Airports are strange places. Every time I'm in one, I find myself waiting impatiently for Tom Hanks to leap over the turnstile, dash straight past the lone security guard (who delivers the limp, half-hearted, "Hey, you! Come back here!"), and beg me not to go (Where? I don't know. Why? I don't know). It has yet to happen, and because of a heightened level of security post 9/11 and a non-existent level of Tom Hanks in my life, it probably never will. Not to mention the fact that Tom and I are both happily married to other people and this is a situation that really only exists in Nora Ephron movies. Sadly.
Despite their obvious lack of Tom Hanks and general sense of inconvenience, airports are one of the best places for people-watching, mostly because they tend to bring out the absolute worst in people. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the recycled air, the TSA pat-downs, the nagging fear of accidentally leaving your bag unattended. Whatever the reason, tensions run tend to run high, making for some quality entertainment. And last week, when I found myself there to pick up my in-laws, was no exception.
While waiting I overheard (read: eavesdropped on) a conversation between a mother and her daughter, who was to my best approximation, about thirteen or fourteen. From what I could gather, the mom was the one who was about to fly, but her flight was delayed so she was hanging out with her family outside the security checkpoint while she waited. The girl spent most of her time texting, her thumbs a wild blur, and looking like she'd rather be anywhere in the world than at the airport with her mother. For awhile, they weren't terribly interesting to watch. Then the mom decided to drop a bomb, in a conversation that went a little something like this:
Dad: "Oh look, your flight's boarding."
Mom: "Great" (turning to her daughter) "By the way, I'm chaperoning your trip in May. I signed up last week."
Daughter: "Mom, no. Mom. This is a joke. You're kidding, right? You're not seriously doing this to me, right? Do you have any idea how humiliating it will be to have you on this trip?"
Mom: "How could it possibly be humiliating? I'll just be a chaperone! I'll be there in the background. You won't even notice me! There will be ten other chaperones there!"
Daughter: "No. No! You'll like, knock on my hotel door in the morning and tell me to take my vitamins. Or you'll like, give me sunscreen to put on or make me wear a sweater when I'm cold. It's going to be the worst. You will ruin the trip. You will ruin my whole life!"
Needless to say, their conversation wasn't exactly quiet and at one point I made eye contact with the daughter. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and threw her arms up in exasperation as if to say, "Parents! They just don't understand, right?" And I felt an instant wave of sympathy and solidarity.
With her mother.
Ten years ago, I was nineteen years old. If nineteen-year-old me had been in that airport, I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that she would have sympathized with the younger girl. It is embarrassing that your mom wants to go on your trip! If my mom was going on my trip I'd like, totally die. Your mom will come into your room and tell you to take your vitamins and offer you a sweater! My mom would have done the same thing and my mom was the worst. Ugh, I can practically hear smug nineteen-year-old me, with her stupid boundless energy and eye make-up so dark you could see it from space saying these things to herself (probably out loud under her breath without realizing it, because some things never change). Sometimes nineteen-year-old me makes twenty-nine-year-old me want to hang her head in shame.
Back then, I probably wouldn't have noticed the mom at all. How tired she looked, how rejected she felt by her daughter, how she had probably been both dreading this conversation and anticipating the result. I definitely wouldn't have noticed the dad's deer-in-the-headlights, "Oh dear God, we're having this conversation now?" look on his face. I absolutely wouldn't have picked up on the fact that this mom's "Disapoint-N-Dash" maneuver was brilliant on a thousand different levels. But most of all, I wouldn't have felt sympathy for her because I had no idea how hard it was being a parent. How hard it is to put someone else before yourself, care about them constantly, worry about things like how much sleep they get or if they'll put on a sweater when they're cold, only to have them roll their eyes at you. I didn't have a clue. No one ever does.
Almost exactly two years ago, I started writing this blog, but I didn't really start it so that I could
chronicle my life, per se. I started it so I could chronicle the gradual shift
of my perspective. Parenthood is a huge factor in my changing perspective (obviously) but getting older and figuring out who I am and what I really care about is a part of it too. I started this blog because I find the metamorphosis from idealistic, energetic young person to exhausted, idealistic (but in a biting, cynical kind of way) older person both fascinating and terrifying. I'm writing it because I like to think there is more to me than meets the eye and I like to explore that. I'm writing it because I saw a "Saved By The Bell" episode for the first time in about a million years, and all I could do was glare at the TV and wonder where the hell their parents were and why they weren't doing something to stop all of these teenage shenanigans, and frankly, I have no idea when I started to think that way.
And of course, I write it because I'll do
anything to get a laugh.
We all change as we get older and begin to see things in a different way. I guess it's all part of this whole "growing up" thing that I've heard so much about. And who knows? Maybe someday I'll write about how I've given up singing Brown Sugar every time I make oatmeal or how I've finally stopped casting myself in the Meg Ryan role of my Tom Hanks airport daydream.
Then again, maybe not.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
Thongs For Toddlers
There are two physical versions of women in my family: The voluptuous, giant-boobed-Marilyn-Monroe looking-type and the flat-chested-vaguely-underfed-looking type.
I have always fallen into the latter category. But because I also grew up in a family that valued the size of your brain over the size of your bra, no one has ever held the size of my chest against me and as a result, it's never bothered me much. In fact, as I get older it bothers me less and less. Boobs are just boobs, in the same way that an apple is just an apple. Whether you have them or not, it's really no big deal.
Maybe I'm completely naive for thinking this, but I like to think that not caring about my physical attributes (or lack thereof) will have a positive influence on my own daughter. Maybe if I can pull off that whole "leading by example" thing I always hear so much about, she will grow up to be comfortable with her own body, regardless of how it turns out.
There's just one problem. It's called society. And the internet. And crazy, whack job bloggers who are trying to get famous by calling themselves "conservative" and then proceeding to pitch the world's worst idea whose sole purpose is apparently exploiting young girls under the guise of doing something "cute" and "innocent".
Okay, that's more than one problem and I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit.
This morning I was on the computer doing research for a completely unrelated story that I'm writing when a headline caught my eye: "Mom Says Victoria's Secret Okay for Tween". Curious, I clicked on it and, like most things I randomly click on, I immediately wished I hadn't.
Here's the short version of the story: A "mommy blogger" (I detest this phrase, by the way) made a big stink on the internet (i.e. a huge statement to garner attention that will lead to her eventual book deal) that her nine-year old daughter has no options when it comes to underwear and that there should be a tween (a phrase I detest even more than "mommy blogger") option at places like Victoria's Secret for little girls who (unfortunately this is a real quote) "Want cute panties and bras from the big girl store".
Good God, lady. Where to begin? First of all, I'd like to point out the fact that if you need to refer to it as a "big girl store" that means your daughter is too young to shop there. More importantly, a nine-year-old doesn't need a bra and won't need one for about three years. If she's lucky. If you are trying to make a valid point, you're not doing it very well. At all.
And in the grand scheme of people not knowing when to shut up, the madness was continued when she added that "No one wants to be the girl with ugly underwear" Interesting. Does your daughter walk around all day showing people her underwear? Because maybe you should be teaching her not to do that? Just a thought. Or better yet, maybe you should teach her that the focus of her world shouldn't be what's covering up her butt. Underneath her clothes. Where no one can see. Also, I would seriously like to meet these children who care so much about the underwear of their peers, mostly because I don't think they exist. Nice try, but I'm not really buying whatever point it is that you're trying to sell with that one.
Her next attempt at a point? "You see half naked women on the sides of a bus. It's part of our culture" Okay, sure. Our buses have been known to feature some scantily clad women. But the key word there? Women. Not nine-year-olds or tweens. Half-naked women. Also, while we're on the subject, that's some great reasoning you've got there. So when your kid asks to jump off a cliff you'll say "Sure, honey! Why not? All of your friends are doing it! And no one wants to be the kid in the ugly underwear who doesn't get to jump off a cliff! It's all part of our culture, so go for it"??
Listen, I'm not trying to tell someone how to raise their kids. But take a look around. Young girls are becoming sexualized every day. The already small window of childhood is getting narrower and narrower. Bodies, faces, chests, skin and clothes are constantly compared and found lacking. As difficult as it is to be a woman in this crazy, mixed up world, it's even harder to be a little girl growing up in a world where The Bachelor is considered a love story and Kim Kardashian is considered a celebrity. It's confusing. Instead of continuing to blur the fine line between childhood and adulthood, let's try making it more distinct. Perhaps we could start by not pronouncing ourselves "conservative" while mentally sketching all of the thongs for toddlers we plan on selling at Victoria's Secret. Just a thought.
My point is this: Growing up, 50% of my family could have done nothing but tell me that I was as flat-chested as a 12-year-old Kenyan boy and that I would never be sexy because of it. Thankfully, that's not how it panned out. Instead I was taught, rightfully, that my body's sole purpose of existence was so my smart ass mouth wouldn't look funny floating around by itself, flapping all day long to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen, and that this was a good thing. Value was placed on the right things.
And absolutely no one cared what my underwear looked like.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
The Wintern
I have really exciting news. But first, a confession.
There's no way to sugar-coat the fact that the life of a writer can be a difficult one. I like to make jokes about being rejected by every one under the sun, shamelessly self-promoting myself ad nauseum and how if my mom didn't read my blog, then no one would, but we all just know it's "Tears of a Clown" syndrome. I can laugh it off all I want, but it's only to save my dwindling sanity and faulty self-esteem. The truth is that the last few months I've had more "What am I doing and why am I doing it?" conversations with myself than ever before. The ugly shadow of doubt had become a regular presence in the corners of my mind. I began to question my motives, the way I was using my time, and whether I was doing nothing more than banging on a locked door. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was becoming harder and harder to catch a break.
Until I finally caught one.
Catching a break all kicked off as I was trolling Craig's List for houses a few weeks ago and wound up noticing a link for writing jobs at the very end of a long list of employment opportunities. I was intrigued and, despite the fact that I had never considered Craig's list for much of anything before, I found myself clicking on the link to see what I could see. There were only four jobs posted and only one that looked remotely appealing; An internship.
But here's the thing: I was immediately intimidated by the notion of an internship. Not because I'm such an awesome writer that I consider myself above an internship, but because I felt like I didn't fit the bill. I don't know about you guys, but when I think of the word "intern" I automatically think of a super smart and crazy energetic twenty-year-old, a la Rory Gilmore, who get internships at their boyfriend's father's newspaper, only to be told they suck as a writer, leading to an affluent, attractive girl's G-rated version of a nervous breakdown. That's an intern. Not a twenty-nine year old mother of two who drinks one hundred pots of coffee a day (mostly in vain) just to keep her eye lids at half-mast and makes obscure Gilmore Girl references.
Any other day I would have left it at that and gone about my business of using any means possible to distract myself from doing homework. Instead, I pushed my intern insecurities and fear of unavoidable murder as a result of answering a Craig's List ad (I watch Dateline, okay? I know what's up!) and applied. And amazingly, despite my utter lack of all things Rory Gilmore, I got it (and I didn't get shanked or turn into a walking Breaking Bad character, which is always a bonus).
I could stop this story right here and it would still be one of the coolest things that's ever happened to me. But in a rare twist of life imitating a Kate Hudson movie, it went uphill from here.
A quick question: What do you think of when you hear the word "intern"? Rory Gilmore references aside, I mostly think of a Hollywood stereotype version of someone running around making coffee and copies, getting very little experience in the actual field they're interning for and even less respect from everyone around them. In other words, in my mind the word "intern" is synonymous with the the phrase "Overworked, unpaid biotch" and I'm guessing my perception isn't too far off from everyone else's.
Fortunately, I'm happy to report that this particular internship is nothing like that.
The internship is with a brand-spankin' new online magazine called The ABQ Sun Post which, in a time where murders and rapes and various other scary events dominate your average news sources, will provide the world with positive news stories. That's right! Positive news! Remember that? Some very cruel (and very wrong) people may be quick to call it "fluff" news, but I beg to differ. Think of it this way: Your local news does a (terrifying) story about a bank robbery in which multiple people were shot an injured. During the shooting, a woman was using herself as a human shield to protect the children in the bank. We wouldn't write a story about the shooter (like most people would) we would write a story about the person who did the right thing at the right time. It isn't the obvious story, but it's the better story, the story that you have to dig a little deeper to find. It isn't as glamorous (aka bloody) as the other story, but it's much more meaningful. That's what we'll write about.
Hypothetical situations aside, this is what my internship boils down to: Two stories a week written and researched by yours truly with my name in the byline (AWESOME), the ability to work mostly from home (Super awesome), and a press pass (awesome, as long as I remember that it will probably NOT get me backstage at a Vampire Weekend concert in Denver, and will probably result in taking some pepper spray to the face. Which in case you're wondering, would totally be worth it). I will be writing about exceptional schools, programs and teachers around the city, as well as awesome kids who are making a difference in their community. It's going to rock. It's been a couple of weeks since I got this amazing opportunity and it still feels like a huge win for me.
Speaking of scoring a win, you may be wondering where the term "wintern" comes from and the short answer is that, regretfully, I don't exactly know. The long answer is that it was originally coined by a ridiculously cool guy whose band may or may not be responsible for pepper-spraying my face in the near future. The problem is, I forget the exact context he used the word (he says a lot of clever things, sometimes it's hard to keep up. But I try not to hold his plethora of clever against him). So in this case, "wintern" either means "winter intern" or "winning an internship" but either way, I feel like it applies to me. So I'm giving credit where credit is due, because the only thing worse that being pepper-sprayed in the eyeballs would be plagiarizing someone I admire. Unless of course one of the meanings is an Abbey Prentice original in which case, I should be writing your songs, buddy! Totally kidding, only one of us could find words to rhyme with horchata and it sure as hell wasn't me, so I think we're both right where we should be.
Anyway.
The ABQ Sun Post launches March 18th and I sincerely hope everyone will support it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about anything, which includes finding out that Walter White's house on Breaking Bad is directly across the street from my friend's house. This is huge. And I feel, deep down in my bones, that this is going to be a game-changer, the event that sets all other events in motion.
Finally.
There's no way to sugar-coat the fact that the life of a writer can be a difficult one. I like to make jokes about being rejected by every one under the sun, shamelessly self-promoting myself ad nauseum and how if my mom didn't read my blog, then no one would, but we all just know it's "Tears of a Clown" syndrome. I can laugh it off all I want, but it's only to save my dwindling sanity and faulty self-esteem. The truth is that the last few months I've had more "What am I doing and why am I doing it?" conversations with myself than ever before. The ugly shadow of doubt had become a regular presence in the corners of my mind. I began to question my motives, the way I was using my time, and whether I was doing nothing more than banging on a locked door. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was becoming harder and harder to catch a break.
Until I finally caught one.
Catching a break all kicked off as I was trolling Craig's List for houses a few weeks ago and wound up noticing a link for writing jobs at the very end of a long list of employment opportunities. I was intrigued and, despite the fact that I had never considered Craig's list for much of anything before, I found myself clicking on the link to see what I could see. There were only four jobs posted and only one that looked remotely appealing; An internship.
But here's the thing: I was immediately intimidated by the notion of an internship. Not because I'm such an awesome writer that I consider myself above an internship, but because I felt like I didn't fit the bill. I don't know about you guys, but when I think of the word "intern" I automatically think of a super smart and crazy energetic twenty-year-old, a la Rory Gilmore, who get internships at their boyfriend's father's newspaper, only to be told they suck as a writer, leading to an affluent, attractive girl's G-rated version of a nervous breakdown. That's an intern. Not a twenty-nine year old mother of two who drinks one hundred pots of coffee a day (mostly in vain) just to keep her eye lids at half-mast and makes obscure Gilmore Girl references.
Any other day I would have left it at that and gone about my business of using any means possible to distract myself from doing homework. Instead, I pushed my intern insecurities and fear of unavoidable murder as a result of answering a Craig's List ad (I watch Dateline, okay? I know what's up!) and applied. And amazingly, despite my utter lack of all things Rory Gilmore, I got it (and I didn't get shanked or turn into a walking Breaking Bad character, which is always a bonus).
I could stop this story right here and it would still be one of the coolest things that's ever happened to me. But in a rare twist of life imitating a Kate Hudson movie, it went uphill from here.
A quick question: What do you think of when you hear the word "intern"? Rory Gilmore references aside, I mostly think of a Hollywood stereotype version of someone running around making coffee and copies, getting very little experience in the actual field they're interning for and even less respect from everyone around them. In other words, in my mind the word "intern" is synonymous with the the phrase "Overworked, unpaid biotch" and I'm guessing my perception isn't too far off from everyone else's.
Fortunately, I'm happy to report that this particular internship is nothing like that.
The internship is with a brand-spankin' new online magazine called The ABQ Sun Post which, in a time where murders and rapes and various other scary events dominate your average news sources, will provide the world with positive news stories. That's right! Positive news! Remember that? Some very cruel (and very wrong) people may be quick to call it "fluff" news, but I beg to differ. Think of it this way: Your local news does a (terrifying) story about a bank robbery in which multiple people were shot an injured. During the shooting, a woman was using herself as a human shield to protect the children in the bank. We wouldn't write a story about the shooter (like most people would) we would write a story about the person who did the right thing at the right time. It isn't the obvious story, but it's the better story, the story that you have to dig a little deeper to find. It isn't as glamorous (aka bloody) as the other story, but it's much more meaningful. That's what we'll write about.
Hypothetical situations aside, this is what my internship boils down to: Two stories a week written and researched by yours truly with my name in the byline (AWESOME), the ability to work mostly from home (Super awesome), and a press pass (awesome, as long as I remember that it will probably NOT get me backstage at a Vampire Weekend concert in Denver, and will probably result in taking some pepper spray to the face. Which in case you're wondering, would totally be worth it). I will be writing about exceptional schools, programs and teachers around the city, as well as awesome kids who are making a difference in their community. It's going to rock. It's been a couple of weeks since I got this amazing opportunity and it still feels like a huge win for me.
Speaking of scoring a win, you may be wondering where the term "wintern" comes from and the short answer is that, regretfully, I don't exactly know. The long answer is that it was originally coined by a ridiculously cool guy whose band may or may not be responsible for pepper-spraying my face in the near future. The problem is, I forget the exact context he used the word (he says a lot of clever things, sometimes it's hard to keep up. But I try not to hold his plethora of clever against him). So in this case, "wintern" either means "winter intern" or "winning an internship" but either way, I feel like it applies to me. So I'm giving credit where credit is due, because the only thing worse that being pepper-sprayed in the eyeballs would be plagiarizing someone I admire. Unless of course one of the meanings is an Abbey Prentice original in which case, I should be writing your songs, buddy! Totally kidding, only one of us could find words to rhyme with horchata and it sure as hell wasn't me, so I think we're both right where we should be.
Anyway.
The ABQ Sun Post launches March 18th and I sincerely hope everyone will support it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about anything, which includes finding out that Walter White's house on Breaking Bad is directly across the street from my friend's house. This is huge. And I feel, deep down in my bones, that this is going to be a game-changer, the event that sets all other events in motion.
Finally.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Stop This Train
In one of my earliest memories, I'm riding in the car with my dad. I have no idea where we're going or why we are going there, but I remember that it was night time and my dad was listening to the Bruce Springsteen song "Born In The USA" over and over on a cassette tape. There's nothing particularly significant about this memory, save for the fact that it involves someone I have very few memories of and that every time I hear that song, I'm right back in that car. I don't know if the occasion was a happy or sad one, but I always get the same feeling in my stomach I get when I'm on a boat or riding in the middle in the backseat of a car; mild nausea and a sense of anticipation.
This random memory doesn't have much to do with anything except to remind me that it's been a year and a half since my dad passed away and I'm no closer to understanding who he was or why he made the choices that he made. What I have realized is that life isn't a predictable scene in a movie where I dig around in some boxes in an attic for five minutes, find a journal, finally understand everything, and have full and instant closure. The fact is that I may never understand anything about my dad. The trick is learning to be okay with it.
Most days I can convince myself that it's impossible to miss something you never really had. Today was not one of those days.
Today I attended the funeral of a friend's dad. He was a great guy, warm and inviting and so enthusiastic about everything that you could always hear him talking from at least two rooms away. I only saw him a few times a year at summer barbeques and at Josh's fantasy football drafts, but he always greeted me with a big hug, like a long-lost friend that he was thrilled to see. He was one of those people that everyone liked; a person the world could use more, not fewer, of. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that he will be greatly missed.
Maybe it was because it was the first funeral I've been to since my dad's, but it ripped the delicately-placed band aid I cover up my grief with right off of me. As selfish as this may sound, I sat in the church unable to stop thinking about my own dad's funeral. I distinctly remember the weather was beautiful that day and I kept seeing all of these people walking around outside, and I couldn't stop thinking that it was just a normal, ordinary day for other people, but I was standing in a stuffy room with my dad's body feeling like the bottom had dropped out of my life. I recognized that same sentiment in the grief-stricken faces I saw today. The only difference between what the family was feeling today and what I felt a year and a half ago is that they were mourning a great man who was always there for them, and I was mourning a fleeting shadow, the fading strains of a Bruce Springsteen song, a person I never really knew and there's nothing I can ever do to fix that.
When I allow myself to really stop and think about it, it's scary that I'm getting to an age where my parents and my friend's parents are beginning to pass away. It seems surreal, and it also seems wrong. Those are the grown-ups, not us. We're all just playing house, but they're the real adults who really know what's going on, what advice to give, and how to make everything right. How are we supposed to carry on in a world without them? I can't imagine life without my mom, mother-in-law, and father-in-law. I hate thinking that it's a reality I'll have to face someday and I don't want any of my parents (birth or in-law) to ever doubt how much I love them. I don't want to make that mistake twice.
So as I stood there today with the snow falling lightly, watching a great man be laid to rest all I could think was this: We all go sometime and no one ever knows when. Don't squander your life. Holding a grudge isn't worth it. If someone wants to apologize to you, or love you, or even just talk to you, let them. Hear them out. You have nothing to lose by accepting people for who they are and not letting your pride get in the way. Take it from someone who turned their back on a person who wanted to offer them nothing more than an apology: It doesn't matter if you feel like it's too little, too late. I didn't hear my dad out and he died, and now I never can. My dad did terrible, hurtful things and I could only focus on that, instead of his regret. And now I'm the one with regret. Don't be me. Turn off your brain and turn on your heart. No one is perfect, stop expecting them to be. Let people love you. Because you might never get another chance.
This random memory doesn't have much to do with anything except to remind me that it's been a year and a half since my dad passed away and I'm no closer to understanding who he was or why he made the choices that he made. What I have realized is that life isn't a predictable scene in a movie where I dig around in some boxes in an attic for five minutes, find a journal, finally understand everything, and have full and instant closure. The fact is that I may never understand anything about my dad. The trick is learning to be okay with it.
Most days I can convince myself that it's impossible to miss something you never really had. Today was not one of those days.
Today I attended the funeral of a friend's dad. He was a great guy, warm and inviting and so enthusiastic about everything that you could always hear him talking from at least two rooms away. I only saw him a few times a year at summer barbeques and at Josh's fantasy football drafts, but he always greeted me with a big hug, like a long-lost friend that he was thrilled to see. He was one of those people that everyone liked; a person the world could use more, not fewer, of. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that he will be greatly missed.
Maybe it was because it was the first funeral I've been to since my dad's, but it ripped the delicately-placed band aid I cover up my grief with right off of me. As selfish as this may sound, I sat in the church unable to stop thinking about my own dad's funeral. I distinctly remember the weather was beautiful that day and I kept seeing all of these people walking around outside, and I couldn't stop thinking that it was just a normal, ordinary day for other people, but I was standing in a stuffy room with my dad's body feeling like the bottom had dropped out of my life. I recognized that same sentiment in the grief-stricken faces I saw today. The only difference between what the family was feeling today and what I felt a year and a half ago is that they were mourning a great man who was always there for them, and I was mourning a fleeting shadow, the fading strains of a Bruce Springsteen song, a person I never really knew and there's nothing I can ever do to fix that.
When I allow myself to really stop and think about it, it's scary that I'm getting to an age where my parents and my friend's parents are beginning to pass away. It seems surreal, and it also seems wrong. Those are the grown-ups, not us. We're all just playing house, but they're the real adults who really know what's going on, what advice to give, and how to make everything right. How are we supposed to carry on in a world without them? I can't imagine life without my mom, mother-in-law, and father-in-law. I hate thinking that it's a reality I'll have to face someday and I don't want any of my parents (birth or in-law) to ever doubt how much I love them. I don't want to make that mistake twice.
So as I stood there today with the snow falling lightly, watching a great man be laid to rest all I could think was this: We all go sometime and no one ever knows when. Don't squander your life. Holding a grudge isn't worth it. If someone wants to apologize to you, or love you, or even just talk to you, let them. Hear them out. You have nothing to lose by accepting people for who they are and not letting your pride get in the way. Take it from someone who turned their back on a person who wanted to offer them nothing more than an apology: It doesn't matter if you feel like it's too little, too late. I didn't hear my dad out and he died, and now I never can. My dad did terrible, hurtful things and I could only focus on that, instead of his regret. And now I'm the one with regret. Don't be me. Turn off your brain and turn on your heart. No one is perfect, stop expecting them to be. Let people love you. Because you might never get another chance.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
The Barely Lucid Thoughts Of A Barely Lucid Human Being
Occasionally I joke that this blog is like my own little online journal, but in my life that exists outside of the confines of the internet, I keep a real journal. You know the deal: Pen and paper, messy thoughts written in even messier (and mostly illegible in my case) handwriting, the occasional sharpie self-portrait. The whole nine yards.
I have kept some form of a journal my whole life. It's great because in a way, every important event in my life from meeting Josh to the birth of my children has been chronicled. The obvious downside is that every moment (and I mean, EVERY moment) of my middle and high school experiences, good and bad (mostly bad) cataloged for the whole world to hopefully never, ever see. Anne Frank may have been eloquent and wise at twelve but me, not so much.
Anyway, I was discussing keeping a journal the today with a reader via my Facebook page and I commented that these days my journal is more like an elephant graveyard for blog ideas that are either too crazy or too incomplete to make a whole blog, rather than a "dear diary" type of journal. The lovely reader encouraged me to share my crazy ideas. I refused, because how narcissistic is it to put every single thought and random idea I have out there and expect anyone to care about it? At which point, said reader pointed out that that's exactly what I'm doing right now, just by writing this blog.
Busted.
So in the spirit of narcissism and because I will give the kind people who regularly read this blog pretty much anything they ask for, the following are word-for-word excerpts from my journals. No wording or grammar has been changed from the original version. The only changes were automatically corrected spelling mistakes, of which I had many. Nothing is in any kind of order and I chose each entry by closing my eyes and flipping through the pages with a pointed finger, because I am nothing if not scientific.
So here we go.
I have kept some form of a journal my whole life. It's great because in a way, every important event in my life from meeting Josh to the birth of my children has been chronicled. The obvious downside is that every moment (and I mean, EVERY moment) of my middle and high school experiences, good and bad (mostly bad) cataloged for the whole world to hopefully never, ever see. Anne Frank may have been eloquent and wise at twelve but me, not so much.
Anyway, I was discussing keeping a journal the today with a reader via my Facebook page and I commented that these days my journal is more like an elephant graveyard for blog ideas that are either too crazy or too incomplete to make a whole blog, rather than a "dear diary" type of journal. The lovely reader encouraged me to share my crazy ideas. I refused, because how narcissistic is it to put every single thought and random idea I have out there and expect anyone to care about it? At which point, said reader pointed out that that's exactly what I'm doing right now, just by writing this blog.
Busted.
So in the spirit of narcissism and because I will give the kind people who regularly read this blog pretty much anything they ask for, the following are word-for-word excerpts from my journals. No wording or grammar has been changed from the original version. The only changes were automatically corrected spelling mistakes, of which I had many. Nothing is in any kind of order and I chose each entry by closing my eyes and flipping through the pages with a pointed finger, because I am nothing if not scientific.
So here we go.
- I worry that I'll always be the person scribbling furiously into a beat-up notebook while muttering under my breath, as curious passerby's alternate between sneaking glances and covering up their children's eyes as they hurry by. This doesn't make me cool. This doesn't mean that I'm a "creative writer". It means that I will continue to live life in a purgatory of awkward that I clearly have no hope of ever growing out of.
- I know there's arachnophobia (fear of spiders) and agoraphobia (fear of people/being out in public) but what's it called when you have a crippling, deep-rooted fear of the dentist accidentally sneezing in your mouth?
- The other day a friend told me that I'm "exactly where I should be" in my life. I have no idea why, but it was one of the best compliments ever to be bestowed upon me.
- Last night I had an incredibly vivid dream that I discovered the key to my purpose in life. I woke up at 3 am and, on the inside cover of my library book (oops) wrote "Funnel Cake Measuring Tape". What. The. Hell.
- This semester sucks. I'm finally realizing that my British Lit class serves only to remind me how much I hate--no--DETEST poetry. To me, talking about poetry is exactly like talking about wine. Everyone's always like "Oh yes, the fruity nuances and the undertones of sandalwood make it robust and charming" and I'm like "Yep. Tastes like wine to me!". I'm the same way with poetry. I don't seem to see the same deep hidden messages and meanings as everyone else. I just see that if it doesn't rhyme or involve the trials and tribulations of a man from Nantucket, I just don't get it. More importantly, I don't want to get it.
- I have finally pinpointed my addiction to social media. I love that I can write, rewrite, edit, critique and polish every sentence into verbal perfection before anyone else sees it. I magically have the ability to be funny, intelligent, or thoughtful depending on the situation. It takes the awkward right out of me. If only talking to an actual human being was as simple.
- I feel so stupid lately and I hate feeling stupid. Josh says that I'm not stupid, I'm just bored and that there's a big difference. In that case, I hate feeling bored.
- I have a library book that I checked out from the public library in High School (ten plus years ago, minimum) that I never returned. I feel like I should confess this just in case I die randomly. While I'm atoning, I should also admit that if there was a button I could push that would eject Will.I.Am into the deepest regions of space, never to be seen or heard from again, I would totally do it. Without hesitation.
- Ending a sentence by hastily adding "That's totally a thing!" does not, in fact, make it totally a thing. It just makes me sound like a real douche bag.
- I can't put Layla or Ben in time-out without worrying I'm inadvertently doing some serious psychological damage somehow. This is going to make me a pushover parent, I just know it.
- Layla knows every word to Katy Perry's "Firework". I have officially failed as a parent.
- Sometimes it's frustrating how easy-going Josh is. He's like "Hey, who cares if we lose to our friends at a game of Scrabble? What matters is that we have fun!" and I'm like "Yeeeeah...If we lose this game of Scrabble, you are walking home".
- The fastest way to despise myself is to look at other blogs. I am instantly riddled with self-doubt and crippled by blog envy. Especially when a blog as a million followers and it's not very good. What are they doing that I'm not doing? Why am I doing this at all?
- Today Layla's friend's older sister told me that I'm "Stylish, for an older lady". I refrained from slapping her, but just barely. Seriously. Barely.
- I am twenty-nine years old. I am the mother of two children. I should not yell "Sucks to be you!" when I win at something. I should be better than that. Too bad I'm not.
- My kids love to watch The Lawrence Welk show when it randomly comes on on Saturday afternoons. It's very old-timey and sweet, but all I can think about when I watch is how everyone on it is totally long dead by now. What kind of person thinks that? What's wrong with me?? Actually...scratch that. My kids like to watch The Lawrence Freaking Welk show. What's wrong with THEM??
- When times get tough, I try to remember to be thankful for little things, like the fact that I married someone who finds my numerous quirks cute and amusing. Because honestly? Deep down, I'm not all adorable quirky a la Zooey Deshannel, I'm more like "What kind of mental illnesses does that girl have and are they contagious?" quirky.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Barbie Will Destroy The World
The other day as Layla was playing with her Barbies, she paused mid-game and considered the Barbie in her hand at arms length for a minute. When I asked her what she was doing, her response simultaneously shocked me and snapped my heart in two:
"I was just thinking that I wish I looked like Barbie".
Immediately, my stomach sunk and I broke into a cold sweat. She wishes she looked like Barbie?! Why would my beautiful girl with her big eyes, rosy skin, and radiating sweetness want to be anything like that generic piece of plastic? My mind whirled, desperately searching for the right thing to say, feeling like this was one of those critical parent moments where what I said could set a definitive course for how my daughter felt about her looks, her body, and herself in general. No pressure, right? Treading carefully, I asked Layla what she meant by her comment. In what ways did she wish she looked like Barbie? Layla responded:
"Because I want all of my clothes to be pink!"
Immediately, my pulse slowed down to normal and the blood pounding violently in my ears subsided. I can handle a five-year old wanting to wear all pink clothes. I briefly considered pointing out how Barbie was too perfect and nothing to aspire towards, but I realized that I would probably be creating a problem when there really wasn't one there to begin with. Instead, I took refuge in Layla's lingering innocence and in the fact that I avoided the metaphorical firing squad.
My relief didn't last long.
Yesterday was one of my days to volunteer in Layla's class. I'm there twice a month to help the kids with their workbook and reading skills. I love to do it, not only because it's given me a whole new respect for the work that teachers do, but also because I get to put faces with the kids that Layla is always talking about at home. We're a little more than half-way through the school year and because the kids all know me pretty well now, they love to tell me stories about their siblings, pets, and things they see on TV. Despite struggling to listen to ten little voices talk to me at once, it's pretty awesome and their stories have always stayed pretty neutral. Until yesterday.
Warning: Though I'm going to try really hard not to, there is a chance that I might sound like I'm up on my parental high horse in a minute. I don't mean to be. God knows I'm nowhere near being a perfect parent, but there are lines that are crossed sometimes and it upsets me. Despite my own faults of struggling to be more patient mixed with my own insecurities and frustrations, I would never, ever put my child down or make them doubt the fact that they are smart, sweet, funny, beautiful and above all, important for even a second of their lives. It sounds like a tall order, but I plan on delivering. My kids deserve it.
Anyway, enough disclaimers. Back to the story.
There's a little girl in Layla's reading group who is sweet and smart, but always slightly off in a way that I've never been able to pinpoint exactly. At first I thought she was just always a little tired or just one of the quieter kids, but she sighs a lot, avoids most eye contact, and always seems a just a little bit sad. Anyway, my volunteer day happened to fall on Layla's snack day (where the kids are responsible for bringing a snack for the whole class), so I brought the snack with me when I came in. Since the kids only get a snack day about every other month, I usually let Layla pick out something fun and this time she chose mini-Valentine's Day cupcakes and milk. I noticed that Ruby (not her real name) kept looking over at the counter a few feet away where the cupcakes were sitting. I noticed her looking so much that I finally asked her if she liked cupcakes. She looked me in the eye and, in a very Matter-Of-Fact, I've-Heard-This-A-Million-Times voice, told me "I love cupcakes, but I'm not allowed to eat sweets at home. My mom says I'm fat enough as it is".
Here's the thing. I believe in a healthy lifestyle. We make sure our kids eat their fruit and vegetables and drink plenty of water, but we also believe that kids are kids and that there is nothing wrong with a treat every once in awhile. If Ruby had told me "I'm not allowed to eat sweets at home because my mom says they're not healthy for my body" I can honestly say that I probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. I don't believe that healthy lifestyles and eating/body issues are mutually exclusive at all. Many people are healthy just for the sake of living a better life. Healthy is a good thing and a great example to set for your kids. "Fat" is a different story.
Honestly, what kind of person calls a five-year-old fat? Moreover, how could any parent knowingly bestow the kind of damage that comes from that kind of a statement onto their child? I can't wrap my head around it.
I posted Ruby's words on Facebook yesterday looking for some kind of insight. An overwhelming number of people confirmed my own suspicions: Ruby's mom has body issues of her own and is projecting them onto her daughter. Awesome.
Believe me, I understand body issues, I really do. I could go on and on about body issues of my own, but what good would that do? Am I going to forbid occasional cupcakes in my house because I have a saggy butt but I'm too lazy to actually do anything about it? No. Am I going to call my daughter fat or make her worry about food because I don't have the body I did when I was sixteen? Absolutely not. And shame on anyone who would.
Life is more than fat or skinny, pretty or ugly, perfect or not so much. Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes and what's inside matters just as much (if not more) than what's on the outside. I feel like the more our society progresses in some ways, the more it seems to go backwards in others. Women can vote, work, choose to have children, choose not to have children, choose to get married, choose not to get married, speak their minds, and pretty much do anything we set our minds to. We're just expected to look physically perfect while we do it. Want to hear something depressing? I did a little digging and found that the beauty industry (which is everything from fad diet programs to Botox) generates 160 BILLION dollars annually, and that's just in the United States. That's a lot of skinny women whose smile muscles don't work anymore walking around this country. 160 Billion dollars is more than treating yourself to a manicure every once in awhile because you're a hard working Mama! And since Botox isn't exactly something you do for your health, that's who knows how many moms setting the example for their daughters (inadvertently or not) that the way God made them isn't good enough. Or in Ruby's case, it's equating how you look with how much kindness and love you get from the one person whose job is to love you and be kind to you no matter what. And if that doesn't make your heart immediately snap into two, then I don't know what will.
I ended up telling Ruby that she reminds me of my own daughter: She is sweet, smart, and beautiful and that her mom just wants her to be happy. What sucks is that she's not my daughter and has to go home and continue to be called fat and God only knows what else and be hurt by it all, because the things we say to our kids matter. What really sucks is that I'm sure that she's far from being the only one in this situation, and that many moms out there wish their daughters were perfect little human Barbies.
No one should aspire to be Barbie (all-pink wardrobe and all). Barbie is too perfect, too unblemished, too boring. Flawless is highly overrated.
"I was just thinking that I wish I looked like Barbie".
Immediately, my stomach sunk and I broke into a cold sweat. She wishes she looked like Barbie?! Why would my beautiful girl with her big eyes, rosy skin, and radiating sweetness want to be anything like that generic piece of plastic? My mind whirled, desperately searching for the right thing to say, feeling like this was one of those critical parent moments where what I said could set a definitive course for how my daughter felt about her looks, her body, and herself in general. No pressure, right? Treading carefully, I asked Layla what she meant by her comment. In what ways did she wish she looked like Barbie? Layla responded:
"Because I want all of my clothes to be pink!"
Immediately, my pulse slowed down to normal and the blood pounding violently in my ears subsided. I can handle a five-year old wanting to wear all pink clothes. I briefly considered pointing out how Barbie was too perfect and nothing to aspire towards, but I realized that I would probably be creating a problem when there really wasn't one there to begin with. Instead, I took refuge in Layla's lingering innocence and in the fact that I avoided the metaphorical firing squad.
My relief didn't last long.
Yesterday was one of my days to volunteer in Layla's class. I'm there twice a month to help the kids with their workbook and reading skills. I love to do it, not only because it's given me a whole new respect for the work that teachers do, but also because I get to put faces with the kids that Layla is always talking about at home. We're a little more than half-way through the school year and because the kids all know me pretty well now, they love to tell me stories about their siblings, pets, and things they see on TV. Despite struggling to listen to ten little voices talk to me at once, it's pretty awesome and their stories have always stayed pretty neutral. Until yesterday.
Warning: Though I'm going to try really hard not to, there is a chance that I might sound like I'm up on my parental high horse in a minute. I don't mean to be. God knows I'm nowhere near being a perfect parent, but there are lines that are crossed sometimes and it upsets me. Despite my own faults of struggling to be more patient mixed with my own insecurities and frustrations, I would never, ever put my child down or make them doubt the fact that they are smart, sweet, funny, beautiful and above all, important for even a second of their lives. It sounds like a tall order, but I plan on delivering. My kids deserve it.
Anyway, enough disclaimers. Back to the story.
There's a little girl in Layla's reading group who is sweet and smart, but always slightly off in a way that I've never been able to pinpoint exactly. At first I thought she was just always a little tired or just one of the quieter kids, but she sighs a lot, avoids most eye contact, and always seems a just a little bit sad. Anyway, my volunteer day happened to fall on Layla's snack day (where the kids are responsible for bringing a snack for the whole class), so I brought the snack with me when I came in. Since the kids only get a snack day about every other month, I usually let Layla pick out something fun and this time she chose mini-Valentine's Day cupcakes and milk. I noticed that Ruby (not her real name) kept looking over at the counter a few feet away where the cupcakes were sitting. I noticed her looking so much that I finally asked her if she liked cupcakes. She looked me in the eye and, in a very Matter-Of-Fact, I've-Heard-This-A-Million-Times voice, told me "I love cupcakes, but I'm not allowed to eat sweets at home. My mom says I'm fat enough as it is".
Here's the thing. I believe in a healthy lifestyle. We make sure our kids eat their fruit and vegetables and drink plenty of water, but we also believe that kids are kids and that there is nothing wrong with a treat every once in awhile. If Ruby had told me "I'm not allowed to eat sweets at home because my mom says they're not healthy for my body" I can honestly say that I probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. I don't believe that healthy lifestyles and eating/body issues are mutually exclusive at all. Many people are healthy just for the sake of living a better life. Healthy is a good thing and a great example to set for your kids. "Fat" is a different story.
Honestly, what kind of person calls a five-year-old fat? Moreover, how could any parent knowingly bestow the kind of damage that comes from that kind of a statement onto their child? I can't wrap my head around it.
I posted Ruby's words on Facebook yesterday looking for some kind of insight. An overwhelming number of people confirmed my own suspicions: Ruby's mom has body issues of her own and is projecting them onto her daughter. Awesome.
Believe me, I understand body issues, I really do. I could go on and on about body issues of my own, but what good would that do? Am I going to forbid occasional cupcakes in my house because I have a saggy butt but I'm too lazy to actually do anything about it? No. Am I going to call my daughter fat or make her worry about food because I don't have the body I did when I was sixteen? Absolutely not. And shame on anyone who would.
Life is more than fat or skinny, pretty or ugly, perfect or not so much. Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes and what's inside matters just as much (if not more) than what's on the outside. I feel like the more our society progresses in some ways, the more it seems to go backwards in others. Women can vote, work, choose to have children, choose not to have children, choose to get married, choose not to get married, speak their minds, and pretty much do anything we set our minds to. We're just expected to look physically perfect while we do it. Want to hear something depressing? I did a little digging and found that the beauty industry (which is everything from fad diet programs to Botox) generates 160 BILLION dollars annually, and that's just in the United States. That's a lot of skinny women whose smile muscles don't work anymore walking around this country. 160 Billion dollars is more than treating yourself to a manicure every once in awhile because you're a hard working Mama! And since Botox isn't exactly something you do for your health, that's who knows how many moms setting the example for their daughters (inadvertently or not) that the way God made them isn't good enough. Or in Ruby's case, it's equating how you look with how much kindness and love you get from the one person whose job is to love you and be kind to you no matter what. And if that doesn't make your heart immediately snap into two, then I don't know what will.
I ended up telling Ruby that she reminds me of my own daughter: She is sweet, smart, and beautiful and that her mom just wants her to be happy. What sucks is that she's not my daughter and has to go home and continue to be called fat and God only knows what else and be hurt by it all, because the things we say to our kids matter. What really sucks is that I'm sure that she's far from being the only one in this situation, and that many moms out there wish their daughters were perfect little human Barbies.
No one should aspire to be Barbie (all-pink wardrobe and all). Barbie is too perfect, too unblemished, too boring. Flawless is highly overrated.
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Year Of My Brilliant Career
There's nothing I love more than a fresh start, so I'm always excited at the beginning of every new year. 2013 promises to be a year full of new adventures, new challenges, new opportunities, and most importantly, a new Vampire Weekend album. I'm turning twenty-nine this week and instead of freaking out about the last birthday I'll ever willingly celebrate, I'm remarkably okay with it and actually find myself looking forward to the next chapter in my life.
Truth be told, I rarely make New Year's resolutions mostly because when I do I tend to make outrageous resolutions, like the year I turned twelve and I decided that I would teach myself how to be ambidextrous (which I'm sure you're all shocked to learn is absolutely, positively impossible). Or the year I decided that a different hair color every month for the entire year would be fun. It wasn't. Or at least, the three months I actually did it weren't fun. But I digress. When it comes to resolutions, it seems I can't come up with one single, realistic, achievable goal.
This year I decided it was time for this pattern to change. So I...well, resolved to resolve better basically and came up with a brilliant goal that turned out to be a disastrous goal, which was revised into a new and much more feasible goal. What can I say? It's been an interesting first few weeks of the year and if anyone out there has missed me the last few weeks, the following will hopefully serve to explain my absence.
So here goes.
It all began with my original goal which dawned on me about two weeks ago when we took the kids bowling with Josh's parents. We went to a ridiculously delicious restraunt that happened to be attached to an equally ridiculously old-school bowling alley. If it helps, try to remember a bowling alley from your childhood and you'll have a pretty good mental picture of this place. It was rickety and freezing cold and came complete with a super mean stray cat that lived in it. In other words, it was awesome.
As we laughed and high-fived and bowled our games, my mind was in overdrive as an idea was slowly beginning to piece itself together.
As some of you might remember, in addition to this blog, I also write part-time for an online magazine and do any freelance work for pretty much anyone who is willing to hire a perpetually stressed-out mother-of-two who is in the middle of an English degree and can have a hard time talking about anything that's not directly related to Elmo. However, I've always felt like my ultimate dream/goal is to write a book. I've never had a clue what I'd write about, but I believed that the "right idea",whatever it may be, would just sort of come to me out of nowhere (and believe me when I say that I have been waiting impatiently for this moment to occur since said revelation).
Anyway, here we were at this very unique bowling alley occupied by the world's most cantankerous gypsy cat and it hit me: This whole scenario would make a great children's book.
As a parent of two and an avid reader myself, I have read enough books to my kids to feel like I should earn an honorary degree in Children's literature. I know children's books inside and out; The format, the language, the ratio of pictures to words, the whole nine yards. I felt like I could totally do this. This could finally be my genre, my niche, my thing I could finally stop obsessing over finding. Best of all, it was a relatively logical and realistic goal, all things considered, so it could also be my new and improved resolution. I immediately began brainstorming for my brilliant children's book.
Which is just about when I hit a big, fat, figurative wall.
Children's books, as we all know them, are mild and sweet but despite having kids, my mind doesn't always (okay, ever) work in a kid-friendly kind of way. I gravitate towards sarcasm and self-deprecation. It's a full-time job within my full-time job of motherhood to remember to keep my sarcasm/eye-rolling/snide comments to myself. Over the years, it's gotten to the point where I worry that Josh feels like he's walked into his own personal celebrity roast every time he comes home from work just because all my bottled-in jerk comments need to come out and he usually falls victim to them. Unfortunately, I'm smart enough to know that no matter how sucessful I am at keeping my petulance for bathroom humor and four-letter words away from my kids, there is absolutely no way I can control it in my own head. And because of this, it was slowly begining to dawn on me that I might not be able to write the kind of "Kitty counts the pins, one-two-three, Kitty says 'Please come bowling with me!'" type of book I had originally intended on. Or, as it turns out, anything remotely close.
In fact, by the time all was said and done, my demented little mind had come up with the story of a salty, old, barrel-chested gypsy cat (living in a bowling alley, of course) with a faded Hawaiian shirt, an ever-present stump of a cigar, and an ill-fitting fedora witnesses a rather gruesome murder, but refuses to talk about it because he's afraid that the head of the Cat Mob (Meow Capone) will go after his estranged wife and kittens who stopped talking to him once he became a lowly drifter. Basically, picture The Dude from The Big Lebowski in cat form and you've more or less got the idea.
But kids like that stuff, right?
I'd be a liar if I said that I didn't immediately fall into a state of mopey depression reminiscent of the days of my failed self-taught ambidexterity upon learning of my unavoidable ineptitude. This wasn't going to be as easy or cut-and-dried as I thought. Who knew that something for children could be so damn complicated? In fact, I was ready to throw the whole idea of writing a children's book into the metaphorical wood stove altogether, when a friend of mine asked if I had ever heard of the children's book "Go The F@%k To Sleep". My first reaction was (naturally) shock. Someone used the f-bomb in a children's book?! How have I never heard of this? How on Earth did they manage to pull it off and most importantly, will he/she be my new best friend?
As it turns out, writer Adam Mansbach pulled it off because he created a children's book for adults, which if you think about it, is so brilliant it's ridiculous. Think about it. All "adults" really are are overgrown children with slightly better vocabularies and slightly fewer temper tantrums. Most people like the idea of reading, but due to our frighteningly toddler-esque attention spans, it seems to be increasingly harder to get adults to read a good ole fashioned book. So if you take our general immaturity, factor in our tiny attention spans, add a dash of our barely-contained love of profanity, stir and BAM! Children's books for adults (For the record, Adam Mansbach has neither confirmed nor denied by offer of best friendship as of yet, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he's the kind of fella that can be won over by a complimentary paragraph in a total stranger's blog). When I really stop and think about it, I'm sort of shocked that the idea never occurred to me sooner.
So over the last few weeks, while I have been studiously dodging my blog, I have also been working on what will (hopefully) be the greatest children's book for adults since Go The F@%k To Sleep. And while my bowling alley-dwelling feline will probably sit this one out, what I'm trying to do is turn certain aspects from this blog (mostly parenting rants) into a book that just might rhyme and, depending on my levels of ambition and geeking out, might even be in iambic pentameter. Without giving too much away, I am writing a book for every parent who has ever had to forcibly wrench a beet-faced, screaming toddler away from the Thomas the Train tables at Barnes and Noble, all while knowing that they are going to have to avoid the judgmental eyes of people who have forgotten that children are emotional and human, and thought to themselves "Kid, I love you. I just don't like you very much right now". I'm beyond excited about it.
In a few short weeks, this has gone from concept to reality and even if the only thing I ever do with this book is post it on this blog, I like to think that this process is just another step in figuring out what it is I'm supposed to be doing and why I'm here and existing on this crazy, mixed up planet. Good or bad, at the very least, writing it will mean achieving a realistic, career-oriented, make-myself-a-better-person-by-embracing-my-demented-mind goal. Finally.
It's going to be a great year.
Truth be told, I rarely make New Year's resolutions mostly because when I do I tend to make outrageous resolutions, like the year I turned twelve and I decided that I would teach myself how to be ambidextrous (which I'm sure you're all shocked to learn is absolutely, positively impossible). Or the year I decided that a different hair color every month for the entire year would be fun. It wasn't. Or at least, the three months I actually did it weren't fun. But I digress. When it comes to resolutions, it seems I can't come up with one single, realistic, achievable goal.
This year I decided it was time for this pattern to change. So I...well, resolved to resolve better basically and came up with a brilliant goal that turned out to be a disastrous goal, which was revised into a new and much more feasible goal. What can I say? It's been an interesting first few weeks of the year and if anyone out there has missed me the last few weeks, the following will hopefully serve to explain my absence.
So here goes.
It all began with my original goal which dawned on me about two weeks ago when we took the kids bowling with Josh's parents. We went to a ridiculously delicious restraunt that happened to be attached to an equally ridiculously old-school bowling alley. If it helps, try to remember a bowling alley from your childhood and you'll have a pretty good mental picture of this place. It was rickety and freezing cold and came complete with a super mean stray cat that lived in it. In other words, it was awesome.
As we laughed and high-fived and bowled our games, my mind was in overdrive as an idea was slowly beginning to piece itself together.
As some of you might remember, in addition to this blog, I also write part-time for an online magazine and do any freelance work for pretty much anyone who is willing to hire a perpetually stressed-out mother-of-two who is in the middle of an English degree and can have a hard time talking about anything that's not directly related to Elmo. However, I've always felt like my ultimate dream/goal is to write a book. I've never had a clue what I'd write about, but I believed that the "right idea",whatever it may be, would just sort of come to me out of nowhere (and believe me when I say that I have been waiting impatiently for this moment to occur since said revelation).
Anyway, here we were at this very unique bowling alley occupied by the world's most cantankerous gypsy cat and it hit me: This whole scenario would make a great children's book.
As a parent of two and an avid reader myself, I have read enough books to my kids to feel like I should earn an honorary degree in Children's literature. I know children's books inside and out; The format, the language, the ratio of pictures to words, the whole nine yards. I felt like I could totally do this. This could finally be my genre, my niche, my thing I could finally stop obsessing over finding. Best of all, it was a relatively logical and realistic goal, all things considered, so it could also be my new and improved resolution. I immediately began brainstorming for my brilliant children's book.
Which is just about when I hit a big, fat, figurative wall.
Children's books, as we all know them, are mild and sweet but despite having kids, my mind doesn't always (okay, ever) work in a kid-friendly kind of way. I gravitate towards sarcasm and self-deprecation. It's a full-time job within my full-time job of motherhood to remember to keep my sarcasm/eye-rolling/snide comments to myself. Over the years, it's gotten to the point where I worry that Josh feels like he's walked into his own personal celebrity roast every time he comes home from work just because all my bottled-in jerk comments need to come out and he usually falls victim to them. Unfortunately, I'm smart enough to know that no matter how sucessful I am at keeping my petulance for bathroom humor and four-letter words away from my kids, there is absolutely no way I can control it in my own head. And because of this, it was slowly begining to dawn on me that I might not be able to write the kind of "Kitty counts the pins, one-two-three, Kitty says 'Please come bowling with me!'" type of book I had originally intended on. Or, as it turns out, anything remotely close.
In fact, by the time all was said and done, my demented little mind had come up with the story of a salty, old, barrel-chested gypsy cat (living in a bowling alley, of course) with a faded Hawaiian shirt, an ever-present stump of a cigar, and an ill-fitting fedora witnesses a rather gruesome murder, but refuses to talk about it because he's afraid that the head of the Cat Mob (Meow Capone) will go after his estranged wife and kittens who stopped talking to him once he became a lowly drifter. Basically, picture The Dude from The Big Lebowski in cat form and you've more or less got the idea.
But kids like that stuff, right?
I'd be a liar if I said that I didn't immediately fall into a state of mopey depression reminiscent of the days of my failed self-taught ambidexterity upon learning of my unavoidable ineptitude. This wasn't going to be as easy or cut-and-dried as I thought. Who knew that something for children could be so damn complicated? In fact, I was ready to throw the whole idea of writing a children's book into the metaphorical wood stove altogether, when a friend of mine asked if I had ever heard of the children's book "Go The F@%k To Sleep". My first reaction was (naturally) shock. Someone used the f-bomb in a children's book?! How have I never heard of this? How on Earth did they manage to pull it off and most importantly, will he/she be my new best friend?
As it turns out, writer Adam Mansbach pulled it off because he created a children's book for adults, which if you think about it, is so brilliant it's ridiculous. Think about it. All "adults" really are are overgrown children with slightly better vocabularies and slightly fewer temper tantrums. Most people like the idea of reading, but due to our frighteningly toddler-esque attention spans, it seems to be increasingly harder to get adults to read a good ole fashioned book. So if you take our general immaturity, factor in our tiny attention spans, add a dash of our barely-contained love of profanity, stir and BAM! Children's books for adults (For the record, Adam Mansbach has neither confirmed nor denied by offer of best friendship as of yet, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he's the kind of fella that can be won over by a complimentary paragraph in a total stranger's blog). When I really stop and think about it, I'm sort of shocked that the idea never occurred to me sooner.
So over the last few weeks, while I have been studiously dodging my blog, I have also been working on what will (hopefully) be the greatest children's book for adults since Go The F@%k To Sleep. And while my bowling alley-dwelling feline will probably sit this one out, what I'm trying to do is turn certain aspects from this blog (mostly parenting rants) into a book that just might rhyme and, depending on my levels of ambition and geeking out, might even be in iambic pentameter. Without giving too much away, I am writing a book for every parent who has ever had to forcibly wrench a beet-faced, screaming toddler away from the Thomas the Train tables at Barnes and Noble, all while knowing that they are going to have to avoid the judgmental eyes of people who have forgotten that children are emotional and human, and thought to themselves "Kid, I love you. I just don't like you very much right now". I'm beyond excited about it.
In a few short weeks, this has gone from concept to reality and even if the only thing I ever do with this book is post it on this blog, I like to think that this process is just another step in figuring out what it is I'm supposed to be doing and why I'm here and existing on this crazy, mixed up planet. Good or bad, at the very least, writing it will mean achieving a realistic, career-oriented, make-myself-a-better-person-by-embracing-my-demented-mind goal. Finally.
It's going to be a great year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)