Sundays with Stretchy Pants

Dawn tagged everybody with this meme about 3 things we do well as mothers, and then she verbally assaulted me at the park yesterday and threatened my life if I didn’t do it. (Not really, she just asked me to do it and so I am. Because she’s the boss of me. But you can totally see her verbally assaulting me, right?)

1. I take an interest in what they find interesting even if I find it horrendous. You know, so we can talk about it and I can be excited about it with them. I think they like that.

2. I cuddle with them endlessly.

3. I’m teaching them that their feelings matter and that they don’t have to go along with something just to avoid hurting a friend’s feelings.

Number 3 has been more uncomfortable for me than anything I’ve ever done as a parent. And that includes saying the word vulva. This seems to come naturally to Maya so far, but for the rest of us, it is hard to say no to people we like. It is hard for me to allow my kids to say no to playdates or birthday parties, but if they don’t want to go, I’m not making them go, despite my extreme discomfort. It literally goes against my make-up as a precious pleaser to do this (right now, my Ohio friends are saying, “What? You’re the biggest bitch I know!” and I’ll take that as a compliment, thankyouverymuch.) In the past, Lena and Liberty have asked, “What if so-and-so gets mad at me because I don’t want to go to his birthday party?” And, while my instinct is to say, “You’re right! We don’t want people to get mad at us. What will we do if somebody gets mad at us? I guess we better just ignore your feelings for the sake of somebody else’s feelings. Get in the car,” I have choked down that sentiment, broke out in a cold sweat and said, “Well, darlings, it’s like this: Your feelings matter. If your friend gets mad at you just because you’re not comfortable going to his birthday party, that is your friend’s issue, not yours. You aren’t in charge of other people’s feelings. Chances are, your friend will come to understand and respect your feelings. If he doesn’t, then he’s not a true friend.” And then I passed out from the effort of conveying this most basic truth of humanity. Our own feelings matter? WTF?

This trip is hard. Dawn is right when she says other parents make all the difference in the world. We need other parents who can be open and honest about the struggles in their parenting, the struggles in their marriage, the struggles in their lives. And you know what? We need to be able to talkabout the good things without setting off a competition. If it comes up in conversation that I cuddled with Lena while she talked about her Pokemon DS game for ten minutes, it makes me uncomfortable when another mom comes back with, “Well, I cuddled with my precious for even longer while she was talking about something even more boring to me.” It makes me feel like I made her insecure with my very small good thing and I didn’t mean to do that. And then it makes me feel like I’m in a competition that I didn’t know I was in. I usually get a free t-shirt whenever I sign up for a competition. I don’t have one, so I didn’t sign up. Stop it.

This is not a new idea, but we really, really do just need to be able to share and not be judged or fixed or competed with. It’s amazing how many of the posts for this meme start off with something to the effect of, “I’m supposed to say what I do right as a mother, but there are so many things I do wrong,” even though the instructions clearly say we’re not supposed to say that. We can’t help it. We’ve been burned too many times by the mommy olympics and we’re afraid that if we say we’re doing three whole things right, 800 other mommies are going to feel insecure and point out exactly what we’re doing wrong, or what they’re doing better. Stop it. We don’t need that shit. Let’s celebrate ourselves because, no matter what we do, our kids are going to be pissed at us. Let’s just be there for each other when it happens.

Oh, I’m tagging Mechelle, TooTightPonytailGirl, Sharon, Alissa, and Kristen. Five chicks who are ever so hard on themselves and deserve to talk about what they do right because there is a lot. A whole effin’ lot.

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The trouble with pouring your very first cup of coffee of the day is, you probably really need that coffee in order to function properly, which implies that you’re probably not functioning properly at the time of the coffee pouring. And sometimes, that first cup might come after you’ve run a bit and so, while your brain might need a lot of extra oxygen to compensate for not yet having coffee, the oxygen might instead still be going to your muscles to try to keep them from rebelling and turning into jelly. So, this decreased brain oxygen, combined with the not-yet-having-coffee issue can be a problem when you try to add cinnamon to your oh-so-necessary first cup of coffee.

You might know that the cinnamon is in a rectangular container as opposed to the cylindrical containers housing most of the other spices, so you might think that if you grab any old rectangular container out of the spice cupboard, you’re safe. This would be a mistake. You might not remember that you also have a rectangular container of sesame seeds in your spice cupboard. And when you grab that container, you might say, “Huh, I wonder why the cinnamon is making a sound when I shake it. Weird.” At that point, you would think it would register that you might have grabbed the wrong container, but no. It won’t. You might even glance at the writing on the box, see an “S” and say to yourself, “Yes, that’s right. ‘S’ is for cinnamon,” not realizing that the only time you’ve ever seen cinnamon start with “S” is maybe when it was up in lights at a strip club. It won’t be until you actually pour the sesame seeds into your coffee that you will understand that you’re an idiot who needs to stay in bed until such time as the coffee is consumed.

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And I have to admit that the whole time we were in West Virginia, I’m the only one who walked around affecting a southern accent and saying things like “Let’s get us some grits, ya’ll!” Berkeley Springs is only about 8 miles into WV, so it’s pretty much Maryland. Not that you couldn’t get yourself some grits, but still.

As promised, my brother and sister-in-law took us to see the Weber Brothers and they were fabulous with their 2 drum sets and their stand-up bass and their way cool original music plus Johnny Cash and Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen and stuff. They even invited my brother to go up and sing Sympathy for the Devil with them, which was nice because Mike knows how to do that kind of thing. Plus he’s their #1 groupie. I love them, love them, love them and I’m pretending they’re moving to Columbus to play every night at Victorians’ Midnight Cafe. Let’s start a letter-writing campaign. You won’t be sorry. They had 2 drum sets! And the one brother plays a stand-up bass! And the other one reminds me of Rufus Wainwright only way cooler! And they rock! And stand-up bass! I even love them when they’re playing songs I don’t know, which for me is kind of a big deal. If I can’t sing along, then I’m all, “This is too loud. Can’t they turn it down?” but not with the Weber Brothers. They could play Enya and I’m pretty sure I would drool.

They played at a place called the Troubadour, which was waaaayy out there on some narrow, winding, hilly roads that really looked like what you think West Virginia should look like. It’s the kind of place that has a sweet 72-year-old owner (Joltin’ Jim McCoy) and a barbecue grill in the shape of a six shooter. And they raffled off 10 pounds of bacon. Twice. Yes, they did. I bet it was good bacon, too, because my brother ordered a steak there and it was the best tasting steak I have ever had in a restaurant. It tasted like the cow had been killed that morning after a breakfast of grass grown by angels. I’m not kidding. I’m a beef snob and that was some good beef. I imagine the pork would be nothing less than heavenly. Not Jewish or Muslim heaven, obviously, but definitely one of the other ones. One little piece of advice just in case you city folk are ever thinking of visiting the Troubadour: Don’t think that just because it’s way out in the country that they’re going to let you get away with fast and loose behavior. The rules are posted and it says right there that you may not sleep in the booths or your vehicle. Got it, ya’ll? They will cut you off before you reach that point. For real.

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I wrote about this before, but it still annoys me. The AP is again talking about the fact the people like to complain about the book And Tango Makes Three. Ignorance annoys me. And ignorance for the sake of the children annoys me with the power of a thousand suns. The parents who complain about this kind of book are the same type of parents who can’t bring themselves to talk about s3x* with their children, or even call their body parts by the appropriate names, instead giving them nicknames like woo woo or whatzit. Ridiculous. If you can’t say the word p3nis* to your son, good luck. Good effing luck with your head in the sand. That’s the kind of thing that puts the subject of reproduction (or *gasp* intercourse for purposes other than reproducing!) on a very high shelf, which makes it more intriguing and more attractive and then the kids find out about an awesome book like It’s So Amazing and find themselves feeling ashamed, but titillated. That is not a healthy combination. Pretty soon, because they got a taste of this forbidden subject, they’re desperate for more and since they can’t get their curiosity satisfied in a healthy way, by asking their parents about it and being provided with good age-appropriate books on the subject, that’s where p0rn from the neighbor or the dad’s stash comes in really handy (because, mark my words, the households who protest so much are the households where the dad definitely has a stash that his wife probably doesn’t even know about). And it’s not a good idea to learn about the birds and the bees from materials that are not age-appropriate and do not treat s3x as the important thing that it is. Can you say, deviant behavior?

S3x is a normal part of life and should be discussed as such with people. Children are people, just in case you didn’t know. And they have reproductive organs, even if you don’t want to believe it. Homosexuality is a normal part of life for some people and if kids were allowed to learn about it, they might feel they could come out with dignity and love, or if they’re not gay, they would be able to give their gay friends dignity and love when they come out, then we’d have less Ted Haggard situations in the world. Yeah, heaven forbid your child should be allowed to feel that his homosexual feelings are ok. It’s better if he tries to deny them and gets married and has 5 kids only to be living on the down low and blowing apart his life and his wife and kids’ lives in the process. Messy. But at least you didn’t have to explain homosexuality to a child. Horrors.

*Because there is so much deviant behavior in the world, caused by stoopid parents who won’t provide their children with non-judgemental information about one of the most normal things in life, I have to type those kinds of words like that so the deviants who google certain things don’t stumble upon my site. Stop being stoopid. And buy some books for your kids. Then let them read them whenever they want so it takes the mystery away and it becomes no big deal instead of this thing to simultaneously covet and feel ashamed about. You can start by calling their parts by the right names because if you can say those words, it’s much easier to say all of the other things you need to say over the course of a lifetime of parenting.

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The gov’mint’s about ta give us a check, ya’ll!

We’re going to West Virginia unless our van costs a billion dollars to fix. Melissa, I know you’re worried about us getting accosted by some hilljack iff’n our van busts up on the way, but don’t worry. We’re taking precautions. First, we’re going to stop off at a gas station about an hour east of here where we’re sure to be able to find a Bush/Cheney ‘04 bumper sticker as well as any number of these awesome bumper stickers. If we break down in the hills, we’ll slap those puppies on real quick-like. Also, we’ve been watching Squidbillies enough so we will be able to affect a native accent and attitude if need be. And the most important thing that will keep us safe? The fact that Bryan and I could pass for brother and sister. Nothing puts a god-fearing hillbilly at ease like incest.

Typing all that makes me wonder how my brother and sister-in-law have survived there. Tracy, do the people know you volunteer for Hillary’s campaign? Watch yourself.

Happy birthday to lots of people today. I know 5 people IRL who have a birthday today, so I assume that most of you who read this have a birthday today, too. Happy birthday!

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It could be guacamole. God bless avocado season. I regularly pay $1.50 for avocadoes, so I’m in heaven when they’re 66 cents! Or it could be frosting from my birthday cake yesterday. My lovely husband and children baked me a white cake with chocolate frosting. My favorite. I’m special. I’m 33 now, which is how old Jesus was when he died, in case you were wondering. I could be at risk for crucifixion. I could be. You don’t know. I’m definitely at risk for leaving the house with frosting or guacamole on my face. That’s a given.

I had a good birthday until my stupid van started smoking. Effin’ machinery. Pontiac piece of crap. We’re supposed to go to West Virginia this weekend to visit my brother and his family and see The Weber Brothers
play. For free. They played at my brother’s wedding. I have a picture of them, but I can’t make it show up in my stupid blog. Effin’ blog. Do you hear me, Dawn? I say, I can’t get a picture to upload. I was yelling that, but I didn’t put it in all caps. Just trust me. So, we assume the mechanic will want to be paid for fixing the stupid van, which might mean no free Weber Brothers for us since we’ll have to spend the billion dollars of gas money that we were saving for the trip on fixing the stupid van. I hate budgets. Except for the part where they help us be debt-free, budgets suck. And they’re lame.

Now I want more guacamole and I’m going to have some because our budget allows for unlimited avocadoes when they’re 66 cents each.

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This morning as cd 101.1 was playing Yellow Ledbetter as the soundtrack to Maya’s snack time, I listened from the kitchen as she sang along. *sniffle* A little tear ran down my cheek as I whispered, “That’s my girl. That is my girl.” Though, I don’t really know what she was singing since the lyrics are famously indecipherable.

I spent much of the 90s trying to find the lyrics to this song. You know, before the internet and before Eddie Vedder would ever talk about any song. Ever! What does it mean? What is he saying? It was tough to sleep at night. I was certain the lyrics would give me a peek into the pain that made Eddie Vedder so damn irresistible. See, he mumbles because of the pain. The pain that could be healed by me, if only he’d let me. Left unsatisfied, I decided to get a tattoo of that little guy from the Alive single in order to experience physical pain that would match Eddie’s emotional pain.

I’m sure Maya knows on some child-like enlightenment-type level what that song is all about because she was actually at a Pearl Jam concert in utero. It was July 2003. I was 8 months pregnant and after 11 years of trying and failing to get tickets to a Pearl Jam concert, Bryan and I finally got some tickets. General admission lawn tickets, but still. I didn’t care that it was going to be outdoors in the sweltering Michigan humidity, with a bunch of sweaty, smelly idiots who were all so young that they didn’t even have one single piece of flannel hiding in their closets, and were only going to the concert to be all retro and stuff. Their favorite PJ songs were probably Alive and Jeremy and Black. Ugh. I hate those songs, like any true fan would. If it’s been played on the radio, then we don’t like it. We don’t. Because we’re better than the radio. Just ask us, we’ll tell you.

No, I didn’t care that I would have to share the hill with pseudo-fans. Well, I didn’t care until we actually got there and they took our blankets at the door because, “Pearl Jam concert goers tend to start fires so we don’t want blankets in there being piled on the fires,” and I looked at the huge, smelly crowd of people standing on the very steep, very muddy hill and said, “Huh.” I couldn’t imagine any scenario in which I would be able to lug my giant belly up that very crowded hill. I could, however, imagine that once I got up there it would only take the wind from a pothead’s exhale to send me tumbling through the crowd to the bottom of the hill, with my considerable girth leading the way. I said, “I’m not doing that. No.” And then we found a bouncer and told him that I was told on the phone that I’d be able to sit in the handicapped section. They slapped a handicapped bracelet on our wrists so fast, we didn’t even miss a single opening mumble. Eddie came out on stage and said, “Hey, mmbl fuble phrmbl DETROIT!” and we were there, in the comfort of folding chairs on level ground, in the very last row of real seating, 20 yards in front of the stupid hill! It was awesome! I felt like such a rebel and I decided that it was just as exciting to dupe the bouncers as it would have been to be in the mosh pit with a bunch of flannelless teenagers.

If you weren’t given the gift of lyric deciphering in utero by the gods of grunge, please enjoy this person’s guess. I think they’re as close as anybody can get:

Now watch this one and tell me you don’t want to lick the sweat off of his face. Ok, now I’m walking away from the computer because I just spent 2 hours going, “Watch this one you guys!” and Lena and Liberty are going to kill me. I’m going to go find my copy of Singles on VHS and rewind the scene with Eddie, Stone Gossard, and Jeff Ament in it over and over and over again.

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Liberty still has a fever. She usually lingers quite a while, but she hasn’t had this kind of episode in over 2 years. There was a time when every little cold sent her into the hospital with bacterial pneumonia. Mucous settles in her lungs like carnies in a public park during state fair time. And even when the hospitalizations stopped, there was always, always the high, long fever and the nebulizer. And the cough. Holy shit, the cough. On a normal day, if Liberty so much as clears her throat in the grocery store, old women will come from far and wide to diagnose her with croup and shame me for bringing her out into daylight. Or at least give me a dirty look. But when she has a little mucous to contend with? She sounds like a werewolf choking on a femur. You know, kind of barky in a supernatural, murderous way.

Everybody else is all better and I was hoping Liberty would be better by today so we could go to the homeschool park day tomorrow, but it’s not looking good. If I accidentally stab myself in the eye with a citrus peeler, don’t be surprised.

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And gets very giddy when she’s about to lay a Draw Four on your sorry ass. I know you can’t hear it, but she’s giggling like one of those viral video giggling baby things. This child is never happier than when she’s causing an opponent emotional pain during a heated game of Uno. Even if she doesn’t win, it’s enough that she made you draw, or skipped you, or reversed it away from you. And then you will hear about it for the rest of the day. “Remember when I skipped you? That was a good play! You couldn’t even go!” And when the tables turn, and you think you’re getting one up on her by giving her a Draw Two, she says, “OK, but you have to smell my feet!” She will punish you. She will punish you so hard.

Lena and Liberty and Bryan are all sick sickies today. Send patience. And listen to Handlebars by Flobots. Yummy for your brain.

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Is there anything in this world that is more exquisitely satisfying than a post-fever fresh fruit cup? Ice-cold pineapple, blueberries and kiwi cleaned and cut by someone other than me? Heavenly. Organic? No. Local? Definitely not.  Exactly what I needed? Hells yeah! I don’t think I’ve experienced euphoria of that level while eating fruit in my entire life, unless the fruit was floating in a vat of chocolate. Or vodka. I fear that nothing in my life will compare to the elation brought on by this lovely, luscious cup o’ fruit. I have peaked. It is over. Adieu.

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