Have you seen any of these public service announcements with people saying "It gets better?" I love this. I have been saying for years "High School is not real life" but this phrase is a lot shorter and easier. We are basically saying the same thing.
I first discovered this the summer after I graduated. I attended a travel school, where a bunch of recent graduates (mostly female) went to live and learn together for 5 weeks in a strange land known as Florida. Ironically, I really hate to travel now. I think it's the thought of having to pay for a place to sleep, when at home I already pay for a place to sleep. But I digress. While we were there learning, there was a small group of "Mean Girls," straight out of Tina Fey's childhood. They were making fun of someone, laughing at people, talking behind the other girls' backs, basically doing all the things the popular kids did back in High School. Until another girl called them on it. She scolded them, saying their behavior was "So NOT cool!" All I could think was: Whoa! Six months ago, these girls were the definition of cool! What happened? Oh yeah, we graduated. OK, high school is not real life. Yay!
I did however get to experience what it is like to be one of the cool kids. I was just in my mid 20's at the time. I worked at a place with a very defined caste system. Somehow, and I still can't tell you how, except that I was unhappily married with no children and had a lot of disposable income, I became part of the IN crowd. Being the nerd in hiding I was at the time, I happily joined. We would leave work, go to whatever bar was decided on that evening, stay until it closed, go home, get up in the morning and do it all over again. I quickly learned I cannot be a cool kid, even if they let me try.
I don't normally stick out in a crowd. I am of average height, average build, average attractiveness level. Drunk people tend not to remember me. I can only introduce myself to the same person about 6 times before I really don't care to know them. I also do not drive drunk, so sipping cola surrounded by drunk people was kind of awkward, too. I put up with it though, for about 6 months, just because I was allowed to hang with the cool kids! Maybe, if I played my cards right, I could actually be one of them someday! (I know. Remind me I was in my mid 20's at the time. But old rejection issues die hard, OK?) So I drove, and I played, and I bought, and I sucked up, and I stopped talking to the other people. You know, the ones in the lower castes. And I really thought I was happy being one of the cool kids. But then there was a turning point.
A circle of people gathered out behind the bar. Of course, being with the cool kids, I was invited into the circle. There was a pipe being passed. I assume it was pot, but nobody specified. The complete stranger to my left was next up to get it, and I looked at him. Specifically, at his mouth. It was not a pretty mouth. It was not a clean looking mouth. It did not look like a mouth I would want anywhere near any of my body parts. At any time, for any reason. But in order to remain a part of the cool kid group, I was expected to take an object which had just been in his mouth, and then put it into mine! That did it. My inner nerd voice got really loud right at that moment, and told me to get the hell out of there! So I did. I turned around and walked away. I drove home and made plans to set the poor man I was married to free. I decided to be me, in all my geeky glory, and to hell with all those cool people! Do you know what my new cool friends' reaction was to me walking away? None. They didn't notice. That was my wake up call. The cool kids don't care about even each other. Nice.
Yes, High School is not real life. Until it is. I didn't have this problem until I had school age kids of my own. Sometimes the parents aren't so adult. I have to assume these people had a much different High School experience than I did, since I would never want to relive mine. Ever. Or maybe they had my kind of experience and don't want their children to live the hell they did. I don't know, but there always seems to be a group of parents who are still living the high school dream, just 20 years later. Through their children. The peer pressure is brutal. The snide comments are heartbreaking. The blatant teaching of improper behavior to the kids is unforgivable. Their kids suffer just as much as ours do, too. They can't have the friends they want to have, can't join the clubs they want to join, have to be the cool kids their parents expect them to be. It has to suck! And they treat me like I got treated back then. That really sucks. Except now, I'm better equipped to handle it. I know how to let it go. I know to only surround myself with the good kids, and stay away from those mean ones. I get it now, because as much as the ones stuck in the past try to make it so, High School is not real life.
So, to be me, I'm trying to think of a funny way to wrap up this story. But I can't. Just take this one as one of my rants, and remember, weather you are living it now or already lived through it: High School is not real life! In other words, it gets better.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Children's Music
I seriously question the sanity (and competency, to be honest) of parents who constantly play their kids "Children's Music." You know, songs for kids. Or kids singing songs. Those annoying sets put on this Earth to drive us crazy. Yes there is a time and a place for the "Wheels On the Bus," but it isn't in my car! Seriously, preschool was great. We learned lots of new songs and dances, and that glitter is evil. I loved every minute of it. Really! But there are some things that should not come home with you. Like the Flu, glitter, and the music.
I was at a gathering once, shortly before Leroy was born. I heard a Mom say the highlight of her day was when she would get the opportunity to drive the car alone, with no kids. Then she could put the radio on the station SHE wanted to listen to, not what she had to play for the kids. When I asked why she didn't do that anyway, I got some crazy looks! I was confused. Was I going to lose my musical choice the moment I gave birth? But I already had step-kids! They didn't require special music. Did they? Did this mean we'd been driving wrong all this time because we put the radio on normal stations? Was singing along with Melanie's Averil Lavigne CD's scarring the boys for life? I was seriously questioning all of my musical choices! And considering giving up good taste for my kids!
But then I remembered: I used to be a kid. A long time ago, before safety seats and bicycle helmets, but still! I was a kid riding around in a car with my parents. And riding around in the big rig with my Dad. And these vehicles had radios. And never once during my whole childhood did either parent (or any other adult who drove me around, for that matter) ask me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. Not a single adult in my world ever changed the radio station or 8 track (yes I'm that old!) when I got into the car. Not once! So why the hell does my generation cater to our kids this way? I blame Barney. Not because he's guilty, just because I've always hated that purple piece of shit.
So that settled it. No special music for my kids. They would listen to whatever station I put on the radio and they would like it! My car, my radio, my tunes! Which is why car seats were invented, I think: to keep their grubby little paws off my radio buttons! Leroy was born, the boys and girl all aged, we exposed them to as many different musical styles as we could stand to listen to ourselves. They learned the children's songs at preschool, and all about Guns and Roses from Daddy. Life is good.
I learned very early in Leroy's life that he is a metal head. I would look into the rear view mirror and see him headbanging before he could talk. Neighbor kids cranking their radios would elicit instant response. The heavier, the better for my little toddler. Yep, he was a rocker! Still is. He keeps his hair long just to see it move when he bangs. But I've actually learned a few things from the little guy. About music, too.
I've never disliked Green Day, but I was never a huge fan, either. From the day Leroy was born, his world stops if Green Day plays anywhere. Really. American Idiot was released when he was about a year old. The songs we heard on the radio seemed good, so I invested in the CD. As soon as Leroy was old enough to talk, whenever we would get into any car to go anywhere he would say "Green Day!" And, especially if it was just the two of us, I would generally comply. And I learned: I love these guys! So when 21st Century Breakdown came along, guess what I got for Christmas? Oh yeah! And this year I hit the jackpot: Uno, Dos, and Tre! I'm not saying I wouldn't have discovered my Idiot love on my own, eventually. I'm sure I would have. But I am saying that Leroy's love did help me along the way. Would I be the huge fan I am now if we were Kidz Bopping all these years? Well, no. I would be in a padded room somewhere in the fetal position crying.
Music also paves the way for conversations necessary to raising kids. Conversations about choices, and making good ones. Music is not the only way paver; the news and local events have sparked some good ones, too. But music helps. And it teaches me about simplicity.
Case in point: a conversation with Leroy while driving the other day.
"Mom, is Billie Joe (Armstrong, the lead singer of his group. He's on a first name basis with them) OK now?"
"I've heard he's out of rehab, healthy, and they're starting the tour back up. So yeah, I think he's OK."
"Were the drugs what made him do all that stuff at that concert?" (See the "I Heart Radio" debacle for details)
"Probably had a lot to do with it, yeah."
"So what about Mike? Is he on drugs too?"
Uhhhh.... moral dilemma here. I can't exactly say someone I've never met is clean, or not, or uhhhh.... what's the right answer here? So I waffle:
"I don't believe so, why?"
"Well, when Billie Joe smashed up his guitar, Mike joined in and smashed his too. Why did he smash his?"
Uhhhhh..... well...... uhhhhh.....When in Rome? No, don't want to get into explaining that saying today, so...... Oh, I know! "Because he's a good friend."
"That's what I thought."
Whew! That's what he thought, indeed!
So rock on, people! My kids and I will be singing along with all the good music. As long as it's not "Wheels On the Bus." I mean, unless the bus has some awesome rims. Then we might talk.
I was at a gathering once, shortly before Leroy was born. I heard a Mom say the highlight of her day was when she would get the opportunity to drive the car alone, with no kids. Then she could put the radio on the station SHE wanted to listen to, not what she had to play for the kids. When I asked why she didn't do that anyway, I got some crazy looks! I was confused. Was I going to lose my musical choice the moment I gave birth? But I already had step-kids! They didn't require special music. Did they? Did this mean we'd been driving wrong all this time because we put the radio on normal stations? Was singing along with Melanie's Averil Lavigne CD's scarring the boys for life? I was seriously questioning all of my musical choices! And considering giving up good taste for my kids!
But then I remembered: I used to be a kid. A long time ago, before safety seats and bicycle helmets, but still! I was a kid riding around in a car with my parents. And riding around in the big rig with my Dad. And these vehicles had radios. And never once during my whole childhood did either parent (or any other adult who drove me around, for that matter) ask me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. Not a single adult in my world ever changed the radio station or 8 track (yes I'm that old!) when I got into the car. Not once! So why the hell does my generation cater to our kids this way? I blame Barney. Not because he's guilty, just because I've always hated that purple piece of shit.
So that settled it. No special music for my kids. They would listen to whatever station I put on the radio and they would like it! My car, my radio, my tunes! Which is why car seats were invented, I think: to keep their grubby little paws off my radio buttons! Leroy was born, the boys and girl all aged, we exposed them to as many different musical styles as we could stand to listen to ourselves. They learned the children's songs at preschool, and all about Guns and Roses from Daddy. Life is good.
I learned very early in Leroy's life that he is a metal head. I would look into the rear view mirror and see him headbanging before he could talk. Neighbor kids cranking their radios would elicit instant response. The heavier, the better for my little toddler. Yep, he was a rocker! Still is. He keeps his hair long just to see it move when he bangs. But I've actually learned a few things from the little guy. About music, too.
I've never disliked Green Day, but I was never a huge fan, either. From the day Leroy was born, his world stops if Green Day plays anywhere. Really. American Idiot was released when he was about a year old. The songs we heard on the radio seemed good, so I invested in the CD. As soon as Leroy was old enough to talk, whenever we would get into any car to go anywhere he would say "Green Day!" And, especially if it was just the two of us, I would generally comply. And I learned: I love these guys! So when 21st Century Breakdown came along, guess what I got for Christmas? Oh yeah! And this year I hit the jackpot: Uno, Dos, and Tre! I'm not saying I wouldn't have discovered my Idiot love on my own, eventually. I'm sure I would have. But I am saying that Leroy's love did help me along the way. Would I be the huge fan I am now if we were Kidz Bopping all these years? Well, no. I would be in a padded room somewhere in the fetal position crying.
Music also paves the way for conversations necessary to raising kids. Conversations about choices, and making good ones. Music is not the only way paver; the news and local events have sparked some good ones, too. But music helps. And it teaches me about simplicity.
Case in point: a conversation with Leroy while driving the other day.
"Mom, is Billie Joe (Armstrong, the lead singer of his group. He's on a first name basis with them) OK now?"
"I've heard he's out of rehab, healthy, and they're starting the tour back up. So yeah, I think he's OK."
"Were the drugs what made him do all that stuff at that concert?" (See the "I Heart Radio" debacle for details)
"Probably had a lot to do with it, yeah."
"So what about Mike? Is he on drugs too?"
Uhhhh.... moral dilemma here. I can't exactly say someone I've never met is clean, or not, or uhhhh.... what's the right answer here? So I waffle:
"I don't believe so, why?"
"Well, when Billie Joe smashed up his guitar, Mike joined in and smashed his too. Why did he smash his?"
Uhhhhh..... well...... uhhhhh.....When in Rome? No, don't want to get into explaining that saying today, so...... Oh, I know! "Because he's a good friend."
"That's what I thought."
Whew! That's what he thought, indeed!
So rock on, people! My kids and I will be singing along with all the good music. As long as it's not "Wheels On the Bus." I mean, unless the bus has some awesome rims. Then we might talk.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
My People
I fear change, so I haven't worked too many jobs in my life. Most of the ones I've switched around among do revolve around the same occupation. Some though, just kind of happened. I have my "career" jobs, then I have my "other" jobs. The straight out of high school, don't know what I'm going to do with my life jobs, the stay-at-home Mom needs to get out of the house sometimes part time gigs, the extra cash on the side type jobs. Needless to say, I have worked with a few different varieties of crews.
I often comment how I wouldn't last five minutes in an office environment. People generally think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I did work in an "office" for about six weeks once. I hated every second of it, and this office only consisted of three workers. I hated the boredom. I hated the clothes. I hated having to wear shoes that hurt my feet. But most of all, I hated when somebody else who worked in the building would walk into the room. They come in, do what needs to be done, then leave. That's when it started. Did I see what she was wearing? Did I hear the rumor about her cheating on her husband? Did I hear the rumor about her husband cheating on her? What did she do to her hair? Are those the ugliest shoes ever? You get the point. So then, every time I left the room, I wanted to circle back real quick and see what was wrong with me. But then I realized I didn't really want to know.
It is easy to assume that I think women cause more workplace drama. This is not exactly true. Men cause just as much drama as women, but I personally am just better equipped to deal with the male type. I don't know why. But if you get too many women into a workplace, the drama which ensues is just a bit much for me to handle. I have always just worked better with men.
Men are just a little bit different. They make fun of the way I walk, not the shoes I'm wearing while I do. I can deal with that. Plus, in case you haven't figured this out yet, I have kind of a potty mouth. Simply put, I cuss like a trucker. I can control it, usually, if I have to. But I prefer not to. I'm not saying all men enjoy cursing, but far fewer men have asked me to control my language than women. They also don't get upset when I giggle. The only boss who ever reprimanded me for "inappropriate giggling" was a woman. Again, not judging, just stating fact.
Some jobs, I know the first day there I'm never going to fit in. Others, I have to wait awhile before I grow on people. You know, like mold. My current job however, I knew the first week I was among my people. I had been warned: Cleveland was pretty upset about having to stop working, and understandably tense about me coming back. The thought of my mouth getting me in trouble was a pretty big fear for him. You know, that whole cuss like a trucker thing and all. Meanwhile, I found out later, co-worker to my right was informing his wife that he would probably be fired soon, since I'm a girl and all. It took us about 3 days to realize our humor is about the same, and we would all be fine. You're welcome, wife and husband.
Coming in to a new place, as one of the few girls who hold this sort of job, is always an adventure. The guys never know what to expect. Am I a girly-girl who got confused? A femi-nazi who has bigger balls than they do? Am I just scamming for a sexual harassment lawsuit? They just don't know! What I really am is a girl who can't stand dress shoes or pantyhose and kind of fell into a career where I don't need them! Nothing made me happier than, when I had been here a few months, I heard the boss man say "I sure am glad we got her, and not some prissy bitch!" Awww! See, these are my people!
I did have a boss once years ago, who made it extremely easy for the 3 girls who worked for him to get any time off we wanted. All we had to do was start a sentence with "Well, my ovary...." and that's as far as we needed to go. Yes, we took advantage of him. No, I don't feel too guilty about it.
At the beginning of winter this year, the Mommy-in-law bought me some new boots. MIL has great taste in clothing and fashion. I do not. So if she says something is good, I have no grounds for argument. These are black suede boots, lined with something warm and furry, very comfortable. I don't know the brand name, but she assures me they are "better than Ug," whatever that means. First snowy day, I come in wearing my new boots. I ask the married guys what "better than Ug" means, I finally learn that Ug is a whole brand of boots and is spelled Ugg. Cool! Then I am informed:
"Those better than Ugg boots sure don't make you walk any better!"
Awesome. See, I was born with one leg not quite as straight as the other one. The technical term from the Orthopedic surgeon is "squinty knee." One knee squints in at the other. In car terms, I suffer from a "toe out condition." To keep that knee from banging into the other one, I walk with a foot at about a 45 degree angle out from where it should be. It causes me to kind of, uh, waddle? Lope? I don't know the correct term there, but it's not graceful. Or free of pain. But apparently it is fairly amusing to watch. I don't run. I never learned how. Well, the boots are very nice and cool and all, but they do not help me walk better. Nice of my people to point that out for me.
I think when I really knew I was among my people was one day when I was standing outside with the boss man watching someone jog down the sidewalk. I commented that I always look behind the runners. You know, to see what is chasing them. He admitted he looks at the hands. To see what they're carrying (read: stealing.) The fact that neither one of us could come up with any other reason for someone to be jogging down the sidewalk is strangely comforting to me. These are so totally my people!
I often comment how I wouldn't last five minutes in an office environment. People generally think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I did work in an "office" for about six weeks once. I hated every second of it, and this office only consisted of three workers. I hated the boredom. I hated the clothes. I hated having to wear shoes that hurt my feet. But most of all, I hated when somebody else who worked in the building would walk into the room. They come in, do what needs to be done, then leave. That's when it started. Did I see what she was wearing? Did I hear the rumor about her cheating on her husband? Did I hear the rumor about her husband cheating on her? What did she do to her hair? Are those the ugliest shoes ever? You get the point. So then, every time I left the room, I wanted to circle back real quick and see what was wrong with me. But then I realized I didn't really want to know.
It is easy to assume that I think women cause more workplace drama. This is not exactly true. Men cause just as much drama as women, but I personally am just better equipped to deal with the male type. I don't know why. But if you get too many women into a workplace, the drama which ensues is just a bit much for me to handle. I have always just worked better with men.
Men are just a little bit different. They make fun of the way I walk, not the shoes I'm wearing while I do. I can deal with that. Plus, in case you haven't figured this out yet, I have kind of a potty mouth. Simply put, I cuss like a trucker. I can control it, usually, if I have to. But I prefer not to. I'm not saying all men enjoy cursing, but far fewer men have asked me to control my language than women. They also don't get upset when I giggle. The only boss who ever reprimanded me for "inappropriate giggling" was a woman. Again, not judging, just stating fact.
Some jobs, I know the first day there I'm never going to fit in. Others, I have to wait awhile before I grow on people. You know, like mold. My current job however, I knew the first week I was among my people. I had been warned: Cleveland was pretty upset about having to stop working, and understandably tense about me coming back. The thought of my mouth getting me in trouble was a pretty big fear for him. You know, that whole cuss like a trucker thing and all. Meanwhile, I found out later, co-worker to my right was informing his wife that he would probably be fired soon, since I'm a girl and all. It took us about 3 days to realize our humor is about the same, and we would all be fine. You're welcome, wife and husband.
Coming in to a new place, as one of the few girls who hold this sort of job, is always an adventure. The guys never know what to expect. Am I a girly-girl who got confused? A femi-nazi who has bigger balls than they do? Am I just scamming for a sexual harassment lawsuit? They just don't know! What I really am is a girl who can't stand dress shoes or pantyhose and kind of fell into a career where I don't need them! Nothing made me happier than, when I had been here a few months, I heard the boss man say "I sure am glad we got her, and not some prissy bitch!" Awww! See, these are my people!
I did have a boss once years ago, who made it extremely easy for the 3 girls who worked for him to get any time off we wanted. All we had to do was start a sentence with "Well, my ovary...." and that's as far as we needed to go. Yes, we took advantage of him. No, I don't feel too guilty about it.
At the beginning of winter this year, the Mommy-in-law bought me some new boots. MIL has great taste in clothing and fashion. I do not. So if she says something is good, I have no grounds for argument. These are black suede boots, lined with something warm and furry, very comfortable. I don't know the brand name, but she assures me they are "better than Ug," whatever that means. First snowy day, I come in wearing my new boots. I ask the married guys what "better than Ug" means, I finally learn that Ug is a whole brand of boots and is spelled Ugg. Cool! Then I am informed:
"Those better than Ugg boots sure don't make you walk any better!"
Awesome. See, I was born with one leg not quite as straight as the other one. The technical term from the Orthopedic surgeon is "squinty knee." One knee squints in at the other. In car terms, I suffer from a "toe out condition." To keep that knee from banging into the other one, I walk with a foot at about a 45 degree angle out from where it should be. It causes me to kind of, uh, waddle? Lope? I don't know the correct term there, but it's not graceful. Or free of pain. But apparently it is fairly amusing to watch. I don't run. I never learned how. Well, the boots are very nice and cool and all, but they do not help me walk better. Nice of my people to point that out for me.
I think when I really knew I was among my people was one day when I was standing outside with the boss man watching someone jog down the sidewalk. I commented that I always look behind the runners. You know, to see what is chasing them. He admitted he looks at the hands. To see what they're carrying (read: stealing.) The fact that neither one of us could come up with any other reason for someone to be jogging down the sidewalk is strangely comforting to me. These are so totally my people!
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Paranoia Parenting
Let me tell you "Elf on the Shelf" freaks a few things. If you need to plant spies in your house to get your children to behave, they are probably horrid little brats anyway and don't deserve Christmas gifts! If they are good children already, instilling paranoia into their lives will only backfire later. Trust me.
As if the whole month of December wasn't hectic enough, you expect me to find creative
adventures for the narc elf to do on top of everything else? Every day? And how is the elf spying on the kids if he's fishing in the toilet or hanging from the ceiling fan? And why do they call it "on the shelf" when that's the last place I see my braggart friends putting the little bastard? I'll tell you where my elf on the shelf is today: on the shelf at Walmart! I'm not doing it!
Not only did Santa see me when I was sleeping as a child, Jesus did, too. And the birds who would get into the chimney. And the bunnies who played in the back yard. And all the neighbors. And all of my teachers, parents' co-workers, complete strangers, and especially God. Any perceived sin I could possibly imagine would be met with severe parental punishment followed immediately by lightning bolts from the heavens. But here's the kicker: I was just naturally a good kid! All of this was completely useless; I wasn't planning on doing anything wrong anyway! The only thing all this overkill accomplished was screwing up my head.
I'm going to let the fans of Paranoia Parenting in on another little secret. Not from personal experience or anything. At some point in their life (usually around age 16 or so) your kids will figure it out. It starts small. They cuss, say, when they stub a toe. And nobody hears them! No lightning bolts strike them dead! Nobody appears with a bar of soap! The glorious F word echoes through the empty house, and nobody knows! This will be an eye opener to your kid. They will test their new found anonymity by breaking every rule they can find. They will wear unapproved make up. They will listen to devil music. They will try new adventures in smoking and drinking. They will find a boy or girl and experiment. They will, I promise. Why? Because they can! And the world will not end! Will your little elf friend be there then? I didn't think so.
But bad kids, I mean truly bad kids who act up just to prove a point, do they care if something else is watching them be bad? In my experience, usually not. In fact, they are generally pretty proud of being bad, so another witness is just icing on the cake, so to speak. Paranoia Parenting does not work with the bad kids. It just makes them more open about what they are doing.
Hey, I like this term Paranoia Parenting! Has anyone done a study on it yet? We've all had to sit through Helicopter Parents, Tiger Moms, Attachment Parenting, and I'm sure I have missed a few. Let's study the paranoia effect on children! I might be totally wrong, it may really make them better kids. Better kids with ulcers and anxiety issues, but better kids nonetheless. Until they do discover the secret. Leave me comments, here or on the Facebook page, and I'll do a pseudo-scientific study myself! Were you raised to always be looking over your shoulder? Did it make you behave any better? When did you figure out that nobody really cared what you were doing as much as you were led to believe? What did you do about it? Does it affect how you parent your own children? Tell me! I need to know! Otherwise I'll masquerade as an elf and sit around your house so I can see for myself!
As if the whole month of December wasn't hectic enough, you expect me to find creative
adventures for the narc elf to do on top of everything else? Every day? And how is the elf spying on the kids if he's fishing in the toilet or hanging from the ceiling fan? And why do they call it "on the shelf" when that's the last place I see my braggart friends putting the little bastard? I'll tell you where my elf on the shelf is today: on the shelf at Walmart! I'm not doing it!
Not only did Santa see me when I was sleeping as a child, Jesus did, too. And the birds who would get into the chimney. And the bunnies who played in the back yard. And all the neighbors. And all of my teachers, parents' co-workers, complete strangers, and especially God. Any perceived sin I could possibly imagine would be met with severe parental punishment followed immediately by lightning bolts from the heavens. But here's the kicker: I was just naturally a good kid! All of this was completely useless; I wasn't planning on doing anything wrong anyway! The only thing all this overkill accomplished was screwing up my head.
I'm going to let the fans of Paranoia Parenting in on another little secret. Not from personal experience or anything. At some point in their life (usually around age 16 or so) your kids will figure it out. It starts small. They cuss, say, when they stub a toe. And nobody hears them! No lightning bolts strike them dead! Nobody appears with a bar of soap! The glorious F word echoes through the empty house, and nobody knows! This will be an eye opener to your kid. They will test their new found anonymity by breaking every rule they can find. They will wear unapproved make up. They will listen to devil music. They will try new adventures in smoking and drinking. They will find a boy or girl and experiment. They will, I promise. Why? Because they can! And the world will not end! Will your little elf friend be there then? I didn't think so.
But bad kids, I mean truly bad kids who act up just to prove a point, do they care if something else is watching them be bad? In my experience, usually not. In fact, they are generally pretty proud of being bad, so another witness is just icing on the cake, so to speak. Paranoia Parenting does not work with the bad kids. It just makes them more open about what they are doing.
Hey, I like this term Paranoia Parenting! Has anyone done a study on it yet? We've all had to sit through Helicopter Parents, Tiger Moms, Attachment Parenting, and I'm sure I have missed a few. Let's study the paranoia effect on children! I might be totally wrong, it may really make them better kids. Better kids with ulcers and anxiety issues, but better kids nonetheless. Until they do discover the secret. Leave me comments, here or on the Facebook page, and I'll do a pseudo-scientific study myself! Were you raised to always be looking over your shoulder? Did it make you behave any better? When did you figure out that nobody really cared what you were doing as much as you were led to believe? What did you do about it? Does it affect how you parent your own children? Tell me! I need to know! Otherwise I'll masquerade as an elf and sit around your house so I can see for myself!
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Joys of Motherhood
Moms know. You get like one day. When they are infants, it may be one day every 3 months, when they are toddlers maybe one day every 2 weeks. My youngest is 9, so I have paid some dues. I get one day a week. One day to do all those things you have to do for everybody else and can't do for yourself because of all those little, uh, lets say "angels" running around. Like shaving your whole leg, not just the bottom half. Cutting your toenails. Trimming those walrus eyebrows. You know what you do, and how often you get to do it. My day is Sunday.
So I'm in the shower on Sunday, haven't been in for a full minute yet. And I hear:
Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble mumble!"
"I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."
Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble!"
"I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."
"But mom!"
"I! CAN'T! HEAR! YOU! WAIT! UNTIL! I'M! OUT! OF! THE! SHOWER!"
"I can't!"
"Is someone dying?"
"No."
"Then leave!"
But then I'm concerned, you know? What is wrong? I forgot to ask if anyone was bleeding. I forgot to ask if everyone was conscious. What caused Leroy to come to me and yell? What? So I rush through my shower. My one shower I can take without being late to work or the dishwasher kicking in to douse me with cold water or the teenager stealing all the hot water for his shower. I rush. I get out and don't even dry off. I wrap myself in a towel and hurry to the door to find Leroy. I have to say his name a few times to get him to come back. I ask what was so important it couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me. And this is what he said:
"Dad told me to tell you to let him know when you get out of the shower."
Read that again. Yes, you read that right. The thing he couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me was that I'm supposed to tell someone when I'm out of the shower. Yet somehow the irony was lost on the little brat.
So now, all clean, I head down to the kitchen. I make coffee and pour my bowl of cereal. Cereal eaters, you know the drill. You have a very limited amount of time after pouring the milk before the bowl becomes a gelatinous goo unfit for human consumption. So the Frosted Flakes are doused, I sit down to enjoy them, and who shows up the ruin it for me? The fricking dog! Apparently all the boys in the house have been too busy interrupting my shower to take her outside! So she sits down in front of me and starts barking. I feel for her, I really do. It sucks to have to pee and not be able to! I know! But seriously! There are currently 5 other people in this house capable of taking you outside, why do you single out the one with a fresh bowl of Frosted Flakes? So I say "Listen, you little bitch, (see what I did there?) I deserve to eat my breakfast! I will take you out when I'm done!" And, guess what? It worked! She stopped barking and sat down beside me with her head on my foot. And after I finished, we went outside.
So I guess my whole question is, how can I get the boys in my house to be as thoughtful as the dog? No, really, I want to know! I need a boy Obedience School! Ah, the joys of motherhood!
So I'm in the shower on Sunday, haven't been in for a full minute yet. And I hear:
Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble mumble!"
"I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."
Knock knock "Mom! Mumble mumble!"
"I can't hear you. Wait until I'm out of the shower."
"But mom!"
"I! CAN'T! HEAR! YOU! WAIT! UNTIL! I'M! OUT! OF! THE! SHOWER!"
"I can't!"
"Is someone dying?"
"No."
"Then leave!"
But then I'm concerned, you know? What is wrong? I forgot to ask if anyone was bleeding. I forgot to ask if everyone was conscious. What caused Leroy to come to me and yell? What? So I rush through my shower. My one shower I can take without being late to work or the dishwasher kicking in to douse me with cold water or the teenager stealing all the hot water for his shower. I rush. I get out and don't even dry off. I wrap myself in a towel and hurry to the door to find Leroy. I have to say his name a few times to get him to come back. I ask what was so important it couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me. And this is what he said:
"Dad told me to tell you to let him know when you get out of the shower."
Read that again. Yes, you read that right. The thing he couldn't wait until I was out of the shower to tell me was that I'm supposed to tell someone when I'm out of the shower. Yet somehow the irony was lost on the little brat.
So now, all clean, I head down to the kitchen. I make coffee and pour my bowl of cereal. Cereal eaters, you know the drill. You have a very limited amount of time after pouring the milk before the bowl becomes a gelatinous goo unfit for human consumption. So the Frosted Flakes are doused, I sit down to enjoy them, and who shows up the ruin it for me? The fricking dog! Apparently all the boys in the house have been too busy interrupting my shower to take her outside! So she sits down in front of me and starts barking. I feel for her, I really do. It sucks to have to pee and not be able to! I know! But seriously! There are currently 5 other people in this house capable of taking you outside, why do you single out the one with a fresh bowl of Frosted Flakes? So I say "Listen, you little bitch, (see what I did there?) I deserve to eat my breakfast! I will take you out when I'm done!" And, guess what? It worked! She stopped barking and sat down beside me with her head on my foot. And after I finished, we went outside.
So I guess my whole question is, how can I get the boys in my house to be as thoughtful as the dog? No, really, I want to know! I need a boy Obedience School! Ah, the joys of motherhood!
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Why Holidays Suck
You're a smart one, Mr. Grinch. By avoiding all the crap! The only thing that would make more sense is if the Grinch were actually a woman. More specific, a Mother. We really get the raw deal when it comes to holidays.
Regular readers know my favorite holiday is Halloween. Why? Nobody hands me a list of shit they want me to buy for them, there are no gifts more complicated than a candy bar, and the most important, nobody expects me to create some elaborate meal. Now I can hear the good little Susie Homemakers out there now, fretting about their witch hat cookies and finger wrap hot dogs and the like. And sure, they are fun if you have too much time on your hands, but also totally voluntary. That's the key: you can make them if you want, but nobody expects them out of you. The other holidays are a whole different story.
It starts with Thanksgiving. Creating the feast is a truly thankless task, as all who do it every year know. Last year I was broken, literally. Both wrists casted. So we had a small simple meal for 4, with me supervising the culinary challenged Cleveland on what to do. This year, though I'm all back to normal, so the holiday has to be, too. That means closer to 11 people, and everything up to me. Normally, I get up fairly early Thanksgiving morning, get the turkey into the oven, then sit down and watch the parade alone until my family wakes up. This year I tried a marinade, so I did the bulk of the prep the night before. This changed the routine, so everything was different.
First, I had company while preparing the turkey. This was new, but all right since it was just James and Leroy, the most helpful of the bunch. They were almost as horrified as me when I had to reach into the turkey's ass and pull out its innards. Really, this practice should be abolished immediately. It's not bad enough we kill it, we then have to shove its own (presumably) body parts up its ass? If we treated dead people like this.... Well, anyway, I get it all empty, then prepare its marinade. A recipe from the wife of the co-worker to my right, called Drunken Turkey. Apple juice, brown sugar, and whiskey. It started as a simple conversation with Leroy, but it got me thinking later.
"Is it normal for us to put whiskey on the turkey?" (Notice he says "us," like he's helping or something. Cute.)
"No, I'm trying something new this year."
"Oh." Long silence. Then, "If it turns out bad, it's all your fault."
But if it turns out well, which it did, is that my doing too? Apparently not. After last year, Cleveland did remember to thank me for the meal. Of course the guests who don't live here always remember to say thank you. But the cretins I'm related to? Still waiting.
And this is just the beginning of the holiday season we all are supposed to look forward to every year. Now it's time to prepare for Christmas! The decorating, the wrapping, of course the buying, and certainly another few meals will be expected. And who gets to do all of this? Mom, of course. And if it turns our bad, who gets blamed? Mom, of course. But when it turns out magical, who do we go thank? Santa, of course!
Lois Griffin said it best: (I know she's a cartoon character, but I can still quote her) "You think all this holiday cheer just falls right out of the sky? Well it doesn't! It falls out of my holly jolly butt!" And if you want to be honest about it, when they have to shoot her out of the tree with a tranquilizer dart, a little bit of every mother out there said "I feel you, sister." I know I said it out loud. Then my family stared at me like I grew another head and promptly shushed me.
But she's right. What does Dad do at holiday time? Watch football and fall asleep. Put together a few toys you had to beat people over the head to get to and watch you wrap everything else. Plead ignorance when it comes to being able to hang, bake, or buy anything. Yes, I can still hear you, women married to the perfect men. I know YOUR husband makes the cookies, decorates the tree, buys and wraps all the gifts. Well, shut up, bitch! Here in the real world, we have to do it all ourselves!
Not that I'm bitter or anything. I really am happy to provide my family with a fun Christmas. I just refuse to kill myself or my sanity in the process. Susie knows what I'm talking about. It's already a thankless job, why do we make it so much harder than it needs to be? Your tree does not need to be the prettiest one in town; your kids don't care. Your house doesn't need to be perfectly decorated; your real friends don't care. And fake friends, well, if they judge you, who cares? I know. We do. Every single one of us.
So here's my solution, another What Would Jill Do adventure. This year, instead of asking for a Christmas list from my kids (which they have already given to Cleveland, by the way) I'm going to force them to make a list of what they would like to buy for others. Will it change them? No. But it will make me feel better. If anybody doesn't like my decorations, or if I don't like theirs, the only acceptable reaction is silence. And when I open the hand made gifts that kids work hard to create, I will remember that this is what makes all the crap worthwhile. Happy Holidays!
Regular readers know my favorite holiday is Halloween. Why? Nobody hands me a list of shit they want me to buy for them, there are no gifts more complicated than a candy bar, and the most important, nobody expects me to create some elaborate meal. Now I can hear the good little Susie Homemakers out there now, fretting about their witch hat cookies and finger wrap hot dogs and the like. And sure, they are fun if you have too much time on your hands, but also totally voluntary. That's the key: you can make them if you want, but nobody expects them out of you. The other holidays are a whole different story.
It starts with Thanksgiving. Creating the feast is a truly thankless task, as all who do it every year know. Last year I was broken, literally. Both wrists casted. So we had a small simple meal for 4, with me supervising the culinary challenged Cleveland on what to do. This year, though I'm all back to normal, so the holiday has to be, too. That means closer to 11 people, and everything up to me. Normally, I get up fairly early Thanksgiving morning, get the turkey into the oven, then sit down and watch the parade alone until my family wakes up. This year I tried a marinade, so I did the bulk of the prep the night before. This changed the routine, so everything was different.
First, I had company while preparing the turkey. This was new, but all right since it was just James and Leroy, the most helpful of the bunch. They were almost as horrified as me when I had to reach into the turkey's ass and pull out its innards. Really, this practice should be abolished immediately. It's not bad enough we kill it, we then have to shove its own (presumably) body parts up its ass? If we treated dead people like this.... Well, anyway, I get it all empty, then prepare its marinade. A recipe from the wife of the co-worker to my right, called Drunken Turkey. Apple juice, brown sugar, and whiskey. It started as a simple conversation with Leroy, but it got me thinking later.
"Is it normal for us to put whiskey on the turkey?" (Notice he says "us," like he's helping or something. Cute.)
"No, I'm trying something new this year."
"Oh." Long silence. Then, "If it turns out bad, it's all your fault."
But if it turns out well, which it did, is that my doing too? Apparently not. After last year, Cleveland did remember to thank me for the meal. Of course the guests who don't live here always remember to say thank you. But the cretins I'm related to? Still waiting.
And this is just the beginning of the holiday season we all are supposed to look forward to every year. Now it's time to prepare for Christmas! The decorating, the wrapping, of course the buying, and certainly another few meals will be expected. And who gets to do all of this? Mom, of course. And if it turns our bad, who gets blamed? Mom, of course. But when it turns out magical, who do we go thank? Santa, of course!
Lois Griffin said it best: (I know she's a cartoon character, but I can still quote her) "You think all this holiday cheer just falls right out of the sky? Well it doesn't! It falls out of my holly jolly butt!" And if you want to be honest about it, when they have to shoot her out of the tree with a tranquilizer dart, a little bit of every mother out there said "I feel you, sister." I know I said it out loud. Then my family stared at me like I grew another head and promptly shushed me.
But she's right. What does Dad do at holiday time? Watch football and fall asleep. Put together a few toys you had to beat people over the head to get to and watch you wrap everything else. Plead ignorance when it comes to being able to hang, bake, or buy anything. Yes, I can still hear you, women married to the perfect men. I know YOUR husband makes the cookies, decorates the tree, buys and wraps all the gifts. Well, shut up, bitch! Here in the real world, we have to do it all ourselves!
Not that I'm bitter or anything. I really am happy to provide my family with a fun Christmas. I just refuse to kill myself or my sanity in the process. Susie knows what I'm talking about. It's already a thankless job, why do we make it so much harder than it needs to be? Your tree does not need to be the prettiest one in town; your kids don't care. Your house doesn't need to be perfectly decorated; your real friends don't care. And fake friends, well, if they judge you, who cares? I know. We do. Every single one of us.
So here's my solution, another What Would Jill Do adventure. This year, instead of asking for a Christmas list from my kids (which they have already given to Cleveland, by the way) I'm going to force them to make a list of what they would like to buy for others. Will it change them? No. But it will make me feel better. If anybody doesn't like my decorations, or if I don't like theirs, the only acceptable reaction is silence. And when I open the hand made gifts that kids work hard to create, I will remember that this is what makes all the crap worthwhile. Happy Holidays!
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Forgive Me
Ever since Phil Donahue invented the talk show, we've been hearing a lot about closure. Closure. We broke up, you died, somebody hurt me and my loved ones, I need closure. I cannot ever be a happy person with a normal life until I somehow achieve closure. Well, I'm here to tell you: Closure is a Crock!
There is nothing you are going to do to bring back a dead loved one. There is nothing that will take away the hurt somebody else made you feel. There is nothing I am going to say to an ex to make him less of a douche. Nothing. What can I do? Learn from it and go on.
There's this really popular quote from Oprah (she used to have a television show; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past can be changed." I'm sorry, Oprah, but I must respectfully call bullshit on this one. Let's replace it with a quote from Jill (she has a blog; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is permission for you to do it again."
Yeah, I know. It's un-american to disagree with Oprah. Regular readers know I kind of march to my own beat, though. But seriously, think about it. You wrong me. I forgive you. You will do it again. Why? Because I am allowing you to! But imagine this instead. You wrong me. I never speak to you again. You won't wrong me anymore, will you? Easy peasy! Close that!
So maybe I am a fan of closure, just a different kind. Like doors. In your face. Or my world. To your presence in it. OK, I can see where this is a good thing after all! I won't forgive you, though. I'll just close you out.
Now don't misunderstand and think this doesn't work both ways. I can hear the good people among you now, wondering: "But Jill, don't you want people to forgive you?" No. No I don't. If I wrong you, I did something horrible. I will never forgive myself, why should I expect you to forgive me? Plus, if you do, I might think you didn't see the transgression as the horrible act it was, and therefore might think it OK to do it again! See how that works?
Honestly, I might be a little more forgiving if any of us were a little better at apologizing. We live in a nation incapable of a proper apology. It's not our fault, nobody ever taught us! We are so used to seeing what I call the "Political Apology." That's when there's public outcry for you to 'fess up, but you don't know how. This always starts with the phrase "I'm sorry if anyone was offended..." Not sorry I did it, mind you. Just sorry that it bothered people. And not really sorry, just forced to say so. See, what this does is take the blame off the guilty person and put it instead on the people who were prudish enough to be upset because their expectations were not met. It makes it their problem, for being hurt, not the offender's problem for doing the hurting. I hate Political Apologies. They mean nothing, and do not even begin to earn forgiveness.
The smaller, less famous version is what I call the "Man Apology," simply because I have received this apology from every man who has ever wronged me. I'm sure women do it too, but I've had more men wrong me than women. Or at least the men have made an attempt to apologize, where women usually don't. This one is one sentence, usually very well rehearsed, which has the ability to make me homicidal. It goes "I'm sorry you feel that way." If you've ever received the man apology, you know exactly what a crock it actually is. If you've ever accepted a man apology, don't do it again. You got taken. It's not real. They aren't sorry they did it, they're just sorry you found out. Oh, you're mad at me for drinking all night with the guys and then sloppily making out with our waitress? Oh, I'm sorry you feel that way. Forgive me, feed me dinner and do my laundry so I can go out next week and do it all again.
Now, I can still hear some of you as you read this thinking I'm possibly a bit bitter. You know what? You are absolutely right! And I will stay bitter forever. Those who have wronged me will never get the chance to do it again. If you think this is the wrong attitude to have, well, I can only say I'm really sorry you feel that way. (See how that doesn't help anything?) And if you still are offended by what I have to say, I can only ask for your forgiveness.
There is nothing you are going to do to bring back a dead loved one. There is nothing that will take away the hurt somebody else made you feel. There is nothing I am going to say to an ex to make him less of a douche. Nothing. What can I do? Learn from it and go on.
There's this really popular quote from Oprah (she used to have a television show; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past can be changed." I'm sorry, Oprah, but I must respectfully call bullshit on this one. Let's replace it with a quote from Jill (she has a blog; perhaps you've heard of her) in which she says "Forgiveness is permission for you to do it again."
Yeah, I know. It's un-american to disagree with Oprah. Regular readers know I kind of march to my own beat, though. But seriously, think about it. You wrong me. I forgive you. You will do it again. Why? Because I am allowing you to! But imagine this instead. You wrong me. I never speak to you again. You won't wrong me anymore, will you? Easy peasy! Close that!
So maybe I am a fan of closure, just a different kind. Like doors. In your face. Or my world. To your presence in it. OK, I can see where this is a good thing after all! I won't forgive you, though. I'll just close you out.
Now don't misunderstand and think this doesn't work both ways. I can hear the good people among you now, wondering: "But Jill, don't you want people to forgive you?" No. No I don't. If I wrong you, I did something horrible. I will never forgive myself, why should I expect you to forgive me? Plus, if you do, I might think you didn't see the transgression as the horrible act it was, and therefore might think it OK to do it again! See how that works?
Honestly, I might be a little more forgiving if any of us were a little better at apologizing. We live in a nation incapable of a proper apology. It's not our fault, nobody ever taught us! We are so used to seeing what I call the "Political Apology." That's when there's public outcry for you to 'fess up, but you don't know how. This always starts with the phrase "I'm sorry if anyone was offended..." Not sorry I did it, mind you. Just sorry that it bothered people. And not really sorry, just forced to say so. See, what this does is take the blame off the guilty person and put it instead on the people who were prudish enough to be upset because their expectations were not met. It makes it their problem, for being hurt, not the offender's problem for doing the hurting. I hate Political Apologies. They mean nothing, and do not even begin to earn forgiveness.
The smaller, less famous version is what I call the "Man Apology," simply because I have received this apology from every man who has ever wronged me. I'm sure women do it too, but I've had more men wrong me than women. Or at least the men have made an attempt to apologize, where women usually don't. This one is one sentence, usually very well rehearsed, which has the ability to make me homicidal. It goes "I'm sorry you feel that way." If you've ever received the man apology, you know exactly what a crock it actually is. If you've ever accepted a man apology, don't do it again. You got taken. It's not real. They aren't sorry they did it, they're just sorry you found out. Oh, you're mad at me for drinking all night with the guys and then sloppily making out with our waitress? Oh, I'm sorry you feel that way. Forgive me, feed me dinner and do my laundry so I can go out next week and do it all again.
Now, I can still hear some of you as you read this thinking I'm possibly a bit bitter. You know what? You are absolutely right! And I will stay bitter forever. Those who have wronged me will never get the chance to do it again. If you think this is the wrong attitude to have, well, I can only say I'm really sorry you feel that way. (See how that doesn't help anything?) And if you still are offended by what I have to say, I can only ask for your forgiveness.
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