Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, children, Christmas, Christmas Trees, family, Holidays, humor, kids, Letters to Santa, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, Santa, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, Traditions
Like everything with teenagers, Christmas at this age is a mixed sack of coal and gifts.
These days, we no longer have to scramble to hide their gifts and the special Santa wrapping paper (which I found out later they already knew about). Now, I just remind the family, “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive” (we all receive, and there is no mention of the questionable fat man in a body stocking stuffing himself into our chimney like a sausage.) We no longer stay up until 1:00am putting together brightly-colored plastic, cursing every Chinese company that decided heavy-duty plastic was a good idea. But we also don’t have those magical moments, like when the kids would pause at the top of the stairs and survey the loot under the tree like they had found the Holy Grail; or the morning Daughter #1 burst into tears on Christmas Day. When I asked her why, she said, “I’m just so happy!”
I also miss letters to Santa. Every year, the girls would carefully compose their letters to Santa, or dictate them to me. We would address them to the North Pole and stick them in the mailbox. About a week later, our wonderful mail carrier would deliver a hand-written letter back, addressed to each child by name. These days, I get gift list updates from my kids via email and text (from the next room), with links to the different catalogs and stores for my shopping ease.
But one thing that is definitely better is the tradition of getting the tree. We still go to the same lot, and we still wander around letting the girls make the decision. But now, the girls can articulate their opinions:
Daughter #1: “I don’t like this one—it has a hole.”
Daughter #2: “Your face is a hole.”
Me: Sigh….
Hubby: “What about his one?”
Daughter #1: “I don’t like it. It lacks originality.”
Decorating the tree is also better. Now the girls can put the ornaments higher than our knees. They re-hash the family trips we’ve taken, since we try to get an ornament form each new place (“Mom, do you remember the time Aunt Cindy tried to get on the ski tube and her face landed in your lap?”–followed by hysterical laughing). Unfortunately, they also like tinsel, and every year they glob it on heavier than Troy Polamalu’s hair, and every year I take a little off each day, trying to minimize the tackiness (of the tree, not Troy’s hair).
But the best thing about having teenagers during Christmas is that even though they send me shopping lists on-line, and they no longer burst into spontaneous tears of joy, they appreciate the family time. As I write this, they are decorating the tree, laughing over the toilet paper tube ornaments and debating whether the Redskins are worthy of having their ornaments adorn our tree (we’re hardcore fans, so they’re going on, but with serious reservations). They may not remember all the toys or the letters to Santa, but I hope they will remember the time we spend together.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: children, colds, family, flu, germ, health, humor, kids, mom, parenting, parents, subourbonmom
In honor of cold and flu season, and the wonderful children with green noses and slimy sleeves that learn to share their germs before they learn to share anything else, ‘m putting aside my box of tissues and NyQuil to impart this sage advice:
Cover Your Katchoo!
I have a cold.
I’ve got a runny nose, achy toes,
And a fever, so I’m told.
I know how I got it, too.
Someone didn’t cover their Katchoo.
I remember sitting next to Tommy
(he’s the kid who always wants his Mommy).
When all the sudden, he took a deep breath—
Ahh—ahhh-ahhh-…..Katchoo!
And do you know what?
My arm was covered in goo!
My teacher made me wash it all off.
But not before Annie started to sneeze and cough.
I ran to the sink and scraped and scrubbed.
I made patterns of bubbles while I rubbed.
I thought maybe I’d gotten off germ-free.
But yesterday I started to –achoo!—sneeze.
My nose filled up and my head started to hurt.
My forehead got hot, but my cough was the worst.
It started up here, in my chest, and it wasn’t so bad.
But the next day it came up from my toes,
So I called for my dad.
“Dad!” I said, “How did I get so sick?
I did what the teacher said, but I still feel like ick.”
Dad looked at me and scratched his head.
He sat next to me on the bed and said,
“I feel bad for you, I really do.
It looks like someone didn’t cover their Katchoo!”
Copyright 2013 Subourbonmom
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, country clubs, exclusion, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teens, Virginia
The other night I had the dubious honor of being invited to a corporate reception/wine tasting class at an exclusive, men’s-only club Downtown. The day before the event, we received an email detailing suggested arrival times and dress code: coat and tie for the men, no dress code for the women.
Did this mean the members don’t care what the women wear? Doubt it. Did it mean they weren’t going to touch that topic with a ten-foot-pole? Probably. Or, did it mean they secretly want the women in attendance to dress like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman in her high heels, mini-skirt and tank top? Bingo—that’s my guess. But, in the interests of keeping the peace, I threw on old faithful—the black cocktail dress and heels.
There is something about the smell of a men’s club (that being the only the men’s club I’ve been in) that reeks of exclusion. The scents of old cigar smoke, office breath, and bourbon were in the walls, carpets and the few uncomfortable chairs provided in the lobby. Portraits of the Great White Fathers hung from the walls—of course, special preference was given to our Confederate leaders.
As I perused the volumes of “Harvard Classics,” prominently displayed in aging china cabinets, I had the almost uncontrollable urge to strip out of the dress, breathe onto the highly-polished bar counter and draw smiley faces in the condensation with my finger. Thankfully, they opened the buffet, so everyone was spared.
While we didn’t stay for the wine tasting class due to our kids’ sports commitments, for me the evening was an experience in observing a social era passing by. In an age of excessive bullying and rabid discussions over tolerance, exclusion should no longer be a privilege, but it was pretty cool to get a glimpse into that world.
Later that night, when I was trying to explain the event to Daughter #2, I was preparing to finish my story with a moral lesson on exclusion, racism and misogyny, when Daughter #2 broke in.
“Mom?’ she asked.
“Yes,” I said, waiting for my moment to launch into a teachable moment.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “They were teaching a class on how to be alcoholics?”
Sigh…
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts | Tags: adulthood, body language, communication, email, family, humor, kids, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, technology, television, texting
I recently read a book for my job entitled Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina. (Like my kids, I have waited until the last minute read it, and now I’m wishing I had some Cliff’s Notes.)
In this book there was a chapter on the use of electronics by young children–according to research, children spend years learning body language and facial cues, some of which happen in milliseconds–so fast we aren’t even aware that we show them. For example, the subtle straightening of my mother’s shoulders and slight narrowing of her eyes were tiny clues, a shot over the bow before the non-verbal onslaught began; her pursed lips meant she was really annoyed, and I would be dealt with later. As I got older, I got better at seeing the first body language volleys before we ever got to the pursed lips—it saved a lot of verbal effort for both of us.
One day, there was enough silent tension in the room between me and mother that my brother asked his wife what was going on. She whispered, “Can’t you tell? They’re fighting!”
Reading body language and facial cues was extremely important for our survival as a species. If a person could not read the body language of an enemy or angry tribe member, they had a high likelihood of dying (see pursed lips above).
There are also body language cues that indicate when a potential mate is interested (or not). When the guy in a bar doesn’t know that we are interested when we play with our hair, lean in close and bite our lower lips, he’s going to go home feeling a little…blue. If people had not learned how to read those cues, we would have died off as a species millennia ago.
You can’t learn how to pick up a girl by watching The Bachelor.
The author goes on to say that children must learn these things from interaction with an actual person, not a video or CD.
Which brings me to texting, emails and tv.
I’m a fan.
I love texting and emails because as I’ve gotten older, I like people less and less. Texting and email enable me to simply ask for the information I need without engaging in actual conversation.
I love television for the same reason—I can lose myself in the storylines because I don’t have to respond to them in an involved way. The directors of the shows even help me out by going in for close-up shots when there is an emotion I need to pay particular attention to (HBO’s The Newsroom is great at this—thank you Aaron Sorkin).
Using technology to socialize is so much less tiring—and it’s making me lazier than those people who circle the gym parking lot to find a space (I mean, really? You’re going to the gym! Walk a little–consider it your warm-up).
I used to love sitting around, chatting with my friends, family, and anyone who would hang out. I loved drawing people out, hearing their stories, and offering advice (often unsolicited and even more often un-used). It’s often how I got ideas for my stories and books. There is a reason Southerners love front porches—we can talk and watch the world go by, and get to know you. It’s also why Southerners are so good at the backhanded compliments. We watch and learn what makes people tick by spending time with them, then jab them a silver, sugar-covered shrimp fork.
These days, I am usually in the car and in a hurry. I have resorted to texting and emailing in the name of efficiency, and talking in a very distracted way on the phone as I multi-task at home. And so, it seems, does everybody else.
I miss sitting on the porch, solving the world’s problems, or hearing about a friend’s concerns, and even mine. I miss the clink of ice in a glass as the conversation ebbs and flows. I miss the puzzle that is a friend’s face as they try to convey something that happened, or work out a problem. The subliminal cues are the best part—they are what let other people into our inner sanctum, even when we don’t mean for it to happen.
But, don’t worry, I’m not giving up my electronics. I want my Candy Crush fix as bad as the next person.
People still irritate me, and I love my tv shows, but I think I’ll try to make more of an effort to have some meaningful conversations once in a while, just to keep my ability to read people’s social cues up to snuff. You never know when you might need them to survive—I’ve got teenage daughters. If I ever needed to be able to read subliminal cues, it’s now (yes, girls, I can see your eye roll from here!).
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, family, farm life, Farming, humor, kids, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, snakes, south, southern, teenagers, teens, travel
Nephew #1 Dangling The Snake
Occasionally, events happen that can make you re-think the roles you play in your marriage. In our house, all things accounting (see my previous blog: https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/09/redundies/), mechanical and packing-related fall to Hubby; most things domestic, flowers and shrubs, and cleaning up pet poop, vomit and carcasses (https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/chipmunk-popsicle/ ) fall to me. There was one category that fell to me by default, not because I necessarily am good at handling them, but because I was more familiar with them:
Snakes.
Hubby grew up in Bermuda, where there are no snakes, except for the occasional gardener that snuck in via a tourist’s golf bag. He has always had a healthy appreciation for them, and has never failed to rapidly remove himself from any uncontrolled snake situation. In fact, when I was very pregnant with Daughter #2, Hubby saw a snake dropping from my brother’s gutters, and in a moment of animal instinct, he jumped behind me (I like to say he threw me in front of him). For years this has been a family joke, which he good-naturedly took on the chin.
Oh, but that was about to change…
Yesterday, we took a trip to see the in-laws on their beautiful horse farm in Virginia. Various nieces, nephews and grand-nieces were there, all running about the place, kicking soccer balls, exploring the barns and generally causing mayhem everywhere they went. Around Happy Hour, as the adults were slowing down and the thought of a nice cool drink was sifting through our humidified brains, someone came rushing in to inform us there was a huge black snake in the tree outside. Of course, being the suburbanites we are, we flocked around to look at the rare (to us) creature of the wilderness.
Sure enough, curled up in the crook of a giant old beech tree was a black snake. We could just see a few inches of its body, and it was definitely in the “bigger-than-I-want-to-get-close-to” category. Nephew #1 (the oldest at 16, and who lives on the farm), had a cast on his arm, but decided to scale the tree anyway and (what else?)…poke it with a stick.
Like a group of tourists watching a Bedouin snake charmer, we took videos and pictures with our cell phones. We gasped and shrieked as the harmless snake lifted its head and glared at Nephew #1. The smaller nieces were shooed away to the patio.
As Nephew #1 pushed and prodded the snake out of the tree, Nephew #4 (age 9, who also lives on the farm) stood beneath the tree, hoping to catch it by its tail as it dropped. The snake finally gave up its Happy Hour hiding place (which happened to be filled with water—he’s definitely related to us) and dropped to the ground.
Now, I’m not proud of this—in fact, I’m pretty mortified: as the snake hit the ground, I pushed Daughter #2 in front of me and ran to the patio with the little ones—just like Hubby had done to me 13 years ago.
That’s right. I pushed my own child in the potential path of a snake so that I could get away. Way to go, Mom—excellent parenting.
In the mayhem that followed, Nephew #1 grabbed the snake by its tail, letting it dangle for a while so we could all get a good view. Eventually, Nephew #4 draped the snake over his shoulders and took it to another part of the yard, away from the timid city-folk.
With the excitement over, it was soon time to go. On the way home, I told Hubby I would never, EVER, make fun of him for shoving me into harm’s way over a snake again. But I think Daughter #1 said it best. As we pulled out of the driveway, and it was quiet for a moment, her matter-of-fact teenage voice came from the back seat:
“We are not farm people.”
Subourbon Mom 