I had no idea but the proof is there. It comes out as soon as I relate how it happened that I dropped my beloved camera into a body of water (heck, who am I kidding? It was a homicide. That camera was pushed!)
I am a parent. A role model. Someone who is presumably modeling responsible, smart behavior for the youth of America. Particularly the two “youth” that live with me. It turns out I am not doing so well with that.
The story goes like this So my camera was stored where it always is, on the shelf above the kitchen sink … and, well, it just goes downhill (downsink?) from there. One wrong move and you are pulling your beloved digital camera from the depths of a sink full of hot, soapy water.
For the record: cameras do not like that. At all.
To add to the “how does she even manage to be walking around upright?” of it all, the camera was actually plugged into a charger at the time and when it went under, I instinctively reached into the water and pulled it out! It’s a wonder I wasn’t electrocuted.
See? What’d I tell you? Moron! That’s me.
How can I lecture my children about responsibility, taking care of their possessions, and basic household safety if I myself am unable to achieve such lofty aspirations? Not to mention that I can’t have anything nice.
My camera is like an extension of myself. My third eye. My motto has long been If I don’t have a picture of it - it didn’t happen. I felt kind of light-headed and sick contemplating life without a camera. Head between the knees, breathe deeply, stay calm sort of sick. My husband, when told of our recent loss, said only (and with absolutely seriousness) Man am I glad YOU did that and not me or one of the kids. You know what? He’s right. If he or the offspring would have done something “so stupid” I would have gone apesh@#. I know, I’ve seen me do it.
Having worked through the five stages of grief over it in near-record time, I’m off to Best Buy to throw myself on the mercy of some seventeen year old “sales associate” who will put me back in photographic form. I know what I want but in the interest of “setting a good example” (which, by the way, sucks) I’m leaning toward severely restricting what I allow myself to purchase on the theory that one should not be rewarded for careless behavior.
Of course, if I’m truly on the path to being a pathetic excuse for a role model, those high-end SLR’s with the massive telephoto lenses are looking pretty good too.
Mike Moh is the kids’ former tae kwon do instructor who moved to LA to pursue an acting career, but he continues to teach and inspire his students through his blog. The other day, he wrote about the concept of a “Dream Board.” He described this as corkboard that you use to display your goals—like motivational sayings, or pictures of things you wish to attain through hard work. I immediately had a vision of my “Dream Board,” and tacked upon it would be a picture of my family.
A chorus of “awww” would be appropriate now, but let me explain why a photo of us together would be significant. Well, in this snapshot, all three of my kids have their heads attached to their bodies, and I’m still in the picture. Yes, my goal–my dream for the summer is to make it to the end without decapitating them or running away in the minivan with our life’s savings and a six-pack of diet cream soda.
My children hate me. They say so, everday. When they are made to clean up their own messes, stop pummeling their fellow sibling, obey rules of the house, or any other activity that requires self restraint and effort, they react by letting me know just how much they rue the fact that they were not ”born” a manufactured robot and have a human mother, especially me. We butt heads, we bicker and they pack their bags, frequently, threatening to drop off the face of the earth (or at least the face of the “Planet Prescott.”)
Why do I put up with daily verbal abuse, horrendous messes, unfathomable stress and wrinkle inducing situations? I’ll tell you why. Every once in awhile, I get the opportunity to be the mommy they love. I get to lower myself to their level (physically and mentally speaking,) shed my mommy persona and have some unbridled fun time with the little people I created. Suddenly, the shift in character creates a rare, lighthearted mood. They forget to hate me. I transform into a big kid. I am their playmate. I am the instigator of tickle fights and the victim of flying pillows. I get to shun the rules, let my hair down and be the person that my kids wish I could be, all the time. Gone is the person known as “Mom.” My kids love this time of silliness. It creates a renewed bond. The only thing that I regret about this ritual, is that I did not get to do it with my own mom. My mom was so tightly wound, that I never saw her relax, much less smile and have fun. I do not want my kids to remember me that way. I want them to remember that I was a disciplinarian, an imperfect human and (deep down) a silly little girl who loves a good pillow fight.
So, I ask you, “When was the last time you shed your mommy persona?” If you cannot remember, then it has been way too long. Trust me when I tell you that you won’t regret doing it. It will probably shock your kids and tickle them pink. Go ahead…shut down the computer and get out the dress ups. Challenge your teens to a Wii game of tennis. Cook up some silly ideas with your little ones. I guarantee that they will hold these kind of memories close to their hearts, as they get older. Plus, it is really helps prove them wrong when they say that they hate you and you can pull out photographic evidence of them laughing in your arms!
Everytime we visit my brother in law, the kids are in constant need of bladder relief. Yes, they have a pool, in which my children swallow as much salt water as the equivalent of a keg. Yes, they have every kind of beverage known to man and worshipped by children, available in their fridge. No, these things have nothing to do with their frequent restroom trips. Why do they spend the majority of their time at their uncle’s house, copping a squat over the pot? This is why:
I have succumbed to the fact that nothing I own belongs to just me. Even my personal sanctuary was tainted with kiddie cooties, when Dad had to put the kids in my special spa tub last night. He had no choice, as the other tubs were out of order, but that is another long and disgusting story. Grimy playground residue now decorates the non slip floor of my precious bath tub, because my husband forgot to rinse it out. Being that he took on the task of bathing all seven kids, it would have been down right bitchy to complain about the presence of spawn scum. After last night’s bath, it was quite evident that the separation of “Mom” and “Me,” is dangerously close to extinction. There is rapidly decreasing space for a “Me” in this house. As a result of last night, I’m currently trying to figure out how to install a secret spa tub in the back of the van. I tried to take measurements but the fossilized layer of fishy crackers and football equipment, kept me from being able to maneuver around. I may have to call in a professional. Once the tub installation is complete, I will be able to drive to an undisclosed location and take a relaxing soak, without fear of slipping on tear free shampoo slime and having an amputated Barbie leg inadvertently crammed up my ass…ouch!
Throughout my illustrious career as a writer (go ahead and laugh now), I have been approached by many aspiring columnists/bloggers who wish to know how one actually lands a gig getting paid to give their opinions. You’ve got to admit it’s a pretty sweet deal. With the economy doing a swan-dive and so many mommies growing desperate to earn an income while at home with their children, the question has grown increasingly common.
Exactly how does one parlay parenting into a paying gig? Could you, too, land a low-paying but high-profile job easily performed from home in your bathrobe?
Through its commercials, the television station known as “TVLand” has frequently promoted the philosophy of “The Family Table” for the past several years. Famous for luring away classic sitcoms from Nick at Night and introducing younger generations to the gentle buffoonery of Herman Munster or the subtle genius of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, “The Family Table” was built on the foundation of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s television shows when people still ate dinner together almost every night of the week. The campaign set out to illustrate that the best way for families to stay in touch with each other was to sit down and break bread…preferrably NOT over one another’s heads.
I think it’s a great idea and I’d be thrilled if my sons’ coaches, schools, club sponsors and scout leaders could obtain a copy of that memo if for no other reason than to wrest away a little time to shovel down a sandwich before dashing off for parts unknown. Although I’m certainly not one of those who believes that the dinner hour is some holy appointment which cannot be interrupted unless a participant experiences a surprising case of stigmata–or worse–sudden death, we do welcome the rare opportunity to chat with our kids and catch up on their day, and we try to set a few ground rules.
No one shows up with a cellphone or iPods or cd players. This is harder to enforce than you might think, but we think that as long as people are talking to one another, listening with both ears is really the very least one can ask of the others. Besides, I refuse to compete with Green Day.
No arguing. During the course of a conversation there are bound to be differences of opinion, but we save the really brutal confrontations for another time. Nothing can turn a belly full of spaghetti into a roiling ulcer faster than having all of your transgressions and shortcomings listed for you in between gulps of milk. Remember, it’s not the Nuremberg Trials…you’re simply there to fuel up your body. Save the angst and recrimination for another time when people aren’t holding pointy metal utensils in their hands.
No one person gets to dominate the conversation. While one individual may have had an earth-shattering day and everyone else simply just went to work/school and came home, it’s important to approach the time together with a sense of balance. No one person is more important and no one’s experiences are any less valid or worthy of attention. Everyone gets to speak. How do we pull this one off? We play a game called “High-Low”.
The person who suggests it starts by identifying the highest part of his/her day and then the lowest part. Sometimes the stories revealed invite questions or speculation or commentary from the listeners. You know what that’s called? Conversation. Then we go around the table and every person does the same. The result is that every person has a chance to speak and to be heard. Often, the simple act of articulating what made that day fantastic or one that “blows” is incredibly cathartic for the speaker. And the listeners learn, if not a little empathy, the skill of shutting their pie holes and appearing interested. More often than not, we find that we’re able to see the past 24 hours with a sense of balance, rather than two extremes.
Even the worst days have their homely moments of saving grace and the best days have their drawbacks. It’s a lesson some people don’t ever learn. If you can convey that balance to your kids while chewing on a chicken leg–and possibly sharing a laugh in the process–you’ll be doing them one of the biggest favors ever. Plus, the lesson, the chicken and the laughing? That totally counts as multi-tasking, which is another skill some people need to learn. I’m not naming any names here, but one of them leaves for college next year.
My low today? Not making it outside to do a run or even a lousy walk. The high? Picking up my oldest son’s senior portraits and feeling that rush of pride in the man he is becoming. Of course, that leads me to another low wherein I start thinking about him leaving home. I’d say more but…well…it’s your turn to talk.
My kids were nine and six on September 11, 2001.?? They stayed at school that day, and heard appropriate dribs and drabs of what what was going on.?? At home, their father and I, who were still married at the time, told them that terrorists flew airplanes into the Twin Towers in New York and they collapsed, killing thousands of people.?? How sad it was.?? How wrong it was.?? How sad we were. How wronged we felt. I was outwardly distraught, inwardly panic-stricken.?? I sat riveted to the television watching the unimaginable events come to life before my eyes. But my kids, safe in a Midwestern suburb, with their parents safe not far away, continued watching watching Sponge Bob, Power Rangers and Arthur.
Now, on September 11, 2006, my kids are 14 and 11. They?? are much better equipped to handle some of the images that will be replayed today. They’re politically aware and they’re savvy.?? But, I’m still going to choose what they see today, and how they see it.?? At their ages, five years is a lifetime.??
They remember nothing?? but growing up in a world when homeland?? security is?? familiar terminology?? and the war on terror is a known entity.?? They will live their most formative and memorable years at a time where we do not take safety for granted.?? They instinctively?? take off their shoes before going through airport security.?? ?? Their trips?? to New York City will only ever include visits to a changing Ground Zero and pointing fingers to where the towers once stood, and then fell.
While I believe it’s my job to convey the seriousness of the events that enveloped our nation that day, I also believe in allowing?? my children to continue to exist in the safety of their world that was untouched.?? While it feels like yesterday to me, it feels like history to them.??
I don’t want my?? kids completely shielded from reality,?? I just want them to be kids.?? I want to help them understand, at?? an age-appropriate level,?? what happened then as well as what is happening now.?? What I?? don’t want is for this information to color the world they know - which is good - albeit with its own inherent flaws.?? ??
I usually encourage my kids to hunker down next to me and watch the news.
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Posted
July 7, 2008 at
9:29 am by
Kymberly 
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