"Lasts"

So I burst into tears at the pediatrician’s office today. Did one of the kids get a terrible diagnosis? No. Did one of them need a painful shot? Nope.

I was there simply to pick up their medical files because I’m switching them over to a general practitioner who is male. They are both at that age when they much prefer a guy to a gal. Totally normal. But there was something about knowing that it was my last visit to the pediatrician’s office that undid me. I wanted to throw my arms around those nurses and doctors and thank them for taking care of my babies. We were blessed to get through early childhood with only one health crisis so we didn’t actually have to spend too much time there, but it was always comforting to know I could pick up the phone and call the nurses for advice.

My reaction is a bit of a surprise to me because I’ve never been very sentimental about these matters. In fact, I don’t understand mothers who get all weepy when their kids go off to kindergarten. Seriously? Aren’t you going to enjoy the freedom? When we dropped our boys off at sleep-away camp for the first time, Peter and I yelled “Yippee!” the minute we drove off.

I think it’s just another reminder that the time is flying by and I’m never going to get these days back. Of course, there are days I don’t want back. The ones when I think I’m not going to survive until they leave for college…and they might not either. But there are many days I’d like to have back—some to do over and some to slow down and enjoy again.  

I’ve always been pretty good at marking “firsts.” I’ve got photos chronicling just about every first thing the boys ever did. First time eating carrots. Check. First time putting the toes in the mouth. Check. First time on skates. Check.

But I’m starting to realize that it is the “lasts” that are just as important. And the older they get, the more I’m beginning to pay attention to these things. We have a children’s book about this. The mother lists all the things she will never see her son do again. I can’t read it without getting emotional, and the boys still occasionally ask me to read it to them at bedtime just so they can watch me cry.

It’s a small and somewhat insignificant thing but moving from a kid doctor to a regular doctor is one of those “lasts.” So I pulled myself together and handed over the files to the new doc’s receptionist. Right now, they’re just a couple of names to her. But I felt like saying, “Hey, take care of these babies.”

Loaded Diapers

An article in today’s Wall Street Journal gives new meaning to the term “loaded diaper.” Apparently diaper manufacturers are tapping into the talents of well-known clothing designers to make decorated diapers. Yes, diapers that look like little jeans or that have intricate designs on them including argyle and polka dot. Seriously? They do know what diapers are for, right? They hold pee and poop. It’s just that simple.

I’m a few years removed from needing diapers and since I had boys, I was less into flashy diapers and more interested in ones that wouldn’t come off while they were trying to ride the dog. But even if I were in the diaper phase now, I just don’t think I’d want to spend my resources on cute diapers. Now that we’re counting the costs of school, hockey teams, summer camps and groceries for two growing boys, if I had it to do over again I’d probably wrap my kids’ behinds in a nice soft towel and secure it with duct tape just to save money.

In addition to making diapers prettier, they’re also making them easier to use. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing but a Huggies brand manager claims that trying to get a diaper on a squirming infant is an “unmet need.” Really? Isn’t that part of the fun of having babies? Playing with them while you try to squeeze their fat little bodies into a diaper?  It’s sometimes inconvenient, but is it an “unmet need”? I don’t think so. For parents of newborns and toddlers, an unmet need is actually an uninterrupted night’s sleep.  

The photos of these diapers on a couple of babies are way cute. And it definitely makes me a little nostalgic for the days when my boys were young enough to need them. But no matter how precious your baby is or how sweetly decorated his diaper, it’s still a poop holder.

Confessions of a Summer Hater

I’m just going to put myself out there and say that I hate summer.

I know this makes me sound cantankerous and those who know me well would probably say, “Well of course it sounds cantankerous because YOU ARE!”

But it’s the driving hither and yon and the trying to squeeze in some work and missing my regular exercise classes and needing to get my roots done and just not having any peace and quiet that makes me long for the school year again. I know it’s selfish and believe me, I’m mentally flagellating myself regularly.

But it’s also the pressure. Oh, the pressure to give my kids a happy, exciting summer filled with trips to Kings Island, the pool, the ice hockey rink, camp and other assorted recreational activities. It’s exhausting.

Granted, I don’t miss the homework drama, the lunch packing and the early mornings of the school year. It’s great to have some time to exhale. But the loosey goosey schedule is actually more of a stressor for me.

Every morning these boys wake up, come down the stairs, track me down and ask, “What are we doing  today?” I feel like a cruise director on a ship full of cats. Well, only two cats. But it feels like 50. And of course, they never want to do the same things. One boy wants to spend all day at the ice hockey rink. The other wants to have friends over. One wants to play on the dry side of Kings Island, the other wants to play on the water park side. One wants to go to the pool, the other wants to stay home and watch reruns of “Monk.”

I hope I’m not the only mother who feels this way. But when I ask other moms how their summers are going, I get “It’s great. I just love having the kids around.” Or “We are having so much fun just making crafts and homemade popsicles.”  So I skulk off in shame before they can ask how my summer is going.

And I worry that I’ve set the expectations too high. After spending all day at the water park with friends, one of my boys asks, “What are we doing when we get home?” “Well, my little pumpkin, I’m going to dive into a tub of aloe vera because I’m so dang sunburned. And you and your brother are going to make me a nice glass of iced tea.  What do you mean, what are we doing? Is this not enough?!”

The other day the boys were trying to kill each other in the middle of the family room (they call it wresting; I call it trying to kill each other) and when I gazed wearily over at my husband, he says, “We are soooo going to miss this some day.” And I know he’s right. I know without a doubt that I will miss the noise and the chaos and the driving to and from places. I will just miss THEM—their presence, their laughter, their yelling, their little tiny airsoft pellets scattered throughout the yard and house.

But for now, I just want a little peace and quiet.

People Who Don't Put Their Shopping Carts Away and Other Things that Make Me Crazy...

So I was sitting around complaining to some friends today.  And one of them politely said, “I think I see a blog coming…”  Which I now suspect was her kind way of saying "shut up and write it down".

So here is a list of things I just need to get off my chest.  It’s my own personal Top 10 List of Stuff That Makes Me Crazy. And don’t accuse me of being grumpy because I guarantee you will find a few of your own in here.

Number 10 - Couples who feel the need to demonstrate their undying love for one another with caressing during the church service. It’s a house of worship. Get a room. Show some decorum. Enough said.

Number 9 - People who leave their shopping carts in the middle of the parking lot. I’m sorry to be harsh but failure to put your cart away is lazy and disturbingly inconsiderate. I’m just waiting to catch someone in the act so I can berate them personally.

Number 8 - People who rush to the front of the line while boarding an airplane, knocking over children in strollers and pushing the elderly out of the way. Listen, we will all reach our destination at the same time. I promise. Chillax.

Number 7 - Here’s one that particularly gets under my skin since we’re in the middle of the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs. People who spout generalizations like, “All hockey players are criminals,” or my personal favorite, “Hockey is just such a violent sport.”  Really? Have you been to a soccer game lately? There’s a lot of screaming, swearing and general bad behavior. And that’s just the parents.

Number 6 - People who drive slow in the fast lane.  I’m not sure which is worse, taking a 13-hour road trip to Texas behind some goober who thinks going five miles over the speed limit qualifies him for the fast lane or worrying  that my husband’s head will actually spin off because he is so frustrated.

Number 5 –Young women who wear string bikinis to the pool. Look, I stalk the mail carrier every year so that I can grab the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and toss it out before my 13-year-old son can get to it. I really don’t need a reenactment at the Recreation Center. This is not the French Riviera. Please, dear girl, put more clothes on.  It’s really OK to leave something to the imagination.

Number 4 – People who…well, really, I’m talking about guys here…Guys at the gym who get on the treadmill next to you and proceed to grunt, groan, sweat rivers and behave as if they are about to keel over. We’re all impressed you’re working out very hard, OK? Kudos to you for that. But I’m begging you, please use a towel and try to suffer in silence.

Number 3 – People who talk during movies. Hey, you know that ad they show asking moviegoers to please silence their cell phones and refrain from talking? THEY’RE REFERRINGTO YOU! SHUT UP.

Number 2 – Going to the eye doctor for a routine vision check and being shamed for not opting for the $200 retinal scan. Yes, I know the eyes are the window to the soul, the body, etc…And yes, I know you probably need to pay for that fancy machine. And I know it could detect a brain tumor and all that. But I just want to know if I need glasses. That’s all. And don’t make me feel like a cheap loser because I’m unwilling to shell out $500 for a pair of glasses when I could drive a couple miles over to Costco and get an equally cute pair for $79.

And my Number One Pet Peeve is folks who get into the checkout line that clearly says “15 items or less” with a cart full. People, it’s not 15 different categories of food items, OK? It is 15 separate items. And don’t act like those of us behind you aren’t counting. We are and we’re mad. And heaven help you if you get to the parking lot and fail to put your cart in the special coral. I’ve got my eye on you.

Earth Day Still Makes Me Cranky

Following is a column I wrote that appeared in the Cincinnati Enquirer a couple years ago regarding Earth Day. This year’s Earth Day is Friday, so I thought I’d pull it out since my feelings haven’t changed much. When this was published, a lot of folks got their shorts in a wad. Name calling and insult flinging ensued. Alas, people who love the planet can be so mean. So if any of this offends you, I apologize in advance. I only ask that you curse me privately.  

Earth Day makes me cranky.

Actually, it's not just Earth Day, it's this whole "going green" phenomenon. Before you know it, we'll all be carrying bags made from juice boxes and wearing clothes made from recycled paper.

I don't call that going green. I call it ugly and itchy.

I can't quite put my finger on why all this annoys me. The word "preachy" comes to mind. I guess I'm just weary of being lectured to about how I must reduce my carbon footprint.

(I confess I still don't understand what a carbon footprint is, but I'm pretty sure I need a new pair of shoes with which to leave it. Preferably shoes made from leather - not recycled pop cans.)

Perhaps I'm just being ornery, but the more I get bossed around regarding the importance of being green, the more I want to use inefficient sources of energy, buy a Hummer, toss my glass bottles and aluminum cans in the garbage and cut down a tree.

Actually, we did cut down a huge tree in our backyard last week, but it would have fallen on our house, possibly killing us all. So I assume that makes it OK.

For the record, I affirm the importance of being good stewards of the world God gave us. I really do try to reduce, reuse and recycle.

But enough already. I can't open up a magazine without seeing some high-minded article on the evils of plastic and the virtues of hemp.

Can't we all just commit to take better care of the planet, not be so wasteful and turn off the lights when we leave the house?

I agree with Kermit the Frog. It's not easy being green.

Spanx Attack

I want to talk about foundations. No, not the things that houses are built on. I’m talking undergarments. They called them girdles back in the day.  My Texas grandmother had one that kind of looked like those one-piece suits the wrestling guys wear. Except that it had a little metal in it, I think. I came around the corner once and saw her in it. Whoa.  Believe me, it has taken years of therapy to scrub that image from my mind.

Anyway, we’ve certainly come a long way, baby. Now they’re called bodyshapers with brand names like Spanx, which has a saucy sound to it. But then there are the Yummie Tummies. That sounds like something I called my little boys when they had those squishy little bellies. A “yummie tummy” is only cute when you’re a toddler. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants a “yummie tummy” when they're 45.

I just got the Spanx catalog and admittedly those girls look great. But here’s the thing: If you look closely, you’ll see that they are taking 23-year-old Victoria’s Secret models, slapping a Spanx on them and telling us that’s what we’ll look like if we buy it. They lie. You could put a burlap sap on a Victoria’s Secret model and probably sell it as evening wear.

They make all kinds of promises about how you’ll look with Spanx on under your clothes but they should include an ibuprofen and a crowbar with each item because you’re going to throw out your back trying to squeeze into the thing and after sweating in it for a couple hours, you’re going to need help prying the thing off your body. I’d schedule a chiropractor appointment in advance.

Seriously, I’m surprised more women haven’t passed out from these things. It probably gets misdiagnosed a lot. “Officer, woman down. Do you think it could be a heart attack? No. That thing she’s wearing under her clothes is cutting off her circulation. It’s a Spanx Attack. Just cut it off her. She’ll be fine. That’s a 10-4.”

The problem is that these things ultimately don’t get rid of the fat. They just redistribute it. Once, I shoved myself into an undergarment designed to “eliminate muffin top.” I squeezed myself into it, turned around to observe myself in the mirror and realized I had a strange lump up around my shoulder.  The fat has to go somewhere, people.

I’d like to think that diet and exercise will eliminate the need for Spanx or any other body shaping garment. But until then, I think I’m just going to wear my bathing suit under my clothes.

The Parent-Teacher Conference

We’re about two weeks out from the twice-yearly event that has me waking up in the middle of the night with sweaty palms. The Parent-Teacher Conference.  

I love the teachers. I hate the conferences. I know they are important but I can’t help feeling that it’s my mothering skills, not my boys’ academic performances, that are being critiqued. I know this is twisted. I’ve always believed that children are NOT extensions of their parents, that they are separate individuals with their own personalities, skills and challenges, and that we should not take everything they do and make it all about us. But that objective wisdom escapes me when I squeeze my behind into those little chairs and face the teacher.  I feel like I should show up with a nice apple for the desk.

When a teacher says, “Your child would benefit from a little more nightly study,” I hear “You are a big fat loser because your son has an itouch and you’ve allowed him too much time to play with it.”

When another teacher says, “Your child needs to focus a bit more in class,” I hear “You know all those Little Debbie Swiss Rolls you ate while you were pregnant? Well, you’re paying the price for them now.”

When I’m told, “Your child gets a little rowdy during recess,” I hear, “You just couldn’t give up the caffeine while you were carrying him, right?”

Conversely, if an instructor says, “Your child is well-liked by his peers and is a good leader,” I hear, “It’s a good thing he’s got you for a mother because you’ve clearly raised him right.”

My boys have always been blessed with great teachers. Very committed. Very kind. Nevertheless, I skulk into and then skulk out of these meetings. It’s enough to make me want to homeschool. Which is saying a lot since I’ve always declared that the Almighty himself would have to walk in my house and instruct me to homeschool my kids before I’d even consider it.

Thank goodness my husband is usually present to serve as the voice of reason after these meetings. But oddly, when the teacher says “Your child needs to focus,” my husband hears, “Your child needs to focus.” Weird. He clearly doesn’t know how to read between the lines.

And I know he thinks I’m a little wacky about all this. Maybe. But I’m going to go polish some apples just in case.