Tag Archives: children

July 5, 2012 · 5:34 pm

The Remains of Summer

A wistful look at the summer of 2011…surmising I’ll revisit those sentiments again very soon…

With a mere whisper of July remaining, I cannot help but flip through the calendar feeling as if I’ve failed spectacularly yet again. Alright, maybe it’s simply a profound measure of disappointment and/or a mild case of mommy angst that I’m feeling and not failure per se. At any rate, there was so much more that I wanted to accomplish in the 47 days since the school year ended. Things that would make the summer exceedingly memorable for my children. Remembrances that would gather in the corners of their minds for decades to come. Happenings that would surely find their way into the mother-of-all writing assignments come September (i.e. the celebrated back-to-school narrative that practically every student has ever faced): My Summer Vacation was Special Because….

Granted, Thing One and Thing Two have had immeasurable fun thus far in the season of suntans and sweet corn, however if I hope to achieve the brand of joy and the volume of memories I had envisioned cultivating before the thrum of crickets finally dies, I’ll need to hasten my step. It’s people like Beth Hendrickson, creator (and curator) of “A Summer Bucket List,” who inspire me to do so. That said, I’ve compiled a fairly impossible (yet impressive) list of that which I hope to do with my family during the fleeting time that remains—thirty-four days and counting.

For starters, we must seize an enormous cardboard box, one that begs to be transformed into a house of sorts—complete with doors, an abundance of windows and skylights, a child-sized escape hatch and a mail slot that promises to give new meaning and purpose to the junk mail I loathe so completely. We should also spend at least one endless afternoon wielding chunks of sidewalk chalk, together giving rise to a bustling city upon our favorite concrete slab—the one that doubles as a canvas every summer. And when the rains threaten to destroy our self-proclaimed masterpiece, we ought to head inside to construct a behemoth-sized blanket fort that will envelop the entire living room for days on end. Just because. And once we’ve burrowed deep within the confines of either the cardboard cottage or the haven of blankets, we should then read books together—beginning, of course, with Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh.

Furthermore, it’s imperative that we invite a forever friend to stay for a delicious wedge of time, rekindling the past and erasing the miles that now separate us. More importantly, we should do something completely outlandish (like pitch an 18×10 ft. tent in the living room) so as to make his stay wholly unforgettable. We should visit the ocean, too, pausing as its waves give chase and our lungs become filled with the unmistakably brackish scent of the sea. We need to bury each other in the sand, as well, and gather shells by the bushel, and build sandcastles of epic proportions, and walk on the beach at dawn—as there is nothing else on earth quite like it. We ought to visit a handful of historic places, too, and wonder aloud how it must have felt to live during such an era. Feeding our intellect and stirring our minds at a museum is a good idea, too—as is catching a drive-in movie on a whim and camping out at Grandma and Grandpa’s in the aforementioned monstrosity of a tent—as promised.

What’s more, painting something together made my summer bucket list, not to mention teaching my brood the fine art of skipping stones, reading (and folding!) an actual map and catching a Frisbee behind one’s back. Oh, and cursive writing, too—a skill that the Department of Education apparently no longer deems worthy of inclusion in its curriculum—a decision that defies all logic and understanding.

And although it’s exceedingly difficult, I will try my level best to unplug from my dear computer for a time. (Apparently, radio makes people happier anyway according to a recent Huffington Post article). Likewise, it is essential that my family spends a goodly portion of the coming weeks devouring fresh garden tomato and cucumber sandwiches. Lots of them. Spontaneous picnics involving said sandwiches are of paramount importance for August, too, as is playing badminton until we can no longer see, except for the intermittent flashes of fireflies as the dark of night slowly swallows the yard, the thickets and trees in the distance and, eventually, what remains of summer.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (lamenting the finite quality of summer and knowing all too well that we’ll be plunked on the shores of September long before we are ready). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Endless Summer, Love and Other Drugs

Tagged as bucket list, children, kids, parenting, summer, summertime

July 2, 2012 · 9:00 am

P.S. I Still Hate My Summer Workbook

It has become abundantly clear that I should have shipped my kids off to summer camp. Weeks ago. Granted, I would have then been the unhappy recipient of an ungodly number of letters filled with angst, indignation and the desperate longings of two very homesick children. Ones who would likely remind me that I forgot to pack enough underwear and Hello Kitty Band-Aids. Never mind stamps and fancy schmancy stationery—so they could, of course, send more letters spelling out what a horrible mother I am imploring me to come and rescue them from some unnamed mosquito-infested forest as soon as possible.

Much like Diane Falanga’s heartfelt yet hilarious collection: P.S. I Hate It Here and the sequel to her 2010 book, P.S. I Still Hate It Here! More Kids’ Letters From Camp, I’m fairly certain my brood would craft the sort of plea that would appeal to her wicked sense of humor. It’s only natural to expect that I would find such supplications uproariously amusing as well. That said, sending Thing One and Thing Two to summer camp probably would have been at the very least an entertaining venture—not to mention preferable to what I’ve endured of late. More specifically, the insufferable barrage of grousing I’ve tolerated as it relates to handing my charges their “eternally evil” math workbooks (or so they affectionately refer to them).

Who was I to think my progenies would embrace the tedium that is long division, or the horror that is tethered so completely to large and unwieldy fractions and/or word problems involving planes and trains racing to some godforsaken place? ESPECIALLY DURING THE DELICIOUSNESS OF SUMMER!? An idiot, apparently.

My first clue should’ve been the time my dear children hid the cussed things in their big sister’s closet, hoping against hope that I would suffer death, dismemberment or, at the very least, some sort of memory lapse resulting in a reprieve from the toilsome task. Their incessant whining as it ostensibly relates to terrible, horrible, no good, very bad pencils and less-than-endearing erasers should have tipped me off, too. Please note: I have provided an embarrassment of perfectly wonderful pencils and erasers to the aforementioned heathens, much to their chagrin. And let us not forget the vociferous rant that graced the margins of a similar set of workbooks last summer—ones that disturbingly depicted tiny bookish entities with sinister-looking eyebrows and a penchant for consuming children’s brains.

I wish I were kidding. Likewise, I wish I could petition Diane Falanga to harvest notes of that ilk from the throngs of indignant youth that undoubtedly exist in this world of hyper-parenting. But I digress. Summer camp would’ve been fun for my kids. Notes or no notes.

Then again, I would have foregone countless days filled with the sort of hilarity that promises to cling to the corners of my mind for a very long time to come. Hilarity that involved painted-on mustaches that threatened to become permanent, deranged goat-inspired skits (don’t ask),errantly placed lizard poo (seriously, don’t ask) and the assorted vermin my dear husband stupidly encouraged our daughters to “adopt,” if only fleetingly. (Visit www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom to meet Phil and Perry, the groundhog and opossum that have since been returned to the wild—completely unscathed, I might add, except for the emotional scarring duly associated with listening to a couple of 11-year-olds toy with the notion of dressing them up in doll clothes).

Likewise, I would have missed the insanely funny lullaby (i.e. the Soft Kitty song) they sang with afriend in his parents’ hot tub late one night, and the golden opportunity to witness that which made me chortle more than anything: Thing One and Thing Two (an unlikely pair of rappers clad in two of the most ridiculous-looking swim caps and goggles) performing on Photo Booth. Thankfully, it has been digitally preserved for all time, however it pales in comparison to the live version I so enjoyed.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (curiously pleased that I didn’t ship my kids off to summer camp). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting, School Schmool, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, humor, parenting, summer, summer slide

June 18, 2012 · 12:24 pm

It’s a Cruel, Cruel Summer

It’s entirely possible that I need to have my head examined. Even my jackwagon-of-a-dog thinks so. I can tell because of the disapproving glare he shoots me each morning as I pass his crate, failing to pick up his leash and take him on the long, leisurely walk we’ve enjoyed pretty much forever. The walk during which he routinely sniffs wildflowers, eats carrion and engages in completely unprovoked bouts of maniacal barking involving people, big trucks and inanimate objects he deems inherently evil.

Or at least I assume he deems them inherently evil—judging by the way he franticly claws the pavement, straining and gasping for breath as he tries in vain to reach the aforementioned entities—rendering the entirety of his 14-pound stupid-self spent. Sadly, I have yet to make sense of such moronic behavior and can only guess that it has something to do with the disproportionate number of tree faces located in our neighborhood. They are sort of creepy after all—much like the keening melodies that emanate from ice cream trucks. And clowns. Let us not forget the creepy clowns that populate the planet.

At any rate, my neurotic little dog is still highly displeased with me. More specifically, our daily constitutional of late has been replaced with ferrying my brood to tennis lessons, and shortly thereafter, to the pool for swim team practice and then on to eleventy-seven errands of one kind or another. By the time I return, the asphalt on our street has fairly replicated the surface of the sun, which precludes any and all jaunts with said dog. Hence, the disapproving glare.

Aside from finding my actions generally irksome and largely inconvenient, my tail-wagging companion also believes that I am a profound idiot (i.e. he wears the celebrated YOU’RE AN IDIOT dog face I have come to know and loathe). All things considered, I would tend to agree with his assertion. Roughly three nanoseconds after the school year came to a close, I enrolled my children in activities that I KNEW would entail setting a cussed alarm clock and transporting the wily beasts (and their embarrassment of paraphernalia) hither and yon, preferably with matching socks and clean underwear. Never mind the grousing, nay, THE BELLIGERENCE I would encounter as the official sunscreen slatherer (aka The Evil One Who Seeks to Rid the World of Joy). Of course, it is the very same brand of belligerence I endure upon handing my charges their math workbooks each day or dropping not-so-subtle hints that their music instruments are in danger of gathering dust, making me ever so popular with the crowd.

But I digress.

The swim team sign-up alone has earned me Satan status in my children’s eyes. Case in point: “The water is frighteningly deep, intolerably cold and I’m probably going to die.”

Okay, only the latter part of that sentence was in fact uttered, but the lips from whence the words fell were disturbingly blue and the water is, indeed, frighteningly deep. Furthermore, I’ve been privy to countless tirades involving the horribleness of waves generated by great throngs of swimmers and the dreadful deluge of water that has the audacity to become lodged in one’s nose and ears forevermore.

“It’s like the water hates me, Mom, and wants me to die. Why did you ever sign us up for this?!”

I honestly have no fucking idea. But, of course, I remind Thing One and Thing Two of their ceaseless petitions to join the team and extoll the many virtues of said organization, banking on the notion that in time they will adjust to that which is nothing short of a tsunami at present. Pun intended. Likewise, I try to dismiss the little voice inside my head that whispers something about being a monster—and a particularly daft one at that.

Then again, my dog may be right.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (embracing my inner idiot). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Endless Summer, I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting

Tagged as activities, children, humor, overloaded schedules, parenting, sports, summer

June 5, 2012 · 3:14 pm

Juneuary

I love this time of the school year, as we straddle the delectable months of May and June—quite literally on the cusp of summer. Translation: The celebrated death of structure is nigh and I can almost taste the deliverance from order and obligation—especially as it relates to parenting a pair of wily fifth graders. Far and away, it’s my favorite wedge of weeks on the academic calendar; although September’s nice, too, with its bustling fleets of bright, yellow school buses, towers of textbooks and freshly sharpened pencils. Trendy backpacks and lunchboxes abound, too. Everything, it seems, is awash with newness come September, just as it was so very long ago when I headed back to grade school with the swarming masses (and a newfangled Scooby-Doo thermos).

But the present chunk of time is downright edible—a delicious string of days that meld together like the final pages of a good book. Needless to say, the sundrenched afternoons and scrumptious evenings filled with Frisbees and the ever-present thrum of crickets woo me into thinking that nothing on earth could possibly be better—except maybe a moratorium on homework, which is pretty much what we’ve been granted of late. That said, there is no substitute for this season’s splendor—and the fireflies we are eager to chase at dusk. Nor is there any match for the grand finale my kids revere more than life itself (i.e. the culmination of school, with its patented swirl of delirium-inducing celebrations and jammed-to-capacity schedule of events). Indeed, it is a frenzied cluster of weeks that threatens to claim my sanity, but it passes all too quickly and I find myself pining for more.

If I had my druthers, another 30-day chunk of time would be sandwiched between the fifth and sixth months, infusing the school calendar with that which is righteous and good (namely, science projects that don’t necessitate the summoning of a marriage counselor, sports schedules that are very nearly practicable and weather forecasts that typically include blue skies and balmy temperatures). Juneuary, I’d call it. Of course, it would contain a perfectly frivolous holiday during which people would pause for three consecutive days to pay homage to squirt guns. Or toads. Possibly both. You’re welcome, said the maniacal visionary and curator of whimsy.

Alas, there is no Juneuary, and a mere handful of days remain in my children’s school calendar—a woeful reality that is, of course, punctuated by the fact that this week will officially end their grade school years. That said, my brood is poised to enter middle school in the fall—where the likelihood of being trampled by a herd of 8^th graders is nearly equivalent to that of being stuffed inside a locker (incidentally, a locker that no one will figure out how to reliably lock and unlock without divine intervention and/or the acquisition of at least one superpower).

Never mind the inevitability that I will fail to locate their classrooms on Back to School Night, at which time I will surely forego the opportunity to meet their new teachers because I’ll be too busy wandering aimlessly through the labyrinth of hallways that appear disturbingly similar. Make that COMPLETELY INDISTINGUISHABLE, except for the smallish numbers printed near the doors that I may or may not fully discern, given the addled state I expect to be in at that time.

Maybe I should just stow my kids somewhere in the bowels of the elementary school for the summer, so they might stay a bit longer, tethered to the people and things they know best. A place where an embarrassment of items were lost and subsequently found (read: library books, lunch money, a certain someone’s clarinet, eleventy-seven sweatshirts, a beloved Pokémon card and an errantly placed baby tooth). A place where scrapes were tended to, psyches were nurtured and curiosities were fed since the early days of kindergarten. A soft spot to land these past six years—a refuge that has made all the difference this June.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (searching desperately for the pause button). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Growing Pains, Love and Other Drugs, School Schmool

Tagged as children, end-of-school, growing pains, humor, parenting, school

May 21, 2012 · 7:00 am

The Color of Bizarre

Of all places, it began in an obscure corner of a local pharmacy, with child in tow. My incapacitating infatuation with a certain hue of green paint, that is. Who does that? What sort of deranged mother follows a late night visit to an urgent care facility (due to excruciating ear pain of the youth variety) with a spontaneous and completely self-serving foray into the realm of household décor? This sort of deranged mother, apparently. One who was less concerned with the prospect of obtaining a curative pharmaceutical for her dear daughter than with the intoxicating possibility of acquiring said paint for a certain someone’s writing lair.

For the record, I didn’t intend to become smitten with the aforementioned hue whose algae-inspired essence was splashed over the entirety of the prescription drug enclave, beckoning to me unremittingly (like only pond scum pigmentation can). It just sort of happened and I could do nothing to resist. Indeed, the paint spoke to me.

Oddly enough, it spoke to my 11-year-old, too, whose blinding pain somehow evaporated as she stood before the wall of green, mesmerized by what appeared to be the world’s largest harvest of guacamole. Or seaweed. Possibly both.

“Mom, isn’t that the most awesome color you’ve ever seen?! It looks like frog spit and it would be PERFECT for your office! Plus it would cover up that girly lilac you’re so sick of, wouldn’t it?”

And at that, I was silenced. For this was the child who had refused to embrace the notion of change for as long as I can remember. The child who, on occasion, had launched visceral tirades in response to the mere suggestion of rearranging our living room furniture, never mind reordering her sock drawer or straightening the cushions upon our cussed couch.

God forbid we PAINT.

This could possibly explain my addled state and why I then became a disturbing source of fascination a terrible annoyance to the pharmacist, likely creeping her out with my shameless curiosity involving, of all things, latex paint.

“Can you tell me, ma’am, what shade of green that is?” I asked, pointing at the celebrated wall. “I know this sounds crazy, but I have to know. I’ve been wrestling with everything from gecko green to almost avocado, and now that I’ve gotten the go-ahead from our self-appointed Rule Captain,” I said, gesturing to my daughter who was clearly convinced that we should drop everything and paint already, “I’d be stupid not to.” Translation: If I don’t jump on this project in the next ten minutes, my child, who is frighteningly obsessed with sameness, will forget she ever expressed an interest in said endeavor, dooming me to the horrors of a purple workspace for all eternity.

For a time, the woman stared blankly at the wall and then at me, probably wondering how I had eluded security at the mental hospital from whence I undoubtedly had come. She then shook her head (possibly making me appear less deranged and more pathetic), picked up the phone and dialed someone who might be inclined to house peculiar data involving the whereabouts of little known paint swatches. Naturally, I was taken aback, yet mildly intrigued by her willingness to help.

Then things got weirder. She began firing a barrage of questions in rapid-fire succession. What sort of room did I intend to paint…how many windows were contained therein…what sort of ambient light existed…had I ever considered using a complimentary color? Of course, this rendered me patently delirious. Here was a woman who recognized the desperation in my voice—a woman who could sense the dysfunction in my home—a woman who, at least on some level, understood what it was like to live with a tiny tyrant who stifled my every whim. Whims related to redecorating, that is.

So when the woman in question actually tore a small chunk of paint off the wall, I was aghast—but in a good way. If that’s even possible.

“Here, take this with you to the paint store. Maybe they can match it,” she offered, defining for me in so many glorious ways, the color of bizarre.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (poised to paint). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.