I am out of town for work. One overnight. Got an email from Madigan:
Maddy:
Hi Mommy!Me:
How are you?
When are you getting home?
I miss you.
I am well! how are you? I am looking froward to smooching your face in a little while!
I think I'll be home after your bedtime. I'm missing you like crazy.
xoxo -
I love you.
At the rest stop....
Maddy: Didja go?
Levi: Yes.
Maddy: Didja flush?
Levi: There was no flush.
Maddy: Didja wash?
Levi: There was no wash.
Maddy: EEEEEEWWWWW.
Levi: Do you hafta go?
Maddy: No.
Levi: Good. 'Cause its horrendous in there.
"Something smells terrific!" says Madigan.
"What smells so good?" asks Levi. "I can't wait to eat it, whatever it is."
Today I am in my kitchen.
Today is glorious.
Tomorrow I will tell you all about it.
So, the girl child and I are going to a special seminar this week. And tonight the husband and I went to a facilitated group discussion at her middle school to learn about talking to your child about sex and drugs. We didn't get to the drugs.
The doctor leading the group (PHD, not MD) works with pregnant teens. She talked about how a success in her workday is getting a mom to choose to put water in a baby bottle before soda, spending a couple of nights a week at home, rather than going out every single night. And how she engages the pregnant and new mom teens and elevates their esteem by having them travel around to schools and speak about their circumstances to share what they could have done differently.
She also shared that, as good as it is for the school teens to hear these girls stories, it is so much more important for these young moms themselves, as it can help to keep them from having second and third children while still in their teens.
Tonight I learned some staggering facts:
Over 80 percent of teen mothers drop out of school, never to return again.
Over 80 percent of teen fathers are out of the picture. Of the remaining 20 percent, most do not see their children even once a week.
Teen pregnancy costs the US 8 billion dollars a year.
Timeline of me:
at 24 - met Ruben
at 25 - moved in together, got a dog and got pregnant (not in that order)
at 26 - my heart broke and my daughter was born
at 27 - married that man of mine
at 28 - moved my little family to the mountains
at 29 - got pregnant again (took a while this time)
at 30 - had the boy and started my "stay at home" career
at 31 - regretted all of my previous judgments about stay at home mothers
at 32 - my little girl went to kindergarten
at 33 - Levi started pre-school and I got a part time job at a beautiful but horrible bakery
At 34 - went back to work full time
At 35 - we moved to a different home in the mountains and Levi started kindergarten
At 36 - new school for the kiddos and I surprised my family on Christmas morning with a trip to Disneyland - our first
At 37 - 2 new jobs in one year - this year, she is a hard one
Not what I would have supposed. Almost nothing that I would change.
Work stress. Clients will always want more. Stupid lack of time and energy. Missed girl child's first soccer game.
Fuck that shit.
I spent the weekend in my kitchen. I cooked myself back into myself. And I am feeling more whole right now than I have in quite a long time.
Friday night I baked up a huge pan of lemon bars for the boy child's soccer team snack.
Saturday I slept late and after the boy's soccer game I made a pot of beans (for refried beans), a lovely salmon dinner and a banana bread for Sunday morning breakfast. Today Rube and worked together to make a FANTASTIC smoked pork roast, these potatoes right here, and Madigan and I worked together on an apple crisp.
OK.
I remember this person.
I found her in the kitchen. Fewsh.
Levi just started second grade.
Which caused me to recall Madigan's second grade class's winter performance.
Between the third grade offering of a short (undetermined-holiday-themed) play, and a variety of festive songs (not specific to one holiday or religion) offered up by the first grade, Mrs. William's second graders performed:
A Music and Movement Interpretation of Piet Mondrian's Neoplasticism.
Complete with all-black beat nick outfits and brightly colored pool noodles.
The music was an energetic interpretation on Orff instruments; glockenspiels, xylophones and metallophones. Of course.
Remember those simpler times?
Sigh.
My firstborn child just turned eleven.
She is a middle schooler.
She has a brand new patch of bright purple hair. (Subtly hidden below all of her other hair.)
And all of this means that I am feeling super fucking OLD.
She spent the weekend with a friend she has had since preschool. Up Until 3:00 AM. She was exhausted. So we spent the day at home today, until around 4:00 when I decided we should go to Trader Joe's for a few things.
On the drive to the store - both my kids fell asleep in the car.
I'm not feeling as old anymore.
This morning, while getting ready for work, I plunked down on the stairs next to my daughter, threw my arm over her shoulder and I asked her about the book she's been reading the past few days.
Sakes alive.
Madigan, much like her father, has no ability to edit. None. She droned on and on about every single excruciating detail of this 150 page book, sprinkled with the obvious, "Oh! Wait, I forgot this one part where..."
Twenty motherfuckingminutes later I had to cut her off. Cause if I didn't I was going to shove her face into the dog hair covered stairway carpeting just to muffle the sound of her voice so my ears could stop bleeding on to my work dress.
Honestly I should have known better because a few weeks ago my husband took her to see WALL*E and I couldn't be there so when they returned I'd asked her what it was all about. It took her nearly a half hour to describe a movie that has NO TALKING for the first hour.
How could I let this happen again?
My brain must have blocked it. Like childbirth.
This weekend is the Garlic Festival. My children and I will be joining my brother for a hot day of smelly food and people, like we do every year. (The food there is out of this fucking world. Seriously.)
Last year my family had quite an adventure there.
There will be no kid competitions this year (that I know about) so we should have a pretty normal day.
Then again, I would have thought that last year.
Anyhoo - Happy Sunday.
So my first kid, she's pretty great.
My second kid is quite OK, too. But that first one, she and I are an interesting team. I have a lot to learn in this earthly plane. And this one has a lot to teach me.
Last weekend was a 10 year-old's Shangri-La. Two birthday parties, photo session and a pedicure for her "graduation" (called "promotion" officially at the tiny school on our mountain).
First birthday party was a scavenger hunt at the mall. With cash and prizes. Second party was at the Fairmont. With swimming in the hotel and dinner at the fancy restaurant. (I'm going to interject here that I have never stayed at the Fairmont or eaten at said fancy restaurant, myself.)
Then the photo sessions. Two of them. For her dance classes.
Then off to the pedicure at the fancy new nail joint in town. Hers are purple with tropical flowers. Mine are pink-red. Wonderful by any standard.
When we got home she decided to bust out a Christmas gift that she hadn't touched since Christmas day. Because she needed to do something fun, I guess. Because life bores you when there aren't photographers standing by and teams of your friends swarming around you for extravagant fun every hour of the day.
When she started tearing the desk apart looking for the packaging from the gift we started arguing. And talking in circles. And I was trying to make her understand that when a package is opened in December, it is reasonable to assume that the packaging will be recycled some time before June. She was informing me that there was VERY important info on that packaging, and SOMEONE had better pony-up said packaging, or there was gonna be trouble.
I finally got fed up and said, "Look, just because you've had a weekend full of fabulous-ness doesn't mean you get to treat me like crap!"
This is where it gets ugly. Because I said "crap." And in my kid's eyes "crap" is a SERIOUS cuss word. SERIOUS. Seriously.
So she told me that I embarrass her sometimes. And other mom's don't cuss at their kids. And that she thinks that she is a better person than me.
What is a cussing addict to do?
I sent her to her room. Duh.
While she was in her room I invited her to be a little grateful for what she had and maybe even a little thankful for all that she is given every day.
And she cried. She felt bad. And she wrote me a lovely letter. Two pages about what a great mom I am and how I have always put her brother and her first, how she wants to be more like me and think about other people more than she currently does. Which, from my perspective, can't be all that hard.
So when we had a chance we talked. And I let her know that, sadly, she was stuck with me for a mom. But the good news was that she gets to know that her mom is a whole person. Not a Barbie, not a paper doll, but a flawed, imperfect, whole mommy/wife/daughter/friend. That what I want most in the world is not to to hand out guarantees that I will behave perfectly in each and every situation that I encounter, but rather that no matter where I go and what I do I will be loving her. And I will be her life long cheerleader no matter what. Even if she tells me that I suck and that she hates me. Even if she thinks that I am the most embarrassing person on the face of the Earth. Even if she wants to move away from me and never look back. I will love her. She will be in my heart and wherever I am she will have a safe place to come home to.
Even if I'm smoking and cussing and singing show tunes off-key while wearing fluffy slippers and a turquoise robe over my clothes.
Especially then.
Today is the Superbowl. For me this is a day for laundry and catching up on my reading and a big wonderful breakfast (bacony-cheezy waffles, sauteed apples and fresh eggs from our neighbor's chickens). I really could not care less about the football.
But my husband (24 year football coach and former player himself) is a fan of the sport. So we will watch.
And by "we" I mean "not me."
This year the kids are old enough to pay attention plus I like all the pools and betting that can go on around the game so I requested that Rube put together a big list of bets for us to make (coin toss, first team to score each quarter, last team to score each quarter, score at the end of each quarter, etc...). Rather than betting our own money there will be poker chip payouts for each win and at the end both kids will get a prize, no matter what. Fun! That's the kind of crap I can get on board with! Woo-hoo!
Since we are dedicating our day to the big game I thought I'd do a kid interview. Nothing too hard, I just want to see where they fall along the spectrum from SUPERFAN to non-fan.
Superbowl Interview
Who is playing?
Madigan - Giants and the Patriots.
Levi - Um, Giants and Picksberg? Was I right? Oh, Patriots.
Who are you hoping will win?
Madigan - Giants. Why? Because... um... didn't the Patriots win last year?
Levi - Um, I'll go Giants.
What are you looking most forward to today?
Madigan - The games (pools and betting) and seeing if I'll win any prizes. (that's my girl)
Levi - Having friends over. (no friends) Family over? (no one is coming) OK, having a day just to us. (looking bummed while saying the right thing)
Risotto or Chicken Mirabella tonight?
Madigan - That's part of the interview? Why? Chicken Mirabella. Whatever.
Levi - What's risotto and what's Chicken Mirabella? (explanation) I'll have the thing before Chicken Mirabella. Yeah, risotto.
Anything else you'd like to say?
Madigan - No.
Levi - Nothing. OK is that it? 'Cause I really want to go back to Zoom.
Turns out they are a bit like me after all. Hmm.
Madigan started dance classes this week. She has been dancing forever, literally since she was two. This year Maddy is starting late (January instead of September) because she had a play earlier in the year with a relentless practice schedule. No room for dance on the family calendar.
So, tonight was her first time at the ballet class she'd picked out. Good size. Good age range. New teacher. She went in at 6:15 feeling good. I told her I would return in an hour.
I went to look at furniture at a nearby store. Just killed some time. Made my way back to the studio. Sat myself down in the waiting room to start watching her class on the CC television.
Oh no. I could tell the instant I laid eyes on her. Maybe it was the way her shoulders were scrunched up so high; maybe it was her eyes as big as saucers; maybe it was just that way a mother knows when her child is not OK. I'm not sure what tipped me off but I KNEW that she was freaking out. On the verge of losing her shit.
At 7:15 on the dot she ran from the room. Ran. She bolted. None of the other girls did. I asked her when she got to the lobby, "Is the class over?"
"I don't know. I'm never going back there. Let's go!"
I started in with the "Wait a minute. What's going on? What happened?" but she would not talk until I got her to the car. And then she was crying over her talking and so I had to take it to the next level. I called in backup.
Over New York Cheesecake (for her) and low fat, no sugar added Berries n Bananas (for me) we discussed the situation. She HATED the class. New teacher Nickoli (Russian trained ballet dancer himself) was not, as it turned out, mean. He corrected her endlessly because SHE COULDN'T DO what he was asking her to do. The stretches and poses he asked her to hold were so hard they were painful in the extreme. No matter what, even with extra help, even with lots of time to come up to speed, she didn't want to be in this class anymore. End of discussion.
And I told her it was OK. And it was.
Until we got home. To my husband, her father, the 24 year football coach, that guy. Remember him?
Good times.
Needless to say, there were more tears. Needless to say, I was frustrated. To be fair, so was he. I've always taken a different view of sports and extra curriculars (or as I like to call them, "hobbies") than his. We do not see eye to eye. He believes, deeply, in the power of the team dynamic. How "rising to the occasion" by "pushing past the pain" can be so "character building."
That may be true, however I don't think any of those things applied to this situation.
I'm going to have to interject here that being a quitter was not OK in my home as a child. If I signed up for something I was expected to complete the season, year, session or whatever. I also have to interject that this knowledge made me not want to sign up for stuff. Cause I would rather sit on my ass and watch TV than try something new if it turned out that I hated it and had to suffer through endless weeks of torture.
So, what ended up happening was Maddy and her father talked. I broke it up for a bit so she could shower, during which time I tried to manipulate Ruben into thinking like me, failed miserably and finally gave up. When I was tucking Maddy in I asked her what she thought about her talk with her dad.
"It was OK." she said. "I know Daddy really wants me to take the class. But I told Daddy that even though I know that this class might be good for me, I really don't think it is the best for me. And he said that was OK."
I told her I was so proud of her for standing up for herself.
And now I know that this day was a pretty good day after all.
Since I have a core belief that food preparation and consumption are the Earthly expressions of love, I paid Nob Hill Foods to do my loving for me this holiday season. Not the consumption. Just the prep.
They baked my holiday cookies for me. I paid them $15. And it was SO worth it.
And tonight the kids and I decorated cookies in our messy and crazy way.
And I feel good.
I'm wondering what else I can outsource...
Wondering where I went?
I went here:
Tonight is opening night. I'm wishing my daughter well. Hoping she doesn't really break a leg.
Cause after this week (Tech week, called "heck week" by the kids. Cute, huh?) with my child up past 10 PM most nights, we all need a break.
But too bad, cause it's the holidays now!
I'm not as peppy as I was last week. I don't know if you noticed.
School conferences were today.
The kids are doing GREAT at the new school. Levi's teacher told us that he is a joy to have in class. Totally participates and grasps concepts. She showed us a sample of his writing from October and it's like an alien wrote that stuff because it is so different from the writing he does now.
She did say he is relentless wiggle-worm. And he is. And it made me feel like she really knows him. And she still likes him. So I like her.
Madigan's teacher presented us with her report card (A's and 2 B+'s) and proceeded to tell us how she can bring this B+'s up. If she participates in class discussions a little more and steps up the self guided math program, she could have those B's up to A's in no time.
Huh?
I'm terribly happy with the report card. This is Madigan's first trimester in a new school, with new ways of doing things, play practices every day and holidays every other week. I'm not going back to her to tell her how she can take those awesome grades and make 'em just a little better.
And I told her teacher that.
For each pancake, scoop 1/4 cup of batter on to a hot griddle or nonstick skillet sprayed with cooking spray. Turn pancakes when bubbles appear and edges are cooked, after about 2 minutes. Cook for 1 1/2 minutes on second side.
Makes 8-10 pancakes.
Fewsh - I'm going to make it before midnight.
As I sit here watching "The Soup" on E, I am delighted to see a commercial for the "Total Gym" featuring Chuck Norris and Christy Brinkley. Which brings up the obvious topic of bad plastic surgery.
Kanye West's mother's death makes me think about it. Plastic surgery is a choice commonly made by women of all ages. I know dozens of women from all different areas of my life who have told me that they have had work done. Smart women do it, beautiful women do it, kind and generous and well-grounded put-together women do it. And it makes me wonder.
Why?
I'm not picking a fight. I'm not standing on a soap box. I'm seriously wondering. What is it? Why do we do this? Put ourselves at risk. Literally risking life an limb.
I want good things for myself. I want better things for my daughter. I want to support her and help her to achieve what ever her dreams are. What if these beautiful (though distorted) images she has seen every day of her life affect the way she sees herself? What if she wants to change her body? Make it bigger, make it smaller. Make it different from the one I grew in my belly. Hugged with my arms.
What will I do?
I honestly have no idea. I will, of course, talk with her as honestly as I am able. I will encourage her to educate herself. But I am flummoxed by so much of the topic how could I be helpful? The one thing I am clear about is that my decisions will shape her opinions about acceptable behavior more than most others. In good ways and bad. If I smoke, she is much more likely to smoke. (I do, by the way. Secretly and ashamedly - Ugh!) If I volunteer she may be more inclined to spare her time for people in need (I do this one, too). I hold this belief to be true about plastic surgery.
And so I abstain. I do not participate in any way.
Do you? Let me know...
(PS - these are my exhausted ramblings. Ignore them if they enrage you. Or drop me a line. Cause I could use a little drama...)
