My Glass is Half Full. Of Ice.

I haven't seen the teens in about 10 years. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago then. That was my teensy skooch back to the East after eight year stints in Minneapolis and Madison. By teens I mean temps, natch. My own teen years were over two decades ago, and that's the tail end of the rotten pubescent, lemming, un self-aware, unconfident, dorky stuff that make one's teen years so memorable, despite how hard we try to forget.

The temperatures here in Raleigh are taking after stock market line graphs of late and taking a steep dive southward. I didn't move here for this. I remember many a winter not even needing a coat in these parts. It was a welcome change from the mummyesque layering I endured waiting for the bus on 44th Street in Minneapolis or the whip of lake wind chilling me inside out in Chicago. I never did acclimate, despite 10 years out there. Things weren't so bad in Madison because we lived in our own little version of Melrose Place so we rarely had to leave home. That, and we often indulged in Wisconsin's most notable export.

In light of all this frigid weather, folks in North Carolina remind me a lot of the good people of Minnesota. All they talk about is the weather. Instead of the usual "Happy New Year" store clerks remark this time of year (I'll give a week more before I start calling people on the importance of message timeliness.), they call out, "Stay warm!" as they bid you farewell. The neighborhood is quiet, eerily peaceful. No kids. No dogs. Um, why does it seem I'm the only one out walking my dog in these tundra temps?

I'm trying to see some silver lining here. Ice is silvery, right? I'm generally a glass-half-full kind of girl. If you find yourself whooping it up and need to be knocked down a few notches, gimme a call. My alter ego is Debbie Downer. I can make you cringe, cry, or croak in a matter of minutes. Mac Daddy is my optimistic counterpart. He sees the good in everything, which is highly annoying and makes me irritable as hell. I sure hope our sons don't inherit this trait and make their future wives ornery. Sometimes a girl just wants to look into her soap spotted empty wine glass and bitch.

It being 2010, a new year and a new decade and all, I've decided to try on Mac Daddy's disposition. I'm afraid it won't suit me at all but I'm going to give the old college try (Wherever does that term come from?! I surely don't want my boys to try half the stuff I tried in college!). Here's my first, if not feeble, attempt to see the glass half full.

Reasons to not hate the cold weather:

1. No snakes in my yard.
2. Ignored dog poop freezes and is easier to clean up. Granted, Mac Daddy is the often the one faced with this since I jet back inside as soon as Lark has done his business.
3. Children chat less when they are cold because the are busy experiencing chattering teeth.
4. It's perfectly acceptable to have dead leaves, grass, plants and such in one's yard.
5. Snuggling.
6. The Snuggie (never mind that I wear Deal's kid sized one that he got for Christmas).
7. No mosquitoes.
8. I don't have to shave.
9. Jeans and sweaters hide more dietary sins than tank tops and shorts.
10. Boots. Way better than flip flops.
11. Oysters are in season.
12. Beer gets cold quickly if you put it in a cooler on the patio.
13. It's cold and flu season, giving me a fine excuse not to shake hands with people.
14. Conversation common denominator makes it easy to talk to anyone.
15. Scarves hide hickeys (I mean, for those trashy girls who get those kissy bruises. Blech.)
16. Knee socks. (I know Denise at Eat Play Love has my back on this one.)
17. Hot Buttered Rum, Hot Toddies, , Hot Sake, Hot Cider, Hot Chocolate
18. Comfort food.
19. I get wear to that cute chenille hat and scarf set I bought ages ago. Be sure to compliment me profusely if you see me sporting it.
20. An excuse to chill out (pardon the expression) with a good read or a must-see flick.

So tell me, what makes the snot freezing temps more palatable for you?

A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

Thanks. Giving.

At the risk of ringing the cliche bell and sounding treacly mushy, I'm going to tell you that today I am feeling particularly blessed. I am thankful for Mac Daddy and my family. I am most thankful for my Bird and Deal. I cannot imagine what I was thankful for before I had them. I am thankful that they gave me the kind of family I longed for.

On this day of pies, crumbles, brown bettys, cakes, dressings, gravies, turkeys, hams, taters, casseroles, and elastic waistbands, I want to just say that I am most thankful for the little things.

Those little things that are actually quite grand.

I am hugging my family a tish tighter.
I am counting my blessings a bit slower.
I am saying my prayers a pinch louder.

This Thanksgiving my heart is full. My belly is full. My life is fulfilled.

And in my prayers are my dear friend Jen who is battling stage 2 breast cancer, Anissa, 35-year old mother of three who suffered a massive stroke one week ago, my nieces who are desperately missing their mother, Mac Daddy's sister, who passed away eight years ago, and my father-in-law, the grandest of grandpas, whose gracious gravely laugh and 'Sconsin accent I still hear.

Let's take today to show Thanks for those who have touched us. And to be Giving of our hearts, our tolerance, our grace, our goodness, our selves.

Happy Thanks.Giving.

Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Wordless Wednesday: What I Miss

Paying it Forward

So the movie Pay it Forward actually kinda sucked. Am I wrong here? I mean Helen Hunt rocked it in her Mad About You days, and Haley Joel Osment was still cute then, but overall this movie blew chunks.

But the concept of paying it forward has really stuck with me. Call it karma. Call it divine justice. Call it what you will.

Case in point:

A tow headed young boy of four asks Santa for a train set for Christmas. The real deal. With lights, pretend steam blowing from the engine, tiny faux trees and conductors, a track that doesn't break if someone creaks on the floor next to it. A Lionel. Unparalled in the world of trainmanship. Yes, I realize that's not a word. Work with me and don't act as if you don't know what I mean. This little boy just wants a train set. A perfect train set. And so his grandmother goes on a hunt. A hunt for a steal. More than a bargain. She's become a highway robber.

Goodwill is about to answer this tow headed boy's dreams. Grandma finds a complete train set in fine working condition. For 90 bucks. Oh, excessive for a four-year old, but answering his dreams on Christmas morning is priceless. Thanks for ruining that term, by the way, MasterCard. Grandma collects the various cars, tracks, and accoutrements. She lugs it all to the counter and starts counting out her cash in fives and tens. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty...Eighty. Sounds of rifling through change, receipts, business cards, expired McDonald's coupons, to-do lists fill the air that seems to stand still. A lousy ten dollars short. No train for her fair haired grandson. Shoulders slumped, face forlorn, she gathers the pieces to return them to their spot on the shelf in back.

In sashays an old friend. "Why the long face?" she asks.

Grandma can barely summon an answer. She manages to faintly gesture to the train and mutters something about her four-year old grandson asking Santa for a train set. She's defeated and lacks the energy to catch up on niceties with this old chum.

"Ten bucks?! Why here's ten dollars! Merry Christmas to you and your grandson!"

And so the universe winked in its wily way, reminding her who's in charge.

You see, a few weeks ago this grandmother met a man at Goodwill. This very same shop. A man clean from months of treatment and job training. A man about to graduate to a new, sober life. He wanted to dress the part of success. He had borrowed a tie and had gently used pants in hand. Now if only he could find a collared shirt in which the collar buttoned snugly without choking his Adam's apple when he gulped. He relayed his story in casual yet ripely emotional conversation as they both pecked through the racks of discarded Joseph A. Banks oxford shirts. He hadn't enough money for a proper shirt and he dragged his feet as he somberly walked away, feeling spent, tired, sad,defeated once again.

Grandma slipped him a ten spot.

And the universe paid her back. Sobering indeed.

A Page out of My Playbook

Ah, I can breathe again, let my gut hang out, my hair down. Mac Daddy is home. HOME! Running the household, taking care of Bird and Deal, working, and of course, blogging and tweeting, are pretty damn hard as an army of one. Mac Daddy's job beckoned so off he flew to Chicago for six days. Six. Days.

And you know what, it wasn't so bad.

Even I, the glass half empty, angry, whiny, pissy pessimist of a girl, saw the silver lining so bright that it was more than just a bright side. I got to spend time with my boys. We played games galore, we colored, we made Thanksgiving turkey art projects, we kicked the soccer ball, we told jokes, we read books, we snuggled, we tickled, we danced, we ate cookies and popsicles, we played with our food. You see, I'm not usually the "fun one."

Mac Daddy is the jovial ready-to-roll-around-arms-wide-open-kneeling-to-the-ground-in-an-enveloping-hug guy. He's the one who plays the role of banshee, super hero, spy, wrestler, dragon, wide receiver, and point guard. I'm just no good at that stuff. For starters, I don't know what a wide receiver and point guard are; I just heard the terms somewhere. Where was I? Oh, I play differently than Mac Daddy does. Pretty true for most moms and dads, right? Given the choice, the boys would way rather play all rough and tumble than the more cerebral, creative, and gentle ways that I play. Well, with Mac Daddy being gone, it was just the boys and me. Guess what? We had a great time.

Oh, the week was also hard. Tiring. Stressful. Hurried. But we had fun. I'm in no rush for Mac Daddy to take off for a week again any time soon, mind you. But when he does, we'll have a good time.

And just so you know, all THREE boys trashed the house wrestling and romping all weekend. They clearly made up for lost time.

The Irony of Motherhood

Mother's Day is the one holiday that is wrought with irony.

Sidebar: It is in fact a holiday, right? I suppose it would be more so if we all got Monday off. A weekday off is reserved for only dead presidents and MLK, I guess. Even Susan B. Anthony doesn't get a holiday, just a crappy one dollar coin that everyone confused with a quarter and isn't minted anymore anyhow. Anyway, back to my original point about Mother's Day brimming with irony.

Today marks the 100th year of moms receiving greeting cards (Have you noticed the price of these things lately?!), handpicked gerber daisies from the neighbor's garden, a splash of White Diamonds or other such department store scent, and a shawl or something else plush and lovely. The irony is that Anna Jarvis, the mother of Mother's Day, never married or had children. Apparently Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, West Virginia houses the only official shrine to mothers. Its purpose is to serve as a "reminder to the accomplishments of these women and to the issues mothers still deal with today, trying to do the balancing act of being everything to everyone." Hmmmm....a pretty decent sentiment if you ask me.

Now for another dose of irony.

You know what I want to mark my special day? A day spent away from the very things that welcomed me into the legions of tired, spent, tugged at, whined to, frenetic women before me: my kids. There, I said it.

Don't you over-indulging helicopter moms start waxing on about what an ungrateful wretch I am. Oh, don't go shooting me nasty comments because you think I don't love my children. I just don't want to be with them ALL THE TIME. Does that make me a bad mom? Does it make me unfit? Does it mean I don't cherish my children? A resounding NO. Turn your pointed little judgmental fingers away, stop rolling your eyes, tuck your scowls away and hear me out. It goes without saying that I adore my children. I sneak peeks at them while they are sleeping, stroke their hair, and whisper "Mommy loves you" in their ears. I romp with them. I smother them with hugs and kisses. I shower them with praise. But I still need, and enjoy, a stolen break. No matter how rewarding and glorious motherhood is, we all need to take some time away to return to a past likeness of ourselves, to readjust, to rejuvenate. I will be a better mother for it.

Mac Daddy was planning on taking the kids to Marbles and an Imax movie this afternoon. At first I was reluctant to go through with these plans. After all, my children are responsible for granting me this day. Shouldn't we be together? I moped and whined about these plans, Mac Daddy all the while insisting I take an afternoon to myself. Then the WHINING set in. Rounds upon rounds of:

"He's TOUCHING me! Ooh, I said he's TOUCHING me. With his FFFOOOOTT!!!!"

"Deal knocked over my tower!"

"Now he's kicking me!"

"No! I don't want to ride on your rocketship!"

"Mmmmoooommmmmm, he won't get on my rocketship!"

"WWAAAHHH!!!"

"Ewwwwwww!!!"

"Get off of me!"

"He pinched me!"

"He pushed me!"

"No! No! No!"

"DDeeeeallll!!!!"

"BBBiiiirddddd!!!"

There aren't enough exclamation points allotted to me to make this series of whines come to life. And so I acquiesced and let Mac Daddy take the boys. I nary bid them a hearty farewell and enjoyed a shower with no interruptions, no one slathering on my body butter, no one experimenting with trying to put eyeliner on the cat, no one hooking my combs and brushes together to make airplanes, no one jumping on the bed and throwing pillows (the hand embroidered silk ones!), no one opening the shower door just for shits and giggles. An utterly silent shower. Just me, five body sprayers (Thank you, Mac Daddy for granting me this small luxury when we remodeled our house!) and the luscious smell of almond sugar body scrub. I actually had time to shave both legs today. Armpits too.

Now here I sit, rocking out to ABBA, hot coffee in hand, cat at my feet. Don't mock me. I know you know every single word to Take a Chance on Me. Lately it seems that Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! has been my theme song.

Here comes the next great irony.

I haven't a clue what to do with myself. A pedicure? I indulged in a homemade one yesterday during nap time. Read? My much anticipated book, Rockabye, has yet to arrive, and I just finished Dreams From my Father. Magazines? There are nothing but Business Week and Entrepreneur left in the stack. Yawn. All the things on my to-do list involve filing, organizing, cleaning, or similar tasks that don't feel very celebratory at all. And so here I sit, blogging to an unseen audience, basically having a conversation with myself.

I am, however, reminded by myriad photos surrounding me, that there aren't adequate words to describe the utter, selfless love I feel for Bird and Deal. They make me crazy, yes. They also make my insides hurt with unabashed love that would make me hurl boulders at any bully who dares tease my babies on the playground. Bird and Deal have opened my eyes to a world I didn't know existed. Their candid, innocent perspective is just what I need. Like yesterday when Bird declared that when he started growing in my belly he was the size of a sprinkle. I am fortunate, blessed even, to have been sprinkled with the finest taste of motherhood.

I am also left thinking about what I wish for my boys. Above all, I want them to be good stewards of their planet, their communities, their own families and selves. I want them to be to responsible citizens, loving men, generous souls. I want the world to be a friendlier place. More friends, fewer enemies. I want them to put others first and lend a hand before tossing out judgmental words. I want them to have a dose of idealism planted in their psyches. I want them to know the power they wield as citizens, first generation Americans. And I want them to know the responsibility that comes with it.

Back to the irony:

And let's not forget those mothers we hated during our teen years. Oh, the vitriol from back in the day makes me shudder. Now we have mended those wounds, forgiven trespasses, and learned to connect again. We actually never stopped loving our moms all those hormonal, confused days ago. The difference is that now we understand them, their plights, their sorrows, their paradigms, in a way we did not and could not before we became mothers ourselves. A shout out to you, Mom, for loving me despite myself and having the optimism to know that I'd turn out OK. I love you!

Yet the irony remains. What to do with my afternoon? Oh wait, it's after noon. DSW is open!

Read more insights from moms at http://momocrats.typepad.com.

Thank God for TV

Tonight before dinner Bird wanted to say a prayer that he made up all by himself. Apparently he was quite proud of his masterpiece because he's been reminding me all day that he's going to say a prayer instead of our traditional thank-yous before dinner. I even caught him whispering something that sounded an awful lot like a prayer in the car this morning, and I wasn't even speeding, swerving, or cussing like I normally do when monogrammed minivans and W stickers are present.

Sidebar: WTF is up with the preppy swirly pink monogram on your VEHICLE?! Muffy and Biff, I have seen it all. Now I must go fix myself a bloody mary to deal with this prepdom. Spicy with Absolut Peppar, natch.

I'm not sure where Bird's gush for God came from but I honored his wishes. Here's what he said at the table tonight with hands clasped, Deal diligently and earnestly repeating every word. And me, I was trying not to snicker while feeling touched and humbled at the same time.

In Bird's words:

"Thank you, God, for our dinner. For our broccoli.
Thank you for trees. And nature.
Thank you, God, for making everything.
Oh, and stumps.
Thank you for our bones.
Thank you for all of us.
Thank you for potties and for playing outside.
Thank you, God, for books.
Thank you for toys and treats.
And thank you for TV.
Amen."

I am pretty sure I have the only kid in America, perhaps this hemisphere, who includes broccoli in his prayers. Both Bird and Deal clamor for it in the produce aisle, making me proud yet wince with a bit of embarrassment lest people think I deprive my children of tasty, preservative-laden treats and other delicacies that reek of childhood. I presume the stumps he refers to are tree stumps since we don't know any amputees. Perhaps we've been reading the Giving Tree a bit too often. I am glad he separated potties, trees, nature, and playing outside. I am working on convincing Bird and Deal that just because nature calls while they're playing outside near a tree, it doesn't mean they shouldn't march the six steps into the house to pee in the newly renovated bathroom we paid good money for. Let's not take indoor plumbing for granted, boys. My favorite is the last nod to God about TV. Bird has not earned a television time reward for a few days now. I suppose his voice did have a lilt of nostalgia and yearning for the ol' Sony Wega.