So, if a midlife crisis occurs midlife, and I’m 41, wouldn’t that be anytime now? I mean, 82’s pretty old, right? So how will I know? Are there signs? Crap, am I in the middle of one?
I did just ask my hair stylist to give me Farrah Fawcett layers. (He didn’t, I don’t think.)
Then there was the girls’ trip to NYC in which I spent the entire time searching for feathers to wear in my hair (a la StevenTyler.) And, I shopped at Forever 21.
Forever 21! This isn’t looking good, not at all. I could be having one. Right now.
Ok, wait a minute; I’m still driving a minivan, right? Right. Well then, that is so not a midlife crisis. If it were a certified – real deal midlife crisis I’d be driving something a hell of a lot nicer than that.
When report card time rolls around, so does the panic. No, not the panic about whether or not my kids have good grades or if my kids are hitting other kids. I’m talking about the having-to-be- in-three-places-at-once-because-my-husband-is-traveling panic.
You know, the tension that builds in the back of your neck just thinking of the challenge ahead. Its like figuring out the obstacle course you’re about to race, while being timed for the record, all while blindfolded. Yes, the adrenaline starts to pump through my veins as I think about my carefully plotted maneuvers. The babysitter becomes a huge pawn in my game. If I can get the babysitter for this leg of the race, then I could pass the baton to my neighbor for the next length, and then hand it off to the babysitter again for the last stretch and I’ll be home free! Yes, that will work! All I have to do is call the babysitter who is ALWAYS available.
Proud of myself that I have unlocked the mystery of this dilemma, I dial feverishly, knowing this is the going to set my plan into motion. SCREEEEEECHH!! My plan comes to a dead halt when I am told that my babysitter is booked for the next TWO days by ANOTHER PARENT IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD!
WHAAAAAAAT? I wanted to shout, “That is my babysitter, not yours!” But…I didn’t. I just politely stated how popular he was and hung up quickly because I needed to grab the next best babysitter in town before anyone else snatched her up. I was, again, in panic mode. This pleasant scenario goes on for a few more phone calls and finally I find a babysitter who hasn’t actually babysat before, but has at least taken the class and really likes my kids. Good enough, I say, “You’re booked!”
Parent of year? Maybe not. But I got the job done. Here’s to all of you who get the job done everyday!
What would that phrase mean to you? To the kids it means meeting every week with a group of friends to create something totally out of the box! It means to think in a way that I haven’t done since I was a kid. It means to think anything is possible. I was blown away by the Destination Imagination Competition, which was held yesterday at Whitman/Hanson Regional High School. These kids are pure thinkers. They don’t let the cynicism of the adult world cloud their views. They just put it all out there for everyone to see and judge.
As adults we are so socialized and taught to conform to the views of society so much so that sometimes we can’t come up a single thought without the consensus of a group. Whether that group is our friends, moms’ group, colleagues, or family, we need approval and acceptance for everything we say and do. As a 40 year old mother of 3, I think that sucks! We should think outside the box! We certainly have enough life experience and I know we all have great ideas! I challenge you! Think like a child. Think of something you WANT to do, something you want to go for, and don’t worry about what anyone else will think. I learn from my kids everyday! What have you learned from yours today?
I’m a minivan mom. I’m a mom. I drive a minivan. Sure, it’s not the nicest car in the school drop-off line, heck it’s not even the nicest minivan in the drop-off line. But, as my mother would say, it gets me from here to there. And with 3 kids. And their friends. And the dog. And all the schtuff 3 kids, their friends and a dog come with. Plus, I can press a button and the door closes! I’ll never be “that mom” whose kid dings the soccer coach’s Mercedes every time he flings open the car door. That’s a plus, right? I mean, who cares if my 7th grader consistently refers to it as “The Loser Cruiser?” And my husband won’t drive it on his drop-off days (claiming that putting it in park to press the “door open” button uses up too much drop-off line time.) Or that the trunk is the size of a laundry basket and to successfully get all of the schtuff in there I have to pack it like an Ikea box without a square inch to spare.
Did I already say it gets me from here to there? With all of them? For now, I think I’ll just consider it “the company car.” The one I have to drive while doing this job. This job I love.
I was awakened this morning by my little cherubs squealing in delight about what they had found in their shoes! Coins! They shouted happily! Coins! Mission complete! I was happy with my job well done until…….moments later when I heard my front door slam shut. I jumped up to assess the situation immediately. After some questioning I found out that my littlest cherub was not quite as satisfied with his coin findings as I thought. He was convinced that if the leprechaun had so many coins to put in his shoes, then he must have dropped more in the front yard on his way out. As I opened the front door, there was my six year old son, still in his pajamas and (bathrobe and slippers too looking a lot like Hugh Hefner), running around the yard looking for gold coins! What a sight! I was torn on whether I should run for my camera or shout at him to get back inside! I let the scene play itself out for a minute or two and coaxed him back to reality, letting him know how very lucky he was to have found coins in his shoes and maybe he should leave it at that. So… although it was a humorous scene, I was consumed with the idea of why is it never enough sometimes? Have my little cherubs turned into ungrateful little leprechauns?
I’m part Irish and I always make a corned beef and cabbage dinner for St. Patrick’s Day. That’s it. Oh, and I usually wear green and so do the kids. Last year though, I heard about other moms who pretended a leprechaun had visited. They messed up the house (leprechauns are mischievous, you know), turned the kids’ milk green, offered green bagels for breakfast and put gold wrapped chocolate coins in the kids’ shoes. So, not to be out done, I just had to do the same. A classic case of keeping up with the Joneses, or should I say, the O’Joneses.
Fast forward one year and here I am totally regretting this new tradition. March 16th used to be a day like any other. Instead, it’s now the day I realize I’ve created this new “tradition”, and at the last minute have to race from the bagel shop (they were out of green bagels by the way, but they open at 6am, so guess who’s getting up early), to the market for the food coloring, and the local chocolatier for the coins.
I thought that maybe I’d just do the bagels, or just turn the milk green – then I thought again. This is a brand new tradition. Their memory of it is clear. It’s not like the other traditions that are many years old, that are all one big mashed up memory, in which they can’t tell year from year. I have to do it all. The alternative is to admit that there is no such thing as a leprechaun. And you all know what that leads to…
So this year I added a new tradition, a stop at the package store for some good old fashioned Bailey’s Irish Cream. If I have to keep up with the O’Joneses, I may as well make sure there’s something in it for me.