Hard Lesson Learned

For the past two days I have worked at home and been victim to hosted several other children for day-long playdate/babysitting extravaganzas. I have served microwave popcorn, freeze-pops, English muffin pizzas, peanut butter sandwiches, cosmic brownies, leftover Easter candy, pitchers upon pitcher of pink lemonade and fruit punch and even whipped up a batch of Toll House cookies.

The kids played barbies, dolls, build-a-bears, Draw Something. They colored, painted and made jewelry. They’ve scootered outside, played whiffle ball, hula hooped and played on the swings. They pulled clothes out of closets and drawers to have fashion shows.

They dropped toilet paper into the toilet and dumped the unpopped popcorn kernels on the futon and down the stairs. Uncapped markers and errant beads littered the floor of the playroom like confetti after a grand celebration.

They screamed and laughed and carried on. And they fought. Oh, how they fought. I referreed, dried tears, yelled, screamed and begged for just one blessed moment of silence. In fact, EN went upstairs today and found one guest sitting inside Sugar’s closet rocking back and forth. Therefore, he deemed her a “weird kid.” I beg to differ. Had I been given the choice between getting involved in the melee, I would have sat in that closet right beside the weird kid. I’m fine with him calling me the Weird Mother so long as he deals with the drama that played out around me.

But one thing they did not do… They did not, over a period of two days, bother to clean up. They moved from one activity to the next leaving behind a trail of toys and clothes. I went upstairs periodically and suggested that they all work together to tame the beast and clean the mess.

They all heard me. Each one of those five little monsters heard every suggestion I made. Yet instead of working together and putting the various rooms back together, they bickered. Each one claimed that they were not responsible for the mess. I felt like I was blasted back in time to a Family Circus comic strip featuring Not Me and Ida Know. How did those little monsters find my house? Who gave them directions?

My final plea finally got a little bit of action. The two guests that were left attempted to help straighten up, but mostly just walked around looking in awe at the aftermath that was their hurricane. Soon enough, the mothers came and collected their kids and left Sugar and Spice in the devastation formerly known as their bedrooms and playroom.

I served them up a helping of tough love Ice Princess style. I told them that for the remainder of their spring break there would be no play dates, visitors, fun trip to malls or movies or restaurants until the mess was cleaned up. My orders were met with gasps of shock and horror and more tears.

I reminded them that I had made multiple trips upstairs and suggested, in the presence of their friends, that they get working on the mess. A team of five who wrecks a joint like that can certainly set it to rights a whole lot faster than two.

Instead of screaming and fighting like I thought they would, they worked together. The girls worked for an hour tonight and now have one immaculate bedroom and a playroom that is a “work in progress.” The second bedroom still resembles a crime scene.

They were united in their quest to continue the fun they had so far this week.

I have two little girls that learned a hard lesson tonight. The lesson wasn’t new to them, it’s been repeated frequently since I found them in the cabbage patch. The lesson is… LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER. When the mama says, “work together to clean up,” it’s probably a pretty good suggestion. At almost-eleven and six, they couldn’t see past the moment. They didn’t want to stop having fun to straighten up the games that had already been discarded. Had they taken a few minutes here and there (like every time I fucking told them to), they would have been left with rooms in slight disarray rather than tornado alley.

My girls have always been taught to clean up messes they make at their friends’ houses. When I pick them up from play dates and sleepovers, I always ask, in the presence of their friends and parents, “Did you clean up your mess?” I wonder if other parents follow this same guideline? I don’t want my kids to be known as some sort of wrecking crew. I want them to be well mannered and respectful of their friends and their things. Given that I felt like I was speaking a foreign language when I asked children that I didn’t spawn to assist in the clean-up effort, I’m of the opinion that not many follow this rule.

We’ll see how future play dates at the Ice Princess Castle go down.

xoxo

Ice Princess 

I'd Rather Discuss Frogs

Call me “Blogger of the Year” with the amount of posts I’ve been putting up lately. I’ll admit to being in a really shitty mood. Things have exploded with my parents and sister and I can’t seem to concentrate on much else. I thank God that I live in a house with wacky pets and even crazier people. They give me something else to focus on.

I’m thrilled to announce that Sugar’s 5^th grade science discussions currently revolve around sexual and asexual reproduction. Teachers: can y’all send a note home before such topics are brought up? Us pansy, embarrassed mamas need time to prepare for the onslaught of questions.

Last night at dinner, Sugar waited until EN left the table and then we had the following conversation:

Sugar: Humans are mammals and have to have a mate. How does that work?

Me: What do you mean? {Admit it, my stalling techniques are brilliant!}

Sugar: We are talking about sexual and asexual reproduction in Science.

Me: Then it sounds like humans are in the sexual reproduction category.

Sugar: yes, but how does that work exactly?

Thankfully, I don’t have to reply here because Spice felt the need to pipe up…

Spice: That’s easy. A boy and a girl see each other and they think each other is cute and they get married and have kids. DUH.

At this point, I think Sugar was taken aback by her sister having an answer, whether it was the answer she was looking for or not, but she needed to “one up” her on the DUH scale.

Sugar: Did you know that frogs can change themselves if there are too many of one sex? Like if there are too many girls, they can change into being boys.

This is a fact that I am unaware of, folks. For all I know, her description of the process may not even be accurate, but I definitely am NOT smarter than a fifth grader. However, I used the change in topic to my advantage.

Me: so. We have too many girls in this house. Which one of you wants to turn into a boy frog?

Crisis diverted.

Interesting conversations ahead. Can’t I just buy her a freakin’ book?

xoxo

Ice Princess

Cooking with Spice

Since I’m still loving the new kitchen, cooking hasn’t yet gotten old. We’ve been baking and making and cooking up a storm. The girls are so excited about the kitchen being all shiny and new that they’re anxious to help me cook. I’d say I’m sure it will wear off soon, but both of them really seem to like being in the kitchen helping me.  I will say that Sugar’s dash to load the dishwasher will probably end before I choose a paint color, but I digress.

Last week I dusted off one of our favorite chicken recipes (chicken breaded in Ritz crackers and baked… no way could that go wrong!) and set about cooking dinner. Sugar was parked at the breakfast bar doing homework and Spice tripped over herself to help me.

Spice joyfully filled the baggie with crackers and crushed them with all her might. I let her whip the eggs while I rinsed the chicken (always rinse your meat. If those asswipes in the meat department drop that on the floor, they put dirty meat in the package without washing. Don’t ask how I know. I just do). I’m sure I was making a face as I trimmed the nasty shit off the meat before dipping in egg and breading.

I should have realized I was in trouble when the whipping frenzy on the eggs slowed down.

Spice: Hey Mama?

Me: What up?

Spice: Does that feel like a wiener?

Me: Does what feel like a what??

Spice: That chicken. Does it feel like a wiener, you know like a wiener on a boy?

Any good mother would have been indignant at this point, yes? “HOW WOULD I KNOW WHAT A WIENER FEELS LIKE?? I’M A GIRL!” Behind me, I could hear Sugar jump down from the stool and scramble to find a utensil that she could use to hack of her innocent ears. And I answered, “Well, they’re made of skin, so I guess they probably feel like skin.”

And Spice rubbed her arm and said, “So it probably feels like this?” and I said, “I guess so.”

Dear God.

In my house, we talk about stuff as it comes up. I try to give them the answers they’re looking for without getting hideously embarrassed, but HOLY HELL does it suck sometimes. However, I don’t believe the questions they are asking at their ages are inappropriate. They go to school, they play on playgrounds. I’m SURE other kids tell them crazy stuff, just as when I was a kid we all compared what we knew and let our more knowledgeable friends fill in the blanks.

I shared the raw-chicken-wiener story with EN and he wanted to chop off his own innocent ears.

I shared the story with friends with kids and they found it to be hysterical, not at all out of the ordinary.

I shared the story with an unmarried coworker that has no kids and she thinks there’s something wrong with my kids. “Kids just don’t talk that way. They shouldn’t be that curious already.”

So yesterday when I was playing Draw Something with Spice supervising and had to draw Aquaman for the above-mentioned coworker, Spice suggested adding a wiener to be sure my coworker would know the stick figure was a boy.

I let her add the wiener. She was happy. It looked like a line squiggle in the general wiener vicinity. 

Is there really anything wrong with curious kids? 

xoxo

Ice Princess

Bra Shopping

I procrastinate about shopping for bras until it’s absolutely necessary. Given that I’ve been walking around with boobs sagging to my knees due to snapped underwires since we moved, I figured it was time to bite the bullet.

From 7^th grade until I had Sugar, I was a solid 36C. They grew exponentially with each baby and won’t seem to go back to their old size, no matter what I do. In the good old days, I could shop anywhere and buy super cute stuff that fit. I never even had to try them on. Now it’s a whole different ball of wax. I have to shop at one or two local stores only, or try my luck online.

Yesterday I went to the same place I bought the last ones. They had measured me there and what I bought fit well. I figured I would walk in, scoop up another batch and be on my way. I planned on buying EXACTLY the same ones I already had because I knew they fit… and I don’t like change. Stick with what you know. Of course nothing goes as planned.

First, this little out-of-the-way shop was crowded. There’s usually no one there. It sells “special sizes” and offers assistance to women who have recently had mastectomies. The last time I was there, I think there was only one other customer. So I was surprised that there were a bunch of (much older) women in the store when I arrived. .

I finally found a busy looking clerk to help me and described what I was looking for. Wouldn’t you know it, there were ten of my make and model hanging on a rack and they were marked down to cheap money… because they were being discontinued. Of course they’re being discontinued… because that’s the ONLY one I like. None of the discontinued rejects were in my size. The sales lady grabbed another brand in my size and encouraged me to try it on. I put it on and did the shirt test-I put my shirt back on over it to see how the girls looked. Y’all, Madonna’s ice cream cone boobs were hiding under my shirt and they were pointed SIDEWAYS. Who the hell wants to wear something like that?

I left the fitting room in a snit and went back to the display of my discontinued favorites. I decided I would buy a few and MAKE them work. They say women wear the wrong size all the time anyway, what does it matter? Suddenly before me, in this store filled with much older women, stands a woman close to my age. She had just left the dressing room and was holding a few bras. I don’t mind saying I looked at her rack. I totally checked her out. Her girls looked fantastic. They were so perky, it looked like she was holding a platter under them. The bra she was wearing was defying gravity.

We struck up a conversation about my discontinued bras and I asked her what she was buying. She mentioned some brand I had never heard of. So I said, “Is that what you’re wearing right now? I don’t mind saying that your boobs look fantastic.” As she thanked me, what I said must have been processed by the old ladies shopping in the store. Suddenly the whole lot of them started howling with laughter. I’m sure at least one peed her pants. Of course the old ladies had to check out her boobs too.

My new friend pointed me in the right direction and one of the older women helped me find the right size. She whispered, “That’s going to be expensive. Why don’t you try Olga? That’s the brand I wear.” I told her that if my boobs were going to look like that other girls, there is limit to the amount of money I would spend.

My new friend checked out and we wished each other well. I tried on my new favorite bra and bought two… and a sports bra. Thank God they were having a sale and I didn’t have to pay full price for the million dollar boulder holders.

During the conversation with my new friend, we lamented about the unattractiveness of bras that fit. We were sad that the cutie muffin bras at places like Victoria’s Secret don’t come in our sizes. A female coworker was with me and she swore that Victoria’s DID sell bigger sizes. She checked when we returned to the office, and wouldn’t you know it, they just now started selling my size. I was beside myself with excitement. For the first time in years, I could buy cute bras. I looked and looked and fell in love with a bunch. I marveled at how cheap they were. Hint: if I think Victoria’s is cheap, imagine what I had just spent on the Silver Platter Bras.  

I called the nearest Victoria’s Secret and asked about their fabulous new sizes… “I’m sorry ma’am, we only sell those sizes online.” Thankfully, they do sell the next closest size, so I’ll have to go in and try some on soon.

Until then I’ll wear this gravity-defying Silver Platter bra and hope that it stops causing me pain and starts making the girls feel like they’re being cradled all day long. Given the price I paid, it’s not too much to ask for, I don’t think. 

xoxo

Ice Princess

Enabling Irresponsible Behavior

Is there a line between being supportive and enabling? At this very moment with rage roaring through my body, I am feeling like there is no line. To be supportive, to give everything that is expected, enables others to sit back on their asses and take, take, take. The only effort they ever make is to demand more.

I’m not perfect, I’ve never claimed to be. But I’ve tried to be a good role model and positive influence on my niece. I have given her everything she’s asked for. I’ve offered help with homework. I’ve offered her a place to live when things got rough at her house. I went with her to speak to her guidance counselor about graduating from high school last year. I’ve been there every time she has asked.

First, she took the easy out and graduated from some alternative school that required less credits.

Then she decided to take out a school loan to learn how to be a hairdresser. She got a loan at a school she really didn’t want to attend. Then the administration of the school told her to leave until she got her life straightened out. Have you ever known anyone that was kicked out of beauty school ?

Of course she’s already decided not to go back. They’re all stupid there. But it’s ok. She’ll take her loan from them and apply the money to tuition at a different school. Um, sweetheart, things don’t work that way.

Since she “graduated” last June, I’d estimate that she’s worked maybe 100 hours, earning money for gas, clothes, make-up, whatever else she needs. She’s been too busy sleeping until noon, “hanging out” and stalking the boyfriend who keeps breaking up with her. She deleted me off her Facebook account because I commented on her posts that read, “Stalk them ‘til you get what you want.”

And now, the foolish girl is pregnant. And she thinks I don’t know. It’s obvious that she is and I’m not sure how my parents haven’t figured it out yet, unless they’re just ignoring the white elephant in the room. Or maybe they know and they think I don’t. We’re dysfunctional that way.

I sit at Family Dinner these days and I try to keep my head in a happy place and keep the rage at bay. I look across the table to my sister, who did nothing to raise her daughter to be a productive member of society. She didn’t teach her how to look for a job, how to budget her money or even how to clean a house.

Then I look at my parents and I’m devastated by what I see. They should be at the tail end of paying off their mortgage, but that’s not the case because they refinanced their own house to buy my sister one. They have no retirement account or savings account. My dad is 71 years old and still has to work a full-time job. Meanwhile, any time my niece needs something, she goes to their house and asks for it.

And my dad gives her what she wants. Every time.

Yes, it’s his fault too. He should say no to her. He should tell her to get off her lazy ass and get a job. He should stop letting my sister and her kids mooch off of him. Year after year, I stand by and say nothing.

I’m anxious for my niece to make her big announcement. I can’t decide if I should pretend to be surprised or if I should just say, “Well that’s a relief! Now I know what you were doing all this time you weren’t being a contributing member of society!”

I know that when it comes down to the wire no one will try to encourage my niece to give the baby up for adoption, to give it a chance at a normal life. My sister will think it’s cute and she’ll say over and over that she did the same thing at the same age. She’ll forget to talk about how she’d bring the baby to my house for me to babysit while she “attended an alternative high school.” As it turned out, she was going back home and sleeping all day. She’ll conveniently leave out the parts about being turned in to DCYF for neglect. She’ll not mention that she lived with my parents for years after that and they took care of my niece. She’ll go on and on about how she did it all alone and no one will speak up as she rewrites her own life story.

My niece lacks the ambition, desire and character to work hard to raise this child well. It will be passed from family member to family member to be cared for so my niece can still go out and party with her friends. I know I’ll be told, “We need to be supportive! Princess needs to have a chance to have fun with her friends.”

I have zero desire to wait around and see how this shitshow progresses. At what age are we allowed to stop playing happy family? At what age can I tell my parents that it makes me sick to sit across the table from my sister every other week?

I’m sure at that point, I’ll be given another lecture on being supportive of my sibling and her children in their time of crisis… when I feel in my heart that all these years of support have proven themselves to be nothing more than years of enabling their continued irresponsible behavior.

The only humor in this situation is that my sister will be a grandmother before she’s 40. I hope Granny's weekly "Train Wreck Thursday" nights out aren't impacted by her grandkid.

xoxo

Ice Princess  

Will Run for Beer

A benefit to all the walking we have been doing (plus my being sick a while back) is that I’ve finally started to lose some weight. Not much, not even noticeable actually until I step on the scale. It’s coming off very slowly, but that’s the right way to lose, right?

As much as I enjoy walking with the girls and the dogs, I’ve always thought I’d like to give running a shot. There are two issues with this idea:

1. I would need to buy a sports bra. I’ve tried shopping for one and found that I can only special order, and the boulder holder would cost in the triple digits. I guess the price tag matches the number of alphabets in the cup size. 
2. I run funny. My first husband saw me run once and never stopped laughing. I shared this problem with my friend Skippy and he said he ran funny, but that didn’t stop him (he runs MARATHONS, y’all). I just need to get over myself.

I am insanely jealous of those that run regularly. Every single person I know that runs is in fabulous shape. Plus, when you run, you get to eat the good shit. I want to be that girl.

Many years ago, I did give running an honest shot, and I loved it. I got an adrenaline rush like I’ve never gotten from any other form of exercise. I would run every morning with my old girl Dusty-she was in charge of dragging my fat ass. We mostly walked, but I tried to run as much as I could. Our running days were over when she stopped on a busy road to gobble up a bagel someone dropped and I took a face plant on the sidewalk. There’s no denying I’m a hot mess.

I knew Ultra had been quite the jock when she was younger, but I couldn’t help but howl with delight when she told me that she was running in an event this weekend. Two miles with her husband and oldest daughter… But she had a good reason for entering the race… participants got to have free beer afterwards. If that’s not a reason to run, I don’t know what is.

Let’s gossip for a moment about my pal Ultra. She’s cute and way too little to be in her late 30’s. She recently went to Hawaii and her cousin posted a picture of her with her daughters on Facebook. She was wearing a BIKINI. If she wasn’t so fucking funny, I would hate her. Unlike other FB friends that post bikini pictures on Facebook themselves, I couldn't help but smile at this picture. She's in great shape and really should be proud of the way she looks. Hell, if I looked like that, I'd wear a bikini every day.  

So today she ran. She ran the whole race and finished in a respectable time. And I’m so very, very proud of her. I am also jealous. She did something I dream of doing. I need a bra. I run funny. I have no endurance. But she inspired me. This woman, who hasn’t run in years, went out and did something she wasn’t overly excited about (free beer aside) and didn’t think she could do.

If she can do it, why can’t I? Let’s forget for a moment that she’s in much better shape. Let’s forget the 50 extra pounds that I cart around. Let’s forget that even as a middle schooler I didn’t have the endurance to finish the stupid one-mile PE test we were forced to do. Let’s forget that I came in dead last every single time.

Nicer weather is coming and I live in a new neighborhood where there aren’t so many hills. I could potentially get up a little bit earlier and have one of the dogs drag me around the ‘hood before the sun has fully risen, under the cover of darkness. I could, rather than buying my semi-annual outlet Coach bag, spend the same money on a high-test, earthquake-resistant bra. I could do these things and I should. I’m mortified by several recent instances of people not recognizing me because of the weight I’ve gained.

I spent my 30’s wearing baggy clothes to hide what I have become. I’m sick of doing that. I made these same pledges a year ago and didn’t stick with it. I really want to live the “40’s are the new 30’s” dream. I want to wear clothes that aren’t made of stretchy cotton and spandex. I want to be happy when I look in the mirror. I want to look Scrawny in the face the next time she “complains” that she’s so skinny her pants fall right off her and say, “I know the feeling.”

I need to get off my ass. I need to feel better about who I am and how I look. And Ultra, if you promise to nag me occasionally about my progress, I promise to pay you in beer. I won’t even make you run for it.Well, unless you run funny and I can laugh at you. 

xoxo 

Ice Princess 

New House, New Behaviors

With the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having this week, Sugar and I have rediscovered our love of an evening walk with the dogs. We finally convinced Spice that walks are FUN and the three of us have headed out every night with the three dogs. This week we have logged seven miles. Not overly impressive, but it’s a nice start.

With these walks, we have the chance to meet our new neighbors. Everyone we pass waves from their respective yards. We see a woman who alternately walks and jogs that always calls out, “I love the dog with the little patch on his eye.” We chat with the dentist who is out walking the fattest bulldog I’ve ever met (her name is Winnie… she was supposed to be a boy named Winston). Occasionally they are joined by his teenaged daughter and Winnie’s standard poodle sister, Lola. Unlike our old neighborhood, there is no bitterness or anger. We smile at everyone and they smile back. I’ve forgotten how good that feels.

We have become quite friendly with one family down the street. In fact, we met them before we even moved in. We’ve had dinner together, we watched the Super Bowl together. We seem to have hung out together during the last two time changes and I think that might be a semi-annual Whoop It Up Night.

I will admit here in Blogworld where no one really knows who I am, that I was a bit taken aback by this family when I first met them. Almost the day we moved in, I was asked to watch on or both of their younger children. I thought, “What the hell? I’ve got boxes everywhere and you want me to babysit?” In recent weeks, I’ve come to see the error of my ways.

She’s asking me to watch her kids because she is absolutely willing to watch mine. On a day I worked from home, she took my kids to a local park and out to dinner. She texts me from the bus stop asking where my kids are and telling me she’s willing to keep them until I get home from work.

What the hell?! This is behavior I am not accustomed to. In the old ‘hood, it was every man for himself. If there was a snowstorm and my car didn’t make it up my driveway, they’d watch as I trudged up the hill in high heels with a four year old and a baby in an infant car seat. When I searched and called for hours for my lost dog, no one helped… but they were entirely comfortable shouting “Shut up” out their windows.

On Fridays I leave work early so I’m home in time to meet the bus. Today was another gorgeous day and the girls ran home to dump their backpacks and head outside to ride bikes, ripsticks and scooters. They were hardly in the door before a friend was knocking on the door to come out and play. They shared popsicles and giggled then headed out to play. Then friends from further up the street texted that they were on their way over to play. Suddenly there were five kids running around my yard having a good time.

Normally I would be overwhelmed by this rabid pack of wild children… but today it was more of a pleasure than a pain. They came inside and descended on the playroom. I could hear them running and laughing while I sat on the couch with a book. Yes, they were all well behaved enough so that I could read while they played.

I had already cleared a dinner out with our first guest’s parents, but Sugar wanted her friend to come along too. I reminded her that I didn’t have room for five kids in my car. She said that the lone boy didn’t want to go anyway, he’d had enough of the girls. His mom came to get him and I took four little chicks to dinner.

Again, normally I would dread something like this. Instead, I was at a restaurant where I spent $20 to feed the five of us, and ate my dinner with four little girls who ate well and said please and thank you. They were so good I bought them ice cream for dessert.

The evening ended with one guest going home right after dinner, while one stayed and the three girls played. The last guest’s mother came to pick her up and she said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m home during the day and my son is in Spice’s kindergarten class. If you ever need someone during the day, we’d love to have her.”

What? Another helpful neighbor in the ‘hood? I’m beginning to feel like I’ve woken up in the Twilight Zone. This is NOT what I am used to! I am sure I looked like an idiot standing there staring at her with my mouth hanging open. I thanked her for her offer and said that I’d definitely let her know and we’d be happy to return the favor if she ever needed our help.

Incidentally, when I put the girls to bed tonight, I was scared to look in the playroom, thinking five kids had wreaked havoc on it. I found a playroom that was left in the condition it started off in: perfectly clean, all the toys put away where they belonged.

When we bought this trashed foreclosure in a nice neighborhood, I thought we’d be looked at as the family that could afford to live here only because we bought a dump at a low price. It seems like it would be the type of place where people would look down their noses at you. That hasn’t been the case at all. We’ve had neighbors offer to come over and help rebuild. We’ve had people offer to lend tools if we needed any.

We’ve met friendly people that love to regale us of stories of what this place used to look like. They are interested in our plans for the house and seem excited to see what progress is being made. They have not complained (even though I did!) about the appliances EN left sitting on the front porch for weeks.

It’s also not the type of neighborhood where one feels like they are in a Desperate Housewives sort of clique and can only hang with other hoodies. Neighbors are warm, friendly and willing to help, but they give space. I need to reprogram what goes on in my head and offer to help others as they have offered to help me. I need to relearn how to be warm, friendly and open to accepting assistance.

For the first time since I moved from the Midwest some 25 years ago, I feel like I am accepted and live in a place that feels like home.

xoxo

Ice Princess