Slacker Mom Says...

The Happy Homemaker, Part 1

2011-03-30T08:58:00.005-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Adleen lent me a book called Happy Housewives by Darla Shine. It's billed as a how-to manual for stay-at-home moms. The cover says, "I was a whining, desperate housewife - but I finally snapped out of it... you can, too!" The author outlines her plan "in ten easy steps", each of which provides the basis for a chapter:

1. Please stop whining!
2. Be proud! Being an at-home mom is the most important job.
3. Stop looking like a housewife.
4. Make your marriage a priority.
5. Bond with your home.
6. Get back in the kitchen.
7. Keep your girlfriends.
8. Make time for yourself.
9. Don't take it all so seriously.
10. Don't wish for someone else's problems.

Now, I'm no Stepford Wife; I embrace my inner slacker. I pretty much have this at-home thing down to a (crazy and chaotic) science. But my friend found the book entertaining and helpful, so read it with an open mind. And although I agree with much of what Darla says, this Slacker Mom took umbrage at some of her suggestions. For example: Never leave your house without lipstick, even to go to the schoolbus stop - get up early and put your face on. Really? I've taken my kids to school in my jammies. And walked them in. Or this one: Never wear sneakers with your jeans because it's too "frumpy dumpy housewife - wear cute wedge sandals instead!" Seriously? YOU try supervising recess on a sandy playground in 3-inch heels. And my favorite: Buy new furniture with every new house, because it's good to change your look and your style. Sure, if you're married to a senior executive at Fox News. No problem. Me, I'm on my third house and I've had the same bookcases since college. Geez.

Additionally, here's a warning: Darla Shine is vehemently anti-working mom, an attitude that I cannot forgive - she's quite, um, opinionated about moms who choose to work, and a bit condescending towards women who have to work. To paraphrase, she writes that "unless you would starve or end up on the streets, what job do you have that is more important than raising your kids?" Uh, forgive me, Darla, but I am thankful for the working moms I know - my kids' teachers, their pediatrician, our school nurses, my best friend. I found it hard to read that part of her book, because Slacker Mom is all about supporting women and mothers, and never about judging and being catty - and besides, I've always felt that some women are actually BETTER moms when they work. But if you can get past her "quit your job and raise your own babies" rhetoric, she has some interesting things to say about being a mom and a wife. And if you are a stay-at-home mom, she makes some good points about being proud of the work you do - that we should embrace this stay-at-home mom gig and do a good job at it, since we really only get one chance.

But the part that most resonated with me was what Darla's mom said to her when she complained about being stuck at home with her kids - even though she had a maid and a nanny and all the material advantages that a wealthy husband can provide. She wrote about calling her mom, who was on vacation, and asking when she was coming home: "My mother told me off good. She said that I had a lot of nerve. What the hell did I have to complain about? I had a beautiful house, two healthy kids, and a husband who loved me, and I should shut up and count my blessings... She said that my friends and I were a bunch of spoiled brats, and we all should know how lucky we are."

I read that page and thought, "GO DARLA'S MOM!"

If we think we have it hard, we should talk to our mothers and grandmothers. My mother had three kids in three years, another one six years later, and a husband who made a good living but didn't lift a finger around the house. Men of my dad's generation didn't change diapers, vacuum, drive carpool, or cook. They made the money, and their wives did everything else. My grandmother had four kids in six years, and never had two in diapers at the same time - because she had to wash those diapers by hand and then hang them on the clothesline. She didn't have a dishwasher, a microwave, a crock pot, or a cleaning lady. She and my grandfather had ONE car - and he drove it work each day. She did everything that I do - by hand - and with no help. And, I'd argue, women of my grandmother's generation were, as a whole, happier and less stressed. No one took Prozac, no one ordered takeout, and no one complained. They'd lived through the Great Depression; they had no sense of entitlement. They knew something that Darla and her friends forgot: namely, that they'd CHOSEN to be moms, they'd CHOSEN to be housewives, and they were LUCKY that they could afford to feed and shelter and clothe their children. They knew something that we've forgotten: being a mom may be hard at times, but it's the best job we'll ever have.

So many of us complain about our lives - if only I had a cleaning lady, a new cell phone, more money, a pedicure. So many of us think we "need" certain things to be happy - a bigger house or newer car or nicer clothes. But how many of us take a good, hard look around us and think, "Wow. I have healthy kids and a loving husband. I live in a safe neighborhood; my kids go to a good school. I don't have to work to pay the bills. I have a car. I turn on the faucet and clean water comes out; I can put healthy food on the table." How many of us are grateful for the opportunity to be home with our kids, even for a few months or a few years, even if it means making financial sacrifices?

In the end, we CHOSE to become mothers. We CHOSE to quit our jobs. We CHOSE to be the one in charge of, well, everything. We made a conscious decision to be the at-home parent - and that means that WE are the ones who take care of the home, the kids, the chores and errands. That's not to say our spouses shouldn't pitch in; they should, and we need to train our kids to help, too. But is it really fair to expect the working spouse to do half? Or even a fourth? I have a stay-at-home mom friend whose husband works nine hours a day, with an hour commute each way. When he walks in the door, he'd like to see his kids, have a nice meal, and then relax. She, however, feels that when he gets home, he's on kid duty and she gets a break. Now, while I understand the need for time away, and we've ALL had those days where we need to hand over our kids for our sanity and their safety, it shouldn't be every day. Why not take her "me time" while her kids are napping? Or arrange a "kid-swapping" with another mom? That, or pop in a video and park them on the couch for a few minutes. (Don't judge; you've done it, too. It won't knock off more than a few IQ points.) She could let some housework go so she can enjoy that time with her husband before their kids go to bed. In my world, "me time" comes after the kids' bedtime - and I'm OK with that.

My sister recently called me "a 1950s housewife." She was mad at me when she said it, so I think she meant it as an insult. But when I thought about it, I decided to take it as a compliment. I mean, I don't work; I am a stay-at-home mom. It IS my job to get my kids up, fed, dressed and ready for the day. It IS my job to run the errands, do the chores, make dinner and oversee homework. I DO think my husband should come home to a decent meal after a long day at work. It IS my job to run the household as smoothly as I can. Sure, there are days it looks like a bomb exploded in my family room. There are days where I order a pizza and call it dinner, without feeling guilty. There are days where the dishes have taken over the kitchen and I'd be completely mortified if a neighbor stopped by. There are days where no one has clean jeans and the library books are missing and I forgot to pack snacks and there's no milk so breakfast is a piece of toast eaten in the car. And then someone drips butter on her shirt and cries. It happens. Life happens. But I'm not going to whine and cry and say that I have it so hard. You want hard? Talk to a working mom, a single mom, a military wife. My life is not hard. My life is a freakin' walk in the park.

Slacker Mom Says... why not just decide to be a "happy housewife" rather than a "desperate housewife"? We signed on for this gig; we can embrace it and enjoy it. It won't last forever. Before we know it, our kids will be gone and we'll have nothing but time on our hands. Then I'll have plenty of "me time" and money for pedicures and a cleaning lady.

But I'll still wear sneakers with my jeans and leave my house - occasionally - without lipstick on.

Toss Out the Labels

2011-03-11T07:47:00.004-05:00

As I was leaving the elementary school parking lot this morning, I saw a giant SUV with those stick figure family drawings on the back. You know the ones - adults, kids, pets, and little stickers that you use to indicate what each family member likes to do. Now, cute as they are, I've never wanted to put them on MY car. But I've never had an opinion about anyone else having them on HER car, either.

Until this morning.

What changed? Well, this particular car showed two boys, each with a football in his hand, as well as a third boy holding a baseball bat. Now, that in itself is not a problem, but I wondered: what would my girls put on their little stick figures? How would they pick just ONE sticker to state who they are? I mean, they dance, play sports, love animals and museums and books. Sure, my youngest is completely obsessed with horses, but that's not the ONLY thing she's into. And my oldest has recently been bit by the acting bug, but she also adores reading and dancing and basketball and talking on the phone. My kids are not single-mindedly pursuing one activity at this point in their young lives, but are fairly well-rounded with a wide variety of interests.

So that got me thinking: if we put one interest sticker on our kids' little stick figures, are we labeling them, pigeon-holing them? And do we do this with their personality traits, too?

Last night, my book club met to discuss Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes. This should be required reading for any parent as soon as the stick turns blue; there are so many important themes in this book that it's impossible to fully discuss them all here. But in one scene that I found thought-provoking, a Kindergarten teacher asks parents to choose one word to describe their children. Innocent enough, right? One mother says, "Sensitive." Another mother thinks, "Mine." While reading that scene, I wavered between "sensitive" and "brilliant" for one daughter, "funny" and "generous" for the other. But then I started thinking about my choices. Is my firstborn ONLY brilliant? She's also witty and empathetic. Is my younger child any less intelligent than her sister? Isn't she creative and smart and brave, too? Does the fact that my little one would give up her last drop of water to anyone who needed it make my older daughter selfish, or is it just that she's got a better sense of self-preservation, and that makes her slightly less generous by comparison? And why in the world am I comparing them? How could I possibly choose only one word to describe these complex, amazing people?

Couple that with the stick figures I saw today, and I've got a dilemma: How do I appreciate and understand the whole person that each of my children are? When we label our kids "smart", "shy", "sensitive", "brave", or "athletic," are we putting them in a box and making them into who we think they are, rather than letting them be who they really are? Why can't they be more than one thing at different times of their lives, at different times of the day? And even if we only use labels with positive connotations, aren't we simply telling our children who WE think they are? What about letting them become who they are meant to be?

Now, I'm a firm believer that kids are basically born with their personality pretty much intact. Take my kids, for example. My older daughter came out screaming, and hasn't stopped talking since. She talked early, and she talked often (much like her mother). She exhausts me with her play-by-play of everything everyone said all day long. My younger child was completely silent at birth; her huge eyes looked around and took it all in, and to this day, she's more likely to sit back and observe before jumping in. She doesn't like to talk to strangers; she's not shy, just slow to warm up to new situations (much like her father).

But I also feel that, as parents, it's our job to encourage our kids to develop or strengthen certain traits, while helping them gain some measure of control over others. My older child tends to worry about things that she can't control, and it's my job to help her deal with that. She can't freak out at every little imagined slight of middle school existence, or she'll fall apart. My little one is far too persistent at times, and she needs to learn when it's in her own best interest to just let it go and move on.

Which brings me back to the stick figures on the SUV: In the end, does it really matter if this family labels two kids football players and one kid a baseball player? I mean, maybe those boys eat, sleep, breathe their sport. I'm probably way overanalyzing things, as usual. But as a mom, I want to embrace my children's personalities and encourage them to try many, many new things. I don't want them to specialize in one sport, in one activity, at this age. I want them to find out who THEY are, what THEY like, rather than get too focused on what and who I think they are. That's not to say we can't compliment our children; we can, and we should. But I think we have to be careful about what we say and how we say it. No matter how smart my daughter is, she's going to make mistakes and she's going to fail at something, sometime. I need to remind her that she IS smart, but that doesn't mean she is ONLY smart. And I need to avoid saying things like, "she's the smart one" or "she's the funny one", because what does that say to - and about - my other daughter? I have to guard against saying, "This one is my dancer; that one is my artist." Why can't they BOTH be BOTH?

Slacker Mom Says... beware the labels. Kids will live up - or down - to our expectations. As parents, we can't pressure them into being one thing or another, but we should encourage them to be who they are. Constantly putting labels on kids - even so-called "good" labels like "smart" or "kind" - might tell our kids that we value them for only these qualities. Nobody is any one thing all the time - and isn't that OK? I used to wish, desperately at times, that my younger daughter wasn't so stubborn. But I soon realized that her stubborness will serve her well as a preteen. No one's going to get that kid to do anything she doesn't want to do - no boy will talk her into something she's not ready for, no amount of peer pressure will work on her. She's definitely her own person, and has been since birth. Kids have a lot of pressure on them from many sides - parents, teachers, peers, society. It's a different world than the one I grew up in. I want my girls to know that I love them for who they are, not who I think they are or who I want them to be. My children are amazing people, and I could never in a million years have predicted how they've turned out so far. I can't wait to meet the adults they become.

That is, if we all survive the teen years.

Motherhood: The Most Powerful Job in the World

2011-03-09T09:20:00.004-05:00

The other day at school pick up time, I overheard a couple of moms talking in the hallway. One woman asked her friend, "Do you want to see a movie Thursday night?" and the other one replied, "I don't know. I'll have to ask my husband if it's OK with him. He doesn't like me to go out during the week, and I don't know if he'll babysit the kids." (At this point, though my blood pressure was definitely on its way up, it was all I could do to keep from smacking this woman. Must. Not. Explode. It makes PTA meetings awkward.)

Immediately, I had a flashback to a Moms' Night Out group I started when my kids were toddlers. Several of us got together once a month for drinks, dinner, maybe a movie, if we weren't too drunk - although someone was always pregnant or nursing, so it was easy to find a designated driver. (That's the benefit of hanging out with younger moms, by the way. I'm finished with those non-drinking, baby-making years while they are just starting out.) A mom in our group had had an unfortunate haircut and coloring incident, so I asked if she'd found someone to fix it. She said, "My husband won't let me talk about it anymore. He's tired of hearing about it." OK, first of all, WTF? And secondly, HE'S NOT EVEN HERE. But even as I was formulating a response, another mom called and said, "My husband won't let me come tonight because he doesn't want to babysit the kids." While most of us immediately began (loudly and drunkenly) mocking him, one woman asked, "What's the big deal? My husband won't let me go every month, either. It's too hard to do dinner, baths and bedtime by himself."

Where do I start? Are you kidding me? I don't know about you, but I have never in my life asked my husband's permission to do anything. He's my husband, my partner, not my father. I guarantee you, the words "my husband won't let me" have never come out of my mouth - and they never will. On my wedding day, I promised to love, honor, and cherish him, all the days of my life, but that "obey" part? Took that right out of my vows. And "babysit" the kids? What, is he 16? Does he need a little extra spending money? Aren't they his kids, too? He's never once asked ME to "babysit" the kids while he goes to the gym or Home Depot or even to the office on a weekend. I'm not sure he could afford me, anyway. (And for the record, I'm not talking about using common courtesy and talking to one's spouse about one's plans. I always tell my husband in advance when something comes up that will affect our family's routine. I just don't ASK him if he'll LET me. C'mon.)

So, as usual, I started thinking: Why do some women feel the need to ask permission to do something for themselves, or ask their husbands to "babysit" the kids? He's not your father; he's your partner. What is it about being a mother, about being home with the kids, that makes some women feel that they have to be subservient? Is it having a job, making money, that gives one power and authority?

I say no. If anything, being a mom is powerful stuff. I make thousands of decisions every day that impact all areas of our lives. From budgeting to education to health to the daily running of our lives, I'm in charge of everything - except bringing home a paycheck. I'm raising the future; I'm educating another generation; I'm creating people who will go out into the world and make it a better place. I am all things to all people, all the time. I'm the mom. What could be more powerful than that?

To his credit, my husband points out all the time that I am the heart of our family, that I make our house a home (otherwise, our "home" would be a recliner, a TV, and a lot of takeout), that our family is what it is because of me. The traditions we have, the friends we make, the memories we cherish - don't they usually start with us, ladies? Not to minimize my husband's contributions, which go far beyond financial support and killing spiders, but mommies provide something essential to the family - the nurturing quality that makes little girls pick up and cuddle a baby doll while little boys are bashing their cars into the wall.

So, back to my original question: Why do some women feel the need to obtain "permission" from their husbands? I guess it's because they don't feel valued, or valuable, at home. Maybe their husbands don't tell them often enough how much they appreciate all that they do. Maybe they feel that money equals power, that the breadwinner gets to make all the decisions for the family, that their contributions to the family have less value because there's no monetary amount assigned to them. But I disagree. There is no price that we can put on being the person raising our kids. Forget all the crap about society not valuing the contributions of stay-at-home moms. We have to value our work ourselves! What we do is important, to our kids, to our husbands, to ourselves. We need to take pride in our work, just as we did when that work came with a paycheck. How many times have your kids walked right past their dad to ask you a question? And who do they cry for when they get hurt, or scared, or sick? Yep. That's right. They want Mommy. Ask any child, "Who's in charge at your house?" Every single one of them will say, "My mom."

Slacker Mom Says... when you get right down to it, we moms rule the world. Motherhood is power. Whether we work or stay home, moms do the bulk of childcare, housework, and decision-making for most American families. We determine how our kids are raised, what they learn about life, how they learn to cope with adversity; we give them roots and wings. Whether we work or stay home, we exert our considerable influence over an entire generation of Americans. We are raising the next generation, the ones who will, with luck, find a cure for cancer, solve the world's energy crisis, and fight for freedom and equality. We are moms; we are the world. Embrace the power.

Multi-Tasking Causes Mommy Brain

2011-01-28T09:15:00.003-05:00

My mom is the queen of forwards. You know what I mean - one of those people who forwards every single e-mail anyone ever sends her - the religious stuff, the cutsy ones with kitties and puppies dancing around, the chain e-mails, the "if you don't forward this to 294 friends, disaster will befall you!" stuff, the political rants, the so-called safety alerts. True or not, she sends them on. (I keep telling her about snopes, but she just doesn't get it.) Over the years, I've learned to just hit "delete" when I see a subject line that says "FW:FW:FW:FW: true inspirational story!" But now and then, she hits the jackpot and sends me something that makes me laugh out loud.

Most recently, she sent me something called "A.A.A.D.D." or "Aging Adult Attention Deficit Disorder". (Now, seeing as she gave me Nora Ephron's "I Remember Nothing" and "I Feel Bad About My Neck", for Christmas, I'm wondering if my mother is trying to tell me something. Ahem. Thanks, Mom.) This particular e-mail was all about the aging person's forgetful brain, and how you scatter from one activity to another because you forget what you were doing at the time and get sidetracked easily. Sound familiar? Yeah, it did to me, too. But I'm not sure it has anything to do with aging. I think it has more to do with being a mom and having too much to do and too little time to do it.

I think it's Mommy Brain.

You want proof? Fine. Case in point, last Friday. I went to take a shower and realized it was time to clean my bathroom. I thought sharing a bathroom with my brothers in high school was bad, but now that I've been sharing with a boy for 12 years, I realize I had it pretty easy then. My husband's mirror is covered in what I can only guess is stuff that came off his teeth while flossing; his sink has what my girls call "boy spit" in it, and I'm pretty sure he never wipes down the counter after he shaves. When my girls use my bathroom, they refuse to use his sink and fight about who gets to use mine. And I can't say I blame them.

But I digress.

So there I was, armed with my blue cleaning gloves and a bottle of bleach. Realizing that I was out of Clorox wipes, I returned to the kitchen to get more, and noticed that I hadn't done the breakfast dishes yet. So I finished those, along with another cup of coffee, put the dish towel in the laundry room, and realized that I hadn't finished the laundry I started at 6:00 that morning. So I folded that, moved a load from the washer to the dryer, and took the kids' laundry upstairs so they could put it away after school. (Yeah, I make them do it themselves. Even a 3-year-old can put away her socks and pajamas. C'mon now.) While upstairs, I realized it was time to change their sheets, so I stripped the beds, grabbed all the towels from the kids' bathroom, fed their frogs and fish (not my job, but don't want the pets to die), found a lost library book, and turned off all the nightlights that had been left on. (My dad would laugh. I've become just like him.) Noticing that my sneakers were next to the treadmill, I decided to get in a quick workout and watch the Today Show - which sparked an idea for an article, so I went back downstairs to my computer to make some notes. By then, of course, I needed to move laundry from washer to dryer again, and fold the load that was dry, and then head back into my room to put it away. Then the phone rang at the same time as the doorbell, and I had a quick chat with a friend who needed to arrange transportation for her kids to practice that night while taking delivery of my husband's "protein shakes". (Another rant completely.) That led to a phone call to my husband to make sure he could get home early enough to pick up extra kids on his way to coaching the team practice, which led to his asking me to do some online banking and bill-paying that needed to get done RIGHT NOW TODAY. By that time, I was dying for a bathroom break (funny how long you can hold it when you get busy, huh?), so I headed back into my bathroom.

And that's when I realized that I STILL hadn't finished cleaning the bathroom that I'd started cleaning TWO HOURS EARLIER.

Am I the only one?

They call it "multi-tasking": the idea that we can (and should?) be doing several things at once, in order to accomplish more. Sometimes, it's necessary. I mean, I can nurse a baby while cooking dinner and talking on the phone. I can help both kids with homework while folding laundry and unloading the dishwasher. I can drive while refereeing backseat dramas over whose side of the car is whose and which kid gets to eat which snack. I can get both kids showered and in bed in less than 20 minutes, a job that takes my husband at least an hour. (Oh, wait. That last one has nothing to do with multi-tasking. It just annoys me that it takes him so long.)

But at other times, multi-tasking is just another way for me to feel inadequate. I can't truly pay bills while cleaning a bathroom while e-mailing a teacher while paying attention to my kids. I just can't. I'm always telling my kids to "finish the job," but what am I SHOWING them? Sometimes, I feel like I'm doing everything halfway and doing nothing well. And that makes me feel really bad. I want to be the kind of mom who gives my kids her full attention when they're talking to me; I want to be able to look at them, for them to feel I am fully present in the conversation. Sometimes, they'll have to wait, and I'll say, "I need 3 minutes and then I can listen to your story." And then I do. But I don't want to be an "uh huh" kind of mom. You know, where you say, "Uh huh, uh huh" as your kid babbles on and on about some really boring thing that happened at school. It IS boring, but at least she's telling me about her day! At least she WANTS to talk to me. If my friends with teenagers are right, the day will come when she won't.

Slacker Mom Says...multi-tasking is a crock. It's just a way for us to feel even busier, even more hassled and harried, even MORE inadequate than we already do! So I've decided to really limit my multi-tasking. Sometimes, it's necessary. Sometimes, it's unavoidable. But I'm making a conscious attempt to focus on whatever task is at hand, to really listen to whomever is speaking to me, to get one thing done - and done well - at a time. And if less stuff gets done, so be it. If the laundry sits unfolded for a couple of hours, fine. My husband knows where the iron is, and he knows how to use it. If the dishes sit in the sink for another hour, I can live with that. And if I have to wait until tomorrow to clean the bathroom, I doubt my husband will even notice.

I Have A Dream, Too

2011-01-18T08:11:00.003-05:00

As we celebrate the life, mourn the death, and honor the work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, I've been thinking about what his words meant to a nation divided by racial tensions, by fundamental beliefs about equality, and by political differences. Have we come very far since 1963? If he were alive today, what would he say? I mean, I think things have gotten significantly better, but have they? Are the improvements merely on the surface? Schools are desegregated, but I can count on one hand the number of non-white, non-Christian kids in my daughters' classrooms. Living in California, and later, Florida, my students represented many ethnic, racial, and religious groups. Living in the Midwest? The South? Not so much.

No easy answers here. While racism, age-ism, ethnicism, sexism, and many other "isms" are surely - and unfortunately - alive and well, I wasn't around in 1963, so I can't really speak to the progress made in the last 40+ years. I think things are better - kids today are appalled by the idea of slavery, segregation, and racial bias - but I can't be sure. My dad says things are better, but he's nearing 80; is he really in touch with the feelings, the perceptions, the attitudes, the realities of today's youth?

I don't know what the answers are, and I'm no expert in this area. While I wish I could answer that question definitively, intelligently, and effectively, I can't. But I can tell you that Dr. King's speech stands as one of the most influential in our country's collective memory. And because of that, school children across the nation are encouraged to share their hopes, their dreams, their wishes for our country's future. In the spirit of celebrating the work of Dr. King, I, too, have some hopes and dreams for our country. I, too, wish to see positive changes in our society's collective consciousness. However, in the vein of "write what you know," my dreams fall along the lines of motherhood.

So, for what it's worth (and don't get excited and tell me that I'm no MLK and I shouldn't flatter myself that anyone really cares what I think; no duh. As if!), here it is - and, in true Slacker Mom style, it's a day late.

I have a dream. I have a dream that, one day, the "Us vs. Them" mentality of motherhood will end. That there will be no more "Breast vs. Bottle," no more "Working vs. Staying Home," no more "Immunize vs. Don't." That women will finally realize that cooperation trumps competition every time.

I have a dream that one day, mothers will work together, support each other, realize that the work of raising children is so much easier when you have other women on your side. That we belong to a special, wonderful group called MOTHERS, and that we share a sisterhood born of love and devotion to our kids. That no matter how we arrived at motherhood - adoption, foster parenting, or biology - we are all in this together. It's not a race; it's a journey to be savored and experienced fully.

I have a dream that one day, we will teach our sons and daughters basic respect for all human beings, that we will insist on certain values and behaviors from them: personal responsibility, hard work, respect, kindness, and empathy. That we will teach our sons to honor women, our daughters to treat each other like sisters, and that we will set a good example by refusing to gossip and judge. That we will teach by example, treating our fellow human beings with compassion and generosity rather than scorn and ridicule.

I have a dream that we will live by the tenets our grandparents taught: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" and "Think before you speak." That mothers will teach the concept I first saw posted on a principal's office wall: Before you say it out loud, think, "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" Wouldn't the world be a happier place if everyone followed that rule?

I have a dream that mothers will realize what truly matters: raising self-sufficient, socially-conscious, happy, healthy (physically AND emotionally) kids who are ready to leave the nest and fly on their own. Roots and wings, my mother called it - kids who know where they come from, with a good foundation, who have the skills necessary to form healthy relationships and be successful at their chosen careers.

Slacker Mom Says... think about what matters to you and your family. Putting down others doesn't build us up; it cuts us down. Happiness has nothing to do with others and everything to do with ourselves. Like Lincoln said, "Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." Choose happiness. It's easier than unhappiness. Choose the life you love. Choose to raise kids to be the kind of adult you wish you were. Be the kind of adult you wish you were. I have a dream: that mothers will embrace this crazy, messy, unpredictable time of life, and enjoy the ride. It's a short one, but it's the best ride we'll ever take.

I Spy With My Little Eye...

2011-01-05T08:58:00.004-05:00

Last night, while watching an old episode of "Reba" (I LOVE that show - besides the fact that Reba has always reminded me of my gorgeous red-headed friend, Anne, Reba's all about no-nonsense parenting with humor and grace), I saw a hilarious exchange between Reba and her oldest daughter, Cheyenne. Reba explained how she always knew when Cheyenne liked a boy: she'd doodle his name on her notebook and wear a certain pink sweater and a certain mint-flavored lip gloss. Cheyenne, horrified that her mother knew so much, asked, "How did you know about the lipgloss? Were you spying on me?" Reba answered, "I found it in your pocket." Cheyenne exclaimed, "How could you? Going through someone's pockets is called spying!" - to which Reba responded, "No, it's called doing laundry."

Now, I don't know about you, but I could fill a huge trash can with the assorted items I've found in my family's pockets over the years. Aside from enough money to take all my girlfriends to Starbucks, I've found rocks, lip balm, notes, receipts, pens, toys, sand, tissues, Barbie shoes, ponytail holders, bobby pins, erasers... the list goes on. Never once have I considered checking their pockets to be an invasion of privacy; it's more a "I can't afford a new washing machine every week" thing. My rule is, if you leave it in your pocket, you must not want it - so finders keepers!

But I digress.

In this particular Reba episode, the real issue at hand is spying on teens to find out what's going on in their lives. Reba's pretty sure that her middle child, Kyra, is keeping something from her. Her ex-husband's new wife tells her that she reads Kyra's email and snoops through her stuff. She sees nothing wrong with it, nor does Kyra's father, but Reba is horrified at the thought.

So, as usual, this got me thinking: is it OK to spy on your kids? Is there ever a situation where parents can justify snooping? For me, the short answer is hell, yes, just don't get caught. The longer answer is, well, maybe, in certain circumstances and under certain conditions, when other methods have failed and you're pretty sure that your child is in danger or in trouble, and you're not merely being nosy and annoying and controlling - sort of like we all thought OUR moms were when we were teenagers. If I trust my kids, and I trust that they're being honest and open with me, then I have no reason to go looking for information. But if I start seeing secretive, scary behavioral changes, then I feel a responsibility to investigate so I can help my kids.

Now, I'm not justifying random nosiness. My oldest daughter keeps a journal, and I can't imagine reading it. (Really, it'd be pretty dull anyway. It's likely to say stuff like, "My sister is really annoying me. I wish I were an only child." Or, "_____ is soooo cute. OMG I luv that new Taylor Swift song. Team Jacob! I wish my mom would let me see 'Twilight' but she says it's 'inappropriate.' Whatever.") Like I'd want to read that. But she's only a fourth-grader. As she gets older, will I feel differently?

My Reba look-alike friend, Anne, has a teenaged daughter. Years ago, when Lauren was 10 or 11, Anne gave me some fantastic advice: be the mom who hosts every sleepover and get-together. All the girls hang out at her house, and she moves in and out of the room, bringing more popcorn, wiping up spills, refilling drinks, setting down a pizza, sitting in a corner reading a book. Meanwhile, the girls? They don't really notice her. They go on with their conversations, spilling everything to each other, and she's all but invisible to them. Yep, she's a sneaky one - but smart, that Anne. She's hearing it all; she's privy to all their secrets, and they don't even realize it. (She also told me to never force kids to cut out an undesirable friendship, because that just sends it "underground" and you stop knowing what's going on. Instead, make sure that the kid is welcomed into your home so you can watch exactly what's going on. Hmmm. She's good.)

A few years ago, I found a notebook under the couch, with "Top Secret" written on it in my daughter's handwriting. Yes, I opened it and read it (I thought about it for a moment, but again, if you're leaving your "top secret" stuff under the couch in the family room, really, how private can it be?), and I was really glad I did. It was full of some dark poetry - especially considering that she was in second grade - about lost love, depression, sadness, and longing to fit in. So I did what any mom would do; I panicked. Then I calmed down and called my best friend, read it to her, and asked her advice. She suggested that I tell my daughter I'd found it and then ask her if she wanted to talk about it. My husband and I were both worried about the content; my daughter seemed like a happy, well-adjusted little girl with no worries.

Imagine my surprise when I sat my daughter down for a serious heart-to-heart. As soon as I pulled out the notebook, she exclaimed, "THERE IT IS! I've been looking for my song book!" Um, songbook? Turns out, she'd been writing lyrics, not poetry. And when I asked if she felt sad or lonely, she looked at me like I was a complete moron and said, "Why would you think THAT?" Um, the lyrics? They're pretty depressing? Big eyeroll. "Mom, seriously, don't you realize that ALL lyrics are about lost love, or not fitting in, or being depressed? I'm not sure I got it right, because I'm a little young for all that, but what else does anyone write about?"

Oh.

So yes, I've learned a little lesson about panicking after snooping. And I really don't think that there's anything going on that I don't know about. But she's only 8. The teen years loom ahead, dark and mysterious, full of worries and woes. Right now, she tells me everything. And I mean, EVERYTHING. Much more than I care to know. I mean, do I really NEED to know who likes who and what the entire class ate for lunch? No, thanks, I'd rather not. But I love that she wants to talk to me; she opens up, shares her day and her feelings and her dreams. Because I have another daughter, one who usually responds to "What did you do at school today?" with "I dunno. Can't remember." She tells me relatively little, and that worries me for HER teen years. Oh, she's an open book right now, sure, but she doesn't have an incessant monologue going on, and I'm not sure she'll ever develop one, what with her chatty older sister and her conversation-hog mother around. She's the one I need to watch.

Right now, my kids are too young for Facebook, email, texting their friends. But middle school is nearly here, and with it will come increased distance, increased access to technology, and a cell phone. There will be different pressures, boys won't be so gross, and cyber-bullying will be an issue. They'll need more freedom online, around the neighborhood, at school, in the community. So I reserve the right to snoop and spy on my kids - if I feel I need to. I WILL read their texts, monitor their use of social networking sites, retain access to their email accounts. I will continue to monitor their moods and behaviors and friends. It's a scary world out there, and it's my job to keep them safe. If they won't open up, if I suspect there's a problem, if I think they're in trouble, I will get to the bottom of it. If it makes them mad, fine. If they hate me for it, so be it. If they give me no reason to mistrust them, I won't. But they've been told, and I'll keep telling them: just because I trust YOU does not mean I trust the rest of the world.

Slacker Mom Says... sign me up for the spy gear and the night vision goggles. I'm keeping tabs on my kids and their activities, within reason. It's probably not a popular stance, but my job isn't to be popular. My job is to raise kids who are intelligent, who make good decisions, who are equipped to leave me someday and be independent, fulfilled individuals with sound judgment and good ethics and morals. If I need to supervise them closely so that they can learn from their mistakes, I will. There's a fine line between overprotective and protective; I'm trying to find it and stay on the right side of it, but I'm still learning. I'll make mistakes, and so will they, but we're in this together.

Who Wouldn't Want To Be a Fairy Princess?

2010-11-08T08:53:00.006-05:00

My kids are both home sick today, so my usual Monday morning routine has gone out the window. Instead of hitting Starbucks, Target, the health food store, the dry cleaner and the grocery store immediately after school drop-off, I'm still hanging out in my kitchen with a cup of coffee and The Today Show. (Aaahh. I'm not saying I'm glad my kids are sick or anything, but...) We may not have groceries or clean clothes, but I'll have put in my two cents on this topic.

As I stood in my kitchen, trying to avoid the giant bowl of Halloween candy sitting on my counter, I saw an adorable photo onscreen - the cutest little Daphne (from Scooby Doo) I've ever seen. I'm a sucker for cute kid pics, even when they're not my kids, so I turned up the volume and ignored the candy. Turns out the cute kid was a boy nicknamed Boo, who wanted to dress as Daphne for Halloween. His mom, Sarah, figured, "What's the harm?" and ordered the costume. She was shocked by the reactions of some people, however, who told her she was "making" her son gay. So Sarah decided to blog about her decision to allow her son to follow his heart and wear what made him happy. According to The Today Show, her post has received over 3 million hits and 10,000 responses. Some are supportive, some negative, but all this media attention landed Sarah on The Today Show to share her story.

Along with Sarah, there was another mom, Cheryl, whose 5-year-old son Dyson likes princess dresses and crowns when he plays dress up. Cheryl's written a book about her son, and she discussed how difficult it was for her to arrive at the place she is now: a place of acceptance and support for Dyson's fashion choices during play and pretend time. At first, she said, she went out and bought him "boy" dress up clothes, and told him, "Boys can't be princesses." To which this little guy said, "Then I'm a princess boy!" I'm with Dyson. Who wouldn't want to be a princess? All the beautiful clothes you want, no chores, people bowing and scraping and doing whatever you tell them? Sounds like a great job to me. Where do I sign up?

Both moms were surprised and dismayed by the reactions of some other parents. So am I. What is the big deal? Sarah said it well when she pointed out, "Halloween lets you be who you are not." I mean, I'm not worried that my neighbor's son Zack, who dressed up as Freddy, is going to become a dream-invading serial killer and chop me up in my sleep. A DEA agent friend of mine always dresses as a prisoner - get it? He's a cop dressed as a convicted felon. It's NOT REAL. My own 8-year-old? She's not REALLY a Gothic vampire. I'm pretty sure she's not going to suddenly develop a craving for human blood.

Besides, these kids don't have gender identity issues. They KNOW they're boys. They just think it's fun to pretend to be something they aren't. It's kind of like when I put on a really, really good bra and pretend that my boobs look JUST AS GOOD as they did before I had kids. I know they don't, I know they never will, but I enjoy the pretending immensely.

And what about girls wearing traditional "boy" costumes? My friend's first grade daughter wore an astronaut costume this year and was Spiderman last year. A neighbor's 6-year-old girl wore a Bob the Builder costume. My youngest, at age 3, was Curious George for Halloween - and many, many cold winter days after that. Yet I've never once heard any objection to girls wearing more "boyish" costumes for Halloween or dress up time. Is it somehow more "OK" for girls to dress as boys? And what does this say about our society's message to our kids?

As far as I'm concerned, kids can dress up and play pretend all they want. I see no harm in letting a little boy try on a pink feathered boa and Cinderella shoes, or giving a little girl a Spiderman costume. It's playtime! It's time to be anything you want to be! I mean, hey, Barbie can be a dolphin trainer, a vet, AND an Olympic swimmer, right? My friend Maria has two boys the same ages as my girls, and the four kids were inseparable during their preschool years. Her boys LOVED visiting our playroom, which was full of all kinds of "girly" stuff they didn't have: every princess dress and crown, lots of baby dolls and Polly Pockets, and Barbie's Dream House. I have the cutest picture of her youngest, at age 3, in a crown and tutu. In turn, my girls were in heaven in their playroom: a Thomas train table, tons of race cars, and ninja costumes. (An aside: my girls were given plenty of "boy" toys like cars, balls, etc. And Maria's boys were offered dolls and stuffed animals. But when you have all girls or all boys, your playroom will tend to look a little unbalanced. You get over it.)

Slacker Mom Says... relax. Let kids play act and dress up and try on different roles. Boys playing with dolls? They'll get some practice on how to be a good daddy one day. Girls wearing Storm Trooper costumes? They'll pretend to be strong warriors, which may help them stand up for themselves when it really counts. I mean, c'mon, I'm not a slutty nurse or a Wild West saloon girl, either, but I've got some pictures from the late 90s that would say otherwise. And as Cheryl said, "As parents, our job is to love and support our children." I think that about sums it up.

Our Future Depends on Parents

2010-11-05T08:51:00.006-04:00

Election Day has come and gone; the voters have spoken, the political ads are over, and it's finally safe to watch TV again. As usual, I'm glad it's all over: no more negative ads, no more talking heads gearing up for the big fight; no more celebrities thinking their opinion is somehow more valid simply because they are celebrities. Regardless of one's political beliefs, now that the election is over, we can focus on working together as Americans to improve our nation. Like many voters, I'm worried about our country. I'm worried about the future of our country.

But unlike most voters, I'm not so worried about our economic or political future. I believe this country can and will recover from our current problems. I believe that Americans will work hard and the recession will end. I believe that most of our leaders truly have the best interests of our nation at heart. No, right now I'm more worried about our kids' future. In an era where 8-year-olds watch R-rated movies like "Zombieland", 6-year-olds know (and use) more cuss words than I do, and fourth graders not only understand the term "frenemy" but actually HAVE some, what is wrong with our society?

We may be used to hearing horror stories from the inner city, or from developing nations, or from families with substance abuse or domestic violence issues. But there are some shocking things going on among all of our children. Over coffee today, my friend Michelle told me about a birthday party her first- and third-grade daughters attended last weekend. A little boy at the party, a 6-year-old from a "normal" home, told her daughters, "I'm going to wipe my penis juice all over you." In return, I told her about a boy in my daughter's Kindergarten class last year who rubbed his hands up and down her back and said, "Do you like it when I touch you here? How does it make you feel?"

Where are these kids hearing this? What is going on in their lives that they not only know these words, but actually think it's OK to talk like that to other children? And what is wrong with parents these days? Michelle's daughters thought the boy was going to pee on them, and ran away to tell their mom. My daughter told me she got a "yucky feeling" in her tummy, but was too scared to tell the teacher. She waited until she got home to tell me what had happened. (And yes, I called the school immediately, and yes, it was handled to my complete and total satisfaction.)

Less disturbing, but still unfortunate, is the current favorite pastime among many fourth and fifth grade girls on the school playground. Most of their recess time seems to be spent gossiping about other girls. Yes, some of them play soccer, some of them actually hang on the monkey bars, and some of them chase boys, and perhaps chasing the boys is better than when I was young and the boys chased the girls (women's liberation, baby!). But from what I've seen during lunch duty, the majority of the girls stand around trash talking. When did this become an acceptable activity for nine and ten year olds? Why aren't they running around, being kids, sliding and climbing and enjoying the break from class? Who has taught them that bashing other girls is OK? (I'm pretty sure I have an answer to that, but that's another topic of conversation for another time.) When she refused to get involved in a gossip fest, my older daughter had a close friend tell her, "If you don't do what I tell you, I'm not going to be your friend, invite you over, or come over to your house anymore." Emotional blackmail at age 9?

And don't try to tell parents their kids are doing anything wrong. That rarely works; it usually backfires. A friend of mine called a neighbor to ask her to talk to her son about his threatening behavior on the school bus. The two women had been meeting to walk their dogs every day when their kids left for school, but now? My friend says her neighbor not only refuses to speak to her, but lets her dog poop in her front yard, without picking it up. When the grown ups act like toddlers, what are the kids supposed to do? Even the schools can't tell parents their kids are misbehaving; teachers and administrators are often blamed for behaviors that were learned (and accepted) at home.

Kids today are allowed, even encouraged, to grow up far too fast for my taste. I remember hearing a mother of a preschooler tell her child, "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is for babies. You should be watching Zack and Cody." Really? At 4, she's too old for Mickey Mouse? Another mom I know told me, "I hate fighting with my kids, and I really want them to like me. Sometimes, it's just easier to give in." Ohhhh-kaaaaay. A former co-worker of mine told her daughter, who's 9, "You're way too old for Barbies. You need to give them away." Too old for Barbies? Shoot, most little girls want to BE Barbie - cool Dream House (with an elevator!), pink convertible, more clothes than she can wear, and she can be anything she wants - vet, teacher, dolphin trainer. Sounds good to me!

Ten-year-olds with Facebook accounts. Seven-year-olds with more expensive cell phones than I have. Preschoolers having sleepovers. Teenagers who spend more time online than with their families. Children watching so-called "celebrities" on reality shows behaving very, very badly - and not only getting paid for it, but being praised for it. Sports fans who berate referees - at preschool soccer games. Families who freely admit - almost with pride - that they haven't sat down to dinner together in months because their kids are sooooo busy and sooooo involved in after-school activities that they just don't have time to spend together.

It seems terribly old-fashioned and hopelessly uncool to parent like our parents and grandparents did. To insist on obedience, respect for others and oneself, and discipline - both at home and in the community. What's happened to good manners? What's happened to showing consideration and concern for others? What's happened to "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all?" And, the big question, posed on The Today Show this week: Is civility dead in America? Is it too late? Can we get back to some level of respect in our country?

Slacker Mom Says... I believe we can. I hope and pray that we can. I think civility is not dead, just dormant, or maybe taking a nap. But, like so much else, it starts with us, with parents. More specifically, it starts with good parenting. So many of us seem to be afraid to actually parent, to lead by example and teach kids what's right, even when it's hard. So much of parenting is just that: doing what is right, what is necessary, even when it's hard, even when it's unpopular, even when our kids may well hate us for years (or maybe, really, just hours) for doing it. Parenting means thinking about the long-term, not the short-term, not what is easy and what everyone else is doing, but what will serve our kids well in the years (and years and years) to come. No, it's not fun to have to wait until my kids are asleep to watch "Desperate Housewives." Yes, I'd love to end all arguments with my pre-teen about friends, clothes, allowance, and chores. However, I am the mom. I took the job, I signed up for a life sentence. So no, she can't roam the neighborhood unsupervised or have a cell phone or eat candy for breakfast. And no, she can't have a TV in her room, even though "all my friends have one" (and they don't; I checked) and even though it makes me the "meanest mom in the entire world." Really? Good. If you like me all the time and want to be my friend, I'm certainly not doing my job. Maybe one day she'll understand; maybe one day she'll even appreciate the reason behind the rules. Maybe she won't. But that's the job. Do what's right and what's best, even when it's hard and unpopular. If you're not up for it, don't apply.

It Might Be Time to "Talk the Talk"

2010-09-28T10:48:00.003-04:00

My oldest daughter's fourth grade teacher gave her class "the talk" the other day. No, not THAT talk; Health and Human Development isn't until fifth grade, and let's be honest - if the school is really giving your child brand-new information in that area, you are way behind the eight ball. No, I mean the "it's time to start wearing deodorant" talk. Yep, she sat them down after PE class last week and told them to go out and get some deodorant - and wear it - because some of the kids really need it, and she didn't want to embarrass anyone by pointing fingers.

Now, several other mothers were upset by this event. "It's not her place to tell my child he needs deodorant," said one mom. Another told me, "I don't think she should have talked to the girls and boys together in case anyone got embarrassed." A third thought that the teacher should have e-mailed the parents of the odiferous children and shared her concerns with them directly, rather than addressing it with the entire class. Still another thought that the way she talked to them was "far too direct and not gentle enough" for her taste.

Me? I appreciate her concern for the children, as well as her directness. And I'd rather she spend her time writing lessons than e-mailing individual parents about personal hygiene issues. But the bottom line is, I've been in that classroom after recess on a 98-degree day often enough to know that THEY ALL NEED TO BE WEARING DEODORANT. DAILY. Even the ones who don't really "need" it yet stink to high heaven after a half hour on the playground. And as far as I'm concerned, until you've spent the afternoon in an enclosed space with 23 nine- and ten-year olds after an hour of PE class, you are NOT, in fact, entitled to an opinion on this subject.

But I wasn't there for "the talk", and some of the other moms were truly bothered by it. So I asked my (overly sensitive and easily upset) daughter to relate exactly what her teacher had said to the class. She told me, "She was really funny, Mommy. She said, 'Y'all need to ask your parents to go out and get you some deodorant, because you're coming to the age where these things are important. I don't want to embarrass anyone, so I'm not going to name any names, but some of you are growing up and it's time to think about personal hygiene.' Mom, she's SO right. Some of the boys REALLY smell." Uh, yeah, they do. And did I mention that the teacher is pregnant? Imagine a room full of sweaty pre-teen bodies under those conditions. I could barely stand to smell MYSELF when I was pregnant.

As parents, we like to think we know when our kids are ready for the next step. When are they ready to be weaned or potty-trained? Are they ready for preschool? Time for braces? Is it time for "the talk"? Ages and stages are such a big deal when our kids are babies and toddlers and preschoolers, but we tend to forget that it's just as big a deal when they hit elementary school. Some girls get their periods in fourth grade. Some boys start to have, um, "special" dreams as young as age 10. Puberty, with its body odor, growth spurts, changing bodies and voices, hair in weird places - it's happening whether we parents want it to or not. If kids aren't prepared for these things, what will they think when it happens to them? If we don't tell them what the next step is, how will they know?

Too many parents bury their heads in the sand and say, "S/he's too young! S/he shouldn't know about these things yet!" I hear you, I really do. And in a perfect world, our kids wouldn't need to know this stuff yet. But the reality is, they are probably hearing about puberty from their better-informed peers on the playground. Imagine my surprise the day my oldest child came home - from second grade - and said, "What's sex?" I gave her the standard "It's whether you're a boy or a girl, you know, like when you have to check off a box on a doctor's form or something" thing. She said, "I don't think that's it. Lilly said it has to do with grown-up private parts rubbing together to make babies." Oh. Oh my. Okay. My husband is STILL thankful he worked late that day.

But this is exactly my point: Wouldn't I rather she hear it from me? Under circumstances that I control? In a setting where she's free to ask questions and get correct information? As a former teacher, I can tell you that what our kids hear on the playground is usually WAY off-base. (When I taught sixth-grade science, I had a student tell me, "But my friend says you can't get pregnant the first time you have sex." Oh, boy. I rest my case.) And even though, for most third- or fourth-graders, the sex talk isn't necessary just yet, the puberty talk is. Trust me, it's hard to "unteach" what they've erroneously heard. No, it's far easier to give kids accurate information the first time, with our own morals and religious beliefs involved, than it is to erase what their classmates have told them already. And really, who would you rather your kids get their information from - you, or a bunch of kids who are just as (or even more!) uninformed about this stuff than they are?

So, as usual, when I found myself in a group of parents commenting on the deodorant issue, I couldn't keep my mouth shut and leave well enough alone. No, I had to put in my two cents, which is basically this: what better way to open a discussion of the changes their bodies will be going through than this? Let's just look at it as an opportunity to have a frank discussion with your child about what is coming. Yes, it's uncomfortable - for parents as well as kids. Yes, it's a tough subject to tackle. But being calm and matter-of-fact about it sends the message that we are comfortable talking with our kids, that we are willing to answer their questions, that we welcome them to come to us with ANYTHING at all. And isn't that the point? I want my girls to know that they can come to me and I won't be embarrassed or get upset at their questions. (Their dad, that's another story. I'm working on that one. He's mortified at the thought of them asking him anything, but he'll have to get over that.)

Slacker Mom Says... we can't bury our heads in the sand. Our kids will grow up. It won't go away just because we're ignoring it. We need to look for opportunities to talk with our kids about what's going on. We can't assume that they are too young, that they'll come to us when they want answers. Don't let their peer group educate them; teach them what they need to know, but with the emphasis on the moral standards that are important to your family. Open the dialogue. Whether it's puberty, religion, politics, finances, whatever, I want my kids to feel comfortable asking me for answers and sharing their concerns with me. It's important to me that they know I will always be there for them, that I will always help them with any problem, that I'll help provide answers and information when they need it. Because what's the alternative?

And for the record, my daughter started wearing deodorant last spring, as soon as it got hot again. I bought it, put in the bathroom, and said, "Use it. Every day. Here's how."

Daddy Rules (And How This Mom Has Finally Come to Appreciate His Way of Doing Things)

2010-09-22T08:07:00.006-04:00

Last summer, after weeks of isolation with the kids and nary a Girls' Night Out in sight, I noticed a blurb in our local newspaper. The YMCA was holding an Indian Guides informational kick-off party, complete with crafts, food, canoeing, archery, and face painting. The best part? This is a daddy/child program - no moms allowed! So I did what any self-respecting, overworked mom would do: I clipped the newspaper notice, handed it to my husband, said, "Have a great time with the girls!" and sent them out for an afternoon of fun.

A year later, my husband is the chief of Indian Princess tribe. Every good chief needs a hard-working squaw, right? So guess who makes the snacks and plans the crafts and writes the skits and, basically, is "The Woman Behind the Man"?

Holy Backfire, Batman.

What started as a chance for a summer Saturday to myself has turned into an activity that my kids and husband love. They've made new friends, they love camping (an activity that my husband used to think involved staying at a Holiday Inn instead of a Hilton), and mastered the skill of popping Jiffy Pop over an open campfire - not to mention the fact that they've spent countless Mommy-free hours enjoying each other's company under the ever-flexible "Daddy Rules."

Under "Daddy Rules", bedtimes are nonexistent. Volume control is rarely enforced. S'mores are, indeed, an excellent dinner comprised of the three camping food groups: sugar, fat, and burning hot marshmallows. Personal hygiene consists of a squirt of hand sanitizer and a baby wipe that may or may not remove the chocolate and marshmallow goo from one's face. Sunscreen and bug spray are mandatory, as are life jackets, but toothbrushes (though packed with care along with floss and flouride rinse) are completely optional. Breath mints do in a pinch.

While I would NEVER call my husband negligent, he is definitely, um, more "relaxed" than I am about certain things. He worries about the stuff that doesn't bother me at all: boys knocking on the door, our oldest daughter's desire to wear lip gloss, our little one's burgeoning interest in bungee jumping and hang gliding (thanks, Uncle Mike). But his more flexible style when it comes to certain things has made me realize that sometimes, my rules are kind of rigid. And it's not just limited to Indian Princess outings. If he's handling showers, he's the fun guy, yelling, "Touchdown!" so that they'll throw up their arms while he dries them off. He plays "Dentist with the Hydraulic Chair" when he brushes their teeth and "Face Cloth of Doom" when he washes their faces. If the girls and I are late getting home from ballet class and I'm trying to hustle kids off to the shower and into bed, he's teaching them roundhouse kicks and right hooks. He'll tie their shoes before school, carry their backpacks all the way to their classrooms, and drop their books off at the library. (Me? I already taught you how to tie your shoes, you know where the school library is, and I finally got rid of the giant mommy-bag when everyone started school. Carry your own crap.)

Yep, dads do things differently. And in my experience, there are a lot of moms who don't like that. Take, for example, my friend Elle. Her husband works full-time with an hour-long commute while she's home with their kids. When he gets home and puts the kids in the bath, she hovers over him, telling him that he's doing it wrong, that he's doing it "out of order." Then, when he sends his 4-year-old into the bedroom to get his jammies on, she yells that he's supposed to brush teeth BEFORE jammies, "because he might get toothpaste on his pajamas!" Um, I may be way off-base here, but the kid is FOUR. Can't the "routine" be a little more relaxed on Daddy days? And if he gets a little bit of Winnie the Pooh toothpaste on his pj's, can't you grab a washcloth and wipe it off? (Or, Slacker-Mom-style, let the KID wipe it off?) Let's be honest, Elle: you're getting an hour off. Don't fight it. Close the bathroom door, pour yourself a glass of wine, and go sit on your patio. Maybe if you back off, he'll put them to bed, too. Or take my neighbor Annabel. Her husband takes their 3 kids to soccer practice twice a week. But she gets mad when he takes them for a quick ice cream cone afterward, because then they get to bed 15 minutes late. My other neighbor and I laugh, telling her, "Seriously? You're mad because they came home 15 minutes late? Honey, that's 15 minutes that your husband and sons talked about guy stuff. You missed the lesson on armpit music and how to burp the alphabet. Count your lucky stars."

So yeah, it's taken me some time to appreciate that my husband does things differently, and even longer to understand that it's OK that he does. Of course I still think MY way is the BEST way; otherwise I wouldn't do it that way! But I've finally come to see the value in his way of doing things. He has more fun with the kids than I do; he enjoys that time with them because it's free of rigid rules and routines. Yes, I end up dealing with most of the unpleasant parts of parenthood: enforcing rules about chores, hygiene, homework and discipline. But I'm with them so many more hours in a day. Why can't his time with them be fun and happy and light-hearted? I've been there for the big stuff - the first gummy smile, the first steps, the first wiggly tooth. I'm the mommy, and while I'm not saying they love me the best, they kind of do - in the sense that they prefer me to him when they're sick or scared or hurt, and then I'm the one they want.

Slacker Mom Says... let dads parent like dads. So what if they "do it wrong"? So what if they act like big kids themselves? They kind of are! And they may be on to something with their goofy fun ways. Kids benefit from different styles of parenting. When my first child was about a week old, she had a really bad night - she just wouldn't sleep, and I was exhausted. In desperation, I woke up my husband and asked him to rock her for awhile. A couple of hours later, I found them on the couch, my sweet girl nestled in her daddy's arms, gazing up at him rapturously. They were watching a Bruins game; he was explaining hockey to her in a hushed voice. My first instinct was to criticize: why was she still up? I asked you to rock her back to sleep, not turn on the TV. But something told me to let it go, to let him parent in his way. To this day, she loves watching sports with her daddy; she loves ice hockey; and she loves curling up in the crook of his arm. Who was I to ruin that moment? Dads do things their own way. And that's OK.

It's Time For Bed, Little Mouse, Little Mouse...

2010-09-21T08:39:00.004-04:00

Since first grade started, my sweet six-year-old has a new habit: about 10 minutes after I make it downstairs after putting the kids to bed, she shows up in the kitchen (where I still have at least a half-hour's worth of work ahead - dishes, lunches, etc) and says, "I can't fall ASLEEP!" I end up walking her back upstairs, tucking her in, putting her covers over her ear (don't ask; it's one of her few quirks so I just go with it) and close her door. No big deal, right?

Wrong. It's been every couple of nights for a month now, and no matter how much my thighs thank her for the increased stair-climbing sessions, I'm pretty darn tired of putting kids to bed twice. So I told her that from now on, I'm only putting her to bed once. If she gets up after that, she's going to have to put herself back to bed. I'm off-duty after 7:30 PM. (Except of course for the ever-annoying reading logs. And packing lunches. And folding laundry. But I digress.)

Did my "get tough" plan work? Well, yes - as long as my husband isn't home yet. If she comes down and her daddy's there, all my hard work goes out the window. All she has to do is turn those big blue eyes up at her daddy, and he's carrying her back to bed. Part of me wants to say, "What are you DOING? I've worked hard to get my point across!" But the other part of me says, "So what? I said that I wouldn't put her back to bed. I never said NO ONE would go up with her!"

The bottom line is, she's only 6. And he's away from her all day long, usually arriving home after the children are asleep. So if he wants to walk upstairs with her, hear a little bit about her day, give her some extra cuddles and kisses, does it matter? Sure, she needs her rest. Yes, it's important for her to get in bed and stay there. But I suspect that her "I can't fall asleep" is more about needing a little more one-on-one attention after a long day away from home and less about being unable to fall asleep - or breaking the rules. And who am I, with my seemingly-arbitrary rules about bedtime, to take that time away from a daddy and his daughter?

There are times that I am waiting, desperately, for bedtime to come, days when I think, "I can't wait to get these kids in bed so that I can relax for a few minutes and have some peace and quiet." But lately, time seems to speed up. I look at pictures from just a few years ago and think, "Where did those babies go?" My oldest is starting to think about boys, wants to wear lipgloss to school, and gets mad when her dad wants to walk her to her classroom door. My baby doesn't need me to tie her shoes or brush her teeth anymore. They can shower alone, wipe themselves, unload a dishwasher. Gone are the days of total dependence on me - and I'm not sure I like it. It's gone too fast. I haven't appreciated it or enjoyed it enough.

Slacker Mom Says... don't rush the small stuff. Extra hugs, kisses, wiping noses and bottoms and faces - it'll be over all too fast. No mom ever regretted giving one more kiss, one more cuddle, one more "I love you!" before bedtime. But I can tell you this: I do regret every harsh word uttered in impatience, every "hurry up!" muttered as we tried to get under the covers "on time", every night where I rushed them into bed so I could get back downstairs to finish the dishes. I wish I'd let the dishes sit and told them one more story about my childhood, or read one more book, or that I'd sung their songs to them one extra time. Soon enough, no one will want me to read Goodnight Moon or Time For Bed, and I'll have plenty of time for dishes - and won't that be awful?

Not Only is the Grass Not Greener, it's Probably Dead (Or Married)

2010-09-05T22:14:00.005-04:00

Last week, I spent a few days in LA, where I grew up. I moved away years ago, but my sister and my parents still live there, so I find myself making the pilgrimmage every year or so. One afternoon at my sister's house, while my niece colored quietly and my nephew chased the puppy around (nature vs. nurture, my ass) my sister and I commiserated a bit about our husbands and their annoying habits. We joked about how hard men can be to live with at times, and how sometimes we think it would be easier without them around. Her friend Amy, who'd stopped by for the afternoon, was not amused. She decided to share some stories to show that the grass is NOT necessarily greener.

Now, I've known Amy since she was about 14. The fact that she's old enough to date, let alone vote and own her own home, still surprises me. But Amy has remained, despite several long term relationships, a fascinating job on a cruise ship, and a stint in the Big Apple ala Sex and the City, the quintessential single girl. Me? I've been with my husband for 15 years, married 12, so I can no longer remember what dating is like. Or maybe I've just blocked it out of my memory, both the good parts (first kisses! waiting for the phone to ring! meeting interesting people!) and the bad ones (first kisses! waiting for the phone to ring! meeting people you think are interesting but who, it turns out, still work at the video store and live in their mother's basement because they peaked in high school!). But I digress.

Amy, it seems, has recently begun using a dating service. Not your average online dating service where everyone's photo is 10 years and 30 pounds out of date, but an actual matchmaking service - sort of like having someone's grandmother set you up with nice boys from her church but cooler, less embarrassing, and more expensive. Naturally, being the curious (read: nosy) type, as well as needing to live vicariously through someone, I begged for stories. Why a matchmaking service? Why not just meet guys the old-fashioned way, ie getting drunk at a bar and scrawling your phone number on his arm with lipstick? (Tells you how long I've been out of the game. My babysitter tells me everyone just dials their own cell from the guy's cell so they have each other's numbers. Now that's no fun. Can't "fake number" anyone anymore.) So Amy, in an effort to oblige me (and probably to thank me for years of being their only source of beer while they were underage), regaled me with her own "Greatest Hits - or Misses - in Dating."

Trust me, you will never underappreciate your husbands again.

Bachelor #1: While living in New York, she meets someone who lives in Jersey. (Now, even if you've never lived on the East Coast, you should know enough about New Jersey stereotypes to see where this is going.) For their first date, he doesn't want to leave Jersey ("Why would anyone willingly go to Manhattan?" he asks, knowing that she lives and works near Wall Street) and he insists on meeting only for a drink "to see how it goes" - then goes to the wrong bar and calls her cell to yell at her for standing him up. (See, the last time I was dating, no one had cell phones. So in this case, I'd have left, thinking he didn't show, and he'd never have called me again, thinking I'd ditched him. Problem solved.) Meanwhile, she's in the right bar, sitting at a table, waiting for him. He finally shows up,an hour late, goes to the bar (rather than ordering from the waitress, thereby avoiding having to pay for HER drink, too) and orders a white wine spritzer. Um, a white wine spritzer? Could he BE less manly? I don't care how much you hate beer, order a damn Heineken and pretend to drink it. When the waitress comes by and asks, "Would you like to order any food?" he barks, "No! I already ate!" without giving Amy a chance to order - even though he knew she came straight from work. A few f-bombs later, and she's ready to fake a heart attack just to get out of there. Date over, Loser. Don't call me again.

Bachelor #2: This charming fellow, recently divorced, spends the entire evening talking about how he can't wait to get married again, how he loves being married, how he can't stand being single. Red flag, anyone? Can you say desperate and needy? When they leave the restaurant, he walks Amy to his car and says, "Check out my car. Wanna take a ride? I'll take you anywhere you want to go, Baby." The "ew" factor aside, like she's going to get in the car with a guy she barely knows. Appealing to the fact that he has 2 teenage daughters, she asks, "Would you want your daughters to get in a car with a man they barely know?" His response? "Whatever. I'm sure they already have." And laughs like a lech. The clincher? He's still married. Separated, but not divorced. She tells him she's "not feeling the chemistry" and "doesn't want to lead him on", but he calls and texts for days before she finally changes her number.

Bachelor #3: Think the third time's the charm? Think again. This guy's idea of a dream date was to invite Amy to watch him play hockey, then take her to the rink's bar for a beer - without showering first. Ever sat next to a guy when he comes off the ice? I have. It's not pretty. I'd rather clean up a room full of other people's puking kids.

Ladies, this is what's out there.

Thus, the new matchmaking service. It's an interesting approach: they send 3 men and 3 women out on a group date. Less pressure, more people to keep the conversation going, fewer awkward silences. Sounds good, right? Wrong. Not a love connection. But on a positive note, she likes one of the other women so much they end up having lunch and dissecting the 3 guys on their group date. Life long friendship, maybe. Life partner, not so much.

And it's not just Amy. One friend of mine says the dating pool is so shallow, she's now dating the brother of the guy she dumped ten years ago. Another friend says she's at the point where she'd rather date an old guy for his money than have to meet men her age, because the men HER age all want 20-year-olds. I can't argue with this; my 40-year-old brother is currently dating a 22-year-old. Even my 6-year-old thinks he's too old for her: "Ew, Mommy, that's gross. That's like that Ke$ha song, Dinosaur!" If you don't know it, download it. For $1.19, you'll get a good laugh. (My husband, of course, has a different attitude about my brother's girlfriend, but that's another story. Me, I'm just jealous of her "I've never been pregnant, popped out a ten-pounder, and then nursed her 12 times a day for a year" boobs.)

Yep, that's what's out there. Your husband's looking better already, isn't he? A few dirty socks on the floor, a little toothpaste in the sink, the occasional toilet seat left up - small price to pay for an otherwise good man who loves you, appreciates you, and won't ask, "Macaroni and cheese for dinner AGAIN?"

Slacker Mom Says... the grass ain't greener, ladies. Complain, vent to your friends, let it all out. But when push comes to shove, I know I've got a good deal. While I was in LA, my husband was here with the kids, playing Mr. Mom for a week, without complaining. We all have our annoying little habits, Slacker Mom included. I, for one, wouldn't trade my husband for anything. Well, not right now. Ask me again when he retires and is under my feet all the time.

When Your Reputation Preceeds You

2010-08-24T19:17:00.004-04:00

A couple of months ago, I met a nice mom at the pool. She and her family had moved to the neighborhood about a year before, but for some reason, we hadn't met. Our kids started playing Marco Polo, we started talking about our kids, and eventually, we got around to introducing ourselves formally.

And that's when it got interesting.

When I told her my name, she kind of cocked her head to one side and said, "Oh. YOU'RE Kelly." Hmmm. Yes. yes, I am. Not being one to just let things like that go, I said, "Yes, I'm Kelly. Why?"

Long story short, one of my (not-so-nice) neighbors "warned" her about me. Said that I call myself Slacker Mom, but I'm (and this is a direct quote) "hypocritical and a perfectionist who pretends to be a slacker but is really full of doggie doo." (OK, that last part is a bit of paraphrasing, but hey, some things shouldn't be repeated.) She went on to say that a REAL slacker doesn't volunteer at school, make homemade cookies, keep a clean house, or drive her kids all over town to their various activities.

So let's just get one thing clear: Slacker Mom is not about sitting on your butt all day, eating bon-bons and watching soap operas. (I'm not even sure what a bon-bon is, to be honest. And if I'm sitting around eating anything, it's going to be cheese, with a bottle of wine on the side.) No, Slacker Mom is about letting go of what doesn't matter - to you - so that you can focus on what DOES matter - to YOU.

Slacker Mom started as a joke with my best friend, Nina, one summer. We joked about how summer is the time to relax, to avoid all the commitments and activities of the busy school year, a time to just enjoy our families and friends and not be so focused on the unimportant stuff - like making sure each child drinks 3 full glasses of non-flavored milk every single day, or sterilizing every single counter top after every single meal. Sometimes, it's OK to leave the dishes until morning. Sometimes, it's OK hit the drive-thru or stir a little strawberry syrup into the milk. Sometimes, it's OK to let the kids stay up too late and eat ice cream before dinner while (gasp!) watching (non-educational) TV during the week!

Slacker Mom is about "live and let live" parenting, without judging other moms and their choices. Slacker Mom is about supporting each other, helping each other, ending the Mommy Wars. Slacker Mom is a no-nonsense look at this crazy and wonderful job of motherhood, its trials and tribulations, its joys and rewards, with a side of humor. Because honestly, if we didn't laugh, we'd cry. And then the kids would cry. And then our husbands would freak out and start crying, too. And I don't know about you, but we are ALWAYS running low on tissue around here.

So yes, I volunteer at my kids' school. I like it, I do it because I like it - but I couldn't care less if you do it or not. Yes, I make homemade cookies rather than buying store-bought Chips Ahoy- because my girls and I like to bake together, and besides, my youngest has so many food allergies that there are virtually no store-bought baked goods that she CAN eat. And yes, I keep a clean and fairly tidy house - at least, it's clean enough that if a neighbor stopped by, I wouldn't be completely embarrassed. Just don't open any closets or the door to my kids' playroom. But I would never judge anyone else's house - even my sister, who, 8 months after moving in, admits to having boxes in her dining room. Hey, I have boxes that came back from Spain with us in 1999 that are still unopened. Whatever.

As for driving my kids around to various activities, Slacker Mom readers already know my position on kids and their schedules. I have 2 kids, each does one year-round activity and one seasonal sport. And they do a LOT less running around than many of the kids I know. My kids have time for playdates, play dough, and playing with each other. I have time for my kids, my commitments, my husband, my friends, and - equally importantly - myself.

So, you might ask, how did I respond to these charges of hypocrisy and perfectionism? How did I defend myself against this woman's claim that I am full of poo?

I didn't. And I won't. Because, basically, I really don't care. Besides, we all know that when it comes to people like that, there's really nothing you can say anyway. Her comments say a lot more about her than they do about me. Happy people don't go around trying to make other people miserable. They just don't.

Slacker Mom Says... whatever. Or, as my sister would say, "Bite me." How about if we talk less trash about other moms? How about, instead of meeting a new neighbor and telling her all the reasons why she shouldn't like someone else, we just get to know each other and form our own opinions? Wow. Wouldn't that set a nice example for our kids?

Unplugged, By Choice

2010-08-20T08:55:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, I was at the dance studio waiting for my daughter to finish her ballet class. Now, since my girls have been dancing since they were two, and one of them dances on a competition team, this is not an unusual place for me to spend a weekday afternoon. In fact, we're there four days a week. (I know, that's decidedly un-Slacker Mom, but I'm working on getting some overlap in the schedule. Next week we'll be down to 3 days a week. Yay me.)

But I digress. My 8-year-old and I were waiting for my 6-year-old to finish her ballet class, when another mom asked my daughter, "So what do you DO for an hour while your sister's in class?" My daughter looked up at her (in confusion, I might add, since she had her nose in a book), and said, "I read."

"Read? How do you get her to read?" the other mom (I'll call her Anne) asked. "Doesn't she want to bring her DSi, or her iPod, or her cell phone? My kids only read at bedtime, and only because I make them."

And my sweet, brilliant girl replied, "I LOVE to read! I'd rather read than do ANY of that! When my mom punishes me, she takes away my books!" (That's true, actually. I do. Like I said, whatever works.) Of course, as soon as we were in the car, she started with the "It's not fair! I want an iPod Touch, an iPhone, a DSi, and my own laptop, just like Brooke has" crap, but that's another story.

Now, if parents want to buy their 8-year-old an iPad, her own cell phone, or the Hope Diamond, for that matter, go for it. No argument from Slacker Mom. Hey, my kids have, no joke, 14 American Girl dolls in their playroom. (Santa and Gramma are pretty darn generous, and Gramma only had boys, after all. She LOVES to buy dolls.) But, as I told my daughter, if you asked Santa for a $100 doll, why on earth would you also get a DSi or an iPod? And a cell phone? You're 8! You're at school or with me. Who are you going to call? And why couldn't you just use the phone that's sitting on the kitchen counter?

But no, Anne just couldn't leave it alone. I got a 20-minute explanation of why her kids (5 and 8) have all the electronics that they do: she doesn't want to have to entertain them when she's home, and if they are plugged in, they are quiet and leave her alone and she doesn't have to figure out what to do with them. Her words, moms, not mine. If her girls are bored and want to play on the computer, she doesn't want to have to "share" hers. (See, I just tell my kids no. As in, "No, I'm using it and you can go play with something else. And if you're really that bored, I've got a couple of toilets that need scrubbing." Works every time.) And then - her fatal error - Anne continued to explain that because the iPod Touch and DSi are "educational", that they can teach reading skills and math facts, I shouldn't allow my kids to "miss out" on the "educational opportunities" they could be providing for my children.

Now, usually Slacker Mom is all about the love. To each her own, parent and let parent, that kind of thing. I am rarely, if ever, defensive about my parenting choices. I know I'm the best mom that I can be at any given moment (whether that's ego or age, I don't know, but it's true: I don't really care what anyone else thinks) and I assume the same about other moms. But don't get me started on education. I will morph from mellow, live-and-let-live Slacker Mom into a ranting, raving, soap-box carrying lunatic when you start talking about education - particularly the education of MY children.

So I kind of let her have it. I explained that I taught my kids to read with no gadgets or electronics, that I used the good old-fashioned method I used as a teacher: phonics and books. Yep, my kids learned to read (at age 4, I might add) by reading books. And math? Sure, you can do drills on your DSi, but I taught my kids math through real-life math problems and the old stand-by: manipulatives. So PLEASE don't try to sell me on electronics by telling me it will give my kids an "edge" in school. Please. They are both significantly above grade level in all academic areas, one of them skipped a grade, both are gifted - and it's not because I bought them a laptop or a DSi or a cell phone.

Hey, let's call it what it is: entertainment. If you want to provide your kids with electronics, go for it. I really don't care one way or another. But it's NOT for educational purposes alone, and we all know it. It's for entertainment, which is not a bad thing. It's just not MY thing. I let my kids play video games, use my cell, use my laptop, use my iPod. I just don't call it "education" or feel that they need - or are entitled to - their very own.

Personally, I don't believe that ANY 8-year-old actually needs a $300 iPod, a cell phone, her own laptop. Of COURSE my daughter wants all of the above: we live in a materialistic society, where many people seem to feel the need to buy the latest version of the newest big thing, cost be damned, and she wants what "everyone else" has. I was the same way as a kid. But I'm not spending $100 a month on a wireless plan for myself, let alone my kid. Nope. Not doing it. Call me cheap, but I'd rather spend that money on dance lessons, books, a trip to see my sister and her kids.

Besides, it's kind of like the 12-year-old whose parents get her a limo for her middle school dance; what do you do for prom? for her wedding? Let's leave something for later. Why get "everything" now? And where's the lesson on working for things? If everything is just given to them, do they appreciate it? One mom said, "But if his grandparents want to buy my first-grader his own laptop, who am I to say no?" Well, um, in a word - the PARENT. I don't care WHAT my parents want to buy my kids; I'm the mommy. What if they bought a puppy? Wouldn't you need to approve that first, too? No, my parents can buy my girls all the dolls they want, but, as I told my mother, "You ARE NOT taking them to Hawaii for spring break." No deal. At least, not unless you take me, too.

Slacker Mom Says...back off! My kids aren't entitled to the latest electronic gadgets any more than yours are entitled to have four puppies, three kittens, and a pony. I won't criticize you for the decisions you make, so don't tell me my kids "should" have the same things yours do. Soon enough, they WILL need all that stuff, and we'll get them their own laptops and cell phones. But right now, they are content to play Barbies, dolls, and board games. Right now, they'd rather run upstairs to their playroom and create a world of horses, fairies, and magic than play video games. Right now, my two girls are best friends who would rather play together than hole up alone in their rooms. Right now, they'd rather curl up on the couch with me and hear a great story than text their friends. Why on earth would we do anything to discourage that? Why grow up so fast? Their teen years will be here too soon as it is. In ten short years, we'll be sending our firstborn off to college, and our baby will follow two years later. For now, we'll focus on spending time together, rather than spending time plugged in. That's just us. Don't knock it til you've tried it.

The "Me" Behind the Mommy

2010-08-18T08:54:00.003-04:00

Oh, how things change in a few short years. A recent day at the beach had me reminiscing about the "before" and "after" of my life as a mom.

Before kids, I practically lived at the beach. I spent weekends with my convertible top down, laying on the beach, watching surfers and volleyball players, and hanging out on Lahaina's beach-front deck, floating a cup of ice in a pitcher of beer. I chatted up cute lifeguards while eating ice cream - in a bikini - and fully subscribed to the "if you need anything more than a towel and a smile, you're carrying too much to the beach" way of thinking.

After kids, I find myself gawking (wistfully, enviously) at teenage girls and their teeny, tiny bikinis. Sure, I remember perky boobs, a flat stomach (without a c-section scar or stretch marks from carrying 11-lb babies), and a dimple-free butt. What a shame that I didn't fully appreciate it when I had it. Carrying a bag of towels and beach toys, my first aid kit (Epi-Pens for everyone!), a cooler of snacks for the kids, Boogey Boards, and a beach umbrella leaves me gasping for breath and praying for a spot close to the lifeguard tower - so that I can ask him for the time and remember to reapply sunscreen every 2 hours. That pitcher of beer on the deck? Now it's Vitamin Water and juice boxes. I'm pretty sure that beer's not even allowed on Children's Beach anyway.

Before kids, a trip to the grocery store used to involve $40 and one hand-held basket of salad stuff, whole bean coffee, fresh flowers, some yogurt. Now? It's $60 in meat alone! Sometimes I can't even fit a week's worth of groceries in one cart. That $12 for flowers? That's a tennis lesson or a package of diapers now. And whole bean coffee? Seriously? Who has time to grind fresh coffee on school days? Besides, it'd probably wake the whole house up. Cranky kids at 6:00 AM? No thanks.

Where I used to be on a first-name basis with bouncers, bartenders, and the hottest DJs in town, now it's pediatricians, teachers, and the cashier at my local Target store. I used to know all the hot clubs, beaches, bars and boutiques. Now I know where to score double coupons, a good deal on tap shoes, the latest releases in children's literature, and the newest line from Gymboree. Waiting in line for concert tickets gave way to waiting in line for soccer sign-ups and preschool registration.

Sometimes I find myself thinking wistfully back to "the good old days", when I could do whatever I wanted on the weekends, when I didn't have to worry about anyone else's needs, when I didn't have to take into account anyone else's schedule or plans. No one made demands on my time. No one needed me to cut up their apples, apply their sunscreen, wash their hair, remember their pacifier or lovey or extra diapers. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to be completely selfish again, to not be worried about anyone or anything else? At least for a little while?

Well, in a word - yes. Or, as my friend Michelle says, "HELL, yes." It's important to remember that we used to put our own needs first and not feel guilty about it. If we never do that, we'll end up resentful, angry, frustrated. And we might take that out on our kids and husbands. That's not good for anyone. We need to find little ways to be single girls again, do things that remind us who we used to be. Every morning after I drop my kids off at school, I listen to a CD that I call "My Single Self Reminisces." It starts with Pink's U + Ur Hand, a song that defines the nightclub experiences of my 20s. Old Madonna, Prince, some raunchy Nickelback, a little Kid Rock. Explicit lyrics, club songs, the music of my single life. Like I'd let my girls listen to THAT. It's no weekend in San Diego, but when I crank that CD, I can almost forget that I'm driving a disco-blue SUV/mom-mobile with booster seats and school spirit magnets instead of my 2-door convertible - red, of course - that could barely seat a couple of my girlfriends and our beach bags.

Yes, life has changed in just a few short years. The weird thing is, I don't mind in the least. I don't actually feel any older than I did 10 years ago. Oh, I LOOK older; there are fine lines that weren't there before; the word "perky" can most assuredly NOT be used to describe any part of my body. Short of surgery, my tummy will never be flat again, and those stretch-mark creams were definitely a waste of money. Sometimes I have the odd ache or pain when I wake up in the morning, and I definitely can't pull all-nighters anymore. But overall, I wouldn't go back. I wouldn't trade a moment of my life as a wife and mother. Well, maybe a moment. Here or there.

Slacker Mom Says...give yourself permission to be selfish and go back to your single-girl days once in awhile. Get out the photo albums, have the girls over for margaritas, reminisce about what life was like when you slept until 10, partied until 3, started Happy Hour promptly at 5. Go away with your husband, your sister, your girlfriends. Renew, recharge, refresh. Remember who you used to be, so that you can enjoy who you are now. Now that I'm a mom - and let's face it, that will forever be my primary title; even when they are grown and gone, I will still be their mom - I can't imagine going back to a time when my girls didn't exist. Having kids requires us to be selfless and tireless and responsible - in short, a Mom, with a capital M. But every now and then, I want to remember who Kelly was, before she was a wife and a mother. And what's wrong with that?

All Mommy, All the Time

2010-06-09T09:12:00.002-04:00

A couple of days ago, while I was trying to enjoy a peaceful shower with some lovely new bath gel, one of my usually sweet-tempered and patient daughters came downstairs to my bathroom, yelling about something her sister said to her. Exactly what, I really can't remember, because it (unfortunately) happens more than I'd like to admit (and it's rarely anything important or memorable), but seriously? Five minutes, that's all I ask, five minutes (and we all know how fast we learn to shower once we have kids - in 5 minutes we can shampoo, condition and shave), with no sister issues! I tried ignoring her, but I just about lost it when she started wailing, "Mo-o-o-m! She's being mean! Aren't you going to DO anything about it?" It was that dragging of a one syllable word - mom - into about 4 that really sent me over the edge.

Um, I'm standing here with shampoo in my eyes and shaving cream on my legs. What, exactly, do you think I should do? Is there a fire? an intruder? a bone protruding through the skin? Then leave me the @*%$ alone for five minutes to take a freakin' shower!

It's the same thing when I pour a cup of coffee and sit down at the computer. Suddenly, everyone needs me (or the computer) right away. And just try to use the bathroom in peace. I close the door - shoot, I LOCK the door - but they just knock on it until I answer. "Mom? MOM! I'm hungry!" Really? REALLY!?! I'm GOING TO THE BATHROOM! What do you think I can do for you? And do you REALLY want me to prepare food FROM HERE???"

Of course, it's even more annoying when my husband is home and they STILL come to me. And I ESPECIALLY love it when they walk right past him on their way to the bathroom to find me. Apparently, even with his advanced degrees and 40+ years of life experience, Daddy's not capable of slicing an apple, pouring a glass of milk, or helping them with homework. No, in my world, those are mommy jobs, every time.

Now, I love my kids and I love being their mom, I do, but sometimes I'd like to shower without anyone watching me from the other side of the glass door. I'd like to check my e-mail without anyone asking me where her pink Zhu Zhu pet is. (I swear to God, I was NOT the last one to play with it.) I'd like to brush my teeth, put in my contacts, or do any other tiny little five-minute job without someone, anyone, needing anything at all from me. Why is that such a tall order? Why do our kids think we are on duty 24/7, 'round the clock, for their every convenience? I mean, I'm just one person, and I will eventually have to eat, shower, poop, and/or sleep. And there comes a time when I am not available for anyone's anything. I'm not a 7/11 store. Sometimes, Mommy is closed.

So, after much reflection, here's my theory: our kids do this because we let them. Yep, earth-shattering revelation here, folks. We've trained our kids to think we are at their beck and call. Even the most conscientious slackers are guilty of it at some point. Oh, sure, when they're tiny, we really do have to pretty much respond to their cries rather quickly. Infants are learning to trust us, to trust that we will meet their needs and help them through their dirty diapers and colicky tummies and teething pain. Absolutely. But honestly, once they hit the preschool years, maybe we need to back off a bit and let them know that Mommy is a person, too, with needs and rights of her own, and they can wait. Maybe we aren't teaching delayed gratification - and independence - early enough.

From a developmental point of view, little kids are selfish little beings. That's not mean, that's just the truth. Kids are selfish. They believe that they are the center of the universe, that their needs and wants take priority over anyone else's, and that they have the right to Mom at all hours of the day and night. But it's up to us to teach them otherwise, to show them that everyone has rights, that their needs must be balanced against the needs of others. And we do this, naturally, as moms. You'll have to wait for your snack because I'm feeding the baby. You need to share your toys with the other children at preschool. Mommy's cooking dinner, so I can't take you out to play just yet.

But do we teach them that WE have rights, too? That Mom's needs and wants are JUST as important as theirs? Or do we let them see us as someone to meet THEIR needs as well as the rest of the family's needs? Do we consistently put our own desires last, after everyone else's needs are met?

I'd argue that yes, most of us do.

C'mon, how many times have you slathered the kids, scalp to pinkie toe, in SPF 70, then forgotten to do your own back? Ever eaten the heel of the bread loaf, even though you hate it, because you gave your kids all the "good" pieces? How many times have you heard a friend complain that her kids sat on the couch watching TV or playing video games while she cleaned? I say, hand those kids a dust rag and tell 'em to get dusting! If I'm running around cleaning up, they can be helping. How many times have you taken toys back upstairs where they belonged? Did YOU play with them? Then why are YOU putting them away? If they can't clean up the playroom, if I have to do it, then it's going to be MY playroom. I'm seeing a new computer, a comfy chair for writing, new bookshelves for all MY stuff. Maybe a poster of Edward and Bella on the wall, who knows. I could use a room to myself. Heck, I could use a bathroom to myself. I've been sharing with a boy since 1997.

Last month, I re-read the book Flirting With Forty by Jane Porter. It's a great book for many reasons, but one passage in particular really struck me. The main character, Jackie, is celebrating her 40th birthday with her two kids, ages 5 and 9. She cuts the cake, gives them the "good pieces" with intact roses and lots of frosting, and takes the broken piece with no rose for herself. Then, suddenly, she realizes: Hey, this is MY cake, MY birthday. She puts it back and cuts a better (and bigger) piece for herself. Her kids protest, "Hey, you already HAD a piece! And WE get the roses!" She looks at them and says, "It's MY cake. I'm getting the roses." And smiles. And I thought: YES! We all do that! We take the crap piece, the burnt toast, the broken cookie.

No more. I'm taking the good piece. I'm taking a shower alone. I'm finishing one article without interruption. I mean, my kids are 6 and 8. They can pour their own cereal, wipe their own bottoms, take their own showers. They get mad if someone intrudes on their "bathroom time", yet they think nothing, NOTHING, of walking right in on mine. But that ends today.

Slacker Mom Says...moms have rights, too. Sometimes, you do not have access to Mommy. Access Denied, Shop Closed for Repairs. If there's an emergency, if you have a serious problem that cannot wait, I'm absolutely there. Otherwise, the "closed for business" sign is going up now and then. And that's not being a bad mom, a neglectful mom. It's teaching our kids that WE matter, too, that Mom has rights and should be treated with at least as much respect and deference as anyone else - if not more! Most of the time, I'm fully available. But now and then, I'm not. Now and then, you can wait - or better yet, learn to do it yourself.

Or you can ask your dad. Preferably, when he's on the toilet or watching the big game.

The Myth of "You Can Have It All"

2010-05-14T09:41:00.003-04:00

Countless books and articles have been written about our generation of women and our ability to have it "all" - the career, the man, the house, the kids. I won't rehash what's already been written ad naseum, but you know the drill: You can have a fabulous career doing your dream job; fall in love with the man of your dreams, who looks like Brad Pitt (before the recent unfortunate facial hair); have 2.5 beautiful, athletic, intelligent children; own a large, luxurious home with a dog and a cat and 2 fish; and still make it to every soccer game, school play, and ballet recital. All while looking like Heidi Klum or Elle MacPherson.

What a load of crap.

We've been sold a bill of goods that doesn't exist. No one can have it "ALL" - at least, not all at the same time. What a lot of pressure to put on women! As hard as we moms try, we cannot be all things to all people all of the time. It's not possible to work a 50-hour week, bake 5 dozen cupcakes for the PTA bake sale, throw the birthday party of the century, make love to your husband every night, and keep up with your house - unless you're the undead and don't need to sleep. Me? I'm tired just typing that sentence. I don't have it "all." I don't WANT it "all."

Truth is, we have to accept that it's enough to have some of these things at some time during some of our adult lives. We have to accept that whether we are working moms or at-home moms, or a combination of the two, we give something up to get something else. Hopefully, for each woman, what she gains is worth the sacrifices she makes. Choices are made, decisions are made, and we have to understand that anyone who expects us to HAVE it "all" or DO it "all" is, well, an idiot.

Besides, who's to say what "all" is? My best friend and her husband decided that she'd keep working days and he'd change to nights, because they didn't like the idea of daycare. She comes home, he leaves an hour later, and then he gets home long after she's in bed. They've sacrificed couple time during the week, but they make it work. (And they've made me a believer in the concept of "quality time.") My sister works part-time from home while her husband is working a traditional 8-5 schedule, giving them family time at night. Her son naps, her daughter goes to preschool, she runs around like a crazy woman fitting it all in - but gets to keep working AND be home, where she wants to be. My friend Enid and her husband decided it made more sense for him to take a leave of absence when their kids were small. He was their primary caregiver, and it's given him such a close relationship with his girls. It works for their family. My next-door neighbors work insane hours, plus have their own business, and rarely get home before 7 PM. But Grandma picks up the kids and keeps them after school. And they take fabulous extended-family vacations four times a year. The trade-off is worth it for them. (And my kids are positively green with envy. They are dying to take a Disney cruise or spend a week at Atlantis. but as a one-income family, that's not in the cards.)

Me? I married a fantastic man. (He's no Brad Pitt, thank goodness. Brad's not winning any awards for world's best husband, and he's always flying off around the world. No thanks.) I left my dream job - happily - when I had my first child. My husband's job is demanding and his hours somewhat unpredictable. He's not always around to help get kids off to school or cover in the evenings if I have a meeting. Most nights, our kids are asleep when he gets home. Child care and household duties are primarily MY responsibility, freeing him to do his job without having to worry about what's going on at home. I'm on it. That's my job. Yes, there are some sacrifices we make (I no longer wear designer clothes, our newest car is 6 years old, I haven't had a facial or manicure in years, and there's no trip to the Bahamas in our future), but it's worth it for our family, because it works for us.

And who knows how life will change? Five, ten years from now, your "all" may be different than it is right now. I've fallen, quite by accident, into this writing thing precisely because I AM home now. If I'd kept teaching, would I have discovered a passion for writing, would I have chosen a new career path? I don't think I'd have had the time or the energy.

If we work, we're going to miss something - a soccer game, a class party, a gymnastics meet. It's going to happen. And you know what? Our kids will be fine. Really, they will. If we stay home, we're going to miss something - a fantastic vacation, earlier retirement, newer cars, career advancement and job satisfaction. And you know what? Our kids will be fine.

And c'mon, do you really want to be at every class party? I'm the freakin' room mom, and I don't even want to be at all of them. And school plays? Really? Look around the cafeteria/auditorium. Notice the glazed-over eyes? Yeah, your 3:00 meeting WAS more exciting than a second-grade rendition of Peter Pan. Trust me. Three lattes later and I can barely keep my eyes open. And let's not even start in on a three-year-old's soccer game. Herding cats, that's what my husband calls it. A bunch of toddlers running around and picking dandelions (and their noses) is what I call it.

Slacker Mom Says...don't buy into the myth that you have to have it all right now. Who's to say what "all" is, what works for each family? Let's end the "Mommy Wars" and move on already! No matter what path we choose - career, being at home, a combination of both - our kids will be fine. Love them, hug them, let them know how proud you are. That's all they really need.

Empty Threats (Or Lies I've Told My Kids)

2010-04-27T10:00:00.003-04:00

On a recent Sunday afternoon, I took my girls to our local zoo. We have one of those unlimited attraction memberships that allows us - at no additional cost - to feed giraffes and lorikeets, ride the ponies and the carousel, climb a rock wall, watch a 3D movie, and take a train ride - over and over and over again, world without end, amen. (What ever happened to just looking at the animals?!?) But eventually hunger won out over the allure of free pony rides, and since I hadn't had to shell out $2 for a handful of limp lettuce at the giraffe feeding platform, I agreed to spring for lunch. The girls, with all the enthusiasm of kids who are rarely allowed to eat fast food, opted for the Kenya Cafe.

Two orders of overpriced chicken tenders and greasy fries later, we were seated at a window booth overlooking the alligator enclosure. (Yeah, THAT'S the perfect place to eat chicken. Watching a hand-fed alligator whose main diet is - of course - chicken. Smart.) It was a drizzly day, and still fairly early, so there weren't that many diners in the cafe yet. But one family stood out, and not only because they were sitting right behind us. No, this particular family could be easily recognized by the incessant screaming of their three young children and the shrill response of the adults as "Parents Who Make Empty Threats that Everyone in a Three-Mile Radius Knows They Have No Intention of Carrying Out."

Now, usually Slacker Mom is all about the love. Do what works for you; don't judge other parents; no one knows what is really going on in another family. But seriously, these parents were just about the most annoying adults I've encountered in a long, long time. Two little boys, who looked to be about 3 and 5, sat at the table with their parents. A younger child sat in the stroller, flinging food out and screaming at the top of his lungs. Great, I thought, lunch AND a show. Ignoring the screaming and the politely curious looks of the other diners (this is the South, after all, and no one would be outright rude), Dad kept pushing the chicken on one kid ("One more bite! One more bite! Then you can have a chip!"); Mom was pushing a sandwich on the other ("Please? Please? For Mommy?"). As she got more and more frustrated, and the kids got more and more vocal about their feelings regarding lunch, Mom's speech went something like this: "You asked for the sandwich so you have to eat it. You promised you'd eat the sandwich after you had the cookies, so now you have to keep your word. If you don't keep your word, you can't have TV or dessert all week." Dad's was along the same lines, but with a "no one will ever trust you again if you don't keep your word" twist. Pretty harsh for preschoolers, but hey, who am I to judge? I've been guilty of over-explaining things a time or two myself.

But after approximately 47 versions of the same lecture, I wanted to turn around and say, "Geez! What, are you new at this? You gave them the cookies first. It's over. Call it a day, and next time, lunch first and dessert after!" But just as I was about to give in to the urge to at least turn around and glare meaningfully at the parents (hey, I'm not from here - I have no problem being rude now and then), I heard a little voice behind me say, "So, if I eat another bite, can I have some more cookies? And watch TV later?"

And of course, the parents agreed, as everyone around them knew they would. The family packed it up and left, discussing what movie the boys wanted to rent on the way home from the zoo.

And as much as I wanted to sit in judgement of their poor parenting skills, instead, I started thinking: am I guilty of the same thing? Do I threaten my kids with ridiculous punishments? Do I bribe them? Do I fail to enforce consequences for misbehavior or for poor choices?

The short answer to that question is yes. The long answer is yes, but only when I've realized that my original punishment is too harsh, or will punish me more than the guilty party, or will take away from our valuable family time, or when I'm really really mad and not thinking as clearly as I should - or when I forget what I said in the first place (one of the perils of being an older mom). But still - the answer is yes. And I want it to be no. I really, REALLY want it to be no. I want my kids to know that when I say something, that's the way it is. I want them to know that they can count on my word as being true and final and reliable. I once heard someone say that if you don't follow through with consequences, you've lied to your kids. Sounds kind of harsh, but I understand what he means. If I say no playtime until chores are done, I need to follow through and check to see that things are done properly BEFORE I let the kids off the hook, rather than going back and yelling at them later. If I say, "Clean your rooms before the movie," I need to get off my butt, go upstairs, and check under the beds and in the closets before handing over the remote. And when I dole out justice, whether it's a natural consequence or an actual punishment, I have to make sure - beforehand - that it's something I am willing to enforce. If the consequence is more unpleasant for me to enforce than it is for the child to endure, what's the point?

I once told my daughters that I would cancel Christmas if they kept fighting. Really? I LOVE Christmas, and I would NEVER do that. But I was at that breaking point where I just couldn't stand the bickering for one more second. A string of difficult mornings with kids who didn't want to get out of bed found me threatening to make them ride the school bus if they weren't ready to leave on time. (Now, before anyone gets upset and says that riding the bus is no punishment, let me say this: My kids aren't even up yet when the bus comes past my house at 6:36 each morning, because school starts at 7:40. We live 5 minutes from school. So yeah, it WOULD be a punishment.) But how would THAT solve anything? I'd be the one getting up even earlier! Yet another frustrated afternoon of jamming uncooperative little toes into ballet tights led to my empty promise to pull them out of the dance recital - after hundreds of dollars spent on lessons, shoes, costumes, and photos. Like I'd do that. All that time and money wasted, and for what? Because a 5-year-old had a hard time with the seam of her tights? How much better would it have been to make light of the situation, to say, "Tell your piggies to get inside those tights! Your ballet shoes are lonely!" and make her giggle rather than cry?

No, those empty threats and ridiculous comments say more about my frustrations as a parent, about my sleep deficit level, about my overall state of mind than they do about my kids' behavior. They're good kids, but they're kids. As my friend Jen says, you can't expect them to get in one day or one year what we've finally understood after 30-some years. They weren't born middle-aged, they were born brand-spanking new. They need time to figure out how to navigate the world. And let's face it, my mood determines the tone of the day, the mood in my home.

Slacker Mom Says... mean what you say and say what you mean. It's so easy to make empty threats, to give convoluted and unrealistic punishments that we know, as we say them, that we're never going to uphold. We all do it at some point, and we all know we do it. I'm vowing to stop right now. The next time I want to threaten to throw away all their toys because no one cleaned up the playroom, I'll remember that my agenda is just that: mine. Just because I want them to do something, it doesn't mean that they care at all about my timeline. A little patience and a sense of humor go a long way.

"Are We There Yet?" is a 4-Letter Word

2010-04-09T08:44:00.003-04:00

A recent episode of "The New Adventures of Old Christine" showcased an ill-fated attempt at a family vacation. Delayed flights, crazy routings, lost IDs, snotty airline personnel, family tensions - it was all there. But what really caught my attention was this: Christine's 13-year-old son wanted to bring his Nintendo DS, and his mom wouldn't let him, saying, "This is a family vacation! We're going to talk and spend time together!" His response? "Talk? What? You ruin everything!"

Really? His life is ruined because he's not allowed to take his video game along on a family vacation? I thought this line was a little over the top - until I started asking around. Most of my mommy friends confirmed that when they travel, their kids have cell phones, iPods, DVD players, video games, you name it. The backseat of the family car has become a fully-equipped media center. No one needs to talk to each other. Kids don't even have to cooperate and decide which movie to watch, because most of their cars now have dual-screen DVD players. And Mom doesn't even have to listen to the soundtrack of the Hannah Montana movie for the 725th time, because each child has her own headphones, too.

This new concept of entertainment stands in stark contrast to the vacations most of us remember. Family vacations of my childhood were decidedly unplugged. My parents would put down the back seats of the station wagon, we'd all unroll our sleeping bags, and the party would begin. We didn't have electronic gadgets to divert our attention from the scenery. There were no dual-screen DVD players - in fact, no TV of any kind. No, we had to create our own fun in the backseat. The license plate game, Mad Libs, a rousing rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" (or something even less appropriate that my parents couldn't hear, like "My Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Burning of the School"), negotiating for each other's Slim Jim or Bubblicious stashes, or even - gasp - READING a BOOK! Sometimes my brothers would introduce a super-fun game called "Roly Poly" - you know, the one where they'd sit on either side of me, and as we rounded a corner, they'd squish me in between them. Fun.

Yes, we got on each others' nerves, but we quickly learned to get along and find something fairly quiet to do - or face the dreaded "if I have to stop this car..." threat. (I'm not sure what my parents would've done if they'd had to pull over, but back then, the threat alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of children of all ages. We never found out, but we never WANTED to find out.) Sometimes we got bored, yes, but God forbid we say that out loud - our parents would start "entertaining" us with show tunes or long, boring stories about their childhood tribulations. (You know, walking to school, 3 miles, in the snow. Uphill. Both ways. You get the picture.) No, it was much safer to entertain ourselves and each other. But you know what? I don't have a single childhood memory that doesn't involve my brothers. Our family vacations? True family moments. We fought, and made up, and shared, and played, and interacted with each other. Isn't that what we want for our kids?

Now, I'm not advocating abandoning seat belts and booster seats here (or threatening your kids, although we've all been there), but why do we feel the need to constantly provide entertainment for our kids? Why can't they entertain themselves? And why do so many kids sit isolated, plugged in, during "family" time?

For my kids? It's kind of sink or swim when we travel. They'd better find a way to entertain themselves, because I don't want to hear the words "Are we there yet?" (Um, did I stop the car? Is the plane still flying? Then no, we're not there yet!) or "I'm bored!" (Really? I'm driving; you're playing. Who's bored? That's right. Zip it.) We don't have a built-in DVD player. (We do have a portable DVD player, but I can't figure out how to install it in the car - so my kids don't get to watch movies on long car rides. And I can't find the battery pack, so they can't take it on the plane. What can I say? I'm a slacker.) My kids don't have iPods, cell phones, or a DS. My cell phone has no games, music, or internet access. Nope, when we travel - by car or by air - my kids listen to CDs, audio books, the radio. And they are subjected to my singing along to their music. My kids read, color, play magnetic games. They make up elaborate stories. Color Wonder, Colorforms, pipe cleaners and beads, Polly Pockets - these are the staples of my girls' carry-ons. My kids talk to each other - and to me. Sure, I've had to get creative at times: Airsick bags make great hats for stuffed animals; stickers plus craft sticks equals instant puppet show. And never underestimate the power of a really good book. But bored? I don't want to hear it. If you're bored, it's your own fault.

Slacker Mom Says... let's all stop trying to play Vegas-style entertainer for our kids when we travel. They can find something to do! Let's bring back the family conversation, the license plate game, I Spy, and Twenty Questions. Let's find ways to truly spend time together, even on the long and boring drive to Disney World in the July heat. I'm not saying you can't pack the electronics; I'm just saying let's not rely on them totally. Families are so busy these days; let's take any opportunity we can to spend real time together. We're building the memories of a lifetime here. Besides, subjecting our kids to our singing and storytelling will give them something to complain to their friends about after they get back home.

On Twilight and Marriage...

2010-04-03T09:03:00.003-04:00

It's Spring Break! And you know what that means - yes, this week marks exactly one year since I became obsessed with all things Twilight. (You thought I was going to mention the beach, vacation, that type of thing, didn't you? Yes, we are going to the beach, and yes, it's nice to have the kids off school, but let's get our priorities straight, shall we?)

Resistant at first, I quickly fell under Stephenie Meyer's spell. It was Nina who first tried to recruit me for Team Edward. I'm not going to lie to you; I thought the entire concept was stupid. I'm not a teenaged girl; I'm not into vampires. No, I told her for weeks, I'm not reading a book that was a Teen People "Hot List" pick. And I've read enough of her "must-read" Nicholas Sparks books to know that we may be best friends but we do NOT share the same interest in books. (Before the Sparks fans get upset with me: he's a good story teller, I'll give you that, but his writing is repetitive, formulaic, and predictable.) But after weeks of daily phone calls, she finally wore me down. I bought the first book, Twilight, fully expecting to roll my eyes and make fun of her. I mean, really - teen girl falls in love with teen vampire. Whatever.

And then I read the entire series in eight days. The entire series. All four books. All 1,690 pages. In e-i-g-h-t days.

Once I started, it was un-put-down-able. My kids were fed and clothed and (relatively) clean, but I was completely obsessed. I read while I ironed, while waiting in the carpool line, while my kids and husband watched TV; I stayed up hours past my bedtime every night. I devoured each and every word, bought the next book well before I finished the previous one, and rented the movie version of Twilight - which I'd refused to see when it first came out. Compelling, mesmerizing, captivating storytelling, along with good writing, good dialogue, good imagery.

Yes, they're vampires. Yes, it's teen love. But it's so much more than that. I think what draws women, adult women, to this story, is the fact that against all odds, against all common sense, against the rules of society and science and nature, two people feel so strongly for each other that they are compelled to be together. What speaks to women, the young and the middle-aged alike, is the idea of a love so destined, so magnetic, that nothing can keep them apart. Not the fact that she's the police chief's daughter and that he's a danger to society; not the disapproval of their families and friends. They would rather die than be without each other. They would do anything to protect each other. Despite the odds against them, despite the challenges they face, they are compelled to be together, drawn by a love so deep it feels out of their control. Nothing can keep them apart. It's more than passion, or attraction, or mere lust - no, Bella and Edward are meant for each other, destined to be together, regardless of what happens around them, to them, because of them.

What woman wouldn't want a man to feel that way about her?

But though I love the books, and am currently on my fourth reading (hey, the movie version of Eclipse is coming out soon and I need to be prepared), I can separate fact from fiction. I may be fairly obsessed and have an old-lady crush on Edward, but I also know that real-life love, married love, takes time, effort, work. The books may be marketed at teen girls, but I doubt any teenager can truly understand a love so deep. All of us have experienced crushes, first love, puppy love - but what Bella and Edward share is so much deeper than that. And hopefully, what we have with our husbands is much deeper than that, too. It's mature love, a love born out of shared experiences, a love that comes from facing trials and troubles together. It's the kind of love that holds your hand in the delivery room when you are certainly not looking your best; the kind of love that gets a man up in the middle of the night with a scared child so you can sleep a little longer; the kind of love that lets us know this man would literally lay down his life for his children and wife. It's grown-up love.

A marriage is a give-and-take, an ongoing compromise, between two people who have committed themselves for life. Sometimes things are good; sometimes things are less good. Sometimes things are just, well, dull and staid and boring. But that's real life. Real life isn't always exciting, invigorating. Paying bills, driving carpool, making dinner - this is not the stuff of romance. But it's the stuff of life, of family life; it's what bonds us together. Yes, it's important to have those "grand gestures" in a marriage. But it's the small things, the little daily gestures, that speak to a deep, meaningful life together. As my friend Janet (whose husband introduced me to mine) says, "Attraction is important, but that initial passion will fade. You have to work to keep it alive. And in the end, I'd rather have a man who will wipe the baby puke out of my hair than one who'd buy me diamonds but sleep through the stomach flu." Well-said. Me, too.

Slacker Mom Says...real life is not a movie or a book. Real life isn't always exciting. A marriage is what we make it, after all. I may be obsessed with Edward and Bella's love story, but I still make time for MY love story. I'm not sure I believe in destiny and fate, but I do believe in forever, and in my husband, and in our love for each other. We'll keep working at it, keep challenging each other, keep loving each other. He's no vampire, and I'm not a teenaged girl, but we belong together.

And besides, when I'm in full Twilight obsession mode, he reaps the full benefits of my Edward-induced, romance-fueled attitude. When I read or watch anything Twilight-related - well, think about it. I'm just sayin'.

If Motherhood Were Easy, It Wouldn't Start With "Labor"

2010-03-25T08:33:00.004-04:00

This motherhood thing has been somewhat, um, challenging lately. I've got a gum-smacking, miniskirt-wearing, eye-rolling pre-teen chatterbox who thinks I'm the world's worst mom because I won't buy her a cell phone. I've got a selective-hearing, persistent, precocious Kindergartner who thinks she should be allowed the same freedoms (but not the same responsibilities) as her older sister. And I've got a husband who says things like, "Ask your mother," or "What should I feed them for a snack?" or "What does Mommy usually do in this situation?" Or, my personal favorite, "I'll think about it" when what he really means is, "No way in hell!" because he doesn't want to be the bad guy.

So guess who gets to be the the bad guy and actually make the decisions?

Moms make literally thousands of decisions over the course of a typical day. Thousands. Some are easy, like no, you can't eat pixie stix for breakfast. Here's a bowl of oatmeal instead. Some are trickier, like what to do about a baby on nap strike or a mean girl on the playground or a gossipy neighbor you just can't stand. Sometimes I'm on a roll, handing out verdicts like a veteran judge, doling out punishments and juice boxes like a pro. Other days, I struggle with simple things, thinking, "What, am I new at this? Why can't I get it together?" But over the years, I've found that the easy decisions, the easy days, do not test me, do not make me a better mom. It's the hard days, the hard choices, the tough times, that define us as parents.

Think about it: The easy days, the days where everything goes right, no one gets sick or hurt or upset, the days where I have it all together, don't make me a better mom, a better person. The easy days are, for lack of a better word, too EASY to be interesting. If everything is going right, we aren't challenged to rise to the occasion. But on those OTHER days, the days when I'm thinking, "Is it bedtime yet? How early can I reasonably tuck them in? And what time does Happy Hour start??" I find myself being more resourceful, more creative, more EVERYTHING than usual. On those days when I'm thinking, "Man, this is SO NOT what I signed up for, SO NOT what I imagined motherhood to be!" - well, those are the days that make me a better mom. Those are the days that end with me thinking, "I got through this; I can get through anything!"

Case in point: When my girls were 2 and 4, I spent three weeks visiting my family in Los Angeles. My husband flew back a couple of weeks earlier than I did, but I'd flown with both kids on my own many times. So I was undaunted by the prospect of changing planes in Dallas/Fort Worth with two kids, a double stroller, two car seats, and three carry-ons. No sweat. Piece of cake.

Of course, nothing went smoothly. Our flight out of DFW was cancelled, and the only other option would take us into Reagan/National in DC, and then to our final destination, Pittsburgh, around midnight. I only had 20 minutes to reach the gate, which meant that I literally ran through crowded terminals like in that old OJ commercial, jumping over bags, pushing a double stroller filled with 90 lbs. of kid and two car seats strapped on top, singing silly songs to keep my kids entertained, much to the amusement of other travelers. Arriving in DC, I found that, due to airport renovations, they couldn't bring my gate-checked stroller to me - so I had to drag sleepy kids, car seats, and bags to the check-in counter just to get my stroller. Then, because I'd been re-routed to a different carrier and had no bags to check, the computer program selected me for secondary security screening - and no one could override the all-powerful computer. Swabbing my stroller for explosive residue, x-raying my diaper bag, patting down my toddlers, dismantling my car seats - of course, I missed my next flight. By this time, no one had eaten dinner and everyone was exhausted. My flip flop strap broke, so I was hobbling around, people staring, looking like an idiot - but again, that may have been due to my singing in an attempt to convince my kids that this was all just a grand adventure. I was booked on a later flight, a puddle jumper (in whose seats neither of my car seats would fit, so more gate-checking) that arrived in Pittsburgh at 2:00 AM.

And that's when I remembered that when my husband had flown home two weeks earlier, he'd driven my car home from the airport. And he was now - get this - in DC on a business trip.

So, because I'm a mom and we do what we have to do, I smiled at my kids, collected my car seats and stroller, claimed my bags, and rented a car. Completely loaded down and with no one to help me, I got my kids and my crap settled into the rented minivan in the middle of the night. I made the 2-1/2 hour drive home safely. It remains, to this day, one of the toughest days of my parenting career - but I wouldn't change one single aspect of it now. I dug deep, and I learned that I can handle just about anything life throws at me.

Slacker Mom Says...sometimes, parenthood is tough. Sometimes, we think, "This is not what I signed up for!" Some days, we have to dig deep, really really deep, into the well of creativity, patience, self-reliance - and we find that indeed we can handle more than we thought we could. We have to think of tough times as a test that helps us fine tune our parenting skills, a test that challenges us to be better parents, better people. It helps us grow as mothers. We learn that we can. We CAN. We're moms. We CAN - and we DO.

"Italian Time" and Motherhood

2010-03-11T19:17:00.004-05:00

As a young teacher, on a ten-month salary schedule, I always needed a summer job. You know, so I could pay the rent, buy shoes, have drinking money, that kind of thing. One summer, I was hired to teach English for an international educational foundation that did a sort of glorified summer camp for European teens whose parents wanted to travel and not be bothered with their obnoxious (and stinky) offspring. (I say stinky because, man, these kids reeked. We actually had to tell them that American teens shower daily. Your average teenager is smelly enough without adding in soccer games in 80 degree weather. P. U.) Most of our students came from wealthy French and Italian families. The kids spent the morning in English classes; afternoons were spent at various shopping and site-seeing destinations. American teachers and European chaperones lived in the dorms with the students, taught classes, and planned and supervised the outings. (Yeah, it sounds fun; really it was just ten weeks of utter exhaustion. But I made some lifelong friends, probably due to the Helsinki Syndrome-like conditions we worked under.)

One of many things I learned during four summers teaching rich, smart-ass European kids was how to swear and talk dirty in 14 different languages. But another useful thing I learned was that the concept of time is somewhat, um, fluid in Italy. "We're leaving in five minutes" meant anything from 5, 10, 50 minutes to them. If we said, "The bus leaves at 9:00," then we expected the kids to show up about 8:45, get on the bus, and leave AT 9:00. Reasonable, right? Wrong. They'd start showing up about 9:30, 9:45, we'd start yelling, then we'd have to find their Italian chaperones (in the cafeteria, complaining about American coffee), and we'd finally leave campus around noon. OK, I may be exaggerating, but only a very little bit. It was very frustrating the first few times. But we got used to it pretty fast, and we learned to beat them at their own game: We started giving them fake departure times. If we wanted to leave at 9:00, we'd tell them to get on the bus at 8:00. Sneaky, but it worked.

Another thing I realized about Europeans was that their concept of "hurry up" is NOTHING like ours. We walk faster, talk faster, eat faster, shop faster, play faster; EVERYTHING is faster here. I was always saying, "Let's GO! Hurry UP!" to my students. They took forever to eat lunch, pick out a Swatch Watch (don't ask, it was the 90s), do that scarf-around-the-neck thing that only European women can pull off. It drove me crazy. When I finally quit that summer job, I thought I was forever free of "Italian time."

And then I had kids.

There is NOTHING in the world that will prepare you for how long it takes a toddler to walk to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Every single crack in the concrete, bug on a leaf, stray piece of mulch, blade of grass, twig, or ladybug must be examined with the intensity of a scientist in the field. What used to take me 2 minutes now takes 25. And there is no way to know beforehand how long it will take a five-year-old to put away 16 blocks and 2 stuffed bears. Trust me, it can take 5 minutes or 2 1/2 hours. You just never know.

When I had my first baby, I had no idea what children would do to my timing. Where it used to take me 10 minutes to get to the mall (grab purse, get in car, go), it now took me 45 minutes. Get the diaper bag, strap the baby into the car seat, adjust her straps, struggle through the garage door without banging the car seat into the cars, snap the car seat into the base, put the stroller in the trunk, and adjust the baby mirror 18 different times so I could see her (sleeping, unmoving) face in my mirror. Then, when I arrived, I had to unload the stroller, unload the diaper bag, adjust the seat and seatbelts properly...and oh, yeah, get the baby out of the car and into the stroller.

Once, when my oldest was about 5 weeks old, I had a particularly bad morning. I just wanted to go to the grocery store, like a normal person. But every time I picked my daughter up, she spit up on me. I don't mean a nice little Gerber baby dribble. I mean like Mount St. Helens erupting down my back. I'd put her down, change my clothes, clean the wall and the floor, pick her up - and then she'd have a diaper blowout. So I'd clean her up, clean myself up, pick her back up - and she'd spit up again. This went on for, no joke, about 40 minutes. And then she needed to eat, which took another 45 minutes (a firstborn, obviously - the second kid could drain me in ten minutes flat). Finally, I was out of clothes, she was out of ammunition, and I was in tears.

Kid time. It's even worse than Italian time. At least with my students, I found a way around it. With my kids, no matter how much time I give them, they need more. They take more. "Five more minutes" means absolutely nothing to a child. Try to rush them, and they slow down even more. It's maddening. If I need them to just put on their shoes and get in the car, I can pretty much count on the fact that at least one of them will choose that exact moment to poop, need a band-aid, or have to tell me a very long story about a caterpillar on the playground last week that was missing a leg. (WTF???)

Just tonight, after story time, my Kindergartner said she had to go potty. I sat on her bed while she went in to bathroom, fuming about how long it was taking her. How hard is it to just go in, do your thing, wash up and come out? But she had songs to sing, soap to splat, water to play in, earrings to admire, a nightlight that needed to be flicked off and on approximately 84 times, and, of course, she had to check her look in the mirror, "to see if my French braids made my hair all springy and crazy." It took forever. And all I could think about was all the crap I still had to do downstairs before I could finally relax and watch "Modern Family" on my DVR.

But then I realized something important: Kids are kids. No timetables, no mental to-do lists, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. It's always summer vacation. They can live in the moment without worrying about all the little crap that we worry about. Did it really matter that she sang her songs, stared in the mirror, took a few extra minutes in the bathroom? She was happy, singing, giggling, enjoying life. I wish I had that much fun peeing.

When we're at the zoo, my kids can gaze for an hour at the sea lions. They'll stare at the monkeys forever, watching them groom each other and swing around, giggling and pointing. The lion cubs could keep their interest all morning; comparisons to Nala and Simba are nonstop. But my husband and I find ourselves glancing at our watches, hurrying them along, saying things like, "Don't you want to have time to see the meerkats? the ponies? the turtles?" All the while, they are content to just watch, observe, enjoy, without worrying about anything at all. That's childhood. Why take that away from them? Why rush and hurry them unnecessarily? We're at the zoo for THEM, after all, so why not just stand there and let them take whatever time they need?

Slacker Mom Says...don't fight kid time. It will not end well. When it really matters, when it's work or school or an appointment, that's one thing. Build some extra time into the schedule, be silly, give them a fake leaving time, do what you have to do. As a teacher, I had songs we'd sing to mark the transition to the next activity. They had to be done by the time the song ended, and they usually were. But sometimes we need to just stop and think: Does it really matter if it takes a few extra minutes? I am constantly rushing my kids through every little thing. I might get them to do it faster, but at what price? I'm yelling, they're crying, and we're all stressed, all so it can be finished a few minutes early? Not worth it. In a very short time, my precious girls will be grown and gone, and I'll have all the time in the world to watch whatever I want on TV. Shoot, I won't even have to DVR it, because no one will be here to interrupt me when it's on the first time. How sad will that be?

Grocery Shopping is Not "Me" Time (Unless You're Tina Fey)

2010-03-10T22:59:00.006-05:00

With my kids in school all day, you'd think I'd have plenty of time to myself. I mean, come on: seven hours a day of kid-free time should mean plenty of "me time", right? The occasional manicure or pedicure (or both!), lunch with the girls, browsing the bookstore, coffee with a neighbor, enough workouts to achieve the body of a trophy wife.

You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?

No, I can count on one hand how many lunch dates I've had this school year. (Kindergarten cafeteria duty doesn't count.) I haven't had a mani/pedi since last Mother's Day. No one comes over for coffee because we're all already on our third cup by the time we wake our kids up for school. And that trophy wife thing? Well, that all depends on your definition, I guess. If you're looking for someone who's obviously popped out (and nursed) a few kids, desperately needs to see her hairdresser, and has tee shirts older than her kids, then yeah, I'm your woman.

Truth be told, these days it's all I can do to make the house passably presentable, get some food in the fridge, spend a little time on my treadmill, and do some laundry before it's time to pick up the kids from school. And we all know what the after school hours are like (lessons, practices, projects, homework, playtime, dinner/ bath/ bed, and those damn reading logs). I have four hours between pick up and bedtime, and I make the most of it.

Ask the average husband, and he has no idea what we do all day. Why would he? Sure, on some level, he gets that there's cleaning, errands, volunteering, laundry, kid-related stuff to do - but in a superficial way, much like I understand that binary code is somehow important to the inner workings of my computer, but I really don't get how it all works. And I don't have to. Someone else figured it all out for me, and now the thing just does what it does without my having to think about it. I think husbands are often like that: they don't really want to know the mundane details of our days. They just want to know that everything is running smoothly, efficiently, like my computer. I turn it on, it works, end of story. They come home; house/kids/chores have been taken care of; end of story.

So why do we feel the need to justify our time? And who, exactly, is asking us to? Is it really our husbands? When they ask, "Did you have time to (wash my socks/ buy dog food/pick up my dry cleaning/get eight 8 x 12 foam sheets in various pastel colors for the Indian Princess bottle rocket craft that I need at 6:00 tonight but I just told you about right now)?" are they making a statement about what we do all day, or just asking a question? When they ask, "So, what did you do today?" are they passing judgement or merely making conversation? Let me tell you, I'm fairly certain that my husband has zero interest in hearing how it took me 90 minutes, 4 washes, and a LOT of OxyClean to remove the fruit juice stain from my Kindergartner's favorite blue horse shirt that she wore last week on the field trip (and which only cost $8, less than I spent on detergent and water to get it clean, but hey, whatever). And while he can appreciate the adorable additions to the playroom decor, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want the play-by-play, just the highlights - like SportsCenter, but without the annoying theme music.

Or do we do it to ourselves? And if so, why do we feel the need to remind ourselves how busy we are, how much work it is to run a home and care for our kids and meet our obligations to our communities? Every mom, working or at-home, knows exactly how much time and effort it takes to be all things to all people at all times. No one actually asks me to justify my time - except for me. I have a constant conversation playing in my head that reads like a train schedule, down to the minute, what I've done, what I need to do, how much time has elapsed, how much time is left. It's mentally exhausting. It's ridiculous. And it's completely unnecessary.

(Once, when my kids were both toddlers, I actually kept a running timetable of my day. For an entire week, I wrote down every single thing I did, every single minute of every single day and night. I then made my husband read it, so that he would finally, truly understand why I was so tired all the time. He got to noon on the first day, looked at me and said, "I'm exhausted just READING this!" Exactly.)

So where does the "me" time fit in? Wherever the heck you can find it! My friend Coley eats lunch - alone - at 10:00, just to have some time to herself before preschool pick up. For Nina, it's an afternoon run - the kids have to keep up and no one is allowed to talk to her. My sister has no problem grabbing the remote from her preschooler and saying, "Mommy's shows now!" Even Superwoman Tina Fey finds time for herself: She grabs a fountain drink and wanders around Target, alone. Shoot, if she can do it, anyone can do it! For me, it's a phone call to my friend Michelle while we drink our morning coffee, right after her kids catch their bus. A few minutes of kid-free, chore-free, obligation-free time, and I'm a new woman, ready to take on the day.

Slacker Mom Says...find some time each day that belongs to you. Maybe it's a soap opera, maybe it's bad reality TV on the DVR, maybe it's a trip to the bookstore that doesn't involve a train table or a visit to the children's section. Whatever it is, whatever your status, moms need "me" time. It makes us better moms, better wives, better people. No one's going to "give" it to us; we've got to make it happen. Tomorrow, my friend Nancy and I are hitting our local taqueria for some salsa and gossip, and nothing short of a sick kid will stop us! I know I'll come back refreshed, renewed, ready to take on piles of homework and reading logs without complaint.

Bibbidi Bobbidi Blue (Or, Painting as the Path to Self-Awareness)

2010-02-16T08:19:00.007-05:00

A recent winter weekend found my husband and I painting our girls' playroom Bibbidi Bobbidi Blue. (You know, the color of Cinderella's gown. Yes, even our paint belongs to the cult of Disney.) Now, when I paint a room, it takes one weekend, start to finish. I tape off the baseboards and ceiling line, and just get to it. One day to tape, paint, check for "bald spots"; let it dry overnight and put everything back to rights the next morning. If I start on Saturday morning, the kids are playing in there by Sunday afternoon.

But my husband? Well, he's a LITTLE bit of a perfectionist when it comes to painting. Yes, when HE paints, he spends approximately 14 hours "prepping" the room. (This involves taking out all the furniture, taking down the blinds and hardware, removing switch plates, spackling all nail holes, taping, retaping, retaping the retaping, putting drop cloths over every single surface, and - I'm not making this up - checking the ceiling line for any trace of Boring Beige, the color the builders used, which he then painstakingly paints over with white paint. On the ceiling. Which is like 15 feet high.) Then he's pretty sick of the room, so he takes another day or two to start the painting, which invariably takes at least 2 days - because he needs a day to "see" the room in different lights so that if he missed a spot he can go over it again. Then he needs a day or two to find the time to take down the tape, pull up the drop cloths, and put the furniture back. By this time, the room has been unusable for approximately 9 days and we've all been tripping over its contents, which are stuck in some hallway somewhere. (This is especially problematic if the room being painted is a bathroom and he hasn't put the toilet back together yet.)

Now, surely at this point you are wondering, "Why the hell doesn't Slacker Mom just paint the room herself and quit complaining about it?" Well, you see, my husband really, really doesn't like anyone else doing the painting. Really, REALLY doesn't like it. In his defense, he does a VERY thorough job. I'll admit that he does a much better job than I do. And the only two areas where he gets a little psycho and overly concerned with perfection involve walls - both painting and hanging pictures bring out his inner control freak. But I think he's forgotten that I'd painted many, many rooms before I met him; I painted my room three times just while I was in high school. Without help. At age 14. And he'd never painted a room at all until we bought our first house together and I convinced him that bare white walls are boring and builder's paint is crap. So when he starts with his "helpful, friendly reminders", I kind of want to shove a paint stirrer up his ass. He says things like:

* Don't you want to stir that paint more? How many times did you stir it?
* Don't forget to really tape it well. Really well. Do you want me to do it?
* Don't put too much paint over the taped-off area. That's too much!
* Don't forget to check your feet for paint before you walk out of the room.
* Don't dip the brush too far in the paint - only put it on the ends.
* Don't let any paint drip down the wall when you use the roller.
* Don't get any blue on the ceiling line. I already painted over the beige.
* Why don't you let me do that part? Really, I don't mind.
* Any chance of getting some cheeseburgers?

Seriously. He asked me to make him cheeseburgers. At 11:00 at night. I think he did it just so I'd leave the room and he could "check my work". And like I counted how many times I stirred the paint. If I thought it needed more stirring, WOULDN'T I HAVE STIRRED IT MORE? Jeez. When he acts like that, I think, "Give me some credit! I'm not a moron. I have SOME skills. And who made YOU the President of Painting, anyway! Leave me alone!" Any more painting and we'd need some serious marriage counseling, stat.

So as I'm flipping burgers and it's nearing midnight (of course I did it; if I'd stayed in that room any longer I'd have strangled him with his blue painter's tape), I sulked because, to be honest, he's not a lot of fun when he's painting. Me? It's Saturday night! With the right person and the right attitude, I can have fun doing anything! (Nina and I once spent an evening working on a project for her Masters and drinking wine, and, school geeks that we are, had a great time.) But he was far too intense and serious about the whole thing. I wondered why my usually mellow, laid-back, goofy husband barks orders and stresses about a little paint on the ceiling, about why he feels the need to "remind" me about things that I obviously already know (like I'm going to track paint on the hallway carpet, dude), about how this one task makes him into a bossy control freak. And I came to a startling conclusion: I do this to my kids all the time.

Think about it. They've barely finished their cereal and I'm "reminding" them to put their bowls in the dishwasher, even though they've been doing it since they were 2. Give them a chance already! I'll remind my 8-year-old to wash her apple first, even though I know she will, she always does, and I buy organic apples anyway so really, how bad could it be if she were to forget? I automatically remind them to say "Thank you", not even noticing that they've already said it and they certainly don't need me to remind them as if they're toddlers. I hurry them along every single morning with reminders like, "Put on your shoes!" as if they'd walk out barefoot into the cold. I suggest moves they should make when we play board games, even though they are perfectly capable of playing the game on their own. I take over and do things for them simply so it will be done MY WAY, even if it isn't important that it's done my way. Just like my husband does when we are painting, I get bossy and controlling and make unnecessary comments about the jobs other people are doing. "No, not like that, do it like THIS!" is something I hear myself say all too often. And I decided to be (gasp) grateful to my husband for teaching me something about myself. A little self- awareness and self-improvement, all for the price of a gallon of paint.

So yes, he was annoying and irritating and bossy. But maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing he was - because it forced me to examine my behavior a bit. It made me realize that when I get that way, it affects my relationship with my kids. It makes them think that I don't trust them to do it right without me hovering over them, barking instructions and reminders; it sends the message that I don't think they are capable, smart, responsible girls who know what to do and will do it if they are just given a chance. How annoying. And irritating. And bossy.

Slacker Mom Says...sometimes we have to back off and let our kids have a chance to do things their way. My way isn't always the only way, and that's hard for me to swallow. But kids need to know that we trust them, that we believe in them, and that if they do fail - and they will - we'll be there to help them fix things, to start over, to wipe the blue paint off the ceiling. No one likes being bossed around or treated like they don't know what they're doing. A positive comment and a pleasant tone of voice goes a long way, as I told my husband - and myself.

"That's Not a REAL Toilet!" is Something You Never Want to Have to Say

2010-02-15T15:20:00.005-05:00

Last Saturday night, my husband and I were curled up in front of the fire, about to watch Vince Vaughn in "Couples Retreat." We'd been looking forward to it for months, ever since we kept missing it in the theater. (Every time we had the babysitter booked, someone got sick. Swine flu, seasonal flu, sinus infection, pneumonia, yeah, you name it, my kids got it.) So when it came out on DVD, we were ready to laugh our asses off. (Ever seen him in "Wedding Crashers"? Rent it. But make sure to pee first. You know what happens when you laugh too hard after popping out a few kids. I'm just sayin'.)

So in the movie, Vince Vaughn's character and his wife are in a home improvement store, looking at tiles for their remodel. Now, most husbands hate that kind of thing and are happy for any reason to walk away from looking at 3,492 different options - most of which look identical to them - and Vince's character is no exception. So while he's on his cell phone talking to his buddy, he's not really watching what his kid is doing - probably assuming that his wife is on kid-duty. Suddenly, the camera pans to the boy, who is peeing in a display toilet as customers and sales people look on in horror. Vince shouts, "That's not a real toilet!" to his son. Then he gets off the phone, picks up his kid, and says, "There's not really anything more to say," and walks away. No embarrassment, no wiping up the pee, no apologizing to the manager.

Yeah, that's the Hollywood version.

In REAL life, in MY life, I'd find myself with a makeshift glove made from wads of generic paper towel wrapped around my hand, scooping "I've eaten nothing but fruit all day" type poop out of the display toilet. In REAL life, when my 3-year-old was playing in the design center's kids' area when she told me she had to poop, I told her to put on her shoes - and then, distracted by my Level 5 flooring options, promptly forgot about her "needs". So a few moments later, when I heard, "Mommy? I can't find any toilet paper!" I knew EXACTLY what had happened. And so did my husband. In one of those "are you thinking what I'm thinking" husband and wife moments, we looked at each other in horror, shock, disgust. And mentally calculated who'd have clean-up duty.

Thankfully, our real estate agent, the designer, and the sales manager did NOT realize that the Ecru/Low Flow/Elongated Bowl Display Model was now completely full of crap. Literally. No, in REAL life, the kid doesn't merely pee into the model toilet. She poops, and poops, and poops. And it's after hours, so the deserted design center is also completely without its custodial staff. Nope, just us and our helpful real estate professionals, ready to sell us $40,000 in upgrades but unable to locate a little bit of bleach and some rubber gloves.

Yes, in a bizarre twist of "Art Imitating Life", I found myself flashing back to that May day several years ago. (I should get a cut of the movie's profits! If only I'd written about this and then claimed Hollywood stole it from me!) There I was again, crouched in front of a fake toilet, paper towels wrapped carefully (but ineffectively) around my entire hand, shoving my manicured fingers into the toilet to clean it out. (Truly, you have no IDEA how long that pipe from the bowl to the tank is. Truly. Thank God I have long hands.) It took about an hour, two rolls of paper towels, and all the Purell wipes I had in my car and my purse - but that toilet was cleaner than it was on the day it was installed. It shined like the top of the proverbial Chrysler Building. There was no evidence at all that we'd ever been there. We apologized, washed our hands, and got the hell out of Dodge. (And we DID buy a house from them, Level 5 upgrades and all. Heck, it was the least we could do.)

Slacker Mom Says... motherhood isn't always kisses and pretty Hallmark cards and sweet-smelling baby powder. Sometimes it's a dirty job, and sometimes you get the short end of the stick. Sometimes our kids ruin things that aren't theirs and we have to take care of it. Because that's what we do. We take responsibility for our young children and their actions, even when they poop where they shouldn't. Even when it's going to be disgusting. Even when we know it will take approximately 825 gallons of scented soap to take the smell out of our hands. We take responsibility. We take care of it. Because what's the alternative? Walk away from the situation? No, that only happens in the movies. In real life, parents have to teach by example. What would I have taught my daughters if I'd walked away from the mess? My toddler was too young to take responsibility for it, and it was my fault for putting her off so long. It was my job to take care of the situation, no matter how unpleasant or truly vomit-inducing it was. And my kids saw me do just that. Our society is plagued by a severe lack of personal responsibility. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Caring for our kids, teaching them to take responsibility for their mistakes, to own up to what they did, to make it right and to apologize for inconveniencing others, that's our job. We're moms.

Besides, now I have a really fun story to tell at her prom, or graduation, or rehearsal dinner...

What Ever Happened to "Because I SAID So!"

2010-02-10T13:40:00.003-05:00

A recent Friday afternoon conversation with my daughter went a little like this:

Me: It's chore time - you need to clean your room, empty all the trash cans, and then set the table for dinner.

Her: But I want to finish (reading, playing, coloring, dancing, anything but what you want me to do at this moment in time) first!

Me: And I want a million dollars, my pre-baby abs AND boobs, and Brad Pitt on a stick, but that's not going to happen. (OK, what I really said was more like, "Chores first, then playtime" or something along those lines.)

Her: OK, Mom. (There may have been a sigh involved, but I was too busy heading to the other one's room to give her a chore list, too. My ears have become rather sigh-proofed, what with my daughters inheriting this lovely habit from their father.)

And then? And then she DID HER CHORES. No, I didn't have to tell her again. No, I didn't offer her a bribe. No, I didn't pay her for cleaning up her own crap and setting the table so that our family could eat a meal that I prepared. I did thank her for being cooperative and helping our family; I did tell her that I appreciated how quickly she got her chores done without my having to remind her. But the bottom line is, she knows what she needs to do, she knows what will happen if she doesn't do it, and she knows that it's in her best interest to get it done quickly. Because I'm the mom, and I said so.

And that was the five-year-old.

As one of many tools in my parenting arsenal, I'm definitely in favor of using incentives to induce desired outcomes. If I want the children to do something, I'm OK with offering something in exchange. For example, if they clean up their rooms, I will continue to let them sleep there. If they put away their toys, I won't donate them to charity. I may even take it a bit farther and say, "If you behave while I get my hair done, I'll thank you by taking you out for ice cream afterwards" or even "If everyone manages to get a flu shot without Mommy losing either an eye or her sanity, or having to place anyone in a full prone containment restraint, we can stop at the book store on the way home." At times, I'll offer the children an explanation for certain rules and requirements. Like, we get flu shots because we all have asthma, and the flu could be very dangerous for us. Or, you must do your homework to reinforce the skills you're working on in class. Or even, no, you cannot watch "Twilight" because if you do, you'll be totally freaked out and no one will sleep for approximately the next 125 days.

But I'm not above the use of those four words used by our parents and grandparents and their grandparents before them. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the infamous and often underused "because I said so."

So many parents seem to think it's necessary to negotiate with their kids or give their kids input into every single decision. They ASK their kids to do chores. They ASK them what they want for dinner. They even ask them if they feel like coming inside and taking a bath. Are you freakin' kidding me? I can tell you right now how my kids would answer those questions: "No, thanks, Mom, I'd rather NOT do chores. Dinner? Ice cream sundae, extra whipped cream. And I think I'll have it outside while I continue to play in the sandbox. I'm skipping the bath tonight."

So many kids have a terminal case of the "whys". Why do I have to come inside now? Why do I have to clean up my room? Why can't I have candy for breakfast? And too many parents try to answer those questions, thinking they are educating their kids, patiently explaining that breakfast should contain protein and fiber for optimal learning at school, or that toys should be put away so that no one trips over them in the night. Seriously? Do you really think they need the explanation again? Do you really not know that "why" is actually about stalling for time, trying to wear us down until we give in out of sheer exhaustion, that it's about trying to see exactly how far they can push us?

Nah, I TELL my kids to do their chores. And I don't always say please. (No, it's not rude. It's called parenting. This is not a request, so don't ask, "Will you please make your bed?" unless you're prepared to hear, "Um, no, thanks for asking.") And then I MAKE SURE they do their chores, even if I have to stand over them, check back in a few minutes, take away privileges - in other words, even if it's inconvenient for me. I put dinner on the table; they can eat it or not. And I certainly do not ask IF they want a shower, I just tell them "Get in. Now. And don't forget to wash your hair." What's the incentive? Do it and you won't get in trouble. Do it and Mommy might thank you for cooperating. Do it - wait for it - BECAUSE I SAID SO. I'm the mom; you're the kid. It's not rocket science. And it's definitely not a democracy, more like a benevolent dictatorship, one where I rule with absolute authority because I love my subjects and want the best for them.

So why do our kids think they are entitled to an explanation every single time we tell them to do anything at all? I'll tell you why: because we give them one. We over-explain things. Constantly. And why do we do it? Because we hated it when our parents said, "Because I said so!" to us. So we vowed NOT to say it to our kids. But here's the kicker: our parents said it because it works, because it's the truth. "Because I said so" really means "because I am the mom, and I know best; I will keep you safe and healthy, and you can trust that the decisions I make for you are necessary and right." As my sister tells her daughter, "My job is to raise you right."

Slacker Mom Says... let's bring back "because I said so!" Not all the time; not for every single demand. Sometimes, kids need to hear the "why" behind our rules. Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, it's just about respecting a parent's authority. Sometimes, it IS simply because I am the mom, and you are the child, and I TOLD YOU TO DO IT! Our job as parents is to make sure our kids go out into the world with all the skills they will need to be successful adults who contribute positively to their communities. When they have kids, they'll understand the why. Until then, it might just have to be "because I said so."

Stinky Socks and the Men Who Wear Them

2010-02-03T22:23:00.004-05:00

Tonight at dinner, my husband was telling me about his day. It was just the two of us, since he usually gets home after the kids are in bed, and he'd had a busy and frustrating day at the office. I was trying to "listen actively" and be supportive, really I was, but all I kept hearing was, "Yada yada blah blah blah." Yes, I'm a Slacker Wife at times, too, but it's just that I was so tired and had so much on my mind that still had to get done - lunches to pack, a birthday cake to make, laundry to wash/dry/fold/put away, reading logs to fill out (will NO ONE ever listen?!?) - that I just couldn't stay focused on his monologue. (Similar to the time my roommates and I met some very cute, very drunk Irish guys we couldn't understand - smile and nod, smile and nod - my technique was much the same. Just take away the Guinness and add some pot roast, and substitute over-tired for drunk, and it was pretty close.) I tried to toss out a few well placed "uh huhs", but I think he was on to me.

So I'm sitting there, my mind racing, nodding away like a bobble head, fake smile plastered on my face, when it hit me: This is EXACTLY what he does to me when I'm going on about something while he's reading. And when he does, it makes me CRAZY. I mean, how hard is it to just hear my voice, attend to what I'm saying, and pay some attention? And now I know. Sometimes, now and then, it's a tall order.

While motherhood can be tough, this marriage thing can be pretty challenging, too. At least with the kids, I rule all. They're small, they don't take up much space, they don't snore or shed hair on the counter. They sleep a lot and don't eat very much, they're easy to clean, and their stuff is generally confined to the upstairs area. They pretty much have to listen to me and do whatever I tell them or face the wrath of Mommy. My husband? Not so much. He'll ask me the same thing 4 times in one day. No matter how many times I ask him not to put my tweezers in his drawer, guess where I usually find them? Shoes are anywhere BUT the closet. If he's driven my car all weekend, I can pretty much assure you there won't be gas in it come Monday morning. He can drive me crazy. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. But when I've had to pick up his dirty socks off the floor three days in a row, or pull dirty underwear out of the shorts he's left on the bathroom floor every day for a week, or - my personal favorite - when I find a toothpick he left in MY car (and no, I don't know if it was clean or dirty because I was NOT about to investigate too closely!) I start to get a little bit crazy. I start to think about all the ways he makes my life more difficult, about all his annoying little habits. I start thinking about "Friends", about the episode where Rachel is moving out so that Chandler can move in. Monica turns to Rachel and wails, "You get to live with Phoebe, and I have to live with a BOY!" He makes me crazy. He makes extra work. He doesn't always listen to me or remember what I tell him or put my needs ahead of his own.

But.

But what if there were never any socks on the floor? Or toothpicks in the car? What if there was no more Monday morning panic when the gas gauge is a LOT lower than I remember it? What if he weren't around to leave a full water glass teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter every morning, just waiting for the cat to knock it onto the tile floor so it will shatter into a million little pieces, simply because that's what cats do?

Here's what I know: He cleans my hair out of the shower drain every single morning without complaint. He gets up with the girls when they've had a bad dream - even though he's the one who has to go to work the next day. He once drove 3 hours in the middle of the night just to bring me sore throat medicine when I was pregnant and he was on a business trip. He thinks I am beautiful, stretch marks and all, and tells me often. He'll go grocery shopping after a long day of work when I've been stuck home with sick kids all day. He'll stay up half the night to put together toys on Christmas Eve. He held my hand while I cried on the due date of the baby we lost. He shows our daughters in a thousand little ways all the things a husband and father should be. And so I can overlook a few annoying habits, pick up a few dirty socks, separate some stinky gym clothes.

Love is a choice we make, every single day. I choose to love my husband in spite of his annoying habits, and maybe because of them. I choose to believe in him, in us, despite dental floss that doesn't always make it into the garbage, despite the fact that the towels would have to put themselves in the hamper before he'd think to change them, despite the fact that he's not perfect. My friend and mentor Beth recently told me, "Always be sure to maintain your primary relationship - and it's not the one with your kids. When your first child leaves, you'll feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. By the time your last one leaves, you'll remember why you got married in the first place." Her kids are grown and gone; she and her husband are taking motorcycle tours and have, as she says, no need for locks - or even doors - anymore. Wink wink. Wise woman. Well said.

Slacker Mom Says... be careful what you wish for. I'd rather pick up his dirty socks than not, because dirty socks on the floor mean he's here with me. The best thing I can do for my kids is to love and cherish their father. Marriage, like motherhood, is messy and inconvenient and annoying and hard. Nobody's perfect, and boys are stinky and messy, it's true. The toilet seat may be up, but that's because my husband is sharing my bathroom - and my life.

When Mean Girls Grow Up (Oh Yeah, They Don't)

2010-02-01T23:16:00.003-05:00

My third-grader has had to deal with several Mean Girls this year. There's one who calls her "Miss Know-It-All" for always raising her hand, one who tries to steal her snack, one who tells her she's stupid for making a mistake in math. (To this last one, I feel like saying, "Honey, you're NINE and she's SEVEN. And you're in the same grade. YOU do the math.")

So, in the interest of showing that I both acknowledge her feelings and understand her pain, I prepared a lovely Mother/Daughter conversation called "Dealing With Mean Girls: A How-To Handbook for Nice Girls", and cornered her in the car one afternoon when my youngest was on a playdate. (After all, studies show that kids are more likely to confide in parents during a non face-to-face conversation, and car rides are the preferred time to attempt such parent/child bonding. And besides, she can't run away from me with that "OH MY GOSH, MOM! You're so WEIRD!" attitude when in a moving vehicle doing 60 on the highway.)

Now, I don't really remember any mean girls in elementary school or even in junior high. I mean, there must have been some bitchy girls back then, but since I can't remember any, either they must not have been that bad, or they weren't important enough for me to remember. (And I have the memory of an elephant. Just ask my friend Nicola, who has known me since Kindergarten: I can remember who forgot free-dress days in first grade, who cried at the sleepover in second grade, and what we wore when our fourth grade teacher got married.) But I do have a few Mean Girl stories from my adult life.

Take, for example, my friend Lynn. She's a drop-dead gorgeous personal trainer with impeccable fashion sense. One summer day at the local pool, she was wearing a cute Target bikini. Not slutty in the least, mind you, just cute. It was from Target! How could it be slutty? But I noticed a group of women giving her the eye. You know, the eye - that look that says, "OH MY GOD, BECKY, LOOK AT HER BUTT!" like in that Baby Got Back song. There they sat, in their matronly one-pieces, not wanting to stand next to her and look bad by comparison. Jealous much, ladies? No one said anything, but I remember thinking, "She works damn hard for that body, so shut up! And the rest of us could take a page from her book and maybe slap on a little waterproof mascara and do a few sit-ups instead of eating Pringles with our kids!"

Or my former friend Jeanie. We met through our toddlers, who became fast friends. But one day, she bailed out on a playdate with no explanation. When I finally reached her, she said she fell asleep. The next week, she didn't show up for my annual Halloween party. Instead of calling me, she called a mutual friend and asked her to tell me that her garage door wouldn't open so she had to wait for the service guy to come. Now, call me crazy, but faced with a choice between a party and a "sometime between 8 and 5, Ma'am" type situation, I'm putting up the door manually and hauling myself on over to the party. She never once returned a call or an email. A year later, I ran into her at Starbucks. She looked right at me and walked past me without saying a word. I never found out what happened.

Or the current crop of Mean Mommies. Now, I'm no Queen Bee, but I am pretty involved in my children's school. I'm the room mom for both of my daughters, I volunteer in their classrooms, I chair a PTA committee, and, as a former teacher, I've got a good relationship with the teachers. I even do lessons with the girls' classes now and then. I like it; it's fun. (I spent 10 hours a day for 10 years in a classroom; of COURSE I'm a total school nerd!) But a couple of months ago, I found out that some of the moms in the class are more than a little nasty. One of my best friends was walking through the schoolyard to pick up her child from another class, and she overheard a conversation between a couple of mommies in my daughter's classroom. (Note to Mean Mommies: Don't assume that if I'm not there, I won't find out you're gossiping about me. Duh. I know a LOT of people. You might want to look around and make sure you're alone BEFORE you start the bitch fest. And don't actually name names! Morons.) So anyway, my girlfriend heard an earful about how I think I'm so great and I'm always in the classroom and I'm the only one who the teachers let do anything and how just because I used to be a teacher doesn't mean I should get to be room mother. (Which is, I think, the crux of the matter. I'm guessing SOMEONE wanted to be the room mom but SOMEONE wasn't asked.) Being a good friend, she struggled with the decision whether or not to tell me what she'd heard, but since these women are saccharine-sweet to my face, she figured she'd better tell me what was REALLY going on.

These Mean Mommies are old enough to know better. (And incidentally, none of them do a freakin' thing for the school or the teachers, claiming they're "too busy" to help out. Too busy, my ass. They have an hour to sit in the parking lot and bitch about everyone and everything, but they don't have an hour to make some copies? Yeah, right.) But that's not what bothered me about this Mean Mommy situation. What bothered me (briefly, before Slacker Mom got a clue and decided that it's kind of funny when you think about it, for grown women to spend part of their day talking about my decidedly unglamorous life) is that these women are super friendly to everyone's faces. What is that? If I don't like you, I will be perfectly polite, but I'm not going to pretend that we're friends. (There are many things you can say about me, but phony? Not since my fake-name giving, bar-hopping, "sure I'll call you" days. But that's another story.) Why ACT like you want to be my friend if you don't? Don't have an answer to that one yet.

So anyway, after I shared my Mean Girl stories with my very, very, un-mean daughter, she asked, "So it NEVER ends? I'll have to deal with this forever?" Oops. That wasn't really my point. But she did feel better. She felt understood, validated, heard. And she was able to look at her own Mean Girl issues in a new light: That girl who's always trying to steal her snack? She never remembers to bring her own, so she wants someone else's. The math girl? Turns out she's jealous because she didn't make it into the gifted program - and her mother is always telling her how much smarter she is than everyone else. (And the "Know-It-All" girl? She's just mean. What can I say? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.) She also felt good knowing that, even though there will always be Mean Girls, she won't care so much as she gets older. She seemed to understand that Mean Girls are all about THEIR issues. After all, if someone is truly happy in her own life, she doesn't feel the need to go around trying to make other people feel bad about theirs. Happy people don't tear others down just for sport.

Slacker Mom Says...there will always be Mean Girls. Our daughters have to learn to cope with them, to find snappy comebacks that aren't rude, but convey the idea that "I just don't care what you think." And sadly, Mean Mommies are out there, too. Just don't be one of them. Be part of the solution, not the problem. If we'd all just refuse to engage in negative trash-talk about other moms, about other women, we'd have time for a nap, a manicure, a romantic dinner with our husbands. Mean Mommies need to be told: Take all that energy and time and put it into yourself, ladies! If you need to feel better about your situation, do something about it instead of trying to tear someone else down. Isn't this motherhood thing hard enough without having to worry about bitchy playground talk? Let's act like the smart, beautiful, responsible, capable women we want our daughters to become - and our sons to admire. Build each other up, don't tear each other down.

And if you really need to feel good about your life, turn on some reality TV. I guarantee you'll get a little self-esteem boost!

The "Spit or Swallow" Option

2010-01-29T08:20:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a neighbor with three kids under 4. (Insert shudder and grimace here.) She's a stay-at-home mom, feeling a bit isolated, and doesn't seem to be what my friend Nina calls a "natural mother." You know what I mean: Some moms seem to just "get" this parenting thing, and some seem to struggle a bit more. She's also very much a "book mom", meaning she usually consults parenting books rather than going with her instincts. (Don't get me wrong, I have all KINDS of parenting books. I just think that Mommy Instinct trumps so-called Expert Advice nine times out of ten.) She seems to panic about a number of issues that, to me, are fairly straight-forward.

Her latest crisis? Feeding her kids. She's changed the baby's formula three times in as many months. Her toddler won't eat vegetables, so she's bribing him with candy - one Skittle for each bite of vegetable. Her preschooler insists on eating only white foods, so she's making a lot of white pasta and mashed potatoes. And she's exhausted, worried, and sick of cooking three different dinners every night. She's resorted to begging her kids to "please, please just eat that for Mommy!" So, over a cup of coffee in my kitchen, she asked me how I handle dinner in my house. I'm not one to offer unsolicited advice, but hey, since she asked, Slacker Mom gave her an earful.

Now, keep in mind, one of my kids has severe food allergies (no eggs, milk, or tree nuts) and the other is a vegetarian (until I put chicken fries on the table). So I do have legitimate reasons for making a couple of different meal options each night. But...I don't. Dinner is what dinner is. I mean, I'm not cruel; if we're having pizza, I'll make one without cheese for my youngest. But she still eats pizza. I've been known to pick all the blueberries out of the blueberry yogurt ("I don't like the bits, Mommy!") And if I've made pot roast, my older daughter is free to grab a string cheese as a substitute protein. But this isn't a restaurant, and Slacker Mom's not a short-order cook. If you're hungry, you'll eat your dinner. And if you don't eat it, it will be waiting for you in the refrigerator, all wrapped up in shiny foil, so that when you complain about being starving in a half hour, I can pull it out, put it on the table, and say, "Here you go!" in my sweetest June Cleaver voice. Eat it, don't eat it, but that's all there is.

Unsurprisingly, my neighbor was appalled that I would offer my kids cold, already-rejected leftovers. "What if they don't eat at all? Don't you worry about nutrition?" she wanted to know. Uh, no, because I firmly believe that an otherwise-healthy child will NOT starve herself. Kids are the ultimate in sensible eaters: They eat when they're hungry, and they stop when they're full. And they'll learn to appreciate a wide variety of foods, the work that goes into creating a balanced meal, and the simple lesson of being thankful for what you've got on your plate. Yes, kids have their own tastes, but let's get real: My kids would eat donuts morning, noon, and night if I let them. Most kids don't ask for brown rice, grilled chicken, and steamed broccoli instead of birthday cake. Duh. But mine will eat it if that's what's there. (And, to be honest, you only have to do the foil-wrapped cold pasta thing once or twice before they get the message. They're not stupid.)

But Slacker Mom wasn't done yet. When she asked me about forcing the kids to eat foods that they "need" to eat, like vegetables, I gave her the old "you can't make them eat, sleep, or poop" line. And if you've got a strong-willed (or, without the euphemism, stubborn as a mule) child like I do, no amount of threats or bribes will make her finish her broccoli anyway. (My husband once went head-to-head with our youngest, telling her she couldn't get up from the table until she ate her brocoli. She sat in her booster seat for nearly an hour before I pulled rank and put her down for a nap. She was 14 months old.) Now, I don't do the Clean Plate Club of my grandparents' generation, and I never insist that the kids finish anything on their plates. But they must at least try everything that I serve them. Every. Single. Thing. I'm not going to lie to you - sometimes they gag and glare at me like I've tried to poison them. Sometimes they'll surprise themselves by liking something that "looks gross and smells grosser." But they'll try anything. Octopus, turnips, carambola, you name it. They'll try anything - because they have the "spit or swallow" option. If they don't like it, they are free to spit it into a napkin and throw it out. There is no forced swallowing, because we all know what that leads to - projectile vomiting and a reluctance to try anything new. Even my youngest, who still hates broccoli, tastes it twice a week - and promptly spits it out and says, "Nope! Maybe next week!"

As Mommy Anxieties go, few things seem to ratchet up the stress level like issues of feeding. It starts at birth and continues on into the toddler years. Breast or bottle? Hypoallergenic formula or good old Similac? BPA-free glass bottles or whatever your sister gave you when she weaned her kids five years ago? When to start solids, when to start table foods, when to let them start milk products - the rules are constantly changing. What I was told with my oldest is often different from what my sister is being told for her new baby. And what works for one kid might not work for the next.

But as they get older, they start to feed themselves, and we lose all control over what goes in (and what comes out, but that's another story altogether). You just can't force feed them. Some children are naturally more compliant, like my firstborn, who pretty much eats and does anything I ask of her. And some children, like my youngest and my niece, have minds of their own - which is a good thing as an adolescent, but infuriating when you want them to just eat a few green beans, dammit!

Meanwhile, don't think for one single second that our kids don't see our stress. Ever read the book Eat Your Peas? The mother wants her daughter to eat her peas so badly that she offers her dessert, a later bedtime, trips to the amusement park, and other increasingly ridiculous bribes. It's hilarious, and very tongue-in-cheek, but kids love it. They get it. They see the stakes, and they know how to work it. My niece lived on breakfast smoothies made with ice cream for weeks, because she'd refuse anything else. She just wasn't big on breakfast. My sister, desperate to get everyone out the door on time each morning, worried about her getting at least some calories and protein before daycare, so ice cream smoothies it was. My kids, upon hearing about their cousin's new breakfast routine, decided to go on breakfast strike. Slacker Mom let them go off to school hungry for a few days. Strike over, Mom victorious, Cheerios it is.

Slacker Mom Says...take the easy way out and just cook one meal already! There is nothing wrong with saying, "THIS is what's for dinner tonight. Take it or leave it." Unless it's their birthday, my kids don't get to choose what's on the menu - but they can choose whether or not to eat it. Maybe the "reward" for eating a good dinner is dessert. Maybe the compromise is "if you don't like dinner, you can eat cold cereal." Whatever works for you. The power struggle over dinner is not so much about the food, anyway; it's about control. Take away the power struggle, and kids will stop thinking it's a high stakes game, a way to assert their growing independence and take control over their lives. If they think we care REALLY A LOT, if they think our happiness is tied up in what or how much they eat, they'll push the boundaries and make an issue out of it. Give them control over their plates, and they're less likely to try to wrench control away from us.

Tweens Are Just Toddlers in Overgrown Bodies

2010-01-24T15:29:00.007-05:00

My oldest daughter is nearly 8, officially a "tween" - as in, "in between" being a child and a teenager. It's a weird age, to say the least. She'll sing along with "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" one minute, then plead for a cell phone so that she can text her friends the next. (FYI, the answer is no. Get over it.) She'll happily play Barbies for hours, then ask me a question like, "How do you know you're in love with the right person? And won't I be in love a bunch of times before I decide to get married?" She'll beg to read the Twilight Saga minutes after insisting I read Goodnight Moon to her, like I've done every night since she was born. She remembers to charge her iPod, but not to flush the toilet. She can stand in front of Rodin's "The Thinker" and discuss the beauty of the human form as an inspiration for sculptors throughout the ages, but then falls on the floor laughing at the word "penis" or "toot". She can intelligently discuss Impressionism, define pointillism, tell a Monet from a Manet ("It's all in the use of light, Mom") but then cry if we're out of yogurt or if I forgot to put a love note in her lunch. She says things like, "I like my butt in these skinny jeans" but still sleeps with a stuffed monkey, and she giggles when her sister burps.

This dichotomy between young child and young woman disturbs my husband. He's more than a little freaked out by any questions about sex or human development, so that's fallen to me. (But in his defense, they ARE girls, and having taught sex-ed to hundreds of students over the years, I do have more experience in this aspect of Uncomfortable Parental Conversations. I'll let him give the lectures entitled "Why The Patriots Can't Seem to Win a Superbowl Anymore" and "What To Do When You Get a Flat Tire" - which, in my mind, is call your dad. Even when you're 41.) But after a fairly dry, clinical explanation of how babies are made and born, her reaction was, "That is the MOST DISGUSTING thing I've EVER heard!" (Her dad's reaction? "Whew. That's right. Keep thinking that. And the Patriots WILL win another Superbowl! You'll see!")

This eagerness to grow up while still wanting to be my baby is oddly familiar. It wasn't too many years ago that she wanted to be independent ("I DO it BY SELF!") but then cuddle in my lap with a pacifier and a lovey, to be rocked, sung to, held. Our kids want to try new things, to toddle away from us, but then know that they can always come running back for hugs and kisses if they fall down and get an "owie". And don't we all want that? Even as adults? To know that our parents are always there for us when we need, or just want, them?

Tweens are a lot like toddlers; they just have bigger bodies and smaller toys. Tantrums, giggles, crying instead of just telling us WTF they want, acting like the world will end if things don't go their way, pushing us away while trying to cuddle close. It makes me want to wear a tee-shirt someone gave me, as a joke, when I had my first baby. It says, "Mommy Drinks Because I Cry." The tween is a difficult creature to figure out. Part child, part adolescent, riddled with emotional angst yet wanting to sleep with her baby blanket, she is stuck somewhere between childhood and the teen years. It's maddening.

But entirely normal.

I've read enough "tween development" books to know that hormonal shifts begin as early as age 7, so I know that her mood swings and crying jags have more to do with her growing up than anything else. But I still have to remind myself that my daughter is just a little girl, struggling to figure out this big, crazy world, much like when she was a toddler. Soon enough, she'll be driving, dating, starting college, moving away. And I'll long for these tween years, difficult as they may be, when my sweet daughter was poised between girlhood and womanhood. Tweens remind me of toddlers, but in overgrown bodies. And they're a lot harder to strap into car seats and put on the naughty chair. But they still need to fit on our laps.

Slacker Mom Says...cherish each developmental stage. As much as I missed the infant stage, I loved the toddler stage. As much as I'd like to tell my husband, "I changed approximately 12,943 diapers and nursed this kid 8 times a day for over a year. It's YOUR turn now!" and then hand her over for the next few years, I know that my tween needs a mother's love, a mother's touch, a mother's lap when she's going through her latest crisis. She needs to know that no matter what, her mom will welcome her with open arms, a listening ear, and some wise advice - and maybe a little wise-ass advice, if the situation warrants it. If we do it right when they're toddlers, the tween years will be easier. But it's never too late to let our kids know we're always there for them, ready to hear them, to help them, no matter what. And that old tee-shirt? It may be appropriate now more than ever.

Put Down the Barbies and Just Walk Away

2010-01-24T14:31:00.007-05:00

Of all the Disney princesses, my favorite is Ariel, from The Little Mermaid. Forget the classics - Snow White, Cinderella, the Sleeping Beauty. I much prefer that rebellious redhead to her more traditional royal friends.

And what, you may wonder, draws me to Ariel? Is it her strong-willed, headstrong nature? Her beautiful singing? Her willingness to follow her heart against the advice of her friends and family, against all odds? Or maybe it's her fearlessness, her audacity, her sense of adventure?

Nope. I mean, hey, those are qualities I'd like to encourage in my daughters and all, but that's not really why I love the Little Mermaid. It actually has more to do with Prince Eric. To be specific, it has to do with my PLAYING Prince Eric with my daughters. You see, Prince Eric just lies there. Unconscious. On a beach. Eyes closed. Resting. Sort of like some vacations I took before I had kids. Now THAT'S a role I can get onboard with!

Yes, that's why Ariel is my favorite princess of all. Forget noble reasons, like her bravery and loyalty. I love Ariel because when I get dragged into my daughters' version of The Little Mermaid, all I have to do is lie down on the floor with my eyes closed and let them take turns rescuing me.

Contrast that with playing Prince Charming. If the princess of the day is Cinderella, Aurora, or Snow White, I have to actually work. Slay a dragon, hack through 100 years of overgrowth, and escape from an evil fairy? Far too much work for Slacker Mom. Ride my white horse all over the kingdom searching for a dead chick in a glass coffin guarded by seven weird little men? No doubt I'll then have to remember all their names, too. (Dopey? Sneezy? Sleepy? Dirty? Smelly? Sleazy? Creepy?) Then I'll get down on the floor, kiss the princess awake, scoop her up, and carry her back to my castle. My back hurts just thinking of it. And don't get me started on Cinderella's prince. Dance all night, chase her down the stairs, scour the kingdom trying a plastic sparkly princess shoe on 83 different dolls and stuffed animals - then repeat with the other child. It's exhausting.

No, I'll take Prince Eric any day. Sit on my boat (the bed), fall into the ocean (a pile of blue blankets), lay on the beach (the playroom floor - hey, the carpet's beige, and there IS a lot of sand/glitter/unidentifiable "rocks"). It's perfect. The girls do all the work, and I get to close my eyes for a few precious moments.

Don't get me wrong. I love playing with my kids. I'll get out the play-doh, paint, and glitter, and not worry about the mess (and that's why the playroom floor makes a great beach, after all). I'll play house, restaurant, soccer, and Legos. I'll even teach them how to hula hoop, much to the amusement of the neighbors. Just don't ask me to play Barbies. I'm so sick of Barbie. (Maybe because I played with her until I was like 13? Who knows.) She has too many costume changes, too many friends to keep track of (Skipper? PJ? Teresa? Ken? Kelly? Prince Aidan? Elina?) and I can't remember who is who and how they're all related. Add in the Hannah Montana and High School Musical dolls and the Disney princess Barbies, and suddenly Oliver and Lilly are having pizza with Belle and Jasmine while Troy and Gabriella take Mulan and Ken for a ride in the beach cruiser...and I'm lecturing the girls on keeping everyone's original costumes in place so we don't lose anything and explaining that, to be historically accurate, Mulan lived before cars were invented - even though we just saw her on a mechanized float at Disneyland last week and we're talking about a fictionalized character here, anyway! Oops. So, yeah, I pretty much try to avoid Barbie. Better clothes, fewer chores - that girl just annoys me. (Although, come to think of it, she kind of reminds me of me in my pre-kid San Diego days. Skinny blonde, hangs out at the beach, drives a convertible. Hmmm. Maybe I'm just jealous.)

So when the kids demand, "MOMMY! Play with me!" is there anything wrong with just saying no? I don't think so. I think it's perfectly fine to limit the amount of time I spend being involved in the girls' play. I think it's OK to step away, let kids learn how to fill their own free time, to be unstructured, unrestrained by the boundaries of a parent's mind. I'm likely to have Barbie and her gang head out to the pool, but my girls may turn them into space explorers, cavemen, or mad scientists ala Doofenschmirtz Evil Incorporated. (Try saying it without singing it. Go ahead, just try it.) Without me around to direct the play, their little imaginations run wild.

Slacker Mom Says...playing with kids isn't always fun and games. Sometimes we need to say, "Time's up! Mommy's done. Play by yourselves." When parents join the play, we change it. We unwittingly bring our authority to the imaginary world of our children, and that doesn't leave them in control. When kids engage in creative play, they control the outcomes - something that rarely happens in their lives. So make a cup of tea, pick up a (non-parenting) magazine, turn on something other than Phineas and Ferb, and opt out of the kids' playtime. It's actually good for them.

Stuff Happens; Acknowledge and Move On

2010-01-14T13:06:00.004-05:00

My Kindergartner has strep throat, and it's wreaking havoc with my third-grader's social life. She was supposed to have a playdate yesterday and her very first sleepover tonight, but everything had to be postponed because we are once again the House of Infectious Disease. No mom in her right mind would allow her child to come over and breathe the air here. I was fully prepared with a firm lecture entitled "Just Get Over Yourself; The World is Not Going to End Because Your Plans Changed!" But alas, my preparation was all for nothing. When I told her that we'd have to put the sleepover off a few days or maybe a week, she said, "Well, I hope we can do it soon!"

Now, I tell this little story not to brag (well, maybe a little bit, because she was so sweet and agreeable that it MUST somehow reflect just a little on my parenting skills, right?) but more to illustrate that this is a kid who has been trained in the little-used and often-overlooked parenting philosophy of "Get Over It". I'm pretty sure that our grandmothers and mothers used this one, even if they called it something else. I don't remember being allowed to whine about anything (although that could be because my mom had 4 kids very close in age and probably ignored most of what we said.) In second grade, when it rained on my best friend's birthday and the Disneyland trip was re-routed to the skating rink, no one cried. We just skated. Nicola's mom told us, "Hey, we can have THIS party or NO party!" so we all got onboard pretty fast. When we left the cake out and the dog ate part of it, her mom cut off the gross part, served from the kitchen, and no one cried. We just ate cake. "You can eat the cake or you can cry about it, but you can't do both," she said, and let's face it - we wanted cake.

My younger daughter has food allergies, so if a classmate brings cupcakes to school, she can't have one. Well-meaning (but clueless) people say, "But I feel so BAD for her!" To which I answer, "Why? So she can't eat a cupcake. Big deal." She doesn't get upset when other kids eat things she can't. It's a cupcake, people. She'll be fine. She's over it. She's has these allergies her whole little life. Slacker Mom here doesn't even send "alternate" snacks to school for her on the off chance that another student brings a birthday treat on that particular day. Her world will not end because she didn't eat a little sugar with the other five-year-olds.

Resilience, my dad would call it, the ability to just get on with life and recognize that disappointments and setbacks are minor and temporary and not that big a deal. But I see so many kids who can't handle disappointment that I've got to wonder: Do parents teach resilience? I think too many parents allow their kids to behave as if every little thing that doesn't go their way is a tragedy. Dropped your popsicle because you were running around like a spaz, smacking other kids with it? It's OK, I'll buy you another one! Didn't get the teacher you want? THE HORROR! Didn't get invited to a neighbor's party? OH NO! Let's call and berate them! Or better yet, have an even BETTER party! With ponies! And ice sculptures! And let's NOT invite them!

When one of my kids faces a disappointment, my husband tells them, "Pick yourself up, shake yourself off, put it behind you, you'll get 'em next time!" And it works. From skinned knees to basketball losses to getting "only" a supporting role in the school play, they've faced their little setbacks. But it's not a tragedy. Not to minimize their feelings, but at some point, they've got to get over it. My college roommate (whose leg was nearly severed by a boat propellor when we were 19, so if anyone deserved to wallow in self-pity, she did) used to say, "Acknowledge and move on." Meaning, yes, things happen, it sucks, so deal with it and then get on with your life. Stuff happens, but life goes on. You can go along, too, or you can sit and cry in your soup. Pick one.

Try as we might, we can't protect our kids from every little slight and snub. Nor should we! Kids need to cope with loss, disappointment, heartache, and emotional pain. If we let them go their entire childhoods without experiencing these things, what happens once we aren't around to make every little thing better? I'm all for holding their hands and drying their tears and acknowledging that yes, it was painful, yes, it was awful, and yes, it will take some time to feel better. And, most importantly, Mom will always be here to talk about it and help you through it. But you WILL get over it, you WILL feel better, and you WILL move forward.

Right now, their disappointments are more of the "my sister got a bigger piece of cake than I did" or "if SHE gets new shoes I want some too" variety. But some day, some boy is going to break my daughter's heart. Some day, she's going to get a truly awful teacher who just doesn't care that she had a hard time with the assignment. Some day, a friend will hurt her feelings, her dog will die, she'll not get invited to a dance. But she'll know that even if IT's not OK, SHE'LL be OK. She's resilient.

Slacker Mom Says...life is full of disappointments. When we shield our kids from that fact, we don't teach resilience. There's nothing wrong with a well-placed "get over it" from time to time. It's not that we don't care; it's that we DO care, enough to teach them that LIFE WILL NOT END if you don't get to do what you want to do every second of every day. Stuff happens. The dog will steal your ice cream cone. Someone will fail to invite you to a party. You may even get the smaller piece. Of your favorite cake. On your own birthday. Jeez. Get over it.

A Spoonful of Sugar Makes My Life a Little Easier

2010-01-14T10:11:00.008-05:00

When I was in high school, my friends and I worked at a summer day camp. It was basically glorified babysitting, but it was the perfect job: We got to swim, play soccer, hang out with our friends, go to the beach, AND we got paid for it. (Although now that I'm a mom, I wonder - what the HELL were these parents thinking, letting a bunch of teenagers take their kids to the freakin' beach? The only "adults" in the group were like 21. And they bought us wine coolers on the weekends. Yes, wine coolers. Shut up. It was the 80s. Bartles and James were huge then.) One of the running jokes among the so-called "counselors" was that the kids would do anything for a handful of jelly beans. Clean up the playground? Throw away all the trash after lunch? Gather 2,394 sequins off the floor after craft time? Pick up toilet paper left on the bathroom floor? Give 'em a little candy, and they were all over it. We were amazed, but we totally sugared those kids into submission.

Later, about six years into my teaching career, I did a two-year stint in middle school. Faced with 32 sixth graders in an after-lunch slump, I did what any self-respecting science teacher would: I broke out the Jolly Ranchers and started asking comprehension questions. You'd be amazed how a little bit of watermelon-flavored sugar motivates a room full of slackers, even if they are only 11.

Now that I'm a mom, I abhore the thought of using food as a reward. I don't want my daughters to grow up with eating disorders. I don't want them to use Twinkies to drown their sorrows (at least wine is more socially acceptable, right?), and I don't want them thinking there are "good" and "bad" foods. I want my girls to enjoy a piece of cake at a birthday party without feeling guilty, to eat a wide variety of foods in moderation, to enjoy meals with family and friends without any weird hang-ups.

But I also understand the power of a single piece of candy. Mary Poppins was on to something: One Skittle makes that nasty amoxicillin go down easier, after all. Everyone had a good report card? Let's get ice cream! And why not celebrate learning to poop on the potty with a big ol' lollipop?

Slacker Mom Says...what's wrong with a little celebratory sugar now and then? I'm not advocating bribing kids to get them to do their chores, much as my kids might like it, just offering a little incentive now and then to make an unpleasant task a little more palatable. No one likes cleaning the playroom, but if I say, "Cookies and milk when we're done!" suddenly everyone's tripping over themselves to help. Think about it - doesn't a catered lunch make a boring meeting a little more tolerable? Even the PTA provides donuts and juice at our annual Volunteer Orientation, where the principal basically reads us a handbook written on a fifth-grade reading level. Could've read it myself at home, but hey, free Krispy Kremes! I'm in.

If You Don't Have Anything Interesting to Post, Don't Post Anything At All

2010-01-08T08:31:00.005-05:00

I love Facebook as much as the next person. I check it several times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes even every day, depending on how busy I am. I love reading about new babies, new jobs, new homes. I set my email notifications to let me know when someone sends me a message or writes on my wall. Let's be honest, it's an easy and convenient way to keep in touch with people. I've "reconnected" (to use a cheesy, soap opera word) with elementary school and high school friends who I haven't talked to since the 80s. I keep up with college friends, friends overseas, local moms. I LIKE Facebook. I USE Facebook. I may even be slightly addicted to Facebook. (I don't know because I've never tried to quit. I don't think they have a detox plan in place yet.)

But if I have to read one more status update that says something like, "I'm off to Wal Mart!" or "Feeding the dog now!" or even "Sitting at the gynecologist's office waiting to have my pelvic exam!" I'm going to scream. Really? I need to know that you're having your pap smear? Why does anyone feel the need to share this stuff?

Yes, I'm talking about Chronic Status Updaters. We all know them. We all hate them. Most of us block them. I'm talking about the people who update their status 12 times a day, and not with witty, funny stories, or links to relevant stories, or even updates from pages we've signed up for as fans. (Because we all know I can't live without my Twilight Saga updates. Go Team Edward!) I'm talking about people, usually stay-at-home moms, who tell their Facebook friends every time they leave the house to do anything. I mean, does anyone REALLY care that you are about to start eating your cheeseburger at McDonald's? I know I don't. (And let's be clear: I'm sure that men do it, too, and that working moms do it too, but in my Facebook world, it's only the stay-at-home moms who update 93 times a day. Most men don't share that easily.)

One of my Facebook "friends" recently had a day that looked a little like this:

I'm at the bus stop!
The kids are on the bus!
I'm off to Target!
I'm done at Target and now I'm going to get groceries!
Back in the car after saving $19.34 with coupons!
I'm putting away my groceries!
Time to pick up the kids!
Doing homework with the kids!
Time to make dinner!
Family time!
Yay! Time for bed! What a long day!

OH MY GOD. Shut up already! You took up my entire freakin' screen and now I have to "hide" you, so I'll never know if you actually do anything interesting with your life!

Now, I'm sure that I've been guilty of posting things that aren't always that exciting or witty or clever. I'm only human - I think MY life is endlessly fascinating, no matter how many times my husband nods off in the middle of one of my famously long-winded stories. (True. He does. And I am long- winded.) And I'm sure there are people out there who'd say that I share too much, like, this week, how we all posted our bra colors to remind ourselves and our friends to do monthly self exams. But no one out there could accuse me of being a Chronic Status Updater. (You could, however, call me a Chronic Facebook Commenter, but that's another story. And I just can't help myself.)

Remember when we were kids and our moms used to say, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all"? Well, I think we need a Facebook button that says, "If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all!"

So I started thinking: What's behind this? Is it just that people have nothing better to do than to update their status all day long? I mean, we're busy moms, we have things to do, places to go, people to drive to soccer practice, and laundry to fold. So what's behind this annoying trend?

My theory is that it's often a symptom of being bored and lonely. Not that we don't have enough to do, just that what we have to do isn't all that exciting, really. And maybe there's an element of not feeling heard, listened to, in our lives. No one listens, so we send our thoughts into cyberspace. If we felt attended to, listened to, heard, at home, would so many of us feel the need to share the minutiae of our lives with our Facebook friends? Would we need to connect in this way? Or maybe, because our lives are consumed by the minutiae of motherhood - the errands, cleaning, cooking, driving, attending to everyone else's needs every minute of the day - we need to vent, share with people who understand what our lives are like. Depending on how old our kids are, we can easily become isolated at home. Connecting with others, even via the internet, may be one way to keep from going crazy with the demands we put on ourselves. Connecting with others is a basic human need.

A mom I know recently posted, "If people spent as much time on their marriages as they do on Facebook, there'd be fewer problems." I understand what she meant. Never mind that she's a total CSU and I could tell you where she ate lunch every single day for the last month and a half - she has a point. I'd add that maybe people need to focus some of that energy on making REAL WORLD connections, on improving our real world relationships.

Slacker Mom Says...technology should make our lives easier, not replace human interaction. Get off the computer (or smart phone, or whatever) and go to lunch with the girls, grab coffee with your husband before he leaves for work, meet your neighbor for a drink after the daddies are home for the night (or, heck, while the kids play in the backyard. No one's driving, for Pete's sake). Social networking sites are great, and they have their uses, but hanging out at the local cafe with my friends is a lot more fun. I may be old-fashioned, but I'd rather have face time than Facebook time.

Like the Song Says, I Will Survive

2009-12-29T08:37:00.004-05:00

So Christmas is over and my mother-in-law has gone home. I've put all the empty bottles in the recycling bin, and we're digging out from under a mountain of presents. The kids have new toys and books to entertain themselves with, the grown ups have lots of bills to pay, and my house is, once again, my own.

I survived. And I even got a little insight out of it all.

On the plus side, my mother-in-law gave my kids her undivided attention and adoration for hours on end, taught my oldest how to do crossword puzzles, brought the kids two elusive and much-desired Zhu Zhu pets, took us out to eat twice, and listened to endless stories about things she has zero interest in (i.e., their friends, their classrooms, their dance teachers, their pet frogs, their toys, their theories on fashion and popularity). AND, after 11 years of marriage, I finally see where my husband gets his propensity for sighing and eye-rolling when he doesn't like the topic of conversation! So I've got that going for me.

On the negative side, I had to listen to her wax poetic about her son (yeah, I get it, he's Mr. Wonderful. I married him, remember, so I must think he's great, too. But YOU aren't picking up his stinky socks and dirty underwear off the bathroom floor anymore, lady. And if you'd taught him how to do it himself, maybe I wouldn't have to!) and use that annoyingly exaggerated tone of voice usually reserved for newborn babies or really, really stupid sales clerks when speaking to my (highly gifted) 5- and 7-year old. I had to endure comments like, "There are so many toys all over the floor that I'll have to take a circuitous route to the other side of the room. Do you know what a circuitous route is?" To which my Kindergartner replied, "Uh, yeah, I gotta go to the bathroom now," and bailed - throwing her older, more patient sister (who actually cares for social conventions and doesn't want to hurt her gramma's feelings by being rude) under the bus, and culminating in a seven-minute lecture on the origin and meaning of the word "circuitous". (See? "Culminating"? That's the way we talk around here. So I'm pretty sure they already know the meaning of just about any word you throw at them! And even if they didn't, they are FIVE and SEVEN! They don't need a lecture on word origins!) Add to that the near-constant hovering and the endless "Well, when MY kids were young..." - never mind that maybe the fields of medicine and education have undergone some advances in the, oh, I don't know, FORTY years since she gave birth. It's a wonder I didn't spend the entire week drunk off my ass.

So I started wondering if perhaps it's just because my MIL isn't local and has to sleep here (for days and days and days without leaving ever even once) when she visits. Would smaller, more frequent doses (without the 24-hour commentary on how I run my household???) be easier to take? Not according to my friend Michelle. She has a local MIL who is constantly underfoot, undermining her authority, undoing her best parenting. When I told her that I'd have to start faking sick pretty soon, since I couldn't be drunk 24/7 while my MIL visited, she said, "Why not? I've pretty much been drunk since 2002!"

(Before the AA people or Social Services get their tighty-whiteys in a bunch, I am NOT advocating that mommies drink to deal with their problems, their in-laws, or their kids. It's a joke, people. It may have a grain of truth in it; it IS much easier to take my MIL's thinly-veiled criticisms and creepy adoration of her son if I've had a glass of wine or two, but I am in no way advocating alcoholism as a panacea for the ills of extended family. Jeez. Relax.)

It's easy to say that any time you have visitors, it's stressful. But that's not necessarily true. My husband is the first one to admit that having my brothers, my sister's family, or my girlfriends and their kids is much easier and pretty much no-stress. Just a good time, even with 3 or 4 extra people under foot. Even having my own parents around is easier. For one, they stay in a hotel and just sort of come around for meals and occasions, so everyone has a little "time off". (And besides, my parents may be certifiably insane, but it's a familiar brand of crazy. I grew up with it, I understand it, I'm used to it. They may talk about their church and their health all the time, but these stories are actually new to me. They don't follow me around telling me the same stories over and over and over.) And having his mom here drives my husband up the wall, too. He's constantly on edge, irritated, irritable, looking for ways to escape for a few minutes. I've had to institute a few rules for when she visits:

1. You may not work late. For any reason. In fact, take those days off.
2. If you leave the house, take her with you.
3. You may not go to bed early and leave me alone with her.
4. If you break any rules, no sex for the duration of the visit. No exceptions.

Of course, even though she bugs him, too, my husband gets a little defensive when I rant and rave behind closed doors. I need to vent in order to make light of the situation and be able to calmly deal with his mother, and he's the one who's going to have to hear it. She bugs the crap out of him, too, but then he feels guilty about it. Which led to my latest revelation: You know how our moms can make us feel guilty REALLY, REALLY easily? Like, they can just raise an eyebrow and we are suddenly ten years old and KNOW we're in trouble? Well, the interesting thing about the mother-in-law scenario is this: There is no guilt. None. Nada. Zilch, zip, zero. No matter what she does to show or voice her disapproval, I just don't feel it. Our own parents can push the guilt buttons from across the room. Heck, they installed them; they know how to find them. But in-laws? It's like they don't even know the guilt button exists. Mother-in-law deflectors, activated!

Slacker Mom Says...whew! It's over and I survived another visit. Yes, it was only 6 days and yes, it was the right thing to do. But it was still hard. It still sucked to have to share my kids during an entire week of vacation, to have to smile and nod and listen to her unbridled, and frankly, a little too Oedipal, adoration of my husband. But my kids don't have local relatives, and it's good for them to see their grandmother. It's good for them to see us all together as a family. I can take just about anything for a week; this, too, shall pass.

It's Always Happy Hour SOMEWHERE in the World...

2009-12-23T09:29:00.002-05:00

My mother-in-law arrives in a few hours for her annual Christmas visit. I'm pretty much all set: The guest room is clean, the bathrooms are immaculate, the floors have been washed, her gifts are wrapped and under the tree...and I'll fire up the blender approximately 30 minutes after she arrives. I mean, come on, 2:00 isn't too early to start drinking, right? As my friend Jeanne says, it's already happy hour somewhere!

In the immortal words of Grace Adler, "Mother deflectors, activated!"

Don't get me wrong. She's a lovely woman, she means well, and she spoils us rotten. For Christmas, she bought me the coffee table I've coveted for months. She brings the kids more than Santa does, and she worships the ground my husband walks on (which is really the crux of the issue, but we'll get to that later). She offers to babysit, do dishes, and take us out to dinner. So what, you ask, is my problem? Why the "ungrateful, bitchy daughter-in-law" attitude?

I think it has to do with the hovering. (I mean, really, do you NEED to follow me into the bathroom? I get enough of that from my kids!) Or maybe the criticisms disguised as comments and questions. ("Is that the way YOU do it, dear? Oh, how... interesting.") Or perhaps it's the endless stories of how perfect her son is and what a treasure to the world he is. Or it could be the comments like, "You expect him to do dishes? He's the King of his Castle! He worked hard all day! He shouldn't be doing dishes; here, let me!" Because we all know that I just sat around on my butt all day, eating bon bons and watching bad daytime television.

When I was first married, and I worked at least as many hours as he did (and left for work before he was even awake, by the way), those kind of comments really pissed me off. It was OK for ME to work a 10-hour day and come home to cook and clean, but Mr. Wonderful? Not on your life! During one of her visits, while I was 8 months pregnant with my first child, I (gasp!) asked my husband to get me a glass of juice. She (and I am not exaggerating here) leaped off the couch, ran into the kitchen, and said, "He's worked all day and is TIRED! HE shouldn't have to get up!" At which point I elbowed my husband in the ribs so hard that you'd have thought I was back in my glory days, throwing elbows at LA dance clubs in order to be front and center on the floating stage. Tired, my ass. You try carrying around a 10-lb baby in YOUR uterus all day and then talk to me about tired. If I can deal with being kicked in the bladder all day and night, puking for 4 hours straight, and lugging around a belly so large that strangers regularly ask me if I was having "my triplets" anytime soon, then he can get off his butt and get me a freakin' glass of orange juice! OH. MY. GOD!

Other memorable mother-in-law moments, in no particular order:

1. The time I asked her if she'd like a fresh towel 3 days into her stay, and she said, "Don't you give my son a fresh towel every day? At HOME, I give him a fresh towel each morning!" Now, I don't think my husband has ever changed the towels. Unless the towel got up and put itself in the hamper, I don't think it would occur to him to get a new one. He's pushing middle age, lady, I think he knows where the towels are.

2. The time she insisted on going to the grocery store with me so "I can pick up his favorite foods for him." Apparently, 3 years of dating and 2 years of marriage hadn't properly prepared me to stock his favorites. Sure, Mom, you go ahead and buy our groceries for us. More beer money for later.

3. Telling me for the 319th time about what a "considerate" baby he was for not causing any morning sickness after I'd just spent the better part of an hour throwing up non-stop - while she watched. Like the baby has any control over it. I wanted to say, "Well, that may be, but his devil spawn is making me puke 24/7 and I've lost 16 lbs this trimester, so what do you say to that?" but I was too weak from the afore-mentioned vomit fest.

4. Getting off the plane for her first visit since the wedding and commenting, "Oh, dear, you've put on a few pounds, haven't you?" Yes, actually, I gained a whopping 5 lbs in the 6 months since I was too busy planning a wedding to remember to eat. And thank you for noticing AND commenting. Because that's what every new bride wants to hear. (And may I add, at 5'7" I wore a size 6. What a cow.)

5. Commenting to me (in front of my sister and best friend, so I have witnesses) what a "great physique" her son has. In my sister's words: EWWWW EWWWW EWWWW!

Now, I'm not a drinker by any definition of the word. I have the occasional glass of wine, a beer with Mexican food. Now and then I'll do a few tequila shots with my friend Isela, but she's from Mexico so that doesn't really count. I've pretty much left my drinking days behind since having kids. I mean, just my luck, the night I tie on one and get totally ripped would be the night one of my kids has a burst appendix and we all end up statistics with Social Services.

But in order to keep the peace and bite my tongue as my MIL tells me how perfect and wonderful a child her son was, I definitely need to self-medicate just a bit. A glass of wine with dinner leaves me just warm and fuzzy enough to smile and nod when she starts telling me for the 813th time what an easy child he was, or says, "You have him well-trained!" when he pushes in his own chair or offers to put the kids (HIS KIDS!) to bed to give me a break. When I was a younger, less experienced wife, I'd get all bent out of shape at her comments - which she never seemed to make in front of my husband, oddly enough. I'd go hide in my bathroom, run the bath water loudly to mask my tears, and call Nina to complain about her latest barbs. She made me crazy; I had to work hard to be polite and deflect with grace. But as I've been married longer, had my kids, grown up a bit, I've realized something.

It just doesn't matter.

Here's this woman, who gave birth to the man I love, a man who then left her and moved on with his life. She's nearly 80 and all alone; we have each other. She needs to feel part of our family, part of his life, like she still holds a piece of him that I don't. She had him for 28 years before he was mine; she's just staking her claim. For a week or two each year, I can give her that. It may take a pitcher of mojitos and the occasional gin and tonic, but I can give her that.

Slacker Mom Says...cut the MIL a little slack. For her, I will always be "the other woman." We both love the same man, and I get him all year long (for better or for worse). She only gets him for a few days each Christmas and Easter. I hold on to the fact that she created the person I love, shaped him into the man he is today. After all, she gave me the man of my dreams, the father of my children. For that alone, she deserves my gratitude.

This Much I Know

2009-12-19T15:29:00.002-05:00

Writing teachers and critics always say, "Write what you know." It makes sense, if you think about it. After all, I'm not going to write a dissertation on the history of bowling in the United States. Bowling doesn't even seem like a sport to me. I mean, you put on funny shoes. You roll a ball. You drink a beer. You sit down. Lather, rinse, repeat. That pretty much sums it up.

So here's what I do know:

Motherhood is hard. It's lonely, isolating, demeaning, and often mindless. (Get baby up. Change baby's diaper. Feed baby. Burp baby. Clean up baby's spit up. Repeat 12 times a day.) It's exhausting, inconvenient, messy, and smelly. It sucks to be elbow-deep in poop while wearing your last clean tee shirt, knowing that you won't be able to do laundry for at least an hour because someone will need something at this exact moment in time that only Mommy can provide. It sucks to realize that you have spit up in your already-greasy hair a half-hour before you're supposed to meet a friend for coffee for the first time in nearly a year. It sucks to watch your daughter cry because a mean girl called her stupid and ugly, and to know that no matter how many times you tell her she's beautiful and smart, you can't erase the pain of that one casually cruel remark.

Motherhood robs you of your sanity, your fashion sense, your personal space, and your dignity. It's hard to be dignified when 3,492 medical professionals have had their hands up your hoo-ha to determine if you're ready to push or not, or to have 12 different lactation consultants grab your boob and show you how to nurse. And if you've been able to pee alone since giving birth, let me know your secret. I lock the door, but they keep coming to it and banging on it. Even the pets want in on the action. It sucks to go from intelligent, well-spoken, well-dressed career woman to babbling moron in baggy maternity clothes (3 months postpartem) debating the merits of various types of pacifiers and diaper disposal systems and which stain removers get out that lovely yellow newborn poop.

Motherhood means the end of your life as you know it, the end of your marriage as you know it, and the end of your freedom as you know it. Motherhood means putting someone else's needs ahead of your own for years and years without being resentful. And it's hard to just pick up and go when you have to remember the diaper bag, car seat, pack and play, stroller, and oh, yeah, the baby. Hard to have sex whenever and wherever you like, because let's face it, we can't just shut off the mommy thing at a moment's notice.

And you know what? I wouldn't trade one single second of it. Because along with the wiping, dripping, babbling, drooling, and puking comes that indescribable feeling of holding your child in your arms for the first time. The bliss that comes from knowing that, for better or for worse, this baby is yours forever and ever and ever! That life-altering moment when you realize that THIS is what it's all about, that you would do, literally, absolutely anything to protect this little person in your arms. I know, with absolute certainty, that if something threatened my children, I'd be able to defend them to the death. My death, that is, because I would rather die than let anything happen to them. And motherhood leads to some of the best friendships of our lives, because motherhood, with its trials and tribulations, is about the universal, collective experiences of women from all walks of life. My best friends share my mommy experiences in a way that my husband cannot.

Motherhood is a journey that will take us outside of ourselves. It's hard, yes, the hardest thing I've ever done. But it's also the best thing I've ever done. I had no idea how much I could love someone until I met my children. Sure, I love my husband, but I'm almost certain there are things he could do that would change that love for him. But my kids? Never. There is nothing that could change the depth of my love for them. It grows stronger and deeper every day I know them.

And that is motherhood. Messy, inconvenient, exhausting, wonderful, rewarding, amazing, and never dull. We're making little people here. We're responsible for the future. We are mothers.

Slacker Mom Says...this is what I know: I plan to enjoy every minute with my children. Every year passes more and more quickly. I swear, I was JUST changing diapers, and now they're asking for privacy in the bathroom and their own email accounts. My friend Katie says that when her son is 15 and towers over her, she's going to remind him that his hand was once smaller than her pinky finger. It goes fast, so take lots of pictures and remind yourself what you already know: this is the best gig we'll ever get.

Medalling in Motherhood

2009-12-19T12:08:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago, at the pediatrician's office (for the third time that week, but that's another story), I overheard the following exchange between three moms who clearly knew each other - probably from some really exclusive playgroup that I'd never be invited to join because I don't have a $300 diaper bag identical to the one they all carried:

Mother A, gushing: How nice to see you! (OK, me here. Really? "Nice to see you" at the doctor's office? I wouldn't say that to my worst enemy. Who wishes a sick kid on anyone?) What are YOU in for?

Mother B, sighing: Little Greer has an ear infection. We were up ALL night!

Mother A: Poor thing. My Jackson has a DOUBLE ear infection. I haven't slept in DAYS!

Mother C, cooing: Oh, that's too bad. My Sadie has a double ear infection AND strep throat!

I really, REALLY wanted to jump up and yell, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a winner! It's Mother C by a landslide!" But since my kids were with me, I didn't. (I just wrote down everything they'd said instead, and saved it for future use. Hey, Slacker Mom's material comes from many sources. No one is safe.) It was weird, like these moms were COMPETING to see who had the sickest kid. And who, exactly, wins at that one?

As a teacher, I wrestled with the issue of competition and kids for years. In education, there are endless debates about competition vs. cooperation. Does competition encourage kids to work harder? Or does it damage their self-esteem instead of helping them do their best? Shouldn't we only compete with ourselves? Is cooperative learning a better way to teach skills? After all, we're more likely to work on a project WITH our co-workers than against them, right?

But after 8 years of being a mom, it occured to me that perhaps I've been thinking about the competition issue from the wrong angle. Perhaps the most damaging type of competition isn't so much child against child. It's mother against mother. And if you think for one second no one considers motherhood a competitive sport, think again.

Think about it, ladies. It starts early, during pregnancy and labor. Too many mothers try to "one-up" each other. We all know a mom who corners us with her pregnancy symptoms and her birth story (bloody, gory, TMI!) - and NOT in a "sisterhood of women" kind of way, but in a "Oh, you were in labor for 15 hours? And had an epidural? I was in labor for 27 hours! AND he was breech! AND I had an all-natural birth!" kind of way. (And by the way, just so you know, calling your drug-free birthing experience "natural" implies that there's something "unnatural" about using meds to limit pain. If you opt out of the epidural, that's fine, but I signed up for the drugs the second the stick turned blue. So bite me.)

It only gets worse as our kids get older. Milestones like teething, sleeping through the night, crawling, walking, and language development bring out the competition in even the most rational mothers. Then our kids start school, and it really takes off. The mom who has to sign up to bring one more item for the class party than any other mom. The one who says, "Your son got straight A's? Mine had 100% in every subject!" The hyper-competitive neighbor who rushes over on the day gifted program acceptance letters came home: "Did your daughter get in? What was her score?" And why does ANYONE'S tricked-out, $60,000 Sequoia have more kid-related magnets and bumper stickers than she has kids? Really? Four kids and 12 stickers? You're doing too much, lady. Yeah, we know, you're busy and your kids are superstars. Give it a rest.

Where does it end? Are we defining ourselves as mothers through the accomplishments of our children? And is it worse for stay-at-home moms, like we're saying, well, we don't work and see the fruits of our labor, a finished product, so our children become our "work product", something to show for all our efforts each day? It's as if we must be better at this motherhood thing than anyone else ever was, and the only way to keep score is by listing our kids' achievements. I mean, really, are you a better mother than I am because your child is on the travel team and mine likes to pick flowers in the outfield? Really? And isn't that a lot of pressure to put on our kids, for them to "make" us proud - and whole - through their accomplishments?

Slacker Mom Says...why not let our kids take credit for their own achievements? Let's be proud of them regardless of their IQs, points per game, medals won, scholarships bestowed. Every child has something unique and fabulous to give. My daughter is brilliant, truly gifted - but what she DOES with that is all hers, not mine. I can encourage and support her, but ultimately her successes and her failures belong to her and her alone. I am not a better mother for having a smart, or athletic, or talented, child. Motherhood shouldn't be about competing for first place; it should be about supporting each other as mothers, as women, and helping each other be the best moms we can be. That's the best way to be sure our children succeed, whatever path they choose. If I can raise a happy, productive human being who contributes something positive to society, isn't that what it's all about?

As Howard Jones Says, Things Can Only Get Better

2009-12-19T11:39:00.002-05:00

For the past few weeks, Slacker Mom has been on illness-induced hiatus. From everything. Since Thanksgiving, we've struggled through sinus infections, seasonal flu,unspecified viral illness (doctor code for, "Sorry, Ma'am, we really don't have a clue what's wrong with your kids, so keep bringing them back every 2 days until we figure it out. And thanks for the $20 co-pay each time!"), and a bout of pneumonia that landed my youngest in the hospital in the middle of the night (and prompted the ER pediatrician to try to talk me into going to medical school when I am, and I quote, "done raising your kids." Really? When I'm done raising my kids, I'm taking a nice, long vacation to Fiji and not leaving a forwarding address.) I've spent an inordinate amount of time trying to disinfect the House of Germs; trying to do my Christmas shopping with two sick kids under feet (note to online manufacturers: do NOT put your company name on the outside of the box!); rescheduling everything other than kids' doctor's appointments; taking the "perfect" Christmas card photo despite illness, a reluctance to wear Christmas jammies ("Too babyish! Duh, Mom!") and a complete refusal to put on a fancy dress (with a bow! Oh, the horror!); and baking dozens of cookies without letting Germ Girl or her sister, Infection Incubator, anywhere near the bowl of dough. I'm beat, and I haven't even wrapped a single gift. And my mother-in-law is due in two days. I'm just thankful my husband hasn't caught anything. We all know how much fun THAT is.

I'm even rethinking my intimate relationship with Purell. It's just not working for me. I'm nearly ready to embrace my mom's philosophy on germs. You know, the credo of mothers who raised their kids in the 1970s and can't believe all this "nonsense" about cleanliness, car seats, and lead paint. She loves to remind me that there was no Purell, no antibiotic hand soap, no drug-resistant bacteria, and heck, we hardly ever remembered to wash our hands. She firmly embraced the five-second rule. When someone got the chicken pox, every mom in the neighborhood sent her kids over to play and just catch it already and be done with it. We came home from the hospital in her arms, not an armor-plated infant protection system with side air bags and memory foam. We ate lunch (without ice packs and mini bottles of hand sanitizer)out of Spider Man and Wonder Woman (her boobs flying everywhere)lunch boxes coated in lead paint. And we used plastic bags to hold our Cheetos, Oreos, and peanut butter sandwiches, not BPA-free re-usable containers - and no one was overweight, allergic to peanuts, or diagnosed with ADD/ADHD. But I digress.

So here I've been, stuck at home. I haven't left my house in two weeks, except to go to the hospital, the pediatrician's office, or the pharmacy. I've watched every Christmas special on my DVR, and I can recite all the words to every single Phineas and Ferb episode on any of the 3 Disney Channels that DirecTV so thoughtfully provides. I've memorized dosages for Tylenol and Motrin by age and weight, speak medical-ese with confidence and authority (thus the "just chuck it all and go to medical school" comment), and the receptionists at the pediatrician's office know my voice and recognize my number on their caller ID. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks, and my poor husband is getting pretty sick himself - of sharing our bed with a feverish child night after night after night.

But here's what I got out of it: It could have been worse. And things can only get better.

While I'm sitting up nights watching my sick daughter simply breath, I've been thinking about parents with truly sick, terminally-ill children, the ones who won't be home for Christmas - parents who are watching their kids die and can't do anything about it. I've been thinking about mothers who don't know how they'll pay for their kids' medical bills or find time to shop for their other children in time for Christmas. I've been thinking about mothers with kids at war, who don't know when - or even if - they'll see their children again.

And I feel pretty damn lucky. I got off easy. A few trips to the ER, a couple hundred dollars in co-pays, but my kids will recover fully from these fairly minor scrapes, and I'll get back to "normal" soon enough.

Slacker Mom Says...it's so easy to get bogged down in the "my life is so hard" rut. We've all been there. And it IS hard, this parenting thing. It's dirty and messy and inconvenient and heart-breaking and exhausting, and sometimes it's downright scary. But it could ALWAYS be worse. No matter what I'm going through, I have reasons to be thankful. No matter how bad things get, I still have my babies to hug and kiss and annoy me with their middle-of-the-night appearances. And for that, I'm grateful. So I'll take my mom's (unsolicited) advice with a grain of salt (and maybe a very large margarita) and keep doing what we moms do: take care of our kids the best we can, and be grateful for each and every day with them. Living the dream, ladies, we're living the dream.

I'd Like to Say Yes, But It's Not Really Up to Me

2009-12-16T21:43:00.000-05:00

As Santa is making his list and checking it twice, I'm not sure which list I'm going to be on. I mean, I try to lead a good life. I'm a nice person, I let old people cut in front of me in the grocery store, I obey traffic laws and never flip off even the most obnoxious drivers (and I'm from LA, home of the freeway shootings of the mid-80s). But this morning, I told a lie, I committed forgery, and I may, quite possibly, be guilty of identity theft.

Let me start with this: I am a first-time offender. I don't usually make stuff up and I've never forged anything before (except once, in 1986, on Senior Ditch Day). OK, yes, I may have told the girls that if they didn't stop fighting THIS INSTANT that I'd email Santa and they'd end up with a lump of coal instead of new Barbies. And I've been known to eat a few cookies on Christmas Eve and say that Santa did it. But I'm not afraid to say, "No chips!" instead of lying and saying, "Chips? Nope, all out!" I've never unplugged the TV and told the kids it wasn't working. I have no problem telling my girls that no, I won't drive 2 hours to see the Jonas Brothers in concert - unlike my neighbor, who told HER kids that the Jo Bros had swine flu and cancelled all their concerts, world-wide. (Can you call the Jo Bros "world-wide"? Are French girls lining the streets of Paris shouting, "NEEEK! NEEEK! Je t'aime, NEEEEK!"??)

But since it's Christmas and all, and since it was just the one time, I think I deserve clemency. I may be guilty, but a jury of my peers would never convict me.

So what was it, you ask, that led an otherwise-upstanding citizen into a downward spiral of shame? My oldest daughter, almost 8, asked Santa for an interactive doll. Now, I'm not going to take on the huge toy companies by bad-mouthing their merchandise here, but let's just say that this particular doll is a huge piece of crap. For $60, I'd expect the product to, oh, I don't know, WORK, but I can't find a single positive review. Parents are trashing this doll all over the Internet. One dad, a software engineer, reported, "I tried to install this software using each of the 6 computers in my house, and after 14 hours, I couldn't make the f-in' thing work!" So I am NOT about to spend that kind of money (or 14 hours!) on something that I already know won't work, only to have to take it back anyway ("How did you get the receipt? Santa doesn't give receipts!") and fight the post-Christmas crowds, then stand at Target for an hour while she tries to make up her mind how she'll spend all $60 RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. No way.

So for the past few weeks, I've tried everything I can to dissuade her from putting the doll on her Santa list. I showed her reviews online. I had her talk to a neighbor who returned the doll 3 times, and never got it to work. I suggested American Girl dolls, Barbie dolls, baby dolls, even an iPod, in the hope of changing her mind. My best friend, Nina, reminded her, "Sometimes Santa doesn't bring you everything on your list. Sometimes he doesn't HAVE all that stuff in his toy shop." Her response? "But I only ask for a few things, so he ALWAYS brings them! And he can get ANYTHING! He even got me the Beauty and the Beast DVD one year while it was still in the Disney VAULT! Remember?" (Oh yeah, I remember. Did he mention that he paid three times the retail price for that DVD? Stupid Santa. Stupid freakin' Disney vault.)

Finally, in desperation, I committed the crime: I faked a letter from the Big Man himself. Yep, I wrote it in red ink, signed his name, even used my North Pole postmark stamp, and snuck out the the mailbox in the pouring rain at 5 AM. "Santa" told her that even though she'd been a very good girl, he wasn't giving anyone that doll due to its flawed materials and poor workmanship, but he'd be sure to leave her something even better on Christmas morning. As she read, I watched, waiting for the tears to start. After all, she'd been talking about this doll since August.

But to my surprise, and to her credit, she just said, "Hey, Mom? Santa says that this doll doesn't work, so he'll give me something else." And then she ran off to play with her sister. No tears, no argument, not even the dreaded, "STINK!" (which is, apparently, the replacement word for my childhood "bummer, dude").

And I was left thinking, really? That's it? One letter from Santa and she's over it? What have I been doing wrong all this time? What had I been trying to tell her? Am I just some moron who doesn't know anything? Does my opinion mean nothing to her?

Well, honestly, pretty much, yeah. I'm just her mom. What the hell do I know? Santa is, after all, the ultimate toy expert. What he says, goes. Which got me thinking: If it was THAT easy, was it such a bad idea to let someone else take the fall?

Slacker Mom Says...sometimes it's OK to take the easy way out. I'm sick of always being the bad guy, of playing the heavy. I'm always the one saying, "No ice cream before dinner, you have to wear your helmet when you ride your bike (even though none of the other neighborhood kids do), and yes, you DO have to ride in a booster seat - in the BACK - until you're bigger." When it comes to health and safety, there's no negotiation. And IF they get an explanation, that's just bonus, because they aren't entitled to anything more than a "because I said so" at this point. But sometimes it's easier - for us AND for them - to let the expert deliver unwelcome news. If the dentist says I have to help with brushing until she's 9, then I'm no longer treating her like a baby; I'm just following the rules. If the teacher tells her to study her math facts every night, I'm no longer trying to ruin her life; it's just part of her homework. Kids like rules; kids adore experts. If it takes a bogus letter from Santa to ease the pain of not getting her precious doll, then I'm OK with that.

And I'm pretty sure Santa'd be OK with that, too.

Fashion, More or Less

2009-11-25T14:32:00.000-05:00

As a mother of daughters, I believe in fostering their creativity, letting them develop their own sense of fashion and design, and encouraging them to choose their own outfits. True, my youngest often heads to school in head-to-toe Gymboree, complete with matching socks and hair bows, but there are also days that I want to pin a button on her that says, "I'm FIVE and I dressed myself today!"

This morning, she came down wearing an ensemble of her own creation: an almost-too-small blue and green flowered dress, black capri leggings, pink polka-dotted Hello Kitty socks, and a brown Hannah Montana sweatshirt. She also sported a ponytail she did herself. And then she put on her pink cowgirl boots, because "these socks don't really match my dress, so I think I need my boots." Yep, pink cowgirl boots go with EVERTHING when you're five. Her much older, much wiser sister (who once went to the library in denim shorts, suede boots, and a red cape) told her, "You look like Harper!" I don't think she meant it as a compliment, but I couldn't really nail her for being insulting, either. (For those of you whose TVs aren't permanently tuned to the Disney Channel, Harper is Alex's best friend on "Wizards of Waverly Place." You know the one - she wears somewhat, um, eclectic outfits that showcase her, um, individuality and personal sense of style. To use the term loosely.)

Now, in my Super Mom days, I'd have sent that little girl back upstairs to find some clothes that matched. Or maybe I'd have marched upstairs with her, to pull out cute leggings and a coordinating shirt, or a dress that says November rather than April, or even a pair of jeans and a plain tee shirt to wear with the pink boots and Hannah sweatshirt. Heck, I'd probably have made her put on the same outfit her sister was wearing. (Yep, I'm one of those "matchy mommies" who buys her daughters matching outfits. At least I used to be. The oldest mutinied about the time she discovered Justice. Lucky for her, they start at size 5, so her sister couldn't get the same outfit. Score one for the kid.) But I stopped myself. Does it matter what she wears to the store? Really, we're getting diet Dr. Pepper and cookies for our tea party. Who cares what she's wearing?

This is a girl who, at 13 months old, refused to leave the house unless she was wearing a Disney Princess crown. Brand conscious even as a toddler, sad but true. At 2, she insisted on a pair of pink canvas Keds that she wore until her little feet wouldn't squish into them anymore. She'd wear her bright pink, feather-trimmed cowgirl hat to church if I'd let her. But in her defense, my mother-in-law (and I swear on my life that I am not making this up) thinks that if it's all the same color, it matches. Pale blue gauchos (yes, I said gauchos; see what I'm dealing with?) and a navy blue shirt that says "blue footed boobies!" on it - well, it's all blue, right? So there you go! And my husband? He just got rid of his circa-1985 black high-top Reeboks about a year ago.

So off we went to the grocery store, my little fashion plate undaunted by the smiles and chuckles of little old ladies and mommies of preschoolers. She thought she was stylin', looking good in her pink boots, feeling good that she dressed herself. And you know what? She had a big smile on her pretty face, she wore a dress she loves, and she was happy. Maybe we should all follow her cue. Wear what makes us happy, wear what we love. Shoot, pink cowgirl boots look good with everything, don't they? If I could pull them off, I'd have a pair, too.

If letting my kid out of the house in a crazy, mismatched outfit is a crime, lock me up. Soon enough, she'll have a clothing crisis every day before school. Soon enough, the world will end if she doesn't have the exact right shade of red lipstick before the prom. Soon enough, she'll realize that the world judges us by our clothes, our hair, our weight, our shoes, our bags, our cars, and everything else.

Slacker Mom Says...let go of the little stuff. Why make mountains out of molehills? In the time it would've taken me to talk her into a matching outfit, we were gone and back and having our tea party. And that was a much better way to spend an hour. Soon enough, she'll develop a sense of fashion that mirrors her peers - but I sure hope she retains that Harper quality that I've come to know and love.

Just Say No to Bad TV

2009-11-25T11:29:00.000-05:00

Slacker Mom feels a rant coming on...

After hearing all the controversy about Adam Lambert's AMA performance (which I didn't watch, because, let's be honest, I just don't care, and besides, there's got to be something better on my 800 DirecTV channels than the AMA awards), I decided I'd take a look at the video clip on YouTube. Full disclosure: I've never even once watched American Idol. The only reason I know who Adam Lambert is has more to do with the fact that he and I both hail from San Diego, and I read an article about him at the hairdresser's once when I couldn't find anything more interesting to read, like maybe "HairStyles For the Modern Grandmother." So I went in expecting his performance to be total crap. But I watched it. Twice. And I'll admit that I was shocked.

Oh. My. God. An aspiring rock star uses sexually explicit moves and lyrics to gain major publicity, millions of YouTube hits, and stir up controversy? What is the world coming to? What a ground-breaking move by the former American Idol contestant, to use sex to sell an image, to shock the establishment with his performance and costumes and dancers! Who does he think he is, Madonna?

Come on, people. What is the big deal? Aren't most of us old enough to remember the 80s, when the Material Girl pissed off the Catholic Church and the Moral Majority (and certainly my mother, who objected to her name just on principle) by dancing around in white, singing "Like A Virgin," wearing lots of crosses and a torn-up lace wedding dress? Or how about that MTV Music Video Awards show, where a hairy-assed, midget-sized Prince wore see-through yellow pants? Eww. I object. And it has nothing to do with his sexuality. (It might have to do with the fact that he changes his name/symbol so often that I don't really know what to call him. Who can keep track?)

But Adam Lambert? OK, so the fact that he's from San Diego may help him score some points with me. But really, the boy wears more eye makeup than I do, and he's prettier AND skinnier than me. He spends more time on his hair, too, and uses more product. So right away, he's on my list of guys I can't be bothered to pay attention to. (Ask my college roommates; those are deal breakers, baby. He has a smaller ass than me? Spends more time getting ready to go out? Forget him!) Add to that the fact that I think my cat has more talent than he does, and no, I'm not a fan. Gay or straight, that's not the issue. So he simulated sex. Um, don't you see more action on your typical daytime soap, with actual naked people? My kids have yet to see "Madagascar 2" because of its sexual innuendo. Turn on the TV during an NFL game, and start counting: you'll see more sex and violence (and hear more objectionable language) on the commercials than I saw on that video clip. And no, I didn't watch the "edited for the West Coast" clip. (Which, by the way, was stupid, because West Coasters are a LOT less shocked and upset by that sort of thing. They have to be. It's LA, home of boob jobs and lip implants for 15-year-olds, after all.)

By far the biggest complaints I've heard seem to be of the "but kids watch this stuff" variety. Really? Kids are watching prime-time TV music shows? That seems to me to be the problem. When that show aired, my children were sound asleep in their beds, where they should be, not watching a music-industry awards show during prime-time hours that was aimed at an ADULT audience. And had it been aired at noon on a weekend, they still wouldn't have been watching it. Because they are children, and in my house, I am the parent. I decide what is appropriate, I am the Keeper of the Remote. You don't like what's on TV? Turn it off. Go play a game, read a book, take a walk, phone a friend. Do you let your kids listen to explicit lyrics? Then why let them watch a TV show where it's likely they'll hear those lyrics, and see them performed? Was it really such a shocker that a singer (for lack of a better term) like Adam Lambert did something inappropriate?

Yes, his performance was inappropriate and distasteful. Isn't much of what's on TV these days inappropriate and distasteful? Reality TV where we "swap" wives and then watch the children cry? That's tasteful? Crime dramas depicting rapes and murders and violence against children? If you ask me, it's all crap. Even so-called children's programming is often offensive. Disney shows like "The Suite Life" and "Hannah Montana" contain bias, disrespect, inappropriate language, offensive comments. And let's be honest: Barney? The Teletubbies? The freakin' Wiggles? I OBJECT! They're offensive! They're annoying! And their songs are waaaaay too catchy! NO ONE over the age of 4 should be subjected to that kind of programming.

Slacker Mom Says...get control over the remote. If my kids are watching it, it's because I let them. I won't be blaming anyone else for what goes on in my house, and that includes TV programming. My kids watch TV, sure. In fact, they're watching it right now. But they're watching shows with appropriate content - which varies from family to family, certainly. I don't trust the networks or even other parents to decide what is right for my kids; I am picky, choosy, like those moms in the Jif commercials. I don't want to watch crap; I don't want my kids to watch crap. But common sense needs to prevail. If you don't like it, turn it off. If you're offended, write to the networks and their sponsors and tell them what you want to see. Take action rather than merely complain!

And now, I'll be stepping off my soapbox to go make some pies. It's Thanksgiving, after all, and I don't have to get up early tomorrow. So I can watch the last three episodes of "Desperate Housewives" on my DVR. Inappropriate? Distasteful? Crap? Yep, and I'm addicted. But I'm a grownup, so it's OK.

There's No "I" in "Mommy"

2009-11-24T14:46:00.000-05:00

A recent Saturday morning found my husband (chief of the Indian Princess tribe - don't ask) and daughters getting ready for their "tribal outing": a father/daughter hike and lunch date. I was supposed to have the morning "off", and planned to hit the gym and then head over to Barnes and Noble. First, a pumpkin spice latte - grande, of course - and then a little browsing, in ANY section other than the children's, please. I'd been looking forward to it all week. I even put the sunscreen and bug spray on the kids, packed his backpack, and loaded up the car for him. (Is it wrong to be eager - I mean, helpful and considerate?)

But alas, it was not to be.

Mere minutes before their departure, my oldest decided to clean up her room by throwing her clean, folded clothes into the hamper. I guess she didn't want to put them away - again - but since this was, oh, the third time in as many days, and she'd been told that if it happened again she'd be grounded, guess what? She got grounded. Meaning, in effect, that I ended up grounding myself. My day alone? Gone with the wind. The gym? Nope, they have a Wii in the Kids Kare that would be entirely too much fun for someone who's grounded. My trip to Starbucks? I wonder if pumpkin pie spice would work on drip coffee. Leisurely browsing the fiction section at the bookstore? Replaced with laundry, cleaning, and one angry mommy yelling, "Why? Why? WHY?" Over and over again. At top volume. At least in my head. Out loud, she said appropriate things like, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time" and other equally lame-sounding mommy-isms. (Did I mention I always wanted to be a criminal prosecutor? Like Susan Dey on "LA Law"?)

In frustration, I posted something on Facebook about my daughter's transgression. Some mommy friends thought the punishment was too harsh, but my friend Tricia commented, "Glad to see that other parents out there ground for pure disrespect." And that's it exactly: My child was disrespectful. There was a demonstrated lack of respect for me, for the work I do, for my time, for the natural and financial resources involved in re-washing a load of laundry - not to mention the fact that I'd just told her NOT to do that very thing or she'd be grounded. And yes, at nearly 8, she's become much more focused on herself, her wants, her friends, which is all normal and typical "tween" behavior - but that doesn't make it OK to just ignore what your mother tells you. (And if you figure out at what age I CAN ignore what my mother tells me, please let me know!)

Think I was harsh? My husband's friend Jose got tired of constantly telling his boys to turn off their video games when it was time to do homework, chores, go somewhere. He gave them a final warning: If he had to repeat himself, even once, the entire system would be gone. And what happened? You got it: The very next day, he told the boys to turn it off, but they didn't. Jose stomped over, yanked the joysticks out of their sweaty little hands, ripped the wires out of the TV, and threw everything in the trash. Message received. You've never seen such well-behaved children. Those boys LISTEN. (And no, he didn't replace it. Nor did he allow Santa or Grandma to replace it. Game over, boys.)

Some parenting "guru" wrote that not following through with consequences is the same as lying to your kids. (I can't remember who. I might have read it on a bathroom wall.) If you say, "Do it again and you'll be grounded" and then they do it again and you DON'T ground them, you weren't really telling the truth, were you? Can they count on your word for other things? And you've taught them a not-so-easily-unlearned lesson, namely that Mom doesn't always mean what she says. I'll admit, I toyed with the idea of letting her go because I really wanted some time to myself. But that would have taught her that there aren't consequences for breaking the rules, and that she doesn't have to show respect for people, their work, their time. Hard as it was to give up my day alone, hard as it was to watch her disappointment and disbelief as her daddy and sister left her behind, she got the point. She did laundry, cleaned, studied, while her sister and her dad went off together for 4 long hours. And now? Those 4 hours bought me 3 weeks (and counting) of near-perfect behavior from this repeat offender, who has yet to be reincarcerated for breaking the terms of her parole - that is, she hasn't put any clean clothes in the hamper since. (AND she's learned to do laundry, so I've got that going for me. Talk about a two-fer.)

Sometimes it's hard to be a mom. Sometimes it breaks my heart to punish my kids, to take something away, whether it's a toy or the joy of spending a day outdoors with friends. But what's the alternative? Allowing them to do whatever they want? That isn't good for them. (We all know moms who do that, and sure, it's easier in the short term. But Slacker Mom tries to practice long-term parenting. Even when it puts her back in baby jail.) This motherhood thing can be tough. To paraphrase author Carrie Adams, "there's a big difference between wanting a baby and wanting to be a parent. One is selfish; the other selfless." Good, effective parenting strives to be selfless, not selfish. After all, there's no I in Mommy. (But there is a Y, as in WHY? WHY? Dear God, WHY?)

Slacker Mom Says...don't be afraid to disappoint your kids. They'll get over it. Remember our goal as moms: to raise confident, well-adjusted kids who can go out into the world and survive, thrive, WITHOUT us. It's OK to let them know what's expected of them, and then call them on it if they don't meet those expectations. In the real world, they'll have bosses, roommates, friends, professors, husbands and wives. None of these people will consistently let them off the hook; we have to teach them how to live with and learn from the consequences of their actions.

And, after all, there will be plenty more opportunities for daddy/daughter hikes. I'll see to it. I have a date with my friends Barnes and Noble.

"Just" a Stay at Home Mom

2009-11-12T10:13:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, we were outside enjoying some beautiful fall weather. Most of the neighbors were out, too, giving me the chance to catch up with my neighbor, Tracey. She works full time and has a 10-month-old, so I don't see her as much as I'd like to. We chatted about babies, sleep, going back to work. At one point, she said, "I don't think I could ever just stay home all day doing nothing. I think I'd get bored."

She didn't mean any offense, and I didn't take any. But I realized that there's probably a gap between what working moms THINK we do all day and what we ACTUALLY do with our time. My friend Beth, who's home with her young baby, says, "Staying at home is harder than any job I've ever had. No lunch breaks to get things done, no bathroom breaks by yourself. Yeah, my career was WAY easier than this stay at home mom gig." Tiffany, whose son just started Kindergarten, says, "As if we sit around watching soaps all day!" And my single friend Bobby Jo says, "I don't even HAVE kids and I could never be bored at home. Too many things to do!"

When our kids are babies, there's so much hands-on caregiving that goes into mothering that it's easy to see where our time goes. Our houses don't need to be perfect; our kids take priority. As my friend Maria says, "I didn't give up my law practice to scrub floors. I left work to raise my kids!" Playing with them, feeding and diapering them, reading to them, convincing them that nighttime is for sleeping, not playing, and it's simply not socially acceptable to wake up happy at 5 AM - it's a full time job. We do all the things that a working mom's daycare provider does, but without the pay. Who has time for chores? But once the kids are all in school? Even I thought I'd have tons of free time once my youngest was in Kindergarten. I'd work out every day! Reclaim my pre-baby body! Get manicures! Have a spotless house! Take time for nooners! Put those baby pictures in a photo album instead of in a shoebox under my bed!

Yeah, right. In the past year, I've managed to meet my friend Jennifer for lunch only twice. We're both "home." So where does the day go?

In a typical 7-hour school day, I spend a few hours on chores and errands, volunteer in both kids' classrooms, write, take care of the pets, start dinner, and prep snacks for after school. Then I pick up my kids, and, if they don't have ballet, tap, jazz, musical theater, basketball, soccer, Indian Princesses, or a playdate, we head home for a snack, homework and school projects. Once that is done, I still have to feed them, help them bathe, read to them, play with them, help them choose (age-appropriate) clothes for the next day, make lunches, pack (organic, sugar-free) snacks, clean and fill their (BPA-free, stainless steel) water bottles, sign homework and reading logs (Teachers! Listen up! NO MORE READING LOGS, PLEASE!), sort through school papers and multiple copies of school newsletters, get them to bed with prayers and songs and kisses and drinks of water and one last kiss, please Mommy please! Then my husband comes home, I make him some dinner, we spend some time together, and before I know it, it's 10 PM and I still haven't finished the dishes. Free time, my (still not a size 4) ass.

Working moms, I think you have it rough. I can't imagine working an 8-hour day and then coming home to work at your "other job." You have to run your errands and do your chores on the weekends, or you have to drag your kids around town after a full day of school and day-care. Either that, or hire someone to do it for you. (Not that I'm complaining - if I worked, you'd better believe that I'd have a cleaning service!) You probably sleep even less than I do.

But while you are working and talking to adults and eating lunch with grown-ups (without having to cut anything up for your co-workers), don't make assumptions about what "at home" moms are doing. Just know that many of us "at home" are actually at school, helping your child with reading and math, or planning the Thanksgiving feast, or rescuing lost Kindergartners on the first day of school, or stapling and gluing endless little books, or making copies for the teachers, or checking in library books, or baking 4 cakes for the PTA fundraiser, or even watching your darling kick a soccer ball during recess because budget cuts mean there are no aides for playground duty. If I were working right now, I couldn't do any of it. And when I go back to work, that's it for me. Game over. But right now, while I can be "home", I'm going to do what I can for ALL our kids.

Slacker Mom Says...be supportive of the moms in your life. Working or staying at home, we are all just moms, facing the challenges of raising a family in difficult times. Those of us who stay home choose to be home, so we won't complain about our job. Those of us who work, whether because we have to or because we want to, are doing the best we can too. Motherhood means making sacrifices, but it's also the best job in the world. Whether we work or not, we all give something up - money, time at home, job satisfaction, financial gain, sleep. Whether we work or not, we all get paid for being moms - sticky kisses, warm little hugs, unconditional love. What could be better than that?

When Mother Knows Best

2009-11-06T08:25:00.000-05:00

Before I had my first child, I was obsessed with motherhood. Trying to get pregnant, month after month, seeing babies and bellies everywhere, but it wasn't happening for me. ("Visualize," the books said, "and it will happen!" What a load of crap. As if it were that easy. Heck, Ill just visualize myself as a supermodel with 3 gorgeous kids and no stretch marks. Ain't gonna happen.) I knew something was wrong, but my doctor kept telling me to relax. Relax, my butt. I changed doctors, found out I had a hormone imbalance, and started taking progesterone.

Then I got pregnant. And I got heartburn, all-day-all-night sickness, stretch marks, varicose veins, migraines, carpal tunnel syndrome, pre-term labor, pre-eclampsia, every symptom under the sun. But I didn't care: I was finally pregnant! I was over the moon, elated, giddy with happiness, just the way an expectant mom is supposed to be.

When my daughter was born, I cried tears of joy. She was perfect, beautiful, healthy, AND a good sleeper. I hit the jackpot. I quit my job, I stayed home with my angel, and felt so lucky and so blessed. When she was six weeks old, I sat and cried, thinking how hard it would be to put her in daycare and go back to work.

And then we had a bad day. I mean, a REALLY bad day. The kind of day where you desperately need to go to the grocery store, but everytime you try to leave, you're drenched in spit up. You know, that projectile spit up that defies the laws of gravity, where you're sure she's dying of malnutrition because HOW could she be getting any breastmilk at all when SO MUCH is coming back out? It took an hour to feed her, then change her, then change myself, then change her again when she spit up all over herself, then on me...you get the point.

When we finally got home, 4 hours after we started, the screaming began. She screamed for 7 hours straight. If she wasn't nursing, she was screaming. Of course, my husband was out of town, and of course it was after office hours, and the on-call pediatrician (a Doogie Howser look-a-like right out of medical school) was no help at all. (Yes, you idiot, I DID try feeding, burping, changing her; I DID look to see if she had a hair wrapped around a finger or a toe; I DID give her gas medicine. Do you even HAVE children? A medical degree? A CLUE?) His advice? Just lay down with her and try to get some sleep. Meanwhile I'm thinking that babies don't scream for that long unless something is wrong, so...something is wrong!

Finally, in desperation, I ignored him and drove to the ER - and she promptly fell sound asleep. Which meant that the nice triage nurse thought I was a psycho first-timer who had no idea what to do with a crying baby. "Oh, Honey, babies do cry, you know." Really? You think? I guess after SEVEN HOURS OF NONSTOP SCREAMING, you'd fall asleep, too, Nurse Ratchet!

But I guess I argued loud and long enough to merit an exam by the pediatrician on duty that night, if for no other reason than to get the weeping, leaking, crazy new mother out of the crowded waiting room. He diagnosed my infant with an allergy to my breastmilk, told me to use hypo-allergenic formula and follow up with my pediatrician the next day. I cried all the way home, my dreams of nursing my daughter until her first birthday shattered.

But then I started thinking: an allergy to breast milk? How? I may have been a new mom, but that made no sense to me. Something just felt wrong. How does a six-week-old suddenly develop such an allergy? And what do women in Third World countries do, buy formula? No, they breastfeed. So when she woke up again a few hours later, I nursed her. And in the morning, I nursed her. And then I called my own pediatrician, who said to bring her right in.

When I told the pediatrician, a mom of 3 and breastfeeding advocate, what the ER doctor had told me, she said, and I quote, "That is the MOST ridiculous thing I have EVER heard." She took one look at my baby and diagnosed her with a double ear infection and acid reflux. (And then, much to my amusement, she called the ER and yelled at that doctor for a good five minutes straight and told him he was never to treat any of "her" babies again. So there.)

I ended up nursing her until she was 13 months old. She never had a drop of formula.

Which leads me to this: I was right. I'm not advocating that we completely ignore medical advice, but if something feels wrong to us, we need to investigate a bit more. I'm sure that both the on-call pediatrician and the ER pediatrician are fine doctors who have helped many families, but, as my friend Jill says, it's called "practicing" medicine for a reason. No one is infallible. People, even experts, make mistakes. If I hadn't sought a second opinion, I'd have weaned my daughter 11 months earlier than I wanted to. I'd have spent thousands on formula. I'd have doubted myself and my ability as a mother. I have never doubted myself since. I KNOW when something is wrong. I KNOW my kids.

Slacker Mom Says...this is one area where we can't slack off. There is truth to the old adage: Mom knows best. We know our kids, and we need to trust ourselves. Seek professional help, to be sure, but use your mommy instincts when it comes to your kids. Follow your gut. Listen to that little voice inside. Argue and insist and make people listen to you when it comes to the well-being of your kids. Whether it's a doctor, a teacher, a coach, it doesn't matter - if we don't advocate for our children, who will? Don't let anyone blow you off. NO ONE knows better than Mommy.

Ask a Stupid Question, Get a Stupid Answer

2009-11-04T09:14:00.001-05:00

Our high school teachers were wrong. It turns out there IS such a thing as a stupid question.

Last week, I was washing dishes when my husband called me into the bathroom to ask (and I am NOT making this up), "Did you throw up in the bathroom sink?"

Now, I am neither hungover nor pregnant, and if I had a stomach virus I can give you an iron-clad guarantee that I would NOT be the one doing the dinner dishes, so yes, this was a stupid question. Are you kidding me? Yes, honey, I tossed my cookies in YOUR sink, then came back out to do the dishes instead of cleaning it up. (A sink? Really? Who pukes in a sink, anyway? And trust me, I don't even wash my hands in his sink.)

So yes, there IS such a thing as a stupid question. Want more proof? Voila, a partial list of stupid questions I've been asked recently, and my responses:

~ Do you know what happened to my belt? (I swear to God, if your belt fits me, I'll kill myself.)
~ Where's my thing? (Probably with your other thing.)
~ Is my appointment today? (Huh?)
~ What is there to eat? (Um, I'm guessing, food?)
~ Do I have any clean jeans? (Again, if I'm borrowing your jeans...)
~ How old is my mom again? And when's her birthday? (no comment)

And it's not just my husband. The kids do it, too. Apparently, I am the keeper of all things for all people. I am supposed to know where all the toys and books in the house are (never mind that it's not THAT big of a house - check your room, your sister's room, or the playroom) as well as knowing the phone numbers and addresses for every member of the family and all friends, as well. Library book due dates? Related arts class schedule? Birthday wish lists? Doctor and dentist appointments? You name it, no one else has to remember it if Mom's around.

If only someone would invent something that would help us keep track of all of our appointments and keep our schedules straight, like someplace we could write it all down or something. Wouldn't that be nice?

If only there was some way to keep track of our possessions and be able to easily find our own things when we needed them, maybe with labels and drawers or something. Wouldn't that make life easier?

(Sarcasm aside, I do keep a master calendar in my kitchen, but it only works if you WRITE ON IT. And we have plenty of well-organized storage in every room and closet, but again, it only works if you PUT STUFF AWAY.)

So I'm on "stupid question strike". If anyone asks me a question that a) they could answer themselves or b) I shouldn't even know the answer to, then I just give them the deer in the headlights look and a taste of their own medicine: I answer, "I don't know." (Hey, it's everyone else's FAVORITE answer to many of my questions. What did you do in math today? I don't know. Where are your tap shoes? I don't know. Did you finish your homework? I don't know.) Or, if I'm in a particularly sarcastic mood, they may get a particularly sarcastic answer. (Where's the milk? In the dishwasher, don't you think? I mean, really, did you even LOOK in the fridge?)

Slacker Mom Says...I'm tired of enabling. If they can't keep track of it, they can spend their own time and money looking for it. I'm no longer the Master of All Knowledge or the Keeper of All Treasured Possessions. And if it's left out after the kids go to bed, it goes in my Lost and Found. Need a sneaker for gym class? Missing your library book? It'll cost you, an extra chore, 50 cents, I'm not sure. As for my husband, I'll have to come up with a different payment. It'll cost him, too, but maybe something more than 50 cents...

I am Mommy, Hear Me Roar

2009-11-04T07:59:00.001-05:00

Today I yelled at my kids on the way to school. And I mean, YELLED at them. Raised voice, nasty tone, just let 'em have it. Why? I'd had it - the little one had picked her nose and wiped it on the wall, the older one was reading (yes, reading - that's why she got in trouble. We should all have such problems, I know.) instead of brushing her teeth and getting dressed, and no one made their beds or fed the cat or put their dishes in the dishwasher. Including my husband. So I was fighting mad because...because why, exactly?

Because no one listens to me.

Yep, that's it. That's the whole reason I ruined everyone's day at 7:30 in the morning, because no one listens to me. And then I cried all the way home, hating myself, hating that I got so worked up and shouted at two small children, all because they didn't listen to me, because the morning "routine" wasn't smooth and routine, and no one cared what I said or what I wanted.

So, as usual, I started (over)thinking: why is this such an issue for me? Why do I get so upset when my kids and my husband (and let's be honest, it's also my husband - who asked me FOUR times what time we were due at the neighborhood party even though it was on the calendar) don't listen to me, don't hear what I have to say? Is it because I don't work? If I had a job, some feedback from a boss, some underlings to scurry around doing my bidding, would that help? Or is it because my family is my little corporation, and my entire identity is wrapped up in the labels of "wife" and "mother"? And if so, whose fault is that?

I mean, really, is it THAT big of a deal that my third grader was reading a book instead of putting on her shoes, or that she forgot to put socks on before she came downstairs and then had to run back up? She's pretty fast, after all, and at only 7, shouldn't I be glad that she reads on a high school level? Is it really a big deal that my 5-year-old wanted to put out a cereal bowl for her stuffed doggie when she ate her breakfast? No, it's not. At least, it shouldn't be. And most days, that stuff rolls right off me, like the proverbial water off a duck's back. And besides, isn't it fairly normal for the kids to pretty much ignore what I tell them? Granted, I didn't think it would happen until they were teenagers, but I'm pretty sure if you asked my mom, she'd tell you that's what WE did when we were kids, virtually ignored most of what she said unless there was food or money involved. So why did I freak out and get so annoyed with everyone on this particular morning?

I think it has something to do with being heard, and not necessarily in a literal sense. I get so wrapped up in meeting the needs of my family, taking care of my house, creating a home for us all, and then one day, SNAP! There I go. Who's taking care of ME? Who's putting MY needs first? And suddenly I'm yelling at the kids for getting toothpaste on the bathroom counter that I just finished cleaning. It's a bathroom counter! It's there for that exact reason, to hold the damn toothpaste, but I can't see past my own anger: I cleaned it, you messed it up, I'm not the maid around here, clean up after yourself, no one cares about how hard I work, I'm sick of cleaning up after all of you, wipe off your own spit, stop being so inconsiderate, and on it goes. (And I'm pretty sure after the first sentence or two, all they're hearing is the teacher's voice from Charlie Brown - you know the one, wah wah wah, wah wah, wah. They've tuned me out. Hell, I'd like to tune me out.)

And the thing is, my kids are good kids, by all accounts. They make good grades, they are polite and respectful, they are well-socialized. Teachers, parents, and coaches like them. They are kind, considerate, responsible girls who thank me for making dinner and driving them to ballet class. But sometimes, now and then, they act like, well, like ungrateful kids. And then I get mad and everyone hears about it. And it's worse when I feel like my husband doesn't see the effort that goes into keeping the house clean, the laundry done, the kids fed and clothed, the homework and projects and recitals and practices and games handled on time. He gets up, goes to work, comes home again after the kids are in bed, and never sees the actual labor that is involved in running my little business here. Like a stockholder who merely reaps the benefits, he never thinks about what the janitor does or how hard the mail clerk works.

If I went to work every day and saw the results of my labor and my efforts, would I care so much about a little mud on the floor or a bowl left on the counter? I don't really know, because I quit working when I had my first child. But I suspect that if I had a little outside feedback, a little praise for a job well-done, some gratitude and appreciation for my work, I might be more able to let these little things go. Because they ARE little things. After all, how awful would it be to NOT have little muddy cleats in my garage? to NOT have little handprints all over the windows that I just cleaned? to NOT find purple grape juice all over my counters? What a sad, lonely life I'd have without my kids "messing" things up all the time.

Slacker Mom Says...it's time to give ourselves some positive feedback. I'm going to remind my husband to thank me for doing laundry, and I'm going to thank him for working hard to provide for us financially. I'm going to remind my kids to thank me for clean bathrooms and new shoes and playdates, and I'm going to thank them for sticky kisses and tidy playrooms and good manners. I'm going to remind myself that I'm a damn good mother and wife, and that in their own way, they DO appreciate me, even if they don't say it out loud. As my husband says, I'm the glue that holds this family together. I'm the heart and soul of it. I'm the one who knows how to make the monsters under the bed go away; I'm the one they want when they are hurt, tired, sad. I'm the MOMMY, after all. And one day, maybe not until they have kids of their own, but one day, they will call me and say, "Thanks, Mom. You were right. About everything."

And if they don't, I'll feed their kids chocolate ice cream and send them home with extra candy and some of those loud, noisy, talking books. That'll teach them. Payback's a bitch.

Taking Time Vs. Making Time

2009-10-25T08:19:00.000-04:00

Six weeks after giving birth to her first child, my friend Becky (a paralegal) found herself shopping for some new non-maternity clothes at her local mall. Heading into the dressing room with an armload of outfits and an infant car seat, Becky started to undress - only to discover that she'd forgotten to put on panties that morning. My friend Aimee, a former beauty queen, confesses to leaving the house in her slippers more than once while pregnant with her second child. She used to have perfect nails and hair, but now complains that she doesn't have time to wash her hair daily or iron her clothes - although her girls are always pressed and perfect, giant bows adorning their spiral curls.

When I was pregnant with my second child, I once met some friends for lunch with two different shoes on. Granted, carrying a 10-pounder, I hadn't been able to see over my belly, but you'd think I'd have taken the time to check the mirror. And just a few weeks ago, I was driving home from dropping my kids off at school when I happened to glance in my rear view mirror. In my haste to get everyone ELSE presentable, I'd forgotten to put mascara on one eye.

In contrast, I recently saw a picture of my friend Katie, who's just had her fourth baby in five years. It's her "welcome home" shot, where she's walking in the door of her house, her newborn in her arms. Her hair is gorgeous, her make-up is flawless, a glowing smile lights her face. If she took time (because we all know she didn't HAVE time) to look good, why don't I?

So this got me thinking: does motherhood make you sloppy? Does having kids make you forget about your appearance, make you so busy that you truly don't have time to "do" yourself up anymore? Or is that just an excuse? Is it that we don't HAVE time, or that we don't TAKE time? (Don't even say the words "make time". As if we can just flip a switch on some machine and "make" more time in our day. If I had the patent on THAT, I'd be a rich woman.)

Before I had kids, I worked full-time. To quote that Klymaxx song from the 80s, my nails were done and my hair was fierce. I never left the house without lipstick. I wouldn't THINK about walking around in public in a stained tee-shirt or baggy sweatpants. Even my gym clothes were cute. I wore name brands: Gap, Ann Taylor, even the occasional Armani. Nowadays? I'll admit to grocery shopping in Wal Mart sweats and a tee-shirt that's older than my kids - and significantly less clean. I've told myself that it doesn't matter, that we moms are just so busy that we don't always have time to be put together.

But isn't that just a load of crap? What if I still had a job? I might head to my kids' school with dripping hair and chipped nail polish, but would I go to work like that? My best friend and my sister are both working moms, and I've never seen them at the office with greasy hair, in sloppy sweats. At home, sure. On the weekends, without a doubt. But at work? Not on your life. They have kids and husbands and homes AND jobs, yet they manage to be presentable at work. They don't magically have more time than I do; if anything, they have less.

So here's my theory: it's not so much that it's socially acceptable to sometimes be a slob if we "just" stay home with our kids. It's that is more socially UNacceptable to go to work that way. You just can't get away with it, so you don't even try to.

Slacker Mom Says...yes, having babies fries your brain. It makes you forgetful, cranky, tired, and fat...but only for a few months. Then it's time to stop blaming the kids. If I don't take 20 minutes to slap on some make-up and do my hair, I can't blame anyone but myself. What does it say about me if my kids wear clean, pressed clothes and have lovely French braids, but my soaking wet hair is scraped back in a ponytail and my yoga pants were clearly pulled out of the hamper - for the third time this week? If I don't TAKE the time, you can be damn sure no one is going to give it to me! When I was a teacher, I felt like I couldn't get ahead; as soon as the towering stack of papers was graded, I'd have that day's work to grade all over again! Motherhood is a lot like that: No matter how many hours a day you spend doing it, there will always be something more to do. So why not just take a break and take some "me" time? Pathetic, I know, that doing my hair is "me" time, but maybe thinking of it like that will make it easier to TAKE the time that I deserve. My girls look to me to see what a mother means; I don't want them to think that they have to put themselves last once they become mothers. No, I don't need to look flawless all the time, but I'll be honest - I could be more pulled-together.

Besides, soon enough my kids will be in middle school. Then I'll need some way to embarrass them. So I'll save those Wal Mart sweats and the mac-and-cheese stained tee-shirts for awhile longer.

Someday I'll Get 8 Hours of Sleep IN A ROW

2009-10-23T09:18:00.000-04:00

My friend Beth recently updated her FaceBook status with, "How come I got the non-sleeping model of infant?" It reminded me of being a first-time mom, and feeling completely exhausted and sleep-deprived. Until you've been there, you have no idea. No, it's nothing like drinking all night and then taking a final. Not even close.

When my oldest child was an infant, I asked her pediatrician about her sleep habits. I mentioned that "all the books" said that, at her age, she should be sleeping through the night. Dr. Aqua, a mother of three/pediatrician/wife of an obstetrician, looked at me and said, "Honey, the trouble is, sometimes the babies don't read the books."

Hmmm. Didn't think of that.

But now, my kids are both school-aged. They can wipe their own bottoms, get themselves a snack, read themselves a book, tie their own shoes. Doesn't it follow that they should be sleeping through the night by now? You'd think so, wouldn't you?

Here's a partial list of the "reasons" (read: excuses) my girls have had for waking me up during the precious few hours I'm in bed (you know, from like midnight to 5 AM):
~ I need a drink.
~ I have to go potty.
~ I had a dream that there was Purell on my hair.
~ Book orders are due tomorrow!
~ My pillow is wet because I washed my hair.
~ I can't find my tissues.
~ I forgot to tell you that I won the race in P.E. today.
~ I think I have Show and Tell tomorrow.
~ Did you pack chicken fingers in my lunch tomorrow? Cuz if you did, I need ketchup, too.
~ Can I some some Halloween candy?
~ I think I might have a fever and should stay home from school tomorrow. No, it has nothing to do with the fact that I have a math quiz and I forgot my study guide, I swear.

So, like a good mom, I squelch the screaming banshee within (she who wants to say things like, "Are you f#&@ kidding me? You walked past two bathrooms to tell me you have to pee/need a drink/can't find a tissue?" or "I already KNOW about the book orders because I'm the book mom, remember?" or "Candy? CANDY? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?")

Or, and I might actually have said this one out loud, "Maybe you're hot because you are wearing 5 sweatshirts. No, you do NOT have a fever, and yes, you ARE taking the quiz tomorrow. Get out of my room."

And, not to be a bitch or anything, but sometimes I wonder how the hell my husband is sleeping through these conversations. How does he wake up if the dog breathes too loudly, but can't hear a screaming child over a baby monitor THREE INCHES FROM HIS HEAD???

Now, it's not every night that the kids come down the stairs in the dead of night. Sometimes we go days without midnight incursions; sometimes it's 4 or 5 a night. Per kid. So I wonder: Is it wrong to send them back upstairs by themselves? Is it wrong to be fighting mad when it's 3 AM and someone is telling me that she wants to paint her fingernails after school tomorrow? If you're sick, if you've had a bad dream, I'm all over it. But most of these seem to be of the "I just woke up and thought it would be fun to go hang out with Mommy" variety. Am I a total slacker because I am too tired to argue with them and send them back to their own beds?

And then I remember that, soon, very soon, these sweet angels wouldn't be caught DEAD crawling into my bed. The teenage years are just around the corner, and then they'll be going off to college, and I might get my wish after all: a night where I could sleep 8 hours in a row with no interruptions. No pitter patter of little feet on the stairs; no warm little body sneaking up between my husband and me, saying, "I need you, Mom" as she snuggles into the crook of my arm. No sweet baby breath on my hair, no one pressing her little feet up against me as she sighs into sleep, content and sure that all is right in the world because she's got her mom and dad next to her.

Slacker Mom Says...screw the books. Yes, they SHOULD be sleeping through the night. Yes, they shouldn't be allowed to creep in during the night. Yes, I'd sleep a LOT better without an extra person (or two) in the bed. But like the country song says, "You're gonna miss this." I know I will, so I'm going to hang on to it just a little longer. Who needs sleep? That's what coffee's for, right?

Birthday Party Madness, Part II

2009-10-20T18:33:00.000-04:00

Last night, my best friend, Nina, called me on her way home from work. She's a teacher, a mother of 3, a graduate student, and her husband works out of town 4 days a week. She's ANYTHING but a slacker, but she's the epitome of Slacker Mom - and, in fact, the inspiration behind my Super Mom to Slacker Mom transformation. She makes room for what's important and knows how to weed out what's not, and we all - her kids, husband, students, professors, neighbors and friends - get the best parts of her. She knows what it means to prioritize. Now, it may sound like I'm going off on a tangent, but there's a point - she read my latest post and called with an "I can do you one better" story of her own. Not to beat a dead horse, but I cannot resist relating this story that drives home my ooint.

Nina's girls were once invited to a birthday party for a friend named Abby. (Names have been changed for privacy; otherwise all my friends would stop talking to me in case I used them as material for the blog.) It was Abby's First Birthday (capitals intended), a joyous occasion for any parent. But where most of us have the grandparents over for cake, Abby's mom hired a Vegas-quality magician, a professional artist to paint faces (no, not a professional face painter; a professional ARTIST!), and had a real, old-fashioned hot dog cart. There were nearly 100 guests. I could go on, but you get the point.

But this is what concerns me: is this what is expected of me for a CHILD'S party? I'm exhausted just thinking about it, and my kids' birthdays are months away. I thought it was really cool when I threw a Hannah Montana karaoke "Half-Sleepover" a few years ago. I thought the Garden Party where we painted pots and planted impatiens was awesome. I loved the Lilo and Stitch Luau so much that we did it two years in a row. With the same guests! And the same decorations!

Don't get me wrong - if you have the means and the desire to throw the Mack Daddy of all parties, knock yourself out. If it makes you happy, and you can afford it, go ahead and hire the ponies and clowns and jugglers and fire eaters. What bothers me is that this is becoming the norm instead of the exception to the rule. What bothers me is that some people feel they have to spend money - and time - they don't have in order to keep up with classmates and neighbors. Will my kids be ostracized if they don't have professional dancers at their next ballet-themed party? Do I need to invite every single child my kids know in case someone's feelings get hurt? (Which is ridiculous. Do I cry when two of my friends have lunch and don't invite me?)

I don't think so. One of the very best parties my kids ever went to was in a church basement, with Domino's pizza, crafts, and a cake from the grocery store. They had the BEST time, and I guarantee this mom didn't stress over her child's party. She was relaxed and able to truly enjoy her daughter's big day. The kids had fun running around and playing, and the moms enjoyed each others' company. Appropriate, fun, easy - the perfect kids' party.

Slacker Mom Says...I'm jumping off the bandwagon. No more "keeping up with the Joneses" for me. I'm setting a budget, limiting the guest list to their closest friends, and serving up some old-fashioned fun and games. Goodie bags with stuff you'll use, a pinata, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and Musical Chairs. It's a birthday party, not a wedding reception.

Or I might do what Nina does: no parties, but we can go to Disney for the day.

Beware Birthday Party Madness

2009-10-19T15:22:00.000-04:00

My sister, who lives in LA, just sent me photos of a birthday party that her four-year-old daughter attended over the weekend. The birthday tot chose a Fancy Nancy theme; the miniature guests were given jeweled tiaras, sparkly sunglasses, and feathered boas. The place cards were printed in a Fancy Nancy-like font, in glittery pastel colors, with each girl's name (Fancy Samantha, Fancy Katrina, etc). But the piece de resistance? A topiary-shaped cake, dirt made of brown sugar, and decorated with sugared strawberries. The whole thing was absolutely stunning, a fantastical, magical party for someone's little princess.

But it got me thinking: what's next? If this is her FOURTH birthday, what will these well-meaning, adoring parents do for her sweet sixteen? her prom? for her wedding day? Can you say "live doves and ice sculptures"?

There's a new virus going around, and it's called Birthday Party Madness.

Whatever happened to Pin the Tail on the Donkey (or the crown on Ariel, or the microphone on Hannah Montana, or whatever) in the backyard? What happened to a nice sheet cake from your local grocery store, or one that your grandma made, with "Happy Birthday Timmy!" and some candles on it?

When did kids' parties start to rival the Inaugural Ball? It seems to me that parents have gone a little crazy with the party planning, the prep, the sheer dollars spent, on a ONE DAY event that, let's face it, the kid didn't ask for anyway. Even an at-home party with cake and ice cream and trinket-filled goodie bags will run you $5 a kid, at least. What do these "parties on steroids", as my friend Tina calls them, cost? What's the going rate for ponies and a bounce house? And what's the cover charge - I mean, how much do I have to spend on a gift? I'm thinking a Littlest Pet Shop playset might not cut it.

I admit, in years past, I've been accused of overdoing it. For my oldest's fifth birthday, we hosted a Tinkerbell party, with a bejeweled, sparkly treasure box for each girl and a hairdresser to create updos ala Tink. Several moms made snarky comments about the "extravagance" involved. But the hairdresser was a close friend who'd asked to come because she loves my kids. The invitations, decorations, and thank you notes were my sister's gift to her niece, also her goddaughter. I bought the treasure boxes at a Michaels sale (2 for $1), spray-painted them, and then glued giant jewels (from a party we'd gone to the year before) over the sparkles. Fun, yes. Extravagant, no.

My favorite party was my youngest's third birthday. We invited all her friends over for a luau and had a Lilo and Stitch theme. Two hours outside on the swing set and in the sand box, some cake and ice cream, a sand bucket with a beach ball inside for each kid, and we were done. Still considered one of the best parties ever by our friends, it was also the easiest and cheapest one I've ever done.

Slacker Mom Says...just say no to Birthday Party Madness! I feel the pressure to have the "best party ever" for my kids every single year. I feel the need to outdo and outspend and outshine the best Martha Stewart mommies in the neighborhood. But it's not about showing up the neighbors or getting compliments for myself. It's about having fun, enjoying my kids, remembering and celebrating the day they entered this world and my life. It's about THEM, not ME; it's about showing them how special they are. Spending $100 or 100 hours making the cake to end all cakes is fine, if that's what you want to do. But birthdays aren't any more special for my kids if I'm sleep-deprived and cranky (and poor!) just to show them (me?) that I love them. They know how much I love them. Homemade cupcakes are just as good (and maybe better, since they get to help make them!) as the fancy cake. And that leaves more time for hugs and kisses - and playing, together, with those new toys.

No One's Puking Up the Tamiflu, So I've Got THAT Going For Me...

2009-10-16T12:47:00.000-04:00

My kids have swine flu. Yep, that scary-ass bug that the media has us all convinced is the next plague has invaded my Purell-soaked world. Both kids are flat-out on the couch in their jammies watching "The Barbie Diaries" and drinking grape juice as I write this. And you know what? We're all still alive.

Don't get me wrong; it's been a little hairy around here. When the fevers were climbing and no amount of Tylenol could bring them down, when the hacking coughs started, when I realized that they had EVERY SINGLE symptom on the handy-dandy checklist that my health insurance company had sent me, I panicked. A little. And prayed a LOT. Then I called my pediatrician, a mom herself, and put them in her capable hands. Armed with Tamiflu prescriptions and a little mommy-education, I felt much better about our ability to deal with the devil virus. And then I read the notes on the bottle of blood-red (cherry-flavored?) Tamiflu: "often causes nausea, vomiting and diarrhea." Great. Because a little vomiting of bright red medicine is EXACTLY what my couch needs right now. Each child got her own beach bucket (I know what they're getting for Easter next year because those suckers are going straight into the garbage if anyone pukes), and I put a drop cloth on my new family room rug.

So, yeah, the kids are watching a LOT of TV (while I watch them) and drinking a LOT more juice than normal (while I'm sucking down the coffee like it's water just to keep from passing out next to them on the couch), but so far, so good. I haven't slept in days, but I think we've got this thing beat. Meds are staying down, I'm staying up, and we've even started on the make-up work. (Hey, you can take the mom out of the classroom...) My kids may be sick, but my house is the cleanest it's ever been: I have a bucket of bleach and I'm not afraid to use it. And Lysol disinfects everything, right?

But I didn't follow the CDC's protocol: I took my kids to the doctor when their fevers were only at 102. I didn't wait for 104. I didn't wait for extreme lethargy and blueish skin and trouble breathing. I took them when my mommy-instinct screamed, "SOMETHING'S WRONG HERE!" And I'm glad I did. Tamiflu is most effective when taken in the first 24-48 hours of onset of symptoms.

Slacker Mom Says...don't always trust the "experts". We're moms - we're the experts on our own kids. If I'd waited, who knows how sick they'd have gotten. We've escaped relatively unscathed, thank God. Whether it's a bump on the head, a child who just seems "off", or swine flu, we gotta do what we gotta do. We're moms. That's our job.

The Defense Rests

2009-10-15T10:06:00.001-04:00

You've heard of the Twinkie defense, right? Where you're so intoxicated with sugar and fat and artificial dyes/colors/preservatives that you can't be held responsible for your actions? Well, I've never claimed that one (I'm scared of Twinkies - how can there be no actual cream in the cream center?), but I HAVE claimed the Happy Meal Toy Defense. You know, the one where I'm so sick of crappy little fast food toys overrunning my playroom (yes, MY playroom; kids don't write mortgage checks) that I creep in, in the dead of night, and THROW THEM ALL OUT. Then I adamantly and vehemently deny all knowledge when the alleged crime is discovered the next day by the occupants of said playroom. Originally pioneered by that ground-breaking friend of mine, Nina, it works every time. Seven years of this motherhood thing and I've never even been accused, much less convicted.

The Happy Meal Toy Defense Strategy goes something like this: the kid can't find the beloved McDonald's emu she got in 2003 from a Happy Meal eaten with her grandmother. (Never mind that she hadn't touched it in approximately 924 days - not the point.) Suddenly, it's the "must-have" toy of the moment and she's searching high and low. Finally, in desperation, she comes to Mommy, all-knowing keeper of the whereabouts of everyone else's stuff (as in "Honey, do you know where my belt is?" Seriously? Your belt? Try the closet. Or maybe your pants. Or "Mom? Where's my sneaker?" Um, didn't you just take it off like five minutes ago?? ARGH!) in an effort to locate the treasured Beanie Baby emu. And how does Slacker Mom deflect all suspicion? She answers, "How would I know where it is? It's YOUR toy! If you'd put things away in the first place, you'd be able to find it now!" (Sometimes this is followed up by a nice long lecture about how I'm not the maid around here and I didn't play with it so how would I possibly know where you'd put it and I'm tired of having everyone ask me about all their stuff. The best defense is a good offense, after all.)

Ah, the deception. Yep, I'm guilty - of using their own stupidity against them. How have they not caught on? Do they really not get it? I mean, I have a threadbare stuffed tiger that I got at the San Diego Zoo in 1975, but the Barbie lip gloss from last night's Happy Meal is already missing?

Slacker Mom Says...toss the guilt with the Happy Meal toys. Are any of our kids really underprivileged? How many toys do two kids need? The playroom is bursting at the seams with American Girls and Barbie dolls. And if they can't put away their own crap, then they must not really value it. Some will call me a liar (I am; so are you. Did you tell your kids about Santa and the Tooth Fairy?) and some will say I have no respect for the children's belongings. But when they haven't touched these toys since the day they opened them, and Christmas is only two months away, it's time to get rid of something. So have at it. Call me what you will. I have a great defense strategy, and a jury of my peers (all mothers!) would never convict me.

Halloween is For Slackers

2009-10-13T10:38:00.000-04:00

Halloween has always been the perfect Slacker Mom-friendly holiday. Think about it: no cookies to bake, no cards to send, no perfect holiday photo to stress over. No special fancy outfits to shop for (and then fight with your kids over, amid screams of "I'm NOT wearing THAT!"), no gifts to buy, nothing to wrap or send or deliver. No parties to cook for, no invitations to figure out how to get out of, no company shindigs where you have to make small talk with people you don't even know. No teacher gifts to buy (an impossible task, even for an ex-teacher). No deciding who to visit and how to break it to the ones you're ditching.

You buy a few bags of candy, whip up a few costumes, and you're done. Ah, Halloween!

More and more, schools don't allow the "H" word to be spoken; everything is "Fall Festival" or "Harvest Celebration" these days. Even easier. Cookies can be bought at the local bakery and dropped off at school with no guilt, since I can't use my special jack-o-lantern cupcake molds anyway. Most schools won't even let parents bake treats anymore; they have to be store-bought and can't exceed "wellness" requirements set by well-meaning (but lame) district officials.

I admit, before Slacker Mom arrived, I used to over-achieve and SuperMom the crap out of Halloween, just like every other holiday. I used to make sure each child had two costumes, one for school (sticky, day-glo orange cupcake frosting all over the fleecy baby lamb costume I spent 10 hours making? I don't think so!) and one for trick-or-treating. But last year, my husband took the kids to the costume store and told them they had 30 minutes to find a costume. They came home as a pretty witch and her sweet black cat. Wading through piles of slutty pre-teen costumes was no fun for him, but it saved me about 15 hours worth of work, and didn't cost much more than I would have spent on materials.

I used to throw an elaborate annual Halloween party for all the kids we know. I had games, treats, crafts, a full buffet, and goodie bags. I'd spend hours making homemade, hand-decorated cupcakes and cookies that were gobbled up in seconds. This year, Slacker Mom pointed out that between school, neighbors, and extracurricular activities, we'd have to invite about 60 kids. And their parents. And their siblings. And it rained on that weekend last year AND the year before. So Slacker Mom convinced me to spend that money on a more worthy cause: a mid-year trip to Florida to see friends instead. Surprisingly, the kids were totally on-board and won't even miss the party that I've prided myself on for 7 years now. Talk about a wake-up call.

Slacker Mom Says...before I know it, I'll be a grumpy old lady turning out my porch light on October 31. I might as well start enjoying this holiday instead of trying to create yet another perfectly memorable, perfectly Martha Stewart holiday. Instead, I'm going to buy costumes and cookies, take my kids trick-or-treating, and get some extra sleep. After all, Christmas is just around the corner. And my Slacker Mom detox program hasn't figured out a way to talk me down from SuperMomming the crap out of Christmas yet.

Put Down the Ketchup and Catch Up

2009-10-12T08:41:00.000-04:00

So the other night I was watching Jeopardy with my husband. Boring, I know, but hey, that's life as a parent: no babysitter, so you put them to bed and watch TV and call it a date. Anyway, one of the questions was about the Secretary of the Treasury. I realized that I had absolutely NO idea who that was. My mind was as blank as the look my kids give me when I ask them what they did at school each day.

Now, I majored in International Relations with an emphasis in US/Soviet relations and Middle Eastern conflict. I minored in International Business with an emphasis in Pacific Rim economies. I used to know all 12 Supreme Court justices and the year they were confirmed, the names of various ambassadors and United Nations dignitaries, and who each of my senators and members of Congress were. I used to be knowledgeable in foreign policy, domestic policy, our military's presence in any foreign land. Not anymore.

These days, I can correctly name all four Wiggles by color, name, and musical instrument, identify the entire PTA executive board, all 8 Kindergarten teachers, and Miley Cyrus's current boyfriend - but I don't know a single member of the Cabinet or who the lieutenant governor of my state is. What the hell happened?

Motherhood happened, that's what. My priorities changed, my sphere of influence changed, my world shrank, and my reading list changed from Newsweek and USA Today to Goodnight Moon and Hop on Pop. I used to be the most well-informed woman in my neighborhood, and, I'll be honest, I looked down on the rest of them for not keeping up on current events. Now I know: they weren't stupid or unconcerned with what was happening in the world. They were just stuck in baby jail, barely able to find time to pee and throw in a load of laundry so they could go to the store without spit-up on their clothes. That WAS their world. They didn't have time to step out into the "real" world because their lives were so busy with diapers and feeding that, IF the TV went on, it was Elmo, not CNN, they watched. Rather than French politics, they were busy with french fries. Who knew.

Slacker Mom Says...I'm going to make the time to catch up on what's going on around me. I don't want to make my world so small that I forget that what's out "there" is really important, too. I want my girls to be up on current events, to be able to discuss world affairs (but not politician's affairs, thank you very much, Mark Sanford) and the human condition beyond our front door. Miley's boyfriend may be news in pre-teen land, but there's a whole world outside that I used to know and love. Time to recapture it.

But first I have to go figure out who the yellow Wiggle is. You know, the one who took over for Greg.

"Baby Monkey Is Missing!" and Other Non-Emergencies

2009-10-06T23:45:00.000-04:00

I hardly ever get a night out, but when I do, there always seems to be some major catastrophe that befalls the rest of my family. Not, of course, calamities that would require a mom to call for help, but daddy emergencies that require immediate attention from the absent mother.

Say, for example, the first time I went on a Moms' Night Out dinner with the girls. Ten minutes in, my phone rang. Assuming the worst (you know, sharp stick in the eye, snake bite, poisoning), I answered in a panic. "What's wrong? Who's hurt? Should I meet you at the ER?" I panicked. "Hey, Honey, quick question, um, which pan do you use to make cheeseburgers?" came his totally serious reply. My heart rate just went through the roof, and he's asking me about cheeseburgers? Someone's going to ER, all right, but it's not the kids. And no jury would convict me.

Or the night that I was sitting in the hair dresser's chair, foils all over my head like something out of a sci-fi movie, when my cell phone rang from deep within my pocket. Ignoring the evil glares of the other patrons, I quietly answered with, "What's wrong?" (See, less panic. I'd been doing this mom thing longer.) I heard the sorrowful voice of my preschooler: "Mommy? Mommy? I can't find my Ariel doll and Daddy didn't make the oatmeal right!" Really? He didn't make the freakin' oatmeal right? It's instant. Add milk, microwave, and you're done. How do you mess that one up? And why are you interrupting my "me" time to tell me that? (And why is a hair appointment "me" time?!)

Or, my personal favorite, while I was at the movies the weekend before delivering my second child. My best friend and I were trying to grab one last kid-free evening before I was back in baby jail with a nursing baby, when I got the call. This time, with panic in his voice, it was, "How do you sing the bedtime song? She won't go to sleep without the bedtime song!" Well, actually, she will. Close the door and tell her to go to sleep. She's working you big time, buddy. If she's two and you've never had to sing the bedtime song before...can you spell "manipulate"?

But the bigger issue is my right to time off. In motherhood, there's no sick leave, no vacation pay, no days off. When you are a mom, it's a 24/7 job. You're never off-duty, ever. Even when you take a night to yourself, you still have to be the mommy - and that's exhausting. So sometimes, kids have to make do with Daddy, who has to step up, take charge, make the decisions. With that in mind, I devised a list of approved reasons to call me when I'm "off":
~Severe blood loss requiring an ER visit or a 911 call (not "where are the Dora bandaids?")
~Prolonged, projectile vomiting (not spit up)
~Fever of 102 or above (and don't ask me how to use the thermometer or where the Tylenol is)
~Fire requiring the services of the fire department
~Broken bones protruding through the skin
~Impalement

And then there's the list of interruptions guaranteed to result in an angry wife:
~Lost toys/loveys/pacifiers (Find it yourself!)
~Cooking questions (Really, just read the chicken nugget bag.)
~Homework questions (You have a Masters degree. Figure it out.)
~Any call including the words "But they wanted to call you!"
~What to allow children to play/watch/eat/do/wear
~Questions relating to the location of common household items, like the extra diapers/pjs/books/thermometer/his mom's phone number/cheeseburger stuff

Slacker Mom Says...guard your "time off". Let the daddies know that your time off is sacred and not to be interrupted without just cause. If he can handle it himself, he'll feel better about being in charge, and you'll relax and enjoy your night out. Just make sure he knows where his cheeseburger stuff is - or, better yet, bring your leftovers home for him and turn your "Moms' Night Out" into Date Night as well. Everybody wins.

Casting the First Stone

2009-10-01T08:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, my friend Amy posted a video on her Facebook page called "Ne Jugez Pas Trop Vite." For anyone who's forgotten high school French (or took a more useful language, like maybe, say, Latin), that translates to "Don't Judge Too Quickly." The video, actually five mini-commercials for a financial institution, shows people in innocent yet embarrasing situations easily misconstrued by those who are watching. For example, in an ill-fated attempt to get to the bathroom without waking her neighbor, a woman in a middle seat on a crowded overnight flight tries to climb over the sleeping man next to her. Add a little turbulence, and suddenly she's on his lap with her skirt hiked up to her waist, as fellow travelers look on in horror. Oops. But the clip drives home the point - that most of us are guilty of jumping to conclusions, of making snap judgements without all the facts. So I started thinking: don't we all do this? Not sit on strangers' laps on airplanes, hopefully, but judge too quickly? And do we even recognize that we do it?

Come on, admit it: ever frowned in disapproval as another mom drags her screaming kids from a restaurant or store? Ever thought to your (perfect) self: I'd never allow that type of behavior! Ever privately felt smug when you see what other moms pack in their kids' lunches? Hmmm? Admit it: when your kid is eating organic carrots, apples, and yogurt, and you catch a peek at Johnny's Cheetos, Oreos, and Hi-C, you feel like the better mom, don't you? Yep, me too.

Remember the mom who was caught on mall security tapes spanking her daughter in the car? Despite the public outcry, all I could think was, I wonder what came before. Who knows what had just happened, off camera, that led to that very public spanking. I'm not advocating corporal punishment, but who among us can honestly say that she doesn't understand how a mom could snap?

Breast vs. bottle. Working vs. staying at home. Cloth vs. disposable. Academic preschool vs. play-based. As moms, we are constantly making decisions and are constantly under scrutiny. And if we aren't being judged, we feel like we are! Ever whipped out the boob to breastfeed your newborn and been told to use the bathroom? (Because I like to eat there, don't you?) Or pulled out a bottle, only to have some "nursing Nazi" lecture you on the evils of formula - even if that BPA-free sterilized bottle contains breast milk you diligently pumped at 3 AM after baby Katie only nursed on one side? (And if it DID have formula in it, SO FREAKIN' WHAT?!?) Ever reprimanded your child in public? Childless (child-free?) shoppers watching and frowning? Ever had your kids give an Oscar-worthy performance in front of the entire carpool line? While the principal stands there, too?

What about the time an old lady at the grocery store yelled at me (yes, raised her voice and called me a bad mother) because my "winter baby" didn't have on a hat? I've had to half-drag, half-carry a screaming toddler out of the mall under the scrutiny of (highly judgemental) shoppers, all of them shaking their heads and feeling sorry for my kids - while my sweet baby girl yelled, "You're hurting me, Mommy! You're hurting me!" over and over and over again. I wanted to scream, "Feel sorry for ME! You get to go back to your latte and shoe shopping, and I've got to somehow buckle this kid into her car seat and get her home before she falls asleep! And I'm NOT hurting her, but keep judging me and I'll definitely hurt YOU!"

Slacker Mom Says...ne jugez pas trop vite! Let she who is without parenting error cast the first stone. I've made mistakes, you've made mistakes, and none of us can say that we know exactly what the other mom is going through. Maybe Johnny's mom was sick and he made his own lunch. Maybe my toddler was just mad because I (gasp) dared to say no cookies before lunch, and she was tired, and she had a new sister, and she just lost it because SHE'S TWO and that's what 2-year-olds do and I WAS being a good mommy! (And, by the way, that "winter baby" did not need a hat, because it was March in South Florida - which means it was like 75 degrees outside.) We may not be perfect, but we are doing the best we can. So here's our homework: Try to go a week without judging ANYONE, yourself included. Things aren't always what they seem. And I've found that if I judge others a little less, I can go a little easier on myself. Try it.

Mine, Mine, Mine

2009-09-25T08:53:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make: I don't like to share. With anyone. At all. And I don't care who knows it. I'm like Joey on "Friends", in that episode where he refuses to share his french fries with the girl he's dating. "Joey doesn't share food!" he yells. Well, that's me, only not just with food. With everything.

Oh, I used to make sure that I "modeled" those skills, and prided myself on the fact that my firstborn never went through the "MINE" phase that most toddlers do. I used to insist that everyone share everything, from blankets to cookies to crayons. Share your toys at playdates, your Golfish at preschool, the couch with your sister.

But that was before I realized that I didn't actually have anything that was all mine anymore. I share a room and a bathroom and a closet with my husband. My kitchen table is usually covered with homework or art projects or leftover apple slices, my beautiful flower garden has jump ropes and princess figurines in it, and even my cat has a doll's bonnet on his head and a pink bow on his tail. (Not a joke. He's very tolerant. And lazy.) I found a Webkinz in my bed this morning, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't mine.

Once you become a mom, suddenly it's like you're living in a communist state: you own nothing, it's all communal property, and the dictators take your stuff and redistribute it to the "needy". My body, once strong and hard and decked out in designer fashions, became first a milk factory and then a giant napkin for kids to wipe off whatever they found on their hands. (I have a memory of ketchup-y hand prints on the white t-shirt covering my 8-months-pregnant belly.) My mind, once used to write insightful papers on the rise of socialism or the fall of apartheid, is now barely able to read the headlines in my local paper, but I can recite Goodnight Moon from memory. My car? A total mom-mobile, an SUV complete with car seats, stale graham crackers, and school spirit magnets. I used to carry cute handbags that would barely contain the essentials: ID, money, lipstick. Now I could feed a third-world country with the Cheerios at the bottom of my bag, and there are enough stickers to entertain a classroom full of Kindergartners. My tape and stapler are usually on my third-grader's desk, even though she has her own stuff in her own desk in her own room. Don't ask what they did with my toothbrush. You don't want to know. I don't want to know.

And it's not just the kids. If I open a soda, my husband materializes out of thin air, asking, "Can I have a sip?" And of course, his idea of a sip is about half the can. If I grab a brownie, he's at my side: "Are you going to finish that?" Um, yes, that was the general idea. I may not have finished law school, but I'm pretty sure that community property law does not extend to dessert.

So I've decided that enough is enough. If I have a piece of toast, no one better ask me for a bite. When I get a new nail polish, you'd better believe that I'll be the first one to use it. And no, you CANNOT have a sip of my diet Dr. Pepper. It's mine, mine, all mine! (Insert evil laugh here.)

As moms, we tend to lose ourselves while caring for our families. We put them first, their needs way ahead of ours, forgetting that we need to care for ourselves, too. If the kids sit in front of the TV while I drink a cup of coffee and look over the paper, that's just fine. Thirty minutes of the boob tube probably won't take off more than a point or two from their IQs, right? And if my husband has to get his own damn Oreos instead of eating mine, he'll live. Why do my daughters look like they just stepped out of the latest Justice catalog while I'm wearing a Target t-shirt from 2002? How did that happen? I used to wear Armani! And what am I teaching my daughters about their roles as mothers some day? Will they think that they have no right to a life of their own once they become mothers? That is so not what I want for them, so why do I let that be my reality?

Slacker Mom Says...don't practice what you preach all the time. It's ok to say, "No, that's Mommy's and you may NOT have any of it." It's ok to make the rest of them wait while you paint your nails, check your email, or eat your toast before it gets cold. I may have to eat my lunch at 10:30 in the morning, but I'm going to make sure that I have some time each day that belongs only to me. And I'm reclaiming the living room as a toy-free zone! And no one uses my nail polish or hairbrush! And the french fries at the bottom of the bag? MINE! And the roses on my birthday cake? MINE! (Insert evil laugh here.)

"Why Is There a Booger On the Bathroom Wall?" and Other Things You Never Thought You'd Say

2009-09-06T08:36:00.000-04:00

Some days it feels like my life is all about wiping. Bottoms, counters, noses, feet, pets, floors, doors, windows, tables, walls. No matter how clean the house is, the second the kids walk in the door, it's like that Tasmanian Devil guy has come in, too. A whirlwind of debris follows. I find myself asking things like, How is there yogurt on the wall upstairs? No one eats upstairs! Why is there glitter in MY room? Is that pizza sauce on the couch? We didn't even HAVE pizza this week! Whose turn is it to pick up the poop? And what IS that dried crusty stuff on the bathroom wall?

I feel like I say, "We do NOT have a maid here! Clean up after yourselves!" about a hundred times a day. This leads to, "I feel like a broken record!" (which leaves my kids confused. They have no idea what a record is. They don't even know what a cassette tape is) and other mommy-isms that seem to pour, uncontrollably, from my lips. Sometimes I step back and listen to myself, like an out-of-body experience, and wonder, what would someone think if they could only hear my part of the conversation, out of context, like listening to that annoying person on a cell phone in a restaurant? (You know who you are. We ALL know who you are.)

Since having my first baby seven years ago, I find the most bizarre things coming out of my mouth. A sampling of my favorites:

We don't put our hands in our diapers while we're at the table.

The dog does NOT need a pedicure!

Pick your nose on your own time, please.

Cats don't actually like to swim, so let's not put him in the pool.

I know it looks like a dress, but no, your witch costume isn't appropriate for church.

Just leave the sunglasses in the toilet!

Mommy's keys are where? In the cat box? No, don't get them. We'll take Daddy's car.

Why are there raisins under the couch? We don't even HAVE any raisins! Wait, no, DON'T TOUCH THAT!

I saw a movie once where the main character's sister asks her young son, "What is all over you? Is it poop or chocolate? Poop or chocolate?" and takes a sniff and a lick. (If I weren't so busy wiping, I'd google it and find out the name of the movie.) Her single, childless sister is horrified. "What if it had been poop?" she wonders. Well, let me tell you, that's not the worst thing I've wiped off my kids.

Motherhood changes you. I used to puke at the mere THOUGHT of vomit. Now, I can handle two puking kids while changing their sheets, taking temperatures, and cleaning vomit out of my own hair. The smell doesn't faze me in the least. I used to be very sensitive to disgusting smells, but now that I'm a mom, I have to get over it. Who among us hasn't done the "lift the baby up, sniff her butt for poop" test? And we do it to other people's kids!

Slacker Mom Says...my vision of myself as a perfectly-poised, always calm, sweetly-smiling Super Mom has been shattered, but I'm OK with that. When you hear yourself saying bizarre things that you never thought would come out of your (perfect) mommy mouth, just remember that we've all been there. Our kids make us crazy, our husbands make us crazy, we make ourselves crazy, but we wouldn't have it any other way. Just try to put down the phone before you ask, "Poop or chocolate?"

What Kind of Back Rub Is This, Anyway?

2009-09-04T09:02:00.000-04:00

A recent dinner with friends found the dads outside on the back porch while the moms were inside doing tequila shots. I'm not kidding. Hey, we were eating chips and salsa, and the dads had the kids. It seemed appropriate. Besides, my friend had brought this tequila all the way from Mexico for us to try. Wouldn't want to be rude. After all, this is the South.

So there we are, drinking, laughing, and talking about sex. (What else would four moms talk about while shooting tequila and licking salt off our hands?) The conversation turned to frequency. Now, I am by several years the more, shall I say, experienced member of the group - meaning they are all in their early 30s and I am not. So I was surprised to hear that, while their husbands wanted sex night after night, these women at their so-called sexual peaks thought once or twice a week was sufficient. When they turned to me, I think I surprised them back: my husband and I have a rule. When either one of us wants it, we do it. Yep, that's right. If he asks, I give it to him. If I ask, he reciprocates. No questions asked, no excuses.

After they got over their initial shock, I learned this: everyone has rules about sex. One busy mom friend tells her husband to approach her before 10 PM. Another asks her husband, "Is this back rub supposed to lead to sex, or are you helping me relax?" A third tells her husband, "Take a shower and brush your teeth before you even ask!" Romantic? Spontaneous? Not really. But motherhood isn't romantic, and sometimes we need a little time to transition from Mommy to Honey. Sometimes we can't switch off the mommy mode that quickly. We used to go from zero to 60 in mere seconds. Now we might need a few minutes, but we'll get there.

Another thing that came up was HOW our husbands initiate sex. Like, if it's nearing midnight and I'm still folding laundry, don't pounce on me when I lean over to pick up a stray sock. Not sexy. Or, if I'm at the sink washing dishes, don't come in from mowing the grass and start kissing me IN THAT WAY. And, my personal favorite, while I'm in the shower washing the spaghetti sauce-induced vomit out of my hair, DO NOT join me thinking it will lead anywhere. It won't. There's a puking kid in our bed who could give Linda Blair a run for her money, for crying out loud!

So the four of us started thinking: we know what they want. That hasn't changed since Johnny tried to get to second base at the junior high dance. Do we tell our husbands what WE want? Do we tell them what gets us in the mood? For me, there's nothing hotter than watching my husband do the dishes, make the school lunches, AND fold a load of towels before hopping in the sack. Anything that gets my chores done sooner is likely to put me in bed sooner. And if I'm not so exhausted that I pass out the second my head hits the pillow, then...well, you get the idea.

Slacker Mom Says...go for it, ladies! Tell your man what you want and how HE can get what HE wants. Hand him the vacuum and tell him to get busy if he wants to (wink wink) get busy later. Tell him you'll be waiting in the bedroom as soon as he puts the baby to bed. And if he initiates, go for it. As my best friend says, "Hey, if he still finds me hot 18 years and 3 kids later, I'm not complaining!" Besides, it's all good once you're there. We'll ALWAYS be tired and busy. We're moms! But having sex with my husband isn't yet another chore; it's an expression of our love and committment to each other. And it feels good, dammit! So leave the dishes in the sink, lock the bedroom door, and, as Nike says, Just Do It!

A Disclaimer

2009-09-03T11:15:00.000-04:00

From time to time, my friends and family appear in this blog. If I think something may be potentially embarrassing, I will change the names and/or details to protect the innocent (or their husbands). If you see yourself here, know that it's actually a compliment and that you have inspired me! And thank you for being my friend.

"Emergency Preparedness" Isn't Only For Earthquakes and Hurricanes

2009-09-03T10:03:00.000-04:00

Whenever people come to my house for the first time, they make fun of my schedule. It's prominently displayed on my gorgeous, shiny, black, brand-new refrigerator, marring an otherwise-perfect surface. (Fridge magnets scratch, and, honestly, aren't that cute.) But it's the single-most important piece of paper in my entire house. You don't believe me? It went up the same day I came home from the grocery store to find two screaming, hysterical kids laying on the floor, sobbing, and my husband about to throw his own temper tantrum. The girls were 1 and 3, and when I asked the oldest why she was screaming, she replied, "Because I'm so very hungry, Mommy!" Turns out when he made himself a sandwich at noon, he forgot to feed the kids. Or put them down for naps. Oops.

Now, my husband is a great dad. He's a thoughtful husband. But he's a guy, so sometimes he's a little, well, clueless about what goes on around here. He's not around a lot during the week, so he's not always sure when they eat, when they do homework, when they go to bed, or who has library and who has P.E. Sometimes he forgets that one child is a vegetarian and the other won't eat anything green. (He also forgets that the "leave" time is NOT the same as the "tell everyone to pee and put on their shoes" time. No, Hon, that takes an extra 10 minutes, easy.) To help him out, I posted the Flexible Daily Schedule on my refrigerator. Sure, it's a throwback to my days as a teacher, when we had to have our schedules posted on our classroom doors, but hey, it works.

On said schedule, I list things like wake-up times (one for grown-ups, one for kids, because let's face it, if I'm not up before them, nothing's happening on time), when to leave for school, pick-up times, when they need a snack and when they do their homework. I also include extracurricular activities, the school's related-arts schedule (they need to wear sneakers for P.E. and "messy clothes" on art days) and any other regularly-scheduled events. Dinner time, shower time, and bedtime are at the end. Let's be honest, the kids MIGHT tell him when they do all this, but it's unlikely. I also make notes like "check assignment books/initial when homework is done" and "lay out clothes for the next day before bed". He's never experienced a tween girl having a clothing or shoe crisis at 6:45 AM, so he needs this information.

I also keep a Family Notebook, where I list other pertinent information. Sports practices, game schedules, coaches; the name of and directions to the dance studio and the girls' dance class schedules; the kids' friends and playmates, and neighbors who could help out in an emergency; school and PTA commitments and events; personal and health information for the entire family - all of this is in one place and can be accessed at a moment's notice. (Really, does your husband know which dentist or specialist to call, or the home and cell phone numbers of your girlfriend who would come over and do a ballet bun before the big recital?)

Some moms consider this system too rigid, a little controlling, or (more than) a little Type-A, but there's a method to my madness: if I weren't around, my family would have one less thing to worry about. A few years ago, my mom had a heart attack and I had to hop on a plane to L.A. with little notice. Everything Mr. Mom needed was at his fingertips. Sure, he couldn't do their hair, but the preschool teacher was more than willing to help him out with that. And last year, I had surgery and didn't recover as quickly as I thought I would. The schedule and notebook system meant that I didn't have to worry about things running (somewhat) smoothly while I was recuperating. OK, so the leotard went on backwards, and the ballet shoes didn't make it home from class that day, but overall, things went well. The kids were a little wrinkled, but everyone got to school and their activities on time. My husband knew which of our friends to call when he needed someone to pick the kids up while he took me back to the hospital, and who had a house key and could let the dog out and feed her. It meant that the kids had the comfort of the familiar during an uncomfortable time.

Slacker Mom Says...don't make fun of another mom's system (or apparent lack thereof). We all have our own way of doing things. I may be a Slacker Mom in other areas - don't look under the beds or in my linen closets, and I certainly don't have an earthquake kit or an apocolyptic "we can live for months without the outside world" kit. But my family's affairs are in order. My system is like having a will and life insurance: I hope I never need it, but if I do, I'll be so glad I took the time and effort to take care of things.

Find Your Sisters Where You Can

2009-09-03T08:56:00.000-04:00

When I first started the monthly Moms' Night Out (MNO) group, I had a 14-month-old and a husband who worked 12-hour days. I had four girlfriends with toddlers the same age as mine, and, as much as we loved playgroup and Tumble Tots, we needed some kid-free time. Our husbands all worked long days, and our kids were fed, bathed, and in bed by the time they got home. Coley, Jill, Leslie, Brandy and I were single-handedly running our households and caring for our children while the daddies worked hard so we could (happily! gratefully!) stay home with our babies. None of us had our mothers or sisters nearby, and we'd become each other's support systems. But we were all starting to feel a little overwhelmed - and more than a little burned out. So the five of us agreed that on the third Thursday of each month, we'd head out to dinner - without husbands, kids, or mommy guilt.

At first, it was kind of strange eating somewhere other than the mall's food court. We chose restaurants with linen tablecothes, no play area, no kids' menu, no high chairs or booster seats. We ordered things that our husbands and kids would NEVER eat, shared appetizers and entrees, even ordered dessert and coffee. After all, we weren't paying a babysitter and we didn't have to rush home to take care of the elaborate bedtime routines that all of us first-time moms thought we needed (and later found out that none of the daddies were following, just dumping them in their cribs with a quick pat on the bum. But more on that another time.).

With everyone now driving minivans or SUVs, we certainly had enough room to ride together. Besides, we were all getting pregnant again - first Leslie, then Coley, then me - and that way we always had a designated driver. We continued our MNO through the summer and into the fall. Dressing up, putting on a little more makeup than usual, eating at new restaurants, all made us feel like people again, more than just a harried mommy with spit up in her hair and ketchup on her shirt. We liked not being responsible for little people, for their safety, health, education, enrichment - even if it was just for two hours. And no one's husband begrudged her a little time off, a few apple martinis, a night out with the girls now and then, did he?

Sometimes our kids cried when we left and we felt guilty, but we went anyway. Sometimes our husbands cried when we left, and we definitely went anyway! But the kids got over it, and the daddies got over it, and we continued for the next year. Our second babies were all born three months apart, one after the other. By the time one of us was ready to give birth, the last one had recovered enough to help out. Once or twice, someone brought a newborn out with us, but more often we left them at home for a bit, laughing through leaking breast pads and sore "lady parts", and discussed the proper way to "pump and dump" after a glass or two of wine.

My husband quickly learned that a happy wife meant he'd be happy...later, if you know what I mean. I came home refreshed, renewed, re-energized. My friends recognized me for the funny, smart, interesting woman I had once been, and didn't just see me as a chef, housekeeper, accountant, doctor, finder of lost binkies, all things to all people. It was fun, it was good for me, and it was good for my family.

Over time, we've all gone our separate ways. I moved away when the big kids were 2 1/2, and started a MNO group in my new town. The others continued for awhile after I left, but eventually their kids went to different preschools and made new friends. But for the time that these women were in my life, they were more than just my friends. We spent holidays and birthdays together. When a new baby was born or one of us had to go on bedrest, the rest of us took care of the older children and fed the family. Whatever anyone needed, we provided. We were the extended family we created for ourselves. They were the sisters I needed, since my own was so far away. They gave me advice, they cared for my family, they loved my daughters, and I loved their kids. And even though our contact is mostly limited to Christmas cards now, I still remember them fondly, still love their kids, and I'm still so grateful for the time I had with them.

Slacker Mom Says...cherish your friendships. Enjoy and celebrate the women in your life. Leave the dusting and go to lunch; forget the laundry and get a pedicure together. Grab some girlfriends and start your own MNO. Your kids will be fine. Your husband will (eventually) be fine. Take in a movie, have coffee, meet at the gym, and don't feel guilty if the beds aren't made and the kids' uniforms are a little wrinkled. They won't remember that, but you will remember your friendships forever. And time off makes us all better moms!

Pez is a Fruit, Right?

2009-08-28T10:56:00.000-04:00

Being the Perfect Mommy, I have an after school routine for my kids: they get the mail, have a snack, talk about their school day, and settle in for homework time. Snack is usually fresh fruit, yogurt, or whole grain (no sugar) cereal. Everyone shares the best and worst part of the school day, grabs their assignments, and gathers at the kitchen table so that I am available to help while I go through the mail and (endless, multiple copies of) school notices. No homework? You may read, practice math facts, or color quietly at the table with the rest of us. That's been our routine since the first one started Kindergarten a few years ago. A little boring, maybe, but effective and predictable.

This year, that routine lasted all of a week. On that fateful day, the girls raced to the mailbox to find a package from their Uncle Brian, who lives in Montana and always sends the COOLEST things (Hello Kitty fruit snacks! MSU tee shirts! A cowboy hat! Pictures of the dogs on a 14-mile hike up a snow-covered mountain! In July!). Ripping open the envelope, they found Disney Princess Pez dispensers...and EXTRA Pez refills! Pink and purple sugar pouring out of their favorite Disney characters! You'd have thought he sent them a million dollars, they were so excited.

Now, normally I would not allow candy right after school, at least not before a nutritious snack balancing fiber and protein for optimal brain power. But on this particular Monday, Slacker Mom had invaded my body. So when the girls' screams of, "Can we eat it? Can we eat it NOW?" pierced the humid air, I gave in.

If it's fruit-flavored, it must have some fruit in it, right?

And I discovered that the world didn't end, that homework got done (albeit a little more slowly, since it's hard to draw the state game bird while clutching Snow White in your sweaty little hand), and everyone still ate a (mostly) nutritious dinner. But the joy on their faces when they saw that gift from their beloved uncle, the simple pleasure of a bit of candy for no reason other than he loves them and was thinking of them, made me think: why do I have these rigid rules about things that, just maybe, don't really matter all that much? Does it really make a difference if they have the "perfect" snack every day after school? Would allowing a little more junk food be detrimental to their academic progress or their overall health, if they eat well the rest of the time? I think the answer is no, it wouldn't - but it might mean a little more fun with my kids after they've been away from me all day. So now, if they want a little ice cream in the afternoon, I'll top it with fresh fruit and let them go to town. Every so often, we'll split a Snapple instead of skim milk, and there's nothing wrong with a little Cookie Crisp cereal now and then, either.

Slacker Mom Says...question the rules. Rules were made to be broken. Shake things up and let them do their homework outside, in their bathing suits, with the sprinklers waiting for them as soon as they are done. Serve cake for breakfast on their birthdays, even if it's a school day. We only have a few short years to enjoy our kids. We're building memories that will last a lifetime, and someday, our kids will tell their kids, "Once, when I was 5, your Gramma let me eat an entire tube of Pez that Uncle Brian sent me. It was awesome!" And your grandkids will think you're awesome, too. Then you can let them eat chocolate ice cream for breakfast, and your kids can't say a word about it.

"Slacker Dad" Is Redundant

2009-08-27T19:56:00.001-04:00

Shortly after Slacker Mom made her first appearance this summer, she had a much-anticipated and long-overdue appointment with her colorist. (You know it's bad when your pre-teen says, "Um, Mom, I don't want to insult you, but I don't want anyone thinking you're my grandmother, either." Thanks, kid. I'll remember that when you want your first highlights - and you want me to pay for it.) So off she went to the salon on a Saturday morning, no kids, no husband, just Slacker Mom and her new magazines. (And not parenting magazines, either. Really educational stuff like People, Us Weekly, and Glamour.)

Meanwhile, back at home, Daddy was in charge. Now, during the week, Daddy is rarely home during daylight hours. So, in his defense, he's not always up on all the latest rules and procedures, like "no eating on the couch", or "meals before dessert", or "we brush our teeth at least now and again". The girls were enjoying his, shall we say, more carefree and relaxed parenting style. That is to say, they had Pop Tarts for breakfast (on the couch), used every utensil in the kitchen for their Play-Doh cakes (on the couch), and had Wendy's for lunch (thankfully NOT on the couch). Four hours of mayhem later, the playroom was nearly unrecognizable, and the kids were not much better off. You don't want to know what they were wearing: just watch out for the "what not to wear" column.

When Slacker Mom arrived home, the kids were parked in front of Hannah Montana and their daddy was camped out in front of the computer. Hugs, kisses, compliments for the new hairstyle, a few nervous glances around (mine) - and then the pets scurried off, fear in their eyes, to hide. They say animals can sense danger, after all. That's when I started looking around and saw the damage - the crumbs, the dishes, the fast food bags on the kitchen table, the Play-Doh stuck on the new rug. I could feel my blood pressure rising, the salon-induced warm fuzzies rapidly draining from my once-relaxed body.

The kids were easy to break. They figured Daddy'd be the one to get in trouble, not them. They gleefully ratted him out, sparing no detail. "Daddy let us have TWO Pop Tarts!" Really? "Yeah, AND gum! You never let us have gum!" No, I don't. Because I'm tired of finding it in your hair, on the carpet, on the dog. And on it went.

Finally, my husband looking sheepish and the kids tiring of this game, I sent the kids upstairs to clean up and brush their teeth (and put on clean clothes, I'll admit). I looked at my exhausted, sweet, hard-working husband, who always encourages me to take time for myself and never gives me a hard time when I'm the one hitting the drive-thru or breaking out the sugared cereal, and decided to give the guy a break. To lighten the mood, I said, "So, what? Did Slacker Dad come by here today?"

And my witty husband, who used his fine sense of humor (and timing) to suck me right in when we were dating, looked at me and said, "SLACKER Dad? Isn't that redundant? Isn't the slacker part just assumed?"

Slacker Mom Says...cut the daddies some slack, too. Let them do it their own way, even if it's not the "right" way or your way. No kid ever died from eating a few Pop Tarts or got a mouthful of cavities because they skipped brushing their teeth once or twice, and most dads really don't get the whole "outfit" thing anyway. So if you come home and your daughter's hair looks like something Madonna tried in the 80s (don't pretend you don't remember) and your son is wearing his diaper backwards, get over it. Hey, that's one diaper you didn't have to change, and the 80s are in again, right? Dads need to find their own style, their own groove, without us always telling them how to do it. And besides, sometimes daddies are just more relaxed, more easy-going, more fun. They can be. The "slacker" part is assumed.

I May Be the Boss, But Nobody's Listening

2009-08-26T13:24:00.000-04:00

The other day, my husband came home from work and ranted about his day. Nothing went right, no one did their job well, paperwork was lost, people didn't follow through, everyone was slacking off, blah blah blah blah blah. Being the perfect loving, patient wife, I said, "I'm so sorry you had a rough day. Want some dinner?" and served him some grilled salmon and fresh vegetables by candlelight. (True story. I think Slacker Mom was off duty that day.)

But what I WANTED to say was, "Get over it! You think you had a bad day? Did anyone puke on the new area rug at YOUR office? How many of YOUR employees had major meltdowns in the middle of Target? Did anyone at YOUR work require 7 bandaids, 2 elaborate hair styles, socks that weren't itchy, AND individually-packed home-made lunches while your co-workers were still asleep, all before 7 AM? Welcome to my world!"

Much as I loved teaching, I always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I love my life and I'm happy with the choices I've made, don't get me wrong, but there are times I'd welcome the positive feedback and tangible rewards that come from a "real" job. True, I get paid in sticky kisses and endless hugs, but there are times I'd like to hear "Great job!" from my boss. And then I remember, I don't have a boss! I AM the boss! And why don't I feel like it? Why do I feel like I work for everyone else? Why do I feel like I run around meeting everyone else's needs and ignoring my own? Why do I feel guilty taking ten minutes to paint my toenails when there's dirty laundry piled to the ceiling and no one has clean tights for ballet class? Why, indeed?

My friend Jen recently told her husband, "You don't understand. You go to work, you're the boss, everyone listens to you and does whatever you say." His (typically male) response? "Honey, you're the boss here at home!" to which she replied, "I may be the boss, but no one listens!" Truer words were never spoken. We are in charge of EVERYTHING, but we don't feel in control of much. We are responsible for EVERYTHING, but get (take?) little credit when it all turns out well. Lots of blame if it all goes to hell in a handbasket, but credit? Not so much.

But then I call my best friend to vent, and she reminds me of something important: I'm living the dream. I have this time with my kids, time that can never be taken from me, that I will never regret, that I will cherish forever. She even bought me an engraved bracelet that says "Live the Life you Love", to remind me that this is the life I've always wanted, it's the life I chose, the life I do, indeed, love. I wouldn't change any of it for the world. I just need to slow down, enjoy the ride, and relax a bit more.

Slacker Mom Says...slow down. Do less for everyone else if it means doing more for yourself. Moms need to cherish themselves so that they can cherish their kids. We need to feed ourselves, literally and figuratively, before we can feed our kids' bodies, brains, souls. That's the reason the airlines tell us to put on our own oxygen masks first. Once our needs are met, we can help our kids safely navigate the waters of childhood. So I'm going to be the boss, and I'm giving myself some time off, starting today.

Southern Women Make Me Look Bad

2009-08-20T10:07:00.000-04:00

Recently, I was at a five-year-old's birthday party at one of those inflatable play spaces. (For the third time in a month, but that's another story.) My friend and I were watching our daughters play when we noticed another mom, in full make-up and perfect hair, dripping with diamonds, wearing a short, tight black halter dress. She looked amazing and glamorous, like she was headed to an evening event with her husband, not standing around eating cold pizza at Bouncies-R-Us. My friend and I looked at each other, noted our baggy capri pants, tee shirts, and flip flops (the uniform of the SAHM), and wondered: is this what is expected of us at 9 AM? Is she over-dressed, or are we slobs?

Although both of us are from the West Coast, home of Hollywood and breast implants for teenagers, we now live in the South. Women here have a different idea of beauty. I have friends I've known over a year now, whom I've never seen in less than perfect hair and make-up, even at the pool. They wear cute dresses to Wal Mart, high heels to football games, and never leave home without their lipstick. Their daughters have bows in their hair on the soccer field. They are unfailingly polite and well-mannered.

Sometimes that makes me feel like Slacker Mom. My oldest refuses to wear bows, my youngest loses hers, and I don't even know when I last wore a pair of Manolo's. I honk at people who don't move when the light turns green. I do (sometimes) wear lipstick, but I don't know how to wear eyeliner on my lower lids or where to buy hairspray that actually keeps out the humidity. I'm more of a laid-back California mom: I wear flip flops, Uggs in the winter, tee shirts with my skirts, casual hair and make-up. I try to do my nails, but chlorine and dish water do a number on them, so I usually stick with at-home pedicures and skip the manicures altogether.

My grandmother NEVER left home without blush and lipstick on. I think she was a Southerner posing as a Midwestern farmer's daughter, but perhaps she was on to something. A little lipstick makes me feel just a bit more like a woman and a bit less like a mom. A little effort on my part goes a long way: the girls tell me, "Mommy! You look beautiful today!" and my husband appreciates the more-glamorous me when he gets home at night. It's a nice change from the sweat pants I wore to walk the dog.

Slacker Mom Says...when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Maybe it's time to embrace my inner Southerner. Who knows? Maybe this time next year I'll be sipping sweet tea on my front porch.

The Clothes (Don't) Make the Woman

2009-08-20T09:09:00.001-04:00

When I was a young teacher (cute! blonde! size 4!), I noticed that a lot of stay-at-home moms brought their kids to school in ratty sweats, baggy tee shirts, messy hair. They looked like a lot of teenage boys today: the "I just woke up, threw on whatever was laying on the floor, and came to school" look. I clearly remember thinking, Seriously, ladies, how hard is it to slap on a little make-up, put on a clean pair of jeans, and get to school at 7:30? I vowed that would never be me.

Ha, ha, freakin' ha.

These days, I put on just enough mascara and tinted moisturizer so as not to embarrass my daughters, run my fingers through my hair, and grab whatever's laying on top of the laundry basket - and doesn't smell too much like sunscreen or dog. I've even gone through the carpool line in my Tinkerbell pajamas and Ugg boots. Don't get me wrong: if I have a meeting, a volunteer committment, somewhere other than my laundry room to be, I'll go all out. Blow dyer, flat iron, makeup, clean jeans and "real" shoes (not flip flops for my inner San Diego girl). But if I'm heading to the gym or back home to my desperately-in-need-of-bleach bathrooms, why bother? I'm just going to need another shower later anyway. My friend Jennifer is usually wearing gym shorts and sneakers when I see her at school. She calls it her "uniform". When she glams it up, she looks amazing, but really, what's the point at 7 AM?

Just to be clear, I am not speaking of working moms who are headed to the office after putting in a full morning at home, packing lunches and getting kids off to school. Working moms amaze me. They have full make-up, perfect hair, and coordinating jewelry - before 8 AM! No, I'm talking about those of us who are going back home to make beds, do dishes, sort laundry, walk the dog. If you want to get up an hour early to get ready for drop off, more power to you. You look fantastic; I admire your dedication and your effort. It's just that I don't want to do it anymore. I don't HAVE to do it anymore. Soon enough I'll be back at work in full make-up and pantyhose, but this time around I won't judge anyone for how they spend their precious morning minutes.

Slacker Mom Says...it's ok to slack off and sleep an extra half hour, even if it's just once or twice a week. You can do your make-up and hair when you get back home. Anyone who judges you isn't worth your time and certainly isn't your friend. Let's redefine our expectations for women and for stay-at-home moms. We all want to look our best, but we shouldn't have to get up at 5:30 in the morning to do it!

And please don't judge me if you see me in the hallway in baggy sweats and a ratty tee shirt. I'm probably off to the gym.

The Last Days of Summer

2009-08-17T09:39:00.000-04:00

My kids are bored. With me, with each other, with their toys.

And this is a good thing. School starts in two days. My kids are sick of being home. By contrast, school seems exciting. New friends! New teachers! New pencils! And I am actively, purposefully making things around here super-boring so that they can't wait to get back to school.

Don't get me wrong. I LOVE having my kids home and wish the summer were longer. We travel, go to the beach, swim nearly every day, visit museums, do crafts, play with friends. I hate sending them back to school because I really, truly miss them when they are gone. (Ask anyone: I cry all the way home every year on the first day.) But my job is to help them separate easily from me, to become independent thinkers, to give them roots and wings. If things at home remain fascinating and fun, they'll never want to go back to school. So, to that end, I make the end of summer as unexciting as possible.

Slacker Mom lets me off the hook from those last big "hurrah" events of summer. No last minute rush to the beach, no "one more trip for ice cream" before school starts, no "let's get in all the things we forgot to do while we were lazing around." Nope, around here, we are trying on school clothes, organizing sock drawers, and tidying up the playroom after a summer full of playdates. It's not horrible, it's just not exciting. But this makes them look forward that much more to the first day of school. A new teacher is upbeat, energetic, excited for the new year. Slacker Mom, by contrast, is not. She's tired, sunburned, and disorganized, since she's been at the pool all summer instead of cleaning her house. Score one for school.

Slacker Mom Says...no need to kill yourself making this week fun. They've had fun all summer. Slack off and let them be just bored enough to make school the most exciting thing since, well, last June.

Slacker is NOT a Synonym For Lazy

2009-08-15T10:23:00.001-04:00

Recently, I had a conversation with some mommy friends about "slacker moms". There was quite a range of opinion about what the term meant. Some felt that slacker moms watch soaps while their kids run wild upstairs; some felt that the label applied to moms who aren't involved at school, or feed their kids fast food every day, or are just plain lazy.

So let's clarify: Slacker Mom isn't lazy. Far from it! Slacker Mom is a dedicated, devoted mom who has realized that sometimes, it's OK to be less than "perfect". That it's acceptable to buy frozen pizza for the annual Back to School Pizza Bash (although the cookies were homemade and the fruit salad was fresh). That there is nothing wrong with the occasional playdate at McDonald's because it's been raining for three days and everyone's going crazy being cooped up in the house. That Halloween costumes don't have to be made by hand every single year, and in fact, you can have the kids (gasp!) wear the same thing two years in a row.

Slacker Mom practices long-term parenting, realizing that what's best is usually not what's easiest, but it is what's necessary to raise healthy, happy, well-adjusted young people who contribute positively to their communities. This is our goal as moms, isn't it? But Slacker Mom has given herself permission to ENJOY this time in her life, not just get through it. She doesn't want to miss anything, so she "slacks" off on things that don't REALLY matter in order to enjoy the things that do.

Slacker Mom has realized that SHE matters too. She understands that if she's overworked and underappreciated, her kids will suffer. She has consciously chosen to take a breather from the hectic, harried schedules of motherhood to just enjoy life and, more importantly, enjoy her children for the very short time they are young. Ask any grandmother: time flies. Blink, and they're out of diapers. Blink again, and they're in school. Once more, and they're married with kids of their own!

Ask yourself: when was the last time you dropped everything to make a mermaid tail for a Polly-Pocket-sized Prince Eric so he could swim with Ariel? (Don't laugh, it's part of the job description. Read your manual.) There will always be dishes to do, beds to make, and floors to wash. Rather than ignore her kids, "Slacker Mom" is a way to embrace them, to embrace Motherhood (with a capital M!) and to focus on what matters. Instead of spending an hour making a perfectly well-balanced organic dinner from all the food groups, Slacker Mom serves oatmeal (hey, there's milk in there, and raisins, too!) on a picnic blanket on the floor.

When I had my first child, a very wise woman (a mother of five, police detective and small business owner) gave me some advice: Your kids will not remember that your house was always company clean, but they will remember what you did with them, that you played with them and took them to fly kites and made cookies. I thought, how true! how insightful! And then she added, "And sometimes, you've got to put in a DVD, order pizza, and take a long, hot bath." Hey, she's entitled to a Slacker Mom night, too!

Slacker Mom Says...embrace your inner slacker! Focus on what makes you happy. Enjoy your kids, enjoy being a mom, enjoy this season of your life. Cut out activities and social obligations that make you crazy and stressed. Avoid people who bring you down and drain your energy. Happy mom, happy kids, happy family.

"Me" Time Isn't Selfish

2009-08-13T09:39:00.000-04:00

When my kids were really little, babies and toddlers, I felt the need to be with them at all times. Reading, playing, coloring, crafting, doing everything with, and for, them myself. I even had a hard time letting my husband take over bathing or feeding, thinking that it made me a better mom, a better person, if I met their needs myself. I didn't even like for him to take them anywhere in the car without me: what if he didn't buckle them tightly? if he let them eat junk food? if he drove too fast?

But now that they are a bit older, I see that I do NOT have to be "on" all the time. Right now, the girls are watching a movie, and I'm sitting with them, writing, reading, drinking coffee. I am present with them, available to them, but I don't WANT to watch Cinderella for the 935th time. I've realized that it's ok to let my husband take them swimming while I take a nap (or clean bathrooms, which is more likely), that it's ok to send them back upstairs when they wake up too early in the morning, that they can figure out how to shove Barbie's feet into her go-go boots. (Or just find some sneakers. The girl's got more shoes than Imelda Marcos!) I am entitled to finish a cup of coffee before it gets cold, and Barbie's fashion crisis can just wait a few minutes!

As my kids got older, and as I approached 40, I got tired of constantly meeting everyone else's needs and ignoring mine. (Why are you asking me for a drink while I'm IN THE POTTY???) So now, if I'm on the treadmill and someone wants a snack, she can wait until I am done - or get it herself. I have the right to be healthy and happy, and taking care of myself allows me to take better care of my family.

Slacker Mom lets my kids be more independent and less dependent on me. She lets me take some time for myself, feel good about doing something for me for a change. So if my kids are watching TV for an hour instead of reading or doing a science experiment, it won't hurt them. Not every moment must be spent "enriching" their little lives. Did our moms do so much for us, or did they just let us get on with it?

Slacker Mom Says...it's ok to take a few minutes to read the paper, watch the news, drink your coffee, or catch up with a friend on the phone. If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. So be happy and do something for you this morning!

Why Slacker Mom?

2009-08-12T15:28:00.001-04:00

I have always been an over achiever: straight A's in school, top scores on standardized tests, a driven, Type-A perfectionist. During my first year of college, my roommate called me a "wacko-spaz-joiner", referring to my habit of taking on too many projects, clubs, and classes. (She didn't mean it as a compliment, but now it's a running joke between us.) She was right, and I was sleep-deprived and over-extended, but that didn't stop me. Why not give your all in everything you do? I had no concept of "good enough".

Fast forward ten years, and I'm teaching gifted children in San Diego while working on my Masters in Education. I sit on 6 committees, volunteer for 3 different organizations, have a full social calendar, freelance for a major publishing house, hit the gym at 8 PM every night, and throw regular gourmet dinner parties (with the same roommate, by the way). Still sleep-deprived and over-extended and perfectionistic, but busy and active and involved and happy. I think.

Now, 23 years after the original "wacko-spaz-joiner" comment was made, I realize that I am STILL that girl: the one on all the school committees, volunteering for every job, driving two kids to 4 different activities (EACH) every week, designing costumes for the ballet company and cooking the second grade Thanksgiving feast while recovering from major surgery, making all the cookies for the preschool graduation from scratch, wanting to have it all, wanting to do it all, wanting to do it all perfectly.

And my little girls have a tired, stressed out, sleep-deprived, over-extended, perfectionistic mom. Who falls asleep reading Goodnight Moon at 7 PM.

And my husband may have a home-cooked meal every night, but when he goes to bed, I'm working on the school emergency phone tree directory or the Christmas newsletter or the family vacation scrapbook.

And, worst of all, I've started seeing perfectionistic tendencies in my seven-year-old.

So this summer, I introduced my kids to "Slacker Mom". She visits a few times a week. She serves oatmeal or popcorn for dinner and leaves the beds unmade to take them swimming. Sometimes she even plops them in front of the TV with pizza! On the couch! My kids ADORE Slacker Mom. They ask for her regularly.

Welcome to Slacker Mom. She'll let you off the hook.