Love, Kids, and Valentines

I remember the excitement Valentines Day always brought me when I was little. My mom always had boxes of chocolates for us and cards with wonderful things inside...a kitten bookmark, a pressed flower. Those tiny items dazzled my kid brain.

At school, we were lucky enough to have lavish parties. School parties were divine; cupcakes and suckers, lacy paper hearts, sharing your valentines, lots of laughing.

I always dressed in pink and red for Valentines Day, I still do. The big difference is that now I get to host the sweet little Valentine party.

These days I'm a bit more health conscious. This year we are having sliced banana with peanut butter garnish and raisins, popcorn, apple juice adorned with silly heart shaped crazy straws, and one sweet little organic sucker.

In the name of love, I decided that it might be cute to ask all those sweet little people just what Valentines Day means to them. Their answers aren't always what you might expect, but dang they're cute.

Malik age 3 - "Toys...I hide my eyes, I get candy. Ya, it's good."

Juliette age 6 - "It means that I love my family, and valentines means that my heart is telling me to love other people, and I love the way I know they love me when they look at me."

Anabel age 4 - "I don't know. Oooh, just like plates. Nothing on them. Just one lollyop. No cards, I already have cards, I don't need them."

Zachary age 5 - "It's when you put up stickers on your windows."

Chase age 4 - It's a party at school and handing out cards and bubbles because we love our friends."

Emily age 4 - "It means that we love mom and dad and we have to make them a card."

Sean age 5 - "Hugs, kisses, and candy."

Jayda age 5 - "A day for valentines goodies."

Tanner age 3 - "Love Mommy."

Jacob age 7 - "You give something to Mom."


I think they all did a marvelous job of summing up Valentines Day! I certainly hope yours is filled with love, hugs, and candy. :)

Be A Meany For Halloweenie :)

Halloween has always been a magical time for me. As a child, it meant dressing up and becoming my dearest heart's desire. My sister and I always had the best Halloween costumes. Whatever I wanted to be was within my grasp. Every year we’d load into the car and take the winding roaded trek to our local Sprouse Ritz.

Once there, we would comb through fabrics until we found just the right ones. Pink laces and silky satins to make the perfect princess dress, or the right color blue stretch cotton that would transform my sister into the beautiful Smurfette.

The hours my mother spent huddled over her sewing machine, turning ordinary materials into puffed sleeves and hooped skirts. It was pure magic.

This is a tradition I’ve tried very hard to pass down to my own child, but alas, no matter what, the boy seems to only want to be one thing. That one thing turns out to be anything wearing a sweatsuit.

It started out quite perfectly. At age zero, I toted him around in an adorable Superman outfit that I had created out of a sleeper set, and I fashioned a cape and superman stenciled bib over the top. It was genius and he was warmly content as I carried him around trick-or-treating (hey you have to start early).

The next year, coincidentally, Aydin wore an army sweatsuit with dog tags and went as a little soldier like his dad. That sweatsuit was the beginning and the end of my Halloween fantasies.

Finally, Aydin was old enough to decide his own Halloween costume. He wanted to be Dark Heart from the Carebear Movie, which may sound cool, but Dark Heart is really a mean kid who wears a red, you guessed it, sweatsuit. I was doomed. I then decided to jazz it up by making a big car costume to wear on top. I spent hours creating this carific masterpiece. In the end it lasted three minutes before the car was discarded and Aydin went happily on his way in his red sweats.

Aydin the little store-bought army guy

For some reason I thought I’d be smart the next time around; we broke family tradition, which slightly broke my heart, and we bought a soldier costume. This was the year he almost froze to death and trick-or treating ended with a stop at Safeway to buy candy that I snuck into his pumpkin bucket.

My sweatsuit masterpiece Knuckles

The next year I created what I think is hands down my best sweatsuit masterpiece. The boy wanted to be Knuckles from Sonic The Hedgehog, and I was stoked! This was something I could work with. Yay!

I made gloves, and cartoony hair, I stenciled and sewed to my heart's content, and the kid was happy. He loved it. However, we lived in Alaska. Trick-or-treating meant drive the car...get out...run to a house...run back to the car before you freeze...drive ten feet...and repeat. It sucked, but man, the costume rocked.

The next year, when asked what he wanted to be, he said, “A jail guy.” What is a jail guy, you may wonder..or maybe you don’t? Well, I wasn’t sure if a jail guy meant an orange jumpsuit or a police officer. Off we went to the fabric store. We came back with all the crap to make a lovely striped inmate costume. Wonderful. The materials cost me about forty-five bucks. A week later, I found an almost identical thing to the costume I had just slaved over at Walmart for $6.99. Sometimes being creative bites.

A tribute to the years of the black sweatsuit

The next three years pass in a blur for me as the "black sweatsuit years." There was the secret agent (meaning boy in black sweats), the ninja warrior (a.k.a. boy in black sweats with a vesty thing), and the sullen mean boy who looked like a burglar in black sweats and a ski mask, until the mask was too itchy, and then he was just the boy in black sweats.

Percy Jackson

Finally, the year before last, Aydin actually was gung-ho for Halloween, and I thank his love of reading whole-heartedly for it. He wanted to be nothing less than Percy Jackson, and marvelously Percy does not wear a sweat suit. Nope, Percy wears a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt, but he carries a sword. At least, I got to draw on the orange T with Sharpee and we dyed his naturally blonde locks brown. Here’s to semi-creativeness.

My little witch, I mean wizard

Last year, we were once again back in a black sweatsuit..well dammit, I'd had it!!!!! The kid was ruining my Halloween. He was twelve, perhaps my last year of trick-or-treating with my baby. What is a mom to do? Well this mom threw a hissy fit. This mom cried (I was probably premenstrual). This mom, forced her son to wear a little witch outfit and lied and told him that he looked like a cool wizard. But hey, the boy was in a costume and this mom was happy.

Now, in 2013, Aydin has decided he wants to do his own costume. He’s planning to be a very original zombie, or of course as he would tell me he is NOT a zombie, he’s a WALKER. I had better get this straight.

I was never allowed to be anything evil for Halloween. My sister was once lucky enough to go as a she-devil while I was the angel. My mom didn’t believe in wearing “Evil” costumes. She liked happy princesses and cute smurfs. My mother obviously did not have a boy. Boys want to be boys. They want swords, and Halloween isn’t really about Halloween for my boy. It’s really about getting that sword for future play. The important part of Halloween for him is the fun, and the candy.

So, I guess I have to leave my motherly fantasies of princess costumes and fairy wings. I can still dress up the cat, or myself. But hey, a thought just occurred to me. An exciting thought, a hopeful thought, a marvelous thought....I just might be lucky enough to have grandchildren one day...and one of them might be a little girl or two, complete with the desire for princess attire. One can dream.

Happy Halloween, everybody. Have a great time. Oh, and this year I'm wearing a sweatsuit....

10 Signs You're A MOM

1. You’ve made sure that everyone else brushed there teeth before you headed out the door, but you realized a half a mile down the road that you forgot to brush yours.
2. Your car stereo now plays Kid Bop on a regular basis.

3. You threatened to remove all xboxes, play stations, and Nintendo DS’ from the house and give them all to charity at least five times last week. 

4. Your Calgon-Take-Me-Away-Bath was interrupted 700 times with “Mom, are you done yet.” 

5. Going Pee by yourself is a luxury comparable with the European vacation you’ve been dreaming of. 

6. Your purse contains an unlimited supply of bandaids, kleenex, and snacks. 

7. You are capable of simultaneously cooking dinner, changing a diaper, mopping the floor, and checking facebook. 

8. You’ve made sure that the kids have a wonderful home-cooked meal and you then eat a bowl of cereal for dinner when no one is looking. 

9. You are the only one in your house who knows where to find a cereal bowl and spoon, even though they’ve been in the same place for years. 

10. You look forward to the precious 10 minutes a day before bed when you get to pretend that your not a superhero.

SEX And Mens Funny Looking Parts

I was never having sex! No way, no way, not ever! Sex was loud, and sweaty, and gross. I’d seen The Blue Lagoon!

I was certain that no one I knew had sex. My Grandmother certainly never had sex. She may have bourne eight children, but no hanky panky had been involved, and my parents would never even dream of it, ewwww.

At this age I didn’t even know what sex was. I watched a PBS documentary that showed a man and woman rolling around in the sheets as it described the ins and outs (no pun intended) of creating life. The sheets were blue and that was about all I took away from the documentary. So I guessed that when you had sex you just rolled around in sheets, but they had to be blue to make a baby. Seven year old logic is always spot on.

When I got to school the next day I, of course, told my extremely interested friends all about those yucky-blue-sheeted-sex-people. They all squealed in disgust between games of horses and princess fairies. All, except one little girl Kristin who, being the proud big sister of a new baby, was sure that she knew better than me about the birds and the bees.

“The man puts his stick in the lady and then they wiggle,” she told me. “And they have to do it in the shower to make a baby.”

What was she talking about? I mean I was the one who had seen the video! I had proof on my side.

“I think you should ask my mom,” I rolled my eyes at her. “My mom is older than your mom.”

This secret sex talk became our recess ritual for quite a few weeks of second grade. Everyone had their own ideas, but none of us seemed to agree on any of it. The only thing that we were unanimously convinced of was that sex was entirely nasty and that because of this fact we were all planning to adopt babies when we grew up.

The years rolled on and games of horses turned into hours spent on the telephone. I was lucky enough to have my own mauve phone in my room, how cool was I? The sex talk became more about “Johnny is so cute and when I’m a cheerleader in highschool we’re going to dance like Janey on Jeff did in Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and I was even planning to wear rolled up sweat pants just like Janey (AKA Sarah Jessica Parker).

I still had no clue whatsoever about sex until I read Flowers In The Attic by VC Andrews. This book was shocking and eye-opening and perhaps my naive twelve year old self was just too young to read it, but read it I did.

Oh My God Kristin was RIGHT! I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. I was appalled and I actually decided that I needed to ask my mom.

“Mom, how do people have sex?”

She didn't seem surprised or grossed out by my question.

I then proceeded to tell her everything. I told her about adoption and sheets and showers and Kristin and babies and Flowers In The Attic. She looked thoughtfully at me, smiled and said, “Honey, men have funny looking parts, but eventually you will learn to like them.”

And, you know what she was right.

I'll Tell You Mine If You Tell Me Yours

What is your most embarrassing moment has been a game that we’ve played in my family for as long as I can remember. A tradition we’ve upheld since my mom told us about the time she lost her underwear at K-Mart. You see, she had recently lost a bunch of weight and nothing fit. Where else does the stylish woman on a budget shop but good old friendly K-Mart? When she entered the store everything felt fairly snug, but after a few hours of strenuous shopping things had changed.  She walked out of the store holding my sister on one hip and me on the other with a giant bag full of new clothes balanced over each elbow.  The car was parked very far from the entrance and as she walked through the crowded parking lot she could feel her panties slipping down under her skirt. Each heavy step bringing them lower and lower until unable to yank them up she just let them fall where they fell  in the middle of the lane. Then with as much dignity as possible she simply stepped right out of those nickers and just kept right on walking, never looking back.

We all Have them. Those horrible moments that we can’t turn off. In times of weakness they come to plague us like a bad eighties tune you just can’t get out of your head. Maybe they exist to humble us for some unimaginable sin we may have inflicted on the world? Perhaps, it was those thumbtacks you put under the dining room rug so that your sweet good natured sister would step on them while she set the table or maybe you once stole your dads car and left him on top of a mountain for an entire day so you could hang out with your friends. Who knows why, when, or how? All we really know is that they exist and they are down right nasty in a mean Joan Rivers doesn’t like my dress sort of way.

My evil sister, the same one who so meticulously placed those thumbtacks, and I have kept the  tradition alive over the years and while I’m not quite yet ready to tell you my most embarrassing secret I will gladly tell you hers.

It was the evening of the big Mormon dance and everyone who was anyone was going. Truthfully I don’t really know why we were even going since we weren’t Mormon and I think we only knew one girl, but hey don’t you know Mormon dances play the best music (ya I had no idea either). It was the era of modern rock and we dressed up in our best clothes. Shannon aka evil sister wore a vintage black baby doll dress over fishnets with thigh high leggings (who cares that it was August, the weekend before school started, and a hundred degrees outside, but the layered look suited her perfectly and really set off her bold kohl eye liner and fake tattoos. She was looking killer. Joan Rivers eat your heart out. 

I was sporting the look as well. White tights, and only tights, no skirt no pants nothing else were paired with the super sexy white pirate shirt I’d bought from Contempo Casuals that very afternoon and not to be remiss was the lacy black bra that peek-a-booed out of the open pirate collar accentuating something that I was way to young to be showing. (I was fifteen. I think that you should be at least 85 and senile before you are allowed to be seen in public in your underwear. 

(Did my dad not see what I was wearing? I’m so glad I didn’t have girls).

As you can imagine we were styling in every way.

My sister, our friend Layla (her name has been changed for legal purposes) and I had spent the majority of the afternoon before the dance in San Francisco. We decided that since we were all high-school bound now that we needed some practice in the guy department. We made a pact that we would all walk up to at least one perfect stranger and try out our best pick-up lines on them. (Yes, this is what three stupid 13, 14, and 15 year old girls do on a Saturday afternoon the weekend before school starts.)

Layla, being the much more brazen of the three, and I can easily say that since her name has been changed for legal purposes that this was all her idea, went first. She chose an older street vendor selling pretzels and asked him “If I where older would you date me?” to which he replied “I only sell stuff sweetie, I ain’t buyin’.” To which we all ran in fear and laughter down Polk street past the prostitutes and bums and caught a quick cablecar back to the mall on Market st.

We had all begun to lose our nerve after the pretzel guy incident, but Layla was mad and kept telling us she’d never talk to us again if we didn’t do it too. Shannon (no need to change her name for legal purposes) planning to keep it cool sauntered up to a boy about our own age and asked him for a cigarette and a light. He gladly handed her a smoke and as she held the Marlboro out toward his Zippo he said “Um, you need to hold it up to your mouth and suck in hon.” So much for the sauve delivery, but much better than pretzel guy.

I was last and super shy and suffice it to say I pretended to flirt with someone in Wherehouse records, but really I just asked him if he knew where the bathroom was so I could be off the hook.

As the three of us got dressed in our stunning ensambles for the dance we decided that we really needed to continue our practicing on those nice Mormon boys. We had all done so well during the afternoon we figured that the dance would be a cinch and that we’d all leave that night with glamorous new boyfriends to start the school year off with.

The dance was crowded with lots of alternative dressers like ourselves. Boys with black nail polish and pink lipstick had us drooling at every turn. And, then she spotted him. My evil little sister had found her mark. Tall and lanky with curly black hair and a black hoody. What more could a girl ask for?

Huddling in football pregame fashion we gave Shannon our best encouragement.

“He’s cute, but you’re much cooler.” 

“This is nothing you smoked a cigarette today.”

“Just do it.” (I think Nike stole that from us.)

So with those words of wisdom Shannon, my ultra evil sibling, charged up to that cute boy like a woman on a mission.

“Hi”, she said. “You know, you look EXACTLY like a character in this book that I’m reading.”

He laughed. “Really? And how EXACTLY is that possible?

“Uh, I have no idea.” she stammered utterly mortified.

And, with that the woman on a mission ran and insisted we leave the dance immediately.

The utterly mortifying thing is that the next Monday at orientation this same cute boy ended up being the student body president. At the end of the day he walked up to her and asked her if she’d read any good books lately and even though they briefly dated for three days that first week of school she has yet to get over the utter humiliation of those fourteen little words.

I guess I’m feeling a little more comfortable now and I think that it may be time to let you in on my embarrassing moment. For although I’ve experienced many I seem to have lost most of the embarrassment factor. Like the one time I fell down in the middle of the road on the way to pick up my car from the mechanic and the only one who saw me was a little doggy who came and licked my face trying to comfort me. It’s like the tree thing. If no one is there did it really happen? And, why in the heck is falling down so humiliating. Did our parents infuse in us some kind of notion that only assholes fall down when we were learning to walk or something. I mean who hasn’t fallen in their life. No one, that’s right no one. It should be no more embarrassing than farting or burping, but oh ya those are embarrassing too.

I would like to tell you about this time in Berkeley that I ran out of a Vietnamese restaurant with my skirt tucked into my underwear, but alas I think the karma I have for stealing my dads car is much more severe. For although that was pretty embarrassing in the moment the humiliation hasn’t lingered.

Caution. What I’m about to tell you is not for the faint of heart, and please don’t tell you’re friends or neighbors. I really don’t want to be the girl that everyone points and snickers out in the middle of Safeway. So please out of respect, keep it to yourself. 

It was a lazy fall afternoon and my OCD was getting the best of me. We had just rented a beautiful home in the middle of nowhere. The large gray two story was truly my dream house. I used to gaze at it as they were building it and imagine living there. The house had so many windows it could have been made of glass and because it was brand spanking new there wasn’t a curtain or blind on a single one of them. 

Whenever I’m bored my OCD begins to eat me alive. What can I alphabetize? what needs cleaning, dusting, perfecting, etc. Well on this day my brain was shouting the car the car like Tattoo on Fantasy Island. My son was two at the time so off I went baby in hand down the long sloping driveway to wash the darn car and I don’t mean spray the car with water and be done. I mean toothbrush in every crevice and shampooing the upholstery. I can be ridiculous, but at least my car is clean.

After about an hour of “car perfecting” I figured I was done and I was feeling filthy. I think I had a little speck of dirt under my fingernail so of course I needed an entire shower. I hauled the baby back into the house (thankfully he loves to clean too. He’s been organizing his diapers since birth.)

I threw my clothes in the washer and was just about to step into the shower when my son came in and with little sad nearly weepy eyes asked for some milk. I figured that after an hour of car cleaning he was definitely owed some refreshment so off I went nude as newborn into the kitchen to get a sippy. 

BAM...BAM...BAM...

The next thing I knew I turned to see my landlord tapping on my glass window and waving wildly. I screamed my head off. I was naked! Couldn’t he see I was naked? His mustached face was simply smiling stalker like as I screamed. This wasn’t cute naked or sexy naked. This was chubby momma I have dirt under my fingernail naked. The worst part was I had just thrown everything in the washer so I had to walk with as much poise as I could through an almost glass house up a winding staircase into my bedroom so I could grab something anything to put on my body and all the while this crazy mustached landlord just kept waving and smiling and laughing. It was horrible. 

When I finally was able to grab my robe and come back down. All he said was. 

“How are you doing? I just wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly.”

Honestly, I could have died standing there with for all intensive purposes a perfect stranger while he continued to make idle chit-chat. Looking back, I’m sure he was just as embarrassed as I was - well maybe not.

I’m sure a lot of you out there have moments that are even more embarrassing than mine or maybe yours is a just as sweet and cute as Shannon’s. Suffice it to say we’ve all lost our dignity or our underwear somewhere along this little path of life. So don’t be humiliated, embrace it. Those moments are what map out our humanity and keep us humble.

So I told you mine. what’s yours?