The Year in Books

This year, I am going to do something a bit different. Instead of listing my favorite books, I am going to list my favorite authors. I found myself going back to the same ones over and over again, so I think this is a far easier path to tread than picking out the best individual stories. So pick through the titles and spend some of those Christmas gift cards on your own portable time machines because books are always, always bigger on the inside. I will only list the books I have read, since it is unfair otherwise. Every author writes a bum book and I would hate to direct you toward something awful.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Shadow of the Wind, Prisoner of Heaven, Angels Game

The Watcher in the Shadows, The Prince of Mist (YA)

This author has been on my list before. His adult books are an interconnected series all revolving around the same family and the same bookshop, but can be read in any order. Get a copy with thin, onion skin pages so that you can truly feel the time slipping away as you turn every page. This year, I was surprised to discover young adult books, horror stories that were so well-written, so engrossing, and so terrifying that I would be hard pressed to give it to any child who didn’t already have a driver’s license. Each one caused me to finish, shuddering and shaking, but rushing right out to get the next one.

Kate Morton

The Secret Keeper, The House at Riverton, The Forgotten Garden, The Distant Hours

The characters in these books are so fully fleshed out that you will feel as if you know them. England and the 1940s play a major role in almost every book and the premise of each one is roughly similar – a woman tries to find out a mystery about her family. The tone of voice of each novel is what makes them so wonderful. You know that feeling of being underwater, bobbing along in the warm current, content and enjoying the beauty of your surroundings? That is what reading these books feels like – right up until the temperature drops and you are hit with a wave that jolts you out of that feeling of safety. Happy swimming.  

Gillian Flynn

Gone Girl, Dark Places, Sharp Objects

At this point, we’ve all read her most recent book. However, she wrote two more before that and while they have their flaws, they still deserve a read. All of her books keep you guessing, but it is the first two that really make you wait, racing through each page, desperately trying to figure out what is going to happen next. Her protagonists are hard and broken people, but memorable in their desperation to find out the truth. I actually think Sharp Objects is the best of the lot and while it could use a little fixing (it was her first novel after all), you will never, ever forget what happened to all those teeth.

Mark Halperin and John Heilemann

Game Change, Double Down

The former books deals with the 2008 election, the latter with the 2012. Both non-fiction books are absolutely riveting in their detail about what truly goes on behind the closed doors of a presidential campaign. I admit that I knew few, if any names of anyone but the actual nominees, but this book makes it easy to follow the myriad players in the game of politics. The first is a must-read for Sarah Palin alone, but the second really shows you how the sausage is made in terms of picking a president.

Ben Mezrich

Sex on the Moon, Busting Vegas, Bringing Down the House, The Accidental Billionaires

These non-fiction books all take on a single story and make them as engrossing as any fictional journey. The author has a dozen books total, so I have lots left to read, but these four were universally excellent. The theft of lunar rocks from NASA, cheating at cards in Vegas, and the creation of Facebook seem like relatively dry topics, but in this author’s deft hands, they play out as thrilling roller coaster rides filled with passion, recklessness, and hubris.

The first time author award goes to Helene Wecker for The Golem and The Jinni. The title tells you pretty much all you need to know about the main premise. Make it your book club pick, borrow it from the library, buy it for yourself, but go read a book that is really quite remarkable about setting such fantastical creatures in New York City of the 1900s.

And the worst authors of the year are as follows:

Veronica Roth – Her Divergent series is terrible. The first book was at least marginally interesting, but the second book was frustrating and the third book was flat out ridiculous. I have a vicious rant all bottled up inside for the first person who asks me about the ending. JESUS! An awful series from start to finish, if you really want dystopia and strong female characters, just go read The Hunger Games and call it a day.

E.L James – I just can’t with this author.

Amber Benson – This one broke my heart. The Scoobies have a truly special place in my heart. Every time Danny Strong gets an award for writing, I yell “Go Jonathan” at my television (even though he is technically my nemesis-es). So when I found out Tara had written a series of books about Death’s daughter, I was all in. Until I read the first one. Vapid, poorly written, and poorly plotted, I’d rather watch another season of Dark Willow than read another one of Amber Benson’s books.

Charlaine Harris (again) – Her final book in the Sookie Stackhouse (Southern Vampire) series was insulting to all the readers who slogged their way through the first dozen books. Each book was worse than the one before. These books set the stage for the TV show True Blood and while I am still devoted to that show (mostly due to frequent nakedness of Eric Northman and Alcide Herveaux), this last book was the last straw for me. 

Christopher Moore - Every book has a really interesting premise that is eventually ruined by the most basic, infantile humor. I'd love to see his books rewritten but with actual intelligence. Judging by his fan base, this is clearly a case of the reader not matching the author. 

She Bangs!

WARNING: Pornography and sexual acts will be discussed. Please be advised. 

WARNING: This blog is rated X.

So I watched my first sex tape the other day.

The reasoning was solid. I was reading an article about the multiple atrocities committed by Kris Jenner, among them the creation of the Kardashian clan into a multi-million dollar brand. Not a single Kardashian has a distinguishable talent. They cannot act, sing, or dance. They are celebrities in the truest sense of the word in that they have done nothing to earn their status other than simply existing. I personally doubt they can read or write, yet they oversee corporations dedicated to selling their faces and names on countless products. They mostly just show up places in really ugly and revealing outfits, get filmed going about their obviously staged lives, and are mostly known for their poor choices in male companions. However, this article talked about Kim Kardashian specifically and how her sex tape with a guy improbably named Ray J shot her into stardom.

I got curious. I’ve never seen a sex tape and one that would make someone instantly famous seemed like it must be a really good one. I mean, why else would it make her famous? I bet there is a google of porn available on Google. What made this one so special?

Having now watched it, I have absolutely no answer to that question but a million new questions to ask. This video is obviously made by two consenting adults. They knew the camera was one, often shifting it for a better (or more often, a worse) angle. She is shown putting on full makeup and doing her hair in preparation. They obviously wanted to be seen engaging in the act of sex. Yet, for some reason, she never takes off her boring beige bra (and barely takes off her boring beige panties) and he never takes off his socks! She couldn’t afford better lingerie? He couldn’t summon up enough body heat to keep his feet warm? In half the video she is still under the barely rumpled bedding and everything is done by the light of a single bedside table. It’s just weird.

They also never stop chewing gum! I suppose the smack of Hubba Bubba adds something to the soundtrack, but there are points in the video where she obviously has something else in her mouth. Where does the gum go? In one section of the video, his mouth is clearly busy, yet when he randomly stops that act, he goes right back to chewing gum. Ewwwww.

I realize that most video porn is for men. They are visual creatures and like to see things. But what I don’t get is how they can watch this and not see clearly and easily that little Kimmie is faking the absolute shit out of this video. She barely reacts to anything. For example, at one point, Ray J takes her from behind with equipment that in both size and shape resembles nothing so much as a lead pipe. She doesn’t even blink. A speculum, the most hated part of any woman’s annual visit to the doctor is, on average, half the size and width of the sexual part in question. No one enjoys a speculum because they hurt. Yet this woman never even stops chewing gum or takes an extra breath when this mammoth piece of equipment enters her. She just umms and ahhas a bit in a bored voice. So, either she has a lady part as wide as the Holland Tunnel or he missed entirely and is busy screwing a pillow or something.

After seeing the video in its entirely, I can really only come to one conclusion – both the people on it are absolutely awful in bed. There are multiple scenes in this video where he is doing things to her that for all intent and purposes should cause some sort of reaction, yet no matter what he does, she either wiggles her butt an inch or lets out a random breathy sigh. Occasionally, she encourages him using profanity in her baby girl voice that is about as opposite as sexy as it is possible to get. It sounds like she is encouraging a toddler to keep trying to crayon inside the lines. For his part, he can’t seem to figure out how to use his equipment properly. All he does it stop to change positions and try to keep his dick from falling out of her. There is no passion, no ability. It’s all hose, no fire. He just keeps plugging away, trying to get the camera to shine on his diamond earrings. When the film winds to its conclusion, there is no money shot, as it were. No orgasm for either party. If fact, he visibly wilts on camera and she just throws her hands in the air and laughs. It’s like they ran out of tape so just stopped what they were doing. I was very confused.

All in all, I guess Kim Kardashian is as good at porn as she is as everything else. All flash, no bang. 

Punkin’ Chunkin’- The Sport of Fools

This past weekend, we took the kids down to the middle of a Delaware to watch pumpkins being shot out of air cannons, catapults, and trebuchets. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My first inkling that it was not going to be a family-friendly event (as advertised) should have been the spelling. While I understand that pumpkin chucking is a mouthful and doesn’t have the same verve as “punkin’ chunkin’”, any event that sounds like it could host a Honey Boo Boo family reunion probably isn’t going to be PG. Also, I should have used the brain God gave me to realize that you have to be drunk and stupid to think standing next to a jury-rigged piece of pressurized steel is ever a good idea. 

The second big hint that this was no ordinary fall festival was the parking lot. I haven’t seen that level of tailgating since Buffet. This was professional-level revelry. Corn hole? Check. Bocci? Check. Beer pong? Check. Some weird thing with PVC piping and rocks on a sling that my husband called poor-man’s horse shoes? Check. These people didn’t just throw a football in the trunk and call it a day. These people threw the better part of a Home Depot in the back of a pickup and built themselves something glorious. I can only imagine what the overnight camping parking lot looked like. They probably had full wet bars, hot tubs, and tiki huts over there.

The redneck ingenuity of the parking lot carried over into the venue. There were people wearing bandoliers of beer cans, belts made of beer cans, and for one particularly Gandalf-loving group, walking sticks made of duct-taped Budweiser cans. The more they drank, the higher the staff. I’m pretty sure that by the end of the day, they could have used those things to pole vault. This wasn’t a Red Solo cup event – this was a drink straight from the bottle until the bottle ran out type of event – all while sitting on stacked futons, hastily-constructed viewing platforms, or in one case, a couch being pulled around on an ATV. This was ground zero for alcohol poisoning and it was really quite something to behold.

Honestly, it is not like I blame them. Waiting for pumpkins to be launched thousands of feet in the air takes a while. You’ve got to do something to fill the time. We actually wound up getting to the event right as competition was ending. The rest of the day was spent in open fire mode where the sky was filled with flying pumpkins. The key is to make them splat, not explode. Also important was the ability to operate your machinery without spilling your beer. We watched one group of Darwin-award nominee’s use a socket wrench to hand crank a wooden contraption that looked closer to a torture device than a catapult. They couldn’t get a lot of momentum going because well, they were using a socket wrench, and because they refused to put down their cans of Bud Light. We all cheered enthusiastically only to watch the pumpkin pathetically roll a whole five feet into the dirt. I was just happy the poor kid standing closest to it still had a hand. These machines are not exactly following OSHA standards for safety. In fact the next day, one of the bigger air cannons actually exploded, shooting pieces of scrap metal hither and yon. Safety was definitely not first in the minds and hearts of the crowd or the competitors.

I have to be fair and state that while this crowd was raucous, it wasn’t rude. Sure, people were falling down drunk, but they were laughing when they fell. Yes, they did walk around in very large groups usually in matching outfits (camo overalls were popular for the men, flannel shirts/cowboy boots/Daisy Dukes for the women), but they always politely moved aside when my family came through. At one point, we were all in a large group that was being filmed for the Discovery Channel. While the Mythbuster trio of Tory, Kari, and Grant did their thing up front, the group of 20-somethings next to us did their best to get my kids to the front of the crowd and in camera range. The fact that they did this while slurring every other word, uses curses in place of articles of speech, and practically offered to beat the shit out of anyone who got in my kids way was just, well, darling. Their eyes couldn’t focus, but their hearts were in the right place.

We left right before the rain moved in and walking back through the mostly deserted parking lot was just as entertaining. There were a number of grills just left high and dry as their owners realized the inherent difficulty of getting a burning hot grill back into the trunk after a day of cooking burgers. There was the requisite ball playing and some really poor parenting choices. Letting your three year old ride a mini-ATV the size of an average car tire through a parking lot is a great idea if the parking lot is empty. However, when it is full of oversized trucks and SUVs all trying to pull out, many of which had to be driven by people way beyond the legal limit, well, that just seems like you don’t really want to take that child home with you, at least not in anything larger than a box.

In the end, a good time was had by all. Except for the pumpkins. I don’t think they enjoyed it one bit. 

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.