OC Family - Moms. Kids. Life. - (Cheeky Musings)

Are dogs more important than children?

Wed, 08 Sep 2010 17:00:00 GMT

The large, full-size Doberman Pincer was partially blocking the narrow entrance to the restaurant. To my twins, seated in their strollers, I'm sure the dog looked more like a horse. I was about to try and edge my way around the dog but my twins started screaming.

"NO! NO! Dat's scary doggie! NOOOOO!"

The Doberman turned to look at us and I glanced at his leash, carelessly looped around a railing. He could have easily pulled free. I wasn't about to push past the dog, with my twins' faces just inches from his teeth.

"What is a guard dog doing out here?" I asked my husband. "He's blocking the entrance to the restaurant!"

"He must be a friendly dog or the owners wouldn't have left him out here," Matt replied.

I wasn't convinced.

But there was no other way into the restaurant except to scoot sideways past the dog.

With Matt's help, I got the twins into the restaurant. As I glanced back, I could see other patrons gingerly easing their way past the Doberman. One woman had even placed herself behind a nearby patio railing while waiting for her To-Go order.

That's when I got upset.

After we were seated, I asked to speak to the manager. He was a youngish guy with a shaved head.

"I just think you should know that the Doberman out there is making people uncomfortable," I began. "My twins were terrified."

"Oh, he's a friendly dog," the manager said. "I went out there and petted him and gave him some water."

Huh. He knew the dog was friendly because he gave it some water? Right.

"Well, we've had experience with unfriendly dogs whose owners said they were friendly," I said. "And it concerns me that the Doberman is partially blocking the entrance to the restaurant."

"Yeah, I know," he said."There's nothing I can do about that."

There's nothing he can do about a GUARD DOG blocking the ENTRANCE to his restaurant? Give me a break.

The least he could do is ask the owners to put the dog in the car.

After the manager left, my husband--who rarely ever gets rankled about stuff--said to me: "Did you notice he never once looked at our twins or even cared that they'd freaked out? The dog was more important to him."

"I guess that's Newport Beach for ya," I answered.

Still, it was shocking. I couldn't really believe that the manager was defending the dog instead of the restaurant's patrons. What sort of thinking justifies the well-being of dogs over the well-being of human beings?

It made me realize the slow change I've seen happening at places like Fashion Island. This mall has become over-run with dogs. In fact, there are almost more dogs out walking with their owners than there are children with their parents.

I don't have a problem with people bringing their small, harmless pocket Chihuahuas to the mall. But I think it crosses a line when people start leaving their Doberman Pincers unattended outside a restaurant.

Aren't there liability risks? What if, God forbid, a child gets bitten? What if a dog-fight breaks out and there's property damage? Who's responsible for that?

Furthermore, what does it say about our society that we don't immediately and instinctively protect our children's well-being above that of a dog?

This restaurant manger went out of his way to make the Doberman feel comfortable (giving it water, petting it) but he never so much as acknowledged the fact that my twins had been terrified.

I used to think Fashion Island was a family-friendly place. Now, I'm not so sure.

What do you think? Am I over-reacting?
Do you think there's a cultural shift in how we value animals v. humans?

I regret voting Yes on 8

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 12:23:00 GMT

As a Californian, I voted yes on Prop 8. I regret that now. As a Christian, I don't think it's my place to promote a constitutional ban on the marrying decisions of other human beings.

Yes, my religious beliefs tell me that marriage ought to be between one man and one woman. However, my religious beliefs also compel me to act justly toward those whose religious beliefs differ from mine.

I suppose my change of heart also has to do with what I believe is the message of the Gospel. Living a life that is pleasing to God is difficult enough without standing as Judge in the lives of others.

And yet, minding my own business is a very lonely place to be. I have heard it preached from pulpits that my Christian duty requires me to vote in a particular way. I have heard many Christians say that it is our moral responsibility to "protect the institution of marriage."

I'm beginning to think that evangelical Christians have made a grave error by equating their Christian duty with political victory. Because if Christians really believe in protecting the institution of marriage--or, better, actually live it--then why does the Christian divorce rate rival that of unbelievers?

As far as I can tell, the institution of marriage isn't in danger. But marriages among Christians are. If we cannot keep our own marriages intact, how are we justified in passing judgment--legislative or otherwise--upon the unions of others?

The issue of same-sex marriage is often used as a convenient scapegoat for proving the supposed decline of Christianity in the West. This decline was precipitated by the "breakdown of the American family." If this is true, then Christians are just as much to blame--especially if we are the oft-vaunted "Christian nation" we Christians like to say we are.

I also find it disturbing that Christians are upset about "the will of the people" being overturned by a judge. Sometimes the "will of the people" is dead wrong. If the majority always ruled, then African-Americans and women still wouldn't vote. The reason we need the courts is to help protect the rights of minority groups.

Don't Christians realize that one day we might be the minority? How will we react if ballot initiatives restricting our religious freedoms are voted upon with overwhelming support? In that day, I hope there's a judge who overrules the errant majority.

I don't have all the answers for how to live out the Gospel in our culture. I do know that it's always easier to whip up fear and hysteria using urgent words, protests and voter guides. It's much more difficult to live a life of humility and brokenness.

I guess what I'm saying is that if our culture is broken, I am responsible. I pollute. I hold grudges. I am unforgiving, angry, sarcastic, vain and overly fond of flattery. I lose my temper. I am wasteful of resources.

I am broken.

The least I can do is to cease from perpetuating the pain.

The least I can do is not cast the first stone.

IS IT TIME FOR SCHOOL YET????

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 10:58:00 GMT

In retrospect, not packing my summer schedule with scheduled activities was my stupidest idea ever.

Not having scheduled activities means that I've had to come up with new ideas every fifteen minutes.

NEWSFLASH: I'm out of ideas.

Worse, I feel like strangling anyone who throws fun, educational ideas at me. No, I do NOT want to make a homemade slingshot using only Q-tips and peanut butter. No, I do NOT want to spend more time at the local library. No, I do NOT want to pack a picnic for a lovely afternoon at the park. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT LIKE 18 MILLION TIMES!

All I want is to send these children back to school. Where they belong.

And I want to send myself to solitary confinement.

[I can't wait to see the flood of unsubscribe emails that come after I publish this post!]

Well, since school is still a month away, I've resorted to sending them off to do hard manual labor. The kids come ask me what they should do and I'm all: GO EMPTY THE DISHWASHER! SWEEP THE FLOOR! MEND MY SOCKS!

My goal is to make them so sick of summer vacation that they'll start pining for Ye Old School Days of Yore.

Mwah-ha-ha.

I've even considered buying a little whistle that I can use a la Captain Von Trapp to summon everyone. From now on, I'm parking myself on the couch and blowing on my whistle to boss everyone around.

Look, I don't know what I was expecting but this summer has been anything but a vacation for me. There's no sleeping in. There's no lazy, breezy summer afternoons.

My days still start with a bang at 5:45 am. I'm up cooking and cleaning and chasing naked toddlers before most people open their eyeballs. You know you're a mom of 8 million kids when starting lunch prep at 8:15 a.m. sounds perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, starting my day so early means I'm a raving lunatic by 2pm.

My long-suffering sherpa/husband calls 2pm-5pm The Red-Zone. He has proof, too. The text messages I send him from 2pm-5pm read something like this: AAAUUUGH!! I'M DYING!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!! HELP! HELP!

Frankly, I don't know why people talk about solitary confinement like it's a punishment thing. That sounds like a vacation to me.

I got so desperate the other day that I hauled everyone out for 8:30 a.m. Mass. They were like: "Why are we going to church on a weekday?"

And I was all: BECAUSE IF MOMMY DOESN'T PRAY, MOMMY IS GOING TO DIIEEEEE!

They all behaved so well that afterwards I felt apologetic and took everyone out for (overpriced) bagels. James was like: "Well, I guess since we just spent half an hour praying we don't even need to thank the Lord for our food."

Yes, friends. I'm doing a bang-up job of passing the faith on to the next generation.

Faithful Couple

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 15:52:00 GMT

Three years ago we toured a valley of giant sequoia trees, some of which had been standing for hundreds of years. One tree was over 1500 years old. I felt a kind of reverential awe for the majesty of these towering trees standing in silent vigil through the march of centuries.

But there was one tree in particular that captured my interest. It was, in fact, two trees merged together. They've been dubbed " The Faithful Couple."

The audio guide told us that this tree is an exceptional rarity since what usually happens is that a larger, stronger tree takes over a smaller one or simply kills off the smaller tree by blocking its sunlight and sucking up its water supply.

But in the case of "Faithful Couple," two trees of equal strength pushed against each other. And as they pushed, they grew into one another. However, this was no hostile takeover. It wasn't one tree defeating and/or swallowing up the other.

Each tree retained its individual "treeness." After forming their solid union--a fortress-like base--they continued upwards, growing stronger and taller. Finally, after many years of almost indistinguishable oneness, the two trees separated--just ever so slightly. They are still one, but they are also beautifully distinct.

This tree gives me hope. It represents what I hope my marriage can be.

I say this because I know I'm not an easy person to live with. I'm strong-willed and defiant. I question everything. I'm extremely emotionally sensitive. And I have, um, baggage. I'm quite a catch, yes? Heh.

Well, I'm probably a terrifying catch to someone who is not equally strong, someone who enjoys a challenge.

This is why I adore my husband. He is a worthy opponent--but not in a hostile, takeover way. More in an "iron sharpens iron" kind of way. He is, quite simply, a man I can respect.

Yes, we have hurt each other many times over the years. We've had our huge ups and our huge downs. Our love is nothing if not imperfect. But through all these years--15 already!--he has always won my unflagging admiration.

I don't write about the love of my life very often. My words seem foolish and inadequate in the face of this monumental force that has shaped the topography of my life. Whenever I start to write about him, I sound like a wildly clanging cymbal. Nothing I can say speaks to the mystery and sense of reverential awe I feel toward this man.

I also don't write about him very often because it seems unpopular to say that I don't know myself apart from him. But it's true. I have grown into and out of him, lost myself and found myself with him. We are one, but we are also beautifully distinct.

He gives me my space. He's protective without being controlling. He's masculine without being macho. He is my most trusted advisor, confidant and dearest friend. And I am his.

Bonus? I also think he's super hot! I just love everything about him. The way he talks, the way he smells, the way he sings off-tune.

I even love that he never smiles for the camera! He just squints into it like a little old man. Eeek! The sexiness!

OK, me and my exclamation points will cease and desist now.

Happy Father's Day, beloved old man. Thank you for growing up and growing old with me. xo.

Joy in the ordinary

Mon, 31 May 2010 09:08:00 GMT

I'm writing this after a 14 1/2 hour shift. I didn't get paid for the work I did today. I just barely got a couple of potty breaks. I sweated. I supervised. And now, I stink.

Today, there was blood. I bandaged a smashed toe, a tweaked toe-nail. I wiped her tears, rocked her at my breast. I comforted, I cooked, I cried. I prayed for strength.

There was poop. Then again, there is always poop, rain or shine. But today it was sunny. On sunny days, they like to run naked like wild banshees. And I let them.

I lifted, carried, stacked, organized, cleaned. We ate.

I argued with my husband about the proper tending of a tweaked toe-nail. He said Neosporin and Band-aid. I said antibacterial spray and a Band-aid.

We compromised. Except the Band-aid kept coming off, so. Maybe he was right.

We forgave each other and he made me laugh. I kissed him at least five times today.

I had a serious conversation with a child. Being honest means not exploiting loop-holes, son. He said he wants to be a lawyer. Figures. Still. Honesty. I'm serious, son. There will be serious consequences if I catch you lying again.

"Is inflating facts lying?"

"Nice phrasing," I say.

"Yes," says Dad, stepping in. "Be clear on your facts or else they're not facts."

Excellent job, Daddy!

"Gotcha," says son.

There was also a Choking Incident today. She popped a lid in her mouth. Started choking, chubby hands flying up to her mouth. Daddy scooped it out.

Another disaster averted.

But the school science project almost got ruined. It was melting to death on the front porch. I saved it.

Later, we tried to watch a movie together as a family. But it did not pass muster. I turned it off. Sorry, guys. Inappropriate content. Who rented this? DADDY.

"What?" he says. "I watched this movie when I was a kid!"

"My point exactly," I say.

"That's true," he grins. "Sorry, kids! Bedtime!"

Kisses, prayers and just one more drink of water?

And now, now I'm exhausted. It was a hard, long shift.

But it was a good day. A very good day, indeed.

[Many heartfelt thanks to our American veterans for their service. Their sacrifice provides the freedom and safety that allows me to have such beautifully ordinary days like today. Happy Memorial Day.]

A Kind Tone of Voice

Mon, 17 May 2010 11:13:00 GMT

I started praying a risky prayer a few weeks ago. I asked God to help me speak in a loving, gentle tone to my children. I've continued to pray this each day and let me say, if you wanna pray prayers like this--just prepare to have your heart broken. In a good way.

The first thing that happened was that I began really hearing myself. Do you know what I mean by that? I mean that for a very long time, I'd been sorta deaf to my own voice, to how it sounded in my interactions with my children.

But in the last few weeks, I've begun hearing my tone of voice again. At first, I only heard myself after the fact, after I'd snapped at someone or interrupted, cut someone short or blasted someone away with my dazzling wit and logic. Ha.

And then I began hearing my tone of voice parroted back to me in the voices of my children. I heard it in the way they spoke to each other and on one occasion, I heard it in the way one of the twins reprimanded her baby doll.

It was embarrassing, heartbreaking and totally, completely convicting. It also exposed the myriad excuses I've used to defend my harsh tone of voice.

I began intentionally trying to speak kindly, gently and lovingly. Here was the big revelation: speaking kindly takes practice! Cultivating a kind, gentle tone of voice doesn't just happen. I used to comfort myself with the notion that the moms who spoke gently and kindly were born with that kind of voice.

Now I'm not so sure. I think maybe they've had to work at it. Maybe it's a fine art that must be practiced and cultivated, disciplined and tended.

Here's another revelation: the test of a kind, gentle tone of voice comes when life is difficult. I mean, anyone can use a kind, gentle voice when life is going smoothly and according to plan. But most of our life in a large family does not go smoothly. And it almost never goes according to plan!

So, what should I do? Wait until life gets easier or do the right thing even if it's hard?

Here's what I've started doing: when I'm irritated or tired, I try to pre-empt my harsh tone by sending up little SOS prayers to God for help. Usually it sounds like this: God, grant me grace right now, please.

It's a simple little prayer but I've been surprised at how effective it is. It feels like a little pocket opening up in my mind giving me that extra ounce of patience I need in that exact moment, just enough to get me through the current ordeal.

And when I choose to speak kindly and gently, I feel an immediate sense of satisfaction. It's like take taking pride in a job well-done. It feels like I've ministered grace into the moment instead of chaos or worry, hurry or fear.

The funny thing is that before I had twins, I almost never raised my voice. I really tried to speak moderately and gently at all times. But since having the twins, it's like I've had to re-learn it all over again.

Or maybe it's just that BT (Before Twins), I could handle it all in my own strength and AT (After Twins), I realize I can't do it on my own. I'm dependent on the mercy and grace of God every single day. Scratch that.Every single minute.

Maybe there's no better place to be.

Do you struggle with using a kind, gentle tone of voice?

Do you have any practices/ideas for cultivating a kind, gentle tone?

I could use some helpful encouragement, so please SHARE!

Crib Toy Boxes

Wed, 05 May 2010 12:17:00 GMT

As a mom of 5, I have several organizational strategies for survival. During the Witching Hours (3pm-6pm), I run an especially tight mothership. One of my tools includes giving the twins one hour of quiet play time in their cribs.

I'm a firm believer in teaching children to amuse themselves. I love playing with my kids, but I do not exist for their sole entertainment. And especially from 3pm-6pm, Mommy has serious work to do; ie. homework help, dinner prep, sports practice drop-offs, overseeing piano practice.

To help the twins amuse themselves, I've put together Crib Toy Boxes. These are smaller versions of their big tox box. Essentially, they're just plastic boxes filled with smallish, interesting toys and books, preferably ones they don't play with during the day.

I try to keep the Crib Toy Boxes up and out of reach until quiet play time. I freshen up the toy selection about once a week. Sometimes I keep "reserves" of old toys hidden from view. I've discovered that if you hide old toys for awhile, when you bring them out again the kids are like: WOO-HOO! NEW TOYS!

Here are the Crib Toy Boxes next to a little show-off who insisted on getting in the picture, lol!:

I like to spy on the twins and see what they're doing with their Crib Toy Boxes. They invent some pretty cute games. Jorie likes to turn hers upside down, cover it with a blankie and pretend it's a table for tea. Jossie likes to use her box as a little reading chair. She sits on it (or in it) and "reads" her books.

[WARNING: if your kid is a climber, the boxes can be used as step-stools for escaping her crib. You might need to modify your own set-up accordingly. A Crib Toy Bag, maybe?]

When quiet play time is over, I scoop the toys back into the boxes and stick them up on a closet shelf. For me, it's important to check the boxes each day and make sure nothing random or unsafe has somehow found its way in there (sometimes my older kids unwittingly give the little kids unsafe toys).

I want to assure you that the twins enjoy their quiet play time. It's not time-out or punishment and they never mistake it as such.

It's a positive, peaceful experience. Sometimes I turn on classical music and they have their blankies so they can choose to lay down and relax. I keep the baby monitor on so I can listen in on their playtime. I just love hearing their adorable little conversations and made-up songs.

However, I do fetch them after one hour. Leaving them alone for too long breeds upset feelings and I want them to associate their cribs with rest and peaceful play--not feelings of rejection. Every child has a different time limit and we've had to work up to the one hour time-slot (we started at 6 months with about 15 minutes quiet play).

Crib Toy Boxes and quiet playtime are a lifesaver for this busy mama!

Bliss at Pelican Hill Resort

Tue, 04 May 2010 10:02:00 GMT

I pulled up to the entrance of Pelican Hill Resort & Spa thinking: whoa, am I in a different world?

For a hotel like this one, I think you're supposed to arrive in a sleek limousine, not a minivan overflowing with diapers and baseball gear. But not to worry, the hospitable folks at Pelican Hill Resort treated all us Minivan-Mamas like royalty.

And it was quite the treat to hang out with OCFamily bloggers in such a lovely place!

From the moment you step into the lovely spa, you're surrounded by a remarkable attention to detail. Everything you could possible need or want for a morning of relaxation is available. Huge showers, private bathrooms, a silky-warm robe, slippers, blow-dryers, lotion, shampoo, brushes, Q-tips--even deodorant.

But it's not the luxurious amenities that set this spa apart. It's the sterling quality professionalism. In the end, what makes the difference at Pelican Hill Spa is the high-level of skill that each spa employee brings to their client.

I had the privilege of receiving a 60 minute massage from Maria. It was by far the best massage I've ever had. It was like Maria knew my body better than I did. She knew just where I held stress and just how much pressure and stretching I needed to release it. It was, in a word, exquisite.

Afterwards, we drank tea and mellowed out in the lounge area. After a quick dip in the spa, we dressed and ate a refreshing lunch in the grill overlooking the stunning circular pool. It was a morning I'll never forget.

Even now, writing about it, my brain feels all jello-y and relaxed. Many thanks to our gracious hosts at Pelican Hill Resort & Spa. It was just what this tired Mommy needed.

Death of a SuperMom

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 10:36:00 GMT

I don't know what happened between my mother's generation and mine but I'd just like to say: I'm getting off this train. Because if I don't, I'm gonna get run over.

Somewhere along the line--say early 90's?--it wasn't enough to just be a regular at-home mom. I'm not going to point fingers, but I knew something had drastically changed when I read a mom newsletter about being a Professional Mom. It was written by high-powered career women who'd decided to quit their jobs and bring all their corporate, organizational experience home.

Honestly, part of me really wishes they'd just kept their day jobs. Because dude, now I can't even watch Oprah without feeling guilty for not creating spreadsheets for my kids' schedules instead.

It used to be that kids came home from school and were let to run around the neighborhood until the streetlights came on. My mom used to let me run free and I didn't check in with her for hours.

I mean, I get it. We have stalkers and child molesters and all kinds of freaky pedophiles out there--so we have to be careful. But honestly? That's not the real reason moms my age can't catch a break.

The real reason is that at-home moms feel like they have to be Professional Moms. Which means: shuttling their kid to every manner of music lesson, math tutor, language lessons, cooking classes, horse-riding, soccer, baseball, cotillion.

A Professional Mom is always on. This is how she proves her worth. She oversees and manages every single second of her child's life. Because if she doesn't, her kid might not...what? Be successful.

And nothing scares the Professional Mom more than her kid going to junior college. Or (gasp!) taking some time off school to back pack through Europe.

Or, God forbid, live.their.own.life.

[Sidebar: do Ivy League schools charge so much money simply because they can? Simply because they know there are Professional Moms out here busting their asses to make sure their kid gets a 1600 on the SAT?]

So, she sits with her kid and does homework every night (to make sure she's academically competitive), she shuttles her kid around to every conceivable extra-curricular activity (to make sure she's well-rounded) and devotes every spare moment of her waking hours to insuring her child has the competitive edge.

I like to call this craziness: bottom-line parenting. Everything the Professional Mom does is driven by the bottom-line--how will this profit my kid?

The catch is that this creates an extraordinary load of guilt. The Professional Mom lives in abject terror offailure. She doesn't want to "regret" the "little time" she has with her kids.

This is made worse in Christian circles where a working mother is almost on par with a hooker. Actually, it's worse. A Christian woman can feel compassion for a hooker. But a working mother? Well, tsk, tsk. Clearly, her PRIORITIES are all wrong.

So, here's my question: is it really POSSIBLE to regret-proof your life? I doubt it. That's like saying it's possible to live a mistake-free life.

I'm fully convinced that my kids will grow up to resent something about what I did/didn't do. I imagine them sitting in therapy talking about how their mother forgot to pick them up from school and how that negatively affected their ability to form lasting personal relationships. NEVERMIND THAT I STAYED HOME WITH THEM ALL THOSE YEARS.

I'm not advocating a wholesale dumpage of kids into full-time daycare. I'm just saying that the "ideal" of the at-home mother is not all it's chalked up to be.

My mom worked full-time. I was her first priority, but I was not the sole source of her life and happiness. She had a life. And I got to be part of it.

Yeah, there was a time when I resented the fact that she never baked homemade cookies for me. But I've grown up and am so grateful that my mother is completely happy in her own life with her own friends and her own colleagues. I like it that way. I admire her for it.

Look, maybe it's possible to be a Professional Mom when all you've got is one kid. But I don't. I've got five. There's just no way I'm gonna be able to provide that level of Professional Parenting to all five of my kiddos.

What I do know is that I love them and we have a rollicking good time together. The best gift I ever gave my kids was the gift of their siblings, not me as their Professional Mom.

Now, give me a pack of Mint Milanos and let me watch my Oprah in peace.

Love,

A former SuperMom

MomBlogger is NOT a dirty word!

Mon, 19 Apr 2010 11:58:00 GMT

There's been some "negative press attention" regarding moms who blog. It's almost like they're trying to make MommyBlogger a bad word.

This always happens when women find and use their voices. Someone always swoops in to reprimand or slap them on the wrist. Or to mock, condescend. Zip it, little lady.

It's like when someone suddenly started calling high-waisted jeans "MomJeans" and suddenly there was this collective ewwwww. Like Mom-Jeans were the epitome of unsexy. Uncool. Like if you wore Mom-Jeans and sprayed your bangs with AquaNet you were so 2000-late.

Spare me.

If a woman wants to wear Mom-Jeans, more power to her. If she wants to write about cooking or homeschooling or share pictures of her kiddos, MORE POWER TO HER.

If a woman at the end of her long day derives a special joy from publishing a post about her gratitude list or how she burned the crockpot dinner but at least the dog enjoyed it, MORE POWER TO HER.

I'm so sick of critics who want to muzzle women's freedom of expression. As if the only form of acceptable speech is the kind that rivals an academic thesis or a scientific journal. Or if a woman starts making money off her writing, she needs to be smacked down a peg or two.

I'm proud of the women who can make a full-time living off their blogs. I'm proud of the stay-at-home-mommies who write and see their articles published in print media. MORE POWER TO THEM.

But who says you have to be a published writer with a thriving freelance career in order to be taken seriously? The answer is: you don't.

Some of my most favorite blogs are the tiny, undiscovered ones. These sweet women who openly and happily share pictures of their farm or backyard, swap recipes or talk about potty-training ideas. I love these gals.

And frankly, I'm a little protective of them. I would be so sad if they stopped publishing stuff because they felt intimidated by some lame-ass writer who felt all empowered because she picked on the littler writers on the playground and got everyone to laugh with her in that sort of self-congratulatory, patronizing tone.

Please. Blogging is not a competitive sport. It's self expression. It's art.

And anytime anyone tries to squelch freedom of expression, things tend to backfire. My suggestion? Quit.

We're Mommy-Bloggers. We're dang proud of it.

And we're not going anywhere.

[for more inspiration--and a prettier analogy--go read Heather of the EO's similar musings she gave me courage to post my own thoughts]

Losing the joy of mothering

Sun, 11 Apr 2010 18:11:00 GMT

When I'm exhausted, I have no joy.

[picture: that's me, Elizabeth Esther, at 6 months old :)]

There is only a great, aching void of weariness. When I get reallyexhausted, I stop feeling altogether. No fear, no worries, nothingness. And then, finally, I stop caring.

The house can fall to pieces, the laundry can reach the ceiling, the dishes are stacked in the sink. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Things hit a new low a few days after Barf Week when I realized I'd been stepping over the same spot of dried puke for 10 days. I'd been cleaning up vomit for so many days that I'd lost track of everything.

I'd forgotten how many days since I last showered. I couldn't remember when I'd last brushed my teeth. My scalp ached from being in a permanent pony-tail-bun.

On that awful afternoon, I made sure everyone was safe and occupied and then I went to my room, closed all the blinds, shut off all the lights and buried myself under the quilt. My body started to shake, like a small earthquake before a volcano. And then a great explosion of tears.

Most of it was exhaustion. But the other part--the part I'm afraid to write out-loud is: I'm grieving the mom I used to be. I've lost her. And I don't know how to get her back.

There was a time when I took great joy in baking cookies, doing crafts, going to the library, singing and playing together.

But since the twins were born: I've lost my motivation to a slow, ruthless, crushing exhaustion. I look at the Play-Doh and think: I don't want to clean that up. I look at the baby books and think, blasphemously: I'm utterly sick of Dr.-freaking-Seuss.

My time and attention are so sub-divided that most of the time I'm just happy to survive another day.

The joy is gone, like it has been sucked clean out of my life. I see sweet, new moms in the park with their neat, tidily packed bags of diapers and sand toys, snacks and sunscreen. I'm envious of their joy (and their small, clean, one-child life).

Last week I opened an old photo album and flipped through pictures of myself as a young mom. All the cute little matching outfits (some of them I sewed myself!), the myriads of educational day trips, the scrapbooks filled up with sweet stories and memories.

I found an old schedule I'd written up. What efficient organization! My eldest daughter was potty-trained by 18 months. 18 MONTHS! Every birthday was a grand affair with homemade cakes, decorations and even a puppet show (written and performed by me).

How did I go from puppet-show-performing mom to stepping-over-the-dried-puke-mom???

I'm trying to figure that out. Because my children deserve better. Because I deserve better.

Daycare is helping--it's helping more than I'd like to admit. Staying true to my diet is helping. And I'm also going into my doctor next week. I want to make sure I'm healthy; that this is nothing more than exhaustion.

And today I made one, small choice. I chose to enjoy my children, to engage them, be present in their moments. They begged me to take them to the park and play hide-n-seek together. So, we did.

On the way home, I felt something. The tiniest stirring within my heart, the whisper-soft hint of new life.

Joy?

How daycare is making me a better mom

Sun, 04 Apr 2010 22:27:00 GMT

Last week I did the thing I said I'd never do: I put my twins in part-time daycare.

Here's why: I got hit by an absolute tsunami of exhaustion. Maybe it was Barf Week, maybe it was baseball season. Maybe it was, you know, toddler twins + 3 older kids.

Anyway, the choice was: physical breakdown or daycare? I'll take SANITY for 200, Alex.

Oh, my. Daycare has saved my life.

For one thing, I can pee without toddlers barging in and demanding to know why "MOMMY GO POTTY ON DA TOY-YET?" For secondly, I can get a few things done without having to wait until the twins are napping. For thirds, I can actually take my own nap.

Can you imagine such freedom? It boggles the mind.

But what's weird is, it's taking forever to feel better. And by forever I mean: a whole week. I mean, I thought I'd be feeling great by now but I'm not. Apparently, I've been running on empty for quite awhile.

You can only do that for so long before your body whacks you over the head with exhaustion and says: You cannot live on fumes alone. Get help.

So, here I am practicing the ancient art of listening to my body (what the heck is that gurgling sound??) and getting help.

I also told my mother about my epiphanies.

"Mother," I said, "I've shamed our heritage. Your grandchildren are being raised by the hired help. Also? I'm not homeschooling."

My mother folded her arms over her chest, fixed me with a penetrating stare and said, "Well, good for you, sweetheart!"

I just about fell over because the world stopped spinning on its axis. My mother supports my sanity and she doesn't think I'm being selfish.

Why does that surprise me? Only because I am my own harshest critic. I brace myself for condemnation from others and instead, I get grace. It's scandalous, really. The people I love are kinder to me than I am to myself. They see how hard I work and they're telling me to give myself a break.

So, OK. I will. Part of this means examining some bad habits like my tendency to over-commit, flounder, cancel, feel better and then over-commit again. This needs to stop (thank you, Boundaries book).

It also means I've come up with this list of brilliant insights (ARE YOU TAKING NOTES?):

I have to take care of myself because,
Nobody else is gonna take care of me, but
If I don't take care of myself, then
Other people will have to and that's just
Not fair.

So, there. Now, back to bed. By my calculations, I've been sleep deprived for at least 10 years.

Going to the movies is annoying

Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:51:00 GMT

We used to go to the movies all the time. And then Hollywood quit making good movies.

I mean, the last movie I really enjoyed in the theatre was Gladiator. And that was like 10 years ago.

It's all been downhill since then. Well, OK, Lord of the Rings was pretty good. But that's it.

Still, my hubby keeps asking me to go to the movies with him. But here's the problem: I'm not a nice person at the movie theatre.

It all starts with me getting huffy for having to pay the equivalent of a month's worth of Starbucks for two cheesy tickets. Then, when we sit down, we inevitably sit in front of The Worst Mannered Teenagers on Earth who throw popcorn, laugh, talk, hit the back of my chair and burst into laughter at Inappropriate Moments because they just got a text that said something important like: Waddup widdat, suckah?

This is when I start embarrassing my husband because I am the hisser, the "SHHH"-er, the tapper of shoulders, the person who stalks out and informs the manger. Or better yet: just gets her money back.

We tried Netflix for awhile. But I got sick of that because I kept forgetting to update my queue. Plus, every time I wanted a movie, there was like some waiting list.

We used to live really close to a Blockbuster, so that worked for awhile. But I always got the heeby-jeebies in Blockbuster. Like WHY do they have to display the goriest, foulest movies right at kids' eye-level? Every time I went into a Blockbuster I felt like I had to rush, rush, rush and then I would end up renting a movie I didn't even want to watch because I was just trying to get out of there.

I realize I'm beginning to sound like a whiny, entitled you-know-what. I also realize there are BIGGER PROBLEMS in the world. Fine.

But I think you'll be happy to know I've resolved my little problem. It's called: DVR.

Oh, my, my, my. Have you heard of this wonderful invention? I just pre-pick all my favorite shows and upcoming movies and hit RECORD. Then I pop my own popcorn (cheaper and healthier!), cuddle up on my own couch (comfier and cleaner!) and watch Dan in Real Life or Rachel Getting Married for like the 50th time.

I may never go to a movie theatre again.

And I'm just fine widdat, suckah.

They might be twins, but they're TOTALLY different!

Thu, 25 Mar 2010 11:54:00 GMT

If nothing else, Barf Week taught me this: my twins have completely different personalities.

"I fro up!" Jorie proclaimed after every incident. I think she wanted a trophy or something. She was very matter-of-fact about it. One time, after barfing in her crib, she simply removed herself to the opposite side and waited patiently until I walked in to clean her up.

"Go to da tub?" she would ask, helpfully. "Wash a hanns?"

Jorie knew her protocol. And she proceeded methodically: 1.barf 2. wait 3. inform Mama of barf 4. go to bath-tub.

Not so with Jossy. We don't call her "Little Diva" for nothing.

"NO! NO! I OK! I OK!" she would yell one second before spewing projectile vomit all over me.

"NO GO IN A TUB! NO YIKE IT! NO YIKE IT!" she shrieked when I tried to clean her up. She would stretch up her little arms and demand repeatedly: "HODE YOU ME! HODE YOU ME!"

All Jossy wanted was to be held. Non-stop. For hours. I was willing to do this but once Jorai got sick, too, things got tricky. At first, Jossy kept trying to push Jorie off my lap. NO, DISS MY MAMA!

To repay, Jorie would bop Jossy on the head. Tears all around.

Finally, I parked my butt on the couch, propped up pillows and towels around us and held both feverish, barfing babies. We stayed there for three days.

Jossy started feeling better first. I could tell because she slid off my lap and toddled around, singing little songs to cheer up her twin: "I yuv Jor-aaaaai. I yuv Jor--a-elle!"

This did not cheer up Jorie. She barfed again.

Jossy became very intrigued with Jorie's barf.

"Ohhhh, das sicky fro up," she would comment, squatting down to poke at the steaming mass on the floor.

"I FRO UP!" Jorie would announce. Again. "Go wash a hanns? Go wash a bankie?"

"Jossy, don't touch that throw up," I would say.

"Ohhh, my," Jossy would intone, staring intently at the No Touch Barf Pile. "Das no-no. Das sicky, sicky."

Our big excursions for the week were trips to and from the washing machine. They especially yiked it when their blankies emerged all fresh and fluffy from the dryer.

They would bury their faces in the blankies, I would lift them up and together we would sniff it.

"Das nice bankie," Jossy remarked time and again.

And Jorie, rubbing her cheeks against her blankie would remark, "Das my bankie!"

Yes, little sweethearts. It's true.

I yike you.

Binding up the bwoken hearted

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 11:40:00 GMT

It was a grisly crime scene. Clumps of butchered hair, amputated limbs and the weapon: a pair of kindergarten scissors, all stuffed under my son's bed.

It was a game that had seemed funny at first. My son and a neighbor boy were tossing the twins' favorite doll around. Somehow, in the ensuing hilarity--a pair of scissors seemed like a good idea.

And the silly haircut was a riot. But it didn't stop there. A moment later, it wasn't so funny anymore. The baby doll was irreparably mutilated.

That's when the guilt set in. They tried to hide it.

But they couldn't hide their ashamed faces. Especially when Mama got down on hands and knees and peered under the bed.

The whole wretched story came tumbling out. There were tears and wringing of hands. Mama kept her cool (just barely).

The culprits were marched downstairs. The neighbor boy was sent home. And the trembling son wept into his hands.

Mama washed dishes until she felt herself cool down. Best not to talk in the heat of battle. Those dishes never sparkled so well.

"Mommy...are you...are you disappointed with me?" he asks, tugging at my shirt.

I wipe my hands on the towel and kneel in front of him.

"I'm disappointed that you didn't make the right choice," I say. "That's your baby sisters' favorite doll."

He hangs his head. Utter remorse. "I know," he sobs. "I'm so sorry."

"Why did you do it?" I ask, as calmly and quietly as I can.

He shrugs. "I don't know! I knew it was wrong! I don't know why I did it!"

I draw him to me and hug him close. He whispers the rest of the story in my ear and that's when I discover why he did it. He didn't want to make his beloved friend mad by saying no. I nod. I understand this.

It's a lesson I had to learn early, too: the courage to do the right thing even when it's not popular.

We exchange some quiet words. Apologies are spoken and amends are made.

And then we try to explain it to the twins.

"Baby is broken," I say. "Baby has owies."

Jasiel stares for a moment and then reaches for baby, holds her tight. "Ohhhhh, baby! Ohhhh, bwoken baby!"

From that day on, Bwoken Baby is Jasiel's special treasure.

Bwoken Baby gets long walks in the stroller all bundled up in blankies because: "She's code! She's code!"

Bwoken Baby gets rocked in Mama's rocking chair. Bwoken Baby listens to Jasiel "read" Cat Inna Hat.

Every time I watch Jasiel coo and fuss over that hopelessly mangled baby doll, I feel a strange sort of heart ache.

My 2 year old is just learning to speak. Yet somehow, she teaches us what unconditional love looks like.

And in that love, my son understands he is forgiven.

Homework is stupid

Sun, 21 Feb 2010 18:24:00 GMT

Especially homework for kindergartners. Actually, if I had it my way, kids K-6 would not have homework.

If the energy our family has wasted on homework could be converted into solar energy, I'm certain it could power our city for a year. Seriously, if I see another photocopied worksheet I might poke my eyeballs out.

Now, not all homework is created equal. I have no problem with flash cards or special creative projects. But I'm darn sick of reams of those "shut-up sheets."

You do know what a shut-up sheet is, right? It's a photocopied worksheet designed specifically to shut-up the kid and keep him busy.

My sons are convinced it's a form of torture. I happen to agree.

I mean, the last thing my kid wants to do after six hours of school is sit down and do another worksheet. And yet, as The Good Responsible Parent, I'm supposed to force him.

When my kids get home, I shoo them outside and let them run around. They're dying to release all that pent up energy and if I dare require them to SitDownBeQuietAndDoYourHomework, we'll have a full-blown mutiny.

I'm talking tears. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth.

Homework interferes with our life on almost every possible level. For one thing, homework time coincides with that wicked time of day known in my house as "The Witching Hour." This is when Mommy is already tired but still has to prepare dinner, mind her babies and help with homework.

Homework hangs over our head like a wrecking ball. It has the potential to destroy even the best of days.

By the time my husband gets home I'm so exhausted that I'm ready to take up permanent residence on a deserted island. Except, we still have baths and bedtime routines to manage.

Looking back over the last 12 years (cumulatively speaking) of grade-school homework, I can hardly see any educational benefit. At least, no benefit that outweighs the many tears, anguish, frustration and sometimes, sheer outrage.

Because here's the thing: not only do my kids have to complete the homework, but I've gotta check it and then sign the little assignment book. Every.Single.Day.

Dude, I don't even shower as often as I sign those infuriating assignment books.

And if I prayed as often as I've signed 'em, well, I'd be so holy that I'd be raptured by now; shot straight up to Heaven in a flaming chariot of fire.

By the time my twins hit kindergarten, I'm just gonna roll up to the classroom with a recycling trash-can and toss those stupid homework packets right in. If anyone asks, I'll simply reply: "Hey, I'm only removing the middle-man."

I dunno. I'm so fed up I'm seriously considering a Homework Strike.

Anyone wanna join me?

'Cuz me and my kids wanna know: IS THERE LIFE AFTER HOMEWORK???
[edited to add: it's important for me to clarify that I do not place blame at the feet of teachers. I see homework as a symptom of a larger problem in our public education system. My kids' teachers have been hardworking, dedicated and I've truly appreciated them. They love what they do but are often hamstrung by curriculum requirements and standardized testing which forces them to "teach to the test" for a significant portion of the school year. Despite this mess, I still find great inspiration in the teachers who daily strive to provide creative solutions to these challenges.]

Seeing the big picture

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 11:16:00 GMT

We took a spontaneous trip to San Diego on Valentine's Day.

My favorite part was driving over the Coronado Bridge. It's a spectacularly high bridge that connects the mainland to Coronado Island. For me, it's terrifying but also, strangely exhilarating.

There's something inexplicably satisfying about gazing out over an expansive view. The view from way up high looks so breathtakingly beautiful.

It made me sort of wistful. Sometimes I focus too much on the "street view": the cracked pavement, dirt, man-holes, litter. It's easy to forget that a bigger picture exists.

Maybe that's why taking a spontaneous trip is important. Sometimes we need to get outside our "street-view" lives and see the big picture--if only to remind ourselves that it's really there. I know that I need to allow myself to bask in the joy of life more often.

It's easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of a busy, hardworking life and forget to create space for fun and enjoyment.

Marriage and a big family is hard, difficult work. But then there are moments when I catch a brief, fleeting glimpse of pristine beauty. And it takes my breath away.

Banning Victoria's Secret catalogs from home

Sat, 30 Jan 2010 14:45:00 GMT

I've banned Victoria's Secret catalogs from my home. Not because I dislike lingerie but because I enforce a zero porn policy. And maybe that sounds harsh but that's exactly what Victoria's Secret catalogs are: soft-porn.

It's difficult enough at the mall--my sons know to avert their eyes every time we pass that store--without bringing it home. I know I'm not alone. I know there are thousands (perhaps millions?) of mothers out there trying to raise their children with a sense of courtesy, respect and morality.

I'm sorry, Victoria's Secret, but I will not allow blatantly objectified images to shape my child's sexuality.

Images are powerful things and I think it's almost impossible for a young girl to develop a healthy body-image when she's fed images of photo-shopped, airbrushed, scantily clad, freakishly thin supermodels.

I don't know one woman who closes a VS catalog feeling better about herself and her body. Honestly, a VS catalog makes me feel worse. Suddenly, my physical flaws seem magnified and glaringly obvious when compared to a VS lingerie model. I don't want my daughters to view Victoria's Secret ads because I believe they present a false standard of true, womanly beauty.

And what about my sons? What happens to a young boy whose unawakened sexuality is assaulted--yes, assaulted--from a young age by pornographic images?

At the very least, these images present a false understanding of sexuality (all fun & games! no obligations!) and at the worst, they create pleasure centers in the brain that revolve around immorality.

I'm also troubled by the normalization of these images in public. Since when did a 2-story high poster of a mostly naked woman become anything other than an egregious offense to decency? Not to mention morality. If protecting my children means avoiding the Victoria's Secret corner of the mall, so be it.

I believe the porn epidemic sweeping our nation indicates we have a serious problem on our hands. Sometimes I feel powerless to stem the pornographic tide that actively seeks to hurt my children.

I know I can't control every single little thing, but so far as it pertains to my home, my turf, my sanctuary--I will fight back the tide. It's my job to protect and defend my children's sexuality.

But I can't do it alone. I need other like-minded mommies. Especially if we're going to protest the proliferation of public porn. Maybe we could call ourselves MAPP (Mothers Against Public Porn)?

Sleeping in the valley of the shadow of bad breath

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 16:08:00 GMT

It was a subtle decline. A slow surrender. And at first, my husband thought I was to blame.

"Roll over," he would whisper, in the middle of the night--gently nudging me. "Scoot over. You're hogging the bed."

It became a sorta mantra he repeated every night. Roll over, roll over, scoot da booty right over.

Out of nowhere I had become a bed hog. Or, as he called it, a heat seeking missile.

"Are you cold or something?" he asked one morning. "Maybe you should start wearing long pajamas to bed."

"I'm not trying to be a heat seeking missile," I said.

"I know," he said. "You're a cute, midnight cuddler. But it's uncomfortable."

I tried my best to stay on my side of the bed--I mean, as hard as a person can try while dead asleep. I wore long pajamas. I threw on an electric blanket.

Nothing worked. I always ending up rolling into the middle of the bed, smashed up against his back.

We were on the verge of calling it a night and buying twins beds (not really) when it happened.

He crash-rolled into the middle of the bed, too.

"Dude," he remarked, "I think our mattress just caved in."

It was true. Our beloved mattress had given up the ghost. Strung up the white flag of surrender and collapsed. And there were were, rolled up together like two hot dogs in a bun.

"See, I'm not a heat seeking missile!" I crowed, triumphant.

My triumph was short-lived. Now we had to figure out a way to sleep in that cursed valley.

So, we girded our loins and hiked our way back up our own sides of the bed. I claimed my territory, planted my flag and tried to sleep.

But it's tough to sleep when you're clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Inevitably, we rolled back into the valley of the shadow of bad breath.

"We could try flipping the mattress," he offered.

But we've already done that. Twice.

"We could buy a used mattress on Craig's List," he offered.

Ewwwww.

Oh, well.

Life as a heat-seeking missile isn't so bad. Especially if you ditch the long pajamas.

Do small things right

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 10:50:00 GMT

Sometimes the enormity of the task overwhelms me.

There are days when raising five children feels like Mission Impossible. Couple that with my perfectionistic tendencies and failure seems inevitable.

Which is to say, when I look at the laundry pile, I get so anxious about being far behind that I tend to close the door and let the pile grow higher.

Of course, this only adds to my frustration and anxiety. Seriously, sock management could be a full-time job at my house.

One way I've learned to manage a big family is by giving myself permission to do a job badly.

WHAT?!

You heard me. If it's a job worth doing, it's worth doing badly.

Take that, Martha Stewart!

At my house, a job well done means: it's done. Sometimes it doesn't look pretty. But I think pretty is over-rated. My sons often wear mismatched socks. I'm cool with that.

At least they're wearing socks.

Sometimes my oldest son forgets to sweep under the table. Now, if he's rushing to finish, I make him re-do it. But if he gives a good effort, I give him a high-five.

At least the floor around the table got swept.

I don't have fancy china and even if I did, we'd probably end up eating dinner on paper plates like we usually do.

At least we eat dinner together every night.

I guess you could boil my family-management philosophy down to a few words: do small things right.

I pick one or two things to do right each day. And then I celebrate that!

My life is full. But I don't want it to be busy.

The busier I am, the less connected I feel to my primary relationships.

And honestly, if my relationships are suffering--it doesn't matter if I conquer the housecleaning every day.

However, I would like to conquer the Evil Sock-Eating Monster once and for all. Any ideas?

Finding the meaning of life in the laundry pile

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 10:57:00 GMT

For all the advances of feminism, one thing hasn't changed. Biology. Women still conceive and bear children and until that changes--the sexes will always be unequal. And by this I mean, a good man knows the woman is his better half.

This is why I still believe in the oft-maligned "institution of marriage." Boiled down to its most primitive form, marriage is an agreement to care for each other. For a woman whose biological fertility peaks in her younger years, a good man vows to provide and protect her (even if she's capable of doing that on her own).

I see nothing wrong with a man idealizing his woman. After all, conception and birth is nothing short of miraculous. I'm in awe of it. Why shouldn't my husband be in awe of it--of me--too?

I remember giving birth to our first child and staring into her precious little face. Then I looked at my husband and we were like: "Look at what we made! We made a human!"

It was Truth. We were inextricably, profoundly connected. Interdependent. And not any of the feminist classes I took in college could disprove that.

Still, babymaking and child-raising is difficult, gritty business. It's easy to lose sight of the miraculous when you're getting beaten down by the unending laundry pile, sick children and dirty dishes.

I'm not ashamed to admit that this is the precise intersection where religion helps me transcend. Right in the middle of dirty diapers and crusted-over dishes is where faith gives me purpose. Meaning.

Cynics like to say that religion is a crutch. That gives me too much credit. For me, religion is full-blown life support. Anyone who tells you they came to religion based solely on intellectual reasoning is being dishonest.

We are not disembodied brains. We are humans with feelings. And feelings have lots to do with becoming religious. For me, it was like falling in love.

Yeah, sometimes the doubts keep me up at night. But the next morning, God is there again. There's no explanation, really.

He loves me. I love Him.

I guess it's true: all you really need is love.

Disney on Ice!

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:52:00 GMT

Tinkerbell is the undeniable star of Disney on Ice's "Worlds of Fantasy" now playing at the Honda Center through December 27th. However, the first half of the show (and especially the Lion King segment) is also truly spectacular.

The show revs up with the stars from the movie Cars. Mater, Lightening McQueen and a few of the other favorites race around the ice trying to fix Mickey and Minnie's car.

And then The Little Mermaid takes to the ice--the infectious musical numbers evoking an audience-wide sing-and-clap-along.

But our family was mesmerized by the brilliant athleticism and exciting story-line of the Lion King. The clever special effects included a herd of stampeding wilde-beasts and a hilariously agile wart-hog--how DID they do that costume?

The real show-stopper was Simba and Nala's breathtaking duet. When it ended and the lights came on for intermission, the kids couldn't stop talking about it. We couldn't wait to see what the second half would bring.

The whole second half was devoted to the mischievous exploits of the cutesy, pouty Tinkerbell. Our boys thought the story dragged a little bit and I noticed that there were far less camera flashes going off, too.

But the show quickly redeemed itself with a no-holds-barred ending: inflatable flowers "blooming" around the perimeter of the ice rink, a "flying" Tinkerbell, confetti sprayed over our heads, and the entire cast swirling about with colorful butterflies and flowers.

All in all, it was a wonderful night and an experience I'd recommend to any family--especially Tinkerbell fans.

The show is playing at the Honda Center in Anaheim through December 27th. OC Family readers can log onto www.ticketmaster.com and enter the coupon code MOM for a special discount!

All he wants for Christmas is a nose-hair trimmer

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 10:33:00 GMT

As long as we're talking practical gifts--I'd like a year's supply of deodorant. I'm serious.

How awesome would it be to open my medicine cabinet and be all: YES! The Senate has unanimously voted to give my armpits universal coverage. For an entire year. Holla!

I mean, who wants a kiss that begins with Kay's when instead you can get a brand-new water heater? Now, that's my kinda romantic.

Except, sometimes even practical gifts go awry. My husband kept talking about how great it would be to have a fogless shaving mirror. He was tired of "shaving blind" in the shower. So, two years ago I got him one.

He still hasn't opened the box.

"Real men shave without mirrors," he explained.

Like, huh? What's the point of a practical gift not getting any practical use? Dude.

Even those dopey Christmas sweaters are better than unused practical gifts. At least a Christmas sweater gives you a good laugh over that one Christmas when Great Aunt Marge bought everyone matching reindeer sweaters that sang. In harmony.

Not so with the unused nose-hair trimmer. Just seeing its unopened box will make me feel all depressed. Like an underachieving gift-buyer. Like I need to apologize. Do penance.

Maybe real men can use tweezers to yank out their nose-hairs.

I dunno. Gift-buying is fraught with emotional landmines. Should I stick with the gift cards this year?

That way if he doesn't use it, I can use it.

'Cuz I still want my year's supply of deodorant.

Where's My Man-Soap?

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 10:18:00 GMT

My husband just wants soap. Or better yet, "An all-in-one deal. None of this separate shampoo and conditioner whatevers."

But every time he goes down the personal hygiene aisle, he's overwhelmed by beauty bars and SPF. He wants soapdarnit, not "whaddya-call it? Potpourri? Perfume?"

Perfume? Well, I know what he means. He doesn't want to emerge from the shower smelling like a flowery cloud bomb. He just wants to be clean. Is that too much to ask?

I've tried buying everything from Body Wash ("Body-What? Why can't they just call it soap?") to all-in-one shampoo/conditioners to plain, white bars.

Either it's too complicated or it's too smelly.

When I try to introduce a new product, he'll take one cautionary sniff and then stagger back a few paces. "What is this stuff?"

He'll squint at the label, "Moisturizing rain?"

He'll hand it back, muttering about "false advertising" and quackery. Scams. Conspiracies.

He does have a point. It's been so difficult to find a basic soap that it seems like cosmetic companies are solely targeting women. Almost like they've jumped on the Discriminate Against Masculine Men bandwagon.

It's a shame, too. I like it that my man is suspicious of my bath salts and body oils. I'm thankful that he looks askance at this whole "metrosexual nonsense."

It means I don't have to compete for bathroom space. Or ever wonder who's prettier.

I'm also thankful that one day he arrived home, triumphant. He'd discovered the holy grail of male hygiene. We like to call it "Man Soap."

It's a triple all-in-one: soap, shampoo, conditioner. It's packaged in a thick, man-shaped bottle. The label is written in ALL CAPS BOLD FACE--you know, for ease of location in the hygiene aisle.

It's convenient and uncomplicated. It doesn't require multiple steps. None of that "rinse-n-repeat stuff."

And best of all, it smells like a man. A clean man.

Maybe it's not such a conspiracy, after-all.

All Aboard The Christmas Train!

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 11:50:00 GMT

It doesn't feel like Christmas until we ride the Christmas Train at the Irvine Park Railroad! This is our favorite place to go visit Santa Claus--and this year was the twins' first time. We bundled up and arrived at the train depot just a few minutes before five.

We were greeted by Marisa, the friendly OC Parks information officer who welcomed us to this special preview event for OC Family Bloggers.

This was the twins' first train ride and Jasiel was so excited, she kept clapping and shrieking. The train wound its way past old, California oaks wrapped in lovely lights and past the paddle-boat lake where the lights from the boat-house reflected prettily in the water.

We pulled to a stop near the festive stage where Santa was seated in all his Christmas glory. The twins could hardly take their eyes off him.

"Santa! Santa!" they yelled repeatedly.

There was popcorn and hot chocolate available for purchase--which keeps the little ones happy while waiting in line. In years past we've waited up to 30 minutes to see Santa.

When we reached the stage, the twins panicked. Santa is a big fellow and they were overwhelmed. We held them and they calmed down while the older children told Santa their Christmas wishes.

After taking our photo with Santa, we caught the next train back to the depot and sang-a-long to "Deck the Halls." The train chugged by the water mill and through the brightly lit tunnel. Just before we pulled into the station, it began "snowing"! You know, kinda like the "snow" at Disneyland.

We finished up the night in the Christmas Village, just to the left of the train depot. Mrs. Claus read us a story and the children colored Christmas-themed pictures. There were other activities for purchase like a bounce house, cookie decorating ($4 to decorate one cookie) and an carnival-style games.

It was a wonderful evening of fun for the whole family. Even my ten year old enjoyed it, although I think she's just about outgrown it.

If you plan on riding the Christmas Train this year, be sure to check out the helpful information @ The Irvine Park Railroad.

Merry Christmas!

Are the "Twilight" books misogynistic?

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 15:11:00 GMT

I just finished the first Twilight book. I can't believe parents are letting their daughters read this stuff--unless it's to crack jokes at the hilariously chauvinistic dialogue.

You know, real gems like this one from lust-a-licious vampire Edward Cullen: "You are exactly my kind of heroin." (p.268)

Now that right there is one swoon-worthy compliment!

If only it weren't followed shortly after by this proclamation: "As if I needed another reason to kill you." (p.272)

Right, because nothing turns a girl on like a guy who is conflicted...ABOUT KILLING HER.

"I could reach out, meaning to touch your face, and crush your skull by mistake. You don't realize how incredibly breakable you are." (p.310)

O, Edward! Throw me over your shoulder and haul me downstairs to breakfast after a night of passionate, fully-clothed cuddling!

Yes, peeps, it's true. Edward Cullen and Bella Swan practice abstinence. Our chivalrous vampire doesn't want to fornicate with Bella. He just wants to kill her.

Darn those "confusing" murderous impulses!

But let's focus on the positive. A chaste vampire. Ah, yes. This is a vampire you can bring home to meet the folks.

And don't worry. If Edward ends up killing Bella, it will be her fault. That's because she should know to stand perfectly still when he kisses her. Otherwise vampire passions are aroused and, well, murder happens.

"Damn it, Bella!" he broke off, gasping. "You'll be the death of me, I swear you will." (p.363)

Romantic, right? He gets to die figuratively. She gets to die literally. Awesome.

You know, the only thing less funny than Twilight's cheesy one-liners is the fact that millions of young girls might actually believe its false portrayal of love.

How many young women will now bypass good, decent (non-violent!) guys in favor of the "complex, confused" bad-boy? Parents should point out to their daughters that the romance in Twilight hinges upon nothing less than the entire subjugation of its female protagonist.

Subjugation is not love. Neither is obsession that leads to death. Didn't we learn that from Romeo & Juliet? Darn those pesky double-suicide endings!

Look, I get it. Back in the day, Heathcliff was my literary hero. Then I got married and had five kids. That cured me right quick.

Now I prefer a real man who is respectful, kind and replaces the busted water heater. He even takes out the diaper pail without being asked! Seriously, how hot is that?

Yeah, that's my kinda hero. And it's the kind of hero I'm going to help my daughters choose, too. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got a book to throw in the trash...er, recycling bin.

The taxi ride that shattered my worldview

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 06:58:00 GMT

Chicago traffic and a chatty cab-driver allowed me the opportunity to re-examine my life. At first, I resisted. I had a headache and was nauseous from a bumpy plane flight.

But after a conversation with my Haitian cab-driver, I realized I had nothing to complain about.

Louis (not his real name) told me he works 16 hour days, 7 days a week. He has five children. He came to the United States from Haiti twelve years ago--by himself. He worked hard for seven years before bringing all his children to Chicago.

His children arrived not speaking a word of English. Five years later, they speak it fluently and his eldest child was accepted to a prestigious Illinois university.

Louis used to work at a higher paying job, but he was laid off when the economy went bad. Now he works as a cab driver which he says is not a great job because people are trying to save money by taking buses or trains.

I asked Louis what he does for fun--which I immediately realized was the lamest question ever. He just sorta looked at me in the rearview mirror and shook his head.

"There is no fun," he said. "No vacation. No holidays. Just work and sleep."

I think it was at that moment I realized how sheltered, how privileged, how insanely oblivious I am to the world outside my little stay-at-home-mom bubble.

"Do you at least take Christmas day off?" I asked, weakly.

"No," he said. "If I park the car, that's money I'm losing."

Louis' dream in life is to give his children the possibility of a better life. He said he plans on working 16 hour days for the next 10 years and then going back home to Haiti when his youngest child is 19.

And then, somehow, we were talking about religion and God. It was a natural segue, really. Louis knows a little something about sacrifice and selfless love.

"I don't go to church anymore," he admitted. "But I do keep the faith!"

I was amazed--and ashamed of myself. For some reason, I had expected Louis to be an atheist--or at least an agnostic. I mean, how could someone who enjoys so few of life's joys believe in a benevolent God?

But no. Louis was downright cheerful about his intact belief system.

Sometimes I think I've gone through a lot when it comes to crises of faith. But would I still "keep the faith" if I had to work 16 hour days, 7 days a week?

Would the one single hope of making a better life for my children be enough for me?

Honestly, it was a pretty convicting taxi ride.

A few moments later we arrived at my sister's house. Louis pulled my suitcase out of the trunk of his cab.

I thanked him profusely. And then I tipped him generously.

It was my way of saying thank you for a safe ride. And also for being the finest example of sacrificial love and genuine faith that I've met in a very long while.

Die, skinny jeans, die!

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 19:46:00 GMT

I'd like to know which fashion designer took a hard look at 99.9% of the American population and thought: "Yeah! Skinny jeans! That'd be a GREAT idea!"

Because unless you're an emaciated supermodel or a pre-pubescent boy, skinny jeans are a disaster.

It's so unfair. Just when I make my peace with boot-cut jeans, some genius decides that denim leggings are hot. And now I can't find a pair of stinkin' boot-cut jeans anywhere.

I mean, seriously. Pair up some skinny jeans with a tank top and I resemble a stuffed sausage, fresh from the meat-packing plant.

I don't know about you, but I'm a real woman. Not a mannequin.

Which is to say, I have hips.

Not that men look any better in skinny jeans. In fact, skinny jeans should come with a warning label for men.

WARNING: MAY CAUSE STERILITY. WEAR AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Skinny jeans just need to die. Especially acid-washed skinny jeans. And with it? V-neck shirts for men.

Really, who thought men in v-necks was a good idea? Ick. Men of the world: spare us your hairy cleavage.

It's just ridiculously frustrating. Most of what qualifies as fashion these days makes me wanna throw up a little.

Why can't we just go back to long dresses and hoop-skirts? Frankly, I'd rather wear a corset to show off my waist than skinny jeans to show off my muffin-top.

I'm calling for a revolution. Let's demand real fashion for real women. How about maxi-dresses WITH SLEEVES, for starters?

Chubby-armed women of the world unite!

Skinny jeans, your days are numbered.