Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, cicadas, family, humor, insects, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern, teenagers
The other day over the rising din of the cicadas, Daughter #1 commented that they don’t have much of a life—they sleep and grow for seventeen years, eat themselves silly, mate, and die after leaving a new generation to come forth seventeen years later. Now I wasn’t touching the mating part of it with a ten-foot pole, but the more I thought about it, I realized we really aren’t that different from those red-eyed, bug freak shows.
For the first seventeen years, we humans sleep and grow in our rooms. We morph and change in our childhood shells, protected form the world, often only emerging for basic sustenance, especially in the latter portion of our incubation. When we do crawl out from our teenage lairs, we eat…and eat…and eat…and mate (or try to). Some of us bring forth the next generation right then. Others never find that mate despite our best singing. The only difference between us and the cicadas is that we don’t die immediately afterward. We go through the cycle at least two more times, with slight variations.
For the next seventeen years, we sleepwalk through college and grad schools, finding that first job, hating that first job, and changing jobs. We try to sing, but we aren’t developed enough yet to find the right mate. Then, somewhere in our mid-thirties, we wake up again. That biological clock begins to tick, pushing us out of our sleep and into the world. We begin to sing in earnest. Many of us find our mates, procreate, and feel like a part of us is dying afterward as our toddlers get their tenth ear infection (a part of us is—the single, care-free part that slept through our twenties).
Seventeen more years of unconsciously suppressing our own desires and needs as we care for our kids (a.k.a. sleeping) passes, and suddenly the children are gone. We are in our early fifties. We emerge again, this time with less desire to mate, but just as much desire to sing. Sometimes our singing does result in mating (hooray—the kids are gone!) and the occasional new generation, or mating occurs with a subsequent divorce, but mostly we just want to sing—and we do, as we travel, go out to restaurants that don’t have crayons on the table, and look at all the pictures on the wall, wondering where the time went.
So, before you step on that crusty shell, or flick that gross-looking cicada off your towel at the pool, remember—we’re a lot like them, only cuter.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, family, Food, humor, kids, mom, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, turkey
Ah, the end of the school year approaches, and with it comes the total loss of control over my schedule. Along with drooping peonies and humidity that makes me move around like an amoeba, comes the inevitable barrage of end-of-the-school-year-things-to-remember: sports banquets, teacher gifts, coach gifts, graduations, overlapping sports teams’ schedules, and the ever-popular “We-Must-Get-These-Done-Before-Exams-Projects” that require a dozen trips to the craft store and something called foam board. Add to that the end-of-year-things-to-remember as a teacher, and my brain just about exploded. (Even the hyphens are on overload this time of year!)
So, I did what any normal, southern mom would do.
I lost my mind on my family.
I’m a big fan of the phrase “control what you can control.” Apparently, what I decided I could control this week was the distribution and consumption of deli turkey meat in our home.
Historically speaking, every time I’ve bought it in the past, the family might eat a little of it, then leave it alone until it turns an odd, greenish hue, roughly the same shade as the sky before a tornado. Even The Dog turns her nose away. For months, I have refused to purchase anymore deli meat, and for months my loved ones would periodically remark that I never buy the “good turkey” anymore, and they would LOVE to fix more meals themselves if only I would provide them with the means to do so—the magic ingredient? Deli Turkey.
The other day, in a fit of generosity and optimism, I bought the Magic Turkey and announced that it was awaiting their pleasure in the fridge. Two days went by and I made another announcement. On the fourth day, the Magic Turkey still lay there, neatly wrapped and taped. Nobody touched it.
Finally, Hubby pulls out the Magic Turkey and decides to use it on a BLT, exclaiming, “Hey! I’m going to use this turkey. Does anybody else want to?”
Then he sniffed it.
“Are you sure you want to eat it?” I asked, arms crossed, a dangerous glint in my eye. “It’s been in the fridge for FOUR days. I know how you feel about leftovers.”
Hubby looked puzzled. “This is the first time I’ve seen it,” he said.
“Seriously?” I snapped. “I’ve been announcing that it’s in the fridge for the last four days, and no one could be bothered to use it.”
Sensing he’d messed up but not sure why, Hubby wisely went quiet.
From the couch came Daughter #1’s helpful voice: “You only told us two days ago. You never said four.”
And from Daughter #2: “You’re under-exaggerating it.”
I stomped around the kitchen, thinking how ungrateful they all were, how thoughtless when I was trying to work within a budget, and arguing out loud with them over when I informed them the Magic Turkey was purchased.
Trying to smooth things over, Hubby asked, “Does anyone else want some turkey on their BLT?” Daughter #1 raised her hand, and Hubby commenced making her one.
As I cleaned and wiped and slammed things around to make myself feel better, I heard Hubby say, “There’s only one piece left—anyone want it?”
I stopped and spun around and shrieked, “You can’t eat it all at once!”
There was a moment of silence—only Carson Daly from The Voice could be heard in the background.
Finally, Daughter #1 peeked over the couch and said, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want us to eat it or not?”
Daughter #2 chuckled, and the absurd moment was over. I still felt vaguely put-upon, as my mom would say, and swiped at the counters some more. What was wrong? Nothing. I was just overwhelmed and chose the wrong thing to try to control.
I recently told one of The Daughters that you can’t control what other people think or say about you—you can only control how you react to them. Next time, I think I’ll try to take my own advice and control my temper. After all, they’re the people I love the most.
Bless their hearts.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age | Tags: adulthood, Beauty, Botox, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, plastic surgery
Like many women, I have toyed with the idea of “getting some work done.” There are so many options available! You can inject things into your face to get rid of the wrinkles. You can make your lips fatter, your bottom rounder and your thighs skinnier. You can even take fat from one part of your body and put it somewhere else. But none of those things has ever really appealed to me. I have found a much cheaper way to make myself feel better about the toll time has taken on my face and body.
I recently heard a speech/performance by Canadian poet Shane Koyczan, about bullying (you can watch it by following the link at the end of the post.) There were many phrases and ideas of his that resonated with me, but the one I want to share is…
“If you can’t find something beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”
So I did.
My new mirror isn’t anything special. I got it at the Dollar Store for, well, a dollar. It has a white plastic rim, and for the moment, doesn’t have any water or toothpaste splotches. The glass doesn’t really magnify anything, but it did show me some things in a much different light.
The crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of squinting at diamonds on turquoise seas and Virginia mountain sunrises, and from searching for the Daughters #1 & #2 as they shot a goal or cantered over a jump.
The bump on my nose that makes my glasses lopsided is a reminder of my love of sports, although playing soccer might not have been one of my better choices (I broke my nose by kicking the ball into my own face. Try it at home—I dare you). Running, jumping, kicking and throwing—what a way to celebrate the body I was given!
The wrinkles on my forehead are the marks of a mother who worries about her family—are they doing okay in school? Will we have enough money for college? Do I still make Hubby happy? It is a miracle to have those things to worry about. Why would I erase them?
Even the wrinkles on my upper lip are testimony to the years of clamping my mouth shut in twenty years of marriage. I finally learned that not every opinion needs to be voiced—even though mine is usually better.
The freckles and age spots on my hands come from hours of driving my children to and from school as we talked about our day, from driving across country with Hubby, and riding horses as often as I could. Sure, I could get them lasered off, but why? I don’t want to look like I never had any adventures.
My hips and stomach are no longer flat or small. They shifted and made room for two daughters. No, I don’t have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore—I have the body of a mother, of someone who has survived my babies’ colic, teething, first steps, tantrums, first day of school, and first dates.
None of this is to say I’ve totally accepted this body I’m living in. I still highlight my hair every two months to cover up the gray, and I struggle to fit into jeans that I probably shouldn’t. But when the mirror on the wall in my bathroom isn’t making me happy, I try to remember to get the other one out, the one that says “You’re beautiful because of those lines, and wrinkles and sagging parts. They are the result of living your life, of all the things that have made you who you are.”
The erosion of the walls of the Colorado River could have been viewed as a tragic invasion of pristine countryside—instead, we now see the Grand Canyon as a wonder of the world. Why can’t our bodies be the same?
To see Shane’s performance, go to www.ShaneKoyczan.com.
Filed under: Parenting, Sports | Tags: attitude, family, horseback riding, Horses, humor, kids, mom, parenting, sports
This weekend, Daughter #2 was in a horse show. For those of you who aren’t barn parents, this means:
- Getting up at 5:00 AM, slurping down 2 cups of coffee and braiding your sleepy child’s hair in the semi-darkness of your kitchen while trying not to wake anybody else up;
- Standing around in a freezing barn as your child gets their horse ready and loaded onto a trailer, which is something akin to threading a needle with a sausage;
- Waiting for the endless number of riders to go around the ring, jumping over flowers, brightly painted poles and other assorted items horses would never jump if there wasn’t something small and annoying latched onto their back;
- Chewing your nails to the quick as you watch your child guide an 800-pound animal over jumps and around ten other 800-pound animals in every class—it’s scarier than driving up I-95 on Beach Saturdays;
- Watching and sharing in your child’s elation or defeat as the numbers of the top six entrants are called;
- Futile quizzing of the trainer to determine what the judges were looking for (the judges sit by themselves across the ring in a gazebo or behind closed glass, staring at the ponies like a police line-up). The sought-after qualities are usually lumped under the murky phrase “how the pony moves;”
- Trying to find a way to justify having a glass of wine or a shot of something by 10:00AM;
- No longer trying to justify, just consuming your lubrication of choice by 10:30AM;
At every show, Daughter #2’s trainer tells the girls she doesn’t care what ribbons they get as long as they ride their best; and, all the girls nod and smile and humor her, saying that’s exactly what they will do, and they know the ribbons don’t matter.
But to the girls, they do. Big, shiny ribbons they can pin on their ponies and hang around their room are like crack to a junkie.
And, invariably, by the middle of the morning at least one or two girls have ridden well, but somehow, they didn’t get a ribbon. Despite reassurances that they did just fine, there are sometimes tears and disappointment.
This weekend, I overheard her trainer ask one of the riders, “Did you ride your best?” The girl nodded. “Then who cares what that judge thinks? She’s just a woman in a box.”
If only we could all remember that.
We can’t control how people see us or judge us, so just do your best. All those people who make us feel small, useless or insignificant are just “a woman in a box.”
Filed under: Parenting | Tags: family, humor, kids, mom, parenting, parents, suburbia, teaching, teenagers, teens
In light of all the awful parenting going on in the news, I thought that maybe a reality check for those of us who live in the cream cheese world of suburbia was in order.
I’m sure my kids could come up with a hundred right off the bat, and even more when they finally end up in therapy, but here’s ten mistakes I’ve made (these are all absolutely true, and the only ones I could think of that won’t have Social Services at my doorstep), that you can laugh at with your coffee or your happy hour mint julep. After all, when it comes to parenting, every day is a chance to screw them up even more!
- Never sit at the kitchen table, having a heart-to-heart with your child about alcoholism, with a giant glass of wine in front of you;
- Don’t try to explain the Cuban Missile Crisis by having your kid watch the X-Men First Class movie (since when did History teachers get so picky?);
- Never show how secretly pleased you are (however discreetly) as your child deliberately kicks another soccer player on the leg or pushes them down–you instantly become THAT parent;
- Leaving your toddlers unattended with a jar of blue paint and a dog is a bad idea;
- Another bad idea: reading “The 3 Little Pigs” right before Christmas. We had to leave a note on the front door and call Santa every year to ask him not to come down the chimney so he wouldn’t get burned;
- Never tell your second child she’s just trying to get some attention when she says her tummy hurts, too–OR, go ahead and tell her, and know you’re going to be on your knees with a bottle of Resolve in twenty minutes;
- (This one is Hubby’s, but it was too good not to pass on) When your child says you shouldn’t be driving because you had a beer, think before you say, “It’ll be ok, we’re not far from the house;”
- Think before you speak: when noticing a zit on your teenager’s forehead, don’t ask “Hey, who’s your friend?” Your best friend may be able to handle a snarky comment like that, but not your teenager.
- Never teach your children the art of “crop dusting” (being silently flatulent as you walk past them). It will come back to bite you;
- Never tell your kids the real reason you won’t go see Foreigner in concert is because you had your first French kiss (ewwww, gross!) to one of their songs–they can do the math.
Feel free to post yours, if your kids will let you….
Subourbon Mom 