Death To Denim

Long time, no posting, but sometimes, life just gets in the way.

Once a month, my kids’ school allows them to skip the uniform for “spirit” wear. Basically, this means a school-branded t-shirt and appropriate bottoms. For two years, my daughter wore the exact same skirt because she claimed it was the only one that matched. She essentially created her own uniform for non-uniform days. Up to this point, she has spent her entire life wearing skirts, dresses, and leggings. However, she has decided that now she wants to wear jeans “like all the other girls.” As much as I have taught her to run her own race, do her own thing, and ignore what others think, I do understand how much peer pressure affects little ( medium and big) girls. So, Saturday night, we headed once more into the breach to find a pair.

People, it would have been easier to find the Holy Grail. At least Indiana Jones had his father, a map, and the Nazis moving him along. I had nothing but a list of stores, a budget, and the threat that anyone who misbehaved wouldn’t get a treat afterwards.

You know how there are some little girls out there with chicken legs? Little spindly things that don’t look like they’d hold up a desk, let alone a human body? That is not my daughter. She was the Pillsbury Dough Baby. She had fat rolls for her fat rolls. It was glorious. As she grew, she turned to the sturdy side. She now has turkey legs. Juicy, thick turkey legs like the kind they roast at a Renaissance Faire. She also has enough junk in the trunk to open up an antiques store. She comes by it honestly. Her father has the body of a linebacker and even in my old, skinny days, I felt like I had a pumpkin stuffed down my pants. This doesn’t make her a big girl. She is average size and average weight. She just happens to already possess a body type – one that isn't based on a stick figure.

Can you anticipate the problem of finding jeans for this child? Specifically to be worn to parochial school? We live in an age of skinny jeans, bedazzled butt cheeks, and super low waist lines. We live in an era where Daisy Dukes can be bought in size T’s (that’s toddler for all you non-child bearing folk), where mock turtlenecks are long gone, but mock half-shirts are all the rage, and “bling” is now used to describe everything from wedding gowns to watches. If you didn’t look at the size of the clothes, it would be almost impossible to tell what the age of the child wearing it should be. In fact, I saw a blazer/shirt combo my eldest sister-in-law would kill for – in size 7 GIRLS.

We were screwed before we walked out the damn door. It was ugly. My husband came along for this festive event and he spent the whole time muttering about convents. (I give up easily when it comes to shopping. He perseveres. If not for him, I wouldn't just be Pantless, I’d be flat out naked.) Store after store, we found jeans that were so tight, she couldn't zipper them, or so long she couldn't walk in them, or had so much bling on the backside that she could have advertised a Broadway show. We went up a size, we went down a size. We switched stores. Hell, we switched malls. We went high end and low end. She kept asking for Nordstrom’s and a “super sparkly” top, which basically means that if she ever goes shopping with Aunt C, I’d better go rob a bank.

At one point, there were tears. For the first time, my daughter looked in a mirror and didn't like what she saw. Her body wasn't just part of her, like her hair color, or her eyes. It was something to look at with suspicion and revulsion. I explained to her that she was beautiful, healthy, strong, smart, and fantastic. That if it was easy to find jeans, then they wouldn't write books about magical ones. I pointed out that “skinny jeans” didn't mean they only fit skinny girls, just like boot cut didn't mean you could only wear it with boots. I tried to help her to understand that her body is a gift from God and that He makes them in all different shapes and sizes on purpose so that we don’t get bored.

Finally, finally, finally, the perfect pair of jeans was found. They were just her size, just the right length, and even came with a super sparkly belt (but mercifully, nothing on the back pockets). We bought two. It was just in the nick of time too as the stores were about to close, her brother had given up walking and was now throwing himself bodily down the length of the mall, baseball style, and her father was ready to murder someone for a caffeinated beverage. Me? I was just happy to get out alive.

This Friday, she’ll sashay her little self into school feeling cool and confident in her brand spanking new jeans. She doesn’t know what size they are, or how much they cost, or what brand. All she knows is that she’ll be “just like the other girls.” And I guess for now, that’s a win. 

You're Fired!

Next week, my youngest starts full-day kindergarten. I am completely overwhelmed with the realization that my shadow for the past six years, my little guy at the back of my knee, the baby boy who still follows me from room to room will be leaving me for eight hours per day. I am just about prepared for the craziness of getting two kids plus a husband out the door at the same time every morning. My calendar is already filled with afternoon activities and dinner crock pot recipes are already being gathered. School supplies and uniforms have been bought. I am as ready as I am going to be for everything but one small, inconsequential item of business. The question.

You know the question. If you are a woman, without children of your own, you probably asked it, innocently and in an off-hand manner, as if the answer was simple and already decided. If you are a guy, you asked it automatically, expecting one and only one answer. If you are another SAHM who has been in the exact same position, you know not to ask at all.

What is the question? What has me so riled up already that I am ready to punch the next person who asks me in the face?

"So, what are you going to do once the kids are in school?"

A lot of different responses have popped into my head. Should I go with "eating Bon-Bon's and watching soaps"? It is fairly unoriginal, plus I've clearly eaten my share of desserts and I'm not into daytime TV. "Hookers and coke" is my husband's line whenever I ask him what he is up to when I'm not around, but I don't like to steal someone else's material. "Porn" is succinct, but I shudder to think of the TMI that may lead to from an over-sharer.

What I want to reply is, "What do you expect me to do after being out of the work force for eight years?"

(As always, I have nothing but respect for those moms who choose to continue their career. I made my choice and I have to live with it. This is just me complaining about the ramifications.)

Think hard. How many careers can take an eight-year hiatus? Post 9/11, post the dot-com bubble bursting, post Author Anderson, post the collapse of the stock market, the housing marketing, and in the middle of a recession - what jobs exactly do you think are available? What industry will take you with open arms, flexible hours, and pay enough to afford aftercare during the school year and daycare during breaks and summer vacation. Not everyone can teach, wants to teach, or can get a teaching position. Technology has practically somersaulted over itself in terms of change. Health care is in a state of flux. Companies in every industry are "right-sizing", "down-sizing" or just plain laying off. Lots of industries don't have part time, freelance, or work-from-home options. Even in those that do, many companies don't offer them. Hell, even Yahoo! is making everyone come into the office these days. So many industries have changed so dramatically that women with experience, with savvy, with ambition, who started work in a lush economy with myriad possibilities now find themselves facing a scorched earth and closed door. Going back to school for a new degree is a great option - if the one income for two adults and X number of kids can stretch that far. Plus, many of these women have spent the intervening years joining a few committees, offering to volunteer at school, at church, in the community and don't necessarily want to give up giving back.

So, what exactly do you want us to do? What answer do you think we are going to give you?

I'm actually lucky. Though my children refuse to believe it and interrupt me constantly, I am a freelance editor and have been doing business writing all this time. Excluding a three-month maternity leave when I had my first born, my résumé doesn't have a gap. While the freelance market is glutted right now and many of my "opportunities" seem to include writing term papers for foreign nationals for less than I would have charged in college for beer money, as least I have one steady employer. It isn't perfect, it doesn't pay many bills, and it leaves me far too much time to read, but it is what is it.

Right now, I still want to be the person called when the preschool needs a sub, when the PTA needs a hand setting up a breakfast, when the teacher needs a parent helper in the classroom. I still want to be as involved in my kids lives a possible because pretty soon, instead of getting a big hug and kiss when they see me in the halls, I'm going to get the cold shoulder and a wicked side eye.  

So next time you see me, and I mention my son going to kindergarten, think before you speak. Don't ask the question. Just pat the little guy on the head, tell him he is going to love it, and go about  your day. I am about to be fired from a job I have loved and held for eight long years. I honestly don't know what I am going to do next. But when I figure it out, you'll be the first one to know.

The Story of Us

Preshow

Months and months ago, I bought my daughter tickets to see Taylor Swift in concert at Lincoln Financial Field. Sure, I knew it was summer and it would be hot, but how hot could it possibly be? Well, as it turns out, really, really f'ing hot. It will be 106 degrees in the lower levels tonight, but we are up in the nosebleed section, there hasn't been a breeze in a week, and I bet we are sitting in direct sunlight. So, let's be generous and add another 5 degrees, bringing the grand total up to 111. Degrees. Fahrenheit.

The last time I went to a concert in this type of heat, I was living in North Carolina and strutted around in a bikini top and short shorts. Since I don't want to cause hysterical blindness in the 10 and under set, I'll be attending the concert fully dressed this evening. While a muumuu would be ideal (and really, a perfect representation of the fat cow I have become), I do believe I will stick to a fitted maxi dress. While a mini would involve less material and hence less heat, the maxi has the benefit of putting some material between my legs and the seats, keeping me from sticking to them and losing bits of skin.

What will my daughter wear to this auspicious event - her first ever concert? Well, currently, she is moping around the house in a nightgown because she doesn't know she is going. I knew that if I told her eight months ago, I would have spent all that time punishing her by taking the concert away, giving it back, taking it away again, etc. I didn't want the drama. I did screw with her head this morning and allowed her to try (and fail) to win tickets from the local radio station, but that was just for my own amusement. She cried, of course, which made me feel bad, but I'll assuage my guilt with an overpriced concert tee later.

Later, I'll braid her hair and talk her into a pretty dress with the excuse that Daddy is going to take us out to dinner. When he gets home, we'll tell her the truth. I expect the sonic scream to ricochet around town and blow out a few windows. My husband will be our chauffer tonight, mostly because I will not be in any position to operate heavy machinery by the time the concert ends. He doesn't even think I'll make it through the concert without a visit to the medical tent, but I know I will. I won't let my daughter miss even a single note of Taylor Swift, even if the goats are bleating. However, I will make sure that she has emergency info on her and I'll have lots of cash on hand to buy the astronomically-priced bottles of water.

Post Show

As promised, the sonic scream did indeed rattle the windows. She also cried tears of joy, which was a nice touch. Then she immediately rushed us to the car, putting us at the stadium, walking to our nosebleed-section seats, a full three hours before Taylor Swift was scheduled to go onstage. This, as it turned out, was auspicious because the benevolent concert gods decided to smile upon us. As I was wondering if we were high enough that we were going to need oxygen masks, I noticed a small crowd. Turns out, some promoters had just finished handing some out seat upgrade, and when my little one burst into tears at the thought of missing out at actually good seats where you could actually see Taylor Swift was a person, not just a dancing red ant, the guy melted and slapped a spare pair of wristbands on us. Off we went to floor seats, just 14 rows back from the pit and blessedly, blessedly, in the shade. Filled with happiness at our fantastic luck, we spent the next few hours making fun of the opening acts, chatting with all our neighbors (who had also been gifted with the upgrades, so we were a pretty happy bunch), sharing glow bracelets, and hunting down the Italian Ice guy.

When Taylor Swift finally did take the stage, the first thing I noticed what that the poor child cannot dance. You don't notice it so much when you are only watching her sing one song in a video or at an awards show, but when she has an entire concert, you realize pretty quickly that she cannot move rhythmically at all. I would love to bust her on it, but since I can't play piano, banjo, or the guitar, AND I can't dance, write songs, and earn bajillions of dollars making fun of ex-boyfriends publicly, I'll just let it slide. They actually covered it really well with lots of background dancers and just moving her around the stage a lot, but she isn't a dancer.

I'm not going to lie. I sang along. I sang along at the top of my lungs and didn't give a shit who saw me. I felt like I did when I went to Disney - I could be a snarky bitch about it, or I could simply give in and enjoy the show. Sure, I sent a few snarky Tweets (which were picked up by a media outlet), but only during the first few songs. And honestly, they were well-deserved. I do miss lighters, especially when we were all holding up iPhones with the flashlight app turned on. I did worry that with the waving of a big red flag was going to encourage French revolutionaries to storm the stage and start to sing. And I did think the opening act was a moron for encouraging the crowd to do a call and response to "Hell, yeah" since most would get in trouble for saying "H-E-double hockey sticks."

Did I pass out? No, I did not. I did at one point have an ocean of salty sweat pouring down my body that you could have body surfed on, and I did guzzles several $4 bottles of water, but I stayed upright. I grabbed a seat during a section of slow songs since I didn't have to worry that my daughter was going to topple off hers, but overall, I was fine. Tacky to the touch, but fine. When the concert ended, we popped into the battlefield of the parking lots only long enough to grab a fallen-off-the-truck concert shirt, then hit a side street where my husband was waiting with the A/C set to full-blast and two icy-cold bottles of water. While I never expected in my life to order a Happy Meal (while sober and for an actual child) at quarter to midnight, I brushed aside that parenting fail and let her happily munch away while she told her father all about the concert. In the end, after a cool shower, I fell into bed a very happy parent. I was able to enjoy a great night with my daughter, one we will both never forget, and I managed to do it without falling over. One day, she'll look back at this first concert and be embarrassed by it, as we all are by our pre-teen obsessions. But for now, I am the coolest mom on the planet.

I can live with that.

To Secure Peace

A few years ago, I complained on Facebook that parenting was hard. A good friend of mine who has been known to be rather harsh in her assessment of things, wrote back, "What made you think it would be anything else?" This friend, I'll call her Rorey, has two Stepford children, a Stepford husband, and has never been caught raising her voice or having a dirty house. It's enough to drive you bonkers, it really is. However, she is my trusted advisor in terms of parenting because she really, truly believes that a good mother doesn't choose her battles, she wins them all.

I thought about her today when, seven hours after I told the kids to do something, it still wasn't done, so we still hadn't left for the pool. Seven hours! I didn't ask them to perform surgery, to learn to speak fluent Russian, or to organize all the Lego pieces by size, shape, and color. Nope, I asked them to put their toys and their laundry away. One basket of laundry each and about a dozen toys.

Now, I'll be honest. I spent 14 hours in the sun yesterday before I fell into bed a hot, sweaty, stinky, exhausted mess of a human being. I was damp and sweaty pretty much from sunup to sundown, so I'm perfectly happy staying indoors wearing dry bottoms. With a full heat advisory in effect, and temps that feel like 100+ and counting, I am medically restricted from being out-of-doors for long periods of time anyway. Orthostatic intolerance and extreme heat are a potentially catastrophic cocktail and require me to be very, very careful of their balance. So do I mind missing a day at the pool, even after two weeks of rain, knowing that summer is still early, the weekend hasn't even hit yet, and I will have lots of time to bake, broil, and fry? Nope.

But that isn't the point. The point is that even if I did mind, I would have been trapped indoors by my children anyway. I gave them two tasks, they had to complete them before we left the house, therefore, we were not leaving the house before those tasks were done. Sure, I could pick up the toys in ten minutes, have put all the clothes away in another twenty (and they would be far neater in their drawers than they are now), but that would have defeated the whole point of asking them to do it. She's eight, he's almost six - both are perfectly able to perform those tasks. In fact, I've seen him practically sing as he rushed to put way four times the amount of crap at preschool, and Lord knows she has a reputation at school for knowing when everything has to be said, done, and put, so she totally had this under control.

So yes, parenting is hard. It is hard to watch the disappointment and hurt in my daughter's eyes when she realizes she was wasn't invited to birthday party and everyone else was. It is hard to say no, you can't get more library books until you pay the current fines, knowing how much she loves to read and how hard she works for those dollars. It is hard to watch my son struggle with all those little steps that make him a "big boy" like taking off the training wheels, learning to read, learning to swim. There have been days I wanted to just throw my hands and say screw it, but I can't. Instead I have to muddle through this dream/nightmare of parenting the best I can so that they don't grow up to write the modern equivalent of Mommy Dearest.  

I don't necessarily think I can win all of the battles. There are just too many, coming from too many directions, on too many different levels. Tempers may fray, tears may be shed, but the I will continue to fight the good fight. For while I may occasionally lose a battle, I will not lose this war. I will raise good kids who do what they are told, are good friends and good neighbors, and who are smart and well-spoken so that one day, they will be able to fight their own battles.

Until that time - eight hours and counting.

Sunny Days, Chasing the Clouds Away

Back in ye olden days, prognosticating the future was a hanging offense. I would like to bring that punishment back, particularly in regard to meteorologists.

I understand that accurately predicting violent weather eruptions is next to impossible. This was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt when respected and revered scientist and storm chaser Tim Samaras lost his life when a tornado he was tracking zigged instead of zagged, taking him, his driver Carl Young, and his son Paul with him. I can only hope that they wound up in the land of the great and powerful Oz and did not suffer when the tornado took them. They were just following a storm, just trying to glean more information about what causes tornados so that in the future, they could give towns more than 16 minutes  to seek shelter. While you can do a lot with 16 minutes, or the exact amount of time between the National Weather Service warning to the residents of Moore, Oklahoma and when the tornado destroyed their town, but think of how much more you could do with 20 or 30? I have nothing but respect for Tim and what he died trying to do. May he rest in peace.

But that was a big and wild storm, filled with craziness. What about those calm and mild days when the weather people still don't seem to be able to read a radar screen? What do we do about those people? I will never forget a random Saturday where it was supposed to be 80, sunny, and mild and it turned out to be 60, overcast, and damp. I was expected a tan, instead I wore a jacket. I remember being absolutely amazed that the weather guys were wrong on not just one, or two, but all THREE counts. Can you imagine if you were wrong that spectacularly and publicly at your job? Your ass would be out the door with a cardboard box of your personal items in ten minutes.

The best part is that this happens daily. I spent the last week hearing about how terrible Thursday was going to be with wicked storms all day long. I went so far as to pick up a case of water and clean my house. (My thought process on the latter was that if wind and hail caused anything to land on my house and damage it, I didn't want to walk an obstacle course of Lego mini-figs and Babysitter Club books to get to the mess.) I woke up with a sense of dread, waiting to see what foul weather would come. The morning storm brought on a level of darkness only seen during full eclipses. As my phone blew up with weather alerts about hail, winds, flash flooding, rain of frogs, etc., I carefully moved a chair out from under the skylights, put on Sesame Street on PBS so that I could get the storm updates while my very calm son watched Elmo, and waited for the storm to hit. My husband, whom I have often asked if he even has a window in his office, so rarely does he notice what happens outside it, even texted me to comment on how dark it was and warn me to keep my phone charged. Do you want to know what happened next?

A thunderstorm passed by. It rained, for a little bit. It hailed teeny tiny drops of ice for a teeny tiny amount of time. A few trees swayed and some leaves and maybe a few small branches fell off them. The streets got wet. It was a little loud and a little bright out. Then the storm passed, the sun actually came out and all was right with the world. It was not Armageddon. It wasn't even the Michael Bay version. It was just a thunderstorm. But wait! More storms were to come! And they would be louder, and wetter, and messier, and oh, humph, I guess they went to our south because all we got was some rain. Hmm. So much for Thunder Thursday.

Seriously, if the weather people are going to hit DefCon 4 every single time the radar lights up, it is going to be a very, very long summer. While I just made up the phrase Thunder Thursday, I am positive some dim-witted weather guy contemplated using it. We now get named snow storms (which again, almost never, ever hit expected snow total within six inches in either direction), as if anyone is going to start talking about the days when Snowstorm Stupidhead hit. People remember snowstorms in terms of what they cancelled. The storm that cancelled the Christmas concerts, or the ones that messed up a weekend away, or that one that closed school the day of the big test. We don't need a name for it, we already gave it a memory. Hurricanes deserve names because hurricanes fuck shit up in such a massive way, you need to be definitive about it. Sandy destroyed the shore. Katrina destroyed New Orleans. It puts a succinct name to a succinct action. But snowstorms? Pshaw.

I don't think being a meteorologist is easy. However, I think that the current Chicken Little method of prediction has got to go. When I was growing up, you checked the sky for storms. Last year, at my local pool, we were all playing bingo happily and rather loudly on a sunny, warm night. The pool is completely enclosed in a glen of trees, so visibility isn't great in terms of approaching storms, but the wind was calm and quiet. Within minutes, the wind started whipping, the temperature started dropping, and my daughter started crying. We all gathered our stuff and immediately headed out of the door. Once past the parking lot and overlooking an open field, we got our first glimpse of a monster storm. My family made it safely indoors. We didn't have three days warning. While my weather app had told me storms were possible, there wasn't a single phone at the pool that issued an alert about upcoming weather. We all just used our eyes and basic common sense and got the hell out of there. Isn't that all you can really do for a thunderstorm? Do we need days upon days of hand-wringing over the fact that winter is coming? Does it really require capital letters and a house crest?  

So, the next time a storm approaches and passes with nary a drop of rain, or another snowstorm hits with no accumulation, or you are stuck in extra layers of clothing, join me in raising throwing the rope over a tree limb. I'm not saying they have to be right all of the time, but more right than wrong would be a great start.

Who Can It Be Now?

Every week since I left home for college at 17, I have spoken to my parents on Sunday night. Some weeks we speak more often, some weeks, the call gets pushed back to Monday, and for a brief period of about three months, there weren't any calls at all. But for the rest of the time, every week, every month, every year, I talk to my parents on Sunday nights.

You would think, during all this time spent talking on the phone, that quite a lot of information would have been shared. As always, you need to take into account that the other person on the line is my mother (and my father, but he is always watching TV at the same time and never pays any attention. Also, fun fact, even though I will call and say, Hi Dad, it is your daughter, he will still ask who it is.) While my mother is actually in appallingly good health and will be left with the cockroaches in the event of a meteor strike, talking to her weekly is like dealing with a very mean Alzheimer's patient. She remembers nothing, gets mad when you try to remind her of something, and behaves as if the reason she doesn't remember anything is because it wasn't important enough in the first place.

For example, my mother has asked me (more than once) where I went to college.

She paid for college. She (along with my father) accompanied me on my tour of the college, drove me to and from the college many times, wore merchandised branded by the college for years, and spent all four years of my time there complaining about how far away the college was from home. She attended my college graduation and moved to the same town as my college roommate's family. I am an only child and I only attended one school. How is it she can forget its name? Repeatedly?

To overhear us at a restaurant would be to believe that I am dining with distant relatives whom I rarely see or speak to instead of my own parents with whom I see monthly and speak weekly. The few items of interest she does tend to remember about me are either from my teenage years or are completely imaginary.

For example, upon viewing my beautiful diamond engagement ring, my mother huffed and said she thought I would want a tiger's eye instead. You know, those brown rocks you can find in any Spencer's store or craft fair, usually in a fake gold setting, all for the low, low price of $25? Eventually, I realized she had gleaned that nugget of information off my dumb teenage self in the midst of a Judy Blume phase a full decade before I waved my sparkly hand in her direction. All efforts to explain that I had grown, matured, and changed my mind were ignored and to this day, she still thinks I am "stuck" with my diamonds.

Here is another example, I once spent an entire dinner arguing about whether or not they spend Christmas Eve with us. They don't. They never have. In fact, since my daughter's first Christmas Eve almost eight years ago, the 24th of December is a sacred, wife/husband/child/ren only day. Yet despite all evidence to the contrary, my mother refused to back down.

The most recent example of this selective memory came about during our weekly phone calls. My mother, an extreme lover of animals who places the value of all dogs far above the value of any humans, read an article about my fainting goat syndrome and how dogs are used in managing it. Sigh. My mom thinks dogs could cure cancer if only they would stop licking their butts long enough to try, so I muttered something inconsequential. But then she started asking basic questions my condition, up to and including, "What do you call it?" [Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome] and "Where did you get it?" [It's genetic, through the maternal line.]

This is a woman who can tell you, to the penny, exactly how much she has given in wedding gifts for the last decade. She can tell you in nauseating detail the medical ailments, treatments, and eventual cause of death in every animal she has ever owned, what happened in an episode of Ghost Hunters five seasons ago, where she bought every discount item in her overstuffed closets, and the location on the rack of her favorite coat that she went and visited weekly in the store until she was able to buy it on clearance. This is not a woman with memory problems.

Yet somehow, over the course of the 15 years since I first showed symptoms, to the eventual diagnosis, to the good months where it went quiet, and the bad months where it became life-threatening, she cannot remember the name or the cause of my health problem. This minor medical condition that I have under control through medication and some basic trigger avoidance, but still remains a small factor in my daily life, is a complete mystery to my mother. My husband, who can spot the beginning of an episode from across the room, and my friends, from close to casual, who can all probably name a side effect of it off the top of their heads (no alcohol, no extreme heat, gains weight easily, loses weight not at all, exercise very difficult), all know more about it than my mom.

Honestly, it is a wonder and continuing mystery why I bother calling at all.

I know there are soft hearts out there who are reading this and are trying to make excuses for her behavior. I've heard them all. To you I say and will continue so say the same thing: bullshit. My mother has had a hard life. So have many, many, many other millions of people. Almost all of them have dealt with the after-effects much better than she has. Sure, she can behave in public (mostly) and for very short periods of time, convince people that she is perfectly normal. For instance, my SIL calls her "delightful." However, as they have only every conversed once every two years, and mostly about dogs (see above), I don't think she is a very good judge of character. However, the basic truth remains that the woman is mad as a hatter and has said so many inexcusable things to so many people that come Judgment Day, she is going to have a LOT of explaining to do.

But, I try to be a good daughter. I make fun of her, true, but I do take care of her. I make sure she doesn't accidentally kill my dad. I do all of her online purchasing for her as well as most of her Christmas shopping. I pretend that I won't send her pets to doggie heaven if she should ever die (I totally will, but in my defense, they are all ancient, infirm, and emotionally stunted  so that death will be a sweet mercy for them) and while I tend to surf the web when we chat, I always make sure she talks with both kids and that they tell her "I love you, Grandmom" before they get off the phone.

So every week I will call. She may not listen to a word I say, like ever, but at least she can hear my voice. That has to count for something.

Body and Blood

My daughter's First Communion was this past weekend. Considering the stress, time, and money involved, it might as well have been a mini-wedding. I send her to Catholic school so that I don't have to deal with the religious education of my child specifically to avoid questions such as, "Mommy, why does the communion wafer taste like cardboard?" My first response, aka, my inner voice, was to ask what dried blood and decayed meat should taste like, being that she is, according to the tenets of her faith, eating the body and blood of a dead man. My second response, or the words I actually said out loud asked what flavor would work best. She thought lemon would be good.

As readers of this blog know, in second grade, the kids make the sacrament of confession and the one of communion. At her school, this entails endless meetings, e-mail reminders, paperwork, and really, really random take-home sheets. Confession was in February, and no, I did not confess my sins as my priest would have preferred. Instead, I watched my husband dither about whether he should confess from the relative safety of my pew. In the end, he missed his window because my daughter raced to the front of the line and by the time he made up his mind, she was already out and we had to get to basketball practice. Priorities, right?

Communion was a whole other basket of cats. There was the nighttime, parent-only meeting. One hour of my life lost to the ether. There was the Saturday morning tour of the church that was required for parents and children. The "tour" included a fascinating 15 minute lecture about the history of the church and its architecture. There was a 45 minutes lecture about the history of the alter which was insanely age-inappropriate and at least 35 minutes too long. During it, the lovely head of religious education held up cue cards with long, Latin words on them for the children to say, like a demented, ecclesiastical Vanna White. This was followed by a 20 minute fashion show wherein the priest took out every single vestment, robe, cassock, etc., in every single color he owned and lovingly spread them out to be oohed and aahed over. Let me tell you, the boys were really into that part of the program. Finally, with 10 minutes to go, we were all rushed through the sacred space behind the altar with barely enough time to take in the sink without plumbing (to wash remnants of the host directly into the soil, which just has to violate building code) and the fact that there is a full-length mirror hidden back there. The children also got to enjoy a Saturday retreat (separate from the tour), and not one, but two 90 minute rehearsals for the big day.

The parents got to spend money. All the boys wore suits, either bought or borrowed, but all very, very dapper. I've already got my eye on a suit that has made the rounds through two different families. Those parents got off lucky. I've got a girl, which means the prep started a full day in advance. We had a Mommy/Daughter mani-pedi where I tried not to moan in pleasure while the burly Asian man pummeled my legs with hot rocks and she acted like a grown up in her mini Hello Kitty pedicure tub. There was the hair appointment. My daughter had so much hairspray to keep her bun in place that when we took out all the pins, the hair still didn't move. Putting on her jewelry (all family gifts), putting on her shoes, and zipping up made me flash-forward 20 years to her wedding day.

Then of course, there was the banner. Every child had to create a banner for the church. I spent a full week trying to find a banner kit that met our specific size specifications (where were of course different than those found in the standard kit sold in every St. Jude store). My child lovingly crafted the dumb thing, I managed not to burn myself using the glue gun putting it all together and where did they hang them? At the end of our pews, helping us find our designated seats? No. These lovely banners that most of the kids made themselves with felt and glue and love and attention were hung on the altar rail where no one could see them. So, what was the point of the banner again?

The ceremony itself was quite lovely. The priest rose to the occasion and actually spoke to the children instead of lectured the parents. All family was present and accounted for and the worst behaved of the lot were the uncles in the back row, not the little guy tucked in with them and a stack of comic books. A family friend came to the church and took lots of pictures for us, and the food I cooked must have been half-decent because there wasn't a whole lot left of it. It was perfect weather, the dogwoods were still in bloom in my backyard, and the track meet that took up all the parking on my block ended long before my guests arrived. Sure, my mom showed up an hourly early (so once again, my hair didn't get done), and stayed two hours late (without even once attempting to clean up a plate), but she and my father were appropriately dressed, so I'll take that as a win. By the time my husband, son, and I climbed into my bed to watch the Phillies game, my daughter was long asleep, and the rest of us weren't far behind.