Booze and Backpacks

Well, here we are again… the end of summer vacation. How I hate this time of year. Not because of the change in the weather – the nip in the morning air is rather refreshing, as my days of watering my flowers grow numbered. Not because it’s friggin’ dark when you get up at 3AM with your husband and then again at 6AM with your kids – I get used to the routine in a few days. Not because I have to make those infernal lunches again that I am ALWAYS complaining about – in truth, I take a certain pride in making sure that my family has healthy food to get through their busy days. I HATE this time of year because the girls go back to school. And I miss them. Go ahead. Assume that I’m one of “THOSE” mothers. The kind that think their kids walk on water (mine don’t – sometimes I’m tempted to hold their heads under, just to make sure they’re listening). The kind whose own lives cease to matter without being involved in the minutia of their children’s schedules (my own work agenda is frightful enough for me, thanks!). Believe me, I well and truly cut the umbilical cord when each daughter screeched her way into the world. I respect them as individuals, with their own responsibilities, as I tend to mine. Fact of the matter is, I actually LIKE my kids. Summer is a nice time for us to reconnect, without the hassles of homework, the mountains of laundry that HAVE to be done or the world as they know it will cease to exist (because we all know the horrendous fashion faux pas that results from being forced to wear the “orange” t-shirt versus the “dark peach”), the forms to be submitted on time, the fees to be paid on time, the library books to be returned on time… UGHHHH… just STOP! THAT is what summer is – it’s the “stop sign” of daily life. For a wonderful eight to ten weeks out of the year, we respect it. The rest of the time we blow past it like a bat outta hell and pray there’s a life cop somewhere in our midst that will pull us over and sentence us to time behind a bar - preferably one with excellent margaritas! So, as we sadly put our foot on the gas and accelerate our way into another year in academia, I thought to myself, “What can I do to make things more fun?” … then I answered, “SING ELAINE! SING!” Since I always try to listen to me, here’s my little ditty. Meet me at the bar when YOU get pulled over and we’ll do this one karaoke-style over those margaritas. On the first day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … the budget of a small-ish country On the second day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … two new backpacks, and the budget of a small-ish country On the third day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the fourth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the fifth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the sixth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the seventh day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the eighth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … eight kinds of gel pens, seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the ninth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … nine new erasers, eight kinds of gel pens, seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the tenth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … ten packs of looseleaf, nine new erasers, eight kinds of gel pens, seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the eleventh day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … eleven one-inch binders, ten packs of looseleaf, nine new erasers, eight kinds of gel pens, seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks and the budget of a small-ish country On the twelfth day of Back to School, my daughters asked of me … twelve cups of coffee, eleven one-inch binders, ten packs of looseleaf, nine new erasers, eight kinds of gel pens, seven pairs of undies, six boys for gawkin’ at, fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive pairs of jeans … four packs of pencils, three styles of notebooks, two new backpacks … and the budget of a small-ish country!

Morphing Mother

People who know me generally say that I’m a quiet person… a polite person… a respectful person. These are, I believe, accurate – until someone dares to hurt my child. Then, in the blink of an eye, I morph into a “Mama Bear” that would have EATEN Goldilocks long before fussing over whether she had tasted my porridge, sat in my chair or slept in my bed! You definitely don’t want to be standing between me and the poor, unfortunate soul who makes my daughter cry. Now, let’s frame this realistically. Kids are not perfect. Lord KNOWS my kids aren’t. They make their share of mistakes, bad judgment calls and have been known to do things so utterly mind-boggling from time to time that I have no recourse but to dissolve into a puddle of quivering laughter. Having said that – and some of you need to pay extra close attention here – as a matter of fact, scoot up rrrrrrrrrrrrrreal close to the monitor so that you don’t miss this: YOUR KIDS ARE NOT PERFECT EITHER!!!!!!!!! OK… so we’re all on the same page? Good! Let’s proceed. The other day, my younger daughter was using the desktop computer in my office. It has been a long summer for her which, while really nice and thoroughly enjoyable, has also been rather lonely. Her friends have been off here and there, dragging unhappy little behinds to day camps or going on family trips… the usual summer fare. So, she has been filling her days with worthwhile projects and, with permission, amusing herself on the Internet. Well, unbeknownst to me, she sent a prank email to one of her friends. Normally, she asks before she visits different websites but this was a joke generator – you know, one of those things where you give it a bunch of names or random words and it generates a silly story and sends it to an email address? Thinking her friend would appreciate the joke, off it went. Within the half hour that followed, my phone rang no less than three times. She answered the first call, said very little other than “sorry” and hung up. I turned to ask about the call, only to find her eyes filled with tears! It seems the recipient of the joke didn’t “get it.” Somehow, even though the text was so silly, so inane, so impossibly phony, the other child thought it was real. My daughter was basically accused of starting nasty rumors… which is really hard to do with a one-time email that was sent to a single address. Anyway… We proceeded to compose an email that provided the girl (and her mother) with all the information about the prank website, its privacy policy (because somehow they believed that this email was posted online somewhere!) and further details, encouraging them to review it for themselves so they would understand. As we clicked “send,” my phone rang. Again, my daughter answered. Again, she began to cry. I had had ENOUGH. I took the phone from her hand and addressed the other child by name… only to be hit with “uh… um… no… uh… this is (insert other mother's name here). This woman called MY house and started to give MY daughter hell, along with instructions about how she is to behave online. My daughter was unable to get a word in edgewise and simply stood, phone in hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. All this because she had sent her friend a joke! RRRRRROARRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!! Look out lady… here comes Mama Bear… Me: Can I HELP YOU? She: Yes, I was just calling to tell your daughter not to send …. Me: Stop right there. Do you KNOW what I do for a living?! She: No… Me: The biggest part of my job is working to help keep children safe online! She: uhhhh…. From this point on, let’s just say the conversation became a LOT of me talking and a LOT of her listening. I heard her concerns and respectfully explained that my children are NOT given free reign on the Internet. They are NOT allowed to be online, without permission, in my home (and, yes, I know that there are computers in plenty of places other than my office, thanks! I control the ones that I can and hope they’ve learned enough to deal with the rest). More than anything else, I would never allow one of my kids to say, do, send, create or otherwise be involved in something that harms or hurts another child – online OR off. My workdays are filled with kids doing EXACTLY THAT and I won’t tolerate it from my own. After Mama Bear’s claws finally retracted, the other mother explained to me that her daughter has “had trouble” in the past with posting friends’ photos on her website (without permission from those minor-aged kids or their parents) and the parents called her, demanding they be taken down. Her daughter didn’t understand that either. She has not yet learned the concept of what we call giving “personally identifying information” online… and that INCLUDES images. A bout of nasty guestbook posting resulted in complaints that somehow escalated all the way to their school principal! At this point, I got a very clear picture. Consequently, I spent a long time, on the phone, answering questions and giving details about websites that are not appropriate for kids of her daughter’s age, what random instant messages are, right down to the “codes” that kids type to each other to signal to their IM buddies that there is a “POS.” In my day, that meant “piece of s**t” and usually applied to cars! Now, it means “Parent Over Shoulder” as in “Don’t type a thing to me right now that you don’t want my mom or dad to see!” At the end of our conversation, she told me that she doesn’t know much about computers and isn’t one bit interested in learning. That’s her prerogative BUT, if your child is going to be online from sun up to sun down, you have a responsibility to learn some things! This entire fiasco reminded me that there are too many parents out there who are very quick to discipline OTHER people’s children. They are very vocal about the behavior of OTHER people’s children. They are also very quick to criticize OTHER parents. I respectfully suggest that good behavior and discipline start at HOME. So, you worry about the porridge, chairs and beds in YOUR house, Goldilocks, and let me take care of MINE because – word of warning from Mama Bear – ya mess wit da cubs, you’re gonna get bit.

Belly Laughs

My husband makes me laugh. (I know – don’t they all, really?) He obsesses over silly things like a receding hairline or the size of his belly. He never seems to consider things like heredity or the fact that he’s lost more than 20 pounds thanks to the physical nature of his job. Perhaps he’d like to remember that, when I worked at that same company a couple of years ago, in a job that had a similar physical element, I didn’t lose an ounce. Didn’t gain anything, mind you – just stayed at the same blasted friggin’ weight that I’ve always been. Yet, he complains. Men don’t seem to realize how lucky they are. We try to tell them. They laugh us off. We diligently explain (ad nauseum) the inequities in our society that allow men to go grey / bald / fat / pasty / smelly (well ok, “temporarily” smelly) / wrinkly / liver-spotted / you-name-it and still maintain the exact same level of self-confidence and self-esteem. If you’ve ever once had to tell your man to clip his (a) toenails; (b) fingernails; (c) ear hair; and/or (d) nose hair BEFORE leaving the house, you know what I’m talking about. The aging process for a man may not be pretty – but it’s accepted. When you think about it, barring serious illness, getting older is the only physical change they really deal with in life – AND they get to do it in small doses. They never have to deal with the effects of life’s great demoralizer…. PREGNANCY Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED being pregnant. I have said it before and I’ll say it again. Never, in my entire life – especially the one I’m living at this moment where I can entertain myself counting how many colorful little pills it’s going to take to eventually control my blood pressure – never did I feel healthier than when I was pregnant. Did I care about my weight then? Nope. It was exciting to go through a pregnancy and only gain a reasonable 20-some pounds. It was positively thrilling to go from a B-cup to a DD. It was darn near orgasmic to go out in the world WISHING people would notice the size of my belly. Thing is, no one ever told me the truth about what you’re left with AFTER all the euphoria. No, no, no – I don’t mean the kids. I knew about them. It’s the changes that stay with you forever that I wasn’t quite expecting. I’ve spoken to lots of women about these things and I get the overwhelming sense that I’m not the only one who was surprised. Take, for instance, the one woman who told me about how she diligently moisturized and practically inhaled vitamin E to avoid stretchmarks. She bragged to her husband routinely about how smooth her belly was – not one of those ugly red squiggles in sight! She went on and on about how she was going to be the exception to the rule and he (not having the balls to fight with mood swings and hormones, I suppose) just smiled and responded with the usual “Yes, honey, you sure will.” Then, after months of trying to snuggle up and spoon with her at night, only to have her POP out of his arms like a frantic little porker in a greased pig contest, his scrotum finally descended from wherever it had been hiding. Throwing off the blankets, he stomped into the bathroom and grabbed a hand mirror. He placed it firmly in her hand and said, “Trying looking UNDER YOUR BELLY!!!” I’m sure they’ve faded to little white squiggles by now. Not all the residual changes are visible, though. When we were kids, we used to go “up north” to my maternal grandparents’ home for our summer vacations. Being in the mountains, there were lots of hills to negotiate on our drive there. My father delighted in the fact that, from the time she was first pregnant onwards, my mother got nauseous on even the smallest of dips. She’d grasp frantically to the dashboard, stomping her “invisible brake” as if it could stop the simultaneous spinning in her head and stomach. Dad would, of course, hit the gas going downhill, as if it was even necessary, and he would laugh and laaaaaaugh while Mom struggled to keep down her breakfast. We’d hoot and holler in the backseat like we were on a rollercoaster. This brings me to the next change – rollercoasters. Prior to my pregnancies, amusement parks were fun. I’ve always had a fear of heights but I was up for the “Scrambler” or the “Tilt-a-Whirl” any day! Something “shifted” in my head during pregnancy, I swear. Stifle the smart remarks, please. It must be payback for laughing at my mom but I can no longer tolerate even the smallest spin. I feel like my head’s going to explode. My equilibrium seems to be totally shot because I can’t even look down in a moving car anymore without being in serious danger of losing my lunch. I know I’m not alone in this one either. An acquaintance of ours (post-two-pregnancies herself) spent most of her time at our nearby amusement park doing “trash can inspections”… and she wasn’t looking for returnable bottles! So, unfortunately for my kids, by virtue of their very existence, Six Flags is never going to be on our vacation roster – well, unless they go with my husband. … at least he won’t have to worry about his hair blowing around on the rides!