tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46464720305067055022024-03-13T09:18:30.823-07:00Growing Up GormanWelcoming a second child into this world was easy; raising an infant and a toddler together is a totally different storyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-34241752165433896172013-06-14T11:03:00.000-07:002013-06-14T11:03:21.587-07:00NKOTB fan? Nope, not me. But thanks for the memories.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think it was the summer of 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade when we
sat there at Giants stadium with our moms, wearing New Kids T-shirts and
ponchos to fend off the driving rain. I was a lackluster fan then: one poster
in my room, maybe a beach towel and one of those Jordan Knight buttons on my
backpack. But it was one of those tweenage rites of passage. Me and my
12-year-old BFF waving our hands, Hanging Tough and swaying back and forth to
Joey McIntyre’s high-pitched rendition of Please Don’t Go Girl.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last night, as the 1980s boy band reunited for a Package
Tour in the same East Rutherford location, I must sadly admit that I was there.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“So we’re really doing this?” I protested as the tickets
were purchased in January. “I mean we’re 36 now. We’re mothers. Do we really
have time to go see New Kids on the Block?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What I meant was: This is stupid. A complete waste of $150.
But I conceded. Between karate, swim practice and the hectic pace of my friends’
newborn schedules, it’s not often that we all “get out.” So I took the tickets
at face value and chalked it up as a night free of cutting someone else’s food
and wiping someone else’s butt.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then the event approached. The radio started hyping it. My
husband started making fun of me. As I got dressed I cringed at the thought of
other concertgoers donning neon shirts and legwarmers. In the parking lot, reality
set in. A lot of 40-ish women in ridiculous outfits carrying New Kids action
figures (still in the box) and draping themselves in those faded 1989 beach
towels. As the lights dimmed, grown women started crying. Someone screamed
their devotion to Joey or Jon or whoever. It was the same, bat-crazy fan base,
only difference was now they were drinking Bud Light.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is surely going to suck.</span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then Boyz II Men came out and killed it. Bended Knee,
Water Runs Dry, Motown Philly. These guys are still ridiculously talented. This
was worth all of the embarrassment. But it was only a five-song set until 98
Degrees crashed the stage with all of their Tribal tattoos and ruined it all.
Seriously, there is never a need for that much hip thrusting.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Going into the short intermission, the crowd was at a lull. A
crappy rendition of Una Noche will do that. (Wasn’t that once in a Doritos
commercial?) More Bud Light, more crying for Joey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then the lights dimmed, a smoke machine haze filled the
arena, hydraulic lifts hoisted the stage to the sky. And the five guys from
Bean Town descended in their black skinny jeans and gold embroidered jackets.
Yes, they were slower, grayer and singing some brand new songs from an album no
one had ever heard of (well, at least I had never heard of, everyone else
seemed to know the words).</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was it cool? A little. Hard not to smile when you have
confetti in your hair and five 40-somethings are up on a massive stage doing
the robot. But mostly it was fun. Suddenly I was 13 again, transported back to
an 8<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade dance, buying singles at the music store in the mall. You
know, that dreamy stage of life when your whole world revolves around friends,
music and endless summers of doing nothing but being a kid.</span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I closed my eyes for a second and could almost see my
ponchoed mother sitting next to me. Both of us young and silly, celebrating my
very first concert, putting a memory in the book forever. I pictured Erin too
and whatever glittery boy band we’ll waste hundreds to see in the future. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevermind the screaming fans and the shirtless antics –
seriously Donnie, you’re 43, shirt it up - it was a good show. And even though
my musical tastes have since matured, that bubblegum pop was a big part of my
youth. So, as much as I tried not to, it was hard not to sing along. And you
know what? Twenty-five years later, a lot has changed. But I still can laugh
until I cry with my crazy friends. And yes, I still remember the words.</span><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-83063162924791752202012-10-10T11:18:00.000-07:002012-10-10T11:18:54.175-07:00Hey Bravo, VH1: Define real.Browsing through The Christmas Tree Shoppe this morning, loading up on Halloween lights and flashy pumpkin earrings that I definitely do not need, I very carelessly collided into Renee.
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Yes. That Renee. And yes, the operative word is collide. Right there in the middle of the sprinkly, sparkly candle aisle - you know the one with all of the pretty pumpkin spice jars and seasonally smelly potpourri - me and Renee Graziano, Mob Wife extraordinaire, ever-so-gently crashed carts.
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“So sorry,” I said as the insignificant bump was occurring. Me, fumbling with Jeremiah and his sticky candy hands, she casually glancing through shelves of decorative scarecrows and leaves.
I was distracted, preoccupied by a toddler crisis, so I naturally gasped when I looked up realized who I had hit. I mean seriously, out of all the carts in the store, I have to cross paths with a mobster’s daughter? The ex-wife of a turncoat?
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“It’s ok,” she smiled back at me, moving on to the apple spice sets and autumn finery. I ran and hid behind a stack of vinyl tablecloths.
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“Did you see her?” I heard two shoppers discussing a few aisles later.
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Oh no. Please stop talking. I’m so afraid of finding a horse’s head in my shopping cart.
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“She’s so tiny!” another shopper remarked.
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“And so friendly,” someone else chimed in. “So different than she is on TV.”
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And she was. From what I saw of her as I was ducking for cover behind the displays of Christmas ornaments and aluminum pans. Here in real life, she was sans makeup, wearing flip-flops and leggings – petite, beautiful and completely non-threatening. Smiling at the gawkers and buying $.99 cent knick-knacks in the cheapest store on Staten Island.
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The semi-celebrity sighting really made me think: How real is all this reality that Bravo and VH1 shoves down our throats? Ok, maybe it’s because I finally cleared the DVR last night and watched a marathon of parts one and two of The Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion Show. But this was what running through my mind. What part of the glamour, calculated warfare and million dollar mansions on these shows is actually real?<br />
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According to her flashy wardrobe and regular declaration of designer tastes, doesn’t Renee have a closetful of Louboutins? Gucci bags and blingy diamonds out the wazoo? Then why are we both shopping the same clearance rack for candles? I guess everybody really does love a bargain.
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And those housewives. The ones who flip tables, pull each other’s hair, claim to be besties and then talk smack about each other in regularly scheduled confessionals? With their nannies and boob jobs, hair extensions and bottomless bank accounts? In this economy and in this lifetime, why does Bravo refer to any of that as real?
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Ask the wife of a New York city firefighter what’s real. On the first of the month, when the mortgage and 14 other bills come due, I close my eyes and cross my fingers that the checkbook doesn’t explode. Ok, maybe I’m a little bit cranky after being up every two hours caring for a two-year-old who’s sprouting molars. Something else those “real” housewives have never done.<br />
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But for whatever reason, be it the drama or the escapism of it all, we still tune in to find out what NeNe and Theresa and Countess LuAnn are up to.
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And sometimes if we’re lucky, we bump into a Mob Wife and have a reality check in aisle three. I’m just thankful it wasn’t Drita. Or Big Ang. Now that would have been scary.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-42002518740722386502012-08-08T06:23:00.000-07:002012-08-08T06:28:08.105-07:00Go ahead American Girl, make a doll lover out of meAfter two hours of primping and priming, I have to admit, the whole idea started to seem a little nuts. But there I was, expertly styling a doll’s hair at 10pm on a Thursday night. Smooth piggy-tails with just the right amount of bounce and curl? Check. Completely coordinated stretch pant/denim skirt combo with a three-quarter sleeve rugby shirt and matching purse? Double check. Now if only I could find the purple ballet flats, we’d be set.
“What’s wrong with you?” Pat asked when I finally climbed into bed around midnight. “Did you really just spend all that time fixing up a doll?”
“No way, I was washing dishes.”
The lie actually sounded believable as it spilled out of my mouth. But the truth was, that I, doll-hater extraordinaire, tomboy for life, had just wasted close to three hours of my day buffing an inanimate object’s fingernails and twirling her messy tendrils until they were just perfectly so.
Pat was right. Surely I had lost my mind.
It all started a few months ago when one of the moms from school invited Erin and a bunch of her classmates to the American Girl Place for lunch in Manhattan.
“Let’s plan the trip for August, it’s a great day for the moms and kids,” she’d said in her email.
Crap. Now I have to buy her one of those ridiculously expensive dolls, I thought. But after a million pleases and I love yous, I caved. It’ll be a kindergarten graduation present, I thought, eyeing a bed already full of other dolls and stuffed animals. A ridiculously outrageous kindergarten graduation present.
So I googled and I surfed. I had bought outfits and accessories for my nieces before, how bad could this be?
Kit Kittredge. Yes, even I’ve heard of her. Great. There’s a bio: “Even though the Great Depression was filled with hard times for families, Kit helps hers by being resourceful.”
Yikes. Isn’t that a little depressing for a five-year-old?
Ok, how about McKenna? She’s the girl of the year. “Balancing school and sports is a challenge for McKenna Brooks as she enters fourth grade. When she struggles with reading, she must find a way to keep up. Can McKenna use her strengths as a gymnast to succeed in the classroom, too?”
I thought I was buying a doll, not a miniseries. So I clicked on the “My American Girl” section instead. Create your own doll based on your child’s own looks and personality. Perfect. A few hours of clicking and choosing, (and $150 later) mini Erin was on her way.
Of course she was thrilled when the box arrived: She combed her hair for hours (with a special $7 wig brush of course), slept with her and brought her everywhere we went. For three days anyway. After that, the allure sort of wore off. Good girl, I secretly thought. Pick up a basketball. Put down that expensive imaginary friend.
But a few weeks later, as our lunch date approached, I felt a need to build up the hype.
“So you know we’re going to bring little Erin on the express bus and have a floofy fancy lunch in the city, right?” I asked her a few days before the big event.
“Oh yeah?” she said, sort of disinterested. “That’s nice.”
“Yeah, I heard they bring you a cute little dessert and even serve pink lemonade,” I added. I completely left out the fact that there was a specially appointed doll salon where crazy ladies bring their children’s toys for up-dos that cost $25 a pop.
But Erin still seemed lackluster, a quality I was not challenging in the least. After all, I was not ready to start supporting this new and very expensive habit. I’ll just bring her to have a good time with her friends.
That’s when I found myself dusting off the guest of honor, twirling her hair the night before her big day.
When Friday came, Erin was excited – mostly about the bus ride and because another one of the moms brought gummy worms for the trip in. She loved her doll’s pretty pigtails (she’d better) and polished ballet flats (I finally found them at 11:45pm, one in the VCR, the other in Jeremiah’s toy motorcycle.).
But then it hit. Something about that beaming red awning when we turned the corner on Fifth Avenue and 49th Street.
“Oh Mommy,” was all she could manage. I had to literally pick her chin up off the sidewalk.
In the window there were hundreds of them: Dolls in chic one-pieces headed to the beach in matching convertible Volkswagen Beetles; dolls jumping over glittery rain puddles wearing golashes and rain coats, holding teeny-tiny umbrellas; dolls doing splits and twirling pom-poms in their red, white and blue cheerleading uniforms.
My disinterested little girl who is only lukewarm to the whole doll thing gaped in amazement. Her tomboy mom stared in awe too. Our reflections shone in this giant window of whimsy. It was like that Small World ride in DisneyWorld times two and on steroids.
We scurried through the store, eyeing up scores of American Girl outfits, pets and accessories – teeny-tiny eyeglasses, hair clips and berets. There was a doll hospital with crutches, wheelchairs and boo-boo kits. Said hair salon had a winding line of clients, all emerging with expertly tied braids, ribbons and buns.
Immediately I noticed a whole can-do (albeit expensive) attitude in that store: A wardrobe of lacrosse outfits, hiking ensembles and professorial looking school sets. Tiny collectors (or more fittingly, their moms) could purchase a bevy of musical instruments – flutes, violins, etc. – on which their tiny prodigies could practice. These dolls are not just playthings, they are role models who ice skate, practice gymnastics, ride horses and win pet shows. Sort of like Barbie’s hundred or so inspiring incantations – stewardess, doctor, teacher – just a whole lot less slutty.
Lunch was served on floor three in a pink café decorated with black-and-white benches and fuchsia chandeliers. Plates of tic-tac-toe pizza, quiche and tiny hot dogs and hamburgers were accompanied by freshly baked cinnamon buns, miniature cups of chicken salad and frothy glasses of pink lemonade. Dessert was served in a blooming flower pot – chocolate pudding topping with Oreo cookie crumbs was modeled after the dirt. Even little Erin was served a cup of tea in her very own high chair from her very own tiny tea cup.
Shopping was reserved for after lunch and Erin opted for a matching American Girl pajama set (which is made in China) and a tiny mani/pedi kit so that we can do her nails right.
For my lukewarm doll lover, the trip opened up a new world of inspiring play. (How could it not with all of those tiny accoutrements?) And for her tomboy mother, the trip allowed an understanding for the American Girl addiction. Next time maybe I’ll pick up the facial kit. It includes cucumber stickers for her eyes!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-61537527030639376912012-04-16T10:59:00.000-07:002012-04-16T11:01:23.410-07:00Hey Fresh Beats, Thanks for the InsomniaLast night, after I tucked my exhausted body in for an unprecedented 10:30pm bedtime, I should have easily shut my eyes and drifted into dreamland. But I didn’t. Instead my tired eyes stared at the ceiling and thought about Marina.<br /><br />Why did she leave the Fresh Beat Band so suddenly anyway? I mean, she definitely has a better voice than this new chick and who would give up a gig singing about bananas and taking daily trips to the Groovy Smoothie? <br /><br />And don’t you think production should have written in the new girl, not just replaced her with some random redhead? Gimme a break, these kids can tell the difference. Erin asks about it every time a new Marina episode comes on. I get creative with my answers now. Yesterday I even invented a G-rated love triangle between the old Marina, Twist and Shout.<br /><br />10:45pm. Did I really just waste 15 minutes thinking about a kids’ television show? Great, now I have that song stuck in my head. “Sing it loud, just like a rock star, shout it out just like a rock star. C’mon everybody let me hear you sing. And be just like a rock star, hey, hey, hey.”<br /><br />That’s when I must have inadvertently sang out loud.<br /><br />“Are you singing lyrics from The Fresh Beat Band,” Pat rolled over and asked.<br /><br />“What? No. Definitely not.”<br /><br />Gotta get to sleep. Hip hop and pop. <br /><br />But it was too late. The entire Fresh Beat songbook had already started playing over and over in my head.<br /><br />“We had a great day, a really super way, to spend some time together.”<br /><br />By 1am I was wishing I had a gun. Maybe it’s time to start weaning these kids off Nick Jr.<br /><br />For the uninitiated, the Fresh Beat Band is actually a very entertaining, song and dance filled half hour of children’s television. It’s not exactly Sesame Street, but through the silly antics of four musically gifted friends, (played by 20-something-year-old actors – c’mon, we’re not supposed to notice that?) kids are supposed to pick up lessons about sharing, caring and how not to act like a complete moron while dancing. Sorry Twist, that’s the only reason you’re on the show. My kids and my sub-conscious are completely hooked.<br /><br />“Kiki, Kiki,” Jeremiah said this morning as he handed me the clicker. It’s probably bad that my son has named the remote control after his favorite character on the show.<br /><br />“No Kiki today,” I responded. “Those four idiots kept Mommy up all night.”<br /><br />“Kiki, pwease,” he countered.<br /><br />Now how do I say no to that?<br /><br />“Don’t you want to watch something a little blander like Wendy Williams? Dr. Oz?”<br /><br />“Kiki, pwease!!”<br /><br />Guess I’m losing this round. Damn you Fresh Beats and all of your catchiness.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-27054888316525333992011-12-12T10:03:00.000-08:002011-12-12T10:07:23.078-08:00Yes Erin, There Is a Santa Claus. He’s Just Not Bringing You a LalaLoopsy.Out of all of my 34 Christmases, I definitely remember 1983 best. I was five, my sister eight; and like every grammar-schooler in the known world, we wrote to the big guy and put in big bold letters at the top of the page: One Cabbage Patch Kid, please.<br /><br />For whatever reason, (most probably the marketing genius that was Coleco) we were dying to be the adoptive mothers to those homely, vinyl-faced cloth dolls that had Xavier Roberts’ signature on their butts. So we waited and behaved – after all, he was watching – and ran down the stairs on Christmas morning, anxiously ripping through packages in pursuit of those odd shaped boxes that held the sweetly plastic and powdery scented dolls.<br /><br />But while our tree was surrounded by Atari games, Weeble houses, Smurf puzzles and an abundance of other presents, there was nothing freshly plucked from the Cabbage Patch. Just a note.<br /><br /><em>Dearest Carolyn and Jessica:<br />While I waited and I tried, I was simply unable to get you those Cabbage Patch dolls that you asked for. I’m sorry, but all of the stores were sold out and my elves just couldn’t duplicate them. I hope you understand and promise you as soon as they become available, I will leave them on your doorstep.<br /><br />Yours, <br />Santa.</em><br /><br />Seriously? A raincheck? My five-year-old self was furious. All of that being good for nothing? Well, I did get Kaboom! and Frogger out of the deal, so I guess it wasn’t a total waste. But really? I never even knew this was an option. Wasn’t Santa so magical that he didn’t wait in line? Didn’t he have some sort of deal with Toys R Us that afforded him first dibs on the really hard to get toys?<br /><br />Naturally, sis and I healed. Taped some Lionel Ritchie off the radio with our new tape recorder, put in our new banana combs and mended our minds with some Friday Night Videos. <br /><br />A few weeks later, while we were watching the Olympics, my father told us someone was waiting for us in the kitchen. (Come to think of it, that was pretty cruel. He made it sound like there was an axe murderer in there.)<br /><br />But we held hands and entered the pitch black room. (Once again, oddly scary Dad.) <br /><br />Piled one on top of the other next to the refrigerator, there they were: Melinda Barbie and Sally Culotta. (Yes, I remember their names. Somewhere I still have their birth certificates.)<br /><br />It was February, but it was the best Christmas ever. Just like he promised, Santa came through. It wasn’t until years later that we found out mom battled fist fights, waited in the cold and got caught up in more than one or two November riots.<br /><br />Thirty years later, I find myself in her shoes.<br /><br />“Write LalaLoopsy,” Erin said a few weeks ago, directing my key strokes as we wrote our annual email to Santa.<br /><br />She was sprawled on the floor, 18 catalogs in front of her, circling madly, that dreamy Christmas look on her face. You know the one, when you feel like you can ask Santa to bring you anything, even the impossible stuff, because that’s what he does.<br /><br />“Which LalaLoopsy?” I asked, grinning to myself, knowing full well there was already one in the basement closet, one I had picked up in August when I was feeling particularly organized.<br /><br />“This one,” she said, pushing the Target catalog closer to my face, revealing some crazy haired doll I had never seen before. <br /><br />“She’s got silly hair that I can style on my own,” she smiled.<br /><br />Crap. Now I have to return this other doll? What a hassle. <br /><br />I had no idea what I was actually in for.<br /><br />“Reason for return?” the Toys R Us cashier asked.<br /><br />“I bought the wrong one,” I replied. “She wants the one with the silly…”<br /><br />“Hair?” the cashier cut me off.<br /><br />“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”<br /><br />“Good luck,” she laughed. “They sell out before we take them off the truck.”<br /><br />Uh-oh. That’s no good. So I rushed to the LalaLoopsy aisle only to find an empty shelf. Except for the pink-haired one I had just returned. There were 52 of those.<br /><br />Ok, so no big deal. There’s other stores. <br /><br />Three hours later, I had crossed two bridges and been laughed at by teenage employees at Wal-Mart, Target and Kmart.<br /><br />“You should have started shopping a long time ago Mommy,” one especially condescending red shirt said.<br /><br />That was on December 1.<br /><br />So I took my crusade to the internet. Only problem was all the big retailers were sold out. I could buy one from Collector’s Heaven. But there, the $30 doll retails for $100. Seriously people? Is there no more decency left in this world? <br /><br />No way, I said. Absolutely no way am I paying a triple markup. I will find that doll.<br /><br />So I started stalking toy stores. Arriving at 7:30am, waiting each day in a different retailer’s parking lot until they opened their doors, I actually made some friends. There was this one lady from New Jersey, we had coffee on day three.<br /><br />But nothing. One afternoon, I had a false alarm when Target mistakenly reported on its website that the Veteran’s Road location had 17 dolls in stock. Me and New Jersey and about five others came face to face breathlessly, only to be informed to try again tomorrow.<br /><br />My mom, Cabbage Patch finder extraordinaire, is on the hunt. As is the entire staff of the school where she works.<br /><br />Suddenly, I find myself in the midst of a tragic holiday toy craze. Tickle Me Elmo left a couple of people in critical condition. There was actually a Furby shootout in 1998. And some crazy lady held up Toys R Us with a spork and a BB gun for a Cabbage Patch Kid in 1982. Oddly enough, Mom is very mum about this.<br /><br />It’s fine though. I’m not reaching for a spork just yet. Santa can leave a note. He’ll drop the right one off in February. Erin will understand.<br /><br />But that doll. She haunts me. Those button eyes. That medusa-ish hair. I had a dream about her last night. She was laughing. Baking cookies in her cute little yellow dress. Twirling that pink hair, taunting me the whole time.<br /><br />Come February, she’ll be in my kitchen, standing next to the refrigerator. I’ll probably forgive and like her by then. And for Erin, it will be the best Christmas/Valentine’s Day that she’s ever had.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-44304604788842254962011-10-19T09:06:00.000-07:002011-10-19T09:09:55.415-07:00I'm Happy, I Know It, But Do I Really Have to Clap My Hands?When it comes to public performance, Miss Mary is everything I am not. Entertaining, energetic and extremely musical, I’ve envied and admired her general enthusiasm for dramatic displays of song and dance ever since I enrolled my toddler in her weekly music class earlier this year. She sings beautifully, can find a perfectly formed macro rhythm in the simplest of songs and bounces around the studio with a vigor that I can only find after at least 18 cups of joe.<br /> <br />The kids in class love her weekly theatrics and completely surrender to her invitation to be goofy, wiggly songbirds. If only I could do the same.<br /><br />“Jeremiah’s mommy is not dancing!!” Mary bellowed last week as I did what I usually do during those painful 45-minute sessions – hid in a corner and tried desperately to just simply blend in. A scarf and tambourine were sarcastically thrust in my direction as I was shoved onto the caboose of an invisible choo-choo train. <br /><br />Apparently, mommies and daddies who refuse to participate or chatter during what is proudly promoted as a “together” class, are forced to do a solo belly dance in the middle of a communal circle after their third warning. So far, I have two strikes.<br /><br />“Wake up your mouth!”<br /><br />Really? Without hardly any coaxing, more than a dozen moms (and sometimes a dad) willingly blow raspberries with their two-year-olds. In public.<br /><br />“Turn on your ears!”<br /><br />Everybody emphatically complies by dramatically yanking on their earlobes and screwing on an imaginary thinking cap. I pretend like I’m fixing an earring.<br /><br />“Now warm up those voices: Ba, ba ba, ding-a-ding-ding!”<br /><br />This is where I draw the line. When I was in grammar school and not at all aware that I was completely tone deaf, I used to sing – buy my parents always asked me to stop. When Erin and then Jeremiah were born and lullabies were in order, my husband lovingly told me that we should probably protect our children from unnecessarily off-key verses of Rock-a-Bye-Baby. (And the Eagles – nothing put those kids to sleep like a couple of verses of Hotel California.)<br /><br />But now, after enrolling in 10 weeks of hello songs and itsy-bitsy dramatics, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to avoid active participation. I’m happy, I know it, but do I really have to clap my hands in front of all these other unnaturally giddy people? <br /><br />If you’re not familiar with Music Together, it’s a program of weekly music and movement classes designed to educate infants, toddlers and preschoolers about basic premises of rhythm, harmony and social sharing. I did it with Erin and thought it would be a good way to bond with Jeremiah and prepare him for pre-school. I just forgot how much singing and jumping was actually involved.<br /><br />“Jump, mommies, jump!”<br /><br />She can’t be serious.<br /><br />“Now everybody skip!!!”<br /><br />I wonder if it’s really possible to die of embarrassment. <br /><br />For Jeremiah, who completely adores all of this mandatory vocalizing, Wednesdays are now the best days of the week. For me, who has trouble letting loose and getting down in front of 15 other sing-songy adults, this class has been like high school – <br />I’m doing everything in my power to just look cool.<br /><br />I suppose it sounds petty – putting my own crazy anxiety before Jeremiah’s enjoyment – but I’ve actually chosen my biggest fear – performing in front of other people – as a way of bonding with my son. <br /><br />But today, halfway through this awkward semester, amidst all of my inane insecurities, something strange happened. For a brief second, as I watched Jerry giggling and vividly clapping his hands, I actually forgot about my stinky voice, forgot about how that one lady always has whiter socks than me and forgot about how other people were probably judging my stupid wiggly dance moves. And I actually started to dance and sing before Mary threatened me with solo belly dances.<br /><br />Jeremiah grabbed my hands and we jumped on the invisible choo-choo together. I even continued the performance at home. For me and all of my lackluster tendencies, it was the most awesome of breakthroughs. Even Mary had to stop and applaud.<br /><br />No solo bellydance necessary.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-27828003455881959192010-12-07T09:07:00.000-08:002010-12-07T09:22:49.229-08:00Dear Volkswagen, Please Give Me Back My SwaggerCruising through the parking lot at St. Clare’s preschool is a very intricate and complex daily maneuver. Upon entrance, you must dodge the old ladies exiting eight o’clock mass and floor it past the handicapped parking spaces before their husbands blindly back their Buicks from staggered spots like some symphony of grenades. If you make it past the chapel unscathed, you must then combat with an endless parade of ginormous SUV’s driven by coffee-sipping, cell-phone toting moms who were given special parking passes in September allowing them to abandon their vehicles in the middle of the road wherever and whenever they see fit. <br /><br />On approach to the Father Hicks center, you must then quickly scan the area for anything resembling a parking space – legal or illegal – in which to shove your car for the two minutes it will take to toss your child into the receiving line. In my tiny little Chevy or Pat’s petite little Passat, the task is not so hard. Making the trip in a big-ass Volkswagen Routan, well that’s a whole other story.<br /><br />“Ooh, maybe they’ll give us one of those cute little convertibles or even a bug!” <br /><br />That was me last week, wishfully philosophizing to Pat on our way to the Volkswagen dealership, where a loaner vehicle awaited us in the service department. Let’s get it straight. Despite my enthusiasm about car styles and colors, I was not happy about this at all. After bringing Pat’s car in for service two weeks prior because some light that actually said “STOP DRIVING” lit up on the dash, VW decided to lend us a car while they attempted to identify and correct the problem. Two weeks of sharing one vehicle was not fun and neither was the damage or price tag of engine replacement I was imagining in my head. But after 14 days of scheduling driving time and swapping car seats, the prospect of driving away in someone else’s non-broken sedan was pleasant.<br /><br />So I waited in the car with the kids while Pat retrieved the keys. He crossed the street, beeping the fob in an attempt to find our new whip in a sea of shiny Jettas and Touaregs. And there it was. Behind the beautiful silver Eos. Right next to that gorgeous red convertible beetle. A gigantic spaceship of a car with the ugly kind of running boards and huge, elongated boxy third row. A Routan – I can hardly type it without gagging – in of all colors, bright neon white.<br /><br />“Wooooowwwww!!” Erin screamed from the backseat. “Mommy, look at how big that car is!”<br /><br />Her excitement made it worse. Pat smiled and hopped in the driver’s seat. That made it worse too. Something about seeing your husband behind the wheel of a minivan is a little disturbing.<br /><br />“Well, we’ve been saying that we need more room,” he smirked.<br /><br />Yes, but not that much room. Not even the Partridge Family needed that much room. Following Pat home I reassured myself that this was only temporary and I wouldn’t have to drive that behemoth at all. Pat will take it to work and I will kiss every inch of my previously too small Malibu when I get home. But something about EZPass confusion and insurance liability put me behind the wheel of this repulsive car the next day. Excuses, I protested. Pat just didn’t want to drive that wretched vehicle himself.<br /><br />“Did you get a new car?” the mothers at school asked that morning as I stepped out of the immense box of ugly, fixing my oversized hat, sunglasses and fake mustache. Holy crap, did I just sprain my ankle?<br /><br />“No, this is not mine,” I shouted sort of loudly. “I would never drive a minivan.”<br /><br />Dead silence as at least four of five moms in the crowd glanced over at their Town & Countrys.<br /><br />“Hey mom, check it out, I can dance in here!” Erin broke the awkward silence, having unbuckled herself, running up and down the center of the car, enjoying enough room to kick her legs over her head an even turn a cartwheel. Funny, she never does cartwheels at home.<br /><br />“Look at our new car!!” she was shouting to her friends.<br /><br />“It’s not our car!” I shouted back. “And what happened to your brother? I can’t find him in here.”<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly prissy when it comes to driving the sleekest car in town. I passed my road test on my father’s minivan. Stuffing all of my friends into that thing during senior year is one of my fondest high school memories. And I’m not afraid of big either, I used to be one of those SUV driving moms until the price of gas skyrocketed and we downsized to something more affordable.<br />There was just something about seeing my family in this bigger-than-life bus that scared me into the realization that I was slowly becoming one of those car-pool driving, Ugg and sweatsuit wearing soccer moms. Nevermind the fact that my coolness factor took a proverbial shot in the foot.<br /><br />But after one week, I’m already starting to identify some advantages.<br /><br />All of that extra space made food shopping a breeze. I even carted groceries home for eight of my neighbors.<br /><br />I found a way to earn some extra cash. Picking up a few passengers on Hylan Boulevard put at least three dollars in my pocket. And next week I’m taking some of those St. Clare’s churchgoers down to AC. A couple of JFK and Newark runs and this baby could turn a serious profit.<br /><br />Now if I could only sell a little advertising space, the exterior of the Routan might no longer be so hideous.<br /><br />But the call came yesterday. Our Passat is ready and it’s time for the Routan to go. Something inside of me will miss it. Especially the next time I pull up next to a moving van.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-9749555997168971382010-07-19T08:50:00.000-07:002010-07-19T08:52:20.433-07:00‘Look at me, I’m on the swim team!’In the spirit of all things summer, Erin has joined the swim team. It’s a rite of passage at the Great Kills Swim Club actually – once you turn three you’re eligible for all of the camaraderie, uniform bathing suits, pizza parties and trophies that go along with belonging to “the team.” And for the past four weeks, I have been enjoying the exercise, 6:30 p.m. bedtimes and ravenous, gobble-up-every-part-of-dinner that goes with her membership. But above all, I have mostly been enjoying the practices.<br /><br />“Hey Mom! Look at me! I’m swimming! On the swim team!”<br /><br />In case the neighbors who live across the street from the Swim Club didn’t know that Erin Gorman was on the swim team, they do now.<br /><br />“Moooommmmmmm!” A series of waves, hip-shaking and ballerina spins. “Isn’t this cool?”<br /><br />It wouldn’t be so bad if all the other kids were shouting at their moms too. But in a straight-as-an-arrow line of serious three- to eight-year-old swimmers, my little backstroker is the only one jumping for joy. <br /><br />In her defense, I was the only mother at the pool with a camera. Guess you’re not supposed to snap pictures of practice, even if it is their very first year. But I can’t help but laugh at my little Esther Williams whose bathing suit is way too big in the butt.<br /><br />“Erin, you can’t talk and swim at the same time,” Coach Kelli warned last week, laughing as she tried desperately to prevent Erin from waving and greeting each cousin and friend who happened to swim by.<br /><br />“Hi Bri-Bri!” swim, swim, swim. “Hi Liam!” swim, swim, swim. “Hi Juuuliaaaa!” swim. “Look at me, I’m on the swim team too!”<br /><br />You see, the problem is, there’s nine other cousins on the team and every time she passes one in the swim lane, she takes one hand off of her kickboard to wave and nearly drowns in the process. It’s all very polite, but I never knew I was raising such a socialite. And I didn’t think I was raising such a team player until we had our first meet.<br /><br />“Really, we have to bring her to the swim meets?” I asked Pat when the first one cropped up on the calendar. I guess when she joined I just thought she’d go to some practices, get some swim lessons and a T-shirt, end of story.<br /><br />“Of course,” Pat countered, himself a former swim team member. “They have special races just for the kickboarders.”<br /><br />Races? Really? Ok. So I pack up baby and really excited swimmer at 8:30 a.m. on one of those 100 degree days to go sit poolside and see how this all pans out. The adorableness was beyond words.<br /><br />“Kick! C’mon Erin, you got this!” Dozens of tweens and teenagers, all of whom had just swam in some serious heats themselves, were peeling off bathing caps and goggles stepping up to poolside to see GKSC’s lineup of three-, four- and five-year-old kickboarders lap it up in the Village Greens pool.<br /><br />How did all of these kids know my daughter’s name? How are they taking the time to cheer for her and all of the other little tykes out here? Don’t they have to get in the zone for their own swim? Do they really care about all of these little pipsqueaks in the pool? Aren’t they just there to pass some time in between the really important races?<br /><br />“These are the best years you’ll ever have, Mrs. Gorman,” Coach Jim, the team’s raspy-voiced, oh-so-serious leader said to me as what seemed like the whole pool club cheered on my little girl as she made her way down the length of the pool, legs furiously kicking, head held high in the air, an un-erasable grin splashed across her face.<br /><br />“Don’t forget your video camera next time,” he said in between big belly laughs, slapping me on the back, probably noticing the tears under my sunglasses. “You’re gonna want to watch this when she’s 19.”<br /><br />I hugged Jeremiah tighter. 19? No, that’s never going to happen. My kids will never be 19.<br /><br />And as I jetted to the end of the pool to scoop Erin out of the water and give a million kisses and high-fives, a group of 19-year-olds beat me to it.<br /><br />“Go Erin! Nice swim!”<br /><br />I literally could not believe how all of these kids were rallying around my little bathing beauty, making her feel as if she had just qualified for gold. It got me thinking. Does swimming offer that much sportsmanship? Or is it Coach Kelli and Coach Jim (a father/daughter duo) that are turning these kids into such fine athletes and competitors? <br /><br />Perhaps it’s a little of both.<br /><br />Even at three-years-old, with her tiny little swimsuit and bright orange kickboard, she is part of this team. And after a whole month of early morning practice, she has the cutest little swim muscles to prove it. I only hope she picks up more than the breaststroke from this upstanding group of team players. Maybe then I can allow her to turn 19.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-8529778665353804182010-06-30T09:51:00.000-07:002010-06-30T09:54:56.580-07:00Jeremiah Was a BullfrogA few nights ago, as I primped Erin for bed – milk, cookies, books, Kenny Rogers – she veered away from our normal twilight chatter and said something odd.<br /><br />“Doesn’t Uncle Brendy look just like Grandpa?” she asked.<br /><br />Not a weird question in and of itself. Uncle Brendy does indeed look like Grandpa. Talks and walks like him too. But when she mentioned the fact, I froze. Pat’s father lost his battle with cancer six years ago, long before Erin was born, long before Uncle Brendy really started to resemble him. <br /><br />My mommy brain started racing. How should I respond? Before I had the chance, she continued.<br /><br />“Not Pop-Pop,” she said, clarifying that she wasn’t talking about my dad. “Grandpa. You know, the one who’s up in Heaven with Jesus.”<br /><br />More freezing. But now with goosebumps.<br /><br />“He does,” I finally answered. “What made you think of that? Did you see a picture?”<br /><br />What came next I never expected.<br /><br />“No,” came the reply. “He came into my room the other night like magic with Jesus in a spaceship. He tickled Jeremiah’s belly and kneeled down by my bed and said he loved me. Mommy, he really looks like Uncle Brendy!”<br /><br />Holy cow. <br /><br />Of course we talk about Grandpa and the fact that he’s in Heaven. But not so recently and never to such an extent that she should be dreaming of it. I had no idea what to say, so I let my three-year-old take the lead.<br /><br />She gave more details, describing his blue outfit and fuzzy mustache. When I told Pat the next day, she reiterated the same exact story to him again. <br /><br />In Pat’s eyes, I could see the comfort. His dad passed and was waked on Father’s Day weekend and his birthday is just a week away. Months and years of illness and hospital visits make this time of year not so easy. We gave our son, Jeremiah, his name, so even though we talk about his dad often, the past five months have been an even bigger daily reminder.<br /><br />But Erin’s dream or vision or visit or whatever you want to call it, was a little unforeseen blessing at just the right time. As adults, death is hard. To comfort ourselves, we talk about Dad playing pinochle and paddle ball with his brothers in Heaven. We visit psychics and create pictures in our mind of this wonderful oasis where our loved ones move on to spend eternity.<br /><br />But maybe the innocent mind of a child can view these things better than we can.<br /><br />Dad was a decorated chief on the fire department, so he had some big-wig friends, but it’s nice to know he’s got even better company up in Heaven, traveling via spaceship with Jesus to visit his relatives. So he’s not playing paddle ball or monster games of pinochle like we imagined, but instead, he is with us, around us. <br /><br />My faith taught me that. Erin just confirmed it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-24608443254252878402010-06-16T12:16:00.000-07:002010-06-16T12:23:25.050-07:00My Dad, My Friend, My CoachA couple of Sundays ago, when my family gathered for one our usual dinners, Mom, Sis and me were chatting it up over coffee in the dining room when a sudden burst in giggling turned our attention to the commotion inside.<br /><br />“En garde!” “Hi-yaah!” “Stand back!” “No one can mess with Bobo and Babbette!”<br />It was my dad, a ripped paper bag on his head, Styrofoam sword in his hand, two grandchildren on his back, a third poking him in the eye with a paper towel battle-axe and a fourth laughing hysterically at the sight of it all from his car seat. <br /><br />Apparently they were having a sword fight.<br /><br />“Get off of Pop-Pop,” my sister and I shouted in our best disciplinary voices, pulling children by arms and legs off of our laughing father, knowing full well our attempts at straightening out this chaos would go nowhere. After all, at Pop-Pop and MaMa’s house, anything goes.<br /><br />“He told us to beat him up,” Erin answered with Vivian and Nicky nodding in agreement. “He’s Bobo the monkey, Nicky’s Babbette and we’re the good guys.”<br /><br />Great, now there’s monkeys involved.<br /><br />“Just no real hitting or eye poking,” my sister and I warned, shaking our heads at dad, who was now smirking and preparing himself for round two as we left the room.<br />“And stop giving them candy and ice cream sodas!” I yelled in one last attempt to make it look like I had some sort of authority in front of my children. “It’s making them nuts.”<br /><br />I suppose it’s a grandparent’s job to buy fake weapons from the dollar section at Target for their grandchildren to play with. And I suppose it’s protocol to load them up with sugar and cookies before setting them loose on each other in the living room. I just think it’s kind of funny that the Pop-Pop who wears a bag on his head and fences with my children was one of the toughest but most respected dads around.<br /><br />“Does he make you call him Mr. Jones at home too?” <br /><br />I was in the sixth grade and the question came from one of the boys in my class. Dad was the boy’s varsity baseball and JV basketball coach at my grammar school and his coaching tactics were less “let’s be friends and work on fundamentals” and more “shut up, listen, or drop and give me 20.”<br /><br />At one point there was a rumor circulating about how I managed roughly 200 push-ups a day for not making my bed or taking out the garbage on time. Don’t get me wrong, the kids loved him, respected him and counted on him for all kinds of life advice and guidance. But he was like that teacher who you admired from afar: You liked their class, couldn’t wait to hear what they had to teach you, but were still scared crapless by the very sight of them. <br /><br />“You’re acting like a bunch of 10-year-olds,” he was heard yelling in the gym one time to a group of fifth-graders on his Tyro team who were essentially just acting their age.<br /><br />“But Mr. Jones, we are 10-years-old,” Matt Bivona answered back. I think that kid is still doing push-ups over on Lisbon Place.<br /><br />Over the years, he coached it all: From pee-wee girls clinic (he had step down after the first practice because the pure octave of his voice made those little kids cry) to his ten-plus-year-reign in the fifth-grade boys b-ball spot. Baseball, basketball – it never ceased to amaze me how much he actually knew about every sport.<br /><br />He taught 12-year-olds how to loop the perfect hook shot, showed that one chubby kid that it was OK to shoot a foul shot between your legs and had a special plaque made up at Rab’s to commemorate the time when that tiny little bench warmer shot a half-court buzzer beater in the fourth quarter that swooshed just in time to score a win over our biggest rivals - St. Roch’s. <br /><br />The chubby kid? He went on to play for Farrell. The tiny guy? I can remember finding Dad crying in the living room when he saw his obituary in the Advance a few years ago. Motorcycle accident I think.<br /><br />He never forgot any of those kids and they certainly never forgot him. I was in the bank not too long ago when some six-foot-tall man approached and asked in this frighteningly deep voice: “You Mr. Jones’ daughter, right?” <br /><br />I was afraid to respond.<br /><br />“Uh-huh,” I said.<br /><br />“Tell him Chris says hi,” he said. “He was my sixth-grade baseball coach. I learned a lot from him.”<br /><br />And so did I. Yes, he taught me how to throw a curve ball. Didn’t even think that was possible in softball, but he knew how. He showed me how to fix a toilet. How to screw sheet rock and tape a wall. And of course, he did the ritual dad stuff of running behind my two-wheeler until I went sailing down the street. But it was the other stuff that he didn’t even mean to teach us that I remember most.<br /><br />Like when I had to dissect a Langston Hughes poem for Mrs. Levy’s freshman English class. He sat with me for hours talking about dreams deferred and raisins in the sun. I still have no idea what that poem means, but I learned a lot about how much Pop knew about poetry. And a lot about his own dreams too.<br /><br />Or when I started dating in my older teenage years. Every guy who picked me up for a movie had to ring the bell. If they beeped, I didn’t go outside. And he always slipped a $20 bill in my pocket for cab fare home – just in case “Mr. Right” turned out to be all wrong. <br /><br />In my 20s, when the pressures of work invaded my sanity and I questioned every move I made for an overly critical boss, he supported my skills with a simple statement. “You went with your gut, right?” I can remember him asking. “Then the decision was right. Don’t doubt yourself.”<br /><br />And seven years ago, when my mother fell ill with a serious infection and came very close to things I cannot even think about, I woke up at 3 a.m. to the vision of the perfect man, husband and father.<br /><br />“Go back to bed, Jess, she’s OK,” he said as he patted her forehead with a cool washcloth and wrapped himself around her shivering, fevered body. I don’t think he slept for three months when she was in and out of the hospital. And when she finally came home for good, he treated her like a queen.<br /><br />If he had to, he could knock down an entire house down and rebuild it in a week. Give him a piece of wood and he can turn it into a bouquet of flowers. Have a question about politics, geography or how to splice a home run connection into your junction box (I have no idea what any of that means, I just put a bunch of words together), he can answer it.<br /><br />But he’s my Dad. And he’s a Superman. (And a Super Pop-Pop, Super Coach, Super Poem Translator and a Super Fencer with a bag on his head.) And he always will be.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-27302770302959626402010-05-23T21:58:00.000-07:002010-05-23T22:06:09.910-07:00For Sale: One Hot Pink Tutu (Not-So-Gently Worn)Bursting into Costco last Tuesday morning, on a covert mission for one gallon of milk and a rotisserie chicken, we definitely looked like some weird trio of Dick Tracy comic book villains: Jeremiah, aka Pukeface, was still decked out in his feety frog pajamas at 11 a.m., a little bit of spit-up and just a touch of snot covering his arms and neck; Me? I was like The Shadow, no one knows where I go when I'm completely concealed by my post-pregnancy uniform of all black sweats. And Erin "Tutu" Mahoney, in a pair of sunglasses, some way-too-tight purple leggings and her ubiquitous hot pink tutu - well nobody wants to mess with her.<br /><br />Our evil powers? The baby could probably puke or poop all over any copper who tried to ruin our mission for giant packages of paper towels and toilet paper. I could evade all line-jumpers with my camouflage attire and cat-like reflexes. And Erin, well she could spin for hours in that tutu, grabbing free samples of yogurt and tiny pieces of pork on toothpicks with some serious ninja-like ballerina moves.<br /><br />It was definitely a sight. But then again, we look like that wherever we go.<br /><br />"I'm gonna wear this today, OK Mommy?" That was yesterday when she pulled some random polka-dot socks from the back of the drawer, paired them with a pink halter top and green shorts and completed the look by clipping her hair into a "Snooki." (Yes, I know, I have to stop watching Jersey Shore when she's in the room.)<br /><br />The tutu, of course, was the <em>piece de resistance</em>. Some silly mistake I made last year, buying this stupid dime-store dress-up Barbie thing for her to spin around and play in which somehow made it into the daily rotation. No outfit is complete without it. When I say she wears it with everything, I mean it. Even pajamas get the tutu treatment before she goes to bed. I can usually pry it away from her once a week in time for laundry day and I've enforced a strict "no tutu at school" rule but other than that, it goes everywhere: The Supermarket, the bank, the playground - even Christmas, Easter and a couple of family parties. I'm starting to get creative with my explanations just to change things up.<br /><br />"She was drunk when we got dressed this morning," I told some woman at the park last week. <br /><br />I must remember that not everyone gets my strange sense of humor. I must remember to go to another park.<br /><br />"She's drunk right now," I told someone else as I ran after her in the frozen food section of Pathmark, trying to prevent her from knocking over cases of pizza bagels with her pirouettes.<br /><br />Maybe I have to lay off of this drunk thing. Or start going to Stop and Shop.<br /><br />I think it would be OK if the tutu wasn't completely shredded from an excessive amount of trips in the washing machine. It would probably be even better if there weren't two more tutus that she layered under the first ratty one. (I bought them in the hopes that we could get rid of the first one...didn't work. Yes, I am an enabler, I know.)<br /><br />But as I was 30 minutes into an argument with her recently over why she shouldn't wear tights and tutus on a hot May day, she had a very real retort.<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />I honestly did not know what to say. Why shouldn't she wear what makes her feel pretty and comfortable and sort of like a superhero? Don't I do the same thing with my slimming black sweatpants? (I tried to wear them to that wedding, but apparently there's some sort of "rule" about that.) <br /><br />And if spinning around in a bank or the frozen food aisle makes her happy then why shouldn't she do it? After all, there's only so many years you can logistically get away with stuff like that. I think once you turn eight or nine it's sort of frowned upon.<br /><br />So I'm putting my own hang-ups aside and celebrating my three-year-old's fashion <em>joie de vivre</em>. You might even see me sashaying through Target or on the school pick-up line next week in something less safe than my comfy sweats. Think they sell tutus in my size?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-38568615721953876782010-05-05T09:01:00.000-07:002010-05-05T09:11:09.418-07:00Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This“Mommmmmmyyyyyyyyy! Look at me. I can do a split!”<br /><br />One foot up on the coffee table, the other one of the couch, Erin, clad in nothing but a red bikini and socks, was eating black olives and chocolate pudding and trying desperately to get my attention with her latest gymnastic acrobatics. Like the bikini and the olives weren’t enough. <br /><br />In my arms, Jeremiah wailed. The microwave beeped. The phone rang. The TV blared. I juggled baby and splitting three-year-old while trying to pour and construct a bottle. The whole Gorman world was literally falling apart. In the driveway, Pat was hoisting a refrigerator from a borrowed pick-up truck into the garage. Erin, in her bikini, shook her hips and waved to him from the front door. I think I could actually hear the neighbors whispering about us from across the street.<br /><br />In my defense, we had just got in the door from Target. What started as a quick trip for one pair of summer sandals for baby turned into an all-day shopping excursion that yielded summer bathing suits for the whole family, a couple of packs of pudding, a can of black olives and a refrigerator, of course. Believe it or not, unpacking all of those wares was actually the hardest part of the day.<br /><br />“Everything ok over there?” my mother asked when I finally answered that ringing phone. “It sounds a little hectic.”<br /><br />Hectic. Good word. <br /><br />“Yes. Hectic,” I said. “Can I give you a call back?”<br /><br />At 11:45 pm, after baths had been taken and bowls of pudding pried from little fingers, one kid fell asleep (sans bikini) on the couch and the other in his car seat. So I started the nightly ritual of sifting and tidying the mounds of toys and dishes before I passed out myself. As I was chipping flecks of orange Play-doh off of the coffee table, I remembered that I never returned Mom’s call.<br /><br />Tomorrow, I said. If anyone understands, it’s her. And as I scooped up all 35 pounds of Erin, settling her in bed before ushering little chub-rock into his cradle, I dropped kisses on both of their foreheads and thought about how many times my own mother had done the same thing at the end of an insane day.<br /><br />After all of the messes and madness, we always ended the marathon days of our childhood with a kiss and I love you. No matter how chaotic things got – when my sister spread peanut butter on the living room table, when I flipped over my tricycle and slid down the driveway on my two front teeth – she never lost her cool. To this day, I cannot recall ever hearing her shout, yell or even threaten. Instead, she was our best playmate, our closest confidante and teacher of those colossal daily life lessons. <br /><br />And at the end of the day, we always had fun. <br /><br />She let us jump on the bed. She let us hop in puddles and taught us how to make mud soup when it rained. When she hung the laundry on the clothesline in the backyard and we ran through the sheets and wiped our messy hands all over the towels, she ran with us. We played cops and robbers in the big bed. We enjoyed crazy roller-coaster-esque rides in the Supermarket shopping cart.<br /><br />She held our hands, closed her eyes and spun us around until we all fell dizzily to the floor. She danced with us in the living room like no one was watching. And we laughed. A lot. In all that she did, she showed me exactly how to be that same wonderful mix of playmate and teacher for my own kids. <br /><br />As I finally crawled into bed sometime after midnight last night and considered all of my own chaos – the bikini dancing, the crying, the Play-doh and yes, even the pudding – I thought of mom and how effortlessly she always handled all of those disorderly moments in such a completely composed fashion. <br /><br />Yes, this was a good day. But tomorrow, I will spin and dance and make things even better. For that, I thank mom.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-51858478399082886982010-04-19T05:51:00.000-07:002010-04-19T06:09:28.974-07:00For Jeanine, Because She Holds My HandThe first time I met Jeanine, she was wearing a bright yellow SuperDance T-shirt, cut-off knee length jean shorts <em>a la</em> "Dirty Dancing" and those pointy-toed patent-leather puffy bow shoes that all the popular girls rocked in 1991.<br /><br />"This girl is cool," I thought and immediately landed myself a best friend. We were 14 and it was that easy. Nice clothes, cool shoes, same homeroom, let's hang out.<br /><br />On Sunday, as she sat next to me in St. Clare's church and held my hand while the priest baptized my son, I started reflecting on how many other times Jeremiah's fairy godmother (Erin's words) has held my hand over the past 19 years.<br /><br />"I love you," she whispered to me on the morning of my wedding, both of us all primped and pretty, mascaraed and hairsprayed, crying like morons right before I walked down the aisle.<br /><br />"I can't believe I have to go live with a boy now," I answered, turning our tears into giggles, smooshing her makeup back into place with my thumb.<br /><br />It wasn't the first time we were blubbery, lovey-dovey messes and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Our friendship has survived countless milestones over this two-decade run: weddings, funerals, break-ups and more. Throughout it all, my bond with Jeanine has only gotten stronger.<br /><br />"She picked on you yesterday, so she can't do it again today," she said to me countless times during freshman year of high school, holding my hair on the bus stop every Tuesday morning, while I emptied my nervous stomach onto Hylan Boulevard in wretched anticipation of being totally embarrassed in Mrs. Gerathy's first period Global Studies class.<br /><br />"We will definitely be friends forever," she recited to me in poem-form as we stood arm-in-arm in black velvet dresses at each other's sweet sixteen parties, lighting best friend candles, bawling our eyes out over some inside jokes and completely nonsensical 16-year-old stories.<br /><br />When whatever-his-name-was cheated or dumped or lied, we cried and laughed and then cried again on the phone until 2 a.m. We covered our ears and hid in the bathroom when her mom tried to tell us all about the birds and the bees. We came pretty close to burning her house down when our 15-year-old-selves decided to make pancakes from scratch for the first time without any previous experience. Ever. <br /><br />We wore white caps and gowns and held hands on line during graduation even though the nuns threatened us with rulers to keep our arms straight at our sides. And in college, we partied and puked and danced and promised to always close down the club - even when we had gray hair and grandchildren. <br /><br />"Nothing is ever going to be the same," she told me when her mom died ridiculously young 12 years ago, as we both sat Indian-style on her living room floor, sobbing uncontrollably, polishing the cream-colored shoes that her mother would be buried in the next day. <br /><br />She was right, of course, but every October we hold hands and wear pink and relive some of the happier moments as we walk in a circle at Clove Lakes Park.<br /><br />"Can you believe we've been friends for this long?" I asked her recently when we connected for one of our marathon phone calls - one of those catch-up ones that covered everything that happened in the previous week or so.<br /><br />"It's crazy," she replied. "I can't remember a time when you weren't in my life."<br /><br />In a word, our relationship is intimate. I know why she hates flowers. She knows that from far away, it looks like I have six toes, but I don't. She'll beat up anyone who makes fun of that. Even if she fights like a girl. <br /><br />When I ask "how's life?" and her "everything's great" has a little squeak at the end, I know for a fact that everything indeed is not great. I also know that if I called her with a problem in a snowstorm, when her house was on fire and all of Staten Island was enduring a massive flood, she would drop everything to come over and make my life right.<br /><br />We even managed to make ourselves related somewhere along the line - my sister married her brother. We set it up. Mostly so that we could spend holidays together for the rest of our lives.<br /><br />"So happy you're up here with us," I whispered right after they doused Jeremiah's head and Jeanine helped me pat him dry - both of us naturally tearing up and laughing a bit over little man's outfit. (That seersucker suit and side-cocked pea cap is total proof that the two of us should not be allowed to go shopping together alone.)<br /><br />"I love you," came her reply as she pulled me in closer and smacked a big one on my left cheek.<br /><br />"Love you too," I answered, reaching down, grabbing both of her hands tight, my mind racing through all of the laughter, tears and memories that we've shoved into these days, weeks, months and years. <br /><br />And that's when it hit me: These years that I've spent being best friends with Jeanine were filled with so many wonderful moments. And each one has been so special because she was along for the ride. <br /><br />Can't wait to see what the next 19 will bring.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-22151903789501375432010-04-13T07:02:00.000-07:002010-04-13T10:11:02.015-07:00Hey, Prince Eric, Wipe That Smug Look Off of Your Little Plastic FaceLast week, as Erin played happily and mostly every toy in the house got along with one another, all hell suddenly broke loose in the imaginary world of princesses and dolls.<br /><br />"Eric was mean to Sleeping Beauty, so she's crying in my backpack," Erin announced very authoritatively, taking me by the hand to witness her favorite blond-haired princess Barbie doll, hands posed over her face, zipped tightly in her Tinkerbell school bag.<br /><br />"He's in love with Mermaid and he's going to marry her instead," she continued. "That's why Sleeping Beauty is so sad."<br /><br />I had no idea any such drama was unfolding in my living room. But apparently, it's been brewing for a while. <br /><br />Let me break it down: At Christmas-time, my mom and dad bought a six-pack of princess dolls which Erin adores. Sleeping Beauty, Mermaid, Jasmine, etc. They all got along famously - playing dress-up, beauty salon and sleepover, you know, all the usual stuff that dolls do - until some additional gifts arrived from Aunt Jeanine.<br /><br />"It's Prince Eric!" Erin shouted when the plastic-coiffed smug little womanizer arrived, that sly grin of his peering at us through the plastic box.<br /><br />The next morning, all of the BFF princesses quietly started to bicker.<br /><br />"Mermaid and Cinderella both want to hold hands with the Prince," Erin said.<br /><br />There were so many things wrong with that statement, I simply didn't know where to start. I tried to reason a little, asking why the girls no longer played happily together. I got a very real reply.<br /><br />"Eric picked one princess to kiss and the rest of them are mad," she said.<br /><br />"Tell me about it," I wanted to respond. "Wait til you're 22 and..." But I bit my tongue. After all, this is my three-year-old innocent daughter we're talking about. <br /><br />How in the world does she even know anything about kissing and boyfriends? I refuse to let her watch any of those big-kid shows: Hannah Montana, High School Musical, iCarly, etc. Until she's a teen herself, they're off-limits - no matter how much she begs. And I've protected her little eyes and ears from anything risque - we're strictly a happy-slappy, princess/fairy household. Disney movies are the only movies she's ever seen. How could she learn the dramas of dating by watching "Finding Nemo?"<br /><br />But as my husband and I were hashing out our new found problem the other day - Pat made the revelation: "You know all those Disney movies she watches end with the Prince kissing the Princess, right? And they get married and live happily ever after." <br /><br />Holy crap, he's right. It all seems harmless, but when everything she sees is focused on marriage and magical, wake-you-out-of-your-sleep kisses, that's what she's going to concentrate on too. <br /><br />The idea brought me back to a discussion I had with some of my students a few years ago. I was teaching an Intro to Communications class at St. John's and the text devoted a few pages to what they labeled "the Disney effect."<br /><br />It's a philosophy adopted by many, stating that Disney movies are loaded with gender stereotypes. Women are either portrayed as princesses, queens or homemakers (Cinderella, Snow White - think about it and it starts to make sense) whose main mission in life is to wait around for a prince to come and make their lives complete. <br /><br />If there's a powerful female in the movie, she's almost always evil (stepmothers, sea queens, etc.) and continually tries to thwart any chances for the princess to reach her main goal of marriage. But in the end, one big magical kiss makes everything OK.<br /><br />Without even knowing it, I've subjected my daughter to a skewed vision of life. How will she grow up to be a strong, independent woman, when every shred of evidence points to the fact that some prince on a white horse needs to kiss her first?<br /><br />I know it sounds a little extreme and I'm not one of those crazy, blame-it-all-on-Disney kind of moms, but if the glass slipper fits...<br /><br />So we've come up with some temporary solutions: Prince Eric is hiding in the trunk of the car for a while, a sort of time-out for all of his philandering. We're weaning Erin off of the books, movies and other princess paraphernalia too, filtering in some non-threatening pals like Care Bears and Dora the Explorer. (She never had any kissing scenes with Boots, right?) <br /><br />We'll see if any of it works. <br /><br />But a new player emerged in the saga on Easter Sunday. Mom put Malibu Ken in Erin's Easter basket. He's still in plastic, spending a little time with Eric in the trunk. Once they can learn to behave like gentlemen, we'll let them back in the house.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-85433655043623391582010-03-28T09:51:00.000-07:002010-03-28T11:46:41.518-07:00Thanks Jillian Michaels, For All of the Pain in My ThighsApparently, the Kellogg's Special K diet doesn't work when you only eat the little bits of chocolate out of the box of Chocolately Delight cereal. And Slim Fast shakes are not supposed to be consumed as a side dish to your daughter's leftover french fries either - no matter how delicious they might taste together. <br /><br />These are the lessons I've learned in the past six weeks as I've slowly struggled to shed the lingering 25 pounds that are plaguing my plans to fit into dresses for various weddings, engagement parties and christenings that currently decorate my calendar. Seriously, why does everyone in the family and firehouse have to celebrate such big affairs when I look my absolute worst? The nerve.<br /><br />You know those ridiculously thin moms who smile and say they just simply can't find the time to eat? Those skinny-minis who claim running after the baby keeps them so active they don't even need to work out? Well, I hate those mothers.<br /><br />I love food. I always have. And no matter how many tasks I have to squeeze into any given marathon day, I always find time for lunch. And a snack. <br /><br />My friends and family say I look good, but what else do you say to a new mother? <br /><br />"Wow, you really packed on the pounds there. Do you plan on taking that off or do you like all of the extra insulation?"<br /><br />And any shades of slenderness on my part is all smoke and mirrors. It's amazing what you can do with a pair of Spanks.<br /><br />That's why I started working out again last week. <br /><br />Mainly because I washed the only pair of jeans that fit me and I couldn't button them. If I don't lose any weight, those jeans will just have to remain dirty until I do lose five pounds. My ego can't take another turn in the dryer. I'm also tired of wearing a girdle with my sweatpants. <br /><br />So I tried level one of the 30-Day Shred - one of those Biggest Loser DIY workouts I used to zoom through after I had Erin. (Or at least I remember zooming through it.)<br /><br />Jillian Michaels wasn't so nasty on this DVD before I got pregnant. <br /><br />Why is she yelling so loud? And why is my heart beating so fast? <br /><br />I did so many lunges I needed help sitting on the bowl the next day to pee. But I didn't feel svelte and sexy, I was just sore. And I only mourned "ice cream time" even more. (It was every night at nine.)<br /><br />Time to get serious. Back to kickboxing. Three nights in one week. I must have a death wish. Is it actually possible to break something doing a jumping-jack? <br /><br />Next up, Weight Watchers. Points. Yes, I can do this. <br /><br />Off to Pathmark to buy a week's worth of healthy foods.<br /><br />Wheeling through the produce section I'm confident. Bell Peppers for my salad. Bags of fresh baby spinach and bushels of vine ripe tomatoes - uncooked, they're 0 points!Told you I could romanticize food.<br /><br />Meats are next. Boneless breasts of chicken - I'll marinate and grill. This actually sounds appealing. <br /><br />Next aisle.<br /><br />Entenmann's full line sale. Ooh. Louisiana Crunch Cake. Chocolate Donut Sampler Pack. Abort. Abort. Time to focus, Jess. Think bathing suits, halter tops. Turn away and look at the soap, the mops. Anything to divert attention.<br /><br />Somehow I survived. And I've made it to day three of this diet. No big weight loss yet, but at least there's no gain. And I've actually found a few tips, tricks and delicious diet foods along the way.<br /><br />If I could only figure out how to make my thighs stop throbbing, I'd be set.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-56935535471602134142010-03-25T11:38:00.000-07:002010-03-25T13:57:13.197-07:00Build An Easter Bonnet, With All The Frills Upon It? Get Me My Glue GunThe news arrived sometime last week - typed on a slip of paper in Erin's backpack: "Easter Parade to be held on March 30, creative, fancy hats required." <br /><br />My inner bedazzler immediately jumped for joy. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I had four prototypes sketched out in my head. I was channeling Judy Garland, humming Irving Berlin, picturing Erin grandly strutting through the gym arm-in-arm with the likes of Fred Astaire and Peter Lawford.<br /><br />I could hardly wait to get home and whip out my glue gun.<br /><br />"Did anyone start making this hat yet?" one mother asked the next day at pick-up time.<br /><br />"No," someone else countered. "I'm completely dreading this."<br /><br />"Me too," another mom added. "I guess I'll just pour glitter all over it and try and make it look presentable."<br /><br />I nodded along. <br /><br />"Such a pain in the neck," I said. <br /><br />Fifteen mothers all agreeing over the extracurricular nuances of preschool. <br /><br />Normally, I'm on the same page as everyone else. The at-home projects, wrapping paper fundraisers and holiday goody-bag patrol can be completely overwhelming. But because I'm a closet crafter, this was an entirely different story. <br /><br />How could I admit in front of all these people that I had already been to three stores, cleaned Michael's clear out of glitter eggs and was planning a family hat decorating dinner party to celebrate the occasion?<br /><br />To be clear, I'm no overachiever. It's just that I've had a strange fascination with the arts and craft world since I was a kid. When my friends were riding bikes on the weekend, I was doing needlepoint. Hopscotch and hide-and-seek? Nope. I was making my own friendship bracelets, hooking rugs and trying my hand at a complicated paint-by-number. <br /><br />My sister predicted that I'd be making tissue-box cozies by the time I was in my thirties. She was close, I suppose.<br /><br />Last Friday night, I spread all of my craft-store bounty on my mother's dining room table and went to work.<br /><br />"Love this!" my mother - a fellow crafter - said as she pulled yellow glitter eggs and strings of lime green grosgrain ribbon out of my bags.<br /><br />For hours we cut, glued, laughed and introduced Erin to our weird and creative world. The house was ensconced in the warm smells of melting glue sticks. The sound of crinkling cellophane filled the room.<br /><br />"Could it get any better than this?" I thought as my mother and I fastened strips of velcro to a pink straw topper and filled in the gaps with very realistic-looking fake blades of grass.<br /><br />"She might have the most outrageous hat in the whole parade," my mother commented as we put the finishing touches on a bonnet that now measures more than one foot tall and weighs about three pounds.<br /><br />"I can't see, mommy," Erin said as we placed this monster on top of her head. "It's really heavy."<br /><br />Crap. Judy Garland's hat never made her fall over in that movie, right? <br /><br />So we made some adjustments, took a couple of the heavier items off and added a chin strap to fasten this thing down. Is it wrong to hot glue it to her head on the day of the parade?<br /><br />It might be a little outrageous, yes, but it sure was a lot of fun.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-76096341904552070822010-03-16T05:53:00.000-07:002010-03-16T09:26:02.664-07:00I Met Up With The Gambler - We Were Both Too Tired To SleepWhen I was about six- or seven-years-old, I formed a strange sort of fascination with all things Kenny Rogers. Don't ask how it happened. But if I had to pinpoint a reason, I guess I could blame my parents - they were fans of his music and they never stopped me when I belted out "Lady" in the shower or decided to sing a rendition of "The Gambler" at a school talent show. (Yeah, it's a painful memory, thanks mom and dad.) Whatever the reason, by the second or third grade, I was a full-fledged Kenny fanatic. <br /><br />A few weeks ago, when searching my own internal songbook for any sort of lullaby not currently covered by the Wiggles, I somehow returned to my Kenny Rogers roots.<br /><br />"Sing to me mommy," Erin requested during a particularly difficult bedtime session: Pat was working a 24, baby Jeremiah was unusually fussy and three books, a couple of cookies and some serious hypnotics had done nothing in terms of helping my toddler fall asleep.<br /><br />She couldn't be serious. I'm the girl that people usually ask to stop singing. I get booed at karaoke. People change seats at church. As Pop puts it, I can't carry a tune in a paper bag. <br /><br />But she pleaded and I was desperate, so I tried Twinkle, Twinkle. She loved it. I moved on to Itsy, Bitsy. Big hit. I pulled a Peter, Paul and Mary favorite out of my back pocket and she totally rocked out to Puff the Magic Dragon. But there was only one problem: We were one hour into this ritual and she was still wide awake. Command decision: I needed to move away from kid friendly and move on to something completely non-stimulating.<br /><br />I dug deep: The Eagles, Peaceful, Easy Feeling. Nice. She's dozing. But I only know the refrain. I start humming the rest, she opens her eyes. How 'bout Billy Joel? Piano Man. I sing "the microphone smells like a beer," and she starts to giggle. I realize all of the songs that I truly know by heart are bar music from a variety of jukeboxes - totally inappropriate for bedtime. Damn you Waterside. Damn that Budweiser minor I picked up in college.<br /><br />And then it came to me. <br /><br /><em>"On a warm summer's evening, on a train bound for nowhere, I met up with the Gambler, we were both too tired to sleep."</em><br /><br />She's completely still. Are her eyes closing? Yes!<br /><br /><em>"So we took turns a-staring, out the window in the darkness, til boredom overtook us and he began to speak..."</em><br /><br />I could have stopped, two lines and she was snoring. Jeremiah even liked it. He stared open-mouthed, eyes wide open. I think he was in awe of my lyrical interpretation. But then again, it probably was gas. Either way, I was impressing myself, so I sang some more.<br /><br /><em>"He said son, I've made a life out of reading people's faces, knowing what their cards were by the way they held their eyes...and if you don't mind my saying, I can see you're out of aces, for a taste of your whiskey, I'll give you some advice."</em><br /><br />How could I remember all of these words after 25 years?<br /><br /><em>"So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow, then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light. And the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression, if you're gonna play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right."</em><br /><br />This is like poetry.<br /><br /><em>"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table, there'll be time enough for counting when the dealings done."</em><br /><br />Could this possibly be my answer to bedtime woes? A couple of verses about dead cowboys and whiskey? I tried it a few more times that week and each night it worked like a charm.<br /><br />A few nights later, I read the obligatory books - Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty - before Erin turned to me and asked for a little music.<br /><br />"Can you sing that song about the train again?" she said.<br /><br />"The Gambler?" I countered.<br /><br />"Yeah, the one with the cards and the whiskey," she said.<br /><br />Awesome, I thought, I really hope she doesn't tell her preschool teacher that I sing her songs about beer and whiskey at night.<br /><br />And so the tradition of Kenny continues. Bedtime might be for stories and cuddling, but in the Gorman house, I take requests.<br /><br />YTJ4AW96DW94Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-69598239986158171212010-02-28T18:20:00.000-08:002010-02-28T19:29:55.874-08:00All Of That Butt-Wiping Actually Has Some BenefitsAt one point, there were 17 dresses in the fitting room. I tried the ruffle thing, experimented with something ruched and silently sobbed over at least a dozen other tricks and tips I picked up while watching "What Not To Wear."<br /><br />The nerve of my husband's cousin for planning his wedding five weeks after I give birth. Don't you think my body image should have been a factor when they picked the date for this big affair? <br /><br />But whether I like it or not, the big day is Friday and I doubt the bride will be pleased if I show up in sweatpants. (Seriously, does anyone have any tips for dressing them up?)<br /><br />So I journeyed in the snow to Woodbridge Mall on Saturday, hitting up every department store in search of whatever style would make me appear least pregnant. Can you imagine the horror if some distant in-law approaches with the question of "so when's this baby due?"<br /><br />My daughter Erin was delighted by the idea of shopping with Mom. "Fashion show!" she bellowed before I even slipped into dress number one. But the pain, disappointment and utter horror that followed was something that no one saw coming.<br /><br />"But I'm a size six, really," I told my husband, who was lovingly fetching bigger sizes and styles for me each time I tossed something over the door - all while juggling and feeding baby Gorman in the obligatory men's waiting room.<br /><br />And there it was: the tell-tale sign of all of that ice cream I ate in month seven - a size 14 silk-satin number that was literally my last shot.<br /><br />"That's the biggest one," Pat said, as kindly as he could.<br /><br />The tears immediately started streaming. Before I could even slip this horrible sized-all-wrong frock over one boob, my arm fat was flying, the after-baby pouch was clearly visible and the zipper didn't make it over my back cleavage. Believe me, my three-year-old tried.<br /><br />"How could women's clothing be sized so unevenly?" I protested, blaming the baby fat on anyone else but myself.<br /><br />"Jess, you just had a baby," Pat countered. "Who cares about a dress, look at the miracle you just brought into this world."<br /><br />How could he be so insensitive? Doesn't he know there's only so much control-top pantyhose can do for my self-esteem?<br /><br />So I basically gave up.<br /><br />"I'll stay home," I said, literally giving in to all of those stupid ready-to-wear designers who obviously have never had children. Or never had to go to a wedding one month after having a C-section. Ever.<br /><br />But on the way out of the store, Erin gravitated toward a rack full of purple chiffon.<br /><br />"Don't touch," I scolded, eyeing the BCBG hangtags and remembering her chocolate-cookie fingers. "Those are really expensive dresses."<br /><br />And then I felt it as I tugged it out of her hand: Beautiful, soft, silky satin - for 50 percent off.<br /><br />"Get this one," Erin said, spinning through the rack, arms wide open, her chubby fingers touching every magical thread. Back to the fitting room, maybe this could actually work.<br /><br />And it did. Somewhere, in the otherwise skinny world of fashion, someone actually designed a somewhat fashionable dress - with sleeves! It was flowy, forgiving and even a little Kardashian-esque. (Super chic, but still big enough for girls with junk in their trunks.)<br /><br />Finally, I felt confident enough to give Erin her fashion show. I ducked out of the dressing room, gave a little twirl and her face lit up.<br /><br />"Mommy, you're beeeeautiful!" she shouted.<br /><br />Now the tears really started flowing, but it was only because I felt so good. I'm the one who wipes her butt, so she has to love me, but she looked at me the same way she looked at Cinderella when we took her to Disney World last year. <br /><br />"Purple makes you pretty," she said. <br /><br />And I sobbed even harder as I changed back into my frumpy sweats. It simply amazed me how a toddler could see beyond my flabby exterior and make me feel so genuinely gorgeous. <br /><br />If only Lord & Taylor had an Erin in every department, the fashion world would be a much happier place.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-46912549260478143112010-02-28T08:54:00.000-08:002010-02-28T09:38:14.511-08:00Goodbye Breastpump, Hello Guilt<em>Dear Breastpump,<br /><br />I regret to inform you that after only one month of a very contentious relationship, (four weeks, four days and a couple of hours, actually) I no longer need your services.<br /><br />It's nothing personal, really, I just feel as though we've grown apart and I honestly cannot be attached to you five or six times a day.<br /><br />So many people have tried to convince me otherwise, lecturing incessantly on the benefits that a year or more of nursing provides, but I feel like I have to simply go with my gut on this one.<br /><br />For the record, I know that breast milk is nature's most perfect food, I am completely aware of the bonding that occurs between mom and baby during the process and I've been fully schooled on the allergy and asthma prevention that nursing provides. But all of the pain, infection and general life consumption tell me it's time to part ways. I know I sound like a monster, but seriously, that cannot be what these things were made for.<br /><br />My daughter said it perfectly the other day when she cried out in defiance over losing her best friend to the Medela Pump In Style: "I need my mommy back," she sobbed, when I put off playing, baths and lunch for what seemed like the hundredth time that week. "You were so much nicer before the baby made you use that machine."<br /><br />Yes, I am consumed with guilt and worry every second that this little newborn munchkin is getting all the nutrition he needs. But I'm firm believer that God fortified Similac with iron for a reason. And the time I've regained with my daughter is priceless.<br /><br />So I'm calling it quits and will stuff you back in the closet until we bring another possible Gorman into this world. (But don't get your hopes up.) Until then, I will not think of you at all. Eventually the guilt will subside, but in the meantime I'm cooking up some spicy food and having a cocktail.<br /><br />No dumping necessary.<br /><br />Best.<br />Jessica</em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4646472030506705502.post-29004095045290153492010-02-23T06:30:00.000-08:002010-02-28T08:54:05.014-08:00When God Created Mothers, He Made Me Extra LeakyBack in 1974, veteran humorist Erma Bombeck penned and published a touching Mother's Day tribute about the very moment when God created mothers.<br /><br />"She has to be completely washable, but not plastic," the Lord tells an angel in Bombeck's column. "(She should) have 180 movable parts... all replaceable; run on black coffee and leftovers; have a lap that disappears when she stands up; a kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair; and six pairs of hands.”<br /><br />According to Bombeck - a devout Catholic and mother of three herself - the Lord said mothers also need three pairs of eyes, the talent to feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger and a tough-as-nails exterior that can endure almost anything.<br /><br />It's been four weeks since we brought our newborn son home from the hospital, and during that time, as I've tried to balance my attention between an infant's needs and the natural adjustment period of my three-year-old daughter, I've thought a lot about Bombeck's words.<br /><br />Have I felt the need to be completely washable? Absolutely. Especially at 3 a.m. this morning when this baby regurgitated Similac down my neck and projectile pooped on my pajamas at the very same time.<br /><br />Have I been looking for those five other pairs of hands? Every minute of every day.<br /><br />How about the black coffee and leftovers? I take mine with sugar and cream, but that's basically the only difference.<br /><br />When it comes to kissing boo-boos and balancing a family, Erma really knew how difficult "doing it all" could be. I suppose that's why in Bombeck's vision, sometime during the creation process, God's angel finds a flaw: A leak coming from the model mother's eye, dripping down her cheek and staining her face.<br /><br />“There’s a leak,” the angel pronounces. “I told You You were trying to push too much into this model.” <br /><br />But it wasn't a leak, it was a tear, God responded, respresenting all of the joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride a mother experiences on a daily basis. <br /><br />And for the past month, as I've continually cried for no reason - during midnight feedings, at the dinner table and when my husband or my daughter or my son does anything remotely sentimental - I've thought about my own leaks.<br /><br />Yes, the constant flow of post-pregnancy hormones have made me extra weepy and sleep deprivation is an amazingly emotional experience. But as I sit here, blogging with one hand and burping with the other, I realize that my extra-leaky exterior is also an indication of my super-duper mommy resolve.<br /><br />In the process of building our family, I've joined a very special club: A sisterhood of women who do it all, rarely complain and juggle all of life's ups and downs with a God-given grace.<br /><br />How do mothers manage a home, a family and all of the other incredibly important daily details? The coffee helps, but thankfully, we're all waterproof too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15340214988018956635noreply@blogger.com2