tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25411396572359846482023-06-20T21:07:18.584-07:00Chocolate Covered PajamasJuliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-55691553736152405772012-02-09T11:24:00.000-08:002012-02-09T13:03:34.678-08:00Maid of the MistThe flooding of the Flower Mound UPS store was caused by my toddler's consumption of a Vita Top muffin, a chocolate confection magically injected with nine grams of fiber and thus sold as health food. <br />I gave one to Charlotte, now age 2, for breakfast only because I had my girlfriend, Michelle, on the phone from North Carolina. Her husband is recovering from actual brain surgery, which is why I couldn't be distracted even by pouring cereal.<br />"Give her that and she's going to poop big," warned Michelle.<br />I was willing to take my chances. <br />Charlotte squealed with delight upon seeing me rip open the package and, three hours later, she gave me one of her own.<br />We were at UPS--the one on 2499 in Flower Mound--mailing a box to our cousins.<br />Charlotte peeked out from behind the rotating greeting card display, pretending to sort Valentine's cards. I knew darn well what she was doing. <br />I paid for my package to be sent first class--they'll take pity on me and allow me to use the bathroom if I paid full freight, I figured. <br />I took Charlotte's little hand in mine. We wound our way back behind the counter, past the boxes and the Styrofoam injector machine to the potty. <br />Remember now, Charlotte is my third child. <br />This means that I am full of useful information and good parenting strategies, yet I mostly ignore all I know in the name of time constraints and disorganization. <br />And while I happened to have one spare diaper stuffed into the bottom of my purse, I had no baby wipes to clean up the mess. I was even out of Old Navy receipts.<br />Moreover, there was no trash can. (And, of course, no Koala Kare changing pad--who changes a poopy diaper during the 32 seconds it takes to mail a package?)<br />Thus, I found myself simultaneously holding up Charlotte's multi-layered dress, removing overflowing output and trying to clean up her rump while holding the diaper. <br />Meanwhile, Charlotte had found the store's water cooler.<br />Strangely, it was placed right next to the toilet. <br />(This should be the subject of another blog post entirely. For while I will hold poop in my hand and even catch vomit in my purse, I will never, ever endorse placing drinking water within 150 feet of a flushing toilet. That's just asking for cholera.)<br />Anyhow, Charlotte's wiggling around as I balanced the colossal poop in my palm. She grabbed the water cooler taps and pulled down, spraying frigid purified water into the drain. <br />"Cold!" she screeches with delight. <br />The water cooler provided a perfect spot for Charlotte to begin washing her hands. It was, after all, right at eye level.<br />"Wash-wash-wash-your-hands-wash-them-together!" she sang, spraying water on herself, on me, all over the floor.<br />I would have to tell Miranda Howland--Charlotte's preschool teacher--that this was a very effective usage of a simple song.<br />Now, a less seasoned mother would have turned off the tap, but no, I am a veteran mom. I know distraction is my ally; I could easily clean up the floor after I re-diapered the baby and deposited the poop. This running water would provided me with ample opportunity to get my work done.<br />That idea would have been perfect had I not forgotten that water cooler drains fill up quickly--and overflow.<br />The puddle at Charlotte's feet began to grow into a pond.<br />The water cooler was like Niagara Falls. <br />Gallons of combined hydrogen and oxygen molecules surged through the little plastic taps. <br />Soon, a man wearing only a barrel would zoom through the roaring foam.<br />I wondered if barrels were even allowed anymore at Niagara Falls. <br />Maybe modern-day thrill seekers go cloaked in wet suits? <br />They used to let you take a boat right under the falls and you got to wear a poncho. <br />I seem to recall taking a seafaring vessel called "The Maid of the Mist" when I was maybe eight years old... <br />Charlotte was laughing like a hyena, gleefully sopped.<br />There was more water on the floor of the UPS store than in my backyard swimming pool.<br />Miraculously, the baby was diapered, the toilet was flushed and I was no longer holding a poopy diaper, but how those things happened I do not know. <br />I jammed the water cooler taps closed.<br />"Swim!" said Charlotte.<br />The thoughtful clerk who had placed the water cooler next to the toilet had also supplied a year's worth of paper towels atop a coat rack, for which I was grateful. <br />I sopped up the mess using several rolls.<br />"Let's go," I said, placing Charlotte on a hip, the wad of soggy trash under my armpit.<br />"Bye-bye," Charlotte said, waving to the clerks as we stomped through the shop. <br />Next time, I would know to wear a poncho when I fed my baby breakfast.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-39818186699926993602012-01-04T13:31:00.000-08:002012-01-04T13:35:25.070-08:00Behind the WheelTeenagers get a lot of sass from insurance companies about being the worst drivers on the road. They gab on the phone. They text. They drink alcohol. Mostly they’re just way too excited and inexperienced.<br />They’re subsequently punished with high insurance rates and frequent stops from the authorities. <br />There’s probably a lot of truth to all that, but I’d argue there might be an equally menacing threat out there few notice: The 38-year-old suburban mom.<br />These moms are, by most accounts, boringly safe.<br />They make their kids were bike helmets, sunscreen, retainers. <br />But get them behind the wheel of an SUV in a McDonald’s drive-thru with a clutch of 7-year-old soccer players buckled up in back and watch out.<br />It all starts with French fries.<br />Mom pays for the promised treat with one hand while changing the CD with the other. She passes the fries back to the third row, head swiveled in the direction of the hungry second graders while warning them to use napkins, the SUV inching forward as her toddler thumps her back from an oversized car seat behind her.<br />The toddler requests—no, demands—Sesame Street’s “C is for Cookie.”<br />That’s track 5. <br />No, wait, track 9. <br />Oops, wrong CD. <br />Mom pulls out of the parking lot with two hands shuffling through the seat pocket in the opposite seat behind her, a feat Cirque du Soleil, acrobats would envy.<br />Boys launch French fries. <br />Sisters squeal. <br />There is a great unbuckling and swashbuckling.<br />Mom’s eyes are riveted on the shenanigans in the rear view mirror. She is making demands, thinking of punishments, wondering where she has gone wrong.<br />The toddler pelts a sippy cup into the front seat then, suddenly hysterical, requests a lovey from the passenger seat. The lovey slips between the cracks and Mom contorts herself to find it, sunglasses rocking from hair to neck obscuring her vision for an instant. <br />The cell phone rings. <br />It might be an emergency, Mom figures, so she picks up. <br />Soccer practice has been moved to another field across town. <br />Mom speeds up, makes an illegal u-turn, punches the gas.<br />The SUV lurches forward.<br />“I spilled my milk!” squeals a defender. <br />Mom opens the glove compartment—there is nothing worse than the smell of milk rotting on a triple-digit day—and pilfers a half-empty envelope of baby wipes, two crumpled tissues and a receipt from JCPenney to mop up the mess. She catapults it into the third row while making a left turn.<br />There is a loud discussion over whose turn it is to clean up the mess.<br />Mom thinks about the breakfast mess and the dinner mess before that and who it was that left a wet swimsuit undiscovered in a plastic bag for a week. She does not remember and is accused of not paying attention.<br />Singing breaks out. <br />The song is Lady Gaga.<br />Mom joins in because she is actually fun, darn it all.<br />The kids are singing, opening all the windows, waving at construction workers, at dogs whose tongues wag wet, at serious bikers whose Spanx make them giggle.<br />The toddler chimes in with “Wheels on the Bus.” <br />She is louder than all the second graders put together. <br />She throws up French fries and milk.<br />Mom prays silently that there are no library books on the floor of the car where the splayed vomit now seeps into the car’s carpet.<br />Mom roars into the soccer field parking lot, pitches the SUV into park and begins the rescue mission, second graders evacuating like fire ants put upon with poison.<br />I know all this because I am likely the 38-year-old suburban mom behind the wheel. <br />Watch for my SUV: I am more dangerous than a teenager.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-50083694713071288082011-12-18T19:24:00.000-08:002011-12-18T19:25:30.447-08:00Click on Your BrainFrom the Dallas Morning News, Dec. 17, 2011<br /><br />Paul refused to stand up in the sand. He tipped sideways. Tumbled forward. Fluttered backwards.<br /><br />My second-graders groused as they tried to prop their homemade paper figures of the Christian missionary atop sloping “islands” — boards we covered with shifting white grain and shells. <br /><br />There was a great flicking of sand. An “I quit!” Some made pleas for rescue. <br /><br />Of the dozen or so children who attended my Sunday school class that day, not one — including my own 7-year-old twins — could figure out how to make tiny Paul stand tall. <br /><br />I eventually provided a strategy — dig Paul a hole and glue him in — and we moved on with our craft. That morning, however, a seed of worry planted itself in my mind. <br /><br />My Sunday school class is made up of incredibly bright, wonderful children raised gingerly by middle-class, well-educated parents in Flower Mound, Highland Village and Lewisville. They attend some of the premier elementary schools in the Lewisville Independent School District. A few have been deemed so accelerated, they are plucked from their general education classes weekly to take part in LISD’s gifted and talented program. <br /><br />Yet, when I asked this group of leaders to do critical thinking, they not only failed, they balked at even trying. <br /><br />So when I received a survey from my neighborhood elementary school a few weeks ago essentially asking if I thought it was a good idea to provide my very young children and their classmates with in-school access to technology — iPads, iPhones, iTouches and the like — to do “research,” a red flag went up. <br /><br />Simply put, I worry that kids will supplant critical thinking with quick clicking in a day and age in which creative, agile minds are necessary to compete globally. <br /><br />Already similar concerns are swirling around LISD as the Bring Your Own Technology program is phased into the district’s 42 elementary schools over the next few months. <br /><br />The initiative, installed in high schools last year, aims to “unleash personal technology” but remains optional so that families don’t feel burdened, said LISD Public Information Officer Karen Permetti. The hope is that teachers will engage students in new and different ways, she said. <br /><br />“The kids love it,” Permetti said. “They say they learn best with technology … and they want more of it.” <br /><br />Still, I find the issues ominous — and mind you, I’m not an anti-tech ogre. <br /><br />My children get a kick out of practicing their numbers on Fast Math, a district-endorsed educational website that drills little ones on basic addition and subtraction. And Poptropica.com, which is used by LISD in part to teach history, helped inspire my son’s Halloween costume of the Greek God Perseus. <br /><br />But technology offers only one type of learning. It doesn’t require kids engage their physical bodies or spiritual selves. They don’t have to negotiate with others or even interact with them. <br /><br />Moreover, in my experience, programs designed for the very young place limits on their creativity and dominates playtime. <br /><br />In fact, controlling technology was such a problem in our house that my husband and I eliminated the use of every type — including television — during the school week. None of my three kids wanted to play a board game, make-believe or even go outside when the option of technology and its instant gratification was available. <br /><br />I can only imagine teaching a classroom full of small kids with hand-held gadgets: You’d have to be on fire to get their attention. <br /><br />As a mother, a veteran K-12 education reporter, a liberal arts graduate and a taxpayer, I respectfully suggest that technology is a distraction to the real learning that needs to take place in our schools. <br /><br />I’ll do my part by pushing my precious Sunday school students to think critically. Because I want Paul — and every single one of my church children — to stand strong on their own two feet.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-75383771047512872102011-11-15T12:47:00.000-08:002011-11-15T12:50:13.316-08:00Rain Gutter RegattaBy William Riekse<br /><br />On Sunday I went to the rain gutter regatta. Rain gutter regatta is a boat race. But you can only use blowing power to get your boat down the gutter. At first I was scared. But then when I got there I felt a little bit better. My whole cub scout den was there to cheer for me. JD, Hayden, Collin, Jason, Brandon, and Chris were there. First we checked in my boat. My boat was a Texas Rangers boat. Then we played for a little while. Then the cub master told us the rules of rain gutter regatta. He told us to hold a pipe behind your back and hold on to it while you are blowing your boat down the gutter. Then it was time to start. I was up first. I was racing Jason. The guy that told us to start said READY SET GO!! I blew and blew and blew and I was so close to the gutter when I heard a pink! And I saw that my boat had made it to the end of the gutter! I won 2 out of 4 heats! At the end of regatta we got rewards! I got a patch! I want to go to rain gutter regatta next year!Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-80300159152029283922011-11-14T10:55:00.000-08:002011-11-28T12:00:06.997-08:00Dude, that's my babysitterIn seven years of hiring babysitters, I've had one of nearly every kind. <br />There have been grannies and nannies, sweet middle schoolers and lovely co-eds, cheerleaders who are flirts and quirky actresses in maxi-length tie-dye skirts. <br />They've zoomed through our lives with their foam crafts and finger paints and pop-up books. They've played tag and baked cookies and watched Disney, women and girls who all truly care about the well-being of my brood. <br />But my new favorite caregiver is all that and more.<br />At six feet six inches, our new babysitter has a machine gun laugh, a wicked dodge ball serve and biceps bigger than my head. <br />My new babysitter is a 17-year-old dude. <br />I first hired Guy as a lifeguard. <br />He came to Grandma's house in September to monitor the big kids as they swam while the toddlers and their parents played out front. <br />Turns out, he lead a series of games for three hours then told me he had <em>"the best time!" </em><br />Intrigued, I hired Guy again to lead backyard sports with my second-grade Sunday school class.<br />He was a complete prince, gently keeping the peace while constructively engaging the entire lot. <br />I was further sold when he suggested his little brother--a guest at the party--enjoy a bottled water instead of slurping up another sugary Capri Sun. <br />Guy didn't text. <br />He didn't talk on the phone. <br />He plans to attend college in the fall and has already shadowed local fireman and paramedics to get a taste of what those careers might be like.<br />I was downright smitten when I called him last week to offer up another job.<br />Still, my cultural bias interfered. <br />"Would you like to, um, come over to <em>practice sports </em>with my twins?" I asked. <br />I knew the statement was downright ridicious, especially coming from me, a woman so worried about gender constraints that I carefully provided my son with his own lookalike brunette doll and a pink stroller to push it in.<br />But my decision to tread softly comes with some knowledge of Texas men. <br />Unlike the guys I know out East and in the Midwest, the cowboys I'm acquainted with down here are happy to be modern guys--so long as you keep that fact quiet. Sure, they'll play with the kids in the cul-de-sac, switch out the laundry then start the dinner--so long as you don't bring up what they're doing. They'll moonily take their girls to a Daddy and Daughter Dance--albeit in their pickups--or sit down for a school conference--while glancing down the hall to see if other men are around. <br />I met one man at Kroger in Flower Mound who was eagerly reading the label on the back of jar of baby food.<br />"Ma'am, can you help me with this?" he politely whispered, eyebrows furrowed. "Does the 'organic' part really matter all that much? I want to do what's right." <br />Many studies claim that Americans have eradicated gender roles--research that includes Texans. They say men and women share the burden of earning income equally. Child care is evenly split. So, too, is the amount of time spent doing chores.<br />Still, it seems the guys I know down here like to keep a line of manly demarcation. They'll wear the apron--so long as they can keep their dusty boots and a Stetson in the closet. <br />Like many Texans before them, they want to forge their own path in their own way.<br />Meanwhile, I'll never know if Guy would have been offended had I used the term "babysitter." <br />And guess what? I'm not going to ask him anytime soon.<br />As long as Guy can outlast my kids in a game of baseball then reheat the mac-and-cheese, I'll thankfully call him "Dude."Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-78330398687269935982011-10-20T19:19:00.000-07:002011-10-20T20:20:50.282-07:00Hot Colors for Hot MamasMy gal pal Marilee bought her first Orgasm this week. <br />The cheek color with the cheeky name, that is.<br />The sparkly, peachy blusher continues to be one of Nars' best sellers and, in my book at least, it remains one of the best named beauty products of all time.<br />Orgasm has humor, edge and is probably outrageously descriptive if you're a lights-on type of girl. <br />Consider this litmus test: It made Marilee and I titter in a well-lit Sephora at noon on a weekday. Given that we are middle-aged moms with a couple decades worth of marriage and five children between us, that's saying a lot. <br />Now, I'd like to offer the creative team at Nars a few additional mom-centric ideas. After all, we're a brand-loyal lot when it comes to cosmetics. If we came of age wearing Orgasm, many of us are still wearing it and will likely try other options if correctly marketed to our demographic. <br />If you liked Orgasm in your 20s, you'll probably enjoy the following in your 30s:<br /><strong>Overcommitted</strong>: This deep plum gives a nod to the time you realized you agreed to host both your husband's work barbeque and the end-of-year swim team party on the same night.<br /><strong>Lost</strong>: A glisten-y, bright pink similar to the one that appears when you're running 23 minutes behind for your son's first baseball game and unable to find the ballpark despite the fact that your husband told your there were "clear road markers."<br /><strong>Bedraggled</strong>: A simple pale matte with undertones of gray. This is found in nature following family camping trips, Girl Scout cookie sales and Christmas Eve wrap-a-thons.<br /><strong>Verclempt</strong>: The perfect little-girl pink. An ultimate selection for piano recitals, the reading of child-authored Valentine's Day cards and high school proms.<br /><strong>Poop</strong>: This year-round neutral is flattering for all skin tones but not in an port-a-potty kind of way. Think breastfed baby.<br /><strong>Syrup</strong>: Get sun-kissed in seconds with color inspired by everyone's favorite mac-n-cheese dip.<br /><strong>PlayDoh</strong>: A new neon that morphs from blue to green to purple when paired with a tempra-stained cardi.<br /><strong>Leftovers</strong>: This pinkish-redish-orangeish shade goes with everything and will leave them guessing.<br /><strong>Flu</strong>: Let your inner punk rock girl shine with an indie shade that offers blue undertones.<br /><strong>Panic</strong>: One swipe of this rust and you'll achieve that I-just-called-911 look. <br /><strong>Late</strong>: Sure, it looks red in the compact, but this color actually disappears when applied to the apple of the cheek. Peeking through will be a glimmer of hope and fear. <br />If the staff at Nars needs further suggestions, they can give me a call. I'll be at home wearing a little homemade blend I call <strong>Exhausted</strong>.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-3042332328554122062011-10-18T11:41:00.000-07:002011-10-18T11:44:04.763-07:00To Love, Honor and Gift with CardsEleven years into holy matrimony and there’s one thing I know for sure: You need to present an anniversary card. <br />It must be funny. <br />It must be given at breakfast on the exact day of your marriage. <br />It must accompany a review of the blissful event for your children that includes but is not limited to the retelling of one wedding attendant’s accidental plunge into a nearby lake. <br />While my rendition of The Soaked Groomsman is always met with cackles, I am utterly failing in the funny card department. <br />This year on August 12, the best I could do was to present my very worthy husband with a humorous birthday card edited by me in black Sharpie to read “Happy Anniversary.” <br />Believe me, I had tried hard to find just the right anniversary sentiment, but it appears the greeting card industry no longer values the institution of marriage. <br />Instead, you’ll find a focus on the Big Five life stages: Birth/Birthdays, Graduation, Weddings, Illness and Death. <br />The options for birthdays alone are nearly endless. <br />Consider that for $7.50, you can purchase a card complete with a computer chip that allows a watercolor ostrich to belt out Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” in honor of your step-niece’s sweet sixteen. <br />Or if you’re on a budget but need something special for your neighbor’s cat who is celebrating a decade’s worth of nine lives, you can spend $.99 on a puffy, glitter-enhanced goldfish card.<br />There are pictures of cartoon canines for your dog walker’s big day, talking wine bottles to celebrate a member of the Vinophile Club, half-naked models pumping iron to inspire your personal trainer on her 40th. <br />Recently, I spied a birthday card for “that special nurse as she turns 28.” <br />Meanwhile, there are few offerings for those of us who have, year after year—often for decades---loved, honored and cherished our spouses through sickness and health. <br />Those that do celebrate wedding anniversaries are limited. They showcase pastel birds carrying what appear to be tablecloths in their beaks. The saying is always something like “You’re my one true love…I’m glad we share the same nest.” <br />Sometimes, you’ll get lucky and find a card featuring a photo of two octogenarians drinking coffee at a kitchen table. The tag line might read “I’m so glad we can share our morning rituals together.”<br />If these are analogies for modern-day marriage, it’s no wonder that American society is seeing a decline in the number of couples who officially declare their commitment at the altar.<br />The truth is, many marriages are delightful—and delightfully funny. That’s why “Modern Family” won so many Emmys.<br />There are dozens of themes that emerge over the course of one year alone that could inspire the authors of greeting cards.<br />If there is a card for the owner of a deceased parakeet, there most certainly should be one that under the heading of “anniversary” that conveys “Thanks for taking that really expensive cruise with my mother and her obnoxious boyfriend.” <br />Or, how about a 3-D picture of a pack of frozen peas along with the saying “It was so thoughtful of you to pick up that extra bottle of Valium before the vasectomy reversal.”<br />Hallmark could take a real photo of a couple surrounded by their four small kids showcasing a gloved husband picking lice out of his wife’s hair with a three-inch comb. The message inside could declare, “No matter how many nits you have, I will always want to run my fingers through your hair.”<br />Even community obligations could take a rather romantic turn.<br />Just picture a middle-aged couple wearing matching church choir robes with the message “Under this polyester, I am hot for God…and for you. Happy anniversary, Honey.”<br />Even the inevitable catastrophes that bind married couples to one another are cause for celebration.<br />I’d suggest a caricature artist draw up a frazzled-looking husband and wife holding up broken pipes in an attic, a waterfall pouring through the roof behind them. The accompanying message could read “Even when it’s all gone to Hell, there’s no one I’d rather live in my SUV with than you, Dear! Happy Anniversary!”<br />Greeting card companies, take note: While weddings are important, making it to your anniversary every year is even more cause for celebration.<br />Just ask any couple that’s had a band of noisy squirrels roost in their chimney before their newborn’s bris.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-90047322138946785072011-10-03T09:54:00.000-07:002011-10-03T11:11:14.617-07:00There Should Be an App for ThatMy new smart phone was supposed to be, well, smart. <br />Sure, I can download an app to translate whatever I'm reading into Gaelic. <br />And it's awfully handy to monitor the earthquake threat in neighboring states.<br />I furthermore find it interesting that I can track the load of bananas bound for my grocer as it moves North from Central America in an 18-wheeler driven by an illegal immigrant. <br />But if I were designing apps, I would do something practical--Momma practical. <br />Consider Cleat Finder. <br />Tap your smart phone once and a red beam would emerge, scanning each room for said sports gear. Upon locating it, the smart phone would beep then automatically dock your kid's allowance. (After all, why am I the one using my phone to find their stuff? Shouldn't they be held responsible?)<br />For an extra $5 per month, the app would convert to seek out missing Cub Scout socks, Brownie vests, ballet slippers and wayward lovies. Simply categorize your stuff with a quick snapshot and the phone would keep track of its whereabouts.<br />I'd pay a pretty penny for Snack Sargent, too.<br />This app would offer the sound of a rumbling belly 48 hours prior to any event to which I am scheduled to bring snacks. It would categorize the nutritional content of each item in my pantry, calibrate to consider how many and what type of food allergies were present in the group I'm feeding then suggest the most nutritious but least expensive option.<br />If you buy Snack Sargent, you'd get Consensus Chef for free. <br />This app would allow you to plug in your brood's culinary likes and dislikes then spit out menus every single child in your home would find palatable. It would further send you coupons for the necessary ingredients. And recipes.<br />Next on my list would be Pants on Fire. <br />When my kids get into an inevitable he-said-she-said, I could scan their lips with my phone. Immediately, it would alert me to the child who started whatever it was so I could fairly discipline the offender.<br />I think Lice Locator would also be a hit. <br />The moment your second grade teacher sends home news of an infestation, simply hold your phone up to your offspring's mop and scan away with the provided blacklight. Should your phone find critters, a pop-up will notify you of nearby pharmacies that have medications in stock. It will also flash a photo of the neighborhood kid that should no longer sleep over.<br />Many mothers of toddlers would appreciate Pee-Pee Princess.<br />This app would tell you with the sound of raindrops when your baby has to go. That means you could get into the proper potty position before you miss the Moment of Realization.<br />I might even splurge on Daily Dishwasher.<br />This app would keep track of which spouse last scrubbed the pots and pans. It would alleviate any arguments over whose turn it is to scrape the nasty scrambled eggs off the cast iron skillet.<br />The guys at the apps store sure have a lot of work to do. <br />Until then, my smart phone will remain in my back pocket. I'd turn it on, but I'm too busy looking for lost cleats.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-64567304731373776522011-09-17T10:31:00.000-07:002011-09-17T10:33:57.833-07:00Where are all the mommas?From the Dallas Morning News, September 17, 2011<br /><br />Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course. <br />Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer <br /><br />The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.<br /><br />While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.<br /><br />These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.<br /><br />The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.<br /><br />If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.<br /><br />Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.<br /><br />“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”<br /><br />While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.<br /><br />The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.<br /><br /> Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.<br /><br />My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.<br /><br />“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”<br /><br />If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.<br /><br />Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.<br /><br /> Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.<br /><br />We will still seek out and find the community we crave.<br /><br />That, and a good deal on paper towels.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-25017826344005487252011-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:002011-07-12T19:39:49.787-07:00MommaSpeakMy dear friend Christina and I haven't spoken a full sentence to one another in ages.<br />In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.<br />It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.<br />Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown. <br />Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.<br />For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)<br />There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)<br />With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues. <br />We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity. <br />Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."<br />Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."<br />Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."<br />Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."<br />Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."<br />Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."<br />Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."<br />Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."<br />The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.<br />Christina: <em>"...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"</em><br />Me: <em>"...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."</em><br />Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.<br />In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.<br />Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...<em>Mattie, please put the scissors down</em>...before the physician could get into the room..."<br />Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...<em>William do not put underwear on the baby's head</em>...before she ate the paste."<br />Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending. <br />Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice. <br />With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-64278515469095539952011-06-02T11:12:00.001-07:002011-06-02T12:39:28.949-07:00Dinner at the Duck PondThe Duck Pond could be anyone's Happy Place: Its banks are lush, the waves ripple prettily, the fish bite. <br />But if you're a toddler who happens to like ducks, well, there's really no better place on Earth. <br />The Duck Pond has a menagerie that would make most zookeepers envious. There are gaggles of mismatched mallards, half a dozen exotics with Dalmatian-colored feathers, mysterious turkey-like swans, fifteen or so grackles that think they're ducks and two actual giant white ducks that were perhaps released from Easter baskets.<br />The ducks seem to frequent this pond for one reason: the toddlers. <br />The symbiotic relationship between the diapered and the feathered has likely been going on for generations: The babies bring bread, the ducks become junkies. <br />They all waddle about chasing one another with squawks of joy. <br />Occasionally, one of the aforementioned falls into the pond. <br />On our last visit to the Duck Pond, however, Charlotte was uncharacteristically disinterested in the fauna. <br />Instead, she wanted their bread.<br />"Ooh, food!" she yammered, bending down on stubby legs to finger a piece buried in the grass. <br />"Ducky bread," I suggested, making my ickiest face. <br />"Dirrrrrty," Charlotte breathed in her best Christina Aguilara voice.<br />Then, she popped the bread into her mouth. <br />As a recovering germaphobe, I choked back words. <br /><em>"She is immunizing herself</em>," I thought.<br />I pointed out the goslings to Charlotte in hopes of distracting her.<br />Charlotte responded by digging through the grass to find another chunk of bread. <br />Victorious, she pulled forth an usually large mound and jammed it between her cheeks chipmunk-style. <br />"Blah! Blah!" I said, sticking my tongue out. <br />I mentally began cataloging the germs that ducks might contain. <br /><em>"Is Duck Itch food borne?," I thought. "What about Duck Death? How do you get that?"</em><br />Charlotte smiled like an angel sent down from Heaven. <br />Then, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards a pile of rocks. She plunged her chubby fist into a crack, pulled up moldy crust and rammed it into her mouth. <br />"Mmmmmm!" she said, chewing. <br />Then suddenly, I was noticing the duck poop. <br />It was everywhere--the grass, the mulch and probably the bread my child just consumed. Slimy white-green goo coated huge swaths of the grassy landing like icing atop a birthday cake. <br />Anxiety's heavy hand was pushing down on me.<br />"How about your crackers," I pleaded. "You have nice, clean fishy crackers in the backpack. Let's go get them."<br />Charlotte blinked and pulled herself up tall. <br />"No," she stamped. "Bwead."<br />"How about the bread we have at home?" I suggested. "I can make you a yummy peanut butter and jelly."<br />After raising three children, I knew that reasoning with a 20-month-old baby was no smarter than reasoning with, well, a duck. <br />I changed tactics. <br />I would offer limited choices that would not include toxic duck bread.<br />"Do you want cheese or oranges?" I asked. <br />Charlotte trotted off.<br />"Bwead, bwead, bwead," she sang.<br />In the great tradition of the Duck Pond, I waddled after her.<br />I was still squawking.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-30934307922775036052011-05-23T11:55:00.000-07:002011-05-23T12:29:58.158-07:00Two-by-TwoI am a big fan of the two-by-two playdate. <br />Noah, after all, had great results with this on his ark. And as the mother of twins, it works for me, as well: You get a girl for your girl and a boy for your boy and everyone--including the Mommas--are happy for two to three hours.<br />I have recently learned, however, that I should up my game and screen for children who have been fed large, protein-based snacks prior to playdates to eliminate any latent hunger.<br />"Hey, are there going to be hot dogs at this playdate?" one six-year-old boy asked me recently after hopping off our school bus with his sister. "Because my mom said there would be hot dogs."<br />I produced pretzels, cookies and apples along with the promise of hot dogs at 5 p.m., our dinner hour. When everyone seemed finished, I shooed the children up to the playroom and started the dishes.<br />Twenty-five minutes later, Superman was back in the kitchen. <br />"So, how about those hot dogs?" he asked. <br />I offered up the unfinished plate of fruit and reiterated my plan for dinner. <br />Twenty-five minutes later, our guest returned to pull on my apron strings. <br />"It must be time for hot dogs!" he said. <br />"Not yet," I said. <br />Then, I gave my charge a brief lesson on how to tell time without the use of a digital clock.<br />Thirty-two seconds later, he poked his head in the door.<br />"I'm totally ready!" he said. "You must be ready, too!"<br />I still had lunch and snack dishes to do, five phone calls to make and three loads of laundry on my agenda, but my reserve was faltering.<br />"How about hot dogs in five minutes?" I asked. <br />"Great," Blondie said. "I'll time you."<br />And darn if the little imp didn't come into the kitchen with a sand timer from some long-ago forgotten board game.<br />"I'll have to flip this five whole times to make five minutes," he said. "I'll turn it over. There. Now, gooooooo!"<br />What this boy didn't know is that anyone who breathes down my neck and/or whines while I'm making dinner has to help me make it. <br />"Alrighty, Einstein, I'm drafting you into service," I said, pulling an apron over his brush cut. "Now go outside into the garage and find the outside refridgerator, move the ladder that's holding the crummy door shut, pull out the extra Diet Coke boxes and find the apple juice boxes. Then, grab five and put them on the table. After you do that, go into the pantry and get the ketchup. You'll have to move the rice cooker and the mixer but it's back there. Then, place that on the table. Next, you'll need to get silverware for everyone--that's a knife, fork and spoon for all of us--plus napkins. These can be found in the drawer to your left. After that, you can get everyone to stop playing, wash their hands--make sure they use bubbles while singing "Happy Birthday" as a sanitary precaution--and get them to sit down at the table.<br />The boy looked at me thunderstruck.<br />"You can do this," I told him. "I know you're in the gifted and talened program."<br />"Buuuuttt..." he exclaimed.<br />"Now move it," I said, a polite smile on my face. "I'm timing you."Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-63830285099459985532011-04-08T11:03:00.001-07:002011-04-08T20:01:26.653-07:00The Case Against JusticeOne-shouldered tank tops, sequined bikinis and push-up bras have no place in the closet of a six-year-old. <br />Yet all three items are marketed--and sized--to young children at "Justice," a strip-mall staple.<br />The store, which also offers strawberry-scented pajamas, glittery plush animals and key chains for kids who are years away from driving--was initially designed as a gateway to "The Limited" and "Limited Express." These two moderately-priced dress shops seem to be geared for 20-somethings who work in polyester blazers then party in pleather.<br />It is unclear to me whether the girls who shop at Justice end up at the aforementioned stores, but one thing's certain: Justice clothing has become important in my first grader's daily culture.<br />"Mom," said my six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, one day after school, "I <em>know</em> where Justice is."<br />Mind you, I had never spoken a word about the store. Yet somehow, Elizabeth knew inherently there was something slightly dangerous about it. <br />And it became cool--fast. <br />Thus, Elizabeth began building her case.<br />"Trisha wears things from Justice," Elizabeth pointed out. "So do Tabby and McKenzie." <br /><em>"Yes,"</em> I wanted to tell her, <em>"And such clothing has turned nice children into the likes of pole dancers."</em><br />(Of course, then I'd have to explain what a pole dancer is and that would make shopping at Justice look like Disney World, so I simply shut my trap.)<br />"Mmmm?" I mustered, in what I hoped was a neutral tone. <br />Mind you, I have--and have always had--a love for a little bling.<br />My own closet includes hot pink patent leather loafers, a fake 4-carat yellow diamond, dalmation flares. And since I live in Texas, these accessorites are trotted out routinely for daytime wear. <br />Still, my style can best be described as "polished preppy." My hemlines are modest. My jewelry most days includes my wedding set and small diamond studs. I wear tankinis poolside.<br />All this means that I have enduldged Elizabeth with a bottle of blue nailpolish. I have agreed to zebra-striped headbands. And when she finally remembers to water the plants consistently, I will take her to get her ears pierced so long as she wears discreet small gold earrings.<br />I am not foolish enough to think that I can stop Elizabeth and her sister Charlotte from fashion mistakes. There will probably be plunging necklines, ugly shoes, too-sprayed hair. But if these are the only mistakes they make as teenagers, I'll be one happy mom. <br />But I do draw the line at the sexualization of little girls. <br />They do not have breasts, therefore, they do not need push-up bras. <br />Hopefully, no men are glancing at their bottoms, therefore, they do not need low-rise undies to keep from peeking out of low-rise jeans.<br />They should be strong swimmers, therefore, they should wear full-bodied suits with two straps that hold up under madcap freestyle stokes.<br />While mothers and daughters have long had disagreements about what's appropriate, I think we've taken a more dangerous step in 2011: We've intentionally taken away sweet innoncence before Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy have even been unmasked. <br />Instead of allowing our little girls to occassionally try on the concept of being "big" through healthy play in the costume box, we're pushing them into full-time roles that are not developmentally appropriate. <br />It is an aside that we're taking away part of the fun of being a grown-up: If I had dalmation flares at age six, would I want revel in them at 37?<br />I can, of course, choose not to shop with or for my child at Justice. <br />Regardless, my daughter will still be submerged in a culture where such clothing and the roles it perpetuates is both tolerated and encouraged. <br />I will have to do my best then, to remind my little girl that she's little. <br />Because you're only six for 12 short months.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-75256582450384611632011-01-24T18:08:00.001-08:002011-01-25T05:54:17.673-08:00Report CardsEveryone in my family got a report card this week except for me. <br />The elementary school sent home very formal critiques of my twins' progress along with a letter from the state describing achievements made by the entire student body; my husband participated in one of those scary 360-degree reviews at the corporation where he's employed. Even the baby's pediatrician handed me a checklist of "achievements" at her 16-month visit. <br />As a stay-at-home mom, I've gotten my fill of lovely Mother's Day cards and pats on the back from various shoppers at malls, grocery stores and gas stations. <br />But really, I'd like to know how I'm doing. Right now. Before there are any expensive psychologists to pay.<br />So, I asked my six-year-olds to develop a rubric to assess my work, then grade me on my efforts.<br />What, I asked my children, are mothers supposed to do?<br />"Well, they're supposed to take care of the kids," Elizabeth said. <br />"And the baby," added William. <br />According to my first graders, mothers should be held accountable for planning great birthday parties, making sure everyone eats vegetables, reading bedtime stories, cleaning up and doing laundry.<br />(Noone mentioned the development of spiritual, emotional or intellectual selves but that might be added to the list next year. I am further hopeful that my progeny will also think to include the installment of manners and the ability to obliterate lice.) <br />Next, it came time to do the grading. I took a deep breath.<br />I got a perfect score on taking care of the baby. (Did anyone notice that I lost her once today?) <br />I also took the cake when it came to the birthday parties. My Spontaneous Easter Egg Hunt for 50 children last April was mentioned, albeit not technically a birthday celebration.<br />"Though you should have gotten us skateboard last year for our birthday," Will added.<br />I also pulled it out in the nourishment category, which was a complete surprise to me given the loud moans displayed at nearly every meal. <br />"But you should still make Will eat more vegetables," Elizabeth reported. <br />On the defense, I quickly told her I make an effort to present them every night. I cannot, however, force him to consume them save inserting an IV drip line.<br />According to the kids, I am furthermore a wonderful story reader. I was given credit for doing interesting charachter voices even when it is late at night and I'm really cranky.<br />Moreover, both children interpret the house to be clean. This means I will cancel my naptime dusting tomorrow in lieu of browsing the web.<br />Then they informed me that I am not perfect.<br />It would seem there is a significant problem with my laundry skills.<br />"Mom," said Elizabeth, "We need to talk about this sock problem."<br />Sock problem? <br />"You only match about 40 percent of the socks," she said. <br />I cannot deny this fact: Most people in my family wear mismatched socks on most days in my house. In fact, every bedroom in the house includes a display atop dressers of lonely singelton socks waiting for their mates.<br />Well, I tell them, I will work on that. <br />Right after I plan the next birthday party, that is.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-78004380695621454312010-11-19T08:25:00.001-08:002010-11-23T08:12:25.319-08:00Listen Up, Mr. PresidentWhen you live in Washington D.C. as we did for many years, celebrities are not limited to Snooki, Lindsay and Britney. If you really want to get the interns revved up, spot Nancy (Pelosi), Harry(Reid) and now John (Boehner) dining at one of the venerable steak houses near Capitol Hill.<br />That's why having Roberto Rodriguez come to dinner at our house last night was a really big deal. <br />Mr. Rodriguez is Special Counsel to the President on Education, a handsome 35-year-old dynamo who advises Barack Obama on national school policy. He is, by Beltway standards, a minor celebrity. <br />In our world, he's a major one: Roberto also happens to be my husband's oldest and dearest friend, a fellow zoo school graduate from Grand Rapids, Michigan, who once ran the City High Student Council with Jim. (Three cheers for the City High "Pegasi," which was a somewhat dorky yet understandable mascot for Grand Rapids' gifted and talented youth.)<br />To know Roberto is to love him and in no time at all, six-year-old Elizabeth was perched on his lap as we grown-ups talked politics.<br />We explained to the twins that Roberto works for President Obama to make schools better. <br />"Is there any message you want Roberto to give to Mr. Obama?" I asked the kids. "Is there anything we as a country should be doing to improve your school?"<br />I, for one, could stand to do away with the TAKS tests but then, that's more of a state issue...<br />William, meanwhile, monkeyed with a paper plate, thoughtfully chewing his tongue.<br />"There should be more ice cream," he said, all business. "Every day there should be ice cream."<br />Roberto, ever the problem solver, asked for clarification.<br />"And should we have hot fudge available?" he prompted. "How about sprinkles? Do we want just vanilla or choclate, too?"<br />But Will wanted things simple.<br />"Vanilla would be good," William said. <br />"Well, that's important to know," Roberto said. "The House is considering the Child Nutrition Bill this week."<br />Who says officials don't listen to their constitutents?Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-66379818803962634142010-10-26T10:01:00.000-07:002010-10-26T10:04:38.050-07:00Louse in De House<em><strong>I am a big fan of the story “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” the children’s book in which one action leads to another. I think there should be a version for grown-ups called “If Your Husband Goes Overseas on Business.” Here is my version.</strong></em><br /><br />If your husband goes to China on business, your daughter will come home with a head full of lice. <br />If you go to the drug store to purchase a shampoo to remove the lice, there will be only one kit left. You will need two. <br />If you carefully apply the pesticide, which is supposed to kill anything alive, then spend three hours combing out your daughter’s thick, long hair with an inch-wide metal nit comb, you will notice at the end of your grooming session one very alive louse. He will have very alive friends.<br />If you call your pediatrician in a panic, he will put you on hold.<br />If your doctor suggests your massage mayonnaise into your daughter’s scalp as a homeopathic remedy, you do so only to realize that you have been using Light Mayonnaise instead of Regular Mayonnaise. It is likely lice will enjoy Light Mayonnaise. <br />If your aunt comes to visit you from New Mexico, you will send her directly to a seedy laundromat with 14 loads of lice-infested bedroom textiles. <br />If your aunt is at a coin-operated laundromat, she will not have enough quarters to get the job done.<br />If she cashes in her remaining bills for coins, she will run out of detergent. <br />If you are simultaneously doing laundry at home, your washing machine will break.<br />If your washing machine breaks, the toilet in your master bedroom will sympathize and begin spraying dirty water soaking your carpet. <br />If you need to soak up funky toilet water, you will realize your aunt has every towel in the house in the back of her car.<br />If you get the toilet water cleaned up, you will still need to vacuum up the lice. <br />If you try to vacuum up the lice, you will realize your vacuum is on its last legs and that you are out of clean vacuum bags.<br />If you spend a whole entire week raking through your child’s hair with a painful comb, you will feel guilty and let her play with a chemistry set. <br />If you let her play with a chemistry set, she will spill every single chemical on the kitchen floor where your baby is crawling. <br />If you spend an hour cleaning the brick surface on your hands and knees, your mother will helpfully dump your dirty mop water into the downstairs toilet. <br />If she pours the sludge down the toilet, several rags will go down with it and clog the pipes causing the potty to overflow onto your clean floors.<br />If you find yourself covered in toilet water, lice shampoo, mayonnaise and dead bugs, your husband will call from China and tell you he’s having a wonderful time at the World’s Fair.<br />If, after a week, you finally get your child cleaned up and the house deloused, you will get an e-mail from a first grade teacher informing you that Friday is Hat Day. <br />If it’s Hat Day in First Grade, your child will provide a habitat for a new crop of lice.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-41521826770142643642010-09-09T11:56:00.000-07:002010-09-09T12:19:01.877-07:00The Mystery ReaderBeing a Mystery Reader in first grade is a little like volunteering to step on the circus stage--you know darn well something funny will happen with the clowns and that it will likely involve water.<br />Yet, it is nice to raise your hand and be chosen. <br />Thus, I marched off to the elementary school last week with my two reads tucked under my arm and a theme: It's good to be quirky.<br />Mrs. E. turned off the lights as I entered and did a drum roll...surprise...it's Will's mom!<br />I parked myself in the rocker.<br />"Our two stories today are about being quirky and how that's a good thing," I told the kids clustered on the Crayola-colored rug. "Who knows what quirky means?"<br />Noone knew. <br />"Well, it means being unique in a special way," I said. "Our baby Charlotte is quirky because she likes to do chores. When she crawls, she pulls herself around on her tummy, dusting the floor."<br />I added that I'm quirky--I drink Diet Coke with my breakfast!<br />I offered other examples: Our grandma screams really loud when she rides kiddie amusements even though she's in her seventh decade of life, Will's sister separates all her food into categories before she eats them, our daddy can snore so loud you can hear him one floor down.<br />I then proceeded to read "Imogene's Antlers," the story of a British girl who, wouldn't you know it, grows antlers! I follow up with Dav Pilkey's "Dog Breath," about a canine who saves the day despite needing to brush and floss.<br />Then it was time to see how well we did with retention. <br />"Okay, so we know being quirky is a good thing," I said. "Who here is quirky?"<br />One little boy offered that he's quirky because he wears his hair in a braid on top of his head; another girl lives on a farm with a horse. <br />Will's friend Sandy has a dog who has really, really short legs but runs surprisingly fast. <br />They were getting into the swing of things now.<br />"Ohh, ohh, I have one," yelled a kid in a Cub Scout uniform hopping up and down. "I have a dog who wears a diaper and pees blood!"<br />Next time I think I will go to the circus. <br />At least that's a more predictable afternoon.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-24541895078550315152010-07-15T07:17:00.000-07:002010-09-09T09:50:43.357-07:00Crawler CampI've done many crazy things in the name of motherhood, but crawling across the living room floor on all fours barking like a dog with a baby rattle in my mouth might be the nuttiest.<br />Actually, I wasn't just barking. I was also shaking my head back and forth and sort of growling. Being consheentious, I wanted to get the part of Beagle just right. <br />The simultaneous goal, however, was to encourage Charlotte to creep, a milestone that at 9.5 months had failed to materialize.<br />I had pretty much given up on crawling and figured it didn't matter: After all, Elizabeth sat on her tuffet until she was 13 months old then stood up and walked across the room. She's since tested into our school district's gifted and talented program so I figured she didn't miss out on much.<br />So when all the other babies at Kindermusik zipped across the mats on all fours, I sat back and smiled.<br />"Charlotte has surveyed our flooring options which include brick and wood," I told another mother, "She's happy instead to relax and preserve her knees." <br />Not only was the baby thrilled with the arrangement--who wants to look down at the world after sitting up?--but so was I. With Charlotte immobile, I didn't have to worry about scrubbing the floor or packing up the Legos.<br />Imagine my surprise when my pediatrician raised a red flag--which I dismissed. <br />(This is my third baby, for crying out loud, let's not rush her! She'll creep when she's ready.)<br />Then my dear gal pal Michelle M., who is also a pediatric physical therapist, forced me to swallow a cold dose of hard reality.<br />"Crawling is imperative," she said in her kind doctor-y voice. "It promotes visual perception and strengthens the arms which enables kids to form the correct pinscher grasp used for writing later." <br />It turns out that crawling as a baby is linked to school success: Kids who don't color or write well in kindergarten generally never crawled. <br />(Creeping also does a bunch of other important things but I'm several days out from the conversation so I can't remember what exactly, but the gist is that kids must go through this phase to ensure their bodies and minds work properly.)<br />And what of Elizabeth?<br />"You got lucky," my friend said. "If Charlotte's not up on all fours and swaying back and forth by ten months, give me a call for clinical assessment." <br />Michelle's prescription: 30 to 40 minutes of belly time per wake period. This translates to 90 minutes per day.<br />Now, I will blatently ignore a middle-aged male pediatrician, but I will never, ever ignore the advice of a fellow hot momma with a Ph.D. (I will disclose I've spent thousands of dollars at Michelle's clinic where William worked to quit tiptoe walking--also a seemingly harmless quirk that causes big problems--and thus I know the value of early intervention.)<br />So, I dutifully spent an afternoon last week rearranging the furniture and laying down a huge foam mat: Crawler Camp would commence immediately.<br />Charlotte was not pleased. <br />Four minutes into our exercises and she planted her face into the foam, looking up at me with a pleading look that said "Can I please just have the camp water bottle and T-shirt and call it quits?" <br />"Listen, kid," I told her, "If you want to accurately pen your incredibly long English name when you're five, you're going to have to do this."<br />And so we've been at it now for a week. I've alerted all family members to the situation and now even the twins--the biggest enablers of us all--are forcing Charlotte to climb over the Mt. McKinley of pillows. Why just yesterday, the big kids even played Yoga Class with Charlotte, deftly demonstrating the various poses they'd learned in preschool.<br />Still, no success. And no real interest.<br />"See, Charlotte," I tell her, "If you can crawl, you can get whatever toy you want."<br />She rolls her big, brown eyes at me and whines like a dolphin both harpooned and marooned.<br />Hence my dog act. <br />If we have to put this sweet cherub through Crawler Camp, at least I'll try to make it fun for her. <br />No wonder I'm the one sporting rug burn on my knees.<br /><br />EPILOGUE: Baby Charlotte began doing an Army crawl at 11 months. She first dragged herself to an electrical outlet then scooched over to the wastebasket to lick it. I abruptly canceled the meeting with the PT but now worries she is going to pull a lamp on her head... I should be more careful what I wish for...Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-71305250595570233082010-06-01T12:35:00.000-07:002010-06-04T09:09:55.483-07:00My Mother's TableMy mother, for all her efforts to become a good cook, rarely serves up a meal without a side of apology. <br />"I'm worried this might be a little overdone," she'll say, plunking down plates of puckered chicken before us. "And I didn't quite get to these green beans in time but they should still be OK," she'll add, spooning out vegetables no decorated EMT could resuscitate.<br />Ketchup is often offered as triage. <br />So is salt, the "seasoning" of choice in her kitchen. <br />If things are really dire, she'll microwave a can of mushroom soup and slosh it over the top of whatever cut of meat needs help. <br />Her best strategy remains distraction, which is where the leprechauns come in.<br />My mother's table scapes are legendary. This is why, in part, her dinners remain extraordinary culinary events and a hot ticket any time during the holidays.<br />Sit down at one of her tables and you feel like you're in Disney World. <br />Depending upon the season, there are dozens of artfully arranged Easter bunnies, cupids, Santas, birthday hats, or ceramic rainbow sculptures lofted at differing heights atop boxes draped in antique lace and textured cloths. I've even seen her tastefully combine plastic flip flops, Styrofoam sun visors and multicolored bandannas in a centerpiece caterers at The Plaza would commend.<br />But that's just the beginning.<br />The placecards--and there are always placecards--are not simply small signs denoting your seat. Often, they hold clues about the life of the guest, which is essential, she believes, to the ice-breaker phase of a dinner.<br />At her events, you might be seated next to "World-Class Litigator," or "Museum Docent" or "Airplane Connoisseur." Even small guests get provocative cards like "Amusement Park Designer." <br />Sometimes, guests are given a part they're supposed to play.<br />One Christmas, my mother did a Texas theme and we were all given nicknames: We enjoyed the company of "Tall Richard," "Kitty Jo," "Jim Bob," "Big John," and "Little Jewel." <br />These monikers were extended to our stockings, which also were marked with the aforementioned names and hung on the backs of our dining room chairs.<br />There is silver, too, lots and lots of silver sprinkled between crystal goblets and linen napkins adorned with thematic napkin rings.<br />My six-year-old daughter Elizabeth always checks the silver sugar bowl to see if Memaw is serving white or brown sugar. She likes to clink the tiny tea spoon aside the bowl with a pinkie raised. While some grandmothers would flinch at the mere thought of young children nearing their pretties, my mother encourages use so that kids can learn early on to appreciate them. <br />"They're antiques," she'll say. "They've been through generations of kids and have held up just fine."<br />This is often a launching point for stories of people past and present.<br />You see, the real entree at my mother's table is not the roast but the conversation.<br />She knows something about everyone and makes connections for and between her guests, engaging them in ways few others could. My mother is fundamentally curious and asks curious questions. She mixes in ideas big and small, massaging the dialogue like a baker massages dough until the dinner becomes a party and the party evolves into a night to remember. <br />"Good God," she'll say after an evening, "Your father and I were up late again! The Smyths were at the dinner table until 2 a.m.!" <br />Of course they were. <br />My mother's meals are more nourishing than those served by five-star chefs in world-renowned restaurants. That's because she never fails to make her guests feel special, funny, smart, comforted and, well, full--even if you were noshing on that weird green Jell-o salad she serves in spring.<br />My mother's birthday was June 1 and for the occasion, I bought a clutch of ceramic pink flamingos. I set my table with pink polka dot plates then sprinkled dyed pink feathers throughout my table scape. <br />The food was a downright disater: The menu included stringy Hawaiian chicken and a birthday cake topped with crystallized icing so sweet it made dentists up in Oklahoma shiver. <br />"Ohh, this is delightful!" my mother cooed as she ate a forkful. "So, William, I hear that your tables were turned upside down in kindergarten today. What was that all about?"Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-89954905777376984742010-05-22T16:55:00.001-07:002010-05-22T18:05:31.897-07:00Elizabeth's JournalIt is hard to imagine anything more exciting to a six-year-old than losing a front tooth, which is why when the blessed event occurred the Tooth Fairy left a message in pink glitter glue, a smattering of pink fairy dust on the floor and a five dollar bill carefully folded in the tooth pillow. <br />But today Elizabeth topped herself: She spontaneously lost another bottom tooth without any of the usual wiggling--<em>only two days after losing a front tooth!</em><br />"Look what came out," she screeched, rushing down the stairs with the evidence cupped in her right hand. <br />For the record, she's lost five teeth. This means she now shares strained baby food with her eight-month-old sister Charlotte.<br />Elizabeth proceeded to make the necessary phone calls: Mewmaw and Papa, Grandma Nan, Aunt Jamie. <br />"You must come see my smile, Memaw," Elizabeth crowed into the phone while lounging on the couch. "I am adorable." <br />Then, she documented the event in her Dollar Store notebook. <br />Below is the entry as copied directly from the page. <br />(Of course I read it! But that's another blog post entirely...)<br /><br /><em>Day 4<br />I lost my tooth egan! Wow, I cant bulev it! <br />I lost my tooth!<br />I lost my tooth!<br />I can't bulev my self!</em><br /><br />Such an entry would make even the Tooth Fairy chortle.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-22241477325766823742010-05-01T18:42:00.001-07:002010-05-04T08:11:13.341-07:00Boy Love"No one will play with me at recess."<br />It was a statement of fact, bravely put forth by my small boy.<br />The huge hazel eyes searched mine.<br />My own eyes stung as I commanded every cell in my body to stay steady. <br />I did my best to soothe and strategize. Later, I inquired of the kindergarten teacher: What did she see? After all, I was under the impression that William is--and has long been--well liked by just about everyone. He's kind, intelligent and quietly funny. He blends well with many different types of kids and enjoys them all. His teacher confirmed this and explained that he always plays with classmates at recess.<br />Yet despite being busy, Will still felt lonely. <br />I knew exactly why: He needed a Best Friend. <br />Just as all little boys should have a dog, they need a Best Friend. All boys should have a special companion who can appreciate the fine art of mushing gross uneaten food into a carton of chocolate milk. They need a person who can repeat a fart joke with a cackle then cheer them on as they execute a flying two-footed leap off a swing when their moms aren't looking.<br />And while William has a built-in buddy with a twin sister who loves him like a turtle loves its shell, he doesn't have a best buddy--yet.<br />I had been hopeful there would be a match when he started preschool at age 3. While there was plenty of fun to be had, there was noone special who stuck; the second year of pre-k left us with many good memories but no real contenders for Best Friend. <br />I hoped that kindergarten--and a boy-heavy class of 19--would offer up an opportunity. But with six weeks left in the school year, I wasn't seeing a match yet. <br />In the meantime, we continued to play with lots of different children and kept up ties with our preschool pals. I invited 40 kids to the twins' sixth birthday party but shelved my hidden hope for a Best Friend for Will this school year.<br />Then just today, I heard the cackle I'd been hoping for. <br />It rose up from my backyard like the first Texas bluebonnet of spring--bright, tall and full. <br />Charlie Schwartzman--a friend from preschool--was running in hot pursuit of Will. Together they tore around our biggest oak tree, Will in the lead while weilding a Nerf gun. My boy was was laughing like a heyena, open mouthed, tongue wagging. <br />Even after Charlie tackled his pal and, apparently, licked his ear, Will was grinning.<br />After the Schwartzmans left, Will pulled me aside.<br />"Mom," he said, "Charlie said he likes me best. He likes me. The. Best."<br />Charlie, I think it might be mutual.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-50528772709604494672010-04-07T19:40:00.001-07:002010-04-07T19:44:08.368-07:00The Hot Pink Egg<em>Elizabeth and I make up stories together every night as we lie beneath her pink quilt. Generally, they feature a mouse and we call them 'Mouse Tales.' The feature below is tonight's story, written down by me for posterity. It is a deparature from the norm in that it features a spring hen. (Whoever heard of a mouse sitting atop an egg? Then again, that might be another story...) I rarely have more fun than when 'writing' with Beebs; few things thrill me more than her love of words.</em><br /><br />Once upon a time in a field growing really tall spring grass, there lay hiding a hot pink plastic egg. <br />A hen came upon the hot pink plastic egg. <br />She looked to the left.<br />She looked to the right. <br />"Where is the mother of this poor hot pink egg?" the hen asked. "Why, this little thing must be cold. I will warm it and wait for the chick to peck it's way into the world."<br />So the mother hen fluffed her feathers and carefully arranged herself atop the egg.<br />She enjoyed the afternoon breeze. <br />She enjoyed the sunset. <br />She enjoyed the sparkly stars as they popped out around the moon.<br />The sun came up and the mother hen flopped off the egg to inspect it.<br />"This little chick is a late riser," she said. "I will try to wake her up."<br />So the mother hen knocked on the hot pink egg.<br />Nothing happened. <br />She knocked again, louder this time. <br />"Little chick, are you home?" the mother hen asked. <br />There was no answer. <br />So the mother hen used her strong beak to crack the hot pink egg in two.<br />"Oh, my!" she exlaimed.<br />There lying in the center of the hot pink egg was a very small bunny dressed in gold. She wore a pink bow tie and smelled very, very sweet. <br />"Why, you are not a chick at all!" the mother hen exclaimed. "You are a lovely little bunny."<br />The mother hen cocked her head with a smile, fluffed her feathers and gently wrapped her warm wing around the chocolate bunny.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-13974607919169260582010-02-23T11:09:00.001-08:002010-02-23T11:46:31.390-08:00Soccer StarsIn Texas, you're behind in sports if you don't start prior to potty training. <br />People have been telling me this for years but I shrugged it off. I know things are competitive down here in the Lone Star State(see "Cool Moms" posted below) but, seriously now, what insane people put toddlers on the soccer field before they've give up their sippy cups? <br />It would appear there are many. <br />In fact, by the time the Big Dawgs creamed the Lightening Bolts last Saturday, it appeared the winners had been on the field together for three years. <br />A pint-sized Pele and his pal--a wringer for David Beckham--along with their five-year-old teammates, pocketed at least ten goals during our 40-minute game in ice-cold conditions.<br />I say "at least" because at some point I stopped counting. <br />Luckily for the parents of the Bolts, the referees don't keep score for the Under Six league. Had they tallied the points, I know that my own sweet William would have sobbed so hard his father would have had to have carried him off the field in a puddle.<br />While the coaches of the Dawgs were telling their players to "Defend #4! Close in on #7! Cut around #2!" my husband--Coach Jim--and his buddy, Coach Steve, were yelling and pointing "Run <em>LEFT</em>, Honey, run LEFT!" in an attempt to ensure our kids were at least aiming the ball into the correct net.<br />Reid looked up from the play puzzled; Elizabeth stopped altogether in her tracks; Jack ran over to the sidelines to look for a cookie.<br />Mind you, our kids are not idiots. <br />On the contrary, they were holding tough after only one practice. The others had been cancelled due to snowy/soggy/frigid weather. Moreover, some of the kids had never watched a soccer game before, much less played in one. We were still figuring out how to put on our velcroed shin guards, discussing how the game is played, learning what in the heck the whistle was all about.<br />But by half time, Aiden was kicking big, Reid was defending the goal and Jack, having been fortified by M&M-filled baked goods, was running after the ball with a determined look on his face.<br />Alas, the opponent continued mounting goals on us. <br />Not that that mattered to Sydney and William who were defending their fellow Bolts up in the stands. (Yes, there are stands for the Under Six League in Texas.) <br />According to Sydney's mom, one of the Dawgs was talking trash about the Bolts to Syd and Will.<br />"We're still winners if we try our hardest," William told the Dawg. <br />"Right," said Sydney, who then went on to expound on the virtues of good intent and hard work in a manner that would make her kindergarten teacher proud.<br />Apparently, this sussing shut up the Dawg, who agreed that everyone would be a winner despite the score.<br />It's true that we lost the game. Yet in the end, we won. <br />No matter the tally of the season, I think we've already gotten our money's worth.<br />Go, Bolts!Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-16254840351004545212010-02-15T11:48:00.000-08:002010-02-23T08:14:40.318-08:00Cool MomsWhoever says my middle-class North Dallas suburb lacks cultural diversity need only glance at my twins' elementary school.<br />Why, we have Overprotective Moms. Overscheduling Moms. Overbearing Moms. And, my favorite Mom type of all, Moms of the Oversmart.<br />Ahem. <br /><em>Gifted and talented.</em><br />And while I am certainly among the many Ugg-booted, cell-phone weilding throngs who idle in a SUV at kindergarten car line, I am proud to say that I do not fit into any of these categories. <br />After all, my five-year-old twins engage in only one sport per season (that's soccer this spring, as both football and hockey were deemed unsafe). They engage in free play (from 3:30 p.m. until 4:47 p.m. M-F at which point we adjourn to an organic, homemade meal served on BPA-free plates.) They are smart, but not so smart as to be weird. (I permitted William to yell "POOP!" for 12 consecutive minutes yesterday but only after he agreed to name the organs that aid in digestion.)<br />The final proof: When asked to provide evidence of my children's giftedness for our school district's G&T program, I limited myself to one typed page per child. I recognize that it would have sufficed to simply fill out the two lines provided on the form, but because I am a professional writer, I believe some level of perfection is expected. This accounts for the six hours I spent crafting the essays. (Thanks to those of you who edited them! I owe you each a Starbucks!) <br />I might add that I was ultra cool when the twins and I ran into the G&T admissions officer outside an Ulta beauty supply store last week. I could have gone on and on about how William correctly identified the nation of origin of the story "The Little Red Hen" as England just the day before. I could have added that Elizabeth is reading "The Mouse and the Motorcycle"--a third grade chapter book--all by herself. <br />But I'm not <em>that</em> kind of mom, so I didn't mention any of it. <br />No, I kept it casual: I told the teacher how we're enjoying "Brain Quest" at dinner each night. The "game" is actually a fan deck that offers dozens of questions about history, mathematics and science. <br />"We challenge each other to see who can answer fastest then my husband and I expand upon the concepts," I told the teacher. "We've completed the kindergarten and first grade cards, so we've moved on to second grade. The cards would be such a welcome addition to your curriculum." <br />The educator smiled and mentioned something about finding a hairbrush. <br />I'm sure she took the time to text my advice to the head of the curriculum department as soon as she made her purchase. <br />In fact, I'd bet my Uggs on it.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2541139657235984648.post-25509752212926415992009-12-27T18:07:00.000-08:002009-12-27T19:58:13.257-08:00The Night Before Christmas'Twas the night before Christmas it was half-assed at best,<br />The big kids were fighting, Charlotte was biting my breast. <br /><br />The stockings were hung, all seven trees dressed,<br />but this year the gifts lacking bows looked distressed.<br /><br />In lieu of gift tags I'd Sharpied the names, <br />in the upper right corners I'd attempt some new game.<br /><br />No sleep I had had not one darn silent night,<br />worse yet my pre-pregnancy pants were still way too tight. <br /><br />We went to church anyhow to celebrate the main event,<br />I sat there wondering if Mary had ever felt this spent.<br /><br />We departed in peace to a cold winter night, <br />to fix Santa his treats, then have a bite. <br /><br />It would be Chick-Fil-A or maybe some Kraft,<br />thought I knew Dear Husband would prefer a cold draft. <br /><br />When what to our wondering eyes did appear <br />but snow in the South flakes big, cold and clear. <br /><br />Our twins went wild, they skidded and shrieked,<br />their interest in Santa was gone, in getting wet it peaked.<br /><br />Elizabeth made angels, William went down the slide,<br />the babe went to bed while I got the Tide.<br /><br />The moon rose up high, they claimed to be tired,<br />we knew in our hearts, however, that they'd be long wired.<br /><br />We gave baths and read stories of magic this night,<br />it took much work before we had them in bed snuggled tight. <br /><br />Then the effort began for Dad and myself<br />as we'd not yet done everything we should as good elves.<br /><br />We ran out of tape and paper so cute,<br />I had to hide one Santa gift in an old cowboy boot.<br /><br />At last we retired, though we knew it'd be brief,<br />for our newborn holds the position as Commander-in-Chief.<br /><br />But as my eyes closed that cold Christmas Eve,<br />I thought to myself, I am so pleased.<br /><br />For I am a woman rich with family safe and warm,<br />who care not how my clothes fit or how my hair is shorn.<br /><br />Perfection has its virtues here in the 'burbs, <br />but not at my house this year, no, it sure won't be served.<br /><br />MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03890286298753057459noreply@blogger.com3