Tag Archives: parenting

May 29, 2011 · 8:31 pm

Clutter is the Bane of My Existence

Recently, I experienced one of those deliciously thrilling EUREKA moments in which I discovered the root of my debilitating problem with clutter. Archimedes would be proud. Needless to say, I was duly impressed with myself as well and have since celebrated by arranging to meet with the legendary Fly Lady herself, author of Sink Reflections www.flylady.net. Not really, but I’d like to think that that domestic goddess would be mildly astounded by my important findings and most certainly abuzz about the implications for all of mankind. Naturally, such a noteworthy accomplishment required that I take a long, hard look at myself, at my shamefully counterproductive housekeeping habits and at the dysfunction with which I am surrounded.

Firstly, I am married to someone who is physically incapable of throwing anything away—hence, the scourge of clutter currently sucking the life out of me. Always and forever, it seems, the Keeper of All Things Unnecessary defends his position: “But what if we NEED (insert virtually any tool-ish device of which we own three, documents that date back to the Paleozoic Era or a less-than-functional yet slightly adored heirloom harvested from the bowels of someone’s attic) in the next century?!” Making matters worse (read: FAR WORSE), our brood manifests many of the very same neurotic hang-ups irksome tendencies with respect to the concept of purging beloved treasures like ratty toothbrushes, chintzy toys and rubbish gleefully retrieved from beneath bleachers and whatnot. Woe is me.

Secondly, I keep buying stuff (i.e. obscenely frivolous crap that beckons to me from afar). That said, I am weak, I have voluminous quantities of time to fritter away in stores and I have plastic. WAY more plastic than someone with my far-from-frugal penchant ought to have. Mind you, such fiscally juvenile behavior continues to take place despite being painfully aware of the dearth of available storage space in my home and of the disturbing nature of my problem.

Thirdly, I cannot (for whatever reason) will my pathetic self to put anything away (for Crissakes) at the precise moment in time that it SHOULD be put away. Nor can I deal with whatever begs to be dealt with in a timely manner—namely, bank statements, muddied soccer cleats, folded laundry and anything even remotely related to the WRETCHED MAIL. As a result, hideous-looking piles of this and that lie about like carnage. And yet, I lamely argue the point that said stuff is simply en route to its rightful place in the Universe.

It’s in limbo, as it were; a twisted sort of purgatory for household goods. It’s a sinful reality here in these parts—a reality that is entirely imprudent and completely preventable. “But,” I insist to anyone fool enough to listen, “I have, shall we say, some slight ‘issues’ with follow though. Besides, it’s perfectly normal to paw through one’s laundry basket for clean socks, to trip over heaps of that-which-is-destined-for-the-recycling-bin and to race to the bus stop while yanking the tags off new clothes that have yet to see the inside of anyone’s closet. Perfectly normal.”

June Cleaver would be horrified.

But it’s not as if I’m a complete failure. Even June would have to admit that a modicum of what I do smacks of success. More specifically, it’s the baby steps I take on that eternal quest for order that truly matter. The successive approximations (a la B.F. Skinner) that I realize over time. Little by little, I shift and shuttle things to where they belong, knowing that EVENTUALLY clutter will leave me.

So there’s that, at least—the promise of order. Here’s hoping I’m not senile by the time said order arrives.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever ferrying stuff hither and yon, to its rightful place in the Universe). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

2 Comments

Filed under We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as children, clutter, disorder, family, hoarding, humor, husbands, kids, parenting

May 20, 2011 · 3:05 pm

Let’s Panic About Babies!

Don’t know what to give that special friend or relative who just found out she’s pregnant? Or the one who thinks she might be pregnant, but isn’t really sure? Or the knocked-up coworker two cubicles down with the really nice dieffenbachia plant? You know the one. The unassuming waif who is decidedly in a state of panic over the news. The one consumed by a myriad of irrational fears revolving around the hideous changes her body is currently experiencing. The one who will drive you fairly berserk in her quest to fire inane pregnancy questions at you till doomsday—which, apparently, is tomorrow.

At any rate, you need to purchase a slightly perfect gift for the baby shower that will inevitably occur in the coming months. Let’s Panic About Babies! (a rollicking, unabashed tome about the wonderment of being with child) is, indeed, that perfect gift. That said, it offers sage advice (translation: it offers none), intriguing accounts from the field (translation: practically everything chronicled in the book is made-up) and compelling data (translation: the statistics contained within are completely fabricated and anyone who quotes them is a moron). Plus, it provides hours and hours of blissful entertainment as it relates to the misery that is pregnancy (translation: that part is entirely true as it is a sinfully delicious read and likely to cause you to choke on your Skittles and whatnot).

Furthermore, this book, which was written by the insanely talented duo of Alice Bradley (aka Finslippy) and Eden M. Kennedy (aka Mrs. Kennedy), is equally valuable to those who’ve already had children and happen to be pregnant—again. Oh the horror! The seasoned-woman-with-child will certainly appreciate every syllable upon its 262 gloriously illustrated pages, praising its irreverence throughout all three trimesters—and beyond. There’s even a chapter that speaks to men!

In sum, Let’s Panic is a priceless body of work that reminds us how important it is not to take ourselves too seriously as parents and parents-to-be. Pick up a copy today. You know you want to.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (remembering well the days of being as big as a house). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.com where I implore you to share your in-the-trenches-parenting-moments.

Comments Off on Let’s Panic About Babies!

Filed under Bookish Stuff

Tagged as Alice Bradley, babies, book review, Eden M. Kennedy, Finslippy, Fussy, humor, Let's Panic About Babies, parenting, pregnancy

May 16, 2011 · 5:00 am

Building a Reader

There are letters, phonetic elements and, of course, words to which a vast array of meaning has been assigned over the course of history. Building blocks we parents turn to as we go about the important business of raising a reader. We tap our well of instructional instincts, consider our own path to literacy and look to the experts who willingly share all that we’ll ever need to know about teaching a child to read. Furthermore, we immerse our charges in literature, expose them to robust vocabulary, swear by the tried-and-true merits of repetition and, of course, read to them from the moment they become implanted within the uterine wall. Intuitively, we assume these ingredients help form a solid foundation upon which layers of understanding will take root and a lifelong love of reading will flourish. Theoretically, this is all well and good. Enter: The unpredictable and highly diverse nature of children.

That said, for the better part of my oldest daughter’s childhood, she had what can only be described as a visceral hatred of books. In sum, she gave new meaning to the term “reluctant reader.” From the early days of Dr. Seuss through her interminable high school career/slightly disturbing Sylvia Plath phase, literature—even good literature, it seemed—was the bane of her existence.

Naturally, I was completely convinced that whatever I had or hadn’t done as a parent somehow led to this sorry state of affairs. Pages, upon which writers had built a rich tapestry of words, did little to woo her within. Ergo, I had failed at one of the most important assignments of motherhood—to nurture a love of books. However, I suppose her abhorrence could have stemmed from something far more simplistic—perhaps she found books to be pitifully uninspiring…or had yet to discover an author that spoke to her…or maybe she considered reading itself to be a horrendously taxing affair (with all that page turning and whatnot). And no matter how I tried (to reward her efforts, to involve her in summer literacy camp, to make the words on a given page come to life by reading aloud till I felt compelled to light myself on fire), it was all for naught—until she went away to college, that is. It was there that her passion for books finally blossomed. Better late than never, methinks.

In a similar vein, my youngest child was and continues to be a challenge in the truest sense of the word. For the longest time, she refused to tackle anything unless its plot involved a horse that could talk, a dog overcome by some ridiculous misfortune or a hackneyed mystery soused with exceedingly dull dialogue. And I don’t know why, exactly, that sort of thing bothered me—except that I was largely responsible for reading the cussed things aloud after dinner, that is until my head lolled around as if it were tethered not to a neck, but to a spindly rubber hose. Needless to say, I remained dead asleep until my brood poked my eyelids with indiscriminate fingers, demanding to know what the stupid horse (or godforsaken dog or pint-sized super sleuth) had said. Oy.

Thankfully, the aforementioned reader-of-that-which-is-dreadfully-banal has progressed to more thought-provoking content in the titles she chooses nowadays. Better still, I have been relieved of my duties at the kitchen table. Translation: My neck no longer suffers from the ill effects of a droopy cranium.

In stark contrast (and as evidence that God does, indeed, smile upon me occasionally), my middle child has a deep and abiding love of books that I did almost nothing to cultivate. In a word, she disappears into the page and is swallowed whole by the story. Always has. At times, I lament the fact that her sisters didn’t come to reading in the same manner and with the same ferocity. Ultimately, though, I suppose what matters is that each of my children has a special relationship with books—a relationship that is as unique and individual as they are, one that will serve them well as they wend their way forward, a bond, I hope, that will enrich their lives and forever challenge their thinking. In the end, maybe that’s all we can effectively do, in addition to our level best as curators of impressionable youth.

But when opportunity knocks (like it did for me recently during the First Friday Signing Event at Otto’s Bookstore), we would do well to expose our charges to inspiring individuals like Jodi Moore, children’s author of When a Dragon Moves In (an Indie Next Kids’ Pick for this summer, Flashlight Press, illustrated by Howard McWilliam). Needless to say, my progenies were perfectly enthralled with her as she shared the creative process from start to finish, inviting them to step inside the fascinating world of literature—a good place to be, methinks.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (celebrating May, National Get Caught Reading Month). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Comments Off on Building a Reader

Filed under Bookish Stuff

Tagged as books, children, Jodi Moore, kids, National Get Caught Reading Month, parenting, When a Dragon Moves In

May 10, 2011 · 9:12 am

Dear Mirena

Firstly, as a mother of three, I’d like to thank you for sprinkling a little amusement atop my harried-with-children sort of world. The television commercial for the birth control product you market is hilarious, depicting with remarkable accuracy the inexorable chaos that is parenting. That said, the grocery store scene was classic, wherein you nailed the idea that kids are kids are kids, and inherent within each smallish being is the irrepressible desire to poke and prod fresh produce until it topples to the floor. The watermelon was a superb choice, incidentally.

However, your writers crossed some sort of line between that which is refreshingly funny and that which has led to a profusion of child-generated questions for which I have no answers. Shame on you for that, my dear Mirena.

__________________________________________________

Imagine, if you will, my husband, our twin daughters (Seek and Destroy, who are soon-to-be fourth graders) and myself plunked upon our couch watching television one afternoon while an ad for your lovely product aired. Of course, we were greatly amused by the aforementioned supermarket circus as well as the other just-shoot-me-if-I-so-much-as-THINK-about-getting-pregnant-again portrayals.However a seemingly innocuous snippet of speech (i.e. “…you can try to get pregnant right away…or not…”) apparently piqued the interest of a certain nine-year-old, causing her to launch one of the most feared inquiries known to the parenting world.

“So how do you try to have a baby anyway?”

Stupidly, my husband and I sat there in stunned silence, slack mouthed and pitifully unprepared to respond with any semblance of coherent thought.

Again with the question–only louder and more insistent this time, “SO HOW DO YOU TRY TO HAVE A BABY?”

We glanced at each other with a look that shouted, “It’s your turn to field this one,” shifting uncomfortably in our seats and wishing like crazy the awkwardness would dissolve into our less-than-pristine-looking cushions. But it didn’t. If anything, it intensified. Like fools, we simply sat there and waited for a nugget of wisdom to fall from the sky–much like the time we expected the Difficult Question Fairy to swoop down from the clouds and address our child’s very real concerns (i.e. the much-heralded demand to know if daddy’s vasectomy involved removing all or part of his brain). Seriously. One of our dear charges actually asked this.

“Hey, guys!” I shouted, tripping over my pitiful inability to change the subject, “Look at the cardboard boxes! They’re MOVING! Doesn’t that look like fun?! Maybe we should scrounge around in the garage for some big boxes, and then we could cut windows and doors in them like we used to!”

Our less-than-delighted progenies promptly rolled their eyes and attempted to redirect the discussion, “Did you guys try to have us?”

“Yes, yes we did, in fact,” my husband offered, hoping to steer the conversation into the realm of that which was answerable. “We even went to a special group of doctors (Translation: we trekked to a faraway fertility clinic each and every time your mother so much as whispered the words, “Honey, I might be ovulating…”) and they were enormously helpful–those doctors–enormously helpful. So yes, yes, we DID try to have you and we couldn’t be happier about it!”

“Why’d you do that? Were you guys bored or something?”

Needless to say, the Difficult Question Fairy was nowhere to be found and nothing seemed to be falling from the sky–least of all wisdom. Ugh.

1 Comment

Filed under Ode to Embarrassment, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as birth control, children, family, humor, kids, Mirena, parenting

May 7, 2011 · 7:07 pm

What Mom Really Wants

Mother’s Day is coming. One day and counting. I’ve marked the Almighty Calendar that hangs on our fridge with a big, fat sticker, proclaiming to one and all, “This day is IMPORTANT! Don’t you daaaaaare forget it!” And I’m sure no one will. My family loves me dearly and they’ll undoubtedly stumble over one another to shower me with adoration and gifts galore. Gifts to die for—like decadent chocolates, gorgeous, sweet-smelling bouquets of roses or something lily-ish, syrupy cards that remind me just how much I am loved and appreciated. To top it all off, they’ll probably treat me to a scrumptious meal at a fancy-schmancy restaurant—where all five of us will dine together.

Sadly, however, I’m afraid a degree of disappointment lurks just around the bend.

But don’t think for a moment that I would ever condemn my family’s attempts to make me feel extra special on Mother’s Day, because they do—and I do as a result. Each year they wow me in some remarkable way and I am eternally grateful for their well-meaning efforts. However, they often miss the mark when it comes to having a fine-tuned awareness of my innermost desires as a mom. Time and again, my motley crew fails to recognize my signals, let alone interpret them correctly. It’s sort of like watching archaeologists decipher hieroglyphics on a cave wall in order to learn what the skywriter above has written.

So I am left with but few options this Mother’s Day. I could attempt to convey my true wishes through telepathy, employing my standard-issue female mind powers to transmit messages to my brood. I could drop subtle hints by pasting colorful little notes everywhere from the dust-covered television screen to the empty milk jug, still sitting in the fridge. Or perhaps I could present my self-indulgent list of wants and needs here in a public venue, hopeful that it will be well-received and acted upon accordingly.

With any luck, the following suggestions will also be of value to other families who are eager to please Mom this Mother’s Day.

1) For starters, let Mom take a real live NAP once in a while. Not one of those namby-pamby dozing sessions on the couch that lasts for 15 minutes, rife with interruptions of the non-urgent variety. Set some hard and fast ground rules, too. No one is to disturb Mom unless the sky is falling or someone’s hair is on fire.

2) Pick up after each other. That’s what Mom does 24/7. Give her a break for Pete’s sake! That means no sneakers, underwear or sweat socks lying around for all to “enjoy,” no barbed toys lying in wait for her on the stairs and no decomposing apple cores on the coffee table or empty Cheetos bags stuffed under the sofa pillows. Muster the strength, somehow, to make it to the hamper, toy box and trash can. She manages to do it, even when she’s dead tired.

3) Relinquish the remote control for a day. Just one day. Honestly, how tough can it be? Let her choose the programming for once and don’t have a cow if she sticks with one station for more than ten minutes. The world won’t stop revolving if one less viewer tunes in to primetime rubbish geared to teens and young adults. Even Donald Trump doesn’t wield that much power and influence.

4) Remember to close things: The refrigerator door, the toilet seat and lid, the Wonder bread wrapper, the Jiff jar (‘cause your mom is a choosy mom), your dresser drawers, the back door and your mouth—to curb the spillage of all that less-than-endearing commentary that tends to flow like a river from time to time.

5) Make a concerted effort to get along with your siblings. Mom is sick and tired of blowing the whistle on all of your shenanigans. Not to mention, her wardrobe has suffered greatly since the addition of referee stripes. At all costs, refrain from causing anyone to bleed—especially on the good carpeting.

When that special day finally arrives, strive to think of Mom above all else—putting her wants and needs above your own. Really tune in to what she holds dear and what would prove to be the most meaningful to her when all is said and done.