Updates and Odds/Ends

Item 1:  Hair has been styled.  Keep in mind, someone else colored, foiled, heat-set, washed, glazed, re-washed, conditioned, cut and blow-dried this mop earlier today.  I'm wondering how many days I can go without touching it, hoping the "do" will stay "did".  I read that Brooke Shields goes 5 days between shampoos, workouts notwithstanding.  I figure I can at least make it 'til tomorrow night's NC Theatre production of Miss Saigon, where I have to do some volunteer pimping.  If anyone touches my head, they will "miss" Saigon.  I think I just stole NCT's marketing tag line, but it fits.  Deal.

Item 2:  Pacifier Problem Redux

He found the paci drawer!  Baby Everett, the tiny terrorist, has reached that stage where no baby lock, gate or safety device can keep him from his quest to seek, conquer and destroy. Eight days after being weaned from his binky bent, he found the secret stash (all 9 of them!) in a random reconnaissance mission in the kitchen.  He absently popped one in his mouth, with the look of Mike Krzyzewski after a Duke basketball victory...a stonefaced "Duh, you were expecting something different?"!!!  I snagged the whole paci family in one frantic swoop, and threw them en masse into my closet -- behind the only doorknob he has yet to defeat.

He threw a three-year-old tantrum...18 months early!!    I created a diversion, quite possibly involving cash payments, and resolved to pack away the paci's for posterity...in the attic.  Tomorrow.

Item 3:  Still no "help wanted" signs at the Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins construction site.

That may be due to the absence of window panes, but I find that to be a minor technicality.  Duct tape, people.  

Item 4:  Sleep deprivation revisits.  With hubby back on the road, I find 500 things to do once the kids go to sleep, but I mostly end up gazing at the bag of Nestle's chocolate chips,  

counting the days until the end of Lent and the rekindling of my romance with sugar.  I surf,  I straighten, and I stare at the mountain of clean clothes I refuse to fold.  Isn't that why the laundry room has a door?

Item 5: The baby is rediscovering his overnight vocal prowess, with an uncanny ability to repeat the word "mama" more times than I would ever care to count.  

He screams it, sobs it, hollers it, barks it, blubbers it, moans it, then eventually whispers it as I stand just outside his door, peeking in with my good eye.  

The baby books say to allow this behavior, but it only works in our house when daddy is gone. Daddy would have reintroduced the pacifier by now.  

I catch a glimpse in the mirror as I stagger toward the stairs.  Deep, dark undereye circles.  But some damn nice hair.....

Hooray for Harris Teeter!

    The "Teet" is tops on my grocery list--

Not for the super selection of fresh produce, the scrumptious samples (DO shop hungry in this store!) and the killer deli...

Not even for the made-to-order pizzas that you can pick up on your way home from work or carpool.

No, this goes WAY beyond the food-- MY Harris Teeter is loaded with customer servers-- so much so that I will now pass two other grocery stores to shop at this den of do-gooders!

Let me rewind about six months, to my son's first birthday.  While guests started arriving for his party, I was dumpster-diving in my garage, trying to locate my Harris Teeter receipt.  I had shopped there earlier in the day, and used my debit card to get $40 cash back from my purchase.   In my rush to beat the partygoers, I forgot to snag the cash.   One of the early guests tried to sell me something (doesn't that always happen at your parties??!) and when I saw my empty wallet I realized my shopping slip-up-- hence the dumpster-dig.

In the birthday brouhaha, I lost track of my quest, and added that to my list of bad mommy moves.    I mourned for the lost lattes that $40 could have purchased, but I figured it was some kind of sign to stay out of Starbucks.

Fast-forward to March 23...more than 6 months after MY mistake.  I casually mentioned my bonehead move to the cashier, Angela, and she told me to take my concerns to Cheryl in accounting.  More than that, she called Cheryl over to the register, and I sheepishly sold her my story.  She skipped-- really! -- to her office, and moments later returned with a computer printout.  She informed me that, indeed, a register had come up $41.37 "over" that very September day.  She paged Paul, the store manager, who didn't even blink before signing off on my refund! 

Cheryl walked back to the office and presented me with two beautiful, crisp $20 bills, and didn't once ask to draw blood or even see my driver's license!  I love that woman!

So now, my joy is overshadowed with the realization that Harris Teeter is completing construction on another of its grocery stores RIGHT OUTSIDE MY NEIGHBORHOOD (same shopping center as the soon-to-open Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins den of delight!).  Question is-- do I pass this one to get to the good one, or will my new best friends Cheryl and Paul be okay with me cheating on them with their more-convenient cousin?

I'll have to check, next time I'm cashing in at the Teet!!

Footloose in Church

Tap...tap...giggle...

Tap...twist...giggle...

That was the soundtrack to today's 10:45am Mass at my church.  A little boy in the row ahead of me, probably age 4, was playing footsie with me under his chair.  He was face down on the floor, coloring quietly, and tapping his foot into mine.  

His poor young mother, probably 33, with firm Michelle Obama arms and sculpted cheekbones, tried fervently to get him to pay attention to the service, but his feet would have none of it.

Tap...slide...giggle...

I smiled inwardly, thinking about how stressed I was at that woman's age...with 2 young children, a busy career, a traveling husband.   I, like her, desperately wanted people to think my kids were well-behaved.   I didn't invent it, but I elevated the "mom church whisper" to Oscar-winning drama heights.  My older daughter felt the threat of a lightning strike everytime she crossed into a sanctuary!  But did the kids behave?  Ah, well...occasionally.

Tap...stomp...giggle...

The priest was talking about Nicodemus, the questioning prophet, and my mind wandered to the questions my kids would ask in church:  "How big is God?"..."Will the Communion wine make me drunk?"..."Did someone just do GAS?!"  

The young mom was still trying to settle her silly son, but he was having too much fun with his secret game to obey for very long.

Tap...wiggle...giggle...

The priest started talking about Psalm 137:  "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion".  He reminded us that we all get a little misty when we think of the "good old days".  The days when our children were young and silly and impetuous and questioning and full of wonder.  I thought about my older son, still trying to decide what he wants to study in college.  My older daughter, about to leave high school and start a whole new college adventure in Florida, also crossed my mind.  I prayed for them.   My younger daughter, well-mannered and sitting beside me in church, sang from her hymnal.  I squeezed her hand.  And I chuckled, thinking about my rowdy baby-dude at home with his dad, tearing up the playroom yet again and sneaking cookies when no one's looking.  I thanked God for them all.

Tap...press...smile...

Only that time it was me, signaling to my little crayon buddy that his "good old days" are still ahead...as long as he keeps remembering to play footsie.

The Cold, Hard Truth

I want to school-girl slap the mom who sent her kid with a cold to the health club nursery.

Now my kid, who stole the sick kid's pacifier, has generously passed the offending germs to me. Sniff.  I drip as I write, but I digress.

Who do these mothers think they are?  

Is their workout SO important that they risk the health of all the other kids in the nursery by bringing in their snotty progeny?  Yeah, there's antibacterial foam in the dispenser, but my kid thinks that's whipped cream and licks it off his hands before it can do its murderous magic on germs.    He loves to manhandle my face, and I'm sure he shoved some nastiness into one of my intake valves this week.  Hence, the dripping, droopy doldrums of a Winter cold have settled in, just before the first day of Spring. 

I want to find that chick, grab her face, and sneeze right into it.   Not just once, either.  Lots of times, like a car backfiring in a traffic jam. 

That's how I've been sneezing since Tuesday when I first came down with this incarnation of the common cold.   Sneezing and blowing and coughing and sniffing and driving my family nuts with my tissue issues.

 With four kids, I certainly have had my share of sniffles, but this one seems more annoying than most.  That's probably because I know it was caused by some cretin who didn't care that her sick kid would infect the rest of the herd.  I wish I had stayed in the nursery long enough to see the mom who belonged to the pacifier kid, to school her in some common health habits.  Things like:  

"Buy a stroller.  Keep your germy kid in it and push it up lots of hills.  Feel the burn."

Or next time, you might feel the sting of a snotty Kleenex, lobbed from a miserable mom who's sick of being sick.

The Passing of the Pacifier

The paci is passe.

The binky is banished.

The ninny is nada.

It's yet another rite of passage for baby Everett--now left with just "soft blankey" to keep him comforted through the night.  His trusty "pass", and its eight look-alike siblings, are now relegated to the napkin drawer in the kitchen-- the one

 underneath the toaster.  Maybe that's my subliminal way of keeping them warm for him, just in case he suffers some setback.  Basically, if his life starts to suck, he'll want to suck, and I'll

 probably let him!

Somehow this transition was SO much easier than my first son's parting with the pacifier.  That one required a lengthy ceremony, complete with salutes and sobs.  Three-year-old Sam was allowed to stay up with daddy and watch football if he tossed his pacifier into the trash.  No problem.  Hanging out was a blast, until the little guy realized he was tired and wanted his paci back so he could fall asleep.  Alas, the   

 garbage man had already hauled off the paci, so Sam was forced to cold-turkey his nightly habit.  Major problem. 

 We ended up reversing the locks on his bedroom door to

 keep him from rampaging through the house, in full paci-withdrawal mode.  It took 3 nights, but Sam finally said bye-bye to his binky.

With 18-month-old Everett, it was more of a subtle shift.  Thanks to a wise babysitter, he stopped napping with the paci, and only asked for it at nighttime, with me.  Shamed by a woman half my age, I felt the need to continue the paci phase-out.  Oh, but did I mention this plan coincided with the first night of Daylight Saving Time?  STUPID, stupid move!  Since I was committed to staying the course, I was the one who had to rock him for three hours overnight, watch infomercials with him, and feed him bananas on the back porch while gazing at the moon, all in a feeble attempt to hypnotize him back to sleep without the thing he loved best in all the world.  STUPID, stupid mommy!! 

 One more thing.  My husband had to awaken at 4 o'clock the next morning for a business trip.  I was Keith Olbermann's Worst Person in the World that night.  Or at least my husband and child thought I deserved the award.

It took a couple more nights of rocking to get him to forget the pacifier, and  now he's stopped asking for it.   But here's the thing:  The rocking is his methadone.  Now he's a cuddle junkie.  As in, rock this wild-child to sleep

every night.  For as long as it takes, mom.  

Makes you wonder who's the real sucker in this house....   

Tee-Hee Art Tour

I chaperoned some third-graders on a field trip

today to the North Carolina Museum of Art.  For

 those unfamiliar, this serves as the renowned home of some of the world's most treasured pieces. 

Monet at his 1882 finest with "The Cliff, Etretat, Sunset"...

And who could miss Pierre-Jacques Volaire's 1777 masterpiece, "The Eruption of Mt. Vesuvius". 

Yet all the kids saw were butts.

Butts and breasts and the occasional missing genetalia.  Remember, some of those sculptures

 are OLD!

The docent did a decent job of prepping the kids for the peep show, but even she knew it was just a powder keg waiting for a match.   These nine-year-olds could barely keep from busting a gut when they saw the artistic rendering of someone's butt.  Or chest.  Or torso in any phase of undress.  

The real comedy came when the guide tried to get the kids to focus on a masterwork, then turn around to see what they remembered.  Only she forgot that a nude dude in bronze was smack dab in front of them once they had turned.  A few goody-goodies in the group dutifully answered the grownup questions, but the funsters in the crowd were bent on seeing the boodies.

So here's my suggestion for the next third-grade visit:  The naked museum tour.  Honor their little fascination with form and, er, function, and give them the real deal.  Show them the beauty of the human form and explain the reasoning and motivation behind the artworks.  Get it over with, and allow the kids to see the beauty in all shapes and sizes of bodies. Invite the parents.  Mix in the metaphors and mosaics and mythology, and give them an education they'll remember in an artistic way.  Peel away the puritanical and prurient...give them precious information they can use and appreciate.

 

Sometimes the bare facts are all you need.

True Happiness is Just a 

Hardhat Away!!!

They're building a Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robbins outside my neighborhood!!!!!!!!

Not just a coffee shop...not just an ice cream parlor.  No, this is the mack-daddy combo-deluxe megawatt sugarbuzz vessel for all of my vices.  And there's a drive-thru.  Hallelujah!!

You have to know the backstory to appreciate my delight at this 8th Wonder of my World.  I had to give up caffeine in 1986, and have since tried every stinkin' type of decaffeinated concoction ever served.  The only one that comes close to real coffee is the Dunkin' Decaf.   Starbucks burns their decaf roast on purpose to punish people who don't (or can't) crave their over-priced cappuccinos.  McDonald's always shorts you on the cream, yet they insist on adding it for you so you don't sue them for burning your crotch while mixing-and-driving.  Krispy Kreme has decent decaf, but it doesn't compare to Dunkin's smooth, steamy, mellow blend with REAL cream.  Not soy-moo or whatever the gas station presents as "non-dairy" creamer.  If it never expires, does it stay in your digestive tract forever?  Think about it....

As for the back half of my den of delight...the Baskin Robbins ice cream store-- there are only three words necessary:  jamocha almond fudge.  I defy you to find an ice cream with more texture, more flavor, more delicious gooey-ness than my fudgey-fave.   I once threatened to beat up a BR employee who cleaned the shake machine 15 minutes before closing and tried to refuse me my J-A-F shake.  She apparently didn't realize that I was 8 months pregnant and quite capable of eating her on-site.  She made the shake.

Realize, too, that this all-star combo restaurant is within walking distance of my house.  Walking, as in: "Strap in, stroller child...mommy needs to shuffle down the road for her decaf, then powerjog home to burn off the ice cream"!  

I shamelessly seek 'help wanted' signs during my daily drive-by's at 

the construction site.  I'm hoping one of my kids can snag a job there and hook me up with an intravenous feed.   Hey, I'm only across the parking lot....!

 Oh, they can not throw up that building fast enough for me.  Perhaps I can shuffle down and help with trimwork or roofing...I can move pretty darned fast for someone who hasn't had caffeine in two decades!!

Desperately Seeking Hairstyle!

WANTED:  Hair-STYLE!


Another day, another ponytail.

Mid-life new-mommyhood has thrown a whole new kink into the life of my hair.

Let's just call it what it is-- a disco

 tragedy.  Too straight to be curly, too wavy to be straight, 

too gray to be brunette, too dark to be blonde...too frizzy to go au naturel, and too thick to blowdry efficiently without standing over my own head.

It's a daily struggle to find a way to leave the house without:

a)embarrassing my teenage daughter,

b)spending a fortune on products,

c)taking 40 minutes to blowdry,

d)chasing down a ponytail holder (last known address: securing cabinet doors in the kitchen, hoping to keep out a curious toddler),

e)all of the above nonsense!

Being almost 5'10", I've gotten used to the fact that pixie-perfect short hair

 usually looks best on pint-sized, Hollywood bodies.   Think Paris Hilton.  And post-baby, that ain't me!!  Nothing screams "soccer mom" like a Geraldine Ferraro knockoff on a middle-age gal wearing a "loose" sweater and comfortable shoes!

But with a terrorist toddler to tend, how does a mom who used to have some style (not to mention energy!) get put together enough to feel good leaving the house?   Blowdrying usually involves a little guy with a runny nose clinging to my calves and drooling baby toothpaste on my shoes.   So most days, the ponytail prevails.

I read in some hipster-mom magazine that the new "fresh" ponytail involves some crown

 teasing, spray shine, elastic and a hairband.  Note how my attempt looks more like a bad science project, or Kilauea on crack!

If anyone knows of a fabulous, easy-care, low-maintenance/high-style do that works for seriously color-treated hair that's curly-straight, do tell!!  In the meantime,  I'll be bent over the kitchen cabinets, unwinding elastic from the knobs and standing guard over the tupperware in my ponytail!

The Hassle of Homework

It's a safe bet that my parents never really knew what classes I was taking.  They posted the good report cards on the fridge, alongside the prize-worthy school art projects and grocery lists, but I don't recall them ever meeting with a teacher or questioning a grade.  For me, or most of my other 8 siblings.  There was always Tim, but he's saved for another blog!

So my question:  Why are today's parents-- namely, me -- expected, or rather, REQUIRED to bird-dog homework and school assignments that rightfully belong to our kids??!

I've been through this twice already-- and now the third child has a book report due Friday. I've stopped counting how many times I've told her to read her Princess Diana biography, yet I keep prodding her, hoping she'll get inspired enough by some juicy tidbit about bulimia or Balmoral to finish the damn book.  I find myself hating the sound of my voice, nagging her to get her work done.  I think, stupidly, that she'll do her homework, just to shut me up.  But she has other ideas, and other distractions, and thus my problem: 

How do we inspire kids to be self-motivated without doing the motivating?

Maybe this is the time I should let chips fall, and allow her to suffer the consequences of a half-hearted attempt.  Nothing like a crummy grade to shake up a "pleaser" student.   She is only in third grade, and testing into the AG program (translation: set you up as a "smart kid" for the rest of your academic career)...so one crappy book report grade won't keep her from getting a Morehead scholarship. 

 

But would it jump-start the "self" part of self-discipline?   Can a kid this young really "backtime" how long it takes to do a project, without parental help?  And how much is too much input?  Do I micromanage her after-school time, or let her figure out her own time management?  

These are the "mom-ager" questions that I've yet to figure out, even after being in this game for nearly 2 decades.  We want our kids to strive for greatness, to actually be great-- and to do the work it takes to be great.  If we do it for them, they're not so great.  And neither are we.

Maybe my folks had the right idea all along...oblivion is the new "quality time"!

SNOW DAY

Ah, the glorious snow day...

After the threat of a two-hour school delay, we went to bed knowing we'd be able to sleep in a bit.

So why did my daughter's high school feel the need to call BEFORE we normally would have awakened, to let us know school was cancelled for the day??!  At least give us the two-hour courtesy nap!  

Once disturbed, sleep is over for the night for me, so I thought I'd document the quiet stillness that blankets central North Carolina on a rare snow day.  This is one of those places where an inch may as well be a foot, because even a snippet of snow can cause havoc on country roads.  No school bus service = no school.  There's simply not enough equipment to clear the roads, and there never will be.  It doesn't snow enough here to justify the cost of trucks and plows, so we shut down for a day or so and enjoy ourselves-- complete with bread, milk and eggs.  I guess everyone stocks up for French toast when we hear snow is coming.

Northerners love to laugh at this proposition, but it doesn't take them long to warm to the wonder of a Carolina snow day.  Businesses shut down so parents can tend to the children.  Neighbors set the soup pots boiling and invite chilly children in for cocoa.   People who normally wave through the windshield on their way to work have a chance to chat with folks who live down the block but don't visit very much.   Rusty toboggans rumble down rolling hills, the peals of children's laughter ringing through the frigid air.    It's not uncommon to see a trash can lid or even a shower curtain substitute for a sled, since Southerners are known for two things: ingenuity, and lack of snow gear.

The best part of a snow day is the free and easy family time.  The worst part is knowing that the kids will have to use part of Spring break to make up for the lost school time.  

But we don't think about that on a snow day.  We bundle up and build snowmen.  And we turn off the phone ringers, in case there's another too-early wake up call tomorrow.

Take a Load Off...

The Laundry Conundrum

Remember that story you heard in 9th grade biology class--about how, in 1864,  Louis Pasteur disproved the theory of "spontaneous generation"?   He obviously never visited my 2009 laundry room.

Our laundry multiplies.  It doesn't spawn mice, the way the ancients used to think. It spawns more laundry.  Piles and piles of it.  Not just repeatedly, but continuously.  

Cadres 

of cotton, loads of linen, wads of wool...name it, and I have it in bulk.  I try setting up a schedule to knock it out in one big chunk, but nothing works.   Invariably someone will need to "iron" some jeans (translation:  empty the dryer and toss in the slacks for a quick spin) and the semi-dry laundry will sit on the folding table, waiting for the inevitable re-wash.  I could vacation in Venice on the money I've wasted on laundry soap, cleaning clothes that I washed just the day before!

The random red lipstick, lost in the washer, made lovely pink stains on all the guys' briefs, causing some confused stares in the gym locker room.  The yellow dog hair never quite comes out of the black shirts, and the well-water smell lingers in the towels long after they're folded in the closet.

But nothing beats the wet Pampers, accidentally tossed in the washer with the baby's pajamas.

You can't imagine how much water those suckers can hold.  Until they pop.  The absorbent filler dots look like tiny transparent jello worms, wriggling through the worsted.  It takes three more wash cycles to get all the gel blobs out of the clothes.   And we had diaper disasters twice last week!!!

I'm writing the Nobel folks, in hopes of snagging a science prize this year.  Pasteur, puh-leeze!!

The laundry has its own genealogy in my house, with bibs begetting blankets, begetting boxers.

Maybe I can coax the detergent to s

pontaneously regenerate-- I'll wear my Nobel science medal on my gondola ride!!