tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91391289786048545802024-03-13T21:57:46.488-05:00The Cold Cereal ChroniclesThe Cold Cereal Chronicles are dedicated to hard-working single moms. Balancing a career and raising little people is a tough gig, but it can be done - and done well at that - even if you serve cold cereal for dinner every now and then.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-71195199721110891722008-08-14T21:38:00.002-05:002008-08-14T21:51:11.848-05:00Sometimes life’s a bowl of cherries. Other times, it’s a Louisville Slugger to the chops.<p>My heart broke for little Mad Dog the other day.<br /><br />I picked her up from day camp and, instead of bounding up to me with a smile and a hug – she shuffled over, head down, with tear-stained cheeks.<br /><br />Apparently, scant seconds earlier, she was finishing up an art project when, through circumstances beyond her control, it was ruined. She was making an intricate pattern of brightly colored plastic beads that were to be pressed with a hot iron, fusing them together and creating one piece. As she carried her beads to the ironing table, a kid accidentally bumped into her, causing her to fall. All of the little beads had scattered all over the floor, and the project was ruined.<br /><br />She had made it for her cousin, but because it was the end of the day and there was no time to start over, she had nothing left to show for her hard work.<br /><br />Seeing her looking so dejected was heartbreaking. Mad Dog is my tough girl. She generally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">doesn</span>’t cry unless she’s in serious pain or has been significantly wronged. And she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wasn</span>’t sobbing either – like her siblings would do. Instead, her eyes were wells of tears and she just looked – broken.<br /><br />I was instantly transported back to when I was 8 years old. I was in the third grade and had made a planter for my favorite teacher. It was made from an old coffee can and had sea shells glued to it and inside was a tiny cactus. Not the kind with the hard prickly needles – but the type that looks hairy and soft.<br /><br />As I carefully cradled it in my hands, protecting it during the bumpy bus ride, I imagined my teacher’s reaction when I would give it to her. I replayed different scenarios before settling on the one where she gave me a hug and offered that I be her special helper for the day. Special helpers got to do little classroom chores like run notes to the office and erase the chalkboard. That bus ride seemed so long, because I was so excited to hand over my gift and receive my special assignment.<br /><br />After arriving at school, we all had to stand outside for a few minutes and wait for the doors to be unlocked. I showed off my planter to my friends and relayed how excited I was to give it to our teacher, when all of a sudden – WHAM!<br /><br />From out of nowhere, a fifth-grade boy took a practice swing with a baseball bat and hit me right in the stomach, sending my plant flying. It was truly an accident, he thought he had enough room and neither of us saw the other before it was too late.<br /><br />I fell to the ground, having had the wind completely knocked out of me. My plant fell too, and pieces of shell, cactus and dirt flew everywhere.<br /><br />On the ground, on all fours, I looked at the remains of the planter. What had happened was incomprehensible. The blow (both literal and figurative) had come out of the blue and my dream of delighting my teacher with the little cactus was gone.<br /><br />It's a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">sucky</span> feeling to be strolling along, happy as can be, and then have somebody pull the rug out from underneath you. One day, you’re on top of your game and the next, you’re at the bottom of the heap – and it can happen in a snap.<br /><br />Life’s like that a lot when you’re a single mom.<br /><br />One minute you’re cruising along, bills are paid, gas tank’s full, fridge is stocked and you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> got just enough cash to make it until payday, when WHAM! Some stupid-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">assed</span> thing comes along and screws things up.<br /><br />You know, it can be something big – like the time the window on my minivan fell down into the door for no reason at all – an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">unbudgeted</span> repair that cost nearly $500. And other times, it’s something smaller – like getting called to pick up a sick child on a workday full of meetings and deadlines.<br /><br />Either way, after the initial blow, what matters is how quickly you’re able to rebound. And rebound, you must – because when a single mom’s down – things can go from bad to worse in a hurry. There’s simply nobody else to lean on when it’s just you running the show.<br /><br />I like to think I’m fairly resourceful and relatively thick-skinned, but sometimes, when that unexpected monkey wrench gets tossed in, I just want to cry.<br /><br />I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">wasn</span>’t sure how Mad Dog would handle the setback. Eight-year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">olds</span> are border line when it comes to emotional stability. They want to be treated like big kids, but still throw the occasional tantrum. I was unsure if she’d pout and cry or shrug her shoulders and walk away. <br /><br />I searched her face for a hint of her next move. She thought for a minute and what she said next threw me for a loop.<br /><br />Mad Dog asked if I would bring her back to camp on Friday, so she could do the project over again. This was a surprising request. After all, I’d planned to take Friday off so she could skip camp and go to a quick dentist appointment and then onto an afternoon movie. Despite the appealing offer, a movie in a real movie theater, mind you, not at home on a DVD, she held steadfast on her decision.<br /><br />Now that’s determination.<br /><br />But my little Mad Dog is like that. She’s not one to take any guff from anyone. She’s way stronger than I was at eight. She’s more confident, more sure of herself.<br /><br />Maybe someday, if she finds herself a single mom, she’ll approach unexpected setbacks with more confidence and certainty than I. She’ll be even more resourceful and have a thicker skin.<br />And most of all, she won’t have that overwhelming desire to go fetal. </p><p>Nah, she’ll be alright...</p><p>she’ll be the one holding the bat.</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-7855613237235107032008-07-26T08:27:00.009-05:002008-07-26T16:16:39.230-05:00Fundraising vs. extortionI’ve had it with fundraising solicitations from my kids’ school and daycare. Yet, part of me is afraid to turn down these “opportunities to show school spirit”.<br /><br />Maybe it’s an irrational fear, but I can’t help but wonder if the quality of my kids’ care hinges on my willingness to play (or should I say PAY) along.<br /><br />I understand they need to raise funds from time to time to pay for special activities – and I’m okay with that. But the frequency of these opportunities is becoming a problem.<br /><br />For me, the “fun” of fundraising began to diminish when my girls entered the second grade. The first fundraiser that came our way asked us to eat dinner on a designated night at our friendly neighborhood McDonalds.<br /><br />The night before (gee, thanks for the notice), I got notes informing us that a sliver of the night’s proceeds would go to the PTA. The kids eagerly presented the notes, jumping up and down, chirping, “Can we? Can we? Can we, please?”<br /><br />I decided we’d go, doubting all the while the funds raised from eating greasy fast food would be earmarked for new health-education materials.<br /><br />When we arrived, the place was a zoo. There was no place to park, nowhere to sit, and the Playland was absolutely packed. I was certain that if I let my two year-old in there, he’d get trampled for sure. The parents looked tired and annoyed. But still, we did our time and I can proudly say that we contributed a hefty 23 cents to the PTA.<br /><br />A week later, I was presented with yet another opportunity to show my support. This time, I could order a bunch of overpriced, over-processed, pre-packaged meals from some vendor in cahoots with the PTA. Again, a few pennies would be “donated” to the school.<br /><br />This time I decided to pass. When I failed to place an order, I got three separate “friendly reminder” notes per child (remember, twins). Still, I could not be swayed. We really couldn’t afford dropping $9.99 of a package of six Mini Chicken Cordon Bleu Bites.<br /><br />I tossed the order form. Okay, truth be told, I crumpled it up and tucked it deep inside the garbage can, so the kids wouldn’t see.<br /><br />About a month later, I got a flyer notifying me that in two days (they’d gotten better) the school was holding its very own Chuck E. Cheese fundraising night.<br /><br />Ugh. I hate Chuck E. Cheese.<br /><br />I’m sure there are nice Chuck E. Cheese restaurants out there, but I have not been fortunate enough to find one. The one near my house is noisy, dirty and full of sugar-crazed kids and their checked-out parents.<br /><br />Also, this particular “opportunity” fell just before payday, meaning I didn’t have the extra $50-60 to drop. So there was really no way we could go, even if I was up for bad pizza and a singing rat.<br /><br />I decided to ignore the note again, throwing it in the garbage, then burying it with coffee grounds. I hoped this opportunity would pass unnoticed.<br /><br />Sadly, the day of the fundraiser, my kids came home from school with more flyers. They were also wearing “Take me to Chuck E. Cheese” stickers on their shirts and telling me we had to be there by 6, because that’s when their friends were going.<br /><br />I resented the position the school put me in. “Gee, thanks,” I thought. “Now I get to be the asshole who has to tell them they can’t go.”<br /><br />I gently explained that we were not going to Chuck E. Cheese’s <em>this time</em> and tried to soften the blow by announcing that we were having homemade ice cream sundaes at home for dessert. Normally the at-home sundae bar is met with cheers. This time, they cried.<br /><br />The following week, I got an invitation to a jewelry party being given by one of my son’s daycare teachers. While this was not a fundraiser, I felt compelled to show my loyalty to the staff. Again, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering if my boy might get treated differently if I didn’t go. So, even though I really couldn’t afford it, I went anyway.<br /><br />A week after the jewelry party, I got two more invitations in the daycare cubby – a candle party scheduled for that Friday and a Tupperware soiree the following Sunday afternoon. Coincidence? I don’t think so.<br /><br />The final straw came when my girls brought home order forms for me to purchase an art project they created at school. Mind you, each week their backpacks are stuffed with drawings, paintings and projects, most of which I have to toss because there’s just no way to keep it all. And now they’ve asked me to buy their artwork?<br /><br />I understand that fundraisers are important, but I wish they’d quit nickel and diming me at every turn, then priming my kids to put the screws to me if I don’t open my wallet.<br /><br />If anything, all of these solicitations work against their goal of building strong school spirit. For me, showing school spirit shouldn’t make me afraid to peek inside the take-home folder. I'd like to participate more, but my single-mom income simply doesn't allow it.<br /><br />I’d like to know if anyone out there actually participates in all of these so-called opportunities. And, if they do, what kind of job do they have where they can afford all of this junk? And what the hell are they doing with all of that cruddy frozen pizza?<br /><br />Perhaps their generosity (or fear of repercussions from not participating) is matched only by the sheer size of their freezer.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-62013378558268001782008-07-12T09:05:00.008-05:002008-11-06T22:09:29.762-06:00Mad Dog, Crowbar and The DeuceWhen I was in college, I dated a guy who talked incessantly about getting married and having kids. Actually, he was quite specific about it all. According to his plan we’d have two kids – a boy and a girl – and we’d name them Sam and Hannah. He’d be a successful architect and I’d be a high school English teacher. We’d live in a house that he designed in the suburbs.<br /><br />We were eating lunch in the student union when described the future he’d carefully laid out. Leaning in as if to tell me something confidential, he said, “It’s a good thing you picked education as your major – you know, so you can have summers off to take care of our kids.”<br /><br />Rather than jumping for joy, I wanted to slap him.<br /><br />For one, I found it extremely odd for a 22 year-old guy have his future planned out with the same giddy excitement as a seven year-old girl. But mostly I was repulsed by the thought of moving to the suburbs and getting saddled with a couple of kids.<br /><br />As I listened to him ramble, I envisioned my appearance morph – like in the Terminator movies – from a trim, tan co-ed into a sort of mom-monster. After the transformation was complete, I no longer resembled myself. Instead, I was a pudgy woman wearing a gingham dress with flower appliqués. My hair was pulled up into a bun and I was taking a piping hot loaf of bread from the oven. Around my feet, toddled a herd of young children.<br /><br />Days later, I broke off the relationship and changed my major.<br /><br />I felt empowered. I had a newfound sense of feminism. I would not be pigeonholed into a maternal role. No man or major could force me to become a soccer mom. Hell, I might not even have kids at all.<br /><br />I envisioned a different future for myself. I’d have an exciting career, a killer condo and a sporty two-seater. The only kids in my future would be my nieces and nephews. I’d be a cool aunt, but frumpy minivan mom? Forget it.<br /><br />Fast forward four years…<br /><br />After college, I fell in love with a new guy – one who was way more laid back than the architecture major. He was less of a planner and more of a wait-and-see kind of guy. I loved his casual attitude, his go-with-the-flow style and his ability to let things roll off his back. He helped me reign in my type-A tendencies and, as he’d say, “just relax a little.”<br /><br />After a few years, we got engaged. And, fully embracing his c'est la vie approach, when my birth control prescription ran out, I figured I’d just wait and see what’d happen.<br /><br />About nine months after our wedding day, I gave birth to twin girls.<br /><br />The shock of being pregnant – let alone with twins – was incredible. After missing a few periods – and yet testing negative on two preggo tests, I was stunned. But I’ll tell you what…the minute I laid eyes on my babies, something in me changed.<br /><br />As I held them in my arms for the first time, I knew, deep down in my core, that I was put on earth for those girls. I was meant to be their mother. The love I felt – and still feel – can best be described as primal. It’s a fierce kind of love.<br /><br />Mad Dog was born first. She’s adventurous and daring. She had most of her physical milestones first: from rolling over, to crawling, to riding a bike. She’s my free spirited one. She likes her hair “long, loose and crazy-looking”. In school, she challenges her teachers (“Why do I have to show my work if the answer’s right?”) and once got in trouble for doing the worm on the floor during research writing time. If I had to guess her future career, it’d be professional snowboarder.<br /><br />Four minutes later came The Deuce. She’s the brains of the operation. From infancy on, she’s generally quieter and a little more reserved. An introspective child, she has exceptional attention to detail and is a top student. She’s a list maker and spends her time “managing” her siblings – a.k.a. bossing them around, then tattletales when they don’t comply. Nothing gets past The Deuce. Her favorite phrase is, “But Mom, you said…” I believe she’ll either practice law or live a life of intrigue ala Robert Langdon of <em>The Da Vinci Code</em>.<br /><br />Five years after Mad Dog and The Deuce were born; we welcomed our son, Crowbar, into the world. As the only boy in the house, Crowbar has got the market on all things robots and airplanes. He’s been seen pushing an imaginary button on his arm, sprouting rocket boosters and lifting off. He’s a master of sound effects – from helicopters to missile launches to dinosaurs, the boy does it all. Despite being a little tough guy, he’s a cuddler and, frequently crawls into my bed in the middle of the night to fall back to sleep with his little hand in mine. I’m not quite sure what Crowbar will be when he grows up. At this point, I see him in a cockpit versus a cubicle – but it could just be the vrooming sounds I hear in the background right now.<br /><br />Having children is definitely a life-changing experience. But my fear of negative change – losing my identity, my sense of humor, and my style – hasn’t happened. I don’t wear sack dresses and I don’t consider myself frumpy. I still tell off-color jokes and listen to the same types of music. My love of pop culture and dark sense of humor are still, securely intact.<br /><br />The other day I found my old copy of <em>What to Expect While You’re Expecting</em>. Flipping through, I wondered why the authors didn’t add anything about change – specifically the changes you’ll experience when you become a parent. They cover the obvious physical stuff such as lactating breasts and post-baby bodies. But they don’t say anything about some of the most amazing changes.<br /><br />With Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce in my life, my heart has grown bigger allowing me to love each of them as deeply, completely and fiercely as the next. It’s a little like Dr. Seuss’s Grinch whose heart grew three sizes in one day.<br /><br />You know, that’s a diagram they should add to the <em>What to Expect…</em> book. Ditch the diagram of the stages of dilation, and replace it with the Grinch’s X-ray of his heart growing. That's a change we can all be excited about.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyoutA4PidxXNJg488YPNO0ATfYA_DNAjFuN03yiVYN27pu6zF5h8I-GVu-qQEem7rCUSgJpSOUB3g6zHSw6ysiyacdong2mqw52jl_TuTDzrexPFt0z8j5xrkUs_wUCxKsjHJu0o4LKz/s1600-h/dilation+final.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222129526917157170" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyoutA4PidxXNJg488YPNO0ATfYA_DNAjFuN03yiVYN27pu6zF5h8I-GVu-qQEem7rCUSgJpSOUB3g6zHSw6ysiyacdong2mqw52jl_TuTDzrexPFt0z8j5xrkUs_wUCxKsjHJu0o4LKz/s320/dilation+final.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTcrTXRmsJu4QZvWsczWvADAlLrXDsz_bKN5QidDfErKyPN5qdPx7JaHopy6gEevni8QakCeci6XwNhNbmlfULrscMKarswTckM-GbJM136auja4DLYGPbIt1YecCFx52QCi0CIeuLYfO/s1600-h/grinch+heart+final.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222129525303911698" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTcrTXRmsJu4QZvWsczWvADAlLrXDsz_bKN5QidDfErKyPN5qdPx7JaHopy6gEevni8QakCeci6XwNhNbmlfULrscMKarswTckM-GbJM136auja4DLYGPbIt1YecCFx52QCi0CIeuLYfO/s320/grinch+heart+final.jpg" border="0" /></a>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-58726180775043705082008-07-02T09:50:00.003-05:002008-07-03T22:21:20.166-05:00Take my kids...please!I’ve always found humor to be an important element in my life. Maintaining a sense of humor is what got me through being pregnant with and having twins.<br /><br />I remember the day when, at 36 weeks, I waddled into my OB-GYN’s office and stepped on the scale to learn I’d crossed the 200-pound threshold. At that point I outweighed my husband by 25 pounds.<br /><br />Instead of crying, I wisecracked about how they’d better wait an hour before taking my blood pressure. The shock of learning I weighed the same as a Volkswagen would skew the results for sure. (<em>BA-DUM-DUM!)</em><br /><br />I had the nurses rolling.<br /><br />Fast forward to the delivery room. As I lay there in stirrups, with my doctor verifying that I was indeed 10 cm and ready to push, all I could think of was Chevy Chase from <em>Fletch</em>.<br /><br />Despite excruciating pain, in between contractions I asked, “<em>You using the whole fist, doc?</em>”<br /><br />I brought a resident to tears with that one.<br /><br />Humor got me through when my ex-husband left. Sure, I had my pity-party moments, but more often than not, I tried to keep up my sense of humor (my chin too).<br /><br />It wasn’t too hard – after all, he did resemble Steve Martin from <em>The Jerk</em> when he left: “<em>I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. All I need…is this ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.</em>”<br /><br />Good or bad, it’s a defense mechanism.<br /><br />I also apply humor to my parenting style. I enjoy my kids and find that I can get them to be more cooperative when I use humor, versus soul-crushing discipline.<br /><br />Just the other night at dinner, as the kids were poking at their respective helpings of casserole, I stood up and ceremoniously announced a new house rule. Holding my spatula like a scepter, in a grand voice (a poor imitation of Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, I admit), I proclaimed,<br /><br />“Whoever complains about dinner, will receive another, delicious, nutritious and generous helping.”<br /><br />My bit was met with eye-ball rolling. Impressions have never been my strong suit.<br /><br />“Is this thing on?” I asked (still using the phony British accent), tapping the top of my spatula-now-turned microphone.<br /><br />Granted, my humor is sometimes lost on my young audience, but someday, they’ll look back and appreciate that I made the effort. I hope that the kids’ childhood memories will be of laughing and having fun. Though, sometimes I wonder if I’m just giving them fodder for future therapy sessions.<br /><br />But seriously, folks.<br /><br />I think the use of humor in my house is having a positive effect. Humor teaches us to not take ourselves too seriously.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, my youngest daughter and I were in the bathroom getting ready. I was putting on my makeup and she was brushing her hair. After studying her reflection in the mirror for a while, she asked me, “Mom, am I ugly?”<br /><br />I put down my mascara and turned to face her. I gently cradled her face in my hands and said,<br /><br />“Yes, honey. You are a very ugly girl.”<br /><br />She held my serious expression for a split second before we both broke down laughing. She realized I’d caught her fishing for a compliment. I pulled her to me and hugged her. I assured her that she is very pretty and pointed out that it’s a little silly to ask a question for an answer you already know.<br /><br />Any good comedian will tell you that it’s all about timing. I don’t want the kids to think they can joke their way through life or be unable to tell when I’m serious and when I’m kidding. And to be honest, we have our ups and downs in this respect.<br /><br />Sometimes, when I’m laying down the law, they’ll crack smiles to try to charm their way out of trouble. Sometimes they can get me to break and sometimes they can’t.<br /><br />Sometimes I have a hard time not laughing – especially when I’ve caught them doing something ridiculously naughty. Like the time my girls turned themselves blue.<br /><br />They’d been outside playing with sidewalk chalk. Somehow, they thought it’d be fun to color their faces and bodies blue – including the brand new white turtlenecks I’d just bought.<br /><br />Despite the Funniest-Home-Videos quality of the moment, I was livid. (We were set to leave the house within the hour to make an important appointment.)<br /><br />The girls laughed, giggled and mugged funny faces, tying to ramp up the cute factor to avoid getting punished. Lucky for them it worked. Instead of scolding them, I grabbed the camera to capture the moment.<br /><br />Though, I’m typically not a proponent of working blue.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-23265100112774430852008-06-28T11:55:00.007-05:002008-07-03T22:17:24.293-05:00Lessons learned from my parents’ divorceAs a kid, I remember being very sad when my parents announced they were separating. I didn’t want my dad to move out and I was scared about what it would mean for our family when he did. I remember sitting in the family room in our little cape cod on Morgan Avenue, wildly sobbing, begging them to change their minds.<br /><br />After Dad moved into a little apartment on the south end of town, the sadness began to dissipate. A peaceful calm settled over our house – there was no more arguing, no more tension-filled dinners.<br /><br />Even as a 10 year old, I remember realizing that this new arrangement was <em>better</em>.<br /><br />I learned that my parents’ happiness was what was important – regardless of if they lived in the same house or not. And, I realized that happy parents – not stressed out, bitter, argumentative ones – make a kid feel more secure and confident. They’re also more fun. Looking back, I have more memories of having fun and laughing <em>after</em> they divorced.<br /><br />I’ve applied this lesson to my own divorce. I’m a firm believer that kids aren’t screwed up <em>because</em> their parents are divorced – they’re screwed up because their parents didn’t handle the divorce well.<br /><br />I watched an Oprah once where a bunch of unhappy women blamed their parents for all of their troubles with love and money. One woman said her inability to form lasting, healthy relationships was because her parents were divorced and she never had positive role models to show what a happy, successful marriage looks like. She said she just didn’t want to make the same mistake as her parents did.<br /><br />That’s bullshit.<br /><br />Life is a collection of experiences – good and bad. I don’t view my marriage and subsequent divorce as mistakes. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t my favorite of all my experiences – but none of it was a mistake. I have three amazing children from that relationship. Getting divorced was hard, but I’ve emerged a stronger, more confident person now. And that’s <em>better</em>, right?<br /><br />So, even with the benefit of hindsight, I’d accept that proposal all over again.<br /><br />I feel I represent someone who’s better because of divorce (my parents and my own). I have observed my parents’ parting and have applied those lessons to become better communicator, better mother and better participant in my own relationships.<br /><br />In addition, I’ve applied those lessons to make my own divorce better…better for me, my ex-husband and my kids.<br /><br />As you may know, I’m a big fan of lists, so I’ve put together a list of Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce. Some of these things I’ve learned by watching them do things well and to be fair, (and with all due respect to my beloved parents), some of these lessons are based on things they didn’t handle quite so well. Nevertheless, here it is – in no particular order…<br /><br /><strong>Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce<br /></strong><br /><strong>1) Be honest and open with your kids and explain things to them in a way they can understand.</strong><br /><br />Back in 1983, on that sad day in our living room, I remember my dad used a clever way to help my brothers and I understand what was happening. He held his hand up and explained that it represented our family (five fingers = five family members). He crossed two of his fingers (like you do for luck) and said that that’s how he and Mom used to be – very close.<br /><br />Then he uncrossed his fingers to illustrate that they’d grown apart. He pointed out that even though the fingers were uncrossed, the hand was still intact. The fingers would always be a part of the same hand. Like the hand, our family would always be connected, regardless of who lived where.<br /><br />I explained my own divorce to my kids in this very same way and I continue to try to explain things in terms they understand.<br /><br /><strong>2) Respect your kids’ relationship with your ex.</strong><br /><br />My kids love and trust both me and my ex-husband. I try hard to make sure my words and actions about him are influenced by this fact. Bashing my ex verbally may make me look or feel better in the short term, but what’s the gain for my kids?<br /><br />Even if he is at fault in some way, it doesn’t matter. I need to keep my mouth shut and respect the kids’ relationship with their dad. Otherwise I look petty and spiteful (the exact opposite of trying to make myself look/feel better in the first place).<br /><br />Respecting those boundaries is better for everyone – really, it is.<br /><br /><strong>3) Co-parent in a business-like manner.</strong><br /><br />I like to think of me and my ex as business associates. Together, we’re Family Incorporated, and our mission statement centers around the common goal of turning our kids into confident, responsible tax-payers.<br /><br />We need to agree on the major points of upbringing (our business model) and pool our resources (time, money, energy) to successfully implement our strategic plan (growing little people into self-sufficient big ones). We set emotion aside and try to approach challenges logically and in a way that works for each associate.<br /><br />For example, when my three year-old son breaks standard operating procedures and refused to stay in bed (at my house and at his dad’s), we held a conference call to address the issue.<br /><br />Together, we determined that a zero-tolerance approach was best and outlined a game plan. Our objective was to overcome the obstacle of the boy getting up repeatedly, seeking attention. So our plan was this: The minute he’s out of his room, he’s marched straight back to bed without any coddling and with minimal conversation. This plan would be implemented each time he got up – regardless of at whose house he was sleeping.<br /><br />The little guy eventually learned that Mom and Dad (co-CEOs of Family Incorporated) have the same expectation and deliver the same consequence for not following our family’s Code of Business Conduct. While we have two branch offices (Dad’s place and Mom’s house), the company’s rules and expectations are the same.<br /><br /><strong>4) Communicate!!</strong><br /><br />Information is power and it’s true in divorced families too. Withholding information doesn’t help anyone. Again, thinking of this like a business relationship, what would happen if the project manager didn’t communicate with the rest of the team?<br /><br />Thankfully, advances in technology support the ability to communicate with minimal human interaction. My ex and I prefer to text via cell phone, verses have real, live conversations. Text messaging for us is convenient, non-intrusive and keeps communications brief and on-point.<br /><br />I’m sure my parents would’ve loved to have text messaging and email communication tools back in the mid-eighties. Electronic communication eliminates those, “I didn’t like your tone of voice,”-type problems.<br /><br /><strong>Lessons learned, lessons taught<br /></strong><br />I learned a lot from my parents’ divorce. I don’t blame them for how my life has turned out – they’ve influenced choices I’ve made, but they’re not responsible for them.<br /><br />I know my kids are all going to grow up and have problems. I know they’ll sit in a therapist’s office, spilling their guts and I’m pretty sure my name will come up.<br /><br />And I’m okay with that, really. They may not agree with the choices I’ve made, but will hopefully recognize that my choices and actions have shaped their own decision making in a good way.<br /><br />Now that I think of it, I hope they’ll get their money’s worth for those therapy sessions. Blaming your divorced parents for your problems will be pretty passé in 2028.<br /><br />Maybe I should try harder to give them something good and juicy to work with.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-3367809960949105132008-06-21T09:17:00.004-05:002008-07-03T22:18:10.654-05:00Wanted: SWM, must own ear plugsMost single moms are so busy taking care of kids and home, that they aren’t very good at putting their needs first. For me, the idea of dating seemed like a luxury and about as realistic a venture as sprouting wings and flying to the moon.<br /><br />When would I find the time? How would the kids feel? Where would I find a sitter <strong>with</strong> a car but <strong>without</strong> a life on a Saturday night?<br /><br />For a long time, when the idea of getting out and meeting someone popped into my head, I’d sweep it away just as quickly. So when a colleague from work unexpectedly asked me out one day, my response went something like this:<br /><br />“Uh, well, thanks. That’s really nice of you. Um…you know I have kids, right? I’m not really sure that…well, I want to but…I just don’t get many free nights. But I still want to…”<br /><br />I sounded like an idiot.<br /><br />But there was a good reason for my hesitation. Logistics aside, dating as a single mom can be really scary. Before I had kids, if I went out with a dud or a jerk, the only person at risk of getting hurt was me. Now, with kids in the equation, there’s a whole new level of pressure.<br /><br />I was afraid to bring someone new into my life (<em>our lives</em>) until I knew for sure the person was:<br /><br />A) not a psychopath, and<br />B) truly liked kids in a genuine, but not-at-all-creepy kind of way.<br /><br />And, on the flip side, I was nervous about how my kids would respond to someone new. Kids are unpredictable. They say whatever’s on their minds and are prone to unsolicited tantrums and outbursts. What kind of guy would willingly get involved with a lady with three, rambunctious kids?<br /><br />Frankly, I questioned his sanity for asking me out in the first place.<br /><br />Despite my stunning response, he assured me he was still interested, really enjoyed kids, and was willing to wait until my calendar freed up.<br /><br />Okay, I thought. This guy’s different. I’ll give him a try.<br /><br />Several weeks later, we made that first date happen. And, over time, we saw each other more and more. I learned that he was down to earth, close to his family, and that we shared many interests. Sprinkle in intelligence and a sense of humor and well, what more can you ask for? We just clicked.<br /><br />After a few months of covert dating – my brood didn’t know I was seeing anyone – he asked when he’d get to meet the kids. Nervously, I suggested we introduce him as “Mom’s friend” and spend the evening at a local festival.<br /><br />Even though I was initially apprehensive, everyone had a blast. Somewhere between the midway games and cotton candy, I relaxed and just enjoyed the night. After we got home and put everyone to bed, he told me he was impressed by how everyone was.<br /><br />Frankly, I too, was impressed by their behavior. They were respectful, sweet, and funny. There was no bickering or whining. Looking back, I think they were thrilled to have another grownup to show off for. They told jokes, did cartwheels and, aside from juggling flaming batons on unicycles, were quite entertaining.<br /><br />“They’re just so…good,” he kept saying.<br /><br />Every time he said it, I’d blush and thank him, though, on the inside I kept thinking, “Just wait...you haven’t seen anything yet.”<br /><br />Over the next few weeks, I held my breath, waiting for the first outburst, tantrum or fight. I wondered how long it’d be before my kids showed their true colors. In my house, we do things with gusto. We laugh hard, play hard, and fight hard too. And I wondered how he’d react. Would he turn tail and run?<br /><br />Sure enough, a few weeks later, the happy façade gave way. We were all in my van, heading out for dinner. My two-year old who, seconds earlier had been singing and giggling, did a prompt 180 and burst into a full-blown temper tantrum. He wailed as he kicked the back of my seat and his face turned as red as the toy fire truck he hurled at the back of my head.<br /><br />I glanced over to see my new boyfriend’s look of terror.<br /><br />“What happened?” he whispered. “He was fine just a minute ago.”<br /><br />“Oh, he does this sometimes,” I said apologetically. “It’s best to just ignore him.”<br /><br />Ignore him? Yeah, right. I was skilled at tuning out my kids’ outbursts. But asking a single guy who wasn’t used to this to just ignore him was a ridiculous request.<br /><br />For an instant I figured that this new relationship was doomed. As my boy howled in the back, I could actually visualize a gigantic wedge that would be driven down between our bucket seats.<br /><br />“You are so going to dump me,” I said, only half joking.<br /><br />Surprisingly, the fear on his face gave way to a smile.<br />”I will not be bested by a two-year old,” he said with a sly grin.<br /><br />Suddenly the giant imaginary wedge disappeared.<br /><br />Inexplicably, in a matter of seconds, my little guy turned off the waterworks and began to sing. The tantrum was over and my new boyfriend hadn’t jumped from the moving vehicle to get away – not this time.<br /><br />It is possible for single moms to date, but it comes down to finding the right guy. My advice is to take it slow and be realistic about what you can and can’t expect from everybody – kids and grownups included.<br /><br />Patience is key, a sense of humor is critical and a set of earplugs in the glove box doesn’t hurt either.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-52381742819014004772008-05-24T22:56:00.004-05:002008-07-03T22:19:14.485-05:00Me and Mr. WinkieMy son was five months old when his dad moved out, leaving him outnumbered in a house full of women. The poor little guy was left to figure out on his own how to do “boy things.” There’s no way I could teach him how to make those cool machine gun noises, let alone how to properly throw a baseball.<br /><br />When it came time to potty train him, I didn’t really know where to start. I’d successfully trained his sisters, but they were girls - and part of their training included watching how Mom does it. That approach clearly wouldn’t work here. So, I began asking friends and family for advice.<br /><br />Should I start him sitting down or standing up? He’s too short to clear the rim of the bowl, so should I pick him up and point him downward or get a step stool?<br /><br />Because he was vertically challenged, I decided to start him sitting down. He hated that little guard attachment that came with the potty seat, so he popped it off and threw it away, announcing, “I don’t like it, Mama.”<br /><br />After a few times of having his pee shoot straight out and down his legs instead of in the pot, I taught him how to tuck it down and lean forward. This worked pretty well, until I noticed his pee was still not hitting the water. Instead it was running under the seat and down the front of the bowl, pooling on the floor.<br /><br />Now, with the bathroom stocked with Clorox towelettes and flushable baby wipes, we tried a new approach. This time he stood on a stool, with me behind him, holding him steady. He preferred to stand, but not by himself, since being up so high made him feel wobbly.<br /><br />The first time he peed standing up, it shot upward, like a fire hose, nailing the back of the toilet and the surrounding wall. I couldn’t believe the force with which he peed – especially in the morning. The pressure was incredible.<br /><br />So, we began to tackle the issue of aim. Recalling advice from a friend, I tossed a few Cheerios into the bowl and encouraged him to use them as a target. Confused, he looked up and told me (with a look of concern) the cereal shouldn’t go in the potty.<br /><br />“No honey, you’re not going to eat it, you’re going to pee on it,” I explained. He shrugged his shoulders and complied. He tried to take aim by moving his hips from side to side and leaning forward – an approach that was creative, but not effective. Using this style, he hit the water for one, brief instant, and then ended up nailing the shower curtain, vanity and a towel rack as he swiveled his hips.<br /><br />I knew I had to get him to take hold and take aim, but I wasn’t sure what terminology to use.<br /><br /><em>Penis</em> sounded too clinical. Besides, it reminded me of story a friend once told me about growing up with her psychologist mother. The woman was strictly against using cutie-pie names like <em>pee-pee</em> or <em>woo-woo</em> to describe body parts. Instead, she insisted they use correct anatomical terminology. She felt that euphemisms were ridiculous and downright embarrassing. Sadly, her plan backfired when one of her daughters fell off her bike and ran into the house yelling at the top of her lungs, “MOM! I HURT MY VAGINA!”<br /><br />I considered using the word <em>pee-pee</em>, but decided against it because pee-pee is what comes out and I don’t want him touching that.<br /><br />Another friend (also a single mother) suggested I call it <em>Mr. Winkie</em>. Her daycare provider called it that and her son didn’t seem to have a problem telling Mr. Winkie where to squirt. I tried it out a few times, but it just didn’t roll off the tongue.<br /><br />Finally, I settled on <em>pee-pee ma</em>ker. I know it’s a mouthful, but he gets it and I’m not embarrassed to say it out loud – which is good, because I find I’m saying it often.<br /><br />“Hold your pee-pee maker and squirt it in the water.”<br /><br />“No, you do it,” he says, folding his arms and piddling on the floor.<br /><br />“That is your pee-pee maker, not mine. You do it.”<br /><br />Still, he refused to touch it. I guess he thought he would eventually perfect his fancy-dancy hip maneuver.<br /><br />After another week arguing over who was responsible for whose pee-pee maker, I finally figured out why he wouldn’t grab on and take aim. One day, after I had to aim for him, he refused to wash his hands.<br /><br />His argument: “I didn’t touch anything,”<br /><br />Once I convinced him that he has to wash his hands every time he goes potty, regardless of what he did or didn’t touch, he finally relented. Now, when he goes, he takes hold and hits the water a good 75% of the time, which I call success.<br /><br />Potty training my son was a long, tough journey, but together, we made it through. He’s even trying to go all by himself, without help, which when he perfects his aim, will be just one more milestone that makes my life easier.<br /><br />In the end, I won the potty war at my house. My boy is peeing like a pro and shows no hesitation to reach down and take matters into this own hands. In fact, this new <em>willingness</em> to reach down there has evolved into a sort of <em>fondness</em> for it. I caught him a few times just today, “feeling things out”, if you know what I mean.<br /><br />The more I think about it, I guess I can claim at least partial credit for teaching him one of those “boy things.”Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-76092995825613521352008-05-21T05:05:00.003-05:002008-07-03T22:19:49.393-05:00Be careful what you wish forDue to my ex-husband’s crazy work schedule, I have my kids most of the time. He takes them on one-night visits about once every 7-10 days, which leaves him aching to see them more, and me fairly exhausted by the time one of my “breaks” come along.<br /><br />I say “breaks” because typically I use those nights to do some pesky chore or run errands that’d be difficult or downright impossible to accomplish with three kids in tow. My friends tell me to relax and take a bubble bath, but more often than not, I’m using that time to scrub a dirty ring from the tub – not soak in it.<br /><br />So, you’d think that when my ex informed me he has a full week of vacation coming up, and that he’d like to take the kids for 5 straight days – I’d be thrilled. Surprisingly enough (especially to me), the thought of being without them for almost a week makes me nauseous.<br /><br />Seriously, I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.<br /><br />When you’re solely responsible for your kids 99% of the time, it’s hard to just hand the reigns over to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I trust my ex completely – he’s a great dad. It’s just hard to turn off being in full-time mom-mode, ya know?<br /><br />I remember the first few times the kids went away for a one-night stay. At first I thought I would pamper myself by doing my nails or enjoying a glass of wine and a good book. Instead, I puttered around the house, walking from room to room, missing the kids. I felt (and most certainly looked) pathetic.<br /><br />The next time they went away, I had visions of accomplishing all sorts of errands. I’d do some shopping free from the cries of “Mom, can I have this?” every ten steps. However, in reality, I crashed out on my couch and fell asleep by 6:30 p.m., not having accomplished a thing. I think it was a combination of exhaustion and depression. My body just gave out and I shut down.<br /><br />Over the last three years, it’s taken me a while to begin enjoying my nights off and actually use that time more efficiently.<br /><br />So, what am I going to do with a full week off? I think it’s going to shake down like this:<br /><br />Early in the week, I know I’ll be full of energy and eager to get out of the house. I really need to reconnect with some of my long, lost friends (the ones without kids, especially). And I’m dying to see a movie out in a movie theater. It can be any movie – so long as it’s not animated, or has animals that talk.<br /><br />And I want to go shopping – but instead of getting things for the kids, I plan to come home with a few little treasures just for me. This won’t be a crazy splurge that I’ll regret later. Instead I’ll get something small but personal, like new perfume. I haven’t bought new perfume – or have had anyone to buy it for me – for years. The other day someone told me I smelled good and asked what I was wearing. Embarrassing as it was, I had to fess up. It was just my Lady Speedstick. Yes, new perfume. Definitely.<br /><br />I’ll also catch up on some much-needed downtime. This will be a great opportunity to get some decent sleep. As it stands now, at least every other night, someone creeps into my bed due to a bad dream, upset tummy or just because. I have to admit that on one level, I love it – my kids are great snugglers. But on the other hand, sleeping with your kids isn’t really restful sleep. Someone’s always snoring or poking you with their bony elbows. A week without a nighttime visitor may be a tough adjustment, but one that will be well worth it.<br /><br />This weeklong break will be good for all of us. When the kids return, I’ll be rested and rejuvenated. My batteries will be fully charged. I know I’ll be more patient and will appreciate them more. My desire to cook will return and I’ll be eager to eat some good, home-cooked meals myself.<br /><br />The more I think about it, the less apprehensive I feel. Instead of a twinge of nausea, I’m beginning to feel a twitter of excitement. Instead of dread, I’m actually looking forward to this.<br /><br />Still…we’ll see how I feel when I see them drive away in their dad’s white Ford. Seeing my whole life drive off, not to return for almost a week, will surely make me feel sad and lonely.<br /><br />But I know that their return five days later will bring me indescribable joy. I’ll be elated when they rush me, shouting, “Mom! Mom!”<br /><br />I can feel myself getting a little misty just thinking about it now.<br /><br />For me, with my kids in my arms, the planets are aligned and my world is in order. I silently complain that I wish I had more “me time” but I know deep in my bones that my kids are my life and I need them near.<br /><br />Time away, whether it’s one day or five, reminds me of who I am and what I’ve been put on this earth to do. I’m a mother – their mother – and a damn good one. And it doesn’t matter if my perfume is nothing more than Fresh Scent deodorant.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-22333346487704410112008-05-04T07:45:00.004-05:002008-07-03T22:19:14.486-05:00Single mom secrets revealedThe other day, when a new acquaintance learned that in addition to working full time, I’m also a single mother to three young kids, she burst out with shock and surprise.<br /><br />“Are you kidding? I have one kid and a husband and some days, I think I’m going nuts.”<br /><br />This reaction is actually quite common. Most people can’t imagine what it’s like to raise one kid, let alone three on their own.<br /><br />That kind of praise and adoration is extremely gratifying. Working solo means that any kind of feedback – especially that of the positive variety – brightens my day and boosts my ego.<br /><br />At this point in the conversation, I usually blush and use my favorite one liner:<br /><br />“I guess I’m like that Nike commercial. I just…do it.”<br /><br />It’s true. Every single parent finds a way to “just do it” using their own unique system. For me, my system hinges on being extremely organized and pretty darn resourceful.<br /><br />Naturally, outsiders want to know how single moms juggle everything. And lucky for you, I’m not shy. So, here’s a glimpse into the busiest part of this single mom’s day – the morning.<br /><br /><strong>4:30 a.m. - Up and at ‘em</strong><br /><br />For me, getting up early is mission critical. After I stumble out of bed and consume enormous amounts of coffee, I do a few loads of laundry, take care of the dishwasher and either defrost something or prepare a crock pot for dinner.<br /><br />Next, I make bag breakfasts for everyone and pack afternoon snacks. Then, I make sure that all permission slips, book orders and teachers’ notes have been addressed. I do a quick weather check and pick everyone’s outfits.<br /><br /><strong>5:30 a.m. – Get ready<br /></strong><br />I try to be 95% ready before rousing the kids – and I do it in just 30 minutes. As a result, I’ve learned to streamline my morning beauty regime considerably, without compromising the end result too much.<br /><br />Getting dressed now would be a bad idea. With an hour to go, a variety of likely scenarios could wrinkle or soil my ensemble. Instead, I select an outfit and set it aside, to be put on just two minutes prior to departure.<br /><br /><strong>6 a.m. - Get the kids into gear<br /></strong><br />I’m extremely thankful that my school-age kids can read and tell time. With our “Morning To Do List” there’s never a question of what needs to be done. It reads:<br /><br />1) Get up.<br />2) Get dressed.<br />3) Brush teeth.<br />4) Brush hair.<br />5) Put on shoes.<br />6) Load back packs.<br /><br />In addition, they know they need to have the list completed by 6:50 a.m. and watch the clock accordingly.<br /><br />The list system works well. Instead of barking orders, I calmly ask, “So, are you done with the list?” The girls know what they have to do and on most mornings do it with little-to-no complaints.<br /><br />Waking up my toddler on the other hand, is a much more delicate operation. In the morning, he’s particularly fragile – a tantrum time bomb, ready to cry and go limp in protest at any second.<br /><br />To this end, I’ve added 5 minutes of uninterrupted snuggle time. This allows him to wake up slowly. If I don’t take the extra time, he’s sure to meltdown – which will only end up wasting valuable time.<br /><br /><strong>7 a.m. - And…we’re off!<br /></strong><br />Once coats are on and we pile into the van, we do a quick check of the time. If we’re all bucked in by 7 a.m., we rejoice and celebrate. If we’re late, we try to figure out what went wrong and how we can get ready faster tomorrow.<br /><br />And thus, the shuttle departs. I drop everyone off at daycare and the before-school program then head downtown for work. If the planets are aligned and traffic is cooperative, I’m at my desk by 7:45, ready to (get this) <strong><em>begin my day</em></strong>.<br /><br />Begin my day indeed! I’ve been up for over three hours. I’ve folded laundry, prepped dinner and got three kids up, dressed and out the door in less than an hour.<br /><br />I think it’s actually time to call it day, don't you?<br /><br />~ ~ ~ ~<br /><br /><strong>The secret’s out</strong><br /><br />So, there you have it. There’s no magic behind how single parents do it. All it takes is organization and a little creativity.<br /><br />Well, that and a sense of humor.<br /><br />Getting your kids to work together as a team is a clear challenge. So maintaining a good attitude is crucial. In my house, positivity inspires cooperation and negativity breeds rebellion. I’m pro cooperation, so keeping everyone's spirits up (including my own) is essential.<br /><br />So, the next time you see a single mom, express your amazement and ask her how she does it. You’ll give her a much-appreciated “atta-girl” and possibly learn a few tricks that’ll help your household run more smoothly too.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-762185305729363002008-04-16T19:08:00.005-05:002008-07-03T22:21:20.166-05:00Mom, the marketing geniusEveryone knows that moms wear many different hats. As a mother, you naturally assume the roles of teacher, nurse and cleaning lady. They just come with the job.<br /><br />I knew this heading into my first pregnancy. I was prepared to kiss boo-boos, spend hours explaining long division and wash endless loads of laundry. But what I didn’t expect is how my professional experiences in the business world of sales and marketing would be an essential asset at home with my kids.<br /><br />They say the best salesman could sell ice to an Eskimo. Well, how about selling last night’s leftovers to a 6 year-old? I suppose I could force my kids to sit at the table until their plates are clean, but honestly, at 7 p.m. with homework and baths yet to do, I simply can’t spare the time.<br /><br />And so, at dinnertime, my marketing skills come in most handy.<br /><br />My kids are suspicious of all vegetables, most casseroles and some of the different ways chicken can be prepared. Thus, I’ve become an expert at successfully “selling” meals through creative packaging and a well thought out branding strategy.<br /><br />At my house, my Southwest Salad (a blend of peppers, black beans and corn) is called “Mom’s Yummy-Time Rainbow Delight”. And one of my breakfast dishes, fried eggs in toast (you know the one -- cut a circle in a slice of bread and fry an egg in the center), is known as “Pretty Princess Peek-A-Boo Eggs”.<br /><br />Additionally, I’ve found that a creative dinner presentation can turn picky little critics into your biggest culinary fans.<br /><br />My kids cheer when I serve your run-of-the mill pork chops – diced and on toothpicks. (Truth be told, they gobble up <em>anything </em>on a toothpick.) And serving dinner by candlelight hides the two cups of shredded zucchini baked into my veggie lasagna, which by the way, is called “Garfield’s Favorite Lasagna”.<br /><br />I’ve even managed to jazz up boring bag lunches by packing “Sandwich Sushi”. (Just flatten the bread with a rolling pin, slap on a little PB&J, then roll it up and slice the whole thing into pinwheels.) Heck, throw in a couple of chopsticks from last week’s takeout and they’re in heaven.<br /><br />Yes sir, peace and harmony reign at dinnertime when you’ve successfully marketed an otherwise suspicious meal.<br /><br />Though...it's important to not get cocky and take things too far.<br /><br />I know from personal experience that it is impossible to hide peas inside shell pasta. It’s an extremely labor-intensive process and is hardly worth the effort. Not to mention the fact that it simply doesn’t work – the peas keep falling out. (Trust me on this one.)<br /><br />So, when marketing to your children, remember this:<br /><br />Your kitchen is a lot like a used car dealership. Don’t try to sell a lemon. If you get caught, you'll lose the sale end up with a bunch of sour customers.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-19006859297475949492008-04-10T22:48:00.003-05:002008-07-03T22:21:20.166-05:00My proudest parenting momentsJust in case you’re planning to nominate me for mother of the year, I’ve compiled some of my greatest motherly moments for your consideration.<br /><br />Forget great report cards or winning goals – they pale in comparison to these little gems:<br /><br /><br /><strong>~ Fire drill at day care ~</strong><br /><br />I’d just enrolled my 3 year-old twin daughters in a new day care center. During their first week, as they were standing in line waiting for a drink at the water fountain, one of them saw the fire alarm and pulled it. The entire center evacuated onto the playground as the fire department and several squad cars arrived on the scene.<br /><br />At the end of the day, the director told me all about the incident. I stood there, apologetically shaking my head and stammering,<br /><br />“I’m so sorry. So very, very, VERY sorry.”<br /><br />The director was actually quite nice about the whole thing.<br /><br />“Really, it’s okay,” she assured me. “We have to do fire drills periodically. And, today we learned that we can evacuate the entire center in less than four minutes – even during nap time.”<br /><br /><br /><strong>~ Notes from teacher ~<br /></strong><br />Though my twins are identical in appearance, their personalities couldn’t be more opposite.<br /><br />One is very type A. She’s organized and efficient. She’s the kid who raises her hand in class every time a question is asked, regardless of if she knows the answer or not. This girl mails Santa her Christmas list in July, “to make sure he’ll get it in time.”<br /><br />My other daughter is very much a free spirit. She’s the kid who likes her hair long, loose and “crazy-looking.” She sings all day long, not caring that she’s off key. And she doesn’t see the point of sitting quietly in class, learning things, when she could be outside right now riding bikes.<br /><br />Ever since 4-K, I’ve received notes from Little Miss Free Spirit’s teachers regarding her lackadaisical behavior at school. My favorite note came from her second-grade teacher. It read:<br /><br /><em>“J---- was doing ‘the worm’ during research writing time.”</em><br /><br />The only way I could’ve been prouder is if she’d been able to work in a shoulder roll-head-spin combo and ended in a hollow-back freeze. Oh well, it’s something to work on, I guess.<br /><br /><br /><strong>~ Queen ~</strong><br /><br />I love all kinds of music and like to play my CDs when we’re driving in the van. This means my kids are exposed to songs by artists that aren’t typically played on Radio Disney. An added bonus is that I don’t have to endure too much Hannah Fontana, or whatever her name is.<br /><br />I pick songs from all genres and we have fun singing along. We’re like a modern day Partridge Family, only without Reuben, instruments or any real talent.<br /><br />Once, when the girls were four, I could hear them singing in their room. They didn’t have a radio or CD player, so they were singing a capella, trying to recall lyrics by memory alone.<br /><br />For some reason, their sweet singing erupted into shrill fighting. Then a series of bangs and booms could be heard through the ceiling. How had we suddenly gone from a happy musical number to a full-blown WWF event?<br /><br />When I went up to investigate, I learned they were arguing over song lyrics – lyrics they learned under my watch.<br /><br />Specifically, the lyrics to Fat Bottom Girls by Queen.<br /><br /><em>Oooh, are you gonna take me home tonight?<br />Oooh, down beside that red firelight;<br />Are you gonna let it all hang out?<br />Fat bottomed girls,<br />You make the rockin' world go round.<br /></em><br />The very next day, I added Radio Disney to my presets.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-33002920971222651892008-03-28T07:54:00.006-05:002008-07-03T22:23:53.313-05:00TO DO: Write To Do list<p>Last Saturday started like any other. With my coffee in hand, I sat down at the kitchen table with my special notebook, prepared to start the weekend To Do list.<br /><br />It’s a ritual. I make so many To Do lists, in fact, that no little scrap of paper will do – I have a bound notebook with a pretty floral cover for this sole purpose.<br /><br />I know this says something about my psyche. I crave organization. I have a need to feel a sense of accomplishment as I cross each item off the list.<br /><br />Most of the time, I’m not overwhelmed by the sheer size of the list. Rather, any anxiety I feel is based on the fear that I might forget something. God forbid I forget to get the oil changed in the van or sew on the latest Brownie merit badge.<br /><br />If it’s not on my To Do list, it probably won’t get done.<br /><br />I recently filled up an entire To Do list notebook. On the final list on the last page of the book, I’d written: </p><ul><li>Buy a new notebook.</li></ul><p>So, I packed up the kids and we headed to the store. We made our way to the stationary aisle so I could find a suitable replacement.<br /><br />I studied the selection. Admittedly, I’m picky about my To Do list notebooks. The cover design has to be simple and somewhat stylish and it has to fit nicely in my purse so I can keep my list at the ready, prepared to add or cross off tasks as needed. </p><p>Often the content of the To Do lists is unpleasant:<br /></p><ul><li>Clean the toilet bowl.</li><li>Mop the kitchen floor. (Ew! Sticky!)</li></ul><p>…so I like to pick a notebook that is aesthetically pleasing, at least.<br /><br />As I surveyed my options, my 7 year-old daughter asked if she could get a notebook too. Assuming she wanted it for drawing, I suggested a large tablet of plain white paper – after all, she’s constantly stealing sheets out of the printer at home.<br /><br />“No,” she said. “I need a notebook like yours. I need to get organized.”<br /><br />Hmmm. You’re seven years old, I thought. You need to be organized? Anyhow, I obliged and she picked out a notebook with bright pink flowers on it and an elastic band to cinch it closed.<br /><br />For the rest of the day, that notebook never left her side. She walked around with a pencil wedged behind her ear and every once in a while, would dutifully jot down something.<br /><br />I glanced over her shoulder to see that she’d listed several tasks, each with a little box next to it, awaiting a check mark of completion. When she noticed I was straining to see her list, she pressed it tightly to her chest and announced that it was not ready yet.<br /><br />Well, all righty.<br /><br />I turned my attention to my To Do list instead. It read:<br /><br /><strong>TO DO:</strong></p><ul><li>Plan meals for the week / prepare grocery list.</li><li>Go to the store.</li><li>Fill out permission slip for field trip.</li><li>Laundry. (We need clean undies!)</li><li>Schedule hair cuts for kids.</li><li>Scrub the bathtub.</li></ul><p>I didn’t use the check-box system, but through the day, I crossed off a few items, which felt satisfying.<br /><br />Later that afternoon my daughter approached – still clutching her notebook to her chest. She told me she’d finished her To Do list and wondered if we could work on a few items together.<br /><br />“Definitely,” I said. “Show me your list.”<br /><br />She handed over the notebook. On the cover she’d written: “PRIVATE PROPARDY.” (A clear warning to her brother and sister.)<br /><br />I opened the book to the first page and began to read.<br /><br /><strong>TO DO:</strong></p><ul><li>Clean my room.</li><li>Watch a movie.</li><li>Eat popcorn.</li><li>Have a pupit show. <em>(Puppet show)</em></li><li>Play sharads. <em>(Charades)</em></li><li>Pillow fight.</li></ul><p>Her list made me smile. For one, I was pleased that she intended to clean her room without any prompting. But mostly, I loved how she scheduled fun activities.<br /><br />That night, we worked on completing the items on her list. From room cleaning to pillow fighting, we crossed off each and every “task”. Afterward, we collapsed on the sofa, side by side, glowing with accomplishment.<br /><br />After I put everyone to bed, I reflected on the day’s events.<br /><br />I realized that I’d taught my daughter a useful life skill (organization) that she would carry on into adulthood. Hopefully this skill would be useful during her college years as she learned to stay on top of her studies, juggle a full social calendar and care for her first apartment – all on her own. Maybe someday, when she’s in her 30’s with a family, she’ll use these skills to run her house as efficiently, if not more so, than I.<br /><br />I pulled out my own To Do list to review my progress. I’d crossed off a few items, but didn’t make as big a dent in it as I’d hoped.<br /><br />While I’d taught my daughter how to organize the details of her life, she taught me to remember to schedule the fun. I grabbed a pencil and added a few more items. </p><ul><li>Paint my toenails.</li><li>Watch a movie (one for grown ups).</li><li>Call a girlfriend.</li></ul><p>So now I always try to add at least one fun item to my To Do list. Scheduling fun is just as important, if not more, as scheduling chores. </p><p>This week's To Do list, for example, includes:</p><ul><li>Clean out the fridge. (Ick!)</li></ul><p>But it also lists, in equal importance: </p><ul><li>Build a snowman.</li></ul><p>After all, it’s like I always say, if it’s not on my To Do list, it probably won’t get done.</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-62713465520191628922008-03-22T09:35:00.005-05:002008-07-03T22:23:28.103-05:00Mean teacherMy 7 year-old daughters have entered a stage where they bicker and fight almost all of the time. They disagree over nearly everything. Which show to watch on TV, who gets to use the computer first and even what to wear. (I expected arguments over clothes to wait until they were at least 12 years old.)<br /><br />However, my girls are in strong agreement on one thing: Miss Donna is mean.<br /><br />The girls are in an after school program where they can do homework, play games and have gym time before I pick them up after work. The program is run by a woman who is soft spoken, but extremely firm. She runs a tight ship – and she has to. She’s responsible for nearly a dozen kids ranging from first to fifth graders.<br /><br />Miss Donna expects the kids in her care to speak with hushed voices, sit still when instructed to do so and engage in quiet activities such as drawing, reading or playing board games.<br /><br />Personally, I don’t think these are unreasonable expectations, so when my girls started coming home complaining that Miss Donna was mean, I assumed they were overreacting.<br /><br />My girls are typical 7 year-olds. They’re talkative and bubbly, and would rather dance and twirl than sit still for too long. So naturally, I figured they were just getting scolded for giggling too much or being too chatty. I told the girls to follow Miss Donna’s directions and they shouldn’t have any problems.<br /><br />And we didn’t have any problems – for a while.<br /><br />One evening, as I picked up the girls, Miss Donna approached with a solemn face and told me there was something she needed to discuss with me. We stepped to the side, slightly out of earshot from the kids. My girls sat and stared at us, knowing Miss Donna was delivering a bad report. They looked frightened.<br /><br />To be honest, the stern look on Miss Donna’s face scared the hell out of me. Her voice was low and serious; indicating that one of my girls had done something awful – shocking even. Did she steal something? Did she hurt someone? I braced myself for the worst.<br /><br />“Today, your daughter said a bad word,” she began. “She said a <em>very</em> bad word.”<br /><br />Before I continue, I need to confess something: I have a very bad mouth. Though never in front of the kids, I tend to pepper my language with what I like to call, “sentence enhancers”.<br /><br />I’ve always loved the English language and am a self-described ‘Word Nerd’. And as such, I’m simply fascinated by the versatility of the F-word. It’s the perfect word. It’s a noun, a verb, an adverb – it’s incredible.<br /><br />I love the F-word and like to use it. However, I use it sparingly because I know that not everyone is as fond of it as I am. I never use it at work, in the company of my mother, or in front of my children. I know better than that.<br /><br />Miss Donna’s expression indicated that my daughter had said something terrible – and I could only guess that it was pretty effing bad.<br /><br />She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, preparing to say the word herself. She leaned in and whispered, “She said…the D-word.”<br /><br />I stood there, stumped for a few seconds. The D-word? What the heck is that? D? Which one starts with D?<br /><br />“Oh! You mean, ‘damn’,” I volunteered, a little too loudly and causing some of the kids to look our way.<br /><br />“Yes,” she said in a hush, “and obviously that kind of language is not allowed.”<br /><br />I assured Miss Donna that words like the “D-word” were not permitted in my home either. Frankly I was a little relieved that the hubbub was only about swearing. She hadn’t done anything dangerous or defiant. She’d only said one little bad word – and not even one of the really bad ones at that.<br /><br />I told Miss Donna that I’d speak to my daughter about it and motioned for the girls to get their things together. Miss Donna stared me down and didn’t budge. Her demeanor suggested she expected something more from me. I felt a little like a kid at the principal’s office. At her nonverbal prompting, I added,<br /><br />“And there will be consequences for her behavior here today,”<br /><br />This seemed to satisfy Miss Donna. I realized that during our brief exchange, the woman had somehow cornered me against a wall. I edged my way past her, waiving my kids over to the door. They quickly grabbed their coats and backpacks and scooted through the doorway. We all were relieved to step outside.<br /><br />Without a word, we piled into my van. My daughter, the one that said the offending word, sat with her eyes cast downward, afraid of whatever punishment I was about to bestow. The other one knew better than to act up, so she sat quietly, watching me in the rear-view mirror, awaiting my reaction.<br /><br />I could now see how my girls thought Miss Donna was mean. She definitely put me on the spot. But despite the fact I felt she had overacted to what in my mind was a minor infraction, I needed to support her.<br /><br />It’s important that parents support their children’s teachers and caregivers. I have friends who teach and tell me that it’s common for parents to side with their children on disciplinary issues. They question the teacher’s authority and don’t support their classroom decisions, which is wrong.<br /><br />When parents teach their kids that they don’t have to listen to authority figures, they’re setting them up to fail as adults. What’s that kid going to do when he’s got a boss who’s demanding? Call his mommy? Life is full of difficult people. Learning how to deal with them is probably one of the most important life skills a parent can teach their children.<br /><br />I needed to put my own impression of Miss Donna aside and support her. I don’t know what it’s like to wrangle all of those kids for 3 hours every day. She’s got to do what she’s got to do to keep things running smoothly – and that means squashing even the smallest infractions. I couldn’t undermine Miss Donna’s authority.<br /><br />I turned the key in the ignition and announced the punishment. My daughter cried when she learned she wouldn’t be allowed to play on the computer that night. I asked if she knew it was a bad word (she did) and if she knew bad words weren’t allowed (she did). I explained that she had to be punished for doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. It was that simple. She seemed to understand.<br /><br />That night, watching TV, I saw a 22-year-old girl perform in a singing competition. She was awful. While she looked like a hip, pop star, her singing was off-key and sounded terrible. Anyone with ears could tell this girl was a bad singer.<br /><br />The judges delivered the bad news. “Sorry sweetie, but your voice isn’t strong enough to be a professional singer.” Instead of accepting the bad news with any kind of grace or dignity, she blew up.<br /><br />The girl accused the judges (each a music-industry expert) of not recognizing good talent. She went on a tirade, cursing and carrying on. Finally, she flipped the judges the bird and left. The cameraman followed her out into the lobby, where her mother was waiting with open arms.<br /><br />“Oh honey,” her mama said. “They’re crazy – you’re great!” The girl sobbed into her mother’s bosom. “You’re going to be a star someday, really, you will,” her mama said, stroking her florescent pink hair.<br /><br />The show put the whole situation into perspective. We can’t shield our kids from so-called, mean teachers – and we shouldn’t even if we could.<br /><br />One little bad word today could lead to a televised tantrum tomorrow.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-89412927575125983552008-03-08T20:40:00.007-06:002008-07-03T22:19:14.486-05:00Top five benefits of being a single parentI know it sounds hard to believe, but there are actually quite a few benefits to being a single parent. Sure, it’s hard work – extra long hours, one income instead of two and a general lack of adult conversation — but believe it or not, there are quite a few perks to working solo too.<br /><br />So, here they are, in no particular order, my list of the top five benefits of being a single parent. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><strong>TOP FIVE BENEFITS OF BEING A SINGLE PARENT </strong><br /><br /><strong>5) The Thermostat.</strong><br /><br />There's no more wrestling over the thermostat. You set it once and it stays right were you set it – every time.<br /><br /><strong>4) You know where every penny goes.</strong><br /><br />This benefit isn't about arguing over joint checking account <em>expenses</em>. It's about keeping the joint account <em>balanced</em>. Single parents don't have to chase down debit-card receipts or checks written but not recorded. The issue of keeping the books balanced, simply isn't an issue anymore.<br /><br /><strong>3) Total control of the TV. </strong><br /><br />Unless your kids are old enough to work the remote, the TV is all yours. Instead of watching <em>SportCenter</em> or televised golf, chances are you’re enjoying a DVR full of <em>Oprah</em> episodes and TLC’s <em>What Not to Wear</em> re-runs.<br /><strong><br />2) You can cook whatever you want…or not.</strong><br /><br />If your ex was a picky eater, the meals you cooked were probably influenced, at least in part, by his tastes. It can be pretty stressful, trying to please someone who's hard to please. When you're the only one driving the menu, you can cook what you like, the way you like it.<br /><br />In addition, with one adult in the house, if you don’t feel like cooking, well...don’t. Obviously you should still feed your kids, but they'll survive with leftovers, drive-through or PB&J (all in moderation, of course). If your kids have a good hot lunch program at school (where they serve hot and healthy lunches everyday), you can skip the more labor-intensive, traditional meals from time to time, guilt free.<br /><br /><strong>1) No more waiting for your ex to pitch in with house/yard work.</strong><br /><br />Sure, there’s more work for one person to do overall, but the stress and arguments over who will do what and when is completely eliminated. I know of lots of women who beg, nag and bargain trying to get their spouses to pitch in, only to end up doing it all themselves anyway.<br /><br />Single moms get to save time and just get to getting the work done. There's no arguing. No mental Olympics. No drama. The workload is the same, but getting it done can be less stressful.<br /><br />~ ~ ~<br /><br />Now, I’m not saying that being a single parent is <em>better</em> than being a married one. I’d just die if someone read this list and decided to dump their husband because he watches <em>SportsCenter </em>24/7.<br /><br />My point comes more from a making-lemonade-out-of-lemons kind of place. Being a single parent means you can do things on your own terms - and that fact alone has certain, undeniable benefits.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-11308279253830078692008-03-04T17:51:00.005-06:002008-07-03T22:24:25.669-05:00Playing stay-home momI can still remember the first time I took the week off to enjoy Spring Break with my kids. This would be my chance to see what it felt like being a stay-at-home mom. I was so excited. I planned to savor every second of my vacation away from work.<br /><br />I started the week ambitious and energetic. I had a huge list of things to do. Actually, I had two lists. One was full of fun stuff like going to the library, spending a day at a water park and letting the kids play at a Playland while I read a book.<br /><br />The other list contained chores that I normally don’t have time to tackle. Things like boxing up clothes the kids had outgrown, cleaning out the pantry and sewing patches onto the girls’ Brownies vests. Yes sir, I was ready to rock as a full-time, stay-home mom.<br /><br />MONDAY<br /><br />We started the week out with a treat – pajama day. We all stayed in our PJs the whole day, lounging about, watching movies and playing board games. I didn’t get to any of my chores, but what the heck? I was on vacation, right?<br /><br />TUESDAY<br /><br />Tuesday, we managed to get to the library and to McDonalds. Sadly, my little guy missed his nap so the rest of the day I paid for it, trying to get things done with a 2 year-old glued to both of my legs. I didn’t get any of my chores done, but it was still early in the week. I had no doubt I’d eventually cross them off my list.<br /><br />WEDNESDAY<br /><br />I said goodbye to housework for one more day, and we hit the water park, only to later return to a total disaster zone. Toys were strewn everywhere and now wet towels and swimsuits littered the bathroom floor. Our eyes, red from chlorine, burned and we all were in bed before 7 p.m.<br /><br />THURSDAY<br /><br />The kids were up at 6 a.m. (They’d gone to bed too early the night before.) I was determined to tackle the house and it took me most of the day to pile through laundry and get the kitchen and bathrooms into shape.<br /><br />By the time evening rolled around, I was tired and frustrated. After all, with the kids home all day, the clutter and mess was relentless. While I was cleaning the living room, they were in my bedroom, jumping on the bed, watching my TV and shoving previously folded laundry onto the floor.<br /><br />When I kicked them out to clean my room, they moved to their own rooms and trashed them in seconds. I was so busy with basic tidying I was too pooped out to tackle any of my big projects.<br /><br />Also, at this point, everyone’s fuses have grown short and the bickering is constant. Tattle-tailing is at an all-time high and we look more like the family from <em>Malcolm in the Middle</em> than the picture-perfect one on <em>Full House</em>. I’m saying things like, “If I have to come up there one more time, you’re going to get it!” and “Keep your hands to yourself!” with alarming frequency.<br /><br />FRIDAY<br /><br />By the time Friday came I was absolutely starved for adult conversation. So I packed up the kids and we left for Grandma’s. As my brood raided Grandpa’s snack stash, I hung on Grandma’s every word. She obliged and told me, with great detail, about her recent trip to the casino.<br /><br />“Really,” I asked, riveted. “They just <em>gave</em> you the free meal tokens?”<br /><br />She could’ve been reading the back of a cereal box for all I cared. I was just happy to hear someone talk in a normal tone of voice – no whining, no tattling. At 9, they pushed us out the front door, waving and shaking their heads.<br /><br />SATURDAY<br /><br />When Saturday rolled around I began to feel desperate. Somehow, I managed to blow my whole week and had very little to show for it. I was determined to get the too-small clothes out of the kids’ dressers by the end of the day.<br /><br />I’d envisioned packing everything away into perfectly labeled storage tubs, to be given to a friend for her kids. But with time waning, I stuffed them into a couple of trash bags and stashed them in a corner in the basement instead.<br /><br />SUNDAY<br /><br />I always look forward to church on Sundays. It’s partly because I enjoy the preacher, but mostly because during the service, I get to sit alone and listen to an inspirational sermon, uninterrupted.<br /><br />With my older kids in Sunday school and my little guy in the nursery, I get one whole, delicious hour to sit quietly and listen. For me, that hour is as relaxing as a Swedish massage, honest. <br /><br />Sadly, this Sunday, the nursery volunteer was sick. I brought my two-year-old into the church and had to nearly sit on him for the hour to keep him quiet. Despite my best efforts, an old lady with bright red lipstick which had settled deep into the creases around her mouth scowled at me.<br /><br />Sunday night, my daughter informs me she has a science project due the next day. No problem I think, looking at the clock. It’s 6 p.m. – there’s still time. She proceeds to tell me about the germination experiment she was to conduct, wrapping sunflower seeds in a moistened paper towel and documenting when they sprout over the course of a week.<br /><br />After a little quick thinking, we punt and turn it into a research project (without the hands-on part). I cross my fingers and hope for the best as I shove everything into her backpack. By the time everyone is fed and bathed, it’s 8 p.m. <br /><br />After the kids settle down for good – drinks of water have been disbursed, under-bed monsters exterminated and threats of “…if you get out of bed one more time…” have been administered – it’s nearly 9.<br /><br />At the end of my “vacation from work”, I learned an important lesson about myself. I need structure. I need to get out of my house. I need time alone.<br /><br />Sitting on my couch after a week as a stay-home mom, I realized that I needed to go back to work – and soon.<br /><br />Working is good for me. Working gives my life balance. An office setting makes me feel professional and confident. The time spent away from my home and my kids gives me perspective on my life.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother and think I’m damn good at it too. But, working outside of my home helps me appreciate my at-home time more.<br /><br />For me, one of the biggest, most practical advantages to working full-time can be boiled down to a simple equation:<br /><br />Less time spent at my house = less time spent cleaning my house.<br /><br />During the workweek, I tidy my house once in the morning, leave and come home to find it in the same condition as I’d left it in 10 hours earlier. When I’m home all day, the cleaning is continuous. I don’t know what’s more stressful for me: cleaning a house that’s continually getting messed up or trying to function in a messy house. Either way, I relish leaving and coming home to a tidy home. And this, for me, is a very big deal.<br /><br />So there you have it. This week illustrates exactly why I couldn’t be a stay-home mom. I simply need more time away from my kids and home.<br /><br />Some people might think that admitting all of this makes me appear to be a less-than-ideal mother. I’ve had bosses whose wives were stay-home moms, sneer at this suggestion.<br /><br />But I strongly believe that deep down every mom needs time away from her house and kids. It rejuvenates the spirit, rekindles the fire.<br /><br />And how much time away varies from mom to mom. For some, a quick trip to the grocery store by oneself does the trick. For others, an extended weekend every now and again is what it takes. And others, like me, need a slice of time away every day in order to come home recharged.<br /><br />And there’s nothing wrong with admitting it.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-65303849756599798102008-03-01T10:02:00.007-06:002008-07-03T22:24:52.473-05:00No doubt about it<p>It’s hard being 100% responsible for little people. In my case, I’m 100% responsible 90% of the time. That means that generally, the lion’s share of tough parenting moments are mine and mine alone.<br /><br />Since the day my boy turned 5 months old, there’s been nobody else around to lend a hand with late-night misery. I remember being up all night with a crying infant, then trying desperately to stay awake and be productive at work the next day. And this went on for months.<br /><br />In addition, when the kids get sick, I’ve typically the only one to deal with fevers, vomit and taking time off of work. Of course, to the kids, nobody else will do when it comes to backrubs, making toast and snuggly hugs. And honestly, there’s no way in the world I’d let someone else step in – though that doesn’t mean that it isn’t exhausting.<br /><br />Being the only referee in a game where you’re clearly outnumbered is tough. At my house, there’s no man-on-man defense. I’m stuck playing zone – all the time. Negotiating disagreements, breaking up brawls and maintaining a level of peace and harmony with only one set of adult eyeballs is challenging to say the least.<br /><br />Sometimes, to put it bluntly, single parenting can suck.<br /><br />Whether you’re a single mom because of divorce, death or military leave – or you’re a married mom who’s alone because your spouse works long or odd hours – it’s a tough gig. There are times when you feel like everyone just takes and takes from you, depleting your time, energy and your sanity.<br /><br />It can feel like the world, including your own kids, is conspiring against you. And at the end of the day, you either collapse into bed, asleep before your head hits the pillow or lay awake at night, praying for the strength to get through another day.<br /><br />But, on the flipside, when you’re a single parent, you get to be the only one to reap the benefits and bask in millions of tiny little victories.<br /><br />Those precious times when your kids look up and say, “Love you, Mom,” are all yours.<br /><br />I remember the day I taught my daughter to ride a two-wheeled bike. It was frustrating for us both, but when she rode off down the street, I was never more proud of her – or of myself. When my girls’ science fair projects earned blue ribbons, I was just as proud as they were. I helped them pick their projects and I helped them document their progress with painstaking detail. Every time I pass the ribbons, which hang in a place of honor on the fridge, my head swells a little. And someday, when my kids get their college diplomas, I’ll be on cloud nine.<br /><br />Part of what makes those victories so sweet is that I don’t share them with anyone else. I put in the long hours. I do the legwork. The parental credit is all mine.<br /><br />Last night, my youngest was sick. It was awful. He was up every few hours with a throbbing ear infection and congestion that made it hard for him to breathe. At 3 a.m., as I tried to relieve some of his discomfort with “Mr. Snuffy”, our bulb syringe, I cursed the fact that his father was probably sound asleep across town. </p><p>Eventually, my son and I ended up falling asleep on the floor in his room. </p><p>At 7 a.m., with my ear to the carpet, I was awakened to the sound of a chair being pushed across the kitchen floor below. Instantly, I was wide awake, wondering how much trouble, two seven year-olds could get into trying to make their own breakfast. I felt frustrated, knowing I’d gotten too little sleep to face whatever disaster was waiting for me downstairs with any kind of patience or objectivity.<br /><br />But when I opened the bedroom door, I nearly melted at the sight of a little stool, perfectly set with my breakfast. There was a bowl of cereal, mug of milk, a folded section of newspaper and even a small vase of daisies. This sweet gesture touched me so deeply. It renewed my spirit and instantly gave me strength to face the day.<br /><br />There are times when your kids recognize that someone needs to take care of mom too – and this was one of them. And I was so proud of my girls for understanding this and stepping in.<br /><br />After my initial surprise, again, I thought about the kids’ dad. He was probably still sound asleep miles away. Instead of feeling resentful or jealous that he got a peaceful night’s sleep and I didn't, I felt really sorry for him. Sure, he misses out on the hard stuff, but he also misses out on great moments like these.<br /><br />Even though being a single parent is the hardest, most frustrating thing I’ve ever faced, it’s also the most rewarding, fulfilling thing I’ll ever do. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything – not even a full week’s worth of uninterrupted sleep. And I bet that other single moms feel the same way.<br /><br />So for now, I'll just continue take things one day (and night) at a time. And drink lots of coffee in the process.</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-57819253131685723502008-02-09T07:45:00.000-06:002008-07-03T22:25:16.898-05:00What goes around<div align="left">At 26 years old, I was fresh-faced and single and lived in a charming flat in a trendy part of town. I’d graduated from college, had a promising marketing job and knew even then, that my future was a blank slate. Though I had no kids, I complained about my “tummy” (geesh!). Despite always wanting to lose a few pounds, I remember feeling great. I felt so energetic and alive.<br /><br />One day at the office, a few of my co-workers and I were chatting about our lives. We were all young women, without kids, whose conversations were dominated by discussions of men, fashion and what low-fat, no-fat concoction we’d eaten for dinner the night before. The talk turned to our ages. We went around the horn, stating our how old we were. Everyone was in their mid- to late-twenties, except for one woman who was 35.<br /><br />“Thirty-five?!?” I blurted. “<em>You’re</em> 35<em>?</em> NO WAY!”<br /><br />I said it with a tone of incredulousness – like it was a compliment that she looked so young and hip despite being so very, very old. She was so cool and fabulous-looking, it seemed impossible she could be 35.<br /><br />“Wow,” I concluded. “I hope that when I’m 35, I look half as great as you do.”<br /><br />FAST FORWARD NINE YEARS…<br /><br />I work in a different office now. I’m still in marketing and still congregate around the coffee machine talking about men, clothes and low-fat recipes. But one thing’s different: I’m 35.<br /><br />Last week as we sipped our coffee, the conversation turned to our ages. At this office, the age differences are greater. There are quite a few silver-haired folks with kids in college, there’s me and then there’s a tall, beautiful blonde who is – you guessed it – 26.<br />When I told the group I’d just turned 35, the blonde blurted out,<br /><br />“<em>You’re 35?</em> NO WAY!”<br /><br />She delivered it the exact same way I had so many years before. It was meant as a compliment – and I knew it – but on the receiving end, it didn’t exactly feel like one.<br /><br />Since turning 35, a few things have changed. For one, my doctor suggests running different kinds of tests because I’m now in a higher-risk age group for various conditions and ailments. The morning after a bike ride is spent easing sore muscles and walking bow-legged. The hair dye I used to use to turn my dull, brown into a shimmering chestnut is now applied to cover several noticeable grays.<br /><br />Still, all that considered, I really do feel great. While my body is different (three kids’ll do that to you), I feel more comfortable in my skin. I’m happier, more confident.<br /><br />I still feel like my future is a blank slate, but I think the biggest difference is that I now know better what I want out of life. At 26, I didn’t have tremendous expectations of my future because I wasn’t seasoned enough to know what I really wanted. But now, my expectations are greater. My dreams are better defined. My goals have shape and the path to get there is clearer.<br /><br />Thirty-five is a gift. It’s an opportunity to stop and reflect on where you've been and think about where you want to go from here.<br /><br />When I was 26, I was living on my own. I remember being so proud at the life I’d created for myself. I felt successful, responsible and independent.<br /><br />Today, I’m full of even more pride. I’m still supporting myself and now, three kids. While it can be overwhelming at times, mostly I feel independent and capable at doing it all, alone no less.<br /><br />Thirty-five isn’t all that different than 26. Both still think about men, clothes and ways to lose 10 lbs. But 35 has a leg up on 26. Thirty-five is wiser and is better equipped to get what she wants. My 35 is better than my 26 was. It’s fuller, richer and all around better – even without that flat tummy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>“From birth to age 18, a girl needs good parents, from 18 to 35 she needs good looks, from 35 to 55 she needs a good personality, and from 55 on she needs cash.”<br /><br />- Sophie Tucker</em></span></div>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-6951080537578450362008-01-30T19:56:00.001-06:002008-07-03T22:25:26.423-05:00The baby’s armed. No seriously, he is.There are whole organizations dedicated to eradicating toy guns from the shelves of retailers. There are armies of concerned citizens, squarely focused on stopping the sale of plastic weapons that in their minds, achieve no other purpose other than incite violence and mayhem.<br /><br />Personally, I’m not in favor of violent toys like video games that base point totals on body counts. I don’t like movies that glorify violent behavior. Directors claim art reflects life, but I think the door swings both ways. Why expose kids to that kind of junk?<br /><br />Besides, I’m not much of a risk taker anyway. So I’m going to play it safe and refrain from letting my kids see violent stuff. I am trying to raise responsible, law-abiding tax payers after all. I figure it’s best to expose them to educational toys and TV programs that might plant seeds of positive ambition, instead of grizzly influences that could sway them to the dark side.<br /><br />However, let me go on the record to say that banning Nerf guns and water pistols is just plain crazy. I mean, come on! They’re harmless, right?<br /><br />I was recently shopping with my kids in one of those stores were everything costs a dollar. Normally when we shop at normal-priced stores, I preface the trip with the following speech:<br /><br />“We are going to this store to buy X. It is the only item we will purchase. We are not here to buy new toys, games or candy, so do not ask me to do so. What are we going to buy?”<br /><br />“X,” they grudgingly respond in unison.<br /><br />“Yes! Good job,” I praise. “We are here to only buy X,” I repeat.<br /><br />Fast forward two minutes: We’re in the store, the kids are begging me to buy this or that and I’m ready to blow my stack. I don’t have money to waste on over-priced crap that’s going to get lost in my kids’ over-stuffed toy boxes, so the answer is, “No, no, <em>NO</em>!”<br /><br />ANYHOW…so we go to the dollar store and the kids immediately start in, asking me to buy them toys. My instinct is to say no, but then I stop, realize I’m in the <em>dollar</em> store, and heroically proclaim:<br /><br />“Yes! You can pick out ANY one thing from this store and I WILL buy it for you.”<br /><br />The kids go nuts. They exclaim, “Thank you, mom! You’re the best!” and bolt for the toy aisle.<br /><br />A minute later my two-year-old toddles up to me with his selection. It’s a bright red plastic gun that shoots foam darts. I inspect it for possible choking hazards - or throat plugs as I like to call them - and deem it an acceptable choice. He thanks me and smiles his biggest smile. This is his first toy gun.<br /><br />So I bought him a gun. Big deal. It’s bright red - could never be mistaken for a real one - and shoots large foam “bullets”. This is not a toy that’s going to turn my cherub-faced boy into a cold-blooded killer. It’s harmless.<br /><br />We’re home for about five minutes when suddenly, I’m ambushed. My baby jumps out from behind a corner, gun drawn and shouts,<br /><br />“Freeze, mama! I said FREEZE!!”<br /><br />I instinctively freeze. Despite my compliance, he squeezes the trigger and shoots me anyway. I fake a dramatic death and collapse on the living room floor.<br /><br />Laying there I wonder if I’ve made a mistake buying the gun. Am I fostering a future criminal? Am I grooming a young delinquent? Will I be on the 5 p.m. news someday saying I don’t know where it all went wrong – he was such a sweet child?<br /><br />Nah, I don’t think I’m going to worry too badly about it. Just because he sometimes plays with an airplane doesn’t mean he’s going to grow up to be a pilot, right?<br /><br />Besides…he did yell, “Freeze!” and not, “Stick em up!”Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-80117638284888033172008-01-26T08:21:00.001-06:002008-07-03T22:19:14.486-05:00When mom gets sickMy third grade teacher, Mrs. Bolton, had a favorite phrase: Mind over matter. She’d whip it out whenever a kid was struggling with something. She delivered it with cheerful optimism, despite the situation.<br /><br /><em>Hard time doing a chin up? Mind over matter!<br /><br />Trouble with that cursive capital “G”? Mind over matter!<br /><br />Can’t carry that heavy cello case? Mind over matter! <br /></em><br />Sometimes it seemed like a bit of a stretch, but she’d repeat her mantra at least once a day, regardless of if we were scratching our heads in confusion or not.<br /><br />One day, Joey, the skinny, dark-haired boy that sat next to me, raised his hand, complaining that he didn’t feel well.<br /><br />“Mind over mat—” she began.<br /><br />I recall looking over just in time to see Joey lift the lid to his flip-top desk and throw up inside.<br /><br />I guess one’s mind can’t always conquer matter.<br /><br />Now, as a gown-up, I think of poor Joey whenever I start to feel sick. It starts with that familiar tightening in my throat and that not-quite-right feeling in my back. I think to myself, “No! I can’t get sick! I’m The Mom!” and I evoke the powers of mind over matter.<br /><br />Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.<br /><br />Despite my best mind over matter attempt, I recently came down with strep throat and was rendered out of commission for two, full days. Luckily, before getting sick I’d caught up on laundry and stocked the fridge, so at least I had supplies.<br /><br />“Mom, I need socks!” called my daughter from downstairs.<br /><br />“Mom, where’s my snack?” shouted the other.<br /><br />My swollen tonsils were so painful I couldn’t muster the strength to project an audible response.<br /><br />Generally, when moms get sick, the whole balance of the house gets thrown out of whack. Housekeeping goes out the window, meal preparation is shoddy at best and it’s generally every man for himself.<br /><br />This is true regardless of if it’s a single-parent household or not. Moms are the glue that bind, the grease in the gears, the wind under the wings. Take mom out of the equation and you’ve got chaos. In a single-parent household, when Mom’s down, it can be downright anarchy.<br /><br />By the time I was able to drag myself out of bed and slowly make my way downstairs, the pleas of “Mom! Mom!” had stopped.<br /><br />The girls were busy helping each other dig through laundry baskets to find clean socks. They’d already found a couple of granola bars in the pantry and tossed them into their backpacks. They had their hair and teeth brushed and, shock of all shocks, they even fed their little brother by giving him his own granola bar – unwrapped and everything.<br /><br />It was a beautiful sight. I stood in the doorway, full of pride (and penicillin) taking in the scene. It was heartwarming. Where had my babies gone? They were so responsible, so grown up.<br /><br />Then, I looked around the kitchen to see spills on the counter, school books strewn on the floor and the contents of my purse (which is strictly off limits, by the way) dumped out on the kitchen table. Just then, the kids looked up and saw me…<br /><br />“MOM!” they yelled in unison.<br /><br /><em>Mind over matter. Mind over matter!</em> <em>MIND OVER MATTER!</em>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-3412321691130555892008-01-16T20:14:00.001-06:002008-07-03T22:25:57.361-05:00Minivan confessionalHi, my name is Jess and I…uh…drive a minivan.<br /><br />(Hello, Jess.)<br /><br />When I first got married, I vowed to never get a minivan. In fact, I went so far as to tell my hubby that if I ever suggested it, he had my permission to give me a brisk slap across the face to bring me back to my senses.<br /><br />What turned the tide was the birth of our third child. After a month, we both had bloody knuckles from clicking our crew into three car seats wedged in the back of our stylish, yet ridiculously impractical sedan. In the end, there was no face slapping – it was a quiet surrender.<br /><br />I remember pulling into the parking lot at work with my new "vehicle". (I didn't know what to call it - it wasn't a car or truck and I couldn't say the m-word without feeling sick.) A co-worker (a woman much older than I) commented on what a nice minivan I had – Was it new? Could the seats fold down flat into the floor?<br /><br />Instead of proudly talking about its keyless entry or the DVD player, I lowered my head and mumbled something about not being sure if it was...me.<br /><br />She patted my hand and said, "You know, your days of cruising for boys are over." To which a witty bystander (this one much younger than I) interjected,<br /><br />"But if you wanted to, you could seat 6 of them comfortably."<br /><br />Eventually I got over the shame of driving my minivan, but remained fiercely defensive anytime anyone accused me of being a "soccer mom". To this day, I immediately shoot a scathing look and denounce the accusation.<br /><br />"I'm hip and trendy,” I say. “I make this van work!"<br /><br />But now, nearly 3 years later, as a single gal, I’m finding myself feeling embarrassed again. Lately I feel frumpy and extremely uncool when I get behind the wheel.<br /><br />But why? Am I embarrassed by my status as a mom? Heck no. Not at all. I guess I just want others to perceive me as the cool mom I feel I am. And a minivan doesn’t exactly make one look cool.<br /><br />So what's a gal to do? Give up the van?<br /><br />In my case, my sense of practicality outweighs my vanity. I need the extra seating. I like being able to toss kids and bikes inside at a moment’s notice. And above all else, when the kids start to bicker about who’s sitting where, I love that DVD player!<br /><br />Nah, for now, I’m keeping the van. I might not look like a cool mom on the outside, but that’s okay. I’ll just crank up my music and dream about that little red hatchback in my future. Though…now that I think about it, a 2-door coupe won’t have the legroom of, say a Grand Caravan.<br /><br />You know, for all those boys.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-23185406888242950802008-01-13T09:40:00.000-06:002008-07-03T22:26:40.881-05:00What turns me onShortly after my divorce, a well-intentioned family member suggested I try online dating.<br /><br />I thought about it. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. After all, how else would I meet someone? Unless cute single guys are hanging out at the McDonald's Playland or in the library these days, my odds weren't looking too good.<br /><br />Side note: Single men who hang out at Playlands and libraries are best avoided.<br /><br />Anyhow, I thought about how my online profile would read:<br /><br />Single, professional female in mid-30's seeks a nice guy who is financially secure (has to have a job), mature (Say it with me: "Video games are for kids,") and likes children (but not child-like). My turn ons are...are...<br /><br />What turns me on today is pretty different than what used to get me all hot and bothered. As a working mother, my turn ons are more specific than just some guy with a cute tush. I made a list of what really turns me on. It read:<br /><br /><ul><li><strong>Organized pantries.</strong> You know those pantries where everything's in tidy little containers and it's all perfectly labeled? That's hot. </li></ul><p></p><ul><br /><li><strong>California closets.</strong> Oh, those compartmentalized closets! Everything has its own place. My purses could have their own cubbies instead of being looped over a sad-looking wire hanger.</li></ul><ul><br /><li><strong>A real, honest-to-goodness laundry room.</strong> Ever see in those home-improvement magazines those bright and airy laundry rooms? Some have windows and everything! Thinking about doing the wash in an inviting (and dare I add first-floor) laundry room instead of a cold, damp spider web-filled basement gives me thrills like none other.</li></ul>My list of turn ons might sound pathetic to some, but thinking about this list even now gets me all warm and tingly inside.<br /><br /><br /><p>Instead of spending the money on an online dating service, I decided to invest in something that'd provide a little, you know...self gratification. A small, hand-held device that would instantly launch me into the throes of ecstasy. A battery-operated beauty that could satisfy like none other.</p>So I ran out and got a label maker.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-30848991260486118022008-01-12T07:07:00.000-06:002008-01-16T21:09:33.156-06:00Employers of the world - hear this:I am blessed. Health, happiness and family aside, I have an employer that provides family-friendly flexibility.<br /><br />I recently got a memo from my day care that stated they're going to begin enforcing a much-abused policy which prohibits kids from being at the center longer than 10 hours. A cost-prohibitive penalty fee will now be added for exceeding the 10-hour limit.<br /><br />Admittedly, I am a parent that has pushed the boundaries of this rule since day one. Nothing crazy - 10-15 minutes, tops. And it's not because I'm off shopping or getting manicures. It's actually quite the opposite - I'm generally fighting rush-hour traffic or trying to wrap up that last-minute project for an important client.<br /><br />So, here were my options:<br />1) Suck it up and pay the fee (which I can't afford).<br />2) Ask my boss if I can work through lunch and leave early.<br /><br />Let it be said, I HATE asking for favors. I don't want my co-workers to feel that I'm not there enough or that they can't count on me. My competency and dependability are two things I never want questioned.<br /><br />Thankfully, my major clients often leave early, so ditching lunch to scoot by 4:30 was my best (and only) option. So I composed "The Email", closed my eyes and hit "send". Within a minute, I had a reply.<br /><br />"Yes, you can leave early."<br /><br />Oh, thank God.<br /><br />I quickly composed a thank you email expressing my appreciation and reaffirming my dedication to my work.<br /><br />I'm sure my boss's decision wasn't made out of compassion for the pickle I was in. It was good business. In the past year-and-a-half that I've worked there, I've demonstrated that I'm a very engaged and conscientious employee. I'm detail-oriented and rarely leave a loose end hanging. I'm known as a team player who often logs in on days off or just calls in to be sure things are running smoothly. I'm confident that my past track record was the biggest factor in her decision to approve my request. She simply accommodated the needs of a highly engaged, productive employee.<br /><br />While I was dedicated before my schedule change, being granted the new work schedule, has given my employer unanticipated rewards. Without the stress of rushing around after work or fretting about the additional day-care costs, I've got a renewed outlook on my work. I feel even more dedicated to the organization and have an extra little spring in my step on the job.<br /><br />Employers of the world - hear this:<br /><br />Work with the working mom. Be flexible with her. Allow her to give you her all in a way that still enables her meet her family's needs. Don't be tied to a time clock. An appreciative, conscientious employee will give you more in 7 hours than a checked-out, unengaged one will give you in 8 or more.<br /><br />And that just makes sense.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9139128978604854580.post-8861041901014341752008-01-11T17:55:00.000-06:002008-07-03T22:19:14.487-05:00What's C3?The Cold Cereal Chronicles (C3) is the blog of a busy professional / single mom of 3. Working full time while raising 3 kids alone is a tough gig. (Can I get an, "Amen!"?) This blog is my way of letting other C3 chicks know that they're not alone or crazy. They say there's strength in numbers and this is a bit of an experiment to see just how many numbers I can get.<br /><br />Here's what C3 is NOT:<br /><ul><li>An anti-man rant.</li><li>A cry for help.</li><li>A pity party.</li></ul><p>C3 is about empowerment. It's about idea sharing. It's about validation.</p><p>Working single moms are goddesses and will be celebrated as such in this forum.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176522505877941064noreply@blogger.com0