Icescreammama

You really look terrible in that shirt. And fix your hair.

Posted on March 18, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Yesterday, with the sun warming my face and last night’s ice cream still cool in my belly, I decided to take my running sneakers out of hibernation and hit the streets for my first run of the new year. Although I exercise regularly, I only run outside in fair weather. With the temperature nearing 50 degrees, my brain was itching for the fresh air instead of the stale gym odors that I had been inhaling all winter.

So I layered up and set out; one foot in front of the other, trip trapping down my street. It had been while, but it felt good. I missed going on autopilot through my neighborhood, while losing myself in my head. What would I think about today? I wondered and considered my options.

Should I wallow over my father’s declining state? That could get me through miles.

Or, should I think of snappy comebacks to the friend who recently said, “Wow, it’s so great that you can just go out without doing anything to yourself. I could never do that.”

Oh, I got it! How bout…. “You’re right. You totally look better with makeup.”

Wait! No! Better… “Thanks. It’s true. You really need self-confidence to pull it off.”

Hmm.. I’ll get back to that.

There’s always the to-do list. First shower, then supermarket, dry cleaners, stop for Dunkin Donut’s coffee, pick up kid…

Wow, figuring out what I’m going to think about has gotten me through over a mile. Yay. I should probably think about what to wear to tomorrow night’s School Social. Certainly not pants like the lady who just walked past me. Really? Flesh colored leggings? I don’t know anyone who can pull that off. I almost want to follow her and let her know that unless she’s auditioning for ‘What Not To Wear’, they should never be worn again.

In my college sweatshirt, skull cap, striped gloves and yoga pants that make my thighs look too heavy, I have no business criticizing anyone, yet I have to fight the urge to share my feelings.

Maybe it’s genetic. It would be something my grandma would have done. I can still remember her walking over to poor, unsuspecting strangers and saying things like, “Honey, no one’s going to tell you, but that lipstick color looks horrible on you.”

I always died a little, totally mortified, but now, decades later, it doesn’t seem like the worst idea. I mean, yeah, it can be seen as judgmental, but maybe it’s just being helpful. Maybe, sometimes we all need someone like that; a ‘truth teller’ in the form of a well-meaning stranger.

I mean who else would tell you these things? Certainly not your friends. No way will your friends tell you how fat you look in your jeans, or that –

Wow! The lady I just passed must be bathing in perfume.

What was I thinking? I might have blacked out there a moment. Oh, right, friends. They love you and don’t want to hurt your feelings. They can’t be completely honest.

I don’t know if the sweat has seeped into my brain, but I think this is a kick ass idea. I can open a school and train people on proper approach, having good ‘street-side’ manner, and of course, how to diffuse an offended person’s wrath. My people will be like secret agents. Employers will hire us to do an office walk-thru. Friends will hire us to say things they can’t say. It’s a public service. It’s genius!

I can’t believe it. I’m almost home. That was fantastic.

Wait, I just came up with the best comeback to my friend’s comment. Ready?

“You’re right. But you know, saying things like that is the reason a lot of people don’t like you.”

Boom!

Brutal Honesty. My grandma would have loved it. But would people actually appreciate the truth whispered to them by an unknown judge?

I don’t know, but i’ll have to think about it next time. I’ve just run out of steam.

Brittney, let’s talk about that bra. I’m here to help.

196 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Grandma, Weight Watching and tagged being judgmental, exercise, grandmas, humor, running, stress release, thinking. Bookmark the permalink.

Like the fingers on my hand, each one is different

Posted on March 13, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Mommy, look, my hand is almost as big as yours!” Julius exclaimed, placing his little hand against mine.

I studied the smooth, five year-0ld fingers, stretching themselves out, trying desperately to seem bigger. I folded my fingers over, covering his. “You are so big!” I say, looking into his earnest, brown eyes. “How did that happen?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and breaks free from my hold to bounce up and down. A jumble of dark curls bounce with him. “I just growed.”

“You certainly did.” I want to cry, but it’s breakfast time, not crying time. I place a bowl of mixed cereals by his place at the table, but he is still bouncing around me. I actually think the only time he stops moving is when he’s sleeping.

My seven year-old enters. Fair skinned, fair-haired and light-eyed, Michael’s expression is the only dark thing about him. He does not greet the day with a smile. “Hey, baby.” I tip-toe around his moods, but it’s hard with Julius hopping like a bunny at my feet. “Want pancakes?”

“I don’t want anything.” He scowls at me, but his eyes are so green and his face is so delicate and small, that I have a hard time not just grabbing that face and kissing him, which he would hate. “Okay, let me know when you change your mind.” I sing like Snow White, which is annoying to me, so I’m not surprised when his response is a growl.

I check the clock. Crap. My 10 year-old still isn’t down. I woke him twice already. Or, at least I thought I woke him. I race the stairs.

“Tyler. Come on, baby! Get up.” He is such a good, deep sleeper that I always just want to leave him be. Of course I don’t, but looking at his relaxed, boyish face snuggled under covers, reminds me of the baby he is, I mean, was. I hug him awake, and he responds with a sleepy grin.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” He really is sunshine. His eyes are gold. His hair is gold. He has always been a golden boy. I try to extract myself gently, but he pouts for more hugging. Finally, against my inner needy mommy, I push him off. “Let’s get moving.” I toss his clothes on top of him. “Don’t forget your socks.” I call as I head back down to the kitchen.

I am greeted by Michael demanding pancakes and Julius circling me like a puppy begging me to play Legos. Tyler slumps in, still sleepy, reaching for another hug. I give him one, along with a granola bar.

I marvel at each of my sweet babies at the table and my late grandma’s words echo in my ears, “Like the fingers on your hand, each of them different, special, yet part of the same.” These are my children. Whoever they are. Whoever they grow to be. And I will hold their hands until I have to let go.

Different in every way, except in how much I love them.

66 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Grandma and tagged a mother's love, birth order, children, grandmothers, growing up, inherited traits, parenting, siblings, we are who we are. Bookmark the permalink.

TKD puts my parenting to the test

Posted on March 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My seven year-old son, Michael, started doing Tae Kwon Do when he was three. I loved that hour watching him in his crisp, white uniform through the foggy glass partition. He did his stance and said, “Yes sir!” He tried to mirror jumping jacks, not quite coordinated enough to get his arms and legs moving together. He learned his five basics. He was a tiny figure of strength and determination. I couldn’t get enough.

Almost three years later, Michael’s uniform may not have been as crisp, but his love with TKD was still fresh. It gave him confidence and a sense of pride. I wasn’t as in love with the overly disciplined environment, but I couldn’t argue the results. Plus, any small bump we hit, Michael high jumped right over. Now, he was getting ready to test for his purple belt, pretty impressive for just six years-old.

Before the test…

The TKD tests are like a military recital in a sweaty, tense room stuffed with family, instructors and kids, for well over an hour. The Master sits at a platform, scrutinizing and shouting orders. He could be tough on the kids. In the right (or wrong) mood, he pushed the kids and even taunted them. An imposing figure and an 8^th degree black belt, he didn’t have to try too hard to make them nervous. He certainly made me nervous.

It was only Michael and two other six year-olds testing that day for Purple. The three had gone up through the ranks together. Small but mighty. I sat on the sidelines, biting my nails while watching him at the center of the mat, being ordered to display his mastery over his moves. Unlike me, Michael was confident and poised. He and his friends breezed through their requirements. I breathed. It was a mistake.

“20 push-ups!” The Master yelled, and the boys dropped to the floor and did their best imitation of a push-up, while shouting out the count. They struggled, but with effort made it to 20.

They waited in push-up position to be released. Instead, the Master ordered, “10 more push-ups!” Shaking slightly, the boys did 10 more, their push-ups more like just-ups. They could barely even go down.

The Master shouted again, “You want more push-ups?”

Together they screamed, “No sir!”

“10 more push-ups!”

Their little bodies struggled once more. It was turning into a sorry display. People were beginning to look away. I wish I could look away, but my welled-up eyes were glued to the center of the mat and my son’s intent, determined face.

“You want more push-ups?” The Master tested again after they finished.

The instructors circled, mouthing something to the boys.

“No, Sir!” Their tiny voices squeaked. One of the boys was visibly crying.

“10 more!” The Master yelled again and down their blonde heads and tiny bodies went, no longer shouting, almost sobbing till they pitifully reached 10.

I was torn, completely torn. I wanted to stand up and scream, “Stop this! Who the hell do you people think you are?” But I sat there, with all the other parents, tears streaming down my face, my 6 year-old holding it together better. I just couldn’t believe what I was witnessing along with about 50 other people. Was this okay? This didn’t seem okay at all. It seemed like abuse. Why were we all just watching?! Why wasn’t I stopping this ridiculousness?!

It pains me to admit, but it took another round, with all the instructors and me shouting the correct answer at them, before the boys actually understood that they needed to say “Yes, sir!” for the Master to stop punishing them.

Finally, it was over. I was horrified, disgusted and ashamed. I had failed my child.

What could I do to make it up to him? I walked to him sheepishly, my arms wide open, where my mouth had stayed firmly shut. After a hug, I told Michael he could quit if he wanted to.

He shrugged it off and me as well. “It’s okay, mom.” Then, he beamed radiantly and proudly lifted his hard earned prize. “Look at my new belt!”

I smiled through my tears. “You did amazing. I’m so proud of you.” And I was. I just wanted to kill the Master. Instead, I ushered my kid out and took us all for ice cream.

Michael passed his test that day, but I still wonder if, as a mother, I passed mine.

This year, getting his brown belt. He and the Master still friends. I still want to kick his ass.

16 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged Bad parenting, Letting children struggle, parenting, setting goals for children, Tae Kwon Do, testing children, TKD. Bookmark the permalink.

I Get My Ass Kicked. Again.

Posted on March 7, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

There’s an instructor at my gym who makes me feel like a fat rat running with a team of ferrets. Stacy. She is a hard ass, who works your ass off. She has worked her own down to a nub. Just thinking about her makes my muscles quiver.

It had been months since I took her class, but just like you forget labor after enough time passes, such is case with Stacy. Yet, the minute I walked into her 8:30 am Sculpt and Burn, I knew it was a mistake.

The girls were far too perfect. The risers on their steps too high. Their body weight too low. And the music RPM was on crack.

We began the warm-up. No simple marching here. No sir, we go right into jumping jacks with weights. Seriously? I peed my pants after the first one. I mean, come on, jumping jacks and weights? Did none of these girls have babies?

I semi-followed along, wishing I had chosen a spot closer to the door so that I could scoot out unnoticed. But no, I hid myself in the far corner and now I was stuck – stuck doing squat jumps with weights. I really am not coordinated enough to combine aerobics and weights and move to Oh Mickey. I think that for the future health of my body, nay, for the future health of the world, these things should never be mixed.

The only thing I could do was hopefully make it till the end of class without passing out or slipping on my own sweat. To distract myself, I concentrated on all the women in front of me, who looked like a bunch of fitness models. Oh look, one of them is taking off her long sleeved, hot pink over shirt. With the blasting music and the hair flip, she looks like a combination ad for Victoria Secret and Gatorade. Victorade? Hmm. Is my brain all shook up or is that a good idea??

I look at the clock. Only 20 minutes have gone by?! Ugh!

I’m panting and dripping, and I’m fascinated that everyone is just doing this class. How? Wait. There’s a girl behind me who is completely backward. We go left. She goes right. We go up. She goes down. Yay! I’m not alone. At least I’m going in the right direction. Ha ha.

We switch to some kind walking side lunge, with weights of course. Stacy doesn’t even alert us to the change. She just does. Apparently, if you can’t keep up, you don’t belong. Don’t say it.

I look at the clock again. It’s only been 4 minutes since the last time I looked?! Gaaa! When are these side lunges going to end?!

As if reading my mind, Stacy literally tosses her five pound weights across the floor, and without wasting a hyper second, she reaches for the eight pound ones and starts up the Jacks again.

Ugh! I didn’t mean it. I want the side lunges back! My boobs are about to make a guest appearance out of the top of my sports tank, as the elastic has long ago stretched beyond repair, kind of like my abs. I do a behind me mirror check. Yup, uncoordinated girl is still…uncoordinated. Whew. My misery does love company. I’m a little embarrassed with myself.

Mid jump, a poster girl for Lululemon just stops to add a matching headband to her already pony tailed hair. A moment later, she pulls out the pony tail, shakes her long blonde locks and re-ties it. I don’t think she’s even sweating. I look in the mirror at my own pony tail. It is a messy, pineapple bun tilted sideways on top of my head, hanging on for dear life, just like its host.

No! Not burpees! My nemesis. Come on! Down, out, jump. Down again. At least, there are no weights. Okay, I think I can. I think I can! I’m doing it. Yes! I look at the mirror during my jump up, but there’s only one person jumping in sync with me. Yup, it’s uncoordinated girl. The shame.

We move on to climbing man interspersed with push-ups.

I’m puffing and huffing and praying to be put out of my misery. I suddenly remembered I used to call her SS Stacy, short for skinny, sadistic Stacy. I’m having flashes. I start dreaming about a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I know I look spastic or drunk, but I might be about to pass out. It must be almost over. I look at the clock.

OMG it’s only been 8 minutes since I last checked!

I’m going to die here…

23 Comments

Posted in Weight Watching and tagged aerobics, body image, exercise, fitness classes, high impact, humor, skinny girls, working out. Bookmark the permalink.

Play dates or Pre dates…?

Posted on March 5, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Mommy, we’re going to play in here. You stay out!” orders Julius, my five-year old with my four year-old niece Layla, standing behind him like muscle in a pink tutu.

They are in my seven year-old son’s bedroom looking extremely cute and extremely suspicious.

“Hey, not so fast Bubs. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Stinky Pants.” My niece pipes up with the softest, sweetest voice. Think Snow White on helium.

“We’re just playing puppies, Mommy. Now go way!”

He almost pushes me out the door and then those extremely cute little rats move to shut the door in my face. Well, that’s not going to happen. I place a firm hand, stopping it. “Puppies, the door stays open. No shutting the door. Okay?”

“Okay!” They are just a few years short of rolling their eyes, but their “okay” is dripping in barely concealed superiority and irritation.

I give them a warning look, but it holds no bite, they are just so damn cute.

I leave them to play and walk into my bedroom to fold laundry. Giggling and hushed voices are my music. I fold a few shirts but their giggling is so giggly, I can’t concentrate. I sneak over and peer into the other room.

They are rolling around, like puppies, I guess. Or maybe like dogs in heat? I don’t know. They are innocent babies but still, it doesn’t look good. Yeah, we need to break this party up.

“Knock knock, little puppies!” I call out and walk into the room. “What’s going on here?”

Julius comes over, looking a little sheepish, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m ruining the game or because I’m ruining his game, if you know what I mean. “We’re just playing puppies.” There’s a sheesh that doesn’t verbally come out, but I hear it.

“Okay, but no more rolling over each other. I don’t want any puppies to get hurt.”

“Okay.” They nod, their curls bobbing up and down in unison.

I head back to fold the laundry, but I’ve got my ear on the other room. There’s some pounding and running round. There’s a bunch of laughing and then nothing. Quiet. Too quiet. I realize I’ve paired three pairs of socks and I haven’t heard a peep from them. Time for a check in. I pad my way over.

Oh no.

Layla is laying on the carpet immobile, her shirt is somewhat lifted and Julius has his hand on her belly.

“Puppies!” I call out a little too loudly. “What is going on here?”

Julius is quick to explain, “She got hurt and needed to go to the puppy doctor.”

Of course. I mean come on, they’re in nursery, but still, I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. We’re a close family, but we’re not into kissing cousins.

The cutest couple …of cousins!

“Listen pups, how bout we head downstairs and I get you guys a snack. You must be very hungry puppies. Maybe I’ll make s’mores?”

That did it. Both puppies were up, wagging their tails and bouncing over. Once again, sugar saves the day.

Later, Layla is back home and my older pups come bounding in from the bus.

“Mom!” Michael, my second grader yells, dropping his backpack and heading straight for the phone, “I made a play date with Sarah and Gillian.”

“Both of them?” I ask, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Michael loves the ladies.

“Yep, they’re coming over.”

And they do. Two adorable, sweet and shy seven year-old girls.

Immediately, the three of them pound up the stairs to his room. Boom boom boom. Slam.

Sigh. Here we go again. With three boys, I’m sensing big trouble in the future.

I walk the steps slowly, preparing for my second intervention of the day. There’s that cute giggling again. And it looks like the lights are out in his room.

Big. Trouble.

“Who wants s’mores?” I call out and open the door.

Well, at least they’re not related.

Michael and one of his best gals. Trouble. Big.

46 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged boy and girl playdates, boys playing with girls, first dates, inappropriate behavior in children, kissing cousins, parenting, play dates, Yeah write. Bookmark the permalink.

Making waves…micro ones

Posted on February 28, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I walked their new house, clutching my Dunkin Donuts’ coffee cup and taking it all in. The Great room was great, spacious and bright. There were accents all around the house that suggested that its previous owners were modern back in the seventies, which was the last time anyone had done anything to the place. There was a scary open staircase that freaked me out because I had young kids. Almost everything needed updating, but there were a lot of rooms and a lot of potential.

I hadn’t taken off my jacket yet, and my sister and brother-in-law were walking around with sweaters, hats and scarves. Okay… apparently there was some insulation work that needed to be done as well.

The tour ended in the kitchen.

“Hey, where’s the microwave?” I asked my sister-in-law, “I want to heat up my coffee.”

“We don’t have a microwave.” She said, “You know Corey, he thinks they’re no good. Here, give me.”

She took what was left of my coffee and poured it into a pot on the stove.

I felt like I was on the frontier.

Now I know these people. They didn’t have a microwave in their city apartment. But that kitchen was small and stylized in a way which would severely limit their already limited space. I thought for sure, they’d have one here. Who doesn’t have a microwave these days? I wondered, somewhat disapproving. Oh, yes, I can be holier than thou, just check out my socks.

I knew my brother-in-law could live in a cave as long as there was the NY Times and an AM radio. That being said, my sister-in-law is a gazelle who fancies expensive boots and fabulous haircuts. I figured they’d cancel each other out and maybe produce a cute, baby microwave. No. Not the case.

“Where’s the Keurig?” I asked, referring to a change of life coffee maker I had gifted them when I realized its magnificence.

“Oh, that.” She gestured with a wave of her hand. “He returned that immediately.” She shook my re-heated coffee in the pot. “Really, this is fine.”

I’m lucky my eyes didn’t get stuck behind my head for all the judging I was doing.

That was years ago, but now I’m officially here to say that I’ve seen the light. Well, it was more of a spark, actually. And, yes, it came from inside of my microwave.

The offending beast

I was heating up some leftover pasta when a flash caught my eye. Was that fire? Electricity? I don’t fully understand what “micro waves” are, so I was naturally a little concerned. The only other time I had witnessed something like it was when I accidentally left a fork on a plate in there. Uh, don’t do that.

Needless to say, I pulled the plug on the microwave. For a moment it was like all the light in my world went out. How would I heat up Michael’s pasta? I stood in my kitchen momentarily confused. It was like the time the ATM didn’t work and I had to withdraw money from an actual live teller. I blanked then too. Technology had been doing it for me for so long, I simply forgot how.

Wait! I had a stove. I had a pot. I could just put the pasta in the pot and heat it! Revelation. And it worked, sort of. Some of the re-heated pasta did come out a little hard, which Michael immediately shunned, but it was mostly okay. I felt powerful. I didn’t need no stinkin’ microwave.

For the first couple of days, I managed fine, until I realized that you need a microwave to make microwave popcorn. That kind of stumped me. We loved microwave popcorn. Another flash, although this one didn’t come with radiation – I would buy kernels and pop it on the stove. I would make Potcorn! I was just bursting with excitement.

After shopping for special popcorn oil, seasoning and spray butter to help the seasoning stick, I was ready. The boys and I watched eagerly, shaking the pot at regular intervals until our eyes and ears witnessed the miracle transformation from kernel to corn. It went on for about a minute or so, but then abruptly stopped. We continued shaking the many kernels left in the pot, but all we wound up with was a burnt pot and burnt potcorn. Bummer.

The next snack disaster happened a few days later. Smores. I make smores a lot for play date snacks. It’s always a crowd pleaser. 30 seconds in the microwave and the chips are melty and the marshmallows puffed with gooey softness. Then you just do the graham cracker clap and done. I had six kids chanting for them. Could I make them in a toaster? ‘

Uh, no.

This is not to say that I haven’t enjoyed my month playing pioneer woman, but the real reason I didn’t just run out and buy a new one was because our microwave is built into our wall unit and we’re considering re-doing the kitchen. So I just wound up waiting, which turned into major procrastination, which resulted in burnt snacks and a lot more pots and pans to clean.

So while I will ultimately be getting another microwave, I did gain a new understanding of where my brother and sister-in-law are coming from. I’ll roll my eyes no more. Except, of course, when I want a hot, fresh cup of coffee.

I couldn’t go a day without this baby!

15 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged coffee, family, keurig, life without microwave, microwaves, rouging it, technology. Bookmark the permalink.

From one mother to another

Posted on February 26, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“So tell me something you remember about me from your childhood.” My mom asked casually. “Anything.”

Oh no. I smelled a trap. This was definite trouble. I struggled to come up with something. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but my memories of childhood are basically a dead zone. I don’t remember spending much time with her at all, and my father was a mix of random play and me stepping over his drunk body. I do remember them fighting. Hmm. I don’t think that’s what she’s looking for.

“I knew it.” She concluded from my hesitation. “I was a terrible mom.”

Crap.

Okay, so I probably could have had a better childhood, but at this point, who remembers? Oh man, the pressure. Think! Think!

“Tell me something you remember.” I countered, stalling for time.

That stopped her. “Oh, okay.” Pause. Then, a giggle. “I can’t remember anything.”

Disbelief. “You can’t remember anything from my childhood?”

More giggling. “Where was I?” she asks. Like I should know?

I don’t know if it’s funny, but we are both amused. “That’s a good question, mom.”

“You were so precocious. You just raised your cute little self.”

“Apparently.” Well, it was the 70’s.

We giggled some more about it and then moved on to lighter subjects, like how full she was from her over-sized dish of vegetables or how cute my boys are.

It’s good that we can laugh about the past and move on. Our relationship has evolved so much since the times I don’t remember, or my brain chooses to forget. I’ve grown and she’s grown as well. Emotionally, at least. There was a time when she wouldn’t even think to ask such a question. Not because she didn’t care, but whether it was her youth, immaturity or overwhelming circumstance, she just didn’t think of it.

I still remember a couple of years ago when I was telling her about a friend of my son’s whose parents were divorcing, which coincidentally was around the age my parents divorced. She said, “Wow, that must have been really hard for you.” I was shocked. It was the first time she had directly acknowledged my feelings about that time. Okay, so it was almost 30 years later, but still, I was touched by her, albeit belated, concern.

Physically, she’s gorgeous, strong and energetic, but tiny, topping out at about 5’1, and I’m giving her that inch because I love her and I know she’s just arched her back and is standing up a little straighter reading this. I can hear her bemoaning her stature all the way from her house. “Oh, why am so short?” 65 years and she hasn’t come to grips with her height. She is eternally cute.

It has taken years to come to this point, but our relationship steadily improved around the time I got married and markedly improved after my first child was born. I honestly didn’t expect all that much given our history, but she completely surprised me. Devoted, loving, generous. She dotes on each of my boys. They are such a joy to her and she is so attentive and wonderful, that I can’t imagine that she wasn’t always this way.

Later, my phone rang again.

I answer, “Hi mom.”

“Hi, I was just wondering if you thought of anything.”

“Uh no, mom. I haven’t been thinking about it.”

“Of course. Me neither…” She switches to her favorite subjects. “Hey, did I tell you how good the boys were the other night? And Julius did the funniest thing…”

I don’t know what happened back then. I can’t remember what I did five minutes ago. What I do know is that today, right now, she is the absolute best mom possible. I wouldn’t change a bit of her.

She, of course, has a list of things she’d change. But that’s another story.

A grand mother is born

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Posted in Grandma, Mom and tagged childhood, grandma, memories, memory, mothers, mothers and daughters, parenting. Bookmark the permalink.

It’s Mom’s Night Out…should I stay home?

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

The other night was Mom’s Night Out. It’s an annual event set up by our elementary school, where the moms are invited to go out for an evening to drink wine, shop with vendors brought in to sell things like apparel, jewelry and bags, and of course, eat. It’s a lovely night where I typically walk away buying stuff I don’t need and eating stuff I don’t want.

But this Mom’s Night Out, they’ve shaken things up a bit by announcing that there would be no shopping. This year, there would be dancing. Dancing? Oh! My young brain cries. The last time you went dancing was at someone’s wedding, who knows when. It’s been at least five years, back when one shoulder dresses were trendy. Inside, I’m excited, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Wow, I hope it won’t be too loud.”

Gahhh!! Who is this old person pretending to be me? Before I can stop myself, I go even further, “I don’t even know if want to go. I’m tired.”

When did I become so boring? And worse, someone who’s boring and barely cares. It’s my apathy at my disinterest that has me all hot and bothered. I guess, I’m happy that at least something still does (Besides my very sexy husband, of course. Wink wink, sexy husband).

I’m not alone. Not to drag anyone under the bus, but instead of rallying my negativity into positivity, my friends all jumped on my wagon, voicing their own lackluster interest. I can’t blame us really. We’re tired. We’re lazy. We do the mom thing, wiping, cleaning, schlepping, negotiating. Some of us have jobs in the adult world as well. So while going out at night is a pleasure, sometimes the overwhelming days make it almost too much of an effort.

Is this middle age? I am in my 40’s now, along with most of my friends. So technically, I guess it is. But isn’t 40 the new 30? I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I’m married and have children. I can’t even begin to process that my child bearing years are actually over. What is happening here?

Maybe it’s because I still think of myself as young, but if I’m honest, when I see someone in their 20’s, I know by the way they dress and act and go out till all hours, that I am not young. That I don’t even want to be. They can have their night clubs and stilettos. I’ve got Mom’s Night Out! So off I go in my sensible, flat boots.

The turn-out was slim. Apparently, there are more beaten-down moms than me, who couldn’t even gather the energy to go. My friend and I were the first to arrive. Yep, the first. Back in the day, this would be embarrassing. Now we glory in getting out of our houses as quickly as possible. Also, if I don’t get out early, the odds of me going steadily diminish. It’s like every minute I don’t get out of the house is another reason to put on sweat pants and watch the Real Housewives.

The music was loud, but I found myself moving a little to keep warm in the cool, empty room. We sat down, sipping our wine as friends filtered in. We ate and chat, but not a mom stepped up to dance. I’d like to say I was leading the pack to the center of the floor, but I barely moved my butt from the cushy couch. I had a plate of food, friends and a magnum of wine. I was happy – head in the clouds, smile on the face, soft buzz of energy – happy.

At around 10pm, my friend and I exchanged ‘the glance’. It was time to go. I got home at the perfect time. My kids were nestled all tight in their beds; the picture of innocence and all things beautiful. And I was snuggling in mine with my sexy husband by the 11 o’clock news. Call me a loser, but I couldn’t ask for a better night.

Hot mamas in sensible shoes

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Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged going out, middle-age, moms night out, real housewives, sensible shoes, tired. Bookmark the permalink.

Girl of the House

Posted on February 19, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m tucking my three boys into bed. They are all naked, except for their underwear. It’s how they sleep. It’s how their father sleeps. The cool temperature of the house doesn’t seem to affect them at all. Not that it’s freezing or anything, but we sleep with the thermostat set at 67 or 68 degrees. I am in sweats, a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks. They are baby bear cubs (minus the fur) rolling all over their beds as I try to shove them into the warm cave of blankets. We do not seem of the same species.

I often feel that way, being the only girl in my house. I’m constantly the odd, uh, man out. I want the house warmer, they want it colder. I want to bake cupcakes; they just want to eat them. I want to read them stories, they want to build a house out of the books. Sigh.

The differences don’t end there. In fact, they’re just beginning, leading me to believe that in fact, we may very well live together but exist in different worlds. Case in point…

I’m the only one at the dinner table eating greens. They just look green if I make them eat any.

I am the only one who sees things. I actually did an experiment here. Not one of my boys or husband noticed the Monopoly game dead center on the floor of our hall for days. They walked past it, stepped on it and even tripped over it, actually kicking it across the floor, but no one ever thought to move it.

I am also the only one who can find things. It’s a string of, “Honey, where are the keys? Mom, where is my basketball shirt? Where is my lego guy? I can’t find the mayonnaise. Did you see my hat?” I mean come on people, “Table, drawer, under bed, fridge, on floor by shoes.” Duh.

I am the only one who can just roll up my sleeve and take a shot or give blood. They wrestle and beat each other to the ground, no problem. They can come home with scratches on their face, but no memory of how it actually got there. A tiny prick in the arm? Babbling, snot bubbling tears. Really?

I am the only one who can tell time. No husband, 9:30pm at night is not when we start a game. No son, 10pm is not when we remember we forgot homework. Nor is when we decide to be hungry. And kids, whether you are finished with what you’re doing or not in the morning, the bus for school does not care. 8:25am. Get your butts out there. No, you cannot have just one more minute. Just look at the clock.

There are also simple differences. They all favor vanilla. I am chocolate through and through. They love the ocean. I am land locked. They are all good at Math. I don’t even trust myself with a calculator. They beat each other up. I just beat myself up.

Is it gender inherited? Is it learned behavior? I tend to believe that they are who they are, just as I am who I am. Trust me, I tried to turn them to the dark side, of chocolate of course, but they couldn’t be swayed. I try to open their eyes, but they just can’t seem to see the same things I see, and not in the same way I see them.

It may just be that boys will be boys, and girls will be girls. Totally different, yet, most of the time, living together in harmony. So, while I may be destined to be the only person in my house who can find anything, at least I know that no one is going to be stealing my ice cream.

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Posted in Every Day Scoops, Uncategorized and tagged boys will be boys, gender differences, girls vs boys, humor, Ice Scream Mama, men vs. women, only female in the house, parenting, woman of the house. Bookmark the permalink.

My children are never going sledding again

Posted on February 14, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

We had the winter’s first snow this past weekend, and there was new puppy excitement all over my house. There would be snowmen and sledding and hot cocoa with marshmallows.

As they do every year, the town flocked to the local golf course to enjoy the winter playground. Of course, we weren’t supposed be there. But this kind of snow can’t be squandered. It must be raced on and sledded down. It must be as covered with red cheeks and happy smiles as the hills are with dazzling bright snow.

The day before, in anticipation of the coming blizzard, my husband went in search of new sleds. No cheap plastic ones would do. No sir. We went to no less than four different stores before finding the acceptable vehicles for complete sliding satisfaction.

I bundled the kids’ energy into snug little suits and sent them off with their dad. I don’t enjoy sledding at the golf course. For one, it’s cold. Second, it’s too crowded and dangerous. I’m wincing with every run. Teenagers take too many risks. Kids are racing back up the hills, where sledders are racing down. Many are without helmets. Children are unsupervised. It’s fast and wild.

The near misses make you cover your eyes and exhale with a cold puff of visible relief. And then we all laugh, because we got a thrill, the day is brilliant, and it’s all good. Except this time. What should have been a near miss was a direct hit. One second, a beautiful little girl was laughing, speeding down the hill with her friend. The next second, horrified silence. The unimaginable. The moment where life changes forever.

So many adults and kids witnessed, even commented, on the danger of those slopes. But we do as we always do with risks that we take every day – I’ll just type one text while driving, I’ll just leave my kid playing on the lawn for one minute to answer the phone, I’ll just let a few boys jump in the trampoline together – we close our eyes and assume that nothing horrible will happen. How could it, on such a brisk, stunning day? How could it, to such a perfect little girl?

It could have been any number of people hurt that day. In fact, there were quite a few injuries. It could have been my kids. It could have been anyone’s. But it was a sweet third grader who I am now praying for with every ounce of hope that fills my soul.

My kids are never going sledding again.

Or snowboarding

Or snorkeling

Or biking in the street

Or on a trampoline

Or, uh, crossing to the bus

Or going on the bus

Or climbing trees

Or swinging high on swings

Or jumping on beds

Or playing sports…

Crap.

I know. I know. It’s a slippery slope.

But that’s a risk I’m willing to take. At least when it comes to sledding at the golf course.

They’re already back in storage.

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Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged blizzard, helmets while sledding, parenting, sledding, sledding accidents, winter sports. Bookmark the permalink.