Dirty Little Secret

I was a picky eater as a child. My cousins like to remind of the phase I went through when I wouldn’t eat green food because it was my favorite color. (Just for the record, that wasn’t really it. It was because I hated most green foods. Especially lima beans. And broccoli.)

Naturally, I assumed that my own children would not have to rebel in this way. I wouldn’t demand that they eat their vegetables, I would simply present them with healthy choices and eventually they would find fruits and vegetables that they liked.

Karma is such a bitch, isn’t she?

My children are worse than I ever was. They don’t even eat pasta or cold cuts, let alone vegetables. The only fruit Ironflower eats willingly is apples.

So we decided to try a more forceful strategy. Now they can’t be excused without trying  everything on their plates. We figured that if they tried enough new things, they’d learn to like some of them. According to the parenting magazines, it can take 20 tries. We knew we’d have to be consistent and persistent. We were prepared for that.

We were not prepared for Ironflower, however. At 5, Ironflower has the will of an Olympian. An Olympian who refuses to eat any vegetables. Recently we’ve been working on baby carrots. (Do not tell me about dipping. The child won’t use any dip but ketchup, and then only on some kinds of french fries.)

Is one bite of carrot really such an unreasonable request?

The child has refused the carrot 4 times now. Each time she has not been excused from the table. She has stayed there until bedtime. FOUR TIMES.

I mean, she’s KNOWS we’re serious. She KNOWS that we’re not going to give in. And yet. . .

She won’t take ONE FREAKING BITE OF CARROT.

We’ve had the same issue with peas. And green beans. And pears.

But carrots, dude. Even I liked them as a child.

Anyone got advice they can pass on before dinner this evening? Because I’m getting kind of desperate.

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So I painted Lovebug’s nails the other night.

Why?

Because my almost 4 year son asked me to, that’s why. He asked without whining, with just the sweetest expression on his face. I had just painted Ironflower’s nails a lovely pink. I started painting her nails a few years ago to get her to stop sucking her thumb. Totally worked, but now she wants me to keep doing it.

Plus we may have watched RuPaul’s Drag Race together. (Look Hot Guy’s been gone a lot lately and sometimes I need adult TV that isn’t going to scare the kids. Plus, hello? Drag Queens? I totally wish I could be one.)

Anyway, the point is that I pointed my son’s nails. I used clear, which I explained as the appropriate color for boys (unless they are drag queens, but I didn’t want to remind him of that, because what if he’d then asked for red? I’m sure our family already gives the staff of their preschool enough laughs.)

I like to think of myself as a feminist. I raise my children to think that they can be anything, that toilet cleaning knows no gender and that drag queens are cool. But my boys are obsessed with trains and cars and my daughter loves princess Barbies. . . . . .and I’m really comfortable with that.

I felt sheepish when Hot Guy asked me why Lovebug’s nails were so shiny. He just shook his head at me while refraining from comment.

So I’m curious to hear from other adults, would you paint your son’s nails? And if so, would you force clear on him? Or let him go his own creative way?

(I want to state for the record that if he wants to paint his own nails when he’s a teenager or an adult, I’m fine with it. It’s the fact that’s he so little and that someday he may call me from his therapist’s office and talk about how I feminized him as a preschooler that freaks me out.)

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The other day I was watching an episode of Mercy (because I am addicted to watching TV on Hulu and I ran out of shows I normally watch and it’s kind of like Grey’s Anatomy but with nurses) and I had a flashback to my single years.

In the episode, one of the nurses thinks she’s found this wonderful guy. But it turns out that he’s married, which she discovers when his wife and her two friends humiliate her at a restaurant (worth noting: one of the trashy, loudmouthed friends was played by one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. . .typecasting, yes?).

You see, once upon a time, I too met this great guy. He was gorgeous, rich, smart, funny, charming and kind. And he thought I was awesome.

Would you like to know why?

It wasn’t really my own looks, smarts or charm (not that I was a loser or anything, but this guy. . .WOW). It was because I already knew he was married.

So I wouldn’t date him. We’d run into each other, we’d flirt, he’d buy me drinks and then I would go home. And he thought that made me the greatest thing since sliced bread. I thought it made me . . . .not an idiot. So I’m not saying I was in the position of the girl on the show – I was not dating the guy and I knew he was married – but if his wife had been bothered by the unknowing women he WAS dating (yeah, that’s a euphemism) or by his friendship with me. . .who do you think she would have gotten pissed at?

That just seems so wrong to me. HE was the one betraying the marriage (or not, to hear him tell it she was off doing her own thing as well but I never ran into her) like the guy on Mercy. . . . and Brad Pitt. (C’mon, we all know he cheated with Angelina. We may have gotten over it, but I will always be on Team Aniston.)

What do you think? When a guy cheats, is it really because of some seductive woman? Or is it because he’s a cheater?

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Dear Stop and Shop,

I don’t have a lot of willpower. I cope with stress through vices and since  I don’t find hangovers and smoker’s cough compatible with motherhood, I’ve turned to chocolate. (Also french fries. But not from your store. Because frozen french fries don’t do it for me. What was I talking about?)

Anyway, recently I’ve been trying to cut back on the chocolate. Because constantly having to buy new (larger) jeans for myself? Also not compatible with motherhood.

And speaking of compatibility, do you really have to put your bakery-made chocolate chip cookies on a special table right in front of the milk? Seriously? Let me tell you, those chocolate cookies you guys make are GOOD. Not quite as good as my mom’s, but very, very yummy. They have an addictive quality, I think. I mean, I’d avoided the bakery area on the other side of the damn store so I wouldn’t be tempted. But there they were. . . . . .right in front of the one place I can never avoid.

Are you evil, Stop and Shop?

I mean, I know you want to move as much product as possible. . .but you seriously cannot get to the milk  without being in cookie grabbing distance. That’s not product placement, that’s torture.

In conclusion, let me just stay this:

Move the damn  cookies or I’m sending you my clothing bills.

Thank you for your time,

Jerseygirl89

PS

Please do not send me a form letter about eating more vegetables or the benefits of meditation. If you would really like to prevent me from going on a cookie rampage, add a martini bar (and a daycare) to your facility.

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I live in a place where people range from comfortable to wow-is-that-a-Murano-glass-chandelier-in-your-toddler’s-bedroom?-rich. And because of all the perks of living in such a place – the safety, the amazing public schools, the proximity to cultural events, the fact that no one wears house slippers to the grocery store – I try to ignore all the things that bother me about living in such abundance (I didn’t say I always succeeded. I just said I’d try.)

But I can’t ignore this one.

There are a few places that I tend to visit nearly every day. Because my life is exciting like that. Anyway, two of my local places have put out jars to collect change for the people in Haiti. Both places are reputable and reliable and will donate the money without a doubt. If they had any money to donate.

In one place, the jar is empty. In another, where it has been up for a week, it is nearly so.

I would like to think that all of my neighbors have driven their Porsche Cayennes and Ranger Rovers to their banks so that they can wire thousands of dollars to Haiti. I would like to think that they are all too busy using their credit cards to carry change to put in the jars. I would like to think that they just haven’t noticed the jars.

But the jars are rather obvious. In one case, there was even an email about the jar. And who doesn’t keep change in their car?

Every day, when I drop in all the change I can scrounge up, I keep hoping that the jars will be full. Maybe I’m obsessed with them because I can’t write a huge check or volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe they just seem so important to me because helping to fill them is all I can do. Maybe this is why I’ll never own a Range Rover – I can’t save money worth a damn.

Would this bother you? Does the idea of the empty change jars in what is literally one of the wealthiest counties in the country bother you? Or am I just being bitchy again?

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When I grow up, I’m going to stop caring what people think about me.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if I worked really hard to fit in and make people like me. But I did that in high school and I’m kind of over it now. It would be one thing if I didn’t already have friends. It would be one thing if I was running for office.

But I’m not running for office. Hell, I couldn’t even handle being a class mom. And let’s face it, if I was trying to make people like me my blog probably wouldn’t be a constant bitchfest about stupid people and/or why my children are more awesome and more challenging than average. I would probably repost those status updates on Facebook that describe how awesome my mother and my husband are.

If I wanted more people around here to like me, I would probably spend a lot more money on clothes. I would also probably remember more people’s names. Oh, and I might stop talking so much (look, I don’t get out a lot. I get a little excited.) Maybe I’d even be more patient when the woman ahead of me at the grocery store has to run back through the aisles FOUR times to get stuff she forgot and then pays with PENNIES (although you’d think refraining from punching her would make me likable enough).

But I’m not in high school anymore (Even though I have theory that life is really just a big version of high school, the lack of blue eyeshadow and the presence of wrinkles should be enough to remind me that actual high school, is, in fact, over). I would rather spend money on my family. And clearly I’m not going to grow out of this bitch phase. The patience for others is not going to magically appear.

So why does it bother me so much when people don’t like me? Especially if, as is generally the case, I don’t like them either. Is it just because my WASP background makes me believe that dislike should be buried so far under politeness that you can never even be sure if it’s really there? Like these people are disrespecting me by being so obvious about it?

Or is it because at heart I”m still a 13 year old girl (and the fact that I actually get more zits now is just a little young-at-heart bonus)?

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I am sorry to post this blog on your day, Dr. King. I know that it is the opposite of tolerance and love for fellow man, but I feel like you would understand.

This may be a foreshadowing of the grumpy old lady I’m becoming, in which case I look forward to smacking these people with my cane someday. . .

1. Pat Robertson. For being everything that’s wrong with today’s Evangelical movement as well as a bigoted ignoramus. Jesus would be helping in Haiti, asshole.

2. The Jersey Shore cast. Not because they’re ignorant trash who are making more money than I am, but because ONLY ONE OF THEM IS ACTUALLY FROM NEW JERSEY.  Spending a summer on the Jersey shore does not make you from New Jersey, capiche?

3. John Gosselin. It’s not like he spends time with his kids any more anyway, and maybe all of his young girlfriends would follow him. Although this whole story is a great case in point about the dangers of marrying young and treating your husband like one of the kids.

4. Glenn Beck. Pandering to the ignorant is so mercenary.

5.The creator of Yo Gabba Gabba. That show is just freaking WEIRD, yet even the baby stares at it if it’s on. And the songs stick in my head for days.

6. My local nemesis. He’s an overbearing stay-at-home dad I see around town all the time who has published a novel based on bashing the people in his playgroup. We’ve met countless times  and have kids the same age and he refuses to remember who I am or speak to me. And his kids are RUDE.

7. The head of NBC programming. First, there’s the fact that Friday Night Lights, one of the best shows on television, is treated like a second-class citizen (WHEN are you putting it on the network? WHEN?). Then there’s was the blatant idiocy of giving Leno 10 o’clock, screwing over Conan and Jimmy somewhat, not to mention all the quality shows that could have gone on then (ie Friday Night Lights, Criminal Intent). And now there’s the end of the 10 o’clock show and all this stupid fighting. But I might let him/her eventually back for approving Community. I like that show.

8. The casting director of the Twilight series. Yeah, I got into the books. Though I’m still not sure why. But I haven’t seen any of the movies and I never will. Robert Pattinson is not hot enough to be Edward and he never will be.

*I know that most, if not all, of these people are American citizens and can’t technically be deported. But it sounds nicer than “shot”.

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I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.

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The only New Year’s resolution I’ve really kept – for years and years – is the one I’ve never told anyone about. When I thought of it, I was a semi-shallow 17 year old. Now, (slightly) more than 20 years later, I still keep my nails neatly painted (clear counts, okay? My resolution, my rules.)

Now that I’ve mentioned it, I will probably have a horrible nail accident that prevents me from painting them for the next six months.

Anyway, I don’t talk about my resolutions anymore, for the most part. Partly because I tend to keep them so easy and manageable (”I will not let gray show in my hair for at least another 5 years,” “I will reorganize the hall closet”, “I will stop drinking wine because it gives me a headache”) that they don’t seem a proper response when someone tells me that her resolution is to run a marathon that year. And partly because I’m superstitious that if I tell everyone then my resolution will fail.

Not that I haven’t had plenty resolutions fail anyway. Such as last year’s “lose weight” and “stop yelling”. So this year one of my resolutions is, “Stop being superstitious about New Year’s resolutions”.

Another resolution I’m going to share with the 4 of you that still read this blog:

Chill the Fuck Out.

Yep, my resolution is so rebellious that it contains the F word.

Every year, I resolve to be a better mother, a better wife, a better daughter, a better friend. I plan to lose weight (except for 2008, when I planned to at least not gain weight and got pregnant a month later), eat healthier, exercise more, clean the house more, be more organized, take my writing more seriously, manage our limited financial resources better, create interesting projects for my children each day, learn to cook, make more money, learn Spanish, develop a supplemental home curriculum to boost my children’s learning, to volunteer at the preschool more and to never yell at my children.

Sure, I”ve made improvements in some of those areas. But mostly, I’ve just felt like a failure. And failures are not happy people, just in case you didn’t know. I know that there are people out there who do all of the above and more. Goddess bless them, it’s time to face the fact that I will not be joining their ranks.

Oh, I’m going to keep trying to be better. Much as I might be tempted to give up and turn into Peggy Bundy, I’d be bored in two days weeks. But when I don’t succeed, I’m going to chill the fuck out. And when I’m driving myself crazy to match up with the image I have of good mothers/writers/housewives, I’m going to chill the fuck out.

I’ve started small this week, because I’ve also finally accepted the fact that I’m better with small steps and not grand gestures. So this week, I’ve chilled out about the morning. For some reason, no matter how early we get up, I’ve always felt the need to hurry my kids in the morning. I’ve been wanting them to dress faster, move faster and eat faster for months (consequently I think that they’ve started to do things more and more slowly, but that’s another post) so that we could get to school on time.

So what if we were grumpy and harassed when I dropped them off? At least I’d fulfilled the good mother checklist of getting them there on time.

On the chill the fuck out approach, I’ve stoppped hurrying them. I’ve even stopped setting my alarm, because Lovebug will always wake early and thus so will I. And hearing him play is much nicer than the buzz of my alarm clock. I tell them what to do (and I’ve hedged my bets by laying out their clothes the night before) and then I just let them do it. I don’t rush them. We have conversations and hugs. I don’t offer dire warnings of starving until snack time while they talk instead of eating at breakfast.

Here’s the strange part: We actually made it to school on time every day this week.

I think I might really like this resolution.

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That’s what my son said today, after I prompted him to say good-bye to a boy from Ironflower’s class. The kids like to run around a bit after being picked up from preschool, because apparently freezing temperatures, a biting wind and snow on the ground are not half as important as playing with their classmates for an extra few minutes. Today I’d seen Lovebug argue with the boy, a nice kid from Ironflower’s class. As it didn’t get physical and no one came to me about it, I figured all was well.

Until, as we walked to our car with the boy and his mom, my son said, “Good-bye, you bitch.” The look of shock on her face combined with the shock I felt made me giggle. I covered my mouth. I made him apologize. I repeated, “We don’t call people that” like a mantra.

But of course, we do call people that. Not me, actually – my favorite word, as I’ve mentioned, is “shit.” But my husband and possibly my brother-in-law prefer the term “bitch”.  We just spent 10 days at my in-laws, a number of them snowed in. Add in the 3 days driving there and the 3 days driving home and well, we’ve had a lot of togetherness lately. (Yes, you read that correctly. Three days in the car back to the farm outside of Kansas City, 9 days in a house with no internet, and three days home.  And we’re all more or less intact.)

None of which excuses the fact that we’ve been swearing in front of the children again. Well, in front of Lovebug. Ironflower doesn’t seem to notice most of what we say (even when it’s directed at her), but Lovebug is like a little sponge. A sponge that called a bigger boy a bitch in front of his mother.

I personally don’t care much about swearing, which is good since that would make me a total hypocrite. But name-calling really disturbs me. Maybe it’s because I can still remember being called names – that still echo in my head – as a child, but don’t even notice most swear words anymore. The only reason I haven’t hijacked all of Lovebug’s Thomas trains is that I don’t think he knew that he was name-calling.

But he’d better remember next time.

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