Sick

We are sick people living in a sick world. Literally.  We have germs, and I've had it up to here with them.  

I'm not one of those people who spends the entire winter longing for warm weather.  I enjoy the changing seasons, although I hate heat, and cannot imagine living someplace without snow.

But this year?  I'm that person.  Enough is enough!  Too much snow!  Too much cold!  Too many days stuck indoors!  Too many recirculating germs!  

I feel like I've been experiencing some form of illness or another since Christmas.  I know we're not alone.  It's like the entire state has been sharing lip balm.  Everyone is sick.  

We need open windows!  We need fresh air!  We need to get the sick out of our systems!  I've been spraying everything with Lysol, and I HATE the smell of Lysol.  

This week it's Vivi's turn to be ill.  I think she has the same stomach virus that I had three weeks ago.  Her symptoms are the same.  But three weeks later?  Could that be?  Come on! This bastard should have been out of our lives by now.  Take a hint, dude.  Nobody likes you.  

Thankfully, due to years spent in the germ factory that is daycare, Madeline seems to have the immune system of a lead box.  She hasn't been sick much this winter at all.  (Knock on wood!)  Although she has had to miss school a few times because her sister or mumma were too sick.  Poor girl.

Likewise, Eric very rarely gets sick.  I joke that he's the Typhoid Mary of the family.  I'm convinced that he brings all these germs home from work, but never shows any symptoms.  That stomach bug that took three weeks to work its way into Vivi?  It's probably been lounging in Eric playing video games and drinking beer for the past month.

Sigh...so I guess it's really just me who is sick all the time.  Dammit.  Maybe it's a lack of vitamin D.  This pale skin is good for nothing.  Maybe I should start bathing in Lysol.  Maybe I should stop wiping my children's noses and let them figure it out.  Maybe I should wear rubber gloves every time I go to the grocery store.  I swear that's where we pick up a lot of crap.  Stop breathing on everything,  you germ-y strangers.

Come on, spring! 

Random Thoughts

- How come I can dress my baby in mismatched patterns, funky knit hats, pants that are too short, sweaters that are too big and covered in banana stains, and it all just makes her look more adorable? Yet, when I dress this way, people think, "Oh, she must be homeless.  Avoid eye contact."  Vivi and the Olsen twins...the only people on the planet who can pull off baby hobo chic.

- There was a flashback sequence to 2004 on The Mindy Project last night in which she poked fun of her bootcut jeans and cowl neck sweater.  Funny except that it's 2015, and I still wear bootcut jeans and cowl neck sweaters.  What's a pear-shaped gal to do? 

I think low-rise bootcut jeans with bedazzled back pockets are the mom jeans of our generation.  Someday the girls will be all, "God mom!  Why can't you wear high-rise, acid-washed jeans like the cool moms?! You're not even wearing boots and we can see your granny panties!"  

And I'll shoot back, "Those other moms are just trying to hide their tribal inspired tramp stamps!  Bet you're glad I didn't fall for that one in 2004!"  

- They talked about time-outs at Maddie's school the other day, and when it was her turn to share, she claimed she didn't receive any form of punishment at home ever.  Then I realized she hadn't had a time-out in a long time...maybe too long.  So, I brought her home, and the first chance I got, I gave her a time-out.  I felt like a better parent, and she seemed happy to have something in common with her friends.  Win-win.  

- A Market Basket employee criticized the number of chicken fingers I ordered at their store last week.  I don't wanna talk about it.  I already vented my rage on Facebook.  I'm taking this as a sign that maybe I shouldn't spend my days guzzling coffee between snacking on carbs and chocolate.  But, dammit, I really hate squats.  

- I want to teach Maddie that my phone serves a purpose other than watching videos of dancing gummy bears.  It would be nice to know that if I pass out from too many squats that somebody could call 911.  I have no idea how to teach her to dial 911 on an iPhone without actually dialling 911.  Also, I don't think she knows what a 9 looks like.  They practiced this at school one day, but when I quizzed her later she was trying to dial 117, which doesn't do anyone any good. 

On Epics and Bedtimes

Before my brain was replaced with mushed Cheerios and the Sofia the First theme song, I was an English teacher.  Part of my job is torturing (sometimes educating) America's youth with The Odyssey.  In case it's been a while since you were an unfortunate teen, it's the story of the warrior Odysseus as he struggles to sail home from the Trojan War.  

Anyhow...I have a point.  Wait for it.  

There's one part of the story where Odysseus and his men almost make it home.  I mean, they can actually see the shores of Ithaca on the horizon.  They're this close. Their spirits soar.  They breathe a collective sigh of relief.  Many manly hugs are shared.  

Then a bunch of greedy blockheads open a bag they've been warned not to touch thinking it contains gold, when in actuality, the bag contains wind.  When it's opened, the ships are blown way off course, and their homeland is out of reach once more.  Ass hats.  

Before all is said and done, his men are killed and Odysseus has to endure a decade of hardship before reaching his goal.  

Ready for my point?  

This, friends, is what bedtime with young children is like every. single. night.  

By the end of the day, I'm tired.  The kids are tired. There's whining and crying and the throwing of tantrums from all of us.  

But, lo!  Relief is on the horizon!  

Once my little angels are safely sleeping, the world is mine.  Sweet freedom!  Mostly, I spend my time drinking wine and watching The Kardashians.  

Then something goes wrong.  Maddie has to go potty again.  Vivi cries when I put her down.  I trip over a toy on my way out the door and all hell breaks loose.  

Whatever the reason, I'm dragged back down into the trenches.  Bedtime starts all over again.  Rocking, soothing, lecturing, pleading.  The struggle is real.  

In my experience, there are five stages of bedtimes for babies and young children.

Stage One: Zero to Three Months

You will not sleep during this stage.  Actually, let me clarify.  You will sleep, but not in any way that is familiar to you.  Sleep comes in brief spurts throughout the day and night.  If you have other young children though...yeah, you probably won't sleep.  

You could try getting the baby in a routine, but there's not much point.  You are that baby's bitch.  And bitch ain't sleeping.  

Stage Two: Three to Six Months

Around this time, the bedtime routine begins.  You believe it will work.  Your zombie brain needs it to work.  It probably won't work.  But you're laying the groundwork.  

There's mostly just a lot of rocking and pacing with the baby during this stage. You begin to bounce everywhere you go...standing in line at the grocery store, talking to the neighbors, while showering...even without the baby in your arms.  

Stage Three: Six to Nine Months

This is where ish gets real because, dammit, a person can't live this way. You google the term "Ferberize."  You let the baby cry it out a few nights.  You feel guilty.  You Google "Dr. Sears."  You bounce some more.  You let her cry some more because who does this baby think she is?! 

Slowly, you gain some normalcy, but wake in a panic if the baby sleeps too long. You creep into the baby's room to make sure she's still breathing.  You wake her up.  You bounce some more.

Stage Four: Nine Months to Three Years

Things start to click.  The baby sleeps.  You sleep.  You have faith in your bedtime routine. 

Then one night it stops working.  The baby has a tooth coming in, or has learned to stand on her head, or can now throw things.  

You're Odysseus blowing helplessly across the ocean.  

You try all previous methods from all previous stages, but you're not conditioned for these marathon bedtimes anymore.  Patience runs thin.   

And just when you've managed to control the situation once more, the baby turns into a toddler who needs to use the potty, sleep in a big kid bed, and is manipulative as hell.

This stage lasts a long time.  

Stage Five: Four Years to ???

We're now in the stage with Madeline where we can say, "Sure kid, stay up all night if you want, but don't wake up your sister, and don't get out of bed.  We've washed, cuddled, and read stories.  I wash my hands of you.  Sleep tight."  

It works most of the time, and she never stays up all night.  Yesterday morning we did find her pillowcase stuffed with hair bows, books, and various stuffed animals.  Hey, at least she didn't wake her sister.  

This is where my experience ends.  I don't know what comes next.  I imagine things will shake up again around the time we buy Madeline her first cell phone.  

In the meantime, Vivi and I languish in Stage Four, unsure of my destiny, tiptoeing downstairs to drink my wine, keeping my fingers firmly crossed.  

Random Thoughts

This has been one of those weeks where nothing is going right, and yet, nothing is going particularly wrong.  It's just blah....and busy... but I feel like I'm not getting anything done.  I did organize my underwear drawer.  If nothing else, I have that.

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I don't understand how bits of food end up in Vivi's diaper every day.  She wears a onesie layered under pants and a sweater most days.  How does that tiny slice of banana find its way through all those clothes?

I found a grain of rice in there after lunch.  We haven't even eaten rice recently.  Has she been hiding it in her belly button?

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Me: Maddie, did you read any books at school today?

M: We read "The Old Lady Who Wasn't Afraid of Anything."

Me: Oh, what's that about?

M: It's about an old lady who wasn't afraid of anything....

Well, if you ask a stupid question, Mumma...

At least she was talking to me.  Usually when I ask how her day was, she says, "I don't want to talk," and we drive home in stony silence.  My little teenaged four year old.

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This morning was pitch dark, rainy like the End of Days, and Vivi kept up us all night.  It took a Herculean effort (And two very awake children plus a nagging husband) to get me out of bed this morning.   Yes.  Coffee.  Yes.

I've mentioned before that our town does not allow drive-thrus.  This should be enough to stop me from visiting Dunks so often, but nothing comes between me and that pumpkin coffee.  Instead, I drive twenty minutes out of my way so that we don't have to get out of the car.

It was worth it.

>>>>>>>

Lastly, my kids are cute.

Nothings

An old-ish woman who was with us in an elevator yesterday asked if Vivi is a boy or a girl.  After I told her, she informed me that she looks more like a boy.  When I repeated that I was quite sure that my child is a girl, she said, "Huh, isn't that funny...She really looks like a boy."  Um, okay weirdo.  

I forced my daughter to eat chicken nuggets for the first time.  I mean, there were tears involved.  Once she tried them, she was fine, but I'm pretty sure this means I'm the worst mother in the world.  

There may be nothing in the world as satisfying as picking the boogers out of my baby's nose.  It's like a game.  Yes!  Got that sucker!  Yet, for some reason, Madeline's runny nose has started to gross me out.  Perhaps it's because she no longer let's me pick them out for her...

There is a mouse in our living room hiding under the bookshelves. This made for a very stressful morning for me and Maddie.  Vivi didn't care.  Eric basically laughed at me from the safety of his work where there are no mice.  We hid at the library for hours.  Now I have traps set in just about every corner of our home because that sucker could be anywhere.  Meanwhile, I'm trying to act normal so I don't freak out my child.  Being an adult is hard. I'm gonna get you, Mickey!  

The Joys of Christmas Shopping While Pregnant

If Ebenezer Scrooge were nine months pregnant, he'd probably write a a blog post just like this one.  So before I even begin, please forgive me my rant.  I'm not sure what it is about not being able to see one's toes, but there seems to be a direct correlation between that and one's mood.

Christmas shopping while this pregnant is a bad idea.  A very bad idea.  I highly recommend that all pregnant ladies rely heavily on the Amazon Gods to play Santa this year.  Yet, logical thinking is not always the pregnant person's strong suit.  Although I knew ahead of time that venturing to the mall was probably the worst idea ever in the history of ideas, I did it anyway.

And so, while fighting the crowds at Barnes and Nobles yesterday morning, I was visited by the Three Ghosts of Christmas Shopping Annoyances.

First, I was visited by the ghost of Christmas Shopping Future.  I was standing there minding my own business, browsing through some overpriced flash cards guaranteed to make my daughter a genius, when a sweet old lady shuffled beside me and coughed in my face.  I'm sorry the poor woman is sick, but there was no attempt to turn her head or cover her mouth whatsoever.  All I got was a mixture of sweet breath and spit particles directly to the side of my face.  My unborn child's weakened immune system will no doubt appreciate the Depression Era germs that are now coursing through my body, but it's common courtesy to not cough on strangers.  To add insult to injury, I feel bad even calling this woman out because someday I will be old, shuffling through the store to buy presents for great grandchildren who don't appreciate me, coughing on young people just to get someone to notice I exist.

Next, there was the man standing behind me in line who was convinced that if he stood as close to me as possible and sighed loudly that everything would move faster.  We'll call him the Ghost of Christmas Shopping Present.  I understand his annoyance, and desire to speed up time.  Standing in long lines sucks.  But there's something to be said for personal space, and having a strange bearded man in a leather jacket pressed up against my pregnant backside just gives me the heebie jeebies.  Trust me, buddy, you don't want to be that close.  First, there's a strong possibility that I could start leaking amniotic fluid at any moment.  Secondly, an old lady just coughed on me, and I could be carrying a deadly communicable disease.  My husband doesn't even want to stand that closely to me these days.

Finally, free from the wheezers and close-standers, I waddled over piles of ice and snow to get back to my car, which was parked a good half-mile away form the store's entrance.  And what to my wondrous eyes should appear?  A truck with a snowplow attached to the front of it had backed into the spot next to mine, leaving the front of the plow to block in my car.  I thank you, Ghost of Christmas Shopping Past, for plowing the roads when I needed you two days ago.  I guess your service to mankind means you are justified in parking like a complete d-bag.  Thankfully, the car parked on the other side of me was leaving too.  So with a few wiggles of the wheel and thrusts in reverse, careful to not hit any of the cars prowling desperately for their own parking spots, I was able to slip past the truck.    

Bah Humbug, ladies and gentleman.  Bah Humbug!  Today, I stay home and eat chocolate.

Glucose Fail

It's a solid fact that once you open your big, fat mouth to express an opinion whatever you say will come back to bite you in your big, fat bum. For example, a few weeks ago a friend was joking about her gestational diabetes being directly connected to the amount of ice cream she consumed during the first half of her pregnancy.  I countered that gestational diabetes probably has more to do with genetics than with Ben and Jerry's since I ate my fair share of the stuff with Madeline with no complications.

Well, up on Mount Olympus, Gluttonidas, roundest of the Gods, looked down upon with me wrath. Silly mortal, how dare you be arrogant enough to think you could eat ALL the crab rangoon?!

Guess what, folks? I failed my glucose screening.

I've got the extended three-hour test scheduled soon, which will tell me whether or not Gluttonidas has truly cursed me with gestational diabetes.  I'm hoping I can chalk up failing the first round to the amount of cake I ate for Madeline's birthday weekend.  All that sugar must surely still be in my system, right?  Fingers crossed that the second test will come back normal, and I'll have simply wasted three hours of my life in the lab's waiting room instead of having to give up cake on top of alcohol and caffeine.  I know the Gods are cruel, but come on...

Damn it, does this mean I have to eat beets? Or kale? Cause if I hear one more hipster praise the glory of kale...I will scream. There's nothing wrong with kale, but you are never going to convince me that it's omigod sooo yummy that you actually crave it.  Stop dressing it up to look cool.  People eat kale because they are trying to be healthy or because they are secretly rabbits.  Everyone knows you are secretly craving a box of Twinkies like the rest of the schmucks.

Disclaimer: In all seriousness, I will gladly adjust my diet in any way necessary to keep baby safe...even if I have to eat stewed beets.  And, as much as I joke about eating cake and rangoon, I'm not really that bad.  I eat salad for lunch and pie for dinner.  I don't see what the big deal is.  However, I am not joking about kale.  Stop it.  

P.S.  They reset the votes at Top Baby Blogs.  I made it to the front page last round, which was pretty awesome cause I'm vain and fat and possibly have diabetes, so the little things make me happy.  I'd sure appreciate some votes.  Simply click on the brown button on the sidebar, and then click again to vote.  Thank you!  You are awesome...even if you are a kale lover.

Return of the Baby Fat

While flipping through the channels on TV one night about a month ago, I noticed that the programing on TLC consisted of "Obese and Pregnant" followed by "Obese and Expecting."   I didn't actually watch either of these shows, so if anyone knows what the difference between the two of them is, please fill me in.  I could be wrong, but they seem to both be about obese people who also happen to be pregnant.

Since I had just polished off an order of crab Rangoon...cough...by myself...don't judge...I had the sinking feeling that the television might be speaking to me personally.

Some women can gracefully waddle through pregnancy in a pair of JCrew maternity skinny jeans that emphasize their long legs and perfectly round baby bump. God bless those women, but mostly I just want to punch them in the face. Because me pregnant? I look like a walking sweet potato.

This is partially due to genetics. Even at a fit 120 lbs, (Not that I remember what that was like.) I sport some heafty cankles. It's not so bad though since those cankles help support my sturdy school marm legs and bodacious thighs. The term, I believe, is pear shaped.

But my overall roundness is also caused by the fact that I'm pregnant, and I'm going to eat cake...or Rangoon...if I feel like it, dammit! Now, leave me alone, TLC.

In spite of my love for Chinese take out, I'm certainly not ready to audition for "Obese and Pregnant." And while I may not be gracing the cover of Fit Pregnancy anytime soon either, I think I qualify as normal and healthy. But damn, it feels weird watching your body blow up like that blueberry chick's from Willy Wonka. And damn, there is a lot of pressure to make one's pregnant blueberry body look as perfect as possible.

Wasn't there a period in time where pregnant people went into confinement? Why'd we stop doing that? Sometimes the thought of being tucked away from public eyes to grow fatter in peace seems pretty good.

For example, someone pointed out that my belly button was popping through my shirt the other afternoon. That was just what I wanted to hear seconds before facing a room of twenty high school freshmen. Cause if it's not awkward enough that they know where babies come from, now they can see my belly button too. Bring on the shapeless maternity sacks of yore, I say!

But no. Pregnant women had to go ahead and liberate their bodies because the miracle of life is "beautiful." This wouldn't be a problem because pregnancy IS beautiful in its own bloated, life-creating way, but the images of pregnant women we hold ourselves up to are far from normal. I blame you, Demi Moore. Heidi Klum, don't think I've forgotten you either. And you, Beyonce. (I'd blame Kate Middleton as well, but she's just too pretty to hold a grudge against.) It's easy to be pregnant, proud, and half naked when you look like that. If I were them, I wouldn't wear clothes at all...ever.

So, now we live in a world of extremes. On one hand, we're bombarded with maternity bikinis, postpartum celebrity weight loss secrets, and pregnancy books that advise against consuming dairy because it will make you fat. You know what else will make you fat? Being pregnant...

Meanwhile, celebrities like Jessica Simpson and Kim Kardashian are plastered on the cover of tabloids so that we may laugh, "Bwahaha! Look at those fat, pregnant bitches!" But, oh, wait a second...that's pretty much what I look like pregnant. (Except without the designer clothing and professional makeup artists to help take the attention away from my eye bags.)

Which, in a very round about way, brings me back to shows like "Obese and Pregnant" which highlight the other extreme. As a pregnant lady it seems you either must strive for Heidi Klum perfection or risk being unhealthily overweight. And seriously, why does this show even exist? To warn of the dangers of being overweight and pregnant? Okay, well I'm pretty sure obese women already are aware of the health risks associated with their weight. And what about all the not-obese and/or not-pregnant people watching? Is it just more of the morbid obsession we currently have about weight gain, and more specifically, weight gain while growing a human? Is it so we can judge? Feel better about the carton of crab Rangoon we may, or may not, have just eaten?

As for me, I'll continue to balance my chocolate cake with some healthier choices, listen to what my body needs, and try not to worry too much about the girth of my canckles. Above all, I will remind myself that it's normal to look like a sweet potato when pregnant. I may also wear some muumuus and look into the possibility of teaching via video conferencing so teenagers stop staring at my belly button.

How to Alienate Pregnant People

My love for Dunkin Donuts is such that Madeline was almost born in one.  Okay, not really, but my water did break while waiting in line for a morning bagel.  I know.  It's gross.  Get over it.

So imagine my disappointment when Eric came back to our car with only one pink and orange bag the other morning instead of the four I was expecting.

"I couldn't get your donuts or Madeline's bagel because they ran out," he explained quickly lest I eat him.

Um, what?!  I'm sorry, but the name is Dunkin DONUTS.  What was I supposed to dunk in my coffee instead?   Low fat blueberry muffins?  Egg sandwiches?  I think not, Dunkin Donuts.  I think not.

All I know is there must have been a lot of cranky customers on Monday morning, but none as cranky as the hungry pregnant lady.

Luckily, there is a rule in Massachusetts that states that one can not drive for more than five minutes in any direction without encountering a new Dunkin Donuts.  We're extra lucky because the next Dunks was only two minutes away instead of five.  That's why we pay so much in taxes.  Of course, our town also has a rule against drive-thrus...but that's a whole separate pregnancy rant.

At our second stop, Eric came out of the store with two new bags and flashed me a solid thumbs-up.  Success.

So listen, Dunks, you are lucky that you have started offering the French crullers again in this area because that was a dirty trick to play on me.  And although your crullers are so soggily delicious, I just don't think I could handle a betrayal like that again.

That was low, man.  Way low.

P.S.  Happy birthday to my sweet husband who puts up with a lot.

Snow YOLO

According to the weather gods, we may be hours away from our sixth snow day of the school year.  This means we'll be making up for lost time in June when the weather is beautiful and the cherubs are gnawing off their arms at the elbows in anticipation of their freedom.  This possibility is enough to make many teachers cringe at these late-winter storms.  Yet, due to my glass-is-half-empty attitude, I usually don't mind having so many snow days.

I could be dead by June.  An asteroid may hit.  The zombie apocalypse may relegate us to our basements.  Bono could be the new Pope.  There are many things that could prevent me from enjoying the last day of school come June.  

Besides, we all know that someday in the near future all the polar bears will be dead and snow will only be a Game of Thrones-esque reference to an era long past.  I'll take my days off now, thank you very much!

After all, if my students have taught me one valuable lesson over the course of my career it's YOLO.   (I had a student openly mock me for not knowing that term a while back, but later that same week she revealed that she didn't know who Yoda is.  I think we all know who won that battle of street cred.)

The same philosophy generally prevents me from being a successful dieter.  I could be skinny later.  Or, I could eat the bowl of guacamole now before I lose my sense of taste in a horrific snowball accident thus forever robbing me of my joy of food.    

Speaking of which, last week I cut into a mango only to find it was the world's largest avocado.   I took it as a sign that God wants me to eat guacamole and chips instead of fruit salad.  I bent to His divine, and delicious, will.

Anyhow, if this storm turns to naught, and I end up in school tomorrow, I will probably be grumpy.  And if we do have another snow day, I'll probably be grumpy in June.  No matter how you look at it, I end up grumpy.

Moral of the story?  I've got a bad attitude and large thighs.

In Defense of the Color Pink

***Warning:  The post you are about to read may turn out sounding like complete word vomit.  It's been on my mind for a long time, and I've re-written it and walked away several times.  I may not have a valid point, and I may be completely wrong.  Still..it's my blog, and I'll whine if I want to.***

Madeline is currently obsessed with princesses.  She also loves ballerinas, and the shoes in her closet.  When she sees me applying makeup, she begs to wear my lipstick, and she absolutely loves it when I occasionally paint her toenails.  Most of all, she adores the color pink.  In short, our daughter is what you'd call a "girly-girl."

I'm tempted to try to over analyze the reasons behind Madeline's ultra-feminine behavior.  Did we somehow send our daughter the message that she must like dolls and the color pink, or was her brain programed to like these things regardless of what Santa leaves under the tree?    

Yet, while the whole nature vs. nurture debate is interesting from a sociological standpoint, when it comes to my own family, I really don't care.  Maybe some girls really are just born to be girly.  Maybe I forced my own love of the color pink onto my daughter.  At the end of the day, she is who she is, and as long as she's happy, so am I.

Besides, I think the color pink is making a comeback.

Since having a girl, I've become hyper aware that the color pink is considered a big no-no by a lot of mothers in my age bracket.  I'm not sure exactly why.  Perhaps it's because we were raised in a gender-neutral era ourselves shortly after the women's lib. era.  Maybe it's the opposite, and we cringe at our Pepto-Bismol-hued baby pictures.  Maybe the only thing we remember from all those gender studies courses we took in college is that pink = subservience.

Whatever the reason, I know that a lot of people go out of their way to avoid the color and all it implies.   Nurseries are no longer traditionally pink...they are grey.  Clothing is yellow or teal or red....which leads to a lot of uncomfortable situations at the supermarket when strangers try to guess the gender of your baby lest they resort to calling her "it."

I had a friend (who is the mother of a boy) wrinkle her nose at a pink outfit Madeline was wearing and express her distaste for feminine baby clothes.  When toying with the idea of painting Madeline's nursery pink, I've had people literally cry out in protest.

Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with gray nurseries, or gender neutral toys.  It's great.  Do what you want.  Most of our baby things were gender neutral to deal with the possibility of future babies.  And I totally get why parents want to keep the Disney princesses away from their daughters...it's a marketing behemoth. BUT.  I don't see why there's anything wrong with painting your daughter's nursery pink either.

Here's my problem with the anti-pink attitude.  Just because something is stereotypically feminine does not automatically mean that it's bad.  In fact, isn't suggesting that things that are traditionally feminine are somehow less than other forms of expression just as sexist? Girl things = bad.  Boy things = good.  Red Lego's = good.  Pink Lego's = bad.

Take my nose-wrinkling friend.  Her son wears blue a lot.  He wears dinosaurs and airplanes and other stereotypically male things, and no one questions if she is doing her son a disservice.  "Uh-oh!  He's wearing blue!  Watch out...he might turn into a macho, violent football player!"  It's not gender-specific clothing she has a problem with...it's just gender-specific female clothing she has a problem with.  

If we took Madeline aside and told her she had to wear pink dresses only, or if part of being a girl means that you have to be a shallow, mini-mouthed, princess then that would be bad.  Telling my daughter she can be whatever she wants to be except anything too "girly" also seems a tad hypocritical.

As it is, I don't see why a person can't wear pink while kicking ass and taking names.  Didn't we learn anything from Elle Woods?! (I kid....sorta.)

If your belief is that things that are pink, or overtly girly, are somehow symbols of weakness, subservience, and stupidity...then maybe  a small part of the problem is the way you view women.  Femininity...whether displayed in a male or female... is not weakness.  The negative perception of femininity is the problem.  

I don't worry about my daughter turning into a subservient air head just because she likes to wear pink boas and twirl around the living room in her Snow White costume.  I give her more credit than that.  Most of the women I know are well-educated, fair-minded, and financially independent in spite of   playing with Barbie's pink Corvette.

Yet, I've noticed the tide against pink turning recently.  More pink nurseries are popping up on Pinterest.  I've read other blogs about similar feelings.  There's an entire Disney Princess campaign aimed at the idea that being loving, kind, and nurturing are not signs of weakness...it's a sign of strength.

I guess what I'm not-so-eloquently trying to say is this:  I'm not going to stress about gender-izing or degender-izing my child, and I don't think others should either.  As long as you teach your children to be good human beings, to stick up for themselves, and to work hard for what they want...I think that the color of their nursery, outfit, or building blocks doesn't matter so much after all.  That woman in high heels and a ruffled dress could be a really kick-ass business woman, doctor, teacher, or hair dresser.  Either way, she's a worthwhile human being.

All I know, if it's okay for the, now former, Secretary of State to wear pink to work...it's probably okay to dress your baby in pink too.

I

An Open Letter to the B at CVS

Dear Bitch from CVS,

I want you to know that you are very, very lucky that it was my husband who heard the rude comments you made in regards to my daughter today while waiting in line at CVS and not me.  He is very mellow and able to brush those comments aside with a shrug and roll of his eyes.

Me, however?  I am bat ass crazy.  And trust when I say, it would have taken about .5 seconds for me to lose my redheaded mind all over your face.  I probably would have even started waggling my head from side to side and snapping my fingers, unleashing my inner street from deep inside my gap-clad loins.    

I realize it is annoying when my daughter starts whining and fussing in public.  Trust me, I know.  It annoys me too.  I had to listen to her whine and fuss all the way back to the car.  I have to listen to her whine and fuss about ten times a day.  You, however, had to listen to her for less than two minutes.

Apparently, the conversation you were having on your cell phone during those two minutes was so monumentally important that you felt like you could take a big ole dump on my family...aloud...in front of everyone within earshot.  I apologize.  The next time you decide to have an important conversation on your phone in the middle of a public place, the rest of us will cease existing until you are finished.  After all, you're obviously much more important than the rest of us.  And although I can assume from your skank-ass boots and lack of legitimate pants that it was not an important business call, your incessant yapping is probably a much-needed distraction from the shallow, vapid thoughts blowing through your head.

Furthermore, my daughter is two, and she was tired and cranky.  She has an excuse for sometimes behaving badly.  Cut us a god-damned break.  You?  You are nearing thirty and are a miserable ass hat.

The only comfort I can take is from your declaration that you will, "Never have kids."  Thank God.  We do not need a new generation of self-important, Jersey-Shore wannabees with zero compassion or consideration for the other human being you share the planet with.  Also?  You smell like a stripper.  

Happy Thanksgiving, you heartless snake.  I will be enjoying it with my family.  My daughter is not a perfect angel 100 percent of the time, but she is pretty damn amazing nonetheless.  A few tantrums are a small price to pay for the light and love she brings the world.

I hope you enjoy the multiple cases of single-serving Easy Mac you purchased tonight.  It must be awesome to be alone.  

Sincerely,

The Frazzled Mother Behind You in Line Tonight

The End is Nigh!!!

Tonight, as I brought Madeline up for bed, I noticed this pamphlet sitting mysteriously on our stairs:

"Uh...how did this get here?"  I asked Eric.

He said I had grabbed it from the front door as I walked into the house this afternoon, but I had zero memory of doing such a thing.  I stared at it blankly for a moment.  I don't exactly have the best memory in the world, so I took Eric's word for it.

After all, what else could explain its presence in our house?  Unless...

"Eric!  What if there's a religious fanatic hiding somewhere in our house secretly leaving us pamphlets about the pending apocalypse?!?"  I blurted out.  And then, "Man, why do they always have to talk about Doomsday?  I don't want to see that.  Why can't they sneak in to leave us pamphlets about love and understanding?"

Eric didn't respond as he flipped curiously through the magazine.  He grinned.  "There's an article called 'What Can I Expect From Marriage?" he offered.  

I sighed heavily and headed up the stairs, "In your case I think it's one long headache."

The possibility of there being a religious fanatic hiding in our house was pretty much forgotten, but while I gave Madeline her bath, I had Eric check the closets for any stray Jehovah's Witnesses just in case.

Fast forward about an hour.  I sat down to my computer, ready to check my email, when a loud rumbling echoed through the house, shaking the desk in front of me.    

Being the completely rational human being that I am, my first thought was:  "Dear God, it's the Jehovah's Witness!  He's running through the dining room!"

I leaped from my chair like a mother jungle cat on the prowl, ready to go Doomsday on that tie-wearing thug, but something was not right.  The house was still shaking, but there was nobody there.  I froze in the kitchen, watching the dishes in the sink clang against one another loudly until the rumbling lessened and then ceased.

Many thoughts went through my head at once.  Was there an explosion in the neighborhood?  Are the plows out?  Is a giant sinkhole about to swallow us up?  Wait, was that an earthquake?

I immediately called Eric, who had already left the house for a rehearsal.  "Summer, it was probably just a train going by," he rationalized.

I tried to explain that this was a much bigger rumbling, and that I thought it was an earthquake.  Since we live in Massachusetts where earthquakes are very uncommon, and since Eric didn't feel anything strange where he was, and since the last thing I asked him to do before leaving the house was to check for religious fanatics hiding in our closets, Eric didn't believe me.  

Well, I was right.  It was an earthquake.  My parents called me two second later to ask if we had felt it too.  Four point five, baby...out of Maine.

Which leaves me wondering:  What if the pamphlet is right?  The zombie apocalypse is nigh, folks.  Watch for evidence during tonight's presidential debate. Take cover.  

Greener Grass

Summer vacation always seems to fly by at warp speed.  It was just June, and now suddenly the days are getting shorter, the leaves have a golden hue to them, and there's a chill in the night air.  And for this family of teachers, there's the transition from the lazy, family-filled summer days back into a whirlwind of newly sharpened pencils, meeting students, and grading papers.

There was a time in my teaching career where I could throw myself into a new school year full throttle ahead without a second thought about my personal life.  Now, going back to school means scrambling to find a healthy balance between being an effective teacher and being the best mother for Madeline.   Mother guilt sets in.  Teacher guilt sets in.  I'm still learning how to do both jobs well.

There always seems to be a slightly contentious debate over the life of the working mother versus the life of the stay-at-home mother.  Which woman has it harder?  Who is sacrificing more?  Who is helping their children more?

In some small way, summer vacations allow me to have the best of both worlds.  I get to stay home for two months a year, and the rest of the year I work.   When I see these debates playing out on blogs or through the comment sections on newspaper articles,  I find myself agreeing with both sides.

Both jobs are equally hard in different ways.  Both jobs require huge sacrifices in different ways.  Both jobs both benefit and disadvantage children in different ways.  The debate is pointless.

I love the time I get to spend with Madeline when I'm home.  It's so much fun to see her learn and grow every moment of the day.  It's tremendously rewarding, but it can also be frustrating, isolating, and a bit monotonous.  To top it off, I'm spoiled with an at-home husband to share the burden during the summer months.  Without him, I can only imagine that the negative aspects of staying at home would be even more intense.

On the other hand, while work gives me social, intellectual, and financial rewards, I hate missing out on so much of Madeline's day.  Besides, the responsibility of taking care of your house and child don't go away...it's just combined with the responsibility of work.  By the time we see one another in the afternoon, I'm a walking zombie and she's a cranky patty.  Zombie moms aren't fun.  They eat brains.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the grass is always greener.  By the end of the summer, I'm ready to get back to work.  Yet, as soon as I get back to work, I long to be home with Madeline.

Honestly, the desire to stay home has been stronger than the desire to work in recent months.  I am lucky to be employed, lucky to be able to help support my family, lucky to like my job and the people I work with.  But, pretty soon my baby won't be a baby any more and the opportunity to be a full-time parent will have passed me by.

It also doesn't help that Madeline got bitten by a classmate....twice...on her first day back to school yesterday.  Apparently, there was a turf war over the play kitchen in her new big-kid room.  Secondly, I let her sleep in this morning because she was so wiped out from yesterday, so I missed her all day long.  Furthermore, when Eric told her she was going to school this morning, she started crying, "I no like school."  Heart.  Break.  In Half.

In another week or two, we'll all be back to our normal routines, and it will be like summer vacation never even happened.  In the meantime, I'll try not to look too hard at the grass on the other side of the fence.

Plum Worn Out

I feel a little lame whining about how exhausted I am when a week from now I will be on a bodacious two-month-long luxury vacation in my house, but.....(whine)....I am so tired.

Some days you just need to come home, change straight into your pj's, and watch Tangled.  Or, as Maddie likes to call it, "Punzel!"

P.S.  I'm pretty sure Rapunzel and Eugene are my favorite Disney couple.  Just putting that out there...

I Saw The Sign...with Less Ace of Base

I'm not a deeply religious person, and rationally, I don't usually believe in signs.  Yet, from time to time, I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something.

It's usually the kind of thing where maybe I keep seeing the same person in uncanny places.  Or a lucky number shows up on the deli ticket.  Or maybe a song you have an emotional connection to comes on the radio on route to a first date.  

Well, today I felt like the universe was trying to speak to me on my way home from work.

As I daydreamed my way through traffic, I started thinking of Ellis.  This is not unusual in and of itself because she comes to my mind on a regular basis.  What was unusual, however, were the feelings that came rushing back along with my thoughts.

Imagine seeing a really terrifying movie for the fifteenth time.  It's still probably scary, but it just doesn't have the same emotional punch it did the first or second time you saw it.  That's how my feelings toward Ellis run these days.  I'm still obviously filled with regret and sadness about losing our daughter, but for the most part, I've put those demons to bed.  My feelings are no longer fresh or raw, and when I think back to that time, it feels like I'm looking at a different life through a telescope.

Except that's not how I felt today when I sat in traffic.  For just a moment, it felt like I got punched in the stomach all over again, and it could have been two and half years ago in that hospital room right that very second.  As I said, it only lasted a moment, and then it was gone.  It was just enough to make me shake my head, and think, "Hmmm, that's odd."  

I let my mind wander to other things, but the news and commercials on the radio kept reminding me of Ellis.  Small, insignificant things that probably wouldn't even make sense to anyone else but me.  For example, there was a story about a missing baby, which reminded me of Casey Anthony, which was on the news in my hospital room the day I delivered Ellis, so the conversation I had with my mother while that news story was on TV came flooding through my mind.  

But the real kicker happened when I was stopped at a traffic light in front of Madeline's school.  I was waiting for the light to turn green, staring blankly at the large delievery truck in front of my car.  It took me a minute to even realize it, but right there, in large green lettering, printed on the back of the truck was the word, "Ellis."

It didn't say Ellis Construction or Ellis Landscaping or anything like that....just Ellis.

Now granted, Ellis is a pretty common last name, and I've often seen it attatched to company logos and the like.  But keeping in mind the context of my thoughts only ten minutes earlier, and the fact that the truck was right in front of me, and the fact that it didn't say anything but that one, huge, bold-printed word...I took it as a sign.

A sign of what?  I don't know.   It just felt like for one moment that universe was trying to speak to me.

Ever get a feeling like that?

Reliving My Youth Through Keri Russel's Hair

 I've become Felicity obsessed after re watching season one on ye olde Ipad during my vacation week.  Yes, the Felicity starting Kerri Russel and her head full of glorious curly hair.  (Don't worry, I already I realized how pathetic I am when I shouted, "That's where Felicity lives!" when we passed NYU on our trip to New York City last week.)   My obsession is not so much due to the gripping story line, but because the show is helping me come to terms with the fact that I am getting a tad...ahem...old-er.

Granted, thirty isn't exactly O.L.D the way Demi Moore's left buttock or part of Meg Ryan's face is old, but it's gotten to the point where the Nineties is starting to look...ancient.

And we're talking late 90s too....approaching the millennium, in fact.  I already knew from listening to "The Greatest Love of All" and watching Fresh Prince reruns that the early 90s were ridiculous.  But 1998?!  Shenanigans!

I used to watch John Hughes movies in high school and laugh at the 80's fashion trends.  Molly Reinwald what did you do that pink dress?!?!

In my mind there was no way my era could ever look outdated.  After all, the way we dressed was just normal.

Oh, how wrong I was!  If nothing else, Felicity has reminded me of that.

Super wide-legged jeans?  Ankle-length, shapeless sack-like skirts?  Millions of sparkly butterfly hair clips all in the same hair?  Over sized, chunky ski sweaters?!  Yup,  I had them all.

My freshman year of high school I got a giant, red sweater covered with snowflakes and another navy blue sweater with reindeer across the chest.  I probably could have fit three of me into one of them.  Oh, how stylish I thought I was.   Damn, I wish I still had those sweaters so I could wear them to an ugly sweater Christmas party.  (Although I think I MAY still have the matching reindeer hat and gloves floating around someplace.)

Oddly enough, not the sweaters to which I was referring, but this'll have to do.  

And the technology gap between the world of Felicity in 1998 and today?!  Epic.

On Felicity no one has cell phones...which could have totally remedied the whole situation where Noel has an allergic reaction to  beet powder and starts wigging out because he thinks Felicity is ditching him to go make out with Ben in the stacks.  Um, hello?  Just sext her and be done with it!   (Are people still sexting, or is that, like, so 2009?)

Furthermore, the only person who even seems to have his own computer is Noel.  They make a lot of references to how nerdy he is because he has his own website...www.noelcrane.com.   Flash forward to the future: My neighbor's cat has a blog.  (Just kidding.  My neighbor doesn't have a cat.  At least, not that I know of...I'm still sorta new.)

The last time I watched Felicity I was seventeen and in high school, so probably the biggest difference is the fact that my emotional intelligence has shifted (I won't say grown) since then.

It used to make total sense that Felicity would follow the boy she loved across the country to college.  Girl took a chance on love!  Now, it seems crazy and awkward as hell to watch this young girl follow a boy she doesn't even know across the country.

The episode where Felicity loses her virginity to Eli used to blow my mind.  How could she do such a thing?!  Now, I'm like eh, what's the big deal.

Which brings me to...HOW IN THE HOLY UNIVERSE DID IT GET TO BE 2012?!

Seriously?  Twelve?  Twelve.  Twelve!  Really.
 (That's how they'd say it on Felicity.  They end every sentence with "Really."  or "Really?")

A child who was born in 1998 is now 14 years old.  I've basically lived two whole lives since Felicity first aired.  Madeline will view 1998 the way that I viewed the 1960s....as older than dirt.

La sigh.

I'm starting on season two tonight, but I'm not really looking forward to it because all I remember is that she cuts her hair and the show starts to suck.

At least Downton Abbey starts up again next week.  Talk about back in the day!  I wonder if there are any centenarians out there watching PBS reliving their youth...

Look at those corsets!  What were we thinking?!

Elmo, The Little Red Dictator

Recently I've come to the conclusion that my irrational fear of the Zombie Apocalypse is completely ridiculous.

What I really should be fearing is an Elmo apocalypse.  Because, seriously? Elmo is an evil genius who is hell bent on taking over the world one baby at a time.  

About three weeks ago, Madeline plopped herself down on my lap with a Sesame Street book, opened it, pointed to a page and stated, "Elmo!" clear as a bell.  

Nobody has taught Madeline who Elmo is.  We have no Elmo toys.  We've only watched Sesame Street a handful of times.  The book with the picture of Elmo in it does not even mention his name.  I also checked in with daycare to see if she learned it there.  They were just as perplexed as I.

Without anyone having taught her, Madeline has bowed down to the unstoppable force that is Elmo.

Since then, Madeline has become Elmo obsessed.  If she sees him on a shelf in a store ten aisles away, she'll yell for him.  If I get a Toys R Us flyer mailed to the house, she picks the Elmos out from the pages.  There are little Elmos on some of her diapers, and she stares at him lovingly every time I change her.

 I grew up watching and loving Sesame Street, and yet, I find Elmo pretty obnoxious.  When I was a kid, (wow, I'm old) Elmo was only a secondary character.

Have you watched Sesame Street recently?  Big Bird has all but faded from the show.  I haven't seen an episode with him in it yet.  I also noticed that while Ernie makes an appearance in the show's intro, Bert is nowhere to be seen.  What?!  Shenanigans.

Elmo is everywhere.  Him and that gosh darn Abby Caddabby...whoever that is.  Elmo even has his own show within the show during every episode called, "Elmo's World."

Which leads me back to my main point...

Is Elmo, in fact, trying to take over the world?

Maybe he really is a liberal, Commie tool sent to brainwash our children as Fox News has recently suggested.  I do find his red fur suspicious.

Don't say I didn't try to warn you folks.  Don't say I didn't try.   

The Plague

I haven't been blogging recently because the plague had decided to take up residence in my lungs.

Remember when you were a kid and being sick was half-way awesome because it meant you got to stay home from school, your mom made you soup, and you got to watch all the television you wanted???

Well, being sick as an adult is nothing like that.

Sure, I got to stay home from school, my mom brought me some soup, and I watched several really terrible chick-flicks on Netflix Watch Instantly.... (And read Game of Thrones and half of Clash of Kings because there's no denying I'm a HUGE nerd.)....okay, so maybe it is still half-way awesome.

EXCEPT!  Except...I have a child now, and there's nothing worse than a sick baby.  And this one?  This one's a doozie.

So far, (may the Internet Gods strike me) Madeline has not shown any signs of catching my plague.  But I really miss freely cuddling her, showering her with kisses, and stealing half of her food directly from her fork.

Someday soon I will be well again, and I can smooch the Maddie Bear all I want.

Maybe I'll also feel up to blogging again....maybe.

Slankets...Ha.

I still can't talk, although I did sound a tad bit better this afternoon I think.

I've mainly been communicating to my students through the grace of interpretive dance. Imagine Elaine of Seinfield mixed with Charlie Brown's Christmas and you've got my moves.

I was going to include a YouTube video, but that would require getting off my bum and going into the other room to use the computer. I'm far too busy hacking a lung into the sleeves of my giant pink bathrobe to bother with that nonsense.

At least we've got leftover pizza...that might be enough to lure me off the sofa.

"Lemon, isn't there a slanket somewhere you should be filling with your farts?"

That's all I got folks. That's all I got.