942. R Is for Rejection From James Spader in My Sleep

I grew up in the era of Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero, so it is a given that I have continually held a not-so-secret crush on James Spader.  The floppy hair, the sardonic laugh, the aura about him that he knows everything and is merely tolerating people.  Ah, yes, I loved him. 

So it should come as no surprise that he made a guest appearance in one of my dreams the other night.

He was his usual hot James self, and I was me, and he had no idea who I was.  He was also very much married (!) so that seemed to put a slight dent in my plan to seduce him (at this point, I feel compelled to apologize to my real-life husband who was conspicuously absent in said dream—sorry, Hon, I don’t control this stuff). 

Okay, so where was I?  Oh, yeah, James.  So we happened to be in some sort of fancy-schmancy hotel (note to subconscious:  please reserve this set for future dreams as well), and I somehow ran into James in the lobby and starting swooning and telling him how I was a huge fan of his and had seen all his movies, like, five times (to be perfectly honest, not Supernova or Alien Hunter, those looked kinda dumb in the previews).  He was vaguely polite, the way you might be to one of those people at the little kiosks in the mall trying to trick you into buying hand lotion by asking you what time it is.  He smiled condescendingly (his trademark!) and then left. 

What he didn’t know is that I followed him, and that is when I saw him go into a suite with his tiny perfect Asian wife.  (Not even sure if he is married in real life, but in the dream his wife was very gorgeous and movie-star-ish.) 

While James disappeared into his room with Mrs. James, I was temporarily distracted by a vehicle I just noticed was parked nearby.  It was one of those ubiquitous food trucks, but instead of selling gyro sandwiches and lukewarm sodas, it was selling high-end designer shoes.  This might have been the best part of my dream, because all the shoes were my size (8, if you must know). 

James and I did not end up together, but I ended up with the type of shoes that Charlize Theron most definitely would have worn in Two Days in the Valley. 

So that means I win.  Because James might notice me tomorrow night. 

MOV

941. Q Is for Quote

My sons constantly say things that amuse me.  Here is the latest example (courtesy of my 6-year-old): 

SHORT:  Mommy... I need to ask you something.  Do I have a birth mother?

MOV:  (trying hard not to laugh) Yes, of course you do.  

SHORT:  Who is it? 

MOV:  Me.   

SHORT: 

MOV:  I said, it's me. 

SHORT:  No, Mommy, seriously.

Turns out, someone is his class has a birth mother and shared that detail during morning announcements.  Now Short is obsessed with finding out who his real birth mother is, and was truly disappointed to find out that I am both the mother raising him AND his birth mother. 

Poor thing. 

MOV 

939. O Is for Other People’s Kids

I noticed a strange phenomenon when I had a baby:  everyone assumed that because I loved my newborn, I loved every child.  It was as if they thought because I produced this 7-pound tiny human being, I must adore anyone born in a year with a two-zero prefix.    

Not so.     

I love the idea of children, their cherubic faces happy and laughing on a Gap Kids commercial on TV (on mute).  Children are darling when they are doing fun, but quiet and important activities, like sleeping. 

Heck, I can’t even stand my own children sometimes, let alone other people’s.  But here’s the difference:  I am allowed to discipline my own kids. 

Tall gets mouthy?  Whoops, he won’t get that playdate with Justin tomorrow after all.  Short hits his brother?  Guess we will have to cancel that trip to the aquarium.  My children know there are consequences for their behavior. 

Sometimes I feel alone.  I witness other moms do the dreaded count to three … but then nothing happens when they get there.  There are no repercussions.  Life is one long threat. 

In my mind, I correct naughty children at the grocery store.  Taylor, climb down from that shelf immediately or you will not get to go to Isabel’s birthday party.  Michael, stop racing the cart down the aisles and running into people or you will lose video games for a month.  Sophie, stop kicking the cantaloupe display or you will not get to go to ballet lessons this afternoon. 

The trick is:  follow thru. 

Hey, I don’t want to be the bad guy in my household either, the one my kids hate.  But it is more important to me that my kids respect me than like me. 

I am their parent, not their friend. 

MOV

933. I Is for Ikea

Ikea is a store that has lots of really cool streamlined Swedish furniture that makes you want to throw away everything you own and start over. You think if you owned this stuff you would have really cool streamlined dinner parties with really cool streamlined friends who speak Swedish.    

I go there sometimes to get ideas.  I usually get a new end table instead. 

The only down side to Ikea is that for them to keep their prices low, the furniture comes unassembled.  That’s right:  you have to put it together. 

Sometimes the fact that I only paid $100 for a stylish couch makes the 12 hours of actually building the couch totally worth it, but that is not what I am thinking when I reach hour number nine and sweat is dripping off my nose and slat G will not click properly into slat H and it seems I am missing plastic piece J and no one is answering the 800 number for the “Help Line” and I have misplaced the Allen wrench again. 

In that moment, I am thinking I should have just bought a Pottery Barn couch that comes already built and cost $5000.  That is what Visa cards are for. 

At least then I would not have random “extra” metal pieces strewn about my living room floor and young children mocking me with their cruel taunts of “Mommy, you’re still not done yet?”        

My dad and step-mom Nichole have a continuing love affair with all things Ikea.  We fly to visit them and they merrily announce that their local Ikea has free breakfast at 9:30 on Mondays!  Who wants to go? 

Please do not think that I don’t like Ikea, because I do.  It’s just that … well, imagine what breakfast would be like there: 

 

 

 

 

 

MOV

931. G Is for Going to the Post Office with a Toddler

My children have always been good at embarrassing me.  Projectile vomiting on the pediatrician?  Check!  Tantrum in the middle of Target’s toy section?  Check!  Pooping on Grandma?  Check mate! 

So it should come as no surprise that when Tall was a toddler, I was reluctant to take him a lot of places. 

Movies and plays were no longer options.  No one wants to pay good money to sit behind a small child who asks questions (loudly) every two minutes.  Shopping was out.  I was not about to try on dresses at Nordstrom with a toddler whining.  Fancy restaurants?  Just a blip in the rearview mirror of my life. 

But the post office?  That seemed relatively benign. 

When Tall was not quite 2 ½ and I was pregnant with Short, I had some sort of errand at the post office.  I am sure that I begged The Husband to go to the post office on his lunch break to save me from having to pack up the stroller, toys, books, diapers, wipes, five outfit changes (one for me), a sippy cup, a back-up sippy cup, pacifier, and snacks.  This suggestion was most likely received with great enthusiasm: 

“MOV, you are a stay-at-home mom!  You can go to the post office, for Pete’s sake.  What do you do all day, anyway?  It’s not like the house is ever clean or dinner is made when I come home.” 

Right after he said that, I vowed to buy only ultra-feminine flower stamps, absolutely no manly airplane or car stamps, no matter what. 

So off to the post office Tall and I went. 

And really, how bad could it be?  I decided that we didn’t even need to take the stroller out of the car, Tall could just walk or I could carry him.  I planned ahead and chose a time when I thought the post office would not be too crowded, and I made sure the time coincided with right after Tall’s snack so that he would be fed and happy. 

We got there with the package I had to mail or whatever my reason for going there was (I forget now) and we stood in line. 

And then I saw her walk in.   

And Tall saw her, too. 

The most morbidly obese woman you have ever seen in your life.  She must’ve weighed 500 pounds and she looked like a "Before" ad for gastric-bypass surgery.  She stood right behind us in line, and Tall stared at her. 

I tried to distract him with some random plastic truck I had in my purse, but it was too late.  Tall was absolutely mesmerized by this very large individual. 

I knew what was coming next.  I had heard horror stories from friends that when they were in the grocery store with their preschool offspring, said offspring decided to ask why girls have “baginas” and boys have penises.  Or ask if the cashier was a man or a woman because “I can’t really tell, Mommy—she looks like a girl, but then there is a lot of hair on her chin!” 

Of course I could predict that Tall was going to make some comment like “Why is that lady so fat?” or “Mommy, does that lady have a baby in her tummy?  Or maybe five babies?” 

I told myself that I would just apologize to the woman as soon as it happened.  I would say that he is only 2 ½ and he really doesn’t know any better … and that he is adopted and not even really my child. 

Yeah, I had the whole speech mentally rehearsed.  Because I knew it was just a matter of time. 

Then, unfortunately, the woman noticed that Tall was staring at her so she began to engage him.  “Hello, Sweetheart!  What is your name?” 

Tall got a strange scowl on his face.  He looked at the poor woman with a mix of contempt and disgust.  I braced myself for the inevitable. 

Tall pulled on the edge of my sleeve, implying that he wanted me to pick him up.  Then he turned to the obese woman and (while clutching tightly to my neck) said,

“This is my Mommy!”  He patted my shoulder for extra emphasis.   

I was utterly bewildered.  He did not care that the woman was fat, he merely did not want to talk to a stranger.  And when she spoke to him, he simply wanted to clarify that the chick he came to this post office party with was the same one he would be going home with later. 

She smiled at him and said to me, “What a cute little boy!” 

Tall met her gaze, and merely repeated, “THIS IS MY MOMMY!!!!” 

And then when we got to the car, he asked me why she was so fat. 

MOV

927. C Is for Cheerleader

I was invited to Tall’s school yesterday to read my new children’s book Herman the Cat Goes to Outerspace.  A few weeks ago, I had showed the book to Vice-Principal Amazing* (not her real name, but it should be), and she was very supportive and gung-ho about it.  Then she arranged for me to read it in the library to a second grade class and also to my older son’s third grade class.   

When I arrived, VP Amazing was there to greet me.  She walked me into the library and introduced me to the librarian.  We all chatted merrily for a few minutes about the book, and I might have rambled something about how I liked that the library was decorated with books and shelves. 

Next thing you know, the students filed in and I began to feel slightly nervous.  I had read the book to my younger son’s class at his school, but he is only in first grade, so it is an easier crowd to please.  These were much older students:  second graders.  I immediately felt at ease when I saw Vice-Principal Amazing walk back into the library and sit in the back row, listening and observing.    

I read the book, the kids clapped, and I answered some questions.  Then I gave one of my books as a present to a child who had the soonest upcoming birthday.  Turns out, there were two kids with that birthday, but being the hyper-Virgo that I am, I had actually brought a few extra copies just in case that might happen, so it all worked out.  The two children who “won” the books were thrilled.    

The kids left, and I sat there basking in the glow of being a real author. 

Vice-Principal Amazing, who I now noticed had her camera with her (!), took me aside and told me what a great job I did.  Then she did the most amazing thing:  she gave me a few pointers for the next group. 

“Focus on the cover art of your book, MOV, before you even start.  Get them thinking about predictions for the story based on the cover.  And you might want to tie in the ‘Learner Profile’ traits as well.”  (The Learner Profile traits are 10 qualities that the school instills in the kids, things like being a risk-taker or being open-minded.)

I nodded, pretending I knew all 10 of the Learner Profile traits, instead of just two.  Luckily, I happened to glance up and notice there was a giant poster on the wall with all the traits listed. 

“And MOV, remember, you can stretch this out.  Don’t rush.  The kids are here to see you, they are excited, and you can slow down and really take your time.”  VP Amazing was positive and encouraging, a true cheerleader.  She made me feel like I did a good job the first time, but that I could do an even better job the second time. 

And you know what?  She was right.  I followed all her tips, and the next group was better.  They loved the story, and the birthday child who won the book acted like he won the Lottery.  It made me wish I had brought 25 books to give away.      

I am so grateful to Vice-Principal Amazing.  Grateful for her awesome advice for my reading, but even more grateful that she is an everyday presence for my older son and all the other children who attend the school. 

I never use real names in my blog, but if you have a child at this school, you already know who VP Amazing is.  She is the cheerleader who makes us all feel smart, important, valued, and heard.  She makes us live up to our potential.    

The children are lucky to have here there, and so are the parents. 

 

 

MOV

**This book is illustrated by the insanely talented Haley Wolfe at Haley's Comic. 

925. A Is for Abominable Snowman

The Abominable Snowman lives under my bed.  At least that is what my former 9-year-old self used to think.  Of course, my current 44-year-old self no longer believes in such nonsense.  That is, until The Husband and our young sons go camping without me for two nights. 

At first, I revel in the freedom.  Forty-eight hours of Me Time!  I can eat chocolate ice-cream for dinner.  And breakfast.  I can wear pajamas the whole time and not wash my hair and no one will care.  I can read trashy movie-star magazines or watch back-to-back episodes of House Hunters for three hours straight and no one will stop me.  Yay! 

This is going to be the best 48 hours of my life!    

But then the clock ticks up near 11 pm and I start to feel uncomfortable being So.  Very.  Alone.  All you can hear is me slurping melted Haagen-Dazs, and in the background an animated conversation between those first-time home buyers from Nashville who have recently relocated to Miami and are shocked at the high prices of beachfront condos.  I finally turn off the TV, and my house goes eerily silent, like it is covered in Saran Wrap.  Saran Wrap made from Abominable Snowmen fluff.    

I go from room to room, making sure every door and window are locked and there are no signs of Abominable Snowmen footprints or sheddings.  I barricade the kitchen door with a chair and a big bag of recycling, just in case.  I leave the hall light on, something I never do.  The house glows bluish-white, the exact color of Abominable Snowmen.     

For no absolutely reason at all, I have trouble falling asleep.  Huh.  Weird.    

The Abominable Snowman lurks under my half-empty queen-sized bed, waiting for me.  To keep him company, he has brought along his BFF, Big Foot.  How could I ever have agreed to let The Husband and the boys go camping without me?  What was I thinking? 

Ultimately, I drift into a fitful sleep, but find myself saucer-eyed awake at 5 am, Big Foot’s finest hour.  Of new and immediate concern are the potential UFOs landing on the roof. 

Of course there are no UFOs, what with the age of the roof and all.  No alien in his right mind is going to chance crashing through the decrepit old shingles.  Neither are there any Abominable Snowmen, as my house is much too warm now that I have cranked the thermostat to an Abominable-Snowman-wilting 74 degrees. 

But we all know that heat does not bother Big Foot.  He likes warm.  That is why he has been sighted in summer as well as winter.         

Somehow I manage to make it through the rest of my day, and around dinner time, a miraculous thing happens:  my loving family walks in the door. 

“What are you doing home so early?” I ask, trying to contain my relief and pleasure that they are home so early.  I do not want to disclose my bizarre fear of scary creatures last seen on the Discovery Channel’s Myths and Legends series.  (Really, MOV, what next?  The Loch Ness Monster?  Unicorns? Centaurs?  Gargoyles and Griffins that come to life?)  “I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” 

“It started to snow,” says The Husband matter-of-factly with a slight shrug for emphasis, “we didn’t want to get stuck.” 

I nod.  I suppress another smile.  “You made the right choice, Sweetie.”    

“But guess who I saw at the campground!” squeals my younger son, Short, excitedly. 

I wait for him to tell me one of the usual suspects:  raccoon, deer, hawks, or some happy cartoonish woodland creature.   

“I think I saw Big Foot!” he confirms. 

I involuntarily gasp.  Turns out everyone has seen Big Foot at one time or another.        

It’s going to be a long night ….

MOV