Yes, that's my kid

Each day, Noah brings home his daily notebook.

Usually it contains things like "Do Wednesday homework" or "Finish Tuesday worksheet" or "Sign permission slip."

But on Sunday night as I prepared to head out of town for the week, I pulled it out to find this.

Oh. How. I. Am. Dying. To. Know. That. Story.

But, regardless, I am pretty sure he would win.



Oh yeah, and the fattie mentioned above his wrestling endeavors? Totally separate. I don't get it, but those are random stuffed rats from IKEA. No clue. I just go with it.

Crappy. I mean...Crafty.

Really, nothing stirs my heart... And by stirs my heart, I mean, makes me want to puke, like projects that come home from school that require me to show off do stuff that really doesn't need to be done for the greater good of the kids' education.

And with kids who are a year apart, I can see them coming. Because, after all, I did them a year before. (See Keeping Up With the Joneses AKA "The Planet.")

This year, just like last, it's the puppet unit. And it's public school, after all, so nude puppets would be a travesty. So we parents must make costumes. Oh yes, we must.

The assignment comes home, complete with the sewing pattern.

For those of you who can sew? No biggie. For those of us who can't? Another story.

Noah asks if I can sew his for him. Because, after all, he shrugs, there is like this helper group who can sew for the people who can't. You know, Mom, so you can check this box on my sheet if you can't do it.

Hell to the no-es. I took seventh grade Home Economics, back when it was called Home Economics, I hand sewed a pillow. I can do this!

Caleb pipes up, "Yeah, there was this mom last year?! She handsewed this costume that looked like it was made by a machine, like it could have come from a store, but it wasn't! Amazing!"

Now how he knows the difference? I don't know. But I sensed a throw down. And then Noah did it for me.

"But Mom, I understand, you know, you have stuff to do. Like you have to go to work..." he said, with a shrug...his voice trailing off.

Oh no. I will sew a wizard costume and it will be the best damn most adequate wizard costume there is.

And so off to Michael's we went. Well whattya know? They don't sell fabric. If I wanted to make a costume out of silk flowers and picture frames and yarn, that would have been my place. Crap.

Nor does Home Depot. Okay, I kind of knew that, but they were across the parking lot.

In desperation, I looked further across the parking lot and saw Goodwill. Something in there has to work, right? I mean, clearly, the kid doesn't have high expectations.

Thankfully, he bagged on the hairy arms, that might have put me over the edge.

He told me he wanted blue fabric with stars. Oh, if only I had kept our shower curtain back when that whole sun, moon, stars theme was a big deal.

Never mind, that's gross.

But I found this. Almost the same right?

Those are stars! Not snowflakes!

Now really, you can't start a major sewing project if you don't have the right tools. And by tools, I mean the bag full of sewing notions (oh, it's good to use that word) that you have lifted from hotel emergency kits for years and are still around from your grandmother gifting them to you in 1985.

And don't forget the importance of the proper scissors.

And finally, this will take awhile. Stay hydrated.

As I began to sew, I thought that perhaps I needed some inspiration. I wondered what the craftiest of crafty women I know would watch. And I assumed this was it.

Then again. Maybe that's my problem. No probably not. But still.

Long story short? Well, probably too late for that. But after far too much time stitching, restitching and poking my fingers, I ended up with this.

Followed by a little boy that cheered and pumped his fist in the air. My kid knew I tried. I figured it out. I jumped outside my comfort zone. I did something for him -- because it was for him -- and I didn't care about the rest.

That is what mattered.

And they are stars, not snowflakes. And if you say otherwise, I'll meet you out back behind the Goodwill.

This Stuff is Awesome

As you move into to the stage of parenting preteens or teens, everything changes.

Well I haven't parented teens yet, but so far preteens seem to allude the future...

The rules are gone. The expectations changed. It's all just different.

You find yourself fine with a genuine "thank you." Thrilled with a shrug and a reality based "that's cool, Mom."

A hug is amazing.

It's just different. You know they are still there. They might still quietly ask you to tuck them into bed or cuddle a bit before they fall asleep. But it's different. The affection changes. And you tell yourself, all the time, that it should. That this is the right, next step.

And then your kid brings home the idea of Shakespeare.

They are studying Shakespeare in performing arts and, suddenly, well, it's cool. And because there is a commonality, we're cool.

Cool as in, pull out the 3M stickies and mark interesting sections, cool.

As in... races to the basement to finds your oh-so-old-from-college (is-it-really-that-old-when it's-500-years-ago-and-college-was-only-15-years-ago-but-I-digress) consolidated works.

Digging into it like it's a loaf of Hawaiian bread and spinach dip (wait, that was me talking, but still...)

With "Wait, Mom, this is interesting, can dinner wait?" requests...

And "oh, I have to show my teacher this part," breaks.

And you just see the future. Not skip it. Not avoid it.

It's good.

The hugs have changed. It's different. But you see the minds. The personalities. The lives developing. And you can't help but smile.

Thanks, Shakespeare. Thanks, life.

You just see it.

And it's good.

Thankful

Occasionally you have those pangs. Where you wonder what you are missing during the day. What are the moments. The quotes. The things.

But then you get there at 5:45. To a child giddy to show you this.

His super hero goggles.

And you are reminded, yet again, what an amazing place you have landed.

Where he shows you how much he loves his life.

Both at home and away from home.

He is a super hero. And so are you.

Gas Station Restrooms

You don't use them often. And really, with good reason, right?

They are poorly heated. Even more poorly maintained. And, calling the proverbial spade a spade? They are creepy as all get out.

Ah yes, the joys of gas station restrooms.

And I refuse to call them bathrooms. Because you would only take a bath in them if you were a fugitive.

Yesterday Brian and I ran some errands and, along the way, stopped for sushi. Screech. Stop there. I beg you, separate the idea of us eating sushi from gas station restrooms, because really, they were very, very distinct things.

Okay, now that we are clear there...

Given the diet we've both been on, lunch also included tons and tons of water. Okay, tons is an exaggeration. But it was a lot.

And after a failed attempt at stopping at several antique shops (to shop, not for restrooms...) (and, who knew that Monday was the standard day for antique shops to close? Don't answer that, I am sure a lot of you knew that...) we realized we were almost out of gas (again, not a restroom reference...geez, I should let Noah read this, he'd be convulsing in giggles now. He loves scatological humor.)

We stopped at the Super Day. Because any time you have to fill your gas tank it really is a super day, isn't it? Our local urban rest stop. Local urban rest stop? Did I just type that? Cue James Dean and The Outsiders. And separately, is it really a rest stop if it's just your local gas station? And finally, this is the post full of asides, isn't it? But I digress.)

Regardless, I say urban in the sense that, well, one, we live in an urban area and, two, the "Welcome" blinking lights in the window had a line under it saying "Welcome" in Arabic. At least, that's what I assumed. I neither speak Arabic nor knew if the lights were burnt out and really said something in Arabic or English or any other language.

After graciously offering to put the gas in the car, Brian tapped on the window and mouthed that he was running in to use the restroom.

From that moment on, the pump seemed to tick through the cents and gallons at a painfully slow pace. $3.45 $3.47 $3.49 And with each dollar, I started to wonder where Brian had gone. $6.29. $6.31. $6.33. I locked the doors.

After $47.62 I realized I had to do the same. (Note: This is the first time I have blogged about needing to go to the bathroom...at least I think it is. Either way? Proud moment.)

So I locked up the car.  As I walked into the station, I noticed it was eerily silent. Like sanitary, scary silent. And again, how often does someone say that about a gas station? Sanitary, I mean.

I looked for the telltale circle-headed man and woman to guide me away from the temptation of the Pringles, Butterfingers and Gardetto's.

And headed in that direction only to find Brian exiting the bathroom pale and with cell phone in hand ready to text me.

He looked at me and said, "Dude (yes, sometimes he calls me Dude, it's a term of endearment, you kind of have to hear it), there is no one in here."

I looked around and he was right. The entire station was empty. No shoppers. No clerk. No anyone.

The 8-year-old in me thought, "Perhaps we should grab all the Pringles and run!" Cause while the 8-year-old in me may have wanted to lift stuff, I still would have said "perhaps." But I resisted.

Taking nodded and taking Brian's lead, I pulled out my phone. I cautiously pushed open the women's room door, hoping I wouldn't find a massacre scene inside. Because, really? Isn't that what we all hope for when we enter the restroom?

I pushed the door open tentatively. And was pleased. Pleased, I tell you, to find just a mildly not-so-clean urban bathroom. Completely devoid of dead bodies. And now my biggest challenge was just not dropping my iPhone in the toilet.

Now that is not to say that I hasn't already typed a pre-text to Brian saying, "Call 911! Come now, it's bad!"

But thankfully, I didn't send have to send it.

It was just cold and kind of yucky and, I guess, exactly what I expected.

As we drove away, we laughed in a sick, macabre way about what it could have been. And secretly sighed with relief about the day we didn't die in a gas station bathrestroom.

But from now on? We'll save our bathrestroom runs for real car trips. And always have an emergency text ready to go.

Daylight Hours

I love my job. I love the life we have. With all of its complexities and schedules and logistics. I love it. It is just who... and what... and where we are.

I really do. Even at the moments when I don't.

I know. It is right. For us.

But sometimes there are just those moments. The "what if" times.

Sometimes it happens when I see other people and the pictures of their kids.

I find myself sitting there. Okay, sitting there? Who am I kidding? Walking through Target or idling at the bank drive-thru flipping through Facebook on my phone, whatever. I am seeing their photos. And I try to figure out what is different.

And then I see it. It's that moment.

 The moment I sometimes have on sunny Saturday mornings.
When I realize that we aren't very often home in our house in the daylight. That I don't often get to see 10 a.m. light hit my carpet.

 Or my kids' hair.

And putting aside photography skills. That's what I see. Daylight, we're just missing daylight.

But instead? There is no instead.

There is a whole lot of living going on.

Good living. And we just have to remind ourselves...We have a lot of fun, a lot of life, but it's just when you have to use a flash.

Yes. Yes we do.

Like finding money in your pocket

You know when you put on your winter coat for the first time in a season? You put your hands in the pockets wondering what you might find.

Usually it's mismatched gloves, an old napkin from takeout, an expired coupon and a Target receipt. At least if you are wearing my coats. Which might be kind of strange.

But if you get lucky, you might reach in and find a $10 or a $20. You do a happy dance and feel like you have won the mini-seasonal lottery. At least I do.

I had a moment kind of like that this morning. If we're connected on Twitter, you might have picked up on the fact that Brian and I have been working to lose some weight. We kicked off our efforts the week before Thanksgiving. Gluttons for punishment? Not really. I just figured if we could jumpstart this process during the holidays, surely we could win at it in January and beyond.

So this morning in the closet, I reached up high. To that shelf. The one where long-gone, no-longer-wearable-cause-I-swear-the-dryer-really-shrunk-them clothes go. And I pulled down a pair of jeans.

With a deep breath, I put them on. Without profanity. As I turned around to look in the mirror and make sure the image wasn't horrifying, I noticed something was in the back pocket. I reached in to grab it our and found this.

The first thing I noticed was that it was expired. Bummer. And I walked to throw it away. But then I noticed something else. The Better if Used by date for the product was Augst 8, 2010.

Meaning that the last time I wore these jeans was likely more than a year and a half ago.

And that? Right there? Was better than any $10 bill I could have found.

Budgers

I am not a particularly aggressive driver.

I stand my own, sure. But all it took was just one time of being cut off by a person and me-turning-into-an-overly-ticked-off-fiend-only-to-find-out-it-was-someone-I-knew to I let it go.

For me, it's one of those moments. Those life is too short moments.

Sure, sometimes I am known to, um, boldly, use my voice to encourage the driver in front of me to move faster or merge or just not drive like an idiot.

But that's it. Life is too short to get shot over someone cutting me off while driving. Geez, I sound like I am 92.

But in general, I am just not overly concerned about people budging in front of me. If the entire state of Rhode Island tried to get in front of my family at Disney World? Don't get me wrong, I will take them on. But the random commuter on the way into work? Have at it buddy. We're all on our way to do the same thing. Three seconds won't kill me.

However, Caleb has yet to learn this lesson.

So when another kid budged in front of him in line he wasn't having any of it. And when he told said kid that, the kid continued to budge. Just this time more physically. So Caleb dug back in with his elbow. Determined to hold his all-too-important-spot. Those extra three seconds of snow-pant-pulling-on-ing were critical.

The pushing and elbowing continued. And continued. And, evidently, escalated.

Leading to me getting called out of a meeting by the school nurse calling my cell.

One final, swift push from the other boy caused Caleb to lose his footing and fall sideways. Face first into the drinking fountain.

 

Side note? I don't recommend falling into a drinking fountain. The drinking fountain wins.

The nurse reported that his face was swollen to about twice its size but that she was pretty sure he didn't have a concussion or a broken face. Ah yes, the reassuring words every parent hopes to hear. 

Your kid didn't break his face.

But he will look like Frankenstein for the next three weeks. And yes, this was taken at week two. It was worse. (Side note: See "Why the Snyders don't have a Christmas card photo this year..."

 Lessons learned? Probably none really. But maybe he'll be a safer driver someday.

Or maybe he'll just avoid tussling with drinking fountains in the future.

 

All I Want for Christmas

Each year I promise myself I won't do it.

I won't buy stuff just to buy it.

I won't pick up junky toys that I know will end up thrown away or given away in six months.

I resist noisemakers and fight causers.

I won't give out of obligation but out of genuine sentiment.

I won't stuff stockings just to stuff them.

I won't pursue stuff just to pursue stuff.

As I wrapped presents and took stock of what I had done and what I still needed to do, Eli walked into the kitchen, showed me his new "jet pack" his brother made him and sat down with a book.

What fine timing you have, little man.

To quote our friend the Grinch (or the French, whichever):

It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. 

And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. 

What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?" 

Hmmm. It's tempting. But I think my kids might notice if all of their Christmas gifts came out of the recycling bin.

Ah well, back to the pursuit of sanity and balance.

It's Christmastime and He's Got the Spirit

Sometimes a classic is just a classic.

Donations that make a difference

The Child Hunger Ends Here food drive at the kids’ school ended the day before Thanksgiving.

Day by day, little kids would walk in lugging bags as tall as they are. And in the end, the school had gathered 233 pounds of food along with ConAgra food labels, each representing a meal the company would provide for a child in America.

Driving into work the day before Thanksgiving, our public radio station was running a variety of stories on hunger in America.  One of them was about the rush to donate or volunteer or give back on the days leading up to Thanksgiving. The story went on to say that they often see donations drop off after that. Even getting volunteers, not to mention food, in on the day after can prove challenging.

And while this is something I think most of us, intuitively, know, it was a good reminder that the need doesn’t end.

The issue continues. And while I’m grateful that so many of us take time during this holiday season to reach out, to give back, to do more, I am also thankful that companies like ConAgra are going to continue to fight and give back going forward.

During the public radio story, they shared a list of some of the most needed items. I’ll leave you with them:

Recommended donations:

• low-sugar cereals;
• peanut butter;
• cans or plastic containers of juice (make sure it's 100 percent juice);
• canned vegetables, any variety, marked lite or low-sodium;
• bags of pinto or black beans;
• rice;
• canned tuna fish;
• powdered milk fortified with vitamin D.

Donations to avoid:

• foods high in sodium, fat, oils or sugar;
• chips, candy, cookies and crackers;
• sugary beverages;
• items in glass bottles;
• items that are expired or in damaged packaging.

Of course, as the story goes on to say, “The simplest -- and most appreciated -- donation is cash. Pantry officials can use the money -- cash or grocery gift cards -- to buy whatever healthy staples are in low supply. Also, because they purchase in bulk, they get more for the money than the average grocery shopper does.”

So I encourage you to join ConAgra. Join me. The issue isn’t going away. And so neither am I.

*I was honored to work with the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign as a blogger correspondent. While I was compensated for my time, the opinions, stories and thoughts are my own.

Thanks...

I had a conversation with a colleague this week. About thick skin. She's seeking it and, along my way, I have found it.

It didn't come easily. Oh yes. I've been in the office and pretended like I was going to sneeze while I suppressed a tear or 12. I've gone to the bathroom and lifted my feet to pretend I wasn't in a stall to pull it together when the other option was sitting in a cube and crying. And I have cried in front of more bosses than I'd like to admit.

But then? I suddenly didn't. Somehow with age and experience and maturity, that thick skin grew. I bucked up and pulled it together and realized that emotion didn't have to flow out every time I did or didn't want it to.

I don't cry a lot anymore. But this has been an emotional fall. Nothing that needs to be shared or discussed here, but life is full of change and we are in the midst of one. No need to worry. Truly. Brian and I are great. The kids are great.

But it has caused me to reflect. To toughen up even more. And reflect even more than that. And let the other moments happen when they need to happen.

Like driving home last night. I was just escaping in my commute. The mindlessness of too many red taillights in front of me. Listening to some pop singer, whose name couldn't possibly be their name, sing about things that, frankly, I am probably too old to enjoy listening to. Escapism at it's best. It's been a busy few weeks. (Go ahead, google my name and "Black Friday"...)

And then I saw it. Or heard it really. An old beater of a station wagon. Light blue and wood paneling and all. Low to the ground. The tires needed to be inflated. Exhaust spilled out the back. Traffic was moving at about eight miles an hour when it caught up to me. Mom and Dad in the front, kids in the back, not enough seat belts, it was like 1982 pulled up next to me.

But what really caught my eye was the top of the car. It had what we referred to as the Big Mac container on the top. If you are old enough to remember before Styrofoam was discovered to be evil, you know what I mean. Back when Big Macs came in small space age carriers of their own, they made cartop carriers that looked just like them.

As a kid, we would pile the station wagon full of kids and luggage and TVs that plugged into cigarette lighters (back when they were still supposed to be cigarette lighters) and we'd go on car trips. But on the top of the car was always Big Mac.

Whether it was full of clothes or toys or Christmas presents. It was there. The giant, 1980's symbol of tremendous family-ness.

To me, it was the sign we were about to create memories.

It passed me and my thick skin was suddenly very, very thin. And I sat there in rush hour and cried.

And I was thankful. For the Big Mac. For the station wagon. For the family in it. For the memories.

Thankful for the moments I have lived and the moments I am living and the moments I have yet to live.

Thankful.



Peace to you all this holiday season.

Blame it on the French

Eli: Mom, I hope the French don't take my Christmas presents.

Me: Eli, why would the French take your presents.

Eli: Because they are mean. And they don't like happy kids.

Me: Eli, the French aren't mean. Where did you hear that?

Eli: You hear it all the time! The French take your presents.

Me: I don't think you have to worry about it, Eli.

Eli: Do you think if I wear my French jammies on Christmas, they won't take my presents?

Me: Eli, I am pretty sure most of your jammies are from Target, Gymboree or Carters. I would highly doubt any are French.

Eli: Well I am going to wear my French jammies tonight and again at Christmas and we'll see if it works.


He went over to his drawer and got dressed. And suddenly it all made a lot more sense.

But I don't know. The French who Stole Christmas takes on kind of a Dickensonian ring. It might stick around here.

The Dead Fish

If I have learned anything in my life, well I have learned a lot, but let's go with the cliche...ok?...

It's that Mick Jagger was right. Or whoever wrote the song. I'm not about semantics or details tonight.

And no, I don't have the moves like Mick Jagger. At all. Side bar over.

I'm tired. Overwhelmed. There is a lot going on. My house is a mess. And my six-hour-old fish is dying.

And no. I am not tired or overwhelmed because of a fish. We'll all be okay, but there is a lot going on right now.

The fish? That's really just a complicating factor. Think like a Muppet Movie cold fish smacked in the face of the Swedish Chef moment complicating factor. Ridiculous.

To back up. Noah was the lucky lottery winner of one of his classroom's crayfish. And who doesn't want a free pet crayfish? (Don't answer that.)

So in anticipation of the arrival of said crayfish, I took the kids to the pet store today. No, I would not buy the expensive lizard that required me to keep my house at 84 degrees. No, I do not think rats are cute. No, I will not buy a $200 aquarium set and beautiful tropical fish that cost $30 each. I have enough issues with feeling like I am sometimes flushing money down the toilet without actually doing it.

But yes, while I spent $25 readying for Noah's "free" crayfish, I took a moment to celebrate the giddiness over the other two wanting to share a pet Beta fish.

They were giddy. And plan-ful. They named him Yoda and spent a half an hour agonizing over the interior design for his bowl. They were victorious.

Then we got home and the fish tipped over. And that was that. He was gone.

I had to laugh. Not at the loss of life. But at the insane, dark, comic timing of it all.

Because really? Right now? In the midst of all of the...well all of the all? Let's add in a dead brand new pet.

Because we can.

You can't always get what you want, can you? You try sometimes, but you just might find, you get what you need.

No, I didn't need a dead fish. A toilet funeral was not what I had in mind. But it was a good reminder that sometimes life gives you dead fish lemons and you make I have no idea what, but it's not sushi lemonade.

And then I smiled. And thought back to when I grabbed this video of Eli several months ago in the back of the car.

Yuu're right, little man. Thank you.

And RIP Beta Yoda. I promise we were a good family. We just have city water.

Now I lay me down to sleep

Generally, I love Fridays. I wear jeans to work. Brian picks the kids up early. We get takeout or make sushi. There are martinis. And Wii games. All around goodness.

Until the kids hit the wall of fatigue and it's time for bed. Now.

I should back up.

I left the house early on Friday, far before the family was up for work. But I knew the routine. An hour after I left, three boys would roll out of bed. Bed hair, sleepy eyes and all. They'd roll their way to the bathroom and "use the facilities."

Back to present time.

We got home on Friday and spent the evening on the first floor and the basement. Eating, playing, laughing, being. So when we all hauled upstairs, it was the first time anyone had been upstairs since the morning.

And we spotted this.

(Side note: Oh yes, I did. That is a picture of my kids' toilet online. I know, start funding the therapy now.)

Noah went into the bathroom and called out that there was hair in the toilet. "Like a lot!"

Eli yelled about it, too. Followed by Caleb.

Suddenly the entire family was standing around the toilet in various stages of horror.

Yes, picture it now. All five of us standing around the toilet with our mouths hanging open.

Creeped out. Oh! My! No! horror.

Being the rational people we are, we immediately asked them who cut their hair. Clearly it wasn't Eli as the hair was dark. Noah and Caleb adamantly denied it, too. Over and over and over again.

Again and again.

Brian combed through each of their hair to see if anything was missing.

Nothing. We shot each other a look of insane horror.

It was the horror that someone was either in, or had been in, our house.

In the creepiest of creepy fashion. Nothing missing. Just a horrifying pile of hair in our toilet.

I wouldn't let anyone flush it. I wanted it gone, but kept it, just in case. And, after bed, we were totally going to dust for fingerprints.

We tried to go about the normal business of putting the kids to bed. While semi-casually checking beds, closets, nooks, crannies, and any other irrational hiding spaces over and over again.

Eli was, thankfully, clueless. Noah was silent, but clearly freaked out. I mean your parents can only look in your dresser drawers and your laundry hamper so many times.

Caleb was the same. Until Brian and I opened his closet (which we never do) three times. And then he lost it.

He admitted, he had a bad hair moment and chopped a chunk off. And thought it would be fine. Until we nearly called the cops on him.

We hugged. And said it was okay. But please don't, on so many levels, do it again.

And tucked him in and locked the windows.

And flushed the evidence.

And yes, tomorrow I will be taking him to Sport Clips to fix it.