Home Alone

by Cathy

Many parents dream of the day where they can have a little freedom and flexibility in the form of allowing their tweens to stay home alone so they can run out and get a few things done. Bonus if the said tween is able to take care of a younger, self-sufficient sibling if need be. 

I am happy to announce that this time has finally come for me.

No more forced outings to Jewel with my kids to pick up emergency gallons of milk; no more working around the kids' schedules; no more whining and resistance. We are each free to do our own thing.

Naturally, the first few "separations" came with trepidation on both ends:

"Remember, no answering the phone unless it's me or papi. Absolutely no answering the door and do not, under any circumstance, turn on the stove."

"Are you sure you'll only be twenty minutes? What if it takes you longer?!"

I am pleased to say that we have all passed the initiation period of this rite of passage. We are more comfortable with these brief periods of separation, although, I still keep checking in on them every fifteen minutes or so with updates as to my whereabouts - (I can only hope they will do the same in the coming years). 

I did learn the hard way, however, that the best way to get through to my iPad-Instagraming addict of a child was by "KIKing" her, an IM alert that pops up on the iPad screen. The house phone was apparently never heard by either kid, probably because the Disney channel was blaring at a volume that would drown out a bomb explosion, and Bella's cell phone was nowhere nearby. It never is. But the iPad? That thing is basically slung around her neck and plugged into her butt.

One of the many perks of being absent for these brief excursions of alone time is that I am not privy to every. single. little. fight, scream, tattle or battle fought between my two kids. Or so I thought. Thanks to technology, my kids' pseudo emergencies, battles and tattles follow me wherever I go. Behold the string of texts I have received on my phone:

Text tattling. Kevin McAllister didn't have this luxury in 1990.

The Sharpie is still evident on my dining room table and the Styrofoam Force-Feed Fiasco turned out to be one, little S-shaped peanut filler administered by my six-year old prankster troublemaker, to my almost 12-year old.

While I would never mute or irresponsibly not check my phone while out, I do have the luxury of choosing to:

a) ignore the text if it's not an emergency 

b) text back that I will handle it when I get home or 

c) tell them to work it out on their own. 

And by the time I do get home, the fauxmergencies have boiled over and have become forgotten.

Now, if I can only count on them to manage two would-be home burglars by strategically and creatively outsmarting and consequently, thwarting their efforts while the hubby and I are on a trip to Paris? That would be worth text tattling about.

It's ValenTimes Day!

A gentle reminder on this holiday of love...Happy Valentine's Day!

 by Cathy

Yes, that's right folks. Today, it's time for some Valen. Yes siree bub.
Forget Hammer Time. It's Valen Time.

I can't get to the lovey, dovey, squishy, cuddly, hearts-a-flutter part of today's holiday, without pointing out that so many people - (young children excluded) say Valentime instead of Valentine. It irks me to no end. Grown-ass people. People my age. Do you not think about what you are saying while you're saying it? Who or what is Valentime? You do know we celebrate St. Valentine, right?
And while you're in a conversation with this grown-ass person who says Valentimes, you just don't have the 'heart' (ha ha ha) to blatantly correct them, so your response will reiterate the word except in the correct form, in the hopes that they GET it. But nooooo....yet again, that word tumbles out of their ill-forming mouth in the incorrect form.

While I'm on this soapbox, I need to take the opportunity to point out other grammatical errors that sit on the same level of annoyance with me.  People, pay attention:
It's Anyway, not Anyways
It's Regardless, not Irregardless
It's Sandwich, not Samwich
It's Supposedly, not Supposably
It's Probably, not Probally
And Groundhog Day (not Groundhogs Day) and Valentine's Day are both in February (not Febuary).

Okay. I've said my piece and feel much better now that that's out there. Enough with the hatin' now on with the lovin'.

No matter how you pronounce it, Valentine's Day means different things for different people. The emotions, feelings and attitudes that come with it run the gamut from bliss to pressure to expectations that are either exceeded or that never come to fruition. Love it or hate it, it's there, smacking you in the face every time you walk into a store or turn on the television. For some it's a chance to really take a day and honor, appreciate and pamper the person you love. For others, it's trivial, forced, Hallmarky and a huge money suck. After all, you should love and appreciate your significant other every day of the year. Riiiigghhht???

As for me, I don't put too much emphasis on it, although I would like it acknowledged in some small way from my husband, as I will do the same for him. Somtimes, the smallest things mean the most. Other women, don't feel that way and that is their prerogative.

But where I don't have any problem making it a big deal is when it comes to my girls. Yes, hugs and kisses and praises and compliments are dished out to them on a daily basis, but what really does it for them is the whole look and feel of Valentine's day. The colors! Pink! Red! The heart-shaped chocolates! The heart-shaped anything! Flowers! Cutesy cards! Valentine's Day cards for their schoolmates! Balloons! Teddy bears! It's such a pretty holiday. Valentine decorations are pretty to look at and induce the feeling of warmness and fuzziness and well, LOVE.

A tribute to the Heart Holiday by Ari and I 
adorns our back door.

Happy Valentine's Day to all the people I love!

Yes, even those that mispronounce it. :)

Say Yes to the House!

by Cathy

Patti has often "accused" me of having delusional confidence.

I say "accused" because she sees it as a cray-cray way to live and think about things. As if I am not a realist. On the contrary, I am as far away from a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants mentality as they come when it comes to certain things. I weigh, analyze, scrutinize, rework, reinvent the situation so that I can get the best of both worlds between any two options I am considering. However, I do believe that a healthy dose of throw-caution-to-the-wind confidence is necessary now and then to really allow yourself to dream and perhaps even, get what you want. That is The Secret after all, isn't it?

I realized recently, with quite the proverbial slap in the face, that I get this 'delusional confidence' trait from mother.

I am currently in the stressed-out, elbow-deep, insanely time-sucking, absurdly-infuriating, patience-testing process of helping my parents find a house. After almost 40 years of living a certain way, with a certain routine, and a certain amount of space in a beautiful two-flat they have to sell due to extenuating circumstances, they are now lurched into this life-altering process in their golden years - a time that should be relaxing and stress-free.

As if this all weren't enough, we are at the mercy of a fickle, wobbly real estate market, greedy banks and lengthy approvals, sketchy buyers and sellers, mortgage companies, underwriters, agents and real estate attorneys who have no sense of urgency. Time is money and opportunity, people!

I, being the eldest daughter of two, and the closest in proximity to my parents' residence now, have been spearheading their current sale and necessary house-hunting efforts for the past six months. I've gone with them through the high of every potential gleaming opportunity and the disappointing, heart-crushing low of every squashed hope, missed opportunity and crumpled deal. I am physically and mentally exhausted.

Now, don't get me wrong. I would do anything for my parents and the absolute best thing I would wish for them in this world is to find something that makes them happy, because then? I would have blissful peace of mind. However, changing the mindset of an older generation in the way they live has proven to be a gargantuan task for me, since their list of strict requirements doesn't allow any wiggle room. I understand they should never settle for less than what they want, but realistically, with the parameters they have in place within their budget, I just don't see it happening. At least not in the near future. But my delusional confident mother won't back down.

Perfectly suitable homes have been rejected because (and I am not making this up): there are too many big trees/trees on the property, it's on too busy of a street, it's on too quiet of a street, there's not enough storage (and there never will be because DUH, no house has enough storage as a two-flat building!), the kitchen doesn't have enough room for a table (or if it does, there's not enough counter space, obviously), the dining room is too small to fit the three sideboards they have, too many stairs, too steep stairs, too dark, it's in what neighborhood? and at what price range?

I've explained to them many times that they may have to downsize their furniture and alter their expectations - no one takes pride in ownership like the way my mother kept that building and it''s evident by the immense amount of crap out there. (Honestly, how do people live this way?!!)

No, we cannot all have our cake and eat it too, but my delusional confident mom thinks so. And I hope for her sake (and for mine) she is right.

Only in Nebraska

by Patti

Every day that I leave my office to go home, it never fails that I get down the stairs and out onto the parking lot, only to turn around, climb right back up the stairs, and head back to my desk to retrieve my car keys. Or wallet. Or scarf. Or sunglasses. Or cell phone. It's gotten to the point that one of my coworkers, the one who usually witnesses those sheepish trips back to my desk, now asks me as I leave for the day, "Are you sure you have everything?"

Apparently, I'm kind of famous for that. Or infamous.

The other day I was in Nebraska for business. Yes, Nebraska! I actually drove down Cornhusker Highway and everything! Once we got to the meeting, I realized I had left my cell phone in the rental car. OF COURSE. Because, I told you, I forget things! I just made a mental note to get it after the meeting, and got down to work. After the meeting, my colleague had to stay behind for a few minutes to talk to somebody, so I told him I'd meet him in the lobby. I went out to the parking lot, eager to retrieve my phone and check messages, but when I got to the car, the cell phone was not where I remembered leaving it. Slightly panicked, I re-checked my purse and my portfolio; I checked under the seats; I checked the trunk; I checked the glove compartment. Of course, I had never even opened the glove compartment, but you know when you get desperate to find something and you hope against hope that maybe, just maybe you had opened the glove compartment and put that thing inside and just forgot that you did? EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DIDN'T? Yeah, no - it was not in the glove compartment. Confused, I even did a double-take on the car; after all, it was a rental car and I wasn't entirely familiar with it . Perhaps the real car was parked nearby, and my cell phone was safely waiting for me inside it. Alas, the rental car was electric blue, and the only electric blue car in the parking lot. In all of Nebraska, probably. So, I had the right car. Unfortunately.

Mystified, I headed back inside the office building and asked the ladies at lobby desk if anybody had turned in a cell phone. They shook their heads sadly, eyeing me with pity - that poor, screwed lady who lost her cell phone and every single contact in it - for the THIRD time in a year. I then retraced all of my steps, including visiting the bathroom, checking the stalls, the garbage can, the hand dryer... I walked the length of the building to the other side, where another lobby was located. I asked the security guard if anybody had turned in a cell phone. No, they hadn't.  Near tears, I headed back to the main lobby, and one of the lobby ladies offered to call my cell phone - you know, just in case? So she did, and as she stared hopefully at me, phone to ear, I started dumbly into my purse, waiting for it to ring. But it didn't, because my cell phone was NOT IN IT.

I decided to go outside and check the car just one more time because I apparently simply cannot face reality. Once again, I scoured the clearly empty rental car, and... nothing. Sighing, I slammed shut the door and began to head back, defeated. As I walked, I looked longingly back at the car, bidding a sad farewell to my obviously lost phone. And that's when I saw it: There, perched proudly on the roof of the rental car, glistening in the clear Nebraska sun, was my cell phone. It had sat there, silently, strongly, hopefully, all through my two-hour meeting and desperate, fruitless searches, waiting for me to claim it. Thrilled, I raced back to it, feeling like those lovers who run toward one another in slow motion in movies, and I grabbed my beloved off the roof, cradling it in my hands. We did a happy spin, my phone and I, in our own Nicolas Sparks movie. I ran back inside, laughing now, shaking my head at the sheer lunacy of it all. "You will NOT believe where I found my phone! I told the lobby ladies. "On the ROOF OF MY CAR!" We all shared a laugh, and I said to them, "You know, if I had left my cell phone on the roof of my car in Chicago? It would have been gone in ten seconds flat! Only in Nebraska!"

And then I got back on Cornhusker Highway and headed back to the airport, drawing a big, fat heart around Nebraska in my head.

Congratulations! It's a...Tampon?!?

by Cathy

*****TMI Alert!*****

 Here at TWWW, we pride ourselves on putting life out there like it is. We are self-proclaimed TMI queens in the interest of keeping it real. As such, this post contains copious amounts of TMI as it relates to women. 
* If you are pregnant or thinking of becoming pregnant, we apologize in advance for the healthy dose of truth and reality you are about to be served. 
* If you are a man, unless you want in on what women don't tell you (and trust me, you'll gladly like to keep it that way), close this page now and never look back. 
You will all thank me later.

I was out a few weeks ago having some well-deserved drinks with a friend of mine who had just had her first baby in the past year.  Naturally, our conversation drifted over and crossed into some pretty private yet universal territory: what happens to a woman's body after childbirth.

"I went and got a proper bra fitting recently because, you know," this friend leaned in and whispered. "They sag now. They just...sag!"

I briefly scanned her tiny A-cup figure and thought, really?!

"No one tells you!" she continued. "No one tells you what it's gonna be like after you push that baby out! Everything changes! I'm convinced my vagina was crooked for months afterwards."
"What?" I sputtered out a laugh.
"Don't worry," she assured me, as if I was worried that would really happen. "My gyno told me all was back in its place, but my GOD I am peeing on myself all the time!"
"Ah, I see." I tilted my head back and let it slowly fall forward into a reassuring, commiserating nod.
"How come no one talks about this?!"
"Oh, they do." I reassured her. "It's just that you never paid attention to those conversations before because they didn't relate to you until now."
"You mean it's happened to you?"
"OF COURSE!" I practically shrieked. "Me and any other woman out there who has pushed a baby out of her hooha."

Clearly, this girl needs to spend more time with a TMI queen.

"While I was sick," she went on, "I went through, like, four panties a day with all that coughing!" (She had just gotten over a three-week long upper respiratory infection which had caused her to cough consistently and continuously at all hours of the day and night.) "That is ridiculous!"

"Welcome to your post-childbirth body."

On I went to tell her about how she will probably pee a little not only when she coughs, but when she laughs, sneezes, jogs, runs, walks briskly, turns her head too suddenly, picks up something remotely heavy or even picks up the remote. I told her what my gyno told me and I remember it to this day: "Once you've pushed a baby out, you need to do kegels every single day for the rest of your life." Congratulations! You're a mom!

Little does this friend of mine know what else is in store for her.

It's been six years since I've given birth - to a child, that is.  A few days ago, as I was mid-poop, it happened: I gave birth to a tampon. PLOP! Into the toilet it fell despite my superhuman, super-kegeled efforts to keep it in. In fact, the more I clenched my pelvic muscles, the more it slid out. It was past the point of no return and I was birthing it along. In my defense, it was one of those lite, super-slim numbers.

After I got over my mortification, I did what any other woman would do. I immediately texted a friend. Patti, would surely not judge my body's lack of proper function, and maybe, just maybe, she could even relate?

Me: So, today my tampon slid out my hooch while I was trying to poop. Yet another post-childbirth side effect.  I am doing kegels as I type this.

Patti: Girl! That has totes happened to me! Congratulations! It's a TAMPON!

Me: Oh my gawd!! I was just thinking that I can't possibly be this only one this has happened to. But no one talks about it! It's because of shame, I'm sure. It's a deep, dark secret mothers carry.

Patti: And only mothers. Who the hell else would ever get it? I am just surprised it only just happened to you. My hooch must be more stretched out than yours. And I only had one kid. It was meant to be. Had I birthed two, my uterus would fall out while pooping.

Now it was my turn to wonder why does no one tell you? I, too, wondered why I hadn't heard of this happening to other women until it happened to me. Surely, I would have remembered hearing about this despite whether I was a victim of it or not, right? But I hadn't! That's why I am here to tell you today.

Listen. If we moms can work our way back from post-childbirth hemorrhoids, crooked vaginas, blubbery bellies, sagging tits and loosey gooseys, we can work on preventing our tampons from falling out willy-nilly. Just add it to the list of basic body maintenance required along with what comes of standard old age: sagging, wrinkles, stiff joints, gray hair, diminishing eyesight (both far and near) and memory loss.

Have no fear, ladies. We got this. We'll just push through it.

Before Sunrise

by Cathy

As if waking up in a subzero tundra of a city isn't bad enough, we in Chicago have to contend with the idiosyncrasies of the sun and its temperamental cycles - namely, refusing to break the day open on a city submerged in negative wind chills and arctic gusts. And when it does decide to grace us with its presence during the winter months, it prefers for us, mere humans, to wake it from its stubborn slumber rather than the other way around - a rather unnatural phenomenon.

Chicago already awakened before winter's sunrise

Instead of feeling the warm light break through my bedroom blinds and gently roll its way up to my face, kiss my cheek and open my eyes, it is nowhere to be found these days. This abandonment of sorts leaves me to my own awakening devices, consisting of a shrill alarm clock, a chilly bedroom and darkness just as evident as when I lay down to sleep. There is absolutely no incentive to wake up on a cold, dark day - especially when heaven comes in the form of a cozy, warm bed.

I realize that many people, my dad included, have been waking up before sunrise regardless of the season, since the beginning of time. They are at the mercy of the hours their jobs command. I remember lamenting as a child to my mother, after hearing the front door of the house close and awakening to see that it was still dark:
"Wow. Dad leaves when it's dark and he comes home when it's dark."
That seemed so wrong to me at the time and not much has changed about the way I feel about it now.


Thankfully, the days have begun to lengthen once more and the sun is gradually creeping out of that seasonal corner it hides in. Until the days grow to be 10 feet tall once more, we will awake, reluctantly, begrudgingly, unnaturally, before sunrise. Our hearts gloomy, our thoughts rooted in that glimmer of hope that comes in the form of spring not too far away.

Sunday: The Day of Restless

by Patti

Sun·day  

/ˈsəndā/

Noun The day of the week before Monday and following Saturday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship.

Let me start out by saying that I am not particularly religious. You won't find me kneeling all reverent-like in church on a Sunday, and you won't find me resting because I'm "supposed" to. However, when it comes to Sunday, I don't mind adopting what Christians observe to be the Day of Rest because, quite frankly, it makes sense. After all, I work my butt off at a full-time job all week while also making sure my house and family don't self-destruct, and I spend Saturdays hauling the kid around and running errands, and if I am lucky, throwing in a lunch with a friend. By the time Sunday rolls around, I need to rest.

However.

Uh-oh

I think there was an oversight on this whole Day of Rest business. Somebody somewhere forgot that people need clean clothes, that a kitchen floor becomes in desperate need of scrubbing, that a dog runs out of food, that refrigerators become mysteriously empty, that bills need paying - and because there is school and work and other time-suckers like that which also need doing, Sunday suddenly becomes the only day to get all of it done before Monday comes rudely barreling into your Day of Rest again.

I'm not going to lie: by the time Sunday rolls around, I kind of start feeling a little grouchy. I love sleeping in on Sundays and enjoying our leisurely, traditional Sunday family breakfast; I love cuddling with the kid and the dog on the couch while I attempt to snatch a few paragraphs of a good book, but somewhere inside, I feel those nagging grumps. I feel gloomy knowing Monday is coming, like it or not, and before I know it, the alarm will scream into my ear while it is still dark outside and I will once again begin the week-long shuffle of figuring out what to wear and what to eat. And then my day of rest? Becomes the day of restless. World problems, I know!

Sure, I could be one of those people who gleefully say, "Eff it! The dishes will still be there!" and just not bother with the growing pile in my kitchen sink. I could throw my hands up playfully and shout, "Tonight? It's Cap'n Crunch for dinner!" I could simply lie down in my bed and cover myself with sheets that haven't seen soap in three weeks. Why not? It's natural!

Alas, I just can't. So, I guess it is what it is, and I should be so lucky that I have that extra day in the week to take care of business. Perhaps I am committing some sort of sin by making Sunday my day of restless, but I, together with all those other pinch-faced people I see pushing their carts in Target on Sundays, am willing to take that risk. As for the rest of you, the ones ever-so-smartly lounging in that recliner, can you move your feet? I need to vacuum.

My Hips Don't Glide

by Patti & Cathy

We were attempting to plan our annual mother-daughter trip to Michigan via email with Miche. Back and forth we went, trying to find that magical date that we could all pencil into our calendars. It seemed, after several exchanges, that our trip - usually done in January or February so that our girls can go sledding - would have to be delayed into March. Of course we lamented the probable lack of snow, and Miche offered up a back-up plan: ice skating! She said we'd only have to bring our own skates. However: ha, ha, and HA. We don't own ice skates. Never have, and not afraid to say it: NEVER WILL. Neither of us find particular joy in the art of ice skating, and while we both certainly admire the graceful, fluid beauty with which others seems to execute it, we also know that although ice skating may look like this for some:

It only means this for us:

Cathy:
The only activities I took as a child were piano lessons and ballet (the latter was possible at the persistent urging of my best friend at the time). But what I really wanted to do more than anything? Take ice skating lessons. I loved the gracefulness of it, the idea of floating on ice, wearing the cute 'lil outfits where the frilly skirts bounced off the back side with every glide. But alas, that was not to happen.

My mom's parenting style was very guarded. We were wrapped up so that only our eyes shown in winter so that we wouldn't get cold or sick; we were never allowed sleepovers; we weren't allowed to date until late in our teen years;  roller skates were banned when I simply tried them on, took one step and landed on my backbone on the asphalt in front of our house; and we weren't allowed to take ice skating lessons because the risk of getting injured or breaking something was just too great.

Therefore, I'm practically one of the last people on earth, it seems, who doesn't know how to skate. And I'm afraid that at my age (I'm not ancient, but let's face it, I'm not a spring chicken, either) getting up on skates and putting blades to ice is too risky for me. Perhaps this is a side effect of the caution my mother instilled in me, but I got aging hips to worry about and I'd rather they just don't glide.

Patti:
I had the misfortune to grow up with weak ankles. As if growing up isn't awkward enough, why not squeeze all the joy out of life and grow up wearing LEG BRACES? Because that's what I did to correct the weak ankle, pigeon-toed mess I was.

I grew out of it and up, and though it was apparent I would never be an Olympian of any sort, I managed to partake in gymnastics and play tag football. Yay, redemption of childhood! However. The one thing I could never manage with much aplomb was ice skating. You see, those damned skates have this way of digging violently into ones ankles, and if ones ankles are weak? They kind of turn in or out and dig right back, hence creating friction. So, yeah, it was never my favorite thing to do.

And still isn't. My poor kid, when trying to skate the very few times she has, asks me to guide her around the rink. ME. As if I could at all offer any sort of competent assistance ON ICE. That is why, when she has the opportunity to skate, I make sure to either a) bring M, who is fearless and does not have weak ankles; or, b) let S invite a friend or two along that knows how to skate. And so far? I've avoided the ice.
.........................

We've avoided the ice. We know we need to. Because if we don't, this will happen:

the dignified face plant

Come on, join us in our anti-skating anthem. (sung to the tune of Shakira's My Hips Don't Lie)

My Hips Don't Glide

Ladies up in here tonight
No skating, no skating
We got the joint pain up in here
No skating, no skating

I fear it, I fear ah

I never really knew I couldn't skate like this
It makes my kids want to act freakish
Como se llama (si), que estoy haciendo (si), (si, Shakira Shakira), en este hielo
I fear it, I fear ah

Oh baby when I wobble like that
I make my doctor go mad
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I'm starting to feel not right
What’s the attraction, this tension
Don't see it baby, this ain’t perfection

Hey girl, I can see your body moving
Arms and legs just flailing
And I didn't have the slightest idea
Until I saw you skating

And when I walk up on the slick rink floor
Nobody cannot ignore the way I move my body
And everything so unexpected - the way I right and left it
So I can keep on breaking it

I never really knew I couldn't skate like this
It makes me look so outlandish
Como se llama (si), que estoy haciendo (si), (si, Shakira Shakira), en este hielo
I fear it, I fear ah

Oh baby when I fall like that
It makes my ass be had
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I am starting to feel not right
Come on lets go, real slow
Don't you see baby sitting out es perfecto?

Oh yeah, I can see my body moving
Half standing, half wiping out
I don't, don't really know what I'm doing
Geez, maybe it's gout?
My will and self restraint
Have come to fail now, fail now
See, I am doing what I can, but I can't so you know
That's a bit too hard to explain

Oh baby when I try to skate like that
You know I gotta be hypnotized
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Senorita, feel the burn oh, let me see you move like you come from off the floor, oh

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I'm starting to feel not right
What’s the attraction, the tension
Don't see it baby, this ain’t perfection

No skating
No skating