Celebration & World Domination

September 12, 2012

 

 

It’s birthday party time around here.

Don’t worry — there are no kids’ birthday cake disasters in the works.  And I’m not still attempting to extend my 40th {well, not much}.

Nope.  This birthday belongs to the blog.

That’s right, folks — The Fordeville Diaries meets The Terrible Twos.  I’ve somehow learned to crawl and walk over the last two years in Blog Land — so now I guess it’s time for unpredictable public tantrums.  Let the fun begin.

This is my 208th post on this site — 80 of which were written in the last year.  I won’t bore you with everything that I covered in the last 12 months, but here’s the Reader’s Digest recap:

  • We unknowingly undertook the longest basement renovation in modern American history — pending final ruling from the people at The Guinness Book.
  • I drank wine.
  • I dreaded turning 40.
  • I embraced turning 40.  This entailed taking my deep denial on a series of road trips, both domestic and international.
  • I almost kicked our General Contractor in the kneecaps somewhere around the eight month mark of the basement project.
  • I drank wine.
  • I had an apocalyptic swarm of bees in my yard, which resembled a National Geographic episode and a scene from Candyman. Which led to self-imposed house arrest and, ultimately, more wine.
  • I began to deny the very existence of our basement.  Except that I was dragging dirty clothes to the laundromat for six months.
  • I kept the 40th birthday party going.
  • I harbored an unhealthy amount of rage toward my basement.*

{*Note: The final, final approved basement inspection JUST OCCURRED LAST WEEK.  So if your wager on the completion timeframe of our “5-week” project was 54 weeks — you win!  What you’ve won exactly is still TBD, but I have a ton of items in our storage pod you can choose from.}

 

Now that you’re up to speed on the riveting excitement of my life, I’ll tell you a secret —  in the spirit of the blog’s birthday:  I never get tired of writing here.

If I had more spare hours in the day, I would spend many of them doing exactly this.  The blog is one of my favorite things in the world.  And every time, with every post, I’m so thrilled — and sort of surprised, and certainly lucky — that someone will read it.  And even comment.  And then — sometimes — come back to read more.

Some posts are better than others.  And it’s always fascinating to see which ones generate more comments and traffic {all you closet 50 Shades fans, I’m looking at you.}

These are my favorites from this past year.  Because a birthday is a good time to look back.

How to Lose Your Will to Live at the DMV

The Days Are Long

Out of the Office

Lawyering Up

Say It With Tape

I Might Be Scared of These Families

Hibachi PTSD

The Problem With House Hunters

 

A birthday is also a good time to look ahead.  And though the terrible twos can be tough, I’m confident we can get through them together.  With wine, of course.  And coffee.  And some unconventional parenting.

If you want to celebrate this birthday with me, I’d love it.

What’s that?  You want to bring a gift to the party?

Oh no, I couldn’t possibly accept a gift.  I don’t really need anyth–

Wait a minute.

I know what I really want.  And you can help me get it.

 

***************

FORDEVILLE WORLD DOMINATION!

***************

 

I’m kidding.

Mostly.

What I mean is this:  I love to write this stuff, but I’m bad at promoting it.  Really bad.  There are bloggers who excel at catchy, attention-grabbing titles and witty tweets to spread the word and attract more readers.  I’m more like, “Uh, hey, if you guys have time and aren’t totally busy, maybe you could read this.  I hope you think it’s a little funny.  OKthanksbye.”  

I was never a marketer by trade.

So, remember those Faberge Shampoo commercials from the 80s?  “And then she told two friends, and she told two friends.  And so on.  And so on…”  {If your answer is “Oh those were made before I was born,” just keep that to yourself, ok?}

That Faberge Effect is the best gift you could give me.  If you like what you see around here — please pass it along to someone else who might enjoy it too.  Because if my chronic mis-steps in parenting and, well — life in general — can help make one person feel less crazy, more normal and like Mother of the Year — then my writing is not in vain.

Not a fan of the Faberge model?  How about this instead:  If you’re not already following along on Facebook, please do.  Because you get exclusive bonus features* over there beyond my blog posts.  If I were a real blogger, I’d have some birthday giveaways or contests or something for all of you.  The truth is, I’m just not that organized.  But I suspect you already knew that.

{*Bonus features = mainly snarky photos about my kids or life in suburbia.}

But in all seriousness — thanks so, so much for your readership, your comments and your support.  And your wine suggestions.  You guys are fabulous.

So, if you’ll have me for another year, I’ve got a lot more up my sleeve.  I can’t reveal everything, but I’m told that good marketers use teasers.

  • Will we renovate the kitchen next?  Or maybe tear down the whole house?  And who will live to tell?
  • How will Señor and I resolve our legal battle around the annual Halloween costume debacle?
  • In which states will my kids vomit this year on road trips?
  • And — last but not least — how many people will I accidentally poison through the new couples’ dinner club I’ve joined?

You’re all on the edge of your seats, aren’t you?  I can feel it.

Year Three awaits.  After I have some celebratory cake and wine.  Join me, won’t you?

 

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Uncategorized 17 Comments

Kindergarten Parental Failure

September 7, 2012

They’re baaaaaack!  Back in school, that is.

My daughter started pre-school and my son is the Big Man on Campus — aka off to Kindergarten.

It all went swimmingly.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  It went mostly OK, which is the bar I have set when it comes to transitions in this family.

Mostly OK =  the new swimmingly.

It’s not that my kids had any separation drama or emotional meltdowns.  Nothing like that.  It was more like total indifference.

I was basically doing cartwheels to drum up enthusiasm.  This was met with cynicism {I guess because I’m not the cartwheel type} and a tepid, if not incredulous, response.

**

Me:  Are you ready for your new pre-school?!!? It’s going to be great!!

Daughter (3):  Meh.  What do they have for snack time?  Because I don’t want pretzels.

**

Me:  And you — Kindergarten!!  That’s for big kids!!  So, so exciting, right?

Son (5):  Uh, which thermos can I bring?

**

Why this indifference?  Maybe because they’ve grown up so much in the last year.  Have a look for yourselves {last year’s photos on the left}.

 

 

 

The difference is so noticeable to me.  Even beyond the explosion of my daughter’s hair, which sprung into Nick-Nolte-mugshot-psychosis-mode while on our March trip to Florida, and never went back.  I fully expect this phenomenon to appear in a medical journal one day.

 

But here they were, too cool for school.  Not impressed.  At ages three and five.

 

While I have asked my kids to ham it up in blog photos to illustrate a point now and then, I swear these are genuine smirky moments.  It’s clear that someone in my family must be making this face frequently.  Someone central in the life and upbringing of my children.  Where oh where could this have come from?  Why, I have no earthly idea.  I’m the one doing cartwheels around here.

Speaking of cartwheels, maybe — instead of picking up my scowl — they took McKayla Maroney’s silver medal letdown very seriously.  I mean, we did watch a lot of Olympic coverage.

 

But all of this academic blasé aside, I do have one major concern about what is expected of me as a Kindergarten parent.  Not the PTA stuff or the class parties, or even the creative ways to make my son’s snack appear wholesome.

It has to do with a wooden apple that was given to my son on his first day.  It’s very cute and has his name on it. How sweet, I thought.

Until I read the note that accompanied it.

 

I’m sorry.  What?

You want me to keep this wooden apple in a place that I’ll remember?  UNTIL 2025?

COME. ON.

Is this a joke?

Those who took their math homework as seriously as I did will also realize that 2025 is 13 years from now.  Do the fine educators of my town understand, in the course of a single day, how many times I lose my car keys?  Or my mind?  And I value those things a lot.

And, if I think this through, this assignment also means that everyone in town — year after year — somehow produces this magic wooden Kindergarten apple in time for high school graduation.  That’s a lot of fucking peer pressure.  I mean, I can’t be the mom whose kid doesn’t have his apple.  That mom.  

I’m so going to be that mom.  You know how I know?

Because I’m trying to remember what I still have in my possession from 13 years ago.  Given that it was 1999, maybe a floppy disk about how to restore your data after the inevitable and apocalyptic Y2K meltdown.  Or perhaps a Backstreet Boys CD.  That’s about it.

I do know that, about four months ago, I finally found the keys to my apartment in Manhattan that cost me my security deposit back in 2002.

And I know that “Have you seen…” is a daily Top 5 phrase in my house.

So, as much as I truly love a sentimental artifact — especially if it relates to my kids — I just know that the odds are dramatically against me rolling into that 2025 high school graduation with the apple in hand.

Hence, Kindergarten is not off to a great start.  It’s stressing me the hell out.

But things will get better.  Once I get a safety deposit box for the apple.  And then another one for the key.  And one more for the note to remind me where the apple and key are located.

If I can find my car keys to drive over and retrieve it in time for graduation.

 

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family 33 Comments

The Keys to My Summer

September 4, 2012

I find the day after Labor Day to be the second-most depressing day of the year.  Right behind January 2.

I have a problem with transitions.  Parting with revelry.  Going back to reality.  All of that.

But, in my semi-hysterical “Summer, please don’t go — please!” state, I have to step back and say that this was the best summer I’ve had in a long, long time — both near and far.

Sometimes, I keep hotel keys in my wallet long after a trip is over.  There must be some Pinterest-y thing I can do with them at some point.  But in the meantime, they make me feel better.  Like a little piece of my travels stay with me.  Until I try to use them, weeks after my departure, to charge dinner or a round of drinks to my room.  And I’m told that hotel room keys can’t be used as real-world currency.  Which brings me back down to Earth pretty quickly.  Or kicked out of the bar.  Or both.  It’s sort of a chicken-and-egg effect.

Anyway.  The keys to this summer — here they are.

 

 

1)  Oh, Madrid.  I’ll love you forever.  The 19 year gap was worth the wait.**

 

 

2)   A sisters-only night in Atlantic City, practicing the core gambling skills of our childhood.  I won some money, which was great.  But we won’t speak of my near-miss with fortune and how my favorite roulette number betrayed me.  I was going to tell the story but A) It makes me sound like a gambling addict and B) It still stings.  Which is why I think I sound like a gambling addict.  Which, I swear, I’m not.  So let’s just drop it.**

{**Disclaimer:  These trips were part of Operation 40th Birthday Celebration and well out of scope for my normal summer vacations.  As a result, you can find me within 25 miles of my house for the next 60 summers.}

 

 

3)  And a night just across the river, in Manhattan, to attend BlogHer ’12.  To see some of my very favorite bloggers again, and to meet others for the first time.  But, mainly, to be repeatedly slapped with the blatant reminder that my blog is not even a small fish in a big pond.  It’s more like the plankton or maybe a barnacle.

 

 

I took a few other trips this summer to visit friends at their beach houses.  But I figured it would be untoward to have a copy of those keys in my possession.  We drove to Rehoboth Beach, DE; Stone Harbor, NJ; and Cape Cod, MA.  Each was a beach we hadn’t seen before, and each was magnificent.  It’s tough having friends in low places.

 

 

 

OH, but speaking of low places, I do have this key as part of our drive to the Cape.

They should alter the key sleeve to read: "We hope you survive your stay without contracting a communicable disease."

 

We left New Jersey at night and figured we’d drive about two hours with the kids asleep, pull into a hotel and get a room for the night.  Then finish up the drive early the next morning to make the most of the day.

You know.  Just get a hotel room when we got tired.  Wing it.  

In August.  The peak of summer vacation.

And this is where, if you are easily entertained by someone being traumatized for life, you’ll want to keep reading.  Especially if you are more entertained by that someone being me.

So it’s 11:30pm on a Tuesday night and Mr. and Mrs. Roadtrip Jackass decide that, yep, we’re a little tired now, so let’s just find ourselves the next hotel and call it a night.

Uh, no.  That hotel was sold out.

As was every other hotel in about a 40 mile radius.

Except for one.

Upon entering the room, I could literally see the layer of filth on the carpet.  A spider crawled across a pillow.  There was some indescribable smell — a hybrid of mold, dust, cigarettes and other unnamed carcinogens.

It looked like a place that, in the not too distant past, had been a legitimate crime scene.  Or taken from the set of Breaking Bad.  I was reasonably convinced that if you shone one of those police lights around the room in the dark, you would basically come up with nothing but blood.  And maybe some meth.

But everything else was sold out.  Ev-ery-thing.

It was well after midnight with an exhausted family.  So I had to suck it up.  I laid there and thought about lice.  And bed bugs.  And mold poisoning.  And Bubonic Plague.

I didn’t hold onto that key as a keepsake after I snapped its photo for posterity.  I was too busy researching where we could apply for a government-funded decontamination shower, a la Silkwood.

But that was a blip in an otherwise blissful summer.

A summer of big celebrations.

A summer of the road trips that took us to see friends.

A summer of day trips — to amusement parks, to Manhattan, to the pool.

And a summer of no trips at all on the lazier days — with ice cream and backyard playtime and rainy day indoor movies on the couch.

 

 

 

These snapshots — these moments — were the real keys to my summer.

And as I sit here today, getting school supplies (and my heart) ready for the  first day of kindergarten tomorrow, and pre-school on Thursday, I can begin to deal with my reluctant transition to fall.

Because I know we had one hell of a summer.  And I hope you all did, too.

 

{For more fun photos — or to merely support my addiction to Instagram — come visit me over here.}

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The Road Home

August 28, 2012

Yesterday I went back home.  To the town where I grew up.

The trip is not long.  It’s a mere 40 minutes by car, but it’s a lifetime in my head.

My parents moved away from my hometown after I graduated from college, so even though it’s not far, I rarely have an occasion to go back up there.

So, yesterday, when one of my high school friends invited me to stop by while he was in town visiting his parents for the week, I put my kids in the car and drove up.

The last time I went there was two years ago — for my high school reunion — with my dear friend Jen.  It was one of the last times I saw her before she died so unexpectedly.  That night, I had gone up to the reunion and straight back home, in the dark.  I had seen people from years ago but I had barely driven around the town.  It had been ages since I really took a ride through the area to take it all in.

So I wasn’t surprised to wonder if I’d remember all the roads to get there.  And I wasn’t surprised when they all came back to me.

Nostalgia can be a disarming feeling.  Head-spinning, even.  The notion of how much things change and yet still stay the same is so strange.  These places, so familiar to me.  These places, such a lifetime ago in my mind.

My car — my distinctly-mom vehicle — so different than anything I ever drove as a teenager back then.  And yet its tires, which had never touched the pavement in this town, knew the exact bends in the road, every one of them.  Dead Man’s Curve and all.  The roads that are notoriously narrow and rural and even treacherous.  The ones that my teenage mind considered no big deal when my parents worried were the same ones on which my now 40 year-old maternal mind felt cautious.

A place so rural.  So far away — at least on sight, though not at all in mileage — from the city lifestyle that my sisters and I both embraced for so many years post-hometown.  How can a place seem both so foreign and so ingrained to you?

I never appreciated its beauty at the time.  Though I loved my family, my friends and my life growing up — I wanted out.  I wanted to move away.  I wanted to see more.  And I did.  But I should have been grateful to have grown up in a place so lovely.  Because it was, it is — even if it took me years to realize it.

I drove the bendy roads yesterday from the visit to my friend’s house, over to the house where I grew up.  The house my parents built in 1984.  The house they sold amidst their divorce about a decade later.  The house I packed up with my mom and walked through for the last time — our possessions and family keepsakes all moved out — just before it changed hands.  I had been the last one to close the front door behind me and close that chapter of our lives.  And I remember how much it stung, how much it defined me, that moment.  For a long time.  Even though I was in my mid-20s and on my own, out of town — just as I had wanted all those years ago.

And on the way to my old home, I knew I would have to pass the house down the road where Jen grew up — where her parents still live.  The knot in my stomach had been building all day — not just over the nostalgia I felt for my own childhood, but for the role that Jen played in it.  These roads that we drove countless times together — to the movies, to the mall, to dance class and then — years later — in a limo headed to her wedding.  I think of Jen many, many times every day and how much I miss her.  But this was very different — to be back here, without her.

I drove past her house, past my school bus stop, and soon found myself sitting in the cul-de-sac outside my old house, craning my head to get a good look at it — up the long driveway and set back in the woods.  Yes, it had some updates, but it largely looked the same, even if I now viewed it differently.  Growing up, I thought it was too big, too showy.  But now it just looked pretty to me.  I could see the bay window over the front door that was my bedroom.  Where I had put my dance trophies in the window seat and where I was able to peer outside and see the headlights of my friends coming to pick me up.

And I was grateful, in a way that I had never felt before, that my parents had built it.

I drove over to the nearby dam as the sun was starting to set.  And I had to laugh at what came on the radio — somehow, select songs from the soundtrack of my life were playing, like a montage in the closing sequence of a movie that you don’t want to end just yet.

I parked at the dam and it was pretty much a perfect summer night with a perfect view.  My kids were getting sleepy in the back seat and I knew it was time to get going.  But I got out for just a minute to take some pictures — both with my camera and with my mind.

 

 

 

This place.  Just 40 minutes from where I live now.  I can go there anytime, I guess — but I rarely do.  And maybe that’s what makes it so powerful.

I had spent years just wanting to leave.  And yesterday, watching the sun go down over the dam, all I really wanted was to stay.  For just a little bit longer.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Friends, Places Near and Far 17 Comments

I Might Be Scared of These Families

August 16, 2012

It’s possible that I’m about to make some enemies.  But I’m sorry — can we talk about matching family outfits today?

To clarify, I don’t mean matching or coordinating your kids’ outfits with one other.  Fine, fine, that’s kind of cute. Until they are old enough to protest and then demand, perhaps through a Cease & Desist Order obtained on Legalzoom.com/sue-my-parents, a sweep of your photo hard drive.  And all Facebook images to which they did not consent.  And then they present you with a release form that must be used going forward for all electronic use of their likeness.

{Remember when it was easier just to burn embarrassing photos?}

So, the kids matching.  I get that. It’s not for me, but mainly because, frankly, I’m just not that organized.  And I  think my kids are already predisposed to suing me because of this blog.

What I really mean is family matching.  Parents and kids.  Together.

Oooooohhhhhh, that.

{Right about now, I’ve begun to lose readers.  But come on, stick with me here.}

Hanna Andersson, I’m looking at you.  Queen of the Family Matching Catalogs.

Image credit: Hanna Andersson

 

I have a few thoughts here.

1)  Yeah, yeah, I know, there’s a Christmas Pajama Loophole for people who don’t normally family-match.  I’ve heard this is the exception.  OK, I’ll buy that.  I do crazy shit around Christmas too.

2)  This dog is clearly way more subservient than my dog.  Because, as you may know, I have certain legal limitations I’m obligated to follow after his post-Halloween rant last year.  So, this would not cut it with a certain ornery pug who lives under my roof.

3)  Obviously the dad in this photo has recently been caught having a torrid affair.  Presumably, in the act.  Because there is no other logical reason, apart from extreme penance, why he would submit to this family matchery.  Oh wait, he’s just an actor?  In that case, can you imagine the fucking earful he just gave his agent after realizing what “holiday modeling” gig he was booked for?

4)  The kid on the left clearly knows about her dad’s affair — and possibly has damning proof that she’s holding onto as part of her pre-tween angst phase.  It’s evident that she has threatened to go public with said evidence unless her parents let her wear the non-stripe-set and spread her non-conformist wings.

5)  I just hope, for everyone’s sake, that the gift boxes behind the couch don’t contain matching formal wear for Christmas dinner.  But we all know that they do.

6)  How does the mom keep her hair color so fresh while raising five kids?

7)  Why did she have five kids with this guy if he was cheating on her?  Did she know all along, or just recently?

 

But what really got me started on this topic was the arrival of today’s Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  As you may have seen, I do love a good rant about the unattainable perfection of the PBK Catalog Family, and I refuse to let them live on my street.

Really, we all know it’s just me projecting my feelings of parental inadequacy brought on by PBK.  It’s the same reason I yell about Martha Stewart and Real Simple Magazine.

So I’m flipping through the Halloween section tonight {because, you know, let’s not get through mid-August without marketing Halloween}.  And there it is.

The Family Costume Section.

Can we just review the options for a minute?

 

Level One:  Generally harmless.  Completely silly, but harmless.

The Chef Family Costume:  Yeah, this is borderline OK.  I would still give you candy if you showed up at my door like this.  But we’re not hanging out at the next block party.

Image credit: Pottery Barn Kids

 

The Sushi Family Costume:  This is blue ribbon costume contest material right here.  If you enter family costume contests.  I just want to know if there’s a wasabi add-on if the kid starts behaving badly.

Image credit: Pottery Barn Kids

 

Level Two:  On the border of Crazytown

The Chicken Family Costume:  Vegan friends, beware.  You are not the target audience.  Hell, I am a happy consumer of eggs and I’m not even the target audience.  Because, PBK, I’m not going around my block dressed like a goddamned fried egg.  At least, for $69, dress me like Eggs Benedict.  Preferably with a side of lox.

Image credit: Pottery Barn Kids

 

Under the Sea Family Costume:  We’re starting to see some real female rage here.  Note that the mom is not even in costume.  She is so pissed at her husband (who looks eerily like our Hanna Andersson philanderer) that she has sent his ass out to manage the three kids trick-or-treating on his own.  While he wears a shark head and she splits four or five bottles of Pinot with her best girlfriends at the local bar.

Image credit: Pottery Barn Kids

 

Level Three:  Um.  I’m afraid of these people.  And not in a traditional Halloween way.

The Woodland Family Costume:  I am not often speechless.  But I’m going to let the official PBK description speak for itself on this one.  “Like characters from a storybook, these friendly woodland creatures come out of the forest to hunt for treats on Halloween night. Featuring faux fur and lush details, an owl and gnome watch over the group as they embark on their adventure. A sweet toadstool with a red cap springs out from the grass to join the fun. Wrapped in soft fleece, the little wily fox and baby owl stay warm in the crisp autumn weather.”  

Did you guys see the Olympic closing ceremonies?  Because I think the team who orchestrated that acid-laced mind trip stole the giant dose of illicit hallucinogenics from the PBK team in charge of this concept.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Spooky Family Costume:  Well.  I think it’s pretty clear that these people will be filing for divorce imminently.  What else is left after this family photo?  In fact, see those smiles all looking with great anticipation in the same direction?  That’s the arrival of their lawyers in the driveway.

Image credit: Pottery Barn Kids

But, hey, don’t listen to me.  Because, as of tonight {again, in August}, the PBK website notes the above Dad-werewolf costume as “quantities are limited.”  Maybe because it includes paws.  For real.

 

I don’t know.  Maybe I haven’t thought this through.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been closed-minded.  I guess we would look good as Spooky Costume Family.  After all, the black witch costume is nice and slimming, and I wouldn’t have to wash my hair.  And let’s not rule out Under the Sea.  So I can sit at the bar and anticipate all the candy that comes home.

And before  you curse me out completely for my unfair outlook on family-matchery, I’ll leave you with this.

From Easter.

Shhhh — don’t tell my husband he was coordinating with our daughter.  Although I swear it wasn’t intentional, it seems that the subliminal seed has been planted.  The Woodland Family Costume could be just a matter of time for us.

As long as I get to be the gnome.

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays, That Which Drives Me Crazy 49 Comments

The Days Are Long

July 30, 2012

 

 

“The days are long but the years are short.”

I don’t know the origin of this quote, but I hear it a lot since having kids.  And I find myself thinking about it more and more — especially this summer, for some reason.

I think about the chores that summer brings.

Wake up and get the three of us ready to get in the car for camp.  In that 90 minute span, I break up repeated battles over toys.  I hear arguments over which snack will be packed for camp.  I negotiate breakfast choices.  I chase them down with sunscreen.  I might manage, if I’m lucky, to make myself look presentable to the general public.  And I herd, beg and plead them to move just a little faster so we’re not late.  Again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Just like almost every mom in almost every house.

I also think about the getaways that summer brings.

I get everyone packed.  Five million items, it seems, just for a long weekend.  I field questions, complaints and multiple song requests in the car for hours at a time.  I arbitrate back seat fights while driving up front.  I curse any and all highway construction that halts our progress.

Here’s the thing.  I know — I know — amidst all of this summer activity, I’m looking at it all wrong.  I’m thinking about the long days instead of the short years.

Do I want my kids to remember me rushing them to camp in a frenzy?  Or do I want them to remember the fun they had there — the favorite craft they made, the friends in their class, the names of their counselors, the excitement of Pajama Day? Or, even better, the time we spent together recapping all of these things when they came home?

Do I want my kids to remember the frantic mood I was in trying to pack up the car for a road trip?  Or do I want them to remember the time at  our beach destination — the dolphins we saw, the ball we threw, the way we wrote our names in the sand with sticks?

 

 

The days are long.  The fights.  The requests.  The tantrums.  The errands.  The laundry.  Sometimes it’s like Groundhog Day.

But the years are short.  Pieces of who my kids were one year ago are already gone, and I can’t get those pieces back.

Last summer, my daughter couldn’t say lawn mower.  She said “shamon.”  I have no idea why, but we loved it.  A la vintage Michael Jackson.

Last summer, my son continued on his Thomas the Train bender.  Every train memorized by name, lined up in its place and played with daily.

Now, my daughter announces the arrival of the lawn mower as the grass is cut without a hint of “shamon.”  And the Thomas engines? Well, they are sitting in a bin, getting dusty, as ninjas and dragons take their place.

It’s already almost August.  The summer clothes are moving to the sale racks in the stores, and the back-to-school marketing blitz is underway.  We have done a lot this summer, with a few more adventures in store, but I can almost feel the beginning of summer’s end whispering over my shoulder.  And that gives me pause.

The chores.   The misadventures.  The sibling argument arbitration.  They are so very draining at times.

The days are long.  Long indeed.

But they are all parts of a greater whole.  What will my kids remember about the summer when they were five and three?  Maybe nothing — perhaps they are too young.  Maybe a fleeting snapshot in their mind.  Or the photos I’ll keep.  Or maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll remember this summer as the one when they loved their backyard pirate pool.  Or the summer they learned to play Marco Polo in the water.  Or the summer they pretended to have dolphin races on their bicycles in the driveway.

 

 

After Labor Day, we’ll introduce kindergarten into our lives for my son.  And my daughter will go to pre-school.  For just over two hours every day, they’ll both be out of the house.  Both of them.

The years are short.

And I can only hope that the chores, the arguments and the repetitive tasks of June, July and August will have amounted to a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.  That it becomes a page in the summer memories of their childhood. The page in their mental archives before they could swim on their own and before they went camping or chased fireflies — but when they simply knew that the summer was hot, and the pool was fabulous, and camp meant Italian Ices every Thursday.

 

And if they don’t remember, I will.

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Say It With Tape

July 18, 2012

You know how your kids’ teachers and/or camp counselors send home notes to remind you about things?

And then, you know how you never really saw the note?  Because you, uh, threw it out.  Or plain forgot to read it.  Or both.

So then you didn’t know about Pajama Day. Not the one where you wear pajamas to the camp drop-off.  The other one.  And then you suck because your kid is the only one not wearing last night’s pajamas to school/camp.

Or you didn’t know to send in 37 paper towel cardboard rolls to assist with this week’s craft.  The ones that you should have been collecting for seven months in anticipation of this very moment. Naturally.

Well, fear not.  These slips no longer happen to us! Because our summer camp has taken parental notification to a whole new level.

They tape all reminders directly onto the children.

 

Here, you see the different iterations of today’s reminders on my children to bring in $2 for Italian Ice Day tomorrow.

I’ve been thinking about this system.  And, if I’m being honest, I’m torn.

On the one hand, I’m pissed because it calls my bluff.  Now, I can never say “Oh I didn’t see that reminder.” Because it would be akin to “Uh, yeah, I didn’t look at my kid all afternoon.” 

Then, I feel a little insulted.  Like I can’t be trusted to heed repeated reminders in the camp newsletter about the two damn dollars every Thursday for Italian Ice Day.  But, OK, maybe I forgot that once.

Yet, I also have moments of gratitude.  As in, “Finally, this camp — to which I feel like I’m paying a mortgage — is doing something to make my life easier.”  That is, until the clothes inevitably go through the washing machine and dryer with masking tape on them.

However, the more I think about it, there are some real opportunities to apply the Tape Notification System to my daily life.  By using this messaging vehicle, I can channel my true Inner Nag without yelling and repeating myself.

Here are some options I am considering.  {I’ve taken the liberty of adding captions since I know that my handwriting can veer toward the serial killer end of the spectrum at times.  And notice that I’m using blue painting tape.  Because it really adds a certain je ne sais quoi.}

 

For My Kids:  The smallest resident of Fordeville has agreed to model the Tape Reminders, after being plied with extra Teddy Grahams.  Although you can see she is not entirely sold on this gig.

YES — You must wash your hands.

 

Pick it up. Whatever it is — just pick it up.

 

I’m leaving. GET. IN. THE. CAR.

 

OK, so they can’t read yet — there is that caveat.  But I’m thinking long-term strategy here.

 

For My Husband:  You know who can read?  The man I married.  And while I did not subject him to the humiliation of modeling this system in person, I swiped one of his favorite shirts to act as his stunt double.

Garbage Day. Repeat: Garbage Day. Take. Out. The Trash.

Please pick up milk. Not donuts. MILK.

 

I need a bigger piece of tape for this one, but I’m also working on: “Did you walk the dog before you left for work?  Because if he craps in the house, I will kill you.”

 

For the Dog:  Speaking of Señor, we can’t leave him out.  Like my children, he is also not an adept reader, per se.  And I didn’t put the tape directly on him due to our previous legal battles.  But he deserves to be a part of the system too.

NO BACON. Just no.

 

 

For the Mom in the String Bikini at Parent/Child Swim Lessons:  Just because.  {Note:  I do not own similar apparel for the purposes of replicating her bathing suit.  And I couldn’t find any adhesive dental floss, so excuse the inauthentic staging.}

FYI: We all hate you.

 

I’m working on my swim class rage issue.  But in the meantime, this might be a good way to vent.

Also under consideration:  Special Edition Tape Notifications for my General Contractor.

 

All in all, I think it’s a good system.  Less yelling.  More communication.  Written evidence of said communication.  I mean, you can call this whole thing over the top, but my kids will never miss another Pajama Day, damn it.

Everybody wins.  Except, maybe the dads in the parent/child swim class hoping to get more views of String Bikini Mom.

 

 

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Cover the Zeroes

July 14, 2012

My two sisters and I are all very different.  However, we have three key things in common:

1)  Political leanings

2)  A love of Motown

3) A real affection for roulette

Actually, it’s four things if you count our collective and pronounced disdain for Keanu Reeves.

But today I’d like to focus on #3.  Because on Sunday, they are taking me to Atlantic City.  It’s my 40th birthday present — how excellent is that?

{And yes, this is officially the last mention I will make of celebrating this birthday, two months after the fact.  Unless you’re my husband, in which case, there are still ten more months in The Year of 40 to celebrate.}

We love us some roulette, my sisters and me.

How did this happen, you ask?

Hmmm.  It’s hard to pinpoint.

Oh wait, it’s coming back to me now.

Something in my childhood home.

Perhaps a piece of furniture.

Could it have been:  This?

Yes, yes, it’s true.  We grew up with a roulette table in our living room.

Is our father a bookie?  No.  Just Italian.

See, my grandmother used to take a lot of trips back to Italy.  And she usually brought home some very cool things from the homeland.  Like jewelry.  Or dishes.  Or wine.  Or a nice leather bag.

Or, this one time, an Italian gaming table with four matching chairs.

They make them in Sorrento.  On the outside they simply look like your typical Italian, gaudy furniture sets.

But, no, they hide a treasure trove of gambling fun.  You remove one leaf at a time to find ornately handcrafted backgammon, black jack and poker boards.

Then.  You open up the bottom layer to find the roulette situation.

God, I love the Italians.

Look, it’s not like we sat around playing roulette as kids on Saturday mornings.  My parents used the table for parties every now and then, and we actually weren’t allowed to touch it.  But, on the eve of my spring break trip to the Bahamas in my senior year of college, my mom had three of my friends and me stay overnight at our house.  And she busted out the roulette table.  You know, to show us the ropes before we lost the shirts off our backs.  {We were all 21, if any of you are feeling litigious.}

And, there, in that Bahamian casino, my love of roulette was complete.

I guess it’s genetic among us sisters.  We love the game.  Not in a lose-your-house-kind-of-way.  We’re not high rollers, by any stretch.  In fact, we’re pretty happy to sit at any $5 table we can find and stretch out $100 for hours on end.

We like to talk strategy.  I’m not saying we’re academic about it, but there are major decisions to be made.  Like playing the inside versus the outside.  Doubling down on a winning number or vacating it.

We like to talk numbers.  I mean, everyone has their numbers.  No, I won’t tell you mine, but I hope you know to always cover the zeroes.

We like to sit back and watch the tables for a bit before committing to the one we like.

We like to decry what my uncle has dubbed The System.  For years, he had our extended family believing he had cracked the code on roulette.  It worked for a while, in small doses.  But my sisters and I, after years of experimenting with it in different iterations, have officially declared The System to be bullshit.  Or just dumb luck.

Speaking of dumb luck:  Yes, I realize that roulette has the statistically worst odds in the house.  I know that counting on a ball spinning in a wheel is absurd.

But I do love it.

So.  Wish us luck.  And if you have a favorite number, let me know.

 

 

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The Backyard Summer Olympics

July 10, 2012

Do not bother me from July 27 through August 12.  I’ll be in London.

Well, I’ll be in front of my TV.  In New Jersey.  But on London time.

I totally get Olympic Fever.  It’s true.  And really, it’s sort of odd, considering I’ve never played an organized sport in my life (though I feel very strongly on some days that I could easily qualify for a competitive eating event).

As the Games of the XXX Olympiad draw near, it’s clear that Olympic Fever is contagious here in Fordeville.  Particularly with my kids.

They are on a mission to medal in some of the lesser-known summer sports.  Not Shooting. Or Handball.  Or Badminton.

No, no.  Even lesser-known.

Here I give you the Fordeville Summer Olympic Backyard Line-Up:

Rhythmic Whining:  This entails high pitched moans of the following:  “I’m booored.”  “When can we gooo to the poooool?” and “Nooooo sunnnnscreeeeean.”  Not strictly a verbal sport, critical extra points are awarded for flexibility during the mandatory Limbless Tantrum component.

Speed Snack Requesting:  Wherein a perfect triangle is formed on foot, every 6 to 12 minutes — all summer long — by small children, between the fridge, the kitchen table and the garbage can.  This is their path of snack consumption.  It takes not only physical, but mental duration to outlast one’s competitors and repeat this exercise all goddamned day.  Every day.

Full Family Combat:  Not to be confused with Judo, this family room crowd pleaser means smuggling a favorite toy away from one’s sibling, running full speed out of the room with it until someone gets his/her ass kicked by the opposite team/sibling.  Or until someone falls and hits a wall first — also called Sudden Death.

Pool to the Bathroom Sprints:  With no protective or traction-bearing footwear, root for your favorite team member to make it from the town pool to the disgusting bathroom before a public health hazard occurs in his/her swimsuit.  Bonus points for not falling onto one’s little ass on the slippery and highly unsanitary floor.

Sunscreen Application Rodeo:  Not unlike the efforts of a greased pig, watch the backyard Olympians successfully out-squirm their mother, time and time again, as she tries in vain to apply SPF 5,000,000 to avoid a trip to the ER.  This multi-day competition entails changes in venue like the park, the pool, the zoo and climbing the swing set.

 

I mean, I love a good Team USA Gymnastics moment.  But I can’t count on it.   I have to make sure my own Olympians are being groomed to their fullest potential here.

So far, they serious medal contenders.  And it’s only early July.

 

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Three

July 8, 2012

Three years ago today I had this meeting for the first time.

Like every child does, my daughter stole my heart the moment I saw her.

Today was all about her.  Turning three.  Or maybe twelve.  It’s hard to tell sometimes.

 

You may know that I get a little nuts with my Birthday Cake Baking Guilt affliction.  But I let it go this time — mostly because my daughter didn’t have a strong opinion about it.  And, like most aspects of parenting — if I can get a loophole clause, you bet I’m going to use it.

So I outsourced the cake.  Which considerably slowed down my aging process.  Order, pay, pick up.  Wow.  That’s 40 hours of my life I got back.

But look who is calling my bluff.

At three, she is ready to take on the world.  She has a distinct sense of adventure.  Of joy.  She is her brother’s biggest fan and also his greatest agitator.  And, she has enviable comedic timing.  She’s not just in on the joke, but she’s in charge of it.

She is well on her way to taking over this household.  And then, possibly, the universe.

Happy birthday to my sweet, sweet girl.  I’m so excited to see what this year brings you.

Right after you recover from today’s sugar overdose.

 

 

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