Tell me what you’re Lovin’ these days…
Many years ago, my friend and I were pregnant with our first child at the same time. We compared notes throughout our pregnancies, and eagerly anticipated the arrival of our little bundles of joy. (I was due first.)
So along comes The Firstborn, and everyone agreed he was perfect. Perfect little round head, perfect little eyes, perfect fingers and toes… you get the picture. My husband and I stared googly-eyed at him for hours, because he was so darn cute. Ahhh.
Then my friend’s baby arrived, and I went to the hospital to visit her. She escorts me over to the bedside cradle beaming, and said, “Isn’t he perfect?” I looked down at the little guy and smiled. He was, indeed, cute… but perfect, no. He had these little white bumps on his face, and broken capillaries on his cheeks, and his fingers were peeling. Cute, yes. Perfect, no.
At that moment I heard angelic harp music in my head, accompanied by visions of my baby. “No, but my baby IS perfect,” I thought.
Then, like the needle being scratched across a record on an old Victrola, my vision stopped. “What if my baby isn’t really perfect?? Maybe they’re all like this, and we just don’t notice it on our babies… Oh, no.” I kissed her goodbye, reassured her once more that her little angel was perfect, and made the mad dash home.
I raced into the house, tore back his covers and stared at him. Sure enough, he had the same little bumps on his face and weird fingernails. I just hadn’t noticed. I saw him with my Mama Eyes, which made him perfect. To me.
So thank you all for putting up with me this week, as I stare once again at my children with my Mama Eyes, overlooking their flaws, seeing only the good parts. You’ve all been really good sports.
Right now I’m sporting a grin that I don’t think will fade any time soon. Yesterday, Mr. Wonderful and I went to LSU to retrieve The Trailblazer and all his smelly, college boy stuff, and accompany him home for the summer. As I write, he’s sprawled out on the couch, exhausted from the marathon of finals week, with the remote in one hand and the dog tucked under the other arm. It’s hard to believe that the year is over.
The feelings I’m having right now are very new, and I’m not sure I know what to do with them. What I want to do is stand in the street and brag to every passer-by about my incredible son. But that would probably run off a few friends, embarrass my son, and be in violation of my neighborhood association’s rules. (But it’s what I really want to do.) So since I’ve gathered up all these readers here, I’ll bore you for just a few minutes while I indulge this maternal need to talk about my boy.
The Lucky Mom and The Firstborn. (Isn't he handsome??)
I’ve lived this last year in a strange, new place. Anxiety and pride huddled side by side, competing for my emotional space. Worries about how he’d handle his new independence, whether or not he’d practice basic hygiene, and hoping most of all that he’d maintain the GPA necessary to keep his free-ride scholarships intact. My maternal pride wanted to boast to anyone who’d listen about his great accomplishments, but my anxiety kept me keenly aware that he was just one good fraternity party away from having it all go down the tubes.
It seems bad timing for college freshmen to be delivered to their new lifestyle at the beginning of football season. Any Tiger Fan will attest that Death Valley in the fall is an intense experience. So the vibes I was getting at the beginning of the year didn’t make me feel any better about the Big Three Worries I was having. But he made it through the first semester with good grades, no police record, and no injuries requiring stitches or hospitalization. His second semester schedule was pretty ambitious, but he carried the load beautifully (got even better grades than the first semester!) and ended the year more grown up than I could have imagined. My worries about him taking his future seriously were put to rest when he asked me and his dad recently if “we would mind” if he added a minor in Aerospace Engineering to his Mechanical Engineering major.
The only point I feel I need to continue fretting over is his standard of living. Perhaps I just don’t remember how skanky college life is (or maybe he’s just gross) but that boy’s dorm room was plain old nasty when we got there to move him out. As he’ll be in an apartment with 3 other guys next year, I’m hoping someone in the group will be able to exert a bit of influence over him, and reform the really bad habits he developed this year. But as I write these words, a great sense of relief rushes over me. Because if I had to be let down on one of my Big Three Worries, that’s the best one.
So for the next few days I’ll be strutting around like a Really Proud Mama. I’ll cook his favorite foods and fluff his pillows and be glad he’s under the same roof as us a while. When the newness wears off and he starts aggravating his brothers, I’m sure look at the calendar and figure out how many more weeks til he heads back. But for now, if you should bump into me, and I’m beaming, you’ll know why.
The Little Guy: Mom, you need to get me some boxer shorts.
Me: OK. (Huh?)
The Little Guy: I need to protect my sperm. I want to have a family some day.
Me: Okay. (Whaaat?)
The Little Guy: You do want grandchildren, don’t you.
Me: Yes, I do. (Exhale.)
The Little Guy: We had Family Life today.
Me: Really?? (They could’ve sent home a note.)
Family Life is the Catholic school’s version of Sex Ed, and all material is presented within the framework of Catholic values. A parent’s guide was sent home a few weeks ago, and I flipped through it. It was full of chapters about marriage, children, valuing life. Nowhere in it was a chapter about boxer shorts.
And why on earth was I the parent getting to handle this??? My husband wanted sons, and I gave him sons. So I assumed that when it came time to have all these talks, they would be handled by Dad. But since I get to spend so much quality time with the boys, I always seem to get to do the fun stuff. Like talking about sperm.
The Little Guy: And are girls circumcised?
Me: No, they’re different from boys.
The Little Guy: I know, Mom.
Me: Dad really knows more than I do about this kind of boy stuff. Maybe you should talk to him.
The Little Guy: No, you know enough.
Glad to know I’m qualified to discuss such matters.
Today’s numbers are much better!
4: The number of days until College Boy returns home for the summer.
7: The number of school days left for The Middle Kid.
12: The number of school days left for The Little Guy.
2: The number lunch dates with friends I have planned for the rest of the week.
1: The number of shopping sprees I have planned for this week.
6: The number of squirrels that were frolicking in my back yard this morning.
86,400: The number of seconds in this day. I’m going to make the most of them!!
One:
Tomorrow’s another day!
Because I live in the “Mommy Fast-Lane” I don’t often hear about new book releases (or other events that happen outside the worlds of my kids’ schools or my mother-in-law’s-doctor’s-office’s waiting room). But when I saw Tina Fey’s new book Bossypants on the end cap at Wal-Mart I stopped in my tracks, moved the deli meat and eggs out of the seat of the shopping cart and placed it there so I could start flipping through the pages while I finished shopping.
{hachettebookgroup.com}
You see, I’m a late-blooming Tina Fey fan. As I’m rarely able to stay up late enough to watch Saturday Night Live, and her time there was before we had Tivo, I saw little of her prior to the birth of 30 Rock in 2006 (except for her Sarah Palin sketches which made it all the way to network news). The show was on the air for quite some time before I caught wind of how hysterically funny it was and started watching. But the moment I invested a little time in getting to know Liz Lemon, I was hooked. I had found my sarcastic soul-mate.
I was afraid of taking out other shoppers by reading-while-shopping, so I finished up and headed home. I threw the cold stuff into the fridge, sat down at the kitchen table, and started laughing. Just the back cover had me snorting Diet Dr. Pepper out of my nose. So I put away the groceries, gave the kids a snack, and settled into my favorite chair to dive in.
Reading this book is the most fun I’ve had by myself in a long time. It turns out that Tina Fey is a lot like me. (Except for the part about being stinky rich and famous and a Democrat.) And if you’re reading this blog, she’s probably a lot like you, too. A regular person with a strong work ethic, intense love for her family, and a longing to make her dreams come true. Her straightforward observations about life are a lot like mine. Respect people for who they are and what they can contribute. Give all you’ve got to whatever you do. Love your family. Be nice to your in-laws.
My recommendation: If you have a uterus, a child or are an underdog in any way, go buy/download/borrow Bossypants immediately. If none of those apply, go watch something on ESPN.
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In homage to Tina Fey, and in celebration of Mother’s Day, I’ll leave you with this:
The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
As I’ve already professed to the world that I consider myself a Nerd, it will come as no big shock to hear that I love to read. As a nerdy kid, my social skills were a little lax, so being with 3-dimensional people was sometimes awkward. Thus began my friendship with the local librarian. The Wagner Library was about 6 blocks from my house, and (back in the day when you could let a little girl roam about unsupervised) I went there almost every day.
Check out that first edition Bobbsey Twins novel! It's OK to be jealous!
5 was the number of books you were allowed to check out in one day, and 5 was the number of books I went home with most of the time. Several times a week I’d trot back for more. After exploring the library and reading different things, I determined that I liked non-fiction best, and after exhausting all the books that “interested” me, I set out to read the entire library. That proved to be a little ambitious (even for me), so I narrowed my scope down to Sections 920 through 998: Biographies and History. And I started reading them in order.
My love affair with reading continued through high school, and when it came time to declare a major, I stumbled on something in the curriculum guide that seemed too good to be true: A Liberal Arts degree, with concentrations in Literature and History. I studied Shakespeare, Moliere, and my favorite author– Emerson. My husband fell in love with me over Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown. (He’ll probably deny that, but I know the truth.) I delved into Russian and European history with zeal, and actually worked as a research assistant on a book called The Artist as Politician, relating the role of art in the politics of 19th century France.
A few of the "Little Kid Favorites" we keep on the shelf. The rest are in boxes (many, many boxes) in storage.
Then something happened. I had kids. And the pursuits I loved so much before took a back burner to their pursuits, and I stopped reading. Well, I didn’t stop altogether. I just stopped reading books with big words and no illustrations. I read what they read. We started with Dr. Seuss, and worked our way up through J.K. Rowling and Lemony Snicket. One summer I read the entire Lloyd Alexander series, The Chronicles of Prydain (which I highly recommend!) with The Middle Child. Reading and sharing it with him gave me great joy, and I vowed I’d start reading again, but it was a promise I didn’t keep.
Then a funny thing happened. The kids grew up. And I rediscovered my favorite pastime! Now I have 20 years of catching up to do, so I’m taking it kind of slow, but I’m proud to say that in the last few months I’ve finished TWO BOOKS! Actual hardbacks, with no pictures! The kids had to fend for themselves a couple of times, and I left clothes in the dryer overnight. But I finished! (Sounds like a small feat to those without kids and a house and a dog and a mother-in-law, but it’s a huge accomplishment for me!) So What I Read will become a part of The Lucky Mom’s new world, and I’ll be accountable to my followers to keep it interesting!
(In case you’re interested, the two books, Jane Boleyn: The True Story of the Infamous Lady Rochford by Julia Fox and Tina Fey’s new memoir Bossypants, will be reviewed under the tab at the right, What I Read.
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*“It is meat and drink to me…” — William Shakespeare, As You Like It (1616)
And I want my kids to (heart) it, too. So when I realized that my Little Guy wasn’t developing the same affinity for it that the rest of us share, I had a mission: to convert this suburban kid into a proper New Orleanian.
I feel blessed that I got to grow up here, and that – after wandering about for a few years – my husband and I decided to return and raise our family here. We settled in the ‘burbs for mundane reasons (insurance, property taxes, sidewalks you can safely ride a tricycle on, and playgrounds) but our hearts were always in The City. Despite our mailing address saying otherwise, we consider ourselves New Orleanians. (By the way, New Orleanians NEVER refer to our hometown as “The Big Easy.” It’s The Crescent City, The City, or NOLA.)
Back in the day (before we had kids) my husband and I were very cool people. We would hop in our car (a shiny, blue Alfa Romeo convertible!) and drive around The City, looking for a place to land. Like most we developed a pattern of regular places, but we were always eager to find a new spot, too.
When our first round of kids came along, except for dragging around more gear, our pace didn’t change much. We continued our regular jaunts to the French Quarter, City Park, and Uptown. We’d go to Mass at the Cathedral, have dinner in the Quarter, and walk along the river. Once we rode the entire streetcar line – from the beginning to the end of the line and all the way back. New Orleans was our extended back yard. As the kids got old enough to start whining about these “adventures,” we caved in and did it less often. But when we had visitors to show around, or a grown-up night out, our car instinctively crossed the 17th Street Canal* into The City.
The City would become an integral part of our big kids’ lives, too. They went to middle school in City Park, and high school in Mid-City, so they returned to the familiar paths we once roamed. They practiced lacrosse at Scout Island, played games at Pan-American Stadium, and ate dessert at Brocato’s. Unlike many suburban kids, going into The City was part of their daily life.
So when the Little Guy started showing signs that he’d rather remain in suburbia, I knew I needed to do something about it. (I learned this on a recent field trip to the Musee Conti wax museum, when he wanted to go home rather than roam the streets of the Quarter with his friends from school.) Seizing a day from Spring Break this week, I planned an outing designed to make him become aware of the very cool things that are in our big back yard, and turn on his lust for all it has to offer (well, almost all of what it has to offer. He’ll have to learn the rest from his brothers in a few years.)
Since no adventure is complete without a running buddy, I called the mom of his friend K, and she was in. A little brainstorming and a plan was hatched. There were some logistics to consider (picking up The Middle Child and K’s brother from school at 3:00), so we decided to leave our cars in Mid-City and take the streetcar down Canal Street to The French Quarter. We wanted to roam aimlessly (sort of), have lunch someplace cool, and roam down a different path back to the streetcar line. (I prefer to do this kind of thing with a VERY LOOSE PLAN, to avoid turning into a drill sergeant, which doesn’t become me at all, and can bring the mood down in a milli-second.) Knowing my Little Guy as I do, I feared it would turn into a whining session fast if his brain wasn’t engaged in the moment, so I made a scavenger hunt-list of things he and K would have to find on our adventure. Operation I (heart) NOLA was born!
We learned some historical things (that the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the War of 1812 had officially ended), some interesting things (that pigeons will eat Red Beans and Rice from your plate if you’re not paying attention), and some practical things (that the mystery fluid along the street is called Party Gravy, and you NEVER touch anything in it).
B & K riding the streetcar, acting goofy.
Lunch at the Gazebo Cafe.
Statue of Joan of Arc, patroness of New Orleans. (Joanie on the Pony to us.)
We learned that NOLA has her own rhythm (played to the beat of street musicians), and that streetcars aren’t very predictable (give yourself extra time when relying on them for transportation).
Street performer playing a James Taylor tune.
Lucky Dog vendor (We did not eat Lucky Dogs. I have conflicting opinions about whether that’s a cool thing to do or a game of intestinal roulette.)
We marveled at the beautiful paintings on the ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral (how did they do that) and discovered the secret courtyards tucked between the beautiful buildings in the Quarter.
B & K at Jackson Square. B acting goofy again.
Completed scavenger hunt! (We had to re-route in the interest of time, so we skipped the Market and went back via the Hard Rock Café.)
Operation I (heart) NOLA was a success! Next year, the Little Guy will transition to his new school in The City. As he starts venturing there daily I hope he develops the same love for NOLA that his dad and I share. I hope he learns to love it so much that he’ll never want to leave!
(For a complete list of awesome places to visit in New Orleans, send The Lucky Mom a message!)
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Stuff you might not know:
*The 17th Street Canal divides Jefferson Parish and Orleans Parish. (We call our counties “parishes” in Louisiana.) It became infamous when, during Hurricane Katrina, the canal’s levee failed, flooding the adjacent part of town.
Here are a few of the things I’m Lovin’!
Tell me what you’re lovin’ these days!
Lisha Writes 