Can I Have a Job Transfer?

I was out with a friend last week and we were lamenting how motherhood can get challenging at times. She said to me that she’d like a “job” transfer. When she said it I laughed out loud, but after I got home I really started to think about it and feel the same way. I love my boys and I’ve made a decision to be a stay-at-home mom, but there are times (many these days) where I find my job to be isolating, monotonous, and frustrating. Before I had kids I never stayed at a job more than six years. I’m going on seven years now as a mom and I’m finding my identity as “Nancy” slowly fading away. I’m now known as “mom” to everyone.

I know I’ll look back years from now and realize that I should have relished these times, especially being able to spend all day with them, the hugs they want to give me, the moments where they tell me I’m the best mommy in the world and how much they love me. But right now I feel like I’m in the trenches and I can’t see my way out. I think it’s funny how when I’m in the moment things seem so gray, but after time passes I look back fondly and wish I had those times back. Life is really screwy some times.

Embarassing Moment of The Day

I’m in the middle of a mid-life crisis these days so I work out as much as I can. I guess it’s my futile attempt to slow down the aging process.

Anyhow, today is one of those days. I put on my spandex workout pants and top. I drop my three-year-old off at the gym’s day care center and head off to sweat my stress away. I step onto the treadmill with my ipod in hand and start running (well, jogging). I’m feeling good, sweating, listening to some great tunes and then my times up. I step off the machine, wipe off the beads of sweat from my forehead and take a long swig of water. I look around and check out the other 40-somethings and then head downstairs to pick up my son.

I’m smiling, feeling relaxed and stress free. I notice other folks looking at me and smiling back. I think to myself, wow, what a nice start to my day.

I get home and happen to glance in my full-length mirror and see a huge wet spot that spreads from my crotch to my inner thighs.

OMG!!!!!!!

It looks like I peed in my workout pants. Is this what happens when you get older? Does your body stop sweating in normal areas and just go for the most embarrassing spots?

Ugh!

J.A. Konrath, this one’s for you

A few weeks back I blogged about Rusty Nail, a crime fiction novel written by J.A. Konrath.

As Konrath said himself, “Rusty Nail is a mean one.” He suggested I try Dirty Martini.

I loved it. It’s a gritty crime novel with suspense, action and laughs. The heroine, Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels, is a tough crime detective who is fearlessly trying to stop a killer from murdering innocent people in her city. Jack is a spitfire. She doesn’t take s**t from anyone and her humor made me laugh out loud.

Konrath, thanks for the great read. And thanks to my husband, a crime writer himself, for introducing me to some new crime novels that I never would have picked up.

Will Smith is “Gettin jiggy wit it”

The other day I’m in my car rushing to get my boys to swim class. I tell them “mommy needs some time to herself” (aka BE QUIET!). I flip through the radio stations and land on “Gettin jiggy wit it”, a pop classic from 1998.

Now honey honey come ride
Dkny all up in my eye
You gotta prada bag with alotta stuff in it
Give it to your friend lets spin

I was 10 years younger, Clinton was president and Shakespeare in Love won Best picture. Life was easy. My job was good and my biggest concern was what color to tile my entry way.

Ten years later life is not as care free. Our nation is unstable. Bush has gotten us into a war that seems will never end and in my own life, there is constant turmoil as my husband and raise two energetic boys.

It’s funny how a song can change all the chaos. When I listen to “Just the two of us” I realize how rich our lives have become. It brings me back to a time when my babies entered our lives and how amazing it was for my husband and I. It beats picking out tile anytime.

From the hospital that first night
Took a hour just ta get the carseat in right
People drivin all fast got me kinda upset
Got you home safe placed you in your basonette
That night I dont think one wink I slept
As I slipped out my bed to your crib I crept
Touched your head gently felt my heart melt
Cause I know I loved you more than life itself

I’m six-years-old and I’m a bully

Bullies. I hated them in middle school and I still hate them now.

My first-grader came home from school the other day looking sad. I asked him what’s wrong and he explained that he’s not allowed in the “lunch-time boys club” anymore. The bully of the club told him he is weird and can’t sit with the group. This child informed other boys that they are: bad at kick ball, short, and geeky.We talked to the bully’s parents, my son’s teacher and the school’s “friendship” counselor.

Luckily our elementary school takes bullying very seriously. My son’s teacher spoke to the parents and the child. The friendship counselor spent an hour-long session with him to talk about being kind to others. The counselor also visited my son’s class to talk about bullying. My son tells me that the boy only bullies him now in “segments,” but that for the most part it has stopped.

My son is learning to stand up for himself and not put up with the viciousness of some kid who feels so bad about himself that he needs to spread his hurt to other children.

As my son continues on in school he will encounter more bullies. It’s like air. It’s just there and will always be there. As my son gets older, my husband and I realize that we won’t be able to step in as much as we did this time. We will have to sit on the side line. We will give him coaching to help him get through it and help him learn new skills to avoid becoming a target.

I’m very proud of my son. I was not at my best today and told my son that if the bully calls him names again that he should tell him to shut up. My son replied, “no mom I’m not going to do that.”

“What will you do?” I said.

“I’ll tell him that I don’t like what he is saying and to stop talking to me that way.”

Rusty Nail

Crime fiction. My husband has turned me on to Carl Hiaasen (Nature Girl, Strip Tease, Skinny Dip), Elmore Leonard (Mr. Paradise), Tim Dorsey (The Stingray Shuffle) and Bill Fitzhugh (Pest Control). All zany and fun.

I took my husband’s suggestion that I try something by J.A. Konrath and picked out Rusty Nail.

In short, the story is about a Chicago police lieutenant who is hunting down a serial killer and is “on a collision course with the smartest and deadliest adversary she’s ever known.”

Sounds good, right?

“A teenaged girl. Tied to a chair. Crying.”

“Hi Betsy.” Charles Kork’s voice low and straining to be seductive. “We’re going to play game. It’s called ‘Please God Make It Stop.’ You see all of these nails? I’m going to hammer them into you, one at a time, and you’re going to beg God for it to stop. Are you ready?”

I couldn’t do this one. I can’t blame my husband. He has steered me to some of the best crime fiction around, and in this case he had heard about Konrath and assumed the book would be more comic than dark. I guess I should have known when Publishers Weekly said it was packed with violent thrills.”

So this time, I think the Rusty Nail needs to stay in that dark tool shed. The one I never go into, for fear of a large-hairy-creepy thing landing on my head.

Razors, Blood and Boys

Every kid I know owns a Razor scooter. My older son, Jack, is like the Evel Knievel of scooter riding. The other day I’m waiting for my son in front of his classroom with my three-year-old in toe, a helmet and a scooter. The bell rings and out pour the kids. Most of them whiz by me on their scooters heading for home. Jack sees me and makes a beeline for his Razor, grabs it, drops his backpack, secures the helmet and is off.

We start our trek home. I see Jack popping wheelies, jumping curbs, performing bunny hops and so on. I continue walking and watch with no concern. He does another mid-air jump only this time he hits the concrete face first. He grabs his mouth and screams. As I run to get closer to him, I see blood oozing between his fingers as he continues screaming. He removes his hands and there is blood gushing from his mouth. We drop everything and run back to the school. Parents gasped and winced as we run by. Finally, we get to the principal’s office and the school secretary (aka Saint, School Nurse, Fix It and Make It Better extrodinaire) immediately ushers us back to the first-aid area. She puts a paper towel on my son’s mouth and calmly says to him, “I bet it’s just a scratch, just hold the paper towel on your mouth and we’ll take a look”.

Meanwhile, I’m terrified. Thoughts rumble through my head: his front teeth are gone, he cracked his jaw, he bit his tongue in half. I feel sick to my stomach and start planning my next steps: emergency room, stitches, reconstructive dental surgery.

She removes the paper towel; the bleeding subsides and she says, “Yep, it’s a scratch on your lip; you’ll be fine, honey.” She was right! I profusely thank her and we’re on our way. As we walk home, Jack tells me that he will never ride his scooter again, but after a few minutes he gets on the scooter and cautiously rides it for a few blocks. That was all it took before Evel Knievel was back. Don’t boys ever learn?

It’s Her Kid

Last summer I got a wake up call. My five-year-old son, Jack, was on a raft in the shallow end of a friend’s pool. My two-year-old was with another mom in a floaty. I had my eagle eye on Jack, pacing back and forth from the side of the pool, but after a while I thought to myself, Relax, you uptight woman. I had adult friends in the pool. Everything will be fine. I sat down and took in the warm sunny day. When I looked back, I saw an empty raft, water violently splashing and my son screaming for help. I panicked and looked over to my friend as she grabbed and pulled him out of the water. Since that day, my boys have been in swim lessons.

The place we go to has swim instructors who have frowns on their faces, bark orders at the kids and teach them to blow water out of their nose into the pool. Yuck! But I don’t care; my kids are learning to swim.

My boys love their teacher, they enjoy learning to swim and squeal with delight when we show up. This week was different - we had a different instructor. He was much more demanding and surly. I thought, Okay, that’s alright as long as they continue to learn to swim. My oldest is “water safe” and is working on improving his swim strokes. My little one is more tentative in the water and is still learning to swim.

I overheard the new instructor tell our regular swim teacher: “Is her kid.” I watched as he asked my little one to swim to him. He did his best and then the instructor took a step back. My son was terrified and started to swallow water and sink. My older one yelled at the instructor, “He’s not ready for that”!

The instructor had no intention of letting my younger one drown. He merely was trying to get him to move his arms and kick. It’s hard for me to sit on the sidelines and not feel an incredible urge to jump in and “save” him.

It’s hard for me to sit there and smile at the instructor when he looks over at me. It’s hard to be a mom sometimes, but I’m on a mission. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my kids to learn to swim so when the day comes and I’m not with them at a beach or in a pool they can “save” themselves and not become another statistic.

Things I Love To Hate About Rainy Days

I wish I had some fun and witty things to write, but I have rain on the brain and this is all I could come up with.

When I was in my 20’s and it would rain, I loved:

• To sleep in and stay in bed as long as I wanted
• To rent “chick flicks” and enjoy every sappy moment
• To watch the rainbows come out

I hated:

• My ancient Honda getting filled with a foot or two of water due to my leaky sunroof
• Thunder and lightening
• My hair getting frizzy and wet; bummer when going out to the bars at night

Now that I’m a little wiser and much older, none of those things enter my little brain. Instead, I love rainy days:

• When I go for a walk with my boys and slosh in the puddles
• When my kids say, “Mommy mommy, there’s a rainbow”
• When my kids get cabin fever and come up with creative things to do, like play dress up

I hate:

• When my kids whine all day about what to do
• When my kids tackle each other and then cry and scream about it afterwards
• When it’s only 1pm and I know that I’ve got another seven hours to fill with indoor kid “activities.”

A Tree, A Rubber Mallet and A Toy Rocket

A couple of days before Christmas my husband and I finish getting our boys a couple of presents. My husband disappears in the toy store and returns with a Tandem-X Launch Set. He is giddy and excited and tells me how much our oldest son will enjoy it. I’m no dummy. I can see the glee in his eye and how excited he is too.

Christmas day comes and goes. All of the presents are opened. Then the big day arrives. My husband, my boys and The Rocket all venture to Highlands park. Upon their return my husband tells me that the launch and take off was great, but when the parachute deployed it jammed and the rocket plummeted down, smack, into a large tree. After throwing rocks at the tree branch without any success my husband decides to come back later.

The next day they are back at the park. My husband now has a rubber mallet tied to a string. He throws the mallet toward the rocket, misses and now we have our rubber mallet and a rocket in the tree. I’m not sure what he plans to do next, but I have a feeling that more items from our home will end up decorating that tree. I,m thinking next year we should spend Christmas morning opening up our presents under that tree in Highlands Park. It will be like our own permanent Christmas tree, Bardsley style.