Parent Talk Today

Paper and Scissors and Glue, Oh My!

Remember the simple act of pasting a few special photos, a valentine and maybe a flattened carnation corsage into a photo album?

Today, of course, it's a verb: "to scrapbook." And in our
"let's-go-overboard-and-then-fret-about-how-stressed-we-are" age, it's yet one more thing to feel guilty about.

"I sat down and looked at all those boxes of photos, and I just started crying," one friend tells me. "It all seems so overwhelming."

Another friend spends hours at arts-and-crafts stores, buying stickers and pens and assorted doo-dads, which then sit in a shopping bag in her closet because she's too intimidated by the pages in the scrapbooking magazines.

Who can blame us for feeling defeated? These magazines showcase an overwhelming Mardi Gras parade of artistic techniques. Peek-a-boo pages with sliding doors. Folded tea-bag embellishments. Photo kaleidoscopes. And have you tried taking skinny copper wire, rolling it into tiny circles with pliers and making individual daisies? By the way, don't forget the three shades of green raffia, which you'll flatten and twist for the leaves.

Then there are the baby pages. They're simple, really. Just cut your photo into 16 tiny pieces, add 16 pieces of different-colored translucent paper, and reassemble the whole thing to resemble a
gorgeous stained-glass window.

Frankly, I think I'll wait to try these nifty techniques until after my 13-year-old son, Matthew, leaves home for college. (College-spirit pages – with real mini-pom-poms!) Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll spend his childhood yelling, from behind a pile of acid-free card stock, "Can't you play checkers by yourself? I’m busy preserving your memories!"

I have to confess: I do subscribe to the scrapbooking magazines. But I like to read them in much the same way I peruse gourmet cooking magazines. Late in the evening, in bed, I linger over the pictures and read every how-to step. But just as you're not going to catch me leaping out from under my cozy comforter to whip up a Gruyère fondue with caramelized shallots, don't hold your breath looking for pop-up pages or hand-sponged clouds in my family's scrapbook.

Instead, what you will find is the first letter Matthew ever wrote to Santa, along with a photo of a little boy in flannel jammies placing a piece of cake and a can of Coke by the fireplace. And copies of e-mailed stories about Which Witch, a silly witch who plays tricks on children, written especially for Matthew by his grandmother. Nothing fancy here. No witches flying off the page. But those stories are there, safely preserved, for Matt to read to his own grandchildren someday.

Our baby pages aren't elaborate, either, but they hold lasting reminders of a special time: my scribbled list of things to bring to the hospital when I went into labor (what planet was I on when I wrote "playing cards"?), and the page from my husband's calendar where he logged the time and length of every contraction the night before Matthew was born. We also included our short list of names, so that Matt can look at it some day and wonder if life would have been different as a Gregory.

I also cherish the silly, and sometimes creepy, memories of family life with a boy who seems to grow an inch taller with every page I turn: Matthew, at age 3, running around the house with an oven mitt on each hand, pinching his “claws” together and declaring himself “Larry The Lobster.” The Father's Day when Dad received cereal, coffee and the sports page in bed, but only after agreeing to wear a "Cat in the Hat" hat for the duration of breakfast. And the page showing Matt and his not-too-crazy-about-snakes mom each receiving a "Certificate of Bravery" for viewing the live rattlers at the American International Rattlesnake Museum in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

My family's scrapbook doesn't stay on a high shelf, away from curious — and yes, potentially sticky — hands. Instead, it sits on our coffee table, always open and filled with purple-painted preschooler handprints, photos of Matthew frosting Daddy's birthday cake and other snippets from our daily lives that will mean more to us, and our grandchildren, than all the twisted-wire daisies in the world.

This, Too, Shall Pass

Maybe it's being married to Randy for (wow) 15 years. Maybe it's having a kid who is at the "baiting-mom-and-dad-for-sport" stage. Whatever it is, I've found myself saying "this, too, shall pass" quite a bit lately.

Some days it feels like I'm just a hamster on a wheel: Take Matt to school. Work. Go to the grocery store. Work. Call the cable company-orthodontist-cell-phone-company about the question/problem of the day. Go to the drug store. Work. Pick up Matt. Wonder what to make for dinner. Listen to complaints about homework...

I've had too many conversations with my mom friends that go like this: "Isn't school out YET? I'm so sick of homework. The kids are driving me crazy... Yadda, yadda, yadda." We've all done it, right?

Then this morning I saw an elderly man standing in line next to me at the grocery store, holding a beautiful purple-flowered plant in a cute pot. A surprise gift for his wife? I wondered.

"That's such a pretty plant," I said.

"It's a gift for a neighbor who brought me some homemade soup," he replied. "I wanted to say thanks."

There was no wife waiting at home to be surprised by pretty purple flowers. The kids, if there were any, grew up and moved out decades ago.

"This, too, shall pass." How many times had I said those words to myself? To my husband? To my girlfriends?

And I'm right, of course. Kids grow up and move on. Beloved spouses die. This life that I have with Randy and Matt will never again be exactly like it is this week, this month, this year.

I'm no Pollyanna. I know the next time I'm at girls' night out with my mom friends, we won't all be sitting around painting a perfect picture of domestic bliss. We all have challenges and frustrations.

But I want to remember that sweet old man and his purple flowers tonight when Randy comes home from work. I want to focus on the good stuff when I pick up Matt from school and ask about his day. I want to hold them both a little closer and keep in mind that this sweet life I have with them won't last forever.

Because this, too, shall pass.

OK, It's Not a Cell Phone in the Washer — But Man, is it Sticky!

I love Dawn Meehan, author of Because I Said So... And Other Tales From a Less-Than-Perfect Parent. If you haven't checked out her blog, head over to Because I Said So.

The photo collage on her blog banner is so adorable. Reminds me of the photos (and other assorted family stuff) on my fridge.

I've written here about finding my son's cell phone in the washer. But I have ONE kid. Dawn, the mom of three boys and three girls, finds laundry day to be a continual adventure.

Fruit snacks in the dryer, anyone? (Yep, it's as much of a sticky mess as you'd imagine.)

Having one of those days? Go spend some time with Dawn and you'll know you're definitely not alone.

Now THAT'S a Moms' Night Out

The press release just landed in my in box, and I HAD to share it with you:

Hi Kathy — Forget those dreaded Tupperware, purse and makeup parties where women gather together, gossip and buy things they don’t need. The new trend for party throwing in 2009, that will make you look and feel fabulous all at the same time?  iZO Transformation Parties — get-togethers designed to impress your friends with the latest in Hollywood health.

Transformation parties? I'm intrigued. Will I get a new hairstyle? A facial? A new lease on life? Let's see...

Transformation Parties offer attendees a chance to learn about the mechanics and incredible benefits of detox cleansing, a phenomenon that is sweeping the nation (fans of iZO include Katherine Heigl, Mandy Moore, Patricia Heaton, Daisy Fuentes and more), in a fun, relaxed setting.

And you can trade in those champagne glasses and fatty snacks — these parties feature a healthy alternative with a live organics juice bar, magical teas and elixirs, delicious raw and vegan snacks, cleansing bodywork, an herbalist and free on-site live blood analysis.

Hey girlfriends! Let's forget manicures-and-martinis night. Dump the chick flicks and popcorn. Who needs champagne? We're gonna get together and detox! Bring on the tea, vegan snacks, cleansing bodywork (I'm afraid to ask) and (call your babysitter NOW!) free, on-site live blood analysis.

I would love to offer Tim Martin as a guide to offer tips on throwing your own Transformation Party.  And, if you are in the LA area on April 6, I invite you to witness an iZO Transformation Party for yourself. Let me know if you want the scoop!

Gosh, I'm pretty sure I'm, uh, busy on April 6. As for hosting a party? After chasing kids, volunteering, working, watching their retirement funds and their kids' college funds dwindle, cooking dinner, and listening to all the lovely AIG news of the day — I do think my mom friends could use a party.

I just think the occasion probably calls for chocolate, merlot, and (yes) a little gossip. And we'll pass on the live blood analysis. But thanks!

Welcome Pot Smokers!

You gotta love Google. It always amazes me how people find this blog, and it's a hoot to see some of the Google searches that result in people clicking on a parenting blog. How about these:

°    "How to prep and smoke weed" (Sorry, Dude, but you ended up with my article for parents on kids and pot.)

°    "What do you do when your teenager is smoking pot?" (OK, I'm seeing a trend here. Maybe the first one was searched by a teen and the second one by his mom?)

°    "Idea gift teacher child always late pick up" (Always late pickup? So you need a gift to say I'm sorry for all those late arrivals at day-care pick-up time? I'm guessing the teacher would prefer you spend the money on a watch. Teachers need to get home to their OWN families at the end of the day, right?)

°    "Cell phone in washing machine" (After I did a post on this when my son left his cell phone in his pants pocket — and it got drenched — the post became my most-visited ever. At least our family isn't alone!)

°    "Sick of video games" (Me too.)

°    Can my child get MRSA at school? (The number of searches that hit on the MRSA post here on the blog is going up, up, up. Remember to tell your kid not to share gym towels — and not to sit his naked butt on the bench in the locker room. Now there's a dinner-time conversation starter!)

Keep those Google searches coming! I love having you stop by — however you get here.

Just Another Day for a Work-at-Home Writer Mom

You know the day isn't going to start off well when the very first words you hear, after the clock radio starts blaring "Don't Stop Believing," is "Mom! Charlie (the dog) threw up in his crate."

Ugh. Nothing like dealing with dog puke before you've had a chance to brush your teeth.

Oh, but we're not done yet: "Mom, I don't feel so well."

So here I am, with a kid home sick from school, a bedroom that smells like dog vomit, breakfast to make and a 9 a.m. conference call with three people in New York who will decide whether they want to hire me for a great freelancing gig.

In other words: No time for Calgon to take me away.

But it all got done. By 8:55, the bedroom smelled better, the school attendance folks were called, and the kid was fed and was happily lounging in the den drinking orange juice and watching a Bill Cosby DVD.

And there I was, at 9:00, in my home office sounding (I hoped) like I had it completely together as I talked with three very nice people on a conference call — as the dog barked in the background.

Hey, nobody ever said this working-from-home thing would be easy.

Tag - I'm It!

I was tagged in an online game of tag by Jen Singer over at her terrific MommaBlog at MommaSaid.net. That means I'm now part of a huge Internet-wide game of posting "Seven Things You Didn't Know About Me."

Here goes:

1. When I was a teenager, I worked for a restaurant with this oh-so-imaginative name: "The Beef and Turkey." The head cook occasionally burned the turkey when he didn't keep an eye on it because he was sneaking off to smoke a joint outside.
2. The first time I tried to impress a boy, by going all out on that game where you swing really high on the swings and then jump off and see how far you can jump, my top got caught on the swing and ripped and I accidentally put on a show for the neighborhood kids. (Not that there was anything to see at that point.)
3. I grew up with a Labrador Retriever that I tried like heck to turn into a horse at one point. Built her a stable out of a wooden shipping crate. Made a halter. "Taught" her to jump over things. Hey, she loved the attention. At least I never tried to ride her!
4. I hate black licorice and anything related to black licorice, including the green version of NyQuil. Phhht.
5. The only athletic activity that I can beat my husband at is water skiing. (Or at least that was the case 15 years ago at Club Med on our honeymoon...)
6. I love John Cusack movies, especially "Say Anything."
7. One of my favorite meals on the planet is a whole pile of Costco's crab legs. Steam those babies, melt a little butter and I'm in heaven.

Tag, you're it to Jill Grace at Creative Grace. Go for it, Jill! (Only you have to do yours as a scrapbook page and use stamps!)

Momagers, Momtourages and Mommy Mobs, Oh My!

“We really want the kids to feel special at the magazine drive contest next week, and do not want anyone to feel like a ‘loser’ because they are all winners.  So, we will all be responsible for bringing in presents and trophies for someone else’s child so everyone is included!”

“You did a fabulous job at the Need-Organic-Glue-in-the-Classrooms Fundraiser. Thanks so much!”

“In honor of Shalom-Winroads School’s 12.5-year anniversary, we are having a benefit. Have you bought your table yet?”

If you're a mom with a kid in preschool through middle school, you may be laughing, because you know these quotes from a post over at On Youth and Teens Today With Vanessa Van Petten aren't all that much of an exaggeration...

Be sure to read the entire post. Vanessa is one of my favorite parenting bloggers. She throws in a lot of humor with her great insights. Head over there right now and subscribe... before you read another e-mail from the PTA president.

Piece of Cake!

Dear readers, how cool is this? One of my favorite parenting writers, Jenna McCarthy, is our guest blogger today. She's the author of the hilarious book, The Parent Trip: From High Heels and Parties to Highchairs and Potties. When she’s not busy buying and returning bakeware, she can be reached at jennamccarthy.com.

I’m famous for my cakes. Actually, infamous is probably more accurate. Ask anyone who’s been to one of my parties and they’ll tell you my confections are consistently dry, suspiciously tilted, usually burnt on one side and batter-y on the other, and my icing “flowers” would more aptly be described as icing “turds.” So you can understand why my children’s birthdays can make me a little anxious.

I have friends who swear by those high-end bakery cakes, but—and go ahead and call me cheap here—a hundred bucks seems a slightly obscene amount to pay for some frosted flour and eggs. Besides, the kids only ever eat the icing anyway. If I didn’t think the other moms would disapprove, I’d buy a case of Betty Crocker frosting, scoop a dollop into two dozen Dixie cups, add some plastic spoons and a couple sprinkles and call it a day.

Last year the birthday girl wanted a princess cake. Not just a cake with the likeness of a princess painted on top of it; no, she wanted one of those elaborate feats of culinary engineering where the plastic princess—that year, it was Belle—stands in the middle of her edible gown, its folds forming layer upon syrupy layer of decadent goodness. We’d seen one at a party, so I called the child’s mom. Martha-Rachel Stewart-Ray (not her real name) informed me that you could buy everything you needed at the local craft store. “You made it yourself?” I asked incredulously. Pumped by the powerful combination of her impolite snickering and my own indignation (if Martha-Rachel could do it, then so could I!), I drove recklessly to Michaels and traded the cost of approximately two months worth of lattes for the Wilton Wonder Mold.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that the doll figure torso (they don’t even give you the whole doll!) that came with the mold was blonde—unlike both my daughter and Belle—so I returned to the store and purchased a brunette head separately. Back at home again, I read the frosting and decorating instructions, which revealed I’d be heading back to the store yet again for some mysterious cake-topper known as fondant. At this point, I had well over $60 invested in my daughter’s three-dimensional dessert, a figure which did not include the $350 cake-decorating class I would clearly need to take in order to assure the final result would be even remotely princess-like.

In the end I gave up, made one last trip to the craft store to return the whole lot and got a standard-issue supermarket princess cake. It cost $17 and had four princesses on it. Amid all of the other party festivities, there wasn’t a single complaint. The birthday girl expected her friends to bring presents to her party. (They did.) These friends expected to get some sort of torched, sugary dessert in exchange. (They did.) With the money I saved, I was able to buy my daughter a doll that had legs and everything. Everyone was happy—but none of them happier than me.

And that, my friends, takes the cake.

 

Just Call Me Improv Mom

Matthew and I bounce in our chairs at the kitchen table. He pumps his fist in the air as I call out, in my best rap-star voice, “Yo water! Yo water!” He grins, then takes up the chant. Could this possibly be the same mom who nags him to rinse the toothpaste gunk from the sink? To pick up his baseball cleats from the bottom of the stairs? To write thank-you notes?

Soon we’re snaking our way around the kitchen in a silly rap-conga line, showing off our best moves and making up other improbable songs that follow my improv teacher’s instructions: “Create a rap song using a nursery rhyme with an exercise theme. Then do it in front of the class, with the rest of the class as your back-up rappers.”

Gee, no pressure there!