The Type

One Direction fever has hit our house. Quite unexpectedly, I might add. Just one month ago, Gabby and I were driving to Panera, and that song about being beautiful just the way you are or whatever the hell it is came on the radio and Gabby joked that it was by this band One Direction and they were from England. I kinda went, "Oh, ok." And then she chortles and says, "They're basically like the Beatles. Except without the talent." And we both laughed and she turned the radio down and told me some story about putting this creepy doll in unsuspecting people's lockers. Oh, kids these days!

Then, the next thing I know, she's turning the song up when it comes on. And then she asks me to tivo SNL when One Direction is playing. "Why do you want to watch that?" I ask. "No reason." is the reply I get. And then this pops into my mind:

And I'm all like "YOU LIKE ONE DIRECTION, DON'T YOU?!?!"

Gabby admits that she does, and I'm just straight out guffawing that my daughter, who is so hung up on appearance and trying to cultivate an air of difference and wisdom (characterized, mostly, by taking the most twee, most instragrammy of instagrams). She then starts defending herself, coming at me with stuff about it being "catchy" and them being "talented." But we all know that it is something else. Because we both know she didn't give two shits about One Direction until she saw them and discovered that they are attractive young British people. And then, well, then they became "talented."

And, as with most things in life, I am conflicted on this. Or maybe conflicted is not the right word. I really could give two craps about who my 13 year old daughter finds attractive (unless it is, say, The Night Stalker or Rick Santorum or something). But I think back to that volatile time in my own life and consider who I found attractive. Billy Corgan. The specter of Kurt Cobain. Eddie Vedder. Basically any long haired boy in flannel. I remember being attracted to their looks FO SHO, but also to the perceived "depth" of these artists. The little bit of sadness, the little bit of instability. That's what I liked, that's what kept me in breathy anticipation of their next move.

I've mentioned it on here before, but I cultivated quite a fantasy life at that age, mostly about what my life would be like as I "grew up". I always saw myself as some kind of writer, living in a grungy New York City loft with a long haired artist type. Usually the artist type was more hair and sadness than anything else. He usually played guitar and his favorite writers were people like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. He was the kind of guy who nested in dirty clothes at night. That, my croquembouches, is what I aspired to.

And I won't totally say that I've gotten over it. Not totally. Matt jokes that if I say I am attracted to someone, you will soon find out that they have some sort of addiction issue and/or have recently been confined to an institution. Matt, himself, all these years past the gleaming 14 year old vision I once saw him as, was once described by a mutual friend as "edgy bright"- a guy who is not totally comfortable with himself, his intellect or his world. I was reading an article about David Foster Wallace earlier this week and I read a quote and thought to myself, "Holy crap! That sounds just like something Matt would say." And then I realized. My husband has a similar worldview as a dude who struggled with addiction his whole tortured life before finally succumbing to suicide. Fuck.

I think a lot of women in my generation have this issue. We were raised on MTV, images of grunge Gods in our hearts, and now we flock to the motivationless, bearded, flannel wearing gentlemen around us, attaching ourselves to them like so many bad tattoos of sea creatures. They speak of projects and no paychecks and they, by and large, are very, very depressed. And we lap it up, like milk out of a dish, because there is a dream in there. A dream of a 13 year old, staring solemnly at a guy with a guitar and seeing open roads. Somewhere.

So when Gabby tells me that she likes One Direction, sure, I find it repugnant. Have you heard that music? Shit! It's shit! But part of me hopes that she will keep this sunny, Simon Cowell approved vision of masculinity for a while. I could deal with having a son-in-law who, you know, sleeps in a bed. Like a normal person.

We are no longer a co-sleeping family.

Well, I just lost a little bit of my crunchy-mom cred. If you need me, I'll be putting a bird on something.

Alice is now sleeping full time in the crib/converted daybed. Now the bed has been used by all of my children AND my cousin's two kids. That kind of makes me feel good in a full-circle, family kind of way.

BUT HOLY SWEET JESUS ON A RUBBER CRUTCH. NOT AS GOOD AS STRETCHING OUT FULLY IN MY BED/NOT HAVING MY HAIR PULLED ALL NIGHT LONG BY A MUMBLING, INCOHERENT SLEEP TYRANT!

It is funny how the whole thing happened too. We have talked with Alice extensively about moving into her own digs, and while she seemed ok with it in theory lots of times, in practice it was a whole 'nother ballgame. We would talked to her and get her excited about making the space "hers"--adding special blankets and toys and what have you. Then she would revolt, and I would feel so horrible that I would welcome her squirmy little body back into my personal space. Then she weaned herself. Still, even though she wasn't using me for the occasional nighttime comfort nurse, she seemed to NEED my hair. I started thinking about cutting it off and gluing it on a Dora doll for her. I started sleeping more and more on the couch, but only if I could pry myself away from her incessant little grasp. I was (even more) tired all the time and starting to really resent the bed partner.

And then, magically, on Friday, she just up and said she wanted to sleep in "[her] bed." It had become a repository for stuffed animals, unused blankets and a few unmatched socks, so Matt joyfully cleaned it off for her and we made it up with the softest and prettiest blankets we could find. I still fully expected her to go back on it. But then Friday night, after several Olivia books and an interminable amount of time spent discussing the finer points of Sesame Street, she was asleep. She made it until about 4:30 and then rejoined us. On Saturday night, though, she slept undisturbed all night long, and then walked into the living room and peacefully played with a dollhouse until I woke up, heard someone in the living room, and went running in there like a mad woman. I'm just glad she wasn't wearing a hoodie at the time, because sometimes children look mega-scary, you know? And I can't guarantee that when I'm scared, I won't violently disembowel someone. AMIRITE?

I can't tell you just how amazing it is to be able to stick my ass out at night and know that Matt is on the other side of it. We had not really snuggled in 2.5 years, ya'll (except for the odd vacation/kid's night at my MIL's). I even didn't mind when he tried to wake me up to have sex/tell me something dumb about a book he's reading (I normally don't mind either of those things, except when I am sleeping the sleep of a thousand nights or when they are related in some weird way, which it seems they were the other night? Maybe?). I HAD MISSED THAT. I feel about sleeping now the way I felt after I ate really good tiramisu for the first time--I literally cannot wait to do it again.

All that said, I am not anti-co-sleeping at all. It worked for us for a good long while, and actually, I was able to get more sleep in the first year than I would have been able to any other way. Allie is a good kid, and a good sleeper (aside from talking in her sleep--more about that later). Did co-sleeping make her that way? Maybe. Maybe not. We never had to deal with a night of her crying it out (which I did with Gabby and it.was.horrible. Poor kid had sleep issues until she went to school because of it), nor did we have to deal with the kind of sleep issues Sam had, which mostly had to do with him getting up at odd hours in the middle of the night deadset on eating popcorn and watching Cars. I would advocate any kind of sleeping you can get your kid to do. If it is co-sleeping, AWESOME. If it is putting them in the back of a Peugeot and driving them around while singing James Taylor until they conk and then putting them in a crib, GREAT (note: that is the only way my mom could get me to sleep, apparently).

I think I've said it before, but my grand experience with more natural parenting has taught me that it is best to be super non-judgmental about any kind of parenting choice. You do what you do because you think it will work. And then you reevaluate. And you put up with some discomfort because you want your kid to be happy/healthy/better off. And then they change whatever it was that you wanted them to change and you realize that things do, indeed, work out. When they are good and ready to do so.

And now without further adieu, I present to you the wacky and bizarre things Alice has said in her sleep in her first nights out on her own. Apparently, if she doesn't have my hair to fondle/yank, she dreams about some weird crap and talks about it. And it is awesome:

• Kiss me! I'm sleeping beauty!
• I'm hungry, but no doughnuts!
• Mommy here. She bite me.
• garble, garble, garble BOOTS!
• Rosita say Buenes NOCHES!

Today my daughter turns 13 years old.

I could sit here and recount all the wonderful memories that we've had together--the trips to the zoo, the shopping trips, the times that I walked her around campus when I was in college, making up funny stories about the statues. But really, you know, you don't care. Those are nice, I guess, to hear, but you weren't there to feel the sun on your arms, to hear her giggle caught on the wind. So you don't know what an amazing child she is and you don't know how much I love her. Or maybe you do. Maybe you have your own kid who is sunshine and laughter.

I could also bemoan the future. She is turning 13 after all, and of all the ages that a parent says to someone else that their child is, 13 is the one sure to get a groan. We are all conditioned to think pretty badly of teenagers, and for good reason too--have you been to the mall lately? HOLY SHIT. They're horrible! But really, although I know there are rough times ahead, I'm sure it is something we will get through. I'm just going to keep her away from the Insane Clown Posse and any boys named "Spike."

I won't do either of those things in this blog post. What I will do is make a confession.

She's 13 today. And I only have five years left with her before I let her go into the mad, mad world. And I miss her already.

Today she walked out of her room, wearing a tight t-shirt with some character from Cartoon Network on it that said something about a moustache, inky skinny jeans, and a flourescent green hoodie. In her hair was a black sequinned headband with a huge bow on it, and she was wearing those orange Dr. Seuss Chuck Taylors. She could be seen from SPACE. But all I could think about was that someday, she is going to walk out of a room, carrying a bag, and I will not be worried about being late for work. I will be worried about leaving her behind in some dorm room with some kid whose parents very well might be homicidal maniacs who let their unsocialized child do nothing but play video games and drink Mountain Dew. THE HORROR. I will worry, and she will not be there to laugh about it. She will belong to the world then.

I am on the downhill slide with Gabby, I guess, and I think it hurts me the most of anything. Gabby has always been with me. She left home when I did, I packed her away to college with me, she moved across the country and moved back with me. She has always been there, by my side. And part of me wants to let her go a little, to see her flourish the way that I know she can, but the other part wants her to mine-all-mine forever. But she won't be.

And dammit, 13 is making me think about that all day. Maybe it is the cruelest age.

But instead of reveling in my own sad-sackedness, I will tell you this about my daughter. She is truly an individual (as the above outfit can attest). I asked her last night what she wanted me to fix her for dinner tonight. We had thought of making ribs or something similar to surprise her, but you never know, so I thought to ask. She thought for a bit, and said "Grilled vegetable skewers." Um, ok. Then she qualifies and says she wants it with hummus and pita (homemade if I can swing it--and I can't today) and tabboulleh. And I sat there and thought, "WHAT IN THE HELL?" When it is my birthday, I go into definite EAT ALL THE THINGS mode. But here stands my 13 year old, telling me she wants to eat VEGETABLES on her birthday?!?

I either did really good with that one, or I totally screwed her up. I'll let you decide and judge away. But at any rate, I'll fill her up with veggies, and see how long I can keep her.

My daughter hates me.

My kids' school is doing this program during the month of March. You can sign up and pledge to read for 26 minutes and run/walk a mile each day. At the end of the month, there is a 5K for the school. Everyone goes and walks around the town and you get t-shirts and the joy of knowing what you accomplished.

I think it is a lovely idea. For one thing, our area is given to horrible health issues, mostly related to obesity and lack of education. This is inspiring the kids in our community to meet those challenges head on. I LOVES IT. When my son brought home the form, I basically told him that I was signing him up. Sam is a great reader (and reads for more than 26 minutes each day on his own), but we could all use a little help in outdoor activities. He seemed excited, and didn't really fight me on it at all. I was a little surprised by this, to be honest.

Then I got the great idea to do it as a family. As a group, we have let the fast pace of life, as well as the presence of the TV and internet get between us and reading as much as we should or could. And then there is exercise.... As I have related before, I do great during spring and summer with exercising. Winter notsomuch. So I need something to inspire me back into good habits. The kids and Matt do as well. After confirming with the husband, I made the executive decision that we would all participate together. I even thought of making our own incentives for good work and making a family challenge to read the most pages/walk the most miles. Seriously. When my mind latches onto something like this, I'm like one of those snapping turtles that you have to wait until it thunders for it to pull loose.

Gabby, however, was not similarly excited. She immediately told me that she had lost the form so I wouldn't be able to sign her up. I asked her to get one at school the next day. Sensing there was another excuse where the other had come from, I called the school and asked them to make sure she got an extra form sent up to her. She was not happy about that. I tried several times to get her to tell me why she didn't want to participate, and the most I could get from her was that her friends weren't doing it and that she "just didn't want to." I explained that we all needed the exercise, and that she, especially, had let a love for technology come between her and reading. I played the college card, telling her that reading now is her best bet at getting into and enjoying college (seriously, as a former test prep person, the only guaranteed way to get a higher verbal SAT score is to develop a love and taste for reading early on). She still abjectly refused to do it. She then said she didn't want to do it because she didn't want to get the free t-shirt because "they never fit right" and she didn't want to wear something like that. I listened to this, but told her it wasn't like I was asking her to wear it everyday, and that she could just put it in her drawer with the t's that she sleeps in.

Finally, she came up with this compromise, where if I didn't sign her up through the school, she would do the program, but not participate in the 5K. I briefly considered this, but decided against it. Her attitude was pretty bad about the whole thing, even going so far as to insult her brother and talking about how stupid the whole thing was. I didn't want a compromise to seem like an acceptance of that behavior.

So I signed the form and positively dared her not to turn it in. And this morning, I made her deliver Sam to the gym so that he could participate in the first pre-school walking work-out. I told her that she didn't have to walk herself, but that she would have to at least make sure Sam got there ok. She, of course, responded by not speaking to me on the way to school, calling me "mean," and slamming the car door in my face.

You know, I was a holy terror when I was her age. I remember yelling at my mom that I wanted to live with my dad, telling her that she was mean and stupid and OH MY GOD ARE YOU FOR REAL?!?! She got so used to it that when I pulled the dad card, she would just look at me straight in the eye and tell me go to pack my bag, that she would wait until he was home from work and call and see when he could pick me up. One time she dialed the number before I told her to stop and sulked off to my room to listen to Prodigy and plot my escape through any OTHER means. So I get it. I really do. Hormones are racing and things are weird and you have to deal with mean girls and first periods and people who don't understand you, because at that age, no one does. I try to tell Gabby that I do get it, but that I can't let this stage in her life keep her or the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. And deep down, I think participating in this with us will be enjoyable. I am deluded enough to think that.

I read these things on the internet about parenting, and so many of them say something to the tune of, "If your kid doesn't hate you, you're not doing it right." I can see that argument. As a parent, you have to toe that line between dictator and friend, and it is only natural that at some points, you are going to fall well over into the dictator side of things. And that's ok. We all--not just kids--need that sometimes. I have to say, though, from my standpoint, it does suck when your kid is so mad at you that they won't even look your way, that they won't even make a comment on the stupid Selena Gomez song that just came on the radio (btw, have you ever seen the video for "I Love You Like A Lovesong"? Gabby and I watch this on YouTube just to laugh at it. That is, when she is speaking to me). You don't want that at all, and any parent that says they do, is lying.

I kinda dread going home today, to be really honest, and part of it has to do with getting Gabby to do anything with this program. I hope she'll be fine with it when I get there. If she's anything like her mom, though, she'll be good and sulky, really wallowing in it by the time I enter the scene and try to ply her with buffalo chicken.

Ah, parenting. Yes, Snooki, this is what you just got yourself into.

Princess Dress

My daughter, Alice, is off the chain. For real, you guys.

This past weekend, my mom was in. When my mom is around, we tend to do two things and two things only: 1) Eat vile, disgustingly bad for you food and 2) Go to Target where we walk around aimlessly. It is glorious. We try on things that look interesting, drink Starbucks and sometimes, buy a bag of that uber-salty popcorn they sell JUST BECAUSE.

Alice really adores my mom because my mom indulges her crazy, wild and go-go-go spirit. She knows that when Memaw is in town, there will be no quiet night at home. There will be full on, tires on the road, fun. This is best illustrated by the fact that whenever she talks to my mom on the phone, she will say, "Where we goin', Memaw?"

So we were walking around Target on a Saturday afternoon, and take a turn by the toddler girls clothes. Alice really has nothing for spring, except for a few things I picked up at the outlet malls to take to Jamaica with us. I was looking at the play-clothes table--you know, that table they have that has $4 tee-shirts and cotton shorts (all my children have had a LOT of those things)--and all of a sudden, I hear, "MOMMY, PRINCESS! I WANT PRINCESS!"

Now, if you know anything at all about me, you know that hearing that was kind of like hearing, "MOMMY, MITT ROMNEY!! I WANT MITT ROMNEY!" Princesses are just not my bag. I don't like the antiquated ideas they give girls about femininity and relationships, and well, I have a deep, inexplicable hatred for the Disney corporation that is borderline hippie and also borderline insane.

I turn around, and Alice is standing there with this amazingly fluffy pink carnation of a dress. It, even in a size 18 months, which is a few sizes down from what she actually needs, was much wider that she is. It was this pinky silk look top with a huge crinoline skirt. For real, ya'll. Go to Target and look for something that looks like cotton candy on a hanger. That is what she was holding.

I say, really noncommittally I might add, "That is a pretty dress." Alice replies by squealing with all the joy of a sailor who just received shore leave and finds that he is at a Girls Gone Wild party. "THEY HAVE A BOW MAMA!!! A PINK BOW!!!"

Gabby was not like this. Gabby was dressed like I dressed--she wore jeans and corduroys and t-shirts and little sweaters. She has been opinionated with her clothes from the very beginning, picking out her things when she was barely old enough to talk, and none of it was ever overtly feminine. Even when she went through a pink phase, it was tempered--her favorite tee had a sparkly skull and crossbones on the front. Even now, with Alice, Gabby and I tend to pick out things that are bright shades of color, not just pink. Alice doesn't like jeans--says they are "hurt-y"--so we buy jeggings and lots of black leggings to layer with dresses or t-shirts or whatever. Left to her own devices, though, Allie goes to the pink. And this is new, weird territory.

By this time, my mom is standing with Alice, and is rustling through the rack of dresses to find a 3T. And Alice is still jumping about, and somewhere in the middle of this, Mom puts a white Easter bonnet on her head. So now she is looking for a mirror and people are starting to look and and remark about the sweet little girl in the hat. One man leans down and says something to her about being cute, and she replies plaintively, "I am getting a princess dress!"

Mom gets excited about buying the dress; Gabby and I stare in disbelief. I do see her point, I guess, when she remarks that between Gabby and myself, she never got to buy pink dresses. This is new for her too, and she is happy about it. She talks Alice into the hat rather than the bow and throws the dress in the cart. I try to talk Alice into a neon yellow cardigan and skirt combo instead (so on trend!), but she's having none of it. Pink princess dress it is.

Mom reminds me that she can wear it for Easter and then around the house to have fun. Truthfully, we don't do anything for Easter outside of our house--we make eggs, and I usually buy a humongo leg of lamb that we slow grill and eat with spring-y things like asparagus and herby tabbouleh. That is Easter to me. Perhaps this year, I will be forced to find some sort of worshipful event so that Alice can wear her dress.

When we got back to the car, Alice had to call Matt and let him know about the dress, and then when we walked in the door that night, she happily eschewed the Dora MagnaDoodle that Mom had also bought in the dead run to get the dress out and show it to her daddy. He was excited, a lot more than I thought he'd be, and oohed and aahed at all the correct moments.

The next morning, Sam and Allie were laying in bed with Matt while I got ready to go to breakfast. Alice climbed on Matt's legs which were bent under the blankets and slid down them like a slide. She bounced around the bed, hitting Sam a few times and causing all manner of mayhem. Matt remarked to her, "You are awfully rough to be such a frilly girl." Alice responded in a booming yell, "I am SUPER PRINCESS!"

Super princess. Couldn't have said it better myself.

Earthy Mom Reality

I recently read this article and I wanted to write about it. I actually wanted to post it to Facebook too, to remind us all that indeed, everything will be ok, but my husband seems to think there is a special place in Hell reserved for people who post articles from European publications on Facebook ("It just shows you are too pretentious to post the same pretentious articles that everyone else posts from the Times," he said after a few glasses of wine one evening). You all, my gentle readers, are a much more forgiving audience. And it, of course, relates to my life and current experience, and since this is my party, here you go.

I have been pretty crunchy with Alice. I cloth diaper, I am still breastfeeding her at two, I co-sleep, we did Baby Led Weaning and buy wooden toys when we can and I bake my own preservative free bread and when my kid gets a fever, I put potatoes in her socks (for real-this works!). I have bought books and more books and yogurt makers and Rockin' Green detergent and essential oils and now Amazon thinks I am a dirty hippie, apparently, as they no longer recommend me mascara but instead Bac-Out and diaper sprayers. I have done it some to save money, some because I thought it best, and yes, I'll admit, some just to see if I could.

And I'll admit as well that there is a certain amount of self-righteousness that goes into it too. I come home from work and after the initial mild anxiety attack about starting my "second job," I get a lot of pleasure from stuffing the diapers, from snuggling the still sweet baby in bed. "Look how good I am," I think. "I could have just bought a box of Pampers, but here I sit, stuffing away, saving money." And yes, I suppose I am, but it is not like I am funneling all that money away into a college fund somewhere. I bought a bunch of eye shadow this week.

Holding hands with that self-righteousness, skipping along beside, however, comes its cousin, Parental Judgement. I try not to judge people for their parenting choices at all, but I still catch myself doing it. I bet we all do. "Oh, so you're giving your kid Mountain Dew....ohh....." "Your breasts are for your husband and not your baby? For real?" "Letting your kid cry it out? CONCERN-TROLL AWAY!" I never confront people about their parenting decisions--as parents we give ourselves enough guilt without some jerk giving us more, amirite?--but I can't stop my brain from thinking it.

Or maybe I can. My reality now is not that much fun, I'm not going to front. I am on my third cup of coffee of the morning right now, just on the mere hope of staying awake and performing slightly well at my job. I have not gotten a decent night's sleep in over two years. Because I co-sleep, Alice is constantly trying to "dream-feed." Although I have weened her from actually nursing during the night (mostly), she still pulls my hair almost constantly, which has always been her way of getting me awake. She does it in sleep, subconsciously, as well as saying, in sleep, "Mommy, I tire" over and over again. So every night when she starts, I go sleep on the couch and on the way there, I start thinking about something, and the next thing I know, it is 6:15 and I have totally reimagined how to organize my closet, but unfortunately, it is time to go to work, and I have not had any sleep. This is not fun. Even if she starts out the night in her crib, at some point, she wakes up enough to come to our bed and then it is all down hill. We are investigating lots of options from this point--moving her to a toddler bed, having Matt do all of the night-time bed stuff so she totally divorces the idea from me, weaning her totally--but nothing is happening fast enough. And we also struggle with the fact that we have a lot of changes coming down the pike during this year (we are planning on moving during the summer) and don't want to do too much at one time for her (we are also working on potty learning, which is something she seems totally ready for). I am trying to parent her the way I have from the beginning--by listening to her cues and doing things based on what she seems ready for--but again, it is not fast enough for me. And here I sit with my coffee, knowing that by the time 5:00 rolls around, I'll be walking in the door as a zombie, but one that is expected to make dinner (with Alice perched on the counter beside me), pick up the house, and listen interestedly as my 12 year old recounts what grievances she has against the American education system and how some other kid in her class is at best a fucktard and at worst a sociopath (my words of course).

So lately, I have caught myself thinking: "I wish I had just put her in a crib. All of this would be over by now." "I wish I didn't have to devote all that time to folding diapers on top of all this." "I wish my kids were just happy with some freaking chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese because if Sam asks for Indian food one more night this week, I'm going to kill a puppy." The judgment has started to fall away. Although there are still those times when I revel in my own crunchy awesomeness, I get it. I see all sides. I'm like this omniscient-Mommy-being with a scepter of truth and honesty and light and a perfect grilled cheese sandwich in one hand a Dora band-aid on the other.

We all make parenting decisions based on what we know at the time. We do our best. No one goes out of their way to just supremely screw up their child. We do what is best for our kid, personally. I did what I thought was best. Was it the right thing? Maybe. Could I have done it differently for a better outcome? Definitely.

It brings me great joy to know, though, that my kid will probably be ok. She'll be funny and bright and self-aware, just as she is now. She won't still be breastfeeding when she is, say 18, and I suddenly need all that money that I should have saved up by using cloth diapers. She'll be thinking about sleeping with someone else at that point, and I will dream of the days when I gazed over at her chubby-cheeked profile and brushed the rapidly growing curls away from her forehead.

And I will be ok too. I got through college, after all, on a slurry of Mountain Dew, espresso, and masochism. In the grand scheme of things, this ain't nothing.

That Other One

If you are my friend on Facebook, you have heard this story, albeit in truncated form. Pardon my overlapping stories--there are only so many things that go through my big old fat head every day that are not "CHOCOLATE!" or "SSSSSHHHHHOOOOOOOEEEEESSSSSS!" (In other news, my life is, indeed, a Cathy comic strip. Ack.)

Last night, my son realized that he needed to do a book report. It is actually due on Thursday, but he has to turn it on Wednesday, as he is going on a gifted and talented field trip on Thursday, and then well, Matt and I are going out tonight and he has to have Matt's help with the book report. Actually, strike that. He doesn't need Matt's help at all--he is fully capable of writing a report and doing a decent job of it--but Matt has to be there for his own self, because he wants to sit over Sam's shoulder and be all helicopter-dad and talk to him about dangling modifiers like he is a 19 year old college freshman and not an 8 year old kid. Being our kid is FUN.

So Matt asks him what he wants to do the report on. And Sam thinks a bit, reconsiders his parameters (Harry Potter and LOTR being off limits as they are over 50 pages long), and then says, "The Nose." Meaning the short story by Gogol. And while I adore that my child reads Gogol, and golly gee is he smart, of course, I am sitting there thinking, "OH MY GOD, MY CHILD WILL NEVER HAVE FRIENDS AND HE DOESN'T LIKE SOUP AND SOMEDAY HE MAY MOVE TO BOSTON!" Because I am a mom and I worry. It is just what I do. If I were a super hero, worrying would be my power. My action figure would have amazing self-wringing hands and a nervous stomach that gurgles during my children's spelling bees.

So all of this is going on, and the house is loud because I'm watching a rerun of Hoarders while I fold clothes (Hoarders related cleaning is amazing--therapeutic and amazingly efficient), and Matt is encouraging Sam to cut it down a little, because left to his own devices, Sam's book report might be 25 pages long. Alice suddenly appears. She wriggles out of her "I love cupcakes" t-shirt, given to her by her adoring big sister. Then she wriggles out of her yoga pants, flinging them to the side just so. Then she is standing there, in nothing but a pink Bum Genius diaper. Effortlessly, and I mean effortlessly, she pulls the snaps open, pulls off the diaper in one swift motion and twirls it above her head as if lassoing something particularly large.

"I'M NAKED!"

That's what she yells, and the house goes a little quiet for a bit. And then she erupts into giggles, turns around and runs into the bathroom, cackling like the little maniac that she is. I am left holding a newly clean t-shirt and wondering if strip clubs offer any kind of benefit packages that does not include all the drinks you can guzzle.

So, yes, I have the two children in the gifted and talented program, one who started a dinner time conversation about hexadecimals the other night and the other who is doing a second grade book report on a satirical short story published in 1835. And that is all well and good. But I also have that other one, and Lord only knows what she will be. Right now, she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up, but when she says that, it also sounds like she is saying that she wants a burrito. All I know is that she has an effervescent smile that lights up the room and that I am so happy that she is mine. Clothed or not.

Just remind me of that the day she calls me and asks me to bail her out of jail. Please.

Getting to Know My Daughter

Over the weekend, my husband and son attended roll-out parties for Dark Ascension, which is some new thing for the Magic game that they enjoy/obsess over. This meant they both stood in front of me over the past two weeks at varying intervals and talked and all I heard was "NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD." I could tell you more about it, I suppose, had I listened without my eyes glazing over. Since the boys were otherwise engaged, the girls and I spent Friday evening and Saturday going out to eat, going to the mall, and listening to really bad pop music in the car. It was GLORIOUS.

One thing about having three kids is that you get to know your kids in terms of the others. You see the way they interact with one another, the way they handle situations differently than their siblings, the differing ways they communicate. You start thinking in terms of "X is more sensitive than Y" or "Y has a shorter temper than X." And even though it sounds paradoxical, this kind of parenting helps you to tailor your parenting to fit the needs of each individual child--you know what methods work for one and are too much for another because you can see the way the whole thing works. I try to spend as much time as possible just being solo with one kid or another, but a lot of times those times feel "functional"--I am taking them somewhere or another, they are just left at home with me while the other does something else, that kind of thing.

Being around Gabby this last weekend showed me how much she has changed. Last school year, I have to say, was a bit of a struggle for us. Gabby was moody, surly, and very nearly overcome with drama at school. It was hard to talk to her at all, much less have any type of meaningful conversation. Any time we had together was a lot of me giving her stern talks about one thing or another. This year she has been phenomenally better--we have all noticed just how much easier daily life is. The best thing is, though, that she really seems to be getting a handle on "who" she is and what she wants her life to be like. This is perhaps one of my favorite things about being a parent so far--seeing this kind of knowledge bloom in a child and watching what she does with it.

Watching her this weekend though, I realized one thing: Gabby is kickass. She is someone that had I known at her age, I would have been completely in awe of. For one thing, when I was in seventh grade, I had no handle on what I was, what I wanted, or what I could be. I was an awkward kid with braces who did much, much better with books than with actual, living people. I had friends, but none that were into the same things as me. To remedy this, I mostly just tried to hide what I was really into, and to be honest, that is something I struggle with even now. Not Gabby. She likes what she likes, and doesn't really care what you think about that. She makes no bones about the fact that no one at her school understands her music, her jokes, the internet memes she is shameless in guffawing at. And she is ok with that. Why wouldn't she be?

Her fashion is also strictly her own. She has a closet full of t-shirts and skinny jeans, mostly all in bright colors. Where she goes crazily off the chain, though, is the accessories. For instance, today I sent her to school wearing a headband that had a Koosh ball attached to it and a pair of orange Dr. Seuss Chuck Taylors. She delights in getting up in the morning and putting together these things. While shopping on Saturday, I asked her if she knew anyone who dressed like her. She just gave me this look, this "God, MOM" look that I know very well because it is my look that I still give to my mom on the regular. And I'm glad she shot me that look too, because I was needed to be reminded that she was in fact mine, and not, say, the love child of Kathleen Hanna and Betsey Johnson.

I have racked my brain all weekend, wondering what I did to make her so awesome, so different from the buck-toothed girl hiding in her huge pants and ratty sweaters. And I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could write it all here and give you all the secrets, or maybe write a book to be handed out in maternity wards: "How NOT To Have One of Those Kids From the Mall That You Hate." I think I just got really, exorbitantly lucky.

Or maybe it was the internet's doing. For once, THANKS AL GORE!

The hottest trend for Spring: NEON Colored Saliva

Reader AKM, who may be the most wonderful person who has ever lived, alerted me to the fact that you can purchase Cry Baby Tears on Amazon. Why I have not looked there is beyond me. No one ever said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer. The last time I found them was in a seaside candy store in Monterey, CA, and the whole thing was kind of charmed, like running into your kindergarten boyfriend and realizing that you share a love for baby hippos and pizza with pineapple on it and that he looks like Morrissey in his prime. I figured there had to be a little bit of special in the air for me to be reunited with my childhood favorite candy. Turns out there just needs to be a little bit o' Amazon.

So while I was sitting here, trying to debate if $23 for candy comes out of the "food" budget or the "fun" budget, and, more importantly, how many Weight Watchers points one box would come out to, I read the comments from other orderers on Amazon. One person noted that they made his/her teeth hurt and tongue bleed. And that is when I remembered the pure, masochistic joy of this candy. Yes, aside from the weird effect it had on my saliva, I distinctly remember eating so many that my tongue bled. And that the mixture of the salty, metallic blood and the tangy remnants of Cry Baby's was oddly good.

Oh, you're stopping reading now?

I grew up during the halcyon days of the late 80's and early 90's. My mom was a hippie parent compared to most around us--she wouldn't let me drink soda until the tumultuous day when my dad and step-mom gave it to me, and the only fruit roll ups I got were these weird ones that were sold in big baskets at the front of the Food Lion and had pictures of fruit on them (they were basically fruit leathers). [Note: I once got tragically and horribly ill on Gushers that I had snuck into the grocery cart, and my mom basically "I told you so'ed" at me while I was puking.] Still, there weren't a whole lot of rules about my food intake. I got to go to McDonald's when I wanted, and my favorite treat was getting to go to Applebee's and order about 15 lemonades and slurp them all down. For instance, every day when I got to my mom's office after school, I bought a Mello Yello and a honey bun. Think about how much sugar is in that. I did that EVERY DAY for years, saving my change and buying it on the sly while my mom did taxes and probably worried about taking me home to feed me a balanced dinner.

Now, there's the obesity epidemic and the president is telling us all how we should and should not eat. We get mad at Paula Deen because she pushes fatty food while knowing the consequences such a diet can bring. And we look at our children, and we all monitor everything they eat. We worry about developing their palates, about making sure they are getting a variety of colored vegetables. I have sat up at night and worried over my son Sam, because he doesn't like soup. SOUP. How will that affect his daily life? What if he gets a wonderful job but is fired for not eating his boss's chili? What if he becomes homeless because of it? What will he eat because HE CANNOT GO TO A SOUP KITCHEN??!?!

I'm not saying we should all go back to not caring what our kids eat. But it does help to think in terms of moderation. Sure, you should expose your kids to a healthy, wide range of tastes. But when I think about those moments of sitting in the back of our SUV on our way to somewhere or the other, munching on so much brightly colored candy that it caused my mouth to declare war on itself, I can't think of a better memory. I kinda hope that my kids have their own special things like that. And if it is a vegetable that they remember so fondly, I think I'd be a little sad.

My Experience with Mary Kay

So. Last night, in the grand tradition of treatin' myself for my birthday, I had a Mary Kay consultant come to my house and show me some foundation. The whole line to get to this point was arduous and fraught with issues--I had an appointment scheduled, then my daughter got sick and I had to cancel, then I got sick, then the consultant went to Atlanta, then I went to Gatlinburg, then....FINALLY, all of the ducks got in a row to where I could do this thing. And it was about damn time. I was almost totally out of the True Match foundation I was using, having to resort to doing an odd, gyrating dance to get the last bit out of the bottle in order to do my face this past week. Being from the South however, ya'll know there was no way I was goin' out of the house with no make-up on. This is the road, surely traveled, to wearing Eeyore pajama pants to the grocery store. HELLS TO THE NO. So gyration it was.

And I have to say here just want a complete darling my consultant was during all this. I had originally contacted her to get some of the Ultimate Mascara that I had heard so much about, and once we started having issues with scheduling, she dropped the stuff off with a friend of mine, no questions asked, along with a bunch of samples and catalogs to get me started. Plus she was super friendly and made the process so easy. Love her.

Anyway, so we scheduled for my birthday. We decided she would come to my house. Now, I'll just say (in the spirit of total honesty) that this caused me a bit of anxiety, as with a toddler in the house during the day, I never quite know what I will be walking into when I return from work. It could be relatively straight and nice looking, sure. Or I could have a pile of baking soda on the floor reminiscent of a scene from Scarface. You never know. I had this fleeting thought, just for a bit, that perhaps my children and husband (who was home before me) would think, "Golly gee. I love my mom. Perhaps I'll clean the whole living room to pristine nature before she returns home from work since it is her birthday and I desire nothing more than her happiness on this, the most special of days." And, of course, I was wildly wrong. When I walked in the door, the kids had sort-of, kind-of straightened up Alice's toys in the living room, but there was a pile of shoes in the area around the door, and an even more tenuous pile of jackets/backpacks/lunchboxes laying on the living room furniture. And there sat my lovely children in the middle of it, playing on their iPods and threatening each other with bodily harm. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM.

So I ran about, hanging up jackets. I went to a little side table we have that at this point is just a repository for Diet Coke bottles and books and thought that I would dust it and get rid of the strange assortment of books. There was a copy of Sartre's No Exit on there, along with a Spanish/English dictionary, some Raymond Carver short stories, and I believe, a history book about presidents. What would the Mary Kay lady, who had been so wonderful to me, think of us upon seeing this collection of tomes? I'll tell you what I would think: PRETENTIOUS, BILINGUAL JERKS. These are the things I worry about, folks. So I reach for the Sartre, and guess what? It is fused to the table. With what, I have no idea. There is a 2 year old afoot. It could have been anything: juice, a forgotten half-chewed fruit roll-up, HUMAN NOSE DRIPPINGS. Anyway, I just left it, hoped no one would look at the table, and made some of that Harry and David cream cheese dip that you make with the relish so that my kids and husband would hopefully be pacified while I got prettied (which, if you haven't tried, is kind of like crack but creamier). By that time, the consultants had arrived. And I had realized that in my rush, I had neglected to pick up the pair of Green Lantern boy's underwear inexplicably laying on the bottom of our entertainment center. F-U-C-K.

And I hope they didn't notice that I live with a bunch of wild animals, because I enjoyed the absolute HELL out of the time they were there. First, they took off all my make-up, and I used the Mary Kay products for cleansing and microdermabrasion. Again, total honesty here: I suck at any kind of skincare routine, even though it was on my 30 b4 30 list. SUCK. Skin care routines and me are like math and me. Sure, I get why it is important. Sure, I can get by. But for some reason, there is a block in my mind about actually doing it with any consistency. But by the time that I was done, my face felt so wonderfully soft and cool and just...nice, I started wondering if Mary Kay could be my skin care rehab. Maybe? The set they sell together is $90, and although I would have loved to go all in on that, I have a few products in my bathroom (a bottle of Cetaphil that isn't even half used, for instance) that I should get through first, and well, there's that whole "feeding my kids" that I should consider as well. But really, next month I am thinking about purchasing it. Especially since I am at an advanced age now. This is something about the Mary Kay experience that I didn't think I would like (washing my face in front of strangers), but I have to say, the products were pretty daggone good and the consultants gave me some tips that I had not considered before. I recommend doing a facial with them, even if it takes you out of your comfort zone a bit.

And then we get to the main event, at least for me, which was foundation. This is where I can't gush enough. I have a horrible time with foundation--HORRIBLE. I have very pale skin, but I have some red undertones, so a foundation that matches my neck might be much too light for the rest of my face. When I was younger, I used Prescriptives foundation that I adored and that really was the only brand that could truly match my problematic skin. But I have used three different formulas, and each time, the color or kind I used was discontinued promptly after I started loving it. I have also used MAC with some degree of love, but the last bottle I bought seemed to change colors on me in the middle of the day and the salesperson I bought it from was a touch rude and the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth (especially for the $40 I paid for it). Strangely, L'Oreal True Match is my go-to foundation, at least lately, but I find myself buying two different shades and mixing them, and for the amount of time and money that takes, I could get a prestige brand that I like more.

I tried to explain this to the consultant, so she started with at least five different shades, doing stripe tests on my cheek. She put me in different light, moving around the sticky table from above (GASP) to see how each worked. Then we got the shade down to two choices and we did half my face in each. And we let it set for a while, while I looked through other make-up choices. Then, finally, the three of us made an executive decision. I ended up getting a 5 in color! A five! Usually, a make-up artist just puts me in whatever is the lightest (usually a 1 or a 0) and goes from there. However, with Mary Kay, the gradation is pretty small within a certain tone (there are three tones), just varying slightly on tint. This makes it much easier to get that perfect shade. I felt so confident with my choice. No make-up artist has EVER taken that much time with me to pick a shade and I have never felt so sure that I was getting exactly what I needed.

The formula for the make-up is pretty rad. I'll admit that it took me a bit to get used to this morning when I was putting it on, mostly because I used True Match before that. True Match is a thin foundation, more like a veil of cover more than anything. The TimeWise Luminous Wear Mary Kay foundation is much creamier. I know this isn't likely, but you put it on and feel like you are doing something good for your skin, not just covering it up. It is a bit thicker too, more of a cover than the True Match. But the finish is luminous, and when I got it all applied the way I like, I could still see my freckles. I feel like I could up it a bit too, for more of a nighttime, DONE look. I am VERY happy with it.

I tried the other make-up too. I feel pretty confident that I'll stick with Nars Orgasm for blush, since I'm nearly married to it in a non-legally binding way, so I can't tell you much about the blush. It looked nice when I put it on, I'll say that. But I am partial to Orgasm (aren't we all?). The mineral eye shadows were perfectly lovely, and I liked them much more than the mineral shadows I've used before. Application was easy and not messy which is my numero uno complaint about any mineral product. Plus, the price ($6.50 per pop) is pretty nice and allows you to customize several different looks without a whole lotta cash. My consultant gave me one of the shadows as a gift, it being my birthday and all. Once I run out of the Benefit cream shadows I am using now, I plan to try some of the other colors. I liked that one of the consultants told me she used the shade I chose (the Honey Spice) as a highlighter both above and below her eyes and on her nose. She said this looks great in photos, and I plan to utilize this trip when I attend a wedding next week.

And since this is getting long, I'll add succinctly, the Ultimate Mascara comes really close to laying-in-bed-naked-with-a-chocolate-truffle-and-Liev Schrieber-levels of awesome. Reminds me a lot of Dior Show, although the brush is smaller and dare I say it, more manageable. Love it, love the price, and this might go on my list of things I will carry with me when I kill over from the horrible disease given to me from drinking my daily bottle (or 2...) of Diet Coke.

After the consultants left, my husband and I were making dinner together and he asked me why I had had the consultant over. He said it didn't seem like something I would normally do. I admitted that it put me out of my comfort zone a bit. I can be a bit standoffish in real life, believe it or not, especially if I don't know someone that well. Initiating any kind of contact that would put a stranger in my house, touching my skin, is not like me at all. But I did like it. A lot. And really, this is the happiest I have felt with my makeup in a long time. So here I am, getting old and trying new things.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to try to figure out how my 8 year old son has not figured out that it is not ok to leave his underwear on the living room furniture.

New Clothes Can Save the World

This past weekend, I had the joy of visiting my cousins and their lovely families, two groups of people that I don't get to spend nearly enough time with. The reason I went, however, was not a pleasant one. My cousin's wife, a beautiful, strong mother and all around cool lady, has cancer, and the outlook is not great. And really, I'm not getting into that, because really, it is between them: my cousin, his wife, and their kids. It is not a good situation, but they are all pretty amazing people who are dealing with it with more grace and love than I could even muster in my finest moments.

But here's the thing that no one realizes: when a person gets sick, things suck, yes. But shit keeps on happening. Your bills are still due, you still have to eat a dinner that can't wholly consist of cookies and ranch dip, the kids don't stop their growing until the drama subsides. So when we arrived at my cousin's house on Saturday, one thing that needed to be done was for us to go to the nearest mall and buy my cousin's kids some clothes. Money was not an issue, none of that. My cousin just had not had time to turn around, much less go to the mall and buy jeans for a pre-teen girl. And let me tell you folks who don't have preteen girls: buying jeans for them is kind of like buying jeans for a baby elephant. Nothing you are going to find will fit on the first try. I refuse to believe that there is a preteen girl alive who fits in the standard size--this is where you get into slim sizes and half sizes and moving up to juniors and all of that. And the baby elephant that you are trying to dress? It is going to continue getting surlier and surlier the more jeans you have to try on it. You are going to spend a good long time trying to placate the baby elephant while finding it jeans, caving and also purchasing a feather headband and then drowning your sorrows at Cold Stone Creamery. So THAT's the battle my cousin was facing, and he was coming into that battle war wounded and without a gun.

I had my daughter with me, in fact, one of the very reasons we had traversed across the state was so that Gabby could spend some time with her cousin. So, with two preteens in tow, my mom and I set out for the mall. We fought the baby elephant, and we got it into new jeans, four pairs even (!) along with sweaters and t-shirts and camisoles and what have you. And we had a jolly, wonderful good time on top of it all. For the hours we were out, my daughter and her cousin were just two girls in a mall, having a wonderful time, with no worries or sickness or strife to bring them down. We came home laden with packages and headbands and bags and stories about an unfortunate lunch lady affectionately named "One Tooth Wonder". And when we got back, both of her parents had smiles on their faces. Their minds were at peace on this one tiny detail, able to put that small bit of minutiae behind them.

I'm not going to lie and say we made it all better. We didn't. This whole thing is a wound that can't be tidily covered with a bandage, forgotten with retail therapy. And driving home yesterday, I struggled with it a little bit. Would it have been better to leave the daughter at home, to ride out more time with her mom before there is no time left? Why are clothes so important? Was this just me forcing my own little bit of crazy on my unsuspecting cousin and his daughter?

But here's the thing. First off, he asked us to do it. Second off, clothes help. In a mad, mad world, full of crazy and pain and things that just should never happen to anyone ever, the clothes you put on can give you a bit of control. In the small act of getting dressed in the morning, you control how the world sees you. And the right clothes give you a bit more, an armor almost. Bad stuff will still happen to you, yes. Things that suck will hit you like a barrage. But the right jeans can help. It is one less thing to worry about, one more thing to have in your arsenal, one more line of defense in a world that refuses to be understood or contained.

The coming days and weeks and months and years will be hard for my cousin, for all of us as a family for we are a close knit group. My cousin's daughter is one of my own daughter's best friends and they text each other daily, along with trips and family events they plan and drag their hapless parents along with. I hope that I can help in some small way. My cousin has been there for me--it was his face that I so happily saw standing outside the hospital room when my son was laying in the in the pediatric ICU, taking Gabby to his house so that I wouldn't have to worry about her, he and his wife who showed up after Gabby was born to goo and gah appropriately when I felt sad and like a total fuck up. I'd do anything for him. And if that means shopping, if that is the little gift I can give to him in thanks, then by all means, I'm thrilled to do it.

On Raising a Girly Girl and Sundries on Facebook (in no particular order)

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while.

FOR YOUR MOM.

Yup. I went there. Felt good, didn't it?

Today is a wet and gross and altogether horrid day. I hate it. It can die in a fire. Nothing particularly awful has happened to me or anything. I just find myself staring out the window and thinking of random things. Give me some precipitation and I become a picture of non-productivity. So what better time to update one's forgotten blog?

I also feel I should post because I just want to write about Alice. Having multiple children is such a trip because of how different they are. And yes, I know this is obvious. No one seriously thinks that they are going to have three little clones, gorgeous in their similarity. But when I had a daughter, I imagined her baby and toddler years would be a lot like my oldest's.

ERNK. Sorry, try again.

Gabby never was that girly. Yeah, she went through a pink phase, and a Hello Kitty phase (where it got all kinds of Mariah Carey up in my grill) but at her core, she's always been a bit strong, a bit more "steel" than "magnolia." I like that about her. She's also a bit aloof, as if any kind of label (like "girly" or "tomboyish") would be offputting on a child such as her. Gabby has been a product of two kids in college, in grad school, reading a bunch of theory. And it suits her amazingly well. But Alice, woah, Alice. Alice's feet hit the floor in the morning, and she's wanting me to do her make-up. She comes into the bathroom where I usually am when she wakes, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her legs still toasty warm from the blanket. And she's reaching for the blush brush. Yes, my daughter wears Nars Orgasm blush nearly everyday. No, I'm not kidding. No, I'm not from Texas, nor was I ever on an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

I'm surprisingly fine with this. Yes, I am still the mother that bristles and complains when Matt calls her "my princess." She's not a princess. But she is a human being who enjoys the feeling of a natural hair brush over her cheekbones, likes the allure of "sparkles" (her word for make-up). To her, it is fun. And I agree. I think it is fun too--have since I was 13 years old and started wearing make-up, only not wearing it on days when inflicted with SEVERE stomach viruses. So I indulge her, and we do it together in the morning. Nothing strong, nothing I feel would cause a reaction with her skin. She puts on barely enough to even see. And we talk, about how we are beautiful without our make-up on. We talk about being strong girls.

Alice is girly in other facets of her life as well. She loves clothes and accessories--necklaces especially. I think this is a shared family trait because at just a little younger than her, Sam was obsessed with having things around his neck (his favorites were a big pink boa and a men's necktie that had a picture of the Eiffel tower on it). She tends toward the pink in life--she has a pink dump truck that she loves and at night when I put her down to bed, we look up at the ceiling and imagine that we are seeing a beautiful night sky. Sometimes she says she sees a plane, or a bird, or a light. But every night the moon is always pink in her little mind's eye (somtimes the stars are black, which seems to be her other favorite color, interestingly, and yes, I've dissected that like the good English major I am).

But conversely, she ADORES her big brother. And even more, his room. She goes in there and picks up cars and action figures and brings them back into her toys. The other day I found a Star Trek figure sitting in her Little People Doll House. She has become obsessed with a Batman Batcave of his and will retrieve it anytime anyone has the fool idea to put it back in Sam's room.

And then, last night, I was folding some towels. I usually watch TV while I do this, but in this case, I had the TV off. Alice came toddling in and said, "Mama, we watch baseball?" I went over to the TV happily, looking for the pregame to last night's world series. As soon as CJ Wilson's face came up, stats all around, she said, "I like watchy baseball wit you." She said it while wearing these absurd baby headbands around her neck (they are her necklaces, she says), a psychadelic patterned summer tank top she wanted to sleep in (with purple diaper and Minnie Mouse pj pants, mind you) and holding a tube of Benefit That Gal highlighter in her chubby little paw.

Yup, that one's mine.

So during the time that I'm not raising the most awesome child in existence (aside from my other two of course), I spend some time on Facebook. Don't we all? And here's the thing. I think we all have our beefs with this particular little piece of social media, but how do you resolve them? I am asking for your input on these, gentle reader. Fire away.

a) Can you defriend a family member if that family member has posted something so strange and rather off-putting (nothing political or religious, mind you) that you can't think of this person without a little uneasy giggle? Will they ever notice? What will Christmas be like if you did?

b) How wrong is it to just be friends with someone for the sheer fact they make you feel better about your own life?

and lastly:
c) What do you people spread on your pictures before scanning them? I know this one lady, who I could swear spreads about an inch worth of baby oil on each and every picture of her children and then scans it on a scanner she bought back when her screensaver was a flying toaster. And I'm sitting there wondering what in the immortal fuck I'm looking at, and people are commenting like crazy with "Lovely picture!" and "He is so cute!" Cute? That three headed beaver is cute?!?! Oh, that's her son. Nevermind. Perhaps I should pull out some old baby pictures of myself, get a bucket of vaseline and scan them up. Perhaps you will think I am cute then.

And let me just say this: when I call you, I don't want to hear music. I WANT TO HEAR RINGING, NOT YOUR FUCKING RING BACK TONE. The Beethoven you picked for Verizon to play for me does not make you seem smarter, nor does the country song about needing some rest make me think anything other than that you are an evil dumbass and that I prefer the sound of the freaking phone ringing. Because it is a phone. I'm calling you, probably for something you don't want to be called for. You don't have to entertain me. I have this thing called the internet for that.

I feel much better now.

Let's Talk "Birthday"

Alice turns two a week from today. This is a monumental event. Not really because of the birthday itself, per se, but because at that point, we will officially be in the "Terrible Two's" and I'll be able to explain any of her wild behavior by saying, "SHE'S TWO, FOR CHRISSAKES!!!" Perhaps then whoever I'm talking to will understand a bit and put down the taser and the elephant tranquilizers.

I'll just be straight and say that sure, I remember my kid's birthdays. If you manage to push something out of yourself that weighs over five pounds or so you tend to remember the date(s) you did it. However, it sure doesn't hurt that starting about a month before each one, my mother starts asking, "What you going to do for Alice's birthday?" And I have to start coming up with something to get her off my back. I've started to get really creative. When she asked for about the fourth time while we were at the beach (which says something about her nutty-professor forgetfulness), I said, "Well, I thought about getting some strippers and one of those cakes in the shape of a penis. And I'm thinking of calling Vince Neil and see if he'll do the entertainment." I don't think she has asked since. What's funny is that now my father has gotten into the act. Ya'll, we are at Threat Con Delta when my dad is starting to get curious about birthday parties. I even went, "Seriously? You're asking me about this?" He goes, "Um, yeah," and I say, "Well, ok, um....."

I'm not one of those mothers, as you've probably guessed, that thinks about her kid's birthday parties for a year. My husband used to work with someone who reserved spaces for her kids' parties up to two years in advance. I know of people who get caterers. Nope. Not me. I definitely want my kids to have a special day, but there's a limit, you know? And even if I don't spend the better part of my life obsessing over it, I think I throw a pretty mean party. Here's what I do:

1. Buy some streamers and some plates with whatever character/color the kid likes.
2. Clean the house.
3. Make a bunch of food. People like food. I like preparing food. We're good.

There. Done. There is really not a lot of planning involved. ESPECIALLY when your kid is 2. I mean, what is she going to do? Have a crapload of people over and do body shots? Fly her closest friends to Vegas? SHE'S TWO. She knows very few people outside of our families, and even if she knew everyone in our area code, the fact remains that SHE IS TWO. Give her a spoonful of frosting and a cardboard box with a wooden spoon and she's good for a couple of hours.

I've kind of pulled the whole thing out of my ass, basically just to answer the myriad "What are you doing for Allie's birthday?" questions, but here's my plan. Ask everyone to bring a book since that is her favorite thing (besides, of course, destroying Tokyo). Dress her up in a red dress and striped tights so she looks like Olivia, her favorite character. Make lots of red foods, since Olivia likes red and Alice loves tomato sauce. BOOM. Did I just blow your mind with my party planning magic? Really? Because I literally came up with that shit in the 30 seconds of saying "Uhhhh...." after my mother in law asked what I was doing for the anniversary of my child's birth. Oh, and make this cake. I don't know why I want to do that so badly--I assure you, it is mostly for my own selfish reasons such as I love making Martha's swiss meringue buttercream, I have a lot of gel food coloring that I like using (I keep it in a tackle box!), blah blah blah.

When I was a kid, my mom would bake me a Wilton cake, this (obviously) being one of my favorites. One year she did that and bought me a whoopie cushion. That was the best birthday EVER. Sure, I got gifts every year. But there was no big party. Sometimes I got a sleepover. But that was it. I had two parties that didn't take place in our living room--one at McDonald's when I was four, and another at the Pizza Hut across the road from my house. I am just fine, ya'll. I'm not going to go shoot up a party supply store because I didn't ever have pony rides on my special day. My kids will be fine too. In fact, I'm sure they'll look back and think, "Golly gee whillickers, that sure was fun!" Because birthdays are fun by their very nature. You eat cake, you get gifts, people wear funny hats. No pony rides needed.

My only real issue right now is setting the date. Matt has this thing where he thinks we should do the party on her actual birthday, but that is a Thursday, and I know I'll be super tired from work and from whatever else life decides to throw my way that day (the universe doesn't give you a freebie on your kid's birthday, I'm sorry to report). I want to do it Labor Day weekend where I have some time and everyone can come and not feel stressed about getting back home/to work/etc. That will be a little bit after her actual birthday (like a week and a half), but SHE'S TWO, lest we forget. And I thought we'd do a little something on her day, like I'll make her some enchiladas (thinking of making this weekend and putting in the fridge/freezer so that I get maximum play time with her that day) and maybe a Wilton cake of my own (a small one). Just a little recognition of the day. Does anyone think that is neglectful of me? I hope not.

So weigh in on birthdays, if you like? Big deal or not so much? What was your most memorable childhood birthday? I'd love to hear about it.

Dear Alice:

This past week, Alice, we went on a vacation to Washington, D.C. You will remember it kindly as the "trip where Mama threatened to sell me to gypsies."

Alice, I love you, more than words can ever express. You are amazing in the way you can light up a room, in the glorious effervescence of your face and actions. You are bubbly and bright and you have the most amazing smile.

But, girlfriend, you are, in the words of my grandmother, SOMETHING ELSE.

During our one week trip, you did the following: 1) terrorized a tiny Chinese restaurant until the management plied you with extra chop sticks and some cookies, 2) tried to escape a Metro car, 3) yelled "GOD LO-OVES YOU" (which you learned at bible school a few weeks back) over and over again to every person walking between the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument with us like some crazed Jehovah's Witness with a methamphetamine problem, 4) picked up about 40 sticks in a park and then laid them at the feet of the poor guy who was supposed to be leading us on a Lincoln Assassination walking tour, 5) other things too numerous to even begin to count.

Part of this is our fault, I suppose, in that we didn't really consider the fact that you would be nearly two years old when planning this trip. Our bad. Another part of this is that your behavior has gone to 11 this past month or so, the trip being no exception. So while we could have seen this coming, I guess, I don't think there was any way to really know how, erm, far-reaching your personality development would be. At this point in your short life, it is hard to guage what you will be from minute to minute--for instance, you were fine at other restaurants we visited during our trip. Perhaps you just didn't like the decor of that poor Chinese establishment.

And as much as your behavior exasperates me at times, I have to say that I love it. You are spirited in a way that is refreshing and fun, in a way that is much different from your older siblings. Sure, you're a bit loud at times. Yeah, you like to run. But you are also sweet and kind, and whenever I say something to you about it, you go, "Saw-wee, Mama!" and I can tell that you genuinely are. I want to see you have that spirit forever, that wild-eyed lust for life. I posted a picture of you on Facebook with that gleam in your eye, and a friend commented that she wished she could bottle your happiness. I agree wholeheartedly, wishing that I could bottle it for when you turn 12 and have some kind of boy issues or a friend who is not so much a friend any more. I sincerely hope that I can always look into your eyes and see that burgeoning mischief.

You and I are alike in a lot ways--same kind of rebellious spirit, same general joviality. In a way, I almost look to you, wishing I still had a bit of that wildness, that devil may care attitude. I think of that, of a tattoo that I've wanted to get since college, and think that because of you, I might just do it.

So, Alice, no matter how many sighes I heave, no matter how many cross words leave my tongue, I never really want you to change. Sure, I don't want to have to apologize for the 10th time to the poor little woman with the cookies and chopsticks, and I'd rather not have to whisk you away to the bathroom for a break when we're in a museum and you discover how to make yourself snort. I do expect a modicum of good behavior. But that wild spirit? I don't want it to be tamed, not now, not ever.

Love,
Mom

DIY Can SUCK IT

This is going to come off a bit ranty. Fair warning, ya'll. This has been brewing in my psyche, worming its way around my brain through vacations and sleep and Pinterest sessions. And especially on Facebook. Facebook can just suck it.

Here's the thing. I am not crafty. Nor am I artsy. The lowest grade I ever made in high school (and no, I'm not shitting you) was in Home Ec, most notably, the sewing section. I made this absolutely atrocious pillow with a bunny on the front that I gave to my grandmother (aka, the sweetest woman on earth) for Christmas, and even she was like, "Um....thanks?" I have been tempted throughout the years to take up knitting or crocheting or something else equally as benign and then found myself cursing wildly within the first five minutes OF READING THE INSTRUCTION BOOKLET. It is just not in me. Just as it is not in me to understand science, science fiction or any of the Lord of the Rings novels.

So I guess I'm coming at this whole thing already at an 0-2 count. I know I can't do it, so subconsciously, maybe that is what is fueling my rage. Take it with a grain of salt, I guess.

But, I can't help but get a little, well, perturbed, when I see all this DIY stuff floating around on the interwebz. Like I am supposed to, as a woman, have this huge desire to make my own glue for my kids and sew their clothes and make little envelopes out of fabric for them so that when they get up each day, they can read a little inspirational note from me (an example I've thought of: "Gabby, If you don't pick up your laundry, I am going to staple it to your face. LOVE YA! MOM"). Yeah, I'm not going to do that. If you want to, whatever, I don't care. If you want to do it while naked, while smoking a bong, while listening to George Jones' Greatest Hits, I still don't care. Live and let live, ya'll. What I do, in fact, care about is the prevailing thought amongst many DIY-er's that I have encountered that you HAVE to do it. That it is not optional. That if you don't, it is tantamount to giving your kid a bottle full of Mountain Dew and a straight razor and saying "HAVE AT IT. Call me if you bleed or something."

This, I think, is just one more thing that we women have to struggle with in this endless battle of trying to be perfect. Or rather, to appear as though perfect. At last count, I figure that we all have to be doing the following on a daily basis:
1. Get up. Look perfect. Exercise. Put on a face full of make-up and blow out your hair every day to perfection. Be careful to not look "too" good though, because people might think you are having an affair if you do. Wear heels, but not really high heels, because really high heels mean that you are a slut and that you don't care about your children.
2. Fix a perfect breakfast buffet (with options for picky eaters!) for your children. Eat a banana and drink black coffee and call it a morning. In the middle of this, pack lunches that you have homemade, preferably of ethnic foods so that child does not become a bad eater.
3. Get everyone to school while quizzing kids with homework trivia on the way.
4. Go to work. Do perfectly. Smile a lot.
5. Come home to clean home. Clean it some more.
6. Make child a dress and supervise a craft project using homemade glue and a castle made out of an old pool noodle.
7. Prepare a lovely dinner. Not too much sugar! Go easy on the butter, FATTY!
8. Shuffle everyone to bed. Make sure no one has spent more than two hours looking at a screen of any kind. Wash behind everyone's ears.
9. Have amazing, glorious sex with husband, preferably utilizing three different positions, a feather, and a garter belt. Don't want anyone to get bored!
10. Go to sleep for 8 wonderful hours.

Ya'll, I'm just going to honest here, which is not something you see on the internet that often. This was my day yesterday.
1. Get up. Try not to wake baby who is saying "MOMMY" in her sleep. Turn on shower so that I can't hear her anymore.
2. Put dry shampoo on my hair since I'm too lazy to wash it. Hot roller the heck out of that crap. Curse loudly when I realize I'm out of Bumble and Bumble Setting Spray. Baby, who had gone back to sleep, rustles around. Say "FML" under my breath.
3. Strap on a pair of leopard print heels that are high enough to warrant future back surgery on my part. They are comfy though, and I like them.
4. Walk out through overgrown yard that my husband and I neglected to pay $80 to have mowed while we were gone on vacation. Be vaguely worried that neighbor will come out and give me a glare.
5. Drive to work with the gas light on. Drive to McDonald's to buy some oatmeal, but realize the line is too long and I'm a tad late. Go without breakfast. Remember to call the water company about the bill I totally forgot to pay before we left for our trips and blame them for my own forgetfulness since they are too stupid to automatically withdraw like every other company in the whole damn world.
6. Get to work. Wait until everyone is gone to meetings and curse at the typewriter for being a bitch. Forget to call someone about a meeting. Hang out on Facebook until I get mad at all the people posting how many miles they ran the night before while I was eating a strawberry shortcake at TGI Friday's.
7. Have a busy day and end up not eating lunch, but I did manage to solve some printing issues and get a shit ton of work done. Be happy with myself. Husband calls and tells me to pick up some butter on the way home. Curse husband.
8. Leave work. Buy gas and butter and get mildly happy when a weird kid checks me out at the gas station. Go to Pal's and buy a humongous tea and a large order of french fries.
9. Get home to messy house with the still overgrown lawn. Pick up baby who is wearing mismatched winter pajamas (that's on Matt, though). Sit down on couch with several catalogs and a big pen. Mark "must have" and "dream" purchases while baby watches Olivia. Pretend that I'm watching as well.
10. Remember that I have to do laundry from the trip. Start it. Moan a lot about it.
11. Remember that I have two other children. Go see them in their rooms. Child 1 is both texting a cousin in Richmond, while using her DS to talk to the same cousin. That's two screens. Child 2 is playing Magic on the Playstation and starts harassing me about buying him some more cards. Tell him I'll do it Wednesday. Make no plans to actually do that on Wednesday.
12. Fix mashed potatoes with lots of butter and honey glazed carrots with extra honey for supper while husband grills steaks. Delight in the unhealthiness of my contributions.
13. Clean off table but leave dishes dirty in the kitchen because we are out of dishwasher tabs and both of us forgot to buy them, and I did enough dishes for one day while I was making supper.
14. Play with youngest kids on the floor. Find a half eaten banana laying on top of the TiVo.
15. Leave husband in the living room with Child 2, still playing Magic. Check on Child 1 who is now watching something on TLC and still chatting on two devices with her cousin. Take Child 3 to bed. Find Java Chip Frappuccino ice cream in the freezer and decide that I love my husband again, despite the butter incident. Give him a hug, which he is surprised about.
16. Eat the whole single serving ice cream thingie and pass out in bed while watching Hoarders, leaving make-up on. Leave husband to put other children in bed.

Now, I have better days. I was insanely tired yesterday from our trips and having arrived home at 2:30 the night before. But still. That's a pretty accurate portrayal of hum-drum life. It is not perfect. I am not perfect.

But there is a lot of love in the imperfection. Last night, Alice fell asleep and I looked at her, the same chubby cheeked profile she's had since birth. She is happy and loved and fun. My son is the kindest, most sensitive soul that I know. And my oldest daughter is amazing and funny and wise. I love them, and while I don't show them that love with crafts and love notes, it is there, and it works for us.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I should get back to work. And quit being vaguely tempted to try to make Alice a pillowcase dress (I have the cutest pillowcases from my college apartment, ya'll. It would be so cool---um, NO.)

Back in Black

Last night at about 2:30 a.m., I returned from my myriad vacations. Ya'll, I am tired. But I am happy.

This has to be sort of short and sweet because I have a crazy amount of things to do, especially given that my poor, sad children return to school in TWO DAYS. But know that I am well, and I have a shit ton of stuff to opine about. Namely:

1. What it is like being married to a living, breathing incarnation of Clark Griswold.
2. What I REALLY think about our nation's capitol.
3. God, I've got to get out of this place.
4. And by "this place" I mean this town. For real this time. No backsies.
5. And, most importantly, OH MY GAH it's time for FALL and I want LEATHER AND TWEED. In my head right now, "I Want Candy" by Bow Wow Wow is playing in a constant loop and I'm raiding a Nordstrom in complete ecstasy.
6. Oh, and I'm trying to be more fiscally responsible because you know, "adult," "moving," "freeform jazz," "tax exemption". And also because my husband told me to. And he used big words and moved his hands a lot. And well, because there's grad school, which looms out there. And none of this jives with number 5, does it?
7. Fuck that noise. SHOES.

Alternative Punishments for Alternative Children

The other day, I was down at my grandmother's house with my kids. They were wiling away on her couch, looking at some iPhone app or something, and then all of a sudden, the two older kids started tusseling. There was some good natured giggling, then a couple of "ow's" and then before I knew it, they were really going at each other in that brother/sister type way. I don't think anyone was really in danger of getting hurt, but I really abhor violence of any kind because on one hand, I'm a hippie dippie kinda gal, and on the other hand, the noises they were making were damn annoying. So I break them apart. Gabby retreats to the recliner, Sam lays wounded on the couch, clutching his iPod. And I decide in my great motherly wisdom that now is the time for a "Life Lesson" about violence and making annoying sounds while in my grandmother's house (never mind that my grandmother wasn't paying attention to any of this, as she was doing her best to turn Alice into one of those morbidly obese kids you see on Maury). So I sit down and look at both of them and adopt my stern voice and start to tell them about why fighting is not a good idea. And I am really intending on bringing it around, talking about violence inherent in the system and golly gee, I'm really trying to think of something topical and cultural to really drive it home, and all of a sudden, Gabby, in a perfect deadpan, starts singing, "Everybody was kung-fu fighting...."

And that's all it took. I tried to swallow my laughter, but it didn't work, and there I sit on the couch, just chortling away. Sam starts laughing too, just really going at it, and his laugh is truly amazing, so that just makes it all worse, and before I know it, we are all laying on the couch in a shaking, giggling heap, and Alice is standing in the doorway, clutching her second ice cream cone of the hour and going, "What do?" which makes us all laugh harder.

PARENTING FAIL.

And then last night, Alice started throwing the bowl of popcorn that she had begged and begged for, all over the bed. At first, I just said no. But she didn't stop, so I reached out and kind of made a slapping motion at her hand. I didn't really hit her, but I thought the motion might shock her into putting her handful of popcorn down peacefully and retreating into good-childom. It did. And she even acted as though I hurt her (remember: I did not touch her), so I kissed her hand and politely told her to not do it again, why it was bad, the whole bit. For one minute, she just sat there and watched the All Star Game with me. And then, she picks up another handful of popcorn and loudly shouts, "DO AGAIN!" at which point I realize she wants me to punish her again.

I guess I don't have to say this, but SECOND PARENTING FAIL.

I really suck at the whole disciplinary thing. It is funny, because a good deal of Gabby's friends think I am the strict mom, since we have a mandatory bedtime in our house and I have absolutely refused to buy her a cell phone until she is 13 (with my patented response to the inquiry at "Who are you going to call? Dora?"). I have also taken the very mean and awful, Medici-esque steps of outlawing those sweatpants with writing on the ass and not allowing anyone in my house to step out of our yard wearing pajamas. CRUEL, I TELL YOU. But when it comes to actually laying down the law, I talk a big game, but very often, I crumble. And when it comes to things that I find to be amusing, I absolutely cannot keep a straight face or carry out my original mission. In short, I'd make a very lousy terrorist and Dr. Phil would probably really lay into me, given the chance.

So I have devised a new list of punishments for my hellion offspring.

1. If anyone brings home a bad grade (and yes, in my house, that equals anything "B" or lower), I will put that person in the front seat of the car, and I will drive around our town, blasting Blackstreet's "No Diggity" windows down. I will loudly sing every word, and when I see someone that that child knows, however vaguely, I will yell "PLAY ON PLAYA" at that person until I get a response.
2. Anyone caught doing anything vaguely unsavory on Facebook (and yes, I keep tabs on these things and have the passwords) will have baby pictures tagged by me. And I will tag them while the child in question has been grounded from internet devices and cannot un-tag. I will also feel free to post things on the Wall of the offender, including, but not limited to, poems of adoration and a great number of posts that begin with the words "Remember that time that you peed on yourself?"
3. Anyone caught being mean to a sibling will be forced to clean the kitchen on a day after I make roasted chicken (have you see the roasting pan post-chicken?--ick). I will also make some kind of bread that has to be rolled out and--oops!--I will forget to use a cutting board to roll it out on. And yes, I'll check between the tiles to make sure the cleaning has been thorough.
4. A child caught lying to me will have garage cleaning duty for a weekend. Prior to the actual garage cleaning, I will leave the door open for a night so we can get a nice mixture of creatures milling around in there. Feral cats FTW!
5. An untidy room means you get to sit and watch a Hoarders marathon with me. I don't think that is punishment, but I'm sure they will, especially when I sit there and play-by-play it. "Oh, they're going to open the bathroom! Five bucks says the water has been off for 5 years and there is a bag of excrement in there. Wait for it....OH YEAH! BAGS OF POOP! TOLD YA! PAY UP!"

I am lucky that my kids are pretty good little creatures because I'm really running out of ideas. Or maybe I'm not lucky. All of these sound like they'd be pretty fun for me. Maybe I really do have the soul of a dictator....

Summer Survival Guide, Part II: The Bathing Suit

Just the mere mention of the words "bathing suit" has the power to turn even the most ardently feminist, logical, level-headed among us into a squealing mass of estrogen, tears, and chocolate shavings. I don't care how thin you are, how peaceful and zen you are about your body, you probably have some jiggly bits that you are less pleased with showing to the world. ACK, indeed.

However, bathing suits are a very real reality, especially if you have kids. There is the errant pool party or the incredibly hot day where anything else on your body feels oppressive. I spent a couple of years in CA when I didn't buy one--the beaches in Norcal are not prime bikini spaces--but really, I'm happier when I have one in my arsenal. Think of all the joyful moments of your childhood. Summers in the water, friends at the pool....in how many of them were you wearing a swimsuit? If you are anything like me, you have more than your fair share. Having a bathing suit that is comfortable that you like and enjoy is like having a key to a whole bunch of summer fun.

Getting to that point, though, can be a bit trying. I don't know anyone whose idea of "fun" is defined by taking a stack of bathing suits to the dressing room. And we've all been there, haven't we, doing the best we can under the harsh lighting, trying to make sense of what magazines tell us will surely flatter us and then finding that perfect suit in your size. It really is horrible, and actually, very avoidable. Quick tips for you (in list form because that's the way I roll):

1. Order your suit online. The easiest thing to do is skip the whole shebang and order online. That way, you can try things on in the comfort of your own home and do a whole bunch of crazy moves to make sure it stays in place/flatters your boobs in all positions. Make sure, however, to find an online company that has a great policy for returns. You can do a couple of things here--a) either order a panoply of sizes and pick the best fitting of the options, or b) talk to a service rep, either by chat or by phone about picking the perfect suit. This is what I did last year. I knew I have quite an issue with bathing suit--I have big knockers, and a not so big waist and very problematic hips--so I got on chat and talked with a Land's End representative. If you go this route, be ready with a tape measure to give them your measurements. The rep will be able to tell you not only your size, but what suits they offer that can most play up your assets. They can also guide you as to what styles come in special sizes. For me, I had to get a top that had DD cup sizes if I wanted to order my dress size in tops OR I could get a bikini top (that did not have a DD cup option) in a larger number size. I ended up ordering one top and one bottom and when it came in, it fit like a glove. Crisis averted.

2. If you can, pick a suit that you can mix and match with other pieces. I am going to risk sounding like a huge Land's End commercial with this post, but really, I'm so in love with their suits that it will just have to be that way. My suit last year was a tankini with low rise bikini bottoms from their Beach Living collection--black with white polka dots. I wanted to order more pieces at the end of the year, but this desire got kind of tabled when I started seeing fall stuff hitting the stores and wanted that more. What can I say? I'm like a dog going after something shiny. At any rate, I had the tankini and that was enough. However, earlier this summer, Land's End put some of their pieces from last year on super, super sale. I was able to get a bikini top and a swim mini in the same matching print in my size and ready to go for a SONG. Like, less than a song, like a clip of a song. And the fit is still the same and looks amazing. I was chatting with another blogger about this and she said she had done similar things with the swimsuits from Land's End Canvas--she had a great navy blue tankini from there last year, and this year, was able to score cute orange striped bottoms that looked complementary, as well as navy blue boardshorts. If you go relatively neutral, you can really play with it and come up with a swimsuit that is as unique as you are. And having an extra change is perfect for those days when your suit is still wet but there is fun to be had.

3. Once the suit comes in, test it. I call this the "Do a Load of Laundry" test. When you try on your suit for the first time, keep it on. Walk around your house and do normal stuff. Can you do a load of laundry without adjusting yourself? For me, if I can navigate the toys in the living room, pick up a child, switch the clothes around, walk back in the living room, laundry basket and kid in hand, fix a sandwich, turn on a baseball game, and fold the laundry, all without being uncomfortable or showing part of my genitalia, I may have found a winner. Come up with your own test, and if you can complete it, it's a keeper. If not, keep looking.

*This test also applies to high heeled shoes, thongs, and shorter skirts.

4. Know your limits. I have really tried to shy away from blanket statements like "Don't wear a bikini if you are over 40" or "Don't wear anything in neon green." I think we all basically know what styles and colors do us no favors. For instance, if you have over a B-cup, please do not wear one of those triangle tops. Unless you are just really, really happy with your uber perky bosoms that can, you know, stand up and do tricks on command. But really, only you can know exactly what your limits are. I used to think that I would never wear a bikini top (as opposed to a tankini). But now, I'm kinda thinking that the one I have is a fun, cute look and flatters me. Remember that as long as you are confident and own the look, you can get away with a lot more. If you aren't confident, you're going to look like shit, even if you've been doing P90X everyday for the past five years. So find the suit you want, make yourself happy with it, and rock the hell out of it.

5. Don't wear pants at the beach. Remember the video for Wilson Phillips' "Hold On" (which was my JAY-UM way before Bridesmaids came and co-opted it)? They're all singing and they're happy and they're feeling it and my God after all these years, I still want Chynna's hair, and wait...they're on a beach. And Carnie is wearing a suit? Were you fooled then? Did you think that maybe she was a size 2 because all of her fluff was hidden by a curtain of black polyester? No? Well, no one else was either. And they won't think you are suddenly thin if you show up to the beach in pants. Buy a bathing suit that you like, rock it, and fuck that haterz. No one is looking at you anyway--they're too busy looking for sharks/reading that tell-all about Suri Cruise's shoe closet/giving their husband sand boobs/HAVING AWESOME FUNTIMES BEACH FUN. NO ONE CARES IF YOU HAVE BUTT DIMPLES. And if they do, well, you shouldn't want to impress them anyway. They probably watch a lot of Nancy Grace and call "frappuccinos" "frah-pu-CHIN-os." Bastards all.

Here are some links to help you on your journey. If you haven't ordered a suit yet (and I realize I'm pretty late in the game with this post), you're in luck because there are some jim-dandy sales going on.

This tankini is similar to mine, although mine is a halter. Note that you can get D, DD, and DDD cup sizes, along with a host of other choices.

Swim mini's are great in between bikini waxes (just sayin').

The Crew always has beautiful one pieces in amazing colors if that is your thing. I used to have one--purchased for a song on Ebay--and it was lovely.

Old Navy is the master of the mix and match suit. Especially if you don't have the healthy bosoms (does it creep you out when I say "bosoms"? Cause I'm giving myself chills over here.)

My mom likes these.

Finally, a quick story as to why all this is important: my elementary school boyfriend runs our local pool. Yeppers. And my daughter, who I may have disowned shortly after this incident, managed to squeal "MOMMY, IS THAT THAT GUY THAT YOU SAID YOU LOVED IN LIKE FIRST GRADE OR SOMETHING WHO CAN DO THAT LIZARD FACE?" In front of him. While I was wearing a bathing suit. Ah, yes.

Anyone want a 12 year old for hard manual labor? Preferably something that involves poop?