About a month ago, Firstborn and I were driving somewhere and had the radio on in the car. That awful, maudlin Delilah person was on (I believe she is nationally syndicated so that the whole world gets to hear her sappiness) and a mother called in and asked her to play a song for her date night with her son. She explained that they go out once a week together and do fun things, just the two of them.
It's no secret, especially to regular readers of this blog, that Firstborn and I have struggled a lot. I saw him listening to what the mom was describing, and right there, I decided we needed this idea in our lives. Since I see Baby B. a lot without his brothers on his two free days off from preschool, I figured that I would try alternating taking the older two out for a night one-on-one. So, last Sunday night, I had an inaugural "date night" with my middle son C.
Why did C. get to go first, you ask? Oh, because the two boys FOUGHT OVER WHICH ONE OF THEM "HAD" TO GO WITH MAMA. Yeah. Made me feel ultra special, let me tell you. After C. conceded in his middle child way and offered to go first, I heard him whisper to Firstborn, "... but you OWE me now." Awesome. Thanks a lot, boys. To all those eight thousand strangers and friends who like to coo, "Oh, boys love their mamas!" and "You'll be the Queen of the House!" I say, Shut up.
I decided I want date nights with the boys to be more than just one-on-one time. I want it to be time when I get to say yes a lot. I want to be the Good Time Parent, the role usually reserved for Daddy. It will only be a few hours a week, so I don't want to worry about setting examples and limits during that time.
Last Sunday, C. and I took a trip to Toys 'R Us to purchase a few small Lego sets with a gift card we had left over from some holiday. It's not often I get to just take the kids to a toy store out of the blue for no good reason, and it's even less often that the kids get to stand in the aisle and look up at the myriad boxes and choose something just for them. You can understand why this was special to C. Afterward, we went to Friendly's, that bastion of healthy kid food, where we shared sliders and french fries and C. was able to order a Make Your Own Volcano Sundae. He even licked the bowl. We talked about the new school, his new friends, his teachers, and his new swim team. We talked. That in and of itself was both miraculous and special. I gave him a few dollars for the much-coveted Claw Game in the Friendly's lobby and we drove home.
Tonight, Firstborn and I ventured out for a showing of Nanny McPhee Returns, which was really cute and made me cry, dammit. Firstborn was able to eat popcorn and a Sprite, a very rare treat, as well as some gummy candy, also usually verboten for its cavity-inducing qualities. I let him have two dollars after the movie to play video games in the theater lobby, something he always asks to do but I rarely acquiesce to, and then we went to grab frozen yogurts just for good measure (hey, it's nonfat). There we had time to talk about various flavor combinations, the movie, and his new school. It was so nice to just be able to hang out with him and not be disciplining him every five minutes. I could focus my eyes on him and not be watching two other children. I didn't have to worry about whether or not the toddler would miss a potty-training cue.
So this date night thing is working out. Yes, I am plying the children with sugar and treats. So what? I have to say no to them all week long. It's great to have a few hours when I get to say yes, to slow down and let them lick the bowls. We're not in a hurry. In fact, I savor every single minute.
Adventures in personal fitness
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
No, people. I am not sitting around listening to Nirvana and wearing a lot of black. I'm okay. I have my moments, but I am okay. In fact, I am more than okay after going to the kids' Open Houses last night -- they have lovely teachers and I think that once the dust settles, they are going to have really good years. We might just have a bit more transitioning and adjusting to do in the meantime, and that is fair, considering they left a tiny school and tight groups of pals.
But enough about the kids. Let's talk about ME!
I have been trying to get my mojo back for, I don't know, how old is Baby B.? Three years and a few weeks. I have been pretty unsuccessful. But with the new school year (and a fifteenth college reunion looming large, replete with ex-boyfriends and Husband's ex-girlfriends and everything in between), I am making renewed effort. This has included a few (desperate) attempts at taking classes at my new, cheaper-and-more-practical-in-this-economy gym.
It quickly became apparent to me, however, that our new school adventures leave me with exactly zero time for gym excursions. Even on the mornings when all three of my precious offspring are ensconced in school, I have way too much on my agenda: PTA meetings and book fair decorating and school volunteering and grocery shopping and, yes, lunches with friends I would otherwise not see. I am SO living the dream, you know. So, finding a time to actually sweat has become a challenge.
That leads me to last Thursday morning, when I threw sleep to the wind and woke myself at 5 AM, gently pushing the toddler trying to crawl up into my armpit in his sleep aside so I could escape the bed, and I somehow got myself to the 5:30 BodyPump class at my gym. If you don't know about Les Mills classes or Body Pump specifically, it's a syndicated group fitness class that involves weights and aerobic exercise. It's a pretty efficient way of getting in strength training while also getting heart rates up, and the music is pretty good (very important in my little world).
When I walked gingerly into the group fitness classroom at 5:27 AM, I saw about fifteen people stretching and setting up. Immediately, a woman in her early 20s looked over her shoulder and determined me to be a "newbie." She scurried about me, setting me up in the back of the the room next to two impossibly thin twentysomething twins, also, apparently, relatively new. She gave me a step, a mat, and a barbell with "light" weights (equaling about ten pounds). "Any heavier, and you won't be able to walk tomorrow," she noted ominously. A man, who certainly didn't look like he was a regular in a group fitness class, nodded sagely. "Yeah, good luck lifting your arms tomorrow!" he chirped. Sweet.
Our leader looked harmless enough -- probably early 30s, well built but petite, and, as I was about to find out, incredibly perky. As she led us through push-ups and bench presses and tricep curls, she mouthed the words to the Bon Jovi and the Britney Spears. Sometimes, she sang along or growled some of the lyrics at us. I'll be honest -- she scared me a little. But when you are working out before sunrise, I suppose an enthusiastic lyrics-growler is a pro, not a con.
The class ended promptly at 6:30 AM. The sun was just rising. Um, this is insane, I thought to myself. I limped out of the class and went home, where by 7:30 AM I was crashing and by 10 AM I was starving, having been up for FIVE HOURS at that point.
In an effort to be a little more sane about the whole fitness effort, I chose to spend my first truly child-free hours this past Monday at the gym again, this time at a way more realistic time slot (9:30 AM) but in a far more frightening venue: the Zumba class.
I had taken Zumba once before, at a different gym. I spent most of the class tapping on foot to the side cluelessly and wondering how the teacher had managed to suspend her hips in mid-air. This time, the class went a little something like this:
9:27 AM: Step slowly into the classroom. Wonder why I am the only person there under the age of 60. No, 65. Step out of the classroom to re-check the group fitness schedule. Return to classroom.
9:30 AM: Two other random thirtysomething women also find themselves lost amidst the seniors with me. We look way out of place. Our teacher, a perky (I am sensing a trend) early 30s blonde woman who tells us about her two-year-old's recent birthday party, starts the music. In my head, I think that this woman with washboard abs is definitely only a mother of one child. Secretly curse her to having twins next so she can find out what a stretch mark looks like.
9:35 AM: This is not SO bad. I'm so not a dancer, but this is pretty fun. And hey, I'm better than the Golden Girls in the front row!
9:45 AM: Wonder if this is truly a one-hour class? Surely not. Surely it is a 45-minute class, in which case I have finished a third of the class. Go me!
10 AM: Okay, I am done. All my energy is gone. The twisting hurts my knees. My stomach is growling. I don't think I ate enough for this. Start imagining a scene in a movie where a housewife thinks she can dance at a club using her Zumba class maneuvers.
10:15 AM: This is not a 45-minute class.
10:20 AM: Our teacher asks what we want to do next. A Latina woman in the front row calls for salsa. Immediately, the teacher starts a song and starts moving at a speed best described as "fast forward." I am not a fast-forward type girl. Nearly mow down woman next to me, which would be bad, because she is somebody's grandma.
10:25 AM: Teacher begins what she calls "cool-down." Then adds spins to it. I shake my head in protest. There are no spins in "cool-downs."
10:30 AM: Walk slowly out of the class, completely exhausted. See my friend waiting outside. My friend points back at my teacher. "She's teaching the next class too!" she says in disbelief. "BodyPump!"
Needless to say, I am still trying to find my fitness niche. But in the process, I am finding some good people watching!
But enough about the kids. Let's talk about ME!
I have been trying to get my mojo back for, I don't know, how old is Baby B.? Three years and a few weeks. I have been pretty unsuccessful. But with the new school year (and a fifteenth college reunion looming large, replete with ex-boyfriends and Husband's ex-girlfriends and everything in between), I am making renewed effort. This has included a few (desperate) attempts at taking classes at my new, cheaper-and-more-practical-in-this-economy gym.
It quickly became apparent to me, however, that our new school adventures leave me with exactly zero time for gym excursions. Even on the mornings when all three of my precious offspring are ensconced in school, I have way too much on my agenda: PTA meetings and book fair decorating and school volunteering and grocery shopping and, yes, lunches with friends I would otherwise not see. I am SO living the dream, you know. So, finding a time to actually sweat has become a challenge.
That leads me to last Thursday morning, when I threw sleep to the wind and woke myself at 5 AM, gently pushing the toddler trying to crawl up into my armpit in his sleep aside so I could escape the bed, and I somehow got myself to the 5:30 BodyPump class at my gym. If you don't know about Les Mills classes or Body Pump specifically, it's a syndicated group fitness class that involves weights and aerobic exercise. It's a pretty efficient way of getting in strength training while also getting heart rates up, and the music is pretty good (very important in my little world).
When I walked gingerly into the group fitness classroom at 5:27 AM, I saw about fifteen people stretching and setting up. Immediately, a woman in her early 20s looked over her shoulder and determined me to be a "newbie." She scurried about me, setting me up in the back of the the room next to two impossibly thin twentysomething twins, also, apparently, relatively new. She gave me a step, a mat, and a barbell with "light" weights (equaling about ten pounds). "Any heavier, and you won't be able to walk tomorrow," she noted ominously. A man, who certainly didn't look like he was a regular in a group fitness class, nodded sagely. "Yeah, good luck lifting your arms tomorrow!" he chirped. Sweet.
Our leader looked harmless enough -- probably early 30s, well built but petite, and, as I was about to find out, incredibly perky. As she led us through push-ups and bench presses and tricep curls, she mouthed the words to the Bon Jovi and the Britney Spears. Sometimes, she sang along or growled some of the lyrics at us. I'll be honest -- she scared me a little. But when you are working out before sunrise, I suppose an enthusiastic lyrics-growler is a pro, not a con.
The class ended promptly at 6:30 AM. The sun was just rising. Um, this is insane, I thought to myself. I limped out of the class and went home, where by 7:30 AM I was crashing and by 10 AM I was starving, having been up for FIVE HOURS at that point.
*****
In an effort to be a little more sane about the whole fitness effort, I chose to spend my first truly child-free hours this past Monday at the gym again, this time at a way more realistic time slot (9:30 AM) but in a far more frightening venue: the Zumba class.
I had taken Zumba once before, at a different gym. I spent most of the class tapping on foot to the side cluelessly and wondering how the teacher had managed to suspend her hips in mid-air. This time, the class went a little something like this:
9:27 AM: Step slowly into the classroom. Wonder why I am the only person there under the age of 60. No, 65. Step out of the classroom to re-check the group fitness schedule. Return to classroom.
9:30 AM: Two other random thirtysomething women also find themselves lost amidst the seniors with me. We look way out of place. Our teacher, a perky (I am sensing a trend) early 30s blonde woman who tells us about her two-year-old's recent birthday party, starts the music. In my head, I think that this woman with washboard abs is definitely only a mother of one child. Secretly curse her to having twins next so she can find out what a stretch mark looks like.
9:35 AM: This is not SO bad. I'm so not a dancer, but this is pretty fun. And hey, I'm better than the Golden Girls in the front row!
9:45 AM: Wonder if this is truly a one-hour class? Surely not. Surely it is a 45-minute class, in which case I have finished a third of the class. Go me!
10 AM: Okay, I am done. All my energy is gone. The twisting hurts my knees. My stomach is growling. I don't think I ate enough for this. Start imagining a scene in a movie where a housewife thinks she can dance at a club using her Zumba class maneuvers.
10:15 AM: This is not a 45-minute class.
10:20 AM: Our teacher asks what we want to do next. A Latina woman in the front row calls for salsa. Immediately, the teacher starts a song and starts moving at a speed best described as "fast forward." I am not a fast-forward type girl. Nearly mow down woman next to me, which would be bad, because she is somebody's grandma.
10:25 AM: Teacher begins what she calls "cool-down." Then adds spins to it. I shake my head in protest. There are no spins in "cool-downs."
10:30 AM: Walk slowly out of the class, completely exhausted. See my friend waiting outside. My friend points back at my teacher. "She's teaching the next class too!" she says in disbelief. "BodyPump!"
Needless to say, I am still trying to find my fitness niche. But in the process, I am finding some good people watching!
Hard to love
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The past week was a positive one, but a long one, rife with change. I'm one who likes change and adventure and independence, but even I took a beating this week. We started at the new school, Baby B. and I continued a second week of potty training with moderate success (read: moderate failure as well) and prepared for his entry into preschool next week, and we started new activities -- most significantly, the swim team for both my older boys. I was waiting all week for the other shoe to drop.
Last night, I picked Firstborn up from a long afterschool playdate with an old friend who happens to go to his new school. He was happy and tired and sweaty and his tummy was full of pizza. I was feeling really good about it, that he was so well settled in and had good friends and was a happy camper. When we hopped in the car, though, he dissolved into the puddle of something I feared all week.
"I hate you for taking me out of my school," he said clearly and firmly, taking my heart with both hands and snapping it into two sharp pieces in the process. "I miss my old school and my old friends. Everything is different now. I miss our old house. I miss everything." It was just that out of the blue, too.
It was everything I feared he would feel after the changes in the past six months -- a change of house, a change of neighborhood, a change of school, a change of activities. On the day we moved back in January, he watched my father collapse at his baseball try-outs. He's been through a lot ever since. I had hoped that he would roll with this school move and find it a novel adventure, and I think he did -- for a week. Now, he's ready to go "home."
My middle child is more stable in his sadness about changing schools. This week, he has made two friends. He still wants playdates with his friends from his old school. He's less expressive, more quietly sad. Nothing has upset him or been negative about his experience, but nothing has made him forget was he is missing just down the road at his old school. When I looked through my friends' Facebook pictures this week, I saw glimpses of what would have been his classroom, where his tight circle of buddies were settling into first grade. It made me sad for him.
The truth is, I am the reason they had to change schools. It was probably inevitable anyway, and the costs of private school just are not in our budget. We are lucky to live in a great school district with good schools full of very involved families and good kids. But that was their school -- the only school they had ever known -- and I did take it from them. It was me that found our new house, me that wanted to go for it, me that put us in a position to have two mortgages and to spend our savings completing this deal. We are all settled now and we are in a good place and in a great house that we can live in forever, and that has a lot of value for our family. It's invaluable, in fact. But it came with its costs, and I am the one who ultimately decided we would pay them.
It's also me that tells the children they have to stop playing the Wii to get ready for (fill in the blank) school, for dinner, for swim practice, for bed. It's me that tells them that no, we made a commitment to the (fill in the blank) swim team, the violin teacher, the chess coach, and we need to show up for practice. It's me that signs off on homework, that tells Firstborn to re-write the words he wrote incorrectly, that sends them back to brush their teeth again because the first time they literally only did it for two seconds. It is me that cleans up the potty training messes and insists on a new pair of underwear. No wonder they hate me. No one wants to be this person, the Fun Sponge.
And yes, I know they don't really hate me. But why shouldn't they? Some days, I just want to say, I give up. Do what you want to do. When I was 27 years old and wanted to be a mother, I had no idea what I was committing to. My biggest issues were what to make myself for lunch and if I could fit into my skinny jeans. Now, it feels like my life is just filled to the brim with chores -- mine or others' that I must make them do. I don't want to be a taskmaster, but I am not really sure how to do this without being one.
I have this nagging feeling that I am doing this thing all wrong. That if I was more (fill in the blank) zen, more patient, more laid back, more something, this would be going a lot better. My kids would want to hang out with me more. My kids would be happier. My husband would want to hang out with me more. My husband would be happier. The truth is, I do my very best never to look in a mirror these days because I have no idea who I am anymore and I am afraid I will see it. I've built up all these defenses and walls and tried to zone out because I am just trying to get through this marathon -- no, this IRONMAN -- and I am not parenting with purpose or strategy anymore and I am not being a good participant in my marriage. The cracks are beginning to show.
If I was my kid or my spouse, I am not sure I would love me. I'm not sure who is left to love.
This was always going to be a rough week, and I am trying to remember that and focus forward, knowing that in a month, this will just be how it always was. I hope. I am not one to wallow, and we can't stand still on this treadmill anyway. It will get better. But I would be lying if I didn't say that in this moment, this is all really a lot and I have no idea where I am going with all of it. I am wondering if other women feel the same uncertainty, the same self doubt, the same wonder at how we got here?
Last night, I picked Firstborn up from a long afterschool playdate with an old friend who happens to go to his new school. He was happy and tired and sweaty and his tummy was full of pizza. I was feeling really good about it, that he was so well settled in and had good friends and was a happy camper. When we hopped in the car, though, he dissolved into the puddle of something I feared all week.
"I hate you for taking me out of my school," he said clearly and firmly, taking my heart with both hands and snapping it into two sharp pieces in the process. "I miss my old school and my old friends. Everything is different now. I miss our old house. I miss everything." It was just that out of the blue, too.
It was everything I feared he would feel after the changes in the past six months -- a change of house, a change of neighborhood, a change of school, a change of activities. On the day we moved back in January, he watched my father collapse at his baseball try-outs. He's been through a lot ever since. I had hoped that he would roll with this school move and find it a novel adventure, and I think he did -- for a week. Now, he's ready to go "home."
My middle child is more stable in his sadness about changing schools. This week, he has made two friends. He still wants playdates with his friends from his old school. He's less expressive, more quietly sad. Nothing has upset him or been negative about his experience, but nothing has made him forget was he is missing just down the road at his old school. When I looked through my friends' Facebook pictures this week, I saw glimpses of what would have been his classroom, where his tight circle of buddies were settling into first grade. It made me sad for him.
The truth is, I am the reason they had to change schools. It was probably inevitable anyway, and the costs of private school just are not in our budget. We are lucky to live in a great school district with good schools full of very involved families and good kids. But that was their school -- the only school they had ever known -- and I did take it from them. It was me that found our new house, me that wanted to go for it, me that put us in a position to have two mortgages and to spend our savings completing this deal. We are all settled now and we are in a good place and in a great house that we can live in forever, and that has a lot of value for our family. It's invaluable, in fact. But it came with its costs, and I am the one who ultimately decided we would pay them.
It's also me that tells the children they have to stop playing the Wii to get ready for (fill in the blank) school, for dinner, for swim practice, for bed. It's me that tells them that no, we made a commitment to the (fill in the blank) swim team, the violin teacher, the chess coach, and we need to show up for practice. It's me that signs off on homework, that tells Firstborn to re-write the words he wrote incorrectly, that sends them back to brush their teeth again because the first time they literally only did it for two seconds. It is me that cleans up the potty training messes and insists on a new pair of underwear. No wonder they hate me. No one wants to be this person, the Fun Sponge.
And yes, I know they don't really hate me. But why shouldn't they? Some days, I just want to say, I give up. Do what you want to do. When I was 27 years old and wanted to be a mother, I had no idea what I was committing to. My biggest issues were what to make myself for lunch and if I could fit into my skinny jeans. Now, it feels like my life is just filled to the brim with chores -- mine or others' that I must make them do. I don't want to be a taskmaster, but I am not really sure how to do this without being one.
I have this nagging feeling that I am doing this thing all wrong. That if I was more (fill in the blank) zen, more patient, more laid back, more something, this would be going a lot better. My kids would want to hang out with me more. My kids would be happier. My husband would want to hang out with me more. My husband would be happier. The truth is, I do my very best never to look in a mirror these days because I have no idea who I am anymore and I am afraid I will see it. I've built up all these defenses and walls and tried to zone out because I am just trying to get through this marathon -- no, this IRONMAN -- and I am not parenting with purpose or strategy anymore and I am not being a good participant in my marriage. The cracks are beginning to show.
If I was my kid or my spouse, I am not sure I would love me. I'm not sure who is left to love.
This was always going to be a rough week, and I am trying to remember that and focus forward, knowing that in a month, this will just be how it always was. I hope. I am not one to wallow, and we can't stand still on this treadmill anyway. It will get better. But I would be lying if I didn't say that in this moment, this is all really a lot and I have no idea where I am going with all of it. I am wondering if other women feel the same uncertainty, the same self doubt, the same wonder at how we got here?
Using blog as pillow I can scream into for a moment:
Thursday, August 19, 2010
I AM SO SICK OF CLEANING UP OTHER PEOPLE'S PEE.
I just needed to get that out before I lost my ever-lovin' mind.
Thank you. Carry on, as you were.
I just needed to get that out before I lost my ever-lovin' mind.
Thank you. Carry on, as you were.
The new kids
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
This was the first week of school. Blessedly.
My two older boys started at a new school, the public school, in third grade and first grades.
It's the elementary school I attended. I still remember my own first day of Kindergarten there. My Kindergarten teacher still teaches there. That is a little scary and a little wonderful. I am not sure which outweighs the other, frankly. I can tell you that the kids come home smelling the same way I remember elementary school smelling, and there is no doubt there -- that's just scary.
We walk to school, the four of us, me hanging onto the hand of the toddler for dear life as he tries to wriggle free and chase every butterfly and horsefly. Six-year-old C., who once yelled at me in outrage when he found out I had signed him up for golf lessons "because you KNOW I HATE TO WALK!" lurches behind us, bemoaning the fact that we must walk one whole block in the admittedly blazing heat. Firstborn trots along, his cowlicked hair bouncing in the sun, thinking his own thoughts. I never was able to walk to a school before, and it's pretty dang cool.
At the gate, I send them off to the orange hallway and the third grade pavilion line. It's a big school -- almost a thousand kids when you add in the preschool -- and the school we left last May had just about two hundred and change. This is a big change. It's a big deal.
I was never, ever the new kid. I was in the same schools, the same school system, my entire life until I left for college. My kids are having experiences I never did -- walking to school, starting over, learning a new way of doing everything. I am so proud of them.
The first day, Firstborn came home heartbreakingly (and awesomely) happy: "I made new friends! I love the lunch! Let me tell you about my teacher and my class and my..."
C. came home lukewarm. "I didn't make any friends," he said pensively. "But there was one kid I liked." Progress.
This was a big leap for my kids and a big leap for me. I have never made my kids do something quite so uncomfortable, so un"safe," before. When I was in third grade at the same elementary school, in those same concrete walls, my gifted resources teacher sent a note home to my parents: Mama is an excellent student, but she is very cautious. She needs to take more risks. Risks are not my favorite, it's true. But here we are, and we're happy. We are good.
My two older boys started at a new school, the public school, in third grade and first grades.
It's the elementary school I attended. I still remember my own first day of Kindergarten there. My Kindergarten teacher still teaches there. That is a little scary and a little wonderful. I am not sure which outweighs the other, frankly. I can tell you that the kids come home smelling the same way I remember elementary school smelling, and there is no doubt there -- that's just scary.
We walk to school, the four of us, me hanging onto the hand of the toddler for dear life as he tries to wriggle free and chase every butterfly and horsefly. Six-year-old C., who once yelled at me in outrage when he found out I had signed him up for golf lessons "because you KNOW I HATE TO WALK!" lurches behind us, bemoaning the fact that we must walk one whole block in the admittedly blazing heat. Firstborn trots along, his cowlicked hair bouncing in the sun, thinking his own thoughts. I never was able to walk to a school before, and it's pretty dang cool.
At the gate, I send them off to the orange hallway and the third grade pavilion line. It's a big school -- almost a thousand kids when you add in the preschool -- and the school we left last May had just about two hundred and change. This is a big change. It's a big deal.
I was never, ever the new kid. I was in the same schools, the same school system, my entire life until I left for college. My kids are having experiences I never did -- walking to school, starting over, learning a new way of doing everything. I am so proud of them.
The first day, Firstborn came home heartbreakingly (and awesomely) happy: "I made new friends! I love the lunch! Let me tell you about my teacher and my class and my..."
C. came home lukewarm. "I didn't make any friends," he said pensively. "But there was one kid I liked." Progress.
This was a big leap for my kids and a big leap for me. I have never made my kids do something quite so uncomfortable, so un"safe," before. When I was in third grade at the same elementary school, in those same concrete walls, my gifted resources teacher sent a note home to my parents: Mama is an excellent student, but she is very cautious. She needs to take more risks. Risks are not my favorite, it's true. But here we are, and we're happy. We are good.
If Summer was a triathlon, August was the swimming part.
Monday, August 16, 2010
If you have ever raced in a triathlon (or, like me, finished a triathlon, but you wouldn't call it "racing"), you understand my title. The swimming part comes at the beginning, unlike August, but it is for almost everyone (except competitive swimmers) the hardest part, the part requiring the most endurance and adrenaline.
That was August for me.
Today was my bigger boys' first day of school. Hallelujah. But the past week, since I have been back from New York, has been one of the roughest in recent memory. And if I am describing a week as "rough," you know it involves one thing: emergency doctor visits.
I'll spare you most of the gory (and they were) details. Long story short: my middle son and the toddler rammed heads around 5 PM one evening, resulting in a whole lot of blood, a whole lot of screaming (some of it me), and some seriously gnarly looking gums for the toddler.
The next day, I hauled all three children to the pediatric dentist for an emergency visit. The week before school started. Also known as, "the busiest time in a pediatric dentist's year."
Baby B.'s front top teeth seem to be okay despite the incident, and the gums above them, navy blue and puffed out to THERE last week, are now looking their normal, petite selves. But while we sat in the office that day listening to the dentist, my middle son came out of the bathroom and attempted to rejoin us. C. is something of a pratfall artist -- he is physical in a very physical way. He flops on the floor when he is mad about something. He runs everywhere. He's dramatic. Maybe I should start calling him Chevy Chase on the blog. Anyway, he's a character.
So he decides to run out of the bathroom, full blast towards me. Except, he doesn't seem to notice that the actual door to the office is closed. He runs straight into the floor-to-ceiling, plate glass window beside the door instead.
Like a bug flying into a windshield.
As nurses and receptionists flew out of various corners and huddled with a (barely bruised but way upset) C., patting him with ice packs and whispering to him, I burst into laughter. Yes, I am the Worst Mother Ever. But suddenly, the absurdity of my life -- a toddler with navy blue gums, a six-year-old with a rising bump on his temple from flying smack into a plate glass window, an eight-year-old manically playing with a stuffed animal gorilla with abnormally large plastic teeth nearby -- just hit me. I couldn't stop. It was pretty much the moment I lost my shit.
So today, the big kids went back, this time to a new school. They had good days. I celebrated their absence with the toddler by taking a completely impractical trip to the frozen yogurt shop. I'm completely exhausted tonight, but I am nothing compared to what I was last week. I really do feel like I just finished the swimming portion of a triathlon -- wearing my street clothes and sneakers.
As always, I wish I could just enjoy these days. It's just hard with, you know, the blood and stuff.
That was August for me.
Today was my bigger boys' first day of school. Hallelujah. But the past week, since I have been back from New York, has been one of the roughest in recent memory. And if I am describing a week as "rough," you know it involves one thing: emergency doctor visits.
I'll spare you most of the gory (and they were) details. Long story short: my middle son and the toddler rammed heads around 5 PM one evening, resulting in a whole lot of blood, a whole lot of screaming (some of it me), and some seriously gnarly looking gums for the toddler.
The next day, I hauled all three children to the pediatric dentist for an emergency visit. The week before school started. Also known as, "the busiest time in a pediatric dentist's year."
Baby B.'s front top teeth seem to be okay despite the incident, and the gums above them, navy blue and puffed out to THERE last week, are now looking their normal, petite selves. But while we sat in the office that day listening to the dentist, my middle son came out of the bathroom and attempted to rejoin us. C. is something of a pratfall artist -- he is physical in a very physical way. He flops on the floor when he is mad about something. He runs everywhere. He's dramatic. Maybe I should start calling him Chevy Chase on the blog. Anyway, he's a character.
So he decides to run out of the bathroom, full blast towards me. Except, he doesn't seem to notice that the actual door to the office is closed. He runs straight into the floor-to-ceiling, plate glass window beside the door instead.
Like a bug flying into a windshield.
As nurses and receptionists flew out of various corners and huddled with a (barely bruised but way upset) C., patting him with ice packs and whispering to him, I burst into laughter. Yes, I am the Worst Mother Ever. But suddenly, the absurdity of my life -- a toddler with navy blue gums, a six-year-old with a rising bump on his temple from flying smack into a plate glass window, an eight-year-old manically playing with a stuffed animal gorilla with abnormally large plastic teeth nearby -- just hit me. I couldn't stop. It was pretty much the moment I lost my shit.
So today, the big kids went back, this time to a new school. They had good days. I celebrated their absence with the toddler by taking a completely impractical trip to the frozen yogurt shop. I'm completely exhausted tonight, but I am nothing compared to what I was last week. I really do feel like I just finished the swimming portion of a triathlon -- wearing my street clothes and sneakers.
As always, I wish I could just enjoy these days. It's just hard with, you know, the blood and stuff.
The Inevitable, Apparently Mandatory? BlogHer Post
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
This fall, I have been blogging for three years. It's a long time in a lot of ways -- three years ago, I had a newborn. Now, I have a new three-year-old peeing on my feet and announcing gleefully that he just "peed on Kung Fu Panda's head." Ah, cheap character underwear from Target. You are the only thing keeping sewage from hitting my wood floors.
I still consider myself a newbie of sorts in the blogging world, though. This was never more apparent than this past weekend, when I flew to New York City and attended BlogHer '10, largely on a whim. I bought my ticket a year ago, not really thinking it through but not wanting it to sell out. I wasn't sure if I would use it or not, but then I found out that Lindsey from A Design So Vast and Kathryn from Marbury v. Madison Ave. had a room at the Hilton, and suddenly it seemed a lot more manageable. So off I went, in an effort to do something for myself and to see what the whole shebang was really about.
There are a LOT of posts about BlogHer '10 out there on the Interwebs right now. Everyone has a take. Everyone has something to say -- big shocker. If you Google "BlogHer '10," you will have reading material for a few days. The word most commonly used to describe the experience is "overwhelming" -- probably a predictable word to describe the convergence of about 2397 women and approximately three men on one hotel in the middle of New York City in the blazing heat of August, bookended by elaborate parties and swag extraordinaire.
I suppose it was overwhelming. But it also wasn't. I mean, that part I actually expected -- a lot of women, a lot of vendors, a lot of buffets. I expected a lot of laptops, a lot of smartphones, a lot of crowded ballrooms. I didn't expect Bruce Jenner to be pouring orange juice (WHY?!) or life-size Mrs. Potato Heads and Padma Lakshmi either. But that was just the beginning, really.
Others have described BlogHer like high school or junior high. I will agree, though not exactly for the same reasons. In my high school, we had a lot of students -- around 1800. Among those students, you had those who were in the highest level classes and were shooting for big colleges from the day they were born. You had kids who were better suited for vocational classes and were there to learn a trade. And then you had the kids in the middle, the ones who just weren't really sure yet whether their fates lay in community colleges or the Ivy League.
BlogHer was a lot like that: a big mix of "students," some completely driven and ambitious or well on their way to success, some happier to keep their heads down and learn the trade and just take the ride, and a whole bunch of women who just don't know yet. I was one of those. Among all of us, there were the inevitable stereotypes: the popular girls, the nerds, the beautiful people, the purposeful outliers. There were older women, younger women, women with babies, women with pregnant bellies, fat women, skinny women, bespectacled women, lesbians... it was a microcosm of the female American universe.
I think I didn't prepare enough for BlogHer, because I didn't really know who anyone was enough to understand the social dynamics at play. I am a really extroverted person, and I pretty much never feel out to sea at big social events. I did at BlogHer, however, and I think that was because I quickly figured out there was a social scene I had no idea or place in at work. And you know, that's not a judgment. It's kind of natural, right? In the blogging world, people read each other's blogs and comment and create a community. They apparently also Twitter relentlessly, a social media phenomenon I only started dipping my toes in recently (you can follow me and my very rare tweets at the handle ElmoWallpaper now, and I'll follow you back). In short, these women arrived as friends and they wanted to see each other, whereas I was sort of Sandy arriving at Rydell High with no clue as to what I was stepping into. I came home with a slew of new blogs on my Google Reader, and I wish I had read blogs more broadly before I left.
I was bedazzled by the few blogging starlets I did see (hello, Pioneer Woman!) and I met some amazingly nice and funny and articulate women. In fact, that is my biggest take-away from the entire weekend: wow, there are a lot of effing smart women out there in this blog world of ours. Like, wicked smart. I was so pleased to hear about the speeches at the Washington Project (encouraging women to run for office) and at the Voices of the Year talks. The BlogHer coordinators really did a fantastic job of encouraging a pool of crazy smart, crazy resourceful women to own their power and use it. It was inspiring to me.
The panels were hit and miss, and I am not sure how I would recommend changing them to make them more useful. Perhaps more of a workshop atmosphere, or smaller groups, or a forum? At the panels I attended, it was clear that the audience had as much to say as the speakers. I mean, hello, it's a blogging conference. We are all a bunch of over-sharers. I think more participation would have been more educational for me, and I would have relished the chance to interact more with perfect strangers. As it was, my favorite panelists were Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess), who was freaking hysterical, and Rita Arens (Surrender, Dorothy and BlogHer itself). Both had a lot of great things to say and wonderful advice.
It was hard to break out of the small groupings of people we knew during the conference itself, because other attendees seemed very attached to their old friends and not as invested in making new ones. I can't blame them, but my main goal in blogging at all is to make connections, so for me, this was a fail. If I had old friends at the conference, it probably would have been me doing this. As it was, I clung to the few people I did know and felt, for the first time in a really long time, like a fish out of water. Still, I managed to meet a few new friends that I am really excited to read in the future, and that is a gift. Watch my blogroll as I add the blogs of some of my new-found peeps.
Because I am incredibly lucky, too, my supportive, wonderful friend Lisa Belkin invited me to a small lunch and tour at the New York Times. There, I met some really awesome bloggers, including Because I Said So's Dawn Meehan, Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids, Heather and Whitney from Rookie Moms, Amy at Selfish Mom, and more. I was so in awe. I do believe I was the only one without a book deal or a book under my belt. When they asked what I write about, I fumbled around and usually ended up just saying, "Um... I am a mommy blogger?" Yeah, DUH. Good one there. Really impressive. The Times building was phenomenal, and lunch was fun. A pinch-yourself kind of fun.
Another highlight? Dinner Friday night with Aidan from Ivy League Insecurities, my brave roommate, Lindsey from A Design So Vast, and Denise from Musings de-Mommy, a new friend I met through Aidan and Lindsey. We laughed a lot. We ate apparently sub-par flaming cheese (I have a hard time criticizing flaming cheese, but I also have limited experience on the subject). We talked -- really talked -- about all sorts of subjects in our lives, big and small. That was the kind of exchange I hoped to find at BlogHer, and I found it with these smart, funny, expressive women.
I wandered through the rest of the conference -- the crazy Expo Halls and swag booths, the parties where I wore a bag on my head and danced to Bel Biv Devoe. I met two amazing writers who live right here in my bubble at home -- who knew? And I came home with a dozen Magnolia Bakery cupcakes. If you haven't had a Magnolia Bakery red velvet cupcake, let me tell you something: put it on your list.
So, all in all, I gained a lot from BlogHer'10: new friends, new insights, and a renewed sense of motivation and inspiration to figure out what exactly I want from this blog (and what I do not). I didn't exactly find what I thought I would out of the conference, but I received a lot that I didn't expect. Mostly, I realized how big this blogging world is, how smart and articulate and awesome the women are who are in it, and how untapped our resources still are. I am proud to be part of the collective female blogging voice. This world was built on the stories of its people, and I feel like I am continuing a part of that oral history -- creating our cyber Red Tent, telling our stories, making the world smaller and our influence bigger all at the same time. I am humbled by the women who stand beside me in that effort.
"So... do you write about... wallpaper?"
Monday, August 9, 2010
By far, the most popular question I encountered at BlogHer '10 was what the heck my blog name means. Even people I assumed knew did not know.
Complicating this was that I also had no good pitch for this blog when I met other writers, publishers, and editors. "What do I write about?" Um... me? My kids? Being a woman/mother/sister/daughter/wife/lover of frozen yogurt? It seemed like such a short, vague answer compared to the many women milling around with book deals.
Someone actually did ask me if I write about wallpaper. I do like wallpaper, but I don't actually have any in my house. I'm not sure I am grown up enough for it yet. It's such a commitment. More than one person asked if I just really, really like Elmo. Elmo's not even my favorite Sesame Street resident (that title would go to Ernie).
Complicating this was that I also had no good pitch for this blog when I met other writers, publishers, and editors. "What do I write about?" Um... me? My kids? Being a woman/mother/sister/daughter/wife/lover of frozen yogurt? It seemed like such a short, vague answer compared to the many women milling around with book deals.
Someone actually did ask me if I write about wallpaper. I do like wallpaper, but I don't actually have any in my house. I'm not sure I am grown up enough for it yet. It's such a commitment. More than one person asked if I just really, really like Elmo. Elmo's not even my favorite Sesame Street resident (that title would go to Ernie).
When I was contemplating starting a blog, I decided I couldn't start it until I found the perfect blog title for myself. I thought and debated for a long time. I like to think of myself as creative, so it took me forever to be pleased with my own idea. The Elmo Wallpaper just flashed into my brain at some point, and I knew it was perfect. I read a Victorian short story in college titled "The Yellow Wallpaper," by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (published in 1892), about a wife and mother who goes crazy and starts seeing things in her yellow wallpaper in her bedroom, where she is confined. It's the perfect analogy to my own life, in which I also often start to feel crazy and lost in a sea of toys and the stuff of children and home.
Be certain, we have several Elmos in our house. We have been longtime viewers of Elmo's World. We love Elmo. But we don't own any Elmo wallpaper. However, I think you all would be truly impressed if you knew how many people in the world either own or want to buy Elmo wallpaper. Trust me, it's pretty crazy. My sitemeter referrals from searches for "elmo wallpaper" are through the roof. I went to a BlogHer panel this weekend about small blogs, and when people were comparing their low hit counts, I giggled. I get TONS of hits... for one second each. Once the hitters realize I am actually NOT a purveyor of Elmo wallpaper, they move on. Just as well, I suppose.
So now you know. I hope you are not disappointed in my lack of actual Elmo wallpaper. I hope that, instead, you are delighted by it.
Be certain, we have several Elmos in our house. We have been longtime viewers of Elmo's World. We love Elmo. But we don't own any Elmo wallpaper. However, I think you all would be truly impressed if you knew how many people in the world either own or want to buy Elmo wallpaper. Trust me, it's pretty crazy. My sitemeter referrals from searches for "elmo wallpaper" are through the roof. I went to a BlogHer panel this weekend about small blogs, and when people were comparing their low hit counts, I giggled. I get TONS of hits... for one second each. Once the hitters realize I am actually NOT a purveyor of Elmo wallpaper, they move on. Just as well, I suppose.
So now you know. I hope you are not disappointed in my lack of actual Elmo wallpaper. I hope that, instead, you are delighted by it.
In the meantime...
I really enjoyed this post from my dear friend Michelle's oldest son (of SIX KIDS), Ben, on the Mormon literary blog Segullah. Oh Michelle, how I hope I can someday say I did half as well as you did. Great job, Ben. Can you come to my house on your mission and make my children your project? It's a worthwhile cause, I promise.
Back from BlogHer '10
I'm back. And boy, it's like I never left. When I stepped onto that airplane on Thursday, I was nearly broken. I needed a break like nobody's business. Over the course of the weekend, I acquired about 14,000 blisters on my poor, suburban feet. I ate xxx (number hidden to protect the very guilty) cupcakes from the way-too-nearby Magnolia Bakery. I had a fabulous sojourn to the New York Times for a lunch with other bloggers courtesy of my wonderful and supportive friend, Lisa Belkin. And I had two crazy awesome dinners, one at Tabla on Union Square and the other at an old favorite, Dos Caminos, this time in the Meatpacking District (and whoa has that place changed in the last fifteen years! Hello, crazy trendy!). I met several awesome women and I have a ton of new feeds on my Google Reader to dig into in my spare moments.
I tromped home yesterday, leaving the city a little after 11 AM, riding the train from Penn to the airport, then waiting on a delayed flight. I spent the flight frustrated as heck at my TV screen, which kept flickering in seizure-inducing style ways so that I couldn't actually SEE Bethenny giving birth, but I could hear it. I think I would have preferred the opposite.
I arrived home to a tired, frustrated Husband and three children who had eaten very little but McDonald's while I was gone. They had torn down the main shelf in my closet. They somehow pulled a sliding, paned door off its tracks in the dining room. I can barely see my desktop screen through the sticky fingerprints. There's a new chocolate milk stain on my white coverlet and my well-meaning husband put it in the dryer. Oh, and potty-training commenced today. Just that. You know. Little stuff.
So I am back. And I am writing a post about BlogHer itself, but I am still wondering how to write it. It was a whirlwind and it wasn't. It was overwhelming and it wasn't. It was something like a phenomenon. I didn't fangirl the Pioneer Woman as I wanted to -- just said hi -- but I did fangirl Heather Spohr, and by the time I did, I had no idea what to say. I was so scared by all the blog posts about what you should and shouldn't say to your favorite bloggers if you saw them at BlogHer. So instead of saying what I wanted to say, I told her I lived in Los Angeles once too. Um, okay. She then giggled at my blog name (which, by the reaction of fellow bloggers at BlogHer this weekend showed me, I need to explain -- post forthcoming). So, yeah, that.
Okay, had to run off to get Baby B. out of his first pair of poopy underwear (poor Thomas the Train) and throw it in the trash. B. is now in the shower, since no brand new three-year-old can step out of a pair of poopy underwear at all gracefully. I might have eaten a cupcake for breakfast and another for lunch.
Yes, I am back.
I tromped home yesterday, leaving the city a little after 11 AM, riding the train from Penn to the airport, then waiting on a delayed flight. I spent the flight frustrated as heck at my TV screen, which kept flickering in seizure-inducing style ways so that I couldn't actually SEE Bethenny giving birth, but I could hear it. I think I would have preferred the opposite.
I arrived home to a tired, frustrated Husband and three children who had eaten very little but McDonald's while I was gone. They had torn down the main shelf in my closet. They somehow pulled a sliding, paned door off its tracks in the dining room. I can barely see my desktop screen through the sticky fingerprints. There's a new chocolate milk stain on my white coverlet and my well-meaning husband put it in the dryer. Oh, and potty-training commenced today. Just that. You know. Little stuff.
So I am back. And I am writing a post about BlogHer itself, but I am still wondering how to write it. It was a whirlwind and it wasn't. It was overwhelming and it wasn't. It was something like a phenomenon. I didn't fangirl the Pioneer Woman as I wanted to -- just said hi -- but I did fangirl Heather Spohr, and by the time I did, I had no idea what to say. I was so scared by all the blog posts about what you should and shouldn't say to your favorite bloggers if you saw them at BlogHer. So instead of saying what I wanted to say, I told her I lived in Los Angeles once too. Um, okay. She then giggled at my blog name (which, by the reaction of fellow bloggers at BlogHer this weekend showed me, I need to explain -- post forthcoming). So, yeah, that.
Okay, had to run off to get Baby B. out of his first pair of poopy underwear (poor Thomas the Train) and throw it in the trash. B. is now in the shower, since no brand new three-year-old can step out of a pair of poopy underwear at all gracefully. I might have eaten a cupcake for breakfast and another for lunch.
Yes, I am back.
Stuck in a Moment...
Monday, August 2, 2010
Hello, long-lost friends and readers. I feel terribly guilty about my lack of blogging this summer, especially as I begin to pack for, duh, a conference for BLOGGERS (you probably do need to blog to enjoy such a conference!).
I cannot explain my silence this summer easily. I can say that I have had an awful lot of childcare to do, and that has kept my computer time to a minimum. I'm a desktop gal -- laptops make me nervous -- and so blogging demands actually sitting down in my bedroom office nook. There have been just a mere six days this summer when all three of my offspring were ensconced in summer camp, and I spent five of those days working furiously on my house. The sixth day was my birthday. So, you know, there are time constraints. Despite popular beliefs, not a whole lot of bon-bon eating and soap-opera watching goes on around these parts. I do believe that when school begins, I will be a much more prolific blogger.
However, I have also been struggling with internal limits. After a few of my more recent posts, some comments that were not even malicious or ill-meaning set off some alarm bells in my mama bear head. I blog anonymously in part to protect my children and my husband and in part because I don't want the local mom crews at school to know my every inner thought and whim. But lately, even anonymous blogging seems not protective enough. I have begun to feel censored. If I write my honest feelings, I cannot expect not to be judged for them. If I write honestly about my children, I cannot expect everyone to be gentle with them or to me and my parenting. We in my little family are flawed, imperfect, sometimes naughty. And at this moment in my life and parenting, I feel the need to put up some fences and protect myself a little more.
I have no interest in writing a blog that isn't genuine or brutally honest, and so these feelings are hindering me quite a bit. I am hoping that this weekend, I will be inspired and motivated to write without fear. I'm over-thinking things right now, and it's hard to form good words and sentences in that spirit.
So bear with me, and know that I am hanging in here with white knuckles. My kids are driving me crazy, my housework is threatening to kill me, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I hope to navel gaze about it quite thoroughly here in the coming months, and I hope you will be here when I do. In the meantime, I am off to the concrete jungle where dreams are made for a few days of a much-needed mommy break. And I didn't feel guilty, not one little bit, when Firstborn screamed at me in the Perkins parking lot this morning that he bet I wouldn't even miss them while I am gone. Because quite honestly, I will not. So sue me.
I cannot explain my silence this summer easily. I can say that I have had an awful lot of childcare to do, and that has kept my computer time to a minimum. I'm a desktop gal -- laptops make me nervous -- and so blogging demands actually sitting down in my bedroom office nook. There have been just a mere six days this summer when all three of my offspring were ensconced in summer camp, and I spent five of those days working furiously on my house. The sixth day was my birthday. So, you know, there are time constraints. Despite popular beliefs, not a whole lot of bon-bon eating and soap-opera watching goes on around these parts. I do believe that when school begins, I will be a much more prolific blogger.
However, I have also been struggling with internal limits. After a few of my more recent posts, some comments that were not even malicious or ill-meaning set off some alarm bells in my mama bear head. I blog anonymously in part to protect my children and my husband and in part because I don't want the local mom crews at school to know my every inner thought and whim. But lately, even anonymous blogging seems not protective enough. I have begun to feel censored. If I write my honest feelings, I cannot expect not to be judged for them. If I write honestly about my children, I cannot expect everyone to be gentle with them or to me and my parenting. We in my little family are flawed, imperfect, sometimes naughty. And at this moment in my life and parenting, I feel the need to put up some fences and protect myself a little more.
I have no interest in writing a blog that isn't genuine or brutally honest, and so these feelings are hindering me quite a bit. I am hoping that this weekend, I will be inspired and motivated to write without fear. I'm over-thinking things right now, and it's hard to form good words and sentences in that spirit.
So bear with me, and know that I am hanging in here with white knuckles. My kids are driving me crazy, my housework is threatening to kill me, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I hope to navel gaze about it quite thoroughly here in the coming months, and I hope you will be here when I do. In the meantime, I am off to the concrete jungle where dreams are made for a few days of a much-needed mommy break. And I didn't feel guilty, not one little bit, when Firstborn screamed at me in the Perkins parking lot this morning that he bet I wouldn't even miss them while I am gone. Because quite honestly, I will not. So sue me.
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