tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81735299429853174912024-03-14T02:22:32.839-05:00Mother of the Year(not really...)Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-64348800653091724392011-04-27T15:59:00.001-05:002011-04-27T15:59:44.512-05:00On the Troublesome Tooth Fairy...It’s taken forever for my seven-and-a-half-year-old to lose his baby teeth, but just last week he lost his third neophyte nibbler and is making up for lost time with at least five others wiggling for their chance to go out in a blaze of glory. He was beaming when he jumped into the car and simultaneously produced the tiny green treasure box housing his dubious prize, along with the yellow carbon documenting his first official visit to the school nurse. At the time, I was still recovering from an emotionally wearisome search for my three-year-old, who had secretly slipped out the front door in what he later explained as an innocent wish to “check out the neighborhood.” In my all-too-familiar state of depletion, and now dread knowing that I’d be adding to the evening’s to-do list, I asked with the manufactured enthusiasm of James Franco hosting the Oscars, “That’s great honey. What do you think the tooth fairy will bring you?” He animatedly replied, “Well, she brought my friend Joey the Clone Wars LEGO video game he wanted.” As I added up the damage in my head, I couldn’t help but wonder who the heck this tooth fairy thought she was and why she was messing with my universe? Is one dead baby tooth really a fair trade for a $49 video game? <br /><br />Until that moment, I’d never even questioned the tooth fairy. What’s not to like? Your tooth falls out, you put the tiny amalgam of calcium, phosphorus and dental pulp under your pillow, and voilà! Everyone wins. I don’t remember my teeth fetching more than a quarter each, but it was enough to buy a Jolly Rancher at the local market, so I didn’t complain. Now the tooth fairy is just one more imaginary friend in the cast of characters who live to drain my bank account. And if I was going to have to commit to this gig for 17 more teeth and then again for my youngest, I thought I should research what kind of tooth fairy I wanted to be. <br /><br />A quick Google search later and I was immersed in all things dental meets fantasy. Apparently the tradition started among the British and Irish, with first traces of the custom not showing up here until the early 1900s. Children buried their teeth outside, but didn’t hit pay dirt until they’d lost their sixth tooth. (Unfortunately pun intended) I have no idea when the tooth fairy decided to upgrade overnight accommodations to the pillow, but I had to give her props for being my sort of gal.<br /><br />The most fertile bit of research came from an online conversation thread that went on for 11 pages, inspired only by a Dutchman’s desperate search for tooth fairy answers because his British friend had blabbed to his son about her existence. Now he found himself beholden to figure out how to keep his son’s accidental dream alive. His questions were basic: “What does she look like? Where does she live? How big is she?” And my personal favorite, “Why does she like teeth?” As I read through the goldmine of responses (do these people work?), it was clear that most were just as confused as I was and yet, despite subtle variations on the theme, there were some very distinct versions of the tooth fairy that were alive and well. And then, of course other contributions —like the guy who wanted to turn his kid’s lost tooth into a ring—left me hoping some would consider seeking professional help immediately if not sooner. <br /><br />There was the Trump Fairy: The American Dental Association published a survey reporting one of their respondents in Manhattan gave $1.2 million for their child’s first tooth and employed a sliding scale for each subsequent tooth lost. I’m trumped daily by all things motherhood, but this is ridiculous.<br /><br />The Fairy With an Attitude: One Mom, after hearing her little girl’s plans to wait up and catch the Tooth Fairy in action, took the tooth undetected, left money and a note that said, “Better Luck Next Time.” I think you’ll agree that “sucker” was the implied close.<br /><br />The Budget Fairy – No surprise, there were several versions of the budget fairy, but my favorite was the Dad who told his children they were lucky to get a dime because “Even the dime – the lightest of all American money — was difficult for the Tooth Fairy to carry.”<br /><br />The Forgetful Fairy – There were more than a few who had to leave their little teeth under the pillow for several days before anything showed up. God bless the little tikes for keeping the faith.<br /><br />The Absent-Minded Fairy – One man’s parents left notes without so much as an attempt to alter their penmanship, so he started writing letters along with his pulled tooth, saying, ”Dear Tooth Fairy – you are a FAKE – you have my Dad’s handwriting!” Smart kid? Think again, he just passed up free stuff times twenty.<br /><br />The Creepy Fairy- This was by far, the richest of all Tooth Fairy categories I stumbled upon which can be summed up in one insightful person’s response to the question, “Now that I think of it, I can’t really think of a non-creepy story as to why there’s a fairy who likes to collect children’s baby teeth. Others suggested that the Tooth Fairy was life-sized. Good luck getting your kid to sleep after floating that notion by them. One English girl missed her teeth so much she wrote a note the next night with the money that was left and a note asking for her tooth back. She went on to say she still has them in a box and delights in showing them to people to freak them out. I bet she’s a fun first date. One of my favorite and frequently suggested Tooth Fairy explanations as to why the Tooth Fairy collects our dental discards is that she lives in a castle made of children’s teeth. I hope she never has to sell in a soft market.<br /><br />What I didn’t know is that the Tooth Fairy has in fact, inspired a cottage industry of horror films on the subject. In one self-titled gem, the Tooth Fairy is an evil disfigured witch who kills children for their teeth and traps their souls on earth. In another, tooth fairies are depicted as small, ravenous creatures with a taste for calcium. And in case you’re wondering, it goes downhill from there, including one with an ending ripe for a sequel and some slightly off film student to use as his final project. Yikes.<br /><br />The most worthy of my research came in the form of sound advice from a woman who urged anyone describing their brand of Tooth Fairy to be vague. Brilliant: built-in insurance that the details won’t trip you up in the future. I ultimately decided I would keep it mysterious and cheap. <br /><br />So you can imagine my surprise when I discovered Jack had hit the daily double because my visiting mother slipped an additional five-dollar bill under his pillow thinking we might forget. Little did she know that we had only put a five-dollar bill under his pillow because we were out of ones. Thinking fast, I told him he must have been rewarded so handsomely because it was one of his fancy incisors. Clearly, this confirms that I’m a budget fairy, (although I wouldn’t rule out attitudinal), but I can’t see bankrolling Jack’s video game addiction when he did nothing more than experience a little movement under his gums. Unfortunately, my mom’s maneuver and my little white lie commit me to at least one more Hamilton for this tooth’s neighbor, but that’s life.<br /><br />In the meantime, I don’t really care what kind of fairy you want to be, but can we all just make a pact to do a little price-fixing around here? Otherwise, I’ll be spending the lion’s share of my tax refund on dead baby teeth, while one eccentric pixie gets to upgrade her castle.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-58800522591375524092011-03-13T12:34:00.000-05:002011-03-13T12:36:04.843-05:00On @#$%^&! Snow Days…Usually I feel uniquely trampled by the state of motherhood, but as I sit down to write of my experience with winter’s timeless parental pitfall, I have no doubt I’m in good company. I’m talking, of course, about the cold weather calamity that would chink even the mental armor of the venerable Super Nanny: snow days. Few of us stand a chance.<br /><br />I didn’t grow up in the Midwest or on the East Coast – so I can’t wax poetic about the much anticipated snow days of my past. No, there’s no snow in California unless I want there to be, so instead I only get the view from this angle. The one that has me desperately pleading for school to be back in session while my little rivals are begging for another day of wanton bedlam at home. <br /><br />At first I was elated that I didn’t have to get up at 5:45AM to pack lunches, brush the dragon breath off of everyone’s teeth and wrangle them into their clothes just in time to lurch into the drop-off line before the last bell rang. But then I realized, thanks to Murphy and his damn law that my kids can smell “snow day” like a pack of wolves to a carcass and won’t sleep in because, for once, their mother actually can. I’d brazenly ignored all preparation warnings from the affable, local news team so I neither had a plan nor the ability to drive to a friend’s house where there might be safety in numbers and my one sliver of hope for survival. Next, I light bulb the fact that my husband is out of town, the cupboards are bare and I’m pretty sure I’m looking at another two days of being trapped like a wild animal or should I say “with” the wild animal. (Sorry, Cameron, but if the snow shoe fits.)<br /><br />In a panic, I scoured the Internet for “snow day activity” ideas and even found some that sounded pretty good. But staying true to character, I didn’t have the supplies necessary to pull any of them off. Besides, I was really looking more for “independent play” pursuits to help ease the mental health drain during our winter lockdown, which admittedly took more effort since all those other people obviously thought snow days were good opportunities to spend quality time with their kids. <br /><br />I finally found an article after my own heart. The first entry on the list was “Reading.” Flop #1: Reading was misinterpreted by Jack to mean nipping at my heels with his joke book as I traveled through the house and he asked me “What do you call…” jokes with the rapid-fire delivery of an Uzi and the commitment of a drooling Labrador with a ball and a dream. When he realized I’d stopped guessing answers, he switched gears to delighting me with his genetic aptitude for puns (thanks Dad) including, “Don’t worry Mom, I snow what to do!” and “Mom, I snow that you hid my DS,” and “That’s snow punny. Get it, Mom, get it?” <br /><br />Flop #2 directly coincided with independent activity idea #2 which forced me to consider something no self-respecting “fake” mother of the year ever would: crafts (did I just say that out loud?). Sadly, I found myself seduced by the fact that said option promised kids who would be occupied for hours. Five minutes later I found myself scanning the page for idea #3: Audio books—good one, don’t have any. Numbers four through six weren’t applicable and I was back to trying to explain to Jack that playing a game with his brother didn’t mean mimicking everything he said until he had a nervous breakdown while also explaining to Cameron that Legos were a building activity, not a demolition derby of destruction. I even tried getting them to play outside. It took me a full thirty minutes to get them properly suited up while it took them, just shy of seven minutes to realize that snow is cold. It didn’t stop there, of course, but lucky for you, I’ve only got 850 words.<br /><br />By the seventh snow day, I’d let the kids watch more TV than a prison inmate and spend more time with the Wii than the guys who designed it. I didn’t even care that Cameron wouldn’t break from his “kitty” character long enough to have a drink and just started serving his milk in a bowl by the table. You know it’s bad when the kids start asking you if they should get dressed and you say, “Eh, what’s the point?” Shortly thereafter I found myself shoveling the driveway in my pink sheep pajamas and my husband’s oversized snow boots. <br /><br />I guess it wasn’t all bad news. Cameron was able to put in substantial hours to perfect his on demand burp feature. And Jack continued to step up his comedic skills whenever he could, including the time I asked if there was anything else I could get him during dinner and he said, “yes, a plasma TV, a petting zoo and my own tropical island.” Everyone’s a comedian.<br /><br />While the spring-like weather has prompted me to be cautiously optimistic, I’ve packed my bags for the funny farm. Because if there’s even one more snow day this season, I’m going to have a permanent meltdown. And that’s snow lie.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-43407943835759444852011-02-01T14:11:00.000-06:002011-02-01T14:12:22.871-06:00On the Year of the Rabbit...Every January we make resolutions— they’re lofty, hopeful and we’d wager our firstborn that THIS is the year we’ll finally make good on them. Unfortunately for parents of young children, the path to success is a minefield of poopy diapers, explosive tantrums and piles of laundry that work tirelessly to make any valiant resolution attempts an inevitable failure — and that’s just the first week. So after squandering this past January, I realized that we’ve been going about this all wrong. February should be the REAL New Year for those of us who rarely get to pee alone or have precious little time for a shower. It reminded me of that old Seinfeld episode when George’s father introduced us to “Festivus,” a made-up celebration to escape the pressures of commercialism during the holiday season. “A Festivus for the rest of us!” is what he called it. This will be a little like that. A New Years for everyone who gets buried by January’s booby-trapped road to disappointment. And, no, I’m not talking to the annoying overachiever I saw jogging down the street in 20 degree below temperatures last week (you know who you are). Nay, this is a New Year’s proposal for those of us who are just trying to make it through the day, because you can’t hit the ground running when your January goes something like this… <br /><br />WEEK 1:<br />We spent New Year’s Eve at a friend’s house, and even though we toasted with New York, by the time we drove home and put the kids to bed it was at least 11:30pm. The next day, hindered by sleep-deprivation and a single champagne glass hangover, I couldn’t rally the troops for the New Year’s 5K we’d planned to join in an effort to start the year right. After that, I decided it would be a shame to spend an official holiday eating salads and drinking tea so I vowed to ignore my vices for the last day ever and set my “clean living” clock a day ahead. But the next day turned out to be mere 24 hours away from a time-honored fresh start Monday and really, who am I to mess with tradition? Monday arrives and the alarm clock blares at 5:30am to which I audibly curse. Strike one. Hitting the snooze button prompts me to skip my workout, and now it’s only 6:15 in the morning and I’m two for two. This is followed by Cameron’s first irrational tantrum of the New Year, provoked only by the idea of getting dressed for his first day of preschool after two weeks of vacation. I realized then that this week had to be our “recovery” week to get back into a recognizable routine. Besides, how can I start eating healthily when all I have in the refrigerator is a block of Gruyere cheese from a quiche my “ideal self” planned to make, the healthy rice flax crackers I bought that no one in the house—including me—will touch, loads of condiments and a sad little crusty heel of bread? And if we don’t polish off the last of the Christmas goodies lingering in the pantry, they’d spend the rest of the month calling my name. <br /><br />Next up, the “save money” line item gets cashed out when my vacuum cleaner handle cracks, and my iron takes its last breath in a dazzling fireworks display at the base of the cord (which I didn’t even notice until both of my boys were yelling at me that I was on fire). To make matters worse, my microwave goes on strike and decides it no longer wants to heat water, let alone chicken nuggets, which in my kitchen reads: threat level, red and an official state of emergency. So now, instead of “more dates with my husband,” I’m cheating on him with the appliance man, Bed, Bath and Beyond and the guy in Siloam Springs who repairs vacuums.<br /><br />WEEK 2:<br />I’m ready to start, but now it’s freezing and the kids score their first snow day, which means I skip the gym because I’d never forgive myself if they picked up a nasty germ at the daycare and had to miss another day of school. Plus, Cameron is now having tantrums when he can’t play the Nintendo DS that Santa brought him, so we decide that both boys will be on an electronic hiatus. This move incidentally does wonders for my “spend more quality time with the kids” entry but kind of rocks my “less yelling, stress eating and wine” rule so either way, the scales tip in the wrong direction. And with that, the rest of the week follows suit as “drinking mostly water and tea” becomes “mostly wine and caffeine,” yelling returns like an old friend and sleep deprivation gets another turn at bat. <br /><br />WEEK 3:<br />The kids have now been in school long enough for them to catch some sort of bug, which leads to three sleepless nights and totally negates the possibility of even thinking of getting up at 5:30am because I barely have enough energy to brush my teeth. The discovery of the booger wall next to the boys’ bunk bed (so riddled with constellations it could have been a GPS system for the three wise men) doesn’t help either and I narrowly make it to Sunday with bloodshot eyes and non-existent resolve.<br /><br />WEEK 4:<br />It’s Monday again, but now it just feels wrong to begin at the end of the month and since I’ve already tainted January, it only makes sense to start with a clean slate. Chinese New Year has been celebrated in February for centuries so it’s not like I’d be ringing it in alone, and 2011 is the Year of the Rabbit. I like rabbits. <br /><br />I did finally cull through the nearly 3,000 e-mails that had piled up over the last year even though it was only because I’d accidentally hit the wrong command button, but since it’s my only resolution left standing, I’m going to ride its coattails right into February, my newly adopted New Year from now on. So I humbly deem February 1st Happy “Do” Year. Anyone with me? It’s only 28 days and all those misguided January enthusiasts will have already abandoned their treadmills. Oh, and for those of you worried about Valentine’s Day getting in the way – I’ve thought of that too—but since most of us moms are receiving gas station roses and cards from the car wash, I’m giving it an “all clear.” So…what are the chances February starts on a Monday?Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-72236085257813587402011-01-01T20:06:00.001-06:002011-01-04T10:00:55.737-06:00On Girl Scout Cookies & Other Resolution Busters...Just when you think you’ve conquered the most stressful time of the year, suddenly it’s January and the pressure is on to reevaluate, assess the passing year’s damage and brace yourself to take on the overwhelming task of fixing all that’s wrong with your life. Lucky for me, my resolution making usually requires little more effort than grabbing last year’s resolution file and changing the date at the top of the page to the current year. I was reminded of this excruciating, self-loathing ritual when a dear friend said she’d just come from her daughter’s Daisy Scouts meeting where they’d had a lengthy discussion about Girl Scout Cookies. <br /><br />Brilliant marketing ploy by the way, Girl Scouts - cute AND peddling the most addictive cookies in the world. When? Oh yes, in February when it’s early enough that we’re all still vulnerable to slip-ups and yet late enough that we can convince ourselves we’ve given the “getting in shape” line item a healthy shot. I know, it’s tax deductible. I’m assuming I’ll also be able to deduct the personal trainer and higher club level gym membership I’ll have to buy just to work off that box of thin mints. <br /><br />Of course my big resolutions almost always include lose weight, save money, stop swearing, drink less wine, eat more vegetables and re-introduce myself to the other adult in the house. And when I use the term “adult” that’s just me trying to start the year off right for resolution number eight: “Be nicer to my husband.” But seriously – how is anyone supposed to stick to a resolution strategy when we live in a culture commodious with temptation?<br /><br />Saving money becomes impossible when everyone you know has something to support– marathons for good causes, team sports, schools, dance troupes – you name it. In fact, the other day a neighborhood kid came by the house selling raffle tickets, trying to raise money for his baseball team. Having been one of those kids peddling support back in the day myself, I always feel compelled to pay up in tribute to all those nice people who found it in their hearts to do the same for me, so I reached for my wallet and asked what it was they were raffling. He proudly pulled out a brightly colored picture embellished with stars surrounding the big prize: a pump action Remington shotgun. A shotgun? Really? I think we can all agree that a shotgun is the last thing I want hanging around when I break all my resolutions.<br /><br />The first public tantrum of the year Cameron brings me will take care of my “no more swearing” attempt. Of course my favorite, most cathartic expletives will find their way into the closest pillow I’ll find to scream them into or when I find the car keys, politely excuse myself and lock myself in the car until I’ve screamed so long I can’t talk, but it will still count. And let’s face it, giving up wine when you’ve been married for more than fourteen years and have two kids under the age of seven, well, that’s just cruel.<br /><br />But don’t you worry Girl Scouts of America – I love what you do and I love your damn cookies so I’ll restrain my old twitch as I write the check and invite those salacious plastic towers inside my house. But for the record, your cutesy ironic little names are not lost on me. “Tagalongs” should really be “Can’t believe these Girl Scout cookies have been tagging along my thighs since February.” And Do-Si-Dos should be changed to: “I’m going to have to Do-Si-Do my buns off if I eat these.” Thin Mints: well, that’s just too easy. My favorite, however, is the company’s “Thanks-a-lots.” So that’s it: “Yo, Girl Scouts, thanks a lot for sabotaging my New Years Resolution diet in less than a month!” I think I’ll find my fat pants, waddle down to the liquor store and pick-up a pack of Slims.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-45515278127772121822010-12-01T10:03:00.001-06:002010-12-01T10:05:06.871-06:00On the Twelve Days of Motherhood...I love Christmas, but I find it disconcerting that Christmas carols start playing in October and I find myself unconsciously humming these classic little ditties so often that by the time my favorite holiday arrives I can’t stand to hear them anymore. I’ve heard the “Twelve Days of Christmas” more than a few times already and began wondering — what kind of true love gives you fowl you don’t want and an ensemble cast of characters who are too happy for their own good? And furthermore, where are on earth is this proverbial recipient going to store them all? But then it occurred to me that I have a couple of miscreant true loves who’ve given me more than a few things I don’t need from the other foul category and decided this time-honored carol needed an update. To save time and space, I’ll begin with the last verse:<br /><br />On the twelfth day of Christmas, <br />Motherhood gave to me…<br /><br />12 Thousand Sleepless Hours <br />11 Tubs of Vomit<br />10 Walls with Crayon <br />9 Tons of Clutter <br />8 Million Hours a’ Washin’<br />7 Years a’ Dateless<br />6 Tee Pounds a’ Lingering<br />5 Per-cent Brain Loss<br />4 Million Days of Whining <br />3 Years of Chaos (Is Cameron really only three?)<br />2 Saggy Mammaries <br /><br />And a Man-da-tory Hysterec-to-Meeeeee!<br /><br />I guess I could also write it like this:<br /><br />On the twelfth day of Christmas, <br />Motherhood gave to me…<br /><br />12 Thousand Hugs and Kisses<br />11 Tons a’ Handmade Art<br />10 New Ways to Love<br />9 Hundred Hours a’ Dancing<br />8 Million Times a’ Cuddling<br />7 Years of “Love Yous”<br />6 Thousand Fits a’ Laughter<br />5 Beams of Pride<br />4 Little Feet<br />3 Times a Bigger Heart<br />2 New Reasons to Live <br /><br />And the Most Precious Gifts That I Have Eeever Haaaad!<br /><br />I could, but then people might think I’ve gone soft…Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-6063882119025647842010-10-24T10:45:00.001-05:002010-10-24T10:46:51.594-05:00On Thanks-gaming...I should love this time of year: the leaves embrace fall fashion, the sun is shining, the air is crisp, and everybody is gearing up for the magic of the holidays…and then there it is, the big crack in my personal paradise. Fall sports season. Almost any day of the week you can drive through a typical suburban neighborhood anywhere in America and see not-so-festive flickering lights in nearly every house on the street as someone lurks inside watching games, games and more games, while the kids exploit the lapse in supervision to put one of their Hot Wheels in the microwave. Picture-in-picture, dueling television sets, computer screens, cell phones – you name the multimedia device –they’re using it for sports numb. I’m not just complaining about the men either. I recently lost at least six ladies to a local college football game when I hosted a baby shower – and that included one of my co-hosts. I’m thankful for a lot of stuff, but the very dependable tradition of fall sports addiction is not one of them. I say, bah humbug to it all. <br /><br />Last week my husband told me that I “didn’t understand.” That the fall sports season is the “perfect storm for sports fans.” Then he went into an energized rant as he rattled off all the pieces to the puzzle: pro football, college football, major league baseball playoffs, pre-season pro-basketball— even hockey season —all coming together to make him forget he has kids and a wife who is still struggling to rebuild brain cells from her two swings at pregnancy. In fact, I hadn’t seen him that animated since he rediscovered his whitewashed Guns & Roses jacket in the attic last winter. <br /><br />I know I’m a girl, but I seriously don’t get it. I used to play sports so I technically get it, but assuming the couch position to watch other people making big bucks to play a game seems painful. Pretty soon it will be Thanksgiving Day, the mother of all spectator sports days, and a tradition that’s been in place since the 1920s. I know because I looked it up. I don’t even think people care what they’re watching after awhile — they’re just mesmerized by the flying pigskin and pretty lights on the big screen. And sitting in front of the TV means you won’t have to hear Aunt Ida talk about her latest colonoscopy results.<br /><br />I asked my husband the other day if we could take the kids for a hike and enjoy the beautiful weather. His eyes were shifty as he so eloquently said, “uh, well…um…” to which I responded with an impatient, “What?” So he just came out with it. “Well, my game is on at 3:30.” “YOUR game?” I repeated. “I’m sorry, YOUR game? Really?? Are you getting any monetary benefit from wasting three to five hours of your life that you can NEVER get back sitting in front of the television getting an ulcer while you’re giving directives to people who can’t hear you, and furthermore don’t care? I sincerely hope so, because you’re going to need it for the marriage COUNSELORRRRRR!” <br /><br /><br />I know there was a reason I married him, but just by looking at him now, you wouldn’t think he’s the smartest member of the fan base, or for that matter anyone who could have turned my head. All his goofy hats come out, previous championship t-shirts, and we don’t have any, but if we did, no doubt all the appropriate team flags and blow up sports paraphernalia would be garnishing our lawn and car. I ask him to tape the games so he won’t miss out on life, but he insists, again, that I “don’t understand.” He has to watch it live because it’s “history in the making” and if he’s not “there” apparently he can’t claim it as part of his own history. To which I say it is NOT part of your history, because if it were, I’d have a nanny, a gourmet chef, a personal trainer and be spending my holidays beachside living the dream on our shared profits.<br /><br /><br />Listen, I’d like to spend three and a half hours watching back-to-back Oprah makeover shows while Brad Pitt gives me a foot massage and George Clooney brings me dirty martinis, but there’s laundry to do, dishes to wash and sanity to reclaim. So honey, if you want to start making an investment in your future living conditions, which will happen sooner than you think, and be decided on by your children, I suggest you choose another team. Their jerseys usually sport a culinary roadmap from snack time to their evening chow, they’re not the most coordinated bunch and will often score points for the other team, but you will have ample opportunity to shout instructions that fall on deaf ears. And if you do choose the team of tiny people who share your DNA, I promise I’ll cancel that appointment I made with the therapist.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-62112358698794993642010-09-29T09:33:00.001-05:002010-09-29T09:33:19.449-05:00On Potty Training and The Ugly Cry...Whoever said “life is a marathon, not a sprint” obviously didn’t have a three-year-old who needed potty training before they’d let him into preschool. Two and a half hours three times a week alone? This is exactly the kind of deadline that a facetious Mother of the Year like myself would crawl through a cesspit of rat sludge to pull off. Unfortunately, potty training Cameron (said three-year-old) has turned out to be less of the sprint that I desperately need it to be and instead, a grueling marathon of embattled wills and soiled underwear. I mistakenly underestimated my competition and it’s clear that neither of us will make it over the finish line without permanent damage. If I ever get there, I will deserve a medal—and I just might make it into a necklace. <br /><br />My first son Jack was potty trained in about a week. There were a few tears and even a little three-year-old Baby Ruth that ended up on the playroom floor, but he walked into preschool a proud big boy and ne’er an accident since. His little brother, on the other hand, is a stubbornly independent, free-spirited and notorious “poop disturber” who clearly has no interest in disturbing the poop routine he’s had going now for the last 40 months. We’ve got every book, including the modern classic Everybody Poops. We made a big deal of picking out a special potty. We’ve had big brother mentoring, reward charts, the M&M candy bribes and even Dr. Phil’s ridiculous Potty Party. My doctor said it’s a “control” issue. Yes. Now that we’ve established that infuriatingly obvious conclusion, what do I DO about it?” <br /><br />Six months later, I still don’t know. But what I do know is that when potty training boys, it helps to have a little insight into their anthropological heritage and the male psyche. Boys can’t just embrace the fact that their castoffs have a place to go, they need to believe they’ve made a worthy contribution to mankind. I’m assuming this concept harkens back to their Stone Age ancestors. Man make fire. Boy make poop. For instance, potty training didn’t click for my nephew — a big Sesame Street fan at the time—until he pooped the letter of the day. Jack had his aha! poop when he managed to squeeze out a rocket ship headed for the moon. And while it’s yet to make a difference, the two times Cameron’s little Lincoln logs actually made it to the toilet bowl, he seemed genuinely pleased that they resembled a hot dog and a snake respectively. <br /><br />A week and a half ago, I noticed Cameron doing his potty dance, which incidentally has a striking resemblance to the beginning steps of The Hustle. In a panic I whisked him to the potty despite his demands to the contrary. I used my sweetest voice to again explain the fundamentals of potty etiquette, but he responded like a Mel Gibson voicemail minus the expletives. At some point during his tirade, I simply sunk to the floor, covered my eyes, and the sheer duress of the last six months including, but not limited to my failed attempts at potty training unleashed like The Great Flood. That’s right – the ugly cry. The one where your face contorts and snot appears out of nowhere to join the downward stream of mucous and you just don’t care. As I sat there fully embraced in my cathartic release Jack ran in the room and yelled, “You’re making Mommy cry – just squeeze it out!” And then, as if an angel were speaking to me, I heard the littlest voice in the din say, “Don’t cwy Mommy, I do it.” To which I looked up through the tears and snot and replied, “What?” And he said, “I do it. I go poop.” And he did, which just goes to prove that every man, no matter how old they are, will do just about anything so they don’t have to hear a woman cry.<br /><br />It was a small victory to say the least. As I’m writing this column my husband arrived home with the kids and news that Cameron’s new, favorite WonderPets “Ming Ming” underwear had been defaced. So we double bagged the whole mess and made Cameron take the walk of shame to the big garbage can in the garage. I’ve never seen a walk of shame taken with more pride. If I could hear his thoughts, I think they might go something like this: Boy make poop. Boy make Mom and Dad really mad. Life is good. So here we are. Just when I falsely believe I’m going to win the race, he proves me wrong and our long-winded marathon continues. I’m not sure if I have the stamina to finish this thing, but maybe the next poop that makes its way into the bowl will be a little brown medal and we’ll both win.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-23060330446445456792010-08-24T14:57:00.000-05:002010-08-24T14:58:48.775-05:00On How I Spent My Summer VacationI have two beautiful boys so I don’t want to totally diss my uterus, but while I was pregnant with said progeny, it was a little like I was James Caan in “Misery.” And if I’m being honest, I more than kind of wanted to crush all my fellow baby bumpers who “loooved being pregnant.” You know the ones…those women upon whom the rumored pregnancy glow is based. I had no glow. Not even an atom of a molecule who was a distant cousin of one of my cells had a glow, which is why these women could populate a small village and I barely made it across the finish line with two. As author Jim Cole once said, “Love is all fun and games until someone loses an eye or gets pregnant.” <br /><br />Even so, I’m eternally grateful and do not take the gift of childbirth lightly. On the other hand, the admittedly freakish miracle of being able to grow humans in ten months or less and years of painful visits from my proverbial Aunt Flo had doomed my relationship with my uterus to be rocky at best. So when my doctor told me that I needed a hysterectomy at the tender age of 41, she may as well have told me I’d be getting a full-time nanny. Of course at the time I hadn’t considered the prospect of major surgery, the possibility of having hormone replacement therapy at least nine years prior to menopause, or the fact that I’d have to go under general anesthesia to arrive at the other side of this whole mess. I was merely focused on the fact that all misadventures with my uterus were soon to be over and that I would be more than happy to part ways with the ol’ girl.<br /><br />So I diligently finished up my lab tests and necessary blood work, scheduled my surgery, and what’s that? Oh yes, somehow figured out what to do with my kids for a whole month of their summer vacation. (As a side note, the extended members of our respective families are all veritable saints and in the event that we had a chance in hell of ever having anything of value in our will to bequeath, every one of them would be on the list of recipients.) But then I had to tell people. When my fellow hyster-sisters heard the news, they all said, “Oh, you’ll love it! You’ll feel like you’re 20 again!” And all I could think was, ”Shoot, I was really hoping that I’d feel more like I was 10 because that was before my excruciatingly painful monthly bill reared its ugly mug, but I’ll still take it.” What I hadn’t anticipated was getting the signature head tilt/half wince with an “Oooh, I’m so sorry,” from the people who had NOT had a hysterectomy- men included. It was only then that I realized the general populace associated my uterus with my womanhood. Of course, being the resident smart aleck I’d usually respond with a, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not as if I’ll never be able to wear a dress or shop again…” (insert awkward laughter). But then I’d think to myself, “Does it?” After that, every time I said “hysterectomy” I would reflexively whisper it like I was saying “sex” or “vagina.” I was a living paradox: ecstatic to be ridding my life of the horrible pain I’d been enduring for decades and at the same time feeling like I should be wearing a scarlet H. <br /><br />Now it’s the day before my surgery and I’m freaking out about going under general anesthesia even though my doctor is a literal rock star in the field of laparoscopic hysterectomy, the kids are safely at my in-laws without a care in the world and a life without Eve’s Curse is one I’d like to lead. On this day, I feel compelled to put my legal affairs in order with a mad dash to the notary and have a teary eyed talk with my husband, insisting that he find love again and build a life for he and the kids without me if I didn’t make it. And while I’m certain I was sincere at the time, you can’t imagine my relief when I saw my surgeon walking toward me in the recovery room. There were only two things on my mind: 1. “I’m ALLLLIIIIVE!!!” and 2. Thank God some other bitch won’t be raising my kids!”<br /><br />Despite the fact that the OR nurse used me as a human voodoo doll during her utterly failed attempts to insert my IV during pre-op (I could only wonder why she hated me so much despite the fact that we’d only just met), and that I was forced to decline the handiwork of a handsome respiratory therapist who mistakenly had me queued up for a post-operative inhalation tube, I emerged from the experience generally without incident and best of all without pain. I even scored a bonus appendectomy as my free gift with purchase. More good news: I get to keep my ovaries which means I also get to keep my hormones; to which I’d suddenly become dreadfully attached when faced with the prospect of an involuntary break-up. <br /><br />I’m not sure that I have more energy – i.e. feel like I’m 20–but maybe the gals who did feel like that afterward didn’t have kids under the age of seven. But what I know for sure? Laparoscopic hysterectomy must be the discovery of the century. My recovery was quick, I was in and out of the hospital in a day and a half and I have only four tiny scars exactly one centimeter in length to show for it. I have loads more storage where my tampons and those unwieldy pads with wings used to be and twelve weeks a year of my life back. I think I will use them to find a medically sound reason for a boob lift and tummy tuck. Stay tuned.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-56985455645021631102010-06-09T14:01:00.000-05:002010-06-09T14:02:42.130-05:00On Celebrating Father's Day...You can’t go anywhere this time of year without bumping into a chirpy Father’s Day gift guide organized by catchy phrases like “Grill Master,” “Gadget Guru,” and “Sports Fanatic.” All this for the gentleman responsible for those pint-sized miracles who spend their most productive hours sucking the life out of yours. For once I’d like to see another kind of guide that dices up the world’s dads according to the ugly truth. Here’s a stab for Father’s Day gift-givers living in the real world…<br /><br />Traditional Dad aka Slacker: This is the dad who believes that child- rearing, and anything and everything having to do with the house is woman’s work. He figures that as long as he’s pulling down a paycheck he can do whatever he chooses with his free time. Essentially he’s the Sugar Daddy without the “Daddy” and more often than not, not enough “Sugar” either. Gift Idea: Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Clearly this guy celebrates Father’s Day every single day of his life.<br /><br />Sports Dud: This is the dad who is only effective as long as “his game” is not on. And thanks to ESPN and the birth of cable, that’s pretty much all the time. In fact, your two-year-old could be dangling out of the second story window, but unless the Sox are down by two to the Yankees and it’s the bottom of the ninth, it’s not a crisis. Gift Idea: How about tickets to a local sporting event of his choice as long as he takes the kids. I think it’s high time he gets a dose of what it really means to sacrifice doing stuff you love so that your children can feel the love.<br /><br />The “I do a lot” Dad: This is the guy who still thinks he babysits his own kids, and the sweet spot of the modern dad population. This dad thinks he does more than he actually does, and takes every opportunity to try and convince us of that by comparing himself to the closest Slacker Dad on the block in an attempt to prop up his own image. He will also incessantly refer back to that one bath that he gave the kids last week as if he’s just carried you out of a burning building. Gift Idea: The gift of relativity. A round-trip ticket for you and a friend so he can spend a good old-fashioned bonding weekend with his spawn and experience firsthand how much their mom really does.<br /><br />Super Dad: Yes, girls, this category actually exists. This is the most highly evolved of the dad pool – and this dad does it all. Sometimes he’s a full-time, stay-at-home dad, and sometimes he’s busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, but either way, he makes meals, taxis the kids all over town and never misses their games. While this dad’s numbers have increased over the years, he’s still quite rare and if found should be snatched up immediately if not already taken. Gift idea: Whatever the heck he wants.<br /><br />The Executive Assistant Dad: This dad stands just a tick or two below Super Dad and definitely where my own husband falls – which is lucky for me – but to be fair, I did study his resume before bringing him on board. This is the dad who totally understands that he was a willing participant in the initial decision to bring the little rug rats into the world, and as such has equal responsibility in raising them. He’s ready, willing and able; he just requires a painstakingly specific road map. This is the guy who agrees to put the kids to bed, but unless you head up traffic control they won’t get there until midnight. He’s also the guy who, on his watch, won’t feed them unless their hunger pains can be heard above his own thoughts. Gift Idea: This guy deserves a big giant “A” for effort and really a day to do exactly as he pleases. That being said you may actually need to schedule it, otherwise he’ll likely spend the afternoon on the couch. <br /><br />This list, of course, barely scratches the surface of what we moms are working with out there. There’s still the “I Gave At the Office” dad, the “Up in the Air” dad and “The What Have You Done for Me Lately” dad. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the “I’m not even sure if he’s my kid” dad. On top of all that, your Baby Daddy is more likely a combo of some or all of the above. I realize that I’m having a little fun at their expense. I’m not saying they don’t deserve their own day. Without them, we moms would have a lot less to talk about, marriage counseling wouldn’t be a thriving industry, and Moms Night Out wouldn’t feel so darn cathartic. So a sincere thanks to all you Dads for bringing us the little people who guzzle up all that annoying extra time we used to have for self-improvement and a full nights sleep— your homemade ashtray is on its way.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-8543084419423216362010-04-30T13:47:00.002-05:002010-05-03T13:20:06.423-05:00On Understanding my MotherOne of my most vivid memories from childhood happened when I was about seven. That fateful Saturday morning, my siblings and I found ourselves crisscross applesauce on our lovely green linoleum floor, sitting too close to the television and spellbound by the misadventures of “Tom and Jerry,” despite the fact that none of our chores had been done. I say spellbound because somehow we missed the urgent warning of the most reliable look-out we ever had — a squeaky floorboard conveniently located just to the left of our Mom’s side of the bed. Faster than we could hit the “off” button and dash to our respective stations pre-equipped with cleaning props so we could feign being perfect children at a moment’s notice, Mom appeared in the family room. She took a split-second look around at the disheveled house and back at all three of us – the seemingly carefree perpetrators of the chaos— and began a ten minute tirade about how much she hated the television, how dare we watch it before our chores were done, and why weren’t we bothered by the fact that we had to clear a spot to sit down in the mess, and so on. In short, the woman lost it— but no one could have predicted what came next. <br /><br />Because it was then that she stopped yelling, and her face changed from a frustrated, angry woman on the edge to that of an inspired artist just before she stops staring at her canvas and creates a masterpiece. With an eerie calm and purposeful determination she walked to the sliding glass door leading to our backyard and slid it open. Then she danced through the minefield of toys with the agility of an Olympic athlete to get to the old-school television we owned at the time, complete with side consoled speakers and heavy green picture tube. And with what I can only conclude to be the super human, adrenaline surge of urban legends describing mothers lifting automobiles off of their children, my petite mother picked up our huge television, limped with it over to the door and handily threw it out onto our concrete patio while we watched it smash into a million pieces. At the time I remember thinking, “My mom’s a nutjob.” <br /><br />Now that I’ve been married for nearly 14 years and have two boys under the age of seven, I finally understand. The poor woman was experiencing the only time in her life when the “temporary insanity” defense would hold up in court. I am that woman. Okay – so I haven’t totaled any household appliances, (although somehow I think hucking the flat panel would be a little less cathartic) but I’ve had my share of retreats to the car for a scream that would put most Freddy Krueger films to shame. I’ve slammed doors, I’ve yelled, and I’ve definitely cried. And then there are those days when the man I blame for my suffering walks through the door and finds me with my keys and purse already in hand and I have little more strength than it takes to squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “movie,” before I screech down the driveway.<br /><br />The other day that same man and I caught the tail end of a sitcom called “In the Middle.” As the husband is putting his arm around his wife he says, “Honey, for such a small woman, you pack a lot of crazy.” I’ll just ignore the fact that my husband stopped laughing long after I did. Because when I’ve spent a day listening to my six and a half year old speak only in the third person, or hours putting tiny chewed-up Operation board game organs back into their respective slots, or being forced to walk into a grocery store with a Cameron-induced yogurt stain the size of a scaled down map of Europe, I think of that day when I was seven and it makes me feel a little less crazy. And while I know I’m doomed to listen to my children regaling stories of my temporary trips to the “left of center” at family reunions for the rest of my life, I’m finally ready to give my mother the gift she’s surely been waiting for since I had my firstborn. <br /><br />So Mom, here it is: I get it. I’m sorry. I take back all the under-my-breath curses I uttered when I found that you’d stacked dirty cereal bowls on my dresser after repeatedly asking me to wash them. I’m no longer mad that you didn’t replace that poor TV of ours for three years. And I’m sorry I cut the hair and ripped off the head of the original Barbie you’d had since your childhood – you know, the one that would have had you and Dad living “la vida loca” somewhere tropical and fabulous right about now.<br /><br />Thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to lose it once in awhile as long as you fill in the rest of the blanks with big love, unending cuddles and “president of the fan club” levels of cheerleading. Thank you for allowing me to survive my childhood. And most of all, thanks for taking it out on the major appliances. (Fist bump) Respect.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-46122440279628492912010-03-10T11:13:00.001-06:002010-03-10T11:13:40.660-06:00On Surviving the Flu Season...Last night my husband and I were awakened at exactly 2:37am by the miserable whimpering of our feverish six year old. It was then that I realized what those poor actors on “Lost” must feel like as they’re relentlessly dragged back and forth to that ill-fated island after having already narrowly escaped with their lives. Unfortunately I’m not pulling in a big fat paycheck and enjoying luxury accommodations at the Hawaiian Four Seasons to soothe my pain. Despite sincere compassion for my sweet little boy, I couldn’t shake the narrative script running through my head, which sounded a bit like the captain of a doomed flight to Déjà vu. It went something like this: <br /><br />Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to thank you for flying Little American Germ Buckets, and welcome you to the never ending flight of the flu season. You may as well sit back and relax because your life is about to come to an excruciating halt, and your to-do list as well as any progress you’ve made at starting an exercise routine will just have to wait. I assure you, there are no premium seats on this flight. <br /><br />Please stow all your good pillows and expensive bedding in an overhead compartment, otherwise they’re sure to be damaged by flying phlegm and related debris. We also ask that you turn off all electronic devices until such time as it is necessary to research any strange rashes and other unsavory side effects resulting from the various medications your little travelers will be taking. During this flight, we will not be handing out any sleeping supplies, because while I hate to point out the obvious, we all know that you won’t be needing them where we’re headed. If necessary, your seat cushions can be used as vomit protection devices or as something to beat your head against during the mind-numbing in-flight entertainment marathon starring the ever-chirpy Dora the Explorer and those perky Little Einsteins. <br /><br />On this trip, you’ll have only two options for your in-flight beverage service: Pedialyte and a steady flow of caffeine in all its essential forms. Folding trays and seat backs should remain in their upright positions throughout the flight, because let’s face it – it’s your best chance of getting the puke into the double-bagged garbage bins. We’d like to ask those who still have a fever to sit toward the rear of the cabin —not to be confused with the “angry” rear of your infant after a heavy dose of antibiotic. Those passengers will be given special face masks with a steady flow of oxygen to be used before, during and after the diaper changing portion of the flight. Speaking of masks, I think it’s safe to say that you can totally disregard putting on your own protective masks before any minors seated with you, because we all know you’ll be taking this same flight on your own in about a week. <br /> <br />In the case of an emergency landing at a hospital or doctors office, passengers can purchase a special survival kit including several bottles of hand sanitizer to help avoid the myriad other unwanted maladies waiting for you in all medical lobbies, and a brand new package of “Fake Barf” to be placed just beyond your seating area to discourage other patients from trying to play with your children. <br /><br />I would like to remind you that you are not allowed to tamper with or disable lavatory smoke detectors, unless you can’t take the cabin pressure and are forced to return to the smoking habit you successfully gave up ten years ago for your health. Emergency exiting is not an option regardless of how unhinged you may feel, and we do have US Marshalls on board to ensure no one escapes the aircraft mid-flight. <br /><br />(3-5 maddening days later…)<br />Good news. We’re now beginning our descent and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for choosing this flight, even if you didn’t have a choice… wait…I’m sorry, this just in— apparently we’re experiencing technical difficulties in the form of five full snow days ahead. I realize that your children are feeling better and have untold levels of cabin fever, your house is in shambles, your pantries are bare and the piles of laundry are starting to look like furniture, but it looks like you’ll have to ignore all that and figure out how you’re going to keep the lil’ buggers entertained for the foreseeable future. Our flight attendants will be coming through the cabin shortly to provide alcohol and extra large boxes of Kleenex. Thank you and we sincerely hope you don’t get “Lost” again.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-49836578377251242562010-02-02T22:28:00.000-06:002010-02-02T22:29:17.989-06:00On Valentine Daze...I can barely remember those carefree days of marriage past when I distinctly recall playfully making it clear to my husband that flowers for Valentine’s Day would never be considered extra credit. But somewhere along the way, those same overpriced petals started to look less like symbols of love and more like tiny little $10 bills that wouldn’t survive the week. Thirteen and a half years, two young kids and too many dashed date nights later, there’s just too much child rearing and marital reality under the bridge to cling to the romantic notions of my adolescence. Today I look at Valentine’s Day with new eyes – the bleary, sleep deprived, aging and macular degenerative kind– and they’ve definitely witnessed a change in perspective.<br /><br /><br />Early in our relationship my husband sent me on a treasure hunt. At the time, it was my dearest hope that the last clue would lead to my still favorite watch. If, by some miracle, he orchestrated a repeat performance of that romantic gesture, I’d probably just pray the path eventually lead to an escape hatch for those days when I feel like sticking my head in the oven. Instead of chocolates, I’d love one measly hour to work out and not worry that my kids would be sick and out of school the next week because they’d picked up something nasty at the gym day care. In lieu of a surprise trip to somewhere fabulous, I’d really just like a surprise trip to the esthetician for a wax and then maybe the dentist for a teeth cleaning to make it feel really decadent.<br /><br />I don’t remember the last time we spent a romantic Valentine’s Day having dinner for two, but I do know that if we spent the required effort and money necessary to make it happen, the punishment wouldn’t fit the crime. Mostly because it would mean that I would spend a month tracking down a sitter, a minimum of three weeks looking for those “in- between” hours necessary to clean every room in the house, even more days preparing kid-friendly dinners, stocking the house with snacks and ultimately being the one to decide on—and make—the reservations at a restaurant that doesn’t have a coloring crayon and coordinating activity sheet in sight. And that’s all before I’d somehow figure out how to sneak in a shower, whip my hair into some version of what it looked like the last time I left a salon, apply some war paint, pick out an outfit that required heels (add in extra time to relearn how to walk in heels) and go to the ATM to withdraw the $400 ransom it would take to pay for dinner and secure the release of our children. Once we’d arrived at said fantasy restaurant, I’d be so spent from the groundwork that I could promise my husband little more than a staring contest from across the table. (Right now he’s probably thinking, “Honey, why did we stop celebrating Valentine’s Day again?”)<br /><br />I know, all you young lovers out there will find my Valentine’s Day revelations depressing. And in a way they are. Especially since I spent so many years convincing my husband that using the free greeting cards we get from the charities we support in place of making a trip to an actual store was not winning him any points. Never fear, I’m still a typical girl—all mushy inside and victim to even trivial romance—I’ve just stopped being a slave to Cupid’s annual cash cow. <br /><br />I wish I could say that I miss it, but in actuality, it’s been pretty liberating. I remember a day when I thought my husband had the most gorgeous, lush head of hair. Now it’s hard for me to run my fingers through it without remembering those same locks covered in vomit the last time Cameron ate a hotdog that didn’t agree with him. And I’m not naïve enough to think there’s much out there can resuscitate the unspoiled fantasy of your young bride after you’ve witnessed that same girl and all her parts giving birth. These days, a burnt piece of meat on his plate and a few runs of the vacuum cleaner through the carpet when he gets home is about all the “sexy” he needs. And this year, honey, even though I no longer own lingerie, I will make absolutely sure my sweats are clean, the DVR is queued and the mouth guard spends the night in its own dish. Happy Valentines Day to us!Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-87591547837899761192010-01-13T19:29:00.001-06:002010-01-13T19:29:40.023-06:00On Karatehood...My son takes karate and loves it. He loves it so much, in fact, that it is the only reason I’m willing to drag my hyped up two-year-old to his class twice a week and dejectedly trail after him as he both entertains and annoys other parents attempting to watch their own children in peace. Last week, I’d made perhaps my twelfth apologetic lap through the building when I noticed several black belt hopefuls doing their usual subconscious survey of the other belts in the room. In karate, colored belts ranging from white to black and a few primary colors in between indicate hours logged, skill-level and overall expertise. Determining rank: it’s a well-documented social dance. We all do it. It’s just that in life we have access to less definitive factors when formulating a final opinion. So there I was, suddenly thankful we moms weren’t made to wear our own color-coordinated belt to indicate our level of progress as a student in the school of motherhood. <br /><br />I can only imagine having to sprint through the grocery store to avoid another mom finding out that I’d been at this for six and a half years and still hadn’t made it past entry level white. Because if she did, she’d inevitably have an inner dialogue with herself to the tune of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld, “No play date for you!” <br /><br />Oh sure, I’ve had my moments, and I think maybe even days when I thought I’d actually move up a level, but then I end up doing something that reminds me, I’m one Britney Spears second away from failing the test. It’s not that I don’t have aspirations in that area or fear the work. I’m just too busy trying to get my kids excited about smoothies for dinner, and digging their soccer uniforms out of the dirty clothes pile so I can spray it with Super Odor Eliminator and pop it in the dryer for 15 minutes before practice. Judge me if you will, but there will come a day when you’re desperate enough to consider it.<br /><br />Ironically, I seem to know quite a few black belt moms. They’re easy to spot because they’re basically those parenting magazine ad models in Technicolor. Black belt moms don’t have two-year-olds performing “the Batman smells” version of Jingle Bells in the aisles of Walmart. And I’m also pretty sure their two-year-olds don’t accidentally knock heads with a fellow classmate at their Christian-based Mom’s Day Out program and tell him he’s going to “crush” him. (Thanks honey—and by honey I mean my husband) Okay so it came out a little closer to “cuhsh him,” but I think we were all clear. <br /><br />These are the ladies who have baby books to my baby boxes and perfectly timed growth interval pictures to my “he looks about six months in that one.” Essentially, these are the mothers who can bring home the FDA-approved, food pyramid groceries and sauté them up in their stainless steel, non-teflon pan. God help me if they reapply their lip-gloss before their husbands get home. Who knows? Maybe they cry into their pillows at night like the rest of us, but at least they put on a better show.<br /><br />I wonder what the level-to-level progress tests would look like. Maybe somewhere between yellow and orange you’d have to master chocolate chip cookies and homemade Rice Krispy treats without looking at the recipe. Or to get from brown to red, you’d have to lead an age-appropriate craft project, cook a well-balanced meal and get in your daily workout all at the same time. I shudder to think what it would take to make it all the way up to black. If I had to guess, I’d bet it’s being able to get those pop-up play tents back into the deceiving little round discs they come in so you don’t have to shove them behind your couch and eliminate the whole reason you felt compelled to buy them in the first place. <br /><br />Regardless, if we had to live in a society that forced us to wear our Mom “chops” on our sleeves, I’d probably be doomed to wear my entry-level motherhood belt for the rest of this gig, but at least everything goes with white. Come to think of it, so does black. Whatever.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-7992328788965681632009-12-04T13:02:00.002-06:002009-12-04T13:06:26.429-06:00On the Mommy Belly...Ah, yes. The Mommy Belly. Can I hear a collective “Ugh?” And while I assume it needs no further introduction, for those of you in the dark about this regrettable, postpartum phenomenon, it is the “little bundle” that remains after giving birth to your “little bundle.” A search on Google will return nearly two million entries related to The Mommy Belly. YouTube offers approximately six thousand videos featuring The Mommy Belly, and the online Urban Dictionary has dubbed it important enough to provide an official entry and related pop culture reference which I can only assume is from a movie in the same league as SuperBad: “Besides the mom belly, your mother’s pretty smokin’.” <br /><br />We’re all familiar with the expression, “motherhood is a blessing and a curse.” Well I think it’s clear onto which side The Mommy Belly falls in that comparison. And no one is safe. I have a very tall, naturally slender friend who was lifting her shirt and complaining about her Mommy Belly at a recent playdate, which by all standards was nothing to write home about, but a Mommy Belly nevertheless. (Husbands, if you’re wondering what exciting things happen at these playdates, that's pretty much it. And yes, afterward we all have a pillow fight.)<br /><br />I’m not sure if it’s because our mothers were simply too genteel to mention this unmentionable, or because women are waiting until they’re older to have kids these days, but the girth of The Mommy Belly buzz appears to have expanded substantially in recent years, and somewhere along the line even become a proper noun. It’s the layered look that’s never in fashion and the reason Spanx has taken off like a rocket. <br /><br />It happens to be on the top of my holiday to-do list because I’ve spent the better part of the year and countless numbers of sit-ups, crunches and endless miles desperately trying to slough it off. But no matter what I do, there it is with a maniacal snicker, wondering why I’m working so hard. Nobody told me that after Jack and Cameron had abandoned their temporary home, I’d be left with a permanent vacancy. I imagine at this point, I should just put a “for rent” sign up and see if I get any takers. All I know is that I can’t bear to read one more ridiculous article about a celebrity who claims they’ve gotten back into their pre-pregnancy, sexy two-piece bathing suit by logging ad nauseam hours of Pilates. I wish they’d just cut to the chase and give us the name of their doctor.<br /><br />I can’t believe it’s December already, although I don’t know why I’m surprised, the Christmas stuff has been out since Easter. ‘Tis the season for holiday parties and clingy dresses that need to navigate my postpartum relief map. My ultimate wish is that it’s the very last year I spend hours in multiple dressing rooms trying to find the perfect and keenly strategic black dress. Because after a year-long tug-of-war with the treadmill and various and sundry other quibbles with core based exercises, I’m convinced that the only way to cut The Mommy Belly out of my life is to literally “cut” it out of my life.<br /><br />Santa, are you listening? All mommy wants for Christmas is a tummy tuck and a belly button that doesn’t look like the tied end of a balloon a week after the party’s over.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-35125594948542369492009-10-27T16:57:00.001-05:002009-11-04T13:22:21.351-06:00On Gratitude with an AttitudeOnce again, it’s time to pay official homage to all that is good in our lives and ignore all that other stuff that isn’t perfect. As my mother used to say, “no matter how bad you have it, there’s always someone else out there worse off than you.” The truth is I am thankful. I am particularly thankful that the lovely people at Peekaboo allow me to raid multiple inches of precious magazine space for my monthly drivel, and conversely for those readers who generously indulge me with fifteen minutes they’ll never get back. I’m also thankful for the classic things, like the fact that both my parents are healthy and still around to drive me crazy. I’m thankful that I’ve got food on the table and a roof over my head. And I’m ever-so-thankful for the friends who join me for daily “amateur hour” therapy sessions and confirm that I’m not alone at the “asylum.” <br /><br />This Thanksgiving marks the near end of my fortieth year and in my requisite analysis of too many years gone by and the untold number of mistakes I’ve made, it’s also occurred to me that I’m thankful for a whole array of things that aren’t appropriate for the traditional Thanksgiving table. And even though my Thanksgiving table looks less like Martha’s and more like Snoopy’s with bowls of popcorn and stacks of buttered toast, traditions still apply. Eventually, everyone will start dishing out thank you lists suitable for collective consumption, but this year, I think I’ll just silently noodle over a list of another variety: <br /><br />I’m thankful…<br /><br />1. that by some miracle I avoided getting slapped with a $1000 fine during the two months prior to me discovering that Cameron had been tossing random toys, food and necessities out the car window during our long commute to school. Things were always missing, but it didn’t strike me as odd until we arrived at his Mom’s Day Out program and he was suddenly missing his socks. Said suspect folded like a cheap suit and made a full confession. The little rascal was even smiling until he realized that his window privileges had been permanently revoked.<br /><br />2. that my husband appears to have retained the very same rose-colored glasses he had on when we met fifteen years ago.<br /><br />3. that video telephones never caught on.<br /><br />4. for baseball caps, dark glasses and elastic waistbands. <br /><br />5. for the most reliable nanny I’ve ever had: she’s available on a dime, highly entertaining and requires nothing in return. I like to call her: “Tel-eh-veez-e-own.” Giving her an exotic name makes me feel better. <br /><br />6. for drive-thru-windows.<br /><br />7. that I happened to be running an errand when my husband discovered Cameron’s latest, and heretofore legendary diaper blowout. But mostly that I couldn’t be recruited for the Haz-Mat clean-up crew.<br /><br />8. for the fact that child abandonment laws are stringent enough to motivate me to stick around during those moments when I feel completely insane, just long enough to stay for those other moments I can’t imagine life without my boys. <br /><br />9. that some very smart people published an official report stating that it’s healthy for me to have at least one glass of red of wine a day.<br /><br />10. that my husband and children can’t read the inner dialogue bubble above my head.<br /><br />11. for plastic surgery. Not that I can afford it or have dallied there, but somehow it makes me feel better knowing that my battle-weary “girls” have something to aspire to - nobody’s going to feel better unless they can climb back onto the top shelf where they belong.<br /><br />And there are a million more – not least of which is the fact that I can’t get fired from this crazy job called motherhood regardless of whether or not I’m meeting expectations, getting through my to-do list or cooking my own meals. The downside, of course, is that the salary won’t buy Mama a new pair of shoes. But the bonus is that I’ll likely have enough fodder to write stories for the rest of my life. I guess I’ll just have to feast on that.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-57549732239236961482009-10-03T06:05:00.002-05:002009-10-03T08:10:40.321-05:00On Halloween, The SequelIf, in fact, there is anyone out there besides my mother who has been reading my column for a full year, at least one other person knows I’m not a big fan of Halloween. Tiny people in equally tiny costumes: darling. Various pronunciations of “twick o tweet:” not to be missed. It’s just one of those holidays that requires entirely too much work. Besides, all those clever people who embrace Halloween full throttle put me in last place before my toe has ever skulked over the starting line. <br /><br />Growing up, I discovered early that there was a “sweet spot” in the art of costume selection. Throughout the Halloweens of my childhood, I honed my skills at choosing a costume that was neither too clever nor too difficult to pull off. My outfit always fell somewhere north of stupid and a good ways south of best costume. I was never going to be MVP, but at least I could suit up with the rest of the cool kids on the team and still end up smiling with my pillowcase full of candy. <br /><br />I have no idea why, but as I approached my first Halloween as a mom, I had this sudden urge to win prizes and take names. For me, Halloween reached the same anxiety provoking heights as choosing the perfect baby announcement. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t take up papier-maché, but I did scour the Internet and pore over every catalog available to become utterly neurotic about finding the perfect costume. Year one, Jack was a crawling court jester. Year two, he was an “early years” Elvis. Year three, he insisted on being a fireman instead of the darling pirate I’d chosen, so I left no stone unturned and found the best darn fireman costume I’d ever seen. When he insisted on being a fireman again the following year, I was dejected. <br /><br />I should have been happy about the money I was about to save alone, but instead I found myself lamenting to a friend. She immediately scoffed at my predicament and assured me, since Cameron had been born by this time, that I could easily breathe new life into that old fireman costume by making Cameron a Dalmatian. I was stunned. Until that very moment I had never thought of my children as a “set,” but there was my friend, talking a mile a minute about how she had been able to up the Halloween costume ante, even when her oldest daughter had insisted on being a princess three years in a row. The second year, her son had arrived, so he turned into a frog. By the third, he’d graduated to prince. Impressive, no?<br /><br />I’m not sure if the Halloween bigwigs overheard our conversation that fateful day, but ever since, the industry has seemed to embrace the concept full boar. Peruse any catalog worth its salt and not only will you find related costumes for siblings of all ages, but you’ll even find new ways to humiliate the dog. If your son has chosen to be Harry Potter, you can accessorize him with a sibling dressed as Hedwig his trusty owl companion. If there’s a budding magician in your family, a little sister can easily be tormented as his requisite rabbit-in-a-hat. If your daughter wants to be Lil’ Bo Peep, find that girl some sheep. And what's a pirate without his obligatory parrot? Your children will kill you later, but while you still have the reins, I say go ahead and have a little fun. <br /><br />Last year when Jack begged to be Jango Fett from Star Wars, Cameron was a shoo-in as his mini-Yoda. In the sequel, Jack’s still obsessed with Star Wars, but has moved on to Commander Cody. Since Cameron already rocked his Yoda outfit last year, I’ve had my eye on the toddler Princess Leia costume, complete with headpiece and signature side buns. My husband is resistant, of course, but when I talk of the future fun and bribery material we’ll have on him, he admits it sounds tempting. <br /><br />Unfortunately, our six-year-old has embraced the themed “set” concept to such a degree that he’d like my husband and I to dress up as Star Wars characters too - my worst nightmare to say the least. My husband wants to be George Lucas, the creator of the multi-billion dollar franchise. He figures it’s the least taxing costume to put together -- slap on a silver wig, quirky mustache and beard, and carry around a wad of cash. I guess that leaves me as the ex-wife. While I may be taking some creative liberties here, I think I’ll play her as someone who has let herself go but doesn’t care since she still gets alimony. I'm thinking I could rock that outfit.<br /><br />If you want to embrace the themed costume approach, do it while the kids are young and naïve because the strategy has an inevitably short life span. In the meantime, I’ll be relieved when Halloween 2009 finally comes to a close. We can pack away the costumes and Jack can spend the rest of the year dressed up as the favorite pair of jeans I’ll likely never fit into again and Cameron as the incisional hernia from our C-section together—talk about a couple of characters.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-34958114293434974722009-08-13T14:00:00.001-05:002009-08-18T13:18:15.238-05:00On Kindergarten, Car Line and Cameron...The 2009 back-to-school season marks the exceedingly noteworthy occasion of our first son Jack heading off into the very big world of Kindergarten. I have many friends for whom this rite of passage has inspired a faucet of tears and considerable emotions run amuck — joy, sadness, anxiety — all scrambled up in the hard core realities of the sudden passage of time, the loss of their “babies” and everything else in between. I lovingly supported each and every one of them through it all, but expected to have a different reaction. Now here’s the part of the story where one might anticipate that I’m about to tell them how grossly I’d misjudged myself. Instead, let me just come clean and say that I’ve been doing the happy dance since August 3rd. <br /><br />Several of my well-intentioned friends have been calling, e-mailing and texting me with words of encouragement and asking how long I sat in the car and cried after first drop-off. But when I express emotions to the contrary, I get the distinct impression that they’re just humoring me until the dam breaks. I admit, all the pre-emptive support gave me guilty pause for not finding myself caught in the grip of despair, but then I got right back on track when I reminded myself that I was never in the running for any “Mother of the Year” awards anyway, so I might as well stick to what I know. He’s ready, I’m ready, I love his new school, so what’s not to like? <br /><br />For instance, I LOVE car line. In fact, since we’re talking Kindergarten, I’ll even put it into relative terms for you: I’m so in love with car line, I just might marry it. Car line for those of you who either haven’t reached the Kindergarten milestone or are of the age when car line didn’t actually exist, it’s the legal equivalent of slowing down to 10 mph and having your child tuck and roll to the curb. This means of course, that I get to stay dry and happily seated in the car while Cameron, my spirited two-year-old is securely trapped…oh, did I say trapped? I meant strapped in the backseat, and in less than twenty minutes Jack’s happily off to his class and we’re off to the races. <br /><br />And that’s just morning car line. Afternoon car line is even better. Sure, I have to wait a little longer and I’m still working out the kinks, but this version of car line has additional perks. For instance, I don’t ever need to talk to anyone unless I feel so inclined. I just hold up my little sign so the volunteer with the microphone can bark out Jack’s name to a crowd of Elementary hopefuls, and he magically appears. I’ll go ahead and confess here that I’m so giddy about car line, Jack’s name sign has been laminated since his first day. <br /><br />The school’s car line policy states that drivers are NOT to get out of their cars. Are they bucking for a proper proposal? They already had me at “hello.” Next thing they’re going to tell me is that we’ll be getting free chair massages for every ten minutes we wait. I admit, we’re still in the honeymoon phase, but every day “car line” seems to find new ways to woo me. Yesterday, I burned through most of Jack’s thank you notes from his August birthday party. The day before that, a particularly lively rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground,” had me seriously brushing up on my car dancing skills. My apologies to the drivers on either side of me by the way, (you know who you are), but after the beat took over I was an unwitting slave to the music and all humility just flew out the window. Literally. Next thing you know, I’ll be finding time to knit little socks for the Arkansas boy’s choir.<br /><br />Unfortunately, car line doesn’t mean that I escape Cameron’s intermittent tantrums in the backseat despite the fact that I come armed with a boxful of toys and snacks to occupy his little mouth and hands, but it does mean that he’s not sprinting up and down school hallways and redecorating classrooms. And that I’m not attempting to have a chat with another Mom, but instead finding myself orbiting the same sentence fragment while keeping Cameron from deconstructing student art projects and propagating his special brand of graffiti on the walls. Even so, the kid’s got a gifted set of lungs and a flair for the dramatics I fear will someday be exercised seasonally as the type of avid football fan who feels compelled to paint his face and upper body, but for now, I’ve got a radio and volume control. Long live rock-and-roll…and car line too.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-56684216801015501342009-08-04T13:21:00.000-05:002009-08-04T13:22:19.752-05:00On Laundry...To most, laundry is simply a mundane chore, a necessary evil — and for those of us with children a mind-boggling lesson in futility. But somewhere along the line I realized that my darks, lights, and delicates have also served as a metaphor for my life. And no matter what stage of my existence I happen to be, those inevitable piles of dirty laundry are lurking in the corner telling my story.<br /><br />When I was young, laundry was like magic: you put the dirty clothes in and they came out clean, folded and ready for another day. When I got to high school, the family’s weekly laundry suddenly became one of my chores. My protests were quieted by the sneaky, yet persuasive explanation that I was in training for my soon-to-be college independence. As I was learning to sort the clothes according to color, water temperature and appropriate settings, I was also learning to sort through the trials and tribulations of puberty, my first heartbreak, and the social pitfalls of growing up. I was in laundry Boot Camp and my life was a veritable minefield. <br /><br />In college and my early career, doing laundry was a tutorial on self-reliance and the sweet allure of harnessing the ability to control my own destiny. It was a symbol that I was responsible for every stain, every article of clothing I washed and every new item of clothing I had to buy to make-up for the pile I put off that week. And I loved every minute. <br /><br />In my late twenties, I was rounding up my first year of marriage. What I I’d heard is that your still shiny husband and you will be eating the well-preserved top of your wedding cake, toasting with champagne, and relishing the thought of another year as “one. “ Well, after a year in the freezer, the cake top tastes a little like cold dirt and quite frankly we ended up celebrating the fact that we had actually survived 365 days under the same roof. As we co-mingled our laundry, we co-mingled our lives and both got exponentially more complicated. My laundry piles were bigger, the stains were tough and unfamiliar and marriage was one giant adjustment. <br /><br />Flash forward to today, nearly thirteen years and two kids later. Our master bedroom has a lovely little sitting room that as we were considering the purchase, sent me into a dazzling reverie of long, luxurious hours whittled away reading my favorite books and meditating on life as I gazed at the passing seasons. RRRRrrrrrrrr. (Sound effect: Record being scratched to the end of the album). Reality check. I do spend hours there, it’s just sorting, folding and ironing the unrelenting piles of our family laundry. These days, my laundry is like a self-replenishing water bowl for the dog. And yes, in this scenario, I am the dog. I frantically spend my time attempting to get to the bottom of the bowl, but it always looks the same. <br /><br />Like my laundry, my life has become about problem solving — particularly when it comes to deciphering what team of stain removers I’ll need for the Sydney Pollack masterpiece Cameron has reproduced for me that day – or how to remove the deep-set chocolate oil stain on one of Jack’s shorts when I’ve failed to do a thorough search of his pockets. And let’s not forget the cast-offs of my husband’s pick of the lunch menu. (Thank God for Zout!) In my dreams, my problem solving skills at this stage of my life would have gone to much better use managing my house staff at my equally impressive Italian villa. Instead, I spend my days figuring out what to do with the booger that Jack has just handed me on the way up to receive Communion. But what are ya going to do?<br /><br />These days my laundry is exhausting, soul-sucking, messy, impossible to manage and a daily lesson in learning how to let go. My life is, well, all of the above, and yet somehow I wouldn’t trade it for the world. <br /><br />The lines of my life and laundry have blurred so much, in fact, that one needs only to see what my kids are wearing to determine how far my grasp has slipped down the pole of sanity. The more off track my life becomes, the less laundry that gets done and that’s when the special occasion outfits get dragged out of the closet. Incidentally, if you ever see us at Chick-fil-A and Jack’s wearing his ring bearer tux while Cameron “works” his most recent Easter outfit…someone please call my Mommy.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-81239209675263738202009-07-10T17:28:00.001-05:002009-07-10T17:28:57.861-05:00On the Name GameLast week a friend who is “expecting” called to vent about a conversation she had had with her husband. In the course of their dialogue, she expressed that if the baby is a boy, she’d like to name him Sebastian. Her husband’s response was an emphatic “No.” Well, actually, I believe his specific words were, “Uh, noooo. If we name our child Sebastian, he’ll get his proverbial butt kicked in the schoolyard on a daily basis.” To which she, speedily and with a tone equally laden with sarcasm replied, “No he won’t, because he’ll be playing alongside Wolfgang, Hawk and Finn!” Log one for her side.<br /><br />In the last ten years, the “naming your child” part of the already daunting task of becoming a parent has seemed to move up in the world of things to lose sleep over. Not to worry, living without sleep and saying goodbye to your freedom forever haven’t lost their appeal as anxiety-provoking favorites…and may I say, not without merit. Nonetheless, I have friends who agonize over name selection while wasting precious hours of their waning days of independence poring over websites, favorite novels, candy wrappers – just about anything – hoping to discover that one-of-a-kind moniker for all to admire. Heck, I’m guilty. I got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card with “Jack” because it’s a family name. But “Cameron” —well, it’s the first name of the youngest writer ever to be published by Rolling Stone Magazine. Of course, I love the name too, but still. <br /><br />Maybe we’ve just convinced ourselves that people with superbly hip names have no choice but to live up to them. Or better yet, we secretly cling to the notion that our uniquely named kin will rocket to stardom along with riches beyond belief and zippity doo dah, it’s early retirement for the amazing people who spawned such talent.<br /><br />Speaking of celebrities…they’re the ones who have made unique baby naming so terribly fashionable, and along with leading the trend are fueling the fantasy. Let’s face it. Gwyneth Paltrow’s Apple doesn’t have a chance in hell of being ordinary. Okay, bad example – her parents are multi-millionaires. But what about Penn of the much less famous Penn and Teller comedy team? He named his daughter, “Moxie Crime Fighter.” Had I known so much creative license was at my disposal, I might just have decided to call Jack “Stick.” I can see it now. Personal exchanges would go something like this: “Hi, I’m Tate and this is my son Stick.” “Hmmm, that’s an unusual name, what was your inspiration?” Me. (In my best Bree from Desperate Housewives voice) “Well, I think it was right around labor hour 17 of 33 1/2, when I recall having an overwhelming desire to pierce my doctor in the eye with one. After that, it just kind of stuck.” Pun intended.<br /><br />I think if we really want our children to have names that are uniquely theirs, we should take a lesson from the centuries old traditions of the Native American culture. I mean, come on – we already know it works. How many “Sitting Bulls” were there? One! And whaddya know, he’s STILL famous! Granted, our interpretation of this distinctive naming tactic may lead to more than our fair share of “Eats his Own Boogers” and “Drools Uncontrollablies,” but the potential is there. And better yet, as parents we’d have all the control. Just think, instead of the intermittent, but well-placed “Do you know that I almost died giving birth to you?” we could ensure they’d never forget what we went through to get them here. For instance, there could be the fabulous pro football player named “Watermelon Seeks Quarter-sized Exit” or a C-section child, “Left my Mom with no Feeling in her Lower Abdomen,” or even the occasional, but on point “Conehead with an Attitude.” Really the only problem I see with this strategy is that we may have to be renamed several times throughout our lives to reflect our various phases. With that said, I’d like to reintroduce my family. My son Jack, “Five Going on Fifty,” my son Cameron, “Five Seconds from an E.R. Visit,” my husband, “Still Can’t Find the Scissors Himself,” And me – “Muddling Through.” Let’s just hope my next iteration isn’t “Next stop: Looney Bin.”Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-25777489828197249522009-05-13T15:52:00.001-05:002009-05-13T15:54:19.981-05:00On Facebook...About a year ago, a friend of mine asked me if I’d joined Facebook yet. “Yet”— as if I was just putting off the inevitable. And about a year ago I remember saying something snarky like, “Do I look I’m still in college?” I said that, of course, only to discover shortly thereafter that Facebook had already begun taking over the lives of my friends, family and ex-colleagues. But let’s be clear, a year ago I’d finally assembled the time and energy to embrace online bill pay about five years too late. So, no. I don’t have a Facebook page, nor have I ever uttered a “Tweet” on its equally famous, yet abridged-versioned counterpart, Twitter. (Pause for the gasps of horror and pity). I know. Everybody’s doing it—the recent presidential campaign rode the information superhighway to victory, Oprah sent her first “Tweet” on live television, and every news program out there appears to have joined the parade. I’ve been behind since my first son was born five and half years ago, so I’ve come to terms with the idea by deluding myself that I’d catch up with the world-at- large once my two rug rats were in school full-time. But there’s nothing like finding out that your 71-year-old mother has a Facebook page to make you realize just how far you’ve slipped down the hill of contemporary culture. <br /><br />As depressing as that is, I can’t even imagine where I’d find the time. And if by some miracle I could, I’m still not convinced that I’d whittle it away on Facebook. I get the attraction, I’m just very afraid. <br /><br />I’m not even on Facebook and I’ve received 24 Facebook “friend” invitations from random people in my past. Seriously, I can’t handle the life I’ve got now. Do I really want to resurrect the life I had in grammar school, high school and college all at the same time? I’m pretty sure I don’t need an invitation from the loon who sat next to me in freshman English, and on my first day decided to share his self-illustrated, self-published manual entitled “Ten Ways to Kill a Cat.” Neither do I care to strike up with the girl from fourth grade who invited the entire class to her birthday party except for me (one of my 24 Facebook invites, mind you). And even though I may wonder from time to time what happened to my almost stalker, ex-boyfriend with the loose ties to the mafia underworld, do I really want to know what he’d write on my Facebook wall? With my luck, it would be the creepy distant cousin my Mom forced me to indulge with a date in high school to be polite that found my “page” first. I wonder if he still has that IROC and seventies mustache? You see why I run? You start dredging up skeletons and who knows where it will lead.<br /><br />I’m also afraid of getting sucked in like so many of my friends. Once you find one person that you know, that person knows ten people you might also know and that person knows ten more. Pretty soon you’ve got Facebook “friends” to the tune of 2,677. I find it a challenge to fit in a shower these days, so I don’t even want to think what would become of my personal hygiene if I had to keep up with all those people. I even have a friend for whom Facebook has found its way so far up on her list of vices that she felt compelled to give it up for Lent. I’m just waiting for the day they designate Facebook addiction an official disorder. <br /><br />Then there’s the status feature where you’re supposed to give everyone minute-to-minute updates on your life and what you’re doing. Well what if your life is entirely uninteresting? Or insane? Most days my daily updates would read like a sleep aid for insomniacs: Tate has barely scraped herself out of bed today. Tate is driving to school, headed to Walmart or doing laundry. Repeat. However, if I were to document the activities of a day I had last month, it would go more like this: <br /><br />Status 1: Tate is retrieving her two-year-old son from his nap.<br />Status 2: Tate finds that her son Cameron has taken it upon himself to remove his diaper and commence with a “Fece-esta” of shocking proportions and untold artistry.<br />Status 3: Tate is now screaming and headlong into full-fledged panic.<br />Status 4: Tate is now giving Cameron his third bath and will conceivably be scrubbing the walls, his crib and rug with some form of bleach for the next three hours.<br />Status 5: Somebody shoot me.<br /><br />So there it is. For now, my status will remain Facebook Page: “not-so-much” and I’ll just have to endure the pitfalls of being a sideshow freak. For those of you who have embraced this must-have accessory: Facebook responsibly. I’m just a girl living life on the back forty, but I’m pretty sure life gets significantly less awesome when you spend all your time on the Internet.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-458285440332297382009-04-30T20:18:00.000-05:002009-04-30T20:19:44.719-05:00On Mother's Day...Like so many children, I spent year after year and countless hours making awkward crafts and coming up with new and improved ways to “pamper” my Mom each Mother’s Day, when all the while I had no idea it could have been so simple: leave the poor woman alone! Of course at the time, I couldn’t really appreciate the significance of what I was celebrating, but now that I’ve been raising two boys for the last five and a half years, it’s abundantly clear. So thank you, Mom, and let me be the first to apologize for not ever figuring out that all you really needed was a break. In order to avoid the same fate, I’ve written the following letter. Moms, feel free to modify for your own purposes if necessary. <br /><br />Dear Kids, <br /><br />It’s Mother’s Day, and I have a little request, but before I get to that, I want you to know…I love the clumsy perfection of the Mother’s Day cards you churn out. I love that your Dad makes valiant attempts to let me sleep in despite you two little monkeys who don’t understand the meaning of “inside voice.” I love that you help Dad as he’s dishing up my favorite special occasion breakfast—Honeymoon French Toast — complete with a garnish of fresh strawberries expertly chopped and splayed with the stem still on. I love that your Dad couples that same breakfast with yummy, steaming coffee and you all make a very big show of delivering the end results to me while I’m still in bed. Jack, I especially love that you want to spend all day hanging out with me and always attempt to give me a back massage so light there’s not a knot in my shoulders that would even feign a budge. And Cameron? Well, you’re not even two, so I understand that you’re still clueless about all of it, and I also know you will likely spend this day – as I believe you spend all of your days – dreaming up new ways to chip away at my sanity, but I love that you like to join the parade just the same.<br /><br />So I say this with no disrespect, and with zero connection to my undying love for you both, but boys, if you really want to thank me for being your Mom, do it from the next town – that’s right, I said it. Get out. For just one day, leave me in the splendiferous silence of an empty house and allow me to watch in awe as I put the toys away only to return five minutes later and find them still where they belong. Just one day to read more than a page in my book without having to reread the same line fifty times — the luxury of entering the sanctity of my own bathroom without an entourage. I might just want to watch a movie that doesn’t feature a wise-cracking cat or a chivalrous cartoon mouse. I have a dream…And it’s that one day a year I can walk up the stairs without fear of unidentified flying objects sending me off to an impromptu E.R. visit. On this day, the only food I want to cut up is my own, and I don’t want to have to help anyone find the scissors (that goes for your Dad, too, by the way). <br /><br />Don’t take it personally. It’s not just you. I want nothing to do with anyone on this one glorious day of the year set aside just for me. My fantasy Mother’s Day celebration is a party of one —no questions, no soccer games, no breaking up fights. In fact the only person allowed in my company is a certified massage therapist, and even then, she’s only allowed to ask some variation of “Here, here or here?” <br /><br />Okay…so now that we’ve cleared that up – be safe, have a great time with your Dad, eat all your vegetables and oh, yeah …I have no beef with the French toast, so you can leave that and the latte just outside my door on your way out. All my love, MomTate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-47213528156756649402009-03-16T09:33:00.001-05:002009-03-16T09:34:31.851-05:00On Spring Cleaning...As the winter gloom lifts, the Dogwoods have their fifteen minutes, and everyone’s reminded they actually have neighbors, a ritual of another kind begins: spring cleaning. For me, it’s a little like therapy – a clean sweep of all my bad decisions, overzealous purchases, and an altogether healthy exercise in letting go. This year I decided to get seriously ambitious and ask my husband to start bringing down boxes from the attic. Most of them were labeled “Jack,” who is now nearly six—clearly it was high time to weed through them, and yet I couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly the time had gone. Regardless, I was determined to keep my nostalgic inclinations low and the to-give-away pile high.<br /><br />After the maelstrom settled, I was drawn to the veritable land of misfit baby gear that dominated the pile headed for the door. While by any standard it appeared as if our purging exercise had been a success, it had also come at a price—both literally and figuratively—as the impressive stack before me was a massive reminder of just how much of the boys’ college money I blew keeping the baby goods industry in business. As we walked down that proverbial lane, I enjoyed a few laughs and a very large slice of humble pie.<br /><br />First there was the head positioner for the crib—two separate little cloth covered sticks that, as I turned them over in my hand, I was downright puzzled as to how I’d ever been convinced they would work. By the time Jack’s nap was over, I’d find one down by his feet and the other wedged between the bars and the bumper. Sometimes I’d even find him holding one above his head like a tiny Olympic torch. <br /><br />Then there was the crib wedge –its intended purpose was to keep a baby’s head upright and therefore ease congestion. In theory, it was a good idea but in practical application, not so much. I’d place Jack at the top, he’d slide down, and we’d continue our little dance until I gave up altogether. On rare occasions I’d get him up there at just the right angle and he’d stay still long enough for me to believe that I’d finally cracked the code, only to commence his slow descent, centimeters at a time until he’d gathered enough momentum to sail down the rest of the way and slump like a potato bug at the bottom.<br /><br />Of course, I can’t forget the deluxe piddle pad. As anyone who has ever cared for a little bundle of joy, urine and poop knows, if the baby’s going to blow, you’re going to need a lot more than a piddle pad – and there’s nothing deluxe about it. Another winner, the portable toilet seat for his post potty-training days. I think it’s safe to guess what else found its way down the pipes after that purchase. I even bought baby knee pads for crawlers —or should I say glorified wrist bands. His legs were so chubby, that when I put them on he would neither crawl nor attempt a move of any kind because I’m fairly certain the elastic had temporarily cut off his circulation. I’m pretty sure I was more concerned about his little skinned knees than he was anyway.<br /><br />Moving on to the car seat neck roll – this product is a little like the story of “The Old Lady who Swallowed the Fly.” I got the car seat to save his life, I got the neck roll to save his neck, but it was bulky and awkward, so he started to cry, I bought the pacifier to stop the cry. Why did I buy? I don’t know why. <br /><br />I must have been critically sleep-deprived when I bought the battery-operated aspirator that was supposed to suck out Jack’s nose slime while ridiculous songs played in an effort to drown out the scary noise and distract him. I’m pretty sure the scary noise was enough of a distraction and I’m now convinced its real intended purpose was to distract parents from the fact that they’d just gotten the money sucked out of their wallets for no reason. When I returned to the site for a refund I found the words, “Due to health reasons, we’re unable to return this product.” Smart.<br /><br />Probably my all-time favorite, ne’er do well purchase was the wipe warmer. Everything about it drew you in. Regal name. Nice design. The concept pulled on all your “new mommy” heartstrings. So when I noticed that the bottom quarter of the wipe stack had turned a crispy brown I realized that something had gone very, very wrong. I consulted the manual for the first time. Apparently it was right there in the directions that I had to wash it out once a week to keep the wipes from drying out. Wait, so am I to understand that, in addition to wiping the various unsavory items I have to wipe multiple times a day, I now have to wipe my wipe warmer? Suddenly I felt compelled to furnish Jack with his first important life lesson. Life’s hard. And sometimes your buns are just going to get cold. <br /><br />After purging the unnecessary baby gear and facing the fact that our little boy was growing up too fast, you’d think I’d been through enough for one weekend. But just as I dusted off the regret and began to settle into 2009 with a renewed spirit and unbearable feeling of lightness, my husband called to me from upstairs. “Hey, hon, why don’t we start on YOUR closet?” Me, with panic setting in, but trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “No, no – nothing in there we need to worry about, I clean it out all the time.” My husband, “Yea, but there are all these clothes with the tags still on that you’ve never worn.” That was it. I sprinted up the stairs and just as I rounded the corner to our bedroom, I saw him holding one of my most beloved items, a sassy red backless dress in my goal size six. A little number I couldn’t pass up at Banana Republic’s 2007 post-holiday blowout. Still panting, I snatched it from his hand and shoved it clumsily back into a cluster of its counterparts – all with their own personal bargain and delusional story to tell. One therapy session at a time, please.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-16745975772883449042009-03-03T16:23:00.000-06:002009-03-03T16:24:02.255-06:00On Girl Scout Cookies...It’s that dreaded season again: the GirlScouts are on the warpath to sell a few cookies and win a few hearts. When I was a kid, this time of year was one of the few during which my parents allowed foods in the house that weren’t whole wheat, homemade or downright good for us. And that was only to prevent awkward run-ins with our neighbors at the grocery store. It was either buy those cookies or face future chance meetings ending in a polite departure laden with the unspoken but clearly understood, “I’ll never forget that you didn’t support my daughter, and by the end of the week, the rest of the neighbors will know about it too. Okay then, bye, bye.” Well, few things have changed over the years, and despite the recession, these little rites of passage trudge on. So no big surprise a whole generation later, several of our cutest neighbors have hit us up for a little “donation” with the same promise of a neighborly outcast unless we cheerfully oblige.<br /><br />When I was younger and my siblings and I were bound to our parent’s strict food policies, those seemingly innocent boxes—with their depictions of girls learning life skills and building their self esteem—may as well have been the last mouse among a herd of starving stray cats. We would tear into them the first chance we’d get, licking the crumbly remains from our paws before Mom even finished writing the check. For me, Girl Scout Cookies may as well be crack. The last thing I need is to have them lurking in my pantry when I’ve spent years trying to avoid them. <br /><br />When the first Girl Scout arrived at our door and my five-year-old stood next to me, eyes wide and mouth open, I restrained my old twitch as I wrote the check and invited those salacious plastic towers inside. This is the first year that Jack is in tune with this annual ritual, and it’s the first year in a long time that I couldn’t buy them and immediately cart them off to my husband’s office to avoid a breakdown. I wasn’t a Girl Scout, but I had to participate in school fundraisers when I was young and I remember how awful it was to be met with rejection. Despite my teasing, I’m always on board when it comes to supporting kids fundraisers, as long as they’re the ones doing the work, of course.<br /><br />Oprah’s Dr. Oz says that no matter what kind of food you bring into your house, you should never put a limit on how much your kids eat. To me this makes sense. My husband always had the worst garbage known to man in every corner of his home and today he’s not only one of the healthiest eaters I know, he doesn’t really care much about sweets. So we decided early on that, like my parents, we would buy only the healthiest of foods for our kids, but if one of those unfortunate high fructose corn syrup options found their way into our house - i.e. Halloween, play date offering, etc. – we would let it stay and run its course. So we didn’t put a limit on how many Girl Scout cookies Jack ate as long as he’d had a substantially healthy choice prior to digging into the box. It took every ounce of restraint I had at my disposal from stopping him as he mowed through eight cookies at a time. But after a week he did stop, and now we have a box and a half left in the pantry. Apparently I’m the only one who hears them incessantly calling my name. <br /><br />Our decidedly unscientific methodology is to provide healthy options, while not ignoring all the poor choices our kids are bombarded with on a daily basis, and hopefully ensuring those choices don’t turn into cravings because they feel deprived. For instance, when we first moved to Arkansas for some reason Jack was offered a lollipop everywhere we went—from drycleaner to pharmacist. I got so tired of him acting like he’d never met a lollipop he didn’t like that I bought a clear, decorative glass jar and filled it with Dum Dums, keeping it in full view on the kitchen island. After awhile it became so much a part of his landscape that he stopped asking. Who knows if I’m taking the right approach or not, but he’s a skinny little thing and doesn’t seem obsessed with sweets like I was, er, am. I don’t know if this proves any theory, but for now, I’ll take it. <br /><br />On a side note, I do think it needs to be said that while the Girl Scout big wigs were probably making their cookies attractive on yet another level by assigning cutesy names, you can’t help but see the irony. Shouldn’t “Tagalongs” really be “Can’t believe these Girl Scout cookies have been tagging along my thighs since February?” Or Do-Si-Dos: “I’m going to have to Do-Si-Do my buns off if I eat these.” Thin Mints: the oxymoron of the century. My favorite, however, is the company’s “Thanks-a-lots.” And so I humbly suggest an alternative to its given name: “Yo, Girl Scouts, thanks a lot for sabotaging my New Years Resolution diet in less than a month!”Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-17848500585435051602009-02-10T20:28:00.003-06:002009-02-12T15:50:09.069-06:00On Lessons in FutilitySo I live in a house with three boys —which is ironic to say the least since I spent the majority of my career as a communications specialist. It’s like God’s playing some gigantic, humbling joke at my expense. “An expert, huh? Here’s a husband and two sons – see what you can do with that!” <br /><br />On a near daily basis, my 20-month-old comes running up to me in earnest as he says, (I’m paraphrasing, of course), “mmfr-ppffft-zzzah-uumph, doe.” I feel like Marlin, the Dad fish in that scene from “Finding Nemo” where he was getting explicit instructions from a young sea turtle as to how to navigate the East Australian Current without injuring himself. Just before he was sucked into the vortex of 30 million cubic meters of warm seawater traveling at up to 4 knots per second, he said in frustrated oblivion, “You’re really cute, and I’m sure you’re saying something important, but I can’t understand a wooooord…” <br /><br />Anyway, it went something like that. And for me, it usually goes something like this: Cameron utters something unintelligible all the while looking very cute and confident that he’s a genius, and I respond with a wide-eyed, “Really?” chock full of faux enthusiasm since I have no idea what he’s talking about. He excitedly nods his head, and then believing that we’re in synch quickly moves to his next endeavor which inevitably involves something I would have never agreed to had I truly been in on the arrangement — for instance, dunking my favorite decorative pillow in a tub of water until he was certain he’d killed it. These sessions, I’m totally convinced are all part of his master plan to ultimately claim my sanity. It’s very possible, in fact, that he’s just pretending he can’t talk. Just a theory.<br /><br />Then there’s my five-year-old, “Mars” man in the making. Everyday I attempt to get a true read on what’s going on in his head, but I’m equally unsuccessful at solving the puzzle.<br /><br />Me: “Jack, how was school?” <br />Jack: “Awesome!” <br />Me: “Great! What was so awesome about it?” <br />Jack: “I don’t know, it was just awesome.” <br />Me: “Yea, you, uh, said that.”<br /><br />And by the way, I also have approximately 150 daily report sheets from his teacher saying, “Today at school, Jack said he felt: “awesome.” <br /><br />I have to admit, I had big plans that one day I’d hear a gush of compliments from my future daughters-in-law, thanking me profusely for raising men who were not only in touch with their feelings but really knew how to express them. Well, girls, it’s been five years and I haven’t made much progress. I’m not completely ready to throw in the towel, but I am sure that the concept upon which I essentially built a whole career leaves me totally unqualified when trying to navigate the murky waters of the male psyche. I can help any company successfully launch a product, but I have no idea if my son is happy at school or if he goes just because he has no choice.<br /><br />I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d been married to my husband for two years before I found out that he not only studied fine art, but had a deep appreciation for it. And even then, it was just by chance. On a trip to New York, we visited the Museum of Modern Art when, out of the blue he starts pontificating about the artist’s technique and meaning like he was an authority on the subject. Of course, I just stared at him like an alien had inhabited his body and said something brilliant, like “wha?” I suppose it keeps our marriage interesting. I never really know who’s going to walk in the door. That being said, I’m still holding on to the hope that one day it will be an eccentric millionaire who’s just been keeping up our thirteen-year budget bound charade to ensure I really loved him for him. <br /><br />So maybe the only really effective communication strategy when it comes to boys is patience – not at the top of my list of virtues, but definitely in the mix. I just have to hope that all the men in my life will spill their guts when they’re good and ready. And when they do, I’ll be listening. And while I harbor this decidedly female wish to know everything my boys are feeling deep down in their souls, on the occasions when all four of us are cuddling on the couch —not a word between us—I think talking is definitely overrated.Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8173529942985317491.post-86944819063315831202009-01-13T12:58:00.001-06:002009-01-13T19:25:25.479-06:00On Birthdays...When it comes to birthdays, I have one word for you. Outsource. I’m old enough to remember when this concept first became the biggest buzz ever to hit the business world. At the time, I neither knew nor cared about why I should pay attention. But today, the very idea I considered with such laissez faire has become the single most cherished, mental-health-preserving strategy I’ve had the good fortune to come across. Well, Mom’s Day Out is good. And, of course, there is the well-placed glass of red wine…movies by myself…Girl’s Night. But you get the picture – it’s right “up” there with the best of them.<br /><br />As with any good revelation, it came at a price. And here’s where you may as well know that before I began using “Mother of the Year” as a facetious moniker, I actually believed that the notion was within my reach. In my previous life, I’m pretty sure I was able to juggle complex events, multiple projects and whole groups of colleagues while using my “free hand” to have some semblance of a life. Despite all that heady corporate experience, I now find myself at a bumbling loss managing two diminutive humans who can’t even read.<br /><br />But at the time, I had high hopes for pulling off my ill-fated attempt at an event of Martha Stewart proportions for my son Jack’s three-year-old birthday party. I thought that I could have my perfect mother, perfect entertainer, eerily-in-control magazine page moment in the sun. I spent months ripping through glossy periodicals, scanning the Internet, and revising “to do” lists that were too long in the first place. I’m not allowed to go into the details as my therapist has advised me not to, but let’s just say that the occasion was enough to snap me into reality and put me off home-celebrated birthdays forever. The bits of blood red icing from the themed sandcastle cake I botched, still embedded in my prize Persian rug, help to keep me honest, too. (My apologies, by the way, to the eight people I thanked for the wrong gift because twenty toddlers converged on all of your beautifully wrapped packages like a pack of hungry wolves.) <br /> <br />So that brings us back to today, cured of my delusions and happy to report that birthday years four and five – while not without their challenges —were pulled off without a lingering twitch in my left eye. This is because I outsourced the details to somebody else: People much more talented and better equipped than I to pull off a child’s birthday party of any proportion. Yes, there is a God. And sometimes He comes in the form of JumpZone, Pump It Up or Mid-America Karate. I mean, really, you’ve got to hand it to these places. If you can find the staff equipped with the iron stomach necessary to handle breaking up fights, teetering ice cream cones, regurgitating toddlers and flying cake, then you deserve every red cent you get to pull it off.<br /><br />In fact, both birthdays ended with me thanking the poor high school students they hired to host the little rascals for two hours of sheer mayhem, while doing my cutest, shoulders up, wincing apology for all the little mishaps and colossal mess left for them to clean up. Then, after delivering the classic Saturday Night Live skit send-off, “Buh, bye” and sinking into my seat for the drive home, a satisfied calm came over me knowing that I wouldn’t have to spend the next three weeks digging smashed cake sprinkles out of the grooves of my kitchen table with a toothpick, rubbing greasy little handprints off my mirrors and windows, or gluing the heads back on Jack’s Star Wars action figures. Now, if only I could outsource getting back into shape…Tate Emersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800402117808237523noreply@blogger.com1