Because my first job is Mama.
Because we spent hours and hours at the beach this week.
Because going to the beach with kids is not, I repeat not, anything like a day at the beach.
Because the memories they’re making will last a lifetime.
Because this picture is pure awesomeness.
Just Because.
Thing 2 and her sandy toes
The following post was written somewhere over middle America, in route from Wisconsin to California.
There are definitely positives and negatives to the widow seat on a plane. The advantages: A view, and somewhere to put your head should happen to doze off. I suppose you could put your head on the person sitting next to you, but unless you’ve promised to love each other in sickness and in health for as long as you both shall live, I’m going to say that the person in seat 13B is not going to enjoy your drool on his shoulder. He might, but then you’d have other problems.
The negative of the aforementioned window seat is that with today’s cramped planes, you’re trapped. And when you’re me, you have to pee a lot. Seriously. I have a bladder the size of a walnut, and 9 months each of Thing 1 and Thing 2 tap dancing on it didn’t exactly help matters.
The result is that I had to literally climb over the guy sitting next to me to use the facilities. Sorry Guy Sitting Next To Me! I’m sorry there was turbulence right then too. That was awkward. Let’s never speak of this again, ok?
Good. I’m glad we have an understanding.
If you are one of my eight regular readers (muchos gracias, by the way), you know that I spent a long weekend in Wisconsin visiting my friend Brittany. It was no Spain, but it was lovely and perfect, and I’m pleased as peach punch (I think that might be a southern expression, but “pleased as cheese curds” didn’t have quite the same ring to it.)
I got in on Friday and forcibly willed myself not to scream and run and hug my friend in the middle of a crowded airport. Only airheads do that, and ladies and gents, I am not an airhead. I am a ditz. Keep it straight.
Anyway, there was some loudness as we hugged and buzzed with excitement over seeing each other for the first time since Ms. B. moved from SoCal to America’s Dairyland.
And then we did my favorite thing in the whole world.
We went out to dinner.
Palms Bistro in Milwaukee, I salute you.
Food: Lobster macaroni and cheese with crimini mushrooms, asparagus, and truffle oil. Cocktail: Bangkok Blaze (it might have been a fever or hot flash or something. Sorry, I had two. The details became fuzzy), a sweet hot drink with chili infused vodka, pineapple juice, and mango puree. Company: Perfect.
Cheers from Milwaukee!
And on the way home, I saw my first lightning bugs. They were not what I was expecting. You know those glow in the dark stick things popular with kids at Halloween and on the rave scene? Yeah, lightning bugs are nothing like that. They’re more…electrical. Like bright little flying Christmas bulbs. And they flash; they don’t glow continuously. They are strange and wonderful creatures, but still bugs. So no, I did not try to catch one and smear its butt juice on my body. But thanks for the suggestion, Twitter followers!
Saturday brought an eerie kind of calm to this work-at-home mama. It was so… quiet. Well, except for the quiet pings and taps of giant bugs flinging themselves into the windowpanes. Dumb bugs. And they wonder why they’re at the bottom of the food chain. Ok, they probably don’t wonder, which is the exact reason they are on the bottom of the food chain.
After lounging and relaxing and laying around, we got dolled up and headed out to Chicago with plans to meet up with Rebecca and her hubby Cris, Nathan, Lisa, and Karl. See? Twitter people get out.
I sucked down one of these in preparation of our Night in Chicago
I always love meeting people in the flesh after I’ve gotten to know them online. And 9 times out of 10, I get exactly what I expect. If you’re chatty on twitter, you’re probably chatty in life. If you’re an observer, commenting on this or that situation, I won’t be surprised to see you hanging slightly back, taking everything in. If you talk about tranny dolls on Twitter, you most likely do in real life as well.
Brittany, Rebecca, Me
I hate to break it to you people, but am I as big a dork offline as I am online.
Oh, you knew that?
Well at least we’re on the same page then.
Glad that awkward revelation is over.
A bride-to-be poses with her leetle friend and Rebecca
On the same night I met some awesome friends, I experienced my first Chicago style deep-dish pizza. God bless the creative genius behind that one. Four words: I will be back.
I have mentioned my love affair with food, right?
Nathan, Lisa, and Karl
Sunday was spent much like Saturday was, except that we went to bed before 10 because we hadn’t gotten home from Chicago until 4am. Hey, when we party, we do it right.
On Monday I ate chocolate cake, ice cream, a pickle, swiss cheese, salami and a lollipop. No wait, that was The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Sorry, I confuse my life with his sometimes. I think it’s the food-love thing.
Let’s try this again.
On Monday, I went to work with Brittany, who handles the social media for Mark Neumann’s campaign. I sat at a desk for 11 and a half hours and did nothing but research, write, tweet, email, more research, more writing, more writing, and more writing. I think it’s the most work I’ve ever gotten done in one day.
Amazing what happens when you’re not getting interrupted every five seconds to fix a snack, break up a fight, move the laundry through, kiss a booboo, or run errands.
But I have to admit; I sure did miss those, “Mama nuggle me, please?” interruptions.
So back to reality, back to sticky fingers, spilled milk, scrapped knees, and crayon drawings on the coffee table. And that’s just Leif! I’m sure the kids will have their own issues too.
Thank you to my darling friend Brittany for being the best hostess around.
For making my bed.
For showing me The Ugly Truth.
For driving me to and from Chicago because we didn’t want to spend the money on a hotel room.
For cheddar and chive smashed potatoes.
I miss you already.
Now I just have to figure out how to hold it another hour until we land in San Diego. Because that poor fellow sitting next to me is sleeping, slumped over on his tray table.
Well what do you know? There is somewhere to put your head in the middle seat after all.
Will wonders never cease?
I know I’m late to the game to add my two cents to the Obama-vacay-in-Spain-water-cooler-talk. I’ve been busy living the glam life with Brittany Cohan in Wisconsin.
Or at least the relaxed life. I left the kids at home.
This is my summer vacation.
A $393.89 plane ticket purchased with reward points. An awesome friend with a guest room. A low-key Sunday spent in pajamas, on the couch, watching chick flicks and reading about Sookie Stackhouse, and drinking a little too much cheap wine.
It’s not Hawaii, but times are tight. And it’s not like it’s going to get easier anytime soon, what with the largest tax increase in history coming up in mere months.
It’s Wisconsin for me, because that what my budget allows for. It’s not a lavish hotel in Spain, where Michelle and one of her daughters vacationed over the weekend. Which I really wouldn’t care about under ordinary circumstances. They have money. Great. Fantastic. They should spend it however they want. Beauty of America and all that jazz.
Except that the majority of the trip’s cost was covered by Mr. & Mrs. Taxpayer. Almost $150,000 for transportation costs alone. Michelle apparently paid for her own hotel room, but America paid for the lavish lodging of her security detail at the Ritz-Carlton. Who knows how many other associated costs were paid for by you and me?
So let me get this straight: My taxes are going up so that Michelle can quite literally have tea with the Queen of Spain while I’m drinking a $4 bottle of wine in Wisconsin?
Is anyone else scratching their head?
Cover the extra costs yourself, First Family, or come on over to Wisconsin. I’ll even pour you a glass of cheap wine.
Is he that action star guy? No? That’s Jackie Chan? Well then I’ve got nothing.
I was in Vegas this past weekend for Right Online, an activism training event put on by Americans for Prosperity. The weekend was winding down, and I was chilling in the casino with some friends. All of a sudden, one of them started practically buzzing out of his skin, and it wasn’t even the ADD one.
My friend Duke had eyes as big and round as those of a kid in a candy shop, and in shouted whispers announced, “That’s Johnny Chan! JOHNNY CHAN!”
“Heh?”
As if I hadn’t heard him, Duke excitedly repeated, “Johnny Chan!!”
“I heard you, Dude. Again-Who?”
“The poker player!” Duke went into more detail about the world tour poker player winner guy, but it was all Greek to me.
Famous poker player was all I needed to hear. Leif is a big poker fan. I had to get a picture with this guy.
“Which one is he?” I asked my posse.
Duke responded, “He’s right there; hands in his pockets.”
I glanced to a group of four Asian looking guys, and the closest one to me had his hands in his pockets.
Having not an ounce or shred of sensibility, I walked right up to the group, turned to the guy and asked, “Are you Johnny Chan?”
He laughed and said, “Some people think I am.”
“Would you mind taking a picture with me?” I asked politely with a plethora of smiles.
“Well, you can, but you might prefer to take it with that guy,” he laughed and pointed to the perturbed looking guy across from him. A quick glance confirmed that he also had his hands in his pockets.
It was obvious the guy was not happy with my interuption. They probably thought I was a silly white chick that thought all Asians look the same.
I turned squarely to Johnny Chan and said, “First off, I’m going to kill my friend over there that told me your friend was you. Second, I’m not sure if this make it better or worse, it’s not that I don’t know what you look like, I just have no idea who you are. Third, my husband is a huge poker fan, and he’d die if he saw a picture of me with you.”
There was a brief silence that lasted about ten years. Then Mr. Chan broke into a smile, extended his hand, and said, “Come here, Baby, let’s make your husband jealous.”
Some Famous Guy and Me
The moral of the story: Sometimes if you act like an idiot, you get your picture taken with celebrities.
With all things in life, moderation is key.
With two young daughters at home, I’ve had to think about random things like when they can go to the mall with friends unsupervised, when they can start dating, and when they can start wearing makeup.
I believe that the privileges of adulthood should be granted incrementally to children, as they mature and prove themselves worthy. I also want to teach them that life is what you make of it, and not to let other people’s expectations alter your own life.
Just because your twelve year old friends are dating, that does not give you permission to date.
I totally just became my mom.
It’s ok. I like my mom.
But what happens when we allow society to alter our children’s hearts and minds so completely that they lose their sense of self? We get eighteen year olds using Botox.
From the Associated Press (H/T Breitbart.com):
MANILA, Philippines(AP) – Filipino teenage singer Charice Pempengco says she prepared for her debut on the hit TV show “Glee” by getting Botox and an anti-aging procedure “to look fresh on camera.”
The 18-year-old Charice, whose singing career rocketed after appearing on Ellen DeGeneres’ and Oprah Winfrey’s talk shows, underwent a 30-minute Thermage skin-tightening procedure and Botox to make her “naturally round face” more narrow, celebrity cosmetic surgeon Vicki Belo told ABS-CBN television.
I doubt that a teenage girl got the idea to get Botox on her own. Shame on her parents, her manager, and any other person in Charice’s life that encouraged this procedure. The only skin-altering treatment a teenager needs is acne medication.
Maybe eighteen is the new forty.
It’s hard to remember sometimes that I’m girl, and not just a cooking, scrubbing, taxi-driving, laundry-folding, and hair brushing wiper of small noses and hineys with chipped toenail polish.
But someone thinks I’m sexy! And smart! My head is swelling! My pride is bursting!
Pop.
Never mind. My two year old just drug her sleeve through bbq sauce and flung it all over the dining room. Plus I think I smell something funky.
Happy Anniversary to my darling husband, my best friend, my baby daddy, my partner in crime, my Leif.
Scott Brown had a contest detailed here, asking participants to describe what Independence Day means to them in 250 words or less. I missed the deadline because I just found out about it, but thought I’d share what I would have entered:
Independence Day means sweat and sweetness. It means a day at the beach or park with the kids, while they run around like wild banshees. It’s 90 degrees out, but we don’t care. Popsicles melt down chins, and I go through an entire box of baby wipes in a vain attempt to wipe faces and hands.
It means breaking out glow-in-the-dark necklaces as the sun sets. We break the tubes inside, the delicious crackling releasing chemicals into the plastic rope that will glow for hours. The children become nothing more than flashes of neon as they run through the dark.
The men poke at the fire, each letting their inner pyro-maniac out to play. My husband always wins, of course, and the flames are soon ready for marshmallow toasting.
Marshmallow goo and melted chocolate and cookie crumbs cover little faces. And, um, mine too. I lament the empty baby wipes box, but a friend comes to the rescue and shares hers with our sticky family.
The fireworks come, and our toddler gleefully screams, “Mores!” after each boom. A massive explosion of color in the sky, and my husband kisses me while we hold our exhausted yet filled-to-the-brim-with-joy daughters.
We revel in America.
This country totally rocks.
My friend Lori recently stumbled upon an article about one woman’s decision not to breastfeed her baby because the process was disruptive to her fun bags.
Under the headline “I formula fed. So what?”, Kathryn Blundell says in this month’s Mother & Baby that she bottlefed her child from birth because “I wanted my body back. (And some wine)… I also wanted to give my boobs at least a chance to stay on my chest rather than dangling around my stomach.”
She goes on to say: “They’re part of my sexuality, too – not just breasts, but fun bags. And when you have that attitude (and I admit I made no attempt to change it), seeing your teeny, tiny, innocent baby latching on where only a lover has been before feels, well, a little creepy.”
She concedes that “there are all the studies that show [breastfeeding] reduces the risk of breast cancer for you, and stomach upsets and allergies for your baby. But even the convenience and supposed health benefits of breast milk couldn’t induce me to stick my nipple in a bawling baby’s mouth.”
I highly recommend reading Lori’s take on this, including the empowerment and feminity that she experienced during the two years she breastfed her daughter.
A mutual friend (and mommy like Lori and me) Kill Truck offered her opinion on the subject. She formula fed her two sons after much difficulty with latching (all moms know exactly what I’m talking about. If you’re not a mom and have made it this far-congratulations.).
I did one of each. When Thing 1 was born, I felt like I HAD to breastfeed her. Leif has severe allergies, and I had been led to believe by the La Leche crowd that formula might as well be arsenic, so the thought to formula feed never even crossed my mind.
Thing 1 came into the world sunny-side up, which if you don’t know, makes for a very painful labor once the epidural wears off. Or, as my 18 year old brother said at the time, “Not quite as painful as tearing your ACL.”
She came out 9lbs and 5oz. And she came out screaming. She screamed so much that the maternity nurses said, “Wow, that baby cries a lot.”
Anyway, back to the breastfeeding. It went really well in the hospital. She latched right away, and it was the only time she wasn’t crying. It was nice.
It wasn’t until we’d been doing it a few days that it started to hurt. Really hurt. Hurt like my nipples were going to fall off. Hurt like I wished my nipples would fall off. Every two hours (or less!), I would cuddle and feed my daughter as my toes curled into the carpet and tears streaked my cheeks. We tried to give her bottles of expressed milk, but she wouldn’t take them.
And believe me, we tried. At two months old, she went without eating for ten hours rather than take a sip from a bottle. We tried spooning the milk into her mouth, but she spit it out.
For the record, Thing 1 is still this stubborn. A couple of months ago, she gave up a trip to Disneyland because she didn’t want to eat half a cup of oatmeal. Yeah.
Around four months, the pain finally stopped. Lactation consultants chalked it up to a voracious appetite. She was correctly latched; she just sucked like a Dyson. I continued to breastfeed her until her first birthday, and I wept with relief that it was over.
I really wish I had enjoyed breastfeeding. I was worried that I was a terrible mom because I didn’t like it. I felt guilty every time I resented my sweet but colicky baby over the pain she was causing me both physically and emotionally.
I was also about 50 pounds overweight, and NOTHING I did could nudge the weight off of my ass. As a still somewhat recovering bulimic, this was not a good time in my life, to say the least. Once I quit breastfeeding, I shed 20 pounds in a month, without changing a single thing about my diet or exercise.
People often ask me why there’s a four and half year age gap between my kids. Because it took that long to recover from Thing 1’s infancy.
For the record, aside from her stubbornness, she is the most engaging, delightful, and simply joyful kid I’ve ever been around. Her teachers always make note of her enthusiasm for life, and this last year she was affectionately nick-named Sunshine.
Anyway, short story long, I did not enjoy the breastfeeding experience, and I felt like both a success as a woman for sticking it out, and a failure as a mother for not loving it.
Fast-forward a few years to Thing 2. Before getting pregnant, I promised Leif that I would try my best to breastfeed, but I was dreading it. It was really important to him though, and I love him, so I thought I’d give it a whirl again. Besides, I’d heard that the second kid is always much easier.
Plus, we decided that Leif would give her a nightly bottle from birth, and if she didn’t want it, she didn’t eat. After Thing 1, crying babies don’t exactly bother us much anymore.
A few weeks into, I knew I couldn’t go a year. Thing 2 nursed for almost two months, and then nursed at night only for another month after that. At three months, she was completely formula fed.
Leif was not on board with the decision. But being a loving (and incredibly smart) husband, he reluctantly supported me.
Until one night when he got his fun bags back.
Then he was a happy man.
As for me? I’m happy I made the decision to formula feed. I snuggled close to my little girl while I fed her a bottle, able to gaze into her pure blue eyes rather than watch the clock on the wall, wondering how much longer. I actually felt closer to her once we started bottle-feeding than I had when we had been breastfeeding.
But my decision was not based on feeling weirded out by an innocent baby touching my breasts. In fact, that’s the part I loved about it – that God designed us women to be, as Lori says, “Life-giving nurturers.” For that reason, I wish it had worked out for us. It just didn’t.
And that’s fine. All moms needs to make their own decision, and to make someone else feel weird or inferior for their decisions is just plain rude.
Ms. Fun-Bags and her still-perky-because-they-weren’t-stretched-out-by-breastfeeding-breasts can suck it.
My mom, ever the doting grandmother, showered Thing 2 with gifts on her second birthday a couple of months ago. As Thing 2 was (and still is) completely obsessed with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Gramma gave her a few DVDs of the show, including The Great Clubhouse Hunt. It has since become an almost daily must-watch in our house.
But it seriously annoys me.
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is actually not that annoying in general, as far as preschooler shows go. I count myself lucky indeed that she’s not obsessed with Dora the Explorer, as Thing 1 was she was her age. I’ve had enough Dora to last at least seven lifetimes, and that is not an exaggeration. Anyone that’s ever sat through an episode of Dora knows exactly what I mean.
Anyway, this one particular episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse grates on my nerves.
This episode consists of Mickey deciding to throw an Easter party. Pete, being upset at not being invited, tries to crash the party and take over the clubhouse. In his attempt, he says the wrong magic words, and the clubhouse floats away. The rest of the episode follows the adventures of the other characters attempting to retrieve the lost pieces and put them back together.
That is all fine. What bugs me so much is that throughout the episode, Mickey and friends could really use Pete’s help, but Pete is busy hiding in shame. Mickey says over and over, “Pete must think I’m upset with him, but I’m really not.”
What. The. Heck.
I’d be totally ticked off if someone made my house float away. There’s nothing wrong with forgiveness, why doesn’t Disney teach that lesson? Why can’t Mickey say, “Of course I’m mad at Pete, but I’ve decided to be a bigger person and forgive him, and by the way, I wish he would come out so I could tell him that and he could help get the clubhouse back together.”
To teach children that they shouldn’t be bothered or upset when friends betray them is just wrong, in my very humble opinion. I think it is better to teach them that everyone makes mistakes, but when you forgive people, it’s possible to move beyond a superficial relationship into something real. By teaching children that they should not feel betrayed at betrayal, you’re hardly teaching them the skills they’ll need to deal with real life.
People will always let other people down, at some point or another. Why not give children real life skills, instead of teaching them to brush hurt feelings under the carpet? Along the same line, this episode seems to teach that if you betray a friend, the friend won’t care, so why is it a big deal? I think it would be better to say that betrayal is wrong and hurtful, but can be overcome in real relationships.
But maybe that’s just me.
PS- It turns out that Pete hadn’t been snubbed, but his invitation to the Easter party had merely been misplaced. It may or may not be relevant, but I thought it worthy of mentioning.
PPS- Thanks mom, for giving us this DVD, because we’ve had a lot of great conversations with our kids about it. 
