Home
Find us on Facebook
Follow us on Twitter
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Balancing money, time, self, and family
Member Since: April 14, 2008 Last Signed In: November 15, 2009 Blog Views: 3929 Send To A Friend Sign Guestbook Add as a Friend
Instructions
Moon Dance Party On Happy Easter, Charlie Brown! Chirp, Chirp! Matricide in the Magic Kingdom Carrier Pigeon Head Games Facebook Find When You Wish... April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 September 08 October 08 November 08 December 08 January 09 February 09 March 09 April 09 May 09 June 09 July 09 August 09 September 09 October 09 November 09 
RSS 2.0    |
|
|
Ah…the holidays are upon us. Food, family, festivities and well…falling down exhaustion. I do love the family-hanging-out-and-building-memories aspect of the holidays. I love watching my kids get excited and torqued up. I love the eating and the lying around in a post-holiday buzz.
It’s amazing how spending money and planning meals can wear me down. Not wear me out…wear…me…down. To a nub, a pathetic shell of my former self. Not that my former self is something that my pathetic shell should use for comparison. My former self has been sick for ten days, working like a dog, and has been so crabby and tired, that former self is in no condition to take on The Holidays. Also, I must be Some Kind of Genius because I decided to start Weight Watchers two weeks before Thanksgiving. Nothing like adding a little calorie consumption anxiety to the mix. Well, irregardless of that, the holidays are here. And, contend with them I must. To shore up my reserves I have been searching for ideas about how to manage and proactively plot a path to decimating holiday stress. I have scoured the internet and I pulled together a list that seemed perfectly...um... reasonable. 1. Plan ahead 2. Don’t over-plan 3. Ask for help 4. Cut yourself slack 5. Meditate 6. Exercise 7. Keep it simple 8. Stay on budget 9. Stock up on red wine 10. Wrap your presents in advance and stick them in plastic containers in the garage (OK…numbers 9 and 10 are my personal suggestions, you can disregard them if you want…I just wanted to have 10 items on my list) The list seems reasonable, but I’m not sure how realistic it is (except the wine part). And so, I started looking for some other options. Last week, another option came to me. First it came to me on a plane ride home from a work trip. Then, it came to me again while I was sitting watching Ava at gymnastics. Knitting. Knitting is calming…its repetitive, mindless, and leaves you with a sense of accomplishment. The women I watched at gymnastics and on the plane seemed so content, so calm. There is only one problem. I can’t knit. And…I don’t have the time or patience to learn to knit before Thursday. So, I wracked my brain trying to think of something analogous to knitting that might help get me through the next six weeks. Something repetitive. Something mindless. Something with a sense of accomplishment…Picking up after my kids. And just think…no one has to teach me how to do it.
Recently I have been having the same conversation over and over again. I talk about it with friends, family, co-workers, and even complete strangers. The conversation centers around one of the current tenets of parenting that I have come to dread:
Thou Art Thy Children’s Half-Time Entertainment Will someone please explain to me when this happened? My parents weren’t what I would call overly engaged with my sister and myself, but we also weren’t ignored. We did, however, did carry the burden of keeping ourselves busy. Sometimes we played together other times we flew solo. To put an even finer point on it, I spent the first nine years of my life living amongst American ex-patriots in a foreign country without easy access to television for distraction. Also, I’m a Gen X-er, so my childhood took place before a plethora of children’s movies had infiltrated the universe of video stores. Heck, we barely had video stores. Video games were few and far between. I did like to rock the Speak and Spell (ironic, considering how deplorable my spelling is today). These days, I watch the parents I know run around, spending time and money to keep their kids busy--gymnastics, dance, sports, music, martial arts. We make ourselves crazy trying to figure out how to occupy their weekends, rainy days and—gasp—their summers. Children’s TV and movies proliferate and video games are geared to the “whole family” experience. I nearly died laughing the day I saw Wii Music advertised on TV…you and your family could use the Wii controllers to select an instrument to “play” (maracas, drums, bells) and then the whole family could play a song. In my house, we could just go raid the box of kid instruments and do exactly the same thing with, ahem, real instruments (maracas, drums, bells). Aaaaah…I digress. I’m not really a curmudgeon about video games or kids TV. We have a Wii and my husband and I have been known to rely on the “square nanny” (as my husband calls the TV) when trying to get a moment’s peace. I also unequivocally love spending time with my kids. I enjoy exposing them to new experiences and plan to continue to support their interests and hobbies. For example, last weekend, I took the girls to the Exploratorium in San Francisco. At two and four, the science of the museum was wasted on them, but they were thrilled to run around what is essentially a giant warehouse full of buttons and levers to push or pull. Instant gratification and cause and effect were the order of the day. We had a great time, the three of us playing together. As the day ended, we perused the gift shop. Both girls were able to pick out one thing to buy and take home. Ava selected a magnetic face with the tiny shredded magnets that can be pulled around by a magnetic pencil to make hair, mustaches, and beards. Carmen choose a great deck of 4x6 Eric Carle animal alphabet cards. And that’s when the trouble started. Since last Saturday, just eight short days ago, I have engaged in the following activity no less than forty times:
Last night, I dreamt about the blue hippo and brown xolo. ARGH! So, for all of us who have sat through our 1 millionth tea party, colored with sidewalk chalk until our fingers have bled, or worried that the Xbox component would sell out before Christmas…I say…take a breath. Take a breath and realize that the sound that you hear is the sound of the kids learning to play on their own, refining their own imaginations, expanding their sense of creativity, and solving their own problems. Don’t worry…you’ll have plenty of time to spend time with them in a little while. Their attention span only lasts 8.5 minutes. PS--In the time it took be to write and post this blog, I was asked three times to engage in the Eric Carle card game. PSS--I didn't know what a zolo was before we bought the cards.
This week, I traveled to San Diego for an overnight work trip with a coworker. This particular coworker happens--like many of us--to have a life outside of work and her family. In her "outside life" she is a single mom, working to put her amazing daughter through college. She is also a spoken word artist and poet. I have never had the opportunity to see her perform her poetry, mostly because I have basically no outside life. An outside life would provide me opportunities to do interesting things, including supporting local artists. Instead, the local artists that I support live in my house. Mostly they like coloring with crayons or painting with watercolors. Not quite the same thing.
When I figured out that we would be traveling together, I put in a request that since we had to stay the night, anyway, could she please find a spoken word venue so that I could finally check it out. As much time as I’ve spent in theaters, I’ve never had the opportunity to see any spoken word poetry. Sure, I have flipped passed it on TV, but I guessed it would be much different in person. Boy was it ever. In a word, it was amazing. As we arrived, we saw a line crawling around the building. Making our way up to the door, my coworker (who had never been to San Diego before) was recognized by the staff and others. She was on the guest list. She was on list to perform. I was on no list, but I was willing to ride on her coattails. For the record, I would have been more than happy to pay the $7 cover charge. No one asked, though. The inside of the venue was packed and we stood along the wall. Most of the crowd was African American, but a little of everything was sprinkled throughout. Most of the crowd was in their late twenties, but like the racial sprinkling, there was a little of everything (including some young children of the poets). The inside was dim with a single spotlight on a mic in the middle of what is usually a dance floor. Behind the mic sat a DJ at a table. White folding chairs were set up around three sides of the mic, leaving an open space about a 12 by 12 space for the performer. If I had to guess, I'd say about 250 people were in the space. Each poet had four minutes to perform. Some used the DJ and some didn’t. Some read their poems and some had their material memorized. Some used the mic and some left it alone. Some poets were white, while most were not. Some were men and some were women. Some were young and some were older. My coworker blew me away, and, judging by the reaction of the crowd at the conclusion of her set (or whatever it is called), she was clearly one of the favorites of the night. I felt artsy and cool by proxy. And let’s be clear…I am not artsy and cool. The crowd fully participated during the show by calling out and responding to things that were said during performances. They also did this weird thing when a poet would slide up to the mic and say “How are ya’ll tonight?” In an instant, they entire room (except me) would respond “Elevated!” I had no idea what this meant. I never joined in with the refrain, concerned that it might have some unknown subtext that a white, 35-year-old mother with a baby belly was unsuited to assume. Later, when I asked my coworker why they were saying it, she told me that “Elevated” was the name of the show. Undoubtedly, the highlight of the night were the featured poets, Steve Connell and Sekou. These guys put together an amazing set, including a couple of poems that they had written, and then, performed together. Their set was highly political and heavily liberal, but their opening “Take America Back” carried an intense resonance given the historic election results of this week. A link to a version of the poem is below, although, I have to say that the version we saw last night was longer and the missing additions were some of the best parts of the poem (in my uninformed, inexperienced opinion). http://www.youtube.com/watc... Whether you agree with the politics or not, whether the American black experience is something you can relate to or not…I totally recommend finding a way to support local poets and get out to one of these events. Since I found out I was pregnant, I have been impatiently waiting to drag my children to the theater, take them art museums all over the world, expose them to different types of musical experiences, and introduce them to a couple of guys named William Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. I am delighted to add that I cannot wait to take them a poetry event. If I am lucky, they might even take a turn at the mic. And then I would, indeed, feel el-e-va-ted!
Our family, like so many others, has officially survived Halloween. This year, both my girls were in full-Halloween mode, bringing much chaos and candy to our house. To be honest, our Halloween preparations began months ago. Ava (my four year old) announced to me one day that She Had Decided what our family would be for Halloween. It was simple, really, and ingenious in its own way…Daddy would be a dog, Mommy would be a cat, she would be a mouse, and Carmen…well, Carmen would be a piece of cheese.
A piece of cheese. Nice. No, I wouldn’t actually let my two-year-old dress up as a piece of cheese, although truth be told, I actually loved the idea Ava had sketched out. I just knew it would never, ever fly. While everyone else in the family got to dress as something cute and cuddly, Carmen would unequivocally refuse to dress in a cheese costume. Let’s face it…Carmen is two…she unequivocally refuses to do most things. Strangely, though...Carmen, when asked, did want to dress as a dog. I asked and then confirmed again and again. Yes, she really did want to be a dog. No, she did not want to be a cat like her big sister. She wanted to be a dog. A doooooooooooooooooog, Mommy. So, well in advance of Halloween I traipsed to Target with Carmen in tow. She picked out her costume, she tried it on at home and, shockingly, did not appear to hate it. In fact, she appeared to like it. Well done, Mom…well done, indeed. Now, sometime between The Great Cheese Incident and Halloween something happened. Carmen began an imaginary-to-everyone-else-but-very-real-to-her friendship with the big, grey, furry feline mascot of the Sacramento Rivercats. Dinger became a fixture in her conversations. “No Mommy, I can’t kiss you goodnight, I have to kiss Dinger” or “Dinger likes to sing that song, you can’t sing it!” or “I need have hot chocolate so I can share it with Dinger”. At least I think this is what she was saying. I still find it hard to understand half of what she says, even with my Mommy ears finely tuned to her conversations. Converations she is having with herself or (I assume) between herself and Dinger. The weird thing about her fascination with Dinger is that she has only seen Dinger two times in her life: once at a Rivercats game from about 150 yards away and once at the Salmon Festival in October where he danced around the kids giving out free hugs to all the kids who weren’t terrified of a six-foot cat in a baseball uniform. Carmen has always liked cats, especially the cat that belongs to my neighbor (but who insists on living on our back deck). Usually, though, she is standoffish with big, strange things that seem unnatural—like, say, a six-foot cat in a baseball uniform. So, I should have seen it coming. The Saturday before Halloween, the girls were getting dressed for the Harvest Festival at Ava’s preschool. Ava and I both had our cat outfits on, complete with painted on whiskers. I took out her dog outfit and Carmen looked right at me. Without saying a thing, I knew. I knew she would not wear the dog costume. I knew that I would have been better off flushing $25 down the toilet than spending it at Target. I also knew that I, in fact, had arrived. I had arrived as a Seasoned Mother. Before she could begin to howl and fuss, I reached into the plastic bag sitting on my bed and pulled out the pink, size two leopard costume I had bought at the last minute at the Halloween store. Like I said, I'm no rookie. |
