Positive Parenting

My first child has a bit of a flair toward the dramatic. A bump on the leg becomes a broken bone that will never heal. A cut on the arm controlled by a small band aid is reported to me to be a gaping hole requiring transfusions and skin grafts.

Maybe it's just a "first child" thing. But more times than not I feel like the town's people from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf." I eye him wearily and think, If he every REALLY has a serious injury I hope I have the senses to realize it and get him medical attention, and don't end up on the news with my stunned face plastered under the heading, "Stupid Parenting Allows Boy's Death."

Said child recently participated in a a flag football tournament. I was thrilled that he volunteered to do something that required physical exertion, since that is typically not his M.O.

The first day of practice brought on a slew of aches, bumps and bruises- some real, most imagined. Day two was worse. By the time the tournament was approaching, I wondered if he might actually die an imaginary death out on the field.

He came in, dragging his right leg behind him and holding his left arm delicately.

"Mom, I don't know if I should play," he ventured.

"Hmm?" I asked.

"I don't think I should play in the tournament. I'm hurt now and I've only played with my own team. I might really break something if I play against the other kids," his eye brows were knit together in a panicked line.

"Well," I began. Then I stopped myself. I shifted in my chair and faced him head-on. "You're right."

"Huh?" he asked.

"You are right. You shouldn't play. Every time you play you have some pretty serious injuries. Remember that cut that made you bleed so much? And look at your leg. If it's broken you really shouldn't play on it. You know, now that I think of it, you should probably call Matt and tell him you have to quit the team. I really don't think it's safe."

He looked at me stunned. "What??" he asked again, incredulously.

I gave him my most concerned mom look and said with big eyes, "Honey, I would hate for something to happen to you. I mean, look how much you're hurt already... You know, I just don't know that sports are your 'thing,' you know? In fact, I wouldn't play in the tournament or even in a pick-up game. It's just too risky," I looked at him seriously and asked, "Do you think I should talk to the doctor about having you switched out of PE to something a little... safer... like maybe another Math class?"

He was so shocked, he forgot to hold his arm or drag his foot.

"Mom! You aren't supposed to say that stuff! You're a mom! Moms are supposed to say stuff like, 'No, of course you should play. Your team needs you. And you're good at sports.' What kind of advice is, 'Quit playing?' That's an awful thing to say!"

I smiled broadly at him.

Realization dawned on him. He tried to look mad at me, but couldn't help but smile.

"You stink," he mumbled, as he smiled and walked away.

Needless to say, he did, in fact play in the tournament. And he did well. He threw a couple of good passes and caught the ball for a touchdown.

I don't think he's "cured" from his hypochondriac tendencies. But it was nice to not have to deal with the drama for a little while.

And who knows? Maybe this will inspire him to branch out more, take more risks. But just in case, I'm sure he has 911 on speed dial and the medical staff at our local hospital on full alert... Bless his heart...

HBD, Hubby!

Well, it has been a while since I have written an entry. I never imagined life could be so busy doing things that have absolutely nothing to do with me personally!

Laundry, cooking, dishes, cleaning, bathing, bedding, homework, practices, dry cleaning, grocery shopping, etc., etc., etc...

This past weekend was hubby's 40th birthday. I was incredibly tempted to put a big sign in the yard that said, "Lordy, Lordy! Look Who's 40!" and request that everyone we know wear a black arm band to show their condolences for the mourning of his youth.

But, I took the high road and planned a couple of nice dinner parties for him, and got him some speakers for his stereo system. Now, don't be too impressed. See, my 40th is 42 days after his, and I don't need to give him that much time to figure out how to "return the favor."

We had a BMW cake for him- big hit! And most of his gifts centered around the BMW, his job or "just for fun" stuff.

Again, I really wanted to give him two shirts: The first would be an XXXL with the words "Body by Beer" embroidered on it. The second would be a M or L with the words, "Body by BoFlex" on it.

(Back story: Hubby has owned a BoFlex which has resided in different areas of our garage and home for over a year now. Thus far, it has been a very expensive car cover holder in the garage, a central place to put the recycling, and, now, a centrally heated and air conditioned paper weight. To date, he has used it one time. But, we dismantled our guest bedroom and now have a very nice exercise room to show guests when they come over.)

It is not in my nature to let such opportunities for giving someone a hard time (in fun, of course) get away like this. It has caused me, at times, physical pain to hold my tongue.

But, my husband is absolute King of sarcasm and come-backs. And I know in my heart of hearts that my pay-back would be far worse than anything I could ever even dream of dishing out. So I gritted my teeth and smiled.

This weekend we leave for a short get-away with another couple who also happen to both be turning the big 4-0 this year. We are looking forward to sun and sand and sleep with the enthusiasm once held for a raucous party rave. We have books selected, our scrabble game packed, a couple of swim suits and the 50+ sunblock. Yep, wild times.

The planning required to shuttle around the kids and have someone be "me" for the four days/nights has been astonishing. I feel like I'm planning the President's Inaugural Ball, complete with foreign dignitaries, security detail and press.

But, as I bask in the sun, it will ALL be worth it: the busy-ness, the ability to NOT give hubby a hard time about being "old," the planning, and on-going celebrations.

We will enjoy that time as only someone "our age" can. Gone are the days of dancing until dawn. Yet, we may watch the sunrise a morning or two-- after sleeping.

We have a little more disposable income than we did in those days (not much...). We aren't on a fixed income (yet) so we won't be looking for the blue-plate special deals.

We will be enjoying our vacation in a way that is exactly right for US.

And when it is my turn to cross over to the next decade, I feel confident that hubby will respectfully resist the temptation to set up a coffin in our den for "visitation," or schedule a night out for me and the girls in a hearse.

At least he better... Because I have my shirts, embroidery machine and black arm bands at the ready if hubby doesn't "play nice," too...

Nash-Vegas, Baby!

The other night when we went out to help those "sweet young things" celebrate their 21st, I compiled enough material to blog until I die. There was more "interesting" people out there than I could have ever imagined!

For starters, let me just say: Spandex is a privilege- not a right. And there are people out there who seem to think that Spandex is actually part of the Constitution, and is thereby their inalienable right to wear, no matter how dire the consequences. People, step away. Back up. Just say "no."

Secondly, is there some handbook that everyone else got that I missed for going downtown on a Saturday night? Because most of the people traveled in groups. We saw enough bridal parties/bachelorette parties to fill even a mega church full to the brim.

The bridal parties were easily recognizable because they distinguished themselves with matching clothes, sashes, veils, shirts with sayings on them, feather boas around their neck or sewn around the hem of their shirt, and various other matching props and costumes. Most of the parties were huge. I couldn't imagine ever having that many bridesmaids. And let me just say, these little bride's maids were not acting very "maid-ly". They were flat-out raunchy. Apparently bachelorette parties are a little different than when I got married. (Not that it's completely surprising, but still...)

And I have to say, bridesmaids these days are really getting the short end of the stick. In my day, they had to show up for a shower or tea or two, then wear the "ugliest dress on the rack" down the aisle. Their primary role was to keep the bride from puking on her gown before the wedding started. Then they were to hold her flowers and fluff her train and veil throughout the ceremony, photos and reception.

Today's bridesmaids go way above and beyond. Showers and teas are tame compared to these ladies going out en masse to behave in a way that is supposed to make the bride puke. They spend inordinate amounts of time trying to tease poor, unwitting boys, in order to feel like they've gotten out their last "hurrah." (I guess the boys should really know what they are getting into, considering the girls usually have some kind of labels on them to distinguish themselves as a bridal party...)

And here's the kicker: during the bridal parties of my day, the bridesmaids had one outfit of torture to wear during the day of the wedding. Some heinous poofy dress with dyed-to-match-shoes that made our feet go to sleep, that every bride gushed, "I got one that I knew you could wear again..." (OK- where??? Is there an annual "Ugliest Bridesmaid Dress Contest" I don't know about? Because there are so very few places to wear a bridesmaid dress... Kinda' like an ugly version of the bridal gown, actually...) Today's girls are subjected a minimum of two awful outfits: one for the bachelorette party, and one for the wedding. Truly, it's usually a toss up as to which outfit is worse...

Speaking of dressing badly, I would love to have been a fly on the wall at some of these people's homes when they were dressing for the evening. You wonder what was going through their minds as they chose the evening's ensemble. Many obviously had no mirror to speak of. And some people must actually believe that if you wear a bright enough, tight enough, small enough outfit, that it must somehow make you look slimmer. If you are one of those people, please listen to me: You do NOT look slimmer. And I would also like to mention that undergarments are not just about modesty and hygiene. They also provide support, which "generously curvy" figures can really use.

And, if you are a guy, wearing baggy pants that hang between your knees is not attractive. And watching the poor guys struggle with them all night, it doesn't look like they are very comfortable, either. And the shoes that are so big that you slosh around in them-- I just don't get it. But, I guess that's fair, because I'm sure you don't get high heels, either.

We were accosted by a group of about twenty matching (old) Elvis impersonators, complete with spandex and sunglasses (please see note on spandex above). We tried to be very cautious around the motorcycle gang with matching leather vests, chaps, boots, bandannas and tattoos. The group of Asian girls who were dressed in less clothing than my six year old wears made me worry for them in a very maternal way. And the group of young men who live the alternative life style had more eyeliner on than Tammy Faye Baker. (Hey, I'm not casting stones. I'm just saying, make up is designed to enhance, not make your face inches thicker.)

All of these folks mingled together peacefully, weaving in and out of clubs. The dance floors were small, so everyone looked like they had it a little more "together" just because they couldn't move very much and show their apparent lack of balance.

The handbook that I mentioned earlier must also include some sort of nightly race to see who can consume the most alcohol. Since I was designated driver, I was in very last place all night. I stuck to diet coke and water, which I actually got stopped for when leaving one of the clubs. The bouncer called out, "Ma'am," which I ignored, because "ma'am" implies "old woman" in downtown Nashville on a Saturday night.

"Excuse me," he tried again. This time I turned to him and said, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but you can't take that drink with you outside."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's diet coke."

"Yeah, I know. But it's the rules."

"But it was $3.00."

"Yeah, I'm sorry."

So I slugged down the rest like a shot, probably making him suspicious of the "diet coke" explanation, because I was not going to waste a six ounce, $3.00 plus tip, filled with ice, diet coke. The bouncer looked at me sideways like he wanted to call me "ma'am" again.

I was immensely proud of the way our young ladies looked and handled themselves. We only had one small snafu. A man "selling" flowers solicited us and one of our girls took pity on him. As she was digging through her wallet in front of him (I really wanted to scream "Stop that! Put your money away! Haven't you ever listened to Kenny Rogers sing, 'The Gambler???'.") a twenty was poking hap-hazardly out of the top. Our flower boy snatched the twenty and dashed, leaving our young lady shocked, angry and upset.

Outside of that, our group was pretty tame. Our girls made everyone else look like they were trying out for MTV Mardi Gras or something. We only lacked the beads...

Nashville on Saturday night is quite interesting, to say the least. And seeing it through my (somewhat) older eyes was an enlightening experience. I'm sure the same scene is played out every Saturday night- and probably other nights, as well.

But, I'm totally okay with not being part of it. I'm to a point in my life that staying home and drinking a glass of wine while playing Scrabble is about as exciting as I need to be. That way I get to keep an eye on my kids and any of their friends that tag along. And I get to be with friends and family.

I have no need to "pick up" guys, or be picked up. Yes, it is nice to be considered attractive. But it is obvious that the Saturday night downtown scene is not about making "love connections." It's about "hooking up" and meeting some perceived base needs by coupling with complete strangers. Yeah- that doesn't sound like anything that is remotely appealing.

I feel bad for those who are in the "dating scene" and have this as one of their alternatives for meeting a potential spouse. To me, this would be about as effective as glasses on a bat.

But, our girls had fun. They officially welcomed "21." And we all made it home safe and sound. I guess that's about the best outcome one can ask for when going downtown to "party" in Nashville on a Saturday night...

Chinese Fire Drill

Today was one of those days that made me wonder how people with more than three children do it. I think I went seven different directions all day.

I had to get lunch money to school before going to work. Then we played "Where's the cheer uniform?" up until we had to get Keith to flag football, right before piano lessons, and, finally, cheer practice. Yes, my head is spinning. Yes, I am ready for bed.

We have set up some new ground rules for scheduling. Hopefully, that will head some of the craziness off at the pass. But, really I kinda' doubt it.

Three kids, two adults, a dog, a hamster, three jobs, cheer, flag football, Titans football season tickets, church, school, PTO, Book Club, and all the other things we do make scheduling a virtual nightmare. But, it's also what makes it fun.

I love organizing and scheduling. Now, I have my own personal excel spread sheet for our family.

I hope that we can find our silly shorts before next week. I hope that Keith can pull together a flag football schedule that gives more advance warning than 15 minutes. And I hope we all can get some good sleep tonight.

Because today is only Monday. We've got four more days to go. And this is hubby's birthday weekend...

And I wish all parents with more than three children the best of luck. I can't even begin to imagine...

Party Like a Rock Star!

Last night my bff & I took her niece and four of her sisters/girlfriends out on the town in Nashville to celebrate one of the girls' 21st birthday. We figured we had someone who had ushered us into "adulthood" (at least in this regard) and we wanted to help these girls have fun and be safe. So we loaded into the Suburban and headed out for the night.

In my younger days, I can remember coming home from class and/or work, having dinner, then getting ready to go out. We would finally leave around 9:00 PM. (No descent party started before 10:00 PM.) We would roll back in sometime in the wee hours of the morning- sometimes ushering in the sunrise- and fall into bed for a few quick hours of sleep before getting up for the day.

Apparently, this is still pretty much the formula used by today's young adults. My bff and I, however, have converted over to the "mommy/parent" schedule. This involves getting up before the family to race to get things done before the kids can get up and distract us with their different needs. Then we run like race horses throughout the day, cleaning, driving, delivering, picking up, cooking, working, etc, etc, until we tuck kids into bed about 8:00 PM. Then we finish up chores and fall into bed, exhausted and mind racing through tomorrow's agenda.

As the girls were getting ready last night, my bff and I's bodies were winding down. But we were excited by the prospect of going out and dancing. Though this used to be a somewhat regular occurrence, it has dwindled down to less than once a quarter, so there was a certain energy and charge from the anticipation of being out on the town.

We got a bite to eat then headed downtown. The last time bff or I went downtown several things were different than this trip. And we took for granted we would have the same experience as prior trips. Well, we didn't.

• Last time we went, we didn't pay any cover charges; This time we paid at least $35 by the end of the night for the various bars and clubs.
• Last time, we got carded and the doormen were nice enough to look very closely to make sure we were old enough; This time they carded the girls, then smirked and waived bff and I on through.
• Last time we had our hubbies with us and they fawned over us and bought us drinks; This time, we were not drinking and the only guys that looked at us looked like our grandfathers, car salesmen or ancient rock stars on their spiral down hill.
• Last time, the clubs were a blast. We found several places that played great music and had a ton of fun dancing and giggled all night; This time we didn't find really any good music, good clubs and one of the girls got $20 lifted off of her by a homeless man.
• Last time we went out about 8:00 and got home about 12:30; This time we got down town about 9:30 and got home about 2:00.

We did get to see and do some fun things that we didn't normally get to do. We saw an entire group of Elvis Impersonators. About 20 spandex-clad Elvis, complete with sunglasses and capes, stopped various bachelorette parties and groups of friends for pictures and laughs.

And we enjoyed each other. Some of the girls even took a turn riding on a mechanical bull. (Not me!!!) We saw every walk of life- beautiful, ugly, young, old, rich, poor.

But I have to tell you, I am NOT 21 anymore. I didn't really think I was, but if there was even the tiniest lingering doubt, it was squelched forever.

My skin was tingling from exhaustion by the time I got home. I smelled awful from sweat and being around all the cigarette smoke and smoke from the smoke machines on the dance floor. My clothes were dripping wet and wrinkled from dancing. My throat hurt from screaming over music to be heard. My feet were killing me from walking and dancing (I think we walked at least 10 miles and up and down 20 flights of steps). And I was thirsty (really, probably dehydrated from sweating so much) and a little hungry.

When I got home I stood in the shower with hot water pouring down me for about 10 minutes before I even bothered with soap. And when I climbed into bed, I don't remember my head hitting the pillow- but I did manage to set my alarm for Sunday School the next day.

My bff's and I had thought we would have a huge, blow-out "girl's night out" in honor of all our 40th birthdays. After last night's adventures, we're really considering a Spa Day with champagne and shopping, then going home for a nap.

When we were 21 we thought we had the world by the tail. We imagined that you got a job, got married, had kids and then just coasted until you died. Forty was insanely old. The women looked old and acted like big prudes. If they tried to act and dress "young", they just looked sad and desperate. Forty-year-olds were supposed to stay at home and do forty-year-old things, like sew and garden and talk about money and stuff.

Last night I still felt like the 21-year-old of yesteryear. But with some different ideas of what 21 looked like, and what 40 looked like. For starters, forty is still very young and vital. Forty-year-olds don't look and act like big prudes; they are just over trying to look like tramps. And for those forty-year-olds who do try to vamp it up, they do, indeed, still look sad and desperate- but maybe even more so.

Now 21 looks like children. Some of the young men didn't even look like they were able to grow complete beards yet. The girls looked like they had gotten into their mother's make up kits and gone completely wild. And that they had shopped at the junior's department for their wardrobes and forgotten to stop by and get undergarments. Most of the girls looked like their shoes could be categorized as lethal weapons, with stiletto heels that came to long sharp points. And I felt so maternal for most of them it really creeped me out a little. I just wanted to go throw a jacket over them and take them home to their mothers.

Our girls that we took out were dressed very nicely. Their outfits were sharp and trendy without looking like they were selling themselves on the corner. Their make up was tasteful and their hair was no-fuss elegant. My bff and I, despite all efforts to the contrary, looked like PTO moms taking our girl scout troop on a field trip.

It was hard saying goodbye to a past-time that I had so much enjoyed- particularly the dancing. But, it just isn't what it was, and it never will be again. And, truthfully, I wouldn't want it to. I don't want to go back to 21. I've been there and I've had my time there.

But I've always had a personal difficulty with grieving the loss of possibility. I don't want to be 21, but it makes me sad that it's no longer an option; I don't want to have any more babies; but there's a part of me that would still like to be able to say that it's a choice. I don't have any desire to live on campus and go to college classes; but I still dream about the time when the whole world of possibility lay in front of me waiting for me to decide.

I hope the girls had fun last night. I think they did. I know they don't know what all they have. Because you can't possibly know that until you don't have it anymore.

I try very hard to appreciate every single moment. I'll never get one back that has already been. But, even now, I realize how precious that time was when the kids were small. And I know I didn't capture every single second and use it to its fullest. But that's the thing: we never can. We can only try, learn from before and hope for tomorrow.

The girls got to have a night for their right of passage. And I know they will have many more fun memories to come. And I am happy and lucky to have been able to be a part of their evening. In the end, I think they may have even taught me more than I taught them...