The Elf is Dead

The story of our elf on the shelf begins last year in Target,where I paved the road to failure from the very beginning. On the end cap is the official elf on the shelf with book set and instructions,a stuffed elf,elf accessories and a DVD featuring the elf. Due to a genetic trait that pushes me to get the best deal on anything,no matter what,I do the math in my head and find I can purchase the stuffed elf,a skirt and the DVD for less than the official looking elf with the boxset.

I didn’t really know anything about the elf. All I knew is that people were posting pictures of an elf doing crazy things on facebook and that was enough for me to be thrown on the mission of getting my kids an elf so they would not be deprived of an amazing childhood with spectacular memories of an elf who does magical shit and gets in all sorts of funny predicaments,but apparently not so much that it would propel me to research the elf or know anything about it.

So I take the elf home,take it out of the package and let the girls play with it. Because I am so cheap and didn’t purchase the book and am too lazy to even google the damn thing to know how it works,I tell the girls my own made up story about the elf and how she is watching everything they do and uses the phone to call Santa at night. They name her Winter and take turns sleeping with it.

A few days into this elf calling Santa on the phone charade,we finally get around to watching the DVD. Do you know what happens in the DVD? (and probably in the book if I had ever read it). The elf freaking dies because the kid touches him. Yes,so B is holding the elf while learning that touching it kills its soul.

There is panic.

I am immediately launched into an explanation of how their elf is special and must not be affected by human contact. I mean obviously that must be the case- the elf has been moving around at night…doing really lame stuff like sitting in different places throughout the house, but nonetheless,moving,so our elf must be cooler than other elves and she is indeed still alive.

Also- the revelation that our elf is supposedly flying to the North Pole each night? Really elf on the shelf creator? I feel like my phone call to Santa was a bit more believable,but OK,I guess we will go with your stupid idea since it is in the movie and everything. So,I also have to make up something to cover up this inconsistency in the story.

The rest of the Christmas season passes without much more trauma. Nolan starts putting some effort into the elf adventures and lifelong memories were made by all. (insert giant eye roll)

Side bar: Is it disturbing to anyone else the amount of lies we tell our kids and it is not only acceptable but expected? And how gullible are the children we are taking advantage of that they just take all this in as fact?

So fast forward to this year- and apparently now our elf cannot be touched or she will lose her magic. This adds another level of complexity. What if your kids touch it without you looking just to test if you are full of shit with this whole elf business and the elf keeps moving? It is too much pressure. I seriously need to do a more thorough job of investigating this fad shit before jumping on the bandwagon.

The days of waking up sitting straight up with panic over what you did the night before are replaced with the panic of your kids waking you up with “Mom- Winter didn’t move last night. Is she dead?” She spent two nights in the freezer because we forgot to move her. My groggy response was “Maybe she just got stuck in the freezer.” I could immediately tell this is not the correct response by the look of complete terror on their faces. I replace it with a “OR maybe she just really likes the ice cream in there!” This is followed by speculation from them that I probably accidentally touched her when I was helping myself to the ice cream and killed her. I refrain from calling out the blatant lapse in their memories that they used to sleep with the elf and never killed her. Again,I remind myself that I brought this elf home and got myself into this never-ending nightmare.

So as we near the end of this Christmas season and Winter’s soul makes its trek back to the North Pole while her limp plush body sits in a bubble bath made of marshmallows,I believe I could use a bubble bath of marshmallows myself.

Congratulations to all of the parents who have made it through another year keeping the Christmas spirit alive because not ruining this for our kids gets harder every year for me. I say stupid shit constantly and then try to cover it up,hoping that even if my kids know that this is all a huge lie,that they will pretend that they don’t because I am not ready for them to not believe,I am not ready for them to grow up. So if that means doing dumbass shit with a stuffed elf and bold face lying to them,then god damnit,that is what I am going to do. So Merry Christmas my fellow bullshitters! We have survived another year of amazing memories for our children!

Unwanted Advice

So I recently hit the lowest of lows and turned to a parent’s forum to ask a question about my 5 year olds’ ridiculous behavior issues. It is bad. She is a bear and everyone in my house now walks on egg shells around her to avoid conflict. We have learned this dance over the last 5 years and I don’t know exactly when I turned into a giant pushover capable of being run by a tyrant in the form of a tiny, petite 5 year old “princess”, but it happened at some point and now I build every day and every action around her mood.

Before I knew it, the thread was flooded with advice. A lot of good natured Moms trying to help, lending their advice to a fellow Mom in distress. The overwhelming consensus?: I need to take her to a psychologist and our whole family most likely needs intensive counseling… Wait, what? Seriously? I have no idea what type of advice I was expecting to get when I typed up my long explanation of her behavior since birth and what we had done to try to change it, but I guess I didn’t see that coming. My first reaction was: “Fuck, that sounds like A LOT of work.” I mean I have to find someone, make the call, make an appointment, get everyone rounded up and go talk to someone. And my second thought was “Fuck, the counselor is going to say it is my fault.” Which is really what, deep down, I have known all along.

I know you aren’t supposed to compare your children. But let’s be honest, it happens. Blakelyn, despite my immaturity and total lack of skill in parenting, is the most caring, responsible child I have ever seen. If you ask her to do something, she just does it. It is so weird. This, unfortunately, ill prepared me for my Parker. Who is also incredibly sweet once you get past the hard, sour, chalky outer exterior of her unreasonable outbursts and “you can’t make me do anything no matter what” attitude. I don’t feel like I parented them all that differently. If anything I should have been a better parent the second time around, right? All that knowledge you gain, all those Mom badges you earn, but apparently not. Apparently something went very awry.

So, at the end of the day, do I take their advice or do I look into my heart, knowing the entire situation, knowing all of the mistakes I have made and knowing my 5 year old to her very soft, lovable core? My advice to myself “Chill the fuck out.” I know exactly what I am doing wrong. I know what I need to change, but instead of actually doing that, I turn to complete strangers in hopes that they would know of some new, groundbreaking treatment for monster behavior that would require little to no effort and preferably could be done in front of the TV. Let me save the counselor bill- I need to discipline and reward consistently, yell less, listen more, remember that hugs can fix most problems, stay calm and chill the fuck out… and most importantly be honest with myself about my own ridiculousness. It sounds so simple right? If only I could remember this in the heat of the moment when I am getting a hippo stocking hat flung at my face because the princess doesn’t want to wear that today! And if you agree that I should see a counselor, you are probably right.

Emotional Overshare

I suck at the big things in life.  I never know what to say or do or how to act.  As easy as it is for me to laugh about the humor I see in life, is as hard as it is for me to express the serious.  So with my Grandma’s passing, I had no idea how to deal with what I was feeling.  I started by being a total bitch to those closest to me, then I moved on to my standard coping of eating my emotions, but when I realized that wasn’t the best way to cope (and that my pants were no longer zipping), I started writing- which seems to work for me as a way to make sense of what the scrambled mess that is my brain creates.  Disclaimer- what follows is a break from the ordinary for me.

When I wrote, what came out was a list of all of the things I attribute to my Grandma:

Peanut butter and butter crackers with holes in the saltines

Her brushing my hair (or picking out my perm depending on the year) while staying up late to watch Johnny Carson and drink our tea

The clink of her rings on her white tea cup

Sleeping in her big bed and having to put a pillow between my knees to sleep just like her

The glass jug of water in the fridge and how that water tasted better than any water anywhere, hands down

Home perms sitting in her brown leather dining chairs

Almond bark covered everything at Christmas time

Taking me to the pool and watching everything I did from the side with a huge smile on her face

Taking me to church and being so proud to show me off to all of her friends.

Snapping beans from her garden that she worked so tirelessly in

Hard boiled eggs with money amounts written on them for Easter

Shopping at the grocery store to stock up for our week together in the summer and her buying all the things my Mom always said “No” to, including that “colored sugar water” that came in the little plastic barrels with the tin seal.

Her entire house being ours for the taking.  We went through closets, bathroom cabinets, dressers- there was nothing off limits.

When I list these out, I smile because I know that my girls are making these same memories with their grandparents and I cry because it took her getting sick for me to realize how important these were to me.

My parents took Blakelyn down to visit my Grandma a few weekends ago and they all helped plant her garden and spent the day with her.  My Dad shared that when Blakelyn hugged her before they left, my Grandma said “That right there is worth a million dollars” and it was.  She is the type of person that would take a hug over money any day.  I wish I could be more like that.  Deep down, maybe there is a part of me that is because when I look at this list, I realize that the things that were most important to me aren’t things at all.  They are smells and feelings and experiences.  Of the hundreds of presents she bought for me over the years, I can’t remember any of them right now, but I remember her and her wonderful laugh and the specialness of having a Grandma who made each grandkid feel like her favorite.

Above all, I remember the way she made me feel.  I was special, I was important and I was loved.

When Nolan and I first got together, he thought it was so bizarre that my family was telling each other they loved each other constantly.  I would call my Mom to ask how to get a poop stain out of a baby sleeper or what time we were going to meet for a walk and then end the call by saying “I love you”. 

Somewhere along the way, I allowed my heart to harden and I built a wall.  I went years without feeling loved and I was isolated enough from my family that no one expressed love to me.  The girl who once gave out "free hug" coupons for Christmas was now a bitter, prickly adult.  So even though I was still saying “I love you” at the end of phone calls, it wasn’t actually registering what that meant.  It was just something you say to close a conversation.  I wasn’t living it, I wasn’t feeling it. 

Something like this happening tends to change the way you look at things, so when my Mom held the phone up to my Grandma’s ear in the hospital, I said something that I had probably gotten too cool to say somewhere in my teenage years: “I love you a bushel and a peck Grandma” and she responded: “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck” just as if we had never stopped saying it.  I meant it more than I had meant anything in my life. I knew she knew how much I loved her and I felt her love in those simple words.

I have done a lot of reflecting on how I have lived the last 10 years of my life.  I have wasted so much time being angry, resentful and sad.  I am ready to put that behind me and try harder to see the good things in life and finally be content.  All I can hope is that I can live a life where hugs are worth more than things and my words and actions can change someone’s life for the better.  Maybe, just maybe, I can soften up enough to show others the same type of love that my Grandma showed me.

I Work Out

I hate exercise.  I do it mainly so I can tell people about it.  Of course it would be nice to lose a few pounds, but it seems like people are more accepting if I tell them I have been working it out.  I, of course, have to join a class because working out on my own is completely pointless.  It usually ends with me eating something while lying on the living room floor lifting my legs. Here is an summary of my experience in class:

So I show up a minute before class starts because I waited until the last moment convincing myself that I couldn’t go because I had a headache, was tired and my daughter wasn’t yet bathed.  As the class starts, I discover I left my water in the car and have to run to get it…and by run, I mean walk as slow as possible to the car and then once I hit the door to the class act as if I have been hurrying.

All the spots in the back are taken, so I am forced to take the front and center spot.  I join in to where the others have started and instantly break a sweat. I was already winded from the 20 feet I pretended to hurry.  After several moves, I am sure that we are about half way through the hour and I glance at the clock.  5 minutes have passed.

20 minutes in- I notice there is a pretty good sized dark spot on the floor.

25 minutes in- It looks like maybe there is a leak.  I inspect the ceiling while doing some sort of traveling with my feet.  There doesn’t appear to be any sign of a leak.

30 minutes in- Butt kicks...ya right.  If my shoe makes it all the way off the ground, I deem it a success.
The spot is growing.  That is so weird, I look to the ceiling again and then consider the possibility of some sort of liquid rising up from the floor, but we are on the second floor and I rule that out.  Oh shit…the realization takes hold that the spot is from me.

31 minutes in- It occurs to me that the spot is in the exact same shape as a fetus-umbilical cord and all.  Shit- I have either sweat or peed out a baby.  The same carpet I danced on at my high school prom now bears a sweat baby.  I start laughing to myself at this thought and then make awkward eye contact with the instructor.  I want to holler out “Oh no- not laughing at you”, but I am not sure how to explain the randomness of the thoughts that just went through my mind, so I just keep locked on and continue to laugh.

35 minutes in- jumping jacks…Are you fucking kidding me?  I briefly consider doing them.  I assess my situation.  I do have black pants on, so if I did piss myself, no one would notice.  I decide not to risk it and do a modified version. I am the youngest person in the room and the only one not doing full-fledged jumping jacks. How do these ladies do it?! I make a mental note to start regular kegel exercises.

37 minutes in- I look like a participant in a wet t-shit contest, but I am losing…oh yes, am I losing.  I would have been pushed off the stage. 

40 minutes in- She is so energetic.  I love her energy and hate it at the same time.  I want to find something wrong with her…nope, there isn’t a damn thing.  I guess I will appreciate her attempt to motivate my sweaty ass into pushing it a little more.

45 minutes in- I am having an out of body experience.  I think I may have blacked out.  I am fairly certain fat from my ass just touched the back of my head while trying to do “fast feet” Flashdance style.

45 1/2 minutes in- Every expletive ever uttered just ran through my head.  Just keep pushing it down.  Oh my God, I am choking on the words. I am going to barf, going to barf.  Acid is rising in my throat.

47 minutes in- We lie on the mat.  I had no idea these things held so much heat.  It feels like my back is on fire, but I know this is impossible because it is not dry enough to hold a flame. 

48 minutes in- We roll to our hands and knees.  My body has left a perfect sweat impression on the mat and I am trying to use my body as a shield so no one else can see it.  Is my ass really that big?  I try to fan the impression away. 

50 minutes in- We are lying on the mat…or at least I am.  We are supposed to be holding our lower body up while kicking our legs.  At this point, I am not even pretending to do the moves. I am just lying there trying to come to.  And 1,2 and 3.  I swore I was lifting my leg, but nothing happened.  I have lost all motor control.  I may be paralyzed.

55 minutes in- Cool down- It is about freaking time.  Even though I have already been cooling down for 5 minutes, I am going to need about 50 more and a high pressure hose.

Work Out end-  I try to straight leg it down the stairs.  I look like a sweaty, red faced mummy. Hey young ripped boy judging me on your little machine down there- just you wait.  You will marry someone who will be just like me someday or you will be fat… maybe even both.  Please avert your eyes from this hot mess making it down the stairs.

After work out- I do what any great athlete does at after a successful workout.  I drive my car to Casey’s, take part in the buy 2 slices of pizza and get a free fountain pop deal and then eat a large chunk of frozen chocolate Easter bunny after returning home.  I earned it damnit.

The Dirty Kid

The other day at a ballgame, a stranger offered to fix my 4 year old's hair.  At first I thought: “Wow, that was really nice of her.”  That thought soon turned into, “That was kind of strange.” Then further into “Oh Crap.”

It is like I was seeing her in focus for the first time ever.  She was a wreck.

Her beautiful long hair was half in, half out of a ponytail in a mess of rats and some residue of candy that had matted up the front section into a mini-dread.  Her green plaid shorts could not have clashed more with her purple polo covered in pink hearts.  Her mis-matched clothes were filthy with both dirt and the appearance that she had rolled around in Cheetos.  She was wearing Mary Janes that in a former life had been fancy shoes, but were now being worn without socks and covered in mud.  Her fingernails were daggers with a solid dirt line under each one.

What in the hell happened to her?  More alarmingly, what in the hell has happened to my ability to maintain a child? 

My first child would have never looked like that.  She wore the clothes I laid out.  Her hair was done and usually had a nice matching accessory in it.  I always had a bag prepared with wipes and a change of clothes in case of even the smallest mishap.  Her fingernails and toenails were painted. She was pristine.  What the fuck happened?  How had I gone so far off the rails?

But I knew the answer: exhaustion.  I am just so tired-ALL the time and it the worst kind of tired-the mental one.  I have taken the advice of “Pick your Battles” to the new extreme of “Do whatever is necessary to avoid any conflict or disagreement with my toddler who will scream and make my insides get all twisted with anxiety”  This has led to her picking out her own clothes, doing her hair only once a day in the morning (ponytail is the only option, dictated by her), me not suggesting appropriate footwear and getting her to bed as early as possible at night, which leaves no time to do general up-keep.

Somehow the second child broke me.  There are things you do with a second child that you would never do with the first.  My first child didn’t taste pop until she was 6 and even then and now the only pop she drinks is Sprite.  Parker downed her own bottle of grape pop the other day because I couldn’t listen to “I am thirrrrsty” one more freaking time without losing my shit.  She eats candy, rides her bike in flip flops,  wears tennis shoes without socks and sandals with, screams constantly, doesn’t finish her vegetables, has no manners, climbs every climbable surface in the house… and I just let her.  My former self would have never stood for such absurdity.

I could pretend that it is a matter of time- that I just don’t have any, but we all know that is not true.  I know what is going on on both coasts (and in the ATL) on the Real Housewives, so I know I have time.  It is the energy level that gets me.  I have just enough at the end of the day to make it to the kitchen to drum up a snack and that is with picking no fights with my toddler.  On days with fights, I have to have my older daughter bring me the snacks.

Somewhere along the way, I just got tired.  The kind of tired no amount of sleep can fix.  I make decisions based strictly on the path of least resistance.  I can’t even imagine what would happen if I had another child.  You would most likely see the third one driving my car around town in just his/her diaper. 

I guess you  just get used to a certain amount of crazy and build up an immunity, until pretty soon you don’t even realize that your daughter looks like she is feral, which in some ways, is probably an accurate portrayal of my life now.  All I can hope is that I haven’t done any long term damage to either of my daughters: one of them kept completely in line and the other not knowing what the hell a line is.  Until then, there is always tomorrow for clipping fingernails and painting toenails, let’s just make it through today.

Imperfect Beauty

Perhaps I have been watching too much "Real Housewives", but it seems like there have been a rash of cosmetic surgeries and I am so tired of seeing this.

Can we stop already?

Some might say: "You are just jealous."  To that I answer with a "Damn straight I am".

Bodies sag over time.  Skin loosens, things shift, hair starts saying "Fuck you, I'll grow where and how I want".  Put a few babies through that machine and even FEMA couldn't fix the wreckage.  I used to look at NatGeo in the high school library and call my friends over to look at those poor ladies' boobs hanging at their waists looking so sad (the boobs, not the women) and we would LAUGH, oh boy would we laugh.  This my friends, is karma in its harshest form. 

You tell yourself things like: Whatever.  I don't care. This happens to everyone. It's natural.  Then people around you start making modifications that change what natural is.  There is always that asshole in class that gets all the questions right plus extra credit, which makes you 87% worth so. much. less.

The game is being changed.  Instead of all of us standing together in our swim dresses and spanks, we are pushing "normal" into the shadows.  This is amplifying the need to be something that most are not.  In communities everywhere, the majority of people are "unattractive" by industry standard.  Those modifying themselves are taking that majority away from people like me.  At least when TV is telling me I am fat, short, acne prone, flabby armed and flat chested, I can look at my peers and know that I am OK. It seems like this may not be the case for long.

I am trying my hardest to love myself.  I have made it a point to never say anything negative about my body in front of my girls and any time they say "You are so pretty Mommy", I reply with an enthusiastic "Thanks! I am- aren't I!". It is a small way to let them know that normal is spectacular in a world that is obsessed with perfection.  In all actuality it reminds me that I am OK and it is OK to think so.  I want my girls to know that there is beauty in every shape and size.  I want them to live in a more imperfect world, not the inverse.

I still struggle with body image and obviously with jealousy and comparing myself to others.  For those of you that are the same,  I assure you, you are beautiful and some one out there thinks you are perfect.  Even if it is your girlfriend, a 4 year old or a husband with terrible vision.

I challenge all of us to lower the bar!  Love the ordinary, take a compliment, wear shorts in public.  A former boss used to tell me that "perception is reality", so let's start changing reality.  The next time you see my white cellulite riddled legs out and about, or my boobs rolled up in a tube top or if I almost knock myself out with my arm flab waving at you, don't judge.  Just remember that the majority of people look just like me under their clothes and the more of us that bare it, the more beautiful it will be.

Here We Go

Under much influence from my friends (I have never been known for my ability to resist peer pressure), I have decided to start a blog.  I have always had these thoughts, then I started writing them down and didn’t really know what to do with them.  Before facebook, I would email them to my sister or my friends and then facebook became my outlet.  I guess this is just the next level of therapy.

What I want the premise of this to be is honesty.  I try to be unfiltered as possible because I feel like I was shorted by being brought up to believe that being an adult was easy.  My parents never let on that being a responsible, contributing member of society is the hardest fucking thing in the world.  Then as I got older, still no one was talking about it.  I felt completely alone and completely inadequate.  Then I would let little nuggets of truth out- like, I cried more than my newborn baby or that I ate an entire box of frosted pop tarts because I was so depressed and anxious or that I peed myself twice in one day, one time by just thinking about sneezing… and I found out that some people would understand me and sometimes let go of their own truths and I started realizing that everyone is most likely as fucked up as me, but they are just not talking about it.

When I had my daughter Blakelyn, I was 18 and clueless.  I was totally ill-equipped to be living without my parents, let alone raising another human being.  I distinctly remember singing the song “Am I the only one who’s ever felt this way” by the Dixie Chicks while sobbing every day for about 3 months straight (look it up, it is a great one).  The irony of that, (that I can see now, but couldn’t see then), is that is a break up song.  Sure, I was overwhelmed and hormonal, but the biggest emotion I was feeling was grief for my “could have been” life.  From what I can gather, it doesn’t matter your age, this is a common emotion.  No matter how prepared you are for your new life, there is finality in it. 

You hear people say “I wouldn’t trade my kids for the world”, but the kicker of that statement is that you have done just the opposite: you have traded your world for your kids.  You will no longer follow your dreams or your desires; you will be governed by a tyrant in the form of a temperamental baby (or toddler, tween or teenager).

 The other part of that statement is usually followed by something like “,but they are driving me f-ing crazy”. The thing about this society, is that even if you say something that might indicate that your life isn’t perfect or that your kids are indeed more work than you anticipated, you have to first premise it with a loving statement or something to make it clear that you are not on the verge of abandoning them.   I am kind of over that.  Can we just tell the truth? 

It goes without being said that we love our children, of course we do…but it is OK to be frustrated, it is OK to be angry, it is OK to be sad, it is OK to think about what might have been.  Most importantly, it is OK to talk about it.  We need to be more forgiving of each other and more importantly ourselves.  Women need to support each other through this crazy struggle called life and I hope this can be a place we can share stories openly and realize that it is all going to be OK, even if it isn’t.