It's Christmas time and that means that almost all of my friends who are mothers are in a perpetual state of panic, worried that they will fall short of some self-imposed standard of what constitutes an acceptable Christmas. At this time of year, mothers are infected with a menacing, insanity-provoking plague of expectations that makes them feel overwhelmed, confused, and just plain exhausted. The symptoms are easy to recognize. Go to any grocery store and you'll find an ordinarily competent, organized, and intelligent woman with dark circles and bags under her eyes, staring vacantly at the shelves, trying to remember a forgotten ingredient for some recipe. Go to any toy store and you'll find grown women stampeding for check-out counters, desperately stuffing their carts with as many wishes as possible before time runs out and Christmas morning arrives. Peek behind the door of any of those homes with Christmas lights strung all over the front lawn and you'll find the not-so-subtle signs of a stressed out mother: growing mountains of laundry, dishes, and paperwork; bitter husbands who are afraid to offer any assistance because they will inevitably face recriminations; and children who can sense that their loving mother has been stricken by an epidemic of temporary insanity.
Now . . . I'm not too proud to admit that as recently as yesterday, I too was one of those hapless victims of Christmas madness. But as I stood at my kitchen counter ripping through piles of Christmas cards, knowing that I had yet to send out a single card . . . something inside of me screamed "ENOUGH!" I opened a particularly exquisite card from a friend who had obviously employed a professional photographer to produce an elaborate folding photo booklet, and I knew it was game over. The quest for the perfect Christmas card was pointless. Even if I could somehow find clothes at the bottom of the kids' drawers that were not riddled with stains and manage to get the kids clean and looking somewhat presentable, there was no way that I was going to come close to replicating the splendor of this Christmas card. And just like the Whos in Whoville who start singing in defiance of the Grinch's evil tactics, a voice started welling up inside of me rebelling against the ridiculous expectations to which I had allowed myself to fall victim. I finally remembered who I am. I've never been a conformist, and I usually could care less what people think of me. While I'm all about enjoying every possible second with people I love, loving someone does not mean that you have to shower them with perfectly presented gifts and flawless Christmas cards.
Today, I've finally settled in to my newly discovered state of Christmas tranquility. I'm no longer trying to be a Christmas overachiever. I am now officially a Christmas slacker and proud of it. If you are lucky enough to be on my reduced Christmas card mailing list, I hope you enjoy our "good enough" card. If you're not on the list, let me just wish you a Merry Christmas right now.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Adrenaline Junkies
Yesterday, my husband and I loaded the Smokin' Pirate and the Princess into the car and headed to an outdoor high ropes course. This might be the absolute last place that you would expect to find my husband given his overwhelming fear of heights, but my husband has never been someone who runs away from his fears. Instead, he charges forward and confronts them. In fact, I'm sort of surprised that he still feels apprehension about anything.
I still vividly remember being seven months pregnant with the Pirate and listening to a surreal conversation unfold between my husband and our life insurance agent. The agent went through a battery of questions designed to suss out people who would be a poor risk for the insurance company because of their propensity to engage in irrational, dangerous acts. Needless to say, I was not particularly comforted when my spouse, the man with whom I soon would be raising a child, started rattling off affirmative answers to all of these questions. Cliff jumping? Done that. Sky diving? You betcha. As my husband marched further and further into the territory of the uninsurable, the agent stopped him, looked him in the eye, and said: "You need to promise me that now that you are having a child, you are not going to do these things anymore. No more sky diving." For the past ten years, my husband has kept his word and avoided all high risk activities . . . until yesterday.
After piling out of our car, we headed to a little log cabin and squeezed into harnesses and hard hats. Somehow the staff at the facility did not look nearly as uncool as we did in all this inelegant safety paraphernalia. Accepting the fact that I was going to look like a frumpy miner for the next couple of hours, I ambled out onto the course with my family.
We started our adventure by scrambling up a net to a wooden platform high above the ground that was swaying in the wind. After attaching our harnesses to the thick metal wires that were strung between the wooden platforms, we transversed a half-built suspension bridge and arrived at another platform. Our instructor hooked the kids up to 450 foot dual zip lines and told them to just step off into the air. The kids made it look incredibly easy. Of course, in the blissfully sheltered lives of the Pirate and the Princess, bad things do not ordinarily happen; they have not lived long enough to be inundated with stories of unfortunate accidents and negligent mistakes. After the Pirate and Princess were safely on the ground, it was time for my husband and I to huddle at the edge of the platform and then step off into thin air. We hesitated just long enough for our minds to race through several unsettling possibilities and then . . . we did it. We stepped off and zipped down the wires with neutrino-like speed. Suddenly, a wave of pure exhilaration swept over me and I was hooked. I came to a grinding halt in the gravel at the bottom of the line, searching for the instructor and the next challenge.
Over the course of the next two hours, we climbed telephone polls, stood at the top, and leaped into the air. We were pulled high above the ground by a system of pulleys and were left dangling by our harnesses until we pulled a cord and became a giant human pendulum, swinging rapidly through the forest. We wobbled across wires working as a team to keep everyone off the pine-needled floor. We skittered up rock-climbing walls and balanced on logs that were suspended twenty feet above the ground. We were awash in the pleasure of trying something new and facing down our fears. My husband and I were flooded with parental pride as we watched our daughter calm herself down and jump from the top of a telephone pole. We were revitalized as we watched our son fly through the air screaming and laughing.
At the end of the day, we hobbled back to our house and collapsed. While we were exhausted from our repeated displays of courage, we were also invigorated by our bravery. We were left wondering what our next challenge will be. Sky diving? Probably not. But these four newly minted adrenaline junkies may just hunt down another zip line adventure next weekend.
I still vividly remember being seven months pregnant with the Pirate and listening to a surreal conversation unfold between my husband and our life insurance agent. The agent went through a battery of questions designed to suss out people who would be a poor risk for the insurance company because of their propensity to engage in irrational, dangerous acts. Needless to say, I was not particularly comforted when my spouse, the man with whom I soon would be raising a child, started rattling off affirmative answers to all of these questions. Cliff jumping? Done that. Sky diving? You betcha. As my husband marched further and further into the territory of the uninsurable, the agent stopped him, looked him in the eye, and said: "You need to promise me that now that you are having a child, you are not going to do these things anymore. No more sky diving." For the past ten years, my husband has kept his word and avoided all high risk activities . . . until yesterday.
After piling out of our car, we headed to a little log cabin and squeezed into harnesses and hard hats. Somehow the staff at the facility did not look nearly as uncool as we did in all this inelegant safety paraphernalia. Accepting the fact that I was going to look like a frumpy miner for the next couple of hours, I ambled out onto the course with my family.
We started our adventure by scrambling up a net to a wooden platform high above the ground that was swaying in the wind. After attaching our harnesses to the thick metal wires that were strung between the wooden platforms, we transversed a half-built suspension bridge and arrived at another platform. Our instructor hooked the kids up to 450 foot dual zip lines and told them to just step off into the air. The kids made it look incredibly easy. Of course, in the blissfully sheltered lives of the Pirate and the Princess, bad things do not ordinarily happen; they have not lived long enough to be inundated with stories of unfortunate accidents and negligent mistakes. After the Pirate and Princess were safely on the ground, it was time for my husband and I to huddle at the edge of the platform and then step off into thin air. We hesitated just long enough for our minds to race through several unsettling possibilities and then . . . we did it. We stepped off and zipped down the wires with neutrino-like speed. Suddenly, a wave of pure exhilaration swept over me and I was hooked. I came to a grinding halt in the gravel at the bottom of the line, searching for the instructor and the next challenge.
Over the course of the next two hours, we climbed telephone polls, stood at the top, and leaped into the air. We were pulled high above the ground by a system of pulleys and were left dangling by our harnesses until we pulled a cord and became a giant human pendulum, swinging rapidly through the forest. We wobbled across wires working as a team to keep everyone off the pine-needled floor. We skittered up rock-climbing walls and balanced on logs that were suspended twenty feet above the ground. We were awash in the pleasure of trying something new and facing down our fears. My husband and I were flooded with parental pride as we watched our daughter calm herself down and jump from the top of a telephone pole. We were revitalized as we watched our son fly through the air screaming and laughing.
At the end of the day, we hobbled back to our house and collapsed. While we were exhausted from our repeated displays of courage, we were also invigorated by our bravery. We were left wondering what our next challenge will be. Sky diving? Probably not. But these four newly minted adrenaline junkies may just hunt down another zip line adventure next weekend.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
"UNCLE!"
As I was trudging down the driveway this morning (in my suit and dress coat) behind the sputtering snowblower, I couldn't help but think about the unique challenges that February presents. At this point in the winter, absolutely everything that I own is filthy. From the salt-splattered snowbanks on my front lawn to the food-encrusted back seat of my car, every last thing in our household needs to be scrubbed and disinfected. My kids also look completely disheveled. No matter how many times I wash the Princess's bright pink coat, she emerges from school looking like she's been dragged through a mud puddle. The fuzzy fleece hats that my kids slip on every morning ensure that their hair is in a state of perpetual disarray. And their once sparkling white sneakers have been reduced to a dingy grey color that can only be achieved by plunging your feet repeatedly into slush-filled potholes.
While I have been driving myself crazy trying to fight the entropy that comes with winter, the Smokin' Pirate has been growing more comfortable as each day passes. That child thrives on disorder. From his perspective, winter means less work. Really, what is the point of brushing your hair if it is just going to get messed up by your hat? And why even bother picking up food wrappers from the back seat of the car? It's not like your mother's going to notice when there is so much other filth in the car.
By the time I had finished clearing the foot high piles of snow at the bottom of the driveway this morning, I was ready to cry "uncle." But as I emerged into the house in my soaking wet dress coat, I was greeted by the most amazing sight. Somehow . . . while I was toiling in the driveway, the Princess and the Pirate had actually managed to feed themselves and get dressed. They were ready to roll out the door on time even though I wasn't there pestering them every step of the way. Just when I was ready to throw in the towel, the dynamic duo restored my hope and made me realize that we will all (most likely) survive the unbearable month of February.
While I have been driving myself crazy trying to fight the entropy that comes with winter, the Smokin' Pirate has been growing more comfortable as each day passes. That child thrives on disorder. From his perspective, winter means less work. Really, what is the point of brushing your hair if it is just going to get messed up by your hat? And why even bother picking up food wrappers from the back seat of the car? It's not like your mother's going to notice when there is so much other filth in the car.
By the time I had finished clearing the foot high piles of snow at the bottom of the driveway this morning, I was ready to cry "uncle." But as I emerged into the house in my soaking wet dress coat, I was greeted by the most amazing sight. Somehow . . . while I was toiling in the driveway, the Princess and the Pirate had actually managed to feed themselves and get dressed. They were ready to roll out the door on time even though I wasn't there pestering them every step of the way. Just when I was ready to throw in the towel, the dynamic duo restored my hope and made me realize that we will all (most likely) survive the unbearable month of February.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off to Work I Go
It's January, and I've decided to embrace this time of transformation and hope. It's the beginning of a new year; anything is possible. I'm going to sift through the rubble of the holidays and somehow find a home for the ridiculous amount of toys that my children accumulated over the past month. I'm going to tackle the mountain of laundry that piled up over the past two weeks, and I'm going to dig to the bottom of my dish laden sink and locate the drain. Hey, at this point, I'm even delusional enough to believe that I can do something about the five pounds that I packed on over the holidays.
Just to add to the insane list of projects that I'm undertaking, I've decided to return to work on a part-time basis after being a stay-at-home mom for a frighteningly long period of time. You're probably wondering if I'm nervous? Hell yeah I am, but it has nothing to do with actually working. What scares me is knowing that somehow I'm going to have to roll out of this house in the morning looking somewhat put together. I have no idea how I'm going to pull that off. Mornings in our house are completely chaotic.
Every morning, the Smokin' Pirate slithers down the stairs and attaches himself to the computer so he can get a dose of the cartoon network before I notice him. At some point, after I've asked him four or five times to turn off the computer, he usually disappears (which means he's located his DS and is frantically trying to defeat some type of invading army before I hunt him down and make him get dressed). After thoroughly saturating his brain in electronic media, he eventually slinks into the kitchen and I peg a piece of toast at him. In the last two minutes before we leave the house, the Pirate somehow manages to consume most of the toast, throw on his uniform, and at least pretend to have brushed his teeth. (Seriously, at his last dentist appointment, I was waiting for the dentist to admonish him for his yellow teeth and slovenly habits. But no, the man not only gives the Pirate a clean bill of health, but actually commends him on his excellent brushing skills. I literally said under my breath: "You've got to be kidding me, right?") The Pirate's morning culminates in a mad dash to the car when he finally hunkers down in the back seat, clutching his DS, and prepares for the trip to school. He's usually forgotten his socks, his shoes, his jacket, and about three other things. In frustration, I pull halfway down the driveway as he hustles back inside and grabs his missing belongings. Please don't think that I'm suggesting that we always show up with everything at school. Oh no, there have been times when he's shown up without shoes in the middle of the winter and I've had to lug my 70 pound child into school to retrieve an extra pair.
While I'm battling the Pirate, my little Princess will eventually emerge from her royal chamber and demand some cereal with milk. But not too much milk. And she would definitely prefer pancakes. And why can't we have pancakes? Clearly I don't love her. I must love her brother more. He gets toast. He gets to watch whatever he wants on the computer. Oh, the drama! As soon as I actually address the Princess and tell her that she should be thankful for what she has, she plays the guilt card like a shark from Vegas. "Fine, Mom, if you don't have time to play with me or make my breakfast, I'll just do it myself. I'll give up violin and all of my other activities, if that is what you want." (Yeah, that would be nice, but my sense of maternal obligation would never let that happen.) Like her brother, the Princess can sniff parental weakness a mile away and knows exactly how to make me feel inadequate. Even though I know I shouldn't give in to her manipulation, I'll eventually promise pancakes on Saturday and pour her a bowl of cereal. While the Princess isn't addicted to television or video games like her brother, she has the same sense of loathing for mundane tasks like brushing teeth, getting dressed, and fixing her hair. You see, the royal scalp does not like to be touched by others, and combs, unless they are wielded with the lightest of touch, will simply be too rough and unacceptable for the royal tresses. The Princess usually insists on lightly waving a brush over her head by herself and inevitably leaves the house with a royal rat's nest deeply embedded in her hair.
So, the question is . . . how am I going to find the time to primp and preen with all of this surrounding chaos? I'm not sure, but I'm thinking about asking the Princess if she can hook me up with her fairy godmother (or at least a magic wand).
Just to add to the insane list of projects that I'm undertaking, I've decided to return to work on a part-time basis after being a stay-at-home mom for a frighteningly long period of time. You're probably wondering if I'm nervous? Hell yeah I am, but it has nothing to do with actually working. What scares me is knowing that somehow I'm going to have to roll out of this house in the morning looking somewhat put together. I have no idea how I'm going to pull that off. Mornings in our house are completely chaotic.
Every morning, the Smokin' Pirate slithers down the stairs and attaches himself to the computer so he can get a dose of the cartoon network before I notice him. At some point, after I've asked him four or five times to turn off the computer, he usually disappears (which means he's located his DS and is frantically trying to defeat some type of invading army before I hunt him down and make him get dressed). After thoroughly saturating his brain in electronic media, he eventually slinks into the kitchen and I peg a piece of toast at him. In the last two minutes before we leave the house, the Pirate somehow manages to consume most of the toast, throw on his uniform, and at least pretend to have brushed his teeth. (Seriously, at his last dentist appointment, I was waiting for the dentist to admonish him for his yellow teeth and slovenly habits. But no, the man not only gives the Pirate a clean bill of health, but actually commends him on his excellent brushing skills. I literally said under my breath: "You've got to be kidding me, right?") The Pirate's morning culminates in a mad dash to the car when he finally hunkers down in the back seat, clutching his DS, and prepares for the trip to school. He's usually forgotten his socks, his shoes, his jacket, and about three other things. In frustration, I pull halfway down the driveway as he hustles back inside and grabs his missing belongings. Please don't think that I'm suggesting that we always show up with everything at school. Oh no, there have been times when he's shown up without shoes in the middle of the winter and I've had to lug my 70 pound child into school to retrieve an extra pair.
While I'm battling the Pirate, my little Princess will eventually emerge from her royal chamber and demand some cereal with milk. But not too much milk. And she would definitely prefer pancakes. And why can't we have pancakes? Clearly I don't love her. I must love her brother more. He gets toast. He gets to watch whatever he wants on the computer. Oh, the drama! As soon as I actually address the Princess and tell her that she should be thankful for what she has, she plays the guilt card like a shark from Vegas. "Fine, Mom, if you don't have time to play with me or make my breakfast, I'll just do it myself. I'll give up violin and all of my other activities, if that is what you want." (Yeah, that would be nice, but my sense of maternal obligation would never let that happen.) Like her brother, the Princess can sniff parental weakness a mile away and knows exactly how to make me feel inadequate. Even though I know I shouldn't give in to her manipulation, I'll eventually promise pancakes on Saturday and pour her a bowl of cereal. While the Princess isn't addicted to television or video games like her brother, she has the same sense of loathing for mundane tasks like brushing teeth, getting dressed, and fixing her hair. You see, the royal scalp does not like to be touched by others, and combs, unless they are wielded with the lightest of touch, will simply be too rough and unacceptable for the royal tresses. The Princess usually insists on lightly waving a brush over her head by herself and inevitably leaves the house with a royal rat's nest deeply embedded in her hair.
So, the question is . . . how am I going to find the time to primp and preen with all of this surrounding chaos? I'm not sure, but I'm thinking about asking the Princess if she can hook me up with her fairy godmother (or at least a magic wand).
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