The Dance of the Demented

We spent the weekend at the state track meet so I thought I’d share some of the thoughts I had while spending approximately 37 hours planted to a metal stadium bench.

*Spoiler alert: kids ran, jumped, threw, some people won, more people didn’t win, everyone tried, hot dogs were consumed, sunburns were acquired.  Jacob was thrilled with his performance.  And he turned eighteen.  

He’s a legal adult.  

I’m . . . just . . . gimme a minute . . . nope it’s never going to get better.  

Honestly, adulthood should be something you have to certify in.  Like pass a test and get a license or a certificate or something.  Just because someone is twenty-nine or forty-three or fifty-two doesn’t mean they should automatically be awarded adulthood, let alone at eighteen.  C’mon, prove you can actually manage a turn signal, a voter registration, and a tax return.  Then you can be an adult. Probably, though, if you have hot flashes, prostate trouble, or readers on your nose you can automatically qualify.  I think that’s fair.

Moving on.

Parenting is like dancing the Two Step.  Well, not really like the Two Step because that would mean we would be making some sort of progress.  And everyone would be enjoying the activity.  More like the two steps forward, two steps back, two steps sideways, two steps catty-corner, bleh. 

Relax whilst I regale you with this morning’s adventures.  Ahem.

Jonathan and Matthew are discussing their antics in the stadium the day before.  We were sitting in a jammed-full section near the finish line.  People to front, side, and rear.  The boys were, of course, basically wrestling.  Why?  Who knows.  As they were laughing about it this morning, because jabbing random strangers in the eye with an errant elbow is sooooo funny, Matthew says, “I was going to put my foot in your face, but then I thought I probably shouldn't do that in public.”

(cue music, the choral finale from Beethoven’s 9^th fills the air)

WE.

HAVE.

CONTACT!!!

This is a moment not every parent will truly understand.  I’ve heard of these exotic children who figure out while still in the single digits that certain behaviors, such as jamming your foot into someone’s face, should not be done in public venues.  My children are not of this variety.  For me, waiting for the moment when that particular ball drops can often be a long, long wait.  And it often has to drop several times to actually stay dropped.  And it’s just so beautiful.  Sniff.  Excuse me a moment while I compose myself.

But before I can, while we are waiting for elevator, a tiny, tiny “ding” sounds somewhere and my boys are in full WWE mode.  Let me take a moment to remind everyone that the two boys I am writing about are twelve and fourteen.  Not two and four.  Add a whole decade.  Why are they scrapping on the ground?  Elevator buttons.  Yes, they are squabbling over who gets to push the elevator button.  All that lovely progress we made over not cramming our feet into other people’s faces in public has disappeared in a pile of limbs on the (none too clean) elevator floor.

I quietly lean over and push the button.  I want to cry a little.  Or possibly just leave them in the elevator and go on to the meet by myself.  But, unfortunately, they notice the elevator is moving and they stop.  Sheesh.

As we exit the elevator and walk across the lobby, a thought springs to life in my mind.  The boys are all carrying their own gear.  Gear they themselves packed.  And I don’t even know what they packed because that’s not something I have to worry about anymore.  Well, actually I do know that one of them packed a grand total of a toothbrush and a sweatshirt for a three-day trip, but he used the toothbrush.  So I count that as a win. Progress!!!

We exit the lobby.  The mumbling begins. 

A bit of explanation is necessary at this point.  We’ve recently had to ban “Shotgun,” the age-old and time-revered method of claiming the passenger side front seat.  The incident happened on a Tuesday morning and resulted in a thumb in the eye, an elbow to the ribs, and a dent in my car.  And a barrelful of cats worth of screaming and yelling.  So the new rule is one kid gets it on even numbered days and the other kid gets it on odd numbered days.  Apparently, this rule now applies to everything, including elevator button pushing.  And here I’d thought we’d left toddler-hood behind.  Nope.

Back to the mumbling. 

“It’s the 27^th, that means it was MY turn.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“It’s not a car.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Me:  “Knock it off.”

(Silence for 3.4 feet)

“You just don’t understand rules.”

“You just love rules.” (mumbles even lower “moron”)

“That’s my middle name.”

“Your middle name is Moron?”

Me: (in a whispershout (all moms know what this is): SILENCE)

I hear more mutterings but decide to be deaf.  No physical contact is happening, no damage to my person or belongings, and no public witnesses.  They can mutter all the want as long as they keep their wretched hands to themselves.

And thus we danced the Dance of the Demented through the day.  And every day.  One step forward, one step back.  One step sideways, one step diagonally.  One step  up, one step down.  And then forward again. We eventually do make progress, but it’s anything but a straight line.  Straight lines are for suckers with no imagination, anyway.  I like my squiggles.  They are cute, if a bit whiffy.  And they're pretty funny.  But they better stop denting my car.

The Pickle Fork, Life-Size Giraffe, and the Round Peg

I don't like parenting advice articles, which is ironic since I kind of write one.  Well, it's not really advice so much as "here's the crazy crap my kids did today, now don't you feel better about your child's misdemeanors," blog.  Maybe I'm just a snob (very likely) or I'm just lazy (also very likely) but parenting "experts" get on my nerves.  I'm not an expert by professional standards, I just have twenty-six years experience parenting six (bonkers) kids and fortymumble years experience being the oldest child of seven (also bonkers).  Every time I log on to FaceBook, there seem to be fifteen new articles displaying a wide offering of parenting advice, generally neatly numbered and listed for our easy perusal.  Occasionally I try to read them but they are usually either obvious or wrong.  And written by someone whose oldest child is still in the single digits.  Honey, we'll chat again when you hit the sweat-drenching hell known as Fourteen.

In my own blog, I try to show the humor and utter insanity that is parenting and offer up some laughter as the cheapest therapy around.  Honestly, all of us need a good laugh.  Then we can get back in saddle and back to dealing with whatever it is that is currently making us want to stab our eyeball out with a pickle fork.  That's what I hope to provide--the laughter, not the pickle fork.

I want to address a particular issue today, however, in a more direct manner.   I've known A LOT of parents in a lot of different parenting situations, in a lot of different states.  There are some things we all have in common, however, no matter the situation.  One thing I hear, and I've said myself (more than once), from a lot of parents is "What did I do wrong?"  That's what I want to talk about today, from a couple different perspectives.

Do parents make mistakes?  Of course.  And guess what: every parent out there has made, is probably currently making, and will continue to make mistakes.  Many mistakes, including you, including me. (meaning we all make mistakes, not that we are the mistakes.  Ahem.) HOWEVER, in my experience, setting aside actual illegal mistakes that fall in the category of "child abuse," there really is only one mistake parents make that's worth discussing.  Just about anything else is small potatoes.

This is the one mistake:  It's not about YOU.  It's about your child.  This is true whether your child is doing everything wrong OR doing everything right.  Parenting is not about YOU.

A brief aside to introduce to a couple of amazing rockstars any human would be blessed to know: Dara and Glenn.  I could write a ten-part mini series on how awesome they are, but I'll keep it to this quick example.  A couple years ago while Dara and I were on our annual girls trip with the third member of our trio, Cheryl, Dara got a message from Glenn.  He had brought home from China a LIFE SIZE ADULT GIRAFFE STATUE.  Dara groaned.  The next day he messaged her again.  He had cemented it in to the front yard while she was gone so that she couldn't stop him.  Cement.  As in permanent.  And here's the best part -- when she got home she DIDN'T EVEN KILL HIM!  This year he repeated the stunt with a LIFE SIZE BULL ELEPHANT HEAD.  As a thank you for letting him live on the previous occasion, he removed this one.  And put it INSIDE the house.  You can't make up awesomeness like that.

Anyway, Dara shared with me a parenting experience she had a few years ago.  She and her husband had been blessed with three perfect children.  No, really.  Great grades, behaved at school, did their chores, studied their scriptures, ate their vegetables, and went to bed on time.  Every night.  AND they brushed their teeth without being asked.  You're wondering where that pickle fork is, aren't you?

They were pretty proud of themselves, quietly patting themselves on the back for their top-notch parenting skills.  If only other people would just do it the way they di . . . THEN their fourth child was born.  This one made up for all the others, all rolled into one cherubic grin.  Chores?  Ha.  Read? Are you kidding?  Bedtime?  Nope, out the door and roaming free in the neighborhood.  And vegetables aren't even worth discussing.  Very quickly, they began to ask themselves, what are we doing wrong?

Here's the thing--#4 had the SAME parents who did things the SAME way as with the other three.  What did they do wrong with #4?  Nothing.  #4 is simply a different person with different needs and struggles than #1, #2, and #3.  That's the beauty of genetics.  Every time a child is created, we shake up the Scrabble bag of tiles with our four-letter genetic alphabet, and an entirely new human pops into existence.

Did they need to change the way they did things to meet the needs of #4?  Of course.  And that's the entire point: parenting is not about getting the results YOU want from YOUR efforts.  Parenting is about meeting your child's needs in the way they need to have them met.

So often, we only think about "what we're doing" when our child is doing something we don't want them to do.  When our child is getting good grades and behaving, and always has, we are happy and relieved that we're getting it right.  You may very well be doing all the right things, but it is important to step back and recognize that this is because that particular child happens to respond positively to your current actions.

Let me explain it another way.  I have a set of round pegs.  The child just described happens to be a puzzle board covered in round holes.  Do all the pegs fit perfectly?  Yes, not because I'm a parenting genius, but because I happen to have the round pegs for that round-holed puzzle board.

So when a child comes along who is a puzzle board covered with square holes, or triangles, or something with eleven dimensions that couldn't possibly fit a peg anywhere, and shockingly my set of round pegs doesn't fit, have I done something wrong?  Has the child done something wrong?  Is that child damaged, evil, or beyond help?  Of course not.  I just need a new set of pegs.

That is where it becomes (and always has been) about the child -- finding the right approach to reach that child.  This is where parenting blogs and books and articles and professionals come in to play--as OPTIONS, not requirements.  Find parents who have had similar struggles to yours and find out what worked for them.  Talk to teachers.  Read.  Be creative. And keep trying.

Eventually they will become old enough to make their own decisions.  (That age entirely depends on what the decision is.  Three year olds get NO voice on whether or not they get to drive to school.  Seventeen year olds who have a job and an income do.  Three year olds do get a voice on potty training.  In fact, they get the only voice on this since they own the bladder.  Seventeen year olds do not get a voice in this.  If they choose not to use the toilet properly, you have my permission to drop them off at the zoo.) When they are old enough to reasonably make a decision on a particular issue, let them make it.  They may, and probably will, make dazzling stupid decisions. They will learn faster and better from them.  They may make great decisions, and your heart will sing with relief and happiness.  In either case, IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU.  It's about them.

Here are the only real parenting goals you need each day, in order of importance.

1.  Keep your child alive.  Millions of fish mommies fail at this every day.  If your kiddo is still alive at the end of the day, congrats!  You are doing 100% better than tons of fish moms.  Fish dads are no better.

2.  Tell your child you love him or her, by word or deed.  There are lots of reasons why "word" might be difficult for you on any one particular day and "deed" is going to have to suffice.  For example, once I had an argument with one of my teens where he accused me, in the same argument, of both "forcing him to take AP classes," and also "not pushing him academically." I showed him I loved him by NOT reaching down his throat and evulsing his vocal cords on the spot.  See, deeds can be powerful.  And by so doing, I also accomplished #1. Go me!

3.  Feed your child.  Now, if you take a long look at human history, you will see that soooo much more of the world is more edible than we think it is.  Personally, I do not consider bugs, pre-chewed taro root, or reindeer blood to be edible.  But millions of other people do.  What does this mean for you?  It means if you did not manage to feed your child three perfectly balanced, whole grain, free-range, and organic meals today, it is ok.  Did your child scavenge old popcorn from the floor?  Congrats!  You achieved #1 & #3!  Did your child graze bovine-like from a bag of french fries and chicken nuggets?  Well done!  #1, #3, and you helped the national economy!  Is this ideal?  No.  Do we want to do this every day?  Probably not.  But we all have days where the big picture is the only one we're going to manage.  You fed your child.  Well done!

4.  Shelter your child.  And you can be creative here.  I had a sister who refused to clean her room so my mother evicted her to a tent in the backyard for the whole summer.  Please note that she was a preteen, it was summer, and they lived in the suburbs, so common sense safety was observed.  (And honestly, it ended up being a summer of glamping when she ran a power cord and a tv out to the tent.)  It doesn't have to be fancy.  It doesn't have to be decorated.  It just has to keep the rain/sun off and be safe.  Did you do this?  You rock!!

So, once we complete  1-4 each day, then we can worry about adding more goals.  They just need to be the right goals for your child in their current stage of development.  Kids are rotten, sneaky stinkers who change out their peg boards just as soon as you figure out which pegs are going to fit. And seriously, as soon as they get their acts together and start being pleasant company, they leave!  If you're lucky.  Seriously, kids.  I love you, but go.  Let me know when you arrive safely!  But you can't stay here. Hugs!

ps: I wrote this 3 or 4 years ago and then apparently forgot about it.  It was a fun find and I think something that's always pertinent.  So, I updated a few bits and did a little polishing.  And say hello to Dara and Glenn if you see them.  They're awesome :D

Disarming Bombs

Dum dum da da dum dum doo doo dum dum da da dum dum WAH WAH WAH . . . WAH WAH WAH . . .

(What, you don't recognize that sound track?  It's clearly James Bond.)

I sneak along the corridor.  I can hear the ticking bomb.  Thank goodness it ticks REALLY loudly so I can hear it all the way over here because the villain, contrary to all known Villainy Laws, has not attached a count down clock with big, red LED numbers conveniently letting anyone who might pass by know how much time is left until the big boom.  Very thoughtless.  But that is the nature of this villain.  Strikes without warning.  Or sometimes lots of warning.  Sometimes it smokes and fizzes like it has short circuited and you think it's been a false alarm.  But no.  It still gets you in the end.  And if you don't cut the correct wire first, you and the entire surrounding area are done.

And that's one of many things I don't understand about bomb makers.  Why are there so many friggin' wires?  And why can no one ever remember which wire to cut?  Why don't the wire makers just print right on the plastic coating "THIS ONE.  CUT THIS ONE." But no, the wire makers have inconsiderately not labeled which wire to cut.  Jerks.

I inch closer to the bomb.  I can feel sweat starting to trickle down my temples.  I have to get this right.  I foolishly ignored a smallish bomb the other day, thinking it wouldn't do any damage and now I have to call the maintenance crew.  Who knew how much damage a sneaker bomb could do?

Closer still.  I can feel the heat beginning to radiate from the bomb.  If I knew it weren't possible, I would swear the count down clock is speeding up.   The one that this bomb doesn't have. Time is running short.  I have to act.  And then . . . crap.  Duck and cover!

"GET OFF THE DUMPER!!  I GOTTA GET TO SCHOOL EARLY CUZ I HAVEN'T STARTED MY ESSAY YET!!!"

(muffled by the closed bathroom door) "I HAFTA POOP!  IT'S NOT MY FAULT IF YOU DIDN'T WRITE YOUR ESSAY!!

"JUST HOLD IT IN!" (pounding on bathroom door)

"IT'S POOP!  I CAN'T HOLD IT IN!"

"JUST RESIST THE URGE!  I DIDN'T POOP FOR FIVE DAYS AND I WAS JUST FINE!!"

"YOU ARE A MORON!  I'M NOT HOLDING IN MY POOP!"

"I'M GOING TO BE LATE!!" (pounding and kicking on bathroom door) "GET OUT!!"

Ok, the situation can be salvaged, I surmise, the bomb wasn't too bad  but there is definitely concern that shrapnel may get the bathroom door if I don't hurry.  It is, truly, the last door left upstairs without bomb damage.  Time to act.

"Matthew, stop it.  If you kick in another one of my doors, you will spend the summer doing yard work to pay for it."

(Looks at me, kicks the door.)  "I'M GUNNA BE LATE!!! HE DOESN'T NEED TO POOP!"

"We have enough time and you should have written your essay last night. And pooping is a basic human need."

I pause.  That was a mistake.  The villain has tricked me.  THERE WAS A SECOND BOMB HIDDEN INSIDE THE FIRST BOMB!!!

"MR. (redacted) HATES ME!! HE REJECTS ALL MY ARTICLES! WHY DO I HAVE TO BE ON THE SCHOOL PAPER?! WHY DOES EVERYBODY HATE ME?!"  (hand clench, teeth grind, eyes roll wildly.)

Sheesh.  Really, Cinderfella?  But still, if I'm going to save that last upstairs door, I have to move quickly and carefully.

"Listen, we have fifteen minutes to drive 3 miles.  You will be fine.  You can write your paper during Study Hall."

"HE'S DELIBERATELY POOPING TO MAKE ME LATE!"

Me:  (the "Are You Kidding Me" stare.)

Matthew: (the "Get Real Mom You Don't Even Know" glare.)

"Go get your  binder and go get in the car.  Jonathan will be out soon."

(Bathroom door opens.)  Ok, we have now entered the most dangerous moment of the bomb-disarming crisis.  A fully fueled and functioning flame thrower is approaching the ticking weapon of mass destruction.

"WHAT THE CRAP IS WRONG WITH YOU?!  RESIST THE URGE?!  WHO DOES THAT!!???"

I must act fast.  Time is gone.  The door (and the south wall, the north wall was hit by shrapnel last week) must be saved.

I step in between the bomb and the flame thrower.  I am a martyr.  I am saintly in my sacrifice.

"Nope.  We're done here.  Everyone get their binders and get in the car."

The flame thrower surges forward.  I can feel the heat threatening to burn the bomb and set off the detonation I've been trying to stop.  But no.  Not today.  Today I will save the door.

I lean in closer to the flame thrower.  "Car.  Now."

The bomb is still ticking and the flame thrower is radiating heat like a lava flow.  We buckle our seat belts.  Tension is crazy high.  I glance in the rear view mirror.  The bomb is giving me the Stink Eye and thinks I don't know.  But I am a genius and master of the rear view surveillance technique.

"I see you giving me the Side Stink Eye."

He turns and glares straight in to the rear view mirror.

"I see you giving me the Front Stink Eye."

And I have won.  He grins and turns around to face the back of the seat.

"I see you giving me the Back Stink Eye."

"Ok, now you're just lying," he says as he laughs.  But I've won.  We are laughing and coming up with variations on the Stink Eye.  But the anger is gone, the imminent threat of punching is gone, and my door is saved.  (Mostly because I moved the weapons from the upstairs hall to the car, but hey, that was part of the process.  And a tricky one.  They aren't toddlers any more whom I can just pick up and move.  They're both taller than me (but honestly, I could still take 'em if I had to.  And then spend a week in bed.  But still. I'd win.))

I am James Bond.  I can disarm bombs . . . er, teen boys.  I deserve a medal.  And a month-long vacation in Bora Bora.

ps:  This conversation is pretty much verbatim from this morning.

pps: And most mornings.

ppps:  But not the bit about "resisting the urge to poop."  What the heck, Matthew??

pppps:  I'm totally copying Jenny Lawson's brilliant use of "ps."  She's a genius.  You should read her books.

ppppps:  But serious f-bomb warnings.  Heads up.

Ms. Jennifer's Finishing School

This week I taught a finishing class to a group of teenage girls.  What is a finishing class, you're asking?  Did she really teach a bunch of today's girls how to dance the quadrille, curtsy properly before royalty, and needlepoint cushions?  Nope.  And that wasn't what finishing school really was anyway.  Finishing school was where young women were sent to learn how to behave in public as an adult.  This is, I think we can all agree, something sadly lacking in the curriculum of today's schools and in public in general.

Virtually all finishing schools have gone out of business world-wide.  This is understandable.  Personally, I wouldn't fork over thousands of tuition dollars for this when I could be (and did, although she paid for most of it) sending my daughter to real college.  Let's be frank, if I were going to spend some $$ to get one of my offspring to behave, it wouldn't be a daughter.  And it would be expensive.

We don't need to spend any money to do this, however.  We can do this at home!  Yippee!  I know, because getting your kid to do anything that isn't his or her own idea is cake, right? Ya, I know.  At any rate, I broke it down to three things for them to remember.  Three things.  Not a multi-year program, just three easy steps.  (Stop laughing.) (Right now.) (Really, give it a try!)

Here they are:

1. What is your mouth doing?
2. What is your body doing?
3. What are your clothes doing?

What is your MOUTH doing?

Let's start with a SMILE!  You don't have to grin like a maniac, just don't walk around looking as though you hate the world.  Everyone has what is called a "resting face."  This is what your face does when it's completely relaxed.  Unfortunately for nearly every single one of us, most "resting faces" are a frowny face.  Or a deadpan stare.  Or a blank slate stupor.  Pretty much none of us has Snow White's perfect sleep-of-restful-repose-smile she wears while laying upon her bed in the woods.  If you think you do, you're wrong.  That's all there is to it.  BUT GUESS WHAT?  This is something you can fix!  Learn to smile!  Pay attention to your resting face and learn not to look like a walking mug shot!  This will affect the way other people treat you for the better.  Everyone would rather interact with a friendly face than grumpy cat.

Next, pay attention to what comes out of your mouth.  If it's not nice, don't say it.  This isn't being fake, it's being polite.  Too often we hear, "I'm just being honest," followed by a lot of bile.  That's not honesty, that's your opinion.  Honesty implies acknowledgment of an absolute truth.  What you really think about someone's outfit, hair-do, or personality isn't an absolute truth.  When you stop yourself from handing forth your personal, negative opinion on everything, you aren't lying or being deceptive.  You're being polite.  Being kind and being polite are qualities we could use more of in our world.  Be part of the solution!

Please and thank you.  Know them, love them, use them.  All.  The.  Time.  You will be AMAZED how simply using these two phrases, in combination with a pleasant (i.e.: not insane) smile, in your daily interactions with others will affect your day.  Here's the key -- use them with EVERYONE, not just the people who smile and say them first, not just the people who deserve it, not just the pretty people. Say them to EVERYONE, especially the rude, undeserving, and unattractive.  They probably need to hear it more than others.  Make it a game!  How many people can you make smile today?  Winner gets the most friends!

What is your BODY doing?  

*A quick note: I am not addressing things like moral/illegal behaviors here.  That's a bigger topic for another time.  THIS class concept is about regular, every day behavior.

If your age does, or once did, end with "teen," there are certain things you just shouldn't do in public anymore.  At home with family, fine, if you must.  But the rest of the world doesn't need to see certain things.  These include:

1.  Scratching your butt, boobs, or belly.  Really.  You are not a 50 year-old hillbilly.
2.  Stretching like a spastic monkey.  Girls, DO NOT stretch your back by leaning back over a chair.  We all know you have boobs now, there's no need to expound on the point.
2.5  With regards to The Girls (boobs), go get a bra that fits.  If you've never been fitted, any good department store like Macy's can do this.  Victoria's Secret also does, but no teen girl needs anything from there except their good foundation basics!  Last year's bra may not fit anymore and really, really, you can't get away with one that doesn't fit.
3.  Reacting to everything like you're projecting for the cheap seats.  Laugh, sing, and joke all the time, just don't make a fool out of yourself doing it.
4.  Farting, belching, picking your nose, digging food out of your teeth.  NO.  Just NO.  It's gross.  Really.
5.  We're going to pause for a moment to address #5 fully.  Ahem.

PUBLIC CELL PHONE BEHAVIOR

*Again, I'm not addressing more serious cell phone safety and bullying issues with this class, just regular, every day behavior.

When you are talking to someone, DO NOT ALSO TEXT OR PLAY GAMES ON YOUR PHONE.  This is like having two separate conversations at the same time, with the real, live person you are talking to getting the worst of the deal.  Trust me, the cyber world will keep spinning if you step away for five minutes.  Any texts you miss will still be there when your live conversation is completed.  That's the beauty and curse of texts--they don't go away.

A few "DOs":

1.  DO sit up, legs together.  I don't care what you're wearing.  Knees together, no leaning forward.
2.  DO remember to introduce yourself and others when you're in a group where not everyone knows each other.
3.  DO keep your hands to yourself, other than a handshake, when meeting people.  Not everyone likes to be touched or hugged.  If you're talking to an adult with children, this is especially true.  Always ask before touching or (reallyreally) picking up someone's child.  Once you know someone well, you'll know where their "bubble boundaries" are.  Until then, a nice handshake is enough.

Finally, just remember your body language -- what your body is doing -- says much more and says it much louder than your words.  Pay attention to what your body is doing!

What are your CLOTHES doing?

Just like your behavior, your clothes will speak louder than your words.  Somethings to keep in mind:

If you think your too tight/short/low cut outfit is super cute and the cute boy in class is bound to notice you, you're right.  He will notice.  AND SO WILL YOUR 60 YEAR-OLD MALE MATH TEACHER.  Doesn't sound so awesome now, does it?  Your teacher won't (hopefully) notice you intentionally, but if he has eyeballs that work, that's the reality of life.  You don't get to choose who notices your "sexy" outfit.  If you wear it in public, everyone sees it, even and especially the people you don't want to see it.

Then let's think about this: wouldn't you rather the super cute boy notice you for your nice smile, friendly manner, and intelligent conversation than for your body parts?  Because guess what -- every female has those body parts.  If that's all he's looking at, he's not looking at YOU.  Respect yourself, ladies.  Or nobody else will.

Finally, are your clothes doing the job they were hired for?  Pajamas are for bedtime, not class.  Sweats are for the gym or practice, not church.  Swimsuits are for the pool and the beach, not stores.  Jeans are for casual events, not formal events like weddings or funerals.  I wouldn't mention any of these if I hadn't seen every single one of these examples with my own eyes.  There's a reason "Real People of Walmart" is shocking and hilarious.  If random people start taking sneaky phone pictures of you while you're in a store, THIS IS BAD.  Wear the right clothes, don't become an internet joke.

We don't need to be stuffy and formal, but we do need to respect ourselves by behaving politely and paying attention to what we are doing.

YOU ARE A VALUABLE, INTELLIGENT, UNIQUE, TALENTED INDIVIDUAL.  TREAT YOURSELF LIKE ONE.

And then others will too!

Please, for the sake of us all, share this widely and implement broadly.

And for everyone thinking, "Wow, she's writing this with the way HER boys behave?"  It's a work in progress.  I'm doing my best, I promise!

Thank you for reading this and have a nice day!

Products We NEED

I am a Black Friday protestor and have been for years.  I did the whole get-up-at-o'dark-thirty to hit the sales thing once.  It was a mistake.  First, I hate morning.  Second, the stores were full of people and I hate shopping in crowds.  Third, I saved something like 75 cents.  I spent more on gas getting there.  And finally, I hate morning.  It's worth saying twice.  I am that person who will spend full price -- or go without -- just so I don't have to deal with a crowd.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good deal.  I enjoy wearing the clothes I get 50% off more than I love my full-price items.  I get a warm a happy glow just thinking about how much I saved as I'm wearing my fabulous new pieces.  BUT I wouldn't show up to a Black Friday madhouse even if they were handing out Manolo Blahniks for FREE.  Well, that might be a bit of an overstatement.  No one is THAT crazy.  But still, you get the idea.

There may come a day, however, when I might willingly hit a Black Friday sale again.  It's simply a matter of companies getting the right products out there.  We live in an age of great technology and innovation, but I'm waiting for more.  As soon as these products show up, I will be first in line:

1.  Glue made from the stuff that permanently cements Rice Krispies to cereal bowls, leaving you to pretend they "always looked that way."

2.  A furnace powered by the stuff that keeps baked potatoes hot FOREVER, until the rest of your meal is cold before you can even think about taking one bite.

3.  A magnet using the force that allows your foot to find the ONE lego on the 900 square foot floor.

4.  A sleep aid made from whatever it is that lets teen boys sleep 25 hours a day.

5.  An energy drink powered by whatever it is that lets a kid change -- in under 30 seconds -- from comatose exhausted during chore time to bouncing off the walls like a monkey on crack when it's time to go to the movies.

6.  A GPS system that works with the focus and direction of an infant's ability to poop sideways out of their diaper and on to you, but not into the diaper or on the blanket underneath.

7.  A rechargeable battery pack you can plug into your kids for charging up during the day and then remove for your own personal use at 3 in the afternoon.

8.  An air freshener with the staying power of wrestling practice workout clothes stench.

9.  An ICU alarm system with the accuracy and urgency of my kids' "emergencies" when I am trying to pee.

10.  A diet aid using the same insta-full power that keeps my garbage cans perennially full.

11.  Sheets with the comfort quality of a 2nd grader's clothes that makes them want to wear them four days in a row, until forcibly removed.

12.  Vegetables that look and taste like Doritos.

13.  Textbooks written to look like Lego Catalogs.

14.  An AC unit with the freezing power of tile bathroom floors.

15.  A storage closet with the capacity of wherever all the missing socks in the universe go.  Seriously, how big must that thing be?

16. A travel mug with the superheavy gravity car keys have that allows them to fall immediately to the bottom of wherever you lost them -- couch, purse, under the bed, etc.

Finally . . . a freakin' Off Switch for toddlers.  I don't care what you make it out of, just make one.

Nothing, however, will convince me to condone Thanksgiving Day shopping of any kind.  People, it's a day when you are supposed to lay around and eat to the pain threshold, surrounded by your friends and family who are similarly afflicted.  Don't waste it sitting on a cold sidewalk waiting to save $14!

May you all have a wonderful day of thanks and rest!  I'll be over in the corner in a pie-induced food coma . . .

5 v 5

I find myself in a unique position this morning (no, I'm not doing yoga).  If you are a regular reader, you know I have five sons.  You may or may not be aware I grew up as one of five sisters.  And that's where I am this morning -- making a comparative study of my anecdotal experiences in the war of the sexes.  The uniqueness of my situation comes from the rather larger than normal size of the study group and the matchingness (I made that word up.  In case you didn't know.) of the numbers, which is a bit serendipitous. (I didn't make that one up.  It's real.)  Five of each gives us a range of variables within each set to allow for some statistical range.  And that's about the full range of my sciencey mumbo jumbo.

In the basics of basics, raising a child is the same no matter gender, race, abilities, etc.  It comes down to "Make sure this little human you brought into the world stays alive for all (as in ALL) of today.  Repeat for 18 years."  And that's about where the basics end.  The differences between raising girls and boys, athletes and academics, nerds and geeks (oh YES there is a difference), observers and doers, listeners and talkers, biological and adopted, are always going to be HUGE because each and every person is different.

There are some things, though, that simply require us to step back, take a look, say "hmm," and acknowledge a little sympathy for the other camp when it comes to raising boys versus girls.  With a little recollection help from my sisters, I present a few fields of male versus female household life comparison for your perusal and enjoyment:

Laundry

Boys:  The SMELL.  Oh Sweet Baby Sponge Bob, the SMELL.

Girls:  "ICANNOTBELIEVEYOUWASHEDTHISWITHADISHTOWELTHISISREALFAUXCASHMERE!!!MOOOOOOOOM!!!ALLMYFRIENDSAREWEARINGTHEIRAUTHENTICSMACKITYBOOSWEATERSTODAYNOWWHATAMIGOINGTOWEAR!!!!!MYLIFEISOVER!!!!!!

Boys:  "I'm outta underwear."
           "Your brother has some in his drawer, wear a pair of his."
            "K."

Girls:  "I don't have any clean underwear!!!"
            "Your sister has some in her drawer, wear a pair of hers."
            "SICK!!! That's digusting!! Mom, what is WRONG with you?!!!"


Ambient Noise in the Home

Girls:  The sun was setting on the forest glade.  It was orange and warm, streaking through the low-lying boughs of the trees.  Ever so slowly, a rabbit lifted its nose from its burrow.  A tiny chickadee twitched a wing.  Gentle swirls of steam curled heavenward from the warm mushroom beds in the soft log pile.  Not a sound was made.  Not a bird chirped, not a fawn stepped on a single dry leaf.  The world was holding its breath, playing an impromptu game of statue, terrified to do anything more than exist, for there, amidst the bath of sunlight, was the sleeping tiger . . .

Boys:  Gather together all the instruments of a full philharmonic symphony orchestra.  Do not forget the full drum complement.  Throw them all down four flights of stairs.  Bingo.


Conflict

Boys:  "Dude! You JERK!" [smackrumblestomptugbitepunch] [cough, scratch, wipe off blood] "Wanna play some COD?"

Girls:  "Dear Diary, Day 2,983.  Still not speaking to my stupid stupid stupid sister.  She made that face at me and she knows how mad that makes me!  I know she was thinking about how right I am and she just won't admit it because she's just horrible that way.  BUT today when I was trying out my new Smoochalicious lip gloss, I figured out the perfect way to get back at her!  I'm going to take her new pink SmackityBoo top and wear it to school in front of her boyfriend!  Ha!  Then she can't even scream at ME because then HE will see what a swine she really is!"
"PS: T is still SOOOOOO cute!!!"
"PSS: M is still cute, but not as cute as T!"
"PSSS: R might be moving up the cute scale too."
"PSSSS": AHHHHH!
"PSSSSS": My sister is still stupid!


Groceries for the Week

Girls: Organic strawberry yogurt (single serving sizes only, don't get the store brand, it's DISgusting), 6.5 ounces shaved black forest ham,  limited-batch cream cheese imported by hand from Ireland, multi-seed bagels ($$$ brand only!), skinless boneless organic free-range chicken breast (oregon raised only -- do you want me to break out RIGHT before Prom?!!), handpicked granola from Nepal, and 3 gallons of chocolate ice cream.

Boys:  The whole store.  Except the vegetables.


Personal Hygiene

Boys:  "Dude, you stink.  Here's some deodorant."
            "AWESOME!! I got my man smell!  No way I'm gettin' rid of that!!
            "Julia is stopping by later."
            "Gimme that!!"

Girls:  "Look what I got for you at the store!  Isn't it just so cute, the little flowers on the box?  It's whole fun kit, with this cute little zip-up case?!  There's lipgloss and nail polish and deodorant and perfume! I just had to buy it for you!
           "You think I smell bad?!!  How could you, Mom?!!" (commence tears, door slams, etc.)

 
Bathroom Damage

Girls:  Dark smears on walls -- mascara.
Boys:  Dark smears on walls -- exactly what you're hoping it isn't.
Girls:  Piles of toilet paper with odd and mysterious contents all over the floor, garbage can, countertops.
Boys:  Piles of empty toilet paper tubes all over the floor, countertops, anywhere BUT the garbage can.
Girls:  Odd, rainbow-colored smears accompanied by fuzzy Q tips all over the mirror, walls, and countertops.
Boys:  Odd, rainbow-colored smears growing fuzzy all over the walls, floor, and (sadly) ceiling surrounding the toilet.
Girls:  47 wet towels on the floor.
Boys:  47 wet towels on the floor.


SO, whatever you're dealing with this morning, it could be worse.  Or exactly the same.  But it sure will be non-boring!  Now I need to go get the garden tools out to deal with the small forest growing on the bathroom walls . . .

The Sixth Lap

Right now, before we get going, go pillage the Halloween candy you bought for tonight and pick out all your favorites.  If you have (hopefully) something better, go get that.  You'll probably want to grab some form of caffeine too.  Possibly prep your favorite binge TV shows/movies.  Today's post is going to depress you.  Sorry.  No, I'm not going to write about dead puppies or Hallmark Movie of the Week soppiness.  Today I'm writing about the Sixth Lap.  No, not the Sixth Sense, which would be handy, frankly.  There is absolutely nothing haunting, magical, or mysterious about the Sixth Lap.  It IS going to haunt you, however, with an outside hope of courage.

Our family is a Track and Field family.  We run, we jump.  This is because we're often not super coordinated and to add an unstable factor into the equation like a ball that will bounce, roll, or get swiped by the opponent may flummox us into a face plant.  Oddly, we can hurdle, which makes no sense, but there you are.  Probably fits in with the whole "we can jump" part of it.  At any rate, for this reason, I have been to many, MANY track meets.  I love them.  There's always something going on, something to cheer for, all kinds of events to interest anyone.  

Except for one.  There is one event at your average high school track meet that even the competitors don't like: the Two Mile.  It's EIGHT laps around the track.  The kids who run this are generally the same kids who run Cross Country in the fall and are used to road running, scenery, SOMETHING to concentrate on other than running in endless circles!  More than once, I've seen a poor kid lose count and think they were done a lap too soon.  It's awful.  This happens because there are so many laps, the fast kids always lap the others at least once.  Sometimes twice.  And the real heroes of this race, in my opinion, are the slow kids who know they are slow and know they are going to get lapped repeatedly, but they STILL RUN.  And I would cheer them more enthusiastically if they didn't take a friggin' half hour to finish!  This race will be run TWICE in any meet because there's one race for the girls and one for the boys.  And it's usually raining.  

It is this race, however, that holds a great analogy (I tried to type anomaly there, probably also fitting) for me today.  The Two Mile is not pretty, not exciting (except on rare occasions during the last 100 meters), and not fun.  It is, however, the Mother of All Races.  This is the one only the bravest (or the completely unaware and uninitiated) will willingly sign up for.  It is also the perfect comparison to parenting.  And I am on the Sixth Lap.

Here's the breakdown.  As I describe the laps, apply these descriptions to the different stages of parenting.  You will be both amazed and despondent.  Keep the chocolate close.

First Lap  -- first lap is always rough and exciting at the same time.  Everyone is getting their pace down, waiting for their body to get its running rhythm going, getting over the First Wind, and waiting for that Second Wind to kick in.  Everyone is excited and destinies are far from decided.  Anything could happen!

Second/Third Lap  -- Mid-first mile is great!  You're feeling good, you've still got gas in the tank, your pace is feeling solid, things are looking awesome, nothing serious is happening here.  Lots of potential still.  Many often make the mistake here of thinking they really are Superman and somehow their unknown potential is going to sparkle forth today!  They daringly take the lead and stride out confidently, wantonly passing the runner expected to win.  The greatest mistake made here is thinking the race is "about half way over, with the hardest part done."  Trust me, young runner, you will be dreaming of returning to these laps ere another few laps pass by.

Fourth/Fifth Lap -- Life is starting to get really painful around the end of the first mile, start of the second mile. You've been running for awhile now, solidly into the race, outcomes are beginning to be determined. The legs are definitely starting to feel the strain, the laps have really blurred together, you may have been lapped by this point by the stupid prodigy you so carelessly passed a couple laps ago.  But you're still feeling pretty solid and hanging in there.  Reality is setting in. 

Then comes the Sixth Lap -- Reality has settled and is hogging the couch.  You've been running forever, you still have forever to go.  The two (or is it three?  Maybe it's only one? Hopefully?) remaining laps might as well be miles instead of laps.   Even though the end is approaching, it's still far enough away to be depressing. Your legs are tired.  Your lungs are struggling. You haven't dropped dead, but the prospect sounds pleasant.  Your pace is set but slagging, your will is definitely drooping.  Why on earth did you sign up for this?  This is just self-imposed torture.  There's no law that says you have to run.  And yet you signed up WILLINGLY for this.  Maybe you should have a CAT scan when the race is over.  If it ever is over.

Seventh Lap is the deceptive Lap.  This is where all too often a runner thinks they are done, that they are on the Eighth Lap.  They sprint too soon for the finish, only to realize they have another entire lap to go.  This is the greatest of all deceptions.  Wise runners have paced themselves, watched the lap numbers (unless they got caught in the tangle of running along side runners on different laps when they all passed the lap number sign.  Ugh.) and saved a little gas for the end.  Either way, everyone is hurting.

The Eighth Lap is the end and it couldn't have come one second sooner.  Even the winner, who has trained, has the raw talent, and has competitiveness oozing from every pore, is spent.  And possibly puking by the sidelines.  No matter what your time is or what place you end up with, you are DONE. You have never been so grateful for gravity as you lay on the grass trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human while your coach hollers at you to get up and keeping walking.  This suggestion seems about the same as telling you to get up and do a gymnastics routine down the field.  It.  Ain't.  Happening.  At least not yet.  You will get up eventually, but just to lay here on the grass just a few minutes more is pure heaven.  

Then the best part hits like a wave of Caribbean ocean water: you did it.  You did something difficult and you finished.  You went the whole distance.  Maybe it wasn't pretty and no one should really sweat like this, but even by finishing, you succeeded where others failed to even show up for the race.   

Here are the bits you will want to remember as you compare the race to parenting.  The Eighth Lap is NOT high school graduation.  That happens around Lap Five/Six.  Sorry, if this comes as a depressing realization.  If you have an adorable, drooling cherub bouncing around your home, enjoy every moment, but know the end of the race is decades (plural, several plurals) away.  Pace yourself!  

Also, it's important to always listen to your coach -- your own parents, your spiritual leaders, your friends.  They are there for your success.  They have nothing invested in this race, they have experience, and they have objectivity.  They might be super annoying and you might not actually like them very much from time to time.  But they are there for your success.  When they say "Slow a bit," do it.  When they say, "Dig deeper," do it.  When they say, "Get up and walk," do it.

So anyway, as I work on my Sixth Lap (I'd like to think it was Lap Seven, but I know it isn't), having parented for 24 years now, with four kiddos still at home, and looking at a solid decade before they're all simply out of high school, I will continue to munch on my peanut butter M&Ms (which really don't help with actual running at all, sadly) and be grateful for chocolate as I jog along.  As I try to find enthusiasm for my twentieth-fourth year of figuring out Halloween costumes for the sake of my youngest two, who haven't done this 24 times, I will remember it really won't be too long before I'm laying on the grass being grateful the race is over, but even more grateful that I ran!

But I might need to puke first.  Just sayin'.