The CBS segment link is in. That faux-hawk took me over an hour! I had such a blast with this one. The video will be on the upper right hand corner. You may not get the video if you use your cell phone. ENJOY! Cutting Corners: Halloween on a Budget
Thanks,
J from the B
Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.
On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?
“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.
“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.
I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.
“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.
For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.
It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?
“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“
That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.
Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”
Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder. But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.
On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.
What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.
As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.
The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.”
You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.
I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.
I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.
Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.
“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”
Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”
Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.
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I’ve said it before: My mini-van is where toys go to die. Also, mittens, empty water bottles and shin guards. While my experience might be decidedly suburban, I’ll bet most moms could relate to it no matter where they live.
That’s why I like to check out what’s happening with mom bloggers who live in various places across our fine country, suburban, yes, but also urban and rural. Here are three of the best:
Suburban Jungle (http://www.suburbanjungle.net/) Jenny Isenman, a.k.a. “Jenny from the Blog,” says she finds “the humor in the everyday and it keeps me sane. That and I live in a one story house. So every time I jump, I consider it an opportunity to clean up the toys in the yard.” She writes about life in suburbia, and how she feels she needs an > English-to-Starbucks dictionary. She confesses she’s been addicted to sleep as long as she can remember, so you can imagine what she felt like when her toddler asked her at 2 a.m.: “If a dragon falls in a fire what would happen?” (She decided the dragon would be fine thanks to its thick skin.) Whether it’s her friend’s botched Botox (”the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow”), or her kids’ penchant for words that describe bodily functions (”their Beavis and Butthead phase”), Jenny from the Blog reports from the jungle that is suburbia.
City Mama ( http://citymama.typepad.com/citymama/) Stefania Pomponi Butler’s blog says the writer/producer/blogger “lives in Silicon Valley, California with her husband (and his pile of laundry), their two impossibly cute (and very loud) girls, and about 2,649 plastic horses.” Recently, she warned some Internet bullies that their moms are on Facebook, and she even threw a virtual shower for fellow blogger, Tanis Miller. Stefania, who’s “always cooking something up,” writes often about culinary issues, offering up recipes, reviews and advice on everything from great sauce pans to the perfect pear. She blogged about a photo shoot she did in L.A. which involved “strangers sticking their hands down the front of my shirt.” Ah, the glamour of a City Mama.
Confessions of a Pioneer Woman ( http://thepioneerwoman.com/) Ree Drummond is a “thirty-something ranch wife, mother of four” who writes about her “decade-long transition from spoiled city girl to domestic country wife.” My favorite part is the pictures of horses and cowboys in chaps, but there’s so much more to Ree’s blog, most of it in photos. There are shots of her family rustling the cattle (or whatever it’s called) with captions like, “I remember a day when this little girl was shorter than the calves.” She calls her husband the “Marlboro man,” and reports “There are no spas in the country.” Which is why her daughter made her own avocado facial. Her photography is wonderful, filled with endless blue skies and close-ups of unsuspecting cows. Most of all, it’s a portal to a whole different life than we have in the suburbs, a life where, Ree says, “Getting up at 4:00 a.m. can’t be high on the list of desired summer activities for the kids on our ranch, but it is what it is.”
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Well, I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me why I haven’t posted lately.
Why?
Because I’ve spent the last week cleaning my house.
Why?
Because my everyday tidier/laundry doer/Mother’s helper, Danay got a job in a physical therapist’s office.
Why?
Because she went to college and got a real degree before coming to this country and finding out that her only job options were maid, nanny, or grocery bagger.
Why?
Because in America if you don’t speak perfect English you must be unintelligent, even though most of us don’t speak nearly as much of a foreign language as any foreigner does of our’s.
Why?
Because we’re lazy, which is the same reason I hate to clean.
I remember the days before I found this woman… I cleaned a lot! In fact, I could not do anything else around my house until I felt it was clean. I would clean in the morning, watch my kids immediately undo my work, and then clean the same stuff all over again. Each time I was amazed at how long it took to clean and how quickly it became undone.
I had to make up fascinating “cleaning games” to justify not spending time playing Nerf dart tag, or doing spin art like the “good Mommies” did. Our play was much more educational… I honed Jake’s eye for detail and fine motor skills: “Jake, let’s see if you can match the socks and roll them neatly into pairs.” I knew Jake was a true genius the day he found matches for the 23 mateless socks. I taught Ryan about the nuances of tone and hue. “Ryan, which colors are dark and which are light? Ryan, that shirt may be white, but the stripes are red, that’s a major oversight on your part. I hope you weren’t hungry cause that just cost you dinner.”
I considered asking Mark for help, but the truth was to watch him try and clean could send us straight to divorce court. He would say, “Just do it once a day, why waste your time?” Which, by the way, is the same argument he has for oral hygiene, so who could listen to him? If you want the job done right i.e. your way… you have to do it yourself.
I couldn’t delegate because I was always too disappointed in the way someone would load my dishwasher. Loading a dishwasher takes serious problem solving skills and visual prowess; done correctly, it is an algorithm of perfectly fitting pieces with not a single one to spare. Okay, I’m beginning to sound pathetic, but some of you actually get what I’m saying. You know who you are, you’re the ones thinking “Please, my dish loading could kick your ass…Bitch! Well you know what I say? “Bring it!”
I was so vehemently against having help because I was sure it would reflect on some inability to be a good Mother/Housewife (a title I never thought I would covet the way that I do). I also convinced myself that having help would weaken my right to be a martyr. However, my need to have “a life” and to resent my husband less won out, and I hired someone.
After a single day I felt like screaming “FREEDOM” while swooshing down a mountain with a cool breeze on my face, or into a deep echoing canyon while blowing my Ricola horn, but alas Florida is flat. So I traipsed into the swamp, I mean lake, in our back yard and screamed at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, it was “Alligator!” and not “Freedom!” but I feel my point was made. As soon as I zigzagged back into my house, I considered all of my options: Grocery shop, get Starbucks with a friend, shop for my kids, get a mani/pedi, shop for myself, go to the gym, shop for my husband, get Starbucks again, or return things from the last time I shopped. My days were filled with endless monotony and it was exciting. My afternoons were completely open. I could do all kinds of things while my daughter napped- shop, return things, get Starbucks… When my son got home we played Nerf dart tag and did spin art.
Each day I returned to a neat and straightened house, with clean clothes and an organized pantry. I began saying things like, “You know, I don’t care if you rearrange my drawers, whatever is easier for you.” I had to make phone calls to find out where my Love Quotes scarves and my new yellow Hogan bag were, and I reveled in it. I finally got bored with the exciting monotony and decided I would have to do something to distract me from shopping. I tried chewing gum. No luck. I tried the patch, but spent hours trying to find the perfect designer patch on the best sale. I read books by Dr. Oz, and Dr. Drew, and Dr. Phil. I even read a lovely memoir by Dr. J. to no avail.
So I decided to write again. Three weeks after, I felt reborn and my Amex felt dejected, jumping out of my bag anytime we so much as drove past a retail store. It would even put extra groceries in my cart when I walked over to the meat counter. My Amex wasn’t the only one let down. A week later Danay told me a friend called to offer her a job at a physical therapist’s office. I said, “Are you kidding me? Who do you expect to do my laundry, clean the kitty litter, the dog pee, the garage… me? I had that job once, it sucked!” Luckily, when I talk fast she doesn’t understand a word and I slowly said “You have to take it, congratulations!” and gave her a huge hug. She still comes like 5hrs a week because in her own words “I’ll keep helping you out, you need me.” Apparently, she’s never seen me load a dishwasher, but If you don’t tell I won’t. So the short answer to the question “Why haven’t you posted in a week: 5hrs just don’t cut it.”
P.S. If anyone knows anyone… I’m looking.
Every time I take one of my children to see a specialist I am reminded of my first time going to see one with Jake when he was about 4½ months old. Jake, who was 5 weeks premature, cried for the first 4months 13days 16hrs 32min of his life (straight). He would only sleep in an upright position and we found that his car seat was the best option. We would keep it in the Snap n’ Go and park him into bed every night.
When he finally cut back on the tears, it was like walking off a tarmac and into a library- I could think again. I noticed his head looked a little flat and took him to a pediatric neurologist. Dr. Gore or Dr. Bore as I prefer to call her, examined Jake for plagiocephaly, or “flathead,” to see if he should be fitted for a helmet. Yes…that’s correct, a helmet. Looking back on our visit, it seems all of her comments were excessively vague and rather benign, but somehow she managed to coax me into a state of agitation.
Dr. Bore is one of those people who is impressed with her own brilliance, and likes to speak unexcitedly as she tries to overwhelm you with her superior knowledge. Silently, Dr. Bore waited as I changed and then undressed Jake, never uttering a word until I was safely sitting in my chair. This reminded me of the way my father behaved when he had some horrific news to impart which could be something as tragic as selling the family car. “Jenny, are you sitting down?” As if I might faint upon hearing such horror.
With Dr. Bore, however, I sensed the silence was not some kind of soap-opera-esque melodrama. It was more like: I-do-not-waste-breath-on-distracted-ears kind of silence. I literally sat there with fingers crossed trying to remember the rules governing such situations. Do you cross both hands for extra luck? No, no I think one cancels the other out, right? And does that make it zero luck, or does it skip right to bad luck? Oh man, now what do I do? Of course, my toes! I uncomfortably fidget, contorting my fingers into a series of svengali half-crosses in what seems to be verging on an epileptic seizure to erase the obsessive thoughts echoing throughout my head. Speak lady so I can stop torturing myself!
After a long exaggerated sigh, Dr. Snore begins to expound on the two theories as to why his head is flat. The first being a severe complication in which the skull plates prematurely fuse causing the brain to grow out in any way possible- the side, the top, the nose…which could not only lead to deformity, but brain damage as well.
I am about to cry. Why is she speaking volumes on this subject? Just say, this is not the case with your son. JUST SAY THAT! I get frustrated with my vain attempts at telepathy, and interrupt her.
“Do you have any reason to believe that’s his diagnosis?”
“I’m just going through the possibilities, please allow me to continue.”
Oh, I’m sorry my desire to rule out a gruesome existence for my son has gotten in the way of your neurology-for-dummies lecture. Please don’t let my nervous breakdown shorten your diatribe. The sound of the paper bag I’m breathing into helps to drown out her voice until I hear, “…and the second and most likely possibility is called positional flatness. This is caused by spending too much time sleeping or being on ones back.
Hello? Is anyone home? I told you he spent the last 4 months sleeping in his car seat; doesn’t that ring a bell? Why do specialists always insist on discussing the horrible and unlikely option first? I should probably just go now, but I decide to prolong this torture…
“Well you’ve seen a lot of heads, is his severe?”
“Look his head is flat. I’m not going to tell you that something flat is round. Its flat.”
Gee thanks Magellan. Do you get the impression I have a 5th grade education? What tipped you off the finger crossing fiasco?
She goes on to check his tone and development. All that anguish and I get to stay longer for a freebie, what a perk.
“He has poor muscle tone, he doesn’t roll he doesn’t tilt, he doesn’t grab…what does he do?”
“Raspberries.”
“Hmm…tsk, tsk…just keep an eye on him for the next couple months.”
Really, I should do that? Cause us uneducated folk we like to kick our kids out of the nest at say …I don’t know…5months. “Fly free little birdie, and go earn some money it’s time to pay Momma back.” But if you think we should wait…
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