Global Belly Laugh Day and Mom’s Birthday. What a match!
January 24, 2008
Today is my Mom’s birthday. This day usually hits me harder than the anniversary of when she died. I suppose because birthdays celebrate life. And my mom? She was so very full of life! She and laughter went hand in hand. Two years ago I was at a stage where I was searching for signs–any signs– that things would get better. That I could remember her life and not crumble into dust and blow away. It was around that time I got a wonderful email addressing that issue.
January 24, 2006 was the first celebration of the great gift of laughter. In June, 2005 I thought we celebrate love, give thanks. Why don’t we celebrate the great gift of laughter? Thus Belly Laugh Day was born. A day to celebrate past laughter and connect with positive laughter.
Yes, my friends, today is Global Belly Laugh Day!
On January 24, at 1:24 p.m. (local time)
smile, throw your arms in the air and laugh out loud!
It makes me smile that on my Mom’s birthday there is a real holiday (It is legit and actually listed in the 2008 Chase’s Calendar of Events published by McGraw Hill.) A day for laughter on the day one of the funniest people I know was born? Perfect.
Many thanks to Elaine for emailing me every year before this event to check up on me, tell me she is thinking of my mom on her birthday and to remind me to laugh. (I will be!)
Will you laugh with me? I could use the company. Join me! At 1:24pm (your local time) I want you to join in with me and throw your arms in the air and laugh out loud. Who cares who is looking. Laugh. They will join in. Maybe they will be laughing at you, but they will be laughing!
Now in case you just need a good laugh, rather than tell you a knock-knock joke, I will share this. Now come on…this should make you at the very least giggle.
Brothers and sisters– and not one headlock or noogie
December 11, 2007
Last week my brother flew into town from Florida (boy were his arms tired–bah-dum-bum) so obviously I got my tail to Houston to visit with him. And get this– sans kids. That’s right. Just me. Alone. By myself. Without responsibility. (Let us pause for this moment of bliss, moms.)
There is something about a shared bond of growing up in the same house with the same parents that can take 3 people who are so very different and make them so similar. Good friends. The best of friends. I remember my Mom once telling me that the day would come that not only would I have fun and enjoy the company of my brother and sister, but I would seek it out and crave it. I was pretty sure she had lost her mind. No way would the 3 of us ever have anything in common enough to enjoy time spent together. Chalk another one up to Mom being right. Again. As usual.
I am not sure I can actually tell you how much that visit meant to me. A chance to hang out with my brother, my sister and my Daddy without kids. Even my brother-in-law stepped up and watched my nephews a few times so just the 4 of us could be together. I needed the recharge. I needed the awesome verbal butt-whooping my brother can deliver with a look and a few words. I needed the laughter. Oh, the laughter when we all get together is out of control. Off the hook. It rocks. (Obviously, I did not read any thesauruses while I was there either.)
We talked about stories from childhood. I realized how little I knew about things that were going on even as I grew up in the same household. (Can we say egocentric last born child? I knew we could.) Oh, nothing scandalous or bad. (Sorry to disappoint.) Just the difference in the way the baby of the family viewed life compared to the way the oldest child viewed it. I was seriously out of the loop on the way things went down. BUT I also learned I was spoiled rotten. (Enough “DUH’s” from the peanut gallery!) My sister learned that she was actually the GOOD one. I wasn’t bad as much as I was creative when it came to school and my attendance. She freaked when I explained how often I cut, how I did it and that there was more than one occasion where my Mom knew about it and looked the other way. It was good for her to hear that she was the good child and pretty awesome for me–The Baby Formerly Known as The Nark– to learn that she fell second in line in the Kids Who Pushed the Limits and Disobeyed Our Parents contest. Woot! I always thought I was the good one. Not so much, suckas!
And of course we talked about life and how things have changed in the last 2 years. (This would be where I got a pretty good verbal butt-whooping from my older brother. But no headlock.) We laughed at the bizarre things. Became sentimental over the mushy things. And compared notes on life. (I came in last here and my brother and sister were quite stern on this one. In short, “get my act together or a headlock will look like Disneyland.” Massively censored, I might add.)
Shared history. Shared joys. Shared traumas. Shared lives.
I drove home in a funk. Thinking about how life can throw things at you and knock you so far off course you cannot remember which way you were going let alone your destination. You can have friends help you. Have a spouse to lend a hand. Even kids to remind you why you need to get up in the morning. But the people who have known you all of your life, those who share your history that bonds you from cradle to grave, they can help you find your way back on course. They can be your true north to lead you back home.
My brother and sister have helped. Are helping. Thirty-eight years old and my big sister and brother are still protecting their baby sister.
Shout out to my most organized readers. I need your help. I am planning on making this week Official Organize This Frat House Week. (Not that I actually live in a frat house. It just looks like one. But instead of kegs or pizza boxes it is Barbies and DVDs and Games.)
I would love to hear your best organizing tips. I have kids from 6 to 14 years old. Thankfully, as they age their toys become smaller. A lot more expensive, but smaller. My daughter? HOW does she manage to take one clean room and make it look like a disaster area in under an hour? She has about eleventy-hundred Barbies and accessories, a bajillion little tiny I-have-no-idea-what-they-do toys, and papers that are way too important to ever throw out. And let’s not get into the many doll houses/Barbie castles/miniature family homes that she has. Even if everything is put away, her toys extend 4 feet out from her wall. Ugh. Stuffed animals? Try a ZOO!
So, I need your help to get Casa Java under organized control.
I thought of putting it on the market so that everyone would have to clean because it could be shown at any time by a Realtor, but that seems kind of drastic. Maybe.
Help me. Oh for the love of all things organized…HELP ME with your best tips on keeping things in order and the younger set from making my home ROMPER ROOM!
As a woman–a mom– I tend to have this ability to try to carry the burden of others on my own shoulders.
My teen has already had a tough year. We have been ’round and ’round with that ridiculous administrator to the point where I am pretty sure I am going to have to either really go off or homeschool. Neither sounds good and both sound like trouble for me. The point is, my son and I talk. He shares with me when he has a problem. Being who I am, I tend to take a bit of that problem, hike it up onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My preteen. He is going through something right now that turns me inside out with my desire to fix it. Yet, I have to go against a lot of maternal instinct and let him figure some things out on his own. But when he hurts, I hurt. When he comes to me with a problem or worry, I listen. I try to help. I offer whatever words of advice or comfort that I can and pray that I have done enough to give him strength to stand strong and figure some things out on his own. However, every time he comes to me with a worry, before I know it, I have hiked a little bit of that worry onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My daughter. She is just now at that stage where she is learning that not everyone goes to all of the parties. Not everyone will say nice things to her. And the world just isn’t a perfect place. Oh, how I want to shield her and make the world the princess world of her imagination. Right now, when she comes crying to me over hurt feelings, I can wipe away her tears and have her feeling better in no time. Right now, it hasn’t become so heavy that I struggle with her worries. Yet. Though, with every tear drop that falls on my shoulder, I hike up a little bit of that pain onto my shoulders and try to carry some of her burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My husband. He is the love of my life. We are partners in this journey of life. I do what I can to help him along in his career, but there isn’t much I can do. Being in management there are times he just comes home stressed and needs to unload. I listen. I offer what minimal perspective I have on the situation and do what I can to at least make his home feel less stressful. Even knowing there is nothing I can do to make anything that has to do with his work better or easier, before I realize it, have hiked a little bit of that worry onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
I have to be honest, sometimes it gets pretty heavy. My shoulders may sag a bit. My walk may slow down a bit. My energy lagging. It can take it’s toll on how I feel both physically and mentally. But it is what I do. And I know that given a choice, I will always take any burden I can and help carry it for any member of my family.
And then? Sometimes? Sometimes, I get my feet kicked out from under me with my own burdens. My own worries. My own fears. My own tears. My own stresses. Those things alone? Perhaps I could stand up against it, but the weight of all that I carry suddenly feels too heavy and I drop to my knees. Something that is probably nothing brings me to my knees and keeps me there. Immobile. Frozen. Something that may have been taken in stride suddenly scares the wits out me to a point that I shut down.
Share the burden? I can’t. I couldn’t. I won’t. It is silly. They would think I am ridiculous. My fear is unfounded. They have their own worries. My “probably nothing” is not worthy of anyone else’s time or concern. I wouldn’t know what to say. I am not going to bother anyone else with my worries or silliness. I am over reacting and they don’t need my drama. I can do this alone.
Me? Afraid? Of course I am. So much so. But I’d never tell. It is what I do. It is who I am.
Why my son has banned me from meeting his teachers
September 12, 2007
Last night we had open house for the teen. The students can go, but it is basically for the parents to see the classrooms, meet the teachers and hear what is expected of the kids that year. Since the boy was sick that day, he stayed home. In each class the teacher would ask about him. I got used to the usually response.
“He’s fine. Doing much better. He should be here tomorrow.”
Of course all of that was spoken in my very best Stepford, smiling way. (Have to make a good impression after all.)
Then we met his Theatre teacher and things went downhill. As with every other class, we walked in and introduced ourselves. I expected the same banter I had the previous 5 classes. But no.
She shakes my hand and says, “How’s your mom?”
I replied, “Fine…well…only…ummm… just.. a little bit dead.”
Complete with the hand gesture for “a little bit.” (I can’t make this stuff up.)
I looked at my husband. His mouth was agape with horror.
Flustered and horrified, I frantically slithered to the back of the classroom and sat down. My husband sat down in front of me and turned to look at me.
“What?” I hissed at him.
” ‘Fine? Just a little bit dead?‘ Are you kidding me?”
“She threw me off guard. That is not a normal question. Either you know my situation or you just don’t ask because that is not normal open house conversation. She was supposed to ask about the boy!” I snarled back at him. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Well, just about anything would have been better than that!” Then he turned around shaking his head at his poor pathetic wife.
So, I did what anyone sitting in a junior high classroom who wants to become invisible does. I sank as low in my chair as I could and began to pick at my nail polish just praying the bell would ring soon so I could bolt out of there before anyone noticed me.
I certainly hope she didn’t say anything important because I definitely didn’t hear a word of it.
My bigger mistake came when I relayed the story to the teen.
“Mom! Now she is going to think my mom is completely crazy!”
I gave him my very best ‘Well, DUH‘ look.
[Updated to add: It is okay to laugh at this! I think the teacher had me confused with another parent who probably had a mom who was sick. And trust me when I say, my Mom would think it is hysterical that I answered that way. I think it is funny. The things I say. This is why I am not allowed in public often.]
It is the beginning of a new school year. Which means what? Time to talk about attitude with the teen. I have to say the conversation twisted in ways you might not expect. Talking with a teen is never a dull experience, that is for sure. So, being the dutiful parent that I am, we sat down and our conversation went something like this:
It is the start of a new school year. That means there is a clean slate. Everything from the past two years is over, done with, in the past.
Duh.
What I am trying to say is that there are new people. I know some of your friends moved and some went on to new schools. But, you will be fine. It is a chance to make new friends. New starts.
You act like I have never been through this before.
I just think it is important to talk about this.
Whatever.
So, what if you are with a group of people and they are all worked up about something, does that mean you have to get involved with their drama?
Depends on the drama.
No. It depends on whether or not it effects you. And the mean girls? What about if they start giving you grief?
I make them cry. It’s not like they won’t deserve it.
No. Just no. You walk away and ignore them. They feed off of stuff like that. You will just make it worse.
*eyeroll*
Now listen, and this really is important. Teachers. You have to show them the respect they deserve. I mean it.
What? I am totally cool with the teachers. Teachers love me.
Do I need to remind you of the incident with the Hair Dean of last year?
No. But in my defense it was completely stupid and SHE started it.
Irrelevant. You didn’t have to take the bait and you certainly didn’t have to goad her into conversations just for your amusement to fluster her.
Yeah. But it was seriously hilarious.
Not. The. Point. I just want it to be a good year for you. Last year was tough. I know it was tough for all of us, but you seemed to have a bit of a chip on your shoulder. I just want it to be good this year. For everyone.
Okay. Okay. I get it. Can I go now?
Hang on. One final thing. I know you want to get involved and enjoy this year, but you need to remember not to overcommit yourself. You have to have time to relax and not be so stressed about school stuff.
I know.
And if you find yourself overwhelmed and stressed out? Then what?
I ask for help.
There is no shame in asking for help.
Jeez! I know all this. Come on! I want to go play WoW. Can I go now? *eyeroll*
Yes. I think it was good for us to have this talk. But remember, Mom, it is all about your attitude. Keep it in check, okay?
Fine. Now go do your homework. I have a raid tonight.
–
Teens these days! They can be such a pain in the ass sometimes with their “you should have a better attitude” speeches. *eyeroll*
Six ways to make your teen want to eat off his own face
August 14, 2007
As the days of summer dwindle down to a close, we have been filling them with “fun” and “exciting” things to do to make up for the “nothingness” and “boring” things that filled our (longer than normal for us) summer. Many of which make my teen roll his eyes to such an extreme they truly might stick that way. A few of which include the following.
1. Insisting on naming a GPS after a 70 year-old hooker. And then never stopping with the jokes when we are in the car listening to her tell us where to go. (More than once, she, too, was told where to go when her directions are not so accurate. I have no sense of direction, Matilda! You must be accurate with these things!)
2. Singing off key, off pitch and way out of control with the karaoke feature of Boogie. While gyrating around the room and singing my very best (also known as most horrific) rendition of “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease. He actually said that eating his own face would be less painful. (But yet he stayed and watched. Probably in horror. But he stayed.)
3. Getting my funky on while driving. No, I amend that to getting my funky on while driving and listening to Radio Disney while Hannah Montana was singing. ( “Moooooooom! You are not in an invisible car. People can see you!” To which I replied, “I don’t know them. I don’t care!” Then proceeding to get my funky on. With more funk.)
4. Taking all three kids to see the Simpsons Movie and eagerly proclaiming, “I want to see that!” and then “Ohhhh, I really want to see that one!” to just about every movie preview that was shown. THEN I had the nerve to laugh at the funny parts of the movie. OUT. LOUD. People heard me! So rude of me. I know. Oh, and then singing the Spider Pig song All. Day. Long.
5. Watching a scene in Wild Hogs and then picking up and continually using the phrase, “Because sometimes you just have to slap the bull!” and taking a quick shot at his arm. He was not amused. I laughed until I snorted. More than once. (That one will last a while.)
6. Planning with much glee and probably a lit bit too enthusiastically a High School Musical II viewing party. With singing. And dancing. And much anticipation. (He is horrified. Which, as you know, makes it all the more fun.)
So, see, I am being productive as the summer winds down. I am making my son long to be in school to avoid the humiliation that is his MOM. (Little is he aware that I will be volunteering in the school and will be bringing my fun brand of crazy there, too!)
In life, as a parent, you hope to pass on some of your qualities to your children. Instill certain values and such that you think will benefit them in life.
And then there are times you don’t.
It is no secret that I am not a huge fan of cooking. Mainly because everything I touch turns to charcoal. Or fire. Or is fit only for the garbage can. (And even then I feel guilty about doing such harm to an innocent object.) It is so bad that I actually was contacted by a producer at Oprah when they were doing a story on Chaos in the home and they were fascinated by my horror stories. (The story was cut, but the tradition continued.) Disaster in the kitchen is common enough that no one was shocked or surprised last night when my son calmly asked, “What should I do about the flames in the oven?” The only person who reacted with alarm was me when I shouted, “I am NOT COOKING! You probably need to check it out!” (A girl has to claim her victories and her innocence when ever she can!)
Are you getting the picture here? Me + Cooking = Disaster
No shame. No blame. Just flames. (ha! See how I did that whole rhyme thing?)
Anyway, the point.
Last night one of my children who shall not be named decided to make a pizza. When I wandered in for a piece I was a bit grumpy to see that it was gone. But wait. There was no evidence it was eaten. It was then that I found this:
Not My Fault
I am pretty sure that was NOT what the pizza was supposed to look like. In fact, I have photographic evidence that it was supposed to look like this:
Not really the same as the box shows
A proud moment for this Mom. Ahhhh, the sheer joy of passing down the Fire in the Kitchen gene.
Please, please don’t make me go back to cleaning. You see, I had this brilliant idea of organizing and doing a clean sweep in the house. In. The. House. Not a room. Not two rooms. No, I took on the whole house.
Every article of clothing that is not on someone’s back, in the washer or dryer or hanging up already a verified fit, it is in the middle of our playroom floor to be sorted. Give away. Throw away. Keep. Thankfully, the “Keep” pile is small. But ALL clothing from ALL five people in the house?
And the toys? They are next. Oh for the love of all things burying me alive, who gave me this bad idea? Why? I mean, I can handle living in chaos. (No, I really can’t.) But I have been able to do it while walking in a fog induced, crazy assed mind of the past year. Do you KNOW how much clutter can accumulate in a year of fog induced craziness? Let me tell you! A LOT! As in weeping on piles of stuff, gnashing my teeth, wailing in agony and begging the almighty goddesses of clean to just zap it all away!
It is either organize or abandon the house as is and live in the van down by the river. However, seeing as I weep openly if I have to hang in a vehicle for more than a couple of days on a road trip, that doesn’t sound good either.
Where are those awesome people on those shows who do these things for me?
Okay, back to the insanity. If you don’t hear from me for a while it means the piles of stuff ate me alive and I am becoming a Zombie from the Land Clutterhell.
It’s not whether you win or lose…it is whether you get it on film
November 19, 2006
Remember that soccer mom that posted yesterday? SO not here today. Today was the championship game. Complete with intense goals, shoot outs, and even a call to 9-1-1! We don’t do things halfway in our league. ( And if bragging, proud moms make you want to hurl your lunch into the nearest trash can, go read another post where I am bitter and call the PTA names. Those are always good to defuse the sugar of a good mom brag post.)
Thinking the game was about an hour earlier than it actually was, there was plenty of warm-up time. That basically equates to a family soccer game. With an empty field and 4 of us waiting for the game (while Z hung out with his team getting their “war paint” on), we brought it. Oh, yes, we did. It was the girls against the guys. That basically equates to me and a 5 year old against Clint and a 13 year old. Fair? Not so much. But we rocked the house anyway. (Sidenote: We have some really good friends who do a lot of co-ed adult sports together that we have known for years. The kind of friends you would take vacations with. Clint and I started talking about joining them again. Clint used to play indoor soccer with the team, but seeing as I was knocked up at the time, I couldn’t. The team has changed drastically, but knowing that our friends who are fun loving and not cut-throat players are still playing, we just may join them again. Let everyone have a moment of silence while we pray that my sanity returns.)
Once the game started, it was a nail biter. We scored. They scored. We scored. They scored. We scored…or did we…is that…we scored! (That one had everyone confused but it counted!) Then they got the final score. A Tied championship game. Which leads to…a shoot-out. A shoot-out where it is one on one with the goalie. Thank heavens Z is no longer goalie or I would have passed out.
We kick. Miss.
They kick. Miss.
We kick. SCOOOOOORRRRE!
Then the thing you do NOT want to see happen at any sporting even, especially one for young kids, their next player went to kick, slipped on the grass and fell hard on her tailbone. The scream of pain made my heart lurch out of my chest into my throat and onto the field. It was not a cry of minor pain. It was serious. She couldn’t move for a while which scared all of us. Finally, we got a doctor to her. (Thank you Dr. Scrub Wearer for wearing your scrubs and being noticable.) Someone called 9-1-1. It definitely put things in perspective when you hear the sirens and see an ambulance pull up onto the soccer field. Thankfully, the young girl is fine and just bruised. In pain and not going to be running for a while, but fine. I don’ think there was a mother on that sideline who wasn’t teary eyed watching this young girl hurt and scared. She definitely earned her standing ovation when they got her off of the field.
It took a while to get the team calm again, but as they say, “The game must go on.” Two more shots each. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss.
If you are keeping score at home, that means my son’s team won by ONE point in the shoot-out.
I have never been more proud of our team than during the medal ceremony when they were cheering for the other team and gave the loudest applause and chants for the girl that was hurt. This team has class.
I would say I was proud of my boy. I could say that. But as a writer, my agent is always telling me: Don’t tell me. SHOW ME. So, here. I will show you.
(Who do you think looks proudest?)
And of course, I would be remiss if I did not give the obligatory photo of him receiving his medal. I did, after all, admit that I would do as much yesterday. Here he is receiving his first place championship medal.
(I taught him everything he knows. Yeah, right. But I did drive him to 8,437 practices in the past few years. That counts for something.)
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