Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Boston, family, parenting, superheroes, tragedy
I have a six year old. She is a sponge. I know that seems redundant, every six year old is a sponge. She soaks up information from me, her dad, our families, school and the world at large and regurgitates it with a six year old spin. I know that things get lost in the translation from time to time. Somewhere in that beautiful and brilliant little brain of hers the information gets jumbled and comes out slightly off kilter. Most of the time it’s funny; it’s a game for mommy to try to pick apart the fact from the filter.
There was the time, around president’s day that she explained that they learned all about the president’s. They learned about Washington, who was first but now he is dead. They learned about Lincoln, who made everyone the same but sadly got shot so he is dead too. She worried about Obama, since he seemed nice and didn’t want him to be dead like all of the other presidents. History is complicated, especially to a 6 year old. I could only imagine the thought process there, almost like the American people send the president’s off to some “farm” when they complete their tenure. It took a little bit, but I managed to explain that they were simply learning about some of the older presidents, that died because they lived long ago. That it wasn’t a job requirement to die at the end of your term, and there are plenty of living presidents still around. She told me it was a good thing, since there was a volcano by the White House that Obama would have to worry about first. Her friend Ben had told her so. There was no amount of convincing that could change her mind. So now she believes that Obama’s job as president is to keep an eye on the volcano. He is kind of like a super hero. Oh, and he is my boss. Apparently the only person that can trump a mommy ruling is the president of the United States. I am okay with this logic.
I know she picks up lots of stuff from the media; the radio, movies and television. I can tell by her uncanny ability to pick the most annoying pop song currently on the radio and sing it ad naseum. I try to limit her exposure to this because I find it overwhelming sometimes, and I have a fully formed frontal lobe. (At least I think I do.) But there are the moments we forget, the weather report she is regurgitating to me as I give her brother a bath… “There is a line of thunderstorms approaching the St. Louis metro area, mom,” she says. “Please be aware of the potential for hail and high winds,” she repeats; echoing the weather man word for word. She takes her cues from me. If I am not flustered by it, all is right with her world. And so she watches the pretty colors on the radar, deciding she really likes the dark purple the best even if it means lots of thunder. She goes to bed secure in the idea that nothing can happen to her, her parents will keep her safe.
Then Monday happened, the Boston Marathon Bombing; one of a series of horrible events to occur in her short lifetime. The news played in my kitchen on a loop while her brother napped and she was in school. I was shocked and horrified at the wanton violence, the reckless and callous disregard for human life. I was angered as the events unfolded, an eight year boy and two young women among the casualties. I tuned into Twitter and the radio to learn more over the past few days. I did all of this while she was away, careful that my little sponge would pick up on this tragedy. I sheltered her from the news; instead playing outside, reading books and coloring pictures. She is young enough that I can do that without worry that some classmate will bring it up at school.
I know that time is not on my side, that the world will find a way to come crashing in. I know that I can’t prevent every tragedy nor do I want to shelter her from life in all its nuances. I want her to learn to cope with a scary world; I want her to process not only the good but also the bad in life with equal parts sadness, empathy, balance and hope. I want to help build her foundation so she knows that despite the evil in the world there will always be more good as long as there are people like me, and her daddy, her teachers and our family. There will always be those helpers who rush in to protect the innocent and fight the bad guys. I will teach her this every chance I can by reading books and playing games, reminding her always that I am here. She knows now that her parents will keep her safe, no matter what. It is my job right now to keep the world at bay. But when she is at school, and her brother is napping I sit, I watch the news and sometimes I cry.
I cry for the families wrenched apart by senseless violence. I cry for happy moments denied. I cry for a world that is a little darker today. I cry at all of the wonderful stories of human kindness unfolding from tragedy, proof that there is indeed more good than bad in this world. I cry for a moment for all of these things, and then I stop because above all the last thing I want my little sponge soaking up is my tears. Some days it tough to be a mommy.
So now I will go, for the hundredth time, try to convince Madison that there is no volcano at the White House. And if there is, well we can remain calm; at least Obama is there to protect us.
Photo Courtesy of Jib Jab
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Chaos, Criminal Minds, Dessert, family, kids, Recipe
Hi. Long time, no see. You may have been wondering where I have been for the past several months. In short, I was busy. The long story, I was busy with the following:
Filed under: Family | Tags: Alice in Wonderland, family, imagine, impossible, kids
“Sometimes I have believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” Lewis Carroll from Alice in Wonderland
I have always loved Alice in Wonderland; the zany and mad tale of a girl lost in a land that revels in the absurd. I, for one, think the absurd is far too underrated and often amuse myself by thinking of absurd things all day long. For example, when my daughter made the rule that we must dress as our favorite princess for Halloween I reveled in the idea of putting my six foot four husband in a sparkly blue Cinderella dress. (I still maintain that he would look fantastic; blue is his color after all.) I have a month to make it happen.
This got me to thinking though, what impossible things could I believe before breakfast? Or better yet, what impossible things do I wish I could do? Here is my list:
- I would invent and utilize the morning machine as seen on the Jetsons. You know the one; simply hop on the conveyor belt on one end and arrive on the other dressed and ready with a cup of hot coffee in hand. It would make mornings in my house a much more pleasant experience.
I wish it were this easy.
- I would have a chat with my great-grandpa Pop O’Brien; my dad’s grandfather. He died when I was little and the stories I have heard about him over the years has elevated him to superhero status in my mind. An Irish immigrant, he came over at a time when the Irish weren’t very popular and managed to raise some of the coolest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. (Including my saucy and fun grandma.) I wonder sometimes, though, what it would be like to talk to him as an adult. To get a true sense of who he was outside of the myth.
- To that end, I would also have a chat with my Great Grandma “Happy”; who died the year I was born. How cool is the nickname Grandma Happy? Although later I learned she was named after the dog… a little less cool now that I think about it. I know she too would have amazing stories to tell me, as a Mexican immigrant in a small town. Her husband left her soon after they immigrated, with thirteen children and not even a basic understanding of the English language. I would like to thank her for raising an amazing woman in my grandmother; who has taught me everything I know about hard work and determination. (Basically, she is the person who taught me how to be a stubborn steam-roller. Blame her.) Really, there are so many in my family that have come and gone that I would like to talk to as an adult. My grandpa Elmer Everett, or Mac as everyone called him; what would he have thought of my kids? I think he would have appreciated his little namesake, Madison Everett; the one who thinks we all need to dress as princesses. These are the people that have shaped our family and in turn made me… well me.
It looks like Grandpa Mac liked the absurd too, at least I hope that is what this picture is about.
- For this impossible coffee talk with my ancestors I would invent a magical chocolate chip cookie that tastes fantastic, clears up your skin and helps you lose weight (and does not involve ex-lax as an ingredient.) If I am going to dream the impossible I may as well dream big.
- I would find a magic bottle (labeled drink me of course) that would keep my babies young, happy and healthy. Then I would need a tea cake (this one labeled eat me, duh) that would help me raise well adjusted, smart and successful adults. Between the two we could revel in the best that life has to offer; the joys of being a young parent with the satisfaction of seeing your kids grow up with none of the messy heartache in between.
- Oh, and I would solve that whole world peace thing too. I mean dream big or not at all.
It dawns on me now; I think I can believe these impossible things. Well maybe not the Jetson machine or the magic cookies. But I can meet my great-grandparent through conversations with the family I have now. I can learn about them through the stories that I wasn’t quite old enough to hear as a little kid, I only have to ask. I can freeze time for my kids by writing down all of these little stories and antics now so I can share with them as they grow older. This idea seems all the more poignant this morning as learned that my dear friend has lost her grandmother last night. I can believe in at least three impossible things before breakfast, I simply must take the time to do so. Because time, as my friend can attest, runs out before you know it.
So the time has come, as I must say, to talk of many things. Not shoes and ships and sealing wax, but family and kids, fiction and facts… and because we are Irish, cabbages and kings.
So I have been missing a while. I have a valid excuse, I promise. I am pregnant and due in less than a month. Not that pregnancy is an excuse in and of itself, I am a modern woman who can do just about anything with a gestational tag-along. Anything except process simple sugars apparently. In the beginning of December I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and for the past two months I have been pretty obsessed with food. This pregnancy has been a little bit high maintenance to say the least.
I have always loved food, carbs in particular. Little did I know that carbohydrates would become the enemy and my obsession. When my doctor first called, they were pretty confident that they could tackle this with some simple changes in my diet. By simple changes, I mean a highly restrictive diet with a strict time table for eating. From the morning when I wake up to the time I go to bed I have to track everything that goes into my body. For the first few weeks I was a total nut-bag, it is amazing what carb withdrawal can do to you. (Especially when your drug of choice is a big fat cinnamon roll.) Over time though, I slowly learned what I could and could not eat and tracked my blood sugars four times a day. I tracked them steadily rise, diet be-damned.
I am a little type A when it comes to my personality. I truly believe there is nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it. (My siblings think I was Napoleon in a past life, but I am sure that is because I am such an inspiring leader and not because I am bossy and domineering at all.) So when my body decided to completely revolt I was flabbergasted and frustrated. I couldn’t figure it out. The low-carb dieting didn’t work, a bevy of medications didn’t work and even insulin shots have been less than effective. To a type A person like myself this is tantamount to total failure.
I have wavered between absolutely guilty to incredibly frustrated touching on every emotion in between. Food has become my obsession and my enemy. The worst part of this has been the uncertainty, not knowing how this is affecting my little bundle that I am over-sugaring in my oven. I stressed on the size of the baby, the stress on his body (yes it is a little boy) and the constant warnings from nurses and doctors alike. Its a pretty crappy feeling to think that you are already messing up your kid before he even leaves your body.
I started to withdraw from life, taking daily naps for hours at a time and using the television to entertain my four year old. I was snappy with my husband and rarely wanted to leave the house. Let’s face it, I was depressed. Then I went in for another ultrasound, to check on the status of my son. I learned two things that day, one I have HUGE babies. He is already pushing eight pounds with a month to go. Two, and by far more importantly, I learned that I am human… and I have limits.
The ultrasound tech may have helped with this epiphany, she was kind and compassionate and most of all she made me smile. She showed me a picture of my little boy and for the first time I didn’t just see a little blob looking back at me. (I admit I can never really read those pictures. I could never do the magic eye things at the mall either.) For the first time I saw my son, and I realized why I was doing all of this. I understood that the best I can do is ALL I can do, and so far he is doing okay.
It also reminded me that I am incredibly lucky to be able to have a child, no matter how difficult this process has been. I am very lucky to already have a smart, funny and very loving daughter, who is both excited and apprehensive about having a new addition to the family. I have a husband who has been supportive and sweet during the process (most of the time) and who has done his best to balance out my insanity. I have friends and family who will love and support me no matter how nutso I get too.
I guess, I finally realized that I have it pretty good. It is time to pull myself out of my pity party and take a good look at how lucky I really am. Now I will just have to remind myself of this when I am working on no sleep with a new born and a demanding five year old… although I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I am Irish. Well, technically I am half Irish and half Mexican. Okay, okay… if you want to get really technical I am half Mexican, almost half Irish with a smattering of German and a teeny pinch of English. The point is the middle of March is a busy time for me and my family.
Growing up, the 17th of March has always been a big deal. We have marched in a little, local parade for going on three decades. It is a rag-tag group of families walking down the streets of Dogtown, yelling at friends and neighbors and waving to random strangers like bawdy runner’s-up in a d-list beauty pageant. Like our pageant counter parts we take great care in our appearance. Unlike the beauty queens, our garments usually involve smart-aleck tee-shirts in shades of emerald and jade with complementary bright green hued feather boas, socks and hats. It is a sight to see.
Needless to say, we don’t take ourselves too seriously. This year we marched under the banner of “The Real Housewives of Dogtown” with my 80-something year old great aunt waving from a convertible. We threw plastic cabbages, snakes and beads to the crowd; who screamed for them like they were made of real emeralds and not cheap bits of plastic. It was a great time.
For the past few years I have kind of taken the parade for granted. We would show up, act rowdy for the day and then pack away our green gear until next year. That was until my aunt sent out a message stating that this was the last year we would march, unless someone else wanted to take the reins. Now it seems as if it is up to my generation to carry on the tradition. This has me thinking about family, and traditions, about what is too important to let fade away. In the next couple of weeks I will write about my family, the ragtag group of people who surround me every day. These amazing stories that are too cool to simply fade into memory.
I hope you like them.
It is that time of year again, Carnival time! That time of year in which revelers are encouraged to eat, drink and make merry before Lent; a season of abstinence and austerity. Nowhere is this more encouraged than New Orleans, the Big Easy, where everyone laissez les bon temps roulez (let the good times roll for non Cajun speakers. At least that is how the T-shirt translated it.) It is Mardi Gras time and I couldn’t be more excited.
I love everything about Mardi Gras, the tradition and history coupled with the reckless abandon of the revelers. Mardi Gras itself translates in Fat Tuesday, a time when good Catholics would binge on fatty foods and meats in preparation for the fasting associated with Lent. I love the parades, I love the king cake and I love the music that fills the air. It is slightly seedy and very chaotic, it is steeped in superstition and ritual and it is made thoroughly modern with cheerleaders dancing to Beyonce as they make their way down the streets of New Orleans. I love everything about it, including the beads.
For the past two years we have made the trek to New Orleans for the festivities. We go two weekends before Mardi Gras to enjoy the parades with smaller crowds than the following weekend. With my daughter and grandma in tow this weekend seems more geared to the family crowd and we always have a great time. We marvel at the floats, cheer for the high school marching bands and dance with the pom-pom squads, but mostly we scream for beads.
That is the amazing thing about Mardi Gras, after all I am a pretty normal person. I take things in stride and for the most part I roll with what life throws my way… unless life is throwing beads. Then I become a screaming, leaping nut-ball. Those shiny bits of plastic have an ability to create a frenzy that matches Beiber Fever, NKOTB Madness or Beatle Mania, to put it in the parlance of a number of generations.
My grandmother and mother, also (fairly) normal people could be seen rushing out into the street, climbing on barricades and elbowing random strangers to catch their share of treasure. A ten cent piece of plastic can send even the most level headed person diving into the gutter to claim their prize. It is the magic of Mardi Gras, the ability to get wrapped up in a tradition that has been rolling through the streets of New Orleans for over a century.
Of course I get funny reactions when we return home. The pre-school moms who ask how we “earned” our beads or the dirty looks I got in the checkout line as my daughter talked about our trip. They tend to think that New Orleans during Mardi Gras is more “Girls Gone Wild” than it is “Sesame Street”. (I NEVER thought I would put the two of those in the same sentence.) We caught 15 stuffed animals this year in addition to 3 swords and a light up yo-yo. We sat next to a family armed with their Mardi Gras ladder to raise their kiddo about the crowd. In between parades our kids played tag and had sword fights while the parents laughed and chatted. (And sipped hurricanes, it is a time to cut a little loose after all.) Dirty looks or not, I am glad that I am able to share this with four generations of my family. I think it is a blast to jump up and down like a crazy person for a sparkly set of beads. I officially have Mardi Gras fever, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
Laissez les bons temps rouler. Bon Mardi Gras.
Okay, okay. I admit it. I have been gone for a while. Life just snuck up on me and before you know it a couple weeks had passed me by why my blog sat… lonely and neglected. And for what? Well, I am not sure really. I mean, it has been hectic in the “life is crazy just get used to it” kind of way. Hmmmm, here is what I have to show for the past few weeks:
When my daughter says you look sparkly it is not a compliment. Sounds counterintuitive right? I firmly belong to the “more bling is always better” school of thought. And who doesn’t want a little sparkle in their life? The other day however, my kiddo was just finishing in the bathtub. “Mom, my fingers are sparkly,” she said looking at them quizzically. I held her water-wrinkled little hand looking intently for some rogue glitter that Johnson & Johnson may have missed. (I will cry when we outgrow the ubiquitous pink bottle by the way. It smells like baby heaven.) She pointed to her pruney fingers; “see they are sparkly like great mammo’s fingers.” (Sigh.) I will not tell my grandma the new meaning for sparkly. After all, she is the one who taught me to love the bling.
My dog’s strength is directly proportional to how much he hates something. His name is Hank, and he is 35 pounds of personality. I am convinced he is half beagle and half demon, sent to punish me for my sins. (I am Catholic, okay. Guilt is part of the package.) There are days when Hank is too weak to drag his body off of the couch to go outside. He has whined to be helped onto the bed and then lacked the strength to do anything but flop onto the pillows. And yet, in a recent trip to the vet, it took my husband AND the vet tech four sets of arms to hold him down while the vet gave him… wait for it… nasal spray. Then Hank had the strength of 10 beagles, and was not afraid to use it. Whipping his head back and forth he barked as if the devil himself was trying to vaccinate him. If there were only some way we could harness this power for good and not evil, I think the whole energy crisis would be solved. We would be a beagle powered society. That’s green, right?
I suck at economics. This semester it is my whole focus. I thought I would get my economics requirements out of the way. I thought the plan was pretty brilliant, if I do say so myself. Might as well keep my brain in economics mode all semester, right? I have Microeconomics on Mondays, Macroeconomics on Tuesdays and “Panics, Depressions and Recessions” online. Doesn’t that sound fun? There was only one flaw in my plan. I am not an economist. Therefore there is a limit to how much a non-economist can absorb any given week. It is a problem. The main problem is the reading. Not that it isn’t interesting, it is… sometimes. It is just that I can’t get more than three or four pages in without falling asleep. Which brings me to my next point:
I am very well rested.
Finally, my daughter turned four this week. We had a party (I will tell you all about that later) and we ate a LOT of cake. (It was delicious.) This week has been a mix of emotions for me though. My baby is getting BIG. (sob) It really hit me this week, watching her strut her four-year-old stuff. She is not a baby anymore. She is not even a toddler… she is a little kid. Excuse me while I go sit in the corner and cry a little. Pass the chocolate please.
How quickly the time flies. It has been a couple of weeks since I have been able to devote any time to my blog, and surprisingly I missed it. The past few weeks have been intense, hectic and fun. Before these memories are erased by a new school semester, a new year and the average running that makes up my life, I thought I should write them down. I wanted to take a look at some of the moments that made this holiday special, the ordinary moments I tend to forget by February. Here is my list:
There was the moment you run into an old friend and you are able to pick up right where you left off. In my case it had been twelve years, and it seems a cup of coffee was all it took to pick right back up. Oh, the simple joys of easy friendships.
The moment that you realize your kiddo is paying attention. Madison picked up a bell, a Christmas decoration, and started ringing it as hard as her chubby little arms would let her. She started yelling, “Who has money? Who has money?” I asked my little bell ringer what she was doing and she replied, “Getting money for the people who don’t have any.” Lesson learned.
My sister was quick to point out that the Salvation Army bell ringers hang out in places of commerce, like outside of grocery stores and shopping malls. She thought it was a sign that I shop to much, and she may be right. Instead I chose to think that my wanton consuming at the holiday season can have an educational affect on my daughter as well as a slimming affect on my wallet. Not to mention the positive effects on the economy. That’s my story and I am sticking to it. The moment that I realized denial and rationalization has yet to fail me.
There was also the moment that my dear friend graduated from college. I was caught off guard with all of the things I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say that it seemed a shame that her hard work was overshadowed by the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. I wanted to tell her how amazing it was that she put herself through school, while working full time and supporting herself. I wanted to tell her that she was an inspiration to me. No matter what life threw her way including bad boyfriends, awful bosses, layoffs and bad luck in general; she never ever gave up. I wanted to say all of these things and more, but couldn’t figure out a way that didn’t sound condescending or trite. Instead I just bought her a kick-ass graduation gift; another nod to my philosophy that retail therapy can work wonders when you can’t find the words.
There was the moment, sitting down to breakfast at my in-laws, that I was truly thankful for holiday traditions. Especially if the traditions are as delicious as breakfast casserole and Christmas cookies. Some of my in-laws’ traditions are very different than what I grew up with. For example, they always took turns opening one present at a time whereas my family was a wrapping paper free-for-all. This year there was also the moment that I realized how much their traditions have become my own as well; that I love opening presents one at a time and eating Christmas cookies with breakfast.
There was the moment when I was finally ready to host Christmas dinner. That moment of peace when you realize that everything is done; the house is clean, the gifts are wrapped the food prepared. This moment happened thirty minutes before everyone arrived so it was a little later than I would have liked, but it was a nice moment none the less.
The moment that the family descended on the house and the feasting began. The chaotic rush of present opening and eating and laughing; there is nothing like it at any other time in the year. This was a moment of mixed emotions, since it was the first Christmas since my parents divorced and the first year that one of us kids hosted Christmas. (I am the oldest and the bossiest so naturally I called dibs on Christmas. Very mature, I know.) Somewhere in the hustle of the evening I looked around at my family and had a realization. We will all be okay. The holidays are different now, and there was that weird moment when my mom and my dad gave my sister identical gifts. (awkward) But despite it all, this was the first holiday when it didn’t feel so tense. This was the moment that I realized that things will get easier.
There was the moment, on the 26th, as I cleaned up the house that I finally realized how much wine we drank the night before. Champagne and wine and then Baileys… and spiked hot cocoa… Bottles clanking, I took the empties out to the recycling and realized I didn’t even have a wisp of a hangover. No headache, no wonky stomach…. It was a Christmas MIRACLE!
But the best moments, by far, where the moments I was able to see Christmas as my three year old daughter saw it. There was the excitement driving past houses that would put the Griswolds to shame, with a blow up nativity next to a waving Santa Claus. There was the moment that we set out cookies and milkbones for Santa and the reindeer. (Reindeer LOVE dog treats.) And then the moment that she realized that Santa had eaten the treats she left for him. There was the moment that she was FINALLY allowed to open her Christmas presents. And the moment she was FINALLY able to give us the gift she had made in pre-school. Christmas can really test a kid’s patience. The gift was a lovely picture frame made of tongue depressors and buttons. There was the moment that she had to give us all check-ups with her new doctor’s kit and the moment I caught her sneaking Christmas candy; her cheeks stuffed with chocolate like a PMS-ing chipmunk.
As I write these I realize that I could keep going for days, so I guess I will add one more moment, a moment that happened just now. This is the moment I realize how very lucky I am. This is a moment I won’t soon forget no matter how busy life gets. (Well, at least I will try.)
a life just ordinary 