I’m feeling it. Best part of summer, baby. Right here. Right now. But it’s flying faster than a newly minted five year old bike rider veering wildly down a hill. Yikes! Feeling slightly out of control, but luh uh uh ving the ride.
In this article over at the Huffington Post, author Lisa Bloom points out that complimenting a little girl on her looks or dress or shoes or hair is “our culture’s standard talking-to-little-girls icebreaker.” Bloom argues that this teaches a girl that the first thing you notice is her appearance and therefor that her looks are the most important thing. We are supposed to try a new approach with the girls we meet: ask, what book are you reading? What sports do you play? What do you think about global warming?
I’m not sure what to think. Putting aside the fact that the writer is slightly annoying in a self-congratulatory way (Look at how I crouched down and asked my friend’s daughter about books with a twinkle in my eye and taught her a valuable lesson about her self worth!), it is an interesting proposition. In theory, I agree that our culture puts way too much emphasis on beauty, youth, and general hotness. But for some reason I’m finding myself trying really hard to sidestep this. I want to argue with Lisa Bloom and I don’t know why.
For starters, it’s a physical fact that we do notice someone’s looks first. The first thing you see, is what you see. Right? Perhaps, with girls, we just feel more free to say what we think. Little girls are adorable or funky or gorgeously tomboyish and I think most of us just let it fly. Not so with the boys. I can’t tell you how many times I see one of Saint James’ friends looking especially cute, but I squash the urge to say anything because I don’t want the kid to melt in embarrassment. Hell, there’s one in my backyard right now. He looks like a dark version of Saint James - handsome as all get out – they would make an unbeatable duo out in the bars in a few years. But will I tell him this? No. All bets are off with the girls, though. Red cowboy boots, feathers in the hair, tutus and Chucks, jean skirts, knobby knees, curly blond chlorine hair – I mean there has to be a limit to the cuteness I’m expected to see and ignore!
Second of all, just because a physical or sartorial complement is the first thing you might say, it’s not the only thing you’ll say – it’s not the most important thing you’ll say. A greeting is a greeting – it’s an icebreaker, a bridge to more talking. Maybe I’m the superficial one, but I think we do this with grown women too. Giving or getting a complement is disarming and a way to get closer to someone. It’s not as craven as it sounds – it’s social short-hand, taking you quickly through safe terrain, until you can settle in for a deeper conversation. And it’s not always complements – if someone looks stressed or sad, well, you aren’t going to notice her cute boots, you’re going to ask how she’s doing. Aren’t we just passing on a bit of social currency to our girls, albeit inadvertently?
Lately I’ve talked to girls about fencing, Harry Potter, babysitting, and middle school. I’m sure we talked about clothes and hair too, but I can’t remember. Maybe I can be blasé about this because my oldest girl seems impervious to the trappings of conventionally girlie things. Oddly though, Supergirl has taken a recent liking to watching Toddlers and Tiaras. I’ve put the kibosh on it, not because I fear she’ll get sucked into the pageant culture, but because I think she’s too young to be feeling superior to and disgusted by fellow Americans on TV. And maybe I’m naive, but even if Devil Baby continues on her present trajectory of a dramatic girlie girl, I cannot imagine a situation where she’s going to end up wanting a boob job at age 20. Child may like sparkly things but child is fierce.
I’m not arguing that there isn’t an issue with girls’ self-esteem and a disproportionate value placed on the exterior package by our culture. I just think pinning even a little bit of the blame on the four or five words that come after hello is convenient, simplistic and misplaced. Bloom does admit that her idea won’t “change our multibillion dollar beauty industry, reality shows that demean women, our celebrity-manic culture.” Of course it won’t. At this point, I get the sinking feeling nothing will. So we need to focus on the girls and make sure their lives are filled with books, art, sports, current events, deep friendships, healthy food and cooking and yes, consistent conversations that are challenging, complex and colorful. Also, if they take you there, a reasonable dose of fashion and pop culture mixed with a little irony, caution, humor or whatever else we’re feeling about it, isn’t going to hurt. Call me vapid, but if I see my neighbor girl with her Tiger Beat magazine, I will sit shoulder to shoulder with her and flip through with gusto.
OMG! Did you hear Justin Bieber got pulled over in Miami because the cop thought he looked too young to be driving? LOL!
Photo by Steve Cohen – Metromix
It has been a while since I’ve woken up with the need to dump the contents of my heart on the floor and sort out all the pieces like legos. If you had asked me yesterday at five o’clock whether I was excited to be seeing U2, I would given you a not entirely convincing yes. I just haven’t been into U2 as much in the last few years – there has been so much other music. Somehow this show seemed like an over blown event that absolutely every one I knew was going to, and call me peevish, but I tend to not like being part of a hoo-ra-ra. If only I could hear myself. I sound like an a-hole.
But I had forgotten one thing: U2 is U2. For people our age, and those a little older and a little younger, they are, for better or worse (and today I argue for better), our defining band. I was completely unprepared for the surge of emotion as the four of them walked on that incredible stage in the softly darkening night. It turns out I have deep, latent reserves of affection for those lads and for the beautiful music they have given us through the most turbulent and raw parts of our lives: our early adolescence through our early adulthood. Not to mention the fact that Dash and I have had big love for Bono ever since we spotted him outside the Four Seasons in Boston and he held baby Saint James, said something about missing his little guy and let us take a picture. Look at these. I’m mean, come ON!
They started with ‘Even Better Than the Real Thing’ and I could have fainted. It’s hard to overstate how amazing the sound stage was, a giant claw being one of those ideas that might have sounded ridiculous on paper, yet worked as a cool and strangely unobtrusive way to frame the band and the incredible 360˚ video screen that has been all the hubbub. The acoustics were great – from where we were sitting I could feel Larry Mullin’s drums and Adam Clayton’s base pounding in my ribcage. Possibly my favorite physical sensation in life, as you know. Bono introduced the band and I kept leaning over to Dave, yelling in his ear. On Larry: (I used to have THE HUGEST crush on him!), Adam: (Ohhhhhh, I have SUCH a soft spot for him!), The Edge: (AHHHH! I LOVE THE EDGE!!!) Poor Dash. I am such a fiend. He just nods, smiles and massages his ear drum. (But he kind of looks like Bono, so . . . mmmmm . . . he’s the one I love the most, hands down.)
About half way through the show they were playing ‘Beautiful Day’ (which he dedicated to Gabby Giffords) and her husband, Commander Mark Kelly, was up on the screen in space and for a second I thought it was live and my head was going to explode. Live from SPACE?! In a touching little riff off Bowie’s Space Odyssey, Kelly said tell my wife I love her very much . . . she knows. And then Bono echoed in his inimitable wail. Seriously. I could have sobbed. There was also a beautiful moment when Somali rapper, K’Naan joined Bono on stage to sing ‘Stand by Me’ in order to raise awareness of the famine in Somalia. The thing is, U2 can get away with anything. They can be as earnest and dramatic and florid and shwooshy and tender and hopeful and outraged and uplifting and awareness raising as they want. It is literally impossible to be cynical about them or their music when seeing them live because that band, as a band, has such a lion’s heart. They swallow you whole. She never stood a chance.
And this was just about the point where the magic really started to happen.
The wind picked up, seemingly stirring 60,000 people into a palpable frenzy and I had a total Beyonce moment dancing with my dress and hair whipping around like a banshee. I actually thought: if I get struck by lightening in this moment, I will die happy. Morbid, I know, but y’all, I was ee-mo-shun-al! And then came the rain. The rain. First in teasing droplets and then in buckets – I was soaked to the skin. I could have housed goldfish in my chuck taylors. And my people, my hardy stalwart Minnesotans made me proud, pulling foul weather gear and rain ponchos out of every orifice and singing even louder. Even with the lightening, nobody left.
And this was where U2 showed us how it’s done – why they are such an iconic band. They didn’t miss a beat and charged on through the driving rain. Bono acknowledged the weather and then took it and owned it, making it a part of the show. It looked so cool on the LED screen – I just couldn’t figure out how they could still play their instruments, how their fingers didn’t slip. They were as soaked as we were. And poor Bono in his leather pants must have had the worst case of swamp ass ever. Wait, am I allowed to speculate about Bono’s swamp ass? You take the humidity, add the torrential rains and mix it with the leathah? I’m just saying. He gave no clue as to the conditions. A true professional.
Kidding aside, it felt good to let myself go back in time through their music. It felt good to dance in the rain. It felt good to hug Doctor Dash during ‘With or Without You.’ It felt good to shelve my jaded, wise-ass self for a few hours. No doubt about it, I was feeling the love. I even had an epiphany of sorts about what I need to do next in terms of my professional (non-mom) life. You never know when you’re going catch a good thought (although dancing in the open air with a smile a mile-wide is a good place to start). And today, I feel happy. All that angst about the driving and summer schlepping from a few days ago seems to have dissipated like the steam coming off the stage lights last night. U2’s songs are a really good way for me to track my life and emotional journey and dare I say, an inspiring reminder that I am truly blessed to be on this journey at all.
So, you know how every once in a while I read something that throws me into a bit of a tizzy and I rethink, review, reimagine, rehash, reiterate, rewind and revamp whatever small piece of the status quo happens to be at issue? Well, this one is a biggie and I’ve been sitting on it for a couple of weeks because I just don’t quite know how to tackle it, given how deeply and fiercely entrenched I am in this.
From the July issue of The Atlantic, the article’s title – How to Land Your Kid in Therapy – is sort of beside the point. What is supremely hair raising, is the notion that we super-involved parents, who are literally devoting all of our time to making our kids happy and successful, could actually be doing them a disservice in the long run. Our ”discomfort with discomfort” is actually leaving them ill-equipt to deal with the real life stressors that will eventually come their way, and in fact may be turning them into little narcissists. Saying “good job” has become a verbal tick. To the extent that our kids believe us every time we say it (and why should they not?), they are left thinking they are pretty friggin’ awesome. When is the last time someone said good job to me? And yet I haven’t dissolved into a puddle of insecurity, have I? Obviously, kids need encouragement and some kids are more sensitive than others, but when I read this article, I realized my kids are in far greater danger of turning out to be clueless and entitled, with inflated senses of self than they are of having low self-esteem. Low self-esteem? Fat chance.
If you ever sit near the diving board at our pool you can hardly carry on a conversation for the constant yelling coming from the peanut gallery. Holding up the line, you have little Ashley or whoever screaming mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! until her mother interrupts her conversation, watches her jump off the diving board, waits for her to emerge from the water and gives her a dutiful thumbs up or a big wow! good job! What the HELL? We aren’t talking toddlers taking their first plunges. These are 8, 9 and 10 year olds who insist on a captive, fawning audience at all times. My kids do it too and I’ve actually felt guilty saying No, I’m not going to score your dives right now. But damn if sometimes I don’t feel like averting my eyes to the pages of a magazine instead of watching them.
A couple weeks ago, Saint James and his soccer buddy walked in the back gate after having been at a soccer camp from 9-3. They were visibly hot and sweaty and had practice in an hour and a half, but they stopped at the rebounder and started kicking around some more. I had just read this article, so I was super self-conscious about my mother-henning, but was I crazy to think those boys should cool off after 6 hours of soccer? So instead of addressing them directly, I whispered to Doctor Dash to tell them to come inside. Of course Dash perfunctorily blew me off with an oh, they’re fine and asked me not to involve him in my article-craziness. So I went stealth. I banged around the kitchen for a bit, made an icy concoction in the blender and nonchalantly crooned out the back door – hey guys, want some smoothies? Mother. Hen. Wins.
Just this past week I was on my laptop at the pool and a tweenish girl ran up to me and told me that Devil Baby had gotten a back smack during dive practice. I sprang up and saw that she was being comforted by the assistant coach. I thought of the article, about letting kids sit with discomfort and just as I was about to sit back down, one of the moms rushed up to me and told me that Devil Baby was crying. I felt like yelling So What???? She smacked her back on WATER!!!! She’s FIIIIIIINE! But as such, unable to withstand the societal pressure to check on my child (who was FINE), I shuffled over, because isn’t that what I’m there for? Just waiting in the wings until they need a little pat on the back?
I think this article touched a nerve for me because I am at the absolute apex of my kid summer business. I spend ALL of my time driving them around so they can be super happy super humans – but to what end? I can tell you based on the last couple months that it is EXHAUSTING watching other people exercise. If I were on any one of my kids’ daily routines, I would be ready to do a triathalon tomorrow. I’d be freakishly buff. Outlandishly fit. But I’m not. I’m tired and crabby. AND I haven’t gotten to build a fort, ride a horse or learn graffiti art.
The weeks wear on, the novelty wears off, the boredom sets in and I pick up an article that shines a spotlight on something I’ve been kinda sorta thinking anyway. We fill up their plates because we want them to have fun, try everything, gain that muscle memory early on, so that in the future, it won’t be a struggle to learn how to play tennis, or ski, or swim laps. But what’s wrong with sucking? We all have to stink at some thing, some times, don’t we? And what’s wrong with being bored and “unhappy” during the summer time? It’s like it’s verboten to even suggest that. But don’t some of your best childhood summer memories involve time spent scampering around your neighborhood with no agenda? The problem is that there are very few kids around these days for my kids to scamper with. Everyone is busy.
The god awful truth of the matter is that, in more ways than I care to admit, my schlepping justifies my existence right now. To do all this work, as mindless and frustrating as it can be, and then engage the possibility that not only is it not the best thing I can do for my kids, but that I may actually be doing it for myself, well, let’s just say that smarts.
I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing. I keep reminding myself that the number one thing that broke my heart about working was not being able to be with my kids during the summer. I have a palpable, gut memory of pulling up to my house with my babies (who had been in their posh air-conditioned daycare all day) just as a gaggle of wet kids were spilling out of my neighbor’s minivan. I can still see all the colorful towels wrapped around heads, being dragged on the grass. My neighbor was tan, her hair wet. I was so envious and sad. And now, these many years later, we are all about colorful wet towels and yet, I am feeling truly burnt out by a different kind of rat race.
Mother hen needs a wee break, I think. And maybe the chicks do too.
I just finished Tina Fey’s autobiography, Bossypants, and it did nothing to dissuade me from my prior opinion that she’s hilarious. And smart. And cool. And hilarious. It was a perfect quick summer read and follow-up to the phenomenal yet heartwrenching Beloved by Toni Morrison, which we’re reading in book club. (Damn, ladies. What in the HELL? Counting the days till Wednesday night!)
Back to Tina (yes, I feel we’re on a first name basis now). Tina made me laugh over and over, and while I can’t relate to her sexy comedy and television life, I can sure as hell relate to coming up as a “brunette” in the seventies and eighties. She writes: “Let me start off by saying that at the University of Virginia in 1990, I was Mexican. I looked Mexican, that is, next to my fifteen thousand blond and blue-eyed classmates, most of whom owned horses, or at least resembled them. I had grown up the “whitest” girl in a very Greek neighborhood, but in the eyes of my new classmates, I was Frida Kahlo in leggings.”
She proceeds to talk about how she was inevitably drawn to super “Caucasian” guys, as was I. Such is the curse of a dark girl. My first TV crushes were blond (Bo Duke, Ricky Shroder, and Alice’s son, Tommy) and my first two boyfriend were blond Johns. And oh, how I coveted Cindy’s golden ringlets and Farah’s fabulous feathered do. I tried to get my formidable head of hair cut into feathers and it was so thick and heavy (and untouched by a curling iron – who knew you had to style it?) that I looked like Dorothy Hamil’s younger, retarded cousin who had accidentally injested copious amounts of Miracle Grow in an unsupervised gardening episode. Seriously, it was a bowl cut on steroids, voluminous and shiny, like a majestic, fecund mushroom – only it shrouded most of my face, which, in retrospect, is probably for the best.
I too was the frequent victim of mistaken ethnic identity. My middle school bus driver assumed that since I had dark hair and was at the same bus stop as the three Cho brothers, I must be their sister. It’s no wonder, considering my bus driver was an overweight, middle aged, BLOND Michigander by the name of Tanya. Why would Tanya need to distinguish between an Argentine girl and three Chinese boys? Aren’t they all the same? Those . . . brunettes? Only I had no idea I had been lumped into their family until one day I was getting off the bus and she yelled after me in her Midwest corn chip accent: Be sure to tell yer mother about yer brother’s nose bleed now. I stopped and turned around. Her arm jiggled as she pulled the lever. The bus door closed with a hiss.
Not that it’s a big deal. It’s not. So people think I’m Chinese (those three Chinese brother can be very misleading). Or Greek (I was in Greece). Or Arab (I did live in suburban Detroit). Or Indian (I used to get very very tan in Florida). So what? But when you’re young and you just want to fit in, it is kind of a big deal. At least Tina’s name was Tina. Try Gabriela. In Michigan. In the seventies. Oh, how I longed to be named Kim. Or Nancy. Sigh. I LOVED the name Nancy. It sure was prettier than Garbage-ella. Kids can be cruel. Clever, admittedly, but cruel.
Being a brunette or ethnic or whatever you want to call it certainly doesn’t kill you. Or even maim you. I like to think that the sense of being different, of being apart gives you the requisite space you need to observe. You aren’t splashing around having chicken fights in the pond; you’re standing on the shore, watching. And you can actually see better standing on the shore. At least until you’re old enough to beat it on out of there and get your ass to an ocean.
If nothing else, this blog is testament to the contradictions and vagaries of my life. It’s amusing to me that a mere couple weeks ago, I was fretting about how it just didn’t feel like summer. Now I have my head so far up summer’s ass, I can’t even see straight. Or maybe my head is up my kids’ asses, or my minivan’s ass. Or maybe Edina Country Club’s ass. Or Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Dry-touch Sunblock’s ass. Whichever ass it is, and pardon the vulgar metaphor, I was under the impression that this summer was streaking by and I was helplessly watching from the sidelines. Same blur as a couple weeks ago, different reasons.
And then I located the little cord that allows me to upload pictures from my camera to my computer and as I scrolled through I was surprised to see not just a blur, but actual moments. Many moments. Lovely stoppages in time where I was actually paying attention, at least long enough to stop and take a picture. So maybe my issue is not so much that I’m missing this breakneck season, but rather that I’m forgetting it the second it passes me by.
So some snaps, as proof to myself that we are enjoying our summer and that sometimes I do manage to take a break from turning my kids into super-athletes and simply . . . live.
Summer started out, as it has the past three years, with Supergirl’s summer streaks at Hair Police. This year she went for fiery red and electric blue. I love this pic of little sis watching big. 
Stumbled-upon forts are pure enchantment – they can be there one day and gone the next. I love the juxtaposition of human tampering in a natural setting, but to the sweetest end. Our Minnehaha Creek sprouts forts like mushrooms.
In early June we went to the end-of-the-year student art show at Off the Wall Studio. It was amazing and I could include TWENTY pictures of all the cool things I saw. There is no doubt that there are some talented kids at this place, but what I like best of all is that it feels like a clubhouse. The kids get to be creative and free and it just seems to create a tangible sense of place. This has been a great joy for my Supergirl and something tells me she’ll be going to this club for a very long time.
After the Pride Parade, Saint James and G-Dog relaxed in our furniture-less living room. For whatever reason, Saint James had changed into his pj’s on the bottom but left everything intact on top – from the superfly pink shades to the stickers on his t-shirt. I have learned not to ask questions.
I went to Michigan with the girls for my sweet little God Baby’s baptism in late June. Daughter of my brother Golden and his wife Delicious Apple, Manzanita is seriously the cutest little butterball on earth. I love the freaky stuffed dog in the background – it actually has puppies that come out of a pocket on the belly and suckle. All of my kids have tried to bring it back from Michigan at different points, but I prefer it living there, sneaking into pictures.
Foxy Brown taking a snooze on the chaise in the backyard. She is getting enviable natural summer sun highlights around her snout. Sweet pooch. 
Last weekend we were invited to a true blue Mexican Quinceanera party and I was still reeling two days later with all that we got to see and experience. It is absolutely touching and incredible how a girl’s 15th birthday is celebrated in Mexican culture. An unforgettable night for all of us.
Man, it feels good to be part of a team.
I took this picture in a quiet moment when Devil Baby was sitting on top of the picnic table eating cereal. I love the fish tatoo and the sassy side pony – her new go-to hairstyle.
I found this picture on my phone – surely it was a drive-by shot taken by one of my kids – and it spoke to me. This is how I feel about summer so far. It has been nothing but a cloudy blur. I’m not sure what my deal is (aside from the WRETCHED weather), but I can’t seem to get my footing. I can’t seem to stop. Look. Focus. It is as if I’m wearing fuzzy glasses that are keeping me one step removed from the reality of what surely is.
The date is June 25. Surely, it is summer.
We’re going through the motions, running from one thing to the next, but I have yet to have that summer moment. It can happen at the bandshell, at the beach, at the pool, in the backyard. When you lose the distinction between your skin and the air and you feel permeable to the softness of the season. When the smell of a barbecue or a sparkler makes your nose prickle in recognition and pulls you back through layers of memory, to other hot nights and cool drinks. When you feel summer in your bones, as a fact and a gift.
What is it? Is it that I’m too busy? Or is it really as simple as the string of rainy cold days? Am I not looking in the right place? Am I not documenting it enough with words and pictures? Whatever it is, I need to get it together because when it comes to matters of summer, there’s no time to mess around here in Minnesota. It is a brief and heavenly season and to squander even one day feeling muted and half-assed seems a pity.
Time to get my groove on.
Devil Baby is FIVE and I feel like I’ve been hit by a falling piano. I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe it. My baby is five. I am now standing on a new shore, looking back at the other shore, panting, dripping, not sure how I actually made it here, and not quite ready to turn around and look at the new terrain that awaits me. This feels big.
Not only is she going from baby to full-on girl, but our family is stepping into a new phase altogether: all of our kids are now “school age.” Hell, this fall we’ll even have a middle schooler! Gasp! As a mother, and a mother of this particular girl, I feel like we have crossed hot deserts, climbed ragged mountains and forded angry rivers together. She was a tough one. She would not be named Devil Baby on this blog had she not been. We struggled, we cried, we ranted and railed but I am here to say that we made it. She is officially what I would characterize as a good little girl – made of sugar and spice and everything nice (and a large dose of sass).
She’s five, which is a truly magical age, but in keeping with her extreme nature, she has taken five to a new level even though she’s only been five for a couple days. Lately, when someone new is around or she knows she’s being watched, she goes into what I call “child actor mode”. She gets really perky and loud, like one of the orphans in the Broadway Musical, Annie. It’s like she’s the child actor version of being five – extra sweet, extra happy, extra chatty. But it’s the real deal with Devil Baby. She is feeling the five thing. Boy, is she feeling it. She is five with a vengeance. Five with style. Five with jazz hands and Charleston kicks.
She is thoughtful, helpful, curious and most of all, hilarious. Oh, how she makes us laugh. She is dramatic and girlie, free in her body and light on her feet. Her pre-school teachers tell me she’s unflaggingly polite (child actor mode?). Her legs have doubled in length in the last year and I can’t tear my eyes away from her lithe little frame when she dances or rides a scooter or climbs a fence or jumps off the diving board. She feels her emotions strongly and makes sure we do too. Like her sister, she chafes at having to be alone or hang around the house. Rest time is unnecessary, down time is a bore. She loves to be with people, to play, to be out in the world. This girl is ready to fly.
And me? I look at her and feel a crushing, panicky heartachey kind of love, because if she and I got to 5 and it felt this quick when I know it was that hard, then how is the rest going to go? How do I slow this down? Now that we’ve gotten to our sweet spot, how do I slow this down?
Sweet Devil Baby – my love, my greatest challenge to date. We’ve come a long way, baby. You are truly one of a kind. You have kept me on my toes, on the edge and in tune with every emotion in my grab bag for five years. At your core you are willful. At your core you are kind. You are a treasure and I cannot wait to see what you do, where you go, who you become.
My sweet, sweet baby. My sweet, sweet girl. Happy Birthday and thank you, my little Devil Baby, for being exactly as you are.
I don’t really believe that. If I did then this mama would pretty much be heading to hell in a hand basket. For the life of me, I can’t seem to motivate to clean and straighten on a consistent basis (the only things I do well are cooking and laundry). Instead, I see the smudges, the fingerprints, the crumbs, the syrup stain and they bug me, but not enough to go after them right away. I like to tell myself that I’m fending off any OCD tendencies that may lie latent in me, but who am I kidding? Me? OCD? Have you seen my minivan?
I clean in flurries. Today I had a flurry. Not the kind of flurry that would be detectable to the book club ladies who came over last night. This was a flurry of unsung cleaning – behind the scenes, non-showy, back to the way it’s supposed to be cleaning. And during my flurry, I got to musing.
I cleaned walls and in doing so I discovered hand and FOOTprints in places that can only mean one thing: my children are secretly training to be ninjas.
I did laundry and there is no longer any point in denying the fact that my first born has reached the age where his dirty clothes stink. Like stink stink. Like sweaty locker room, cheese feet, body odor funk-a-nasty. I’m afraid the innocuous biscuity sweat smell of a kid is a thing of the past. P.U., child!
It really does help to time yourself. It sounds silly, but Lady Tabouli turned me onto this little trick. You’d be amazed at how much you can get done in 10 minutes. If you had asked me how long it takes me to empty the dishwasher, I would have said 20 to 30 minutes. I HATE emptying the dishwasher. It is an exquisite torture to me. But when I looked at the clock I was shocked to discover it takes less than 5 minutes. If I’m flying, I can do it in 2. Two minutes! Sometimes I race the microwave heating a cup of tea. It seems I am not too smart for myself and quite susceptible to all manner of self-administered tricks and mind games.
I am a frustrated perfectionist – a term I picked up from a birth order book that Gigi the Animal Whisperer lent me years ago. Being a first born, I have all the makings of a Type A personality. I have high standards, I like order and perfection. But I’m a titch lazy, so I don’t have the goods to back it up. I’d like every thing to be perfect and clean, but it’s just so boring to get it that way. Boring. BOOOORRRRRING! Ug. So boring. So I sort of wallow around in limbo, wishing it could be so, but dreading making it so. There are so many better things to do with my time, so I just do them.
And wait for a flurry.
So I was checking out Jay Z’s blog (I know, ridic that Jay Z even has a blog) and I stumbled upon this cool video of these three girls who longboard in NYC. They have formed a little pack and they are pretty bad ass, yet still total girls. I’m not saying I’d particularly want to see my daughters weaving around NYC traffic on skateboards with no helmets, but I do appreciate their moxie. They aren’t being groupies, they aren’t being posers, they are just being themselves – and in this day and age, that’s a lot.
If you happened to have watched American Idol last night, you would have seen the premier of Beyonce’s newest video. Possibly, probably, you were completely entranced. Like me. I love Beyonce – she can kind of do no wrong in my book. This song sounds very M.I.A.esque and definitely gets you wanting to put on your fringe sandals and stomp your feet in the sand. And I covet the gold chainmail dress. Oh, and the cropped black fur vest. And the jewelry. I may need a tip-o-the-finger ring soon.
The video follows in the fine tradition of “rumble” songs – like Beat It, West Side Story and Love is a Battle Field. Seriously, wait for the part when Pat Benatar takes on the pimp and shakes her skinny bosom at him like an aggressive hen. It’s awesome. I love nothing more than a choreographed dance/fight scene. I think they are hilarious and a fine alternative to taking up arms, wouldn’t you say?
This has the makings of a girl anthem. Yes, das wat I said.
I’ve decided I’m going to pull up to Supergirl’s next soccer game against one of the giant blond suburban teams and blare this song out the back of the minivan (I may also plug a fan into my cigarette lighter to get the wildly blowing hair effect and lead the girls in a pre-game war dance). I was telling my family all of this this morning while I tried out some of the moves in the kitchen and Saint James just put his head in his hands and croaked MOM, how many times have you watched this?
Only once or twice. I swear.
Our school has a variety show every spring – only fifth through eighth graders are allowed to perform, but the whole school gets to watch. I’ve gone every year since I found out about it because it’s AWESOME. As is pretty typical for these types of things, the content and talent level is all over the map. But it’s always fun and sort of heartbreaking to watch these brave kids getting on a stage, in some cases at the most awkward point of their lives, to perform. Sometimes they are hammy. Sometimes they are adorable. Sometimes they are breathtaking. I always imagine the kids feel o.k. putting themselves out there because our school is a trusted little community and it warms my cockles – it really does.
Last year, I remember Crackerjack was a nervous nelly because her son was performing a song with a group of boys. She was totally the mama wringing her hands, hoping it would go ok. I remember being super blasé about it since I love all of it, always, year after year and have yet to see anything that makes me cringe.
Only this year . . . THIS YEAR, I’m singing a different tune altogether.
Saint James and his buddy, Birdie’s Boy, are doing a song and dance routine to Iyaz’ Replay. Apparently, they are singing, but since their “moves” are so complicated, they can’t stand behind a mic, so it’s more of a lip synch slash dance routine. (It’s a little known fact that lip synch slash dance routines were my speciality back in the day, so this amuses me. Only he’s in fifth grade and I was in twelfth. I know, I was so gay.) The two of them have been absolutely mum about the act, accepting no help, allowing no previews, asking for nothing (except for a pair of rapper glasses). When I suggested maybe they should hold their mics so we could hear them sing, I was totally blocked. I’m gathering this act is really more about the moves and the swaggah. Eeeep!
Needless to say, I’m fretting. It’s hard to watch your kid put himself in a position where he could potentially embarrass himself. I know he’ll be great, and even if he isn’t, it doesn’t matter because the two of them are so darn cute they could pretty much get away with anything. But yet – I fret. I am standing right in Crackerjack’s super sexy nervous wedges from last year. Right in them. And I’m sweating them all up.
Today I went to pick Saint James up from the dress rehearsal and realized they hadn’t gone yet, so when they took the stage, I ran out the side door. He has made it blatantly clear he wants to save the surprise, so I wanted to respect that. I could hear the music and see the audience, which was basically the kids in the show and a couple moms. A few girls in his class let out a little fan shriek when they came on stage and one was taping them on a small camera. I wish I had had my phone to tape the girls, taping the boys. Judging from their reaction, it can’t have been bad. In fact, it might have been good. The girlies were all smiles and giggles and clapping after they finished (no eye-rolling) and believe me, I had my x-ray vision trained on them, so I would have seen it.
Until tomorrow, Dash and I are keeping our jitters to ourselves because Saint James seems to have zero qualms about doing this. He is cool as a cucumber. I keep pestering Dash to see if he remembers being more self-conscious as a kid, but he’s not giving up the goods. I know I would have been a little spinning top of nervous energy had I been doing a dance in front of the whole school as a ten year old. But maybe that’s a girl thing.
We’ll see. Here’s to Saint James and Birdie’s Boy ‘breaking a leg’ as they say in showbiz, and their mamas keeping their shit together in the front row (because, you know, that’s where I plan to be!)
Until then, enjoy a little Iyaz:
Today I glanced out my kitchen window and saw a squirrel standing on its hind legs with its arms wrapped tenderly around my jonquil – only he wasn’t wooing the flower, or even making out with the flower, he was eating the flower. My only friggin’ jonquil in that part of the garden was being mauled and consumed in broad daylight. I burst through the back door and scared him away with all manner of screeches, hisses and wild hand gestures – I think I get very Latina all of the sudden when I’m trying to shoo something. Perhaps it’s the years of watching my mother scream and fling herself out of the house to scare Mallard ducks out of our pool so they wouldn’t get too comfy and make it their home for the summer.
I probably would have done the same thing had there been a hundred jonquils in my garden, but the fact that there is ONE just makes it so much worse. First of all, we work hard for our spring here in these parts – March and April are a bitch and the first crumbs of spring we get are these bulbs that start to crop up against all odds. This one flower, probably because there is just one flower, becomes a symbol of spring, of warmth, of hope, of change, of new beginnings. And by eating it, the squirrel is basically saying,You don’t even get to enjoy this one measly thing to the natural end of its short measly life, peevish mama. (Actually, the squirrel is probably saying something more like, Come closer my crumpet, I wish to ravish you, so ravenous am I after this long winter with nothing but a handful of bitter acorns for sustenance. But you know what? This blog is about me. Screw the squirrel.)
And as quick as the flick of a furry tail disappearing through the fence, this one flower also becomes a symbol of my failings. Do you remember this post? Just in case you ever read this blog and feel like, wowee, she’s real neato and thoughtful and motivated, rest assured that I’m not. I’m a lazy slacker. If I had simply followed through with my impulse to plant more – what were my words? “bulbs of joy” (insert eye-roll here), then I guess I wouldn’t be in my current predicament of hating on myself and hating on a squirrel. It makes me ornery that I’m so lackadaisical about every thing. Why didn’t I just plant some more damn bulbs like I said I would? Where is my follow through? What was I doing with my time? Honestly, I don’t even know. I really shouldn’t be this lazy. I come from very motivated, conscientious, busy-bee stock. What’s my excuse? I have no excuse.
And lest you think I’m being too hard on myself over a flower, rest assured that this is just one example of many. Look at my car, look at my house, look at my baby books. It’s all going to hell in a hand basket. But don’t worry, I’ll manage to forget about all of this by tomorrow and be back to my free wheelin’ lazy-ass ways in no time flat. In fact, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to turn this into a business – there must be a market for someone who can lounge around and shoot the shit, drink wine, listen to hip hop, over-analyze everything, peruse fashion magazines and make pretty good chili. Someone hire me! Quick!
I think this is all percolating because of an article I read in the New Yorker last night. First of all, let me pause for a moment. The New Yorker. The first magazine I subscribed to after college. The only magazine to which I’ve had a consistent subscription since then. The magazine that makes me feel smart and entertained at the same time. The magazine that I share with Doctor Dash. The mother of all magazines – for me – my best me. OK, so I open it up in bed last night and there’s a huge article about this blogger who goes by the name Pioneer Woman. I’ve been to her blog a handful of times over the last few years, but I had no idea she had reached the level of being worthy of an article in the New Yorker. Basically, she was a city slicker who fell in love with a cattle rancher and it changed the trajectory of her life.
She seems sweet and engaging enough, but also, suspiciously, like one of those people with extra arms and hours in the day. She home schools her kids, cooks all sorts of fancy cowboy food, takes gorgeous pictures of all of it, teaches photography, oversees monster additions to her home and ranch, decorates it all, grows a garden, writes cookbooks, writes memoirs, writes children’s books and writes a blog. All of it with a wink and a smile. Which is fine. Obviously this is really compelling to a lot of women. I think her story and lifestyle are what people would consider aspirational. To me it’s kind of demoralizing. She makes Martha Stewart look like she’s in my league, which leaves me looking like I’m barely more animated than that piece of stucco that chipped off our house over the winter that I walk by every day and haven’t picked up.
I think you, my readers, are better served by hearing about how much I DON’T get done. My laziness is not only my gift, it is my gift to you. Tomorrow you can vacuum your cars with the satisfaction of knowing that I won’t be vacuuming my car. Or my house. What can I say, besides . . . you’re welcome.
Once upon a time there lived a girl who had never been to Vegas. She considered herself lucky at life, but unlucky at games of chance and was therefor uninterested in what Vegas had to offer.
And then one day she went.
She knew that going anywhere (even Siberia or Peoria) with her posse of 8 maidens would be a good time, yet she was still surprised. And. Yet. Still.
She danced so much and laughed so hard that now she wants to move to Vegas, except for the fact that she’d be dead of exhaustion within the week.
Everywhere she went, day or night, she was wrapped up in the booming soundtrack of her favorite dance tunes, except for that one lounge by that one door where the Sinatra impersonator wooed them in with “My Way” and sent them off with “Free Bird”. Sinatra and Skynyrd? Is that even possible? Is that even legal?
Part Oz, part Disney World, part heaven, part Hades, the town pulsed like some kind of organism. From time to time, it revealed bits of darkness and melancholy that made the girl turn and pause for but a moment, and then run to catch up with her friends. She marveled that a place could be so tacky and yet so gorgeous. One second she was oggling the sad sacks at the slot machines with fluoresent drinks growing warm in oversized beakers, or the showgirls making eyes at the wolves, wondering where their mothers were and the next her hands were itching to touch the art, plunge into the fountains, caress the Jurassic palm fronds – to see if they were real.
Was any of it real? She was intrigued by the poetic madness, the collective understanding, the endless, feckless revelry. What a slice of life, she kept muttering, not sure anymore if she was even saying it out loud.
But mostly, and most wonderfully, the girl felt that she and her maidens had finally met their match. As long, hard, loud, and wild as they wanted to rollick – as much as they wanted to dance and drink and laugh and carouse, Vegas rose up like a chivalrous and indulgent knight (or cowboy) to make it happen. In this oasis of over-the-top, nothing they could do was over-the-top. There was no question of turning in early. There were dragons to be slayed. And slayed they were.
Or at least she thinks so.
Did any of that happen? Does Vegas even exist?
Only one way to find out.
Oh, this made me chuckle, but, then again, I have a serious weak spot for Stuey. I might consider having another child if I were guaranteed that he would emerge with a British accent, football shaped head and red overalls. I’m thinking with proper placement during labor, that head might actually be quite easy on the cashoosha.
Incidentally, I found this over here, where I had gone out of green-eyed curiousity because this lady has written a book called Got Milf? The Modern Mom’s Guide to Feeling Fabulous, Looking Great and Rocking a Minivan. Of course the title alone killed me because WHY WHY WHY didn’t I think of that first? GAH!!! I would hate her if she weren’t so absolutely adorable. And funny. Grrr.
