tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75448652235212516202024-03-13T21:08:34.656-07:00Three Ring CircusA Parenting Blog About Juggling Marriage, Work and Family
by D.C. JeffersonD.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-65490695744068427342015-05-02T10:20:00.000-07:002015-05-02T10:20:06.241-07:00Someone Once Told Me Life is a HighwayIf life is a highway, why do I feel like I'm in the carpool lane and it's always backed up?D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-71088182585217740072015-02-06T07:21:00.001-08:002015-02-06T07:21:17.723-08:00Sometimes Peer Pressure is GoodMy 14 year came into the kitchen this morning dressed for school. My 11 year looked at her and said, "Why does your generation dress like they don't have any money? Baggy shirts, ripped jeans..." Too funny! Apparently, I don't need to parent anymore, I can just let my 11 year old do it for me. BtW, after her comment, my 14 year old went in and changed out of her ripped jeans! God, I love peer pressure!D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-33844440058345261572014-05-31T13:43:00.000-07:002014-05-31T13:43:19.492-07:00I Never Thought It Would Happen
One of the things we loved when we moved into our neighborhood was that there were so many young families with kids roughly the same ages – about 40 of them. It was so sweet and fun and exciting to see them go through all the different stages of life…until now. They are teenagers. AND, they are all starting to drive. All at once.
One by one, I see one teen after another behind the wheel, nervous parent trying to act calm riding shotgun. I’m terrified, not only of being on the streets with them as either a pedestrian or a driver. It’s that mine will be driving soon, too. I firmly believe anyone who still sleeps in your bed (on occasion) or asks you for money (not on occasion) shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car…but wait, that describes too many spouses I know, so forget that point. But regardless, I think the thing which instills the greatest fear is that soon, too soon, my teenager will be riffling my purse for my extra pair of car keys and expecting me not to scream as she reverses my already dented Honda into the back of my husband’s car. Or even worse, all of her blooming teenage energy will be mobile. There will be little stopping her from taking to the streets except me and my ability to say no repeatedly…to someone who doesn’t listen to me and has a high tolerance for punishment.
The first road trip I took after learning how to drive was to follow my parents on the highway in our second car as we drove up the coast to Cape Code. It was bumper to bumper traffic, and they call it that for a reason. That’s exactly what I did – bumped my bumper into the back of my parents’ car. We pulled over to the side, my dad got out of the car, teeth clenched, and inspected the rear of his vehicle and the front of mine. I climbed sheepishly out of the other car, tears already welling up, ready to offer any earthly punishment to keep from being killed. It wasn’t bad. In fact, I don’t think any dent or scratches were noticeable. Still, my father was steaming. All he could manage to say was “Get back in the car.” I can imagine all he wanted to say, the rant about how many hours he’d spent painfully explaining to me about parallel parking, turning into a spin, and staying at least one car distance away from the vehicle in front of you. ONE CAR DISTANCE AWAY. Only to have my first fender bender be with him!
When my husband and I were new parents, ten or eleven years ago, the parents used to joke with each other at neighborhood parties about how one day all of these cute little kids would be teenagers learning to drive. And now it has happened. It’s like the zombie apocalypse. You never really think it will, until it does. And then it’s too late because some undead creature is chewing on your foot. Well, that’s exactly what has happened on our block. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse – zombies or teenagers with cars. D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-31460970908828092232013-12-18T10:59:00.001-08:002013-12-18T10:59:32.067-08:00Christmas Again????I'm exhausted. "Everybody is, it's the holidays," you say. Is everybody hearing jingle bells and ambulance sirens? I am! I've got a hubby home from the hospital who scares me on an hourly basis by one minute seeming fine and trying to push the limits of recovery time by asking me questions like, "Do you think I can drive with a neck brace," or "Are my feet supposed to be numb?" Not to mention refusing to take the pain meds the doctor ordered because taking them would be a sign that he's not getting better. Refusing to take pain meds! I want some pain meds. I wish someone would prescribe them for me!
On top of that, I'm putting the finishing touches on a holiday script I wrote a while back that will see the light of day live on Christmas Eve - not to mention all the folks eyeballing it from home while they kiss under egg nog and drink mistletoe. No, that's backwards. And I think mistletoe is poisonous you so don't drink it.
I'm on holiday overload. I've baked because despite the fact that our home has been turned into a hospital unit - although I feel it's more like a mental ward and I'm serving as Nurse Ratched -an inside joke for anyone who loves One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - I want my children to not miss out on Christmas entirely. So I've been baking. Hourly. Maybe that's because I don't have any meds like my husband does, that he refuses to take. Chocolate chip cookies and red velvet cake with more peppermint and candy canes added to them than are legal in most states. I've taken my girls to see holiday lights and skate on what was supposed to be an old-time ice rink in Burbank. It's nice, but they can't really hide the fact that it's a city parking lot. Kinda kills the Dickensian feel.
I think I've seen over 20 holiday performances in the last several months and if anyone mentions watching It's a Wonderful Life to me one more time I think I may hurt them.
Happy Holidays! Talk at you in January!
D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-77320979193077312452013-07-12T16:54:00.000-07:002013-07-12T16:54:05.111-07:00The Real Test of a MarriageSome people say that financial difficulties test a marriage. Others, talk about how babies (and the children and teens they grow into) can strain a marriage. Illness, death, work stress, those can pull at the bonds of matrimony and push even the most loving and devoted of couples into divorce court. But I now know the real test of a strong marriage. It has nothing to do with how much debt you do or don't have. Babies/kids/teens might test you, but they grow up and go away in 18 years. Your health, even the death of those close to you, or the constant stress that often comes with the job - those things are tough to weather as a couple, but still doable. No! The real test is living 27 days in the San Fernando Valley of Southern California in the middle of the summer with a broken air conditioner. After this long in the sweltering heat, I'm surprised we're still married. Hell, I'm shocked we haven't killed each other and used our carcasses to construct makeshift shelters as shade from the sun.
David insists we sit in the dark (because you know how much heat light bulb puts out) in order to keep it cooler in the house. The shades are drawn but the windows are open. Which seems counter productive, and I'm sure it is. But I've stopped arguing with him over cooling strategies. That might break us. Our goal is to keep calm, keep cool and ride this out. The first few weeks were tough. We were mad, we were worried. There was a lot of barking around here and none of it came from the dog. There were four cranky humans (and a rescue dog wondering if maybe she had been better off in the streets) with tempers that were rising as quickly as the thermostat. But then something odd happened. We got used to it, realized it was hot and that all the arguing and grumpiness was because we were miserable and hot, and then we stopped arguing. It's still hot, but at least we're not bitching about it.
My kids actually think this is a grand adventure! My idea of adventure is lounging by a pool with misters on and an open bar tab. But my girls, this living in a house that's hotter than hell and doesn't cool down even when it's nighttime...they think that's fun. Why? Because long after the age where they should be in their own beds at night, we have all taken refuge in the master bedroom, some on the bed, some camped out on the floor, with the only fan in the house blowing air directly on us all night long. We take cold showers. We eat cold meals. We savor ice cream. We chug ice water. Anything we can think of to bring the temps down. It’s like boot camp in hell…only with groceries to buy, laundry to do and dinner to cook.
This no air conditioner thing has also done wonders for stimulating conversation. Who says married people have nothing to talk about anymore except their kids? We are constantly talking now. Trying to figure out whose pool we can invite ourselves over to has become a wonderful topic of conversation. Ditto, which malls, movie theaters, and restaurants have the coldest air conditioning. Last weekend, we even thought about taking a spur of the moment drive up the coast to Santa Barbara. Not because Santa Barbara is fabulous - which it is - but because it would have meant three hours round trip in the car - where the air conditioning is working.
They say if you and your spouse can weather - pun intended - difficult situations, it makes you stronger for it. And I think we've come through this pretty well so far. I joked with David the other day that I was going to start up an affair with an air conditioning salesman. Without missing a beat he said, "Good, do you think he'll give us a discount on a portable unit until our system is fixed?" I don't know if we can get a discount, but at this rate, it might be worth a shot.
Honestly, all I really want right now is not a cold glass of water, or imposing on friends to suck up their cool air and/or pool, or even a hunky, or not so hunky air conditioner salesman. I just want the darn electrician to agree with the darn access guy, to agree with the darn home warrantee company that something needs to happen to fix our air conditioning unit now. And when it's fixed, I have no doubt the record heat we're having will end. It always works that way.
D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-50020445886846046072013-06-07T14:53:00.000-07:002013-06-07T14:53:02.720-07:00Scream Heard Round the BlockLast day of school! Last day of school! Last day of school! Could not have come soon enough. Just in time for kids about to overload from academic pressure. Just in time for parents about to overload from serving as both chauffeurs and ATMS. Just in time for teachers about to overload from students, parents, and administrators. Just in time for national donut day. Because we need a day for that!
I was waiting in the car on the street when the last bell of the day rang at my daughter's middle school. There was a scream. A collective scream. It was so long and so loud that I was afraid glass would shatter. I wanted to scream, too. Last day of school. It couldn't come soon enough. Now the pace will change. We can relax a bit. Maybe even do something silly or stupid or both. It will be a long summer, just long enough so that come the second week in August, we will be not only ready, but eager to ship the munchkins back to class. But until then...summer fun!
Happy Summer!D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-41460346322746356212013-06-06T17:52:00.001-07:002013-06-06T17:52:25.165-07:00Antisocial MediaMy 12-year old daughter got mad yesterday when she discovered that an older girl she knows stopped following her on Instagram. Outraged, she vowed that as retaliation, she was going to stop following the older girl in return. I realized that this antisocial social media was about to turn ugly and suggested that the point was to express yourself and not worry about who wanted to "follow" you. Both my children looked at me like I was nuts. "It's ALL about how many followers you have, mom!" What do I know...in my mind people follow you if you are a cult leader, have a scout troop, or are a yellow brick road.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-91446115951550739672013-03-04T07:37:00.000-08:002013-03-05T15:39:09.306-08:00Puppy PoliticsThe Los Angeles mayoral election is on Tuesday. I have yet to make a final decision based on a thorough evaluation of each candidate’s record and position on a myriad of important issues facing the city. However my opinion is being swayed by an informal survey we’ve been taking in our house and based on that, Wendy Greuel is in trouble.
In our survey, we take the annoying cardstock political mailers that have been clogging up our mailbox for the last few weeks and put them on the floor by the front door before we leave for work each day. Our dog, Franny, an adorable, but amusingly destructive terrier with abandonment and anger management issues, has taken to selectively destroying the mailers. Based on what is done to each candidate’s mailer, we determine how much our dog likes or dislikes the politician and their record.
Eric Garcetti was on the floor for 3 days before our dog chewed off his corners. Kevin James was shredded after a day, along with Jan Perry, who received some similar biting. Wendy Greuel was left alone for a week. We thought, based on our survey, that she was the winner until Friday afternoon when I came home to find that not only had she been shredded into hundreds of tiny little pieces, but after a careful sniff, we suspect our dog relieved herself on the mailer as well. Not a good sign.
I don’t know what Wendy Greuel did to enrage my dog. I can guess that maybe it had something to do with the city trees in our neighborhood, the district Greuel used to represent. The trees were scheduled to be cut only once every 50 years. Let me repeat…EVERY 50 YEARS! But we had branches falling all the time, damaging cars, destroying lawn furniture and eventually, falling and narrowly missing my then toddler who was playing in the yard.
I called Wendy Greuel’s office repeatedly to see what could be done about getting the trees trimmed but was constantly transferred from on assistant to the next. I finally went to the source, spotting a city crew working down the block on some other trees. I told the supervisor about the near miss with the city tree limb nearly taking the life of my first born and he agreed to send a few of his crew down to trim the trees on our block years before they were due for their 50 year haircut. Dogs like trees, but not ones that fall on you. Sorry Wendy, but I suspect my dog was voting with her teeth.
I haven’t yet decided who I am going to vote for to be mayor of Los Angeles. But based on our canine survey, Wendy, it doesn’t look good.
D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-63545174239875848532013-01-15T07:20:00.001-08:002013-01-15T07:20:44.859-08:00Twenty Tiny CoffinsYesterday marked one month since the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School. After listening to all the coverage and the comments by the parents of the twenty slain children, I asked my nine year old Natalie if she was worried about security at her school. She didn’t bother to look up from a rerun of Gravity Falls on t.v. as she waved off my question and said, “Don’t worry, mom, I think Mr. Martinez has it handled.”
Mr. Martinez is her principal, and yes, I think he does. I’m glad she thinks so, too. But I wanted to find out more about what made her feel safe at school, so I brought the question up again later. She looked at me as if she thought I’d developed early Alzheimer’s and repeated her early comment about her principal, this time talking louder on the off chance I just hadn’t heard her the first time.
“Yes, that’s what you said before,” wanting to reassure her that neither my hearing nor memory were defective. “But why?”
She rolled her eyes. I get a lot of that at my house these days. Eye rolling and requests for money. I used to kid myself that it was only a phase that would end once they graduated college until I caught myself over the holidays doing basically the same thing to my own father, rolling my eyes at his comment and secretly hoping he'd offer to pay for the very expensive meal we'd all just consumed. But I digress. What made her feel safe? She launched into a scenario of what would happen if a “bad guy” came to her school.
“My teacher, since she’s the nicest person in the world, would try to reason with the bad guy,” she said, “She’d convince him to put his weapon down." Then she went on to describe how the science teacher would throw chemicals at him, the music teacher would sing a note so high that his head would explode, and she reminded me that the maintenance man “… has a baseball bat, a signed baseball bat.” She felt the signed part was very important and surely would make a difference. She went on to describe how one of the fifth grade teachers, a woman who used to be in the military, would beat him up, and how another - whose bark often overshadows his skillful teaching – would go on one of his tirades and scare the bad guy off. Then I asked her about the front office, and one staff member with a reputation for gruffness who has to put up with more stuff from the parents than most on campus. “Oh her," Natalie said, "She’s probably packing!” I didn’t even know my kid knew the term “packing,” let alone how to use it. And on second thought, if anyone would be packing, it would probably be this woman and I wouldn’t blame her.
I laughed and smiled when I watched my daughter explain with great certainty how her school staff would keep her safe, endowing them with almost superhero qualities. She trusted them, as we trust them, with her life. That’s asking a lot more of them than teaching reading, writing, and enough math to get them through to middle school. That didn’t hit me until the tragedy in Connecticut - until I saw the twenty tiny coffins of the victims. Twenty children, six educators lost. I grew up in Connecticut, in a town fairly similar and not too far from Newtown. My father still works in the schools there. Now what happened there is not far from my mind every morning when I drop my kids off at school.
We entrust the teachers with the lives of our children…pro ball players get fifteen million a year, some actors get twenty million a film, teachers get…not that much…certainly not enough to justify asking them to take up arms, real or imagined, to protect our kids. Isn’t asking them to teach enough? Maybe Natalie was right, they're superhuman after all. Visit www.sandyhookpromise.orgD.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-15238428136904361472013-01-04T10:17:00.000-08:002013-01-04T10:17:41.213-08:00FiguresSo I decide that 2013 is the year to get healthy again. I'd already returned to doing yoga and started running every week with an athletic neighbor who'd already tackled a triathlon and was kind enough to slow down and let me run along side her for a couple of miles while she trains. Yeah, so 2013 I decide to get healthy again - like I was in my 20s, hiking and swimming and running 1/2 marathons. I decide to get healthy; my daughters decide to start a business making homemade ice cream.
Now my refrigerator is filled with more heavy whipping cream than anyone should purchase at one time and ingredients like mints and chocolate bits and caramel are stacked to the ceiling of the pantry. The girls are creating ice cream flavor names like "Sassy Cinnamon" and "Heavenly Hazelnut" and tasting each batch as it comes out of the freezer. Of course, insisting that I, as the major (only) investor in their business, taste each flavor as well. The only good part about their new enterprise? It forces them to clean the dishes - a lot!
Yup, I vow to get healthy, my kids turn into Ben & Jerry. Figures.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-91916560110872260142013-01-01T21:08:00.001-08:002013-01-01T21:08:53.750-08:00Happy New Year!The Mayans threw a doomsday party but nobody came. A fiscal cliff was diverted. And I finally got out to see a movie which didn't feature animated characters, need to be viewed in 3D, or have a median audience age of 8. If that's how I'm ending 2012, 2013 is gonna be great. Happy New Year!D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-15413112019745550762012-06-15T12:27:00.000-07:002012-06-15T12:27:13.215-07:00Big Brothers, Little Sisters, Goat Cheese and Why My Children Talk So MuchWe were sitting at the table the other night and of course there were four different conversations going on at the same time – which is difficult to do when there are only four people (and one dog) seated at the table. But given the love of gab that we all possess, somehow we managed to make enough of a cacophony to drown out what each other was saying, and making us all talk louder to compensate.
Nicole kicks me under the table, it was intended as more of a nudge, but because of her sheer excitement in sharing a story with me it turned into a full blown kick. I howled and she apologized and then launched into her story. It had something to do with her friend’s brother who played a trick on her, not Nicole, but the friend. Now sometimes, at that point, when I know I’ve heard the story before or when it is a story which will add nothing to my life and in fact take up three or four minutes that I will never get back, I put on the listening mother face and check out. I’ll think about what I want to read before I go to bed, if I’m going to leave the dishes in the sink tonight and do them in the morning, or struggle to remember if I’d crossed all the must do’s off of my to do list for the day, all while nodding my head, smiling and looking like I’m enjoying every minute of her story about the cousin’s uncle’s brother’s sister’s niece. Oh, come on, you know you’ve checked out, too, I’m just the only one stupid enough to admit it in print. Someday, when my daughters are in therapy, they will look up this blog – because you know that NOTHING you write on the internet EVER goes away – and show it to their doctors as proof of my bad mothering…but until then…
So, I’m busy not listening to Nicole, when she says something that catches my attention. She says, “My friend’s brother tried to convince her that goat cheese is made out of goat feces.” Well, that stopped dinner conversation. For whatever reason, I found it incredibly funny and very big brotherish to try and convince your little sister of something like that. My brother used to do things like that to me all the time, including the time he tried to convince me I was adopted. So I found it very, very funny. David didn’t. He made a nasty expression as he tried to choke down the last of the ricotta cheese from his lasagna and Natalie, who only caught half of the conversation, misheard it and asked, “What about goat faces?” Again, more laughter.
Nicole went on to explain, and now I was really listening, that her friend’s brother not only told this to his little sister, but backed up the claim by putting up a fake entry on Wikipedia explaining how you make goat cheese from goat feces...not goat faces. Oh, this was getting better and better. David shouted at Nicole, telling her that goat feces was not appropriate dinner conversation. But he said the word feces again and like a group of kindergarteners, a poop word, even a sophisticated one like feces, made us start laughing all over again. I was impressed, in the 21st century a big brother could use the internet to convince and gross out his sister…note to self, reason number 907 not to trust entry postings on Wikipedia. So I asked Nicole if the posting was still up. She wasn’t sure, but said it was under, “How to make goat cheese…” save yourself the time, I looked it up and it’s not there. His parents probably made him take it down. But probably only after they had a good laugh themselves.
This came after a week of weird dinners. We must all be a little punchy, tired from all the end of year activities and eager for our summer to start. A few nights earlier, on a Sunday night, we hadn’t managed to get ourselves fed before 8:00pm and as the clock drew closer to 9, decided we better get dinner in us before it was time for breakfast. Unsatisfied with what was in the cupboard and with me temporarily on cooking strike – I was ready to cook at 7pm but nobody wanted to eat then – David decided that we should go out to eat.
We arrived at the restaurant and there were only two other tables taken. We ordered and for some reason, the more water the girls drank, the funnier they thought everything was. The waiter didn’t help the situation. He kept complimenting them for their manners and humor –one of which all kids should have – if you have good manners, nobody cares if you’re funny and if you have a good sense of humor and make people laugh, they’ll put up with a little bit of bad behavior…but only a little – so with all the attention, my girls reallly decided to put on a show. They were laughing loudly, guzzling back water to the point where I made a comment about them being camels and that launched them into another conversation about another friend which I really didn’t need to hear…particularly at 9:00 at night when I still haven’t eaten. But in our house, you can’t mention camels without mentioning Nicole’s best friend, who LOVES camels. So I tuned out for a bit, wondering when the waiter was going to bring my gluten free beer, if gluten free beer would be any good, and why I even bothered to order beer of any kind since I was headed for bed in less than 30 minutes. And Nicole continued talking about camels, and her friend, and next thing I know, I’ve agreed to let her and her friend go on some camel safari in Morocco for their sweet sixteen birthday! Hell, all I got for my sweet sixteen was a watch, which broke, and a warning that you could get mono from kissing boys. But my kid, she wants an international adventure tour. Serves me right for not listening. Oh, and next time, I’ll skip the gluten free beer.
BTW – I asked Nicole something the other day and she looked at me blankly and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t listening to you…just blanked you out.” So clearly, I’m NOT the only one who does it.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-12421040346095671492012-05-25T09:10:00.001-07:002012-05-25T09:10:23.704-07:00Books and BoobsI was reading Time Magazine the other day and found myself inspired by an article about John Irving. If you haven’t read him, you should. Books such as The World According to Garp, Cider House Rules, and A Prayer for Owen Meany are a few of his creations. He is a writer’s writer. His work always cuts into me, shocking, funny, honest and accepting of humanity often overlooked.
The article about Irving was the only reason I cracked open the magazine. I almost canceled my subscription to Time a few weeks before when they featured an attractive 20something mother on the cover breastfeeding her (very tall for his age) 3 year old son with the caption, “Are You Mom Enough?” Are they kidding?
The article was about Dr. Sears and his attachment parenting theories and how it encourages women to breastfeed their children long after their children can not only say the word breast, but spell it, type it into the computer, and tweet pictures of themselves sucking from it. No prude am I, but seriously folks, in my opinion, if your child can get the milk out of the refrigerator and pour a glass all by themselves, they have no business still breastfeeding.
Appalled as I was about the idea of breastfeeding into the toddler and elementary years – one woman was breastfeeding her 8 year old until he recently self-weaned – I wondered why hadn’t anyone called DCF (department of children and families) on these parents and on Dr. Sears himself for advocating this. But then I read the article and you know what? Sears’ theories didn’t seem as extreme as you’d think. It seemed more like his followers were the ones taking it to the extreme and Time was using that to sell more magazines with its titillating (pun intended) cover. Actually, to my horror, all the components of attachment parenting where pretty much things my husband and I had done when raising our children – Breastfeeding , co-sleeping, babywearing, childled learning, etc. - we just hadn’t read a book about it and weren’t following “the method.” We had done attachment parenting – except for the extreme breastfeeding part. I breastfed both girls until they were about 12 months and/or until their teeth came in and they thought it was funny to chomp down hard on me while breastfeeding and watch me scream. The first time that happened with both was pretty much the last time I breastfed. Because honestly, after all the things your body goes through to have a baby, I think getting bit on the boob is the final indignity and really just shouldn’t be tolerated!
So, I was a little worried to realize that what we had done was part of an actual parenting movement. I’ve never been a joiner of movements. In fact, I think I’m more an anti-joiner, taking pleasure in my steadfast refusal to participate in organized group activities – Brownies, Girl Scouts, cheerleading, college sororities, etc… David and I hadn’t tried to be part of a parenting movement. Honestly, we aren’t that organized. When our kids were babies, we were just trying to stay one step ahead of them, not be out numbered, and try to keep them alive until they were old enough to call 911 on their own. Attachment parenting, eh? Who says having your children adore you and be attached to you is a good thing? Our girls are now 9 and 11 and they can’t get enough of us. In fact, they like us too much if that’s possible. They want tell us everything, go everywhere with us, want us to play every board game, Wii game, and video game with them. We will need to stock up on dynamite to get them out of our beds. I think it’s time for a little detachment parenting. I keep waiting for the time when they will turn into surly teenagers and want nothing of us. What a relief that will be! Well, maybe not a total relief. It will probably be too quite around the house and I’ll miss the board games just a little bit. But at least we’ll get our bed back.
The other day, my husband saw a baby being pushed in a stroller down the street. He cooed at it. Have you ever seen a grown man coo? It’s not pretty. That was fine, I ignored him and kept walking, not to be impressed by every pretty babyface I see. Then he turned to me and said, “Hey, maybe we should have another one…” and this isn’t the first time he’s said that recently. I screamed. I couldn’t control it. It just burst out of my mouth. “Do you know how old I am?” My mind was trying to grasp what he was saying as if he had suddenly started speaking in tongues. “Do you know how old you are?” He looked at me, slightly hurt by my response. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d called him old or because I said I didn’t want to have another child. I continued. Sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love. “Besides, you want to know the most important reason we can’t have another baby?” He waited for me to bestow my great wisdom on him. “We can’t have another baby because if we did, we’d be outnumbered.” So much for great wisdom, but he knew I was right. We already have two children. Having a third would put us at a disadvantage. He’s a numbers guy, he knows about things like that. He agreed, said he was just having a moment. I suspect it was the leftover beef he had for dinner.
So I learned about attachment parenting because I wanted to read about John Irving and his new book. I’ve always admired his work so I guess it was worth going back to Time Magazine (which I still hold with some disregard for that sensationalistic cover.) But I had to read about Irving. I love reading about writers, particularly novelists, who (in my opinion) I believe have a much more challenging job than screenwriters. Yet despite Irving’s many critical accolades, he humbly believes that every time he sits down to start on a new work, to go head-to-head with a blank piece of paper, he is a beginner, learning the craft anew. I imagine that’s what it would be like if I tried to have another baby. A beginner, starting anew with a blank piece of paper. We could do that...or we could just get another dog.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-70062451967839919602012-04-27T15:49:00.000-07:002012-04-27T15:49:40.080-07:00Nest of FreaksI’m back. Not that I’d gone far. I just haven’t been able to write for a few weeks, maybe longer. It’s not because I’ve had writer’s block. It’s just the opposite…I’ve had writer’s diarrhea. I have been writing so many different projects at the same time that something had to give…and sadly it was the non-paying (but often much more therapeutic) writing of the blog.But it was a momentary pause, not a full stoppage. And even if I cannot write about the craziness of juggling marriage, work, and family, it doesn’t mean the insanity ceases. The chaos of family life didn’t stop. In fact, the waves of chaos have grown to a full blown tsunami.
It got so bad at one point that I thought about getting rid of my husband and children. Not in a nefarious way…despite all the CSIs I’ve watched, I’m still not a good enough liar to get away with much more than parking in a red zone without falling apart and giving a full confession under cross examination. No, I was going to get rid of them the old fashioned way. One day – I think it was the morning that started out with the kids forgetting to feed the dog they begged for 8 months ago and complaining about taking her out, spilling chocolate on the sofa they weren’t supposed to be eating on, and not caring that they didn’t empty their lunch bags from the night before and whole sandwiches, cheese sticks and yogurt which could have been saved had to be thrown away - I was so fed up with my kids (ages 9- “but I think I’m 40” and 11 “but I act like I’m 2”) that I decided to take them back to the hospital. I rationalized, I gave birth to them at Cedars and Cedars can take them back. I was going to write out a note explaining why I was returning them, pin it to the backs of their shirts, drive by the hospital entrance and slow down just enough to push them out without them scrapping anything on the pavement. I went as far as to write the notes. They read, “Dear Hospital, I am sorry that this did not work out, but I am going to have to return these babies. I know they are no longer babies. That is the problem. They have grown to the point where they don’t listen, talk back, and constantly ask me for money…particularly at the mall. Please return them from whence they came.” I even signed my name to the note, taking no shame in my return decision. After another incident which involved throwing food at each other, (them, not me, although I probably would have felt better if I had thrown some food), I told them my plan to take them back to the hospital and read them my note. They thought it was hysterical. They weren’t mortified at all. It didn’t cause them to recognize their bad behavior and regret not only driving their mother to the edge, but actually over the edge and into the ditch. No, they laughed so hard, I was afraid they were going to pee in their pants or spit food out of their noses…something else for me to clean up! Nicole’s biggest issue with my note was my use of the word, whence. “Who uses the word ‘whence’ anymore?” she complained. Having clever kids sometimes has disadvantages.
Natalie pointed out that even if I got rid of them, I’d still have daddy around. I had a plan for getting rid of him, too. I wrote another note. This one was addressed to his mother and read, “Dear Mama Jewel, I am sorry that this has not worked out, but I’m going to have to return your son. I know there was all that mention at our wedding about ‘until death do you part,’ but clearly, I can’t wait that long. You did not inform me that he does not listen, talks back, and does not know how to cook. Please accept this return…” More laughter from the girls. They pointed out that grandma wouldn’t take him back. They’re right…she’s too clever for that. She’d decline delivery, write “Return to sender” with a Sharpie on his butt, and ship him right back to me.
Writing the notes was very cathartic. It also made me laugh to realize I had almost the same complaints about both the girls and David…except the girls can cook. They’ve all been on better behavior recently. Maybe the notes put the fear of God in them after all…or maybe not. I think the change has come more with me than with them. I’ve learned to better accept and not get so frustrated by my family’s dysfunctional functioning. In some ways, I think I’ve embraced it. A dear friend of ours was describing her workplace and lovingly dubbed her co-workers, “A nest of freaks.” We have now embraced that as our family description. Anytime anyone does something…usual for our family…I sigh and think, “Yup, that’s us, nest of freaks.” Laughter is good for you.
So I promise, it won't be so long between posts anymore.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-84343114398045145102012-03-09T15:54:00.003-08:002012-03-09T16:44:02.691-08:00It Never Gets OldI have two friends who I have known since before I could speak in full and occasionally grammatically correct sentences - one since the age of 4 and the other since age 6. We don't live near each other. We don't even live on the same coasts. But whenever we get on the phone with each other it is as if we just talked yesterday. We quickly and easily fall back into the patterns of our friendship as if they lived close enough for me to lean over the fence and borrow some sugar... or vodka. <br /><br />My friend T., or Traerbear as I used to call her as a kid and occasionally still do, is a designer, but so much more. She illustrates and publishes children's books, blows glass, even choreographs fountains! Her talent amazes me. She has worked on the fountains at the Grove in Los Angeles, Bellagio in Vegas and even braved the heat of Dubai to make water dance and delight crowds. And now she makes jewelry. Here is her link: www.traerprice.com <br /><br />I am so proud of my old friend as she ventures into something new. And it made me realize something about longstanding friendships - they never get old. Unlike me. Thanks to those of you who sent birthday greetings to Facebook. But instead of growing another year older, I'm ready to start counting backwards. My younger daughter asked how old I was turning this birthday. I said 21. She didn't buy it. Then I told her 105. That, she said, sounded more reasonable. So I have to finish writing now so I can go get a tummytuckfaceliftliposuctiondyejob. Some things never get old...others do. Now if only I can stop making that annoying old person grunting sound every time I get up from my chair...D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-31207329604165627652012-02-17T10:09:00.000-08:002012-02-17T10:11:37.352-08:00Eating and DrinkingWhen I was a kid, in order to encourage us to finish the food on our plates at dinner, my mother would say, “There are starving kids in China who would love to eat that…” and of course, my brother and I would offer to pack up the food and send it to them. But of course, now we live in another day and time. When my own children leave food on the plate, I used to say, “There are starving kids two blocks from here who would love to eat that.” But now, because of the childhood obesity epidemic, I don’t even bother saying that anymore. If they leave food on their plate, oh well, next time I’ll know to make their portion sizes smaller. <br /><br />Yesterday, at the doctor’s office, my kids’ pediatrician was talking to me about the evils of juice boxes and sodas, leaving no options other than to let my kids drink water, or water, or maybe some water with some artificial diet powder in it. Not really appealing at all. <br /><br />But then I ran across this article about what parents in Brooklyn are serving their little ones to drink – Babyccinos! Specially made, decaf espresso coffee beverages that upscale parents can order (for $2.00 a cup) at their local coffee house for their kids. Really? I think I’ve lived too long. So now when a kid doesn’t drink everything in their cup, the mom is going to say, “There are thirsty children in Studio City who would love a Babyccino!” Read the article at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/02/15/coffee-for-kids-babyccino_n_1279127.htmlD.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-71911328054153671712012-02-07T16:56:00.000-08:002012-02-07T17:05:13.288-08:00My Dog Thinks I'm a Bitch (and I'm sure she's not the only one...)You know how newborn puppies nuzzle their mothers when it's time to fall asleep? Well, our rescue puppy, who we think was separated from her litter soon after birth, clearly thinks of me as her mother because I cannot lie down without her immediately curling up next to me. She will then proceed to lick the air, or the sheets, or your fingers if you hold them out for her, and she will continue licking until it soothes her. Then she falls asleep. It was very cute the first 200 or so times she did it. Now, however, not so much. And really, it's not because the sheets have all been slobbered on or even because I have the vague feeling Franny is stalking me, waiting for me to lie down. It mostly bothers me because my daughters have started imitating the dog, piling on top of me whenever I get in bed. It's like a large puppy litter on a queen size mattress, pushing and shoving, vying for the space closest to the bitch. Problem is, I get to be the bitch and only one of the three crowding me is really a dog. And the dog is a lot lighter than my kids are and takes up less space. And unlike the dog, who licks to unwind, my children unwind by telling me about their day. However, by bedtime, I've already heard about their day several times over - once when I picked them up in the car from school and asked, "How was your day?" Again, when my husband got home and asked them, "How was your day?" And then at dinner when they turn to us, looking hurt and say, "Doesn't anyone want to know about my day?" At which point we have to remind them about the two times we have already heard about the girl at school whose sister's cousin's best friend's brother went to school with Victoria Justice or about the boys in Algebra who told them to visit the website, "Pen Island.com." (BTW, I was happy to hear that my very verbal daughter figured out that word play without us having to point it out, and even more pleased that she was smart enough not to visit the website on her own!)<br /><br />Despite my best efforts to break up the litter and get everyone to fall asleep in their own beds, it never works for more than a night or two. With great determination, I will push them off of me and walk each of them down the hall to their bedrooms (including the doggie bed in the kitchen), kiss them good night and tell them to stay put. I left the dog in the kitchen with a biscuit by her bed. I took Natalie to her room and tucked her in, told her to stay put. Natalie hates it when I tell her to stay, and usually says, "Woof" in response. I took Nicole into her room, promising to check back on Natalie before I went to bed. Nicole climbed under the sheets and warned me that if she is uncomfortable, or if she's not feeling well, or hears something outside her window, or her bathroom isn't working, or the temperature in the house is too hot, she will come into our bed later. (I'm hoping this will stop by the time they're old enough to drive.) I reminded Nicole about the twentysomething guy we talked to who was working at the Home Depot who told us that he only recently stopped sleeping in his parents' bed. Nicole offered that up as proof that her and Natalie's "occasional" nighttime forays into our room were normal. I pointed out to her that the guy from Home Depot climbing into his parents' bed when he's old enough to vote is abnormal. That disturbing visual convinced her and she fell asleep in her own bed. I went back in to check on Natalie, and she'd dozed off with a book in hand. I headed back to my room, thrilled that I was going to get a night without the puppy pile-on. I pulled back the sheets, only to find my dog, Franny, burrowed under the covers. Oh well, two out of three isn't bad.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-35641299030355910912012-01-27T11:03:00.000-08:002012-01-27T11:09:22.072-08:00The Bucket ListThis morning, my eight year old daughter told me she needed to write a bucket list. After I got over being stunned that she even knows what a bucket list is, I asked her why she felt she needed one.<br /><br />“The end of the world is coming on 12/21/21. There are a lot of things I need to get done before then,” she said, very seriously.<br /><br />I am proud that I didn’t laugh. I tried hard to look pensive, considering her words for a minute, careful to answer in a way that didn’t dismiss her feelings or statement. “Yes, I can see where you’d have a lot to do if the world was ending then.” Boy, that Mayan calendar really has her concerned. “Are you afraid?” I asked.<br /><br />“No, just worried that I won’t get everything done in time,” she said.<br /><br />“Like what?” I asked, really curious about the contents of her bucket list.<br /><br />Without missing a beat, Natalie rattled off the items that she needed to get done before the world ends at the end of this year. She’d clearly given this some thought:<br /><br />Go to Stanford. (I told her she wasn’t old enough to go to college yet. She amended her statement and said, “Go to a summer program at Stanford.”)<br /><br />Get married. (Again, I reminded her of that age thing…she shot back, “Fine, a crush…”)<br /><br />See Paris, tour China, and eat pizza in Italy. (I told her those were all great, but that I wasn’t sure we’d have time to fit all that in over summer vacation.)<br /><br />Go on a shopping spree. (I cringed a little at the materialism, but then figured, hey, shouldn’t she have one visit to the mall where the sky’s the limit? I mean, if the end of the world is coming, why not go out looking one’s very best ? I did remind her that if for some reason, the Mayan’s prediction didn’t come true, those bills would have to be paid. She said she’d worry about that later.)<br /><br />Adopt 3 more dogs and 6 children. (I started to tell her that she was too young to adopt children and that we don’t have space for more than one dog, but then I realized I was being a downer and simply told her it was admirable to want to help other people and animals.)<br /><br />After she’d completed her list, I mentioned that in 2000 everyone worried that chaos would ensue when the clocks flipped over on New Year’s Eve because (as they warned) the computers and other tech devices were not prepared to change from the 1900s to the 2000s – the infamous Y2K. I told her how the media and everyone else talked about the awful things that would happen – all computer data being lost – bank accounts, investments, anything important that was kept on computer; the financial, transportation, and healthcare systems coming to a stop because of their reliance on computers; and prison doors popping open and allowing criminals to roam free because the prisons had computerized security systems. What they pretty much described was the end of the world as we knew it. There was great consternation in some circles. In others, we just backed up our computers and printed out vital documents in case the system went down temporarily. Well, Y2K was a big nothing, I told her. Not a thing bad happened. She considered my story, then said with more confidence than an 8 year old should have, “I want to get these things done…just in case.”<br /><br />So Natalie is writing her bucket list and planning for our end of the world party on 12/21/12. She asked if we knew any Mayans to invite to the party. I told her I’d work on it. <br /><br />See you on 12/22/12.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-29715026147971070272012-01-16T11:43:00.000-08:002012-01-16T11:47:48.876-08:00Birthdays and Other Things in Common with Mass MurderersOne of the things I love about kids is that you can fall into conversations with them that you would never have with adults. There are some things in life that kids just haven't learned about yet…although that never stops them from talking about it. I had one of those conversations yesterday.<br /><br />Characters:<br /><br />Natalie - 8<br />Nicole - 11<br />Dawn - young enough to have seen Star Trek in reruns, old enough to know not to list her age<br /><br />Time: <br /><br />In auto line for after school pick up<br /><br />Place:<br /><br />Dawn's car, aka momuv, aka place where kids leave their 1/2 eaten sandwiches and empty gum wrappers in the cup holders.<br /><br /><br />Dawn surfs her phone, leaving the car on (and draining her battery) so that Natalie can wear headphones and entertain herself by singing along with some inane pop tune on Radio Disney.<br /><br />Nicole hops into the car, tosses her backpack into the seat.<br /><br />Nicole: Hiya!<br /><br />Dawn: How was school, hon?<br /><br />Nicole: Really exciting…<br /><br />Natalie: (talking off her headphones, interrupting) …exciting…what?<br /><br />Nicole: Today in class we learned that Max, Becca, Dee Dee, and Hitler all have the same birthday.<br /><br />Natalie: Who names their kid Hitler?<br /><br />Dawn bursts out laughing, uncontrollably, realizes that Natalie doesn't know who that is. Guess third grade hasn't covered world history yet.<br /><br />Nicole: Hitler isn't in our class.<br /><br />Natalie: Then why were you celebrating his birthday?<br /><br />Nicole: We weren't!<br /><br />Dawn, now laughing too hard to intervene, tries to calm herself, can’t. The conversation continues to veer off course.<br /><br />Nicole: We wouldn't celebrate his birthday…<br /><br />Natalie: But you said Max, Dee Dee, Becca, and Hitler all have the same birthday…did they bring cupcakes?<br /><br />Having just calmed herself, the cupcake comment sends Dawn back into another wave of laughter. Dawn tries to explain between laughs.<br /><br />Dawn: Hitler is not in their class, Natalie…Nicole, she doesn't understand…<br /><br />Nicole: Oh God, no, Natalie, he's bad.<br /><br />Natalie: Whose class is he in?<br /><br />Dawn laughs harder, tears in her eyes, unable to catch her breath.<br /><br />Nicole: Natalie! He's not a kid…he's a bad guy in history…They were just all born on the same day.<br /><br />Dawn: You were studying history today?<br /><br />Nicole: Yeah, and Max pointed out that they all had the same birthday.<br /><br />Natalie: (Disappointed) So there weren't any cupcakes?<br /><br />Dawn starts laughing again.<br /><br />Natalie: (Sincerely upset) Why are you laughing, Mommy?<br /><br />Dawn: (Between laughs) I'm sorry. It's not funny. He was a bad guy who hurt many people.<br /><br />Natalie puts her headphones back on in a huff, suspects she's being lied to.<br /><br />Natalie: I didn't think anyone would name their kid Hitler.<br /><br />Nicole: Does anyone want to hear about my day?<br /><br />Dawn starts another laughing jag as they drive off.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-44154013224516280612012-01-03T16:18:00.001-08:002012-01-03T16:45:29.016-08:00Christmas FailMany things didn’t get done this Christmas. No cards were sent, baked goods were half baked and most of them were eaten before we could send them off in pretty little gift bags. Some gifts barely made it out the door, others still sit in the back seat of my car hoping to make it to their recipient sometime before they are too old to wear/use/eat it. I did not send thank you notes for the lovely and thoughtful gifts we received. I did not set a beautiful table on Christmas Day, or New Year’s Day for that matter. Although I am the queen of eating off paper plates, I make it a habit to insist that on those two days of the year (at the very least), I rise above paper and plastic, and serve my family a meal off of something that doesn’t have to be recycled…But not this year. It was a major Christmas fail. <br /><br />David and I both worked through the holidays. David worked long hours on the days leading up to Christmas, New Year’s Eve day and night, and all day on New Year’s. That blasted a hole in the seasonal holiday traditions we’d developed over the years. Hard to go caroling or drive out to see the lights at Candy Cane Lane when daddy doesn’t get home until 2am. I worked on a production the week leading up to Christmas, and all day on Christmas Eve. I loved the experience, it was amazing and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if they ask me, but that, in addition to fighting off a cold (a war I didn’t win), and a general sense of being overwhelmed by the holidays, meant a few things had to give. And give, they did. <br /><br />I managed to feed the family over the holidays, but only after spending enough to boost the economy of the entire Los Angeles restaurant industry. How many times do you think you can go to McDonald’s, Starbucks, Jamba Juice, El Torito, or Big Mama’s Pizza in one week? You don’t want to know. <br /><br />I hate shopping, hate malls even more. I usually plan out and do all of my holiday shopping online so I can limit the number of times I have to step foot in a mall and fight with some old lady (who I’d normally be really respectful to) because she’s about to steal my parking space and I’m one step away from ripping off her front fender and dragging her out of the car by her blue hair. But I didn’t plan ahead and order in time for online delivery, so I was forced to go to the mall. I dragged myself from store to store, mumbling under my breath and complaining as I bumped shoulders with other shoppers. My daughters, who (of course) LOVE going to the mall, were delighted. I rarely take them during the rest of the year, ranting that the mall is really just a large shrine to greed and over consumption which I only succumb to this time of year. Nicole looked at me sadly and complained, “It’s really not fair that we have a mother who doesn’t like to shop.” <br /><br />Every day leading up to Christmas I’d open the mailbox I’d see another beautiful card from friends and neighbors near and far. I’d imagine the comments from people who didn’t see our picture card in their box and feel worse thinking about all those friends of my parents who would say something about not receiving any cards this year, or worse, those people who’d cross our name off their mailing list because they didn’t get a Christmas card from us this year – “Ah, one less card to send,” they’d say. <br /><br />Yesterday, I’d finally gotten rid of my guilt over not sending out greeting cards for the first time in 13 years of marriage, or over the fact that for all the major holidays in December we ate in front of the t.v. with paper plates on our laps deciding what we’d watch on t.v. The holidays are over and it’s time to face the New Year.<br /><br />At dinner last night, we discussed the New Year. My eight year old daughter, Natalie, reminded us all that the Mayans predicted that 2012 would be the end of the world. I told her that I generally don't worry about predictions made by people who are now extinct. (If they were so good at predictions, why didn’t they see that coming?) My husband jokingly suggested he’d try to start them up again, see if the Mayans could get a deal like the Native Americans and get their own casinos. Fiscally, not a bad idea, but practically, pretty offensive and rather implausible. Nicole, my eleven year old, was concerned about the exact date on which the world was supposed to end (according to the now distinct Mayans). We couldn’t remember if it was December 12th, which would be 12/12/12 (which would be kind of cool), or if it was December 21st, which would make sense because it is the solstice. After a few minutes of trying to determine which would be the best date for the end the world, Natalie, who has been worried about this Mayan prediction for almost a year now, reminded me that we’d have to serve quesadillas to commemorate it. “They always serve quesadillas when the world’s about to end,” she said…where does she get these ideas??? Then we spent another few minutes trying to decide which date would be a better day to have an end of the world party, 12/12 or 12/21. Either way, you know the best part about throwing an end of the world party? You don’t have to clean up afterwards. Happy New Year!D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-47849296249810948152011-12-16T09:43:00.000-08:002011-12-16T09:45:17.299-08:00Mommy says…I got caught talking in the third person again. I don’t do it often. In fact, I only do it when I’m speaking to my kids. Not all the time, but on occasion. Apparently, one time is more often than you should ever do it. The problem is, I look at my 8 and 11 year old and sometimes I see a 3 and 5 year old. I try to blame it on their behavior, rather than my warped perception of how fast they are growing up, and sometimes they buy it, but most of the time, they don’t. <br /><br />I was telling Natalie something and instead of saying, “I want you to…” I said, “Mommy wants you to…” Natalie looked at me, lips tightened, and controlling the urge to scream, (I’m afraid anger management classes might be in her future) replied, “You’re talking about yourself in the third person again.” Ugh, I was. I didn’t realize it. It’s an occupational hazard of parenting. Damnit, I just got over calling the bathroom, potty, but apparently, this is going to be a harder habit to break.<br /><br />I never should have started talking like that in the first place. When Nicole was born, I didn’t. I vowed I would speak to them like little adults so that they would have good vocabularies and not mimic baby talk. That lasted about as long as my vow never to lose my temper with them…how foolish new parents can be.<br /><br />But now they’re big, as they constantly remind me and unfortunately, I recognize, but try to deny. Subconsciously, of course, which explains the talking in the third person. Natalie said to me recently after I fell off the wagon and had another slip into third personhood, “Mom, people who talk about themselves in the third person sound crazy.” She’s right, of course. “But maybe I am crazy,” I quipped, “Driven there on the superhighway called parenthood.” Natalie, queen of the straight faced one-liners, completely ignored my point and said, “Thanks Mom, I feel really loved,” and then went about whatever thing she was doing that she knew would make Mommy mad! I mean, would make me mad. See, maybe she’s right, I am crazy.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-1204115778268864512011-12-02T18:42:00.000-08:002011-12-02T18:55:21.425-08:00Farmer DawnWe’re having chicken at our house this weekend. Not the kind you eat, although that would have been preferable. No, we are playing host to 2 chicks from my eight year old daughter Natalie’s science class. She has been talking excitedly for weeks about the day it was our turn to take the fluffy little birds home for the weekend. She made me promise not to serve poultry while they are here. However, I couldn’t help but give the chickens my own special nicknames – Barbecue and Extra Crispy.<br /><br />When I was in school, most of our science experiments were dead, except the worms we dissected and nobody wanted to take them home for the weekend. I guess my reluctance to taking the chicks home is that I didn’t want to be the parent who took 2 chicks home and only returned 1. I was afraid the puppy would eat them or we’d feed them the wrong food or they’d freeze without the heat lamps. And then there is the question of how to care for them. I have barely managed to keep my own kids alive and thriving and get them to school on time. Now I am supposed to manage chicks, too? <br /><br />The other part of my hesitation came from the fact that I come from a long line of women with chicken issues. Okay, the line isn’t that long, two, to be precise, but isn’t that enough? Both my mother and my aunt used to terrify us as kids with stories of their teenage summer jobs on the farm – wringing the necks of chickens – it must have been an Indiana thing. So when Natalie came to me begging to bring home Barbecue and Extra Crispy, all I could think of was my mother and my aunt and their chicken killing antics.<br /><br />So now the chicks are sitting on top of a table in my front hall where hopefully they are far enough away from the dog so they aren’t mistaken for a chew toy. I hear them chirping – as I am sure they will continue doing throughout the night. And Natalie, who wanted to have them over for the weekend so badly…is out with her friends at a play, leaving farmer Dawn home alone with the chicks.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-773140984661077172011-11-19T08:23:00.000-08:002011-11-19T08:30:47.981-08:00New Thanksmas Eve Day<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D8yWxarja_M/TsfZMzfKkXI/AAAAAAAAAEw/f-gH1TWoLHI/s1600/2011-November-13-Santa_Monica-5.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D8yWxarja_M/TsfZMzfKkXI/AAAAAAAAAEw/f-gH1TWoLHI/s320/2011-November-13-Santa_Monica-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676744669326381426" /></a><br />I get it. The earlier retailers get you in the stores to do your holiday shopping, the more you’ll spend and the more likely it will be (in this rotten economy) for them to make a profit this Christmas season. That’s always been the case. I’ve watched over the last few years as Christmas decorations have appeared in store windows and holiday items on the shelves earlier and earlier. First, it was right before Thanksgiving that you’d start seeing Santa on display to get you in the buying spirit. Then it was November 1st, before you even had time to take down your Halloween decorations. But this year, I spotted a snowflake or two decorating the toy aisle at Walmart, some time in early September while finishing up my back-to-school shopping.<br /><br />That was just the start of the new holiday season timeline. We no longer have Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas and New Years. The retailers have found it more profitable, and we as consumers have bought into it, to condense them all into one holiday that my family has started calling, New Thanksmas Eve Day. It’s out of control. The first and second week of November, Disneyland and a high end mall in L.A. called the Grove, both held their tree lighting ceremonies, complete with Santa and faux snowflakes falling from the sky. All the store ads and television commercials are hawking Black Friday and Cyber Monday sales weeks before their real dates – the Friday and Monday AFTER Thanksgiving. And to make matters worse, driving home last night, we noticed that more than a couple of houses in our neighborhood have already turned on their Christmas lights. <br /><br />What ever happened to Thanksgiving? We’ve skipped over it all together for the sake of creating a more robust economy. Because of all of this pressure to rush into Christmas, my daughters and I have made a conscious effort to put the brakes on and not race over November 24th. We’ll take a moment to be thankful for the family and friends around us, our health, and a roof over our heads. We’ll chow down on some turkey, sip some cider, read a book or two about the pilgrims (remember them?) and have the dishes washed in time to rush out to the midnight opening of Target! I might be frustrated about the rush into the holidays, but I’m not going to miss out on the savings either.<br /><br />But clearly, my family isn’t up-to-speed on this New Thanksmas Eve Day tradition the stores are trying to start. Natalie, my eight year old, asked me what Black Friday was. I asked her what she thought it was and she said, “Black Friday is the day that they celebrate Black people.” I laughed and said, “No, that’s February, we get a whole month, not a day.” Nicole, my eleven year old, quipped, “…the shortest month.” So my kids aren’t shopping savvy, but at least they have a strong sense of irony.<br /><br />Happy New Thanksmas Eve Day to all of you!D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-79743685997081183652011-11-11T07:48:00.000-08:002011-11-11T08:03:17.628-08:00The Silent TreatmentMy 11 year old daughter Nicole got angry at me the other day. She decided that as punishment, she would give me the silent treatment. She huffed and puffed around the kitchen, getting ready for school, her usually chatting self completely silent. She was so happy with herself and the punishment she had selected for me. When Natalie came into the kitchen, Nicole conferred with her. When I said good morning to Natalie, they both said, "Do you hear something?" And then Natalie joined in the silent treatment with Nicole. They were united in their efforts to ignore me. Can I tell you, it was the best thirty minutes of my week! Quite possibly the year! Nobody asked me for anything, nobody chattered on about who was doing what to who at school when they should have been getting dressed and eating breakfast. Nobody complained about what was packed into their lunch or why I'd decided to serve pancakes for breakfast instead of waffles. I was downright giddy! There was nothing but quiet from the children and for once, I could watch Good Morning America without having to turn up the volume so I could hear it over their incessant chatter.<br /><br />I love my girls dearly, but (like their mother, I guess)they do LOVE to talk. Endlessly, they can rattle on about nothing with great belief and conviction in the importance of everything they are saying. Sometimes, on that rare occasion when there is nothing left to say, they will make up things just to hear their own voices. We always joke that Nicole was born talking. She even talks in her sleep. Natalie came to it slightly later, sometime after she turned a month old. They started talking early and they've never, ever stopped. People always comment on how polite and verbal they are. Oh yes, they are verbal...but now they were silent. <br /><br />They'd seen someone give someone else the silent treatment on tv and they thought that was a great way to punish me. Little did they know that to their stressed out, over stimulated parents, giving them the silent treatment isn't a curse, it's a blessing.<br /><br />But all good things come to an end and by the time they were ready to go to school, whatever Nicole was mad about had passed and she announced she was talking to me again...and she hasn't stopped. If I could just figure out another way to piss her off, maybe I can get some rest over the weekend.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7544865223521251620.post-62256452099578984682011-11-05T07:52:00.000-07:002011-11-05T07:59:23.086-07:00The Toaster Oven is My Friend and Other Lessons I’ve Learned in SuburbiaI cooked a three tier chocolate cake in a toaster oven last week. It was my daughter Nicole’s eleventh birthday and a few days before her party, my regular oven decided to break. In addition to filling the house with gas fumes when it coughed its final breath, my oven left me with no way to make the food or cake for the birthday party. Panic started creeping in. I had 35 kids from her homeroom class and assorted aunts and uncles and cousins descending on the house and no way to feed them.<br /><br />Normally, I would never have agreed to host a party this big for a kid’s birthday. Last year she had a few girls sleepover, I made pancakes in the morning and they were done. But this year I was riddled with guilt. I’d dragged Nicole around in the car for the last 6 weeks while her sister, Natalie, performed in a show out in Thousand Oaks. Nicole endured hours of endless car rides and late nights and waiting a Starbucks for rehearsals to end, rarely uttering a complaint. So when she asked for this extravaganza of a birthday, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. But now my oven was broken.<br /><br />I revamped the party menu so I could cook everything on the stove – pasta, spaghetti sauce – it would work with a little salad on the side. But there was still the cake to bake. I called my friend and neighbor Lyn and asked her if I could use her oven. She kindly agreed, but when it was time to finally bake the cake, it was the night before the party and it was late…very late. I didn’t want to knock on her door, pans in hand. I was about to give up and call the bakery department at Ralph’s to order a cake when the Kitchen Aid toaster oven I’d bought my husband David last Christmas caught my eye. It had been sitting on the counter barely unused for almost a year. I got it for him almost as a joke because he’d always complain about using the microwave and reminisce about how he used a toaster oven all the time in college. Well, I think he has used the toaster oven twice since last year. He must have realized that he doesn’t have much need for it since he’s moved beyond his college diet of broiled cheese sandwiches.<br /><br />I took the largest of the cake pans and stuck it in the toaster oven to see if it would fit. When it did, I was giddy with the idea of trying to cook the entire cake, one layer at a time, in a toaster oven. Now it wasn’t just a cake that needed to be made, it was a challenge! Nicole wanted a s’mores cake. It needed to be three tiers of chocolate cake with fudge filling and dark chocolate frosting. On top, a glob of marshmallow fluff which would ooze down the sides and be covered with graham cracker crumbs and shavings of dark chocolate. The cake turned out beautifully and I was bursting with pride that I’d actually pulled it off. Who knew you could bake a cake in a toaster oven? That necessity mother of invention thing is powerful stuff. On party day, I couldn’t help but bring people inside and show them the toaster oven cake.<br /><br />Over the week it took to get a repairman out to fix the regular oven, I cooked everything in that toaster oven, my new best friend. I beamed when I talked about it to the point that my family tired of hearing me announce what was for dinner only to follow it up with the phrase, “And I made it in the toaster oven!” I cooked pot roast and meat loaf and a roast chicken. I cooked 4 frozen pizzas – one at a time, of course. Each time I pulled a dish out of the toaster oven, I felt like some type of new age domestic diva. Who needed Viking or Thermador or some other high end appliance? With just my toaster oven, I felt like I could conquer the culinary world. We had bonded, like new friends who instantly seem like old trusted ones.<br /><br />Just as I started eyeing the toaster oven to see if I could cook my Thanksgiving turkey in it, the repairman came and replaced the simple but expensive part which had caused the whole problem – the starter. Now my regular oven worked without gassing us and I’m back to my old cooking routine. But now every time I pass the toaster oven, it’s bittersweet. I miss it, but I also happily remember the fine meals we shared together. Who knows, maybe I’ll cook my turkey in it anyway, just for old times sake.D.C. Jeffersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03373889422047179627noreply@blogger.com0