For Better or for Worse

by Patti


I have a confession to make: I complain about my husband more than I should. Truth of the matter is, he is actually a pretty good guy. Yes, he is a Grinch during the holidays, he acts like snow freezes his very soul, he is quick with a judgment and slow with a compliment, he is a perfectionist, and he can quite easily be a total pain in the ass.

He also takes care of his family, he makes me laugh, he loves our daughter fiercely, he is responsible and smart and resourceful; he is highly independent and confident and without a doubt follows his own rules and nobody else's. For all these reasons, I love him.

I also love the fact that, as masculine and macho as he is, he can iron the shit out of a shirt, he knows how to sew, he cleans better than I do times a thousand, and, whenever he is from off work and I am not, I come home to something like this:

Why am I saying all of this? Because, having been with M for 22 (Twenty! Two!) years -- 12 of those married -- I can easily fall into a state of forgetting to appreciate. Yes, he may be guilty of the same, but I can only speak for myself here -- and I will.

This weekend, after M and S had already gone to bed, I was relishing my late-night alone time, watching bad television all by myself, when suddenly my left foot started acting possessed. My toes started doing that crazy, uncontrolled "spread out" kind of thing, where they get really straight and start moving apart, and, if it wasn't so damned painful, you might just simply stare at those toes and enjoy the show. This has happened before; it usually happens after a particularly intense workout and not enough water, and, having worked out that day, I figured that's what it was.

But then I saw this giant lump form on the top of my foot, and no matter how I stretched that foot, or bent my toes backward and forward, my foot felt more and more stuck and painful, and that lump started looking kind of... black. That's when I accepted that I was probably thisclose to death; that that lump was a blood clot that was moments from dislodging and making its speedy journey towards my lungs, or better yet! My brain! And I hastily limped my way to our bedroom, snapped on the light and woke M from a deep slumber to make him promise that, if I died, he was to celebrate Christmas with our daughter in a non-Grinchy way.

M sat up in bed and humored me. He studied the offending black lump, he poked at it, massaged it, and made me put my feet up on the wall and stretch my calves. He also reminded me I hadn't worked out in a couple of weeks and had probably overdone it at the gym. He also pointed out that I always sat in my special "deformed" manner that meant my foot was suffocated by my ass for far longer than was appropriate for a foot be suffocated by an ass, and that, like it or not, that ugly black lump was actually on both of my feet... see? Right there! I studied my feet and saw that he was right: I had some pretty ugly feet. My toes started to calm down and the lump relaxed. For the moment, I was spared.

Relieved, I kissed him good night and headed back for the living room to turn off the lights and the television and Dr. Google The Lump, and I thought about it: For 22 years this man has been by my side. He's made my cry, he's made me laugh, he's disappointed me, he's surprised me, he's taken care of me and I've taken care of him. I've loved him, I've hated him, I've needed him, I couldn't stand him. Because of it, despite it, we made a family, we are a family, and no matter how often I kind of want to kill him, this remains the one constant: We're in it together, for better or for worse.

The Night Justin Timberlake Crashed Our Playdate

by Cathy & Patti


Before our babies are even born, we wonder about their futures: Will they be happy, will they be successful, will they get married, will they have friends? Indeed, worrying about their social lives is a surprisingly heavy concern. Of course we want our kids to be liked, to have friends - so the moment they are capable of acknowledging there is another human being in the room, we start hooking them up on play dates.

At first those play dates are accompanied by us, which can sometimes be torturous when your kid's new friend has a mother with the personality of a plant. But as they grow older and more self-sufficient, the playdates become of the "dump and run" variety, and we take advantage of that sudden glorious free-time while our kids develop friendships. Win-win!

But once in a while, you hit the social jackpot: Not only is your kid making a new friend, you also happen to really like that friend's mom. Suddenly, these play dates become a total 2-for-1! The kids play with the kids! The moms play with the .... wait. That sounds a bit porny and Moms Gone Wild.

But you know what? Moms sometimes DO go wild.

Patti:
When S was about seven years old, her friendship with Bella, Cathy's daughter and S's bestie, was in full bloom. We had recently started a fun Friday night play date tradition, which entailed pizza and the girls playing "school" and "fashion show", and other various girly games, while Cathy and I would catch up on our respective weeks and swig wine. Yes, we drink wine. IN FRONT OF OUR CHILDREN, CALL THE POLICE. These Friday night play dates (FNPD) usually began around 6 pm, and would end around 10 pm. But as the Friday nights came and went, our FNPDs began to go later and later. We figured, "Eh. She's Greek. She's Latin. It's what we do." And so we did.

One night, Cathy and I got into a discussion about music. Cathy is a very B96 kind of girl. Me? Give me a guitar and I'll sing you some songs I wrote. So we got into a bit of a debate about Justin Timberlake, who, at the time, I considered to be strictly B96 material. As the girls ran screaming up and down the long hallway in Cathy's condo, and circled the couch chasing each other in poofy, sparkly princess things, we discussed the pros and cons of Justin Timberlake.
"I just think he is sexy..." Cathy sighed.
"Eeeew, no. He is... just not. Plus: I hate his music."
"You HATE his MUSIC?" Cathy looked at me, horrified, reconsidering our friendship. "You can't hate his music..."
Seeing my unmoving face, Cathy popped up from the couch. "Okay, look, I'm gonna show you something of his that there is no way you can not like!" She turned on the television as the girls, spent from running around, flung themselves onto Cathy's futon. She searched through her DVR'd shows, and came upon a frozen-on-the-screen Justin Timberlake, wearing a fedora and all decked out in white. "Look. At. THIS." She pressed play, and Justin began to gyrate ever-so-slightly. He seemed to look right at me and sang, "Hey girl, is he everything you wanted in a man? You know I gave you my world. You had me in the palm of your hand..."

Although turned off by the "palm of your hand" lyric - even Cathy knows my aversion to all things cliche -  I found myself strangely turned ON by the haunting melody and Justin's sure gaze. I moved closer to the edge of the couch and, against my very will, suddenly found myself standing up, dancing along to Justin's words, "Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to think about it. I'm just so sick about it." What was WRONG with me? Did everything I ever held to be true suddenly blow up?

As soon as the song ended, I felt something inside of me had shifted. But Cathy didn't stop her immersion-to-conversion therapy there, no. She pulled out her iPod and some headphones, stuck one bud into her ear, and the other into mine, and suddenly Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was caressing my ear. I looked at Cathy and she smiled slyly at me; she knew her plan was working. The next thing we knew, we were bumping hips and gyrating, our arms in the air, singing out loud as Justin Timberlake seduced each one of us, together and separately, song by song.

That is, until I saw it. Or, should I say, them. We had totally forgotten about our kids. Our exhausted, up-since 7am-and-gone-to-school kids. There they were, both face-planted into the futon, completely knocked out. I looked at the clock. It was 1 o'clock in the morning! Who has play dates that last until 1 o'clock in the morning?!?

Thanks to Justin, we did.

Cathy:
Oooh, those FNPDs. Like Patti mentioned, it was the best of both worlds; girls occupied and playing, moms having a girls night out (GNO) in the comfort of their own home. We often cranked up the iTunes on my Mac, conveniently located in the kitchen, where all the creature comforts of a GNO would be - food and wine.

And when ABBA's Mamma Mia soundtrack came on - look out! The girls would run in squealing and whirling while Patti and I spun them and swung them, all of us singing at the top of our lungs (much to the chagrin of my neighbors) while Patti videotaped the whole lively fiasco on her phone.  So when the party moved into the living room and J.T. was singing and swaying right to us through the television (I had his Madison Square Gardens concert recorded live on cable! Hours and hours of entertainment!), the party was taken to a whole other level. Well, for us big girls, at least.

Our daughters, (Ari was three at the time) would be running in and out of the living room, dodging and darting between us as Patti and I busted the clubbiest dance moves we could muster from our back-in-the-day nights. Our legs were sore for days afterward.

In the midst of all this hoopla but before the kids tumbled over all around us in a heap of exhaustion, my husband came home. His look - a combination of intrigue, laughter, shock and bewilderment - said it all. After the obligatory greetings and questions were exchanged, before he knew it, he got over the fact that the kids weren't in bed and since he couldn't beat us, he decided to join us. He grabbed a glass of wine and crashed our J.T. play date.

Perhaps the most memorable scenario of the night - as if what was ensuing was not memorable enough - was when Ari decided she wanted some of what us big people were drinking. So without any warning and quick as lightning, she stuck her little finger in Joe's glass and darted it back into her mouth. I lunged towards Joe. "Don't let her have any of that! She's on antibiotics!" Really?

That night - the night J.T. gave a private, command performance just for us Dancing Queens in my living room - was better than any concert or club we could have gone to. It was a spontaneous, memorable time that we got to share with our children and still talk and laugh about.
...........

Now, when we hear one of his songs play on the radio, we're immediately transported back to the night that Justin Timberlake crashed our daughters' play date. And then we smile and turn up the radio.

Can You Effing Cool It??

by Cathy

The other day, I took the bus home from work.
I normally don't mind this; it gives me a chance to sit back, relax and take a quiet break in my day before I get home and the after school madness ensues. However, this time, that madness was ensuing on the bus.

I just so happened to leave work when the high school up the street was letting out for the day. Lucky for me, I was trapped on snail-paced public transportation, teeming with loud, boisterous, energetic, hormonally overloaded teenagers. The smell of Doritos and sweaty P.E. uniforms filled the once breathable air. Conversations and greetings were being had and exchanged across the length of the bus and the tingy, annoying sounds of every music genre out there was blaring through iPods and iTunes-heavy phones cranked to the hilt.

As if that weren't bad enough, I was sitting across the aisle from two teenage boys, sitting next to each other having, what at first seemed like a normal conversation at a normal decibel. As it went on, I could overhear bits and pieces, mostly expletives. These expletives were starting to pepper the conversation considerably more, until it felt like the F word was being showered down upon me. "Fuckin'" began every sentence, filled every pause within sentences and ended each sentence. 'Why can't they just have a regular conversation?' I thought. 'Was it out of habit or do they think they sound cooler to their friends?'

What made this whole thing even worse, was that just a few seats away, sat a mom and her young kids - one boy around age four and one girl around age six. They clearly could hear the conversation these effin' boys were having. That's what troubled me. It didn't seem like the mother was phased, however, my guess is that she didn't understand English very well, and probably, neither did her children. But 'fuck' is a pretty universal term - no translation needed in any language.

Then I thought, 'What if I had my kids with me?'

If that were the case, I can tell you this: They would have been asked to effing stop.  I find that many times, kids that age aren't aware that they are in an environment other than their own, and for the most part, they respect it when it's brought to their attention that there are small children around. I know this firsthand because I've asked people to refrain from cursing when my kids are around and mostly, they get it.

Of course I've gotten the ignorant road rager, who is so blinded by rage that he/she sees nothing except the giant middle finger they are holding triumphantly out their window for everyone (my kids included) to see, or focuses on nothing but the most appropriate curse word to call me at that particular time, not seeing that my kids are in the back seat and my window is open. Yeah, real nice. Real mature. It takes a big man/woman to put me in my place with such vulgar words and animated expressions in front of my kids.

Next time, people need to effing cool it, look around and think before they effing lose it. There are kids present.

My Papi Needs a Little Miami

by Patti

There's no denying it: In his former life, M swung from the vines in a jungle in the Amazon. I have mentioned before how tropical that man is; how much he hates the cold and needs, but NEEDS, to feel the sun on his skin. And not just any sun, no; it has to be that fierce, tropical sun that calls for linen Cabana Boy shirts and a little salsa and merengue in the background. So, naturally, we live in Chicago, where your nose hairs freeze into tiny crystals of ice every time you dare take a breath for 6 months of out every year, and the only background music is "FUCK, it's FREEZING out der, youz guyz!"

This means that M? Is a Winter Monster. The minute October hits, he starts getting "irritated". By December and its wistful 4:00 pm darkness, he is full-on psychotic. By February, he is catatonic with misery, robotically shoveling snow and then returning to the comfort of the couch to wait for the sun... someday. Around late May, although there is still a chill in the air, he starts to shed the Winter Monster and the life begins to return to his eyes. The motorcycle might even get dusted off for a few afternoon spins around the city, and suddenly, the lake is sparkling and there are thousands of "released-from-prison" joggers along the bike path, and the scowl on his face might even be replaced from time-to-time with a genuine smile.

But here's the thing: I am the one who has to live with this Winter Monster. M is so unbearably miserable the whole winter long, I am tempted to grab the shovel out of his hands and conk him over the head to put him out of his misery. Alright, let's be honest: I am tempted to conk him over the head and put MYSELF out of MY misery.

Sadly, I know the cure: My papi? Needs a little Miami. "What do you mean, 'sadly'?" you may be asking. "What is wrong with Miami?" Well, technically, there's nothing wrong with Miami. It has beaches and good food and it's always warm,and I like visiting there.  But M, being the surpreme latino that he is, thinks Miami is the perfect alternative to Argentina and doesn't want to just visit there; he wants to LIVE there. "We're still in the U.S.! They speak Spanish!" he tries to convince me. But Miami has pink houses and flying bugs the sizes of Volkswagens and hurricanes and, well, it's Florida. I'm sorry, but there is no reason to go to Florida other than to die. Plus! A humid Christmas? No more turtlenecks? No more buttery leather boots? I cannot live in flip flops alone. I need cute patterned tights and skinny vanilla lattes and the smell of autumn. Real autumn, not the manufactured kind.

At the same time, I need M to not be miserable. So I guess when the sun disappears and the snow starts to fly, my papi's gonna have to get himself a little Miami. And then he better come home and get himself a little mami.

Reading Between the Routines

by Cathy

The other night as I was hurrying my older daughter Bella along with wrapping up homework and cleaning her desk, Ari made a startling 'life observation' that was way beyond her five years.

I said: "Hurry up, Bella. It's time for bed. Don't forget to cap the gluestick."

Ari, who was sitting up in bed, mothering her little stuffed doggie, Marshmallow, and his injured leg wrapped in a sparkly pink headband, blurted out: "Yes. Put the cap on the glue, put your stuff away, put your pajamas on, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow, put on your uniform, go to school, come back home, do homework again..."

Laughing, yet amazed, I said, "Do you know what that's called? All that?"
"No," she smiled back innocently.
"A routine," Bella droned.
"Yes, a routine!" I half-assed pepped up to make it sound appealing. Well, she was learning a new word so it had to have some element of fun!

 I was flabbergasted that at age five, she already understood the concept of a routine.What did I realize at five years old? Then again, we are talking about a five-year old that recognizes neighborhoods well enough to know when we are driving near her grandmother's house, her ballet studio, her school, Target - and she knows when we're not driving down the street we're supposed to be going, based on our destination.

This observation was such an adult observation; is she already bored with her life? Because once you get the concept of a routine - and perhaps your feelings on this change as you get older - it's kind of a sad revelation. I can vouch for this because that same night, after I tucked them both in and sat on Ari's bed so she can fall asleep, my mind drifted to how mundane life can become. How in fact our lives are just a series of routines - I mean, for a five-year old to grasp that concept, made it all the more telling at how blatantly predictable our lives can be. My thoughts were tailspinning me into a sadness as I lay there watching my girls sleep.

And then it hit me.
Where does life fall within all of these routines? Right smack dab in the middle of 'em.

It's what happens between and within our routines that make each day special. For our kids, it could be a funny joke mentioned at breakfast, the 'what happened at school today' stories at pick-up, watching them develop and excel at their after school activities, the goofy song that was made up during bathtime, the loss of a tooth during dinnertime, or the feelings shared in secrecy at bedtime. For us, it could be the promotion at work, the loss of a job, carrying the burden of a friend or family member's problems, meeting up with a friend for drinks, booking that trip, starting that novel or even just signing up to finally take that class.

All of these things, these moments that happen while we are shuffling through school schedules and grinding through work routines  - are what really make up our lives. We just need to learn to find these little diamonds in the coal mine of life, recognize them and appreciate them for what they are worth.

Old School Gift Wrap

by Patti


S has a Pavlovian response to bags. Anytime anybody walks through the door with a bag in their hand, whether it be a plastic grocery bag or a sparkly gift bag, she automatically assumes it is a gift, and that it is for her. Her eyes immediately start to glimmer and she coyly asks, "for me?"

So I was surprised the other night when M walked through the door with a perfectly gift-y looking bag and she did not immediately run up to him and pretend to love on him while strategically craning her neck to get a gander into the bag. M placed the bag in front of her, the pastel gift tissue seductively swishing, and she looked at it rather plainly. "What's the matter?" I asked her.
"I just miss real wrapping paper. Everything always comes in bags now, and you just take the present out. It's not as fun."

I thought about what she said and realized she was absolutely right. Growing up, all of our gifts came, well, wrapped. Layer after layer of crinkly, colorful paper would make the unwrapping process a delicious torture. Some kids would just tear into the paper mercilessly, eager to get to the goods. Others, aware of the care that went into the intricate wrapping of the gift, lingered, slowly peeling of the scotch tape, folding the paper gingerly, torturing their audience as they waited for the gem to be revealed. The point is, we had a choice on how to open our gifts, and the surprise always lay underneath - waiting to be discovered. Now? The gift is stuffed into a bag with some tissue wrapped around it for "effect", and all a kid has to do is put his hand in the bag and BOOM! The surprise is over.

Are gift bags a sign of the times? Has even gift-giving become a HURRYUPHURRYUPHURRYUP 
endeavor that we just want to get over with as quickly as possible? Or have we become such an instant gratification society that we can't even take a moment to wrap something up and top it with a bow, and then take even longer to unwrap it? Instead, we must shove gift in and pull gift out with minimal pomp and circumstance. Has gift giving and opening become microwavable?

I was touched and also a little afraid by S's observation -- touched because, wow, how cool is that my kid, who has only ever known instant gratification, wants to slow things down; afraid, because wow, my kid has only ever known instant gratification and what if it just spins out of control to the point that nothing ever again will be worth the wait for her?

This year, all of her Christmas gifts will  be wrapped in candy cane-laced paper and leaping reindeer and winking Santas, topped with red and green bows, and double-taped. And I can't wait to watch her eager fingers trace the cartoon reindeer and undo the satiny bows - even if it takes forever.

Musical Beds

by Cathy and Patti

There was once a time when our things were ours. When our bedroom was ours. When our bed was ours.  This is not the case any longer now that our lovable kids have put quite the dent in the way we live - and the way we sleep.

Since they were born, most of us kept our babies in our bedrooms - so they can be easily breastfed, so they can be easily heard, so that we can ensure they are breathing. Eventually, we transition them off to their own rooms, but alas, those rooms are not as appealing as the parents' room. You would think our walls were made of chocolate! Our duvet covers were made of warm, gooey caramel! The pillows were fluffy, giant marshmallows! And there are glittery fairies that light up only our rooms at night and sprinkle rainbow-colored sugar over us while we sleep! Surely, this can be the only reason that our kids continue to want to lay with us in our beds or sneak in between us and our spouses in the middle of the night.

However, it's what ensues as a result of this bed-hopping that wreaks the most havoc on the way we look and feel after a night of having slept on pretty much every sleepable surface of our house - except, probably, our own bed.

Cathy:
Our king size bed (a.k.a. the Big Bed to my kids) measures about six and-a-half feet wide. Do you know where I slept the other night? In that half-foot of space. Let me explain...

Over Thanksgiving break, of course, the girls' sleep schedule got off whack. It was 10:30 at night and they were doing the Greek bellydance jig to the tune of "I like 'em big! I like 'em chunky!" from Madagascar 2. So I purposely woke them up 'early' on Sunday morning, so they could fall face-first tired into their beds that night and wake up bright and early for school on Monday. Instead, Sunday night, Ari was roaming around the hallway with her little pillow, begging me to lay with her at 10pm. After she fell asleep, Bella eventually wandered into my bedroom at 11:30 practically in tears because she was just so overtired and couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. So I let her sleep in the Big Bed with me since Joe was snoring up to high heaven on the living room couch anyway.

All was fine until about 4:30 in the morning, when I heard, "Mama! Mama!" Bella and I were jarred from our sleep to find Ari standing on the bed over Bella's head. I thought I was having one of those delusional mirages like the parched desert trekkers have with water. Was this for real? I reached over Bella with one eye open and sure enough, Ari was standing there. She had apparently startled awake and realized that I was no longer laying with her so she came to seek me out. She was about to leap half asleep over her sister to come and settle between us. The only problem was that Bella was so far over on my side that I had to scooch over practically to the edge of the massive bed. I asked Bella to move over the other way, where she had about four feet of open space. She just shifted her knees before she exhaustingly fell back asleep.

So for the next few hours before the alarm went off at 7am, I was drifting in and out of sleep, tossing like a salad in a spinner, being kneed in the tailbone, face, boobs and the small part of my back that is so ticklish, I found myself jerking almost headfirst into my nightstand with every little fist and foot nudge.

Naturally, Joe at this point had settled into one of the girls' beds after almost unknowingly laying on Bella as he groggily came to bed. I thought over and over again about getting up and going to lay in the other twin bed, surrendering the spacious Big Bed to the two tiniest people in the house, while the biggest people slept in the tiniest beds. Makes sense, right? But I knew from past experience that I either wouldn't be able to fall back asleep in the other room or like clockwork, Ari would awaken from her sleep stupor - because she can just smell these things, even in her sleep - and want to follow me back to her bed.

Instead, I lay there half asleep, startling awake every time Ari would kick off her covers or toss uncomfortably. It was clear no one - not even she - was getting any good sleep that night.

Patti:
As I have mentioned before, S didn't sleep through the night until she was 18 months old, and even then, she had periods of torturous regression where she simply would. not. sleep. unless one of us was laying with her.  She didn't care where we were laying with her, as long as we were. This meant that, in order to ensure that S would not be exhausted the next day, one or both us fools (a.k.a. parents) would end up sleeplessly uncomfortable, uncomfortably sleepless -- and, surprise! Exhausted!

S is now a solid 10 years old, and guess what? She still has those nights. Except for she is now, like, 4 times bigger than she used to be, and slotting her in between M and me isn't as easy as it used to be. Yes, we have a king bed, but we could have 9 king beds lined up side-by-side, and it still wouldn't be big enough. Because the kid will inevitably find her way to the nearest back -- usually mine -- and stick herself smack-dab against it. All. Night.

Because of this, and M's "delicate" sleep cycles,  he has declared our bed a kid-free zone. Still, there are nights where he will cave and allow S to indulge in what she likes to call 'Family Cuddle". She always promises it will be for "just 10 minutes" - even though she brings the entire contents of her bed to ours and is clearly moving in  - and inevitably we will all fall asleep during this "just 10 minutes". And then, at 2 am, I will wake up in a tunnel of kid and husband, dying of heat stroke, an ass or two in my face, and an inch of sleep space.

The other night S didn't even bother with the "Family Cuddle" ruse; she flat-out asked if she could sleep with us. M was going to stay up later to watch a movie, so he said she could fall asleep with me, and that he would carry her to her bed later. I woke up at 2 am to find S spiraled around me, and M shoved far into the corner of the bed. Annoyed that he had flaked out on his "transfer the kid" promise, I huffily got out of bed and went to S's room to prepare her bed so that I could carry her into it without waking her up. S has a low bunk bed, and she has a cozy little "fort" bed on the bottom with a curtain. When I walked in, I was confused to find a makeshift bed on the floor? I couldn't understand why, when there are 2 whole beds to sleep on in S's room, there was one on the floor? Too tired to solve mysteries, I went back to my room and lugged 58 lbs of kid back to her room, then went back to my bed. Of course, S woke up and got freaked out and started calling my name. I went back to her room, my mind knowing I had to get up in what felt like 5 minutes for work, and shushed her, but she must have had a bad dream because she was afraid. So I climbed onto her top bunk, telling myself I would only lay there for 5 minutes as she fell back asleep, and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up a billion times that night, kicking the top of the floor lamp, scratching my hand on the white eraser board S had shoved under her pillow, hearing stuffed animals hurtle through space from the bed to the floor... In short: I slept like shit. Meanwhile, M had an entire king bed to himself.

The next day, I found out that M had come to bed and attempted to take S to her own bed, but she woke up and he didn't feel like dealing with the whole "transfer" drama, so he decided to sleep in her room. He tried the top bunk, but it felt "dangerous", so then he squeezed himself into the "fort" bed underneath, and it felt "too short". So Mr. Goldilocks made a bed on the FLOOR next to two perfectly good beds, but guess what? THE FLOOR WAS TOO HARD. Ya think? So he finally came back to our bed, and rather than just carry the kid to her bed, just dealt with being shoved into a corner, probably knowing I would wake up and take care of it all.

And I did. As usual.
....

The 9pm Nap

by Cathy

Nine o'clock is usually when I have my girls in bed these days - well, Ari at least. Bella still thinks it's too early for bed. Naturally, I have to lay with Ari on her bed (or at least sit there with her) until she falls asleep. (For the record, we are slowly working on breaking this habit with her. And by 'we' I mean ME. I am the one who usually ends up having to lay with her to fall asleep.) The only problem is that I end up on the brink of sleep myself.

I desperately try to refrain from falling asleep by sitting up on her bed. But occasionally, she asks me to lay next to her and squeeze-hug her. For this, I happily oblige; there's nothing like taking in the sweet smell of your child's neck as they fall asleep. Before I know it, however, I have drifted off right along with them. Despite my best efforts to stay awake! so I can accomplish the list of things that are already accumulating in my head, sleep sometimes takes over my body and brain.

Some time later, I startle awake and it takes me a good minute to figure out where I am. Once that's established, I purposely try to walk to my bedroom with my eyes closed, so that I can keep the momentum of sleep going. Don't wake up...don't wake up...

I realize I have to get my pajamas on. There are people who can sleep in their clothes. I'm not one of them. Don't wake up... Then I realize I have to pee. Don't wake up... Then I realize I didn't brush my teeth. Don't wake up... Then I realize I have to check to make sure doors and windows are locked. Don't wake up... Then I realize I forgot to defrost the chicken for tomorrow's dinner. Digging around in the freezer, I'm starting to wake up... Then I realize I forgot to put the washed clothes in the dryer. I'm slowly reaching full on awake mode... Then I realize I haven't removed my makeup. By the time I splash on water to wash off the apricot foaming gel, I'M UP.

By now it's well past 11pm and I am fully awake.

I could make tomorrow's lunches for the kids! I could go through my stack of work papers/coupons/catalogs/bills/kids drawings/recipes! I could clean out my purse! I could catch up on watching DVR'd shows I don't get a chance to watch during non-vampire hours! I could catch up with Facebook! Twitter! LinkedIn! The world is my oyster!

And tomorrow morning, the alarm clock is my worst enemy.

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.