HomeFull Moons and Safety Glass
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Balancing money, time, self, and family
Member Since: April 14, 2008 Last Signed In: August 28, 2008 Blog Views: 1468 Send To A Friend Sign Guestbook Add as a Friend
Someone Needs a Holiday
It Takes a Campsite The Things They Carry Lost In Translation Lions and Jewelry Scooby Doo and 9-1-1 Its a pony! Monday Already? New Year's Resolutions Fireflies, General Motors, and Fudge April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 
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Lately (since January, that is), I have really focused on trying to do more for myself. In January, I had lived in Sacramento for nearly 10 years and was feeling fairly unconnected to the area. So, I started out on a journey of creating new experiences and revisiting old experiences--that is, doing things that I used to really like to do but had somehow stopped doing. All of this in an attempt to feel more connected to where I live and refocus on the things that make me happy.
The result has been great. I don’t always get it right, but I definitely feel like a more present parent and partner. I also started to feel like my old self again. And, more importantly, I now feel more confident that, going forward, I’m going to be more aware and conscious of keeping this going in the future. It was with this in mind that I started to wonder where I would be in 10 or 20 years. Maybe its because my parents are both retired. Maybe its because I have a fantasy about doing really interesting consulting work. Maybe its because my oldest is about to enroll in preschool, and well…preschool is practically college, you know. So, I started to think about mothers who I knew who had charted their own course while keeping their family a priority. And, well…I came up with…um…nothing. It was kind of like trying to think of a couple that has been married for 25 years and are still giddy in love. So then I started to think about moms I don’t know, but know of. Hmmmm…Katie Couric? Hillary Rodham Clinton? Angelina Jolie? Marge Simpson? To say the least, I felt handicapped in this exercise. And then I found myself surfing the net—or more appropriately—surfing the mindless pop culture gossip sites that I frequent when I am feeling mindless. It was in between clicks, I found out that Madonna is on tour again. I was the exact demographic for Madonna in the 80s. I even saw her in concert when I was in the 8th grade. In fact, I still have the concert program. I plan to sell it on eBay someday. It's still in very good condition. As I was clicking through the pages about her concert kickoff I was thinking that Madonna really does seem to have it all. She has reinvented herself more times than I can count. That must keep her job interesting. Never mind the fact that she has built a massive Madonna brand that she can cash in on for the rest of her life. She lives in the country in England (I would love to have a home in the English countryside). She’s married to someone who appears to be decent human being. Her kids seem normal (except for those eyebrows on poor Lourdes). And, she is in phenomenal shape. The only problem with Madonna is that she now looks like a very talented, impeccably put together drag queen. This would be totally fine if she was a drag queen. But...well...she isn’t. I guess no one can do it all.
This past weekend, we headed off for a long weekend of camping at the coast. Four couples, four kids, some sunshine, some fog, plenty of sand, geocaching, long walks, campfires, kite flying, and too much food and drink.
And then there was me. I was the crazy lady yelling at her kids. Sigh. Let me back up. This trip was my idea. I conceptualized it, sent out an email invite to friends, reserved the campsites, coordinated all of the prep and packing, etc., etc. I love camping, especially at the coast. Especially when we can poach part of our friend’s tent trailer and sleep on a mattress instead of the ground. Now, stop wrinkling your nose. I used to backpack 5 miles into the hills for “roughing it” camping. That was all BK (before kids). Now, it is more important to be well-rested and comfortable. Well-rested so that, apparently, I can reserve my energy to spend the entire next day shaking my head, talking to myself, and…well…yelling at my kids. Don’t get me wrong. The trip was great. Everyone had fun. We decompressed and relaxed. We laughed. We played on the beach. However, my kids have suddenly learned to erode every layer of patience that I have been building up for all of my 35 years. It was in-cred-i-ble the number of situations the two of them could find to fight over or get under my skin about. There were fights over sharing, over who could walk the dog, over who got to sit in the red kid’s chair (it was exactly like the other red chair—I did this on purpose, I’m no rookie), over wanting a hot dog not chili, over wanting to wear crocs not sneakers, over wanting to take a shower with Dad not Mom, over not wanting to take a nap, over and over and over and over. Ugh. Paul and I were totally defeated. We sounded like disengaged, cranky parents. No, wait...we were disengaged cranky parents. Thank goodness our friend Shannan was there. She was awesome at redirecting the kids and getting them to tow the line. More than once, she intervened to break up a squabble. She did this long after I was numb to the fighting and whining. So numb I did nothing--not even yell. Now, her three-year-old was doing his best to drive her over the edge, but with my girls…she was wonderful. So, maybe it’s true..it does take a village to raise a child. Or at least a campsite with good friends and their comfortable tent trailer.
Tim O’Brien wrote a compelling and evocative book depicting the intense experience of marine soldiers fighting in the jungles of Vietnam called The Things They Carried. The book tells the stories of these men by describing the items that they, well…carried. The items range from the sentimental to the gruesome. But, in the end, the picture it paints is both emotional and telling about how the impact of their daily environment had a profound impact on them.
I must need sleep, because the other day, I thought about this book (a book I haven’t read in almost 15 years) while watching my two-year-old walk around the house. Recently, she has taken to carrying an inordinate amount of stuff around with her. This morning, for example, before being lifted out of her crib she insisted on taking with her ALL of the following:
Of course, she has tiny little hands and so she can’t actually carry all of that. And, of course, because she is two if I try to oh…help her…in about 2.1 seconds flying at my head will be:
Now Carmen is different than Ava was at the same age. Carmen carries all of this crap around, but she is indiscriminate from carrying incident to carrying incident about what she carries around. It changes each time, but what doesn’t change is the fact that she carries way too much around. She is constantly dropping it all over the place while moving from room to room. Or, more inconveniently, when we are moving from the front door to the car in the morning when I am trying to scoot them out of the house and get to day care. Sigh. Ava, my four-year-old used to get inexplicably obsessed with carrying particular things around. Usually, long skinny things (no obvious jokes, please). For example, for weeks she insisted on carrying around a small plastic purple spoon. After a while, the spoon was replaced by a small purple plastic flag. Several weeks went by and she replaced the flag with…I’m serious here…a small pretend pancake flipper. Whoa be to us if we misplaced any of these things when they were in their peak. Boy, would the howling start. You probably heard her…Where’s my fllllllllippppppppper?? The flipper situation got so out of hand that our day care provider had to “lose” it. One thing the girls did have in common, was during their respective binkie years, each of them would have a binkie in their mouth and then would hold another two in their hands. So, as I watch Carmen carry her stuff around, I reflect on Ava’s carrying habits and I think about what it all means. Security? Comfort? Control? Predictability? Jeez…who knows? Just don’t look in my purse and analyze the contents.
I am lucky enough to have had the opportunity to travel all over the world. Once, I tried to tally it up and I think I’ve been on five continents and at least twenty countries. I suffer repeatedly from bouts of wanderlust that completely flummox my sweet mid-western born and bred husband. The poor guy didn’t even have a passport when I first met him (he was 35).
Now, I don’t really speak another language. My high school and college Spanish has gotten me through some non-toursity parts of Mexico and Costa Rica. Actually, it has gotten me through parts of Italy, as well (bad Spanish is apparently close enough to bad Italian). In spite of this deficiency, I am fairly adept at getting around. Even in countries where the language and alphabet is not easily discernible or recognizable. Even on the brink of a crisis. Once, I left my purse with some credit cards and several hundred dollars in travelers check on a local bus in some tiny town in Spain. I didn’t lose my mind, I didn’t freak out, and I could barely understand the thick, regional accents of the locals trying to help me out. Eventually, I got my purse back and all of its contents. Another time, I arrived in Prague after traveling for nearly 10 hours by train. I was tired. I was hungry. There was some massive Catholic festival going on, and my room (that I had a confirmation for) had been given away. According to the tourist office, there wasn’t a room in the city. I managed to find a place to sleep. So, why is it that sometimes I find it nearly impossible to communicate with my two-year-old? She has a fantastic vocabulary and her sentence structure is pretty sophisticated for someone so young. But sometimes…either…I can’t understand her because of her funny-little-two-year-old-mispronunciations OR she really isn’t saying anything that makes sense. When it is bad, it’s really bad. “Mommmmeeee, I vant ikimy, no coats keez. You no helper, Mommmmeeeeee.” Huh? I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think she did it on purpose just to mess with me. It becomes a desperate situation when she starts throwing in some tears and/or a temper tantrum. I want to help, but I have literally no idea what the hell she is saying. And, so, as a desperate mother, I take desperate measures. I ask my four-year-old to translate. Remarkably, this works about 80% of the time. "Mommmmeeee, I vant ikimey, no coats keez. You no helper, Mommmmeeeeee” is explained to me as “Carmen wants ice cream cream, not cottage cheese. She doesn’t want you to help her”. It is a skill that is truly amazing. And, like I said, 80% accurate. Sometimes, my four-year-old will rattle off a translation that doesn’t make sense. Then, I am stuck trying to translate both versions and figure out between the two if I have any idea what is going on. “You find my booty sop and godie big with saps. I want my godie big with saps. Saps! Saps! Saps!” Go head, you try it. Good luck.
I am a Capricorn. I understand Capricorns. According to Wikipedia, we are self-reliant, ambitious, strong, responsible, reliable, career oriented. We are self-critical. We are goats.
Sounds boring. Sounds predictable. It could be worse, I suppose. Actually, it is. My Chinese astrological sign is a rat. These birth date traits, real or implied, weave their way conveniently and inconveniently throughout my life. Now, I’m not a superstitious person. I only read my fortune cookie messages with “in bed” attached. I don’t keep garlic around to ward off vampires, I open plenty of umbrellas indoors, I ignore black cats. Actually, I ignore all cats. Maybe it’s the rat thing. Here’s the thing, though. I know a lot of Capricorns and we all share a lot of the aforementioned characteristics. What I don’t know are a lot of Leos. In fact, I haven’t really known any Leos. Except my youngest, Carmen. She just celebrated her second birthday. Smack in the middle of Leo’s dominion. As my second child, she has suffered the unfortunate bi-product of having all of her personality traits, interests, and idiosyncrasies unintentionally compared to her sister. Her sister, who is such a classic Gemini, it isn’t even funny (charming, whimsical, out-going, verbal, talkative, social, entertaining). It was hard enough for me to wrap my brain around the new Gemini in my life. Then, we went and threw a Leo into the mix. Carmen is definitely her own person. She is headstrong, dramatic, demanding, independent, an innate observer. Now, I know a lot of these seem like typical two-year behaviors, but having had the benefit of raising a two-year old before AND having known Carmen since the day she was born, I can say with some degree of authority (see, my Capricorn roots are showing) these are characteristics that she owns and relishes. Some might say, throws in my face. Now, I get all of that. But what I can’t get over is how dang girlie she is. The princess crap, the jewelry, the dresses, the ponytails. Did I mention the jewelry? I have never seen anything like it. The kid walks around the house with her “jewels”. This consists of a nasty old ziplock bag (that doesn't zip anymore) full of costume jewelry from Walmart and Claire’s. Whenever she can, she wears as many necklaces and bracelets as possible. And, by the way, a pox on you, if you try and get her to edit her jewelry choices when leaving the house (“no, Mommy, MY jewels!”). It’s cute, for sure. A little flashy. But, confusing to me nonetheless. Confusing, that is, until I looked up her astrological sign. “Leo Likes” (quoth Wikipeida) “spotlight, speculative ventures, luxurious living, drama, adornment, fashion”. I am not making this up. What can I say, the kid likes flare. When I read it, her preoccupation with all things shiney suddenly made sense. It also suddenly made sense, that when I asked her what kind of party she wanted, she exclaimed without hesitation, “I want a jungle party. With a lion cake.” And a jungle party with a lion cake is just what she got. Along with a whole new supply of necklaces, crowns, rings, boas, and bracelets.
This week on NPR I heard a story about a woman who wrote a book about surviving natural disasters, accidents, terrorist attacks, plane crashes, and other life threatening situations. I found out all kinds of disturbing things like I shouldn’t be wearing nylon or other man-made fabrics on a plane. If the plane crashes, the nylon will melt onto skin.
Yikes. I had no idea I would need to use the tips she mentioned so soon. No, I wasn’t in an earthquake. My car didn’t tumble over the Bay Bridge. There was no grease fire in my garage. Nope…what happened was far more terrifying…this week, Ava had her four-year-old check up. Not scary you say? HA! I was terrified. Here’s why… The doctor completed her exam of Ava and then began asking me questions: Do you have guns in the house? Between ages four and ten are when most accidental gun deaths occur in children. Have you locked up all of your liquor? Does Ava know her address and phone number? She’ll need to know that when she gets lost. Can Ava call 911? She needs to know that when the house catches on fire. Does Ava know all about pedophiles and “bad” touching? Does Ava know not to go anywhere with a stranger? She needs to know how to yell and ask for help when To Catch a Predator creepy guy comes a-calling. Do you have your answer prepared when Ava asks where babies come from? So, unbeknownst to me, my sweet little daughter became a gun-toting, drunk, violated, accident-prone, sex-obsessed freak on her fourth birthday. Now, I’m all for communicating with your kids, encouraging them to be safe, and bracing them for the Big Bad World. But if I was faced with all of this, even as an adult…it would scare the crap out of me. Maybe I’m just freaked out and naive. I had no idea that all things scary were going to sneak up on her (and me) so early into her childhood. I started to wonder what it was about age four where all of this suddenly became a reality. I’m sure it has to do with a four-year-old’s ability to communicate, reason, and other cognitive developments. I’m sure practicing all of these skills and drills will make her more prepared in the case of an emergency (at least that’s what the lady who wrote the disaster book said). So I thought about it and tried to think about a way to bring some of this up with her. I decided to ask Ava what scared her and see if I could tie in any of the giant list of warnings from the doctor. Here’s how the conversation went: Me: Ava, are there things that scare you or make you feel frightened? Ava: Yes. I am scared of lots of things. The sea monster on Scooby Doo is scary. Tiny monsters are OK, but big monsters are scary. Me: Anything else, honey. Ava: Oh, yeah, Mommy. The graveyard of wrecked ships from Scooby Doo. It also really scares me when Daphne gets captured. Daphne is always getting captured. Scooby and Shaggy are always hungry. They like sandwiches. I guess I’ll need to try another tactic. Or at least turn off the Scooby Doo. (BTW...she's totally right about Daphne always being captured. I never realized it until she said something.)
My two-year-old is terrified of dogs. Ter-ri-fied.
I feel horrible about this. I love dogs. My husband love dogs. We love dogs. Nonetheless, I feel responsible for her fear. Now, I have a dog. He is a cranky, crotchety, old wiener dog. He has stinky breath, a white face, and a bionic back. When he was three he developed a disc disease. So, ten years ago, UC Davis vet hospital removed most of his discs and, after two surgeries, $5,000 from my very lean I-just-started-working-for-real-like-a-grown-up bank account. He was never the same. He became crabby and mean. Wiener dogs aren’t like real dogs, anyway. They don’t capitulate. They don’t seek to please. They aren’t dopey, unconditional love dogs. No, they are more like cats. They primarily bond to one person. This meant my husband was out of luck. Instead of tail wagging greetings at the end of the day, my husband was rewarded with what became known in our house as “sh*ts of defiance”. The two of them were in a perpetual competition for alpha dog status. To this day, I’m not sure who won. After my oldest was born, the wiener dog got worse. Older. Crabbier. Presumably, in more pain. So after a couple of close calls, we decided when Carmen was born that we couldn’t risk it. We already knew that the wiener didn’t like to be beat over the head by a toddler armed with a remote control, so we had to find a solution. A solution known as moving to Grandma’s. This is not a euphemism. He actually moved to my mom’s. So, Carmen has grown up in a dogless house. This means she loves the neighbor’s cat who essentially lives on our deck, but is totally freaked out by dogs. Mostly big dogs. But, dogs in general. So, instead of a dog-loving easy going kid, I have someone who will grow up to be the weird cat lady at the end of the street. Her fear of dogs provides some minor challenges when we hang out with friends. Most of our friends love dogs. Most of them have dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs that, who through no fault of their own, get shut outside or in back bedrooms when we come to visit. This weekend we are going camping with friends. Both couples have, and will be bringing, their dogs. One is a big dopey, lovable lab. No problem. The other one is a giant, black, 140-pound Newfoundlander. She is also a big, dopey, lovable thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. And, in Carmen’s mind…clearly the antichrist. So, when we went to our friend’s this weekend to plan the camping details we decided we needed a plan. How were we going to get through the weekend without Carmen clinging to me the entire time? And, then, like a genius, the solution came to me. I told her the dog was a pony. I mean, really, she looks like a Shetland pony. I think it worked. At one point, she looked at me and said “I like the pony mommy, she’s funny”.
There's no such thing as a free lunch.
Or free time away on vacation. This is how I feel about the 10-day vacation we arrived back from two weeks ago. I was (ahem) lucky enough to come back to piles of work, piles of laundry, piles of mail. Ugh. Since I have arrived home, work has been insanely busy. In-sane-ly. This has been compounded by an average of 6 hours of meetings since July 9th. Oh, how I wish this was an exaggeration. It’s actually probably more of an underestimate, Thursday I was booked for 7 ½ hours of meetings. Double ugh. Then, my lovely two-year-old, decided that she would get an ear infection and contract a 102 fever requiring that my husband and I each only work half days last Monday and Tuesday. Sometimes I seriously wonder if my boss actually believes me about my children’s perpetual illness. Or as one of my friends at work lovingly calls them “little Petri dishes of pestilence”. I reacted to all of this insanity by acting uncharistically like a maniac. I drove my staff crazy, my husband crazy, my kids crazy, probably even my therapist is crazy at this point. The rest of my life is nuts, too. In a good way, but nuts nonetheless. Preparing for an upcoming camping weekend, spending lots of time with friends, prepping for Carmen’s birthday party. So, tonight, I left the office as soon as possible. This means I left at 5:15. Arriving home, I had the girls help me make pizza for dinner (thank you Trader Joe’s ready-made pizza dough), cleaned the dishes, changed all of the sheets, took out recycling, sorted six loads of laundry (and pretreated all the clothes with stain remover). At 8:23 I finally sat down. And just think…I get to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
You can run, but you can’t hide…yes, Y-O-U. You who promised to go to the gym more. You who swore to lay off the caffeine. You who pledged to eat healthier and floss after every meal. You who proclaimed that you would stop dropping the “F” bomb (oh, wait…that was me last year). None of you can hide from the New Year’s resolutions that you promised yourself, but yet, somehow just didn’t maintain. They will find you. They will riddle you will guilt and leave you with a feeling of incompetence.
I feel for you. I genuinely do. I, too, have work, family, and life demands that make it virtually impossible to maintain any semblance of a New Year’s resolution. That’s why, this year I decided that I wouldn't just scoff at the New Year’s resolution concept. I decided that failing by mid February was not acceptable…I would embrace the New Year’s resolution concept. And exploit the hell out of it. And embrace it, I did. Except this year, I decided to apply the New Year’s resolution in a way that I felt was mutually beneficial. I felt, after 34 years of disappointing the New Year’s resolution Gods, I would resolutely identify a resolution that I could not only adhere to, but a resolution that would lead to greater family harmony and peace. That is why…on July 15th I am delighted to report that I have steadfastly maintained my New Year’s resolution. And what was this impossible task, you ask? Well… I decided this year NOT to focus on the extra 20 pounds, the lack of patience with my kids, my incessant use of the “F” word. Nope. This year, I decided to focus on something that would lead to a happy mom and wife. I decided that this year my New Year’s resolution would focus on one thing and one thing alone: My New Year’s resolution was to accessorize. And, boy, have I ever. Since January I have invested in fun jewelry, funky and sassy shoes and, of course, purses. Now, I know what you are thinking…sounds expensive. But, I have found a way to do this all on a budget. Seems strange? Well…let me explain. I wanted to focus on something that would make me feel cute, fun, and sexy. Sure…weighing 125 pounds would do that, but at what cost? I wanted to choose something that I could control. Time to go to the gym or hit the bike path…What, are you kidding? I have 2 kids under four, I don’t own my time. And, let’s be real…the “F” word…well, I just wouldn’t be Amanda without that. So, as crazy as it sounds, the New Year’s resolution to accessorize has been my greatest resolution achievement to date. It has given me permission to spoil myself in a limited (and budget-friendly way). It has boosted my self-confidence and sassiness quotient. And, best of all…it is a resolution that I can stick to. So, even though it is only July 15th, I challenge all moms, wives, partners, bosses, employees, carpool drivers, troop leaders, whatever...set a mid-year resolution that does something great for you. Something you can stick to. Something with sparkles.
We just wrapped a 10-day family vacation. And yes, we survived. Really, it was an 8-day vacation since two full days were spent wrangling the kids on nine hour flying days courtesy of Northwest Airlines. We went back initially under the pretense of my father-in-law’s 70th birthday party, but we ended up using the time away as a trip to the decompression chamber.
When I tell people that I am heading to a small town in northern Michigan to visit my in-laws for a family vacation people usually feel sorry for me. Charlevoix, Michigan is a great town. The appeal? The town sits between Lake Michigan and two inland lakes, the boating, beaches, golf, small town charm, amazing white fish dinners, and a Dairy Queen like no other. It houses 3000 residents year-round, but in the summer the population swells upward of 10,000. Entire sections of the town are made up of huge lakeside mansions. Some holdovers from 100 years of wealthy vacationers from Chicago and Detroit. Some are newer summer homes built with granite kitchens and designer wine cellars. Legions of families and couples make their up every summer, summoned for relaxation and, well, relaxation. And what thanks to the masses of tourist get for supporting the local economy? Well, they are rewarded with the distinctive label of “fudgies”. Fudgies because they wander down Bridge Street popping into fudge shop after fudge shop (OK, I am exaggerating…there are really just two, Kilwin’s and Murdick’s) slobbering fudge all over themselves. The women all wear expensive sandals and carry designer handbags. The men sport their uniform: polo shirt tucked in, knee-length khaki shorts, and topsiders without socks (Paul pointed this out). The kids all look suspiciously like kids from an L.L. Bean catalog. Maybe more like kids from a Pottery Barn Kids catalog. Yeah, definitely Pottery Barn Kids. By the way…I don’t like fudge. Too sugary for me. I also feel that since I married a local, I should be able to safely avoid the disparaging scarlet “F”. My kids are locals by bloodline. For the record, though, they do like fudge. Being in Charlevoix is unlike any experience I have ever had. Because my husband grew up there, he runs into former classmates all the time. OK, so they are 43 years old and bagging groceries, but he does run into them (really, this happened). My father-in-law is a great guy who has lived in town since the 70s so he…knows…everyone. Seriously. There were over 100 people at his birthday party. Everyone knows him and likes him. Paul and I borrowed his summer jeep to scoot around town and everyone waved. About mid-wave they figured out it wasn’t him. They just looked at us, confused. Who the hell are they? But…then they put it together. They start stopping by the house. They just had to see the girls. Ava and Carmen have a local celebrity status due in large part to their pictures placed in prominence on their Papa’s golf bag. The girls are also getting to be annual regulars. This trip was Ava’s third visit and Carmen’s second. I counted, and this vacation was my fifth trip in the nine years Paul and I have been together. I have loved every visit. Each time we go back, Paul and I plot our eventual retirement escape…buy a place with a water view. Bike, hike, boat, golf. Thanks to massive motor industry layoffs and a failing Michigan economy…we’ll probably get that water view. The houses that had for sale signs when we began this fantasy are still on the market..now with a 40% drop in list price. This year, the girls were fully into the trip. Five beach days, constant spoiling from grandparents/aunts/uncles, geocaching, ice cream, candy, hot dogs, and fireflies. The fireflies. Boy, did they love to the fireflies. Even if they were totally confused on the concept. You try explaining it to a four-year-old who incessantly asks "why". And to top it all off, we get to stay in the guest quarters of a $1.7 million lake house of some friends of my in-laws. Lake view and deck. A deck perfect for enjoying morning coffee with some bald eagle watching. We go back in the summer to enjoy all of it. And enjoy it we did. When Ava started crying three days before departure about not wanting to leave…ever. It was so sweet. Watching her fall in love with Paul’s home town. By the last morning at 4:30 AM trying to get up and to the airport for our 7:30 AM flight…well, the crying and fit-throwing-about-leaving wasn’t so cute. Paul just looked at her at said “You love it so much…well, I’ll bring you back in February”. Did I mention that we only go back in the summer? |
