Tag Archives: children

January 12, 2012 · 9:40 am

And on the Eighth Day, God Created Tactless Children

“Mom, do you have any clothes that are snug?” one of my brood tossed out as she snacked on a slice of pizza the size of Connecticut.

“Snug?” I asked. Could a wispy second grader fully and completely grasp the meaning of a word like snug–as in, “My pants are so fucking ‘snug,’ I’m going to EXPLODE if I so much as entertain the idea of breathing right now!”?

“Yeah. Like stuff that fits you too tight.”

“Yes, Hon. Virtually everything I own.”

“No, that’s not right, Mom. What you’re wearing right now isn’t too tight,” she corrected.

“Okay.” That’s because I’m so pathetic I happen to be wearing your father’s khakis with the waistband rolled over so they won’t fall to my knees in the grocery store–oh, and an enormous t-shirt so no one actually sees the hideous waistband-rollover-dealie. “ALMOST everything.”

“Like your wedding dress?” she offered casually (How could a puny and oh-so-unworldly kid zero in on THE most significant piece of garmentage I own as it relates directly to my hopeless and eternal struggle with weight since the advent of motherhood?! Needless to say, I was stunned and amazed to learn that she possessed such painfully accurate knowledge).

“Yes, like my wedding dress,” I answered through clenched teeth as I peeled the umpteenth carrot at the sink, wondering where this exercise in humiliation could possibly be headed.

“Can we play dress-up with it then?” she asked offhandedly.

“NO. You can’t play dress-up with my wedding dress! That’s…that’s…just not…it’s just not…appropriate,” I stammered and fished for the proper wordage to protect and defend what was rightfully mine–as if I might need it for a third trip down the aisle at some point in the future. Besides, I didn’t want dribbles of pizza to sully its pristine surface. Or the purplish hue of lip gloss they were sure to smear on it (“…because lipstick makes us more be-U-tiful, Mommy, so we can get married”). My dress was perfectly perfect shrouded in plastic, hanging for all eternity behind the rest of my wardrobe-that-was-too-stinking-small-for-me.

For the record: I made two trips down the aisle.

But in two completely different dresses. In two completely different cities. In two completely different decades.

And, of course, I exchanged I-Do’s with two completely different men.

That said, wearing the same dress twice would have been tacky. And no, I couldn’t have poured myself into the first dress for the second wedding anyway. Not on a bet.

____________________________________________________________

Just then, her partner in crime (i.e. the equally wispy twin sister) joined us in the kitchen to listen in.

“Just where did all this snug malarkey come from anyway?” I had to inquire. Did my ass really look that big? SO big that my soon-to-be-eight-year-old daughters felt compelled to address the issue face-to-face?!

“We saw an ad on TV,” Wispy Girl One answered.

“Yeah. It was about how you could fit into all your old clothes again,” Wispy Girl Two added.

“Oh really,” I said, cynicism oozing from my pores.

“Yeah. It only takes like a day, Mom, and then the man said you could fit into your old clothes. Isn’t that cool?!” Wispy Girl Two further explained.

“Very cool, Hon. Very cool. Although I doubt it would work in just one day.”

“Yeah. It might take you a week because you really don’t get how it works, do you Mom?”

Apparently not.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in my husband’s khakis…but it’s not what you think). Oh, and you can buy Jen Lancaster’s book here, Such a Pretty Fat and Kim Brittingham’s literary gem, Read My Hips here. Perhaps I ought to zip to the bookstore myself with my tactless children in tow–who will undoubtedly mention to the nice saleslady, “Mommy’s clothes are a bit snug, you know. But she’s working on it.”

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Filed under Kid-Speak, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as children, humor, Jen Lancaster, Kim Brittingham, parenting, Read my Hips, Such a Pretty Fat, weight issues

January 4, 2012 · 7:00 am

A Kinder, Gentler Sort of Holiday Madness

It’s the eleventh day of Christmas and finally it’s safe to venture beyond one’s home out into the Land of Wares. At least it would seem so. The tired, the poor and the frenzied masses have all gone home, lugging obscene quantities of discounted schlock from near and far. No longer are the aisles choked with throngs of ill-tempered people—addled by the irksome constancy of holiday music, less-than-functional shopping carts and the vexing nature of can-I-really-afford-that-which-promises-to-wow-my-child-as-much-or-more-than-a-pony. Furthermore, hideously long lines, impossible-to-find merchandise, and the occasional slug-inspired sales clerks no longer fuel my nightmares. Nor does the siren song of Black Friday, Super Saturday and Mega Monday wail in my ear. Even the highways and byways seem more manageable in the wake of this oh-so-wonderful Yuletide. Parking lots, too.

Quite frankly, I was teetering on the edge of insanity just days before Christmas, my head reeling with sales jingles and an acute awareness of my fiscal limitations. Plus, I was fumbling around with way too many crumpled scraps of paper filled to capacity with wishes that had been hurriedly scrawled, scratched out, and then revised in the margin or penciled in literally atop an existing entry, making the resultant tome very nearly indecipherable. Couple that with the insurmountable task of calculating sale prices, on top of sale prices, less the percentage of savings guaranteed with my shamelessly disordered wad of coupons, as well as remembering a host of preferred shapes, sizes, colors and molecular structures of the aforementioned wish list items and it’s completely reasonable to expect ensuing madness.

God forbid someone’s pajama pants might feature the wrong monkeys (heretofore known as “monkey pants”).

Needless to say, I fell victim to the surge of gotta-have-it-or-I-will-surely-wither-and-die mentality, besieged by the almighty tide of consumerism and swallowed whole by its frenetic and unrelenting pace. Translation: I joined the masses of those who wandered aimlessly in both stores and tangled parking lots, mumbling great strings of incoherence about the state of my cussed list, seized by a quiet panic over frivolities such as Justin Bieber’s hair style (who knew there was more than one?!), the untold variety of Harry Potter whateverness and whether or not Stubby and The Fat One (the bearded dragons my charges so desperately wanted for Christmas) had already been sold to the highest bidder—in which case, I might as well have lit myself on fire to avoid a far more horrible fate.

That said, I’m not especially proud of the fact that I spent a veritable eternity facing a wall of Littlest Pet Shop creatures and a bank of creepy cyber bugs, paralyzed with indecision over toys that would be discarded in roughly 27 seconds. The bendable sock monkeys would rule the day anyway, as would the offensively loud pair of elephant banks, the freakishly large rubber shark, the aforementioned monkey pants and the glut of fuzzy, green socks a certain someone used a total of ten adjectives to effectively describe in her “Dear Santa” letter. Likewise, I am equally ashamed to admit having been so completely obsessed with finding the perfect gift (and fit) for my husband that I tried on an embarrassment of winter coats, and in so doing, became literally entombed within one in a remote corner of a department store that should probably ban me.

I wish I were kidding.

Read: Just after I had finished zipping it past my nose, snapping all the snaps and appraising its exceptional warmth and coziness, the teeth of the external zipper suddenly gave way at its base, causing a small wave of panic to wash over me. All I could readily focus on, as I groped around for the stupid zipper and FLOUNDERED INSIDE SAID TORRID MICROCOSM OF DOOM was the newspaper headline that would surely read: Woman Trapped Inside Giant Parka. Rescued Three Days Later by Kohl’s Employees. Driven Certifiably Insane by Incessant Loop of Holiday Music and Sauna-like Temperatures.

Thankfully, I was spared that particular brand of humiliation and escaped from the jacket in question without incident. The zipper miraculously righted itself, I chose a perfectly wonderful coat from the legions I had sampled and went home a happy woman—almost as happy as I am now that the madness is over and normalcy has returned to the land.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably not shopping). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com and www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Holiday Hokum, Home for Wayward Toys, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as after Christmas sales, children, Christmas, consumerism, humor, parenting, shopping

December 30, 2011 · 7:06 pm

A Decade of Enlightenment: Ten Things Parenthood Has Taught Me

I’ve been a parent for some 8,286 days. A stunningly imperfect parent, I hasten to add. During that period of time I learned more about sleep deprivation, sibling rivalry and teen angst than I previously considered humanly possible. However, the past decade has proven to be particularly edifying. Indeed, Thing One and Thing Two have provided me with a veritable feast of enlightenment. So, in the spirit of welcoming the new year and the vat of enlightenment sure to come, I thought it might be fitting to recap what the last decade has taught me—at least from the perspective of a stunningly imperfect parent.

1) Beauty is likely in the kitchen. Translation: Most of the masterpieces I’ve collected thus far in my parenting journey are proudly displayed upon my refrigerator, where I suspect they will remain for a very long time to come. That is not to say the face of the fridge is the only canvas upon which said prized artwork hangs in all its faded glory. My home is quite literally inundated with the fledgling, Picasso-esque efforts of my brood, serving as a constant reminder of their boundless generosity and artsy flair. As it should be, I suppose.

2) The word “sleepover” is a misnomer. No one actually sleeps at a sleepover—including the pitiable adults charged with the impossible duty of entertaining the gaggle of impressionable youths in attendance. Furthermore, the later slumber party-goers appear to crash, the earlier they will rise, demanding bacon and eggs. Moreover, it is inevitable that someone’s personal effects (i.e. an unclaimed pair of underpants, a lone sweat sock, an irreplaceable stuffed animal) will be tragically lost—only to show up months later in the oddest of places.

3) When taken out of context, that-which-parents-say-and-do is often appalling. Case in point: “Stop licking the dog.” “If you’re going to ride your scooter in the house, wear a damn helmet.” “Fight nice.” In a similar vein, I’ve fed my charges dinner and dessert in a bathtub more times than I’d care to admit, I’ve used a shameful quantity of saliva to clean smudges off faces, I’ve suggested a broad range of inappropriate responses to being bullied and I consider the unabashed bribe to be one of my most effective parenting tools.

4) A captive audience is the very best sort of audience. That said, some of the most enlightening conversations between parent and child occur when the likelihood of escape is at a minimum (i.e. at the dinner table, in a church pew, en route to the umpteenth sporting event/practice session/music lesson, within the confines of the ever-popular ER).

5) On average, we parents spend an ungodly amount of time reading aloud books that we find unbearably tedious. We say unforgivably vile things about the so-called “new math” and, as a matter of course, we become unhinged by science projects and whatnot—especially those that require mad dashes to the basement and/or the craft store at all hours of the day and night in search of more paint, more modeling clay and perhaps a small team of marriage counselors.

6) Forget wedding day jitters, the parent/teacher conference is among the most stressful experiences in life—not to be confused with the anxiety-infused telephone call from the school nurse and that interminable lapse of time wedged between not knowing what’s wrong with one’s child and finding out.

7) Of all the creatures in the animal kingdom, the child-with-a-camera is undoubtedly the most fearsome—although the child-with-webcam-knowledge is equally clever and decidedly terrifying as well. More specifically, the aforementioned entities possess an uncanny knack for digitally preserving our less-than-flattering moments. Joy. What’s more, they have a certain weakness for documenting freakishly large or (gasp!) green-hued poo, which I’m told is bizarrely linked to the consumption of blue Slushies. Color me enlightened, yet again.

8) Kids are hard-wired to harvest every syllable of that-which-their-parents-shouldn’t-have-said so that they might liberally share those choice phrases in the most humiliating venue and manner imaginable (i.e. during show-and-tell, at Sunday school, in a crowded elevator, while sitting upon Santa’s lap, at the precise moment the guests arrive).

9) The discovery of a teensy-tiny wad of paper—one that has been painstakingly folded and carefully tucked within a pocket, wedged beneath a pillow or hidden inside a dresser drawer—is akin to being granted psychic powers. Everything a parent needs to know about their child will likely be scrawled upon said scrap of paper.

10) Unanswerable questions never die—they simply migrate to more fertile regions of our homes where they mutate into hideous manifestations of their original forms, leaving us wringing our hands and damning our inadequate selves.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (getting schooled as we speak). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as children, humor, New Year, parenthood, parenting

December 20, 2011 · 7:00 am

Jingle All the Way

It’s possible that I might be slightly smitten with jingle bells—more specifically, with the completely delicious and decidedly hypnotic sound they emit. A feast for the ears. A balm for the soul. A window into the past for people like me, who’ve harvested decades-old memories that involve horses, snow-covered cornfields and wintry afternoons spent on my grandfather’s farm. As a result, I am fairly incapable of resisting the allure of a store bin filled to capacity with sleigh bells. That said, I cannot walk by without reaching in to sample each and every melodic wonder. To pluck great hordes from the array, one after another, appraising each with regard to its heft, luster and, of course, the inherent splendor of its sound. Call it a weakness if you will. Perhaps even a debilitating fixation. I have no shame.

Needless to say, there is a profusion of jingle bells in this household—both brass and silver, embossed and etched—many of which adorn our tree, several that rest near our beloved crèche, all of which are patently adored. Additionally, at least two clusters of bells, ones that are tenuously affixed to braided strands of crimson and gold, dangle freely from doorknobs so that our comings and goings, as well as those of friends and family who visit, are joyfully announced. What’s more, there are bell necklaces and bell bracelets, bells on stockings and bells on sleighs. Even a pair of plump snowmen COMPOSED ENTIRELY OF BELLS are poised to welcome Christmas Day—as are the hand-painted variety that a favorite student teacher recently bestowed upon my brood.

As one might expect, I spend an inordinate amount of time each December perfectly enthralled by the chorus of ringing the aforementioned bells are capable of producing (i.e. I move from room to room, gently waggling each bell in succession, holding it to my ear so that I might savor the sound as it lingers deliciously). Some offer a mere tinkling and the suggestion of an echo, as if a tiny man were inside striking the walls with a hammer, while others resonate seemingly forever a sound so rich and so pure it can almost be tangibly held in one’s hands.

The latter is my favorite and the special sort that we resurrected from my mother-in-law’s estate several years ago, along with a host of ceramic centerpieces she crafted herself and a handful of wooden blocks that spell out MERRY CHRISTMAS when properly arranged. Not surprisingly, I’m drawn to the sleigh bell—a silver-plated, baseball-sized genuine collectible manufactured by Wallace more than 30 years ago. Naturally, it makes a distinctive sound. And whenever I want to revisit a time when my husband’s mother was here (which is often, since there are so many conversations I wish we could have), I pick up the bell—which, I suppose, is not unlike the days I find myself wandering around in search of the Carter’s slippers my children wore so many years ago. The ones with tiny jingle bells housed inside their wooly dog exteriors, triggering fond remembrances of a pair of pajama-clad, bedtime-story-toting toddlers at will. In an instant, I can see them shuffling about, their rounded bellies protruding ever so slightly, their smallish hands clutching a toy of some sort.

Come January, as I take down the tree and unceremoniously stow away the remnants of Christmas cheer, I simply cannot bring myself to box up the bells, banishing them to the attic for an entire year. Not yet anyway. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Long after the Moravian star is removed from its lofty perch, the garland is gathered and legions of ornaments are shrouded in newsprint for safekeeping, the sleigh bells remain. Perhaps in defiance of society’s urgings that the Yuletide is over. Perhaps in spite of my longing to restore order to my hopelessly disordered world. Perhaps because of the warmth they engender, during this holiest of seasons and always.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (anxiously awaiting the sound of sleigh bells). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Holiday Hokum

Tagged as children, Christmas, family, jingle bells, memories, parenting, sleigh bells

December 13, 2011 · 7:00 am

Countdown to Christmas

It was painful to stand there and simply watch. To idly witness, that is, a little boy, no more than three, seized by a desperate longing to ride on the horse-drawn wagon that had circled the park more times than we could readily count in the hour or so that we waited. Again and again the team of Belgians passed us in the frigid night, pausing ever so briefly along its winding path to load and unload hoards of people who had come to this festive event—to soak in some Christmas cheer, to perhaps get a glimpse of Santa in his red, velvety suit and to feast their eyes upon the spectacle of lights that blanketed the grounds, casting a warm glow upon the darkness that sought to swallow us whole.

The boy’s frustration was decidedly palpable as he wailed in vain to his mother and to the starry sky above, arching his back and clenching his tiny fists in indignation—hot, angry tears streaming down his baby face. Inconsolable, as it were. Aside from diverting his attention from this sorrowful reality (i.e. that he was NOT sitting in the aforementioned wagon, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horses’ gait and the muted sound of their hooves as they hit the pavement), there wasn’t much anyone could do to comfort him.

So many times I’ve watched my own children suffer through the misery of waiting for that which promises to remedy all ills, to satisfy all desires and to deliver instantaneous joy. The interminable wait for Space Mountain at Disney World. The intolerable chasm between ordering a Happy Meal and wrapping one’s pudgy fingers around the cheap plastic toy contained within said Happy Meal. The insufferable gulf that exists between falling hard on the gritty sidewalk and being swooped up into a parent’s arms, where soothing assurances await.

And though they’ve grown immeasurably since that time, my children loathe the process of waiting even still—especially during this celebrated month of December, on the veritable cusp of Christmas. Over the years it has become tradition, shortly after Thanksgiving and perhaps before any other bit of holiday décor emerges from the depths of the attic, to haul out the handcrafted, Santa-inspired DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS thingy—the one that is cleverly outfitted with removable wooden blocks upon which numbers have been handily painted. We do this, of course, because we cannot find our Advent Calendar—the endearing square of felt-like fabric filled to capacity with a crop of tiny pockets and tethered to a small, cottony fir tree intended to mark the days until the 25^th. Needless to say, I had a deep and abiding love for that calendar, but sadly it disappeared—along with my girlish figure, every intact set of tumblers I once owned and the stain-free carpeting I once enjoyed.

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two are patently delirious over all that the Yuletide embodies, so thickly immersed are they in the important business of crafting gifts for friends and family, taking part in a good number of caroling excursions through school and church and (much to my dismay) quoting the lyrics of The 12 Pains of Christmas far too often. They’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time composing wish lists that appear to change with the wind, instilling me with a fair amount of panic as we inch ever nearer to Christmas Day. Indeed, the ratcheting effect of the official countdown has begun in earnest. “ELEVEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!” the wooden blocks seem to shout—reminding me of both the joy this season brings and of my glaring ineptitude as it relates to the enormity of the task ahead.

Cleansing breaths and great volumes of prayer are in order at such times, which, with any luck, will serve to ground me and to give me pause—especially during this grand and glorious season of hopeful expectation.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.