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Midway through the summer I think I'm losing it just a little bit. My 13 year-old's hobby of tormenting his younger brother keeps our family riled up much of the time these days.
At any rate, I continue to try to come up with things to make our "stay-cation" interesting, but at this point I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel. Last night I briefly considered taking them to see the World's Largest Frying Pan, which is located 30 minutes north of where we live. (I am not making this up.)
What gets a bit lost at these times is any consideration of MOM FUN. Now that we moms who are in our late 40s have children who are getting a little more self-sufficient (at least in theory), I notice a certain break out trend towards moms having some fun. An example: A mom we know whose older son just got his driver's license went out and bought a sporty little car with a manual transmission FOR HERSELF, and gave her son the MomMobile. So now she is jetting around in a cute little two door sports car (sorry--no room for groceries or the soccer team!!), and her son is the one who has to brush stale Goldfish crackers off the seat before he goes anywhere. I love it.
I am embarrassed to admit what I did in the mom fun category, it is so unreasonable. One thing you would have to know about me to understand my kind of mom fun is that I am a teacher whose limited salary goes mainly for two things: Kid expenses, and payments on the 10 acres that makes up most of our humble place in the country. (It's not just an investment, it's an opportunity to mow and kill fire ant mounds for hours every week!) But there you have it, I love living in the country, partly because I like having a lot of animals. Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth (aka, before I had kids), I used to teach riding lessons and train horses.
Well, proving once again that I should never be left alone on Craigslist, I found a Thoroughbred (abbreviated "TB" in the horse world) horse that had been abandoned by his owner at a barn in South Carolina. The barn owner was selling him at rock bottom, just to try to recoup some of the board money she was owed.
Now, I have no business getting a 5 year-old TB, especially now that I have responsibilities and I don't bounce when I hit the ground anymore. Yet... what did I do but hook up my trailer, drive down to SC, and buy this beautiful but neglected horse. He cost less than my average monthly electric bill. He is still dead lame from lack of proper nutrition and hoof care, but I knew going into this that it will probably take 10 months or a year for him to recover completely. I have lots of pasture space for him, but more importantly I also have time. After all, if I'm going to be foolish and grab at the brass ring of mom fun at 48, I might as well do the same at 49!
Monday, July 28, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Do You Need Lycra Paper Towels????
Read the ebook Any Given Mom, Any Given Day for just 0.99 (free for Kindle Select members)! In which eternal questions are answered, such as, what is a surefire cure for a baby who is constipated? Why does your husband think watching the "Kill Bill" marathon is a good bonding activity? Is it possible to drive well when dirty socks are whizzing past your head? Click to find out!!
Sometimes I think about the fact that the average American lives better than royalty did 300 hundred years ago. Indoor climate control? Running hot water? Luxury food items from all over the world (that is, if we can tear ourselves away from pizza and burgers)? None of these things were easily available to King Charles, but we take them for granted. Really, it's quite amazing. Then, I'll see a commercial to make an everyday luxury even better. (Or, 'better', depending on your point of view.)
Last evening, I saw a commercial for a paper towel that stretches. Really. As if it weren't enough to be able to rip a few trees off a roll every time we have a minor spill. No, apparently now they have upped the ante, and the paper towel has to stretch.
What's next? Blankets that heat themselves? Bowls made of bacon? A machine that vacuums the floor by itself? Whoops, of course, all of these things are already on the market... and we wonder why we're getting soft.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Crazy, Perfect Love
Read the ebook Any Given Mom, Any Given Day for just 0.99 (free for Kindle Select members)! In which eternal questions are answered, such as, what is a surefire cure for a baby who is constipated? Why does your husband think watching the "Kill Bill" marathon is a good bonding activity? Is it possible to drive well when dirty socks are whizzing past your head? Click to find out!!
Picture this: Crazy, pefect love. I don't mean the crazy actions induced by teenagers drinking too many wine coolers. That usually results in scenarios that are far from perfect. (Which reminds me of the time, when I was working at a university, that I was giving a tour to some high school students. I commented on one girl's pretty pink wrist band. "Oh this" she said, glancing at her wrist as if seeing the band for the first time "this is my hospital wrist band. I just gave birth to a daughter two days ago." But... I digress.)
No, when I say "crazy, perfect love" now, I am thinking of the love that is grounded in family and tested by events both mundane and tragic. For example, your husband notices you are almost out of half-and-half and buys more, because we know the world cannot turn without coffee. Or, you buy him a used Martin guitar for Father's Day, even though it is way over your gift budget.
Kids add to the love, although (in my experience) constructive efforts from them don't come until later. Ten years ago we bought blueberry plants. Actually, they looked more like sticks with a few roots attached. At that time my older son was just a toddler who was running around, making it difficult to concentrate on the planting directions that the old farmer was telling us. My younger son was just a baby then.
When we got home, my husband and I each had a piece of the planting instructions. "Soak the roots!" he told me. "Only after you wrap them in newspaper and dig the trench!" I snapped back. I might have said it a little too sharply, but couldn't he see I busy changing our baby's diaper?
At any rate, somehow the planting of the sticks happened. I watered them faithfully, often while holding the baby with one arm. Now those same blueberry plants tower over our heads. I can pick for an hour and still not get all the berries that are ripe.
So I told my family that, if they want blueberry pie for the Fourth of July holiday, they need to help pick berries. This the boys will do, although not without some complaining. I tell myself this is how memories are made. In retrospect, they will appreciate this more than having watched yet another "SpongeBob" rerun. It is sticky work, in the heat of July, with mosquitos and poison ivy a constant threat. It is the setting for crazy, perfect love.
Picture this: Crazy, pefect love. I don't mean the crazy actions induced by teenagers drinking too many wine coolers. That usually results in scenarios that are far from perfect. (Which reminds me of the time, when I was working at a university, that I was giving a tour to some high school students. I commented on one girl's pretty pink wrist band. "Oh this" she said, glancing at her wrist as if seeing the band for the first time "this is my hospital wrist band. I just gave birth to a daughter two days ago." But... I digress.)
No, when I say "crazy, perfect love" now, I am thinking of the love that is grounded in family and tested by events both mundane and tragic. For example, your husband notices you are almost out of half-and-half and buys more, because we know the world cannot turn without coffee. Or, you buy him a used Martin guitar for Father's Day, even though it is way over your gift budget.
Kids add to the love, although (in my experience) constructive efforts from them don't come until later. Ten years ago we bought blueberry plants. Actually, they looked more like sticks with a few roots attached. At that time my older son was just a toddler who was running around, making it difficult to concentrate on the planting directions that the old farmer was telling us. My younger son was just a baby then.
When we got home, my husband and I each had a piece of the planting instructions. "Soak the roots!" he told me. "Only after you wrap them in newspaper and dig the trench!" I snapped back. I might have said it a little too sharply, but couldn't he see I busy changing our baby's diaper?
At any rate, somehow the planting of the sticks happened. I watered them faithfully, often while holding the baby with one arm. Now those same blueberry plants tower over our heads. I can pick for an hour and still not get all the berries that are ripe.
So I told my family that, if they want blueberry pie for the Fourth of July holiday, they need to help pick berries. This the boys will do, although not without some complaining. I tell myself this is how memories are made. In retrospect, they will appreciate this more than having watched yet another "SpongeBob" rerun. It is sticky work, in the heat of July, with mosquitos and poison ivy a constant threat. It is the setting for crazy, perfect love.
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