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!

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.

UHHHHH......

Yesterday my son received the Star Wars Blu-Ray movies that he has been pining for like you would not believe. It took both my husband and I calling our rural post office and insisting the package was there to which we both got the lovely and heartening response, "Ya'll get a lot of packages, but I ain't-a seen thattun." Finally, it was located, and Sam was able to actually breathe and untangle his hands from the balls of pure fury and nerdy angst that they had become.

He, of course, wanted to watch at least one of the movies, so after dinner, the boys kind of took over the living room. I disappeared to my room, hoping to be unseen with a few catalogs and my phone, but the girls decided they wanted to chill with me, so the next thing I know, we're all piled up in the bed, each girl with her own device, making stupid jokes and watching YouTube videos.

Gabby and I were discussing the case against Lana Del Rey when it got a little quiet, and the next thing I know, Alice, who had been playing Dora rather complacently, let's loose with an "OH, FUCK."

Now, my first reaction was to laugh, because I'm a horrible person and videos of children swearing get me every time. I feel the same way about old people rapping. But for all of my sailor-talk on here and everywhere else, really, I don't really swear in front of the kids. I just don't ever really have a need to. I say things to Matt, and I'm sure they've overheard me drop a few things here and there. But I just don't do it. I don't have a problem with people who do at all. To be honest, it is not something I've actively thought about--it is just something that I find myself not doing. Matt, however, has been known to drop some bombs in front of the kids, mostly because he is much easier angered than me. That, and he seems to bite his mouth a lot while eating. So I have no doubt that she's heard that word before. She could have repeated it from that, or really, she's two--she could have just been putting nonsensical things together to see how they sound. You know. Like the kids do these days.

Anyway, I finally get around to saying something to the effect of, "Alice, you shouldn't say that word. It is not nice." But Gabby was OF COURSE chortling like a maniac, so now Alice is saying "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK," just trying to get a rise out of her adored big sister. I decide to just leave it alone, and ask Gabby to do the same. She'll either forget about it, or she won't, but hopefully when she is feeling a little jocular and more removed from the situation, I can remind her that that is not a nice word and that she should never, ever, ever say it in front of my mother in law because Daddy doesn't her to know that he's the kind of pinko scum that Bill O'Reilly warned her about.

And I'll just be honest, I was laying there in bed with the two of them, Baby Fuckgate somewhat forgotten after five minutes, congratulating myself on being a pretty good parent and yes, tweeting about it. I had not let the situation get out of hand. I had remained calm. I didn't yell or blame or admonish. I just dealt with it. I was now fully qualified to write a quasi-informed article for the Wall Street Journal telling everyone else how horrible their spawn was and how much better mine are in comparison. HUZZAH!

We're back to having a jolly good time again, and Gabby is doing her newest version of Rick Rolling me, which is to play the Black Eyed Peas and do odd dances until I beg for mercy. And out of nowhere, she goes, "I heard Rihanna got back with Chris Brown."

OH. FUCK. (I MEAN FUDGE. MAPLE WALNUT FUDGE!) This is not something I want to discuss. After the beating took place way back when, I had had a series of uncomfortable conversations with Gabby about it. It is not easy to explain this kind of thing, you know. At the time, she enjoyed music by both artists, and had that weird feeling that we all get when someone we admire does not live up to our expectations or in the case of Rihanna, is harmed in some way. Plus, she had (and actually still has) a much more glamorous idea of the music business than what most adults have. She was imagining this all happening on Camp Rock soundstage--not in the gritty reality of a Los Angeles street. None of it made sense to her, and it was my job to try to explain it. Yeah. Whoever told you changing diapers was the worst part of parenting, well, they didn't know shit.

I answer that yes, I had heard that too. And of course, the next word is "Why?" Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Isn't that what we all want to know?

And of course, my answer in its abbreviated form is, "UHHHHHHHH.....well...."

Because none of us know. We don't know what makes a woman return to her abuser, what tells one human being that it is ok to be hurt horribly by another human being if that hurting is followed by a few years of distance. We don't know why a beautiful, talented and seemingly amazing lady would want to go back to a man who is, at best, a confused child and, at worse, a complete psychopath.

I pulled the marbles out of my mouth and talked to her about it, trying my best to explain that I didn't know, that relationships are all strange and different people have different reasons for being in them or staying in them. And I tried to say that I didn't know, that it was a wonderful question, perhaps one that one of the many handlers that surround Rihanna should ask. I said all that, but instead of it being one paragraph of kind-of coherent thoughts, it was a lot of "Um, well, you know...." and "Uh, I guess, um..."

I have a great relationship with my oldest daughter, one that has really (re)bloomed over the last year. She talks to me about stuff and well, last night, instead of taking the night to sit in her room and text her friends, she chose to lay about on my bed with me and her baby sister, laughing, watching the world's dumbest videos and making me question Al Gore again. But it keeps getting harder. The questions keep getting tougher. I am glad she asks them, I would never wish that she didn't. But oh my stars.

Someone should write a book. Someone should, instead of writing another tome about how bratty and horrible American children are, write a guide for parents that you could effectively flip to a chapter and have a ready made answer on any subject, complete with a list of sources for further research. Domestic violence? Page 46. Bullying? Page 3. Why the Black Eyed Peas continue to have a career? Page 124. I would memorize that book. By the time Alice is 12, I would be able to quote from it while asleep or while playing Words With Friends and braising a chicken. SOMEONE NEEDS TO GET ON THAT. PRONTO.

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.

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.

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.)

SAHMishness

I am very, very lucky to have a flexible job and one that respects its employees and their family demands. I'll say that first of all. With everything that I struggle to maintain (schooling, family, housecleaning, trying to make sure Alice isn't out roaming the neighborhood looking for dogs), I am truly blessed, and I recognize that and that a lot of women don't have that. They have to work, and sometimes for some not very understanding employers. So when I talk about struggling with being a SAHM, please know that I'm not sharing some smug, white lady problems.

Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.

Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.

I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.

Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.

And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.

Take off those godforsaken yoga pants and come sit by me.

As many of you know, I get a bit tetchy when I hear other moms playing the martyr card. "I can't even shower, much less put on make-up!" "I have spit up on my shoulder and it has been there for two days!" "I wear yoga pants all the time because I'm a good mom and don't have time for fasteners on my clothing!" "WOE IS MOM."

Yet, it is usually these moms who update Facebook 3-4 times a day, posting pictures of their offspring doing something "adorable." Priorities, folks, it's all about 'em. And if looking your best is not your priority, fine. Photography is not mine. But please don't assume that those of us who choose to actually give a damn about how we look are selfish and/or not being a good parent.

*End rant.*

Anyway, when you are a mom, or rather, when you are a sentient, active being in this crazy, 24/7 mobile world of ours, children or no children, you definitely do not have time for make-up and hair routines like, say, you did when you were 13 and could spend an entire day putting perfect blue streaks in your hair and lining your unlined, bag-free eyes with glittery Hard Candy eyeliner. You need a few quick tricks to get you in and out of your bathroom in a hurry so you can prevent your child from spreading toothpaste all over the ottoman you lovingly have moved across the damn country twice because you like the thing, or, rather, getting there 30 seconds after the kid has done just that so you can admire her handy work. This is a list for that. And I would be oh so greatful if you could leave your tips in the comments--I know I could always use something new in the arsenal, and imagine others could as well.

1. Know what works for you. 7:30 on Wednesday morning is not time to try out the new glittery eye trend or bright red lipstick. Get a few basics and keep them. I am the world's worst for trying out every new marketing gimmick or product that passes through a magazine's hallowed pages, however, if I'm in a hurry, even I know better. Keep some of what works around at all times, just in case you having an inspiration-free day, or have to put your make-up on at your desk or while sitting on the couch, holding a baby and watching Max and Ruby. Here are my go to's:
Foundation: L'Oreal True Match
Blush: Nars Orgasm
Mascara: L'Oreal Voluminous (I always have a bit of DiorShow on hand for night time, but in a pinch, I love Voluminous, especially the new Carbon Black.)
Lipstick: Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick
Little sumthin' sumthin': Benefit Girl Meets Pearl

2. Hot FUCKING Rollers. (And I'm serious, whenever I say the word "roller," I think of nothing but The Oatmeal's hilariously apt Gay Roller, and I'm just sorry, but I can't keep a straight face. Heh. Straight face.) I used hot rollers in high school. Like a lot. I had this steam operated one, with little pink rollers, and you put the roller on top of this steam spurter and it made it...hot and steamy (that's what she said) and then you rolled it up and clamped it on. Anyone else have one of these? It was the SHIT. And when my hair was all nice and rolled, I let the little curls down, put my head between my knees and threw on an accordion headband and then threw my head back, stripper style and sprayed the shit out of that stuff with LA Looks aerosol spray. This made for a very, um, full look. Hey, it was the South, ya'll. I didn't know no better. But, folks, I'm here to tell you, hot rollers have changed. And I think lots of people use them. And not just in the lower South. And not just for beauty pageants, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Or, at least, that's what the ladies at Ulta told me when they sold me my set. Basically, these things give you Cosmo-model hair, but without having to use a curling iron, which, let's face it, sucks balls. And the volume lasts. Like 12 hour work day lasts. Like I-had-to-take-my-heels-off-but-my-hair-is-still-PADOW! lasts. Still not convinced? This set in particular heats up in about 85 seconds. So basically, you can plug it in, brush your hair a bit, maybe squeeze a zit, and you're ready to rock.

I have started washing my hair every other day, and using this on the day when it is unwashed. I do a blow-out the other day, but truthfully, it looks better on the day that I use the rollers, even though the blow-out takes about 3x longer for me to do, what with all the clips and the round brush and yada yada yada. With the rollers, I just put it up, do my 5 minute make-up, make the kid's breakfasts and lunches, convince Sam that no, his legs are not frozen, and yes, he can, in fact, walk, and then pull it down. And I get compliments on my "lovely hair." And people, my hair is not lovely. It is fucking blah. But with this stuff, I can definitely fake it.

3. Carry stuff with you. No one looks perfectly pulled together all damn day with no upkeep. This is where it is important to keep your tools at the ready. If you drive or have a commute, trick your car out. I personally keep two pairs of shoes in my car at all times--a pair of stilletto heels, and a pair of low-profile running shoes. That way I can change if need be and I don't look like a tool being the mom at the baseball field in heels. I also keep duplicates of my favorite make-up in a free bag I got from Clinique a couple of beauty bonus times ago. That way it is ready when I am--and I don't have to worry about leaving my favorite make-up in the car/at home when I need it. Also important--babies like to play with make-up. Not like put it on. They like to look at it, carry it around, chew on the end of a mascara tube. So multipurpose. Hellz yeah.

4. Dresses ya'll. Lots and lots of dresses. I am a very, VERY firm believer that you should get dressed everyday in something you would allow someone else to see you in, no matter your vocation. I know people disagree with me on this, and that's fine. But I personally do not know anyone's mental health that was helped by a wardrobe of yoga pants and stained t-shirts from college. Let's face it--you take a shower and get dressed, some little part of you feels better. And it is so so worth it. I've had three kids, ya'll, and I can only think of one day that I went without a shower and fresh change of clothes, and it was when Sam was in the Pediatric ICU and there was no shower attached to the room. But I totally get how putting on a pair of jeans can make you feel uncomfortable. Jeans, no matter how well they fit, are not the best things for laying around the house, especially if they are rigid or if you are doing a lot of bending and sitting (which all of us do around the house). But dresses are another thing all together. There are some amazing day dresses out there, a lot of which can be paired with leggings for a very cute sitting-around-the-house-waiting-on-something-awesome-to-happen look. Even better is the fact that you can find a lot of wrap styles that are convenient for nursing. The best part? If you are on a budget, buying one dress is cheaper than buying a shirt AND a pair of pants. When my husband figured this out one day, he gave very real thought about picking up a lovely frock at TJ Maxx under the guise of "If it worked for J. Edgar Hoover...."

5. "I guess the key is that it doesn't matter if you look like the 'before' picture, just act like you're the 'after' one." --Mindy Kaling via Twitter. Could never say it better, not in a million years.

On Mothering

I actually meant to write a Mother's Day post on Friday but then this 80 year old professor got me on the phone and managed to sweet talk me into basically teaching him Internet 101 for about two hours. No, I'm not kidding. Thankfully, there will now be one less person using blinking Comic Sans on PowerPoint. You can thank me later.

This morning, I got the full Mother's Day experience when I logged on to Facebook. I generally try to make my weekends as internet-free as possible, given how much I am on during the week, both for work and play (a good deal of the courses that I help manage are online). My daughter even posted a Mother's Day wish for me on my wall, and I made her bring her iPod to me and show it to me because I was too lazy to actually log on. So this morning, I saw it all. Pictures of gifts, of smiling children, smug status messages about who got what and who loves who and all of that. There was even a round up from a SAHM that I know that said "Ok, Mother's Day is over. What did you get?" and about 15 comments listing everything from flowers to iPads.

My family does not make a big deal about Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter. Last year, Dallas Braden pitched a perfect game on that day, and I said that was my gift, along with a trip to see Iron Man 2 (loves me some Robert Downey Jr.). This year, I jokingly told Matt that all I wanted was a bucket of strawberries from our local farm and a six pack of Miller Lite. That's what I got. And yes, it was just as wonderful as you can imagine. I slept in a little and then made a strawberry rhubarb pie, prepared myself some salmon glazed with orange blossom honey from the Farmer's Market (the kids are not big fish fans, so I made them some chicken), roasted some of Spring's lovely asparagus, and sat around. I ordered some books off of Amazon. I watched some baseball and read a magazine. Sam made me a card that said "I love my mom more than I love pumpkin pie." I didn't do any laundry.

Being a mother is a thankless job. It is tiring and hard and sometimes you just need a break. Sometimes your kid starts working on a back tooth or something and decides that the only thing that will dull the pain is to nurse until your boob feels like it has been put in a vice (TMI?). Sometimes you have to take your kid to another beauty pageant where she will be the entertainment and you really think that if you had any state secrets, you'd talk under the circumstances. You worry about things like organic pasta rings and high fructose corn syrup and AP and what school system you should move your kids to. You stay up at night and you worry and you sleep fitfully and get up and do the whole thing all over again.

But then you see them grow and change and you see the smiles on their faces as they become people that you would like, were you to have met them in college, were you not their mom. You see their triumphs. You see them smile with their eyes and you understand what Tyra was talking about. You fall in love, a bit more everyday.

Mothering is its own gift, its own reward. And it lives not just for those who have given birth to a child, because I think we all know that birthing something does not make you a mother. Mothering lives in all of us, whether we are a parent ourselves or not. It lives in anyone who has cared for someone else, who has kissed a dirty knee, who has responded perfectly indignantly at a pre-teen's text, right on cue. It lives not just on a Sunday in May, but on every day. And it is rewarded, not just with flowers and earrings and cards, but with a world where people are not judged or bullied, made to feel inferior, pushed or ignored, bruised or bloodied.

So a happy belated Mother's Day to you all. I hope that the day treated you well, whether you are a Mom or not.

Book Review: Cinderella Ate My Daughter

First off, I should say that Cinderella Ate My Daughter is a book for people who are parents and who have some sort of an interest in gender politics and what that means in their role as parent. It is not for kids who are into blood lust. My kids found this book on the couch one morning and thought it was something very, very different.

As a mother of two girls who worries on the regular about the kind of things that they are exposed to, I found this to be a very good, worthwhile book. It detailed things that I worry about and came to conclusions that were smart, interesting and not preachy. I really liked that Orenstein wrote like an informed, but delightfully imperfect parent. One particular passage where she writes about a trip to Target and feeling very, very unsure as how to proceed when her daughter wants a fairy-winged Barbie was particularly relatable and interesting. I also liked that she used the lens of the princess phenomenon to write about other aspects of "girly-girl" culture that I find disturbing/worrisome. In short, this is not just a book about how to deal with Disney--it is more of a book on girlhood as a whole. Her writing is clear and pleasant, much like what you would find on a well-written and friendly blog. She also displays a very empathetic vibe and nice view of things. There is no outright comdemnation of people others would find repugnant (the chapter on child beauty pageants comes to mind)--she seems to generally look for positives when negatives seem to abound.

We escaped the princess phenomenon with Gabby, although we should have been immersed in it totally. The Disney Princesses debuted in 2000, and Gab was born in 1999. My cousin's daughter was born in 2000 and was totally covered up in the stuff. However, Gabby never really showed an interest, and I'm not exactly sure how that happened. A lot of it, I guess, is Gabby's personality. She is just not the princess type, I suppose, and never really has been. Even as a very young child, she seemed put off by extremely girly things, preferring things that were unisex (for instance, she had a long-running obsession with Blues Clues). We owned a few Disney items--on VHS, if you can believe it--but it was nowhere near an obsession, and to be honest, I don't really remember much about it. In fact, I only became aware of Disney as a brand when Gabby got into the Disney channel and Miley and all of that stuff, a stage that we have thankfully left behind.

Although a lot of this I attribute to Gab's particular "Gabby-ness" (as my mom calls it), some of it, I think is that she was a first child to a couple of very young parents. And because she was that, we saw her immediately as "one of us." I don't remember dressing her in a lot of pink, except during this one phase where she liked it a lot (around 3) and then it was eye-searing HOT PINK, and not the pastel Barbie-esque tones Orenstein writes about. Instead, we dressed her much as we dressed. For instance, during the year that Old Navy hocked those Performance Fleece vests, we all had one, and sported them together (which is just asking to be documented on Awkward Family Photos). Gabby's was turquoise, not pink. She wore jeans a lot, and little corduroys, and graphic tees with pictures of people that Matt and I liked--superheroes, The Rolling Stones, a jedi or two. There wasn't so much of an emphasis on her being "our little girl" but rather on her being part of the whole, part of our young, emerging family. When we went to college, she did too, and I look back and realize that she very much dressed and looked the part.

Fast forward to now, 11 years later, with Big Al. Now that we have seen how fast our Gabby has grown, I think that we have resisted her being "one of us" just yet. Therefore, I have noticed a lot more pink in the ole wardrobe, and instead of little jeans, we're doing a lot more dresses (although mostly of the comfy, Hanna Andersson variety). This was especially true of Alice pre-12 mo. Now, with the walking and daily destruction, I have found myself doing a lot more BabyGap yoga pants (we have at least 4 pairs and counting) with various BabyGap tees. But whatever we put on her, I notice that it is much more childlike, much more in keeping with the age. Although I will admit to buying her a pair of skinny jeans and boots (much like my own), my favorite Alice buys have been a red tutu and her pink striped daydress. There is a certain wonderment in her personality, a certain je ne sais quoi that forces me to look at her as a baby. And I want to keep her that way.

And, of course, Matt calls Alice "Princess" on a regular basis. I'm not sure how it happened--he never called Gabby "Princess." (He also, inexplicably, calls Alice "Baby Nut" and has since her birth, but we'll not get into that one.) In fact, when this book arrived from Amazon, Matt took one look at it and said, "I'm going to have to quit doing that, aren't I?" At first, I laughed. Now, after reading the book, I agree that he does. I feel that because we love our "baby," we are in very near danger of turning her into a "princess." And that is not what I want.

This book does a nice job, I feel, of not only elucidating the problems with "princess culture," but also tying them to other things (the Twilight phenomenon, for instance, and I promise, this will be the first and last time you'll see those words on this blog--even 11 year old Gabby read about half of one book and goes, "The writing's kinda bad, Mom."). And, surprisingly, it ties things up very nicely at the end and gives you concrete ways to avoid this stuff, something I found very helpful since I have come to terms with what we could be capable of foisting on Alice. I feel more informed having read it, and more able to talk with both girls about some of the issues. No, I'm not instituting some kind of Disney ban for Alice (because that would be damn near impossible since my brother in law is getting married at Disney World in a few months--another story for another time), but I am going into the whole thing more mindfully and more aware than I was before. And the book helped me to have a conversation with Gabby about Ke$ha the other night, one in which I acknowledged the fact that the songs were catchy, but that they did not stand for things that I found important or role model worthy in being a girl.

I encourage you to pick up the book (if anyone is super interested, they can email me and I can loan it to you), and read it. Although you may not find it as helpful as I have (Amazon reviews point me to a few folks who weren't pleased), it is definitely an interesting read for those of us with awesome, interesting, and delightfully Un-Princess-y girls.

A Parenting Conundrum

Next Tuesday is mine and Matt's 13 year dating anniversary. Since we were together for so long before finally getting married, we still celebrate it, mostly out of habit for having celebrated it as our only anniversary for so long. It is a nice milestone too, and comes right at that point in the winter when you need a bit of whimsy to get you through. It really warms my saddened, winter heart to think of Matt's hushed teenage voice that night, asking me if I wanted to "go with" him (Question--do kids still call it that? "Going with" someone? As in "We are going together"? I should ask my daughter. Part of me, however, doesn't want the answer.).

We had, orginally, in a feat of great hubris and excitement, decided that we would go to the same cabin where we celebrated our wedding anniversary in June. It is a lovely place--magical and remote and wonderful. However, as time slipped by, we kept putting off making the reservations. And then we started waffling--maybe we would like to go somewhere else, maybe we would prefer just staying at home, in the house, kid-free, where we could go out and do the things that childless people do. Maybe we wouldn't do anything at all. But then we realized that during our more hubristic moments, we had both requested Monday and Tuesday of next week off for our trip. Neither of us wanted to take those days off if we didn't have a good reason to. So we finalized plans with my mother in law to watch the kids during those days.

Matt is unabashedly excited about all of this. He has brought it up constantly over the last couple of days--"Let's make wonderful filets with blue cheese while the kids are gone!" "Do you want to drive to Asheville on Saturday?" "Let's drive to Ikea and buy furniture!". And every time he does it, I stand there, tight lipped, not knowing what to say. Is it horrible that I am no where near as excited as him? Is it even more horrible that it has nothing to do with him, but everything to do with missing the kids, especially Alice, who is still so dependant on me in so many ways?

And the truth is, I am like this over everything. If my mother in law takes the kids for the day while Matt and I do something, I dread seeing them off. I know they will have a spectacular time, but I dread it. What if this happens? What if that? I always end up having a great time, but leading up to the event, I'm a nervous wreck. And the thing is, if I were Matt, this would bother me. He has brought it up a few times, that he wishes I could just "turn it off", but I can't. And I end up feeling guilty on two fronts--the one that is leaving her kids, and the one who can't stop thinking about those kids while she is doing it.

Alice still nurses, although mostly at night. I really dread having to pump again, as I stopped that all together when she turned one and stopped using a bottle. My mother in law can get her to sleep without eating or drinking anything, and assures me that this not an issue. However, last night, I was nursing her before bed and I looked down at her pretty little profile and thought, "What if she forgets to do this after this weekend? What if I ruin this for both of us?" A veritable wave of guilt washed over me, and I wanted to stay right there, in that bed, with her and no one else forever. I wised up, got Al to sleep and walked into the living room. There Matt sat, looking up restaurants online, and writing them down *with reviews* and menu recommendations for WW-me. He is so amazing, I thought.

And I am stuck in the middle of wanting to be that happy guilt-free mom who needs the time off and gladly takes it, and that other mom, the one who helicopters over her kids and cries as if her heart would break when she sees them leave.

Parenthood, it bears repeating, is hard, ya'll. There is this constant tug of war that occurs, one that you think you get the hang of and then, all of a sudden, you find yourself in the mud, clutching to the rope and trying to regain your footing. I don't know. That is the thing. I just don't know.

Sigh.

Teen Mom

This is not something that I share with a lot of people, but well, here I am on the damn internet typing it all out. I mean, it is pretty obvious if you know how to do math--I am 27 and my daughter is 11, so that means....

I was a teen mom.

Yup, I was once 16 and Pregnant. I was one of those girls that you have probably seen and shook your head at, one of those girls buying a prom dress with a baby in tow. One of those girls at Wal-Mart looking forlorn while her mom tucks the diapers in the cart, the formula, the little onesies, all the stuff that she can't afford on her own with her hostess job. You've probably seen her 100 times, riding the Bart train with a cell phone, ignoring the tiny being in the stroller beside her while she catches up on the latest dramas, fluffs her hair. You've seen her holding the baby and wondered what her life is like, will be like, if the baby knows what a shit situation this all is, if its wise little face is cognizant of the odds stacked against it. I was her, and that baby was mine. Is mine.

I say this because I am seeing a bunch of magazine articles about teen moms lately. If they will find love, if they are pregnant again, if they are broke. And yes, I know it comes from that MTV show. I will be honest--I watched selected episodes of 16 and Pregnant, but hopped ship when they started the Teen Mom thing because I didn't like that it made celebrities out of something as serious as teenage pregnancy. Really, these kids need to be worried about getting educations and developing relationships with their children--not looking pretty for MTV. Further, it bothers me that people think all teenage parents are like that--hitting their significant others, crying about missed opportunities, constantly embroiled in some sort of made for TV drama.

It is not like that. Teenage moms are moms. They are just like you--they feel the same things, they are overwhelmed, they are joyous, they love their children. Yes, things may be harder for them and they may not have the same life that you have or want. But the thing that bothered me when I was a teenage mom was feeling so different from other moms when I knew deep down that I was experiencing much the same things. I was so lucky in that I had a wonderful mother and a boyfriend (now husband) to support me. Unfortunately, a lot of girls do not have that. And it bothers me that we as mothers and women look at these women and feel revulsion and pity and sadness. We feel like we know them because we have seen them on TV or because we think we know what they are like. But we do not. And that is sad. Just as you shouldn't judge someone for their shoes or their skin color or their religion, you shouldn't judge them for having a child early.

I recently became aware of a program in my community that provides mentoring services to teenage moms. I am getting involved with it (obviously!), but I would encourage you to look for similar programs in your area. I'm not saying devote your whole life to curing this or any other societal ill you hear someone bitching about on the internet--just see if there is a place to donate used clothing or see if they need anything. Or next time you see a girl in Target, trying to make sense of the diapers, smile at her. Smile at her baby. Ask her if she needs anything. She might tell you no, and that will be fine. But she might have a legitimate question. And she might just want someone to talk to who won't judge her. Who knows? Just be that person for a few minutes and see what happens. You could be very surprised.

The "Baby" Baby

My daughter, Gabby, has a friend whose mother watches a baby who is exactly two weeks older than Alice. She actually does more than "watch" the baby--I can't figure out the situation, but for some reason she has the baby in her home for weeks at a time. And then she won't for a weekend or so, and then the baby is back. She is not blood related to this baby, I don't think. So, yeah, it is a tricky situation. At any rate, there's this baby and it is the same age as my youngest daughter. 13 months and change.

Because Gabby and her friend are involved in the same after school activities, Alice and I are around this baby quite a bit. And it is striking how different the two kids are. Alice is friendly and loving, always close to me and a bit clingy. She smiles easily at others, and is always happy to wave "bye bye" and talk to others, but appreciates knowing that I am near her at all times. The other baby is very social and independant, perfectly content to be toted around by the cadre of 11 year olds that surround her. She contends with being passed from kid to kid and doesn't complain. She strays far from her guardian and is pretty unflappable. It is even more striking how different looking they are. Alice is big and soft, with a peach fuzz head and pale, creamy skin. I think she has LOADS of hair, since both of my other kids were even more bald than she, but others remark on her "baldness". She frequently rocks the Pebbles look after a nap. The other baby is small and wiry with a halo of blonde curls. In short, Alice looks like she could eat her. In one gulp.

Tonight we went for cheerleading pictures. I brought Alice along in her stroller with her favorite books, Moo Baa La La La (which Matt and I have effectively memorized at this point) and The Belly Button Book (which explains her nickname--Bee Bo). She was wearing elastic waist pink corduroys (over a Swaddlebees dotted diaper), an orange long-sleeved tee shirt with a pink sparkly bunny on the front, pink socks, and purple Robeez with pink flowers on them. On top she had a blue hoodie with a rainbow on it that Sam got her for her birthday. Very colorful, and just very...kid like. I like a kid in colors, you know? Because when you get older you can't exactly rock the pink and orange. At any rate, we show up. The other baby is there and is wearing jeans with rhinestone embellishments, a sparkly waffle henley style shirt, a green fur vest and pink patent leather cowboy boots. The boots were full on boots, ya'll, with a little heel and everything. Hard soles, it goes without saying. This baby, not afraid of walking in any circumstance, comes right over to us, carrying her bottle, one of those cheapie Gerber things. It is filled with orange Kool-Aid. Alice sits timidly in the stroller and then warms up, waving at everyone and holding out her book to get a willing reader. She has started this thing where she wants to look at one book while you read her the other one. And then you switch. I get Alice out of the stroller so that she can sit in the floor comfortably. She sits right with me and looks at her book.

I begin talking to Gabby's friend's mom, who watches the other baby. She is a very nice lady. She is telling me that the baby will only drink Kool-Aid and watered down 7-Up. She asks me what Alice likes to drink and I just tell her water and watered down juice, but mostly water. She asks me when I will give her soda. I want to say "NEVER" (both of my other two ended up getting it through my mother-in-law for the first time, not through me), but I just smile and say "Someday." She also tells me about the baby's mom who pops up every now and then and brings her clothes, including lacy dresses and more boots. She tells me about giving the baby spoiled formula by mistake and asks me how long that stuff can be out of the fridge before it curdles (I tell her that I don't know). She complains a bit about the baby not sleeping well, and how she has to let her "cry it out" every night because she doesn't want her to get spoiled.

And I sit there, and think about my Alice. Alice sleeps with me. It started out not by choice, but has now come to be something that works for all of us. I can see how it wouldn't work for many families. But it does for us. Alice is breastfed. She stopped drinking from a bottle abruptly at 1, as she no longer has milk when I'm not with her. She nurses in the morning, once in the afternoon when I get home, and at night. And as much as I am into fashion, I am all about comfort for my kids. I mean, I want them to look nice, but there's a limit, you know?

I say all this, knowing it makes me sound like some sort of elitist parent, that whole "My child has never had a chicken nugget in her life!" kinda thing. I'm not that at all. I'll be glad to sit you down and tell you all the things I've done wrong with my kids, including Alice. For instance, I'm not even going to front: I adore the scent of that cheapie Johnson and Johnson lavender sleep baby stuff. LOVE IT. And I have bathed Alice in a few times when she was teething and I was desperate (and then I proceeded to use the rest of the bottle myself!). I know that it can be bad for baby's skin, just plain bad for baby. But I did it. As parents, we all do these little things "just this once" when we are tired and done and whatever.

But at the risk of sounding elitist, I hate this idea that a lot of parents have that they can treat their kids like they are mini adults. If you like Kool-Aid, it is ok to give it to your kid. If you like boots, sure, slap em on your 1 year old. Don't cuddle that baby! You wouldn't do that to a 25 year old! I don't know. It seems like so many parents don't want babies--they want pliant adults in small clothing. Small clothing that looks just like theirs. And they want these small adults to do their own thing--get themselves to sleep, drink their own bottles, walk to their own tune. And it bothers me.

When we got in the car after pictures, Gabby says, "You know, Alice is bigger than [the other baby], but she's kind of like the "baby" baby. You know?" Yes, Gabby, I know. And I like it that way.

Friday Fancy

I meant to post a link to this earlier this week, but well, you know. I feel like I'm saying that a lot lately, on here, but mostly in real life. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about life with three kids. Sometimes it is manageable, easy even, but then sometimes...holy shit. It is like standing at the bottom of a mountain with a huge snowball coming toward you and not moving, just thinking, "Ah hell, that thing is going to hit me." And it does and you're left laying in the snow, thinking, "Well, you know...."

ANYWAY, here is a link to a post on Gigi's Gone Shopping that really, really struck home with me. As we all know, I love clothes. Love them. I've loved them as long as I can remember--I remember events by what I was wearing, and my closet is probably one of my favorite places in my house. More importantly, I love dressing up and looking my best. I feel that I'm two completely different people--one when I'm dressed in a way that I like, and one when I'm not. You can imagine the one that you want to be friends with. Gigi hits the nail on the head talking about the pressure not to be "fancy" and how we all need to just rise up away from that and dress however we damn well please. It is ok to geek out over fashion.

I really have to struggle to remember this. I know I complain about the area where I live a lot, but really, unless you have been here, it is really hard to explain. It is rural. And backwards. "Dressing up" here means putting on the jeans with the fewest holes in them and a sweatshirt from American Eagle. I am not kidding. Dresses are reserved for Sunday church, and then we are not talking sheaths or shirtdresses. We are talking calf-length florals made of polyester. Yup. Yes, there are a few people who go a bit differently, but it is definitely not the norm. The biggest retailer (and only in a lot of people's minds) is Wal-Mart. If you can't buy it at Wal-Mart, these people don't have it. You can imagine the funny looks I get sometimes, just wearing what I would consider to be rather casual. I get compliments from teenagers and younger kids, but never other parents or adults. Well, I take that back. Once a co-worker complimented a ruffled t-shirt I was wearing from Loft. I told her that I had ordered it from there, and she goes, "Ordered it online? I could never do that." Dude, we're not talking about meth, we're talking about purchasing goods on the computer. Yeah. Told you it was a little different.

I have a dress that I ordered from Shabby Apple ages ago. I was cleaning out my closet yesterday and found that it still had the tags on it. I have pulled it out a bunch of times and then thought, "No, I should wear jeans today," or "Trousers would be more appropriate." A couple of times, I have come close to wearing it and then used the fact that I don't have the kind of shoes that I desire to wear with it as some sort of out. I mean, I have some shoes, just not THE shoes. But I don't ever go out to find THE shoes. I like the dress, it fits me nicely, my husband says it looks like something Emily Deschanel would wear (and that is the highest compliment coming from him--he is a huge fan of her and of Drew Barrymore). But it hangs in the closet. That makes me mad at myself. Reading Gigi's post reminds me to go get that dress and just put it on one day. Yes, I will come home and wonder if people think I am having an affair. But oh well. Let them think that.

Interestingly enough, I am in the final stages of the interview process for a new job. I kind of came into it accidentally--someone put my name in the running and then they called me and asked me to apply, so I thought about it and hemmed and hawed and then sent in my resume. Then I got a call back and went to the interview and it turned out really well. You know how you have an interview or something and you can see almost immediately that you are among friends? Yeah, it was like that. For those curious, I wore Gap Modern Boot trousers, a Martin + Osa gray wool blazer (from TJ Maxx), the J. Crew Alice tank in pearl (which Matt said make me look like a pirate--ARRR!! Give me a job or ye walk the plank!) and BR black pointy toe slingbacks. Then they call me and say that I have "blown them away" (pats self on back) and they're having me back on Monday. At first I wasn't sure how I felt about all this. I wasn't really looking for a new job, and I do some good work at my current one (although I get paid poverty-style wages). But this one is good and it is in a new town that is toward civilization. A bit more foreward looking, let's say. Plus, I could and in fact, would be encouraged, to dress up everyday. Is it such a problem that I like that aspect possibly the most? Matt says it is insane that anyone would want that in a job. To him, the best job you could do in a t-shirt (something pop-culture related) and jeans. We had a gentle argument about this in the car the other day and Gabby was like, "I think you're both wrong. And stupid to even talk about it." Yeah, thanks Gab. A reminder to all with children: bury yours at age 10 and then dig them up when it is time for college. But here I am, all geeked out over clothes. And feeling slightly guilty and superficial about it all.

But you know what? I've made a lot of decisions in my life that don't jive with what everyone else is doing. I have a cloth diapered, breastfeeding til 2, co-sleeping, AP style baby, for chrissakes. Who cares what kind of clothes I wear...judge me for that! I need to get over the clothes guilt. It is not going to change anything. I need to be happy with the ones I have and wear the hell out of them. Even the dresses.

So, long story short, let's all get over trying to fit in in this slobberific world. Yes, there will be people at the grocery store wearing their Snoopy pajamas. Yes, it will make you want to throw up in your mouth. But stride by them in your heels and pencil skirt. Let's all get dressed.

Mean Mommy

Last night, as I was driving Gabby home from cheerleading practice, she asked me if she could watch a movie she had tivoed on Saturday while she was at the football game. I tell her that we still have to eat dinner and she needs to take a shower and get ready to take a social studies test in the morning. She agrees and asks to watch it today (Wednesday). She ends up going, "Yeah, I'm the only one of my friends not to have seen it, and I really want to see it." I ask how they had seen it if they were at the game as well and since I know most of the parents haven't discovered the wondrous invention known as tivo just yet (BOONIES, PEOPLE). She ends up telling me that they had all watched the midnight showing on Saturday night.

By the time we get home, I have discovered that Gabby is the only kid in her class to have a bedtime and to not have a cell phone. Surprisingly, she is not upset on either account, and like me, finds this to be disturbing and interesting. We have previously talked the cell phone issue to death and decided as a family that she will get one when she turns 13. It is at that age that she will be doing more activities away from family and will need to contact us more to keep us aprised of her whereabouts and when I think that she will be responsible enough to deal with juggling friends and all of the other issues that having a cell phone can bring. Last year, several girls in her class were caught in a HUGE cell phone conspiracy that yes, involved "sexting." The girls were in 5th grade and were talking to 7th grade boys. This prompted the parents to not take the phones (which is what I would think the logical thing to do would be) but to blame the other party (the girls blamed the boys, the boys blamed the girls). Nice. At that point, we said that she would get a phone when she turned 47 or when Hell froze over, whichever happened first. Since then, we have cooled off a bit, but remain firm on the 13 thing. The 13 thing is contingent on Gabby maintaining good grades and otherwise conducting herself with a modicum of self-respect and maturity.

The bedtime thing just floors me. Bedtime is an essential in our house. If we didn't have bedtime, I would end up maiming someone (probably someone under the age of 18) with a cleaver on a daily basis. I love that time that the kids are in bed and the house is quiet and Matt and I can actually do things, whether it is watch TV or just have a normal conversation that does not involve cheerleading or Boy Scouts or who is so mean to me, do you know what he did today?!!? It is not that I don't love my kids--I adore them--but I just need that break. On a daily basis. And somedays, as bad as it sounds, I just need to look at the clock and go, "Two more hours. Just make it two more hours!" Sam goes to bed at 9, and Gabby goes to her room at 9, but is allowed to watch TV or play Nintendo DS or read for 30 minutes. Alice, at this point, is used to the routine, and starts nighttime nursing at 9. Then it is lights out. How people live without this VOLUNTARILY is inconceivable. Plus, if my kids don't get in bed on time, the next morning they are zombies. In fact, zombies probably have more social skills. Late bedtime equals total and complete meltdown for Sam (you ask the kid to brush his teeth, and he.falls.apart) and the snarky craziness in Gab ("WHERE ARE MY SKINNY JEANS? WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY'RE NOT CLEAN? I TOTALLY GAVE THEM TO YOU LAST NIGHT. WHY CAN'T YOU WASH STUFF, LIKE OFTEN AND STUFF?"). So I choose to not even chance it. Mornings blow enough without pushing the issue.

Now it goes without saying that I am the youngest mom of my kids' friends. Mostly, people are in their late 30's, early 40's. And here we are. And we are the strict ones? How did that happen? If when I was in 6th grade, if one of my friends had parents who were in their late 20's, I would think that that house would be the fun, crazy house. In a way, I think we are the fun, crazy ones. We make That's What She Said jokes a lot and have been known to have silly string battles that involve our ceiling fans. Maturity is not exactly paramount around here. But I also prefer to give my kids a little structure. How am I the only one? Am I just crazy? I am starting to feel like Kyle's Mom from South Park.

But, you know, better to be Kyle's mom than this:

Viva la Mean Mommy.

Why Living in the South Rocks

Every season I go to a children's consignment sale to get my youngest daughter's clothes. I also buy her things in store or online (usually on sale), but I try to get a good number of things used. She doesn't get out a lot (no daycare or school), so she needs things that are comfy for just wearing around the house and that can be changed easily and efficiently. That said, I am a bit of a clothes snob for her--I don't do yard sales or anything like that, and there are only a few brands that I buy because I know they are good quality and won't fall apart in the washer (cheap kids clothes are the WORST for that). So this sale works for me--I can usually find lots of Gap and Gymboree togs for not a lot of scratch. For instance, today my goal was to buy 10 items for $40.

However, I was a bit nervous about going this time around. I had just read about Allie's experience at a similar sale at Me & Emerson Elaine, plus I had seen fliers for this season's sale that said how it was bigger this time, with more consignors. Plus, it had been hyped quite a bit through Facebook and signage around the area. I had a feeling it was going to be much more crowded and probably not as fun. Also, in the past, I've had a friend who was working it and gave me her extra pass for the "preview" night on Thursday. This time, we have a mutual friend who is expecting and also has a three year old boy. I told my friend to give it to her, that I could just go on Friday with everyone else.

So today I took off to take Al to the dr., and to go to the sale. I wanted to get there at 9:00 when it opened, but my husband made me late. He is bad for that. The boy has not sense of timing. At all. Drives me batty. Anyway, I ended up getting there closer to 10:00.

The parking lot was full, and I was about to just turn around and leave. But the scent of a good deal kept me going. Because I am a selfish, awful person, I had just splurged on a top that I wanted from Loft, paying full price for it (when it will surely go down in price later) just because I wanted to make sure I got my size. I also want to get some other stuff with the savings cards I have. This means I need to make up for it in other ways. So, I got out, put Alice in the stroller, and went to it. It was definitely bigger this year--in the past, everything had been in one large gym type room of the church, with a few larger things in the hall outside of that room. However, this year, toys and gear was in its own large room, with clothes, shoes and baby blankets and stuff concentrated in the gym. Alice and I beelined to the 18-24 mo. rack, and I made a clean sweep, quickly sorting through what was cute and what was utter garbage. I was pretty happy with what I got, shoved it in my Ikea bag and moved on. I was super stoked about a Gymboree cardigan and pant set I got with strawberries on it. Cute!

About this time, Alice decided to start making this awful sound she makes. It is a growl/screech/moan, and can be approximated to the sound a very horrible mythical creature would make as it slowly dies. Very hard to explain, and absolutely HORRIFYING to hear. I'm pretty sure that Sam has something to do with her doing it--he thinks it is hilarious when she does it. She seems to do it for no particular reason and at odd times. I quickly started telling her to hush, knowing that people were probably staring at us. Alice is sitting there with this goofy grin on her face, and I want to hold her up over my head and exclaim, "LOOK! She's happy! I'm not beating her! You can stop trying to contact social services now!" Out of nowhere, this lady who volunteers at the sale walks up to her, and I'm pretty sure she's about to tell me to take her out, preferably to the next county over.

"She's a pretty baby," she says. I want to say, "Yeah, but have you heard that decidedly not pretty sound coming from her?" I don't. I just thank her. She smiles at Alice, who is now transfixed, and goes, "Would you like me to take her in the toy room while you shop?"

Now normally, my go-to answer would be "No thanks." Alice is very attached to me, and has been known to scream bloody murder if she gets 5 feet from me, even if she is with Matt or another family member. But she's just staring at this lady, and I think, "What can it hurt?" The woman looks like Aunt Bea, ya'll. And I know that it is always the one that you don't expect who turns out to have a murdered hooker under his/her mattress, but I'm pretty sure this woman smells like sugar cookie dough, Yankee candles and love and has never even thought of the words "murdered hooker" in the same sentence. And besides, Alice would be very close to me. If I hear her go nuts, I can get to her easily. So I say ok. I finish shopping a bit as Alice is wheeled away, even finding some things for Sam, and then make my way to the toy room.

Alice is sitting in the floor when I arrive, happily playing with two other kids this woman has acquired. Aunt Bea is also sitting in the floor, making beaded necklaces for the two girls with a vat of beads and yarn that must belong to the church. She puts Alice's on her right as I walk in. Alice smiles really big. I am able to walk around the room a few times, and then I check out my stuff and come back and get Allie, who is all sunshine and flowers. No more evil Hell calls, no more whininess. I briefly wonder if she has been slipped Ecstasy. At any rate, I get out of there with eight clothing items for $37, a Dora See and Say that sees and says in Spanish ($3), a shirt and pair of jeans for Sam ($7), a pair of New Balance tennis shoes for Al ($10) and a pair of Stride Rite Mary Janes ($4).

Then, this afternoon, I took Gabby to get her hair cut. The day that we all thought would go down in infamy. My normal hair stylist (who I played t-ball with as a kid) is out on maternity leave, so I had made an appointment with this other lady whom I had never met. We go in, and Gabby is already getting twitchy. When I see the lady who will be cutting our hair, Gabby and I both immediately start talking. I want this, she wants that. The hairstylist just sits there and smiles. Then, really slowly, she goes, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to cut it to where she wants it (motioning to the spot where Gabby said she would "accept" a trim to) and then I'm going to cut long layers in the rest of it so that it will lay better. You'll both like it." Just really matter of fact. I should note that she has an accent like molasses. I take Alice and sit down and she gets to work.

Moments later, Gabby is done and she's got this big smile on her face. And it really is better than I even dreamed. Gabby's hair looks healthy, and there sure was a lot of it pooling around her feet, meaning that I will not have to deal with that hair come Monday morning, so I'm happy. And it is still long, so Gabby's happy. I go over for her to cut my bangs (since I had to bring Alice along, I decided just to get a quick and dirty cut), and she shapes every thing up and we talk. As we are talking about our daughters and their quests for long hair, she starts asking me where we live. I tell her, and she says, "Did you see that car wreck a few days ago near the produce market?" I answer that I had, that I had driven down the other side of the four lane as they were cleaning it up. She goes, "Do you know who that was?" I answer that I did not. And I'm thinking, "This is a crazy place that she would assume that just because I live in a certain town that I would have both seen the wreck and know who was involved." And once in my life, if someone had asked me such a question, I would have rolled my eyes and found them to be so quaint. But today, I just smiled. And I liked it. There is this assumption that we are all in it together and all sort of watching out for each other. It is nice. She only charged me $15 to cut both our hair, but I gave her a $5 tip for working us in and being so nice.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life here, Lord knows. Matt and I consider Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run to be our "song" because neither one of us really wants to ever settle down. He figure we might stay somewhere (maybe wherever we move next) for a little while and get the kids grown, and then move around more--we have a long list of places we want to live and do. That's just our personalities--what we like. We're both a bit itchy, and the thought of staying in any place for the rest of my life scares the absolute shit out of me. I complain about living here in the sticks--finding decent food is trying at times, and one can be encountered by a bit of closemindedness. But...the people are genuinely caring. And nice. And I know there are nice people everywhere. But there is just something about Southerners. Their pace, their attitude, everything is just so damn comforting to me. Probably because I am a Southerner myself. But still. I love it.

The next time I complain, I will try to remember this post, and the fact that someone, somewhere got Alice to quit making that godawful noise so I could shop. God bless her.