Twenty Year...Wait, What?!

A friend of mine from Facebook land is pretty consistent with her Throwback Thursday posts.  Oh, how I do enjoy having friends who don't take themselves so seriously that they can take us with them down memory lane, scrunchies, perms, and all.  One day some of us were feeling supportive of her and didn't want her to wallow alone in the tears of our laughter, so we ponied up our worst on her thread to show our sisterly solidarity....though most of us were strangers.  That's how it works.

That picture of me, however, just like the pictures of all of us...were pretty serious business at some point in history.  Mine?  I was sixteen years old.  SIXTEEN. YEARS. OLD. And it was my Senior picture.  WTF?

I don't know if this should be more embarrassing for me (then or now) or Ralph Lauren and/or the entire United States of America (then or now) but my sweater....well....it....coordinates with the monstrosity that our athletes are to only wear inside the official Olympic village and nowhere else, lest they be assaulted.  Yes.  Obviously.  Anyone, anywhere would beat someone up for wearing that outfit.  I would beat up my OWN kid for wearing that outfit.  I'm joking.  I wouldn't let my kid wear that outfit.  I'd make him drop out of the Olympics.

 

Red, White, and Bluetiful.

What's Black and White
and
Permy all over?



Lucky for the world that I'm taken and that MY sweater is long gone because can you say "POWER COUPLE"?  Kidding, again.  He's probably what?  Nineteen?  And he looks humiliated, like when you put a sweater on a dog that's just not that into it.

Unlucky for him this pic is gonna haunt him for a long time.  Like mine did.  First willingly when I was being a good sport, then, when I joined a lovely group of ladies planning out our 20th class reunion.

Urk.  Just typing that out makes my throat swell up.  Da hubs had his last year, which was fine because there were like 29 people in his class, they feel like family, and, well....he's OLD.  This is getting personal.  And there's like 330 give or take from my class.

This group has been fluid and flexible, opening up the "committee" to whomever cares to show up at the posted venue at the posted time, allowing decisions to be made by the majority showing up there and putting some things to a vote on a Facebook group wall, and somehow organized with the help of one amazingly together lady who doesn't even live here.  I've missed all but the last meeting because of our crazy home schedule, but I finally made it to one, to scan through our yearbook and through the list of names of classmates we had yet to reach to see if we could, as a little group, get our feelers out a little wider than before.

 

This giant group reaching far and wide that we could barely get our minds around, let alone our arms around.  We even tried to fit them neatly into the categories we knew they never belonged in to begin with, attempting to bully the one "cowgirl" at the table to track down anyone wearing a cowboy hat in their picture.  We laughed, acknowledging that the labels of high school didn't fit then and didn't define us as people any more than the jobs or spouses we have define us now.

It stymies me what twenty years will do to a group of that size, blowing us the 4 directions of the wind, making us parents, grandparents, married 20 years to one person, divorced, remarried, still single, sinners, saints, and angels.  We've had tragedy, success, love, loss, and laughter.  We've stayed together, lost touch, reconnected, remembered, and forgotten.  We are graying, coloring, balding, fat, skinny, angry, happy, confused, and content.

As we flipped through the pages I began to wonder whether the publisher just made up some of the names or whether I had actually attended school with these people at all.  There were faces I knew but their names I did not.  Names I had heard but faces my eyes had never seen.  It was obvious what twenty years had done to me.  It had turned my brain into my Grandma's.  The one that doesn't know anyone.

When you see reunion scenes in movies or on TV, there's always the lady sitting at a table passing out name tags, and she's the only who seems to remember everyone, right?  No.  I realize now it's only because, through the planning process, she reacquainted her brain with everyone that she SEEMS to remember everyone, but I know now that lady is just like me, humped over a hardback full of black and whites, thinking "Who the hell is this?  Did this guy REALLY go to school with us?  He looks FORTY...look...he has a full-on moustache.  He must have been the janitor."

We apparently didn't do a great job distinguishing our foreign exchange students either, because we integrated them so well we had to just go off "memory" for which ones they were, and I, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings or purport to know how they'd like to spend their summer holiday, suggested that we SHOULD, in fact, send an invite to Spain.

OK....so I might NOT have been the most helpful person at the table, obviously.  I also mistook alive persons for dead persons and vice-versa.  However, I would never make a definitive declarative statement without validation first.  Like, you know...obituary level verification.  You have to admit though....zipping through your mental Rolodex for 330 people you may or may not have seen for 20 years when you may or may not be able to remember the names of your maybe or maybe not three children that may or may not be yours is....difficult.

In all, progress was made, assignments given, and fun....yes fun was had.  I'm happy that I had the opportunity to share in this stage of what's "officially" just a weekend later this year but is really extending, for me at least, into more than that.  To dip my toe slowly back into the hot tub time machine, so that perhaps by the time the summer rolls around, I may be the crazy lady who hands you a name tag and knows who you are.





Part Two of: My Crappy Parenting < Your Crappy Parenting

I'm standing by for the inevitable shitstorm this will create, but regardless:

Part II of: My Crappy Parenting < Your Crappy Parenting

I wish this were a followup to the first part, an update of where that story has gone, but sadly, all I can tell you is that the guy didn't show for court, a warrant was issued, but I don't think anyone's going to make a big fuss about finding him because it was a misdemeanor anyway.

No, this is a different parent I'm getting judgy about.  But again I'll preface it by reminding you that I am, by all accounts, inadequate myself.  However lacking I may be, there sometimes occurs crappy parenting that seeps over into my home that causes me to pause and reflect.  THIS was just another one of those times.

After the first of the year I got around to taking down the Christmas decorations.  The tree was last, as I dreaded dealing once again with the partially non-functioning lighted artificial tree that I'd sweet talked into lighting up after Thanksgiving.  I grouched about it giving us ONE MORE YEAR but swore that this would be its final holiday as, while it did serve us proudly over the years, it's a little short for our ceilings and needs desperately to be replaced with a taller version.  As I approached removing the decorations I prepped for organization. Ornaments get sorted by color, glitter ornaments alone in a zip lock bag to keep from fairy dusting everything else in the box, and a separate place for all the homemade ornaments that the kids have made and brought home from school.

 

As I sifted through the kids' creations I noticed one that had made it to the tree without my prior after-school inspection.  It was a wish list written on a scroll made out of a thread spool painted red, tied with a ribbon and had a scrap of tape attached with a name on it.  The name didn't belong to my kids.  Even if no name was attached, the items made it evident none of my kids wrote this list to Santa.  It contained camo, five firearms, a crossbow, and ammo.  What it did NOT contain was ANY TOYS.  No Legos, not a bike, no electronics, and none of the guns were of the NERF variety.  The firearms were specific and I'll picture them here for your reference.  The photos are benign and not sensationalized or modified or pictured with bleeding animal carcasses to get a rise out of anyone.  They're just so you have an idea of what this kid, who is SEVEN YEARS OLD, was asking SANTA to bring him.



This gun is described as useful for taking down
BUFFALOS AND ELEPHANTS



(big5sportinggoods.com)

TWO different, specific shotguns.
(big5sportinggoods.com)

 

 



Ammo. I assume for all of them.



A Crossbow, for when a gun is too noisy.
(deeranddeerhunter.com)

 

 

OK.  So now that we have digested that.  This is where I say my crappy parenting is not as bad as your crappy parenting.  This kid's mom is missing the point.  In a big way.  When your kid's Santa list contains NO toys, you have failed a little as a parent.  I'm sorry.  I'm not anti gun, I'm not anti hunting.  I'm not beating a path to the Principal's office to have this kid hauled off to jail or counseling.  I AM concerned that THIS kid at 12 is going to be someone to have a conversation about due to his obvious obsession with firearms should a variable get thrown in, like any instability at home, or raging teenager hormones or an anger problem....so don't think I'm taking my eye off him any time soon.  In the meantime, my kid is not allowed to go play at this kid's house.  The only salvageable thing I can think to pull out of this is A) at least he was asking Santa for this stuff, so she's not COMPLETELY a monster to me, and B) he's my son's friend, so I am hopeful for the time that they spend together because I know that my kid has redirected him as to the acceptable rules of the school.  I'm incredibly proud of both of them for that.

 

Now let the political finger pointing begin....I'm sure.  But before that happens, I'll let you in on what I was doing at 8 years old.  At 8 years old I was writing a cease and desist letter to the local newspaper demanding that they immediately stop making fun of President Reagan via political cartoons (which I had recently discovered at that time and was appalled and disgusted about) or I would PERSONALLY tell him what they were saying about him and they would be in BIG TIME TROUBLE WITH THE WHITE HOUSE.

 

And wouldn't you know?  The newspaper did NOT stop.  Instead, they just printed my letter in the opinion section.  My Grandpa was super proud.  He cut that out and beamed at me and read it over and over again.  Those ay-holes.

 

I wrote that because I was taught that we had to respect the Office of the President, and by virtue, The President.  That you were not to say bad things about The President.  Granted, this may have been presented in the way that less "Freedom of Speech" countries operate, as in "do not speak ill of the President, lest they come lop off your lips"....or I may have just interpreted it that way.  Nonetheless I had a healthy respect for him and behaved as such.  It translated and trickled down into RESPECT FOR OTHER ADULTS.

 

So I look around now and I see so many of the same people who say things like "Kids these days have no respect for adults and just need a spanking" are the same ones who are saying things IN FRONT OF THEIR KIDS wishing a range of outcomes from impeachment to death upon the leader of the free world.  I know this to be true because my kids are coming home from school with furrowed brows asking who I voted for and then relaying that "Little Johnny says Obama's a jerkface because he's making it so nobody can afford insurance and he should go back to Africa."

 

I understand that people are polarized by politics.  Everyone is entitled to their opinions.  Everyone should educate themselves and their families about what's best for them.  It's not okay, however, to have age inappropriate conversations with and around your children that ultimately, whether you like it or not, is teaching them to behave disrespectfully.  The rest of us are trying to do the best we can and would appreciate you not screwing your kids up in that process because whether you believe me or not, I care about your kid too.  And, well....Roswell happened yesterday.  And other schools before Roswell, and realistically, other schools will happen after Roswell.  So I get to have an opinion about this.  That's why your kid's ornament is in my garbage.  A move that normally would never happen at my house...where misplaced homework always gets returned to owner.  Not this time.  Sorry.

Christmas Past and Christmas Presents

In a big family it's hard to cram everyone's festivities within the allotted days on a standard calendar.  I was only issued 31 days for December this year, not sure about you.  As we inch closer to the big day within a brood that puts an importance on both old and new traditions, this year I have had a few moments to take pause to soak in some things that transcend time.

Christmas Past

There exists a series of home movies that my husband converted for his mom and contains what I would call....priceless footage of he and his sisters and cousins doing what all children of the 80's did: using a giant video camera without parental supervision to entertain themselves for hours and in doing so preserving, like a time capsule: trendy outfits, questionable haircuts, and evidence of days gone by when they may not have gotten along as well as they do today.  They also display their tremendous performing arts abilities, choreography and lip-syncing skills across all genres, including music from artists such as:

Vanilla Ice
The Judds
Dolly Parton
Joan Jett....lots and lots of Joan Jett.

With a groan and an eyeroll, the two youngest sisters who are the stars of the "Best Christmas Performance Ever" object but are overruled when the crowd requests that the DVD be crammed in the player for us all to laugh at to get us in the holiday mood.

So we see a younger version of the youngest sister, hair wild from over-teasing and following the instructions being given by the oldest sister running the camera, we watch as she headbangs on the bigscreen and aren't really at all surprised when her son, not yet in school, starts to shake his bonbon to the music he hears and it becomes apparent that he definitely gets his moves from his mother.

Yessssssss.  But later, in addition to Dolly "Walkin' In A Winter Wonderland" and after I wipe my tears of laughter away from the preteen girls screaming at their brother to "GET OUUUUUT!!!!" after walking through and ruining ANOTHER take, I notice something different in one of the clips.  One of the cousins is huddled in the corner with a smirk, just like a couple boys in the room with us today.  Our "boys" (18+), we know are giggling over something on one of their phone screens and we know it's probably not appropriate.  I ask what the cousin on the video is doing.  Jason laughs. 

"Drawing dirty pictures with an Etch-a-Sketch."

New video footage was made this year, including some sledding action that was pretty awesome.  I look forward to the day that our kids will groan with embarrassment when we force them to let us watch them over and over again too.  I hope they're the good sports that my sister in laws are (really, you guys are good sports, and you're awesome, and I love you).  Sorry, rest of the world that's not our family, the old video series is not available on YouTube....yet.

Christmas Presents

My kids love getting gifts from Grandma more than Santa because they actually get what they want from Grandma.  Maybe because they don't ask Grandma for things like an iPhone5 or a laptop.  At any rate, it's a win-win situation and they love it.  Plus, there's nowhere else you can get an endless supply of sugar, exactly the present that you wanted, and each family walks away with a tetherball pole to say "Hey Chuck....I'm the only one in my neighborhood with my own personal tetherball pole, so suck it".

The grownups get very personalized gifts as well.  As the hubs and I sat next to each other and unwrapped our respective boxes and held up our treasures, he examined my purple sweater with the oversized jeweled button and proclaimed in his outside voice [which he insists is his inside voice and that I should just calm down], "That looks like a grandma sweater."  Then he promptly pulled teenager clothes out of his box.  Two hoodies and a puffy vest.  They each were exactly our clothing personalities, hilariously.  I think we need a stylist who can get us each a bit closer to the midline.  I dress like an old lady who sometimes wears yoga pants and he dresses like a teenager who sometimes has a job requiring a uniform.  We have to get our act together (but I'm keeping the sweater).

Overall such a fun time crammed into too short of a day, our family busting at the seams, and Grandma Bucky making doing it all look so easy.  We are so fortunate to have her willing to wrangle our herd and put up with the shenanigans that take place there....they won't admit it now but I know for a fact my children treasure the time and memories even more than they treasure the presents, and if you know my shorties, they treasure presents a lot.

Elf OFF the Shelf

My Facebook friends are annoyed with me this month the way that my husband gets annoyed with his friends in November.

Not the ones posting the pictures of the progress of their facial hair projects.  Those, I believe he's pretty jealous of.  He tried to put his big man-foot down over a long weekend trip we took for his buddy's surprise 40th, probably to honor that friend who makes it a practice to not shave whenever he's off the job...a "stick it to the man" gesture while we're on vacation together.  My guy didn't make it very long...but he made his point.  A couple days without a razor was good enough.  Also I told him either he could shave himself or I would do it for him in his sleep but that I could not guarantee that I wouldn't cut him...or take off an eyebrow.

The posts that annoy him (hilariously) are the 30 Days of Thankfulness.  All that positivity really puts him in a lather.  You'd think that my ball-and-chain bubble of negativity would counteract it and soothe him, but alas...no.

So I spare him the stroke and I keep what I'm thankful for to myself in November.  But really every day it's the same thing, and every year the people at dinner get sick of hearing about it.  I'm thankful that none of our lives worked out the way we thought they should.  If they did, almost NOBODY at our Thanksgiving table would be sitting there.

Cheers to screwed up plans!!

So this month my friends have been unwillingly subjected to a daily picture of the incredibly nerve wracking phenomenon that is: THE ELF ON THE SHELF.  Or, as ours is usually: The Elf OFF the Shelf.  His second appearance in as many years, he joins the ranks of other creepy minis out there terrorizing children and forcing them to behave.  Apparently the appropriate behavior for this guy is to just move each night from one location to another to be found by children in the morning.  Ours is a bit more....interactive.

Fred wanted to be part of Movember too. Too late!!

Actually hiding. Daddy is the worst finder in the house.

Telling Nutcracker not to peek at the presents.
Casualties: Nutcracker's right eye and eyebrow. Oops.

Super glad the MOM stocking wasn't up yet.

It should say: "From Fred, with irony".
We have no stairs. What a joker.

The map lead to the Toys 4 Tots barrel.

Elves on Strike
"What Do We Want?
SNOW!!!
When Do We Want It?
NOW!!!"

Fred doesn't care about what's appropriate...
or the environment.



A stranger called me a bad mother over this.
She obviously doesn't realize that other
people's opinions of me don't matter....
whether I know and care about you or not.
Just kidding. The people I care about thought
this was hilarious, and that matters to me.

 

There are consequences.

 



On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
three anatomically correct sock monkeys.
Fred is a lousy "Toy Maker" Elf.



So that's it for now, I'll update when the month is over if he sticks around but things are about to get busy and if you didn't notice, it was May when I posted about Fred's 2012 antics.  Anyone with an Elf should feel free to rip off any ideas they see anywhere on the interwebz or from their friends because, after all, lack of sleep that comes with being a parent of any shape or size sometimes zaps our creativity.  But I have found that the best reactions from my kids are to those things that are personalized to them, that make them feel that Fred dances closer each night to that blurry twilight line between their life and his, where dreams come true and where anything is most certainly possible.  The fact that there have been some adults along the way who have been pulled kicking and screaming into our Christmas Spirit-sprinkled fantasy land?  That's a plus.  Or they've blocked me.  My friends who have their own Elf?  Know that I love them, I love that you share, and I love knowing that your shorties *whom I also love* are going to remember this for a long, long time.

 

My Crappy Parenting < Your Crappy Parenting

If you're reading this, chances are you've been reading other things of mine, and I hope for your sake that you know me.  Chances are also that through one or both of those things you should know how often I admit my shortcomings as a parent.  I will preface this tale by saying this is not my reaction to a news story, which I realize the media often skews to fit an agenda or leaves out important facts.

That is why I am fully disclosing the events as they occurred.  You see, it's not my intention to simply highlight one person's shitty behavior if I can't put it in context with my own shitty behavior.  It wouldn't be fair to anyone, and you, my friends, are smarter than that.

So.  I had just left PetCo.

Wait, you say?  The Lees don't have any animals?  Yes.  True.  I was at PetCo to inquire about a 28 by 39 inch foam dog bed that they advertised on their website but I'm too impatient to wait for the FedEx guy to deliver.  I tend to want things NOW.  Also, our cute little hamlet has twelve hundred options locally to purchase flat foam dog beds with durable, removable, washable covers, and has ZERO options for any equivalent BABY products for use in the bottom of Chunka Monka's pack-n-play, which we use as his full-time bed, and which he doesn't get very good sleep in, so therefore mommy doesn't get very good sleep either.  I'm trying to make him more comfy, which parenting safety "experts" say I should not do.

I'm not a complete monster. I had also, in this same shopping trip, picked up a new carseat for him for our 2nd car because he's....growing.

PetCo did not have the particular size I required but suggested I check Ross, which was just across the parking lot, as they regularly carry dog beds in miscellaneous sizes.

So I buckled my fat baby into all 5 points of his harness to go across the parking lot.  When I got out and began into the store, I could hear crying.  I stopped several times, looked around, and finally saw a lady talking to someone next to a car.  In the store I went, straight back to the dog beds, immediately saw that they only had things suitable for Yorkies to snuggle, and headed back out, but heard over the speakers, "will the owner of the red Explorer please come to Customer Service."

No. They. Didn't.

See, I've long warned the hubs of this: I will be an unapologetic cop calling window breaker outer, so...FYI.

I'm not the person who's gonna fiddle fart around running from store to store in a strip mall trying to have a kid's parents paged.  No sir.

So I marched out to that car.  There were a couple people standing there in a panic.  They literally did not know what to do.  I told them I'd break the window out if it needed to be.  One guy told the lady she should call the cops, but not to call 911, to call their business line because it wasn't an emergency.  He rattled off their business line to them and indicated he'd had "previous dealings" with them.

Great.  THIS should give you an indication of the group of folks we have here.

Then the guy started trying to engage the girl, a little too aggressively, and she wouldn't look at him at all.  He was concerned.  The windows were cracked but was she ignoring him or non responsive because there was a problem?  He pounded on the window like it was a fish tank.

"Is she Chinese or Native? I can't tell."  He smashed his face against the window, his stocking hat made him look like a bank robber.

"She's Native.  And you should knock it off.  That's why she's not looking at you or responding to you.  It's a little bit cultural.  She's never GOING to start interacting with you."  I stood there with my own baby on my hip, who was happy and giggling at the little girl who looked at nobody, then intermittently at his own reflection.

StockingHat tried to set off the car alarm by reaching down through the cracked open window and unlocking the front passenger door.  No alarm.

"Great, no alarm.  Now what?" he said.

I reached out and opened the door.  "NOW she can get some good air circulating, thanks."

"Jesus, I wouldn't do that.  That's trespassing."

"I think I'll take my chances, I'm really just not worried about it.  I have pants on with no pockets, a tiny purse, a baby, and ten witnesses.  I'd invite anyone who just left their baby in the car to make that accusation that I trespassed into their vehicle and/or stole ANYTHING from them.  I AM happy to see, however, the Coach purse she left on the driver's seat.  Substandard individuals usually take their valuables when they leave their offspring, so at least she's consistent."

So we waited, and waited, and waited.  All the while the lady was still on the phone with PD dispatch.  Describing the girl, describing the situation, explaining what we did, waiting for the officer to arrive so that we could pass along our info and safely deposit this being with someone who cared about her.

This little who, on October 19 was in a spaghetti strap tank top.  This little who looked like she had awaken from a nap with her blanket and her Hairdresser Barbie head in the back seat and was disoriented as to where she was and where her bigs had gone and was scared and crying.  This little who was in a car that was devoid of a carseat or booster of any kind.

Finally a man emerged from the store.  He casually approached his car, this vehicle swarming with strangers like flies on a pile of manure, like it was NO. BIG. DEAL.  He said NOTHING to ANYONE.  Especially me, the lady standing with the door open.  He opened the back driver's side door, and that sweet girl leaped out at him like a spider monkey.  She clung to his neck like he was a life preserver and she was drowning, like he was saving her from all these scary strangers.

And all of them held their tongues because they were dumbstruck that someone would have the balls to do something like that.

And I held my tongue because I'm not in the business of calling someone a lowlife piece of shit in front of children, especially their own.

And I didn't want to assume that he was the dad.  In my heart I didn't want to believe that anyone could live life with a piece of themselves walking around outside their body and leave her LOCKED in a car in a parking lot regardless of the temperature because shopping is just THAT much more important.  That doesn't even earn you the title of Shitty Parent, that earns you the title of Shitty PERSON.  It was obvious that HE was important to HER.  It was obvious that HE made HER feel safe.  Which is the real kick in the balls irony to this.

After he sauntered BACK into the store (I was still standing there with his door open, HI!!) the cop showed up.  We each gave our information, I disclosed that I had opened the door, etc. and StockingHat showed the officer a picture he had snapped of the guy on his cell phone so none of us had to give a run down of the description.  As our little crowd dispersed there were grumbles that they all generally felt that nothing would happen to this guy, that by the tone of his reaction that there just would be no consequence to what had gone on, and I got the feeling it would have some impact on whether they'd stick around to do the right thing next time.

"You know they can't let that guy leave here with her in that car now because there's no carseat or booster, right?  They'll either make her stay here until they get one and install it properly, or they'll get CPS up here to remedy this."

I was PRETTY sure that was true, and I was going to have to validate it when I got home, but it needed to be said so I made the command decision at the time.  I have a pretty strict facts-only policy, but at the time....facts-probably in THAT crowd was necessary.  They all immediately felt better thinking they knew how that officer was going to handle things and were off to finish out their respective days with a little less worry on their minds.

I had to go home and confess to the hubs preemptively about getting "tangled up" with the cops that day (but not having to break a window) and I never did find that dog bed.

I think I'm gonna be stuck waiting for FedEx after all.

Hairy Situation

For historical purposes, I do have to document here that
Clayton asked Esten
"Dude, why are you tucking your shirt in like a nerd?"
And I intervened,
 "Your brother can tuck his shirt in any way he wants and nerds are awesome."
Sigh. It's going to be a long year.

They are BACK IN SCHOOL.

This is the part where most moms who have that uber-maternal mommy-mom gene get all sappy and a little sad (as does my husband), but this is the part where I go:

"THANK FREAKING GOD THEY ARE BACK IN SCHOOL AND THERE CAN BE A LITTLE BIT OF NORMAL BACK IN OUR LIVES AND A REASON FOR THEM TO LISTEN TO ME TELL THEM WHY THEY HAVE TO GO TO BED BEFORE ELEVEN FREAKING O'CLOCK AT FREAKING NIGHT BECAUSE I'M FREAKING TIRED AND I HAVE TO FREAKING WORK TOMORROW AFTER GETTING UP ALL FREAKING NIGHT WITH THE FREAKING BABY WHO WON'T FREAKING SLEEP."

Or something like that.  I'm paraphrasing.

So I'm glad they're back in school, and really, so are they.  And for reasons more bizarre than I can explain, like Esten's excited that he's in third grade and will get to take a special State standardized test this year that he didn't get to take last year.

For real.  When I asked what he was looking forward to, THAT is the first thing that popped into his head.  Proud moment for me, but not at ALL what I was expecting.

Because of the school's looping model, Clayton will have the same teacher he had last year, but Esten will have a new teacher.  He and I both had a bit of anxiety about it, but for different reasons.  As the summer drew to an end we each held our breath to find out, and I asked him whether he had a preference.

"What does 'preference' mean?"

"It means if you had a choice, would you choose one over the other?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings [he's my sensitive kid for sure] but I know Mrs. X and she knows me, but I'm sure that Mrs. Y is just as good of a teacher."

"So you don't really care which one's class you're in?"

"Well YEAH I care.  I want to be in whichever class ALEX is in, DUH."

Yeah, obviously, I should have known.  These kids really could care less who their teacher is, they just want to make sure that their besties are going to have a desk in that classroom with them.

So when the robocall came in that said the class lists were posted we schlepped to the school's front window and slowly scanned down the list....Mrs. X's class....Esten....and...Alex!  That was good enough for him.  A couple extra kids were icing on the cake.  He was elated.

At the ice cream social last night, our opportunity to meet the teachers and drop off supplies (and get a treat courtesy of the PTA) we got to meet Mrs. X face to face.  She had a BEAMING smile and off the bat said, "I was SO THRILLED to get to have Esten in my class this year.  Every time I see your boys in the halls, they are so cute, and he is such a good kid!  I LOVE when their hair gets a little long and out of control, it just shows so much of their personality, I LOVE LOVE LOVE that!"

OK.  This lady.  Looks kind of like the Tooth Fairy.  And I say that in the nicest way, because I actually KNOW the Tooth Fairy, and people who know me know what that means.  Except that she has the same face as the Tooth Fairy that I already know, but she also has this very LONG (down to her butt long) CURLY hair.  So she's someone who would notice other people's hair, and who probably would tie that into their personality.  And immediately I'm thinking, my kids almost never comb their hair before school, look like welfare ragamuffins on the MAJORITY of days that are not picture day.  I think this may be an indicator that this chick may have a sense of humor about life and that we may get along just fine.

I'm thinking this might apply to a couple of my friend's kiddos who are sporting mohawks this morning too. Best to get your personality out there for the world to see. I am a kid who rocks the hawk. Deal with it. Or, I am a kid whose mom is too tired to cut my hair (also meet my brother who is in a similar situation). Please give us money.

Now I can breathe....because THIS is what I need.  I need my kids to have teachers who are at least not uptight.  That's all.  Because shit happens.  Not OFTEN.  I just need them to be their 2nd mom.  I have a sense of structure when I need to and a sense of humor when I need to, and I just want the same thing from them.  We say goodbye and on my way out the classroom door I remind her over my shoulder that any and all disciplinary problems should be directed to their FATHER, whose cell phone number is listed on Esten's information sheet she just asked me to update.  Then we both giggle.

So today everything and everyone is back in place and we can all get on with our lives again.

Now, how long before that little one can start Kindergarten???

Fat Girls Wear Sweatpants Too

I don't know if anyone else has paid much attention to this, but seems like lately some media chatter has surfaced about clothiers getting picky about who wears their clothes.

Abercrombie & Fitch was in hot water earlier this year and I don't even have the energy to link to the articles or interviews.  They make me throw up in my mouth.  Essentially the head honcho stands behind their brand's desire to only have skinny, attractive, "certain looking", people wearing their clothes.  They've been under fire for years over hiring practices, and to be honest, I've NEVER SHOPPED their brand.  I accidentally bought a pair of stirrup pants (!) of theirs about 18 years ago at Goodwill.

I think the only good PR move they've made was offering to pay that Jersey Shore hooligan to STOP wearing their clothes.

I don't want to seem like I'm singling them out.  I have never been much of a label junkie, refusing to advertise for free, which is in stark contrast with my other half, who prefers to dress like a 17 year old boy.  The two of us in a store together rarely happens, is painful when it does, and contains conversations typically heard between mothers and their teenage sons, i.e. "you're NOT getting that, isn't that a GANG thing??  It smells like marijuana in here.  Let's GO."

More recently a high end workout/yoga/athletic line that I can't pronounce got blasted too, for not carrying "plus size" clothing (size 12 is rare in stores and gets pushed in piles to the back).  Their defense: bigger clothes take more fabric to make and thus cut into their profit margin.

Uh. No.  This is a company who is charging an ABSURD amount of money for YOGA PANTS.  Although, to be fair, they may be very good quality yoga pants, and I may be jealous and I'd like a pair but I think that $90 is a lot for a pair of sweatpants.  I kvetched for MONTHS before spending $80 on a pair of jeans which did turn out to be the best pants investment ever.

But here's the real reason I think companies, and not just THIS company aren't offering extended sizes: their designers don't possess the talent.  MOST designers have been trained to dress a mannequin and models that do not represent the average sizing of women.  When they attempt to translate their designs to the bigger sizes, something gets lost.  The original designs are not suited for bigger sizes and they end up looking bad and fitting horribly.  These designers don't know how to dress anything with a curve.  So they just DON'T.  It's easier.

I think instead of demanding that these companies produce or cater to large sizes, women should seek out and support those designers and companies who bother to make quality designs that flatter and support them.

And before anyone gets sassy with me and says I'm not fat enough to have a dog in this fight (because I've heard that before), I've struggled plenty just not having things fit right.  I have a weird shape.  I know that I'm not the only person who doesn't really find shopping to be fun, but rather daunting and depressing, a hunting trip that turns out to be a waste of time almost every time.  And yet my poor closet yearns for some new additions.

What I really need is some Stacey London and that $5,000 Visa where you KNOW they're having someone do all the alterations on those clothes before their reveal.  But what I don't need is that creepy two weeks worth of spy-footage that comes before it.  Nothankyou.

I just think that gals of all shapes and sizes ought to have options available that don't make them feel bad about themselves, that don't tell them "you have to be at least THIS skinny to wear our yoga pants" or "you have to be at least THIS pretty to wear our shirt from the catalog where our models wear no shirts at all".

I'm just sorry that the people we're buying our clothes from are treating us like a shitty boyfriend who tells us we're fat and ugly and nobody's going to love us, and we keep going back for more because we just want so badly for them to like us and to fit in with the popular kids.....