do you know how dangerous Google is when you are pregnant? If you are pregnant right this very minute, don't do it. DO NOT GOOGLE. Because if you do, you will be certain your child will be born with 3 heads. You will also be certain that that tuna sandwich you just ate? Will be responsible for the 9 fingers instead of 10. I Googled myself into hysteria when I was pregnant, and Googled my unborn child into sideshow freak before I even met her. So, yes, although Google most definitely has its uses, it can also scare the ever-living crap out of you. (And yes, Google will also warn you that you will probably crap while giving birth. For this, I was glad to be prepared. Thanks, Google!)

Apart from the dangers of Google, the savior side of Google is downright awe-inducing. I am blown away by the fact that I can type in "how do people walk on fire?" and FIND AN ANSWER! Curious? Allow me: How do people walk on fire? 
I mean, really? There is NO WAY my parents would ever have known this in their day of wanting to know stuff. They would have had to drive to the library and paw through thousands of books to find the answer. And even then, it may have remained a mystery. But thanks to Google, I know this.

Google has been my know-it-all friend, time after time. Is my daughter's fever too high? Am I too fat? How do I install under-cabinet lighting? How much did my neighbor pay for his house? Are there any molesters living on my block? What are the symptoms of menopause? How do I import data from Excel into a PDF form?

Indeed, I have become a WikiPatti. I know something about everything. And if I don't know the answer, I just Google it, and then, just like that, I know it. Perhaps I am too dependent on Google and all its remedies. In fact, I might actually even be addicted; who knows? The signs of addiction can be quite elusive, so it's hard to tell.

Oh wait! Let me Google that.

Good Morning! This Is Your Wake Up Call!

by Cathy

 Since we are taking time off this Thanksgiving holiday to spend with our families, I thought you would enjoy a re-post of one of my favorites. Below is one that I think many women will find fitting on a day like today, when so many of us will indeed wake up to this scene. Well, those of us who STILL don't have dishwashers, that is. Screw it. Leave 'em there and go out shopping instead. You'll ALWAYS have dishes to do, no matter what. Enjoy!



I woke up this morning at around 9am, treasuring my sleep during the last few days before my kids start school and life becomes one big hustle.

As I groggily shuffle into the kitchen to make some coffee, this is what greets me:



I stop short, startled out of my long, luxurious yawn.

Instantly, last night's conversation with my husband replays through my head. We were preparing a movie snack of microwavable popcorn and homemade wine coolers (because that's how we roll) and he saw my reaction as I disdainfully observed this mess.

"Yeah, I saw that too but I said 'screw it'. We'll just do them tomorrow," he says to me. Those words sounded like they had the sound of angels singing around them.
'Yes,' I thought at the time, "that sounds wonderful." Ah the feeling to chuck it all and do what you WANT rather than what NEEDS to be done! So we settled in to watch a nearly three-hour "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," and went off to bed.

Cut to this morning. As I was digging my way to the coffeemaker to make my now desperately needed cup of coffee, I was noticing how conveniently absent my husband was. Oh, that's right. Every Saturday morning he has his weekly breakfast visit with his parents. "We'll just do them tomorrow" kept repeating in my head.

I should have known better. 'WE' never means WE. It always means YOU. Whether you use it on your husband ("WE need to take the trash out") or he uses it on you ("WE really need to organize these closets") it's the same game.

So after my coffee, I begrudgingly stood there and washed this heap, all the while thinking that my first comment to my husband as he walks in the door will be:
WE really need to get a new dishwasher.

Nobody Goes Home Anymore

by Patti

Since we are taking off the next few days to be with our families, I am re-posting one of my old favorites.

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving has always been one of the "Biggest Party Nights of the Year". I remember when my husband and I used to own that night, sleeping in until well past noon on Thanksgiving day, and then moseying on over to my parents' for the Thanksgiving feast. These days, the moseying is done by others to my house, and the only thing I'm doing on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is hoisting frozen turkeys into my cart.  But once in a while, I can try to relive it -- even if it's just any ol' Wednesday. 

Happy Thanksgiving!
.......

I am still on this glorious stretch of freedom with the kid and M out of the country, so when a friend of mine invited me to join her and a few of her other friends at this supposedly totally hot and happening place in a hip part of town (is “hip” even a word anymore?) for after-work drinks, how could I not go? And when Cathy, who is beginning her descent into the end of her own Glory Days of Freedom, heard where we were going, she was all “I’m in like Flynn!” (And if you think I’m kidding that she actually said that you are wrong. She actually said that.)

So we met up at Cathy's house for a little strategic pre-champagne champagne. Cathy's sister, Sophia, also met us there, and as we sipped our pre-champagne champagne, she suggested we might want to hit the road, as it would probably be impossible to get a table.

I, in my charmingly innocent oblivion, reminded her that it was Wednesday night and nobody goes out on Wednesday nights, so we didn’t need to rush.

But Sophia, a semi-newlywed and kid-less, is still in that sweet spot where every day has the potential to be a total spur-of-the-moment “let’s go to ___________ (fill in the blank with whatever the hell you want because YOU CAN).” And because she is still in the sweet spot, her dates with her husband do not consist of $1 Redbox movie rentals and a trying-to-be-fancy frozen pizza. No, her dates are the real kind, the kind where you put on hooch heels and perfume and actually try new restaurants that don’t have the word “pancake” or “house” in its name. This means Sophia knows things I apparently no longer know.

“Nobody goes home anymore”, she told us. “The place will be packed!”

I still didn’t believe her, but since we were meeting people there, we took our Sex and the City’d asses off of the comfortable kitchen chairs and headed out.

Once there, we parked and started our 2 block walk to the restaurant. It was a beautiful evening, the kind that totally makes the 7 months of hell that is a Chicago winter totally worth sticking it out. Along the way, I realized I was all wide-eyed, my neck craning to take in the skyline and the buildings around me as if I had just stepped off my very first plane ride from my farm in Iowa, brushing hay off of my denim overalls. I had lived in the city for 15 years, WHY DID IT ALL LOOK SO NEW TO ME?

Because it was new. Seemingly overnight, a whole new slew of hot spots had sprung up from the concrete; the sidewalks were teeming with after-work evening revelers, club doors were crowded with people hoping to be lucky enough to be let in.

This is crazy, I thought, it’s Wednesday night!

We reached our destination, and I already knew we were in trouble, because there were zillions of people waiting outside the door for their turn at a table. We found our party inside, and as we shouted over the din to each other, I looked around. Oh, it was a scene alright, a total See and Be Seen scene, and I realized that Sophia was right: Nobody goes home anymore.

Cathy jabbed me in the ribs and asked me if I smelled the pee. The PEE? Yes, the PEE.
Sophia smelled it, too, and the slide from totally excited to completely and totally disillusioned began.

We decided to leave the restaurant, the one we had anticipated for days, and headed down the street to a quieter, less crowded spot.

And we had a great time, we did. We ate things like bacon-wrapped dates and fancy pizza that went by a different name, and drank crisp, bubbly Prosecco, and felt happy and blessed to be out on such a beautiful night in such a beautiful city.

And when the night ended, we considered cramming another hotspot into our night because, really, when would we get the chance again? After all, it was Wednesday night!

But you know what? We were tired. And suddenly Cathy’s back deck seemed like the place to see and be seen. The line to get in was short, there was no cover charge, and we didn’t have to yell over music or Happy Hour Drunks to be heard. And once we got there, as I sipped on a sweet glass of velvety red wine and breathed in the air and the stars and the night, I realized: Yeah I’m getting old and I’m married and I’m a mother, and I certainly don’t know what the hot spots are anymore, and I say words like “hip” and “happening”, and I had no idea that Wednesday was the new Saturday….. but I liked going home, and this, right here, is exactly where I wanted to be.

Thankful

Most of you are probably at the grocery store right this very minute, hoisting frozen turkeys into your cart, and wrestling over the last bag of stuffing as you elbow your way through packed aisles of frenzied, frowning women. We know this, because this is what we do every year before Thanksgiving -- last minute, of course.

Not only is November a stressful joyful month for many mothers and wives, this November happens to also mark the the six-month anniversary of this blog. We wanted to take this time to express our thanks to you, our readers, for being loyal and supportive. We look forward to and truly appreciate every one of your comments, "likes" and emails. We want you to know that none of it goes unnoticed.

This blog had its humble beginnings as a creative outlet for us - a place where we could log our thoughts, frustrations, and laughs -  but we have discovered that what initially started out as something for "just us" has turned into something for all of us. This journey of motherhood, marriage, friendship -- this journey of life -- is one that we all share. We are in it together, and for that? We are thankful. Giving thanks wouldn't be complete without including our families, who unknowingly provide us with limitless fodder for this blog, and of course, who we are extremely thankful to have - despite the whining.

We are going to take the next few days off to be with our families/get fat/buy "doorbusters!" flat screen TVs, but we will each re-post a personal favorite tomorrow and Friday -- which, by the way, if you have time between The Muppets movie, eating turkey sandwiches, and re-heating leftovers, feel free to check them out. You can find lots of good whines under "The Whine Cellar" to the left of the post.

Thanks again to each and every one of you for your support.  We look forward to uncorking many more friendships with all of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cathy and Patti

Bedtime Revelations

by Cathy

The other night, while going through the bedtime ritual of laying with Ari for a few minutes before she fell asleep, she suddenly popped up from her cozy tucked in covers and said rather too excitedly, "I can count to 10 in French! Une, deux, trois..." On she went to ten, popping a little finger up each time to coincide with her thought process.

'Wow, that's great," I whispered. "Now lay down and go to sleep."
A few minutes of some shuffling passed before she sat up again.
"Mama?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How does the Earth become morning and nighttime?"
Pause.
"I'm serious," she continued. "I'm five years old and I don't know this. I have to know."
Sigh...I didn't know whether to laugh or hug her. I never want to stifle her thirst for knowledge so I gave a quick explanation using my hands about the Earth, the sun, the rotations, our location, etc. Even in the dark, I could see her face contort into slight confusion. She then told me that her teacher explained that the sun rotates faster than the Earth and couldn't believe it when I told her that the Earth was turning slowly as we spoke, right at this very minute.

I love the inquisitive and talkative side of my children...but at bedtime? Seriously?

Oftentimes, this is when they feel they can tell me about what they have learned, what they remembered, what they forgot to do, what happened in school that day or last week or even what will happen tomorrow. As you can infer from the above, from Ari (my five-year old), I get the most random combination of statements and questions. From Bella (my 10-year old), I get mostly "confessions."

Bella will usually blurt out something that she seemingly wants to get off her chest. As I'm leaning in to tuck her in, mid-hug, she will say something like, "I have a math test tomorrow" or "Mrs. so-and-so at school told me that I can't wear those khaki pants anymore because they're not part of uniform code" or some other issue that she has to confess before the clock strikes 12 and she turns into a pumpkin. Sometimes, I get frustrated if she raises a bigger or more complicated issue that obviously can't be handled in the dark as she's tucked in for bed at an already late hour; I attempt to acknowledge her concern but kindly tell her that we have to talk more about this at a more opportune time. She tells me that she likes to bring up things for us to talk about at bedtime because this is the only time it's truly quiet and we get to be alone - just the two of us.

Perhaps that is the real reason for her; perhaps the darkness of the room shields their face from embarrassment; perhaps the stillness of the room and the quiet of their minds allow certain thoughts to fertilize; or perhaps the preparation for school the next day stimulates thoughts idling in their heads. No matter the reason, I concluded that I don't really care.

What I do care about is that they always continue to share their minds, thoughts, concerns and questions with me, at bedtime, or any time.

Will Bribe for Sleep

by Patti

S didn't sleep through the night until she was 18 months old. Eighteen. EIGHT. TEEN. Night after delirious night I would rise, drunk with lack of sleep, and stumble through the dark to her. Yes, we tried the whole "cry it out" thing; we tried the "slowly back out the room one foot at at time" method; we tried every trick in the book, and nothing worked. NOTHING.

So we dealt with it. Well, I dealt with it. M was the best dad of a newborn ever, but after month, oh TWELVE, he was all, "WHEN IS THIS KID GONNA SLEEP?"

But something clicked at month 18, and suddenly, she was a total champion sleeper, sleeping in until well past 10 am in the mornings. It was if she was trying to make up for the billion lost hours of sleep. And it was good.

Then, suddenly, around 4 years old, she snapped. Her brain was done with sleep. Sleep? What's this? A waste of time, I tell you! And she zoomed back through time and ended up right back where we started: Not. Sleeping.

She would start out okay. I mean, sure, I would have to sit on her bed, then move to the doorway, then sit in the hallway reading a book until she felt safe enough to give in to sleep. And just when I was about to explode with bitterness and resentment, she would fall asleep. And then I would creep back into her room and stare at her in all her sleepy splendor, and suddenly she looked like an angel, all golden and rosy, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, her skin glittery with angel dust. And all of that resentment would fall away and she was perfect and beautiful and I just loved her so.

But then, there we would be, M and I, exhausted from a full day of life, happily snoozing in our own bed when, "MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! SLEEP WITH MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" S, straight from her slumber, would scream out in the night. Do you know what it's like to be woken up like this? Do you? I would literally pop up, my heart thumping in my throat, my arms flailing dramatically, while M grunted tragically and wrestled with the blankets; crocodiles in his sleep. And I would race to her room, expecting to find what, I don't know, but not anything good, I tell you. And there she'd be, sitting up in her bed, the angel now flown away, demanding my company. And the whole cycle would start again, except this time around, my patience was not even pretending to do its thing.

After much, much too long of this nonsense, I had to get savvy. Clearly, the kid was not going stop demanding 3 A.M. playdates, and I was not going to get a full night's sleep ever again ever, so I decided to do what any desperate parent would do in a time like this: I bribed her.  I took her to the store and let her pick out a toy. The deal was that the toy would live on the highest shelf in my closet  until she could go 10 whole days without screaming out my name in the middle of the night. I even upped the stakes and told her that not only did she have to stop screaming for me in the middle of the night, she also had to release me from the prison of the hallway at bedtime. The new rule was: Tuck in, story, kiss, see ya! She agreed this was a fair deal, and that lovely little toy became the shining beacon - for both of us.

We made a little calendar and lo and behold, it worked! I couldn't believe how easy this was! I had been so conditioned by torture, I simply couldn't believe my good fortune. But bedtime became a breeze; we were all sleeping through the night; we were all whistling the joyful whistle of "I slept so good last night!" in the mornings. So, as promised, at the end of those 10 blissful days, I brought down her toy from the closet. She had chosen a music box that, when opened, presented a colorful, popped-up Mickey Mouse who danced to his own theme. That first night, I read her a story and kissed her, and happily bid good night, and then.... "Mommy, will you sit with me for just one second and listen to my Mickey Mouse song?"
Not entirely worried, yet, I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Just for one time, through okay?"
She nodded and opened the box. Mickey danced joyfully.
"Mommy? Will you sing the song?"
"Honey, I don't know the words."
"Make them up."
"Let's just listen."
"But make them up, pleeeease?"
"Mickey is so fun and cool, he loves it when you sleep! M-I-C-K-E-Y- M-O-U-S-E... Okay honey, good night!"
"The song isn't over yet."
"It's a music box, honey, it will just keep playing and pl...." Oh, shit.
"Sing more."
"Good night!"
"SING MOOOOORE!"

The bribe had backfired. My dismal future lay before me: Not only was I now going to have tuck her in and read her a book, I was also going to have throw in on-the-fly songwriting and singing to the nightly routine. Desperate, I tried blackmail. "If you don't go to sleep RIGHT NOW, I am taking this back to the store and NO MORE MICKEY. Do you hear me?" S looked at me, her chin all quivery, the Mickey dancing more and more slowly as the music started to die. I grabbed the box and put it on her night table, cranking it a few turns so that the music might help her sleep. Then I kissed her and huffed towards the door.
"Mommy?"
"WHAT?!?"
"I love you."
Stab. I turned back to her bed and sat next to her, burying my face into her neck and kissing it. "I love you, too, lovebug."
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"One more song?"
"Mickey is a giant mouse who loves his family.. M-I-C-K-E-Y- M-O-U-S-E..."
And then, just like that, she turned over and went to sleep.

Cuban MisLED Crisis

by Patti and Cathy

There is an equation that parents are all too aware of: Kids+Restaurant = Flying Food, Yanked Table Cloths, Toppled Wine Glasses, Punctured Conversation, Cold Dinner. Yet, we keep trying to change the outcome of this equation because we simply cannot let go of the idea that we once had so! much! fun! at restaurants. We can't let go of the memory of that lingered-over wine; that savored dinner; that gaze over the bread basket. Until one of those rolls from that bread basket clobbers your forehead and you sadly snap out of it. Then we remember that, oh yeah, we have kids.

We had a big reality check on the whole restaurant situation a few years ago. Our families were looking forward to trying out a new BYOB Cuban restaurant, and decided to plan a "double date" of sorts. Amazed that the stars of our respective schedules lined up, we foolishly thought it might be fun to bring our kids, too.....

Patti

I was so excited about our night out. We don't get to hang out very often with our families all together, and I was looking forward to trying out a new restaurant, cracking open a bottle of wine, and enjoying some spirited conversation. The restaurant was tiny but cozy, and they gave us a nice, long table by the window. We set up the girls at their own table, and they were thrilled to be all "grown-uppy", browsing the menu and enjoying their own conversation. Things seemed to be starting out perfectly. Almost too perfectly. 

The food arrived, steaming, smelling like Havana, and we all began to dig in, family-style. That is when Ari, Cathy's youngest and 2-years old at the time, decided she simply had to be with her papi. Joe took her into his arms, and tried to juggle his fork, his wine, and his little firecracker of a daughter all at once. Ari got more and more wiggly, apparently annoyed that her papi would dare pay so much attention to the rice and beans over her. Joe tried to pass her off to the older girls, telling her how much fun it would be to be at her own table, but Ari wasn't buying it. She knew the real fun? Was being had at our table. So she refused to budge. I could see little beads of sweat beginning to form on Joe's forehead. Joe has always been a "cool customer"; the kind of guy who "never lets 'em see you sweat". But tonight, he was being driven to the brink.

Knowing that Ari had always been fascinated by my Blackberry, I lured her over to my lap with the sparkling promise of YouTube clips from The Bee Movie. Joe, relieved to be free of that adorable albatross, gladly released her, and Ari scurried over to me. I hoisted her up onto my lap, and thus began the reprieve. We were back! We drank wine! We ate! We talked! Sure, I had to pause every 2 minutes to replay those damned clips, but it was a small price to pay for that freedom. But a mere 10 minutes later, mid-plunge into my Cuban fish, Ari got bored. No amount of replays worked. The little assassin sensed fun was being had, and she set out to kill it. She climbed back into Joe's lap, and began to methodically take us all down, one by one.

She started off by insisting she had to go the bathroom. Cathy got up to take her, but NO. It had to be Joe. Joe wearily got up and accompanied her to the one, small bathroom in the restaurant. Of course, the minute they went in, others lined up outside to wait their turn. They were in there forever, and when they finally came out, Ari was pantsless.
"Where are her pants?" Cathy asked confused.
"She didn't want to put them back on," sighed Joe.

Ari was walking behind him, her hair sticking up, her onesie unsnapped, her bare butt hanging out. That's when I noticed: she was not only pantsless, she was also BAREFOOT.

"Joe! She's not wearing shoes!" Cathy hurriedly looked around the restaurant, wondering if her toddler was violating some health code.
"I'm not going to argue with her!" Joe threw his hands up. He sat down to swig some wine, and Ari climbed back into his lap."No mamita, please get off."
Ari screamed. "NO! Papi chulo!" She clung to him, a little leech sucking the life right out of him.

Joe's face reddened, the "cool customer" facade cracking. "Cathy, TAKE HER, PLEASE." He unclenched Ari's grip from his chest, but her little hands boomeranged right back to his shirt, and she leeched onto him even more tightly.
"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Joe unpeeled her from his body, planted her on the floor, pantsless and barefoot, and stomped out of the restaurant. Ari, the ever-efficient assassin, set out after him to finish the job. I could see him in the vestibule, pacing in that tiny space like a caged lion, Ari now wrapped tightly around his neck, choking him. M got up to play mediator, and I could see them all in there, hands flying animatedly, Joe's mouth moving in anger and frustration while M tried to talk him down from the ledge. Ari remained coiled around Joe the entire time. I turned to Cathy, the beautiful spread of untouched food before us. "Girl, you have GOT to get a portable DVD player. 'Cuz this? Ain't working."

Cathy

No parent wants to be the one that all the other restaurant customers glare at sideways with that awful look of disdain on their smug faces. We know all too well what that feels like, and also know, that no matter what, we would never do the same to other parents in a bad situation because we know what it's like.

We've been to restaurants where spaghetti was being flung to other tables, tantrums were being thrown in high chairs and most of the food and drink ended up on the floor. But this night? Was out of control.

Ari had (and still has at times) moments where she just would NOT let Joe put her down. He was eating? She was on his lap. He was watching TV? On his lap. She even wanted to sit on his lap and have Joe read her a book as he was using the bathroom. Every video clip taken of Joe during my sister's wedding three years ago - had Ari pinned to his side. His arm was sore for days after that. So this night, was no different.

I knew things would go south when Ari insisted that Joe take her to the bathroom. And a few minutes later, I saw it: Ari darting into a dining area filled with people enjoying their night out, barefoot with her unsnapped onesie flapping wildly behind her. Joe was nowhere to be seen; I thought for a second that he might have escaped out the bathroom window. Instinctively, I thought I should just keep eating, conversing and drinking and pretend I didn't know who that crazy baby was. Which I did for a few brief moments before I got up to discreetly lure her towards me until I saw Joe, pale as the moon and a frown imbedded on his face, walk up behind her and try to smoothly pick her up, whereupon she threw a fit.

Joe was having no more of this. He hoisted her on his hip, her little dimpled butt peeking out of her open onesie, tears in full swing, no shoes, no coat, no nothing and announced that he was taking her home. His food was barely touched, his wine just waiting to drown his frustrations. I desperately looked at Patti and M; my look said it all. M immediately sprung to action and attempted for what seemed like forever, to talk Joe into coming back in. Begrudgingly, he did. And Ari remained on his lap for the rest of our now deflated, hurried, undigested meal.

The next day, I bought a portable DVD player.

Whack-A-Mole Life

by Cathy

We've all played a game of Whack-A-Mole at least once, right?

You know...that money-sucking game where you're handed a Flintstones-like, padded club and hover warrior-style over the six holes in a machine that unpredictably pop out ugly mole heads in a random fashion? The objective is to smack each one of them back into their holes each and every time. If you can handle that easy task, you win.

We never seem to hit every single one of those little rodents, do we? As much as we try and go balls-to-the-wall assassin on their tiny little asses, there inevitably is one or two we miss.

As I discovered the other day, life is a lot like playing Whack-A-Mole. There are a million little fires that need to be put out; most on a daily basis which go unnoticed and others that weigh us down over a longer period of time.  After all, if it's not one thing, it's another, right?

Last week, I felt I had a particularly gangbusters day after snagging a brand new, not-yet-out-of-the-box laser printer from Craigslist for just half the cost. I found a great bargain for a much needed item and I was thrilled. I couldn't wait to go home and install it.

Here's how my night went:

- Oh no! I can't install the printer drivers on the Mac without the administrator's (Joe's) username and password. After much unsuccessful Googling on how to bypass it, and some major digging and recollecting on Joe's end to remember the info, we got it.

- Oh no! I don't have an A-B USB cable (not included) to connect the printer to the computer! After much digging in a giant crumpled bag of jumbled cables, wires, extension cords, weather stripping, phone chords, vacuum bags, old TV antennas (what?), and a slew of non-descript cables...eureka! I found one.

- Oh no! The printer drivers are not showing up as a printing option on screen! "Is the printer plugged in?" came an annoyed response from Joe, who was in the living room lifting weights and watching television. Oops. OK, I was tired and frustrated. Finally, success!

- With that behind me, it was bathtime for the kids. I went to run the bathwater when I saw that I left the mop sitting in a bucket of bleach from yesterday's housecleaning efforts. After draining out the bleach, I placed the bucket on my BRAND NEW dark gray bathroom rug. "Oh no!" I screamed, and snatched it off only to see the faint outline of a bleach ring on my beautiful, plush rug. I dropped everything, ran it under clear water and threw it in the washing machine, all while screaming one expletive after another, much to the chagrin of my family .

- With the girls' baths situated, I came back to the computer to check email for the night. Now that I had a printer, my home/office set-up was FINALLY complete!! I began typing a reply to an email but the words I typed were all strung together inonelongrunonsentencelikethisone and I couldn't understand why. Until I realized that the space bar apparently spaced out and went to the local bar. It was totally out of commission. I tried unplugging the keyboard, I tried restoring the default settings, I tried Googling it, I tried rebooting the computer, I tried everything. Nada. My keyboard decided that tonight of all nights, it would have its last hoorah.

Well, guess what. I had my last hoorah of the night as well.

I couldn't believe the string of annoying, frustrating little issues that consistently and persistently (much like those annoying little moles) popped up as soon as the one before it was taken care of. I finally had to lay down my fighting club for the night, throw my hands up in defeat and surrender to life's proverbial moles - but only for today.

Tomorrow...we play again.

I'm Latin... It's Never Too Late!

by Patti

Although I was born in the United States, I was raised by immigrants from South America, and therefore brought up in a very Latin way. Spanish was my first language - I didn't really even learn to speak English until I started school. We spoke Spanish, we lived Spanish, we were... Spanish!

When we were little, while the neighbors had their children in bed by 7 pm, my brother and I would still be up at midnight, eating Cap'n Crunch and listening to music. It was the Latin way. As we grew older, although my brother's and my Spanish gave way to more and more English, the whole concept of the "American bedtime" never took hold of our household. Instead, my family's second wind would always kick in around 10 pm, and that is when we'd start a game of Yahtzee or start baking a cake.

I distinctly remember my mom mopping the floors at 11 pm on a weeknight, while my dad was making a burnt toast sandwich. That is when my brother got the the sudden craving for a chocolate cream Hostess pie. So, naturally, we would all pile into the car to go to the grocery store. It mattered not that it was now nearly midnight and we all had work and school the next day. Right now? At this moment? Was the perfect time to go the grocery store and get some pie. Of course, once we got to the store, my mother would remember that we needed milk. And eggs. And lettuce. And, oh! Look! These chips are on sale at 2 for 1! And then my dad would inevitably head off to buy a block of cheese and some salami while my brother and I gleefully threw a thousand Hostess pies into the cart. So, in essence, we were doing the groceries at midnight on a Wednesday. But hey, when your Latin, it's never too late!

Not only did we cook, clean, and play Yahtzee at unreasonable hours, we also ate dinner late. While our friends were sitting around the table passing around the roast and potatoes at 6 pm sharp, we'd be waking up from naps and eating a snack. Dinner? Was not until at least 10 pm. How can people eat at 6? You'll be STARVING by midnight! Because, of COURSE we'd still be up at midnight.

These Latinly habits were obviously passed on to me, and since I married a man from Argentina, where it is not uncommon to find a restaurant packed with families at 11 pm on a school night, we have only perpetuated these habits and are now passing them on to our daughter.

When S was born, structure existed only in "How To" books for us. We'd be up at 1 am watching movies with our baby by our side, or out dancing to a Merengue band, S held up high up in the air between us, then all sleep in until 1 pm the next day. Why not? She didn't have a job! Let her stay up; it's not too late!

Of course, once she started school, it was a complete and total nightmare getting on that "American" time clock - for ALL of us. We'd finally get her on a schedule - which felt like prison to us - and then we'd go to Argentina to visit family, only to have that worked-for schedule promptly fly out the Argentinean window. After all, summers in Argentina mean dinner at 11 pm and ice cream at 1 am. Kids stay up with the adults and participate in every aspect of what is going on. Too late for them to be up? Of course not! The only "too" in the Latin culture is "too early", "too quiet", and "too boring". But "too late"? It's never too late!

S is now 10 years old, and fully embracing the Latin ways. She is always mystified after coming home from a friend's house. "Mom, they ate dinner so EARLY." If I finally tell her to go to bed on a Friday night at midnight, she will look at me, shocked, "But Mom, it's FRIDAY. It's too early!"

Que puedo decir? We have created a monster, much like my parents created a monster in me, much like their parents created monsters in them. The Latin gene lives on, and frankly, I just don't think we are ever going to change. For that? It's too late.

I'm Greek...So Eat!

by Cathy

If you're not eating  - I'm not happy. Wanna make me happy? Eat.

There is no question that food is a significant component of the Greek culture. As such, it is the main focus of any familial gathering: Thanksgiving? Forget what we're thankful for, what are we eating? Christmas? Thanks for the gift but I'd rather open up the oven and take a look. Sunday dinner? Nice to see you...let's eat! And forget Windex. (FYI - that association to Greeks was just for comedic relief. You DO realize that, right?) The cure for anything and everything that ails you is food. Got a headache? You must be hungry. Got a stomachache? Have some boiled rice. Running a fever? Eat something. Fatigued? Forget sleep - you need to eat. Caught a cold? It's because you're not eating enough.

When my sister and I were kids, we had to finish every morsel on our plates. I loved the tactics my father used: the 'ol food-on-a-flying-airplane-fork was for my sister. For me, it would always be: "You're going to leave that last bite? That piece has all your vitamins and energy in it! You can't leave it there. You have to eat it!"

Growing up, it was normal in my house to have your plate refilled as soon as you were obligingly polishing off what was originally stacked there. My father is notorious for that, and as such, his food-pushing habits have become expected by regular visitors and shock the first-timers. Without asking guests, he will grab the tongs and pile salad into your plate just as you're taking your last (or so you thought) bite, or he will fork another steak and plop it on top of the food (still?) left in your plate. All the while, he is urging you on in Greek, "Eat! Eat! Why aren't you eating? Aren't you hungry?" Meanwhile, your eyeballs are about a millimeter from popping out of your sockets because you just have not one ounce of room left in your body to store any more food.

My father's sister, a masterful cook and a notorious food pusher herself, is a thousand times worse than my father in this category, if you can imagine that. We all starve ourselves the day before a visit to her house because we know we are sure to be tied down and force-fed before we leave. Meatballs will be flying into your plate from across the table, your drink re-filled after a sip and platters of whole roasted chickens and Greek meat lasagna shoved and paused under your chin until you take something.

Seeing as the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I now have picked up nuances of these annoying habits. I can't help it; they are intertwined in the fabric of my being as a Greek and as my father's daughter. I am always worried about people not eating enough.

- Once, Patti was to pick me up on her way home from work and running errands, for an evening event we had to attend (where there was to be no food). Concerned that she wouldn't have eaten since lunch that day, I thoughtfully packed a sandwich and some chips and handed it to her in the car, after she announced (surprise) that she was starving. Her response? "You're sooooo Greek!" She then shared a story with me about her Greek neighbor, from whom she once asked to borrow an onion and the Greek neighbor emerged from her house with three onions, two sweet potatoes, an eggplant and a bag of tomatoes.

- My kids are victims #1 and #2 of my feeding frenzy obsession. After school: "Want a snack? Have a snack. Aren't you hungry? Did you eat all of your lunch? WHY NOT?? You can't go through a school day hungry! Why didn't you eat your school snack? Well then stop talking and start eating during lunch and snack time! So-and-so is eating while she's listening to your chattering. Stop chattering and eat...EAT!!!"

- Anywhere we go, I pack snacks: Target, after-school activities, Marshall's, church. Yes, church. If you hear the crinkling of a granola bar wrapper interrupting the sacrament of holy communion, that's us.

My dad, appropriately, is a butcher. On occasion, I'll ask him to bring home some ground meat. He'll bring two 5 lb. bags of ground meat, eight dinosaur steaks and some whole chickens. (The ongoing joke between my sister and I when we visit our parents' house is that we always leave carrying chickens.) I am lucky that my freezer is packed to the hilt with good quality butcher meat (none of that fake, dyed supermarket meat for us...nooooooooo); so much so, that I don't have room for necessities...like ice. 

When you visit a Greek house, you must ALWAYS be offered something to eat.  We Greeks must have something at the ready to pull out of our fridge, freezer or cabinet any time of day or night for our guests. (Oh, was that a burglar? Did you offer him something to eat?) If not, it is a sin, and you will be talked about relentlessly in the community. It could be a bowl of nuts, cookies, pastries, cheese, olives and bread or a hard-boiled egg.

Oh. You're not hungry? Have a seat. I'll broil a steak.

Road Trip Milk Shake

by Patti

From the moment M and I met, we loved taking road trips together. I would take a big stack of magazines, a block of cheese, and a loaf of french bread, and off we'd adventure together.

Once S came into the picture, it was only natural to assume that we'd work her into our road tripping ways. After all, just because we now had a BABY didn't mean that that BABY had to cramp our style. Plus, S was a pretty easy-goin' baby, and we were lucky that she was of the "I love my car seat!" variety, so road trips? Should be a breeze! Right?

When S was about 8 months old, we decided to road trip it all the way to Colorado. We even decided to take my parents with us, because grandparents are, like, the best thing ever when you have a baby, so along with us they came. We decided it would be best to set out at night so that S could sleep through, and we, the adults, would take turns driving. We swung through the Taco Bell drive-thru first, and once we were are settled in with our Grande Chalupas, we hit the road.

The trip started out great. S was all chirpy and bubbly and adorable, and I sat in front with M while my parents drooled over their granddaughter in the back. A couple of hours in, S started getting wiggly. And then that wiggliness quickly morphed into all-out wailing. She seemed miserable, totally trapped in her straight jacket of a car seat. She kicked her legs and flailed her arms furiously. We were speeding along the expressway, and there was really no place to pull over. My parents desperately tried to calm her, but she just wouldn't calm down. So I did what I had to do: I flung myself over the seat into the back, squished in between S and my mom, and unloaded my boob from its harness and stuffed it into S's screaming mouth. Right there. In a speeding car. On the expressway. Next to my mom. AND MY DAD.

S immediately calmed down, and as soon as we could, we pulled over so I could change her and comfort her and attempt to erase the trauma of highway boob from everybody's brains.

The rest of the trip was a complete and total nightmare. The S we had known and loved all these months had apparently been tricking us into believing she was awesome. She was so NOT awesome on this trip. Highway boob became another frequent passenger on our doomed road trip, and S screamed her way across 4 states. On top of that, I totally broke the law several times by taking my screaming, squirming baby out of her car seat and desperately bouncing her up and down on my lap in a speeding car, but oh my HELL do the laws need to change. Law makers should all be forced to go on a road trip with a screaming baby.

Despite all of this, we made it. WE MADE IT. And though most of our visit was marred by the gnawing realization that, OH MY GOD, we totally had to drive BACK, the trip back actually ended up being absolutely perfect. Nary a scream silenced, nary a boob unleashed, nary a driver blinded. 

Nutcracked

by Cathy and Patti

We do a lot for our kids. We sacrifice a lot for our kids. But that's our job; it comes with the territory. There's nothing like the warm, fuzzy feeling you get as you wipe away tears of joy after their ballet recital or choke back your pride after every single one of their sports games - win or lose.

So when we were informed (rather last minute) on a Thursday that instead of our girls going to their Nutcracker rehearsal that coming Sunday, they would instead perform a dance segment from The Nutcracker at an outdoor, neighborhood Halloween festival, we thought: How fun! Yet another proud moment as a parent to have your child, costumed and sausage-curled, prancing around in a beautiful velvet-caped outfit in front of a mass audience. After all, we were told, close to 250 families had signed on to attend!

After being sunny and pretty mild for days, that Sunday arrived with a gloomy change in the weather. There were scattered thunderstorms expected, but "nothing worth cancelling plans over," said ABC 7's Jerry Taft. It wasn't even that chilly that afternoon as we arrived at the ballet studio to get our girls changed into costume - after having spent a good part of the morning curling their hair 'just so' as part of their costumed look.....

Cathy:
I'm a skeptic. I would rather err on the side of caution than take a risk I know deep down will not pan out. But for the sake of my daughter, I did it anyway, despite the fact that my gut was telling me this was going to be more than a scattered thunderstorm, my senses were telling me that it was going to get much colder as the day progressed, and my husband was telling me (via 349 texts) that he thinks it's too cold/are we SURE this was still happening/no one is here/ the girls will get sick/aren't they cancelling? It was too late to turn back now - she was costumed (as were so many other oblivious kids and their giddy parents) and ready to go.

So we braved the drizzle and cold temps, drove around for parking, and walked the two blocks to the 'fest' - me under an umbrella I dug up from my trunk and the girls each holding a plastic Target bag over their heads, which caught wind and were pouffed up like a Saturday Night Live Coneheads skit. We arrived only to see about fifty people huddled under a train viaduct. Kids were costumed and happy, parents were chilled out and relaxed - laughing and conversing. I was annoyed, freezing and ready to turn back and go home.

After what seemed like an eternity, the girls finally performed in their full skirted costumes, complete with bloomers, petticoats and Converse high-tops. The whole train-and-the city scene was a cross between The Little Rascals and Welcome Back Kotter. (How's that for dating myself?) After the performance, we quickly whisked them away to change out of their costumes so we could get the heck outta Dodge. But where to change? Naturally, the only logical place seemed to be IN THE TRAIN STATION, between a pillar and a wall. We quickly started the process while my husband kept watch....

Patti
These Nutcracker rehearsals have become my part-time job. I feel like all I do on my days off is shuttle S back and forth to rehearsals. I'm glad to do it, but let's get real: they are kind of a pain in the butt and have become a total weekend time-suck. So when we got the notice that the rehearsal would be cancelled for an impromptu show that would take up even more time than said rehearsals, my carefully planned Sunday was thrown into a tailspin.

The day of the show, I literally raced from point A to point B to point C, and then got S home with 45 minutes to spare before we had to be out the door again.  The hairstyle for the Nutcracker requires 5,932 sponge rollers, a gallon of hair gel, and a sleepless night spent being stabbed in the head by rollers. Since there had been no time to do this, I bionically curled her hair with a curling iron, scorching myself at least 3 times, and then slapped some makeup on her. She looked like "Clara: The Slutty Years." We got to the studio and she changed into her Victorian party dress, and off we caravanned to the festival sight. S decided to go with Cathy and Bella, so I drove by myself, trying to keep up with them. Of course, the minute I got in the car to head to the festival, it started to rain. Hard. "Surely they will cancel this thing", I thought to myself. I called Cathy. No answer. "Don't you think they're gonna cancel? Look at how hard it's raining!" I shouted into the phone.

When I arrived, I found a parking spot, grabbed my broken umbrella, and sprinted to the event, the umbrella attacking me in the face. I kept calling Cathy to find out where they were, but she wasn't answering. That's when I saw them: The whole crew was running down the street. Cathy, juggling ballet bags and clothes and kids, with her own flopping umbrella, and the girls, plastic Target bags covering their heads, next to her.  I ran up next to her, nearly gouging out her eye with the wires poking out of my broken umbrella. "I can't believe they're not cancelling!"

We hurried across the street towards the "festival", which was actually a sad little gathering under train tracks, trains screaming over us. I felt like we were in Gotham City, all gloomy and drippy and dark. I expected to see a couple of scrawny rats scurry by. The girls ran to meet their friends, and they prepared to do their dance. Meanwhile, the studio instructor walked into the center of the gathering, and began shouting out the Welcomes and Introductions. But because of the trains, rain, and the totally oblivious man banging on a drum, all we could hear was, well, NOTHING. Just her mouth moving. Then the kids began to dance, the beautiful Nutcracker music pathetically trying to work its way out of the boom box the instructor's husband held up over his head. Instead, it was swallowed up by the annoying drums, the trains and the rain, and the kids looked like a Victorian Freak Show, dancing to no music in long, velvet dresses.

When it was over, after a polite smattering of applause, we had to figure out where on earth they could change, since we had to give the costumes back to the instructor. Of course, there was nowhere to do this, so we had to get resourceful and change in the urine-soaked train station. The girls loudly "eeeeeeewed" the entire time,while Cathy's husband, Joe, kept an eye out for any unsavory characters who might want to get a peek at our naked 10-year olds. Instead, a security guard told him we were not allowed to be doing this because on the grainy, silent security screen all they could see was a couple of freaked-out, half-dressed girls being rushed by some frantic adults while a seedy looking man shifted his eyes around. Shady, at best.
......
Yeah, this whole day? Was totally cracked. Nutcracked.

It's About Time

by Cathy

I find this whole Daylight Saving Time concept quite annoying.

I read somewhere that the name itself makes no sense; that it should really be called Daylight Shifting Time. We really don't save daylight; we just shift it from the afternoon to the morning during fall, and vice versa in the spring. Besides, why would we want to save it? For what, a rainy day?

If you read up on DST, you will find that many countries - and even some states within the U.S., do NOT observe it, making it an even more complicated change . We all know that it messes up our sleep cycles and pretty much any other system that depends on time and cycles in our life - travel, meetings, appointments, prescriptions, accounting, etc. The time in my work email system still shows pre-DST - which makes for hairy situations when you're at deadline to receive materials.

But the real victims of this unnecessary time change? PARENTS.

Just when you have your feeding/napping/playtime schedule down with your little one - after working week after tireless week building a system that works for your baby and for yourself - BOOM! Along comes DST and throws a wrench into the whole fragile structure.

If you're not quick to shift everything to match the new time change, things will slowly snowball out of control and before you know it, your baby's naps will be during dinnertime and you'll be up at midnight entertaining a wide-eyed baby as she bops endlessly on the bouncy seat while you watch bleary-eyed and desperate. (This actually happened to me, but I can't exactly say that it was due to DST. It may have been the lack of a  schedule implementation in general. Hey, what can I say? It was my first baby.)

Now that my babies have grown and the shift in time doesn't throw them off as much as when they were little, I find that it throws me off quite a bit. The day of the switch, I left the house knowing the new time and was proud that I had even allotted myself extra time to get Bella to her ballet class. En route, however, Bella had a freakout moment - we hadn't changed the car clock - when she realized that we were ONE HOUR late for her class. This in turn set my mind spinning and for one brief moment, I was believing it. 'How could I be so off?!?! I know what time I left the house.' Logic quickly jumped in to disprove my questioning, and brought my sanity back.

The first full day at work after DST, a fellow employee left one hour early - hat on, bags in tow, coat buckled. I hesitantly waved goodbye, thinking that perhaps she had made plans to leave early. After finishing up on the phone, my boss asked, "Why did Charlene leave early?"

"I don't know," I replied, confused. "I thought she had made an arrangement with you to leave early." Just then we both realized what had happened and walked over to the wall clock near her desk. We burst out laughing and lamented at how confused poor Charlene was. We had forgotten to turn the office wall clock back. Fifteen minutes later, Charlene huffed and puffed back into the office. "I drove halfway home when I realized, 'Where was all the traffic and wondered what time it was!'  We all got a good belly laugh from the whole scenario and I commended her for even returning to work, adding, "I would've just gone with the flow and played dumb." And dumb is just how DST makes you feel at times - especially when you think you've got it all together.

While I like the theory that DST takes advantage of the fact that the sun is out earlier in the mornings, I would appreciate this rationale much more if we actually saw the sun during winter in Chicago. To make an endless, dreary winter even worse, it now gets dark at 4pm - smack dab in the middle of my after work/school shuffling schedule. It's bad enough I have to schlep to all the million different places to run errands and drop off/pick up kids to/from activities, but must I do them in the dark? Isn't it bad enough that it's, oh I don't know, blizzarding, raining and tornadoeing at the same time? It is after all, winter in Chicago.

Let's not mess with time, people. It was meant to be experienced as it was since the dawn of time itself. It's about time we leave it that way.


Got your own funny DST stories to share? We'd love to hear about them here or on our Facebook page!

Burning Love

by Patti

After S was born, although I was so sleep-deprived I actually wondered if one could die from lack of sleep, I was pleasantly surprised at what an easy baby she was, and how naturally I fell into caring for her while still managing to do things around the house. Hard? This wasn't hard!

When she was only a few weeks old, the cookie-bakin' spirit hit me, and I decided to whip up a batch. As usual, S made it easy for me. She slept quietly in her little bouncy chair, and I Martha'd away in the kitchen, humming and smugly thinking to myself, "Hard? This isn't hard!" I popped in the first batch, and just as the timer alerted me that it was done, S started to stir. Being the perfect multi-tasker, I sweetly scooped up my baby, and then headed to the oven to take out the cookie sheet. Look at me! Holding a newborn AND baking! Such finesse, such control, such ability! I opened the oven door, holding S in one arm, and with the other, swiftly removed the pan.

Suddenly, S wailed out in pain. I dropped the cookie sheet, realizing I had just burned my baby. Ohmygod I had totally just BURNED MY BABY. I ran to the bedroom and laid S on the bed, and inspected her tender little body. Everything looked good. Intact. Unscathed. But she continued to cry, clearly in discomfort, and I frantically tried to recall how I had been holding her. I concluded it had been her thigh that the cookie sheet had grazed, and I called the pediatrician, crying into the phone that I had just burned my baby, I had just burned my BAAAAABBBBBYYYY! The nurse reassured me, telling me that as long as the skin looked normal, I could just smooth some ointment on the area and she should be fine. I hung up, shaking, and rummaged the linen closet for some ointment. I squeezed some onto her thigh, whispering apologies over and over again to her as I gingerly rubbed in the cream. Then I held her to me, willing her to be okay.

But she kept crying. And crying. AND CRYING. I pulled her away from me, her little legs kicking angrily. That is when I saw it: her foot was red and beginning to swell. I had rubbed the ointment into the wrong place! I was trying to heal her, and I was doing it all wrong. I started to cry right along with her, rubbed in the ointment into the right place, and then called back the doctor, and the nurse once again reassured me she would be alright.

And she was. Thank God.

That day was the first of an embarrassing string of awful parenting moments, but, through tearful confessions to friends, I soon learned that I was not alone. If we peel back the layer of the perfection we all strive for, we learn that we all make mistakes with our kids, from the shameful accidents to the less-than-stellar parental freak-outs that twist themselves into possessed yelling. 

But, as a new mother, I learned an even more important lesson that day. Sure, this "having a baby" stuff wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. It was harder. I realized it's not the lack of sleep or the ability or inability to make dinner, take a shower, or throw dinner parties while tending to your baby's needs that makes it hard. No, what makes it hard is how much you care; how suddenly you are more vulnerable, more raw, more in love, than you've ever been. And as that baby grows and becomes a person with opinions and interests and demands and a defined personality, it only gets harder.

And you know what? I'm up for the challenge.

No Dignity

by Cathy

Friends of mine know that if there's one thing I'm known for saying (among many), it's, "Once you become a parent, your dignity goes out the window."

Getting dressed up, acting cool, going out to nice dinners or even having a conversation with another adult with a baby/toddler/child in tow, takes on a whole new meaning. As many of our past blog posts can attest (and there are far too many to recall here, but check out our Embarrassing Moments whine label on the homepage) we have experienced several of our own undignified moments firsthand:

- I have been on all fours in a skirt and heels under restaurant tables retrieving pacifiers.

- I have lunged headfirst into the back seat of our car on expressways with my ass flying as high as our car to pick up dropped snacks/bottles/toys/sippey cups/books or to re-strap my little Houdini back into her carseat.

- I have looped off, around and back on expressway ramps, rummaging through ditches and weeds off the shoulder lane to retrieve one shoe from a newly purchased pair of Crocs that had been slipped out the window by my then-three-year old.

- I have driven miles back to a Walmart and run in crazed and delirious in the hopes of finding the ONE pillow that my child will only sleep with at night, or else the world (my world) would surely veer off its axis.

The other day I happened to capture this video of another mom, deep in conversation with a friend and obviously immune to the acrobatics her breasts were enduring. And I thought this sort of thing only happens to me:

This scene is eerily similar to an incident that happened to me years ago - a moment of undignified parental glory that I shoved deep into the gutters of my mind. It came while I was sitting in an uber-trendy outdoor cafe in Greece one summer. Bella was about two-and-a-half years old. It was late and she was sitting sideways on my lap about to fall asleep. During the spirited conversation with my cousins and friends, she tried repeatedly to get my attention several times with no sign of acknowledgment from me. After many failed, frustrated attempts, she did it: she cupped both of her little hands under each one of my boobs and proceeded to push up on them over and over again like she was raisin' the roof. "Mommy! I have to tell you something!" Up and down my boobs went bobbing for what seemed like an eternity before I grabbed her tiny wrists and swooped them away with lightning speed.  Before my strict reprimand could come out of my mouth, something came out of hers; she threw up. Not a lot, but enough to send me shooting up off my chair, unsuccessfully keeping it off my clothes.

Poor thing. That's what she was trying to tell me. But I wouldn't listen.

The whole humiliating experience, from the Boob Bobbing to the vomit, was my fault. This was one undignified moment that could have been avoided - among the thousands that will become a funny, fantastic blur. Lesson learned: I realized that when we have opportunities to avoid these moments, we dang well better take them.

We would love to hear about some of your most undignified moments! Add them to Your Whines on our blog homepage, our Facebook page or as a comment to this post!

Clown Car Purse

by Patti


I have openly and honestly mentioned here my tendency to be a little disorganized. Like most busy moms, I have alot going on in my life, and that "lot" seems to somehow always find a way to migrate into my purse.

The things I have found in my purse confound even me; things like wrenches and doll arms and duct tape and Goldfish crackers - they all reside in some surreal perfect harmony in my purse.

My purse is a one-man band. Every time I pick it up, the sheer weight of it causes it to inevitably slam into something, and when  it does, a cacophany of sounds rattle out of it. I walk and I sound like Mr. Freakin' Bojangles, my purse bruising my hip as it wildly swings.

The other evening I was at the ballet studio with Cathy, waiting for our girls to finish rehearsal. I was looking for something in my purse, digging through the depths of handbag hell to try to find it. As I searched, my purse transformed into a clown car, item after unbelievable item tumbling out of its cavern like so many little clowns. Cathy started laughing because not only had she seen me do this several times before, but also because SHE, too, does this on a regular basis.

So we decided to do all other fellow Clown Car Purse carriers a favor - we decided to film a dramatic reenactment of me looking for something in my purse. Yes, this is a reenactment, but I can assure you: It is totally realistic.

Behold:


I know there are many busy moms who manage to keep their purses organized and tidy and pared down to the bare necessities, and I admire these moms. How they keep their purses snack-free and toy-free and Sharpie-free and crumpled-up paper-free is a skill I have tried and tried to master, but no matter how many times I clean out my purse, it always slowly morphs back into Clown Car status.

So if you ever hear a clownish "HONK! HONK!" combined with some jingly-jangly footsteps, turn around and say "hi". Because it will most certainly be me.

Snooki and Flashdance

 by Cathy and Patti

There are many amazing things about having daughters.

For one, as they grow older, we, as mothers, have a built-in buddy; somebody to shop with, play with, share clothes and makeup with, and yes, even get hormonal with. But there are some, uh, challenges, that come along with having daughters, not the least the fact that, as they grow older, some of their fashion choices, however innocently concocted, leave us with a big ol' "What the Hell?" bubble over our heads.

Now, we consider ourselves pretty “with it” moms. We both dress trendy, we both love our heels and occasional hoochwear, we both still like hanging out and going out. In short: We ain’t old fashioned June Cleavers clutching at our pearls at the sight of some skin and sin. However. When it comes to our girls?  Sometimes those proverbial pearls get clutched.

Cathy:
I would say Bella is pretty fashionable; she keeps up on all the fashion magazine trends and is always quick to notice a new piece of clothing or pair of shoes I've bought. Considering what a picky dresser she was when she was a little girl, she has expanded her experimentation with clothes considerably - except for two things: 1) She gets hung up with certain items (skinny jeans) and she wears them every. single. day. until there are holes in the knees and 2) she hates wearing clothes that are loose, big or even just her size. Nope. She prefers shirts to be glued onto her chest, button-downs barely buttoned and pants she needs to hop into.

The other day she wore a size 4T sweater to school. (She is 10 years old.) Her school uniform shirts are her younger sister's - a size 6. Because of this, I have no idea what her true size really is. In my head, I still think she's an 8. But when I think of buying her a size 10, I feel like it will be too big for her - even though it's according to her height and weight. While out shopping for a fall coat for her with Patti, I chose a cool, fitted, military style coat - and after struggling between the 8/10 and the 10/12, I went with the 8/10 because of her Snookified fashion style. Patti looked at the coat with hesitation and went on to prove to me that this size wouldn't fit her. She was right. I've been trained to go with the Snooki Lookies for Bella but going forward, I'll know to stick with her true, un-Snookified size.

Patti:
What a feelin'! Means believin'! I can have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life!

No, you're not imagining it. You did just hear S's theme song. Somehow, some way, it doesn't matter what she is wearing, it ends up becoming a total Flashdance, off-the-shoulder number. The other day we were at a pumpkin patch. It was a brisk day, and we were all wearing sweaters. S, however, had strategically slid the sweater off of her shoulders and was walking around it with barely clinging to her back. "Honey, it's chilly. Put that sweater back on!"
"I can't help it, mom - it just keeps falling off."

Yeah, right. The thick, heavy, cable-knit sweater that is easily secured with buttons up the front just keeps slipping right off. Let's face it: It could be a zillion below zero degrees outside, and S would still find a way to sport the world's first shoulder-baring turtleneck, all in the name of "cool".

I know what is really going on. In S's mind, this off-the-shoulder look means she is in a video; she is Selena Gomez; she is a famous dancer! I love that my kid has a vivid imagination; what I don't love is that it is manifested through the Flashdancification of just about anything she puts on. The second that fabric slides off her shoulder, she becomes a maniac, maniac on the floor, and while part of me wants to let her express herself, the other part is all, "God, I miss onesies."

Just a steel-town girl on a Saturday night.

Yes, having daughters is amazing. I mean, sure, they can inadvertently Snooki it up and innocently flash in a Flashdance kind of way, but really? We know they really aren't Snooki and Jennifer Beals - they are who they are. And we wouldn't want them to be anyone else.

Express Yourself

by Patti

I was getting ready for work and S wandered into the bathroom to ask me a question. I noticed she was still wearing her pajama pants and urged her to hurry up and get dressed. Her reponse? “I am dressed.”
“Honey, you’re wearing pajamas.”

“And?”
“And… they are PAJAMAS.”

“AND?”

These pajamas were festooned with flying monkeys.

“Honey. You cannot wear pajamas to school.”

“Why not? They are pants, aren’t they?”

She had a point.

So I let her go to school in flying monkey pajama pants.

It reminded me of the days I was all about “expressing myself”, and I wore a Glad trash bag to high school. I cut out a head hole and arm holes and slipped it over my 15-year old rebellious body, then I cinched it at the waist with a studded belt. My mother didn’t say a word. I’m sure she was DYING to, but she wisely zipped it. And off I went, proudly wearing a black garbage bag dress. Sure, I got lots of stares and snickers, but then again – wasn’t that what I was aiming for?

I admire that girl; the one who didn’t care about what other people thought, the one that wasn’t afraid to stand out, the one who was a free and bubbling spirit. Life with all its rules has tempered that a bit, and now that I think about it, it makes me kind of sad. I see S headed down that same path of jubilant self-expression, and though my job is to guide her and discipline her and set boundaries to keep her safe and sane, nowhere in my job description does it give me any right to stop her from being who she is.

And who she is just keeps getting better and better.

Broke(en) Communications

by Patti 

The other day, Cathy’s husband, Joe, came to our house to drop off their older daughter, Bella, so that she and S could go to ballet rehearsal together. Joe hadn’t really been inside our house much, and upon really seeing it for the first time, he told us how beautiful he thought it was. Logically, M immediately offered Joe the chance to buy it. “Want it? I can’t afford it anymore. I’m broke.” Joe looked a little shocked, like he wasn’t really sure if M was kidding or not, but before he could really ponder it any further, M continued, “No, seriously, man. We are flat broke. Take this house. I can’t pay for it anymore.”

A few days later, I get an email from Cathy telling me that her husband had gone home that day and told her that he was very worried about us; that he wondered just how bad things really were; that M had offered him the chance buy our house.  Now, after almost 23 years together, I know my husband pretty well. I know that he is worried about money these days, but I also know that he is ALWAYS worried about money. It’s just the way he is built. Some are built for speed, others for adventure, while others? For worrying. Nonstop. About everything. Especially money. And that is M. If we don’t have a million dollars in the bank, according to him, we are broke. I explained this to Cathy, and asked her to please reassure Joe that we were still a few hundred miles from “tin-can on the corner” status. After all, it seemed that M's "I'm broke" requiem inadvertently gave off the impression we were about to trade in the living room couch for some cardboard and a Sharpie.

But this is M. I mean, Joe is a friend of ours; we’ve had dinners together, our girls are best friends, he is of the same Latino brotherhood into which M was also born and raised. M said this to Joe as a person he knows and trusts. But, M’s stock answer for pretty much anybody when they ask him how he’s doing?  

Grocery store cashier : How are you today?
M: Broke
 ...
Doctor: How are you feeling?
M: Broke
 ...
S’s teacher: How are things going at home?
M: We're broke.

M is all about the “truth”, and not faking it, and that is one thing I love about him. And I know and understand that life in the “Countin’ on that Paycheck” lane can be pretty stressful, especially when somebody’s property taxes keep somehow going up. And up! And up? But, seriously? I may have to duct tape his mouth shut before I open the front door to find a bag of groceries and some blankets left by “anonymous”.

HELLoween

by Cathy

Thank the ghouls and goblins that Halloween is over; the 'holiday' felt like it lasted for one full week.

In fact, as I was leaving my kids' school on Monday, after having spent the entire school day there planning room decor, shuffling snacks, large jugs of water and hoards of Pirate Booty, I exhaustedly sung to one of the teachers on my way out: "Bye! Have a nice weekend!" She stopped my exit short with a gentle hand on my shoulder. She lowered her voice and said calmingly, "Today's Monday...but I know how you feel."

I had in fact arrived at school at 8:30a.m. along with 12 other harried moms lugging boxes of witch cauldrons and bags of toilet paper for mummy wrapping. We dove right into transforming the school cafeteria into an obstacle course of Halloween play stations. Within the hour, 100 kindergarteners (my daughter being one of them) descended upon the room to partake in the activities. Another loooong hour later, as the kids filed out high on Halloween games, the moms flopped down on the mini lunch stools exhausted. Time for the clean-up, which consisted of millions of craft sticker backings, toilet paper remnants (which were stuck to pretty much all the shi-shi shoes in the place) and pumpkin balls rolling everywhere.

One kid party down - one to go. I had about an hour to spare for lunch, which I ran out and gobbled while checking email and texts. I raced back to school and began preparations for Bella's party. Five other moms and I hung skeleton door decorations, unpacked gallons of apple cider, pallets of bottled water, and millions of bags of popcorn and Pirate Booty. We set up 40 chairs for a game of Musical Chairs, cranked up an iPod belting out teeny bopper tunes and waited for the crazed fifth graders and their costumes to be unleashed into the clean room. In busted an assortment of random costumes, including a Christmas Tree, a Cupcake, Lady Gaga, Nerds Gone Bad, a Rock Star, Mother Nature and the Devil herself. A frenzy of makeup application and accessory staging began by all the moms on standby, running furiously to retrieve plastic bags from within plastic bags, cameras, smartphones and video cameras. After the primping and snack eating were complete, we had 3.2 minutes to play Musical Chairs, which consisted of me removing chairs at the rate of two per 30 seconds to keep up. I was suh-weating.

We snapped a few obligatory class pictures before we herded down to the school gym for the all-school Halloween parade, in which every child in the school parades on stage and around the gym by classroom. This was a lot of fun, save for the fact that it was standing room only. I made the best of it and bobbed to the music of Thriller, Ghostbusters, The Monster Mash and the theme song from The Adams Family, more times than I could count.

After a mad rush through cattle herds of crowds in the hallways to each classroom to retrieve both girls and their backpacks, costume bags, treat bags, snack bags and lunch bags, we finally emerged from the school, headed to the car and dropped off the kids at the in-laws for one hour of T-O-Ting in their midrise building. In the meantime, Joe and I ran home to clean up our disaster of a house before some friends and their kids came over for spiced rum, pizza and a of course, Trick or Treating.

After a quick sweep of dishwashing, tidying and Windexing, Joe was back out the door to go pick up the girls while our guests arrived. Since the girls were late in finishing up with the in-laws, we decided to pack into the car and just meet Joe and the girls in the area we were TOTing in - but not before we warmed up the spiced rum and took it to go in thermal warmers. (The best idea of the day.) After a few texts we finally met up and tried to make the best of navigating through thousands of people on the spooky, spirited streets. Bella and I were getting tired and cold, so we split up yet again so I could start heading home to pop in some pizza - it WAS dinnertime after all. That plan would have worked out great if Joe remembered where he parked the car in his discombobulated haste to get the kids there. We walked SIX blocks out of our way to NOT find the car.

The girls and I hitched a ride back with our friends - seven people in a car, baby, cuz that's just how we roll - while Joe went on a ghost hunt for the car. After we all safely assembled at home, we chowed on some pizza, had some good conversation, drank some more spiced rum and called it a night.

And what a hell of day and night it turned out to be. Until next year...when we get to do it all again! Mwaaah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha....[evil laugh fading]

Proud Mary

by Cathy

Last Friday, I attended a memorial service of a woman whom I wasn't close to, but had made an impression on me so much so, that I maintained contact with her throughout the last 11 years. Everyone referred to her as Mary Kay. She was 88 years old.

Mary was the receptionist at the very first magazine I ever went to work for. The office had a colorful crew of employees to say the least. We always joked about how we should have written a sitcom television pilot about our office - and how it would be one of a kind. Mary was the office bulldog - the tough-as-nails yet always diplomatically composed woman you would get on the phone when you called our offices. She handled the chaotic, often crazy office antics with such eloquence and grace.

She was about 76 years old when I met her - of course I had to figure this out because she never revealed her age. There was never a day that you would catch Mary without her impeccable application of makeup, manicured nails and perfectly coiffed 'do. Her stylishly chic clothes were always spot on - a great fit and always pressed. Oftentimes - only if really necessary - she used a cane, but had it decorated with sumptuous scarves to jazz it up. And her voice. What can one say about Mary's voice. Her low, raspy yet smooth dulcet tones were as unique to our office as she was. One caller thought she was a bombshell divorcee that smoked two packs a day. She called everyone 'dear'. She never gossiped or had a bad thing to say about anyone. And when someone complained to her about another person, her answer would always be a simple, "It's in their nature, dear."

I had kept in touch with Mary every holiday season when I would mail her a holiday card with a picture of my girls (she was never married, nor had children) and I would always await that phone call a few days later. "Cathy, dear. I got your card and your girls look gorgeously divine. Straight out of a European film noir." She had the most uncanny ability to string together beautiful words about anything, on the spot. Her mind was razor sharp and she was very quick witted up until the day she died, from what I heard. 'A thriving mind in a place of diminished ones' was how her nursing home caretaker referred to her. She attended plays. She wrote poetry (you would always get one on your birthday) and screenplays. She never watched television yet knew everything that was going on. Up until a couple of years ago, she had me update her resume and was calling me to see if I knew of a job for her - she even wanted to take a computer class to 'be up with the times'. She was a determined, feisty hardballer who was fiercely independent.

I sat at her memorial service awestruck, taking in her early years from the collage of pictures pasted methodically on a large white posterboard. (Funny how one's life can fit neatly on a large posterboard.) She was gorgeous. She could have easily been a movie star - the epitome of glamour and sophistication at every turn - her hair blowing beautifully in the wind on the Eiffel Tower over Paris or climbing whitewashed steps in her caftan mini in France.

Two particular pictures caught my attention because they were positioned starkly next to each other: one of her and her two sisters in their 20s, she wearing an off-the-shoulder, black cocktail dress revealing her youthful decolletage and hair flowing like a black mane to one side, she struck an eerie resemblance to Greta Garbo; the other was a recent picture of her, of course primped to the nines, yet hunched over in a chair, lipsticked mouth ajar, veined hands decorated with large, fabulous accessories, reaching up towards her grand-nephew. The juxtaposition of these two pictures was startling; startling at how the vibrancy of youth is fleeting; a look at how we once were, and how we will become. However, I also knew that inside that body, ravaged by age and its side effects, laid the mind and heart of a 20-year old - in every sense of the word.

Rest in peace, dear Mary. Heaven is now surely a more fabulous place with you there.