Category: Children

Fear the Yeti

On By KitKatIn Children, Parents, Uncategorized1 Comment

If you’re wondering what the hell a Yeti is, you’re not alone. I found myself googling it during my son’s hockey game as I heard the parent next to me shout it out as our boys came onto the ice. I was already having trouble keeping up signswith understanding the game … icing, offsides, cross-checking … I never could figure out why the referee was blowing the whistle. (I called him an umpire till my son scoffingly corrected me on a drive home one evening.)

I’m assuming you’re already getting the impression I am not the world’s best hockey mom. And, if you had asked me what sport I would be managing my life around—that is if I actually had to choose one—hockey would not have been it. For starters, I hate the cold. I already live in Minnesota, so why would I add on the torture of standing inside a cold arena? There’s not even a chance to warm up from the below-zero walk from the car. Plus, I was not so ignorant about the sport to not know that the costs and time dedicated to it were much higher than for those of many other activities my son could choose to participate in. But, in tandem with how the rest of this parenting gig has seemed to go, nothing turns out as I would plan it. He fell in love with hockey. 

With three practices a week and at least one game, hockey has become the center of family activities. We plan around it. The schedule hanging on the fridge at home is synched with my Outlook at work. There have been times we have been dragging kids out of bed for a 7:30 a.m. game and others starting a long drive home from an outlying rink an hour past normal bedtimes on a school night. My daughter’s most whined phrase has become, “Do we have to go to hockey again?” 

And let’s not forget the mandatory volunteer duty. As my son moves up the hockey ranks, so do the hours as parents we are committed to serve. Twelve hours this year that my husband and I had to work off at the concession stand. Looking on the bright side, it saved me a lot of snack money and calories once I actually had a behind-the-scenes look at the preparations. hotdogs

It was looking to be a long season. Never having been an active sports participant or fan, I just didn’t get it. Well, then I started to. 

Something happened as I watched these boys play together as a team. It was something I had never before seen in my overly competitive and fairly self-centered son. Everything was bigger than him when it came to this group of boys. It was all about The Team. If one of them had a bad game, there was no finger-pointing or griping as I witnessed too many times in even a casual game of kickball in our front yard with friends. These boys rallied around each other. Every scored goal was an exciting win for all. I would hear detailed recaps of all the parts played by each team member in getting that puck to just the right position. I would watch the team hurry back to protect their goalie when the other team grabbed the puck. Never was a goal blocked or scored without everyone on the ice patting our goalie in congratulations or “good try” before lining back up for the next face off. And they weren’t the best team. In fact, the season started with a 12-1 loss to a farm team who towered over ours and skated rings around all our players. But these boys grew together as a team. Soon I found myself cheering and yelling for each of the boys by name right along with the others. I took pride in watching each of their huge strides in development as individual players and as a team: Proving their growth as they lost only 5-4 in overtime to the same team two months later.

And it wasn’t just on the ice they were a unified team. These boys bonded as friends. It was very different than their relationships with school friends. There were no pretenses. They didn’t have to act cool, dress a certain way or have a pecking order. They were just the crew. At an out-of-town tournament, I would watch my son wake up in the morning grab a hotel key and throw on a hat to meet the other boys at breakfast. This was the same boy who normally would want me to find out where the other kids were, determine whether or not they were they in their pajamas and wouldn’t join others till invited in the group. I heard other parents on the team saying the same thing. There were no insecurities. They could fully just be themselves and fit right in.

I met some great parents, too. None of us were too intense about the standings, but we all would be jumping up and down on a good play and nervously pacing as we watched our kids in a final shoot out to end the game after two overtimes had past. (I did learn some of how the game worked!) We knew each other’s kids and cheered for them as loudly as our own. We knew how each boy would react to a win or a loss. 

Well, the season is now coming to an end. At our last game, the kids were begging the coach to get them all on the same team again next year. They didn’t hockeywant to play with anyone else. Well, that isn’t how it works, and the coach promised them they all had a lot of hockey ahead of them including other great teams to be part of. I found myself feeling sad, and I can’t believe I am saying this, but I’m already looking forward to starting it again next year. It was fun to be part of something. Working (or cheering) together and sharing in both the wins and the losses. I also now understand why you hear so much about the importance of girls also playing team sports, especially during high school years. A feeling of being part of something beyond yourself is so important, plus feeling like you belong somewhere. That team dynamic I had never experienced. (It was pretty amazing just witnessing it.) But, I will make sure my daughter does, and I am happy to tag along on my son’s journey for now.

One thing I won’t mind is a small break from the dictating ice-time schedule. This week, as I invited friends over for dinner, I had to add the caveat, “…that is, if we aren’t placed in the evening bracket.”  Though my friend’s response was, “We’d love to. But, I can’t say for sure till I know how my son’s basketball tournament pans out.” With the end of the season, I can take back control of my schedule. That is until baseball starts. 

And, if you haven’t googled it yet, a yeti is another name for the “abominable snowman” who is pictured on our Storm team’s jerseys. “Fear the Yeti” became our team chant. It may also make for a good vision board slogan next year, I find it seems to help me as a meditative chant in my mind that both makes me smile and feel some power. Much better then that “ohm” stuff that has never worked for me.

Florida vignettes, part II: Del Boca Vista

On By StormyIn Attitude, Children, Parents, Relationships2 Comments

So, Dear Readers, you may recall that our Florida story began with a work conference. But after a successful conclusion of that industry event, it was time to leave the luxury resort in Ft. Lauderdale for the second phase of my adventure. Next up? A 3-hour drive to senior-infested Central Florida to visit my beloved parents in their winter haven.

Now, whenever I mention that my parents flock to Florida with the other Minnesota snowbirds, I get the same question, “Is it anything like ‘Del Boca Vista’?” To which I respond, “Yes, but imagine the Costanzas living there instead of the Seinfelds.”

After getting turned around a few times trying to find the route recommended by the GPS function on my iPhone (it seems all of the freeways in Florida are labeled “Florida’s Turnpike”), I pulled into the Carefree Country Club in Winterhaven around five o’clock. The next 48 hours were filled with visiting some of Mom and Dad’s favorite eating establishments (the upside of dining with seniors: I got carded when I ordered a beer), listening to my dad play the organ (unfortunately, he plays about three beats behind the pre-programmed accompaniment) and visiting the local flea market.

I’ll take my fleas to go

A "sharp eye" will spot the transposed letters...
A “sharp eye” spots the knock-off pens

The flea market was interesting. Imagine the 20 worst garage sales you’ve ever been to and string them all together. That was the flea market. One large tent in particular was a veritable treasure trove of shit. Knock-off products of every shape and size jockeyed for the attention of shoppers trying to stretch a fixed income.

I was particularly amused by the “Sharpeis”… Aren’t those the wrinkly dogs? The contrast between that redneck flea market and the oceanfront resort where I had been just one day earlier was both amusing and a bit depressing.

What’s a lifetime of sacrifice worth? Apparently $29.82. 

One of the pleasures of being an adult is the ability to buy your parents a decent meal. I mean, my parents raised NINE children, which obviously entailed a considerable amount of physical and financial sacrifice on their part. As someone farther down the batting order, I know that my existence is more due to the Catholic church’s ruling on birth control than it is based on the fact that my parents really wanted an 8th child/5th daughter. So how does one say, “Hey, thanks for all the love and sacrifice?” Well, in our family, food is always an appropriate way to show love, so my plan was to take my parents out for a nice meal during my visit. Sky’s the limit, I told them. Pick your favorite place. After much debate, Mom chose the local Bob Evans. The tab for the three of us? Under $30–so much for gratitude (I had spent that much just having margaritas on the beach earlier in the week). To be honest, my parents would be appalled to know how much my husband and I regularly spend on eating out, as it contradicts the frugal approach necessitated by raising nine children. But my parents enjoyed their meal, and I, their company. So I guess that’s what really matters.

Check out those gams

Being from a large family, it’s an interesting exercise to speculate on which parental traits have carried through to the next generation.

My mother’s nose is…um…prominent. She inherited it from her father and a couple of my brothers and I inherited it from her. My four sisters all lament the fact that they have no pinky toenail and blame my mother. They all covet my pinky toenail—I guess it comes from Dad. My predilection for colorful phrases comes from my father. My love of reading? That’s Dad, too. My sharp tongue? Weird sense of humor? Mom. And so on…

But check this out:

86 years old!
86 years old!

These are the legs of my 86-year-old father. Not bad, eh? In fact, it’s become a bit of a family joke to kid my father about his gorgeous gams. But seriously, this is an unretouched photo taken from my iPhone last week. Look at those legs! I’m hoping this is one of the physical traits I’ve inherited from Dad (my mother’s legs–having withstood nine pregnancies–naturally show a little more wear and tear). Check back in another four decades or so, and we’ll see whether I won the genetic lottery on legs.

Putting the bite on the sandwich generation

The most difficult part of my visit was revisiting an old argument with my mother: The “It’s-time-to-downsize-and-move-to-an-assisted-living-facility” discussion. The fact is, my parents are no longer able to winter in Florida so far away from the assistance of their kids. My mom has her hands full with my dad, who (in addition to great gams) has dementia and no short-term memory. My siblings and I have jobs and families of our own and can’t always drop everything to help out, although we try our best. We all live in dread of Mom getting sick or hurt, because even the most minor hospitalization would require one of us to immediately fly down there and care for my dad.

My sibs and I would like to planfully arrange for my parents to move into a nice senior apartment where they could retain their independence, yet still have a social life and be able to get help in an emergency–rather than waiting for a health crisis to necessitate an emergency move into whatever substandard place has an opening. Ironically, my father–the so-called demented one–is amenable to this; however, my mother is adamantly opposed to the idea. So we defer to Mom’s wishes and continue to persuade and cajole, but the fact is, we’re stuck. We love our parents tremendously and know that these sacrifices are the ones my siblings and I are required to make in exchange for all those our parents made while raising us. As much as I wish otherwise, dinner at Bob Evans just won’t settle that debt.

Where is mom when I need her?

On By KitKatIn Children, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Well I had my blog topic all planned out tonight. It was going to be written between 9:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m., after tuck-in, and as I enjoyed a glass of wine and some quiet. Instead, I spent the night consoling a crying nine-year-old who said he wasn’t going to go school anymore because he was being picked on. It is now almost 11:00 p.m., my plan is thrown off, and I am distracted from my original topic.

This was one of those moments I felt totally unprepared to be a mother. Instead of having words of wisdom or advice on how to fix the problem, it took me right back to some memories I’d rather just forget. All I could think was, “Yeah, it sucks and you really can’t stop it. You just have to get through it.” I know, not a very encouraging mom perspective.

Now if you ask me why he got picked on and I told you … you’d say it is pretty silly. Minor stuff. Actually, fairly ridiculous. But if you were ever teased, you know that even someone saying, “You are too smart, pretty and rich,”—when said in a mocking voice—would make you want to give it all up just to fly under the radar. As a kid, you just want to be liked and fit in.

slushy

I still clearly remember going into seventh grade, starting at a new school, and a popular girl asking (in a really mean way) if I was wearing eye makeup.  I wasn’t and said so. But sensing my vulnerability, I soon had a group of girls surrounding my desk teasing me for looking like I wore mascara. I went home and cried. Every day, I would walk into that junior high class knowing I had an hour to be tormented for having dark, long lashes. Looking back with my adult brain, I have a ton of comebacks and can’t believe that upset me. But at that time, being singled out in a crowd was devastating. I am not sure I am ready to go back through the emotions of reliving those school years again. Another thing no one warned me about when becoming a parent (an ever-growing list).

So what do you do as a mom? I can’t say it is stupid and just don’t listen to them. (Who doesn’t take it personally when mean things are said about them?) Nor, tell a teacher. (That makes it worse if peers know you snitched.) Or, if you don’t let them see it bothers you, they will stop. (They probably won’t ’til they find someone else to bother.) The truth would be to say: “It is going to hurt like hell and this probably won’t be the only time you go through it.”

So there I sat. I held a crying kid with no words. I knew what not to say and had no idea of the right thing to say. Rack up another mother moment where I just cross my fingers that my kids can get through my lack of suave parenting skills. I swear I remember my parents as all-knowing and full of advice in situations like these, but they probably struggled, too. (And, I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow and call my mom and ask what to do!)

True Confessions II: Freak outs and phobias

On By StormyIn Attitude, Children, Random3 Comments

Did you think our earlier post was the full extent of our weirdness? Heck no, we’ve got plenty more where that came from…

Let’s talk about fears, aversions and phobias. Heights? Spiders? Nah, after all those are fairly normal–and one of the things I have a fear of? Being normal. 🙂

Stormy: Centipedes. There’s no reason they need so many legs! Millipedes? 10x worse! I once had a dream that I was laying in my bed and looked up to see a centipede above me on the ceiling. Then it dropped into my bed. I screamed, threw back the covers and leapt out of bed, nearly giving my poor husband a heart attack. At that point, I noticed that the room was completely dark, and there was no way that I could have seen a monkey on my ceiling, let alone a centipede. Frankly, I’d prefer a monkey.

Jaws_KitKat: Sharks. Now that seems like a pretty healthy and normal fear. I mean, sharp teeth, that scary fin circling you as it closes in for the attack, the Jaws theme song … scary stuff. But I must admit, my phobia is a bit extreme. Whenever I am in the ocean, I always make sure there are other people in front of me in the water to ensure plenty of other shark bait, allowing me to run as others are gobbled up. I am often harassed about a fear-induced comment I made once about how I need a gun whenever I am in the ocean so I could shoot myself if a shark was going to eat me. And, don’t get me going on my ultimate fear of my plane crashing into the water and surviving until the sharks attack. Thank goodness for airport bars prior to flying.

Stormy: Like Mitt Romney, I’m no fan of Big Bird. I have nothing against educational children’s shows as a whole (although, let’s face it: most of them are drivel). However, I detest the big yellow bird. His voice grates on me, he’s a bit stupid (bird brain?) and worst of all, he’s just plain dull. Dullness is unforgivable in a Muppet. Give me Gonzo anyday… Or better yet, Animal. He’s kinda sexy.

KitKat: Wet bread. Yuck! I do not get dipping toast in egg yolk, grilled cheese in tomato soup or crackers in chili. It turns a perfectly delicious starch into a mushy, baby food consistency. I am gagging a bit as I type. If I pack a sandwich for lunch, the tomatoes and any mayo is packed separately so my bread won’t have any soggy spots when I eat it. Anyone who wants my help doing the dishes will be extra careful to throw all bread items into the garbage and not the sink. The ultimate worst – dirty water soaked bread. If I even see a piece of wet bread stuck to a plate or floating in the sink, I will call it quits and someone else is on dish duty.

Stormy: Belly buttons. They’re like some sort of mystery portal–a connection between the life force that spawned me and my own individual identity. I know that doctors tie the umbilical cord off after childbirth to create the bellybutton, so part of me worries that the darn thing will unravel and all my guts will spew forth. Is that really so irrational? After all, they were invented by man, not God–and we all know, man makes mistakes! This phobia extends to touching my bellybutton: Don’t go there! I’ll take your hand off with a cleaver if you come within a 3 inch radius of it. (Ask my husband, Stumpy. He once rolled over in his sleep and his arm flopped over on my stomach. Now he’s a lefty.) Navel rings? Over my dead body.

KitKat: What freak ever made satin sheets a sexy bedroom item? There is nothing that would have me running from a room faster, no matter who was under those covers. I can’t stand even a hint of satin trim on anything. The feel of it makes me shudder. My sister used to like scratching on it and then watching me cover my ears and go into a fetal position. It is like fingernails down a blackboard for me. Back when women wore suntan nylons, someone scratching their leg was a form of torture for me. If you have an old pair, feel them–very similar to satin.

Stormy: Wool. As people grow older, it’s recommended that you start communicating your wishes on critical end-of-life decisions to your children. Here’s mine: When I’m in the nursing home, DON’T LET THEM PUT WOOL SOCKS ON ME! OR A WOOL BLANKET! In fact, I’ve mentioned this not only to my kids, but to my husband, nieces, nephews and sibs, just to make sure my bases are covered (BUT NOT IN WOOL!) This is not a quirk fear…Somewhere in my early 30s, I developed an acute sensitivity to wool. I can try on a sweater in a store and, within 10 seconds, identify that there’s wool in it. As little as 5% in a blended fabric can start a rash. I can only wear wool skirts if they are lined and my top is tucked into my tights. And if I wear a wool coat, I have to have a turtleneck or scarf wrapped around my neck. As someone who lives in chilly Minnesota, I live in perpetual fear of wool. Thank God for cashmere!

KitKat: Stormy left an aversion out that as mothers we share: The Berenstain Bears. There are a few things playing against them: To begin with the droning preachiness about every and any lesson you care to know and some you don’t. The Little Brute Family There is no humor behind the stories and boring characters. To top it off, the books are really long. Not the book I am looking to read as I am quickly trying to get my kids to sleep and finally enjoy some quiet time. Check out The Little Brut Family. Stormy gave that to me as a recommended family favorite. Reminded me of my family (before they turned polite), sense of humor,  and a quick bedtime read.

True Confessions…

On By StormyIn Attitude, Children, Fashion/beauty3 Comments

I know what you’re thinking: “These women represented themselves as ‘more messed up’ than me. So far, they’re pretty average… Trouble juggling work and families, blah, blah, blah, trouble keeping New Year’s Resolutions, YAWN. Bring on the idiosyncrasies!”

Okay, since you put it like that…

IMHO, there are two types of idiosyncrasies. 1) The weird thing that you suspect is actually normal and 2) the weird thing you know is weird. Case in point: There are mornings where I have trouble deciding what to wear. I’ll try something on and it just looks bad or I’m not feeling like wearing a wool skirt or whatever. So, I change clothes several times before settling on an outfit and leaving the house. This is weird, but I suspect it’s pretty common, so I don’t give it much thought.

I remember a conversation with KitKat and another coworker where this idiosyncrasy came up. The other coworker–let’s call her Alissa–maintained that she NEVER did this. She simply woke up, decided on an outfit, got dressed and never looked back. While this may be true (Alissa was/is quite decisive and put together), I will submit that she’s the freak in this scenario. This is just not normal female behavior!

Okay, so that’s my example of the first type of eccentricity. The following would be the second type…

Stormy: I sometimes get dressed, will iron something to wear, put it on, notice I missed a few wrinkles and will try to iron my clothes while wearing them–simply because I can’t be bothered to undress again. This is a bit tricky, as my body is not completely flat (although some parts–unfortunately–nearly resemble an ironing board). Also, the temp of the iron has to be just so: Hot enough to smooth the wrinkles, but not so hot that one has to embarrass oneself explaining an odd assortment of second-degree burns to the ER doc.

KitKat: I have a thing for vampires. This is not just a confession to liking tween books such as Twilight. (Though they weren’t bad.) More like if I made my “free list,” it would be filled with vampire stars. It makes no sense, I understand even if they weren’t pretend they would be killers yet I find them completely sexy and fascinating. I root for them in movies and shows and feel a bit (quite a bit) envious of the lucky girls they turn. Interesting to find your self sounding weird and demented writing about your secret confessions.

Stormy: I drink coffee in the shower. In fact, I had a shelf put in at just the right height for my morning cuppa. It’s on the other end of the shower from the showerhead, so no water gets in the cup to dilute it (I like my coffee quite strong, with a liberal amount of half-and-half and some Ghiradelli ground chocolate). Although to the naked eye (get it, naked, because we’re in the shower?) it would appear to be a shelf for shampoo… Don’t judge me.

KitKat: Though no one has ever defined me as a clean freak, anal, or overly particular … actually I would usually be classified as the opposite of all these terms … I have a strange issue with cushions. If one side of my couch gets sat in all the time, I will purposely make time to even it out. This is the same for sides of pillows or any other cushion-like objects that may get unevenly flattened if ignored. Yes, I even keep track of which way I have laid on the couch to read so the next time I can lay the opposite way. I also watch if guests are over-favoring one side and when they leave I give the other some attention. My husband and sister find this oddity of mine an amusing way to torture me.

Stormy: Sometimes when my kids were little and wearing me out, I’d send them to bed. Often they would protest, “But I’m not tired!” to which I’d respond, “Yes, but I’m tired OF you…” For the record, they’re all pretty decent adults now, so I don’t think it scarred them.

KitKat: Though I truly believe my hair gets better not being washed everyday (yes sometimes the third day is its best), I am insane about shaving. I shave every day and often twice if I have plans at night. It doesn’t matter if anyone will see or touch my legs. I want them smooth. I can spend a lot of time shaving over and over the same area not sure what is hair or goosebumps because I am losing my hot water. This also puts me on a constant quest for the perfect razor. I have tried every recommendation and still have yet to come across THE ONE. I am open to suggestions?

How this came about: Stormy’s story

On By StormyIn Children, Hobbies, Marriage, Relationships, Uncategorized, Work/careers1 Comment

For many of my adult years, I was consumed by activity. I married and started a family when I was relatively young, while simultaneously working part-time in my chosen field (marketing/communications) and earning a bachelor’s degree.

Once I had degree in hand, I redoubled my career efforts and took a challenging, full-time marketing job—where I met KitKat (more on that later). I also began a process I’d been considering forever—adopting a preschooler. This was the Holy Grail of my existence: something I had felt called to do my whole life. I have never felt so full of purpose and clarity as when I was working on my daughter’s adoption. Afterward, with my newest child settled into our home life like she was always meant to be there (because, in fact, she was), I felt a sense of fulfillment, but at the same time, a bit aimless. I felt like a bride after the big day or a kid on the 26th of December and was left wondering, “Now what?”

After crossing such big to-dos off my life’s list, being a standard-issue working mother of three didn’t seem like much of a challenge. Although my company did its best to keep me on my toes by changing its brand monthly (that’s only a slight exaggeration), I felt adrift for several years.

Whether you think nature abhors a vacuum or God has a twisted sense of humor, my world was turned upside down in 2003 when my husband was diagnosed with a serious degenerative condition. Wait a minute, God…This wasn’t what I had in mind when I said I needed a purpose! Couldn’t I just adopt another kid instead?

This kicked off what has been a decade of struggle. I knew in my heart that my new “calling” was to be a supportive wife to my husband as he battles his illness, but inwardly I rebelled against that role. (If you ask my friends, family or colleagues to describe me, I can assure you that “caregiver” will not come up anywhere in the description.) So, while I was committed to doing right by my husband, I felt that rising to this particular challenge might kill me in the process.

Denial seemed easier than acceptance, so having taken a decade to earn my BA as a part-time student, I plunged back into the familiar distraction of school. But once my MBA was complete, I finally had to face my new reality. My relationship with my husband needed to be renegotiated at the same time my kids were leaving the nest. I suddenly had more free time than I’ve ever had in my adult life–time to pursue a lifetime of interests that had always been put on hold. But now my husband’s condition complicated things, and I had a burning motivation to escape the premature “senior” lifestyle that his illness seemed to be forcing upon me.

Which brings us back to KitKat—and this blog. KitKat and I have known each other for almost 15 years. In that time, we’ve supported each other through a number of transitions: marriage, infertility, childbirth, adoption, career changes, unemployment, grad school—not to mention hairstyles and fashion trends. I’m a few years older, more established in our mutual field and have double the experience with marriage and kids. Therefore, she’s always looked to me for good advice and usually I can provide it. However, I’ve recently experienced the Peter Principle where my life’s choices are concerned—I’ve risen to the level of my own incompetence and it’s clear that I need a new approach to the rest of my life.

Although we are at different life stages, KitKat and I have similar temperaments—we challenge each other, but can always rely on the other to withhold judgment and to provide sound counsel. We’re on similar journeys with different motivations, different tactics and probably different ideas of what a “happy ending” will look like. But we’ve decided to tackle our individual challenges together and invite you, our readers, along for the ride. We believe “there is strength in numbers,” “some of us are smarter than all of us,” and “there is no I in team” (oops—that last one slipped in). We believe there are probably others out there who can relate to our thinking, who are attempting to solve problems of their own, and who might offer up a new perspective that provides insight into our own issues.

That being said, we’re looking forward to learning about ourselves as we continue to challenge each other—and to hear your thoughts and advice along the way—even if it’s all “easier said than done.”