Suiting Up

Yesterday I apparently felt the need to really hate myself. Because I decided I needed to go ahead and get my bathing suit for the season.

I went into Khol's overly optimistic on the selection, discovering, unfortunately, that nothing had changed since last season. There are three kinds of bathing suits: the bikini, the slightly-bigger-than-a-bikini and the "big momma" mumu.

The bikini is an article of clothing (if it can qualify as a whole article of clothing) that covers the very bare minimum of flesh. It is designed for little, bitty girls who are very confident. It is NOT for girls who have a little (or a lot) extra junk in their trunk.

The slightly-bigger-than-a-bikini suit still shows a lot of flesh. Sometimes they are even one piece suits. But they still require a lot of extra confidence, and not a lot of extra "you."

From there, we jump straight to the dress with briefs and bra cups built in. The fabric is awful. The colors and/or patterns are cheap-looking. And there is little to no shape to them. These scream, "I am too fat to care how I look anymore." Or, "I'm old enough that I really need the bra cups to roll my boobs up and stuff them in."

Why is there nothing in between? Cute, sporty, young. But able to cover enough of your body to make you feel un-naked. Why does it either have to be Playboy Bunny or Golden Girls/Free Willy?

I finally selected a few that were the least offensive and went into the dressing room.

Dressing rooms in general are unfriendly to the ego. They have harsh, bright light and big, unforgiving mirrors. My fresh-from-winter vampire white skin was translucent, and not in the pretty way. And what had looked like soft curves in jeans, suddenly looked like flabby cellulite in the bathing suits.

It took every ounce of will power in my being not to either 1) scream bloody murder at my reflection, 2) cry uncontrollably, or 3) both. But I managed to force my way through the suits. Finally, I selected the least of the evils (which isn't saying much), and planned to use fake tanning lotion and wear make up and a cover up to try to offset the suit.

My mood for the day was shot.

I craved what had gotten me into this flabby, floppy body mess in the first place: chocolate, and lots of it. I searched back to the memory of me in the suit, which was now seared into my brain, and was able to leave the chocolate alone.

However, hubby offered me a glass of wine, which I happily took. Finally, I began to feel the irritation of my shopping/torture excursion uncoil.

After my second glass of wine, I came to the conclusion that the next time I go shopping for bathing suits, I'll have the wine first. I'll use the fake tanning lotion beforehand, and I'll have a make over to boost my self esteem before I start.

And, it might not hurt to try on the suits in the dark either... I'm just saying...

Tell Me About It!

Since there has been written word, there has been respect for it. Not too long ago in our history it was uncommon for women or children to know how to read, much less write. As we became more enlightened as a civilization, books were held in highest esteem, and grammar, spelling and punctuation were taught to every child as a prerequisite of moving up.

Business, finance, law and education split hairs to get the exact meaning of a phrase or idea to the point that the definition is twelve times longer than the word. Communication is vital, and having precision is crucial.

Enter the present. The formal need for structure and precision is still very much needed. However, socially, we have new mediums in which we communicate. We now have the internet, emails and texts. Our world will never be the same.

When the world first got email, I spent time writing out a letter like I would if I were writing a letter to mail. Soon, it was common knowledge that email was in place to make communication faster. That meant that some of our social courtesies were not necessary, and, in fact, not wanted. The idea was to get to the point, say what you had to say, and move on.

I had barely caught on to this concept when we began using text messages on pagers and then cell phones. Talk about condensing an idea! Whew! My kids can have an entire conversation in about three texts. And they only use about six letters, numbers or symbols per text!

At that point I realized, I was officially "old" in my children's eyes. It was kind of like when I was in college and asked my dad about a floppy disk and he got that "deer in headlights" look on his face. Mentally I thought, "Old." I see that look on Keith, Emma and Amy's faces, and I know what it means.

Of course, I did it to myself. If I had been smart, I would have just googled "LOL", "ROFL", "G2G" and other such phrases designed to make us move at an even more break-neck speed than email ever thought of. But, instead, I asked the kids. At first, they laughed, assuming I was being funny. Then realization sunk in that I was clueless. Then I got that look: "old."

Today, I'm happy to say I can usually figure out most text acronyms, even if I don't readily recognize them. I have also been trained in the ways of making faces out of symbols, so that if I'm being funny about something, I can include a smiley face :-) to underscore the fact. Or if I'm mad I can make a frowny face :-( to really bring home the fact that I'm very displeased.

It makes me wonder what our forefathers who labored for literally months over our Constitution would have written if they were to write it today? Would it simply say:

"Yo, Peeps! Listen up! B :-) . Don't stress. K? Peace out."

Wonder if poor Thomas Jefferson is rolling over in his grave?

Hopefully, there will always be a place for formal writing that requires following time-honored spelling, punctuation and grammar rules. In my heart of hearts, I believe there will be.

Guess time will tell...

G2G,
MommyBarbie :-)

Summer Begins

Keith's tonsillectomy was such a huge success that he was up and at 'em in no time. As a point of fact, he has gotten back into his social butterfly mode, scheduling every single free moment.

Next week is the last week of school before summer. Already the planning has amped up. And where Keith leads, Emma and Amy follow.

Slumber parties, movies, dinners, shopping and video games are on the agenda.  Along with painting nails, make overs and hair styling for the girls.

I'm tired just thinking about it all. Oh, and they so don't get the idea of "work" and a "job"-- which I have, of course.

But, they keep me young. They keep me on my toes. And I love every minute of it!

Now if I just could get the dog and cat to behave...

Who Can It Be Now?

Something about the door closing makes the children swarm outside of it like moths to a flame. And the more they want to come in is in direct proportion to how busy I am on the other side and how much I don't want them to come in.

Tonight I was going to take a shower. My children had looked through me all night, barely acknowledging my existence. But, when I shut my bathroom door to take a shower, there was a knock.

"Yes?" I sighed.

"It's me," Amy called.

I flung open the door. The children are well-aware of my frustration of being interrupted while trying to have the tiniest bit of "me" time in the shower and in the bathroom.

"Hi," Amy smiled.

"Hello," I said curtly.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a shower. Like I said I was going to. Before I came in here. And shut the door."

"Oh."

"Did you need something?" I sighed.

"No," she shrugged. "Okay. Well, 'bye."

"Goodbye. I'll be out in a minute," I said, waving while I closed the door.

I took off my make up and began undressing. Predictably, there was a knocking on my door.

"What?" I hollered.

"Mom?" Amy called through the door.

"Yes?"

"When is daddy getting home?"

"I don't know, sweetie. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," she said. Then after a minute, "Mom?"

"What?" I snapped.

It was dead silent outside my door, but her shadow moved back and forth. I opened the door.

"Amy? What?"

"You're naked," Amy observed.

"Yeah. I'm taking a shower."

"Why does your tummy poke out like that?"

I looked down self-consciously. Then I glared at her.

"Amy, I'm taking a shower. Please give me a few minutes to take a shower. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," she sang.

I closed the door behind me and turned on the water. I let the warm flow down my back and face. It felt wonderful as I began to let the grime of the day wash away.

Then there was a knock on the door.

"WHAT?" I screamed.

"Momma?" Amy hollered.

"I. AM. IN. THE. SHOWER!" I screamed in my if-you-don't-stop-it-I'm-going-to-yank-a-knot-in-your-tail voice.

"Jeez. Never mind," Amy snorted.

I got done with my shower in about two minutes and got out to dry off.

There was yet another knock on my door.

"Yes?" I sighed, wearily.

"Momma?" Emma asked timidly.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Can I please come in?"

"Give me a minute. I'm naked," I said, pulling on clothes quickly. "Okay. Come in."

"Are you wearing that to bed?" Emma asked, nodding at my bed attire.

"Yes, why?"

"Hey, Mom," Keith said, coming in.

"Mommy?" Amy asked, poking her head around the corner.

"Okay, guys. It is way past time for you all to be getting ready for bed. Please go."

They chatted as they left, and I shut the door once more to go to the restroom. Suddenly I heard a fight break out on the other side of the door.

"Guys!" I hollered.

All three began telling their side of the story through the door.

"Guys! Stop! Go away. Let me pee. I just want to pee.  That's all. Really," I begged.

Finally, it was quiet on the other side. I came out and washed my hands- with the door open. I brushed my teeth- with the door open. And I cleaned the bathroom up a little- with the door open. And with no interruptions.

When I went out to the kids, they were sitting together talking and getting along. I told them goodnight and tucked them in. Then I went to my room- with the door open- and began writing.

Now they are sleeping soundly. But I would bet money that if I closed my door they would somehow know it, wake up and come knock on it.

Say Aaaaaahhhhh

Keith has been one sick puppy.  He has had his tonsils in such a twist, he has missed just at 23 days of school in his last period class.

The doctor finally said, "Let's yank 'em."

So, we went to the surgery center and I watched them roll my baby away on a gurney.  After a bunch of nervous twitches in my seat, some pacing back and forth and storming heaven with prayer, a nurse finally came out to tell me he was in recovery and was doing well.

I went back to see him, and he was groggy, whiny and pitiful.  He made me cry.

We got him home and poured him into his bed.  He slept for several days in a row, waking up only when I shoved a spoon of medicine in his mouth.

Around the clock, I woke him every three hours to make sure we stayed ahead of the pain.  And it worked.  The day after surgery, the child asked for and ate a Wendy's hamburger.  Hubby and I felt awful!  We concluded that he had felt so utterly miserable prior to the surgery, that this was actually preferable for him.

Three days after the surgery, we ran out of the fantabulous narcotics the doctor had prescribed.  While Keith was really feeling better, he had really been leaning on his meds as a crutch.  Without the security of the meds, he spiraled.

Suddenly, he was waaaayyyyy whiny, his throat was killing him, he was going to "die".  By the time Easter rolled around, I was ready to kill him.

He is now to the point where he is happily bopping around... until you ask him how he's feeling.  Then he remembers he is supposed to be sick, and he crumples into a pitiful little ball of "oooooowwwww...."

If we make it through this, I will be handsomely rewarded:  Hubby goes in for surgery to repair a severely deviated septum Thursday...

The fun just never stops...