Germaphobe-NO

It seems that People, in my-non-informed perhaps I’m just lazy opinion-are overly concerned with cleanliness and germs. And I’m not talking about anything major here; something as simple as being barefoot outside can sends shivers down the spine of a Germaphobe. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been to the park with The Children and run into Other Children who see My Children all barefoot and happy and ask Their Mother if they, too, can take their shoes off and the absolute look of disgust that comes across Their Mother’s face is enough to tell them: Ain’t No Way In Hell those shoes are coming off. 

I find this so odd. I mean…we’re outside. In nature.

I asked one of Those Moms before…why? Why is it a big deal to you if your kids take their shoes off? And she said…the sand is just a big kitty litter for children.

What? You mean…you really think kids are just like…shitting in the sand and covering it up? I mean…really? Is this how you live your life? Because it sounds exhausting. Listen, I’m a fan of hand washing. I’m a fan of kleenex. I’m a fan of coughing and sneezing into your elbow. I’m a fan of the basic rules of hygiene and understand these basic rules exist to protect us from becoming ill. But this obsession with germs seems to me to be extremely unhealthy. And frankly, very time consuming. When did it become weird or gross for kids to be barefoot outside? When did we have to start sterilizing a shopping cart each time it’s used? Or why did I get dirty looks from Those Mothers when I didn’t use a Fancy Seat Cover for my Target cart when I had babies?  What a pain in the ass that thing was. I used it a few times when I cared about the judgment of Other Moms but quickly worked THAT out of my system. Fuck-don’t have you have enough to deal with when you have babies and toddlers and then you have to carry around that thing, too? (If we’re being honest, I couldn’t figure out how to even get that shit properly placed so, you know, Bye Felicia.) 

Oh, and while we’re at, my favorite thing? Discovering that someone used one of those sterilizing towels to wipe their down shopping cart and then just threw it in the cart and “forgot” about it. Oh, I see. You’re sooooooo concerned with germs that you leave your trash in the cart for the next person to deal with? Congratulations on being a Total Dick of a Person.
I would like to think that I have way more pressing matters than worrying about what’s on the handle of the shopping cart no matter how much fear The Today Show is trying to instill in us with their special GERMS ARE EVIL segments. Because I’m pretty sure my mom used a shopping cart and I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a fancy towel to use first. I’m pretty sure I actually sat in the bottom of the shopping cart. (You know what I’m talking about.) My devotion to being barefoot as a child has carried over into my adult life. I don’t carry bottles of sanitizer around and don’t really care if someone thinks it’s gross that I let my kids eat a snack at the beach without even WIPING THEIR HANDS FIRST. And while we’re at it, guess what? I DIDN’T always wash my hands before dinner. Yeah. I SAID it. That shit HAPPENED. All the TIME. 

I know there are more of Us out there; I know you want to stop micromanaging your kids hand washing.  I know you have better things to fight about with your kids other than whether they have shoes on or not. It’s okay to come out as a Non-Germaphobe. It’s so much more…relaxing. And the health benefits are great. See: the immunity of steel my children and I possess. 

So come on over. Let’s go to the park. Our kids can flip their shoes off, run into the wild and feel the earth beneath their feet. I promise that I’m not going to flinch if four grimy kids stick their hands inside one bag of goldfish. I promise I’m not going to judge you if your kids share a water bottle. (I even promise that I’m not going to judge you if you forgot sunscreen. Chances are solid that I did, too.)  And you and I can sit and relax and watch as the joy of childhood is shared amongst our children. 

 A little dirt never did hurt anyone, after all.

Bye bye, Baby

The Gelato Children are reaching those ages where Babyhood has completely melted off of their faces and Toddlerhood was just an emotionally challenged, completely fucked up dream I had. Nobody really needs my “help” for anything anymore, although Daughter is still milking the whole ‘Can somebody wipe me pleeeeaassseee’ thing which is FANTASTIC. I have two children who are in school. Not preschool. Like school school. And at least once a week, I get a little weepy about this situation. And each time the tears well up in my eyes, I think DAMN IT! All those well meaning people with their freedom and personal time because their kids were in school school were RIGHT! This whole Child-Raising Experience goes by….well, Way.Too.Fast.

You hear it. You can’t escape it, actually. Friends and strangers alike warn you to enjoy every second as they simultaneously tell you that your baby is going to die with that blanket over the stroller. (Yes. That happened. Son was three weeks old. I was in line at Starbucks, a New Mom with swollen, sore boobs and no sleep and confused about everything and then some lady told me that my baby was going to die. I still hate her.)  And let’s not pretend that every waking second that I had little, little kids I was thinking-THIS IS SO ENJOYABLE TO NURSE A SCREAMING BABY WHILE MAKING A TODDLER A GRILLED CHEESE! I MUST EMBRACE AND REJOICE IN THIS MOMENT!- but as the days passed at a snails pace and the months at a hare’s, and the years in the blink of an eye, there were countless moments where I would stop and take in the pure joy of my babies and wish to keep them forever so small. But still, each year of growth felt like a victory; each added finger to their age meant they were developing more independence and I didn’t have to shadow their every move at the park, or zip every zipper or wipe every butt. (Daughter, ahem, somewhat excluded as previously mentioned.) It happens gradually, all these little things, but they add up and one day you find yourself thinking: Did Son just brush his teeth by himself without even being reminded? Yes. Yes he did. 

How did this happen? How did my firstborn become this boy? How did my baby grow so fast into this girl? Where did my babies go? I miss those babies. I can’t help but tear up each time I see a mom with her toddler and baby at the bookstore or the park or just out and about. I was that lady. I remember her well. That lady is thinking…how can we kill a little time this afternoon? Let’s go to the bookstore. I can get a coffee and you can look at books and that will kill at least an hour of the day. Or-let’s go to Target. I only need lip gloss and toilet paper, but we’ll go ahead and get a coffee and a milk and kill an hour in the toy aisle. How about we go to the fountain downtown? I’ll get a coffee and you can get completely soaked somehow in the trickle of water that runs down and maybe we’ll get lucky and bump into a friend and kill an hour. 

All those hours. Day after day after….year. All that time of just…being. Some days it was hard not to resent those hours as you watched your spouse leave for work. The morning hours before nap time laid out before you like some long stretch of desert in the hot sun. The few hours after nap time when the tick tock of the clock somehow moved even slower, everyone getting cranky and hungry and very thirsty for wine. That long hour of the day where it seemed bath would never end, why do they always pick the longest books and okay okay okay, I’ll sing another song and then finally, after all the negotiating, the promises, the kisses, the hugs, all the night lights on and the door slightly cracked….now…now….it’s time to do the laundry. And then it’s the very end of the day and you stop and wonder what it is you actually….did….all day. Nothing. Everything. Survived to live another day to have another day of the Same.Exact.Thing. 

Every day wasn’t and definitely still isn’t rainbows and unicorns. It’s hard to be home all the time with your kids. While you are being told you have “the most difficult job in the world,” it’s hard not to feel unaccomplished; it’s hard not to feel envious of friends and family going off into the world each day….like…being smart and productive and stuff. And the further away you get from that world, the more impossible it seems to re-enter. 

But I would never, ever take any of the hours back. Because, really, it chokes me up to realize that at 8 years old, I am almost halfway done with my son. And these past eight years, as agonizing as the days could seem, they have gone Way.Too.Fast and all I want is for these hours to slow down. Slow way down. Stretch out before me like a long country road, nothing but sky in front of us.

I’ll work on being productive another day. For now…I’m going to go play two touch in the alley with my Children. After all-this day is almost over. Another one, God willing, waiting for me tomorrow to do the Same.Exact.Thing all over again.

Morning Madness

It’s 7:43 am. T-minus 32 minutes before we must depart for school. Son is half-dressed, sitting on the ground, checking the Weather App on the iPad before making his final decision in his clothing choice. This recently developed habit stems from the history of him asking me each day: “MOOOOOM? Is it going to be hot or cold today?” And each day I would struggle with an answer because the answer is really…neither. It will be neither hot nor cold. In fact, it will rarely ever be “hot” or “cold” while you live in this Beach City. Oh yes, people will refer to themselves being “cold” while wearing a North Face ski jacket for drop off when it’s 58 degrees outside, but Son, I cannot stress to you enough that that is not cold. And hot? I’m sure the rest of the country would love for anything over 78 degrees to be “so hot.” Also-you continually refuse to wear pants so the question of “cold or hot” seems like a true waste of breath since no matter the answer, we both know, hell, we ALL know, you’re just going to put on some damn shorts and be done with it so JUST BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY, MMKAY? Hence-and I will credit Husband for this-Son was introduced to the Weather App, so he can micromanage his own outfit and-BONUS!-that of his sister, exclaiming most mornings in a smug, all-knowing voice: “Sister…you’re going to wear that? You know it’s only going to be 67 degrees today.” And let’s be honest, that’s assuming that Daughter actually has clothes on because most mornings, at t-minus 32 minutes before departure, she can be found completely naked, hanging from the frame of her bunk bed practicing her ninja moves, while yelling in quite a shrill voice to anyone who DARE suggest that, in fact, clothing is not optional at school, that SHE WILL IN A MINUTE.

Just as I’ve accepted Son will only wear pants as a dead last resort, I’ve learned that Daughter requires a full 30 minute time period to get dressed and since I’m kinda scared of her, I just accept it and let her engage in the Stages of Getting Dressed. One: Strip naked. Two: Stay naked as long as possible. Three: Reluctantly pick out clothes. Four: Stay naked. Five: Pee. Six: Put underwear on head and ask Mom if she likes her outfit. Seven: Get dressed because Mom just threatened to take away her Saturday Wii time. (The day my Wii currency goes is the day she goes to school naked.)

But getting dressed is only half the battle. Turns out, shoes are also a necessity for attendance of school, but each day this, apparently, is a shocking surprise to the Children who need at least 15 to 167 reminders to put their shoes on. It starts with a gentle “Hey, guys? Let’s get our shoes on.”  And ends with a PUT YOUR (silent in head screaming MOTHERFUCKING) SHOES ON PLEASE! Followed by the inevitable “Why are you yelling at us?” whine. Because YOU SEEM TO LIKE IT. And then somehow, day after day, we all shuffle out of the house at 8:15, fully clothed with shoes on, back packs full of homework and lunch boxes and get in the car where we then proceed with the standard Let’s Fight All The Way To School, which usually begins with the infamous Stop Touching Me and ends with the Mom Mantra: Thank You, Jesus, For School.

This Morning Routine has been brought to you by the Gelato Family. I am guessing that each of your households has it’s own…special morning routines. And while our own can make me completely mad at times, I know I’ll miss the chaos when it’s gone. So I just breath deeply and remind myself that one day, Son will just…put his shoes on. And Daughter will just…get dressed. 

Wait.

I take that back.

I’m totally screwed with That One.

Daydream Believer...

Over the summer, the Gelato Family took a trip to Texas to visit the Grandparents. I know what you’re thinking. Texas? In the dead of July? Beautiful. But there was a pool. And there was Grandma. And there were marshmallows. (And there was also those two nights in New Orleans that Husband and I managed to sneak away… so…everyone was winning.)

But this is not important.

What was important were the massive boxes my mother pulled out and said-here. This is your stuff. What do you want to do with it? Also known as: Get this shit out of my house. You haven’t lived here for 16 years for Christ’s sake. 

And so there I was, sitting in my brother’s old room, which I certainly don’t remember looking quite as adorable when he was living in it, left alone with these boxes. I flipped them open and was quickly overwhelmed with nostalgia. Letters and cards and pictures and yearbooks and journals from years passed waited eagerly to be rediscovered. I thumbed through them, paralyzed by the familiar, yet juvenile handwriting. I read letters written to me by loyal friends 20 years ago when I moved from one state to another at the age of 14. I smiled at the naivety of our thoughts. I was awed by the sheer volume of words, written in pen, on paper, put in an envelope and mailed to a recipient a thousand miles away, over and over and over again. 

But what I really got lost in were the Dreams of a certain girl I knew a long time ago. Dreams written out in page after page of dusty journals. Dreams of the stage, of New York City; of a life that seemed so big, but so close. Dreams that defined me, as each yellowed letter or card from friends and family seemed to encourage the future I was so eagerly looking forward too. As if they expected it as much as I did. As though it was the only option for me. 

I had to put the words down. Tears filled my eyes as I thought about that girl. It stung a little bit to think of her and those Dreams that did not come to fruition. Life happened. Choices were made. Things didn’t go that way.  I wondered how it would feel to go back to that girl and try again….to do things differently. Not be so afraid to ask questions. Not be so afraid to just be myself. Take the confidence I had while on a stage or in a class and translate it to standing in a room full of strangers, asking them to like me, to pick me. What would that life have looked like? Would I have enjoyed it? Would it have been fulfilling? 

Suddenly, The Children came bounding into the room, disrupting my thoughts and my letters. They were talking excitedly about Some Great Adventure they had with Grandpa. I squeezed the tears out of my eyes and focused on their small voices and big words. And amongst the letters, the discarded words, the forgotten pictures and cards, amongst the mess I had made of these memories, those dreams, I realized that my real dreams were standing right in front of me, demanding my love, my attention, my patience. Perhaps I did not know what my Dreams were until I met them.  Each part of my body now made sense; my hands for tickle sessions, my legs for soccer sessions, my arms for hugging sessions, my mouth for kissing attacks on their faces, my eyes for witnessing their amazing ability on monkey bars, my ears for the sound of their voices explaining why an insect is an insect, my heart for it’s ever growing capacity for love, my lungs to breath in their sweet, sweaty smell and hope to never forget it. 

I’m not suggesting that my Childhood Dreams have died; they live inside me and probably always will. Maybe one day they will come to fruition in an unexpected way. Maybe they won’t. But for right now, for this time, my Dreams are living, breathing, extensions of myself. 

I didn’t know I could dream so big.

Play On

I tended to gravitate towards the strawberry soda. Everyone else stuck to the usual Coke or Pepsi, but me? I was going to take full advantage of this opportunity and pick whatever I wanted-for soda was a rare treat-but this post-game tradition was deserved and as the coolers were flipped open and met with enthusiastic cheers from my teammates, I knew my unconventional choice was a winner. Slurping the sweet treat, I would goof around with the team, both winner and loser, before shuffling back to the car, the victory or defeat of the game already slipping from my memory. Oh Treasured Childhood. Come and gone before you even have a chance to realize how good it is. 

And can you believe my mother remembered it was our week to bring soda with NO Sign Up Genius to remind her? Or that everybody on the team showed up and nobody played for their club team instead or left early for another game or missed the game entirely because they were being dragged to their sister’s gymnastics tournament two hours away? And we were all the same age; not one or two kids larger in size and years because they were “held back” by over-zealous parents who wanted their kid to dominate. There was no team mom; we didn’t need a banner to remember what our name was, and there were certainly no organic-gluten-peanut-GMO-free snacks being passed out in cute little favor bags. We played for fun. We played because our friends played. We played to get dirty and sweaty. We played to enhance our lives, not consume them. We played for ourselves, not for our parents. We wanted to win, of course, but so many years later, I don’t remember winning or losing; I simply remember...playing.

Watching Son’s baseball team lose yet again, I reminded myself that this was just one game. That he would lose bigger and win bigger. That one game, even one season, does not determine his strengths or weaknesses. And as we shuffled back to the car, the defeat of the game slipping from our memories, I focused on his dirt-smudged face, his sweaty strands of hair, and the way he limped just a bit from the heaviness of his bag. I smiled in spite of myself. Oh...Treasured Childhood.  It’s come...but it’s not gone. Not yet. Play on. 

Happy Halloween...

A love letter to my Children on Halloween:

Dear Small, Cherished People Who Live in my House,

It is almost that time of year again. No, not Christmas.  (Even though that will be here in approximately 7 minutes Adult Time and 7 years Child Time.  Ohhhh…how I want to live in Child Time again.) It’s Halloween. Now, I know you know this, Dear Children, because you have been counting down the days for an estimated 7 months and also, because my beloved Target has been inundating you with this approaching Halloween Holiday since late August. Now, I get it. I’m excited too. It’s the only time of the year I will allow myself to eat those little squares of heaven called Peanut Butter Snickers. I’ve never been a huge-“Halloween is my Favorite Holiday!!!!” kind of person, but I certainly remember the great joy it brought me when I was a child. Strolling the sidewalks in strange clothing, the lamps on the street guiding our way as the leaves crunched beneath our toes, knocking on all those familiar doors, eagerly awaiting what little treasures would land in our outstretched, greedy bags. There was the house that always gave us dimes and nickels. There was the house that always gave us regular sized candy bars. (WHAT!!!! AMAZING!!!) There was the house that was always dark and clearly not meant for little hands knocking. And there was the loot! Oh-the loot that would last for weeks! Halloween was truly awesome.

But people are trying to steal Halloween from you, Dear Children. People, who once upon a time were Children themselves. These people grew into Adults and are now trying to suck the fun out of this one night a year. They are acting like this Halloween tradition of cruising your neighborhood and collecting candy is going to RUIN YOU. That you will become sugar-crazed, greedy little children. They are giving out STICKERS. And PRETZELS. They’re pushing their Organic, GMO-Gluten-Free policies onto YOU, on this one, sacred night. This ONE NIGHT you wait 364 days for!  But I will not do that to you. I will let you have your fun, and eat it too. These things I promise to you, Gelato Children, on this Halloween Night:

1. You may trick or treat as long as you like. For we know it’s not so much the candy as it is the  act of trick or treating that is truly the fun part.
2. You may eat as much candy as you want on this night. 
3. No Magical Little Fairy is going to come and take your candy from you while you slumber and leave you a toy instead. You earned that candy. And the last thing I want in my house is another shitty toy. The only person stealing your candy will be me.
4. I will steal your candy whenever I want. I may or may not ask you for permission.
5. You know I want the Twix, so just hand them over and nobody gets hurt.
6. You may keep in your possession the bag of candy for a few days with no questions asked. But once I find candy wrappers in your bed (Daughter), I will repossess the candy and pass out as I see fit. 
7. After a week, give or take, I will quietly retrieve the leftover candy, discover that, once again, you’ve hardly eaten any of it after that first wondrous, miraculous night that was Halloween, put it into a large ziploc bag, hide it in my cupboard, and use it to bribe you for various reasons over the next few weeks. It will soon be forgotten, and one day, while searching for that pie pan I can never seem to find, I will discover this bag of candy and I will toss it. 

In other words, Dear Children, go have the best time. Find your friends on the darkened streets, be silly, say Trick or Treat and thank you, get a sugar high and create memories. We only have so few of these precious years. Just a handful of years where the world is magic to you. When Santa is real; the Easter bunny exists; small, flying fairies leave you dollars for recently departed teeth. And your neighbors give you candy simply because you knocked and said Trick or Treat!

Have a wonderful, safe, Happy Halloween. 

Gelato B&B

The other day I was scrolling through my email when I came across a couple from Husband with links attached to them regarding Bed and Breakfasts in Maine. I clicked on the links and was quickly escorted by the magic of the Internet to these charming little B&B’s thousands of miles away. Oh, that’s sweet. Husband was planning a get away? A little something different? I’ve always wanted to visit Maine; it seems very romantic and rustic. Of course, pretty much any place sounds that way when you take Children out of the equation.  Oh-you want to visit Barstow?  Sure! Do they have a nice hotel there?  AWESOME.  But...as I looked closer to the link, I realized that these Charming Maine Bed and Breakfasts were FOR SALE.  And that Husband wasn’t planning a trip, he was dreaming of a purchase. Yeah, this was a little Pie in the Sky, sitting around killing a few minutes kind of email he sent me...I mean...who hasn’t sat around and dreamt about a different kind of life in a different place? I mean, CERTAINLY not me, especially not when two Small Children are losing their shit at the same time over Insignificant Crap and the only creative thought I seem to manage most days is something new to make for dinner....no no no...it’s the dream life here, baby. But Husband wants to BUY a Bed and Breakfast and RUN it?  

Ummmmm......HI.  YOU LIVE IN A BED AND BREAKFAST.  IT’S CALLED YOUR HOUSE.

Listen, I’m the first to admit that we are very spoiled in the Gelato House. Our needs are more than met. We live in a beautiful place NEXT TO THE OCEAN. I maintain a suntan all year long.  When the temp hits below 55 or over 80, we are cranky. I get to be home with the Children, a job that no one will ever thank you for and will turn you into a Crazy Person, but a job you will never regret holding. And while most people may think our Stay at Home Mom Days are filled with yoga and coffee, the truth is we are busy being your Slaves. And the very last thing that sounds like a relaxing, dreamy life change is being Slave to More People. I can see it now: I’m making beds and turning out tasty appetizers while Husband is the “Bartender” hosting wine tastings in the parlor at Happy Hour. Husband talking football in the Breakfast Nook with Happy Guests as I’m covered in muffin batter and slugging shots of espresso in the kitchen. Eight bathrooms to clean instead of two. Oh my God...can you even imagine the amount of laundry? Sheets and towels and sheets and towels and sheets and towels EVERY.DAMN.DAY.  And of course in Maine there would be an actual yard to maintain with actual trees with actual leaves that will fall from it that will actually need to be raked up and Husband, being from a place that has ONE SEASON, a rake might confuse him, not to mention a shovel and turning on the car 37 minutes before you might want to leave so the chances of freezing to death en route to destination are slightly less. Also-I would have to be NICE to these people ALL OF THE TIME because they are paying us to stay in our Charming Bed and Breakfast and my occasional outbursts of WHY CAN’T ANYONE PICK UP THEIR DAMN TOWEL? might be frowned upon and also get me a bad Yelp review. 

So....yeah...listen. I’m out on the Bed and Breakfast in Maine Fantasy.  Instead, Husband, keep coming back to your very own little Bed and Breakfast, Casa Gelato, where your bed is made each morning, your laundry is cleaned and folded, and dinner appears before you each night and you didn’t even have to THINK about it and sometimes you get yelled at for not hanging up your towel in a perfect and efficient way. Yes, there are two Small Children who must be attended to and a Wife who may or not be cranky depending on the mood of the two Small Children BUT the good news? You can still host happy hour.  Every.Damn.Night.