the swear jar

The Swear Jar

Is it bad to have a swear jar when you’re four? I’m guessing that’s a "yes." And yet another reason why I will not be winning the Mother of the Year trophy. I picked the kids up from Nana and Papa’s house on Saturday. They were starving. I was trying to cram too many errands in a 24 hour period than are humanly possible. So I figured fast food would be in order. They could eat in the car (against one of my cardinal rules) while I drove to the grocery store, and hopefully we could avoid a major meltdown in the produce section. I was visualizing this detailed gameplan when I realized I needed to decide which burger joint was getting our business.

Me: “Tagg, what do you want for lunch?”

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie.”

Me: Long Pause of Disbelief. WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?!?!

“Um, what?”  

Please, please let him say PUMPKIN smoothie. PUMPKIN smoothie…

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie, please.”

Me: At least he said please. No wait...this is really bad. Speedy Internal Debate… Do I ignore it? Do I tell him not to say it? Last time I did that he said “dammit” about a hundred times in a row. Do I pretend like he actually said “pumpkin?” I have to say something, right? What do you say to your 4-year-old dropping the f-bomb like it’s any other adjective? And what have my parents been teaching him?! 

So I pulled over and told Tagg that was a very adult word, and not a nice one at that and he shouldn’t use it ever. And if he ever heard an adult use that word he should tell them it’s not a nice word. And then we went and got a fuckin’ smoothie. After I texted Scott to let him know that his son is now fluent with his patented swear word. I mean, I may be “Dammit Girl” but this f-bomb stuff is ALL Scott. I do like to gloat a little bit about that.

And I now have a swear jar for the kids. I put in a quarter every time they drop one of the good ones. The not-so-awful ones get nickles and dimes. Pennies for any time Scott and I drop one of any caliber. At this rate, we might be able to pay for college.

the crack

Kouing Amann. Ever heard of it? Tried it? If not, you should. It's seriously the best pastry EVER. People (some who read this blog) actually have sex dreams about it. Hence the surrogate title "crack" because (a) that's what it's like and (b) who can pronounce Kuoing Amann (queen ah-mahn, fyi, depending on what blog, wiki you look at). 

It's apparently the hot new thing in San Francisco, but here in Utah we've been addicted to the Crack for over five years. Since before Les Madeleines, our local "dealer," was on the Food Network. I was lucky enough to discover "crack" at Les Madeleines in Salt Lake City when their store was across the street from my little ad agency and my partner Barry and I would visit a few times a week for a sugar and caffeine fix. I'm still addicted, super proud Romina the chef is making a name for herself, and happy she's not across the street or I'd be a huge, huge individual.

Had one today. I make this noise when I eat "crack"...mmm, mmm, mmmmmm. It's kind of guttural and has a little passion to it, some decadence and indulgence, just like this dessert. It is ooey-gooey delicious-ness that is worth every single calorie (all 500 of them). And you will be addicted. Trust me.

first kiss

Do you remember the name of the first person you ever kissed? 

A friend of mine raised that question with a bunch of co-workers the other day and she was mortified that virtually none of the men remembered the name of the girl who ushered them into manhood, who shared this incredibly romantic, life-changing milestone moment with them. For some it was just a girl with a sports bra on the wrestling mats in the gym. For others, it could have been one of a multitude of girls. All nameless, faceless bodies with boobs and lips and, did I mention? BOOBS. Or maybe it was just boob potential, or boobs attached to lips that would actually kiss them. At any rate, she was scandalized that these men had diminished these young girls to objects without feelings, faces or even names.

I must have been a teenage boy when I was a teenage girl because I seriously don't remember the name of the boy I first kissed, like really kissed.

I remember a lot about the moment. I was 13, the new girl in school. Frizzy hair, thick glasses, bad skin, off-brand jeans, in the band. We were playing "2 Minutes in the Closet" at a birthday party (thanks Judy Blume! I would link you to the "rules" but apparently this game is now called 7 Minutes in Heaven or 10 Minutes of Paradise and a few other things that have tarnished my memory of this oh-so innocent, toe-dip into tween romance and sex moment so I'll just let you Google those on your own. In short, it's a game where a boy and a girl are pushed into a closet or otherwise small and dark room at a party and you are expected to do "whatever" for two minutes, while everyone outside the door giggles and speculates.

My memory...The closet was crowded with junk. There was a mobile with lots of little silver birds that kept getting tangled in my unruly hair. I think his name was Eric. Maybe. He was a little taller than me with brownish curly-ish hair, pretty cute, considering it was the early 80s and we were 13 years old. He might have had braces. You'd think that's something I'd remember, right? I was nervous. I had no idea what to expect. Anyway, he kissed me. With tongue. Yep, my first kiss was french. Hey, go big or go home. I remember liking it well enough, but also being a little bewildered that this swapping of spit and groping of tongues was such a big deal.

I am kind of sad that I don't remember his name. Or have a better memory of that moment. I wish I'd kept a journal back then so that all these years later, I could remember all the details and the roller-coaster of emotions that I'm sure came along with my "first kiss." But I'm glad I got to revisit it. Maybe I'll dig up an old yearbook and see if that jogs any memories. Or maybe I don't need to. I'll just keep my romanticized "first kiss" memory as it is.

Question of the Day...Do you remember your first kiss? Name? Face? Details? Do tell!

Update...for the record, the first kiss WAS named Eric. Found my old junior high yearbook (scary). He was blond-ish (black and white photos give you some leeway here); definitely cute given that it was the early 80s and we all had awful hair, clothes, and were in the depths of puberty; and, judging by the closed lip yearbook picture smile, I'm guessing I was also right on the braces. Good memory!

our knitting project

I’m always pleasantly surprised by the ways our family is knitted together. It reminds me of knitting actually. Not that I’ve ever really knitted anything so I guess it’s more like it reminds of what I think knitting would be like. I imagine that we started out thinking we were going to make a sock, and then we kept adding to it and pretty soon it became a scarf and then we added some more in different colors and it started to look like a sweater and the we add more in more colors and it might end up being some kind of poncho thing with a hood right now.

I say that because our old nanny was just in town visiting from her new home and life in California. She loves these kids like a favorite aunt: phone calls and gifts on birthdays and holidays, pictures from her new life as a college graduate. We chat over dinner about Sloane’s potty training, Tagg’s new addiction to Star Wars, her boyfriend’s crazier-than-ever mother, her search for a new house. She always feels like family to me and I hope that no matter what happens in the future, she feels that way too. 

We were blessed to find her at a time when I was really struggling with the fiscal requirements that drove me back to work when I wanted nothing more than to be home with my children. Leaving them in a stranger’s hands was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But she was perfect from the first meeting – she was the only candidate who insisted on meeting at a Starbucks because she was concerned about safety, not paranoid just cautious. I was sold! - and she just got better from there.

I was often jealous that she was leading the life I had dreamed of and planned on – play dates and swimming lessons and craft projects - while I was living meetings and deadlines and office politics. But you do what you have to do to get by, and now I realize that maybe she was brought to us because she was meant to be part of our random, ever-expanding, knitted-together-by-love little family. 

I also think she helped me figure out something that I think most working moms know, or learn: you get as much joy out of the time you have together as you can. You might even appreciate that precious time more because you actually know what you're missing. 

I do have to say that since Nessa left, I have a newfound appreciation for her ability to have EVERYTHING in perfect order when I got home at night. When Scott gets home on Saturdays, it's like Toys R Us exploded in our house and our dishwasher and washing machine are broken. Hey, we all have our strengths. Cleaning may not be one of mine, but I can craft and soccer-mom my ass off!

So who knows where it will end up, this knitted-together family of ours. What shape, size and combination of colors it will end up. The one thing we do know is that no matter what, it keeps us all warm and snuggly.

there's the thread

I went to a baby shower for one of my dear friends recently. She and I were roommates when she got divorced a little over 10 years ago. We were both in advertising, addicted to shopping, liked to hob-nob at clubs and Sundance movie premieres, we were both Pisces, and had a million more things in common. She had a pug who would wake me up before I was ready. I had a cat that liked to pee on her bed. 

We don’t talk a ton since she moved to New York City about 5 years ago, but every time we do it’s like no time has passed. That's the best kind of friend to have, in my opinion. Low maintenance, high value. She’s kind of living the dream – she packed up and moved to Manhattan to pursue a photography career and ended up in design, hopping from fabulous party to famous restaurant to high-profile accounts, always looking gorgeous and free and happy. I quietly coveted her footloose, glamorous, Sex In The City life on those days when Utah felt too pedestrian and stifling, or when marriage and a house payment seemed too grown-up and stressful, or when my job seemed boring and unsatisfying.

And then one day last summer she called me and asked about adoption. She was turning 40 soon and had decided that what she really wanted was a baby. And since the dating scene had been less than productive (even in New York…who would have thought that!) she was going to become a parent on her own. And, in typical Jen fashion, she wasn’t exactly doing it the “conventional” way.

Nope. One of her very dear gay friends had offered to serve as a sperm donor, and they were literally using a turkey baster – yes, an actual Thanksgiving-like-your-mom-uses turkey baster – to do the deed. As it turns out, that did not work for them and they had to go pro (ka-ching) but still, success! She’s pregnant and is officially staring single motherhood square in the face. We had a chance to chat when I visited her in New York and it was interesting to see that she struggles with a lot of the same issues we do with our adopted children: What is the baby daddy's role going to be? How much will he be involved? What if he wants to be more involved than she’s prepared for? Do his parents get to act like real grandparents? What does she tell this baby about how he or she was born and who all of these people are?

After a long discussion about the pros and cons of this option or that strategy, expressing our fears and uncertainties, and admitting that we really have no freaking clue what we’re doing, we settled on the one thing we both do know 100% and without question. We love these children and they can’t ever have enough people to love them, so as long as we make decisions with love and trust in our hearts, we’ll be doing the right thing. Well, actually there were two things we figured that we do know. The other? We’re probably going to screw a lot of things up along the way and that’s okay too. And just like that we’re back to having something in common. I’m excited for her and I look forward to a lot of those sporadic future phone calls and emails, and hopefully some visits, where we can prop each other up and share our unique stories just like the good old days. Maybe we'll get to do some shopping and have a martini while we're at it.

When Tagg was born, someone gave us this lovely book called The Red Thread, An Adoption Fairy Tale. It's about people following this thread that tugs at their hearts till they embark on a journey to find their family and their joy. I kind of think that's how a lot of families are made these days. And a lot of friendships. I know that Jen and I have a "thread" connection, just like Scott and I have a thread that unites us with our birth families. And Jen will have that same bond with her baby-family, I think; sometimes it may wear thin or get a little twisted but you're still joined together by love. And that's what makes it all work.

soccer mom

 Tagg's first soccer game was Saturday. I am officially a soccer mom. His team is called the Ladybugs. I don't know why. It's a mix of boys and girls under 4. After one practice and one game, I am already learning a lot.

One, just be happy if your kid runs around on the field for some or all of the game, poses for at least one cute picture, does not hit, kick or push any other kids, and does not yell a swear word - especially not the really bad one.

Two, you need some stuff. A lot of stuff. Just when I thought I was done with diaper bag nonsense, I now have camping chairs, a first aid kit, snacks, a blanket, sweatshirts (for me and both kids), drinks, spare clothes including a long sleeve shirt, a port-o-potty for Sloane because there are no bathrooms, and an extra ball for Sloane to play with — all in my car. I suspect that summer soccer may also involve a sunshade of some sort, maybe some spray bottles. And I need to make sure the iPad is in the bag and charged up just in case #4 (see below) doesn't happen.

Three, Saturdays are no longer my day. Or even "our" day. We have to get up early for 8am soccer games, or juggle our usual Saturday plans around 11am or noon games. I'm actually pretty happy about that. How we're going to handle it when Sloane gets in on the soccer/dance action, I have no idea. But I'm pretty sure there are not going to be any Saturday pedicures in my near future.

Four, enlisting a cheering section (aka, aunts, uncles, grandparents) is critical. Otherwise, you will not be in any photos with your little superstar. Your non-playing child will be a screaming mess or trying to run into the parking lot or onto the field while you're trying to get your little soccer star to get up off the ground (the team has decided it's "nap time" so they are all laying down at mid-field while the opposite team is scoring goal. Plus, there may not be anything better than having a huge cheering section when your son gets his first goal in a soccer game. Even better when he proceeds to get three more goals for the other team. And then lays down in the middle of the field because he's tired. And it's nap time.

Five, this is what it's all about. I have never been more proud that Tagg was the first and only kid on his team to score a goal. That he's really good at dribbling, even if it's not always toward the right goal. That his super-giant soccer shorts stayed up. That he scores the most, if not the only goals for his team. That he now loves his shin guards that make him look like a Transformer so much he won't keep his socks tucked over them. That he almost always listens to Coach and tries really hard to play. Watching him clap his hands with excitement about getting to practice kicking a goal. The big hug when the game is over. That's everything it was cracked up to be and more.

 I'm a soccer mom. I think I scored!

PS...you will notice that I am not in one single picture with my little soccer star. Please refer to tip #4. Must have paparazzi.

ouch...that's a good app

I've been getting back into the workout routine. Let's face it. I can't just run all the time. (A) I don't love running in an addiction kind of way. I mostly run so I can drink wine and eat Cheetos occasionally, and because I love the medals and my run buddies. (B) My knees and ankles certainly don't love running. They remind me all the time with little sharp pains and dull aches. You'd think that would remind me to stretch more but I still don't. (C) I need variety! It's the spice of life, as they say. I don't really know anyone who says that. But I get bored of doing the same thing all the time. 

My sister showed me this Nike Training Club app for my iPhone so I figured I'd give it a shot. I was running a little late to get the kids so I picked the 15 minute "Get Focused" workout and opted to do the "Leaner Legs" workout. How hard could that be? I just ran 9 miles the week before and it barely phased me. I am obviously in great leg shape, no matter what they look like. The workout had 5 different exercises, a combination of squats and lunges. One exercise for one lousy minute each, three rounds. No equipment other than a couple of weights or a medicine ball, so you can do it easily at home. The app shows you step-by-step images of the moves, and has a video of each move so you can see exactly how to do it. And you can sync it to your playlist. Plus there's a lovely little audio "coach" who motivates you and counts down the time from move to move. I was thinking this would be a breeze.

I'm embarrassed to say this but...I was out of breath. Full on winded after about the third move. I even skipped a few reps by the third rotation, just to catch my breath. This is FIFTEEN minutes of exercise, people! I run half marathons. Sure, I don't do them fast or train enough but still. Shame. Spiral.  

Wait...it gets worse. The next day I was sore. Really sore. The kind of sore where every time you stand up it takes a half-dozen steps to loosen up. Stairs? Ridiculous. And sitting down? Old. Man. Noise.  That lasted for three full days. I am not joking.

So, a few things I learned. One, I need to cross-train. A lot. Two, running a lot does not necessarily deliver strong legs. Three, the Nike Training Club app kicks ass! Literally.