Pow! I'm a Life Coach!

Taking care of children is a mind blow. They look to you as possessor of all knowledge, and I'll be honest, it's fantastic for the ego. I give my three children life lesson as vignettes of my life appear, without summons, and today I thought, Why shouldn't I take my podium pounding sessions public? And so I have.

 

 

 

You too can now can benefit from the well from which I dip. As with anything, take what serves you, leave what serves others.

 

LESSONS LEARNED: Volume 26 of What Life Has Taught Me:

--Say “good morning” back, especially when you don't feel like it.

 

--Repeat someone’s name after they introduce themselves. People love to her their names.

--I am not going to assume anything, but let's talk friends. If you’re not interested in making friends, then move along: nothing to see here. BUT if you are tired of your social circle consisting of one, then I’ve got some tips for you.

Friendship Tips 101:

◾Before you say you want friends, you have to know what that means. Friends mean responsibility, caring, being there. If it’s not a two way street, then that’s not friends. You may just be using each other to not be alone. That won’t work.

◾Manners are important. Manners mean no nose picking, farting, grabbing your crotch or constantly sticking your side boobs back in place.

◾Don’t play with your food, don’t chew with your mouth open, don’t eat with your hands, don’t wipe your hands on the tablecloth or on your shirt or anyone’s shirt when you pretend to give them a hug good-bye.

◾Don’t focus only on the people that you want to like you. Think of everyone. They usually turn out to be cooler than the ones you think you want to like you.

◾If someone doesn’t like you, accept it. Don’t be needy. Don’t ask what is wrong with you, why don’t they like you, is there a chance?, don’t give them money to like you or buy them presents. Move on.

◾Just because you feel like doing something doesn’t mean you should do it. You may want to laugh and point at your friend’s new haircut but that’s not nice. Don’t do it.

◾Ask people about their lives, it shows you care. And if you don’t care, well then, we need to ask why you say you want friends. Back to step one: meaning of friendship.

◾Always ask permission before touching, grabbing, snatching, pushing, jumping, climbing, bumping, rubbing a person. ALWAYS.

◾And the most important rule of all:

 

If anyone says they won’t be your friend if you don’t play spin the bottle or Doctor with them, tell them your mother doesn’t let you play those games. Then leave that house and never be friends with them again. Oh, sorry, forgot I wasn't talking to my kids again. 

 

* * *

Signs 11 Through 20 That You're Getting Old

Never one to excel at anything, it shouldn't have surprised me that aging would be just another thing that I didn't do well.

But surprise me, it did. Even with 30 years of Prevention magazine subscriptions under my belt I got knocked off my knees with getting old.

I don't keep my aching creaking complaints to myself, I mutter them to the world and the response from the world to me is, "Wow. This is really hard for you I don't know what you mean because I am digging this getting old stuff."

I am a mediocre ager. So, when one of my favorite people, Vikki Reich, wrote about her own surprise at aging, I jumped on that AgeTrain. To see where I pick up where she left off, click here for Vikki's 10 Signs That You're Getting Old.

And thanks for keeping me sorry company once again, Vikki.
_____________

 

Signs 11 - 20 That You're Getting Old

 

 

11.  Leaning over to pick up the soap I dropped in the shower has me making sounds like an elephant finally finding a water hole after three days.

 

12.  Said sonorous efforts from bending over in the shower to retrieve dropped soap is heard by household to the point that when I exit the shower my kids shout to me from down the hall, "Boy, mom, heard an awful lot of noise in there. Glad you're Ok."

 

13.  My dependence on coffee for life energy has lost any beautiful ritual it had in the beginning of my caffeine life to cup-guzzling like demons at a drunken feast.

 

14.  My going to bed now is not the adorable nestling down of a person tucking into the night for restful rejuvenation. Watching me drop into bed with clothes that take on the dual role of pajamas is truthfully just this: five hours of unconsciousness before a twitchy bladder pops my eyes open.

 

15.  Getting Old Sign Number 15 is the twitchy bladder up there ^^^^^

 

16.  The woman at my make-up counter thinks she hears shrill, desperate, wild yapping of coyotes that have somehow been loosed at Macy's when it's me finding out my wrinkle-free surface lip-smoother primer emollient has been discontinued. (there is no way to apply lipstick now)

 

17.  When people talk to me, it takes the concentration of a mind meld to not begin to speak my mental dialogue of, "numbing details numbing details numbing details."

 

18.  Physical regeneration of self ain't what it used to be. Break a toe? Be prepared to feel it until next summer. Have two beers in a row? Prepare to wait nine months for brain cells to grow back. Until then, alert your family no cause for alarm when they find ground turkey defrosting in the cereal cabinet.

 

19.  You concentrate on hydration (the act formerly known as drinking water) as you envision your half-century old insides curling up like a potato chip. You are a potato chip inside without your hydration. Don't be a potato chip.

 

20.  Menopause may be howling at my door, but with my swollen feet and fingers, chronic heartburn, constipation, outgrowing bras yearly, and reaching for Liz Lange maternity wear for the non-maternity, I feel six months pregnant every day.

 

If it weren't time for my necessary self-maintenance (afternoon nap), I'd begin my next post: "10 Handy Tips as You Age."  Number 1: Keep a supply of knee braces throughout the house for when you stand up too fast from a toilet.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Because Parenting Never Ends... "

When my first baby was born, I was desperate for company. I had to find a space where others looked like and walked around like me, dazed-confused-befuddled-panicked. I found it in my birthing hospital's Diaper Bag Club. Sweet mother of God, those women saved me.

Now that first baby is away at college. Cue the ugly cry. I miss him and I'm not a fan of people telling me, "YOU NEED TO LET THEM GROW UP YOU SICK SICK SICK WOMAN." I want to be with others, who fall apart at the grocery store when they pass the Dr. Pepper on the shelf because it's his favorite soda and you don't have to bring it home any more!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have found such a group, Grown and Flown. "Because parenting never ends." They've got a great community and are a fantastic resource for those like me, with children about to launch.

My friend, the brilliant haiku-ist (how cool am I that I know a haiku master) Peyton Price and I collaborated on a piece for Grown and Flown. We write of  "The BlurbText," when you have to parent from a distance. With the promise of a 3-second text, there's a 50/50 chance your kids will read it.

And if not, well, at least you know you did your part to warn them about the importance of eating 5 baby carrots a day. *it's true*

I hope you click over and read our BlurbTexts. We've included a starter pack of beginner's texts for you.

xo

* * *

The Inside Voice Podcast: Hear it, Here

A year ago, I read one of the funniest posts on lice. Lice can be funny, if recounted with a deft hand. Such was the job of humorist, Jennifer Scharf .  I had to find more of what this funny woman had written, so I googled her name. The first link that came up was "symposium to be held on quantum mathematics this Friday..." and I read no further, I mean, not to undersell humor writers, but probably not the lice-writer I was looking for.

I tried again, "Jennifer Scharf+Lice."

Bingo.

It took me to her house.

It was late at night, but I sent her an email. Not too gushing, but definitely to let her know how much I had enjoyed her writing on the universal subject of childhood: lice. I hit send, and went to bed, trying hard not to scratch my head. Five days later, she got back to me, we liked each other and one year later, she's invited me on her newly launched podcast, Inside Voice, where she hosts humor writers from around the web.

Life, like lice, wait -- no, not like lice. But, life: very funny

You can listen to us talk back and forth on humor, storytelling, and hear us bond over the shock of childbirth and the shared love of  good, twisted humor.

I'd love to have you drop in and give us a listen here.

------
Subscribe to Inside Voice on iTunes.

You can also follow Inside Voice on Twitter and Facebook.

* * *

17 Easy Steps to De-Owning Your Kid's Things

Did I say 'easy'? Sorry, I lied.

1.  Wait for a sign to start cleaning, like when you're tripping over everything as soon as you enter their room.

2.  No. Wait until the only way you can make it through their room is to take a step, shove stuff aside, take another step, shove more stuff aside.

3.  A good time to start is 11:00 P.M. when you're drop dead dizzy exhausted. This will give your decluttering process a more desperate edge.

4.  Run out of all energy at 11:57 P.M. Take the stairs on your butt and go to the kitchen for a Flintstones vitamin and slam it with your McCafe that's been reheated in the microwave nine times.

5. Clean for three minutes then go back downstairs on your butt and eat a sleeve of crackers for the acid reflux that just started.

6.  Stop now, you won't be able to go further without energy music. If you're at Level 5 depletion range, begin with Britney right away.

7.  Get ready for Step #8. (I mean really get ready for Step #8)

8.  Deep breath. Exhale. Deep breath. Exhale. Extend arms up overhead and call upon the gods and goddesses of detachment and ruthlessness. It's about to get real up in here.

9.  It's real up in here. Pick up an item like you're following Bravehart into battle. Make your mind go blank and see nothing but a half blue face in front of your eyes. Think nothing but seize the item and claim war against it. Keep moving and striking. Physical physical physical.  Not mental mental mental. DO NOT ATTACH.

10.  Too late. You thought, didn't you? Memories, you were supposed to stop them. Now you're seeing a slideshow in your head of what you're holding, when you bought it, where it came from, who it belongs to, what it means to you ...

11. It's all for sh*t now. There's no way around it, only through it. So, go ahead, fall apart. 

12. While you're down on the floor, ponder. Ponder the passing of time. Ponder your years of caring for little ones coming to a close. Ponder the memories contained in this collection of Sesame Street figurines. Take your time, the sh*t's not going anywhere. So, go ahead, feel the ache.

13. It's a good time to start prayer now. Put everything down, hands pressed together. Pray for strength to get this crap out of your house because if you don't hit it before the holiday gifts come you stand a solid gold chance of being the next Hoarders episode.

14.  Your phone rings. Your friend senses something in the air and asks what you're doing. You sob and tell her you're not ready for them to grow up but she can't hear you because you have a Tickle Me Elmo doll stuffed in your mouth. She rushes over to check on you then talks you into a beer to celebrate that you're not having the stroke she thought you were.

15.  Return upstairs, repeat "I will get through this. I will get through this." Start anew, tell your family that's not their alarms they hear, go back to bed. Instruct them to ignore your wailing, and then forge on, with tear-soaked resolve.

16.  Reassure yourself these items are only material. Realize that you can't keep everything you have ever bought for your angel. Respect the need for a clutter free environment. Reattempt to organize. Seven hours later, rearrange the newfound order.

17. Hear angels singing. You have finished. Take all items, now bagged, and deliver them to the local thrift center. Rebound with a few new surprise items at a store you'll be passing anyway. What's the harm with a little early holiday gift giving?

Seems a shame to leave a lovely shelf space empty like that.

* * * 

An Essay of Intelligence. Please.

Another installment in my long running series, McSweeney's Rejects:
---------------

My responses to the request, "Please submit a substantial analytical essay of intelligence and insight."

How do I write that?

Insight to what?

General intelligence or just my intelligence?

Can I pick a genre for it? Do you get too many on the point of view of displaced homemaker?

How do we know when we reach the point of satisfies substantially?

Is there a special instrument I need to measure that? Can I find it on amazon?

What are you going to do with this?

Do you offer courses on essaying substantially analytics of intelligence and insight?

Do you really really really need this, because if yes, then Ok. I'll do it.

Is there such a thing as too intelligent?

How about too insightful?

Is this supposed to be entry level?

Before I start, did you want me to unload the entirety of it all at once or just some, like a peek?

Are there other kinds I can choose from? Like how about unsubstantial essays?

Is there any place I can look online for examples of essays of substantially analytical intelligent insight?

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME

 

* * *

Mega-itis

I love the feeling of plenty in the house but I hate how it turns my home into the next episode of  Hoarders. I love/hate bulk, I love/hate warehouse places. You enter needing a few pair of underwear, and you come out with two hundred.

It’s Mega-itis.

You think if a dozen of something is good, then five hundred must be better.

You like turkey chili? Good. Because now there are a thousand cans in the basement. My husband has this house so stocked with dry goods that we could survive any leveling of this planet.

Red Cross relief needed? Just call us.
Peace Corps Operation in need of supplies? Call us again.

When I hear the garage door open after my husband returns home from his four hour Apocalypse  preparation, that's my cue to move the kitchen table and chairs to the other side of the room so that we can begin to stock up our private community food pantry.

I call our sons, and together, we help carry in eight 2-packs of gallons of apple juice, boxes of oatmeal that would feed the Salvation Army, and enough toilet paper to serve the Duggar's during the worst flu season.  I just want to know, is there anything my husband says no to at these places?

He tells me, “Well, it's hard, I don't like to, but I had to turn down the guy with the twenty pound bag of mangoes. I felt so guilty, not buying his stuff after I took his samples.”

I watch my husband then go back out to the van and then walk back in and then walk back out, then in, as he unloads his *smart buys.* Ten trips in all, back and forth to the minivan, each time with no less than a fifty-pound portion of something.

“Hey,” I say, as I help him stack 59 rolls of single-ply sand toilet paper into a pyramid against the bathroom wall, “what’s with the fifteen boxes of Frosted Flakes? You were sitting right next to me when 60 Minutes had that Doctor on “Sugar Kills.”

“I know, but I took a couple of samples from this 80-year-old guy and I felt kinda bad not getting the cereal after that. You know, I could tell his hopes were up after I ate two cups worth.”

I know what drives my husband and I love him for it, it’s the comfort of feeling he’s provided for us, and at a good price, too. But what really frosts me is this. Why can’t he go all guilty and #BulkBuy from the woman at the BoxMart jewelry counter? Surely he feels bad about spending time among the laptops and tablets they've got locked up under her territory. He couldn't have been deaf to her hawking, "Sir, wouldn't the lucky woman in your life like this $13,000 sapphire ring, Just like Lady Di's?"

Exclusive Mega-itis Edition.

* * *

Dear Abby

*With special thanks to Suniverse, one of the best tweeps to follow on twitter and whose tweet today prompted this post: (I love you, Suni)

The Suniverse ‏@TheSuniverse

"I think I'm making a new friend at work. For the love of god, BE COOL PEOPLE. let's not f**k this up."

* * *

DEAR ABBY:

Can you please tell me what is not too much when meeting a new friend? I mean I think it's a new friend, I hope so! I want her to be but don't want to scare her away like what happened with the last new temp we had in our department. That one had to leave suddenly after I made her a lunch and brought it to work for her the second day she was here. I don't know what happened, I mean, I rationalized as long as I was packing one for myself, right?

Signed,

I Think This Is The One!

DEAR ITTITO:

Hold on hold on. You what? No no no no NO. Dear desperate reader, you cannot and will not make a lunch for a total stranger again. I know, in your mind she's not a total stranger because you spent all thirteen hours away from her after work imagining her plugged into your lonely life -- but I assure you -- she is a stranger. She knows it. Your work department knows it. You need to know it. No More Lunch Making. You asked about the "what is too much." Extra Lunch I Made For You is the too much. Slow down, Nelly. Share some more face time. Like a dog senses fear, total strangers (which is what this new co-worker is) sense instability. And that scares the crap out of people.

DEAR ABBY:

Okay. I won't make lunch again. I'll just offer to buy. But can you give me some examples of what would be considered an appropriately safe gift for this new friend I'm going to have? I want to spend time with her and see her regularly.
Signed,
Still Convinced She's The One!

DEAR SCSTO:
No gift. No gift would be considered appropriately safe when you have just met someone. Dear woman, the best gift for the moment is the gift of self control you must present to yourself. You like her, I get that. You can let her know this with a smile, a chuckle at her jokes, perhaps asking her to join you for lunch or drinks after work. In this case, for the safety of everyone involved and my issues with hating the weight of responsibility, limit yourself to group outings only.

DEAR ABBY:
I think your answer means I have to take back the charm bracelet I bought her. With the broken heart halves "best friends forever." I don't want to take it back, and she already saw me wearing my half, "Be--  Frie--."
Signed,
Not Giving Up

DEAR NGU:
Think of a new signature, because NGU? You have to. If the poor target in question has spied this bangle ringing your wrist out of the corner of her eye and you now present the other half to her? Don't be surprised if she becomes the next "like that one girl that was almost my friend that I scared away again," Part II. Bracelet: take it back.

DEAR ABBY:
I think I found a newer new friend I'm going to have. Now that I think about it, that new co-worker is nowhere near as special as this new could be friend. By the way, did you know that your address is hard to find? I wanted to send you this necklace I saw that would be perfect for us to wear when we're together, but your publisher was really hedgy when I called and asked for details on how to find you, but that's okay because I think I can figure out where your office is. Pretty sure. Either way, I'll meet you in your lobby in front of the magazine kiosk, around 1ish. I'll bring lunch. I mean, it'd be silly not to, right? As long as I'm packing one for myself...

The Suniverse ‏@TheSuniverse

"OMG MY NEW WORK ALMOST-FRIEND HUGGED ME TODAY!!"

 * * * 

President's Day Means Aaaaaaall The Presidents

Would you be surprised to learn that President's Day is 1.) always written with an apostrophe and 2.) a day set aside not only to commemorate Washington's birthday, but also to acknowledge past U.S. Presidents?

As in aaaaaaaaaaaall the presidents?

I've got a few favorite past Heads of State, and I know perhaps a tad too much about this one, because among my many attributes--besides being a still in the closet secret lover of  blue grass music--I am also a history geek.

So, after you take a few minutes to yourself to snicker about that little fact, click on over to Aiming Low and find out about a colorful past Leader of our United States: Andrew Ol' Hickory Jackson, aka "If Keith Richards were President."

Happy National Post Office Closed Day to you all!

* * *

The Shaping of Ourselves Via The Lunch Box

Every morning, I pack my three children lunches that are full of the kinds of things I dreamed of finding in my lunch when I was a kid.

What kind of lunches did I wish for when I was a little kid in school? Oh, nothing special. Just the usual non-traumatic kind that wouldn't cost me thousands of dollars in therapy as an adult.

I'll bet that for most of you out there, when I mention "school lunch" you cock your head to the side and smile a wistful memory smile. Say "school lunch" to me and I head for the bed, piling up the blankets--only my nose peeking out so I can breathe. I'll also bet that other kids wanted to trade lunches with you, right?

You  probably remember yourself, back in second grade, sitting at the long lunchroom table across from  friends (have to interrupt here--what was that like?) chattering away while pulling out the contents of what your very American parent had packed for you. Such a sweet, happy memory; reminiscing about swapping lunches makes you smile and doesn’t conjure up a knot in your stomach, does it?

What you had in your school day lunch is a piece to the puzzle that we grow up to be. My lunches, my first-generation American lunches, can only be described with the word “PANIC.”  I’d watch American children around me reach into their bags and pull out amazing items like I had seen on TV. Angels would sing as they'd fish out Little Debbie snack cakes, shiny bags of potato chips, factory pressed fruit pies.

My South American lunches were from another planet, in sight and smell. The grip of anxiety that came when I'd open my thermos and release the kraken of my lentil and rice soup with garlic and cumin. "Yo, anyone wanna trade with me?" I don't think so. The School Lunch Trade–when the contents of my lunch shouted out who, and what and where I came from. Oh, to be part of the consumer crowd, the land of processed cheese food and deli meats, the gooey blob of Hostess Snowballs, the Sunny-D with 10 percent juice.

Hey! Who wants to trade me their bologna and mayo on Wonder white bread for a big fat slice of musky goat cheese and guava jelly! Look! My Abuela threw in a chunk of mango on top  for extra Latino measure.

You could hear the squeals of non-delight that came from the American children as they watched me carefully stack a cube of white cheese on top of a cube of guava on top of a cube of mango … mmm mmm, that’s good eatin’, right there.

What are you eating?? Eww …

Mmm … mmm ... mmm ... mmm and mmm. This? This is a delicious guava jelly and goat cheese breadless sandwich. Yum Yum. I’d trade with you but I just want it all for myself.

And so I’d rehearse my script, thinking I could fool the kids into thinking I was glad that they never asked me to trade with them. At noon every day, I’d mentally practice my words. Yup, I would convince them that the lunch I had was just too good to give up to anybody. I knew the lunches my Colombian Abuela would have packed for me would be red hot up on that ethnicity scale. The possibilities of what I'd find inside my lunch box made my scalp prickle: would she have thrown in a peeled, diced platano? Chopped avocados? Maybe a papaya?  Could I be lucky enough for a thermos full of the Colombian signature dish, Calentado?

I would almost faint from the combination of late morning hunger and forgetting to breathe as my heart pounded over what was in my clearance-shelf padded white Monkees lunchbox. The minutes ticked closer and closer to the big reveal. My lunch time plan was always the same: Sit down, lay out a spot, and present the contents as a thing of beauty. Everyone at the table would know that their palettes weren’t sophisticated enough to trade their lunch for mine.

The fantasy of this scenario played out daily.

I wanted to be part of the fun, to be in on the food trading, to hear other children go oooh and lick their lips when they'd see what I was packin'. But this was the late 1960′s, and cultural diversity was just not part of the landscape. Especially not in a parochial school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

This memory is from so long ago, but still feels like the day before yesterday. When I pack my children’s lunches today, I tell them of my Abuela’s slices of white goat cheese with a generous slab of guava jelly atop, garnished with tropical fruit, then sprinkled with pomegranate.

They ask me if that’s why I’m so weird.

It might be.

Can’t be 100 percent positive, but probably.

That which doesn’t kill us, makes us funnier, I tell them. Which means I should be getting my own special on Comedy Central any day now.

***

Death By Skeleton Key

The Funniest Women on the Planet

Some kids are fine left alone for a few minutes. They occupy themselves and you can go do what needs to get done.

Yeah. I wasn't one of those.

I tell you about the plight that befalls the unattended, in my monthly column, Memoirs of My America , featured today at FunnynotSlutty . Posting of my childhood misadventures -- about the days of figuring out life in America as a kid from another country -- is something I look forward to each month at FunnynotSlutty.

I hope you stop over and read my tale today, of The Unattended, and maybe you have a child like this? One who should never be left unsupervised.

*I've been blessed with a mini-me: my third boy who goes by the name of Auggie.

My feelings about SOPA

A True Confessions Post, Stolen (er, inspired) by Taming Insanity, because you know my feelings on SOPA (you can read about it here)


Dear Kids: Here Are Some Things From Your Youth That I Must Confess:

-I used to mix vitamins into your oatmeal

-I lied to you when I told you that I called ahead to McDonald's and they said they were out of fries for the day

-When we planted tiny individual skittles in the backyard, and the following week we dug up huge packages of them? They really did grow from the skittles we planted, no matter what that kid across the street said

-Dear kid across the street: I have no idea what happened to your favorite frisbee

-I lied to you when I said the best movies were rated G: for GOOD, and PG meant only PRETTY GOOD

-I told you that soy ice cream is just as deliciously creamy as Ice Cream Ice Cream and you can't even tell the difference. Wrong: big difference. HUGE.

-Root beer really only comes in one color: brown (the yellow stuff your dad drinks isn't root beer)

-In the winter when it got dark out earlier, and it seemed to you like bed time came right after supper, it did (6:00, 8:00, what's a couple of hours anyway)

-When you'd ask me to go fast on the freeway and I'd turn on the fans in the car to max, those really weren't our van's turbo engines

-The wrinkles on my face aren't because I didn't drink all my juice as a kid

-Your hermit crabs didn't run away to find a mate

-Your fish didn't jump into the sink to find a mate

-Your turtle didn't crawl down the bathtub drain to find a mate

-Your frog didn't hop out the patio door to find a mate

-I didn't read the How To Care For Your Pet books for all your animals (tap water = bad)

-The boy in The Giving Tree really is nice to his mother, I have no idea what edition book everyone else was reading to their kids

**There it is, my beautiful children, the ugly truth: warts and all. I stand fully confessed before you, no more lies. I'm so glad I was able to get this off my chest tonight, kids. Let's start over with a clean slate and sleep the deep sleep of a clear conscience. Now hurry upstairs and get to bed; now that you're older, I read somewhere that you need even more sleep. Like 14 hours minimum recommended for ages 10 through 11.

Honest.
____________________________________________________________


Desperate for more parenting tips? Follow my weekly column, at milwaukeemoms.com.

Avoiding Hoarders

I really don't have it too bad. My kids are pretty funny, listen to me forty percent of the time, and we have plenty to eat.

But it's that last one, the *having plenty to eat* that translates to my husband as me take good care of family.

Read how this well intentioned part of him may just have us up as the next episode of Hoarders.

Avoiding Hoarders, my post up today, at Aiming Low: where we strive for imperfection.

__________________________________________________________________

The Grunting You Hear Is A Dead Giveaway

I don't even notice that I do it. I can't hear a thing. But I'm told it goes on.

As I plopped my fat butt down onto the footstool after work today, my body making contact with the cushioned leather seat, I let out a big oooophtah.

Taking a deep breath in, I bent over to remove my rain boots, I'm told I accompanied that movement with a sound reminiscent of a Russian weight lifter. Struggling to pull my snug boots off, I let out a strained aaaayyngyaaah sound, as the boots finally gave way and my strangled feet were set free. The relief was so sweet from the eight spent in vise-grip crampedness that I couldn't help but let out an appreciative sigh reserved for a more private room.

Stretched out against the brown leather chair, I finally relaxed after being gone from home all day. I let the air out of my body like a slowly deflating balloon. Audibly. And my children had to let me know about it:

Mom. You can tell you're getting old because you make a noise every time you do something, just like old people do. You sound like a dead person trying to get up.

What? I do not.

Yes, Mom. You do.

And with the snap of a finger, my three angels descended upon me like jackals surrounding a fresh kill. They continued:

It's like you have to announce every move you make, Mom. Pulling off your shoes, hanging up your coat, unloading the dishwasher, making the beds, carrying the laundry upstairs. It's ALL THE TIME, Mom.

Really? I announce everything every time I do something? And this bothers you? All of you? 

It drives us nuts. You're old.

How much does it get on your nerves? I mean, does it get on your nerves so much you'd give anything to not hear it?

Mom. Seriously. Have you ever heard yourself parallel park?

Hm. Well, then, seems to me this is all easily fixed. If I make annoying sounds with every buttload of work I do around here, how about YOU all empty the dishwasher, make the beds, carry the laundry, take off my shoes ... Voila. No more grunts and groans from your gramma mama.

::crickets::

What I thought. Now, if you all will excuse me. I've got to get up off this chair and start some dinner ... nnnnnnyyghaaa ... one of you boys help me up, will you?

Photo cc

Glory Days

Where do all the old dictators go? Who listens to them as they feebly fight off the forced spoon fed stewed prunes with cries of "No negotiating!"

I think I found the place of their golden sunsets.

And, yes, grandpa, you did have quite a brutal, oppressive regime. Now eat your prunes.

Glory Days, my post today at Aiming Low. Where we set the bar just high enough for you to step over.

But Why Did She Do It?

I know, I know; it was well over two weeks ago that Angelina stuck that leg out like she was Inspector Gadget, "Go Go Gadget Chicken Leg" while presenting at the 2012 Academy Awards.  But I can't stop thinking about it: what was she thinking, exactly?

I think I know. Please stop over at my post today, on Aiming Low, and we can all get some rest, knowing what Jolie Pitt was really doing that night.

I thank you. You all are the best.

 

Aiming Low: where mediocrity is our goal.

Unattended Google Searches

The unattended google search. You read about it, you discount it, you say Naaaaaaaaah...that's something that happens to other people, it'll never happen to me and my kids.

It always happens to other families, doesn't it?

Except when it happens to yours.


My post at Aiming Low today, on what we saw when we saw the Unattended Google Search.

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Aiming Low: Where mediocre parenting is the gold standard.

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**In some exciting family news, our oldest son, Alexander, 16, has been chosen to attend an intensive civil education program known as the Civil Leadership Academy, in Washington, D.C. for one week. He was the only cadet chosen in the state of Wisconsin, and one of only 24 chosen nationwide. He leaves today for one week. When he completes the program, he and the other cadets will present before Capitol Hill legislators.


We are very proud. 

Thank you for allowing me to brag a little. He's a great kid.

xo

Deemed Unsafe

When we were homeschooling a few years ago, my short husband, a/k/a youngest son, and I were on a group field trip to a huge pizza-making factory. I, and the other parents on the trip, were assigned our own child plus five to watch. I've always been lucky enough that my boy is crazy about me and sticks to me like glue, so I had no worries about whether or not he wanted to be with me. I also had absolute confidence in my abilities and zero concerns about losing any child in my care -- I've always been very responsible. However, based on who knows what criteria, there was something about me that pushed a fellow chaperoning parent to the point of her having to ask me every 20 minutes during the two and a half hour tour, So, all your kids with you?

Yesss. All six.

20 minutes later, same question, So, how many kids with you now? 

Still. Six.

I think I know what it was that weighed on her and made her twitchy: my group was having fun, lots of it; the usual faces back and forth and imitations of tossing pizza dough up in the air and missing it. I behaved on this trip and promised myself that I wouldn't get defensive with this woman, no snarky words would slip out.

You know Gloria on Modern Family? Not a Colombian exaggeration. Push us enough and you'll hear about it. But I bit my lip and kept it all inside because my son had asked me to, as all three of  my three children usually do when they set out the Rules We Must Follow On Field Trips This Means You, Mom speech given to me pre-public appearances.

This mom had her own child with her in her group, so the issue couldn't be fear of losing him via me. My son also noticed her apparition-like appearances, the Ghost of Nosiness Present. His heavy sighs were timed at the exact moments as mine in response to her questions. I saw him roll his eyes as we'd sense her approach. I saw him with the identical fake tight lipped smile skill I have come to perfect. As soon as the six in my group and I would begin with the enjoyment of an afternoon together, she'd be over in two seconds like she had heelies on.

By the end of the trip, she had me chomping my gum like a 1930's mobster to keep my mouth quiet. More than anything, I wanted to say What the heck already, lady … enough with the Amber Alert with my group. Does it bother you that much that we enjoy a few snorts and chortles here? When it came time to board the bus back home, she floated to the front of the line where we were like Casper the meddling ghost.

All your kids here before we head home? She queried.

Yup. All six. Still.

When my son and I found our seats in the middle of the bus and sat down, I looked at him and made cross eyes, slumped my shoulders, shook my head, and maturely stuck my tongue out. He covered his mouth and giggled. I know, he then whispered seriously, shaking his head and crossing his own eyes in a perfect unintentional imitation of me. I. Know, he continued, What the heck, right? Instead of keeping on asking you if you lost any kids, why didn't that lady just say I'm worried about you losing kids because you don't behave like a normal mom.

I sputtered out laughing. If the adorableness next to me at that moment was the end product of being raised by a socially suspect woman, then I don't think I have ever felt prouder of being deemed unsafe in my life. 

Hmmmm... now who'd Baby E learn that face from?

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**Twilight without Edward Cullen? Please let it not be true....details on my post today at Sprocket Ink.

That's What I Wanted

Over the past two weeks, I've been spotlighting the first blogs I ever read way back when I discovered blogging in 2008. I didn't start a blog until two years later, in 2010, but there were a handful of blogs I read in the beginning. In my first post in this series, I mentioned I never commented on the blogs I visited then because I thought you had to have a blog to comment. Shocker, huh?

What that means is that for two or so years, I followed blogs without posting any remarks and wishing I had a community of people around me to talk to; at 3 a.m. or 11 at night, like they had. What a great feeling of belonging that must bring, to have people around you, all different kinds of people, to be in your life and part of your life. I wanted that community. Instead, I'd watch with my nose pressed up against the window, wishing I could be part of all the fun and friendships I'd see.

A blogger that I followed silently, and I say followed silently not lurking because since I didn't know you could comment it can't be called lurking if you have no idea you're doing it, was Ann Imig of Annsrants.

I followed her home from a comment ( a VERY clever, smart ass-y one) at another blogger's place (that blogger will be spotlighted also).

After reading Ann for awhile, she-- knowing nothing about me since, again, the no commenting rule that I thought existed that didn't exist -- celebrated her first year of blogging, a blogging anniversary. A blogoversary, she called it. It was the first time I heard that word and I thought she came up with it herself. So dang creative.

This post on her one year from 2009 still makes me laugh. Aside from how very funny and representative of Ann's delicious humor this is, the best part of this anniversary post were the comments. I read all the bloggers commenting on her site that day in celebration of knowing her; all the love, the high fives, the (((( )))) which I didn't know WHAT THE HECK that was *I thought it was bewbs*. But, still, I could decode enough to figure out virtual hugs and sincere happiness that Ann was a blogger.

I scrolled through all the comments on her first *blogoversary* post (Ann, I thought this was your word and you were so wondrous to think of it), and I wanted that. What she had: people to share my life with. People that I would be happy to know, and that would be just as happy to know me.

Ann Imig kept me in her cozy, sweet internet world, even when she had no idea she was doing that.

I enjoyed her so-good-she-should-be-in-a-magazine humor, her sharp, quick essays, *my favorite of her posts: the middle school columnist series*. She had me smirking with her total deep shenanigan nonsense on occasion. Her skillful writing on current issues made me think about my position on things political. Ann was that someone to sit and share my morning coffee with over a lonely winter.

I finally grew tired of being too scared to start a blog, so in 2010, I began blogging. Which meant I could comment on blogs now! (shuttup)-- naturally, I began commenting at Annsrants. She had no idea I had been reading her for over a year when I did show up. 

And you know what? Even though I was a year late to the party, Ann Imig and the kind of people that follow Ann Imig, made me feel like I had been there since the beginning.

Thank you, Ann, for giving so much to so many.

As the creator of the inspiring National Listen To Your Mother Shows, you have helped us find our voices; you gave me my voice to tell my story on May 8, 2011, at the LTYM show in Madison -- a day that felt like I was in someone else's life. You've kept us warm with laughter from some of the best tweets in the twitterverse, undoubtedly why you were voted #1 funniest twitter mom by babble.com. It's happily sad that I smile on the nights when I am so beat I fall asleep with my clothes on and think just like Ann said on twitter, "Yesterday's clothes are the new pajamas."

Ann Imig: the world is a better place because you are in it. And I say that with grateful tears in my eyes.

Ann Imig: stay at home humorist and 'Sconnie Jewess

Thank you.
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**This blogger was one of the handful so implicit in my making it through the winters and the seasonal depression they bring, before I began my own blog in 2010 and became a part of this incredible online community. During this month, I'll be highlighting the bloggers I call "The Great Depression Slayers of 2010." To the crucial ones I clung to before I began blogging, the ones that pulled me through, I thank you.

You Can Blame Me

My husband is a good, decent man. Vice free. Dedicated to home and family. Wears his boxers till they look like lace doilies to keep food on the table.

Such a good man.

Being married to the last boy scout in America has made me realize I must set the record straight: any veering off the straight and narrow for this man is due.to.me.

I apologize (sort of) for what my husband's life has become. Here. At Aiming Low. Where we strive for the mediocre in parenting.

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