HomeFull Moons and Safety Glass
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Balancing money, time, self, and family
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Let Me Count the Ways
Strategies for Stress Let Me Entertain You Elevated Here Kitty, Kitty What's in Your Trash? Ain't Nothin' Normal About It YouTube for the Rest of Them Toddler Speak 3:24:12 April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 September 08 October 08 November 08 December 08 
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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? My butt and I have had a love-hate relationship for years. For about 20 years. Ever since I was about 15 I have been aware of my butt. Even at a size 6, my butt didn't look like other size 6 butts. It was wider. It was flatter. It wasn't cute or perky. Part of the problem has always been by long torso and short legs. They have been locked in an evil conspiracy with my butt. A conspiracy to make my butt look bigger and flatter through an optical illusion. So...the love-hate thing. I hate my butt and my butt loves to torment me. This week on our relaxing beach holiday to my husband's beautiful home town in northern Michigan, something amazing happened. I started to appreciate my butt. Now, this is no small task. No small task because my butt is no small butt. In the last 6 years (and I say 6 because I know the pre-wedding fanaticism with which I was focused on maintaining a size 6) my butt has gained in prominence. Two kids, 20 pounds, and three (gulp) pants sizes later, my butt is a force to be reckoned with. Up until now, the only upside was the increase in my breast size that occurred simultaneously with the extra weight. As Rosie O'Donnell's character in Beautiful Girls notes "...big *ss, big t*ts...small *ss, small t*ts. God's fair." So now, I've got a little more T&A but what I don't have is more love for my butt. No love, but I do have a new appreciation. Why? Well, this week of bathing suits and beach time I realized something. Ava (my four-year-old) has my butt. The same butt that I can't stand on me, that makes me want to spend 100 straight hours on the elliptical machine, looks adorable on her. I want her to learn to appreciate her butt and I don't want her to ever think she is anything but perfect just the way she is.
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