Sundays with Stretchy Pants

I had a dream last night that I saw Regis Philbin in Chesaning, right on the corner Chapman and W. Broad at the Malt Shop. And I took a picture of him with my camera phone. And my dream-head was planning to frame it for my father-in-law because he watches Regis and Kelly every day. Finally, the perfect gift! Hm.

Yes, we’re going to Chesaning on Thursday for my grandmother’s “funeral.” We’ll be there for less than 24 hours, but we’ll be able to see my mom (she moved to West Virginia to be with my brother for a while so we didn’t see her during our last visit) and my old brother and his young family. (FYI, these are 2 of my brother’s sons reviewing Transformers: Energon at Kids Know Stuff). How could we resist a chance to squeeze those cheeks? We can’t.

So, I know you can’t tell it by that obituary link up there, but my grandmother had 8 kids and around 20 grandchildren and 14? great-grandchildren. And she leaves a legacy of verbal and physical abuse from which even my generation is still trying to recover (well, maybe you can tell that part from the teeny obit). My mom (and probably all of her siblings) did better than Grandma, and I hope my generation is improving on the last, and I hope the next generation does better still. Her death is strange for me. Only a few of her kids and even less of her grandkids were still visiting her on a regular basis. The rest of us giving up in favor of keeping our own mental health intact.

When I was around 19-22 or so, I visited her endlessly hoping for insight and change. And probably approval. That was the height of my Christianity and I felt Jesus would give me the strength and Jesus could help me love her and in turn help her love me. Even Jesus’ blood isn’t that magical.

I can’t tell you how many times I witnessed her tell my mother in scary seriousness that she wished my mom and every one of her “goddamn kids” were never born. I can’t tell you how many times I visited her only to leave feeling like my soul had been sucked into a black hole, beaten and torn apart, and then spat out in pieces with a smirk.  One very brief minute everything was lovely and the next hundred years of minutes she was tearing me or somebody I loved apart with a verbal attack that would continue even as I walked out the door in tears. I’m sure there was some kind of mental imbalance, but it’s hard to feel sorry. There are so many specific examples I’d like to share, but they’re all mean. I don’t have a single good memory of her except that she smelled of peppermint gum, and the fact that she was a school bus driver who would take her bus load of kids to the A&W on the last day of school for a special treat.

I rode her bus briefly in elementary school and I was in on one of the end-of-the-year A&W trips. Even at such a young age, I had a really hard time reconciling this woman who I knew to be completely mean, with this woman who was so loving to strangers.  As an adult, I would point to the beloved-bus-driver argument as the seed of hope that was the impetus for my many visits with her.  Anyway, I thought her death wouldn’t affect me at all, but it has of course. Just the fact that she had all of this family and managed to alienate and/or terrify the lot of us. It’s too much to go into right now, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say that I was going to create a post around this picture, taken when I was out of the house for 2 measly hours:

The post was going to be all “Jesus H. Christ, I was with her all day and she had to sleep with our wedding picture because I left for 2 hours in the evening! Come on! The neediness is exhausting.” And now I look at that picture and cry because I know I don’t meet her needs. I know I don’t try hard enough. And I have my doubts as to whether I have it in me to do better.

If my grandma took my sarcasm with her to the grave, I’m going to be pissed.

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We hung out at Campaign for Change headquarters last night. Kristen has pictures here.

The kids all said they thought it would be boring, but it ended up being fun. They decorated signs, they talked to other campaign workers about our country and what needs to change. Liberty couldn’t sleep because she’s worried Sarah Palin is coming for her uterus. And it’s not even ripe yet. I’m kidding. Sort of. She actually did misconstrue “taking away women’s reproductive rights” as being the same thing as slavery, though. Wait, maybe she actually understood it better than most people. Smart kid, that Liberty.

So I made almost 70 phone calls, talked to 7 real people, 2 of those people hung up on me, 4 were already voting for Obama so we talked about morning sickness, cost of college, racism, etc. And 1 person was translating for his Chinese mother and he told me he wasn’t planning to vote because he has a tiny baby. Yeah, I don’t get it either, but I said, “Well then you especially have to vote for Obama so the tiny baby can afford to go to college!” and then I read a little bit off of my script about the American dream and whatnot. It was super fun and I LOVED leaving the scripted messages on answering machines. I’ll do it again. My kids will do it again. I don’t care if, as some people say, it doesn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things; it made a difference in my kids’ education and it was fun. I’m all about the fun memories and this was a good one.

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I love a study that tells me what I want to hear. Really, I do. And here’s a great one about video games! It shatters-shatters!-stereotypes. Video games are probably one of the most fretted about things in the life of a parent these days. The violence, the time “wasted,” the lack of social interaction, the murderous toddlers, etc. But, lookie:

Major New Study Shatters Stereotypes About Teens and Video Games

Game playing is universal, diverse, often involves social interaction, and can cultivate teen civic engagement

…

“We need to focus less on how much time kids spend playing video games and pay more attention to the kinds of experiences they have while playing them,” noted Prof. Joseph Kahne, Director of the Civic Engagement Research Group at Mills College, and co-author of the report.

Does this study make me believe that it’s ok for an 8 year old to play Grand Theft Auto? No. Nothing will convince me that that’s ok. I guess I’m just traditional in the sense that I think 8 year olds should learn about bl0w jobs and h00kers the old-fashioned way. You know, by seeing their favorite college football player get arrested for that kind of thing. Check out this post about the GTA issue (and for some great links for parents) and make sure you read the wisdom and whack-jobbery in the comments section.

I’m not huge on controlling the screen time around here, but that’s not to say that I don’t have anxiety about it. If I feel anxious, though, I usually try to engage them in other activities rather than arbitrarily tell them to turn it off. I also feel better when I really look at how they’re playing. Lena and Liberty interact with each other in a pleasant way when they’re sharing a video game. They help each other along the way, and they compete in a fun way instead of in an obnoxious resentful-of-each-other way. I also remind myself that it’s ok if “play” looks different than it did 30 years ago. It’s ok. And if none of that works to take away my anxiety, I just scream, “TURN IT OFF! YOU’RE ROTTING YOUR BRAIN!” until they cry. It’s not a perfect system.

A couple of months ago, there was a Mario Kart DS tournament at a local library. It was for ages 10 and up, but I tried to sneak my 9 year olds in. (I’m a rebel because of all that Atari I played in the 80s.) I tried to sneak them in, but I couldn’t come right out and lie when the library lady asked how old they were. I said very hopefully, “They’re in 4th grade and they’ll be 10 next April,” It didn’t work because she was an educated woman and she very patiently said, “It’s for 10 and UP, not 10 and UNDER.” And then she showed me a number line and demonstrated how 9 is LESS THAN 10. Library workers are so patient with the differently-abled. So Lena and Liberty were allowed to stay and watch, but only their 10-year-old cousin and 11-year-old friend were able to be part of the tournament.

When we walked into the tournament room, I was immediately afraid. Because of the teenagers. There’s something about a bunch of gaming teens that makes me scared. But then a couple of the teens spotted Lena’s Naruto skin on her DS and struck up a conversation with her about all things Naruto and DS. And when the tournament started, the bigger kids proceeded to root for and help out the 11 year old and 10 year old. They weren’t a bunch of murderous douche bags! And now I have a study to help me understand why.

Do I wish Lena and Liberty would play more card games with me? Of course. But they find it booooriiinnngggg *whine, stomp*! On the flip side, do they wish I would play more video games with them? Yes. But there are so many buutttonnnnnss! Do I need to realize that there is no point to family game night if I’m only building bad, boring memories for the children? Um, yeah, that might be good. Do I need to realize that family game night can include family video games? Uh-huh. Do I need a Wii? Yes, please. The study proves it.

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Do you think the kids could review, say, wine on Kids Know Stuff? I mean, obviously they couldn’t drink it, but maybe they could tell everybody how much more fun their mommy is when she’s pouring a glass or two of Charles Shaw Merlot. And then maybe we could get free wine delivered to our door so I wouldn’t have to fight traffic to get to the nearest Trader Joe’s. It would be wrong to use the kids that way, wouldn’t it? *sigh* I thought so. How about if they could get me some free coffee? Still wrong? Bummer. I want some free mommy stuff. The Hannah Montana that’s playing in the background right now brings me no joy.

I’m trying to get on a new schedule for fall homeschooling. I’m all gung-ho and inspired in the fall, before the holidays come and I get complacent. And by “holidays” I mean Labor Day. Having a schedule involves actually scheduling things, which involves heart palpitations when I’m behind schedule. I don’t like that. But instead of abandoning the schedule, I’m going to just decide that it’s ok if I’m a little bit behind schedule from time to time. I tend toward the all-or-nothing, so if I have a schedule, I feel like it must be followed to the minute. That’s not true, though, right? I didn’t think so. Not in my line of work, anyway. Kids can feed themselves if they’re hungry and lunch is behind schedule. So says I. And if they don’t like that, they can try to figure out a way to get mommy some wine delivered right to her door. Then I would feed them on time. Probably.

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In the summer of 1984, my father built me a hurdle. And then he tried to teach me how to jump over it while running. I was 9 years old and there was nothing in my physical make-up that would have lead him to believe that I would be able to hurdle things. Mostly, I was the sort who would run into things, lumbering solidly, not gliding swiftly. I didn’t have long limbs that could stretch and snap over a hurdle in just the right way. My body was made for sturdiness, not grace.

The same day he made the hurdle, he also gave me just a plain piece of wood, explaining that I was to run up to the wood and then, just as my foot hit the board, I was to jump and hurl my body through the air, hopefully landing far away from the board. Yes, he made a long jump marker thingy.

I’ve often thought back to that one day that summer and wondered what in the hell my dad was thinking. At that point in time, I was playing softball and I was pretty good at it. I didn’t need another sport, and Track and Field wasn’t even an option for an extra-curricular activity until high school. Finally, after 24 years, I think I know what my dad was thinking. Watching the Olympics this year has given me a little bit of insight into his psyche during that time. Yes, I was a good little softball player, but softball wasn’t an Olympic event back in 1984. I think my dad had a brief bout of Olympic fever and he dealt with it by building a hurdle and a long jump board. For me, his short, sturdy little girl. It hit me while I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh play volleyball. I found myself looking at Lena and Liberty, thinking, “We should really buy a volleyball.” In that instant, I knew that watching Carl Lewis in 1984 had affected my dad the same way. My brother and sister would have been 15 and 14, way past their prime. All of his hopes rested with me. And then I dashed them. Just like my children are dashing my Olympic dreams for them.

I didn’t buy a volleyball because I’m sure they would just whine about how it hurts to hit it. And I don’t know why they can’t do a perfect cartwheel, let alone an entire floor routine. I don’t know why they won’t even attempt synchronized diving. And I don’t know why they insist upon running all willy-nilly, limbs swinging about with no rhyme or reason. They don’t pace themselves; they just sprint and then collapse giggling in the grass. That’s not technique! That’s just tom-foolery! The Olympics have taught me that my children don’t care about me and my needs, just like I didn’t care about my dad’s needs.  That Michael Phelps’ mom is a lucky woman. You can tell how much he loves her just by looking at all of his gold medals. *sigh*

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Summer is almost over and I’m trying to use it all up. My baby is turning 5 on Sunday and I’m trying to buy her stuff and wrap it all pretty and ignore the fact that my BABY is turning 5! She was supposed to remain a baby. Fail!

I’m trying to get Kids Know Stuff going which involves lots of emails to PR people in which I’m supposed to sound authoritative, like what kids think matters and stuff. And I’m supposed to do all that without using the phrase, “like, kids are important and stuff, you know?” And I’m supposed to do that without getting diarrhea, which is hard because ***TMI ALERT*** I have anxious bowels. I really don’t have time to have anxious bowels right now. Fail!

Fall will be here soon and then I’ll have to switch from feeling good about doing math with the girls all summer, to feeling bad that all we (officially) do is math all during the school year. Unschooling everything else is hard for people who like to check things off of a list. Fail!

*sigh* How we’re using up summer today: water gun fights at a friend’s house. Yay! Goodbye.

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As of two days ago, if you come across Maya she’s very likely to say something like, “I gotta show you sumfin. It’s cool!” And then she will take you out to the swingset and show you how she can get herself swinging and keep herself going by pumping her legs. And then when you give her the appropriate props for that, she’ll say, “CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?” where she will show you her other brand-new feat of jumping in and going under the water. Under it! “Where people can’t even breeeeve, so I have to hold my breff! Isn’t dat cool?” And then she’ll swim around under the water with a great big smile on her face and tell you over and over that she doesn’t need her life jacket anymore and she’s ready for swimming lessons. You’ll agree with her that she’s cool, because she is.

It’s been a big weekend for amazing feats of pool bravery for all of the girls. Lena has been regularly jumping off of the 8-foot springboard after previously going off of it once and deciding to never, ever do it again. Over the weekend, she jumped off of it for about 2 hours straight, adding little tricks like a half-twist with a peace sign flash. Liberty (after the horrible influence of Dawn’s older kid) has been going off of the 16-foot platform. She went off it for the first time when Noah was there a few days ago and I really thought she wouldn’t do it again, but she did it several times yesterday. All my girls are bad asses. Watch out for them.

One teensy hard part about this is trying to convince Lena that she can be proud of jumping off of the 8-foot board. An age difference of more than a minute would come in handy here. I think Lena might feel like it’s not a big deal anymore because her sister, who is the exact same age as she is, jumped off of the 16-foot platform. Indeed, when Liberty went off the platform, Bryan and I walked all the way over there to congratulate her. We did that with Lena when she went off the 8-foot for the first time, too, but that had been days earlier and I’m pretty sure the glow from that moment had worn off. It’s tough to balance one girl’s feel-good feelings with the other’s feelings that her good thing isn’t good enough, when it really is good enough. This is one of those times when being a twin would so suck. We try to teach them that they can’t compare themselves to each other or to any other people, there’s always going to be somebody who can do more or less, blah, blah, blah. But I think it’s hard to live that lesson sometimes. I think it’s sinking in, but I just think it’s hard. Still, they’re bad asses. Total bad asses.

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We’re all going to die. We’re all going to die and then people are going to run around trying to gather pictures of us to either put up on display at the funeral home or put into a nifty little slideshow set to music in order to play it at the funeral. While I was visiting Michigan this last time, I attended the funeral for the father of one of my oldest friends. He was one of those involved types, close to his daughters and their friends. His funeral was beautiful and sad and he had a slideshow with all of these pictures of him and all of the people he loved. Sad and lovely. Here’s what I did with my grief:

Those were all taken at my sister’s house immediately after the funeral. My kids weren’t there. They were camping, but I hooked up with them later:

We’re all going to die. Take pictures of yourself with people you love. Even if you think you’re ugly because you’re not. You’re somebody’s mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, daughter, son, niece, nephew, granny, pop-pop, cousin, or friend. And even if you really are ugly, your loved ones will want to look at pictures of you after you die.

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I want to blog about this so badly even though, on the face of it, it seems irrelevant to my life. When I read it, though, I found myself really identifying with the issue of dealing with curmudgeons because I feel that it is so similar to something a lot of moms experience. There is a definite hierarchy of parenting styles ranging from anti-technology to very pro-technology. Not that I care, I’m just saying. I don’t care, because I’m very pro-technology. The only parents who really care and get all desperate about it are in the anti- camp because they think we’re going to be impressed or something. Nobody cares. We just feel sorry for their kids because they’re irrelevant in their culture.

It is 2008. It is the information age and, frankly, there’s no going back. There’s not going to be an anti-information movement that will take away our internet tubes. Children who grow up now are tech-savvy. And there is nothing wrong with that. I don’t get overtly criticized (to my face, anyway) for the fact that my kids blog and they make youtube videos, but I know that some people think they’re better mothers than me and my friends because they withhold technology while we dole it out freely like so many little Ritalin pills. These are the people who would hear my kids say something about some tv show or video game or website and they would make a judgement right then and there that our family is less, well, wholesome? or whatever and then they would avoid us. Except, not really. They wouldn’t avoid us because then how would they get off on saying, “Spongebob? Never heard of it; we only watch PBS.” And then I would have to bitch about how annoying that little Canadian fucker Caillou is. I mean, my god, that kid’s voice makes me want to shoot up the joint and then declare war on Canada. It’s almost embarrassing how much I hate that kid.

Anyway, I don’t really have time to flesh this out into a real, thought-provoking post with, like, stuff to back up my opinions and whatnot, but I’m just trying to say that our children’s culture is important and should be respected. Can you imagine being the only kid in class who didn’t know how to rat your bangs so they would stick way the hell up? That was our culture and I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

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I’m not the mom that you think I am if you think that post about Lena is the kind of mom I always am. If it were Liberty who had the trade remorse that Lena suffered through the other night, I would not have had the same compassion. Liberty is very susceptible to advertising and slick packaging. Her middle name is “impulse buy” (it’s a family name) and if she would have been in the same situation, I would have said, “That sucks. Go to bed,” because I would have felt like, yes, this is a lesson you needed to learn. Goodbye. By the same token, if Lena missed out on purchasing something because she waited and wondered and waited and wondered so long that it went out of stock, I would say, “That sucks. Go to bed,” because it might be helpful for her to learn that sometimes you just have to jump in and do it.

This is how money works with Liberty: She gets some and she spends it within 5 minutes. Usually she buys Another Effin’ W3bkinz. She always says she wants to save for 2 allowance days in order to get a DS game or something like that, but that would take “4 whole weeeeeeks!” So she, without fail, opts for spending over saving. Last allowance day, she decided she was going to spend some gift money and save her allowance money to pool it with Lena’s so they could buy a used Gamecube together. This was established before we went to the store to spend her gift money. While we were at the store, Liberty decided she didn’t want to pool the rest of her money with Lena. Instead, she wanted to spend every last penny buying several W3bkinz, which meant that Lena wouldn’t have had enough money on her own to get the Gamecube, which we were planning to get that night. We try to not be controlling when it comes to their very own money (as evidenced by the number of Effin’ W3bkinz in this house), but we felt that it was unfair of Liberty to renege on her deal with Lena and we told her so. She responded by very calmly paying for her solitary W3bkinz and then as soon as we walked out into the parking lot, she crumbled into a quivering mess of hysterics and screamed in a pitch that was so painful to hear that it could be used to question suspects at Guantanamo Bay, “IT’S NOT FAIR! YOU’RE MEAN! IT’S MY MONEY!” over and over with a red face and tears and flailing to boot. So I yelled back with my mean mommy tone, “I’ll tell you what’s not fair: promising to pool your money with your sister and then deciding not to and leaving her hanging. I’ll tell you what else isn’t fair: how about if Maya and Lena continue to get allowance money and you get NOTHING? How about that? That sounds fun to me! Yup, let’s do that. Now quit yer cryin’ and suck it up! You made a deal.”

Ahem.

They’re different kids, that’s all. I know it’s confusing, what with them being identical twins and all, but as much as I try to make them the same, it doesn’t work. My different reaction to them all comes down to my different fears for them. I don’t worry about Liberty over-analyzing everything to death and missing out on life. I worry about her leaping before she looks and getting seriously hurt in the process. Writing that, it seems like these girls just can’t win with me and that’s probably true. I am, after all, the mom. There’s just no pleasing the mom. I’m just looking for a bit of middle ground. I don’t constantly harangue Liberty about the fact that she will be bored with her W3bkinz within minutes of getting it home. It’s her money. That’s her lesson to learn and she’s not going to learn it with me rolling my eyes at her every time she buys something. I will step in, though, if her spending habits hurt another person.

Now I have to go because today is allowance day and Liberty is already at the other computer looking at “exclusive items” she can buy on the W3bkinz website. Commercials were made for kids like her.

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