Tag Archives: Planet Mom

All the World’s a Stage

I have next to no talent when it comes to public speaking—or public anything, for that matter. Even group texts stress me out to a degree. It’s just not in my DNA—dealing with a live audience, large or small. I much prefer to express myself by sitting at my laptop and stabbing at the keys, hopeful that I will convey something meaningful to those who happen to be on the receiving end of my words.

That said, I am a ridiculously shy person who would do almost anything to avoid being in the spotlight. Crowds instill within me not a sense of excitement, but sheer panic. Call me crazy, but I’d be more inclined to endure a root canal than to set foot on stage in front of throngs of people. And for the record, I find little comfort in the old adage JUST IMAGINE THE AUDIENCE IN THEIR UNDERWEAR AND YOU’LL BE FINE AT THE PODIUM. I should know. I tried that during my high school commencement speech and it did nothing but fuel my anxiety. Plus there was the whole boxers vs. briefs issue and I didn’t know which I was supposed to envision.

By some strange twist of fate, my youngest daughters (one, a gifted actor and singer, and the other an incredibly accomplished musician) absolutely thrive in the limelight, having little or no reservations about performing in front of swarms of people and/or cameras. I have no idea how this happened. I only wish I had one iota of their courage and an ability to put one’s talents on full display—critics be damned. Even my husband has a special knack for public speaking, usually armed with a single index card on which he has scrawled roughly six words. I can’t even fathom how he generates an entire speech out of that.

By contrast, I fear I will wither and die whenever I must step out of my comfort zone and address a gathering of people—with or without an index card. I couldn’t even eulogize my own parents or say a few words when my brother passed. On a lighter note, it’s amazing I ever made it through the eighth grade since it was there that I was required to deliver a four-minute speech on how to hit a golf ball. Of course, I chose this topic because it was one of the few skills I possessed and if I had to talk about something, it might as well be something I felt relatively comfortable discussing.

Looking back, I’m quite sure I found the experience to be decidedly intolerable. I think the closest I ever came to enjoying myself on stage was when I played Chicken Little in elementary school. Granted I don’t recall having many lines, but I do remember being in love with my costume. My beak was comically oversized as were my feet, but the best part was getting hit in the head with a pine cone that someone offstage threw at me, because, of course, THE SKY WAS FALLING. Drama like that was beyond fun. Another time in grade school, I snagged the role of the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella and sang Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo in a small, but packed gymnasium/auditorium. In both instances, perhaps I was too young to care what people thought of me, or maybe I was patently obsessed with the idea of frolicking around on stage instead of sitting at a desk doing schoolwork.

At any rate, I’m still perplexed by the fact that I spent a number of years as a teacher—each day having to overcome at least some measure of performance anxiety. Thankfully the kids were terrific. Hopefully, they were none the wiser.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, gearing up for my book signing on First Friday at Otto Bookstore in Williamsport where there may be crowds, but happily, I’ll only have to speak to one person at a time. Please stop by between 6:00 and 8:00pm on June 1st and pick up a copy of DELIVERANCE: A Survival Guide to Parenting Twins. Bear in mind that it’s not just for parents of twins. It’s a real hoot for anyone who has ever raised children. If you can’t make it, please visit me at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, In the Trenches of Parentville, Me Myself and I, The Write Stuff, Twins

The Great Sock Abyss

Some time ago my daughter cleaned her bedroom, and in so doing resurrected an embarrassment of items that she had ostensibly given up for dead. Things that she hadn’t seen in such a long period of time that she forgot about them almost entirely. There was a pair of iPhone earbuds that had been MIA forever, more than a year’s worth of allowance and at least nine Starbucks cups, one of which still contained what could only be described as a fermented atrocity.

Lovely. Just lovely.

Most notably, she unearthed an ungodly number of socks. Tall ones. Short ones. Socks with stripes. Socks with dots. Socks that will never again be suggestive of clean and socks imprinted with teensy-tiny foxes. My personal favorite.

Admittedly, on more than one occasion I felt compelled to rummage around in her hovel, intent upon gathering all the lone socks in order to pair them appropriately—because it makes me insane to know that the socks in question are, for lack of a better term, estranged. Never mind wadded up, inside out and appearing as though they had been shot from a cannon.

How hard could it be? I remember thinking. You just look around, find the right patterns and put them together. It’s not rocket science. Truth be told, I found such an endeavor to be virtually impossible each time I tried—and subsequently failed—to locate matching pairs. It was as if her room had transformed into the Great Sock Abyss—the place where perfectly wonderful socks go to die, or, perhaps more tragically, become separated forevermore.

Like a fool, I had to ask my daughter the obvious question: WHERE DO THEY GO?

“I have no idea where the lost socks go, Mom. No clue.”

At any rate, when she cleaned her room (see paragraph one) I was patently euphoric over the news of her sock discovery, since their mates had been hanging on a rack in the laundry room since the dawn of time, in hopes of being reunited at long last. Imagine my surprise (read: PROFOUND GLEE) when she produced a dozen or more of the missing socks. It was categorically off the charts and almost as joyous an occasion as the time she found her favorite pair of dilapidated sneakers. Sneakers so pathetic, and yet so dear, she more affectionately refers to them as dead—as if the term “dead” were somehow a good thing. Technically speaking (she’s quick to remind me), they’re still functional. Sort of.

That said, in the past I’ve questioned her dead sneakers as well as the bizarre logic that would support a decision to NOT keep socks and their mates together. Who does that? And why on earth does it happen month after month?

“I don’t know, Mom. I guess I take them off and tell myself that I’ll put them together later, and then I don’t. Honestly, it’s just too much work.”

At that, I shook my head in disbelief and perhaps disappointment. Then I began to wonder if I had driven my mom crazy in much the same way. I couldn’t reliably recall my specific behavior as it relates to the pairing of socks, although all signs pointed to having been a neat freak, so they were probably ridiculously ordered. Perfectly aligned in neat and tidy little rows when clean. Turned right side out and paired properly when dirty.

Now that I think about it, it’s entirely possible that I drove my mother to distraction by spending an inordinate chunk of my teenage years organizing my closet and drawers. It’s also likely that my obsession with rearranging my bedroom furniture by myself at all hours made her nearly certifiable on occasion. In fact, I moved my dressers and bed around so often that their spindly legs were on the verge of snapping—something that would make any parent implode.

So maybe I should consider myself fortunate, only having to deal with lone socks for a decade or two. Not the annihilation of furniture. As an added bonus, my daughter’s bedroom gets cleaned. Occasionally.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably looking for missing socks. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Daily Chaos, In the Trenches of Parentville, Welcome to My Disordered World

In Praise of Leftovers

I’m a big fan of restaurants. The ambiance, the delectable fare, snagging a cozy booth for two, where my husband and I can engage in an actual face-to-face conversation—one almost entirely devoid of cell phones. And children. It’s all good. But mostly I like patronizing restaurants because it means I won’t have to cook, nor will I have to clean my kitchen afterward. A win-win scenario for me.

Better still, I often leave the establishment with enough food for six people. I don’t know what’s up with the portion sizes that typify American cuisine these days, but it seems as if someone thinks we’re all starving to death. At any rate, when a tower of boxes, each brimming with the appetizers, entrees or desserts we couldn’t possibly consume, arrives at our table I can’t help but fantasize about devouring said goodness tomorrow.

If I’m hungry tomorrow, that is.

Gone are the days of being handed a doggie bag with a cute image of a pooch—one depicted with a big smile on its face. What dog wouldn’t smile at the prospect of being fed something other than the standard fare? That said, I’m careful to place the food on a counter or inside the fridge, far from the furry beasts in question.

The only downside to dealing with leftovers is that I agonize over which end of the Styrofoam box is up. It seems that I’m inclined to place my food in the top as opposed to the bottom. Worse yet, I spend an embarrassment of time wrestling with the latch/tab gizmo, which doesn’t work especially well—and because the universe hates me, I often snap the stupid thing off entirely. In any event, I look like a fool when my food flips onto the table or floor. Needless to say, I prefer it when the waiter or waitress offers to transfer my leftovers into the designated container, recognizing that for me, the struggle is real. He or she disappears into the kitchen and in no time arrives back at my table with a big, plastic bag—the aforementioned boxes stacked neatly inside. Tabs intact.

It doesn’t matter if it’s eggplant Parmesan, chicken wings or a few slices of Mediterranean pizza, I look forward to enjoying my meals again, and I’m nearly always amazed by the fact that they taste even better a day or two later. Except for French fries. French fries are a horrible, droopy mess the next day and a pathetic representation of food matter by all accounts. Most of the time, I don’t even bother bringing them home. If I had half a brain, I wouldn’t order them in the first place.

Crazy as it sounds, I’ve even been known to order something from the menu for the express purpose of taking it home in its entirety, never once touching it at the restaurant. I usually get a look from the waiter that whispers “that’s really strange, ma’am,” but in my mind, it’s pure genius. It’s rumored I keep a cooler in the car for just such an occasion. It might be true.

The sad news on this topic is that in actuality, I rarely get to enjoy my leftovers because my kids get to them first. It’s not that they don’t ask before diving in (they usually do), but I feel inordinately guilty when I don’t willingly share.

In fact, one of my progenies has a habit of texting or Snapping me a picture of the leftovers in the refrigerator while I’m out, inquiring as to whether I’m particularly fond of the food in question. She, too, appreciates how completely wonderful leftovers are. How can I not oblige? So, naturally I tell her it’s fair game, and a little part of me dies inside, knowing that, yet again, I won’t get to eat the rest of my tuna wrap—or whatever it was that I failed to hide well enough in the fridge.

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

Copyright 2017 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Meat & Potatoes

Morning Schmorning

I’m not a morning person. Not even close. Just ask my husband, or my children. Even the mailman knows I’d never be mistaken for an early riser. I think he’s seen me a grand total of two times since we moved here—groggily shuffling to the mailbox with mismatched shoes and a bad case of bed-head. I must have been expecting something important on the days I managed to drag myself outside early enough to see him zip by in his nifty little car.

I’d bet the house he’s a morning person. Good thing. I’d be about as well-suited for that job as I would for that of a taxi driver (I’m directionally impaired and my time management abilities are patently laughable). Once again, ask my family. They know the score.

In all honesty, I’m relieved to know there are people out there—scads of them, apparently—who thrive on getting things done before sunrise. I’m just not one of them. It must be nothing short of remarkable to experience that satisfaction, that fulfillment, that true sense of accomplishment each and every day—around noontime, I would guess. Clearly, I appreciate the merits of such individuals and recognize that in large part, they are responsible for making the world tick. They’re society’s early birds—and they always get the worm.

I never really cared much for worms.

To summarize, my philosophy on the matter at hand: I hate rushing—especially in the morning. Lingering is more my style–in the true spirit of slothfulness, I might add. Furthermore, I firmly believe that the most cherished block of time for repose exists between the hours of five and seven a.m. If it happens to be raining or snowing, double the pleasure. From my perspective, little else compares to such sheer and unadulterated bliss. Exact change at the checkout counter, coupled with a competent and cordial clerk, perhaps comes close.

Coherent thought patterns, at such an ungodly hour, simply do not exist for me—as I assume they do for most morning people. At that time of day, my brain functions about as efficiently as a head of cabbage. Anything that would involve major decision-making (beyond suggesting what color socks my husband should wear that day) is out of the question. Telephone conversations are virtually impossible too—just ask the countless fools who have tried to dial me up then. They might as well have been talking to a disinterested turnip.

Thankfully, I’m a realist and have fully accepted the fact that it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever join the ranks of early risers. Historically speaking, I never showed much promise in that realm anyway. At times, however, I’ve been known to adopt some of their practices—at least temporarily—for the sake of holding down a job, attending a mandatory meeting or because I feared my family would LEAVE FOR THE BEACH WITHOUT ME (Gasp!). The likelihood of embracing such a concept altogether, however, is next to nil, and any discussion that would imply otherwise is just crazy talk.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably sleeping in). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom to share your in-the-trenches parenting moments. You know you want to.

Copyright 2005 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Me Myself and I