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Daughter 2 FINALLY finished her birthday celebration this weekend and all I have to say about that is Whew!
I do this to myself every year. Daughter 1 celebrates her birthday right before Christmas and Daughter 2 celebrates right after Christmas. So, from November to February we do nothing but celebrate! And as soon as Daughter 2’s celebration wraps up, we start planning for the Birthday/Christmas celebration again! (For those of you keeping track, yes… I’m a bit obsessive. What of it?)
Daughter 2 decided that she wanted a beach birthday party (in January!). She would wear a coconut bra, a grass skirt and hand out leis as her little friends came in the door. I LOVED it! I researched cakes and party favors and we were sitting on go by the time Christmas was done. Sort of.
The weekend before her birthday party, I remembered that we didn’t have the coconut bra nor did we have a grass skirt. Nor did we have the leis. Or the umbrellas and palm tree picks for the cupcakes. Oh. And I hadn’t ordered cupcakes.
Luckily, as hard as this is to imagine, I was out of town that weekend at a conference. The “luckily” part is that I was in a much bigger city than our own and they had much more opportunities to shop! The first day of the conference, I asked around to see where I could buy a coconut bra and a grass skirt and other “party favors”. One nice-enough-looking grandmotherly-type conference go-er gave me great directions to a “cute little shop” where she gets all of her costumes and party favors called, “Let’s Party!” (The exclamation point was part of the official name.)
That night, I walked into “Let’s Party” and was greeted by an amazing array of party favors and costumes… most of which were endorsed by Pamela Anderson and/or Kid Rock. None of which would be any kind of appropriate for any kind of party which would involve any kind of mixed company (unless, of course, that mixed company was Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock!).
The next day, I steered clear of Loose Grandma and asked around again and got decent directions to a one-stop party shop (that was appropriate for all ages). I was able to get everything we needed at one stop!! (This left me with enough time to make a stop for The Dad back at “Let’s Party!” – but that’s a totally different post!)
The actual birthday-DAY arrived and Daughter 2 insisted on going to The Taco Place because when it’s your birthday, they’ll bring out “sopapillas with whipped cream and smear the whipped cream on your nose, Momma!” (Maybe I should have gotten her party favors at “Let’s Party!”) Since we had a few extra kids with us, The Dad decided we should go to The Taco Joint instead – because kid’s eat free! Daughter 2 pouted the whole time (even though their menus are EXACTLY the same) right up until they brought out the birthday sopapilla and smeared whipped cream on her nose. AND… that was just celebration numero uno, mi amigos!
Since Nana didn’t make it to The Taco & Whipped Cream show, we met her at The Coloring Restaurant, because they give you ice cream. After the birthday song (and total disruption to every other diner in the establishment!), Daughter 2 was served the biggest bowl of ice cream which she refused to share with Daughter 1 because remember that one time that Daughter 1 didn’t share her ice cream and Daughter 2 only got one bite that was half melted. Remember? Good ol’ Nana – who thinks that there really is a “World’s Greatest Grandma” contest and tries to win it every single day – purchased another biggest bowl of ice cream for Daughter 1. And then another for The Dad. And, that, my friends, was celebration number 2!
The day of the party brought us 8 inches of snow, one party cancellation and 14 hours of whining and crying because it just wasn’t fair. The party was rescheduled for the next weekend. A WHOLE WEEKEND AWAY. Really. Not. Fair.
Good news, though, that Sunday at church, they sang Happy Birthday to Daughter 2 and a little friend of hers brought her a present and all was good again. The sun rose; the sun set; Celebration number 3. Amen.
FINALLY, a whole week came and went (but, if you ask Daughter 2, it was a whole month away because her birthday is in one month and her party had to be in another month), and it was party day. Oh, wait. It was PAR-TAY DAY!
We had the itchy grass skirt on and the scratchy coconut bra on. The juice boxes were defrosting in the sink. The ice cream was softening in the fridge. The cupcakes (which looked really cute when Martha Stewart made them, but somehow looked like our dumb dog Bo decorated them!) were ready with cocktail umbrella and palm tree pick strategically placed on each on. And by “strategically placed”, I mean slapped on at the last minute because I forgot where I put them after I postponed the party in the first place. We lei’d each kid; we passed out sunglasses, we hula’d; we limbo’d; we opened presents (To the friends who brought the fart-maker and the tie-dye kit: You have birthdays in your family coming up. Be prepared!) We passed out the tattoo party favors and sent the last kid out the door. Whew!
End of celebration 4.
Finally.
Daughter 2 has sufficiently and excessively celebrated her birthday. She was completely and utterly tuckered out after this two-week long birthday celebration. But that was nothing compared to how exhausted I was!! I do it to myself! I allow myself to get caught up in the excitement of a birthday and all the merriment that follows. This year, however, I vowed to scale it back. No more endless birthday parties.
Daughter 2, sleepily hugged my neck as I tied the coconut bra on over her pajamas, “Momma, I had a great birthday!”
“Oh, Daughter 2, I’m so glad!”
“Next year,” she dreamily mumbled, “How about having a pony birthday party?”
“Next year, honey, we’re scaling back, so we’ll only be able to get 2 or 3 of the little devils, OK?”
I do it to myself!
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© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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Even before Al Roker predicted an Arctic Winter Snow Blast for my neck of the woods, I made the call. Keep in mind I have no meteorology training. (Really, I couldn’t even spell it without spell check!) I don’t make it a hobby of studying climate transitions and low pressure systems. I’m more of a high pressure system myself. (Ask The Dad.) I don’t read The Farmer’s Almanac nor do I stalk the weather station at 8:08, 9:08, 10:08 or any other :08 time! I don’t have any special gift.
How did I predict the weather, then? I use two very accurate devices: The Daughters. They have a very special gift. It’s better and more precise than a barometer!
Let me explain…VERY early last Monday morning, I woke up to The Daughters sword fighting with the Wii. Not ON the Wii – with the Wii … slicing and dicing each other with the controllers. When I calmed that squall, I noticed that Daughter 2 had her hair done (in pigtails – her specialty), had her boots and pants on, was eating breakfast (a cheese stick dipped in yogurt) and had applied blue eye shadow to her eye brows. She announced that she was ready for school, so they could play the Wii – “That’s the rule!” she reminded me. Oh. She also was not wearing a shirt.
Meanwhile, Daughter 1 was convinced that it was pajama day at school and she was wearing her polar bear pajamas and what was I going to do about it? Then she adjusted her flip flops over her mismatched socks and took a bite of bread with butter and raisins. “It’s fruit, Momma! That’s good for breakfast!”
I shook my head at The Dad and said, “6 inches.” He looked hurt and murmured something about it being cold in the winter and that I needed to cut him some slack.
I shook my head and explained what I meant to him. ( OK - I explained what I meant after I showered and dressed and put on my makeup and dried my hair. I thought it would be good for him to meditate on the phrase “6 inches!”.)
“See?” I offered as he lay in bed with the covers over his head, “The Daughters are little barometers and this weirder-than-usual behavior means one thing: Snow. If it were spring, I’d be clamored down in a bathtub somewhere with a mattress over my head! They have a gift!” I kissed him through the down comforter to assure him that it wasn’t personal.
And sure enough, that evening on the news, the local weatherman predicted that we’d have an outpouring of snow by week’s end. At least that’s what I thought he said because The Daughters were drying their roller blades in the dryer.
The Daughters (or kids in general) are not the only predictors of extreme weather. If you miss the evening forecast, head to your local Wal-marts! The crazier-than-usuals head to the Wal-marts when the weather’s about to get hairy.
Bread, milk and cereal apparently ward off bad weather. And there’s always a run for these perishable good-luck charms. Personally, when I know that bad weather is coming, I stock up on chocolate, frozen pizzas and toilet paper. Because even if he power goes out, those frozen pizza pies are still really yummy! And if you run out of toilet paper, the end is very near. Very near.
And, just as I predicted (prior to the Weather Channel, I might add!), we got well over 6 inches of snow. Here’s where the difference between The Daughters and the Doppler Radar 42 really becomes apparent: The radar clears up after the storm passes. The Daughters? Not so much. As evidenced by the 27 naked Barbies in our bathtub!
After the snowfall, we were given a snow day… I found out about this snow day at about 6 AM through a text. So, I turned off the alarm and went back to sleep. Five minutes later, Daughter 1 came running into our room announcing that it snowed! It snowed! It snowed!! Daughter 2 came running in behind her chanting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” Then they looked at each other and said, “Scream contest!” And they proceeded to have a scream contest! At 6 AM. In our bedroom.
The Dad slept through it all. What do you know? He does have a special gift.
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© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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Over Christmas break, The Daughters had several of their friends over quite a few times for “play dates.” I love play dates. They give The Daughters a chance to play with their friends outside of school. They get to play games that require more than 2 players (and none of the players HAVE to be me or The Dad, gah!). They get to make crafts and projects. They get to share jokes and books and riddles. They get to be creative and imaginative… They get to have fun!
The biggest advantage to play dates, however, is that it gives me a chance to catch up on my DVR’d episodes of Friends and Desperate Housewives. Because of this little momma break, I thought play dates were a gift from heaven… manna for the momma.
Then I got a magazine this week and one of the cover articles was “Games and Activities Everyone Will Love at Your Next Play Date!” I excitedly turned to this article thinking that if I had a really great activity, then not only could I get caught up on my shows, then maybe The Daughters and their friends would be so enthralled with their time together that I could sneak a Twinkie out of my secret stash and eat it without having to share!
Then I read the article.
Apparently, the momma who wrote this article believes it’s important to actually play WITH the kids during a play date.
To that, I say: WHA--??
I was appalled that this woman had totally missed the magic of a play date: Someone else to entertain your kids! Really. She should have asked me first; I’d have gladly tuned her in to how it was done in the real world.
I giggle-snorted as I read the article. The Dad asked me what I was giggling about.
“This woman says that when her kids have play dates, she turns the TV off and plays with them!”
Then a little voice piped up and said, “CiCi’s mom does that.”
I jumped and just about pee’d my pants, “Wha--? Who said that?”
Daughter 2 said, “CiCi’s mom always plays with us. Always. And there’s a no-TV rule at their house when they have guests.”
Under my breath, I murmured, “Does CiCi’s mom also make you organic granola for a snack?” And that sharp-eared little devil said, “She does! Do you have the recipe?”
This was all news to me. My play-date world was crumbling down around my taco-flavored Doritos bag (hidden beside the recliner, so I wouldn’t have to share).
That afternoon as another mom dropped her kids off to play with my kids, I asked her what she did when my girls came to her house. She quickly looked around and whispered, “Why? What’d they tell you?”
I related the highlights of the article to my friend and (thankfully) she was just as appalled as I was.
“But, when will I check Facebook if I’m playing Scrabble with them?” she cried.
“I know, right?” And I poured us both a glass of red wine (disguised in a coffee cup, so the kids wouldn’t think they had to have a drink).
We agreed that it was a totally new concept to us and that probably our kids wouldn’t really want us to play with them and their friends, right? Then she quickly excused herself because her crops are not going to plant themselves on Farmville, by golly!
I finished reading the article and then decided to give it a whirl. Really, how bad could it be to play with my own kids?? The first project was a bird feeder. I could do that! I found Styrofoam cups, sunflower seeds, yarn and peanut butter. I began gathering the items, then quickly made myself a sunflower-seed-and-peanut-butter sandwich and decided that maybe that wasn’t the best project for us after all, especially since I had just used up all the peanut butter.
I think a game would fare better. I called the kids into the room and announced that we would play a game all together.
They announced that they were playing all together and started to leave the room.
“No! I mean with me!”
Daughter 2 said, “How about you call up CiCi’s mom and see if she’ll come play with us instead?” To which all the girls screamed, “YEAH!”
“Look,” I said, “I’m a good game player! What game do you want to play?”
Daughter 1 looked at the rest of the girls, smiled slyly, and said, “We love hide and seek. I’ll be it!”
So, quickly, I secured my place in the corner of the linen closet. This was not an easy task because I had to wrestle with a king-size mattress cover. And I was sure they’d find me in no time because I had to move the suitcases into the hall in order to squeeze my dainty self into the hole. And then I held my breath and I waited.
You know what? This was kind of fun. I will admit that I giggled like a little girl on more than one occasion when time passed and I still hadn’t been found! And then my left foot went to sleep… and the sleepiness crept all the way up my leg and into my hip. I was able to grab my phone from my back pocket and check the time! I’d been in this closet for almost 20 minutes!! HEY! I don’t think they’re playing right! I tried to stand up, but the whole left side of me was asleep. I tried to crawl out, but every time I did, I hit my head on the shelf so hard that I saw “Estrellas!” And then I heard Dora singing about “estrellas”. And then I knew: The kids had duped me.
When The Dad arrived at home, he knew something was up because they were singing Pink’s “Rockstar” on the Wii Karaoke and eating my secret stash of M & M’s. He came and removed the shelf from the closet and helped me get out.
“I was trying to be a good mom – like in the magazine!” I whimpered to him.
“You are a good mom,” he assured me. “You just need to find a different magazine to take inspiration from.” What a smart guy! And so sweet... He immediately went out and got me a different magazine.
He brought home Playboy.
Too bad he won’t be playing hide and seek with me anytime soon!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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Daughter 1 & I (and this year Daughter 2) had this conversation. We've had it almost every year since Daughter 1's started school. It starts with this question:
Mom? Why is Martin Luther King's birthday a holiday?
Daughter 1 (and now Daughter 2) doesn't get that there was a time in this country that we thought of African Americans as inferior human beings. They don't understand that there was a time when they would not have gotten to go to school with some of their friends just because their friends look different than we do. They don't understand that there is hatred - not based on personality or actions - but on looks alone.
They dont' understand.
I'd like to think that The Dad and I are raising them to have open minds and open hearts to their fellow man.
I'd like to think that it's all because of mine and The Dad's desire to have all human beings treated with dignity and respect. ALL human beings.
I'd like to think that it's because of our own practices within our own lives that reflect our desire to accept and be accepted as people of value.
However, I know all of our "so-fine parenting skills" would not be possible if it had not been for the pathway paved by many of our civil rights advocates, namely Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
The conversation always rolls around to this question:
Is Martin Luther King, Jr. still alive?
And I tell them that he was shot down in the prime of his life by a man who hated him and his message of equality and respect and freedom.
After the understandable shock and horror and sadness over a senseless killing, our conversation always ends the same way too:
I just don't understand...
And for the sake of generations to come, and so the work of Martin Luther King, Jr. will not be in vain, I hope and pray they NEVER understand...
...When we let freedom ring,
when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet,
from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day
when all of God's children,
black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics,
will be able to join hands
and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual,
"Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
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I have just returned from my 15th trip into Daughter 1’s room this evening. We put her to bed about 45 minutes ago. The first time she called me back to bring her a glass of water. She’d already had a large glass of water right before she went to bed. I know this for a fact because it was MY large glass of water. I told her no. Goodnight. Sweet dreams. And as I walked out the door she called out her mantra, “You NEVER let me have a drink of water!”
Over the course of this evening, I NEVER let her pick out all of her outfits for the next two weeks. I NEVER let her call her Nana just to tell her one little thing. I NEVER let her rewash her hair and dry it with gel in it. I NEVER let her bring the dog in to sleep on the foot of her bed. I NEVER let her have a kitty. I NEVER take her on an all-inclusive vacation in Puerto Vallarta. I NEVER let her call her BFF to see if she’ll bring her green bow tomorrow to school and the BFF will “bring her blue bow and they can do their hair together and be twins, but not really because one will be green and one will be blue”. I NEVER let us paint our toenails the exact same color before bed time. I NEVER let her have a campout around the firepit roasting marshmallows on a school night and singing “Camptown Races”. Oh. And here’s one for ya: I NEVER taught her the words to Camptown Races! I NEVER. NEVER. NEVER.
It wears me out.
I know. I know. I can hear all you good mommas saying, “Don’t keep going in there! Say goodnight and ignore her.” Oh. I forgot. It’s just that easy.
And honestly, when she was a baby and would fuss and cry out, it was much easier for me to ignore her. Basically because she was confined to her crib and had no way to marching herself into my office and scaring the bejeezes out of me while I am trying to type!
At any rate, now that she’s older and has access to markers and papers and a street-facing window, I feel the need to check on her in case she really does need me. Or in case she’s placed a “My mom NEVER lets me out of my room” sign in her window again. (The policeman understood. He had an 8-year old daughter of his own. And we only let her play with yellow markers anymore.)
I’m sure that if I did ignore her, she’d learn to go to sleep that much faster, but it won’t stop the constant use of the word NEVER.
Just last week I was listening to my Jillian Michaels CD while driving home from work. It was late, and I was tired, and I needed The Daughters to just be quiet so I could learn about balancing my time and prioritizing my health with Jillian, so I drove us through McGaggles. (I got The Daughters a “healthy option”: apple dippers – with caramel dipping sauce… geez!)
Then, we drove past Burger Scream. And Daughter 1 – with her mouth full of McNuglets said, “Why don’t you ever take us there?” I thought I had caught a break – she didn’t use NEVER!
“I just got you a super-deluxe ecstatic meal, Girlie!” I reminded her, while still trying to listen to Jillian tell me how 3 hours of cardio would do wonders in clearing my mind. (Or was it 3 hours of waiting for hot fries would make me lose my mind?)
Then Daughter 1 dropped it: “Yeah, but you NEVER take us THERE!” Oh. Sure. NEVER.
I’m an educator. I have advanced degrees. I have studied child and adolescent development and learning styles and cognitive abilities and processes. I know brain-based research inside and out. However, I have YET to come across anyone who can fully explain this NEVER-complex that has invaded my child!
Wait. I said that wrong: I have NEVER found anyone who can explain this to me!
I’ve paid very close attention to Daughter 1’s NEVER statements and I am the only one in the house who receives these sentiments. I mentioned to The Dad that I found it not only odd but frustrating that he NEVER gets told that he NEVER does whatever for Daughter 1.
And he, of course, had a ready explanation. His actions are always pleasing to Daughter 1 and my actions are always lacking. I reminded him of a few actions that would be lacking for him if he was NEVER supportive of my cause again.
Finally, Daughter 1 is asleep. When I look at her sweet, peaceful face, I’m tempted to forget the NEVER-fight that we seem to be engaged in constantly. And I wonder how I can ignore her constant requests and I vow to myself that tomorrow is a new day. I will wake up and see to it that Daughter 1 has every single one of her needs met. And then some.
Then I grab a dark blue marker out of hiding and scribble this sign for her window: My mom NEVER does anything wrong!
It’s a preemptive strike…
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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My workout peeps and I wanted to change up our routine a little. It wasn't so much that we WANTED to change up anything, but we came across a workout DVD that we just couldn’t pass up: Carmen Electra’s Aerobic Striptease. It does so exist. Google it! It’s a real workout!
The first time we did the workout (yes, it really is a real workout!), we giggled through half of it. We giggled partially because we were learning (and blotching) stripper moves and partially because, deep in our souls, we’re still 13 years old.
We also giggled because Carmen told us to “never underestimate the power of a finger in your mouth.” Really. She told us that.
Despite what notions Carmen conjures in your minds, it really was a good workout. So much so that we Carmen-wannabes met together over our winter break and continued the workout. And now that we have yet another unexpected break, a challenge was issued: Do the Carmen workout… at home…for our husbands.
I don’t know how many male readers I have, but I can hear them all say, in their best Austin Powers voice, “Yeah, Baby!”
Or maybe I’m still hearing an echo of The Dad saying that.
I can’t report on my tight-spandex-wearing friends and their adventures, but I can tell you about mine.
Don’t worry, Mom and Mom-in-law, I’ll keep it family friendly!
First off, when I do this routine with my Carmen Cronies, I am wearing torn sweats and tube socks and my hair’s pulled back in a scrunchie. This ensemble doesn’t work for an at-home aerobic display with a one-very-happy-man audience. In trying to come up with fun stage attire, I realized two things about my wardrobe: 1. My clothes accurately reflect who I am (a harried, minivan-driving momma); and 2. I don’t own any panties that could be considered – in any way, shape or form – pretty, sexy or hot. Even my own grandma would approve of every single pair of my panties.
Secondly, I didn’t realize just how bright the lights are in our house! I spent probably five minutes turning out lights all through the house. It’s not that I was embarrassed by this whole ordeal. I was setting the tone – contributing to the ambiance of the routine by making our house look like a strip club … or at least what I’ve been TOLD a strip club looks like!
Having been warned by one of my besties that Radio Disney and Kidz Bop do not have any good music selections for our challenge, I spent an evening downloading songs that were confirmed (by Google itself!) to be “hot stripping songs”. So, I put on the music and was so intent on trying to remember the routine that I was shocked by the lyrics. Really? Did I just pay good money to download a song that says stuff like THAT? Then I vocalized this concern to The Dad who said that he didn’t care what I or the song was saying as long as I kept up the workout. He’s so concerned for my physical well-being.
And the giggling? It came back. And apparently, giggling for the first 10 minutes of the dance was not quite what The Dad was expecting. And I’m not sure how Carmen feels about giggling either. However, I did look it up and that 10 minutes of giggling and shaking my head and blushing burned about 130 calories. So there.
I finally got the giggling under control and attempted to actually remove some of my clothing in a motion that I made up all by myself. Then I accidently began to strangle myself performing this movement. Eventually, I had to stop my super-hot moves and let The Dad help me get this particular article of clothing untangled from my hair. I’m sure I could have done it on my own, but it was covering my eyes and I accidently bumped into the corner and made myself dizzy.
Halfway through the routine -- OK fine- 15 minutes into the routine, I needed a drink. It’s important to keep up the hydration. Plus, the giggling had started again, so it seemed like a good time to take a break. This was not part of what The Dad was expecting, but he went and got me a drink anyway. Heck! He brought me three drinks: a glass of white wine, a glass of sangria, and orange juice that had a great kick to it. What a guy!
By this, point, however, I was not even sure where in the routine I was and started over. Then I remembered the immortal words of Carmen – my workout muse: Always transition from one move to another by slapping your own butt. Or something like that. So, I slapped. And BAM! It happened!
Daughter 2 burst into our room, used our bathroom and reported that she had a bad dream.
That never happens in Carmen’s routine!
After I carried Daughter 2 back to bed and assured her that dinosaurs are no longer still roaming the earth nor are they trampling through The Dad’s and my bedroom, I walked in ready to start my routine again.
By this time, however, I was cold and my audience was not as enthusiastic as he had been 20 minutes earlier. So, I channeled Carmen, and I used the power of a finger in my mouth.
And – as the old saying goes – the fat lady sang!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The Dad & I rang in the New Year with some great friends while the kids played the Wii in the other room. (Santa ROCKS!) And as we bid our friends a “Happy New Year” with kisses and hugs all around at about 12:13 (because we lost all track of time playing Battle of the Sexes), one of my friends dared to utter those dreaded words: What are your New Years Resolutions?
I kicked my former friend in the shins and then pushed her out my front door. I’d had a bit of sangria.
The next day – much later the next day – The Dad asked those same words: What are your New Years Resolutions? OK… he didn’t really ask them with his VOICE. He texted them, from behind the locked bathroom door. He knows what I’m capable of.
It’s not that I don’t WANT to make resolutions. I do! I want to be better, skinnier, more organized, sexier, an early riser, a better exerciser – wait… just an exerciser. I want to be all those things! It’s just that I make my resolutions and they last until noon on January 2… if my mom doesn’t call and offer to take us out to the Golden Cow Super Buffet for New Years Day. Then? All bets are off!
This year, because I’m feel so much pressure to make resolutions, I have decided that why not? I will make resolutions… just not for me. For everyone else.
For starters, since I seem to lose about 50 pounds a year (and gain about 49 ½ pounds), everyone else should gain 10 pounds. If everyone else associated with me gains 10 pounds and I just maintain my current weight (Easy enough!) Then hey -- Won’t I look good next New Year’s Eve compared to all of you who have gained the poundage?
Secondly, for all of you runners out there: from now on, if you’d trip over your own feet about every other step it would sure make me look good. Wait. You know what? It wouldn’t make me look good, per say, but it would make me look normal. Nope. Not even normal. Really - It’d make me feel a tiny bit better about my running skills. Yeah. That’s it.
In terms of KIDS, I want all other children to start whining the phrases “Pleeeeease!”, “Now!!!!”, “Gah!” and “You never…” when they are out in public. That way, my own kids will be so distracted by these public displays of whiny-ness that they will forget that THEY are the ones who usually pick up the crapola displayed on the bottom rack of one of the three lanes open at the Wal-marts and snivel, “Please Momma? Can I have it NOW? Gah! You never buy us ANYTHING!” This is usually moaned while I’m loading the stuff I never buy them onto the belt. (And, is it only when I go in there with The Daughters that the Wal-marts decides to have only three lanes open??!?! Is it???!?!)
This one, I’m certain, will help out all of mankind: There shall be no appointments, start times, meetings, or any other such nonsense before 10:30 am. This time change, I realize, will cause a disruption in most people’s schedules; however, I will be one happy camper. I will be able to sleep until 9:00! I’ll be able to do more than throw cereal in a coffee cup and tell The Daughters to drink up as we make a mad dash to the minivan while brushing our teeth. No more rinsing with the cereal milk and spitting out the window! And by starting this late, we’ll make great strides in our grooming: We’ll be able to brush our hair! Did you hear that? BRUSH our HAIR!
Finally, I think no one should ever do laundry again! Just think of the possibilities, my friends! If we ALL wore dirty laundry, then when I show up at a party wearing ketchup on the sleeve of my un-ironed shirt and socks that I found on the floor of Daughter 2’s bedroom, then I certainly won’t distract from the party itself. As is normally the case when I go to someone else’s house wearing ice cream on the knees of my jeans. (Don’t ask!)
Clearly, if you want to have a great new year, you’ll follow my resolutions. No. I said that wrong. If you want ME to have a great new year, you’ll follow my resolutions and we’ll all be happier for it. Because, there is truth in the saying, “If Minivan Momma ain’t happy, ain’t NO body happy!” Or something like that!
Happy New Year, my friends!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2010 “Minivan Momma”
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The following is an actual transcript of a conversation that happened at our house on Christmas morning:
Daughter 1: {in an excited but hushed tone} Momma! Momma!
Me: {in a mumbled, half asleep grumbly, mumbly mumble} Wha--??
Daughter 1: Momma!
Me: Say --- Wha --- ? Who ---??!!?
Daughter 1: It’s me, Momma! Daughter 1, Momma! Are you awake?
Me: O. M. G! {really, I said “O. M. G.” I’ve not had much adult time recently.)
Daughter 1: Mom! It’s important. Please! Wake Up!
Me: OK! OK! What’s the matter, Honey?
Daughter 1: I need to know what time it is. The clock in my room says 4:32. The clock on the microwave says 4:35 and your watch says 4:33. What time does your phone say?
Me: My phone? Ummm…. {checking phone. Later, I’ll be glad that she didn’t ask me to lick the walls or do sit ups or something really weird because apparently, I’m pretty impressionable during the 4:00 hour}
Me: It’s 4:38 on my phone, Honey.
Daughter 1: So, is it too early to get up?
Me: Get up?
Daughter 1: Get up out of bed. Well, I already am out of bed. Is it too early to get up and go see if Santa’s been here?
Me: Who?
Daughter 1: Santa. Santa Claus. It’s Christmas morning, Momma!
Me: Wha---?
Daughter 1: Momma. Can. We. Please. Get. Up. And. Go. To. The. Living. Room. To. See. If. Santa’s. Been. Here? {end with a huge, big sigh}
Me: Wha---? No. It’s too early.
Daughter 1: But, I can’t go back to sleep!
Me: Fine. Get in bed with us. And be quiet.
{another voice from the hallway} Momma?
{voice gets closer}: Momma?
Daughter 2: Momma? Is it morning?
Me: Wha---?
Daughter 1: It is morning, but SHE won’t let us get up yet.
Me: Who’s talking here?
Daughter 2: But, MOM!
Daughter 1: She won’t! She’s being stingy!
Me: Be quiet! It’s too early to get up! Get back in bed!
Daughter 1: C’mon, Sister! Get in bed with us!
{Daughter 2 climbs in bed with us. Now there are a total of four people in our bed. Three of us are awake.}
Me: Girls, I’m pretty sure that Santa doesn’t come to our house until 5:59, OK? So, be quiet and go back to sleep.
{silence for 4.3 seconds}
Daughter 1: What do you think we’re gonna get?
Daughter 2: Maybe a pony! Or a 4-wheeler! Or … I know! Moon Sand!
Daughter 1: Moon Sand… Yeah!
Me: Be quiet! If I hear your voices again, I will go start a fire in the fire place and Santa won’t be able to come down the chimney. So, just BE QUIET! TRY to go back to sleep? OK?
{silence for 57.4 seconds}
The Dad: Babe?
Me: {ignoring him thinking that he’ll be quiet and go back to sleep}
The Dad: Babe?
Me: What?
The Dad: What time is it?
Me: Wha---? Wha---? Why?
The Dad: When did The Daughters get in bed with us?
Me: Wha---?? Wha---?? What?
The Dad: Did you know The Daughters are in bed with us?
Me: Yes.
The Dad: Why?
Me: They want to get up and see what Santa brought!
The Dad: Oh. Well… Can we?
Me: Can we what?
The Dad: Can we get up yet?
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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Several years ago, Natalie Cole – in what must have been a collaborative effort with Miss America-wannabes – released a Christmas song called, “A Grown Up Christmas List.” I adored this song. I thought the message was well thought out and spoke to the universal heart of every person who had ears to hear. “No more lives torn apart! Wars would never start! Time would heal all hearts!” Honestly, there’s no more sincere prayer out there than this of Natalie’s!
Then I had children.
And while the sentiments in Natalie’s timeless holiday treasure (which may now be purchased through 1-800-Time-Life-Something-Or-AOther for $19.99, if you call within the next 30 minutes!), are beautiful and goose-bump-producing, the momma in me says, “Really?”
So, for your listening pleasure (imagine that I sound just like Natalie Cole), here’s MY grown-up Christmas List. (And, please, remember, Grown up does NOT mean mature.)
No more Saturday mornings before 8 AM. There’s nothing good that can happen before 8 AM on a Saturday morning. Unless it involves a tray of scrambled eggs, a glass of mimosa and a bud vase with a rose in it. And then only if that tray is delivered after 8 AM.
No more socks left unmatched. Daughter 2 has recently begun having an issue with socks. None of them fit. As in fits how she wants them to fit. Please be aware that they all FIT her… just not how the princess wants them to. Therefore, we have no less than 20 dozen unmatched socks on her bedroom floor.
No more calories in chocolate. I’m certain that at the E-Z peace summits, talks were heated because some secretary of state of some well-meaning nation set out a plate of chocolates and everyone started frettin’ over getting back to the hotel and the fitness room and if there’d be enough elliptical machines for both the Prime minister AND the chiefs of staff (or state… whatever!).
Every house has a housekeeper. You know, though. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I would want a stranger coming into my home cleaning the messes that I obviously can’t clean… because if I were cleaning, I wouldn’t have time to watch Modern Family and Eastwick, right? Besides, what’s the guarantee that this person won’t go snooping? Especially snooping in the top drawer of the night stand? Not that there’s anything worth snooping for in there… just saying… So, I change this request: I do not want a housekeeper; I want a magic wand. (And, truth be told, I probably need a housekeeper WITH a magic wand to make a dent in our humble – and hectic – abode!)
Every mom has 10 hands. Could you even IMAGINE??!! I could drive, take away the headphones-turned-lasso, change the CD from Taylor Swift to … um… Taylor Swift, talk on the phone to The Dad who is at home wondering what I’m fixing for dinner (in the van??? Uh --- nothing!) AND put on chapstick! 10 hands, I tell ya!! The possibilities would be endless!
And speaking of endless, the Twilight saga would never end! I am one of those women who have fallen in love with a vampire. And the thought of never meeting my Edward ever again after Breaking Dawn? … well, let’s just not go down that winding, rain-soaked, Washington-state road during the holidays!
And speaking of Vampires, how about a whole station devoted to Vampires? There’s a whole station devoted to History, to Weather, to Shopping, to Poker, and to Game shows even! Why not Vamps? Wait – what’s that you say? Oh, right. I forgot about CW… never mind.
All exercise would be graceful and effective. I would like to be able to do the Carmen Electra Aerobic Striptease without cracking myself up during the warm-up and without tripping over my own feet during the walk down “the stage.” Oh, I hear ya. Maybe I could try a different tape, but then I’d probably actually exercise, break a sweat and I can guarantee you that I would not giggle like a 13 year old boy through the whole thing. (Apparently a 13-year old boy with a big, ol’ honking behind!) And isn’t laughter the best medicine?
Last, but not least, Bedtimes would be mandated as soon as the first yawn graces the beautiful face of the smart-alec-y Daughter who whines about … anything. And really? I don’t care if THEY go to bed as soon as the whining commences or if I go to bed as long as someone is in a nice warm and quiet bed when the whining winds up.
I realize that my list is long and really far fetched (read again the paragraph about Carmen Electra). But a girl can dream, right?
I’ll end with this: Christmas morning, I’m sure I’ll open up a bottle of my own perfume (wrapped in toilet paper), a macaroni necklace stuffed in my stocking – which I’ll never wear because the maker will wear it until the macaroni all breaks off, and a card that reads: Merry Christmas to the World’s Gravest Mom! I’ll be the happiest Momma on the planet, and I’ll love every minute of it … even though it’s guaranteed to happen before 8 AM. WELL before 8 AM!
And I still hope that Natalie gets everything on her list too!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I love my cousin Whitty dearly. She’s a lot of fun to hang out with and we always end up laughing… Mostly I’m laughing AT her, let’s be clear on that point, but we’re laughing none the less.
Whitty has three boys: A pair of twins (set of twins? Two twins … would that be four?) … ANYWAY, twin boys who were born one year after Daughter 1 and an ornery little booger born one year after Daughter 2. This spacing was a lot of fun for me: At her baby shower for Thing 1 and Thing 2, I announced to her that Daughter 1 (who wasn’t even a year old yet) was completely potty trained! Even at night! And that Whitty should try to have her boys – both of them – potty trained before they were 1. However, Daughter 1 was not potty trained. This was just a little bit of humor to lighten her pregnant-with-twins load. She, however, did not see anything to laugh about. (Some women just don’t handle pregnancy hormones well, as my bruised shin could attest.)
To be totally honest, Whitty is a much better momma than any of our family ever imagined. (Really, Whitty! We’ve all talked about this fact at family gatherings!) You know those horror stories of new moms who place the baby carrier on top of the car at The Wal-marts and then drive off with the carrier still on the roof? Well, when I heard those stories, I saw Whitty’s face in my mind.
The point is she really is a great momma (even though she laughed at getting a minivan and prefers to deplete the Earth of a small layer of ozone over Dallas by driving her big ol’ honkin’ SUV to touch football games all over The Big D).
At Christmas, I like to get her boys things that will make them say, “Man, Cousin Minivan Momma ROCKS!”
Last year? I got them a 1 pound chocolate bar. Ornery Little Booger boy had the whole thing swallowed before we even finished opening presents! I rocked!
The year before? 2 ½ pounds of small chocolate candies designed to melt in your mouth and not in your hand… Unless you are Thing 1 and Thing 2 (the aforementioned twins). Then these candies melt in your grubby little hands! Again! I rocked!
This year? I’m getting bandages for the boys. Uh-huh. That’s right. Adhesive strips with all kinds of kiddy propaganda emblazed on them in neon colors.
See, last summer at our family get-together, Thing 1 fell and half of his leg was left on the asphalt. He couldn’t even walk and was losing blood by the minute! He could barely catch his breath to whisper – nay, gasp - the words, “Help me, Momma!” Whitty took one look at him and said, “Get up. You’re OK.”
And, truth be told, he was OK, but to him it sure felt like he’d just lost his leg to a land mine. He begged her for a bandage and she said - are you ready for this? – No.
Now I will give Whitty this: The bleeding had slowed (or maybe it had stopped… or maybe it really hadn’t started at all) and Thing 1 was no longer crying. But, because I like to have fun with Whitty (or have fun at her expense – either way!), I took Thing 1 to my cabin and gave him TONS of bandages! He loved me, and I rocked – which is why I do anything!
Imagine my disappointment when Whitty emailed and said she and her fam would be with her in-laws and wouldn’t be meeting with OUR fam for Christmas. I shot her an email right back that said, “Yeah, well… you can run, but you can’t hide! I’ll FED EX the boys their SpongeBob and Transformer Bandages! I can rock in Chicago, too!”
Then she shared with me a little story that she’s sure will get her a nod as Mother Of The Year: Ornery Little Booger went to school when it was 30 degrees outside without mittens. He had to borrow some from the school so he could go outside and play!
Small potatoes, I say!
I received this email from Whitty, who was feeling right smug about her M.O.T.Y. act while I was still at school. I received it at the school where I teach and where The Daughters go to school. I received it at school on the same day that Daughter 2 announced to me that she had not only gotten new shoes from the school, but also new mittens and a new hat from her “grand friend”!
And just how did Daughter 2 score such a haul? She got the new shoes because the flip flops she had been wearing almost non-stop since May finally broke when she was outside playing at recess in 30 degree weather. She got the hat and mitten set from her “grand friend” who wanted her to be warm since she’d never seen Daughter 2 with mittens or a hat and this was about day 8 of temperatures, as Al Roker likes to say, “hovering around the freezing mark in our neck of the woods!”
So, Whitty, you run a good race… you come close, but when you’re competing against the likes of me, you’ll never get Mother of the Year!
So, Merry Christmas! You’re not Mother Of The Year! I’ll miss ya! (And be on the lookout for that ant farm-drum set combo I’m sending your boys!)
I SO rock!…
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I’m a night owl. Plain and simple: If the world would start at around 11:30 and let me sleep in until about 10:30, I’d be one happy momma. I’d stay up late and do my thing and life would be good… assuming that The Daughters still go to bed at 8:00, of course, and then sleep for 14 hours. Life would be GRAND!!
I do my best work late at night. This is not just because I’m a momma and it’s the best time for me to get stuff done without wiping snot or refereeing wrestling matches. It’s been the way I’ve always operated. I love the night life. I love to boogie on the disco floooooor, yeah! (Not really. I’m not a good dancer – but that’s a whole different column!)
Since we are 20 days away from Christmas, I have presents to wrap. Normally, I do my Christmas wrapping late at night after The Daughters have long-since dozed off and The Dad is NOT sleeping in the recliner while watching the game. (No. Really. He wasn’t asleep. He was resting his eyes.)
I love to wrap presents. As I wrap each one, I imagine the look of pure joy that the recipient will flash to me as they say, “Oh, Minivan Momma! I couldn’t have selected anything better if I had selected it myself and had a budget of a million dollars! Again, you – alone – have made my holidays utterly perfect and completely memorable!”
Hey! It could happen. Besides, it’s my gift wrapping fantasy; I can imagine whatever I want!
This weekend, however, I temporarily lost my mind. (Yeah, I hear ya, friends. It is TOO a temporary condition!)
I got out the Christmas presents, the wrapping paper, the tape, the scissors, the gift cards and a DVD of fabulous and favorite Christmas movies. I settled The Daughters in front of the TV and set up my gift-wrapping station. At long last, I selected the first gift of the season to be wrapped. I held it high above my head a la that crazy monkey in Lion King and sang, “Joy to the World” (Three Dog Night’s version) and commenced to wrapping.
No sooner had I cut the perfect amount of neon green Santa paper than I lost the tape. It was just here … Oh, Daughter 2 had it and was already taping the paper to the “French Bistro Cookbook and Ambiance Music CD” that I was giving my sister. (This is what’s called a gag gift: My sister cooks grilled chicken and green beans and listens to her husband cry, “Again??!?! Really???!?!!”)
I reach for the tape and whimper, “Please don’t” to Daughter 2 as she now has the gift taped to her night gown. I reach for the scissors and discover that Daughter 1 has them and is helping me by pre-cutting the entire roll of paper into 6 x 6 inch squares. Which would be GREAT if I were going to quilt my wrapping paper. Which I wasn’t until she did that and I had nothing else to wrap with.
I manage to somehow get my sister’s gift wrapped and am in possession of the scissors and tape once again. I set The Daughters in front of the TV wondering why we, like Aunt Bethany, don’t say the pledge of allegiance before our meals. The Dad, despite his stream-engine-like snoring, is NOT sleeping. Let’s be very clear on that point.
I turn to select the next gift of the season and pull out one of The Dad’s gifts. I carefully place it in a box before anyone catches a glimpse of his much-hinted for gift and tape it up tight and tidy. I begin to piece together a large enough patchwork of paper to wrap the box. I finish the entire wrapping and place the gift tag on it when Daughter 1 (the smart one) hollers out, “For Dad? This one’s for Dad? That’s not fair!” (She’s 8; nothing’s fair!)
This yelling wakes up The Dad (despite the fact that he’s not asleep) and the present is tossed from Daughter 1 to The Dad who violently shakes the present. Daughter 2 decides that this is a game of monkey in the middle and her sister is the monkey, at which time the monkey – I mean Daughter 1 - commences to yelling that she is NOT the monkey, and grabs the present from The Dad to prove that she’s not the monkey because she’s now in possession of the package. “And now Dad’s the monkey!”
And thus begins the 20-minute fight to get that one single present back in my glitter-glued hands in one piece. This quest ends when my gift wrapping station (aka a card table with a cute Christmas table cloth spread out nicely over it) goes spilling from its spot in front of my cozy couch into the front hall.
“Ummmmmmmm, I’m tellin’!” The Dad screams out to The Daughters.
Calmly, I take the present back and set it gently under the tree – tattered paper and all. I pick up my gift-wrapping station and put everything back in it’s place. I go to the garage and collect three items: Wal-mart sacks, duct tape, and a Sharpie marker.
This year, my wrapping is going green. I’m reusing the Wal-Mart sacks as my gift wrapping. I’m recycling that old Sharpie that The Dad used to mark which tools were his to use and which were mine to use. (basically, if it has a cord, he thinks I don’t use it. Key word: thinks.) And I’m reducing my stress level by saving my late nights for DVR’ed episodes of Modern Family – without The Daughters.
(Technically, without The Dad, too… but really, he’s not sleeping!)
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I let the Turkey Day have it’s 24 hours of glory and then I break out the dozens – no, hundreds – of Rubbermaid boxes that hold my most precious items (please, don’t call Human Services; The Daughters haven’t been kept in Rubbermaid boxes since they started school!): I get out my Christmas decorations!
Each year, I pack the ornaments into specific boxes designated for each Daughter, and then I pack the family ornaments into specific boxes designated Not-Breakable and Breakable. These boxes are not labeled because when you open the Not-Breakable box, the ornaments are just stacked and smooshed on one another. The Breakable box contains newspaper, bubble wrap and fleece protecting each ornament. It’s a sickness. I know.
As we decorate for the season, I like to pretend that I’m Martha Stewart, and I’m the star of a TV-special documenting how families decorate for the season. I have Bing Crosby singing, “White Christmas” in my mind. Usually, though, our decorating ends up being more like the dogs barking, “Jingle Bells”!
After The Dad gets done cussing the tree and making sure that each *$@!&# light is on and that each %#$@* branch of the tree is connected properly, I’ll hand The Daughters their own boxes of ornaments. While they are tinseling up the tree, I’ll finish putting out the rest of the decorations throughout the house. By the time I’m done, The Daughters are also done and then in the quiet of the night (or the Will Ferrell as Elf-induced coma), I’ll gently unwrap the fragile (that does not mean they are Italian!) ornaments and hang them on safe and sturdy branches. Then we bask in the glow of the lights (or the TV-screen) and sigh. Life is so good once the tree is decorated!
This year, however, I was slow … or The Daughters were fast… and I didn’t put the Breakables out of reach and just as I spread the evergreen garland with red-plaid ribbon o’er the piano, I heard the first S H A T T E R. (Yes, I said first.)
The Daughters are standing over a little Madeline ornament all of her smashed against the tile of the kitchen… except her head.
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out.
The Daughters didn’t lay blame. They don’t offer excuses, they just mumbled their “I’m sorrys” as I went to the garage to fetch the dust pan. Daughter 1 hung Madeline’s dismembered head on a branch anyway.
As I dumped the shards into the trash, I heard that sound again: S H A T T E R!
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out.
This time it was followed by soft whispers: “I told you not to.” “I didn’t! You did!” and the ever-famous, “Na-huh!”
I re-enter the war zone and see a formerly glitter-filled ball all over the tile. I still have the dust pan in my hands and bend down to sweep up what had to have been 3 pounds of glitter and 2.5 million pieces of glass ball.
Instead of “I’m sorry” this time I get, “It was an accident.”
“I know it was an accident,” I say in my best “Mommie Dearest” voice, “Please: No more breakables.”
I see two very remorseful heads nod and run right back to the boxes. I return the dustpan to the garage and open the door just in time to hear it once more: S H A T T E R.
My eye began twitching and my ears began ringing. This time, the fight was on!
Deep Breath In. Hold it. Hold. It.
Daughter 1 starts by throwing her arm, finger pointing, right into Daughter 2’s chest. “SHE did it. I told her not to. I told her you said no. SHE didn’t listen.” Daughter 2 has her leg raised and her arms cocked as if she’s channeling the Karate Kid, “It wasn’t my fault! I was trying to take it back from you to put up and not mess with it, JUST LIKE MOM SAID.”
And that’s when it started. Fists were flying! Feet were kicking! Bodies were slamming! Voices are screaming.
I step over the latest shattered casualty (with only a Santa nose left intact) to try and separate the two when I get caught not only by a flailing arm, but also by, what I believe is called a round-house kick. (Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.) I aimed for the couch, but found myself flying right into the… Tree.
Deep Breath In. Deep Breath Out. OK. I’m still breathing. And if I’m still breathing, I’m still alive. But, I must have gone deaf because I can’t hear a thing.
I can’t hear anyone saying, “See what you’ve done?”
I can’t hear anyone saying, “It’s all your fault!”
I can’t hear anyone saying, “I told you not to!”
I can’t hear anything…The Daughters have cleared the room! (The Dad told me that he later found them in their bedrooms reading their Bibles!)
I try desperately to untangle myself from the tree, but no matter what move I make, I become more and more tangled. I finally hear something: The Dad is coming in from outside. I look to him for help. He stands at the edge of the room grinning at me.
“What?” I ask.
“That How-To-Pole-Dance DVD is really paying off, Babe!” he smirks before helping me (and the tree) to a stable, standing position.
The tree looks just fine tilting at that angle… besides, it hides the section where we don’t have any decorations! The Dad, on the other hand, is walking with a little limp…
CHRISTMAS GIVEAWAY!!!
To spread some holiday joy around, Minivan Momma is giving away one red sleigh candle from Keepsake Candles in Bartlesville, OK. The candle is small votive size and will be shipped to you wherever you are! All you have to do is email Minivan Momma (minivan.momma.2@gmail.com) and tell her which column is your favorite. The Daughters will randomly draw an email out of a hat and that person will win the candle! The contest will end at midnight on Saturday, December 5. Only one entry per email will be entered. Good Luck!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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As a young, single professional, I wanted to look the part, so I shopped. I hit high-end department stores and didn’t wait for the sales. I bought outfits that looked good and screamed, “Professional!” in every color. When I’d get my paycheck, I’d quickly go charge a new outfit or four. (Yes, I said charge. I’m a teacher for heaven’s sake. I had to use my paycheck for things like rent and groceries and that pesky thing called electricity.)
I had a closet full of professional clothes. I wore a different power outfit every day. I thought I was setting a fine example for my students in that when you dressed the part, you looked the part and when you looked the part then people believed that you knew what you were doing. (I taught English; please don’t dissect that sentence!) The funny thing was this: I lived for Fridays. Fridays were Jean Days!!!
Eventually, I changed schools and had a principal who was a bit more contemporary. We would read on the floor; and, when we would sit comfy on the floor propped up by massive pillows and bean bags, I would have to wear jeans so as to not ruin my professional attire. Then we began writing on the floor, surrounded by pillows and lap desks and fun-colored pens, and I would have to wear jeans. And eventually I earned tenure and wore jeans every day no matter what we were doing.
My closet was still full of professional-looking clothes that stayed packed away in my walk-in closet. Never to be touched again - until The Husband moved in and demanded a few hangers of his own – what a diva!
I got rid of a few outfits when The Daughters came along and ruined anything nice I had left. Finally, I realized that I am not a fancy-schmancy dresser. I am blue jeans queen all the way, baby!
Of course, there are still many occasions for which I do have to dress up: church (only on Easter and Christmas when people who haven’t seen me since the last Easter or Christmas were likely to come to church with the sole intent being to judge my attire), The Dad’s work parties (during which I turn into a 15 year old girl and must get approval of my outfit from every person I know), weddings and funerals.
Weddings and funerals, for me, are easy to dress for. I saved one dress from my dress-professional days that works for both and has for about 7 years now. If it’s a funeral, I’ll wear pearl earrings (the gemstone of respect, right?) and if it’s a wedding, I’ll wear amethyst earrings (it is a party after all!). I have bought two new wedding dresses in the past four years. I bought a coral linen dress for my sister-in-law’s outdoor summer wedding and a blue linen dress for my sister’s outdoor fall wedding. Did you know that coral fabric will attract the mosquitoes? I haven’t confirmed this on Google, of course; all my data is qualitative (and in scar-form up and down my arms). Since both dresses are linen and both dresses require that I iron them or take them to the cleaners, they are really not practical as my wedding or funeral dress. Therefore, they hang in the closet. Wrinkled. I think I’ve cleaned them…
My church attire consists of mainly slacks. I don’t do dresses too much in church. For one, I sometimes volunteer in the nursery (if for no other reason than to not wear a dress to church) and second, we generally run late to church and late in my wardrobe means runs in the hose.
I do get all dolled up for the The Dad’s work parties, though. I even shave my legs and use that rub on tan stuff! I only see The Dad’s work people two or three times a year. I develop this alter ego for those parties. And my alter-ego likes things flashy and trashy. The very first work party I went to though, I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t know anyone and I couldn’t just call up a veteran and be all 15 and stuff: “Like, hey! Are you going to that lame work thing? Yeah, what a drag. So, whacha wearing? Send me a pic and I’ll wear something matching!”
The memo called for semi-formal attire. As far as I was concerned jeans were semi-formal; with a nice sweater and some cute black heels, I had a good thing going on. However, The Dad’s business was somewhat conservative and I’m certain that this is not what “The Firm” pictured when they said semi-formal. So a friend and I loaded up and went to the big city where we shopped a Targets – which screams semi-formal to me! We actually found a dress and I fretted about it well into the party when I realized (after a glass or five of white zinfandel) that I looked just as good, if not better than any other woman there.
The second party, I drank the white zinfandel before I went shopping and came out of the store with a number made of gold and black shiny material (it said so on the tag: 100% shiny material, dry clean only). Again, I shaved my legs and rubbed on a tan and called myself flashy and trashy. Really trashy, if you must know the truth. It wasn’t actually my fault I was so trashy; my dress was slightly too big, so it kept sliding down and exposing my bra strap. So, I excused myself (those amaretto sours just run right through ya!) and affixed my name tag to my bra strap. Keep in mind that I never claimed to be an engineer, and by the end of the night, my name tag was halfway down my bicep and sideways. But at least you couldn’t see my bra strap. At least I HAD a bra strap!
The Dad’s Christmas party is coming up. There’s a new leader at the helm and he’s declared that for this party dress will be “casual.” Since I left the high school hallways for the elementary school, I have no idea what’s styling these days.
When I dress casual, I have donut glaze on my sweatshirt because I woke up too late to unwrap the pop tarts and my socks don’t match. I have one earring in because The Daughters have played in my jewelry drawer and I forgot to put the other earring in when I had to rinse and spit. My jeans have snot on the hip where a student gave me a hug (and wiped her nose) the day before – but they don’t stink so I’m wearing them again. THIS is casual to me. I’m not sure The Dad will escort me to the party looking like this, but I will have the trashy part of my flashy-trashy persona represented!
I’ve really got to make more friends in his circle so I can call someone up and at least borrow a blouse!!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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My mom and I recently attended a fairly nice, dress-up-and-go-to-town event. It involved singin’ and dancin’, cheese and wine and cute little brownie squares with powdered sugar designs. My pajama bottoms and AC/DC t-shirt just didn’t cut it. So, I had to dig out the dresses that I own: Both of them.
I own a wedding/funeral dress. (The dad would say, “same difference, right?” and then he’d be sleeping on the couch instead of in the bed. Same difference, right?) This dress is elegant enough for weddings, but serious enough for funerals. Diamonds for the wedding and pearls for the funeral. It works!
The other dress I own is flashy and trashy, and I wear it to parties where I don’t know many people, feel totally uncomfortable and pretend that I’m Julia Roberts to The Dad’s Richard Gere, and I feel all kinds of pretty. (The Dad doesn’t know about my little charade and still doesn’t get why I insist on driving home while he stands up through the sun roof of his SUV…)
Neither dress worked for this evening out with my mom, so I opted for a skirt (that I didn’t even remember I had anymore!), a silk top and a cardigan. That’s pretty safe. For a school marm. In “Little House On The Prairie” times, right? OK, fine. By the time I figured out that I would probably look exactly like my over-60-year-old mother (except for the Hushpuppies shoes), it was too late to change. And I went with it.
The whole process of picking out an outfit was a major undertaking. I tried on dozens of items with The Daughters being very helpful by pulling every stitch of clothing I own off the hangers for me. The Dad, too, was amazing through this process; he was able to simultaneously watch the Dallas Mav’s AND game 4 of the World Series without even realizing that I was anywhere in the house. (I even think for a moment he forgot that we had kids!) Amazing, right? (I never said helpful…)
I was dressed just in time for my mom to pick me up for the event (because, if you ask my mom, I’m still not really responsible enough to drive). Then she had me drive her vehicle (because she’s old enough to catch a good nap on the 15-minute drive there).
Once we arrived at our gala (sounds more and more glamorous the more I talk about it, doesn’t it?), we had a few moments to spare and we took advantage of it to visit without The Dad or The Daughter’s interrupting and demanding things like dinner, or a drink, or a fire extinguisher.
My mother’s favorite subject when I’m dressed up? Undergarmets.
I will no sooner wear a dress to a funeral, wedding, church, an evening affair, wine tasting (aka open bar!), whatever and my mom will say this: Are you wearing a slip? It’s as predictable as the fact that tomorrow the day will end in Y. Now, she knows that I don’t own a slip. I haven’t worn a slip since I graduated from high school. And that was only because she checked me before I left the house! (She thinks I wore one on my wedding day, but it was actually a nightie. Shhhh… Don’t tell her.)
When I repeat to her that I do not own a slip (can you even buy those any more outside of estate sales???!), she’ll say, “Well you should have worn a girdle at least.” A girdle? Really? I thought those were outlawed with the Nineteenth Amendment which states, and I quote: The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex, and furthermore women shall never, ever, never wear girdles.
In answer to my mom’s question, I squish my eyebrows together and glare at her from the corners of my eyes just like I did at age six when she said I had to at least TRY the brussel sprout. Then she brings up pantyhose. “Thank heavens for control top, right?” I know at this point that she’s not even paying attention to anything I’m wearing. If she did, she’d know that I’m not wearing pantyhose because a) they haven’t made pantyhose in ‘pasty white’ since 1989 and b) panty hose don’t have stubble.
As I’m waiting to be beamed into a space ship, or for the event to get underway (whichever comes first), my mom goes for the gusto. Bras. “Maybe you should try one with a little more support.”
I take a deep breath, roll my eyes and announce to her as I reach up to adjust the strap that must have fallen off my shoulder, “My bra supports me just fine.” And I move my hand down my shoulder trying to recapture my supportive bra strap which seems to have fallen … to … my elbow? Frantically, I’ve reached my right hand all the way down to my left wrist and not been able to retrieve my fallen strap!
Calmly and coolly I grab the front of my shirt, yank it 12 inches out in front of me and peer straight down my front (a very classy technique I learned from The Dad, by the way) and discovered that my mother way correct. I did need to try a bra with more support.
Heck. I just needed a bra.
That’s right. My ta-tas were completely commando on this elegant night out.
I pulled the cardigan around me tightly and looked at my mom. “You’re right,” I stammered. “I do need more support.”
At least I remembered my panties…
Oh, wait…
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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I will be the first to admit that I kept a secret from The Dad – back when we were first dating and he was just The Boyfriend. We began dating in June and I was right smack dab in the middle of my secret.
I remember on our second date, before he came to pick me up, I scrambled to put the goodies I had just shopped for away in a closet so he wouldn’t know. When he called me one morning, I just about broke my knee jumping over my bed to turn the stereo down. I knew that I’d be found out, and I knew that if I wanted this relationship to go places, I would have to be honest and let him know my secret. I just wasn’t sure the best way to tell him … or the best place … or the best time … So I kept my goodies hidden in the top of my closet and under my bed. My secret was safe.
Until that one fateful afternoon when he thought it would be romantic to just fling open my apartment door and surprise me. And he did. I was watching a movie – indulging myself in my own little secret world – and he burst right in! (He was carrying flowers – Ahhhh … back when I still got flowers!) I guess this would be the time and place that I would be forced to share with him my secret.
He looked at the TV. Then he looked at me. He took a deep breath and he said, quietly and tentatively, “What … What is … What are you watching?”
I sighed and said, “Christmas Vacation.”
There. The truth was out. I am a Christmas nut and I shop and celebrate year-round. And it felt good to get it off my chest. I did not feel ashamed!
For years, I have celebrated Christmas from December 26 – December 25. I pick up wrapping paper for the next year at the After-Christmas Sales and I start shopping for my list (checking it twice!) in January. It’s my goal, every year, to have my shopping completely sealed before Thanksgiving.
To get me in the mood, I listen to Christmas music in my minivan year-round. A tradition, I am proud to say, I am passing onto my daughters. (Do not call Human Services. They do not consider this abuse. And they told me during the last investigation that as long as I don’t try to get them to harmonize with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir before The Daughters are in fifth grade, I am doing nothing wrong!)
I hit the Black Friday sales to stock up on “incidental” presents… you know when the neighbors bring over fudge on a crystal platter instead of chocolate chip cookies on a paper plate, then I am prepared with those darling angel candlesticks (2 for $5 before 4 AM at The Wal-Marts) to gift right back at ‘em. Then I spend the rest of the day decorating my house, then snoozing on the couch, then yelling at the family for being too loud because they were not up at 3 AM buying 14 turkey roasters ($8 each if you found them next to the blue light) to give out at The Dad’s office party!
I take my Christmas Card Picture (yes, that phrase does deserve all caps!) right after Halloween and have the cards stamped and sealed and ready to put in the mailbox as we drive back north from The Dad’s folks home on Thanksgiving Day. And , yes, I do wait until after Thanksgiving Day before I become outwardly manic about silver tinsel and snow-in-a-can! I do have some sense of normalcy. Some.
I tell you all this so that you know I am a fanatic. I am 100% certifiable, loony over the Most Wonderful Time of the Year – which in my case, lasts all year long.
HOWEVER (yes, that word does deserve all caps!), I am a little bit distraught that the day after Halloween, I turned on my favorite radio station (the one that plays Queen and Roberta Flack and Abba and KC and the Sunshine Band… all the good songs that I roller skated too… I mean, I would have roller skated to if I had been old enough. And despite what my friend Melinda says, I probably am not THAT old!). I digress. So, I turn on my favorite radio station and my old buddy Bing is crooning about City Sidewalks and Snow Crunching, and I feel violated. That same day, I read the newspaper and see the Christmas ads are in full swing and I feel embarrassed. To think that Madison Avenue has invaded my private-year-round-red-sparkling-lights world and taken it before the public makes me feel exposed.
Please understand, I am not apologizing for my over-the-top fanaticism about all things reindeer and snowmen and fat-bearded men. I have nothing to apologize for. I do feel, though, that retailers and radio stations and marketing mongrels (yes, that’s the word I intended to use) should apologize to all those people who screech into Hobby Lobby at 5:45 on December 24 looking for a few “last minute” things (which means they’ve got nuthin’!). If I wish to watch A Christmas Story for 24 hours straight in the middle of August, that’s my prerogative. And don’t think I don’t know where The Dad hid that DVD after this year’s run!
BUT, if there’s just one person out there who wishes to not have twinkle-lighted garland tied around his or her neck as soon as the weather turns just the slightest bit not-hot, then Madison Avenue should oblige. We all have our own time frames in our own minds: the smart ones (like me) will already have their shopping done by the time the two-for-the-price-of-one-plus-a-dollar ads run and won’t be interested; and the daring ones (not like me) will be paying full-price for a bottle of Stetson for their great-grandpa on December 23 at 10:45 pm at The Mall.
It seems to me that their advertising buck would be better spent during the time it’s intended and the savings could then be passed on to me (and you, too) whenever I choose to take it! (Probably January 15 – first payday after Christmas!)
Really, do these ad execs have nothing better to think about than trees and red balls and German-chocolate calendars year-round? Because c’mon! Get a life! And your own red balls!
And I’ll leave you with that … because I’m going to decorate my tree! KIDDING!!
You can contact Minivan Momma at minivan.momma.2@gmail.com
© 2009 “Minivan Momma”
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