Happy

I am not someone who always recognizes happy when she sees it.  As a Type A perfectionist, there's always something that could have been better or faster or more efficient.  But today, right now, I feel happy.  My husband is kind and funny.  My kids are well-adjusted and successful.  And not here.  Even better.  But I'll be so, so happy to hear about the tennis tournament when they get back.

Today was one of those days when I got a lot done.  Nothing major, just the 35 little piddly things that have been hovering over my to-do list for ages.  Things like putting recipes torn from newspaper and already-covered-in-soy-sauce-and-what-looks-like-bread-dough into binders, finishing up some leftover laundry, dishes done, homemade bread made, east side flower bed tilled, weeded, and mulched.  I feel great.  It may look on the outside like a manic-depressive on a tear, but I know you're not a licensed psychologist.

And it's early fall in Texas.  There's nothing else like it anywhere.  One beer, seven neighbors.  As I walked back home for dinner, I realized how blessed my life is. I'm just going to sit back and enjoy it.

Happy Fall!

Fly! Be Free!

We are very proud to say that she passed her driver's test on the first go round, which is more than she can say for her mother (did you know that you don't have to pass parallel parking anymore?).  She has picked me up a diet Coke and bought gas.  She has a key chain that is bigger than my whole head.  And most importantly, she has already erased every bad moment of her childhood by taking her sister to a sleepover and the dog to the vet.

I know there are moms out there who fret every time their teenager is on the road alone in the car.  Who worry every time they leave the house.  Who faithfully track their child on GPS.  I'm not one of those.


Can I get a hallelujah?

Mutiny

G this morning had a total meltdown when she asked when the project was over.  For whatever reason (a/k/a I didn't tell them because it would cause unnecessary pain), she wasn't aware that the project is intended to be 11 months long.  She asked how long we've been on it.  I said 95 days.  She said it seems like much longer, and I told her that it just seems like it (a/k/a I wasn't going to count the 3 month trial we did last fall).  But then T reminded her that we had done the trial last fall (thanks) to which I replied, "we sure did the trial last fall and then for the next 40 days, we ate out about 30 times."  And I'm not exaggerating.  Clearly, we didn't stay on the project long enough to change our bad habits.  Hence, the almost-a-year without unnecessary restaurant eating.

And hence the meltdown.  G said that she thinks about restaurant food all time, and she gets jealous of all her friends who get to eat fast food all the time.  I am so very proud of myself that I chose not to point out that that wasn't really something to be jealous about and that it's a pretty first-world problem to have.  Golf clap.  I am an excellent mother and not just because I chose not to pick an even bigger fight.  And then I said that in two months, when she can drive, she can go buy an over-priced, unhealthy meal everyday if she wanted to.  In a loud, judge-y, shrew-like voice, dripping with irony and filled with disappointment at her failing me.  In short, exactly what works with almost-16-year-olds.  Um, you can cancel that Best Mom Ever plaque.


Once she had left for school, T and I discussed the meltdown, and he, very astutely, said that it's about control.  And isn't it always?  Being about the most controlling person IN THE WORLD, I should have seen that coming.  And yes, this project is about controlling what we eat and how much we spend.  And yes, as the only cook in the family, I am pretty much the Idi Amin of our kitchen (although I do take requests).  But it's still control that I have and she doesn't.  Lifestyle change clearly doesn't come easy.  In fact, it sucks.


So then, I began to ask myself, am I really doing the right thing by legislating everything they are eating for an entire year?  Or am I creating food issues that didn't exist before?  As a kid with weight issues who grew up into an adult with weight issues, it's hard to find the line between educating your kids about diet and exercise and just pissing them off, pushing them to eat just to get back at you.  And I still don't know where that line is.   


But I do know this.  When I picked G up from school today, I offered to take her to the new (okay, now, not so new) Schlotzsky's that all the kids were talking about and making her jealous.  And I was seriously okay for her to go, even if it meant having to own up to it here.  I almost wanted her to say yes because I wondered if the sandwich in her head really would match the reality.  But she turned me down.  She said she really didn't want it now.  She just wants to be off the project.  She wants to be able to have fast food once in a while.  But she also said that we aren't very good at once in a while.  So, she thinks she can wait.  She's very focused on our beach trip.  Only 30 more days.  And I may let her choose where we go for Mother's Day.


I love that kid.

Garden Party

Another big day at Casa O. today.  I’ve been slaving and slaving away on my pest control project home-canning garden for weeks, and it was time to show it off.  I don’t get to see my teacher friends nearly enough, and all the kids were off school, so DAC and I decided on a garden party. 

It was so nice to take a break from mind-numbing drudgery home gardening and enjoy the day.  We had homemade lemonade, both child and adult versions, toll house chocolate chip cookies, and sand tarts from the 1968 Houston Junior League Cookbook. The little girls hung in there for the front yard portion of the tour, then bagged to hang with the big kids on the back porch.  I'm pretty sure it had something to do with cookies.  Or chihuahuas.  I'm not sure.  I'm willing to consider the possibility that my gardening successes and failures are not all that riveting to the 7 and 9 year--old set.  Or maybe to anyone.  Wait. What?

"I'll give you $3 if you'll be in my picture."

I am rereading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle again (thanks, MWM) and continue to be amazed at her dedication to feeding her family from her own garden and community.  And God bless her.  But good heavens, how in the hell did she do it?   I.  Am.  Absolutely.  Exhausted.  Self-help books talk a lot about mindfulness and being in the moment.  Enjoying nature, accepting that you cannot change what is, look around at the beauty around you.  Fuck that.  I'm sweaty, stinky, rashy, bloody from cuts and scrapes, and so sore from digging and hauling that I can't turn my head to the right. 

But today was a different kind of moment.  It was a lovely, lovely day.  There was a nice breeze under the trees.  There were good friends.  There was vodka.  It was so nice to just sit.  And visit with a dear, special, wonderful friend.  The big girls love running around with the little girls: they had cookies on the couch, a game of Sketch-It, and made bracelets, which left plenty of quiet time for the mamas.  A good deal all around.

And I am really, really proud of how it all came out.  The garden does look nice.  There is actual, real fruit (actually vegetable) on the plants.  That's a baby jalapeno.  I'm a mom!  Those are tomatillos blooming behind it.  All the more special was to have a friend to share it with.  And it was nice to feel like there wasn't anything else I needed to do or anywhere else I needed to go.  Those are the moments that make the sweat, the stink, the blood, and the rashes worth it. 

Things were just perfect until it was time to leave.  T made the terrible error of asking DAC what she and the girls were having for dinner.  "Well, since we’re not on the project, oh, sorry, we’ll probably pick up something on the way home."  G visibly paled when C said "let's go to Schlotzsky's."  A long discussion ensued about why we were on the project and what it meant for us.  Considerable attention was paid to the loopholes by C, who is smart as a whip, and only just a little bit concerned that her mama might want to go on the project, too.  Loopholes only make it worse.  Then, the sweet, little family bade their goodbyes and rolled off into the twilight.  And my kids had leftovers.  Which is just fine.

And, no, I didn't just finish the last of the sand tarts.

Why do you ask?

  

Not bad at all. Vicariously.

Friday was a big day Chez O.  


Now, I'm not one of those types who brags about their childen's every accomplishment on Facebook. Ugh.  Every once in a while a photo, or a shout out, but you just don't want to be that guy.  Nobody wants to hear that much about my kids.  The occasional update, a few photos from vacation, a significant award, have at it!  But I was friends with someone on Facebook who not only posted every single one of her kid's accomplishments, but also scanned in a picture of her kid's report card and posted it.  Her kid was in 9th grade.  Really?  As a result, I had to do what no one wants to do.


I had to hide her.  Oh, you thought I was going to de-friend her?  No way.  Too public.  Too obvious.  The hide feature is the genius invention of a crazy passive-aggressive code writer.  Also probably an introvert.  And to him/her, I can only say thank you.  You let me avoid people who have no FB filter.  You permit me to gently and lovingly get away from the every-ten-minute posters (Just loaded the laundry! In another meeting!). And, you let me dislike people without their knowing about it.  What a relief.  I'm sure there are plenty people out there who don't like me - I just don't have to know about it.  How great is that?  AND I can not like them, too, without any ugly repercussions.  


So, since I don't want to be one of those people, I'm not going to brag about my kids on Facebook.  I'm going to brag about them here!  Yay!  S. came in first in 100m hurdles, 2nd in 100m dash, and 5th in the long jump last Friday.  Placing in 3 out of 4 events is really, really great, and we're very proud of her.  The very same day, G. and her partner won the varsity A division doubles.  Way to go, G.! Not bad for a days work, if I do say so myself.


Oh, wait. Yes, I know that I didn't actually do anything other than make breakfast.  But let's be honest.  The only reason anyone has children is so that they can live vicariously through them.  Otherwise, what's the point of the diapers and the messes and the whining and the eye rolling and the trips to Walgreens at eleven o'clock at night for the posterboard for the science project that you have known about for three weeks but didn't start until tonight?  


My kids have no choice but to be successful in sports.  They have to because I was not.  It is their job to atone for my sins.  Both girls run - G excelled at distance, while S. is a sprinter.  In high school, I ran the 800m, otherwise known as "where fat girls go to die."  I did so only under penalty of I can't remember what, and I didn't do it well.  At all.  Most of my memories of that event involve wheezing, gasping and chafing.  Not much else.


At our weekly neighborhood drink-beer-in-the-driveway session, while bragging about my kids (with only a passing nod to the irony), I commented to my friend, S, that it is a little sad that I am living vicariously through my children.  She said, "everyone does."  Coming from S., that's saying something.  She is one of the coolest, funniest, most laid back people I know.  She's had three kids at the high school and has never had to call the principal or the coach or the counselor.  She lets her kids deal with their own stuff.  She never yells from the sidelines, never complains about her child's performance.  Yet she's yearning, too, for what she could have done.  


And that made me feel a lot better.  Yes, I want them to do well; in large part, I think, because I have a lot of regrets about things I could have done better.  And because I know now the satisfaction of working really hard for something and seeing success at the end.  I know how easy it is to quit or give up, how hard it is to keep going, and how much dignity there is in perseverance.


Oh, yeah.  And it also feels awesome to win.  There's just no getting around it.


Go get 'em, tiger.

I love you. Now, get out.

No one believes me when I tell them that I am an introvert.  I am loud and love a good party, as long as I know and like everyone there, which means that I don't go to many parties.  I talk a lot if I feel comfortable.  I love cuss words.  None of these things, however, makes one an extrovert.


I am an introvert in the classic sense that I get my energy (or recharge my batteries) by being alone.  I can be at your party, or teach your class, or spend the weekend with you, but as a result, I will have to lie in a fetal position in my room for the rest of the week.  Alone.  I will not be able to answer the phone or go anywhere.  Or do anything.  For a while.


Which makes lengthy school holidays tricky.  And vacations.  Because as much as I love my family, and I do, passionately, I also don't really want to be around them for that long.  Four people sharing a hotel room and a car and a dining table for five days is rough.  And then, when the vacation is over, they come home with me.


Which makes tomorrow the best day ever.  The first day of school after a holiday.   Last kid gone by 8 am.  First kid not picked up until 5 pm.


Don't call me.

Small Victories

So, we're back.  We had a wonderful time, if 33 percent shorter a time than expected. We had pool time.  We had spring training baseball.

We had the Phoenix Zoo, which was great.  Our super-cute waitress had told us it was only "okay."  Then she asked us if we'd been to the San Diego Zoo.  We hadn't.  "Oh, then," she said, "you'll love it.  Everything's kinda lame after San Diego."  We loved it.


We made some friends.

And I will call you Squishy.  And you will be mine.

Just like at home.

In the car on the way to the airport, G said, "I think I'm ready to go back on the project.  I don't feel so well."  Score.


She's not kidding.  Let me just tell you, turns out that this project is about more than saving money and living sustainably.  It's about much more than that.  Why?  Well, at the risk of going all Supersize Me on you, there's nothing "regular" about that regular-sized combo meal.  Ugh.  I can't button any of my pants.  My face is a mess.  I've got zits in some places and freaky dry scaly patches in others.  It's like Jurrassic Park IV.  The kids feel like shit and so do T and I.  And we did not go all crazy vaca at every meal.  Yes, there were some desserts.  There were some sandwiches.  But there were also salads.  And vegetables.  And some lean meats that did not necessarily come on a bun.


There is something that goes wrong with that much eating out.  I don't know if it's salt content or preservatives or just portion size, but there's almost no way, no matter how mindful you are, to eat "right" when you're forced to eat out for every meal.  Yuck.


And if G is glad to be back on the project, you know it's big.


Welcome home!

Silver Linings

Now, I'm going to be honest.  You know those people who try to find something positive in every situation, who are upbeat and can always find something to smile about, who are always looking for the silver lining to a huge thunderstorm of crap?  Yeah, well, I usually want to punch them in the face.


But after the absolute and utter misery of missing my flight to Spring Break and having a forced 48-hour layover at my own home, I came to the unlikely realization that things had indeed happened for a reason.  First of all, NOTHING had gone my way all day Friday - prescriptions not ready, car not ready, kids not ready, mama not ready, mid-40s, raining, South by South-who-the-fuck-are-all-these-people, no cabs available, nothing.  Everything took 10 times longer than expected.  I seriously wonder if we were not supposed to get on that plane.   And here's why:


Upside #1 - Growing up - both girls were forced to decide how to handle a really disappointing situation.  Not only did they hold my ponytail while I metaphorically barfed my tears all over the Southwest Airlines ticket counter, they handled it beautifully.  And once I put on my positive about everything demeanor, they followed along.  Really, it was remarkable -- they didn't reset to their default fighting mode until we landed in Phoenix yesterday.


Upside #2 - Sleep - all of us had been completely done in by a week's worth of TAKS, track meets, lessons, extra work, and the exhaustion that is only duplicated by the week before Christmas break.  We called it a night Friday night at about 10:30.  S woke up twelve hours later, and G slept until 11:30 the next day.  I'm just saying, Arizona would have been a much grumpier place if we'd left on Friday.


Upside #3 - LO - My very best friend in the world went back to work right when I left.  She lives way northwest.  I live way south.  We don't get to see near enough of each other.  I had updated her by text on my ill-fated first attempt to leave town, but when I called to give her the full rundown, turned out she was in the car on the way to Beaumont.  Yes, on purpose.  It was the longest uninterrupted visit we've had in ages.  We got some very exciting plans made.  And I'd have missed it if my vacation had actually started when it was supposed to.


Upside #4 - Game Night - sweet K, who had to drive us to the airport Friday night at breakneck speed, in the rain, and the traffic because I couldn't find a cab, called Saturday morning and said "what you need is a game night."  S, K, and L joined me and the girls for snacks and what has to be the most hilarious, last-minute, sorely-needed girls night ever.   We laughed until we cried.


Upside #5 - This!

Sunday!

And then suddenly, it was time to start over.  Bags were packed.  Boarding passes printed.  Blessings abound.  

And P.S. -- A shout-out to my sweet and precious husband who was the only one with no upside when we missed our flight.  He was stuck out-of-town without his family for twice as long as he planned and with no hotel reservation.  Luckily, he was able to check out and then back in again, but his weekend pretty much sucked.  At least the girls and I had each other and were home.  He's a trooper.  And a fox, too.

Arizona, here we come!

Oh, baby!

It's been raining here. It's rained a lot this winter.  But more importantly, it's raining babies!  Oooooooh, I just love babies.  I didn't really love babies very much when mine were babies.  They were so smelly.  And needy.  And messy.  And I don't think I was very much of a little kid person.  But I am now.  Isn't that always how it works?


Two of my BFF teacher friends and my new boyfriend (who slept in his carseat most of the time) went down together to a baby shower for another teacher friend of ours who is having her first baby in two weeks.  Great shower, super cute, young couple, love them, etc., but have you SEEN baby stuff lately?


It's like I raised my children in 1890.  There are video monitors!  There is a three-sided pack-n-play that becomes a crib next to your bed!  There are car seats that anchor into the car!  Modern baby things are like Transformers.  Car seats that become boosters that become strollers and later a robot babysitter.  Even the bouncy seat is unrecognizable.  Aside from actually securing your child in the chair, bouncing seats now vibrate, bounce, and turns into a swing and a child seat.  Jesus.  Really?  All it was lacking were add-on wheels for when she turns 16!  


When G was born, we had a hand crank swing, a crib, a car seat, a stroller, and (we thought) the greatest thing of all.  It was the newest of the new.  All the very best parents had them.  It was the bouncy chair.  The bouncy chair soothed, it calmed, it relaxed, it bounced.   It was a death trap.   It had a metal frame and a papa-san type fabric seat.  The fabric stretched around the frame relatively tightly so that the seat would respond to the the bounce of the wire frame.  And the baby was secured in with fabric strip that velcro'd to the side of the chair.  You heard me.  VELCRO.  So, basically, we set our six week old sack of flour in a virtually upright hammock anchored only by velcro.  It's a miracle she survived.  


I should have known things were changing when I bought the shower gift.  I went into the Target, a magical land from whence all great things come, printed out their registry, and went to the baby section.  I innocently scanned the four-page registry.  I wasn't concerned initially that I couldn't identify most of the things on the registry.  Um, red flag?  No!  How hard could this be?  Undaunted, I switched gears.  I found an item in our price range and slid my finger across the page to see the "Bumpo" something something.  It was in the same category as the high chair, so I went to the high chairs.  No Bumpo.  Car seats?  No Bumpo?  Is it one of those thingies you put over the teeming-with-bacteria shopping cart for little kids? (We didn't have those 15 years ago either - we just called it immunity building.)  Nope, not a Bumpo.


I had dropped by the Target in between two appointments.  I had exactly seven minutes to get the whatever-the-fuck-this-thing-is, wrapping paper, a card, check out and get to my next appointment.  So, I resorted to Item No. 528 in the list of things that my mom does but I said I would never do.  I became that older lady in the baby section.  Who accosts the new mother.  To ask for help.  


But I was in a hurry.  


Me:   "Uh, I'm so sorry to bother you.  But I can't identify anything on this registry.  Can you tell me where I might find a Bumpo?"  


Brief, awkward silence.   


New mom:  "Um, it's right there behind you."  Sweet smile, look of pity. (The look may or may not have been because of my ignorance.  It also could have been the gym clothes, which I may or may not have worn the day before, too.  Hard to say).  


Me:  "Oh, right, great!  Um, what is it?"


New mom:  Sweet smile, look of pity. "It's a seat for your baby to sit in before it can sit up (??).  It's great for when you're cooking or cleaning or working." 


She was really very sweet and went on to extol the virtues of the Bumpo.  After while, I stopped listening and wondered what was wrong with just sticking them in the play pen with some toys.  Which is when I realized yet again, how fast things are changing and how long ago my children were babies.


I feel a little bit like the Dowager Countess in Downton Abbey (yes, I have spent the last three days watching every epsiode.  I was a little late to the party). When they brought electricity into the sitting room, Maggie Smith's character has to shade her eyes from the glare.  


She's not ready for the future to come either.

Untitled No. 1

S came down after breakfast this morning with the following:


"I brushed my tongue so far back that I almost threw up."


I don't know what you do with that.

Why internet privacy is overrated.

I was cookin' some chili.  (Apparently, I have to write in dialect when makin' chili).  "Ping" went the cell phone.  My dear, precious, and wonderful friend DAC had a question:

DAC:  "Are you there?"

Me:  "Si.  Que paso?"  (This is funny only because neither of us speaks much Spanish.  Despite that fabulous Spanish for Educators summer class we took.  We took the class -- the Spanish didn't take).

DAC: "Is S's fb pic the boy who lahvs her?"

This may not sound all that important, but S is not allowed to have a boyfriend.  No, I'm not mean, I'm a middle school teacher.  There is nothing good that can be accomplished by having a boyfriend in middle school.  It becomes a lot more about being able to talk about having a boyfriend to everyone else you know rather than actually having a relationship with someone.  To the extent that you can have a relationship with a 15-year-old-boy.  Who lives three towns over.

That said, this is a pretty cute boy.  This boy has been in love with S SINCE THE FOURTH GRADE.  And he respects our rules and calls me ma'am.  Every time.   And since adolescent-boyfriend-girlfriend-duration years are like dog and cat years put together, that's really sayin' something.  So, S got to invite this boy over for her Super Bowl/Birthday Party.  And apparently, during this party, S and "the boy who lahvs her" took a picture and put it on her Facebook page.

Which brings us to the very, very best part of the story.  Someone NOT AT MY HOUSE was checking out my kid on Facebook and within 30 seconds had texted me to make sure that she was not sneaking off with said boy for middle school romance things.  I don't even want to know what those are.

Stalking is cool.