I’ve stopped reading women’s magazines, and I’m still here.
I became a better mom when I put down the parenting magazines and just played with my kids. And my brain has been calmer since I stopped caring what Glamour thinks about my career path.
Now, I should mention that I majored in magazines in college. My undergraduate major really was magazine editing and production, so it may give my boycott credibility to know that I once wanted to devote my life to making magazines.
Over the years, though, I’ve whittled down my list of “must-read” magazines because I got tired of hearing headlines in my head: “You need these 10 fashion must-haves for fall. Your butt will jiggle less if you do these exercises. Your family will worship you if you cook this stew tonight.”
These publications are full of unsolicited attempts to improve my life. The last straw? An article suggesting I put fresh sheets on the bed the day I leave for vacation so I still get that “hotel” feeling when I return home.
If you could see my house the day we leave for a vacation, you’d know why that sent me over the edge. Let’s just say that if firefighters had to break into our house while we were gone, they’d assume someone had ransacked it before setting it ablaze.
Regardless of how much planning goes into an out-of-town trip, there’s always a last-minute frenzy to get out the door, especially if you have children. And a frenzy usually leaves a mess.
Toddlers are the unknown in the trip preparation equation. The day you are to leave, your 2-year-old will wake up at 5:30 and demand more attention than usual because he can’t figure out what the suitcases are for.
You’ll find yourself pumping Goldfish crackers into your toddler like coins into a parking meter, buying time to pack your make-up bag so all of Destin won’t think you’re arriving after a lengthy hospital stay.
Instead of checking off the list of beach toys your older children wanted to bring, you end up offering things you’d never otherwise let the baby play with just to keep him occupied.
“Here, Ethan. Play with this butterfly hair clip. Look how pretty. Here, look at the newspaper. See Daddy’s calculator? Push all the pretty buttons. Wanna hold Mommy’s hair dryer?”
So forgive me, Good Housekeeping, if I don’t have time to run around pouring Pine Sol into all the toilets before I leave so it smells like a pine forest instead of a musty basement when we get back.
Besides, it wouldn’t be a homecoming unless we open the door after a week away and one of us says, “Whew, who forgot to take out the trash?”
Copyright 2005
Friday, August 29, 2008
My French pedicure's crooked
Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com recently wrote about “first-world conversations,” as in something you would never hear someone say in a third-world country. Her examples:
“This I-phone is too heavy.”
“Someone was using my favorite treadmill this morning, so I was forced to use the stationary bike.”
“This refrigerator isn’t big enough. Let’s buy a bigger one and put this one in the garage.”
You know, the kinds of complaints you hear around here ALL THE TIME.
I’m always walking up on people ragging on the cleaning lady or telling horror stories about contractors. ANY contractors. If you’re getting any elective work done to your house or pool, consider yourself fortunate.
Oh, I can’t finish this right now. This Hostess Ding Dong doesn’t have enough cream filling, and it’s really getting on my nerves.
“This I-phone is too heavy.”
“Someone was using my favorite treadmill this morning, so I was forced to use the stationary bike.”
“This refrigerator isn’t big enough. Let’s buy a bigger one and put this one in the garage.”
You know, the kinds of complaints you hear around here ALL THE TIME.
I’m always walking up on people ragging on the cleaning lady or telling horror stories about contractors. ANY contractors. If you’re getting any elective work done to your house or pool, consider yourself fortunate.
Oh, I can’t finish this right now. This Hostess Ding Dong doesn’t have enough cream filling, and it’s really getting on my nerves.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Personal Ad for Parents
Starting when my twins were about 8 or 9, they’d occasionally come home from a sleepover or an outing with friends with a couple of unsavory habits. They weren’t smoking or anything, but one morning after spending the night with the youngest of four boys, one of mine casually asked, “Is ‘f***’ a bad word?’ or they’d say, ‘We spent the whole night looking up funny videos on You Tube!’”
I remember wishing I could place a personal ad somewhere to seek out like-minded parents who were trying to raise their kids with generally the same ideas my husband and I were. That way I could ask the stuff I wanted to know but couldn’t manage to bring up without awkwardness in a normal front-porch conversation. Something like:
“Parents of boys seeking other parents with boys who have manners and don’t break stuff on purpose. Decent phone etiquette a plus. Picky eaters okay, but cruelty to younger siblings (yours or ours) or a smart mouth won’t be tolerated. We promise to maintain lights out during sleepovers at midnight for younger kids, a bit later for older. If your son has cable TV in his room or unlimited Internet access, our kids probably won’t sleep over there. We can guarantee no (real) weapons at our house and no Johnny Knoxville-type stunts or neighborhood roaming will be allowed. Fun, mom-approved food and drinks available with preset limits. Willing to do drop off, pick up or both.”
If I did get that involved in my kids’ friendships, though, they probably wouldn’t have any friends at all.
I remember wishing I could place a personal ad somewhere to seek out like-minded parents who were trying to raise their kids with generally the same ideas my husband and I were. That way I could ask the stuff I wanted to know but couldn’t manage to bring up without awkwardness in a normal front-porch conversation. Something like:
“Parents of boys seeking other parents with boys who have manners and don’t break stuff on purpose. Decent phone etiquette a plus. Picky eaters okay, but cruelty to younger siblings (yours or ours) or a smart mouth won’t be tolerated. We promise to maintain lights out during sleepovers at midnight for younger kids, a bit later for older. If your son has cable TV in his room or unlimited Internet access, our kids probably won’t sleep over there. We can guarantee no (real) weapons at our house and no Johnny Knoxville-type stunts or neighborhood roaming will be allowed. Fun, mom-approved food and drinks available with preset limits. Willing to do drop off, pick up or both.”
If I did get that involved in my kids’ friendships, though, they probably wouldn’t have any friends at all.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Daily Elvis: Busted!
Based on my research, the theory that you'll see or hear one Elvis reference per day has not borne true. I traveled through two days before I saw anything else Elvis. On Thursday I drove up behind a state-of-Tennessee-sanctioned Elvis license plate. You don't see too many of those in Williamson County. When I noticed that the plate benefits the Elvis Presley Memorial Trauma Center (aka The Med) in Memphis, I thought of the old Baptist Hospital near downtown. Whenever Elvis was in the hospital for whatever reason, I could always tell which room was his when we drove by because the windows of his suite were all covered in aluminum foil. I remember thinking, "You're not fooling me, Elvis. I know you're in there."
Some people who've come to this blog tell me they didn't know I was such an Elvis fan. The truth is I'm not a fan in that I only own one Elvis CD and I've never been to a candlelight vigil. For some reason I have always had this bizarre compulsion to bring him up whenever I can. Like I do with biscuits.
Some people who've come to this blog tell me they didn't know I was such an Elvis fan. The truth is I'm not a fan in that I only own one Elvis CD and I've never been to a candlelight vigil. For some reason I have always had this bizarre compulsion to bring him up whenever I can. Like I do with biscuits.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Good luck in 6th grade! Don't lose your $150 calculator.
Middle school has rocked for almost two weeks now. My oldest boys have had a smooth transition to 6th grade: bus ride, fine; lockers, fine; teachers, great. I am still adjusting to being a mom of more mature students. In other words, I am trying not to micromanage.
I can’t stop, though, because I have more invested in this school year -literally. It started with two $90 checks I wrote to the school for “supplies,” including PE uniforms, but we had to buy additional pens, pencils, paper and a colored binder for each class.
It’s convenient, and I almost prefer not knowing exactly what I’m paying for, since things started to get ridiculous during elementary school when half their supply bags would be filled with paper towels, wet wipes, Kleenex, Purell and other classroom maintenance items.
Then Mason made the JV football team, for which we would pay a $35 fee plus another $70 on team clothing that is optional unless you are a mean parent who wants to deny your son the chance to be cool and wear a team hoodie around town.
Out of the blue Henry went out for cross country, and my parents generously sprung for designated running shoes since Henry somehow grew into a men’s size 9.5 over the summer. Add another $25 for the cross country fee plus their random team clothing, and you can see why I’m hypervigilant about asking them, “Do you have your cleats? Where are your running shoes?” and oh, yeah, “Did you do your homework?”
My husband advocates the “throw them in the ocean and they’ll learn to swim” approach to back to school, reasoning that one strike for a missed assignment will make more of an impression on them than my nagging. I relented, but then on the third day of school, the math teacher sent home a note about graphing calculators. An experienced mom warned me to get the one that they’d use next year, which happened to be the one the teacher would be using.
Hubby did a preliminary internet price search. After a minute, he called from my office, “How much do you think those calculators are?”
I paid about $9.99 for the one I use at home, so I considered what I thought would be a ridiculous price for a 6th-grade tool. “Ummmmm, $55!”
“They’re $149 each! At Wal-Mart!” he yelled back.
Times two. Ah, the joy of twins. Guess my fall wardrobe will come from Target.
I can’t stop, though, because I have more invested in this school year -literally. It started with two $90 checks I wrote to the school for “supplies,” including PE uniforms, but we had to buy additional pens, pencils, paper and a colored binder for each class.
It’s convenient, and I almost prefer not knowing exactly what I’m paying for, since things started to get ridiculous during elementary school when half their supply bags would be filled with paper towels, wet wipes, Kleenex, Purell and other classroom maintenance items.
Then Mason made the JV football team, for which we would pay a $35 fee plus another $70 on team clothing that is optional unless you are a mean parent who wants to deny your son the chance to be cool and wear a team hoodie around town.
Out of the blue Henry went out for cross country, and my parents generously sprung for designated running shoes since Henry somehow grew into a men’s size 9.5 over the summer. Add another $25 for the cross country fee plus their random team clothing, and you can see why I’m hypervigilant about asking them, “Do you have your cleats? Where are your running shoes?” and oh, yeah, “Did you do your homework?”
My husband advocates the “throw them in the ocean and they’ll learn to swim” approach to back to school, reasoning that one strike for a missed assignment will make more of an impression on them than my nagging. I relented, but then on the third day of school, the math teacher sent home a note about graphing calculators. An experienced mom warned me to get the one that they’d use next year, which happened to be the one the teacher would be using.
Hubby did a preliminary internet price search. After a minute, he called from my office, “How much do you think those calculators are?”
I paid about $9.99 for the one I use at home, so I considered what I thought would be a ridiculous price for a 6th-grade tool. “Ummmmm, $55!”
“They’re $149 each! At Wal-Mart!” he yelled back.
Times two. Ah, the joy of twins. Guess my fall wardrobe will come from Target.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Girls vs. Boys
I don’t know when I’ll stop being surprised that not everyone in the world thinks the way I do.
I can’t reconcile, for example, the way some parents encourage segregation of little boys and girls during group activities in a sort of early Mars vs. Venus brainwashing.
I am not naïve enough to disregard the fact that some gender identification is innate. Most boys will want to do boy things, and most girls will show girly tendencies regardless of parental influence.
I just don’t think adults should go out of our way to polarize grade-school kids any more than they already polarize themselves.
One year when my husband and I taught children’s Sunday school, we had a class with 11 boys and two girls on the roll, only one of whom attended regularly.
If these girls minded being outnumbered, they didn’t show it. But one day at the start of the term, a mom of another girl who was supposed to be in the class stopped in the doorway and said disdainfully, “Oh, no. Look at all the boys!” She then continued down the hall to find a more suitable class for her daughter.
Another time we let them divide into their own project groups of three or four. A mom approached a girl who was happily coloring with two boys and said, “Don’t you want to come over here with the girls?” The child looked confused but went anyway, since the adult leader’s question implied that her choice was wrong.
I’m not one to give dolls to a boy in a misguided attempt to make him equal parts masculine and feminine. I just think people who work with children shouldn’t default to “boys vs. girls” just because it’s easy to do.
When my sons attended a local activity camp last summer, the daily competitions were always grouped by gender. Even the most popular TV shows, like The Apprentice and Survivor, do it. You don’t need a master’s degree to find other grouping techniques, such as having kids pick colored or numbered pieces of paper out of a cup, or even the old “count off by threes” method.
If you’re pitting girls against boys at every opportunity, though, no one wins. If the boys beat the girls, it raises the cootie quotient. If boys get beaten by girls, they see it as a tragedy, and their co-existence becomes even more tenuous.
If they learn to work together early on, though, there’s a chance they’ll feel like they’re at least from the same planet when they get to middle school.
Copyright 1/05
I can’t reconcile, for example, the way some parents encourage segregation of little boys and girls during group activities in a sort of early Mars vs. Venus brainwashing.
I am not naïve enough to disregard the fact that some gender identification is innate. Most boys will want to do boy things, and most girls will show girly tendencies regardless of parental influence.
I just don’t think adults should go out of our way to polarize grade-school kids any more than they already polarize themselves.
One year when my husband and I taught children’s Sunday school, we had a class with 11 boys and two girls on the roll, only one of whom attended regularly.
If these girls minded being outnumbered, they didn’t show it. But one day at the start of the term, a mom of another girl who was supposed to be in the class stopped in the doorway and said disdainfully, “Oh, no. Look at all the boys!” She then continued down the hall to find a more suitable class for her daughter.
Another time we let them divide into their own project groups of three or four. A mom approached a girl who was happily coloring with two boys and said, “Don’t you want to come over here with the girls?” The child looked confused but went anyway, since the adult leader’s question implied that her choice was wrong.
I’m not one to give dolls to a boy in a misguided attempt to make him equal parts masculine and feminine. I just think people who work with children shouldn’t default to “boys vs. girls” just because it’s easy to do.
When my sons attended a local activity camp last summer, the daily competitions were always grouped by gender. Even the most popular TV shows, like The Apprentice and Survivor, do it. You don’t need a master’s degree to find other grouping techniques, such as having kids pick colored or numbered pieces of paper out of a cup, or even the old “count off by threes” method.
If you’re pitting girls against boys at every opportunity, though, no one wins. If the boys beat the girls, it raises the cootie quotient. If boys get beaten by girls, they see it as a tragedy, and their co-existence becomes even more tenuous.
If they learn to work together early on, though, there’s a chance they’ll feel like they’re at least from the same planet when they get to middle school.
Copyright 1/05
Monday, August 18, 2008
Daily Elvis
This morning on The Big Show with John Boy and Billy, my preferred radio morning team, one of the trivia contest questions referred to Elvis. This lady had to name three Elvis songs on 10 seconds. She went all Early Elvis with Hound Dog, Teddy Bear, etc. I think I would have chosen the big production numbers from the 70s, like Kentucky Rain or Suspicious Minds.
I'm thinking these will get more difficult now that Elvis Week is over.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Daily Elvis Reference
Today is the 31st anniversary of the day Elvis died at Graceland. I lived in Memphis until 1991, and he died when I was in fourth grade. I got off the school bus, turned on the TV (instead of starting homework like I was supposed to) and was surprised to see news coverage on. TV news stations didn't interrupt programming with so-called breaking news back then unless it truly was newsworthy.
This weekend's Elvis reference comes thanks to CMT, on which showed Jailhouse Rock today. So cool. In that jail dance scene you can see moves that look a lot like stuff Michael Jackson did 30 years later. To me, those backup dancer/inmates all look about 45 years old. To look at Elvis, he had no choice but to be famous somehow.
Being a walk-on is no walk in the park
I’ve heard rumblings on youth sports sidelines lately. Another generation of parents is figuring out that most community sports leagues accept kids as young as 4 or 5. By the time those kids funnel into middle school with the players who’ve also been on travel teams, the quality of talent leaves no room for walk-ons.
In other words, your kid can’t wait until 6th grade to decide to play on the school soccer team. Thus parents, like me, of kids who love sports but aren’t “elite” or “select” athletes feel pressure to make their kids specialize early in a sport or at least keep them from taking a season off.
At age 9, my twin boys have played team sports half their lives, and they’re not great at it.
But they want to be. They love being a teammate. They love wearing the jersey and the helmet and cleats and the Under Armour, which does not fit 3rd-graders the same way it fits pro tackles, by the way.
Equipment like Under Armour and training methods once reserved for professionals are now readily available to children in our area, if their parents can afford it, of course. Cool Springs has about five sports training facilities that cater to kids.
I’ll confess. We took our boys to Showtime Sports Academy last spring, thinking they could learn the right way to hit a baseball, feel successful and have more fun. Now Henry has a picture-perfect swing, if he could just keep his eyes open as the ball comes his way.
I can’t believe my 9-year-olds had a batting coach. Though the guy was awesome, I hated paying money for that. As we signed up, I felt like I was taking a step toward raising a Todd Marinovich-type “roboathlete.”
My friends in elementary school didn’t worry about their high school athletic careers. But youth sports seem more serious now. Besides, fewer backyard baseball games break out when the PlayStation beckons. And in this Amber Alert age, we fearful parents won’t let our kids just roam the neighborhood looking for a pickup game anymore.
Some despotic parents see youth sports leagues not as play but as a training process akin to natural selection; let the cream rise to the top, as they say, and if we losers who play for fun can’t hack it, we should get out.
Talk about a reflected sense of self. What if your glory days were behind you at age 12?
Move over, trophy wife. Make way for the trophy kid.
First published 9/05.
In other words, your kid can’t wait until 6th grade to decide to play on the school soccer team. Thus parents, like me, of kids who love sports but aren’t “elite” or “select” athletes feel pressure to make their kids specialize early in a sport or at least keep them from taking a season off.
At age 9, my twin boys have played team sports half their lives, and they’re not great at it.
But they want to be. They love being a teammate. They love wearing the jersey and the helmet and cleats and the Under Armour, which does not fit 3rd-graders the same way it fits pro tackles, by the way.
Equipment like Under Armour and training methods once reserved for professionals are now readily available to children in our area, if their parents can afford it, of course. Cool Springs has about five sports training facilities that cater to kids.
I’ll confess. We took our boys to Showtime Sports Academy last spring, thinking they could learn the right way to hit a baseball, feel successful and have more fun. Now Henry has a picture-perfect swing, if he could just keep his eyes open as the ball comes his way.
I can’t believe my 9-year-olds had a batting coach. Though the guy was awesome, I hated paying money for that. As we signed up, I felt like I was taking a step toward raising a Todd Marinovich-type “roboathlete.”
My friends in elementary school didn’t worry about their high school athletic careers. But youth sports seem more serious now. Besides, fewer backyard baseball games break out when the PlayStation beckons. And in this Amber Alert age, we fearful parents won’t let our kids just roam the neighborhood looking for a pickup game anymore.
Some despotic parents see youth sports leagues not as play but as a training process akin to natural selection; let the cream rise to the top, as they say, and if we losers who play for fun can’t hack it, we should get out.
Talk about a reflected sense of self. What if your glory days were behind you at age 12?
Move over, trophy wife. Make way for the trophy kid.
First published 9/05.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Daily Elvis Reference
Today on George Shrinks (don't ask), George's little brother Junior randomly appeared dressed as the White Jumpsuit Version, foofed hair and everything.
Elvis appears in a lot of kids' shows. Or maybe I just see a lot of kids' shows.
Elvis appears in a lot of kids' shows. Or maybe I just see a lot of kids' shows.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Daily Elvis Reference
Elvis and Priscilla Barbie Doll set is unveiledThe Associated Press - Aug 11, 2008
Full coverage »
Elvis and Priscilla Barbies! Why has no one thought of this before?
SO awesome.
Full coverage »
Elvis and Priscilla Barbies! Why has no one thought of this before?
SO awesome.
In Which a Reclusive Housewife Gets Good News
I was minding my own business, watching a few minutes of a TiVoed two-hour documentary about Johnny Cash that I’d been trying to find time to watch for about a week, when the phone rang. Caller ID just said, “Out of Area,” so I let the machine get it.
I didn’t expect to hear the heavy New York accent on my answering machine, and at first my son Henry and I both thought the voice said he was calling from Geico, which thrilled Henry because he and his twin bro love that Geico gecko on the TV commercials. Of course, the cockney gecko can’t compete with the “freecreditreport.com” dude who laments his career singing in a pirate restaurant.
Suddenly, I jumped up. The New Yawker hadn’t said “Geico.” He had said “Guideposts.” I felt lightheaded. This was no telemarketer. This was an editor from Guideposts magazine calling to tell me I had been chosen as one of 15 participants in the 2008 Guideposts Writers Workshop! Immediately I felt like Steve Martin as Navin Johnson in The Jerk, running around with the new phone book in his hand and yelling, “I’m somebody now!”
Upon hearing my insane whooping, all three boys and our dog ran toward me and jumped around me. “What?! Who was it?” “What did he say?” “Woof!” “What did he SAY?!!”
I think my explanation was anticlimactic. I did not mention a Lamborghini, Holiday World, a free beach condo, delayed school start or anything else that would have interested them.
“That writing contest. I won! They picked me! I’m going to New York,” I tried to explain. I don’t think my sons even remembered that I had entered this summer. They know about Guideposts, the little religious magazine, because we subscribe to it and because I interned at their New York offices in the summer of 1989 as part of the American Society of Magazine Editors program.
Back then, when I found out that I would be spending the summer working for Guideposts, I was not thrilled. With grand expectations for my career in journalism, I had expressed on my application my preference for some of the sexier magazines on the list, including Architectural Digest, Glamour and Time. I got Guideposts, the only religious magazine of the bunch.
Two weeks into that summer, though, discontent began to spread around the NYU dorms where all the interns lived. Most of the jobs were not as sexy as we all had assumed. My roommates were doing true intern work – making copies and fetching coffee at Popular Science and Seventeen. On the other hand, I had an actual office with a view of the actual Chrysler Building. I didn’t have to put my hair in a bun and recite Bible verses at work. I sat in on meetings with creative, fun and funny professionals who asked my opinions, gave me small writing assignments, and taught me about finding the inspirational in the mundane.
My kids don’t get it yet, but the fact that most of those editors are still working there says the most to me about the benefits of working at the seemingly unglamorous Guideposts.
I can’t wait to see them all again.
I didn’t expect to hear the heavy New York accent on my answering machine, and at first my son Henry and I both thought the voice said he was calling from Geico, which thrilled Henry because he and his twin bro love that Geico gecko on the TV commercials. Of course, the cockney gecko can’t compete with the “freecreditreport.com” dude who laments his career singing in a pirate restaurant.
Suddenly, I jumped up. The New Yawker hadn’t said “Geico.” He had said “Guideposts.” I felt lightheaded. This was no telemarketer. This was an editor from Guideposts magazine calling to tell me I had been chosen as one of 15 participants in the 2008 Guideposts Writers Workshop! Immediately I felt like Steve Martin as Navin Johnson in The Jerk, running around with the new phone book in his hand and yelling, “I’m somebody now!”
Upon hearing my insane whooping, all three boys and our dog ran toward me and jumped around me. “What?! Who was it?” “What did he say?” “Woof!” “What did he SAY?!!”
I think my explanation was anticlimactic. I did not mention a Lamborghini, Holiday World, a free beach condo, delayed school start or anything else that would have interested them.
“That writing contest. I won! They picked me! I’m going to New York,” I tried to explain. I don’t think my sons even remembered that I had entered this summer. They know about Guideposts, the little religious magazine, because we subscribe to it and because I interned at their New York offices in the summer of 1989 as part of the American Society of Magazine Editors program.
Back then, when I found out that I would be spending the summer working for Guideposts, I was not thrilled. With grand expectations for my career in journalism, I had expressed on my application my preference for some of the sexier magazines on the list, including Architectural Digest, Glamour and Time. I got Guideposts, the only religious magazine of the bunch.
Two weeks into that summer, though, discontent began to spread around the NYU dorms where all the interns lived. Most of the jobs were not as sexy as we all had assumed. My roommates were doing true intern work – making copies and fetching coffee at Popular Science and Seventeen. On the other hand, I had an actual office with a view of the actual Chrysler Building. I didn’t have to put my hair in a bun and recite Bible verses at work. I sat in on meetings with creative, fun and funny professionals who asked my opinions, gave me small writing assignments, and taught me about finding the inspirational in the mundane.
My kids don’t get it yet, but the fact that most of those editors are still working there says the most to me about the benefits of working at the seemingly unglamorous Guideposts.
I can’t wait to see them all again.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Daily Elvis Reference
The Toon Disney show "The Replacements" has a character on it that looks just like Later Elvis, white jumpsuit and all.
For the record, my kids do not watch this show. It was on while we were waiting for "House of Mouse." They watch fewer and fewer cartoons and more documentaries. If there's a show on with reenactors and battle scenes, they're mesmerized.
For the record, my kids do not watch this show. It was on while we were waiting for "House of Mouse." They watch fewer and fewer cartoons and more documentaries. If there's a show on with reenactors and battle scenes, they're mesmerized.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Daily Elvis Reference
It's Elvis Week, which makes it the perfect time to begin tracking my daily Elvis references. I read somewhere that if you pay attention, you'll notice at least one pop culture reference to Elvis Presley every day. Here's what I've heard so far:
- A roving reporter on Fox 17's Tennessee Mornings wore an Elvis wig and sideburns during his coverage of the tomato festival.
- TV Land this week is running a show called Myths and Legends: Elvis in which they consider whether Elvis and Oprah are related and why Elvis carried a handgun into the Oval Office when he met with Nixon.
Wouldn't you?
Summer bummers
Summer brings out one of my special gifts. I have a knack for arriving at the pool the moment the lifeguards blow the rest-period whistle.
I don’t know if this goes on at other pools, where the kids have to sit out for 10 minutes every hour, but when the YMCA lifeguards signal the mandatory rest period, my boys act like they just saw a puppy get run over.
I spend “rest” period slathering two twitchy 9-year-olds with sunscreen.
No. 1 Son likes to remind me that grown-ups are allowed to swim during rest period. I chortle as I picture myself in my big old mom bathing suit entertaining the other parents with an Esther Williams routine.
Kids face other peculiar summer bummers, though. For example, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood is the one show No. 3 Son loves to watch. But my older boys, who would say they are way too cool for Mr. Rogers, get sucked in during summer break and sometimes watch it with their baby brother.
The undisputed highlight of the show is when the Neighborhood Trolley comes out. Somehow I never noticed that Mr. Rogers controls the trolley with a little switch on the window seat. How naive am I?
But it’s a colossal bummer when the trolley leaves Lady Aberlin and the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. The other day No. 2 son yelled out “Noooooooooo!” as the trolley disappeared into the little tunnel. “It was just getting good!” he said.
Time for him to study some flash cards.
Back when homes had only one TV and I got to stay up late during the summer, I’d watch The Waltons or Barnaby Jones with my mom and dad. As soon as the end credits started rolling, I’d sit real still and quiet, praying they’d forget it was my bedtime. Before the Action News 5 theme music ended, though, they’d remember.
If Dad took me to the pool the next day, my shrill voice made him a captive audience for all my coolest swimming tricks. What a nerve-wracking time he must have had as I shrieked for him to watch my mermaid flip: “Daddy! Daddy! Look, Daddy! Daddy, watch! Watch this, Daddy! Daddy, watch. Oh, you missed it. Now WATCH this time, Daddy! Daddy, LOOK!”
I’m now paying my pool penance, though. How many times have I witnessed my gangly kids attempt a cannonball? You’d never know from the smile plastered on my face.
But to a kid, no bummer is as harsh as when you’re strolling through Kroger, wheedling your mom for Popsicles and minding your own business, and you come upon the clerks dismantling the Fourth of July display and stocking the shelves with school supplies.
Suddenly rest period doesn’t seem so long.
copyright Jill Burgin 8/05
I don’t know if this goes on at other pools, where the kids have to sit out for 10 minutes every hour, but when the YMCA lifeguards signal the mandatory rest period, my boys act like they just saw a puppy get run over.
I spend “rest” period slathering two twitchy 9-year-olds with sunscreen.
No. 1 Son likes to remind me that grown-ups are allowed to swim during rest period. I chortle as I picture myself in my big old mom bathing suit entertaining the other parents with an Esther Williams routine.
Kids face other peculiar summer bummers, though. For example, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood is the one show No. 3 Son loves to watch. But my older boys, who would say they are way too cool for Mr. Rogers, get sucked in during summer break and sometimes watch it with their baby brother.
The undisputed highlight of the show is when the Neighborhood Trolley comes out. Somehow I never noticed that Mr. Rogers controls the trolley with a little switch on the window seat. How naive am I?
But it’s a colossal bummer when the trolley leaves Lady Aberlin and the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. The other day No. 2 son yelled out “Noooooooooo!” as the trolley disappeared into the little tunnel. “It was just getting good!” he said.
Time for him to study some flash cards.
Back when homes had only one TV and I got to stay up late during the summer, I’d watch The Waltons or Barnaby Jones with my mom and dad. As soon as the end credits started rolling, I’d sit real still and quiet, praying they’d forget it was my bedtime. Before the Action News 5 theme music ended, though, they’d remember.
If Dad took me to the pool the next day, my shrill voice made him a captive audience for all my coolest swimming tricks. What a nerve-wracking time he must have had as I shrieked for him to watch my mermaid flip: “Daddy! Daddy! Look, Daddy! Daddy, watch! Watch this, Daddy! Daddy, watch. Oh, you missed it. Now WATCH this time, Daddy! Daddy, LOOK!”
I’m now paying my pool penance, though. How many times have I witnessed my gangly kids attempt a cannonball? You’d never know from the smile plastered on my face.
But to a kid, no bummer is as harsh as when you’re strolling through Kroger, wheedling your mom for Popsicles and minding your own business, and you come upon the clerks dismantling the Fourth of July display and stocking the shelves with school supplies.
Suddenly rest period doesn’t seem so long.
copyright Jill Burgin 8/05
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Mom drama amplifies class list anxiety
The phone calls started last Tuesday.
“Do you know who your boys’ teachers are yet?”
“No, I didn’t know the lists were ready,” I said, suddenly feeling very much out of the loop.
My friend took a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “Stephanie’s mom called and said she has Mrs. Swanson, which means she already called her students yesterday, so we didn’t get her. And Mrs. Evans apparently mailed her kids a letter, so you didn’t get her.”
This friend and I are working on an arranged marriage between one of her girls and one of my twin boys, so we hoped that somehow they’d end up in the same class every year through high school.
Five minutes after we hung up, the phone rang again. It was Stephanie’s mom.
“Hey, do the boys know whose class they’re in yet?”
Just like that, I got caught up in a frenzy of conjecture. The boys begged me to do a daily fly-by at school to see if the lists had been taped up outside. I began to feel like a stage mom waiting to see if my kid got a callback to an audition.
If you want some late-summer excitement, forget the presidential race or the Olympics. Early August has its own unique fervor because this is when the elementary class lists are posted.
All over the county, friends are calling friends. Moms check with each other at church and the grocery store. Though dads somehow seem to stay out of it, everyone else wants to know who’s in their class.
For about a week, the anticipation was almost unbearable. Oh, and the boys were excited, too. After those first phone calls, my house was buzzing. Both my 8-year-olds hovered in a far corner, speculating about which teachers they would have.
Trying not to be too much of a geek about it, I listened a lot and asked a few judicious questions about the process.
Although they are young, each year they’ve had an idea of which teacher they want. From what I can tell, at this age it’s based on school bus chatter about which teachers smile a lot as they retrieve their classes from the cafeteria or which ones play along during field day.
The boys called their friends to fill in the blanks on the class roster. Finally, my son’s future father-in-law cut to the chase, drove down to the school and simply asked who was where. What a concept. Once again, all that mom drama for naught.
Sadly, it turns out my boy and his girl are separated this year, which means we’ll have to work a bit harder to keep up the arranged marriage.
Originally published in The Tennessean 8/04.
“Do you know who your boys’ teachers are yet?”
“No, I didn’t know the lists were ready,” I said, suddenly feeling very much out of the loop.
My friend took a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “Stephanie’s mom called and said she has Mrs. Swanson, which means she already called her students yesterday, so we didn’t get her. And Mrs. Evans apparently mailed her kids a letter, so you didn’t get her.”
This friend and I are working on an arranged marriage between one of her girls and one of my twin boys, so we hoped that somehow they’d end up in the same class every year through high school.
Five minutes after we hung up, the phone rang again. It was Stephanie’s mom.
“Hey, do the boys know whose class they’re in yet?”
Just like that, I got caught up in a frenzy of conjecture. The boys begged me to do a daily fly-by at school to see if the lists had been taped up outside. I began to feel like a stage mom waiting to see if my kid got a callback to an audition.
If you want some late-summer excitement, forget the presidential race or the Olympics. Early August has its own unique fervor because this is when the elementary class lists are posted.
All over the county, friends are calling friends. Moms check with each other at church and the grocery store. Though dads somehow seem to stay out of it, everyone else wants to know who’s in their class.
For about a week, the anticipation was almost unbearable. Oh, and the boys were excited, too. After those first phone calls, my house was buzzing. Both my 8-year-olds hovered in a far corner, speculating about which teachers they would have.
Trying not to be too much of a geek about it, I listened a lot and asked a few judicious questions about the process.
Although they are young, each year they’ve had an idea of which teacher they want. From what I can tell, at this age it’s based on school bus chatter about which teachers smile a lot as they retrieve their classes from the cafeteria or which ones play along during field day.
The boys called their friends to fill in the blanks on the class roster. Finally, my son’s future father-in-law cut to the chase, drove down to the school and simply asked who was where. What a concept. Once again, all that mom drama for naught.
Sadly, it turns out my boy and his girl are separated this year, which means we’ll have to work a bit harder to keep up the arranged marriage.
Originally published in The Tennessean 8/04.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
How To Choose the Perfect Name for Your Baby
I’ll tell you right now the best way to decide if a name you’re considering is really the perfect name for your baby.
Walk around the house saying the name out loud 28 times in a row. You can yell it a few times, for reality’s sake. Maybe throw in a couple of phrases you might actually use once the littl’un gets here, like, “Come here, Sputnik. No, no, Sputnik. Spuuuuuut-nik, look at Mommy. Sputnik, stoppit!”
I guarantee that if the name hasn’t made you nauseous after that drill, it can stay on the approved list.
I know this method works because almost every week I see (or rather hear) plenty of parents who should have used it before they had their kids. Yesterday I was in the Brentwood Library’s children’s section when I realized that I could never name a child “Montgomery” because the Montgomery I had the misfortune to encounter was not at all interested in using library-rated behavior. Montgomery was doing everything his mom did not want him to do, and she used his whole name every time she tried to check him.
“Montgomery, sweetie, please get off the table. Montgomery, settle down. No, Montgomery, we share the trains on the train table. No, no, we don’t bite, Montgomery.”
I thought at least the lady would have defaulted to a nickname after a while, but no, she was not going to call the child Monty or Mo or even Gummy. It was the full Montgomery or nothing at all.
Walk around the house saying the name out loud 28 times in a row. You can yell it a few times, for reality’s sake. Maybe throw in a couple of phrases you might actually use once the littl’un gets here, like, “Come here, Sputnik. No, no, Sputnik. Spuuuuuut-nik, look at Mommy. Sputnik, stoppit!”
I guarantee that if the name hasn’t made you nauseous after that drill, it can stay on the approved list.
I know this method works because almost every week I see (or rather hear) plenty of parents who should have used it before they had their kids. Yesterday I was in the Brentwood Library’s children’s section when I realized that I could never name a child “Montgomery” because the Montgomery I had the misfortune to encounter was not at all interested in using library-rated behavior. Montgomery was doing everything his mom did not want him to do, and she used his whole name every time she tried to check him.
“Montgomery, sweetie, please get off the table. Montgomery, settle down. No, Montgomery, we share the trains on the train table. No, no, we don’t bite, Montgomery.”
I thought at least the lady would have defaulted to a nickname after a while, but no, she was not going to call the child Monty or Mo or even Gummy. It was the full Montgomery or nothing at all.
Extreme Makeover: Dorm Edition
What I wouldn’t give to go back to college right now.
I don’t miss the early-morning classes, of course. Nor do I want another shot at Western Civ. I took both sections of that class twice.
I want a do-over so I can redecorate my old dorm room.
“Dorm décor” was an oxymoron in the dark ages of 1985, when no major retailers marketed to what could be the most lucrative back-to-school group yet – college dorm rats. Now stores are capitalizing on the university students’ yen to personalize their regulation spaces.
Sears has pounced on the irresistible Ty Pennington and his “TYU” line. Linens-N-Things calls their department “Destination Dorm,” with righteous offerings to dress up your landlocked dorm room as a tiki lodge.
It makes me feel bad for my pitiful 10- x 14-foot room at UT’s Humes Hall. Back then, I thought I was pretty bitchin’ with my blue plastic milk crates, James Dean posters, New Wave album art and 40-lb. Smith Corona word processor. Luxury was finding out I could get a carpet square for $10.
Back then, the luckiest girls on the hall had refrigerators; microwaves were outlawed at UT. And you practically had to shop for the elusive extra-long twin sheets in Atlantis; they were that hard to find. Now they’re all over the Internet. My roommate had to make do with a tucked-in flat sheet.
“Making do” won’t do it anymore, though. You don’t need Mom’s cast-off furniture when the Bed Bath & Beyond Web site has sample photos of dorm room setups so you can pull together the perfect ensemble.
For a couple hundred dollars, you can have a college crib worthy of a parade of homes. No wistful housewife could resist BB&B’s Henna Dreams collection, with the pink pom-pom window curtain and the pendant disc chandelier in “kermit.”
Guess what color that is. All you need to know is that it perfectly complements the average dorm’s cinder-block walls. Most universities have virtual dorm tours, too, so you shouldn’t be surprised on move-in day.
Whether or not you’ve even met your roommate, y’all can coordinate online during the summer and have Pier 1 ship your “Design U” selections to your dorm so your dad won’t be angry all the way to Western Kentucky because he had to tie your corduroy papasan chair on top of the Yukon.
Don’t laugh too hard. The National Retail Federation estimates that college kids and parents (OK, parents) spent $2.6 billion in 2004 on dorm or apartment furnishings and décor. That doesn’t include electronics. Or books. Oh yeah, books -- the real reason we go to college in the first place.
If I’d had a prettier dorm room, maybe I would have curled up there with my Western Civ textbook more often. On the paisley “Las Flores” quilt from Pottery Barn, of course.
I don’t miss the early-morning classes, of course. Nor do I want another shot at Western Civ. I took both sections of that class twice.
I want a do-over so I can redecorate my old dorm room.
“Dorm décor” was an oxymoron in the dark ages of 1985, when no major retailers marketed to what could be the most lucrative back-to-school group yet – college dorm rats. Now stores are capitalizing on the university students’ yen to personalize their regulation spaces.
Sears has pounced on the irresistible Ty Pennington and his “TYU” line. Linens-N-Things calls their department “Destination Dorm,” with righteous offerings to dress up your landlocked dorm room as a tiki lodge.
It makes me feel bad for my pitiful 10- x 14-foot room at UT’s Humes Hall. Back then, I thought I was pretty bitchin’ with my blue plastic milk crates, James Dean posters, New Wave album art and 40-lb. Smith Corona word processor. Luxury was finding out I could get a carpet square for $10.
Back then, the luckiest girls on the hall had refrigerators; microwaves were outlawed at UT. And you practically had to shop for the elusive extra-long twin sheets in Atlantis; they were that hard to find. Now they’re all over the Internet. My roommate had to make do with a tucked-in flat sheet.
“Making do” won’t do it anymore, though. You don’t need Mom’s cast-off furniture when the Bed Bath & Beyond Web site has sample photos of dorm room setups so you can pull together the perfect ensemble.
For a couple hundred dollars, you can have a college crib worthy of a parade of homes. No wistful housewife could resist BB&B’s Henna Dreams collection, with the pink pom-pom window curtain and the pendant disc chandelier in “kermit.”
Guess what color that is. All you need to know is that it perfectly complements the average dorm’s cinder-block walls. Most universities have virtual dorm tours, too, so you shouldn’t be surprised on move-in day.
Whether or not you’ve even met your roommate, y’all can coordinate online during the summer and have Pier 1 ship your “Design U” selections to your dorm so your dad won’t be angry all the way to Western Kentucky because he had to tie your corduroy papasan chair on top of the Yukon.
Don’t laugh too hard. The National Retail Federation estimates that college kids and parents (OK, parents) spent $2.6 billion in 2004 on dorm or apartment furnishings and décor. That doesn’t include electronics. Or books. Oh yeah, books -- the real reason we go to college in the first place.
If I’d had a prettier dorm room, maybe I would have curled up there with my Western Civ textbook more often. On the paisley “Las Flores” quilt from Pottery Barn, of course.
Can't Teach an Old Mom New Tricks
Last week was orientation at the preschool my 5-year-old will attend this year, the same school my 12-year-old twins began attending when they were 1-year-olds.
Since the stairstep method of family planning prevails in our society, most of the new moms there don’t have a seven-year gap between kids like I do.
I walk in the building where lots of these new moms are gathered, and it looks like sorority rush. Girls ten or twelve years younger than me greet each other with squeals, dressed like bright summer flowers holding monogrammed purses.
Their faces turn earnest as the teachers outline the things their babies will do during the preschool day. With apprehension, they glance at their boyish husbands when the teacher mentions the little ones feeding themselves at lunchtime.
We old moms try to contain our impatience with their rookie questions, remembering the guy in high school who always asked, “If we study this, will we pass the test?”
I can’t judge too harshly, though. My first time around, I was the biggest wad of maternal anxiety ever, leaving my twin babies to fend for themselves in the rough world of church preschool.
Now that I am a mom over 35, I’ll never forget three special words the doctor said to me at my first OB visit – advanced maternal age. I felt like I’d be raising my own grandchild.
By the time you move from preschool to elementary school, not much has changed. When I was a new mom, I used to think older moms were so cranky and unenthusiastic. Now that I’m 40 years old with a little 'un, I realize they weren’t cranky. They’d just done it all before.
So now I’m one of them. I want to be involved in my kids’ school. I’m not going to clap and sing about it, but I’ll be there.
No, nothing can match a new mom’s enthusiasm for helping out in class, and school wouldn’t be as fun without them. We old moms, however, have been down this path, and we usually have to leave to pick up another kid soon. We just want the new moms to tell us what to bring and when.
My friend Trish says she often finds herself saying, “Sounds great. I’ll do whatever.” I think that’s going to be my new motto at school.
Class Halloween party? Sounds great. No, you can do the craft. I promise I don’t mind. Lollipop spiders? Yes, that will be very cute. The kids will love it. I’ll do whatever.
In fact, it would be nice to hear that from the kids every once in a while. “Sounds great, Mom. I’ll do whatever.”
Since the stairstep method of family planning prevails in our society, most of the new moms there don’t have a seven-year gap between kids like I do.
I walk in the building where lots of these new moms are gathered, and it looks like sorority rush. Girls ten or twelve years younger than me greet each other with squeals, dressed like bright summer flowers holding monogrammed purses.
Their faces turn earnest as the teachers outline the things their babies will do during the preschool day. With apprehension, they glance at their boyish husbands when the teacher mentions the little ones feeding themselves at lunchtime.
We old moms try to contain our impatience with their rookie questions, remembering the guy in high school who always asked, “If we study this, will we pass the test?”
I can’t judge too harshly, though. My first time around, I was the biggest wad of maternal anxiety ever, leaving my twin babies to fend for themselves in the rough world of church preschool.
Now that I am a mom over 35, I’ll never forget three special words the doctor said to me at my first OB visit – advanced maternal age. I felt like I’d be raising my own grandchild.
By the time you move from preschool to elementary school, not much has changed. When I was a new mom, I used to think older moms were so cranky and unenthusiastic. Now that I’m 40 years old with a little 'un, I realize they weren’t cranky. They’d just done it all before.
So now I’m one of them. I want to be involved in my kids’ school. I’m not going to clap and sing about it, but I’ll be there.
No, nothing can match a new mom’s enthusiasm for helping out in class, and school wouldn’t be as fun without them. We old moms, however, have been down this path, and we usually have to leave to pick up another kid soon. We just want the new moms to tell us what to bring and when.
My friend Trish says she often finds herself saying, “Sounds great. I’ll do whatever.” I think that’s going to be my new motto at school.
Class Halloween party? Sounds great. No, you can do the craft. I promise I don’t mind. Lollipop spiders? Yes, that will be very cute. The kids will love it. I’ll do whatever.
In fact, it would be nice to hear that from the kids every once in a while. “Sounds great, Mom. I’ll do whatever.”
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