Good Thing I Like Me

Note to Self:

Before letting your 7 year old daughter watch you shower, make sure you have a very strong sense of self.

Apparently Molly would rather forgo puberty altogether if it means turning into such as vile, disgusting specimen as her dear mother.

All said in the nicest of ways, of course.

Picture This

I try to put a picture with every post, but I can’t always come up with one. Sometimes the photos of me are flattering, other times not so much. I’m not too happy that the recent pictures of me show significant signs of aging. Photoshop isn’t my thing, but it would be nice to touch them up a bit.

So why don’t I just leave the pictures of me out altogether since the kids and the dog are much younger and cuter and are such willing subjects? Because I’m the mom, that’s why.

After my mother died, I searched through piles of photos, absolutely hungry for images of her. I found quite a few from her younger years—homecoming queen, college student, young bride-- or as I used to so eloquently say to her, “Back when you were pretty, Mommy!” I had a collage made for my dorm room wall, all featuring pictures of her, but still I wanted more.

I watched our few home movies, by then converted to VHS, but I saw only one fleeting image of her, merely a second long. Her voice, which I forgot two days after she died, remained elusive as I listened to tiny answering machine tapes in the hopes of hearing it just one more time. My friends still had her voice in their heads, but for me it was gone.

It seems that moms just aren’t in that many pictures. Either we are always the ones taking them, or we avoid the camera because we think we won’t look good.

Indeed, our kids sometimes wield the camera and snap pictures straight up our nostrils or of the cellulite on the back of our thighs. Not pretty. Every picture Molly takes of me looks like a surprised Hillary Clinton. This is one of the LEAST crazy looking ones she's taken of me...

More likely, however, child photographers will take pictures of Lego creations or pets. I don’t mind, since cameras are digital and images now limitless, but that didn’t go over very well in the 70’s when I was growing up.

One roll of film usually carried my family from the first day of school through to Easter, so my mom didn’t look too kindly on what she considered “wasted” pictures taken by the kids.

My personal favorite was my series entitled “Cat in a Paper Bag.”

Unfortunately, none of the cat showed. Mom finally put her foot down after yet another set of blurry hamster pics and made the NO ANIMALS or SCENERY rule. To this day, I have a hard time taking a picture without a person in it.

In the 80’s, we got more leeway and camera rights and we got my mom in a few more shots, but I will always regret that she died during the Disc Camera era—crappier, blurrier pictures there have never been.

I still can’t seem to get it together enough to have professional pictures taken of my family. I guess it’s too late to get those gorgeous, artsy pictures of the kids with naked hineys or tiny hands curled around mine. 7 ½ and 10 years old would be pushing it, right? But I do try to have my little camera ready to capture special moments when they arise.

And I’m determined to make sure the camera turns around on me, too.

When I look at shots of myself, I may see wrinkles, a stubborn lack of exercise and an inch of gray, but someday my kids will just see…MOM.

And So It Has Come to This...

Fine. Consider it cruelty animals, but those mousetraps aren’t set (right now, at least) and someone in this house needs to learn that a kitchen table is for eating dinner, not being pranced on by a 60 lb lab every time we leave the house.

In the Blink of a (Red) Eye

Have you ever seen one of those TV shows where you get an inner monologue of what’s going on inside a person’s mind? I think this is highly unrealistic, because I KNOW there’s a heck of a lot more going on in the average person’s mind than just a random thought or two. At least this is true of my own mind at any given moment.

The running commentary in my head ranges from the mundane to the wacky to the outrageous, and I am glad it stays private. It could be a personal pep talk, a petty gripe, or an irrational fear depending on the second. If I tried to share this info with you, you would either die of boredom, think I’m crazy, or both.

I can be driving in the car, looking out the window, and I’ll go from, “Whoa, I didn’t know they even made pants like that anymore,” to thinking about pantiliners or my bra, wondering why people call Alzheimer’s “Al-timers” or “Old-Timers,” feeling lonely—or itchy—or witchy, wondering what a shmoo is, or pondering my faith all in the time it takes to blink.

The good news is that women are known for being great multi-taskers. Grocery lists during intimate moments anyone? Yeah, NEVER at this house either, but you know what I mean.

We also have pretty good filters, preventing us from indulging in TMI, except occasionally in the blog world. A blog can be a great place for a brain dump, now and then, and the sharing of stuff you wouldn’t feel comfortable bringing up in the line at Target. What I like about blogs, however, is not hearing every little thought that goes through someone’s mind, or happens in her day, but knowing what she thinks about it, and what significance it has to her.

For instance, I could tell you that in the above picture, one of my eyes is killing me because I inadvertently left a tiny sliver of Irish Spring under one fingernail after my shower And in the middle of my kids' music concert I touched my eye, thereby lodging said sliver in it. Then, to avoid screaming in pain and disrupting the concert I ran out of the room and began flushing it with water in the bathroom sink. And when I got back I had to sit with my head in my hands for the duration of the concert. And then I looked like a red-eyed freak as I avoided the sweet lady who had called me to help her with the post-concert reception, but whom I never called back because I'm a loser. And the whole time I was extra tired anyway because I'd just started my period....

You get the picture, so I won't go on.

God is the only one who is privy to everything going on in our lives and to our unfiltered thoughts. Fortunately, He’s big enough to handle them.

If you are still awake reading this, I’d like to apologize for the times I veer (and will continue to veer) toward the side of TMI.

Let me just say, tip of the iceberg, baby.

It's Child's Play

Sorry for the blog silence. I’ve had a busy week being away and then dealing with end of the school year stuff. Just wanted to pop in for a quick shout-out to Blockbuster.

Thanks, Blockbuster, for putting freakazoid movie covers featuring “Chucky”—of “Child’s Play” fame-- near family friendly titles like “Firehouse Dog,” which my family rented while I was away.

You see, I didn’t get quite tired enough helping out at the church retreat. Three nights of sleeping in the church basement on an air mattress didn’t wear me out completely.

I had to come home just in time to surrender prime real estate on my side of the bed because my kids were so terrified by the scissor wielding psycho doll you so kindly introduced them to.

In Your Debt,

Anna See

p.s. As least my bed is made.

The Suite Life

The above photo is of Molly’s bed.

Here’s Jake’s:

Which kid do you think is earning $1.00 a day to make Mom and Dad’s bed?

Yep. Bereft at the idea that he is broke and there are apparently more Legos in this world not yet residing in our house, Jake had to find money to feed his habit.

His birthday is almost 10 months away, and the kids don’t get an allowance, so things were not looking good. When he proposed making the bed for me, I said sure. Now I’m realizing that if he keeps this up all year I’ll be out $365!

I’ve got to say, he is a great bed maker. All 6 pillows plumped and lined up. Sheets tucked in, not just pulled up the way I usually do before I sneak out my side.

There is something to be said for being able to climb into a bed made my someone else. It feels decadent and luxurious. I get the same feeling when I eat a meal someone else has cooked.

I'm not sure how long this will last, but I’m really enjoying it. It’s kind of like being in a hotel but without having the whole blue light, body fluid heebie-jeebie thing going on-- or am I the only one who thinks about those things?

Anyway, I plan to enjoy this luxury while it lasts. Do you think I can get him to put chocolate on the pillows next week?

Sleepy? Meet Grumpy.

We are always telling our kids to “use their words” instead of lashing out in anger or frustration. Sometimes in the few minutes after school ends, but before we can get a snack, our minivan seems more like it's carrying zoo animals, instead of a mom, a dog, and two kids. Sometimes there is sluggish silence, other times guttural groaning, and occasionally animated interaction.

When I think about everything that could have taken place while the kids have been at school, I wonder how they can even be lucid at this point. We’ve heard how asking kids, “How was your day?” is generally ineffective, and I think it would take a lot of maturity and self-awareness to be able to put into words the essence of all that transpired: sitting still, writing, navigating social waters, taking tests, playing musical instruments, getting in trouble, wondering who is best friends with whom, being hungry, using self-control…

The highs and lows in this 6 ½ hour time span are boggling to me. During that same 6 ½ hours I’ve had time alone at home, in my car, on the computer, and at work. These 2 little introverts of mine have been “on” all day long.

Sometimes we don’t always know what makes those around us grumpy. It took me 10 years to realize that Tom’s occasional stony silence and sourpuss looks probably had more to do with the Yankees losing than anything the kids or I had done. I know now to ask my generally pleasant husband, “Was there a big game last night?”

For the kids, grumpiness can come from anything from a scratchy tag to feeling left out in the neighborhood or wondering if a friend still likes them.

The things that get me grumpy are endless. Have I been fed in the last 3 hours? Do I have to pee? Did I get enough sleep? Okay, I know I sound like a newborn, but, truly, any of these can throw me off.

What about the morning newspaper? Can I find the Style section? Have I had caffeine? Ok, what about shoes? If my shoes are uncomfortable, watch out!

So if physical discomforts can send me into a tailspin, what about the larger issues—spiritual, social, relational? And people who are really, really needy? Yep, that throws me off, too.

I remember standing in the high school hallway with a colleague who insisted on detailing his Julius Caesar lesson plan to me at 5 pm. I tried to be polite and interested, but after a while, my mind went elsewhere. I had been there since 6:30 am for heaven’s sake-- would this guy ever stop talking?

He accused me of not giving him my full attention, which was true, but would he have chosen reality over my superficial nodding? Would he have preferred knowing that I was in a dire tampon emergency situation and that my mind was…elsewhere?

I guess what I’m saying is we don’t ever know what’s really going with other people. Sometimes we aren’t even self-aware enough to know what’s going on with us.

I was super grumpy to Tom and the kids this morning because I’m feeling stressed about being away Thursday through Sunday. Was I really pissed that Molly couldn’t find a uniform shirt to suit her fancy, or was I thinking about all the laundry I’ve done and have yet to do before leaving tomorrow?

When my kids are grumpy, I try to give them grace, knowing that while they can’t be disrespectful or hateful, home should be a safe place where they can relax and recharge.

When I’m grumpy, they tend to give me my space—“Look out—here comes Mom.” I know my grumpiness is NOT good model of “using my words”—as I huff and puff and sigh and pace throughout the house.

But home needs to be a safe place for Mom, too. I guess I could wear a little sign that says, "It's not You, it's Me" unless, of course, it isn't.