Speak Minivan to Me

Creamer was on special today. And I could stock up on it because I have a minivan. You think driving in a navy blue minivan says that I gave up. You don't see what I see, me zipping through our town's roundabouts knowing I'm in a castle on wheels. So, cast your eyes of envy my way because I know what owning a minivan means: room.

Car manufacturers may think they'll fool new parents into showing up at car dealerships with their commercials of rap songs, heavy metal songs, images of hipster couples with their hipster babies on their hipster hips. Or the promise of kids subdued into open mouthed states of sedation with a drop-down DVD player six inches in front of their faces. But I never needed any of that: I fell in love with the minivan with the first time I drove home from the grocery store in it.

I didn't need to be brainwashed into thinking that cranking Alex Clare at barely legal ear-bleeding decibels as I whizzed through cul-de-sacs at carpooling time, that a minivan is the car for me.

And I have no idea who exactly out there thinks they don't need a minivan. Who needs to be convinced? Do the ad teams believe that the words “swagger wagon” will wipe our minds free of the minivan’s other names, like dumpster on wheels, mommy mobile, soccer mom wagon, Eberhard eraser, rummage sale raider? I've heard them all, and they don't touch me.

Why does the minivan need to be cool? Who drives one to be cool? Not me. I know what it’s for and that’s exactly why I have it. No one shows up at the car dealership, and when the salesman one handedly and with a wink, slides away the stow-n-go backseat, thinks, Ooooh, hooo hooo! Saturday night sin bin! No, I think of all the Gatorade that goes on special that I can pack in there!

You could drop in a Shelby V-8 engine, rim the car with Pirelli tires, smoke the windows, apply an alien family decal, clean up the cheerios and juice boxes, you could all of that, and it still wouldn't change why I buy a minivan.

As I said, no one buys it to be cool or to deny the wheels of time grinding closer every day. The truth is that minivans are not cool. They are not. What they are is efficient, contriveable, bottomless, mess forgiving. That's why I've been behind the wheel of one for over 15 years.

If you want cool, think back to high school. The coolest people were the ones that didn’t care what other people thought.

You know I'm right. The one with no effs left to give is the one behind the wheel of a minivan.

I don’t have to rap along to Swagger Wagon to pretend that the steering wheel I'm sitting behind is not that of a minivan.

Because I know that it's not our car that makes us. It's us, that make the car. What’s in the seat, makes it hot. And there is no one more on fire than me flipping back my hair, folding down those stow-n-go seats when Gatorade is two packs for $5.99.

 

And there's no limit of two per customer.

 

* * *

For the Love of The Quirky Child

Just as I'm not like most adults, I also wasn't like most kids. I had a few quirks. *coughsputterletsbehonestlotsofthem.* For starters, I had about thirty phobias. They didn't fit in any category, I was more of a sampler box. Some of my fears were founded, others nothing that a quick prayer and the sign of the cross didn’t cure.

How I came to amass these phobias is a complex explanation. To help you envision what life as an 8-year-old me was like, try this on: whereas someone else might hear someone tell of a frightful situation and make a comment then move on, this shared story would move into my heart and soul, my mind took it and made it into omg that could be me.

When I was in the second grade, I read that it was an asp that killed Cleopatra. That’s all the information I needed to heave the pre-Google days of my childhood straight into a breathless run to the library, my chest leaning against the reference librarian's desk. "Pictures, pictures please, of an asp!" The librarian (why didn't she ever ask my name? you think she'd want to know my name) would peer over her bifocals and walk me over to the science shelf. Once there, I would sit with the nature books open before me and memorize every pictorial rendition of an asp, in all its possible lengths and widths, so if one were to slither up to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I would know it and escape accordingly.

On the days I wasn’t monitoring the ground for asps on my ten-block walk to school, I feared that on the first day of the week back to school on Monday, the lunch lady would give me back my lunch money change in counterfeit change, because I always started the week with a fresh five-dollar bill that I’d have to break on Mondays for Hot Dog Day. We had just discussed counterfeit bills in school, especially with five dollar denominations being the most common ones counterfeited!

It was exhausting being scared, and at the end of the night had I know of the word masseuse, I would have dreamed of one. I could only occupy my mind with one fear at a time, and my existence was energy consuming. Until one day I got smart and decided to combine my phobias for less physical exertion.

I was as smart as I was neurotic.


Mondays could be counterfeit money and asp day.

Tuesdays I would allow my sweaty-palmed fear of my pens running out of ink during a spelling test in combination with not having enough tissues in my desk in case of a dry-air bloody nose. (these two things did happen to me, and here is your example, a fine one, of a phobia that is founded) 

Wednesday I could kill two phobia birds with one relief stone by walking around practicing what to say in case the most popular girl in class talked to me (one day in home ec class, one did) and rehearsing an at-the-ready apology in case there was someone I had absent mindedly forgotten to say sorry to. (my sewing teacher, who was always so kind to me, but she spoke to me at the same time as Connie Piscitello did, and what can I say--I was starstruck)

This doubling up was freeing up some serious mental time and I was loving it.

It didn’t take long to realize that streamlining my phobias could leave me with a blank mental slate and free me up for Saturday and Sunday.

But needing to get all my phobias in by Friday meant I had to schedule four or five a day. Efficiency fell into place with alliteration, because grouping like sounding items together works for everyone.


Fridays were my F day.

Friday, when I’d mince my Food with my Front teeth For Fear of Finding a Fish bone in my Friday night Fish Fry and choking combined with Fearing that I’d Forget to ask For a Five-dollar bill For the Following week.

Clever child that I was, this plan worked, I had an as close to normal life as a child like me, could.

 

 I’ll Stop here and Say that Sweet Saturday and Sunday came none too Soon. Their Sunrise arriving with a Sigh, to See me Serenely Smiling in the Secure Surrender of the Safety of the Subliminal Silence in my Skull.

 

Ah, the sensation of sweet sleepy stimuli-free Saturday and Sunday.

 

***

What to Pack for BlogHer: Your Etiquette

Zipper repaired on suitcase? Check.

Comfortable yet still somewhat fashionable walking shoes? Check.

Phone charger? [the good one, not the free one you got that gets hot enough to catch fire] Check.

Your manners? Ummmmm... where do I go to find my Social Conferencing Etiquette Checklist?

If you're headed out to a conference, like I am, then Lucky You and Lucky Day! Because the answers to your Conference Etiquette quandaries are right over HERE, where I'm featured today on BlogHer with my unofficial learned-by-my-own-error-of-my-ways etiquette checklist : How To Say The Right Thing at a Social Media Conference. At any conference, really.

If you're like me, you've let things slip out of your mouth because you just didn't know. It's a hard lesson to learn, but you make your mistakes, you forgive yourself, and you're grateful for the grace of others who let you try again.

See what I've let slip through without the filter of awareness, along with tips on Saying The Right Thing. And if you find yourself saying the awkward, realize we all learn through living.

Hope to see you August 4-6, at BlogHer's annual conference. BlogHer is the world's largest social media conference for women, and this year we're in Los Angeles! Come to network, be inspired, and be among other bloggers who find the world of blogging one of the most supportive communities in the world!

* * * 

The Secret to Beautiful Summer Hair

For those of you in my Day Late Dollar Short club, this week is the week we're getting to our End of School Year to-do lists. Yeah, the rest of the world got to it weeks ago, I know, but we are still in the month of June, so we're good.

As we reach in and tackle those 9-month-long neglected innards of our kids' backpacks, it's not all put your hand in and pull out a green tangerine that your fingers sunk into. There are treasures within those zippered compartments, to be sure.

Treasures like what I found this morning. My backpack haul grew into my Everything I Need To Be Beautiful this summer trove. Not really, but at least Everything I Need To Keep My Hair From Having Its Own Zip Code.

Want to know the secret to summer hair kept tame and free from interfering with your field of vision? Look no further than what you'll find inside your childrens' backpacks.

Here are the Top 5 Hair-Busters that with along with a little Frizz-Ease, came to my rescue:

Shown: The long-forgotten scarf my child took to school in November for a Titanic re-enactment project where he was the Ship Medic and needed bandages. 

Shown: Rainbow Loom wristband slash most awesome ponytail holder for thickest hair imaginable in a Milwaukee summer humidity wave.

Shown: From when son called 1984 and asked for his mom's scrunchy bands back.

Shown: Rubber bands from the secret inside zipper pocket behind the pencil case flap. Why did he need so many? He doesn't want to tell me. But I was in grade school once and I know what a rubber band shooting ammunition cache for the 7th grade looks like.

Shown: Drybar hair courtesy of the school auction gift certificate for the February event that was never turned in for the February event but which was found crushed at the bottom of the backpack and nevertheless had to be used before the expiration date of July 6, 2016.

Happy summer everyone. I wish you hair resourcefulness and smart backpacking unpacking. May the gods of hair hacks smile upon you. 

* * *

You Can Sweep: Motivating Quotations for Housekeeping

You were made to keep things in place and within findability range. Deep down, you may doubt that are you able to accomplish much when the people you live with neither show nor share interest in your desire to stop losing shoes and house keys. But with some mindful reassurance and encouraging motivation, you will be that housekeeping winner you know is hidden within.

Here, let us together boldly go toward the lemon-scented path that is our domestic destiny, with a handful of motivational quotations for housekeeping:

1. FOCUS IS SPELLED Y-O-U.
Remember who you want to keep order for and why. Answer: for me. Why: tired of losing sh8t.

2. YOU ARE ON FIRE AND ORDER IS YOUR MATCH.
With some sexy music playing subliminally while you peruse Containers R Us sites, you can switch your brain to be turned on by everything in its place and a place for everything. Rowr, just saying that, is it hot in here or just me? 

3.  WHO ARE YOU? THE ANSWER TO THAT IS "I AM A CLEANING WARRIOR."
Cleaning is fun! Look at me! Putting all like items together in the same place. I mean, matchy matchy matchy! Kids? Come join mama in some fun!

4.  CLEANING IS A GIFT OF WHICH YOU HAVE NOT YET RECOGNIZED.
 Repeat 100 times a day until you start to consider that maybe it could be. You must fight the temptation to answer back with probably not.

5.  WITH BRUSHES AND IMPLEMENTS IN HAND, I RUSH THE SURFACES AS I AM CHARLES IN CHARGE.
This is my house. MY house. I say where things go, when they go, how they go, with who they go.  My house.

6.  I WILL AND CAN AND DO EXPECT SUCCESS.
Don't even consider that you won't spend some part of every day of the rest of your life, not accomplishing one small thing to bring order to your home. It can be anything - so set yourself up for success. Make a to-do list that says "remove empty water bottles from family room." Then pick up bottles, empty them, and you are so amazing.

7.  UNIQUE IS MY MIDDLE NAME AND I SHALL LEAVE MY MARK OF CLEANLINESS ON IT ALL.
And first and last because NO ONE can clean or maybe not clean, like you. Put your special stamp on the way to unload a dishwasher. Others try, but few can come close to stacking away plates in the way that you do.

8.  DARE TO BELIEVE IN THY POWERS THAT CLEAN.
Who's a good cleaner? YOU'RE a good cleaner. Dream it, be it: the one who gets that laundry d-o-n-e DONE.

9.  BE THE ONE WHO DRIPS WITH GRATITUDE.
 I am happy I have a home to clean. I am happy I have dishes that have had food on them to now clean. I am happy that I have indoor plumbing toilets that need to be swished. I am dripping with 409 gratitude for the house that I will clean.


10.  THERE IS A LEMON FRESH WINNER IN ME.
I just have to somehow figure out a way to pull her out, but she's there. Hard to see in this polka-dotted toothpaste-spotted bathroom mirror. But she is there, and she CAN and she WILL get one thing done today so that there is a corner of this house that brings visual peace when my eyes hit upon it.


But wait, it's summer, isn't it? So, yeah, just going to clear a spot here on this sofa from today's laundry and dream of how I will be all I was created to be, come September.

* * *

A Traveling Physical Therapist and Sports Doctor Would Be Nice

It was early Sunday morning when I threw my back out. Not while shoveling, not while carrying too-heavy Christmas boxes to the basement three months too late. Nope. I threw my back out while reaching my arms up to shampoo my hair. Because of the inefficient stream of a water-saving shower head we installed, in order to rinse any suds out since the laughable droplets that come out overhead are zero help, I have to s-c-r-u-b my scalp like someone's punking me from above and adding in more Pantene Revitalize. I had gotten to the third bar of the ABC song when I felt a tiny mouse stitching my shoulder blades together. Our family's effort to conserve water had wrenched my back. I've never googled it, but I don't think saving the environment should result in medical complications.

This was only three weeks after I gave myself a frozen shoulder while trying to build weight-bearing deltoids that are supposed to be saving me from the injuries of daily life.

I don't mind this getting older part, except for this part of it: the resultant inability of my body to keep up with movements that are part of being ambulatory.

Who would think that you would have to pause and mindfully stretch in preparation before bending over to tie a loose shoe lace?

Or how if you have to choose between your favorite sloppy joe mix on a too-high shelf that threatens to pop your shoulder out or the too tomato-y one that is not your favorite but it's right there effortlessly before you on the chest-high shelf, that you would have to go with Mr. Tomato.

Muscle tendon cartilage turning on you is not something your complimentary issue of AARP that arrives years too early in your life ever details for you: “The Road Ahead: What You Can Anticipate  in Mid-Life.” Their pages focus too much on your 401K and not enough on your Latissimus Dorsi.

Life is becoming an extraordinary mission of muscle injury avoidance. But as I sit here icing my left knee because I stood up from the toilet too fast, I think I have an idea—one beyond the obvious hydration-honey-hibiscus tea plan of attack.

I can do this if I have an entourage. If I travel with a physical therapist and a non-sports injury specialist (I just made up that occupation, but it's a good idea) life is do-able. I'm not able to afford payment in the traditional sense of money because I never have any, BUT in the old tribal way of bartering for services, Why not do this? Give me a minute, I'll think of something I'm good at.

I just need to do daily life, I'm not going for 40 marathons in 20 days, just someone to help me come back from the rigors of what was once routine, like bringing in the garbage cans. I'm going to subtly put out a call, see if anyone I know knows someone who might be interested in such a position. Until I hear back, I'll experiment with pacing and speed. Maybe slowing down before reaching up to re-do my pony tail, a few hammer-lifts with Chunky soup cans before attempting to bring in the UPS package from the front steps.

Movement has become a challenge, but I cannot wave the white flag. You can look for me walking around the neighborhood, not chasing any English walking speed records, but moving, one painful knee cap in front of the other. You'll know it's me, wearing my team jacket with the logo, “Sponsored by Tylenol.”

* * *

A Beginner's Guide to Life as a Crabby Person

It's been months since I've woken up smiling and eager to start the day.

Wait, let me start over, I don't want to begin this confessional with a lie.

Dear reader: Bless me for I have been crabby. It has been years since an alarm clock found me with a smile on my face.

A frown and a muttering dialogue of how morning comes too early and nights end much too fast has been my go-to a.m. behavior. Can I be nice before 9 a.m.? Was I ever nice before 9 a.m.? I go to bed so I get 7 hours of sleep, I bought the softest microfleece-lined coverlet Pier One offered, and my pillow is like sinking into a flotation tank - I don't know where my mane ends and the dense foam begins.

Yet I still trundle out of bed like a bear jarred awake too early from hibernation. Being cranky is nothing new to me. I've been cranky long enough to give up trying to be nice in the morning. The whistle while you work attitude is never going to happen in my lifetime, not anytime before the sun rises anyway. And I am up to my Eustachian tubes with recommended Vitamin D and soy supplements, I am bone-weary with advice to make time for the 5:30 a.m. cardio/pump/your mama wears combat boots work out, and I say no more to kale powered breakfast smoothies.

I am what I am, so instead, I have re-worked my environment to accommodate Life While Being Crabby. But I think of you, my sweet friends, some of whom may be caught off guard by what the addition of years in your life have brought you to, this state of being too mean to live lately.

You can count on me and my following crab-busting house-hacks:

Buy a oil-drum sized barrel of window cleaner and drown your windows in it. Sunshine sparkling through is just the beginning of the push I need to maybe consider turning this frown upside down.

Vote yes to year-round velvet bathrobes. Linger in it a bit longer, who says lunch has to be done in panted attire? Feel the liquid smoothness of velvet on that hard working a** of yours. Who wouldn't smile...

Configure a daybed in every room. Nothing fancy or Ikea made - some oversized pillows, a pile of blankets tossed about, even occupying your dog's bed when he saunters away from your scowl. Grab it, make it yours, I mean, I feel a smile on my face whenever I'm horizontal.

Colorful art. Color. Not just a touch of it but a visual assault of it. I have two canvas prints of red poppies placed three feet away from where I work. I see them, I know I have them there for me, and what? Is that a grin breaking out? It's trying hard, and yes, it is.

Flowers. Real ones. No silk synthetic Michael's specials. Do you really want to spend any minute of your life dusting fake flowers? I can't think of anything that would make me crankier. So, get some $5 daffodil bundles next time you're picking up the roasted chicken special because one shouldn't cook when they're grumbling - too risky for that negative energy to sneak into your family's dinner.

Say OK to creating your own corner. I would see this written around in magazines and think it was stupid. But it works. I have a chair, it's to the west side of the front windows, and it's there that I sit with this tiny coffee table I found for $45. No one else likes to sit there, and it's my corner and when I'm there, it gives me quiet and peace. The quiet makes my top lip curl up, the peace makes my bottom lip follow.

I make my bed. I do. Cranky is an easy excuse not to but if you let cranky make your decisions for you then every time you pass your unmade bed it'll remind you of what a crab you are and then you'll get even more surly, so, make the bed. A smile will creep in because at least you did one thing today.

And my favorite cranky conquering cure: the daydream.

Daydream about it all. Sit at the kitchen table, with your chin in your hands and daydream. Close your eyes, imagine what you'd do with 50 million bucks, design the house of your dreams, think about a Jamaican vacation so hard you begin to hear the ocean and what if you could buy your neighbor's convertible Alfa Romeo. Gimme a D, gimme an A, gimme a Y. You know the rest, so turn your face up and toward the dream life that makes you smile.

And to all my crabby friends, you're not alone. I have absolved you of your sins done while cranky. Go forth  and continue in peace, free to grumble guilt free. We all know the Smiley Sunflowers have petered out by 3:30 p.m. and that's just when our sunshine will be starting to break through.

We strike the perfect balance for when our kids come busting through the door, snarling like bear cubs after a too long day at school.

 

* * * 

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.

* * * 

Participatory Trophies: Parent Edition

Trophies for everybody! Or maybe just for me.

My kids have been getting trophies since they were three years old. A couple of times they even got a trophy and they didn't have to be there to get it. They got it because their name was Alec Xavier Auggie. BOOM! You win because you have the name you do.

Well, I didn't grow up with that. Nope. Any trophies that I coveted witnessed being given out as a kid were reserved for the ones whose names were SuperStar Winner or Not Alexandra.

I have always wanted a trophy. I have never gotten a trophy. But it occurred to me last month while I saw my son get a small gold painted plastic boy glued atop a white plastic pedestal for attending swim classes,  that I can get a trophy if I want one. I can go to Rudy's Trophy Store on 5th Street and order me up some small female statuettes.

Dang straight I can.

And I'll award them to myself non stop this parenting season. I'll inscribe them with my name and I'll bestow them upon myself for the awesome jobs I've done in 2015 like these:

Bringing in the Mail 2015 season

Remembering My Address at the Post Office 2015

Not Saying a Word When Someone Tried to Tell me What Something Meant in Spanish 2015

Keeping Quiet While Doctor's Receptionist Corrected Me on the Pronunciation of My Son's Name

Keeping My Promise to Not Let My Laundry Pile Up on the Bedroom Chair 2015

Forgiving Myself  for Always Forgetting to Tell my Hair Stylist I'm Trying to Grow My Bangs Out

Not Speaking First and Letting the Door Canvasser Win When Asking to House Paint Quote

Not Cancelling Any Dentist Appointments Even Though I want to Cancel All Dentist Appointments

Having an Apple and a Salad Every Single Day So Far in 2015

Never Giving Up My Dream That Someday I'll Be Tall 2015

Walking an Hour Pretty Many Times This Year 2015

Lifting Arm Weights Up Until June 2015

Waiting and Watching People's Faces Before I Say Are You Serious? When They Ask a question

Keeping up With the Laundry All My Domestic Life (This would get one of those BIG ones you need to carry with two hands)

Getting the Hang of Succulent Pork Chops 2015

Handling Junk Mail as Soon as it Comes in the House 2015

Being Ok with Body Shifting in Spots 2015

Giving up Manis and Pedis 2015

Giving up Speeding 2015

Finally Liking My BRF 2015

Listening to Child Detail Minecraft Plans 2015

Not Voicing True Opinion on Spouse's Choice of Weekend Wear Summer 2015

Another Year of Being Alive 2015

Having My Name Be Alexandra 2015

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It's Really Not the Same as Waving a White Flag

Going on Hour 1? Hour 2? It's all a blur

The finish line is almost here, close enough to see its promise in the distance. All we need is just a few more strong strides and we're there, the end of August and HALLELUIA CELEBRATE because summer is now on its way to becoming something soft and fuzzy and in our memories.

But, for today, I still have five days left with a full house and the clues to how it all goes down at home in the last bit of summer are in full force all over my Facebook feed.

It's like the last day at a job, where you sorta do a good job, just enough so that you get a good reference.

One look at my lunches this week of August 24--a sleeve of saltines on a paper plate alongside three cold cuts-- and you know it's the end of August. If you were to see me driving to school to drop off pre-registration papers, it's with my slippers on because I don't care, it's still vacation. And if my signature is needed on all these papers, it's all good. They're not due until August 31, really, and August 31 isn't here... yet.

Way back in June, when I thought of these last days of August, I imagined I would give my kids a one week pre-school practice session of waking up early to acclimate them to hours that occur before 8:00 a.m., but as of this minute, I ask, Would it really kill them if they stay up past 11:00 p.m.? Especially when it makes them sleep until 11:00 a.m. the next day?

I also have a legit excuse to shop till I drop because back to school and all. Shopping will kill at least a day this last week. Three days if I take each child separately. Who doesn't love alone time with mama standing outside Aeropostale's fitting room doors providing jeans feedback?

Same with back to school haircuts. I can knock out a few mornings that way, too. And you know, with three kids no need for all of us to go all at once. Let's consider the stylist, sheesh.

I can Sharpie line through through Thursday morning, afternoon and evening with shoe shopping, x3.

Yeah, I know what I said three months ago about Regular Show being not for kids here, but you know they're going to hear this stuff at school anyway, so might as well let them hear it at home first. If I see them pass out fall asleep on the sofa after last night's Regular Show marathon, do I really have to wake them up to brush their teeth and go to bed? That would be a no. Calcium is at an all time high in children's teeth, they can handle it. And if they fall asleep on the sofa with clothes on? Winner winner chicken dinner, they wake up dressed for the next day of marathon TV watching. They can start as soon as they find the remote.

I know, I know, that in June when I was bright eyed and full of hope and summertime plans, I fool-heartedly planned 30 minutes of screen time at a time, no more--but it's summer's end. Have at it, kids! Just be sure to get off if you begin to see haloes. And don't blame visual disturbances on low blood sugar (what can I say, my hypochondria has made my kids into mini-m.d.s) I've kept your blood sugar up with ice cream sandwiches all day long, so I really don't have to make meals. During this last week of August, it's solely about keeping any one of you from getting dizzy or falling over if you get up too fast.

All of this sounds bad, I am aware, but it's not like the end of August has made me give up, or surrender. It's more like me recognizing that in fact, I can arrive at my destination on just fumes. What matters is that we make it, chugging and sputtering on through to the last gasp of summer.

 

We may crawl in on a wheeze to get there, our fingertips grazing the white chalk by an inch, but we reach it. The glorious finish line.

 

Here's to every one of us, who will pass on the baton of care and deliver our children to the front steps of their schools come the last day of August.

 

Stand proud, my friends, once you catch your breath. And don't we miss them already?

 

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Consider It a Brag Sheet

Years and years ago, I learned a trick that I keep in my back pocket. I pull it out to use when I have weeks that feel more like months. The wise dispenser of this universal knowledge was my then therapist--she would listen to me with her chin resting on the heels of both her hands, while she leaned in, like she was trying to hear the words I didn't say that were hidden between the ones that I did. I sat in her office, lulled by trust into feeling it was her living room, and I would tell her about my life.

"... and and and (hic sob) and... i just can't take on any more, you know? (hic)"

"... oh, that just... sounds like SO much. You really are doing so much."

"... i... i... i know. and i'm tired." (topples over mugful of pens on her desk while grabbing for tissue)

She was so smart, this woman. She knew what I needed was to have someone hear my lamentations without offering advice. Her words were like honey poured down a sore throat. I lapped up her syrupy offering by the eager spoonful. "Sounds like you're doing a lot." "My gosh, how do you do it all?" "Is there anything you can't do?" She was music to my ears.

Those were some mighty fine days in the sun with her. Until she developed psychotherapist burnout. Buh-bye Wisconsin and your soul-crushing winters, hello rejuvenating Arizona with your healing rays. She was gone.

But this treasure of a human being gave me something ever eternal: a pearl of wisdom that I now employ daily, and have even passed on to my children.

Behold, Dr. Suzanne's glistening nugget of treasure:

Don't wait for someone to say "good job." YOU tell yourself, good job.

I call this writing up my own brag sheet. This week has been ripe for it. Getting ready to send my son back to college, which will not be easy on the heart, and preparing my middle boy for his senior year of high school, AND preparing the youngest for junior high--It has been a week. One that needs me to reach around and pat my own shoulder blades with a "Good job, Alexandra!!" Double exclamation points!!

I had a lot to do, my friends, so celebrate with me. Read along to this week's brag sheet:

•Hauled off a vanful of toys, shoes, books, games, clothes to Goodwill.

•Cleaned, repaired, pressed, donated, school uniform items for kids that aren't able to buy uniforms.

•Took a meal to a new mom.

• Wrote a stack of long overdue thank you letters.

• Vacuumed and cleaned the minivan!

• Cooked dinner four times this week.

• Said what the heck and laughed in the face of stacked dishes and laundry and went with the three kids to see Minions.

• Took oldest kids back to school shopping and was patient throughout the selection process.

•At 7:30 a.m. on Monday, I went out to our front yard and had at it, pulling weeds like I was mad at somebody. We no longer look like the only Halloween-ready house in the subdivision.

There is still a lot I didn't do that I need to do before August is over BUT I did do some stuff, and doing some stuff is how you one by one knock the items off the stuff to do list.

Am I right? Or am I right?

GOOD JOB, ALEXANDRA!!

I know. I know.

It's enough to brag about.

 

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Respect the Loophole

1:25 p.m - 1/4 of an inch of juice left

I drink coffee as the vehicle for the 1,000 calorie flavored creamer. I eat bread for delivery of the fat-laden butter. The only reason I walk on the treadmill is because it makes it Ok for me to listen to Eminem even though I'm older than his mother.

I eat Raisin Bran for the raisins in milk and Lucky Charms for the cute baby marshmallows. (most people get the Lucky Charms one, but tell me the Raisin Bran one is just dumb because why not just eat raisins. Duh. Because I love raisins in milk but raisins in milk as a snack would call too much attention.)

Life is full of loopholes.

You can say you're doing research while you Youtube ThugLife cat videos. “I have to do this. It keeps my hand on the pulse of America's humor, kids!”

In summer's muggy haze, there is no easier time for a dinner loophole than quartering up a chilled head of iceberg lettuce to cool everyone off. Who wants real food anyway?

All you need for a loophole to present itself is a good set of brains, both hemispheres, one for sound reason, the other for downright conviction.

My children are masters of the loophole. They can slip in a cuss if they turn it into a reminder of how my hearing isn't what it used to be. "Mom, I know you think you heard me tell my brother he was going to get his ass destroyed, what I actually said was 'I wonder about tonight's asteroid storm.' You know you need to ask the Dr. about your hearing." True enough, my child.

You can loophole making faces at your brother because your mother says Don't say anything mean to your brother and you're not saying anything. Saying "Don't touch him" makes you wish you would have said Touch Him because the almost of a one inch away poking finger is more annoying than the landing of the finger.

Loopholes allow me to visit my kids at work. I can go to the grocery store where one is a bagger and to the pool, where the other one lifeguards. I had to buy groceries anyway, which explains why I'm at the store during his shift, and before one starts huffing and puffing that I'm at the pool spying on him, let me just say that the only reason I am at the pool is to see if the Silver Swimmers were holding a Waterworking Those Bat Wings lap session.

When I see how long my children will make the quarter inch of apple juice that's left, last to the point of them barely pouring enough into a glass to wet a hummingbird's lips, because of my words, "The person I see drink the last drop of juice, has to go to the basement and get a new gallon," we're entering some loophole-ripe ground here.
 

Here we have an empty gallon of juice. With no one responsible for bringing up the replacement, since I didn't see who drank the last drop.

 

  It is impossible for me to get angry in the face of such beautiful circumventing genius.

***

The Truth About Appearances

I was asked on twitter today about balance--and I knew they weren't talking about my Wii Fit score. They wanted to know what advice I had on getting it all done. It being, all of 'it'. I sat at the other end of the screen, surprised, because Wow Do I look like someone who has it all together?

How did that concept ever appear? I wanted to apologize if I made it seem that way because I am no master of my universe. Instead I said "There is no balance. Only daily work and reminding myself to be my personal cheerleader."

Later this afternoon, I googled "Balance+Life+Women" and found out a few things that made me laugh out loud in an ouch that hurts to know way. For instance, did you know you're supposed to do certain things daily?

True, one site suggested that for balance in life, you need to outline time needed for your daily non- negotiables.

And then they gave The Big 7:

Exercise
Sleep
Homecare
Work
Bills
Childcare
Cooking

They offered the tip that if you must, let some things slide, like TV. As if I didn't feel bad enough already about not meeting The Big 7 up there as it was... I find out that I should have had time to watch TV in there? I was even failing at watching TV??

Here's how I handle my Big 7:

-My exercise is speed walking for 50 minutes like I'm in England. Then I do 10 minutes of arm exercises. I also ignore all articles that begin with "Get that bikini body ready now!"
-My sleep is wherever I land in the house between the hours of 1 a.m. and 7.
-Homecare? (hire out, says the article) Yeah, no, tried it. By the time I picked up the house I decided I might as well clean it. Or not.
-Work hours for me are easy. I have one of the best jobs that suits me more and more each year. I get paid to play with preschoolers.
-Bills? I don't like to talk about money. That's not good, I know.
-Childcare. Schedule it? I am on deck, on call, that's how I like to do it all--with the kids in the background.
-Cooking? Now you hit on a non-negotiable. Food allergies, five hungry people. I'm the one who does feeding time because I'm the smartest, fastest, and best at it.

We are all scrambling for time. If we compare what others accomplish to what we've done, this won't ever work. We don't know if someone has a friend who comes over to help, or a mother that lives just six minutes away. Someone might have kids who play well by themselves, and still others may just have the knack for organizing their time.

Each one of us sees what someone else is doing and it's kneejerk simple to go to a chastising inner dialogue. Why aren't we writing more, exercising more, laughing more, funning more? We want to get things done and be productive, but what is THE TRICK?

I've thought long and hard about a better answer to give to that tweet from this morning. Almost 12 hours later, I'm pretty sure I know what it is.

The Big 7 up above don't count if you don't start with the mother of them all: if you don't have this one thing, the one you must do, nothing will work. Everything we do takes energy and without This One Thing, you'll be sapped of it. So-

Take care with how you talk to yourself.

That is all of it right there. Nothing will have your shoulders landing on your knees faster than the spiral of self-talk of how you're not as good as anyone else, how you can't keep up with everyone else, and how all that you do is half assed and slapped together.

Want to feel overwhelmed? Tell yourself you'll never find the time to do anything.
Want to feel muddled and confused? Just think of all you have to do over and over.
Going for anxious? Remind yourself of how far behind you are from your goals.

We need to feel good about ourselves to find the energy and drive to pursue and commit to the things we want. If you want to fire yourself up for all that you want in life, remember where good feelings come from. From hearing something good. That means no more of how much better and more together others are than we are. I'm no psychologist but I'd bet my cheetah spotted shoe collection on how depleting critical self talk can be. We have got to reframe our relationship with ourselves.

So. Don't do it anymore. Stop bad talking yourself. The Big 7 up above are whatever The Big 7 are to you. Take your non-negotiables from there.

Exercise - absolutely I do not miss a day. I want to live.
Sleep - without a doubt I am working on change. This year, I started changing into pajamas.
Homecare - clean toilets, floors, non-sticky counters and folded laundry. Enough.
Childcare - is what you need it to be in the season you're in. Parenting is dynamic. Children grow, life gets easier. It's easy to forget that. Your time to do will come.
Bills - a definite work in progress.
Work - I'm lucky, I like mine. I get to color! And play-dough in the morning!
Cooking - this is my fun. Dicing carrots, chopping garlic, feeding my people. This fills my tank.

This is how my Big 7 work for me.

And just typing that, made me smile already.

So go on, love on yourself and realize that we never know how others make it work, we can only know what makes it work for us.

Peace out.

xo

 

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New Hope for Stopping Nagging

Maybe they won't find me in my blanket tent

Summer vacation is nigh, and along with it our houses will soon be feeling as if they lost square footage in the transition from the school year.

When did our homes become so... cramped.

When did they become so... filled with bodies.

When did it start to feel like... there isn't enough air to breathe.

When did we only... have one pitch level to our voice and that of siren.

The answer to that is right about the time you stepped on water bottles left to roll on the ground, popped up Pringles canisters jabbing at the arch of your foot, and plates caked with cinnamon roll frosting discovered the next week when you're vacuuming.

By Day Four of Beautiful Summer Vacation, I am screaming. It's the visual assault of *The Things*, they are everywhere. And I'm not just talking about the kids.

How do I stop my screeching nagging?

There is good news, friends! Researchers at MamaLlama Resource Center (totally made up), also known as the makers of Mama Relax! tea and herbal supplements, have uncovered a new way to sedate reduce that trigger wail response of It's All Too Much.

There is a substance that will coat and soothe those frayed neuron receptors. The very ones that sway back and forth and take over your brain, making you scream Pick that up! And That over there too!

The answer is simple: Want to save your summer? Then...

 Invest in a warehouse size box of chocolate.

The size that requires a teenager to carry it out to your car. This substance will jump-start the relax response and interrupt the connection from eyes to brain to tongue. You won't see the things, you won't be able to scream about the things, you will feel so good while chocolate drool is oozing out of both corners of your mouth that researchers know their work will lead to a new conditioned response.

One that can save summer vacation and be used to develop positive memories of time spent together for every member of the household. *slurp*

For best results, chocolate must be shoved into mouth by the handful so that you can't close your lips. No dainty eating because this is the real deal that needs to go down.

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