Titles? Ain't nobody got time for that!

by Patti

 As you read this, just know I need my fingers to get used to the idea that they are typing something. Something other than reports and summaries and lists, that is. Plus: I got stripper nails. Typing with stripper nails is a whole new world. There is something frustratingly limiting yet deliciously freeing about stripper nails, and I've come to the conclusion that I have waited far too long in life to experience them. Also: I've been a little busy, you see. Busy with work and  life and appointments that I finally made (stripper nails!) - and kept! Like you haven't, right? So you know what I mean. But you know what? Suddenly, at the moment that I am preparing to catch a flight for a work trip, the mood struck me, and I told myself, SELF! Go with it!

So.

The kid turned 12. Last month I rented a van - a real., 12-passenger kind-of-van - and, after slapping a number of embarrassing signs on it and decking out the interior with streamers and balloons,

I stuffed 10 screaming tweens into it and cranked the tunes all the way to a hotel! With a pool! Near a mall! And those 10 screaming tweens ate pizza, and shopped, and swam, and watched movies, and had pillow fights, and sprayed whipped cream, and stayed up 'til a billion o'clock. But, oh, did they have fun. And I still cannot believe, not without feeling slightly panicky and totally melancholy and fully bewildered that my baby - my baby -  the one that came out of me screaming into the world, hair curly and damp, eyes wild and wide, hands flailing and sure - is now 12. Can I get TMI on you? I pulled her out. I did. I leaned forward with the deepest of gasps and final-est of pushes, and pulled her right out of me and onto me, and she was born. And it was magnificent. And now, 12 years later, I am pulling her out of bed, out of cars, pushing her onto buses, into classes, into life....

You know what else happened? Braces. I mean, of course, right? She's 12 now; braces are pretty much a must. They're not on her teeth just yet; that will happen in two weeks. But she's had all of the pictures done, and suffered through the mold process - which basically entails the stuffing of mushy clay into the mouth and lots and lots of gagging - and she's picked out her colors. Did you know they have colors now? They have colors. In "my day", the only "color" was metal, and there seemed to be a hell of a lot more of it in a pubescent mouth than the braces of today.

S has picked out her colors: Baby blue. Or mint. Or pink. Or neon green. I DON'T KNOW. The picking-out-of-the-colors seems to cause more stress than the actual braces. Two weeks to go, let's pray this awful world problem of what color to pick will be solved in time. God FORBID.

Since the braces are an inevitable part of the junior-high uglies, I made a promise to my child that had her leaping over the moon: I told her she could get contacts. I mean, the kid's glasses are unbearably cute, what with their oversized frames on her undersized face. But let's be honest: Glasses AND braces? So two weeks ago, we headed to the eye doctor for her annual eye exam, where, surprise! She's a year blinder! With new prescription in hand, we determined that S was ready for contacts. Did you know that putting in contacts for the first time is pretty much as easy as shoving a frisbee into a coffee cup? That poor kid spent an HOUR AND ONE HALF trying to get in just the first contact.

But she did not give up! And today, two weeks later, she is a total pro, putting in those contacts at lightning speeds. She still has her hipster glasses, and she still loves them unabashedly, but she now at least has the option to geek it up or geek it down at will. When you're 12 and the world is perceived through the amped-up eyes of pubescent drama, options are crucial.

Guess what? I have lot's more to say. Stay tuned.....

Sisyphus, Meet Wonder Woman

by Cathy

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. 

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.   - Albert Camus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus ended up with some seriously whack punishment from the Gods...

He was to push an absurdly large and heavy boulder up a sloped hill in the underworld (who knew hell had hills?) only to watch the boulder roll back down on its own weight right before it reached the top. His punishment was to do this for eternity; the quintessential example of a senseless, futile job that would never have an end nor a positive outcome. There is nothing more abhorrent than a fruitless labor - one that accomplishes nothing. Or is there?

Some argue that his punishment was anything but futile, but rather there was fulfillment and dare we say, even happiness in it, yet I struggle to see how - until I realized that we are each, in our own way, in our own lives, figuratively doing what Sisyphus was physically condemned to do. We are each pushing that proverbial boulder up that hill, only to have it come back down in a different form, a different challenge, a different problem. Once we think we have overcome one challenge, along rolls another; maybe not immediately as in the case of Sisyphus, but eventually, it does come back down.

I have been feeling that way for the last year, both in large challenges in my life - my parents, my kids, my marriage, my job - as well as the daily grind. As soon as I accomplish one task, 10 more crop up almost simultaneously. I honestly feel like Wonder Woman, flashing those reflective (and may I add, stylish) cuffs that deflect and bounce back anything that comes her way. I only wish it were that easy.

Boom...done! Back at ya! Next!

However, it is imperative that we try to find the truth behind Albert Camus' quote above. That even though what goes up will undoubtedly roll back down, there is a lesson to be learned, an experience that will alter your perspective, deepen your understanding, shape your soul or enrich you, open your eyes or change your mind. It's all there for a reason, whatever those reasons and yet unlearned lessons may be. No matter the outcome, the efforts of taking on these challenges and pushing those boulders uphill, will yield a fulfilled outcome of some kind, perhaps in ways you never imagined.

Mugs

by Cathy

If you've given birth to a baby, remember this word: Mugs.

This has now become the code word used to describe the hormonal peaks and valleys, coined by me and a dear friend of mine who had her first baby about a year ago. We got together the other day and I asked her how things were going.

"I'm a little better now. Not as bad as in the beginning."

Ah.....the beginning. That was hormonal highway hell. I shared with her just one of my many stories revolving around my post-baby, real-world shock.

For the first time in a year since getting pregnant with my second, I attempted to try to shop for my post-baby body. I had no idea what size I was. I had no idea what women were wearing these days. I had completely forgotten how to put a stylish outfit (or any presentable outfit) together. Stretch had become my best friend.

I halfheartedly approached the women's section at my local Target. I walked around, pulling at a skirt here, skimming a top there, completely whizzing by the jeans as if they were the devil - who was going to squeeze into those now? I realized after about 10 minutes of this, I was walking in circles. Then I stopped. I stood in the middle of the women's section, frantically trying to spot large ads showing me what to wear, what to pair up, how to style, what to choose. I couldn't find any, so I panicked. I stood there frozen, looking like a serene ocean on the outside, while a hurricane was wreaking havoc on the inside. I think I stood there for about 20 minutes, motionless, eyes glazed over, confused and helpless. Then I left and went home with nothing.

"Oh! OH!" my friend replied. "You remember my story, don't you? About how I went into Marshall's after having the baby to try to shop for myself?"
I looked at her quizically.
"Tim suggested I go in and shop for myself. He said, 'I got the baby, just go in and buy something for yourself.' In five minutes flat, I was back outside with mugs."
"MUGS?!?"
"That's what Tim said. I said, 'Yeah, mugs. Let's go.' So he asked me again. 'MUGS?! We don't need mugs.' So I said, 'YES. WE. DO. Now let's go!' And we never talked about the mugs again.I don't even know where I put them."
I was laughing so hard at this point I couldn't breathe.

"Oh, you think that's funny?!?" she continued. "It's still happening!"
"What do you meeeaaannn?" I asked in a high-pitch howl of laughter.
"I was in Ulta the other day because I really need a new curling iron and found this one I really liked among some sale items so I took it to the front desk and asked if this was on sale. And when she told me it wasn't, I started crying."

"Bwhahahahahahahahahahaa!" I howled. "You had another Mugs Moment!"
"I'm glad you think this is so funny."
"Girrrll...girrrlll..you know why I'm laughing?!?! Because I can totally GET IT! This is how it gets! This is how WE get!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Yes, motherhood makes you cray cray in many ways - both bad and good, both cute and ugly - and it can strike at any time, no matter how old your kids are. So I am here to say that Mugs Moments will happen. And it's okay. Because who couldn't always use another mug or two?

Never did a message ring any truer

Happy Mother's Day!