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Monday, May 12, 2008

As a young child, the best day of the week was definitely Saturday. My eyes would pop open before 7am. Jumping out of bed, I would run downstairs to the television to tune into the most anticipated cartoon of the morning. The cartoon starred 3 hip, vocally gifted rodents with a singing career and a father figure manager named Dave. Who could resist watching and sometimes singing along with the chipmunks as they belted out familiar songs of the 80’s? Yep, “Alvin and the Chipmunks” was a household favorite. Alvin, the middle chipmunk, was a demonstration in cunningness and creativity. His crazy schemes often landed the 3 chipmunks in many daring circumstances. Of course, Simon’s logical nature regularly made good of the bad, making for an entertaining plot. Oh, and Theodore? Theodore was plump, sweet hearted and in complete acceptance of his round body. Being a somewhat pudgy 9-year-old child myself, I really connected with his aptitude for accepting himself, rolls and all.

This past December, when news of the newest “Alvin and the Chipmunks, Get Your Squeak On” movie reached my ears, I endorsed the idea of supporting our revered, rodent friends. I broached the subject of a trip to Alpena’s finest, The State Theater, to Wade.

“Hey, the new movie “Alvin and the Chipmunks” is playing at The State Theater. Do you want to take the boys?”

His eyes flashed great interest in the idea. “Yes, yes I do.” And then my “shower singer husband extraordinaire” burst into song.

“Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…chipmunks.” He lifted his right eyebrow in a nonchalant smirk. “Just a little diddy my sisters and I used to listen to on our record player.”

And with the Chipmunk tune still echoing in our heads, our entire family jumped in the car and headed towards The State Movie Theater. Entering the building, we felt immersed in the nostalgia. The scent of the old building mixed well with the “pop pop” of the buttery fluffy corn available for my consumption at the bargain price of $7.00 a bucket with a drink.

And so there we were, Wade and myself and our 3 boys, a bucket of popcorn, fountain drinks in hand, feet slightly stuck to the floor, all glued to the screen as Alvin and his brothers sung at the top range of the keyboard.

In the darkened room, with the glow of the movie screen reflecting bluish tones on our faces, I glanced at my children. Kaeden, our middle son, was bouncing up and down on the seat. The “squeak, squeak” noise of the old seat was not harmonic with the chipmunks voices. “squeak, squeak, squeak.” Elijah, our oldest, turned his head towards Kaeden and said politely, “Kaeden, will you please stop moving?” Kaeden smiled at him and ever so slightly moved the chair. “Squeeeeaak.” He giggled a high-pitched giggle and repeated the action. “Squeeeeaak.” A loud moan from Elijah, our logical thinker, brought forth a possible solution.

“Kaeden, let’s just switch seats.” It was a novel idea from the 7 year old.

And it would have been even better if Elijah had thought of the solution a mere 30 seconds earlier. Hudson, our 5 month old had already been awoken by the previous “Squeeeeaak.” He let out a loud wail. Prematurely woken from his nap, he decided he wanted to do what he did best. Eat. Apparently the meal he had eaten just 2 hours before had not been sufficient. Well, who could blame him? Being five months and only weighing in at 19 pounds? He’s starving.

His cries brought an upward glance from Wade. He gave me the “look.” The look that means, “Do what you have to do to shut him up.” I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling and plowed through the diaper bag in search for a graham cracker. Stuffing it into my fat baby’s mouth, I breathed a sigh of relief when, once again, the room was quiet.

The movie ended and our family made the trek out to the cold car. Elijah walked next to me. He gave me a play by play of the movie. Apparently, he had forgotten that I was sitting right next to him for most of the movie.

Wade carried Hudson. He emitted occasional grunts while repeatedly offering the opinion that our child could, perhaps, join Weightwatchers. Kaeden trailed behind us singing a line from the movie, “Ooo eee, ooo ah ah ting tang  Walla walla, bing bang.”

Sitting in the front seat of the car, I angled myself to gain a better view of my children. I smiled at Elijah, our thinker, our talker, our problem solver. I touched the chubby cheek of Hudson, our happy, smiley baby whose life revolves around food.

“Ooo eee, ooo ah ah ting tang  Walla walla, bing bang.”
The sound of singing made me attentive to Kaeden, our creative instigator.

It was then that I realized something. I gasped as I saw my children in a new light.

Turning to Wade, I gave voice to my mind’s thoughts, “Do you realize that we are raising Alvin, Simon and Theodore?”

Allowing my statement to sink in, he laughed out loud and offered his opinion in song, “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…chipmunks.”

Saturday, April 12, 2008

I have decision making issues. It is a psychosis that goes back generations in my family. My grandmother, my mother, my sister Amy and myself all live with this disability. We change our minds so frequently that we often forget the question. And this knowledge does not bode well in our minds as the majority of our family succumbs to dementia in old age.

Being neurotic about choices and feeling the pressure of the inability to make up my mind, can be difficult to deal with, especially when shopping. Of course, having lived with my decision making disability for all of my 32 plus years, I have learned how to cope and sometimes thrive when emptying the bank account at stores. I have developed rules for shopping that allow me to make decisions quickly and effectively.

Rule number One: If I find a shirt that I would like to buy and can’t decide on the color, then buy both. Wade hates this rule. He thinks it’s weird to have the same shirt in every color. But, that’s coming from a man. And, that fact alone nullifies his opinion.

Rule number two: Restraining orders do not apply to merchandise. Stalk the item you wish to purchase until the price dips below the retail value.
Rule number three: Any item 75% off or more requires immediate purchase.
Rule number four: Any item purchased is always returnable. Rule number four was created by my sister. She is a “buyer’s remorse” shopper. Remember there is no cure for “buyer’s remorse.” It is an incurable disease and is no laughing matter.
Rule number five: Never shop with husband. I am not going to explain rule number five. Just understand that our 12 year marriage is strong because of this very important rule. And no, it doesn’t really apply to my decision making disability, it’s just good advice to pass on.

When the girls in my family are together, the decision making problem escalates to a greater magnitude. This indecisiveness comes out in the worst form when all of us are together in the small confines of the car. One asks the question, “Where do you want to eat?” The silence in the car causes some discomfort much akin to the feeling of heartburn. The driver begins to show distress, her vacillating ulcer pulsating with each second. She comes to a stop light. Knowing she needs to make a right or left turn decision, she pulls into a nearby parking lot. Stopping the car, she rubs her forehead and asks the same question using different syntax.

“What do you guys feel like eating?” Again, there is silence. The blink, blink of the turn signal brings the tune of Jeopardy to our minds as we process the question.

Perhaps it’s the rhythmic turn signal sound or maybe it’s the fear that the question, if left unanswered for too long, may be forgotten by those present in the car. Whatever the reason, my mother decides to exert her influence. She lists the ultimatum that is vital to the structure of any outing in which all sisters or mother are participating in. She clears her throat for emphasis.

“I don’t care where we eat. I just want a restaurant where I can get my own refills.”

The statement causes a symphony of “hmm, oh yes, you know it” in the car. In the history of our family, there is one very important standard that we all live by. Pop is not negotiable. We would prefer it to be Diet Coke. But, let’s face it, when in a pinch, pop is pop and occasionally a Diet Pepsi will suffice.

Fountain pop is a staple. Our family only frequents restaurants where the pop is free-flowing, where we can doctor our own cup, our way. My mother, the matriarch, set the standard high. It was long ago decided and agreed upon that Diet Coke, in and of itself, is fine. But, when in a restaurant that encourages the customer to make the soda choice, Diet Coke mixed with Coke is preferred. And if we were to get technical, ¾ Diet Coke mixed with ¼ regular Coke is the drink of choice. Of course, that’s my mother’s pop recipe. My sister doctors her Diet Coke with the best doctor around, good ole Dr. Pepper. I, on the other hand, like to add a fruit group to my Diet Coke in the form of Cherry Coke.

We are what we are. A family obsessed with fountain drinks. And, yes, I have declined an invitation from Dr. Phil. I don’t want to be cured. I am an obsessive compulsive fountain drink connoisseur. I am addicted to the bubbly, brown, syrupy substance that burns at the first gulp and contains zero calories.

I find it humorous and embarrassing that in a world of extreme choices, the only thing that I know for certain I can decide upon is where to go for a fountain drink. I have difficulty picking out clothes to wear each day. I have difficulty ordering a sandwich from Subway. I even have difficulty choosing which side of my head to part my hair.

But, where do I get the best fountain drink in town? That I know for certainty. The small pieces of ice free falling into the heavy duty paper cup, the “swooshing” sound of liquid luxury flowing into the cup causing the ice to swim, the image is peaceful, comforting. If I leave my house now, I have just enough time to go get my fountain drink and have it consumed before I pick the kids up from school.

Now if only I could decide which road to take to get there.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

red sweatpants, chapped lips and a battle for the title of Mrs. America

Mrs. America vs. ME

The walk into my first grader’s elementary school was arctic. Temperatures resting around 5 degrees are not my preferred cup of tea. While making our way up the sidewalk, I gave my oldest son a “talk” about gaining the courage to usher himself into the school while mom stays nice and toasty in the heated car. The cold crunch of the snow, while adding leverage to my position, drowned out most of my words causing a Charlie Brown “wah-wah-wah” effect. My seven year old boy, in the fashion of a soon-to-be man, tuned me out, thereby missing the familiar point of “momma rode a bus to school 45 minutes one way and it wasn’t even heated.” I looked down at the ground, hoping to avoid the huge block of ice directly in my path. As I did, I noticed the red sweatpants I had donned in honor of our morning traverse to school.

The red sweatpants caused me to argue with myself. “Sweat pants, huh? The sweat pants aren’t horrible. They go great with the cute jacket you are wearing. Too bad the bitter wintry morning caused you to throw on the heavy duty -40 degree Marmot coat thereby defeating the “cute factor” of the sweatpant/jacket ensemble. Too bad the sweat pants with the coat look like…well, sweatpants, purchased from Walmart.”

I ended the conversation with myself and look up just in time to see “Mrs. America” coming down the sidewalk. The tune “Here she comes, Mrs. America” swam around in my brain. She was wearing skinny jeans, much more appropriate than baggy sweatpants. The jeans looked great with her fashionable high-heeled black boots. Secretly a vindictive side of me hoped those boots were making her feet ache. I sighed. If the boots were causing pain, then she is either a fabulous actress or an ex-super model. She maneuvered through the sidewalk’s obstacle course of ice and snow expertly. Each carefully placed step left a small indentation from the snow. My own Rocket Dog sneakers, while boasting of great comfort, gave little advantage to my goal of staying vertical on the ice.

I forced my eyes away from her boots and was dismayed when I saw her hair. Oh, for the love of all that’s good in this world, does she even have highlights? I ogled her luscious strands. Yes, she does. I can see that her hair, once dirty brown, now sparkled with sunshine and light from a bottle. A slight breeze blew my brown, non-descript highlight-less hair into my eyes. Highlights were lost on me the moment I moved 1000+ miles away from my best friend, my hair stylist extraordinaire. And time being a factor in my life, 45 minutes sitting in a fancy chair just for beauty from a bottle is not doable for this dowdy mom. What mom has the time? I made a face. Apparently fashionable “Mrs. America” does.

She passed me on the sidewalk and smiled the “Mrs. America” smile, the theme song echoing off the pine tree behind her. My lips, chapped from the brisk walk into school, split with the effort of a smile. I noticed she had taken the time to apply a lovely shade of shiny, musky rose lipstick. I licked my lips, hoping to gain some relief from the peeling, cracked skin of my bottom lip.

We entered the school. I helped my oldest boy put his bag into his locker, reminding him that his snow boots were in his bag. I was about to launch into another broken record of “when mom was a little girl she walked into school all by herself ” when he looked up at me and smiled. He gave me a hug, ignoring the urge to “be cool at school.” He said “thank you” and walked into his class. I watched him go, blowing another strand of ugly brown hair out of my eyes. A quick intake of breath and an upwards glance was needed to clear my watery eyes. Of course, it wouldn’t be a big deal if I did cry since I’d forgotten to apply mascara this morning.

Exiting the school, I made the arctic air trek to my now cold car. Having maneuvered the icy obstacle course earlier, I made good time and plopped myself into the driver’s seat of the car.

I paused for reflection on the morning. Apparently not being “Mrs. America” has caused my brain to backfire. I scolded myself. “It’s freezing out here and you pause for reflection? Start the engine, turn on the heated seats and crank the heat to full blast. Then allow yourself a moment to consider the vicissitudes of life.”

Realizing I make perfect sense, I took my own advice and turned the key. The car, becoming toasty, allows me some “thinking” time. I know in my heart that being the perfect mom is not about how you look. But, part of me would like to look like the woman I was in my 20’s and still have the 3 kids. I would like to look the “hot mamma” part while successfully living the Mrs. Brady mom bit. I wouldn’t even mind slipping on a “June Cleaver” strand of pearls while whipping up a delicious and nutritious meal that the entire family raves about. The kids could even say, “Gee, Mom, that Mac ‘n Cheese is keen!”

In the midst of my “Mrs. Not-America” dilemma, the memory of yesterday surfaced. The family was seated at the dinner table. There was my husband smiling at me. He mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch. Instead of asking him to rephrase his statement, I said, “What? You are in love with me? Thank you very much.” His eyes twinkled in good humor. “I didn’t say that. But, it’s still true. I am in love with you.” Two boys echoed the sentiment. “We love you too, Mom.” An incoherent form of babble erupted from the 5 month old. Apparently he agreed. Now sitting in the car, the cold morning surrounding me, the memory made me feel warm from the inside out.

Oh well, the contest for Mrs. America will not be won by me this year. But, “wife/mother of the Year?” As Jeff Probst would say, that award is “back up for grabs.” Ignoring my still chapped lips I smiled a smile that reached my eyes. I just might have a chance. The thought renewed my energy.

I moved my hand to put the car into gear and stopped. Impulsively I tilted the rear view mirror downwards. I gazed at myself for just moment before applying a “soft but bold” shade of red lipstick. Who says you can’t have it all?

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Raising children is, by far, the best and most satisfying thing that I have ever done in my life. Grocery shopping with children is not. I do not look forward to it. I am a confused, disheveled, sensory overloaded shopper.

I stand in the cereal aisle, trying to ignore the 4 year old pleading for the box with the best toy, debating on prices. Well, this box has 10 ounces for $2.89. But, now this box has 12 ounces for $3.29. This box has less sugar per serving. Of course, the servings are smaller when comparing with this box. This box has star marshmallows. This box has rainbows. And in the midst of this dilemma, the baby has realized that the cart has stopped moving and decided to make his presence known via loud, angry, non symphonic tones.

And once the cart is full, I proceed to the checkout area. I stand back to view my options. Lane 4 only has 1 person in lane. I push the cart towards that lane only to discover it is a “20 items only” lane. I pull back from that lane and resume the search. Is it my imagination or are these signs hard to read? Reminding myself to make an eye appointment, I choose the closest lane in proximity.

Three people ahead of me, I settle in for the wait. Patience has never been my virtue.
And apparently this is a trait that I have passed on to both of my sons. The baby is crying. I jiggle the cart. The four year old is whining for some candy. I look down at him. He is energetically waving a pack of Skittles under my nose. The pack of Skittles turns into a huge dollar sign as I envision the dentist bill his addiction to candy will incur. I put the candy back on the shelf and entice him with a stick of sugar free gum.

And then it’s my turn. The baby is still crying in his car seat. Hoping to distract him I continue to do my grocery cart jiggling while unloading the many groceries onto the counter. Meanwhile the 4 year old has declared himself “superman” and is practicing flexing his muscles for the lady next in line.

Sensory overload hits full force as I search for the credit card. Sweat bubbles form on my upper lip as many minutes go by as I dig through the massive diaper bag. Unsuccessful in the “touch and feel” method” of the credit card search, I start pulling items out of the bag. The baby’s cries are muffled as his car seat is piled high with diapers, toys, wipes, receipts and the pacifier that I can never find in a pinch. The clerk doesn’t even notice my distress. She just mindlessly pushes the items of food over the scanner. The rhythmic “beep, beep” sound of the scanner does nothing to tone out the sounds of the baby crying. Can’t someone invent a scanner that makes soothing ocean sounds instead?

The beeping stops just as my fingers close in on the credit card. Success! And then I look up. The groceries are already bagged and piled high on the turn around. Apparently in my quest for the credit card I had forgotten to load the cart.

The clerk runs up my total. Nonchalantly she says, “That will be $153.96.” If I was wearing a tie, I would have pulled it from my neck in a gesture of frustration. $153.96 and I didn’t even get everything I needed! I look at my 4 year old, consciously blaming the big bill on his choice of cereal. I swipe the card and wait for the receipt. The clerk, out of kindness, helps me load up my grocery cart while the card processes.

She hands me the receipt. I smile at her and say, “Thank you.”

Pulling away from the checkout line, a thought makes my forehead crinkle. I said, “thank you?” Thank you for what? I believe that I am the one that went into the store, took the items from the shelves, loaded them into my cart, unloaded them onto the counter only to be placed them back into the cart after being scanned. And, of course, I am the one who paid an astronomical price for them. And all this was done while listening to the sounds of an angry baby and a 4 year old hyped up on sugarless gum. Why would I thank the store? Shouldn’t the store say thank you to me?

The thought rested on my frontal lobe through the evening and into the early morning of the next day. Then while drinking my first cup of coffee, it hit me. My brain synapses finally connected. I was packing the kids lunches when I noticed him out of the corner of my eye. There he was, 6 feet, 180ish pounds, hair still slightly shaped in the form of his pillow, sitting at the table eating his breakfast of chocolate cake, with sprinkles. An occasional slurp of his coffee doused in sugar-free hazelnut creamer interrupted the silence of the room. My husband.

I stared at him, my mind remembering highlights of the past week. The trash had mysteriously disappeared every single morning. The mail had been picked up every day. The bills, found in the mail, had been paid. On Monday, someone had made a special trip to the store for milk. On Tuesday I noticed my car needed gas. On Wednesday I noticed the gas gauge read full. On Thursday I headed off to an early meeting only to come home to a clean house. And that someone had even emptied the dishwasher.

I rolled my eyes at myself. Why is it that I thank a random clerk at the grocery store and fail to thank or even notice when my husband does something worthy of my praise? When did I grow desensitized to the incredible person that God gave me to “have and to hold from this day forward?” I had forgotten. I had forgotten how much this man improves my life. Unlike my difficult trips to the grocery store, he actually makes my life easier.

I took a sip of coffee. And in doing so I remembered that he had made the coffee this morning. I stared at him as he lifted his last bite of chocolate cake to his mouth. I took another sip. Swallowing his last bite, he noticed my intense gaze. Our eyes locked as he said, “What?”

I smiled at him and said, “thank you.”

Thursday, December 20, 2007

santa vs heidi

It’s not that I don’t love Santa Claus. Really. I enjoy him just like the rest of the world. Who doesn’t love a man in a red suit willing to sacrifice body image for the purpose of jiggling when jolly? He has a great body image. Wouldn’t every woman love to be cheered on for the extra 20 pounds accumulated since Thanksgiving? And the red suit? I am sure the suit is made of soft velvet. It would be like wearing your pajamas all day, every day. Luxurious. Every woman's dream. And let’s talk about the furry hood? Though Santa Claus and I have never met in person, I am sure that the furr is made of sheep’s wool, Minnetonka sheep’s wool. Kind of like those slippers that I have been begging my husband to get me for Christmas.

In the enjoyment of Christmas, Santa is what he is. A jolly man in a red furry suit who delivers presents to boys and girls. And that is where the problem I have with Santa lies. Call me crazy but I don’t appreciate Santa Claus taking the credit for all of MY hard work! I don’t believe that I saw Santa in Walmart the day after Thanksgiving fighting other good, normally well-bred, mild mannered American citizens for Legos. I don’t believe that Santa Claus went without a shower on that morning. I did. I rose from my warm bed to stand in line at Target at 4am. And I hope people I know did not notice the fact that my socks and shoes did not match. Or that I forgot to brush my teeth that morning.

But let’s be clear about one VERY important fact: Santa did not hand me $100 as I walked through the doors of Mejier in search of a Frog Webkinz. There was not an elf standing by the front of the store saying, “Psst…Heidi. Here’s the money for the gifts you are buying for Santa Claus to deliver to your home on the 25^th of December.”

No, I believe that Santa was propped up in bed with a cup of very hot chocolate on his right night side table while Buddy the Elf cooked him a very fatty breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage and cinnamon rolls. I, on the other hand, had dribbled coffee down my chin while gulping it down in a rush to run out the door in the direction of Target. As far as breakfast goes, Santa’s breakfast was a far better fare than my own bite of toast, with no butter.

But as Christmas Day comes closer on the calendar, the memory of holiday shopping fades into the background. I will admit that my children and I have watch “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” at least 3 times already. We’ve cheered with Cindy Lou Who when the Grinch’s heart warms towards Christmas. We’ve discussed the type of cookies and milk we will leave out for Santa Claus. And, yes, I’ve evaded the age old question of whether or not Santa Claus is real.

Well, I did all that until yesterday…when I wrapped all those presents that Santa is willing to take credit for. While I was wrapping the presents, a paper cut on my finger brought me, once again, back to reality. Santa Claus is not, I repeat, not going to take credit for the gifts I am currently wrapping. I don’t want my children to open a present, squeal in delight and yell into the air, “Thank you Santa Claus! It’s exactly what I wanted!”

Call me a Grinch. Better yet, call me a Mom. I want my children to open their presents, squeal in delight and then tackle me and their dad in huge hugs while yelling, “Thank you, thank you, thank you! It’s exactly what I wanted!”

I’m going to the dollar store later today to buy stuff for the kids stockings. I’ll give Santa some joy. He can wear the red velvet suit trimmed with sheep’s wool. He can eat the cookies. He can come down the chimney. He can drive a sleigh equipped with a hot chocolate dispenser. And, he can take credit for the dollar store items in the stockings!

But the presents? I’m taking credit for the presents, Santa.